Meadowlark Story Society assignment: find an object in a pawn or antique shop, and write a story about it.

 

Little Pilgrim Lesson Pictures

MARGARET   (1930)

While she was starting her lesson, he walked in. She didn’t know why; he knew this was her hour with the children. This started her head spinning…was he smiling at her, or the children? Did he intentionally want to interrupt her class, or was it just an accident? She wasn’t good at lying, so imagined no one else was, either. She’d be able to figure out if he was telling the truth, wouldn’t she?

“Margaret, would you stop in my office before you leave this morning?”

“Why…I…yes. Yes, I can”, she stammered, feeling a blush color her cheeks. As soon as he closed the door, she continued on with the lesson. Or tried to. She stared at the Little Pilgrim card in her hand, then at her students. The turbaned men in the painting on the front of the card looked serious and a bit apprehensive. Mirroring her feelings toward Rev. Donald, they sat quietly, waiting their turn to have their feet washed by Jesus. Margaret tried to imagine how it must have felt to be the disciples, their feet tired and dusty. How inadequate they must have felt, but also honored, to have Jesus wash their feet! She couldn’t understand it. Like many of the stories she shared with the children, she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind each scripture and why it was included in the Bible. Some stories were so harsh and the actions of God so mean-spirited! She could only share the stories with the children, as her Sunday school teachers had once shared them with her.

Later, when all the children had left with their parents, she made her way to Rev. Donald’s office. He was young, newly widowed, and new to her family’s parish. His story was so heartbreaking, but Margaret couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but excitement and hope when he smiled at her, when he shared just a bit of himself with her. She knew her parents felt the same hope, that he would notice Margaret as more than just a sweet Sunday school teacher. That he would take that first step and perhaps ask her to coffee, or ask her to sit next to him on the upcoming church hayride.

“Margaret, I’ve noticed that you have such a way with the children, with sharing the scripture.” He ran one hand through his thick blond hair. “I’m thinking of starting an adult bible study, on Sunday evenings. In the parsonage, not here at church. Would you consider helping me with the lessons?”

This was unexpected. Margaret considered herself a willing helper, nothing more. But Rev. Donald looked nervous as well. Did he think she’d say no?

“Well, of course…I don’t know if I can offer anything more than your understanding of the scriptures, Rev. Donald…” Margaret smoothed her skirt and smiled. “But I’ll be there for support. Or help. Whatever you need…” She glanced at the photo in a silver frame behind his desk. Rev. Donald’s wife had been beautiful. Beautiful and flawed. Margaret didn’t know the whole story, and suspected many in the congregation didn’t, either. What was understood was this: Rev. Donald and his first wife, Anna, had some sort of falling out, she left to return home to her parents, she died. Rev. Donald often used his pain as an excuse to avoid discussion on the matter, and Margaret thought: who am I to question it? She’d never lost a loved one in so violent a manner. At the cusp of her life, in fact. Margaret felt nothing but compassion for Rev. Donald. A great loss, then his fortitude to continue on as a pastor every Sunday, not to mention all the home visits during the week. Well, she really couldn’t imagine…and had no business questioning it.

But no matter…Margaret felt that things were changing now. Her life was just beginning.

*****************************************************

From then on, the beautiful little cards were left in a drawer at the church. Another girl took over as the third grade Sunday school teacher, as Margaret was now helping Rev. Donald with his class. As time went on, Margaret and Rev. Donald became more important to one another.

Margaret and Donald became an “item” as it were, in their little town. It all started at church, where many church members thought to themselves: ah, of course, here it comes…

When Harry was born two years later, the family was complete.

*****************************************************

JANET (1985)

Janet found the cards in an old cabinet, just off the main sanctuary. What a find, she thought immediately, not thinking that they may actually belong to someone. She’d been looking for some colored paper for her class, and, after finding the cards, was so distracted that one of the students had to come and find her.

“Miss Porter?” Jeremy tentatively pushed his way into the room, a glorified closet that held a hoarder’s treasure. Sighing, Janet decided she’d use them for today’s lesson. I can improvise, she thought. Now that her first choice had fallen through, (crafting fall leaves to present to their mothers) Janet decided there wasn’t much time to come up with anything else. Besides, the kids might find these cards just as fascinating as she did. Half an hour could go by quickly.

