Tag: Short Story

THE LAST GOODBYE (Maria Melillo Jones)

~ Maria Melillo Jones ~ Leave a comment

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real until the call arrived that David has passed on.

A little over a year he fought the beast* that took over his life.  David had the hunger to live, with every last breath he fought, a battle that was meant for him to win.  My beautiful Angel lost his fight on Family Day, February 20, 2011, eighteen days away from his 30th birthday.  Out of all the days, he lost his fight on family day. A day to remember, to celebrate with family, was he sending us a message? I wish I knew.

I let out a scream, a painful excruciating scream. it’s hard to describe the agony I felt.  My heart had just been shattered and ripped out of my chest. I felt as though the Devil had my heart in his own hand squeezing as hard as he could in his ugly fist,

I could not get a breath of air into me. Every so often I would take a big gulp, I had the feeling of drowning without being under water.  Just the thought of my sweet nephew not being around anymore, it was a raw, aching pain.

I brought up the little rascal from the time he turned one. I knew what he liked and what he didn’t. I remember all the funny things he did, and said, what made David laugh and what made him cry. He had a real sense of humor. Most of all he had a beautiful smile and a gentle personality. He loved to help and give. When he smiled, his entire soul smiled, his eyes sparkled like stars.

I was not able to hug him or tell him that Aunt Maria loved him before he passed, due to family quarrels. That was one of the saddest things besides his passing. I couldn’t let go of the thought that, perhaps, he didn’t believe in my love for him anymore. I wanted him to know that I loved him more than life. If I could switch lives with him, I would have done it in an instant, without thinking twice. My nephew, David, had a full life ahead of him, a life full of joy, laughter, and good deeds. A life with a family of his own, and a woman that loved him deeply.

Losing my nephew was the hardest thing that ever had happened to me, I cried for a month. I fell into the black hole called depression. It was dark and lonely, no one understood my desperation. I was alone. It was very hard climbing back out of that big dark hole. God stood beside me and reached for my hand. Little by little I found the courage.  I pushed myself a little at a time.   After many long waking nights, I admitted to myself that David was really gone.

Towards the last critical months of his life, I was no longer welcome near him, as per his mother and father (my brother) because of those family quarrels.  The day of the funeral I went to the church, to give my nephew my last goodbye. I began to cry the minute the casket entered the church. My heart was aching so much. I never experienced that kind of pain before, not even when my own father passed away. That pain was real, it was poignant.

As the casket passed by me, I followed it outside the doors. Seeing him taken away forever, I collapsed in the arms of my husband. Still thinking “it’s not real he will come home.” Something inside me didn’t want to accept his departure, I kept the hope alive, the hope to hear him knocking on my door and calling my name, “Hello Zia**, how are you?” he used to say.

After a couple of years, I came to realize and accept that my beautiful and handsome nephew was no longer walking among us. I know for sure he is helping in the Heavens. He is with me every day; the beautiful memories are locked, and will forever be cherished, within my heart.

“Rest in peace, my Angel – until we meet again.”

 

Beast* – Cancer

Zia** – Aunt

The Recital (Catherine A. Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

The buzz in the audience subsided as the lights dimmed.

The introductions had informed the audience that the recital pieces were part of the performer’s piano associateship program – astonishing for a 14-year old. A concert grand dominated the low stage. The hall was intimate, set up with round tables, encouraging a relaxed interactive experience. A bar at the top of the stairs welcomed the audience with a respectable selection of Niagara wines. A number of paintings were displayed on easels – the creations of the pianist. A very talented young lady!

The audience chatted, sipping on drinks, awaiting the start of the recital. Numerous friends and family had collected, and young children chattered, running in and out. Parents tried to tone down their enthusiasm before the playing began but not entirely successfully.

The tall, lanky Asian girl stepped up to the concert grand piano, turned to face the audience and bowed stiffly. A ringlet of hair hung down her face, the rest was piled tidily on her head. Big glasses, dark rimmed, accented her face. Her look was serious, lips slightly pouted. She was elegantly dressed, a black evening number that belied her age. The back was open, the skirt short. Tan brown sandals, high-heeled and laced half-way up her shin, finished the outfit.

She sat down on the bench, adjusting it slightly, placed her hands over the keys – a momentary pause, her right foot hovering over the pedal. The pianist stroked the keys, breathing life into an exquisitely dynamic performance – technically impressive but also emotional – forceful, lyrical. Just the right use of rubato. She wrapped – hands poised briefly where she had finished the piece, dropping into her lap as she turned to acknowledge the applause.

Sitting sideways on the piano bench, knees touching awkwardly, she looked out at the room.

