Savant
(From Rochelle's story. One of many stories in a collection of short stories by various midwest authors)
Travis Winnery moved into the house next door in 1967, the summer I turned fourteen, on a muggy Sunday afternoon in mid-July. Sitting on our front stoop, I closed my June issue of “16 Magazine” and watched a slender woman heft one box after another from a U-Haul trailer. Not lifting a finger to help, he lounged in the grass with his St. Bernard. What a lazy bum! But a cute one, nonetheless.
Always on the prowl for a good looking guy who would find me irresistible, I decided the time had come to introduce myself. With pretended confidence, I sauntered across two lawns. Crouching beside him, I waved my predatory hand in his face.
“Hi! I’m Audrey. My mom named me after Audrey Hepburn.”
Closing his eyes, he turned away from me. Only the dog acknowledged my presence with a cursory grumble. My pride smarted more than a tad.
Unwilling to give up, I edged closer. “You know. The actress. She was in
‘Roman Holiday’? ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ What’s your name?”
“My son’s name is Travis. He’s shy.”
Had she not introduced herself as his mother I might have guessed her to be his sister. Her ocean-blue eyes looked like his only her long lashes were enhanced by a heavy coat of mascara. She had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen and her smooth blonde hair, parted down the middle, gleamed like one of those models in the Breck Shampoo ads.
I extended my hand. “Audrey Reubens.”
“Peggy Winnery, pleased to meet you, Miss Reubens.”
Without stopping to filter them through my adolescent brain, I let my thoughts gush from my mouth like rain from a rusty gutter. “What’s wrong with him? Is he retarded or something?”
Always on the prowl for a good looking guy who would find me irresistible, I decided the time had come to introduce myself. With pretended confidence, I sauntered across two lawns. Crouching beside him, I waved my predatory hand in his face.
“Hi! I’m Audrey. My mom named me after Audrey Hepburn.”
Closing his eyes, he turned away from me. Only the dog acknowledged my presence with a cursory grumble. My pride smarted more than a tad.
Unwilling to give up, I edged closer. “You know. The actress. She was in
‘Roman Holiday’? ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ What’s your name?”
“My son’s name is Travis. He’s shy.”
Had she not introduced herself as his mother I might have guessed her to be his sister. Her ocean-blue eyes looked like his only her long lashes were enhanced by a heavy coat of mascara. She had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen and her smooth blonde hair, parted down the middle, gleamed like one of those models in the Breck Shampoo ads.
I extended my hand. “Audrey Reubens.”
“Peggy Winnery, pleased to meet you, Miss Reubens.”
Without stopping to filter them through my adolescent brain, I let my thoughts gush from my mouth like rain from a rusty gutter. “What’s wrong with him? Is he retarded or something?”
The Swimming Lesson
(From Rochelle's story. One of many stories in a collection of short stories by various midwest authors)
A lit M-80 slipped from Kenny Lord’s fingers, sizzling its way to the water, thirty feet below. Bang-Splash! A startled catfish floated to the surface and turned belly-up.
Two more explosions, resulting in two more dead fish, followed his. He grinned at Frankie-Ray who shrugged. “Ain’t done it.”
It was the second day of Kenny’s escape. Summer vacation. 1961. He didn’t miss the eight by forty foot home he shared with his two brothers, sister and mother, in a tag-rag trailer park behind Beech Aircraft, on the outskirts of Wichita, Kansas. Accustomed to dust and flatland, his eyes couldn’t drink in enough of Arkansas’s lush hills.
“Hey, Lordy-Lordy, know how to swim?” asked Boyce, a barrel-chested boy with ash-blond hair and a deep tan.
Kenny breathed in hot air, thick with humidity and his own sweat. Words stuck in his throat like first-grade paste. “No.”
“Time you learn, City Boy.” Thump! Boyce smacked his shoulders.
Scraping his bare heel on a sharp rock, Kenny stumbled backward and tumbled over the cliff’s edge. Arms flailing, feet spinning, he fought to climb empty air.
The river approached with alarming speed. What if he missed the swimming hole and landed on the rocks instead? He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see his brains splatter into fish-bait and float down the Buffalo.
Two more explosions, resulting in two more dead fish, followed his. He grinned at Frankie-Ray who shrugged. “Ain’t done it.”
It was the second day of Kenny’s escape. Summer vacation. 1961. He didn’t miss the eight by forty foot home he shared with his two brothers, sister and mother, in a tag-rag trailer park behind Beech Aircraft, on the outskirts of Wichita, Kansas. Accustomed to dust and flatland, his eyes couldn’t drink in enough of Arkansas’s lush hills.
“Hey, Lordy-Lordy, know how to swim?” asked Boyce, a barrel-chested boy with ash-blond hair and a deep tan.
Kenny breathed in hot air, thick with humidity and his own sweat. Words stuck in his throat like first-grade paste. “No.”
“Time you learn, City Boy.” Thump! Boyce smacked his shoulders.
Scraping his bare heel on a sharp rock, Kenny stumbled backward and tumbled over the cliff’s edge. Arms flailing, feet spinning, he fought to climb empty air.
The river approached with alarming speed. What if he missed the swimming hole and landed on the rocks instead? He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see his brains splatter into fish-bait and float down the Buffalo.
SURI’S HEART
Excerpt from a story in an eclectic collection original stories from Shorelines Literary Magazine
"Yussel!” Papa pounded the table with his fist. “Speak to me! A brokh tsu dir! Damn you!”
Startled, five-year-old Yussel flinched and spilled hot tea in his lap. He winced at the sting. Swallowing his moans, he stared up into his father’s rage-red face. He held his breath and waited for a spanking.
Instead, Papa whisked the boy up into his arms and tore off his clothes. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” Slathering the child’s skin with butter, he wrapped soft rags around his blistering thighs. “You’re making me meshuggenah, crazy. Won’t you please say something for me? Three words? I’d even settle for two.”
Yussel clamped his lips together and wagged his head from side to side.
Why should he speak? Had the Almighty listened to him? No! Not even one word.
Papa sank into the rocking chair in a corner of the parlor, cradling the boy on his lap. Yussel laid his head on his father’s chest. Papa’s rapid thup-thup-thup heartbeat slowed to a soothing ka-thump-thump.
Tucking his finger under his son’s chin, Papa forced his head to tilt upward. Papa’s coffee-brown eyes glistened behind his spectacles. “Silence won’t bring her back. If it would, I’d cut out my own tongue.”
Startled, five-year-old Yussel flinched and spilled hot tea in his lap. He winced at the sting. Swallowing his moans, he stared up into his father’s rage-red face. He held his breath and waited for a spanking.
Instead, Papa whisked the boy up into his arms and tore off his clothes. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” Slathering the child’s skin with butter, he wrapped soft rags around his blistering thighs. “You’re making me meshuggenah, crazy. Won’t you please say something for me? Three words? I’d even settle for two.”
Yussel clamped his lips together and wagged his head from side to side.
Why should he speak? Had the Almighty listened to him? No! Not even one word.
Papa sank into the rocking chair in a corner of the parlor, cradling the boy on his lap. Yussel laid his head on his father’s chest. Papa’s rapid thup-thup-thup heartbeat slowed to a soothing ka-thump-thump.
Tucking his finger under his son’s chin, Papa forced his head to tilt upward. Papa’s coffee-brown eyes glistened behind his spectacles. “Silence won’t bring her back. If it would, I’d cut out my own tongue.”
