“Now is the Hour” – a World War II-era short story

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Ben told Iris a lot of things over the years as they played in the street or went ice skating on the pond. And as much as she told Ben about her hopes and her dreams, there was one thing she always held back. She never told Ben, or anyone else for that matter, what her biggest secret was. It was the kind of thing that Mama had told her girls should never talk about, especially not to the boy himself. A boy should be the one to come calling on a girl, not the other way around. “The fact is,” Mama told Iris as she dropped warm dollops of butter over the mashed potatoes on Sunday afternoon, “that good girls never chase after boys. Your job is to look pretty and smile – if it’s meant to be, he’ll notice.”

He’s about to go off to war and she’s not sure when he’ll be back. All Iris has to do is get up the nerve to tell Ben how she feels before he leaves. After all, he was the one always encouraging her to go after what she wanted.

Full story located HERE

“Chance and Happenstance” – a World War II-era short story

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When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and catapulted America into the war, Ella was just past her seventeenth birthday. Up until that very moment when her quiet Sunday afternoon had been torn apart by the steady but frantic words that poured through the radio speakers, the war was just something she heard Pa talk about in passing. Life inside their small but neat brick home outside of the Indiana town of Greensburg was unaffected by the news on the front page of Pa’s paper or before Mama’s favorite dramatic radio show. Living in a house tucked against the woods and surrounded by farmland that was thousands of miles away from the action meant that it had very little impact on the Lansing family. On that Sunday when it all changed, though, they were sitting around the big table that filled the dining room to near-capacity, eating dessert, drinking coffee, and talking about Pastor George’s Sunday sermon. They paid no mind to the orchestral concert playing on the radio; it was just background noise. The signal was scratchy that day, clouds thick between there and where it originated in Indianapolis, but the moment those words, “We interrupt this broadcast…,” cut through the calm reverie of the music and blasted into the room, all conversation ceased. Mama, Pa, Ella, and her younger sister, Louise, all sat ramrod still as the news poured in. Ella covered her mouth in shock but even right then, she knew that she wanted to help.

She meets him in a field hospital in Belgium in 1944. The Battle of the Bulge rages nearby but in his eyes, she finds a small respite from it all. Once he returns to the line, though, will she ever see him again or was it all just chance?

Full story located HERE

Getting back in the saddle again

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I’ve spent the last 3.5 weeks (since putting Kyle to sleep) in various emotional states, ranging from super depressed to almost numb.  For a while, I found a bit of respite in my old standby, writing fanfiction, but now I’m in the mood to pull away from that again. (There’s only so much fanfiction you can write when the show that inspired you to publish your works for others to see in the first place starts sucking and the characters turn into pod people!)  It seems that each time I start working on my novel, something happens to make me stop.  And by the time I’m ready to pick it up again, the story and the characters have changed in ways I hadn’t planned.  My notes and ideas for this novel are so fragmented and when I go to write and get frustrated, I end up back in fanfiction-land again because it’s easy and satisfying.  (And face it, we all can’t be EL James.  Not that I would ever claim 50 Shades of Grey as my own since it’s both horribly written and moronic.)

So anyway, there really isn’t a point to this post other than to say that I’m trying to move forward and get focused on writing again.  Something of substance, I mean, not fanfic.  *sigh*

A new emotion: grief

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I’m the first to admit that I’m a total stranger to grief.  At 33 years old, I still have both my parents as well as all four of my grandparents.  I’ve never even lost an aunt, uncle, or cousin.  As a result, the grief I’ve experienced this week, after having put down my beloved dog, Kyle, on Tuesday, has been nearly unbearable.  Today is the first day that I’ve felt even close to “normal” and even then, I’ll go from completely fine to sobbing in absolutely no time.  My chest and stomach ache most of the time, like I’m worrying a hole right through both of them.  I don’t feel well, I don’t know how to relax, and nothing seems to keep me occupied for longer than a few minutes.

I’m just… sad.  I miss my companion and friend.  I miss his bossy barking when he wanted outside or when he was hungry for a treat.  I miss the insistent way he’d bump his hand against my palm when he wanted petted.  I miss his inquisitive stare and his happy bounce.  And most glaring of all is that his presence is missing.  From where I’m sitting, I can see the wooden urn holding his ashes.  That’s all that’s left of him, except for my memories.

