Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 3, 2026

32 Quotes from "House on Top of the Hill"

When we were getting ready to release Bryony back in 2011, my daughter Sarah (who did a lot of the marketing for me) suggested I pull thirty teaser quotes from the book that she could post on Facebook, one each day.

We did the same for the second book, Visagewhich is also part of the BryonySeries.

But for some reason, I never did the same for another book.

So I'm catching up with the other books.

Here is the synopsis and chapter headings for House on Top of the Hill, (the third book in the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy), followed by thirty-two quotes, one from each chapter.

Enjoy!

Change comes slowly to Munsonville, and for Steve Barnes, who spends his entire life in the village, that's just fine. From boyhood to manhood, he savors the slow pace and friendly smiles, even while working by his parents' side from sunup to sundown to run the family diner.

The only blight is this fishing village's preoccupation with an empty mansion in the woods, whose tales of former glory and catastrophe fueled a rampage of ghost stories. Steve doesn't believe them, but some do – and no one can deny the power the crumbling old building holds over them.

Especially when it changes everyone, including Steve, forever.


Prologue

Asclepius.

Amazing word, isn’t it?

Asclepius was more commonly known as the “hopeless case clinic” – when it really should be called the “hopeful case clinic.” For any patient who passed through its glass doors was healed.

Or so the media said.

Still, Asclepius was the only facility in the world offering revivification, hematophagy, alba faelis anima transference, corpus vis separation, pneuma preservation, and odic force conduction, processes that leaped the great expanse from science fiction to actual science.

And here I stood, letting a really good coffee get cold while ruminating on a word I couldn’t even pronounce.

Chapter 1: The Traveling Salesman

Lenny drummed his fingers on the desk while Lou, coffee in hand, strolled into the office. His eyes roamed over the dingy space and faded carpet. He’d stood in plenty of lobbies over the years, everything from palatial hotels with marble floors and thick oils on the walls to roach-infested shanties, no bigger than an outhouse. They all bought mirrors, every single one. In fact, Lanny couldn’t remember any hotel, motel, inn, or boarding house that refused to buy mirrors. 

Chapter 2: Roundtable

A voice rang out, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor.”

And this, MeeMaw, is where the meeting flipped. I jotted comments as rapidly as they fired. I couldn’t attribute most of them and didn’t even try. Just read on. You’ll get the gist of it.

Chapter 3: Bottle of the Red Stuff

Soon Marjorie was on her feet, shaking cobwebs out of her head and smoothing her rumpled slacks and bouse. She dug her brush out of her suitcase and freed the tangles in her brown hair while watching Shirley, who stood before the old bureau mirror and reapplied her red lipstick with a tiny brush. Shirley’s reflection stared unblinkingly into Marjorie’s, and Marjorie instinctively squeezed her thighs together as she stroked, stroked, stroked. Picture perfect, that’s how people described Shirley. “Too negative” – that’s how people perceived Marjorie. Shirley and Marjorie. Light and shadow. Little did they know.

Chapter 4: Cracking Open the Nest Egg

“Sam, simmer down. I just don’t understand why you surprised her with such a car. Women like jewelry. You could have bought her a nice ring for a fraction of the cost.”

“She can’t drive a ring to California!”

Chapter 5: Scrawls on the Wall

A bell jangled when she opened the diner’s door, announcing her arrival. Male heads swerved in her direction and nodded in greeting and approval. She acknowledged them with a toss of her pretty head and a half smile as she scanned the room. Counter or table? Five men sat at the counter, munching triangular sandwiches or slurping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Helen’s parents always warned her of the dangers of sitting alone at a counter full of men. Helen worried more about the passive taste of tobacco in her ice cream. 

Chapter 6: Whispers of the Heart

“So my mother – remember, I told you they owned and operated Munsonville Inn – so my mother sent me to Harper’s for a two-pound bag of coffee, as she’d run out and her large shipment came later in the week. She’d tied up the coins – all eighty-three cents of them – in a fresh handkerchief and instructed me to present the entire parcel to Mrs. Harper and come immediately home with the coffee – and no dawdling, because, well, I was quite the dawdler. But when I walked through the door – oh my word, I saw Steve! He was wearing an old droopy undershirt and old droopy pants, and he was leaning against the vending machine, gulping that cola like someone might wrest it from him. And my heart just – stopped.”

Chapter 7: I Run at Night

I stretch, get out of bed, and yank the old blanket back to air the bed. (Terry Rule No. 2). It’s an old creaky bed, but it’s a bed. I wasn’t allowed on the bed when Ma was alive. But that’s all changed now. She’s dead and I have the bed.