Back in the classroom, she pulled out a card to read the notes and scripture on the back. She picked the top card on the pack, a photo of the prodigal son and his father. She knew this story well, this would be easy.

She started by asking the children if they knew what was happening in the picture on the front of the card. On the back, along with the scripture, was a synopsis, along with questions. Easy, easy. She could do this.

The card’s artwork reminded her of a palm-lined oasis. Palm Springs, maybe. Was that realistic? She didn’t know. She just knew this story, because it was one her mother told her, kind of as a caution. “Who wants every child to come to him?” read the ridiculously simplistic question on the back. Of course, thought Janet, the cards were from 1904! The only thing valuable was the artwork, and the scripture verses on each card back. The commentary and questions themselves seemed outdated.

Janet’s mother had just lost her husband six months before. Not Janet’s dad; he had died when she was just ten. Janet’s father had been a pastor’s son, an only child of a pastor and his second wife. How she had loved her father! He was the parent in her life who had the patience for bedtime stories, walks on the weekends. Ahead of his time in that way, he was like contemporary fathers in equality of parental duties. Or, in his case, inequality, as he was her caretaker most of the time, as well as her brother when he was born three years after Janet.

Her father’s ghost looms large in Janet’s life. This ghost of a father died in a car accident just after Christmas. Not before Christmas, her mother was fond of saying: that would have been tragic. As if that made anything easier, Janet thought. Her mother had a fondness for idiotic sayings. Since her father, Harry, died when she was so young, Janet never had a chance to find out anything about his childhood. Her mother often alluded to the fact that his parents weren’t happy together. Or, that his mother wasn’t happy. His father, well…his father was a pastor who led by example. If you want to BE happy, you need to ACT happy.

Now, Janet decided to put the cards in her purse. She’d use them again next week. Certainly, no one else in the Sunday school wing was interested in using them. As she looked for a ribbon or rubber band to consolidate the pack of cards, her finger brushed by a small piece of paper sticking out at the bottom. Thinking it a bit of rubbish, she pulled it out to toss, and then offered a second glance. There was handwriting on it. Could she make out the words? It looked ancient. The paper was thin, in worse shape than the pack of cards.

Holding the paper up to the light, she could just make out, “Oh, please help. I can’t do this any longer.”  It looked like a postscript on a longer piece of paper, a letter, perhaps. Even though the paper was clearly old, and the person in need of help long gone, Janet felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It’s like a ghost speaking to me, she thought. And then dismissed that thought. She was just tired, that’s all. Tired and in need of time with her mother. Instead of tossing the small piece of paper, however, Janet decided to keep it in the middle of the card pack.

That night, when she and her mother were relaxing in front of the television, Janet brought up the plea on the piece of paper.

“Well, I suppose it could’ve been Margaret,” answered Mona, her voice a sigh, a sad look in her eyes. “I think she felt trapped with your grandfather.” The note of finality in Mona’s voice surprised Janet.

“Did Grandma teach Sunday school? I thought she was a preacher’s wife…”

“They often teach Sunday school, Janet. Just because Rev. Lang’s wife doesn’t volunteer at church doesn’t mean it isn’t normal,” her mother seemed indignant. “I would say that most preachers’ wives teach.”

Janet shook her head. “It’s too much of a coincidence to assume Grandma wrote this note, though, right? These cards are dated 1904…plenty of teachers probably used them.” However, she had her doubts. Somehow, something told her they were Margaret’s cards as well, and that she DID write that note. Again, a ghost from the past.

*****************************************************

ANNA  (1926)

Looking through the little cards once again, Anna saw a pattern. A pattern that God was showing to her, she was certain. Imprisonment is what her life was now, and if she fled, God would be with her. Each card showing the apostle Paul’s imprisonment, each card showing that God is with His faithful people, led Anna to believe that she needed to leave Donald. God would show her the way.

God DID show Anna the way…on a solitary trip home to visit her parents, Anna found that she just couldn’t leave her parents' home. She wrote Donald a letter, telling him her thoughts. She referred several times to the Little Pilgrim cards, as if by inciting scripture, he would understand better.