“Thank you. That was one of my favorite composers, the great pianist and composer, Chopin. One of his “heroes” is the composer of the next piece, Johann Sebastian Bach.”

She tucked her short skirt against her bare legs as she reseated herself for the next piece. This one didn’t reflect the same passion as the Chopin. Her playing seemed wooden. Her execution of the Fugue never captured the intricacies of the theme, the right-hand parts persistently dominant. The youth of the pianist perhaps, not able to internalize and then execute the complex voicing.

A couple of the younger audience members fussed audibly but the performer appeared oblivious. More intrusive, a police siren whined and echoed from the street. The building, nearly 150 years old, was not sound proof and the neighborhood was not the most desirable. Family sat at the front row tables, applauding enthusiastically. Dad had a video camera on a tripod. Minutes into the Bach, Dad’s car keys fell out of his pocket, clattering noisily on the floor.

The pianist picked up the microphone again and introduced her next work, a piece by a relatively unknown composer and performer from France, Pierre Sancan. She commented on its similarity to Debussy’s work. “Pierre Sancan was a great admirer of Debussy’s harmonies and frequently performed Debussy works. I hope you enjoy this composition of Sancan’s, Toccata.” Turning back to the keyboard the young performer delivered a smooth, emotive interpretation of the piece.

Then the performance did the changeup. The pianist’s instructor had told the audience that a young singer would also be part of the evening. Stepping onto the stage, an electric guitar cradled in her arms, the singer nodded to the audience, long blonde hair trailing down her back and over the strings of the electric guitar, reminiscent of Joni Mitchell. The program indicated that she and the pianist were band members. Apparently, the blonde usually played the drums and sang. The pianist played the guitar.

Tonight, the singer played her own guitar. The pianist provided additional accompaniment on the piano. The singer’s voice was soft, folksy. Unfortunately, the tones of the electric guitar were jarring, the amplification edgy in the acoustics of the hall, drowning out her words. She sang three songs – an eclectic collection. First was a contemporary piece “The Magician” composed by Andy Shauf, a Canadian. Second, “Zombie” by the Irish band, The Cranberries.  The last song, composed by the pianist, was the most successful and resonant – no guitar, just the piano.

The contemporary “Joni Mitchell” bowed, thanked the audience and retreated to a front row seat joining a group that looked like classmates.

The noise level in the audience increased after the applause for the singer ended.

The pianist stood quietly in front of the bench waiting for the crowd to settle. “The next piece is 25 minutes and there will be no break – so hang in. It is one of Beethoven’s best-known sonatas, the Tempest.”

Turning again to the keys, she tucked her skirt tightly around her thighs. Her foot rested gently on the pedal. She tackled the piece with energy and musicality. Until the last movement when a memory hiccup momentarily interrupted the flow. The audience was largely oblivious.

She took the opportunity to regain her composure by a few calm breaths at the end, her hands still touching the keys. Turning, she addressed the room.  “Thank you. Except for the blooper in the last movement….”. A wry smiled touched her lips. Several members of the audience cringed – don’t apologize – you recovered – no performance is perfect.

“The next piece is…” She hesitated. Her instructor called out from the back of the room. “Jazz”. Looking myopically through her glasses towards her coach she said “Whatever! Right. The piece is a mix of jazz and…. polytonality. Actually the composer, Francois Morel, died quite recently.”

Members of the audience stirred, looking puzzled. Polytonality? As the pianist charged through the piece it became obvious the extent to which major and minor keys were overlaid. Technical, somewhat jazzy, very modern.

The final piece. “This is another of my favourite composers. Sergei Rachmaninoff. A romantic and dramatic.” She soared through the piece – her affinity for this era of music very obvious.

The audience clapped enthusiastically. She stood, bowing several times, and then walked off the stage, joining the table of classmates, giggling and waving her hands.

A protégé, maybe even a genius and still a “kid”.

Edinburgh, Scotland – Holy Corners (Catherine A. Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

My husband and I arrived in Leith, Scotland, July 15, 2015. The port for Edinburgh, an interesting town – we had time to walk around and lunch. Good to be off the ship. Tomorrow was ostensibly the highlight of the cruise – The Open at St. Andrews, on the other side of the link.

The real highlight for me was the opportunity, on a free day in Edinburgh, to find my boarding house and school close onto 50 years after attending – Cranley School for Girls – 1967-1968. Volunteers at the pier provided maps and directions for the usual tourist spots. No doubt the woman we spoke to was taken aback when I gave a specific residential address that I wanted to “get to”. About to send us to City Centre with multiple bus transfers she lit up and said “Over there. No 8. Tell the driver to let you off at Holy Corners.”