Chapter 8: Laid to Rest

Despite Chester’s background Chester always lived within his means, and Mindy never complained. When Chester was between jobs, his father only gave Chester enough money to keep the wolf from the door, as Roderick liked to say. But modestly never meant slovenly. Mindy was a good little woman and kept their tiny home spick-and-span and filled with mouth-watering smells, for Mindy cooked and baked as well as she cleaned, as good as or better than any of his father’s private chefs. But this little cottage stank of garbage, and Chester sneezed repeatedly at the herd of dust bunnies scampering across the room as he crossed the small parlor. Unruffled, Fred led the way into the kitchen where a woman about Chester’s age sat at the kitchen table in a cloud of choking cigarette smoke. She wore a bright orange and green frock that looked more like a tent than a dress. The table was filled with supplies to make jewelry: gold wires and chains, silver wires and chains, hoops, bells, zebras, trout, spires, rutabagas. Dishes caked with cement food were stacked high on the counter and in the sink. Food scraps, paper plates, and foam cups spilled out of the metal garbage can and formed molehills on the floor. A small paper strip had fluttered off the table, so Chester bent to retrieve it:

Moonstone (hecatolite) is named for Hecate, goddess of magic and the underworld. She waits for you at the crossroad. Bring your requests to her, for she sees the past, present, and future.

Chapter 9: Necking

“Ah, Madison, I can never think of Steve’s first kiss without also thinking of Ollie and Floyd.”

Madison choked and tea ran from her nose as she groped for a napkin. “Ollie and Floyd? More boyfriends?”

“No, dear. Not boyfriends. Drifters and drunks.” She gestured to the platter. “Do try a sandwich.”

Chapter 10: Spider and Fly

Chester kept his head down as he rolled the cart into the kitchen. He hated talk of Simons Mansion, and he hated village roundtable meetings. He hated the conflict; he hated the drama. But he attended every meeting for the sake of Mindy and the children. Like him, they thrived in Munsonville – as he knew they would. Kenneth, age ten, Douglas, age eight, and Melody, age six, rapidly shot to the top of their respective classes at Munsonville School. Even little Jakey, now age four, attended school, although he couldn’t partake in any of the work. But that didn’t matter to the little boy. Jakey loved school, and tears welled up in Chester’s eyes just thinking about it. All Chester’s children tugged at his heart – but Jakey tugged a little harder.

Chapter 11: Death Heard Round the World

“John Simons forever grieved the death of Bryony and his unborn child,” said Dorothy Fisk, John Simons historian and author of “And God Said, ‘Let There Be Music:’ The Definitive Biography of John Simons.” Fisk added, “Because of this wound in his heart, John Simons was able to fully devote his entire being to his music and attain a brilliance a family man could never have reached.”

Chapter 12: Mine

Lou started to take a sip from his empty cup, but Vicki was already scurrying up with the coffee pot. After a couple of quick fortifying gulps, Lou smiled encouragingly at his audience, which only increased Chester’s disquiet.

Chapter 13: Second Sight

Hand in hand, we strolled across the grass to the dock and settled at its edge. In silence, we removed our shoes and socks and dragged our feet in the water. For a time, the only sound in our world was the light splashing of our feet.

I broke the silence first.

Chapter 14: Chop, Sizzle, Broil, and Bake 

The Sandman smiled and waved from the dock, and the world whirled around her, and his cane tapped out the words, and she remembered when she used to traipse out to see her friends, silent and bloated blue under the rippling waters and gazing at her with purpled eyes and grinning with full inky lips, and she laughed aloud.

Chapter 15: The Rage

“Janice,” Bob clasped her hands and leaned close to her face, not to intimidate her, for Bob was never intimidating, despite his size. He leaned close to reinforce their solidarity, that he was with her, on her side. “You been on the lake. You know there’s more in the lake than anyone will ever know. You’ve been in the woods. You know there’s more in the woods than anyone will ever know. But you haven’t been inside Simons Mansion. And I believe ‘things’ happen inside that mansion we’ll ever know.”

Chapter 16: Hard Choice to Make

I’m past ninety – and I’ve never experienced a darkness as dark as Munsonville when the lights go out.

Chapter 17: Through the Camera’s Eye

Pure sunshine, he thought, wishing he’d brought his camera and then instantly killed his wish. Standing at the window snapping photos of her was decidedly creepy, especially since he was forty-six, and she looked no more than twenty-five. Still – he’d love to capture the soft pink in her cheek as she bent to sign the children’s hardcover book and then, beaming, raising her head and placing the copy into the outstretched hands of its new owner, her eyes bright with excitement. Did she realize how honestly lovely she looked?

Chapter 18: Words Enough For Me

She cocked her head and smiled kindly, well pseudo-kindly. She sure as fuck didn’t fool him. “You’re ruining your health.”