It went better than she thought it would. She just needed a lot of patience…which she had in ample supply, along with time. The only thing she was doing at the moment was helping her parents in their little fabric and home goods store. When the third letter from Donald came (he didn’t even try to drag her home), she knew he was resigned…and that he had a new plan.

She knew what Donald was telling his parishioners…he told them that she had died while on a trip back home. Death was preferable to desertion, at least when sharing his life with his congregation. Anna offered her blessing. What did it matter to her, anyway? She didn’t care if she never found anyone to marry again. Now Anna was with her parents again. And going by her middle name, Marie. Her only regret is not being able to talk to the one friend she made while she and Donald were in Silver Spring. Maybe once many years had passed, Marie could reach out to her. Rev. Donald would have moved on by then, anyway. This thought was a comfort to her, even though she had new friends to make. New friends who couldn’t, at the moment, know that she’d left a husband behind. A husband who told everyone that she was dead. Recalling the Little Pilgrim Lessons, she thinks of all the signs from God. Leave him, God seemed to say, at every turn. She had done it! Left the one who had held her in captivity.

                       

                                      

Meadowlark Story Society assignment: "You are walking through a crowd, a boy runs up to you, shoves something in your pocket, and disappears again. What is it? What do you do?"

Pomp and Circumstance

It is 1736 and a chilly April morning when Frederick, Prince of Wales is slated to marry Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha. A light drizzle accompanies the proceedings, but, even so, the kingdom has come out in force to witness the happy occasion. Or, if not the happy occasion, the presentation of the couple following.

Westminster Abbey would’ve blocked the sun had it been shining, and Juliana’s hair is dripping onto her face despite her best intentions at pulling it back this morning. She had decided that she’d try to catch a glimpse of the happy couple, even if it takes standing in the drizzle for hours.

A few moments after she’d left her home, she saw that everyone else had decided the same. Wet wool is the de facto smell, and as everyone started to brush against one another as they neared the Abbey, Juliana began to feel sick. She considered turning around and heading back home, but then remembered that days like this only happen once or twice in a generation. A royal wedding! She’ll see royalty!

She’s now standing near a woman who’s wearing the same style frock as herself, in fact, even the same color. Color in 18^th century England isn’t in abundance for the commoner, but Juliana had secured a fabric so lemon yellow and warm that it matches her hair, with a profusion of violets on the bodice. Her neighbor here in the crowd has belted her bodice to help with the stays, an unusual look that Juliana hasn’t seen before.

The woman’s young son has been scurrying back and forth from the Abbey steps, reporting to his mother on what he has seen. His enthusiasm is contagious, and Juliana finds herself caught up in it as well.

At long last, the bells ring and the doors open. Everyone present seems to catch their collective breath, and the sound, a huge gasp, is so loud that it drowns out the sound of the gentle rain pattering the ground. The couple stands and acknowledges the crowd (no kissing, of course not), and then a shower of coins rain down from the bridal party. Children and some adults run for the coins, not realizing they are worth next to nothing, commemorative only, but the little boy has snatched one and is blindly running back to deposit it in his mother’s petticoat pocket before running for more. But, instead of his mother’s pocket, Juliana feels his tiny hand shove the coin into her own petticoat as he runs back to the line of revelers.

Juliana would like a coin to keep. She knows she should give the coin back to the little boy, or at least his mother, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it. Her hand reaches into her petticoat pocket and rubs the coin, which feels warm but also new in a way that’s foreign to her. Something so fresh and cut from a coining press only recently is a wonder. She decides to keep it.

Juliana moves away from the mother so that the discovery of the missing coin doesn’t affect her. Slipping behind the man next to her, she continues to side-step right until she’s out of sight of the little boy and his mother, absorbed back into the crowd like bubbles are absorbed back into yeast.

For the rest of the day, Juliana can’t forget the little boy and his mother. She hopes that he was able to find another coin. She imagines he doesn’t, and imagines him sobbing at home, blaming his mother for losing a coin she never had in her pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is 2018 and a beautiful, sun-drenched day in May when Prince Harry is slated to marry Meghan, the American. The day is stunning: the sun warm, the temperature perfect at 72 degrees. Fat, fluffy clouds dot the horizon, hinting at a storm to come, but that won’t happen until everyone is home tonight in bed. Right now, at 10:00 am, Julia feels like the day ahead is a present waiting to be opened.

