THAT DONNELLY CROWD in False Faces: Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers 2018 Anthology and Best American Mystery Stories 2019
I wanted peace of mind. I took the rattle and bang of cocaine. I wanted to be an English scholar. I traded stocks and bonds. I wanted the gentle rain of my Washington coast. I took the deadly smog of West L.A. I wanted out. I stayed in. The year was 1983. President Reagan had our backs. We were young and rich. I needed to pay attention, watch my backside and know where I was headed. I needed God not to find me.
I tiptoed through the upmarket wedding gifts scattered about the floor, past the white satin wedding gown hanging on the door. I stopped at the three-tiered wedding cake, destroyed its fluffy white texture; buried the bride deep inside, and quietly, at two in the morning, I sneaked to the parked Audi with my new tapestry suitcase, a suitcase more elegant than the wedding dress, more 1980s than my future husband, more with-it than my wedding, more cool and fashionable than my crowd. The wedding was off. The day before Christmas Eve, the drugs were done. I swore to live only in hushed rains and sleep with gentle people. I wanted a life shielded by the veil of a not-so-perfect existence. I wanted God not to find me.
I met Bridget Donnelly before I met Joe. She was a witch of a spinster who ran the only Dublin B&B open on Christmas Eve. She was a tall, thin woman in a straight black skirt and white blouse, a virgin witch in a long black dress and Dickensian cape. I had hopped on the first overseas flight available. Once in Dublin, I hooked up with an American tour, a pretentious crowd of the retired and leisurely-bored. We sat around a heavy oval table, flickering candles the length and the width of the monstrous thing. Bridget’s hair was short and permed, her face small and round with a pointed nose and a receding chin, a chin in constant judgment of others; bulging eyes of no apparent color because no one ever cared to look at Bridget’s eyes. Bridget Donnelly huddled in the corners of life. I hated Bridget Donnelly.
Her brother, Joe, walked in. The story for my life. My narrative. My history. Light as a breeze, he exuded a laughter that diminished every other man I had ever known, every golden penny I had ever earned, every rec-drug I could have afforded. A divorced man, an international computer specialist with an apartment in Germany, a house in London, an ex-wife in Sweden, a spinster sister in Dublin, an IRA brother buried in a rebel’s grave. How dangerously romantic. His dark auburn hair reflected strands of red in the firelight—his lightly freckled face, darting blue eyes, his tall, rough build...
I wanted peace of mind. I took the rattle and bang of cocaine. I wanted to be an English scholar. I traded stocks and bonds. I wanted the gentle rain of my Washington coast. I took the deadly smog of West L.A. I wanted out. I stayed in. The year was 1983. President Reagan had our backs. We were young and rich. I needed to pay attention, watch my backside and know where I was headed. I needed God not to find me.
I tiptoed through the upmarket wedding gifts scattered about the floor, past the white satin wedding gown hanging on the door. I stopped at the three-tiered wedding cake, destroyed its fluffy white texture; buried the bride deep inside, and quietly, at two in the morning, I sneaked to the parked Audi with my new tapestry suitcase, a suitcase more elegant than the wedding dress, more 1980s than my future husband, more with-it than my wedding, more cool and fashionable than my crowd. The wedding was off. The day before Christmas Eve, the drugs were done. I swore to live only in hushed rains and sleep with gentle people. I wanted a life shielded by the veil of a not-so-perfect existence. I wanted God not to find me.
I met Bridget Donnelly before I met Joe. She was a witch of a spinster who ran the only Dublin B&B open on Christmas Eve. She was a tall, thin woman in a straight black skirt and white blouse, a virgin witch in a long black dress and Dickensian cape. I had hopped on the first overseas flight available. Once in Dublin, I hooked up with an American tour, a pretentious crowd of the retired and leisurely-bored. We sat around a heavy oval table, flickering candles the length and the width of the monstrous thing. Bridget’s hair was short and permed, her face small and round with a pointed nose and a receding chin, a chin in constant judgment of others; bulging eyes of no apparent color because no one ever cared to look at Bridget’s eyes. Bridget Donnelly huddled in the corners of life. I hated Bridget Donnelly.
Her brother, Joe, walked in. The story for my life. My narrative. My history. Light as a breeze, he exuded a laughter that diminished every other man I had ever known, every golden penny I had ever earned, every rec-drug I could have afforded. A divorced man, an international computer specialist with an apartment in Germany, a house in London, an ex-wife in Sweden, a spinster sister in Dublin, an IRA brother buried in a rebel’s grave. How dangerously romantic. His dark auburn hair reflected strands of red in the firelight—his lightly freckled face, darting blue eyes, his tall, rough build...
THE CROWN OF SNOW, appeared in the 2014 Annual WOW! Anthology--Galway Ireland.
THE CROWN OF SNOW appeared in the 2014 Annual WOW! Anthology--Galway Ireland. We attended the February 28th launch with our friends from Dublin and had a kick of a time. Won third place (not first but not last!). There were readings and awards, lots of beer and a packed Crane Bar on Sea Rd. Galway, Ireland. The WOW! (WordsontheWaves) Anthology prize is sponsored by WordsontheStreet Publishers, Galway, Ireland.
