At midnight, Charlie woke the only human in his life, the one who fed him, kept him in water, and let him lead them on an romp past the marigolds on the corner every day at three, with a long howl. It bubbled up from below his belly somewhere near his tail and felt more like an itch in a space he couldn’t reach with his nose. A long, frightful howl, which made even Charlie jump off the foot of the bed.

The man raised quickly in the bed and searched for his glasses.

“Charlie, you okay? Did you hear something?”

Charlie cocked his head to one side and then decided to just say it.

“It seems as though you as wasting your life.”

The statement was so frank and direct, it surprised Charlie as much as the man who stared at him with an odd grin, as if the dog appeared in a dream. The man rubbed his eyes and fumbled with his glasses. Charlie took the gestures as as a sign to continue.

“And I think I can help.” Charlie paused to make sure the man continued to listen. The oddness of the hour, combined with the sudden unusual ability to speak, left the man without words. He reached over to rub Charlie’s ears.

“That feels real nice, but we shouldn’t pause. I don’t have a lot of time. You see, every morning you wake up, fill my bowl with crunchy beef, fill my other bowl with water, and let me run outside. It’s all great. But you then vanish for a long time, and I get lonely. Then you come home all uptight, feed and water me again, let me out, and then fall asleep on the couch. This happens every day and you don’t seem very happy.”

The man listened to the talking dog in silence, unsure how to proceed, or how to process what he had just heard. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, which showed one minute past midnight.

(more…)

I started writing again as an exercise for my hands and my brain. For many months after my stroke, I couldn’t hand write my letters, let alone type. I spent many hours tracing the shapes of letters with my right hand. It took awhile because my brain failed to move my hand. Anyway, I practiced like a child and hoped for the best.

All of this went on as I tried to get my world to come into focus. While my hand failed me, my eyes saw everything at a 90-degree angle. Everything I looked at jumped to the right, unless I closed my left eye. Then everything sort of came back perpendicular.

Quite frankly, none of this seemed very promising to me.

I remember the first time I tried to type. Everything was going to the right, my hand was numb, and I couldn’t find the letters. Before the stroke, I could touch type as fast as 45-words a minute, and faster if I needed to.

Anyway, I stuck to it and started writing words, sentences, and paragraphs. And I found my passion again for telling stories.

This is a collection of some of my short stories, especially the ones I wrote after my stroke. I wanted to put them together to share and to remember that it takes work to be creative. If you have time, take a look, buy a copy, and leave me a reply.

[showbookcover display=”justimage” isbn=”1717138357″ align=”left” width=”100″]

 

The room grew darker with the night as the sun set behind the windows throwing shadows on the wall of books. A sign on the center door warned it should never be opened. He wondered about the door for a moment then turned the page.

His reading went on for a few hours until only a candle lit up the room. He pushed his hands back to stretch. From the door came what he thought was a knock. There it was again expect this time he thought he heard a woman call out.

“Help me, oh please, help me.”

The voice assuredly came from behind the door even if it barely reached his ears.

“Oh, please, help me.”

He closed the book and sat. Many discarded and assorted books framed the doorway. The many books packed so tight they made up the skeleton of the wall. Even if he wanted to read one of the books, he couldn’t because they were wedged in so tight. His book he found on the floor. A book of horror and mystery. Yes, it was just one of the stories come to life in his imagination.

(more…)

Shep wondered why the old man left him here. It seemed strange to be up so early before the sunlight, in the cold morning, far from the ranch. He shifted his weight and stayed in place looking down the road for the truck. The old man told him to stay right here and he intended to wait no matter the length of time.

A cold wind lapped at his ears and he shivered. He rounded a bit to look at the rising sun. Good. The sunlight will warm up the rock he stood on. He looked down the road again. No truck.

The wind brought with it the smell of a fire. Shep grew alarmed and he danced in place. A fire in the dry sage this early in the season? He sniffed the air. Could that be the smell of bacon? The wind shifted to the north taking with it the smell of fire and bacon.

He spied to where the road turned away from the mesa. He couldn’t see a truck but he imagined it coming up the road. He laid his head on the rock in front of his paws. He whined a bit to hear himself. The wind shifted back bringing with it the smell of fire and bacon.

He stood on the rock and stepped forward. He dared to touch the road. He stopped, remembering the old man’s admonition to stay. He imagined the old man driving toward him.

He jumped and waged his tail. The truck! It rounded the bend, climbed on the mesa, and skidded to a stop next to Shep.

“Well, old boy, I think they’re ready for you,” said the old man.

“Those little granddaughters of mine haven’t met you yet.” The old man whisked his hands around Shep’s neck and gave him a good petting. Shep jumped around the old man’s legs.

“Let’s show them why we love this country.”

Shep scrambled into the cab and rode with the old man to the trail camp. He smiled as the truck bounced through the sage and the morning sun felt warm on his face. He turned at the old man and nodded his approval.

The walking cane now gathers dust in the corner behind the door. A father leaned against it on a path where he would stop to talk with the neighbors, pet a dog, or lift a child. He served as the honorary grandpa for many three-year-olds. He always had a piece of candy and a smile.

The walking cane once belonged to his father who used it to lift himself into his tractor on the cotton farm. He purchased it on his one and only trip through the Navajo Nation to Bakersfield to pick up tractor supplies. A teardrop fell on his sister’s cheek when they said goodbye. An old woman in a blue traditional dress sold the gnarled pine walking stick and blessed it as he took it away. The blessing carried forward to the son who used it nearly 50 years.

The walking cane sits in the corner waiting for a new owner. Someone who will honor the memories made along the trail.

The silver car rose out of the driveway and backed out into the street.

“What are you watching?”

“Some old crystal from more than 100 years ago. Something grandma saved.” The man driving the car covered his eyes with chrome sunglasses. Zack paused the action.

“How clunky,” he said. “Why don’t they just see it.” Arya touched her temple and the movie floated in her view.

On the screen, the unkempt man adjusted his glasses. “Where we’re going we don’t need roads,” he said. Then the car vanished in a flash.

“A flying car,” Zack laughed. “Now, that’s funny.”

A fit woman walked out of the atrium, put her workout mat into the wall, and stood below a fan. A warm breeze dried her sweat.

“That was my dad’s favorite movie,” Clara said. “It’s quaint, right?” Zach looked up at Clara and his view of the crystal vanished.

“I can’t believe you were our age 100 years ago,” Arya said. “They thought our life would be so utopian.”

“Well, it kind of is,” Clara said. “I look like someone in their forties from that time.” Clara glanced at the watch imprint on her arm. “A few hours ago, I turned 134.”

“Happy birthday, grandma,” Arya said.

“But a flying car? Come on,” Zack said. “We don’t even need cars, we have the loop.”

“That reminds me,” Clara said. “I told your mother we’d meet her for my birthday dinner.”

(more…)