She was invited by her coworker, Oscar, to attend the lining of the Long Walk in order to see the happy bride and groom process by in the Ascot Landau. Just seeing that grand carriage would’ve been enough to get Julia out of her apartment and braving the crowds. She and Oscar have become closer friends, definitely more than just co-workers, ever since they started working the Hamilton project together. As comfortable with each other as a married couple, they brush against each other, holding hands when the need arises to prevent one from becoming adrift in the sea of royalty-crazed humanity.

There are so many Americans in the crowd, with their signs and silly t-shirts. Julia and Oscar are taking it all in, the sun on their shoulders, the laughter and giddiness of the crowd, when all at once a small hand shoves something into Julia’s pocket. She hasn’t a moment to register this when she spots a tow-headed child running away. Almost afraid to reach into her pocket (it’s a large pocket; she’s wearing baggy khakis of a style popular ten years ago), Julia wonders what it could be…she immediately thinks of toads and frogs, those items of little boys’ pockets in nursery rhymes, but of course it’s not a toad, she’d have felt movement.

The horses are pulling the carriage past so quickly, too quickly, in Julia’s opinion, that she barely registers the wedded couple’s appearance. In fact, she may have missed it if not for the roar of the crowd.

She tentatively reaches into her pocket and pulls out what appears to be a clump of flowers. Looking closely, she sees that it’s a sprig of the forget-me-nots that Meghan is carrying in her bridal bouquet; one sprig of several that were tossed from the carriage as it passed.

This sentimental souvenir isn’t that important to Julia, and besides, who could steal a keepsake from a child? She waits for the little boy to return.

Since the carriage has passed, some members of the crowd decided they’ve had enough; they’ve seen the royal pair once, they don’t need to wait for the carriage to make the return trip to the castle. As the crowd thins, Julia sees the little boy, crying with a woman who, incidentally, looks a lot like Julia. Ah, she thinks, he thought I was his mother.

Julia doesn’t hesitate, she grabs Oscar’s hand and approaches the mother and son, knowing that she’ll solve this dilemma for them and stop the pitiful sobbing all at once.

“Is this yours?” she holds the now-soggy lump of flowers toward the little boy, bending down as she does, to his height.

He looks at it, sniffling, not taking it. The mother is thankful, showing her appreciation to Julia and Oscar, encouraging her son to take the bouquet. He finally does, not wanting to fully relinquish his sorrow, evidently.

They were Americans, of course.

Assignment from Richard: a gothic story inspired by our conversation about cemeteries

From Richard:

Field trip or group of young kids goes to the cemetery and go on a scavenger hunt, trying to find things like The person who was born the earliest etc. after an hour of scavenger hunting one of the kids decides he's thirsty and fills up his water bottle from the spicket with the metal clanging sign that says do not drink the water (great visual). 💦 💧 as he/she drinks the water this causes. . . (Thus begins the horror part of the horror story.).  

 

 

Tommy and Sissy were so proud…the sixth grade history field trip was going to be in their own backyard!

Mrs. Jones prompted excitement in the whole class when she said there would be a scavenger hunt coming up, one that took them to a unique location with a lot of history. Everyone thought she meant the Civil War battlefield the next town over, but Tommy and Sissy knew better. They’d seen Mrs. Jones chatting with their parents at school picnics and had already heard hints of what was in store. Oak Hill Cemetery bordered the Hadfields’ property, and Tommy and his twin sister, Sissy, knew every cobweb and corner of the graveyard.

Bounding off the bus like a herd of elephants, the students ran to the cemetery gate like they were entering an amusement park. Seeing the enthusiasm of his classmates, Tommy, especially, felt pride he hadn’t experienced before.

The kids were grouped into teams of five, supervised by teachers and teacher’s aides, and instructed to give serious thought to each item on the list before deciding, as a group, where to head first. Tommy wasn’t in the same group as Sissy, no surprise there, and was able to show off his knowledge of the cemetery without any competition.