Crown of Snow
A thick veil of ice particles hung heavily in the air leaving the cathedral trees a white impression of shiny glass windows. Around the side of the ranch house, a grove of birch trees shape themselves into cathedral windows. When the trees are bare, white to the bone, they become pointed cathedral windows. From the attic, the cathedral trees gave view to the crown of snow; a range of craggy peaks shooting 14,000 feet into Colorado’s thin North Park atmosphere.
Grandfather wandered from the ranch house, across the junk-filled yard to the shed on the far side of the dirt road. Bundled against the cold in a fur-lined jacket and baggie jeans, his slow walk and the fading of his figure into the ice fog gave the sense of a massive prehistoric being wandering lost within the image of a world....
Crown of Snow
A thick veil of ice particles hung heavily in the air leaving the cathedral trees a white impression of shiny glass windows. Around the side of the ranch house, a grove of birch trees shape themselves into cathedral windows. When the trees are bare, white to the bone, they become pointed cathedral windows. From the attic, the cathedral trees gave view to the crown of snow; a range of craggy peaks shooting 14,000 feet into Colorado’s thin North Park atmosphere.
Grandfather wandered from the ranch house, across the junk-filled yard to the shed on the far side of the dirt road. Bundled against the cold in a fur-lined jacket and baggie jeans, his slow walk and the fading of his figure into the ice fog gave the sense of a massive prehistoric being wandering lost within the image of a world....
Lefty's Electric Chair
..."Do you have any regrets in life?" I asked as I leaned against the wheel.
Others had asked that, too, during the several pre-death wakes we held for Lefty--one in Germany, to say goodbye to his old Berliner friends, one in Berkeley for his antiwar buddies, and one in Denver for the locals by the college.
"No kids? Not marrying anyone? Anything you'd do over if you had the chance? Any last words to the world?"
"Yeah," Lefty answered. "Don't forget to ask Life and Time what they think of their war hero now." He spoke so quietly that I had to lean close to hear, then felt quite guilty for asking so nonchalant a question when I would still be around long after Lefty had left. ... "I suppose I missed playing that guitar," he remarked after several minutes. "I should have learned to play with the stub. That would have been a first."
"Or the hook."
We laughed.
The warning clouds began to merge, moving from the Mummy Range toward The Roof. I wondered, as I had for the last several days, what was I to do with the body? I guessed that I could hike back down and tell the chairlift guy. He looked responsible. He'd know what to do. I'd tell him my friend had been struck by lightning, and I wasn't sure about moving him from the strike spot....
...What was really sad, I had thought since Lefty's Berkeley wake, held at the Blue Moon tavern on Telegraph Avenue, was to dream of running, and wake up with legs that didn't work. Or, to dream of playing the guitar, and wake up to one hand. It would be like being in love and wake up alone. (Matter Journal Vol. 10: Patterns)
Others had asked that, too, during the several pre-death wakes we held for Lefty--one in Germany, to say goodbye to his old Berliner friends, one in Berkeley for his antiwar buddies, and one in Denver for the locals by the college.
"No kids? Not marrying anyone? Anything you'd do over if you had the chance? Any last words to the world?"
"Yeah," Lefty answered. "Don't forget to ask Life and Time what they think of their war hero now." He spoke so quietly that I had to lean close to hear, then felt quite guilty for asking so nonchalant a question when I would still be around long after Lefty had left. ... "I suppose I missed playing that guitar," he remarked after several minutes. "I should have learned to play with the stub. That would have been a first."
"Or the hook."
We laughed.
The warning clouds began to merge, moving from the Mummy Range toward The Roof. I wondered, as I had for the last several days, what was I to do with the body? I guessed that I could hike back down and tell the chairlift guy. He looked responsible. He'd know what to do. I'd tell him my friend had been struck by lightning, and I wasn't sure about moving him from the strike spot....
...What was really sad, I had thought since Lefty's Berkeley wake, held at the Blue Moon tavern on Telegraph Avenue, was to dream of running, and wake up with legs that didn't work. Or, to dream of playing the guitar, and wake up to one hand. It would be like being in love and wake up alone. (Matter Journal Vol. 10: Patterns)
The Red Pony
Admittedly, the red pony looked a bit garish against the blandness of the park and the surrounding homes. As the five couples meandered from the park that evening, they each turned around and walked backwards. The red pony seemed to grow taller and taller until it became a huge red horse-like creature looming over the sameness around them.
"Scary," Dirk said. He would know, having built a one-room survivalist cabin outside Steamboat Springs for the millennium.
"The thing I don't understand," Jeffrey said. "Where the hell did they come up with a red pony? They say its for the kids to enjoy in the park, but really, if I remember right, The Red Pony is not a particularly uplifting story. Carl Tiflin is schizophrenic. Billy Buck is an ignorant and antagonistic man. Jody is definitely undiagnosed ADD." Jeffrey was a middle school teacher.