Holy Corners – right by the Edinburgh Hospital. A place burned into my memories of that year at boarding school.

We left the bus as directed, at Holy Corners. No surprise as to how it came by its name. The churches butted the sidewalk on each corner of Gillsland and Morningside, ergo Holy Corners. The stained-glass windows were dark with grime of decades of vehicles belching smoke into the air. Iron fences barricaded the grounds of the Edinburgh Hospital, lining the sidewalk, pinning the walkers between them and the busy street.

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Gillsland was the quieter of the two roads. Old, stately homes stood well back on the lots, narrow gates opening from the low stone walls by the street. They had been built in an era where there were few cars and no need for driveways or access for vehicles. My boarding house was number 8.

A plaque with the street name was nailed into the wall at the corner, right next to one of the churches.

A gentle place with the sun shining, a dreary place in the drizzle of Scottish winters and an eerie place in the gloom of the evening. That is the memory I have of Holy Corners. A memory of the churches ill-lit and their shadows darkening the street even more than the dusk. Street lights were grimy and glowing dimly. The wet streets flickered with the reflection of car headlights. The whole of Holy Corners seemed to swirl like a living, breathing thing – crooked fingers reaching out to block the way.

Why was I trying to negotiate the way from the Edinburgh Hospital, past Holy Corners, to my boarding house on Gillsland Road on such a dark and dreary evening?

………………

Sally was older than I was, Scottish-born and bred. I had been assigned to her dorm room. There were four of us. Sally, of course, and Louise and Ellen. As the youngest (and newest) I got all the cruddy jobs like getting up on a freezing morning to turn on the space heater to take the edge off the unheated room. I was also the only non-Scot. Sally’s parents lived in or near Edinburgh but Louise and Ellen’s parents were elsewhere in the world. My parents, too, were thousands of miles away – in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania – I was very lonely.

Sally loved horses, as did I. However, Sally walked with canes, legs braced – a victim of polio at a very young age. The bones didn’t grow properly so every year her legs were broken, the bones stretched apart to create a gap and pinned in place so that the gap could fill with new bone. Every year! This year her parents had promised her a respite.

Sally had been encouraged to ride woolly ponies at a nearby stable – very staid. She was easily infected with the desire to up the ante. We found a lovely stable to try with the help of our young house mistress. The horses were trained in basic dressage, point-to-point steeplechasing and jumping and rides were available at all levels.

Our Headmistress, Miss Porteous, into her 60’s and less than fit and active (aka “Porky” – children are cruel), had some trepidation but she bowed to our pressure. Sally’s parents also caved to her pleading. Our first couple of visits were uneventful. Compared to the ponies this equestrian centre made us feel like real horsewomen. The stable hand was cautious with Sally and had put her on a big, slow-moving gelding – definitely part draft horse – a real sweetheart. His fetlocks were hairy right down to his big, flat hooves. This day he was tacked up ready to go, reins draped over his neck. The attendant had stepped away to help another rider. Sally’s parents had come to watch and no doubt showing off, Sally, in a burst of independence, decided she would mount the horse unsupervised. Crazy! Her head didn’t even reach his withers and there was no mounting block. She lifted one foot to the stirrup, hand gripping the front of the saddle.

In absolute slow motion I saw the rear hoof of that easy-going horse shift and saw him flick it forward as if to knock off a fly. Sally was right in its path. She went down like a rag doll.

I raced to her. She was sobbing in shock. Her mother scrambled over screaming Sally’s name. The stable hand whipped around and grabbed the horse, getting him out of the way. It was quickly apparent that Sally’s leg had snapped.

We lifted Sally very carefully and ensconced her in the back seat of her parent’s car. I crawled in to the same seat and supported her head in my lap. I was trembling. Sally was whimpering and I was soothing her. “It’s OK. We don’t have far to go. Just stay still.” She managed a nod. Staying still was easier said than done. Her dad, white as a sheet, was driving like a maniac. To the Edinburgh hospital right by Holy Corners.

I was left standing alone in the Emergency Room. Sally had been rushed into x-ray and her parents with a quick squeeze of my shoulder went with her. At this point I couldn’t process where I was or how to get back to the boarding house. It was now quite dark. I found a pay phone and called the house. Mrs. Todd, senior headmistress, answered. In her firm, no nonsense voice. “I understand. Sally is being looked after. Now let’s get you home.” She calmly directed me to the exit out of the hospital, past Holy Corners back to the big stone boarding house at 8 Gillsland Road.