“It’s my health to ruin.”

“And if you die, what happens to me?”

“That’s why I’m here today. To plan for your care.”

She took his hand. “A good son should care for his mother.”

He yanked his hand away. “Well, I’m a shitty son.”

Chapter 19: The All-Hallowed Albatross

Anna Marchellis’ room was last on the left. She lay in bed in the airless little cage, covers flung aside, curtains drawn. She looked too gaunt and too pale for his liking. Probably due to an outdated wartime rations policy. He’d talk to the staff. He certainly paid enough for this dump.

Chapter 20: Dancing in the Past

June stretched her toes, hoping she carried an inkling of Granny Bea’s gumption in those shoes. Granny Bea also grew up in Boston; she’d known another life. But she met a mountain man while on holiday with her family and eloped with him under the cover of night. In those days, Granny Bea was Miss Beatrice Wilson, the “surprise” child of her parents, their second and their last. Beatrice’s sister Bertha was twenty years older than she and married by the time Beatrice landed on earth. So Beatrice’s parents poured their time and wealth and Boston’s finest tutors into her. Beatrice birthed one child late in life – Maureen – and Maureen birthed one child late in life – June. Both women’s husbands died before the babies arrived; both women raised their daughters themselves. June broke that tradition. June birthed no one, because of Mickey.

Chapter 21: The New Professor

At that moment, Dirk Weston walked up to their table. It was only a matter of time. Dirk had started canvassing the cafeteria the moment the girls set their trays on the table. Dirk had curly brown hair, brown glasses, a permanent solemn expression, and brown “abandoned puppy” eyes that spoke of his greatest desire: getting laid – by anyone; he wasn’t choosy. But. as president of Jenson College’s music club, Dirk made it his personal mission to recruit all three members of the Friendship Harmony to whatever project he cooked up (and secretly hoping one might take pity on him afterwards by, well, you know). “You ladies coming to the fundraising dance on Saturday night?”

“The ‘what’ dance?” Robin asked.

Dirk set a flyer on the table with a smirk. “This one. If you’d attend club meetings…”

Chapter 22: Enigma in Residence

“Why Julie,” Mrs. Clements said. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you see a strange person with a dog?” Julie asked breathlessly.

“A dog!” Mrs. Feigel said with a laugh. “In the library?”

“So – no?” 

Chapter 23: Rain

“I’m almost ashamed saying it, but Steve’s mother ‘gave me the creeps’ that day; there’s no other way to explain it. She was huddled in a chair, a ratty blanket to her neck, staring out the picture window with glassy eyes, and muttering, “Rain-rain-rain-rain-rain-rain,” in such an unsettling way that even the recollection raises the hair on my arms and neck. I remember my gaze traveling with hers. I saw the shining sun glistening off the deep blue water. What she saw, I do not know.”

Chapter 24: From Fry Pan to Factotum

The remainder of the meal passed with more lively banter, and they left Sue’s Diner together. Scott needed to walk a stray dog and scoop his growing collection of litter boxes. Someone dumped four white kittens at his door last night, he said.

“I’m also behind in paperwork,” Scott added as they ambled down Main Street.

“That’s what you get for frittering your time with a fishing pole.”

Their soles thunked in unison on the old wooden planks. June tried not to think about Vicki.

“I sure could use a secretary. Feel like moonlighting?”

“Hmm, well, I sure could use a clerk at the circulation desk. Know anyone?”

“Still won’t bite? Well, then, could I interest you in a tabby? She’s s a sweet girl, about nine years old.”

Chapter 25: Nutty Tina Swanson

“I hate people sometimes,” Ann said as she reluctantly returned “her” puppy to its cage.

“Me, too,” Dr. Samuelson said, which made all three girls look up in surprise. They’d never heard an adult speak like that, especially an adult resembling Santa Claus. “That’s why – when you find a good person – you treat that person like royalty. A good person is a rare breed indeed.”

Chapter 26: Preternatural Guest

I rouse to unearthly screaming, but the room was gray and silent except for the low rumble of the television. I was silent, too. Someone else was shrieking. Someone not in this room. It happens here. It happens often here at this time of day.

Chapter 27: A New Lease on a Very Old Dream

“Finally, let’s not forget that John Simons’ wife and only child died in that mansion.” Dr. Rothgard paused to relight his pipe. “So while we’re touting the name of John Simons and parading strangers through his home, we should be mindful of the heartache he endured there. Will we show off the bed where his wife – one of Munsonville’s own – and his baby passed into eternity? Will his grief be part of the tourism? If so, we should charge an appropriate price.”