The house feels so empty without him.  Roxie, our younger dog, has spent her week getting her bearings now that she’s no longer submissive to the alpha dog.  She’s testing her limits and testing my patience.  There’s no back and forth banter barking now because she has no one to “talk” to.  All is quiet.  Well, all except my heart, that is.  It’s a rough, choppy mess that feels like it’s been sliced into a million little slivers.  Everyone tells me that I’ll feel whole again someday.  Right now, I would prefer to not feel anything at all because this grieving thing?  Pure hell.

Dear Kyle,

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You’ve been gone for 32 hours. I’m sorry that you got so sick and that I couldn’t save you, but I hope you knew, up until the very end, that I loved you and that I always will.  I hope that, wherever you are now, you’ve got a big, squishy toy full of stuffing and a loud squeaker and that you’re just squeaking away, content, young again, happy, and finally free of pain.  I miss you so much already.  You took a chunk of my heart with you when you left.

The worst goodbye

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13 years ago, I was a 20-year-old culinary school student trying to mend a heart shattered by my first love.  I did that (partly) by venturing into Feeders Supply in Louisville, KY and walking out with an 8-week-old ball of fur and puppy breath.  Kyle was a German Shepherd mix, adorable, and he immediately owned my heart.  For the next five years, we moved from one Midwestern town to another and then back again.  From apartment to apartment we went – just Kyle and I against the world.  Eventually, my broken heart healed and I went on to fall in love again.  Once I got married, Kyle and I welcomed my husband, Tim, into our family.  Tim and Kyle bonded and a few years later, we adopted another dog, Kyle’s “little sister”, Roxie.

Tonight, I sit here holding a vigil of sorts, with swollen, puffy eyes and a throbbing brain due to hours of crying. I have to say goodbye.  Kyle has gotten very sick in the last five weeks and test results confirmed today what I was afraid of: cancer.  Liver cancer, to be specific.  He’s now 13, his face has turned grey, and his eyes are clouded over. He’s in so much pain that he can’t get comfortable.  Every few seconds, I watch him move and shift, his body lurching and his breathing growing more ragged.  At 4pm tomorrow, we will take him to the vet and put him to sleep.  And even though I know it’s what he needs because he’s so sick, my heart has splintered into a million pieces.

Every event of my adult life has been experienced with Kyle by my side.  He was there to lick my tears away after bad dates and fights with friends and when life generally kicked me in the shins.  He was there to cuddle on cold days, offer a listening ear whenever I needed it, and never once judged me when I made stupid decisions and did really dumb things (often with him as a witness.)  We’ve had 13 great years as a team but I’m not ready to say goodbye.  I know I have to.  I know I need to.  I know he’s suffering and that he deserves to be set free from the pain.  I know that he’s given me 13 years of absolutely unconditional love and trust.  None of this, though, makes it any easier.  I hate playing God.  I hate knowing that, unless he goes naturally in his sleep tonight, I have to force him to leave this earth.  His eyes exhibit the pain he feels and yet he holds on.  Sometimes I think he holds on despite his misery,  just because he doesn’t want to leave me any more than I want him to go.

In the last two hours, I’ve watched him deteriorate further, to the point that I wonder if he’s going to make it until the vet appointment tomorrow.  At the same time, it feels like he’s letting me know that it’s okay, that my decision is the right one, and that he’s ready to go. I’m talking softly to him, telling him that I love him over and over again, petting him, and just letting him know that I’m near.  He’s loved me through everything – from being a lost 20-year-old girl to the 33-year-old woman I am – and now I have to love him through the very hardest part of all.  I just hope he feels how much I love him up until he takes his very last breath.

Reasons my novel will never get written:

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  • the 250+ books waiting for me on my Kindle Fire
  • the 5 seasons of “The Big Bang Theory” that I’m slowly making my way through
  • those amazing naps where I sleep better during the day than I do at night
  • Tumblr
  • all those damn relaxing, awesome ASMR videos on YouTube
  • because I can’t concentrate on anything for very long without getting distrac– Oh, look! An email!

Que?

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We now live in a world where spell check does not have a problem with the word “ginormous.”  Thanks, Buddy the Elf.  (Although, research tells me the word has been used sporadically since the 40s.)