Number one on his group’s list was: Find a grave that has a floral symbol. Tommy knew exactly which grave had a large bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, which signifies innocence. It belonged to a girl who died at age 19, in 1873. Tommy’s mother said she had died of diphtheria. Tommy didn’t know what diphtheria was, and didn’t want to know what would claim the life of someone so young. After finding the girl’s gravestone, Tommy’s group moved on to tick every single box on the list.

Some of the other groups were struggling. Mrs. Jones wanted everyone to have a chance to complete the hunt, so Tommy’s group headed up to the top of the hill to rest under a big cedar tree. It was peaceful, and everyone sprawled on the grass and dozed. The wind thwacked the little tin warning signs against the water spouts, and if you closed your eyes, you could imagine several bells ringing in succession.

Some kids were starting to complain that it was too hot, they were thirsty. The teacher’s aide in charge of Tommy’s group said not to worry, they would be done soon and headed back to the bus. Tommy pointed out the water spouts that he and Sissy had drank from whenever they visited the cemetery.

“But the little signs say: Don’t drink the water,” Miss Common argued. “I’m fairly certain it’s toxic.”

“Sissy and I drink all the time,” Tommy argued back. And then, matter-of-fact: “And there’s nothing wrong with us.” His classmates stared at him. If anyone wanted to dispute this fact, they weren’t saying.

Miss Common sighed. “We can all just wait a few minutes, can’t we?”

But it was too late. Tommy was already showing his group how he and Sissy simply cup their hands under the waterfall and slurp.

The gleefulness of several children gulping water from their hands to quench their thirst was shortly replaced by the sound of vomiting.

Finally, the only ones left standing were Tommy, Sissy, and anyone who hadn’t drank from the miniature spouts.

“What’s happening?” screamed Mrs. Jones, running up the hill. Miss Common was beside herself.

“They were just thirsty!” Miss Common defended herself. “Tommy said it was okay!” Miss Common began to cry, her face crumpling in an unattractive way.

Mrs. Jones stared at him, bewildered. “Have you drank from the spouts yourself, Tommy?” she asked.

“All the time!” he insisted. Instead of feeling fear and confusion, Tommy had a strange sense of feeling superior, chosen. He never felt this way in school, but, here, he felt like king of the hill. Something obviously made him and Sissy immune to whatever lurked in the water pipes, and he felt strong, invincible. Evidently his classmates were too weak to drink the water.

“I don’t understand!” Mrs. Jones wailed.

Now everyone who wasn’t on the ground, writhing and vomiting, was running in circles around the victims or wringing their hands in dismay.

Tommy and Sissy just looked at each other, smiled, and helped themselves to more of the ice cold, wonderful cemetery water. Had it been tainted by the decaying bones of the dead? Didn’t matter, they were the ones who were living. And after today, Tommy felt like he could become captain of any kickball team on the playground.

Meadowlark Story Society assignment: "write a story about a character from a song"

Song: In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins

Title: Uncle Stan

Her uncle Stan always had time for her. This is something she can recall from early days, time spent together during birthday parties, enjoying cake and ice cream and silly games. Occasionally this went further, when her mother had errands to run and begged Stan to watch Laura for an afternoon. Laura’s mother would drop her off in Uncle Stan’s driveway and she’d run to the front door, held open by a smiling Stan, coffee cup in hand. They’d spend the afternoon with paper dolls, or watching a movie, content in each other’s company.

When the photos of stolen objects first appeared in magazines and online, she didn’t think much of it. She was a People magazine devotee and read each and every article. But seeing two items that seemed to come straight out of her past gave her pause. When the FBI decided to share photos of items that the killer/rapist had stolen, they were essentially asking the public to become armchair detectives.

Her cell phone rang at precisely the right or wrong time, depending on how one would look at it. In any case, she forgot the article; it became a nagging feeling in her mind; not anything to really worry about.

Until.

A friend had asked if she had seen the article. Commented on how the case was coming back into the public eye, after that woman’s book came out. The nagging feeling returned, took center stage, and pushed all other thoughts out of the way. She needed to check again. She needed to force herself to pull up the articles on her computer, take a look.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard of the Buckeye State Killer. When she was younger, around age ten, she recalls her mother talking about how close to home it was. She was uneasy for a long time, Laura remembers, but Uncle Stan and dad always reassured mom.