Mrs. Todd greeted me at the lobby door. I was ushered into the Headmistress’ sitting room, across from our dining room. Several boarders were hovering at the door, Sally’s accident had already become known. The sitting room was full of over-stuffed chairs, throw rugs, cushions and a cozy gas fire (most of the rooms in the boarding house were unheated).  I felt chilled to my core. I slid into a big chair that enveloped me. Mrs. Todd was stiff upper lip – “You are OK, dear. Home safe.” Miss Porteous – “You poor dear. And poor Sally. We should never have let her take the risk. Do you know – did she break the leg again?” “I think so. I didn’t get to go with her to the exam room at the hospital. She was in so much pain.” I hiccupped with the start of a sob. Both Mrs. Todd and Miss Porteous hugged me. Nauseatingly sweet, milky tea was poured into my cup. It cloyed on my tongue, the honey thick in the bitter liquid. I burst into tears.

There was no more riding for Sally and she spent that Christmas, yet again, in leg casts.

……………

And here my husband and I were at Holy Corners, walking down the road to 8 Gillsland Road and I remembered that long ago day like it had happened yesterday.

The Young Girl and The Math Teacher (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

Please tell me that isn’t my high school math teacher who played the piano for the young girl? It was a horrible rendition.  I think he should stick to what he knows best. That would be Math. Someone should give him piano lessons.  Then maybe, just maybe, it would not make my ears hurt when he plays.

I know a way they could help each other. The young girl is having a challenging time understanding math, so he could tutor her. Knowing that the math teacher isn’t any good on the piano, and seeing the young girl perform once before, she could teach him how to play at least this one song correctly and in tune.

Today the young girl will be entering her first Math Competition after several months of being tutored. We all wish her well, and Mr. Brand will be sitting in the front row watching.

Principal Davis asks the young girl, “What is five times five?”

She promptly answers with a smile, “That would be twenty-five.”

When it was all done, the young girl had won Second Prize.  Mr. Brand was so proud of her that he took her and her parents out for a treat at the local coffee shop.

One month later, Mr. Brand was scheduled to play a piece on the piano for the same local Community Group. The young girl had taught him to correctly play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, the song he tried and failed to do last time. The young girl was so happy that Mr. Brand did it correctly and in tune. Everyone clapped afterward. The young girl was scheduled to perform next.

She sat down on the bench, all of ten years old, flexed her long fingers and began to play Claude Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1 with conviction.  Mr. Brand, having never heard her play, was mesmerized by her talent.  Had he known she was so accomplished, he would never have tried to shield her from the embarrassment that day. Him believing that someone so young would never be able to play the piano well.

Always stick to what you know best and never assume anyone is less accomplished in what they are attempting to do. The young girl will never become a wiz at math, but that is okay. Mr. Brand will never become a great pianist, but that too is okay. We all have our own unique skills and age should never be seen as a barrier.

A Happy Time (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

I had been enticed by the photo of a group of trail riders wending their way through a verdant valley following a crystal-clear river surrounded by imposing mountains. The text for the ad promised home cooked food, evening campfires and singsongs, led by an experienced guide in the company of travellers drawn to the Rocky Mountains from everywhere. Despite not being able to convince my sister or a friend to make the trip, I decided to go. It was my first real holiday as a young adult after getting settled in my first teaching job. It turned out much different than I expected but even better.

When I was picked up in Banff, I was told that because I was there the week before the Calgary Stampede, no group rides had yet been scheduled. I was asked if I would consider riding alone with the guide who was checking out the trails. There would still be the two campsites to return to at night, there would still be breakfast and dinners and packed lunch for the rides as the campsites were gearing up for the following week. I would have one of the large shared tents to myself and we would do as much riding as the regular trips did. So, it was to be just the guide and me.

The situation suited me as one who is more introvert than extravert. And no this is not a romance story though it did have a handsome hero- one who could wear a cowboy hat without it looking like a costume, who sat a horse with ease and grace, and who spoke as befitted someone who grew up as one of the younger siblings in a family of seven on a rural Saskatchewan farm. He was probably younger than I realized then.

It helped that I could saddle up myself and knew my way around a horse in a comfortable if not expert manner. For six days after breakfast, we saddled up and rode for many hours, stopping at noon for lunch and a break for the horses. A simple cheese sandwich on hearty bread, brand name biscuits or cornbread soaked in maple syrup eaten with instant coffee, made from water taken from the stream we rested the horses by, never tasted so good.