The five couples wandered to Patrick and Karen's front lawn. The June night had turned warm, almost stifling, the air not moving. Trees provided no cool break. The red pony loomed over them. Patrick made margaritas. "You're assuming that this is Steinbeck's red pony," he said. "It's not. It's a Trojan horse, and inside that red horse live millions of little green people who, once loose, will hurry and scurry about the park and beat all of us on the shins and the ankles with their blackthorn clubs..." (Blue Earth Review vol. 5, Spring 2007).
"Scary," Dirk said. He would know, having built a one-room survivalist cabin outside Steamboat Springs for the millennium.
"The thing I don't understand," Jeffrey said. "Where the hell did they come up with a red pony? They say its for the kids to enjoy in the park, but really, if I remember right, The Red Pony is not a particularly uplifting story. Carl Tiflin is schizophrenic. Billy Buck is an ignorant and antagonistic man. Jody is definitely undiagnosed ADD." Jeffrey was a middle school teacher.
The five couples wandered to Patrick and Karen's front lawn. The June night had turned warm, almost stifling, the air not moving. Trees provided no cool break. The red pony loomed over them. Patrick made margaritas. "You're assuming that this is Steinbeck's red pony," he said. "It's not. It's a Trojan horse, and inside that red horse live millions of little green people who, once loose, will hurry and scurry about the park and beat all of us on the shins and the ankles with their blackthorn clubs..." (Blue Earth Review vol. 5, Spring 2007).
Grandpa's Little Habit
If you took Grandpa, held him upside down and shook him, that's what you'd have--an old man, arms folded, shaken upside down. He wouldn't try to straighten himself. He wouldn't yell or scream. He wouldn't kick or box his way right side up. He'd just stay upside down until you let him go.
He wasn't always like that. Before Grandma died, if you held Grandpa upside down and shook him, life would have fallen out of his inverted pockets, laughter and quiet smirks from his smiling face, a hat full of surprises would have plummeted from his head.
Not his oldest daughter, Hannah. If you took Hannah, held her upside down, so much stuff would drop out you'd have to sweep the residue. Armor that matched Brunhilde would clank to the floor. Easy irritation would fall out of her. Impatience, chronic disapproval, self-absorption would tumble from her loose arms.
If you took the rest of the family ... well, the rest of the family was of no concern that June day Hannah discovered Grandpa's little habit.
(Dry Spell: Tales of Thirst and Longing: A Selection of Short Stories from Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, 2004)
"Grandpa's Little Habit" was selected reading in October 2014 by One Night Stand Theater Troupe in Denver, Colorado. FUN NIGHT! READ THE ENTIRE STORY ON NEXT PAGE...
He wasn't always like that. Before Grandma died, if you held Grandpa upside down and shook him, life would have fallen out of his inverted pockets, laughter and quiet smirks from his smiling face, a hat full of surprises would have plummeted from his head.
Not his oldest daughter, Hannah. If you took Hannah, held her upside down, so much stuff would drop out you'd have to sweep the residue. Armor that matched Brunhilde would clank to the floor. Easy irritation would fall out of her. Impatience, chronic disapproval, self-absorption would tumble from her loose arms.
If you took the rest of the family ... well, the rest of the family was of no concern that June day Hannah discovered Grandpa's little habit.
(Dry Spell: Tales of Thirst and Longing: A Selection of Short Stories from Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, 2004)
"Grandpa's Little Habit" was selected reading in October 2014 by One Night Stand Theater Troupe in Denver, Colorado. FUN NIGHT! READ THE ENTIRE STORY ON NEXT PAGE...
Me and Chuck Man Joe
...At the top of the third mountain, the lift suddenly stopped. Harley's white knuckles were glued to the safety bar. They peeled Harley, Hans and Syd off the chair lift and scooted us all away. It was Steve's turn to wave us off. He grabbed his bike, mounted Jessica and Spencer on theirs and off they flew. Last I saw, they disappeared into the pines, rolling eyes and clicking tongues.
I stood alone with my six charges--a white-faced Harley, a sick Syd; Hans lost his earring over the second mountain and was obsessing, Challenger wanted a beer, and Little Will wanted to follow Steve and the kids. Chuck Man Joe set up the bikes, instructed one to each, gave each a map and shoved them down the mountain. Hans and Challenger hid in the tall trees until Chuck Man Joe and I headed down the trail. Last I saw of those two, they were tiptoeing to the bar at the top of the mountain. Harley, Syd and Little Will--well, I heard their screams echo down the valley...
(the Belletrist Review, 5th Anniversary Special Edition, Fall/Winter 1996-97)
I stood alone with my six charges--a white-faced Harley, a sick Syd; Hans lost his earring over the second mountain and was obsessing, Challenger wanted a beer, and Little Will wanted to follow Steve and the kids. Chuck Man Joe set up the bikes, instructed one to each, gave each a map and shoved them down the mountain. Hans and Challenger hid in the tall trees until Chuck Man Joe and I headed down the trail. Last I saw of those two, they were tiptoeing to the bar at the top of the mountain. Harley, Syd and Little Will--well, I heard their screams echo down the valley...
(the Belletrist Review, 5th Anniversary Special Edition, Fall/Winter 1996-97)