“We’re here to protect you, Lois,” they would console. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

These platitudes were just that, oft-repeated and meant to reassure but were essentially meaningless, because, hadn’t the other victims had family and friends to protect them as well? A couple was killed while parking on a dirt road. Why couldn’t the man save the woman? No one was safe, Laura decided.

And then, time would pass, and she and her mother would forget about it. Until another crime surfaced. Now, after DNA testing has made long-dead crimes alive again, and that book had renewed interest, the Buckeye State Killer’s case was in the forefront.

Laura watched an online video where the son of a rape victim was interviewed. This man was just a little boy when his mother was raped. He was quiet in his high chair, unnoticed by the rapist, until he heard sounds that made him start to whimper and fuss. His mother told him later, when he was a young man, that he had probably saved her life, simply by being a distraction. When told of this long ago crime to which he was essentially a witness, the young man insisted he recalled bright blue eyes and a feeling so sinister that he was certain this memory was of the rapist.

After watching the video, the shaking began. She shivered and couldn’t sit still. It started when Laura put these pieces together, even before she knew why she was shaking. Bright blue eyes, the china set, the red ring. She shivered as if it were the dead of winter, and couldn’t stop.

That china set was Uncle Stan’s pride and joy at Thanksgiving. He would get it out each year, proclaiming that when one has good china, one should use it, not let it languish in a cabinet or on a shelf. Since Thanksgiving alternated between Lois and her brother Stan, Laura got to know this china well. The gravy boat, so unusual because it wasn’t a part of everyday meals, was an essential at Thanksgiving. The platter, beautiful on its own, proudly held both white and dark meats on Thanksgiving as well.

So when Laura sees duplicates of this set on the magazine’s pages, she doesn’t think Uncle Stan has anything to hide. On the contrary, her first thought is: wow, just like Uncle Stan’s! As if his taste had been copied, or the particular pattern was so popular that perhaps everyone of a certain era purchased Haviland Oasis.

The ring was different. Uncle Stan never wore it, but it sat on the top tier of his watch box. Its gold band and ruby stone sparkling, it appeared that Uncle Stan polished it frequently, but never wore it. Once Laura asked about it. Uncle Stan was dismissive, “Oh, that old thing?” he shrugged. It seemed the next time Laura visited it was relegated to the back of the box, nestled in the dusty velvet lining.

Laura re-read the online article, then decided to buy the book. The shaking had stopped, and she was sure that all of these coincidences would be put to rest once she read the book.

Two days later, after a trip to the bookstore, Laura’s shaking returned. Not only was the list of objects stolen confirmed, but several hints as to the killer’s identity matched Uncle Stan’s life, appearance, personality. Laura didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, she needed to tell someone. On the other hand, telling someone would make it real, and then steps would need to be taken. Some small part of Laura still believed that she would find out that every single thing was a coincidence, and would prove how silly and dramatic she was being. She decided to tell her mother. Stan’s sister would surely be able to shed some insight.

In the shower that morning, and later at work, a voice in her head kept repeating: What to do, what to do, what to do. This refrain nearly drove her crazy, like a musical earworm, and Laura believed it was telling her to bypass her mother and go straight to her father. Her mother would probably deny the knowledge as well, and Laura needed someone who was somewhat objective. Not as closely linked to Stan as his own sister.

Her father laughed at her. Admittedly, she chose a poor time to tell him, but still. They had sat down on her parents’ patio on a Friday, happy hour time of day, with gin and tonics. Her dad’s favorite, and he always loved the end of the week. He loved his backyard, too, and maybe he just wanted to enjoy life on a Friday night instead of contemplating darker matters. Lois was still at work when Laura decided to hint at Stan’s potential secrets, see what her father had to say. She wouldn’t come right out and say she suspected her uncle was a cold-blooded killer, she’d just feel out her dad’s awareness of not only Uncle Stan, but his thoughts on the serial killer as well.

She didn’t do well at being subtle.

“What?” Laura’s dad asked, staring, distrusting her judgment. “You’ve been watching too much Law and Order.”

Laura was silent.

She dropped the subject with her father, wondering who else she could tell. Her days were spent alternating between wanting to tell someone and a strong sense of denial. She started to drink in the evenings, just a couple of glasses of wine to take the edge off of the what-to-do refrain still playing in her head. Becoming an alcoholic was not an option, so Laura knew she needed to do something.