And, here I was on a horse, a sturdy bay gelding, nothing to look at but honest and sure-footed and tireless and I was riding through mountains, mountains on both sides off me, mountains behind me, and mountains ahead of me as far as I could see. Sometimes we were negotiating switchbacks, my steady horse sweated up but dogged. Sometimes we were high enough a brief snow shower wetted us. Sometimes we were snaking through trees, sometimes following the path of a silver river and then splashing through it to the other side, a delight unlikely with a large group inevitably with some who had never been on a horse before. The same for a quick canter back to camp down an old lumber road- an unexpected treat. I cannot deny that I felt lucky to be asked if I was game for doing some scouting of a new trail. Throughout those days on horseback, I never heard any traffic, saw a single plane overhead, and only once in the distance saw another group of riders going the opposite direction.

Every evening after a full dinner usually with some cut of local beef, I was invited to sit around a fire. I still remember these fires as a time when I laughed more and harder than I have ever since. I find many things funny, yet I do not laugh easily but I remember laughing so much then that my jaws ached. It turned out that the local park ranger who was stationed on fire watch all day came over to the camp in the evening. He was a natural story teller and my guide a keen acolyte, and they had a well of stories. Most concerned bears and tourists, tourists and bears, and among tourists the most amusing to them were the hikers, usually assumed to be some type of hippy. I remember them waxing on like ancient philosophers about the theories of what to do if confronted by a bear. As in the telling of all good stories, it was in the manner of it, the art of it. The park ranger was gifted in this and perhaps he spent his solitary days honing his stories for the night.

When I withdrew to my tent, I looked up at the stars, so many and so bright, felt embraced by the darkness so deep and a blanket of quiet that lured me into heavy untroubled sleep. No wavers signed, no GPS tracking systems on alert, no cell phones near for comfort. No fear, none.

A Short Lost Animal Story (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

On the day Smudge went missing.  Calls went out, “Smudge, Sweetie, please come out from your hiding place.  Your Mummy misses you.”

Nothing, no meow, no feeling of snuggling on a leg.  Sheer sadness ensued.  Where could that silly cat be? Smudge never went outside, never crossed the doorway, but today she bolted out the open back door.

Smudge, when I look at her, sports attitude.  She is independent and sassy in the way she moves or snuggles.  All will be lost if Smudge isn’t found.  Who will there be to pet, or talk to, or share innermost thoughts with?  Life will never be the same.

“Think positive thoughts, never give up.”  That’s what Mrs. Calm always says.

How does a person do that in a time of so much stress? Must try and follow her words while looking for the one who keeps my world level most days.

The search was widened to include the nearby farms and especially the barns. Maybe Smudge heard the cry of a friend who was in danger and went to help.  Is that even possible? Of course, it is. Animals listen to things that humans do not.

After two long days, scouring more than five miles of land and buildings, I laid eyes on her.  Smudge was in Mr. Tubbs hayloft lying next to an injured kitten who had been bullied by the others. Whenever he tried to get close, she would hiss and circle her paws around the baby.

Mr. Tub finally was able to put both into a nearby kennel, and they were taken home.  Two cats now live in this house. Smudge and her adopted son Trigger, who today, are bonding with this pitiful specimen of a human.

Interconnected (Catherine Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

Isolating – the weather is bleak.

I watched the rain drops slithering along the curved roof of the sunroom. The wind howled. The trees dance or so it seems. Dancing – reminding me of the swirling shapes and colours of a crowded dance floor. Except that the dance I remember really wasn’t very crowded. Maybe more like meandering ribbons, multi-coloured.

I returned to my desk. It had been a singularly unproductive morning. Blank sheets of paper, stark white, staring at me from the desk. I reached for my coffee cup and knocked over a container of paper clips.

How intriguing. They seemed to come alive on the white background. I joined a blue one to a red one and positioned them in the corner of the paper. Then added a yellow and a green and another red. I snaked the paper clip chain making loops and curves. I closed the loop but that was too neat. It suggested that there could be closure. No, the paper clip chain had to trail away….

Sighing I shrugged. “I am making much too much of this. Just procrastinating.” I shook the chain off the paper and picked up a pen. I couldn’t think of anything to write. My eyes wandered back to the pile of paper clips.

“Maybe not – I like the symbolism. Is that what I am missing in my story? The connections.” I played with the clips. “The plot doesn’t have to be in a straight line. It just needs to link. See, it can go forward and down, back and up. Keep it moving and when there are no more connections – I am done.”

I thought some more about that chain.

“I still have to start, somewhere. Maybe the middle.” Tracing the paper clip chain, “See I can always circle back. Maybe, crazy as that sounds, start at the end.”

Sighing – a walk in the rain might clear my head. The chain will be here when I get back.

Connected Web

Photo by Howard W. Moyer and Catherine A. Campbell – www.moyerimages.com