After a week, Laura decided to confide in her cousin, Abigail. Abigail was the daughter of her mother’s only other sibling, Bonnie. Bonnie had raised Abigail essentially as a single mother, far from Ohio, in the wastelands of North Dakota. Laura and Abigail weren’t especially close, but they certainly had shared a lot before the move to the plains.

“Do you think Uncle Stan may be keeping secrets from us? Like, do you think he may be leading a double life?” The sentence sounded absurd as she uttered it, and a nervous laugh almost slipped out. The phone line was still for just a moment, and then, “What?” Abby echoed Laura’s father.

Instead of feeling relief that both her father and cousin doubted her, she only felt frustration. This is how she knew her instincts were on track.

“I’m speechless. What clues are you talking about?”

“The FBI has released photos of some of the objects stolen from people’s homes. People he raped, or killed. You know the china set that Uncle Stan loves, with the green border? And there’s a ring he has, in his watchbox. I remember seeing it as a little girl.”

Abigail sighed, then huffed. “You’ve got to be kidding. What are you going to do, turn him in? Call 911? Ask him is he’s a murderer?” She listed these things as if this was a game, a trick Laura was playing on her.

Laura thought of that little boy, sitting in his high chair, now an adult. She thought of how finding the Buckeye State Killer would bring peace and justice to his family. She then thought of how it might bring chaos and strife to her family, if Uncle Stan were found to be the killer. She thought a bit more about it, then realized that she’d need to trust her father and cousin. Two outnumbers one, right?

 

 

 

 

Meadowlark Story Society assignment: "Write a love scene, from the point of view of your hands"

The hand as family

We work together, play together, sweat together, for the most part. Although Pinky is often a bit behind the game, so to speak, sometimes she surprises us and keeps up. Today is the exception…she’s lagging, sluggish. Like an ALS patient on the verge of paralysis, Pinky just sits there. Perhaps she’s as nervous as we are…today our body has been a bundle of nerves. In general, no one works harder than I do, except for maybe Thumb. His chubbiness can sometimes cause problems, though, so I still feel I’m the leader here.

The lights are dim, a stunning sunset framed in the west bay window. We see other fingers on another hand, not our left (a sore excuse for workmanship, our corresponding left hand is shy, clumsy. We, on the other hand {ha!} are forceful, outgoing; we get the job done). Speaking on behalf of the whole hand, I, Pointer, am alert to what may happen next.

This other set of hands is soft, delicate. A woman’s hands, we’re certain.

Tonight, our body is intent on wooing the body owning this other set of hands. He has prepared mussels in garlic sauce (we were the stars of this show!) and opened a bottle of his best Chablis. We’re all a bit sore from the preparation, so we’re ready for some relaxing downtime. Our wrist (again, a weak link…we do far more of the work) is resting lightly on the edge of the table and those other hands, glimpsed briefly a moment ago are on their way across the table to us. They grab hold of us, squeezing lightly. This is new! Our body rarely touches anyone else, so this sensation is exciting, unexpected. Remember my mention of sweat earlier? Happening now in excess!

The sky turns as the sun disappears, it becomes a vibrant blue; not eggshell, not Tiffany, just the blue of the end of day.

“Just a moment.”

Our body gets up to draw the blinds, so that now the room is only candlelight. Each of us is poised, ready for whatever is coming next. No longer sitting at the table, the owner of that beautiful hand grabs ours again, squeezes, and we are bound together closer than ever. Then, all at once, that silky, soft hand is gone and we’re heading up, up, to clasp a neck, move a stray hair, brush a chin. So sudden, this other body so close. We appear to be working in tandem with the left hand better than ever before. We’re all a little frightened, not having been through this before, so we feel a kinship with the left that’s missing from our everyday activities. Washing dishes, shaving, typing, driving…mundane activities in which we, the right hand, feel superior.

We’re feeling more intensity coming from our body, he’s now moving us in so many directions we’re dizzy. He leads the body belonging to the other set of hands to the couch, and we’re everywhere at once. Hair, shoulder, breast, leg, hair again. We’re heady with the excitement of it, and know that once this night’s over, we’ll be clamoring for more.