Chapter 28: The News That Changed Everything

“Hurry up, Katie. Don’t you want to ride on the new trail?”

Katie kicked a stray stick off the porch. “I don’t know.”

 

“Come on. Ghost or no ghost, it will be fun.”

Chapter 29: Journey of a Thousand Heartaches

Darlene gripped the steering wheel with slippery hands as the attendant cleaned her windows and headlights and then checked the tires and under the hood. She had never driven out-of-state alone – until now, at age forty-two. She dreaded the trip, not because she was alone but because of what being alone meant. Plus, she’d never felt this degree of anguish, anger, betrayal, and terror, and she felt them simultaneously and struggled to process them. Process them? Who was she kidding? She was barely coping.

Chapter 30: Severed Links

 “And you’ll both have the chance to get to know Grandma Marchellis.”

  That was a selling point? 

Epilogue

He chuckled because of all the families that could have moved onto the Simons estate, the absolute best family would soon move onto it. Fate finally dealt him a card he could actually play.









Saturday, July 24, 2021

"Respect and a New Hire" by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

 Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, sent this piece earlier in the week. 

I'm guessing it's an excerpt from a sequel to Ruthless that he's currently writing, for the piece features Sheriff Matt from the first book.

It's got a nice O. Henry twist at the end. Enjoy!


The sheriff was polite enough but didn’t seem to think that a five-year veteran of the CPD had the right stuff to patrol the roads of Munsonville. What was his problem? Black, female, being by the book …or did he hold suspect her roommate; which of those was the real reason? He deployed her as temporary but insisted on riding with her every shift. It had been nearly a week and not one peep out of the overnight dispatcher. At the end of her last shift, Marsha heard Sheriff Matt telling someone that tonight likely would be her last.

              “Home invasion in progress,” came over the radio.

              She drove hot; Matt knew the place and person. Dome lights, police cam, action – but Sheriff Matt wasn’t about body cams. Anyway, they were at the disturbance inspecting the entrances.

              “No evidence of break in,” she told him.

              That pompous sheriff seemed awfully relaxed.

              “Break down the door?” But smartass lifted the doormat and pulled a key.

              “Go first. Show me what you got.”

              Two minutes later, they were back in the cruiser and Marsha was fuming. The perpetrator was still in the house, and Matt looked like he found the flaw he’d been looking for all along.

              “What!” she snapped.

              “Could have done worse, but you could have done better.”

              “Did you know that a brownie was washing dishes?” she fumed.

              “Yeah,” the sheriff allowed. “Ramon cleans old man Daven’s place every Saturday. Do you think we shouldn’t have responded?”

              “Of course not,” Marsha conceded. “It’s just…”

              “That a brownie was doing the cleaning? The first thing you did right, by the way, is seeing a brownie and not a dangerous burglar. You didn’t shoot him when he didn’t freeze or mix it up with him when he told you to find your own old man to clean for. Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of mythical creatures that are dangerous. That’s why we came out this way. Could have been a ghost, werewolf, or vampire that just so happen to terrorize the old man the same night Ramon cleans…dementia, get it?”

              “You should have told me. What if I did shoot?”

              “Ramon would have fixed the bullet holes. He doesn’t believe in revolvers. You believe in brownies.”

              Marsha sighed and spilled.

              “My wife is an old world farmer,” she said. “That’s why I quit Chicago for a place we could raise food and our two baby boys.”

              “Still want the job?”

              “That depends on what I did wrong,” Marsha responded suspiciously.

              “Not too much. You could have showed more respect to Ramon. He takes care of the old man because we humans don’t. It might have helped if you’d picked up a dry cloth and started drying the dishes while you talked to him. Brownies are good friends to cops looking for bad elves and fairies.”

              She got it.

              “So what do we write in our report?” Marsha asked.

              “Nobody hears about this but our own DMC.”

              “Detroit Medical Center?”

              “Department of Mythical Creators…I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”




            

Saturday, July 17, 2021

"She Was The Lake"

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, sent me this lovely piece of "fan fiction" earlier this week, and I finally had time to read it on my birthday because I had the day off.

Ed has set this piece as after BeforeThe Blood. But as with all BryonySeries fiction, it's isn't necessary to read the other books to to follow and enjoy a particular story.

His idea is based on Bryony's bonding with Lake Munson in the fictional northern Michigan fishing vilage of Munsonville. Bryony bonds with the lake because the lake is central to the village, because her father is cold and distant, because her mother is dead.

She was the lake, and the lake was she.

From deep beyond deep, it called to her from depths, and her chest rose and fell its answer. Sometimes its waves were gentle and easy; sometimes they were short and choppy; sometimes they were rapid, harsh, and heaving with spume.

So - enjoy!


Dear MOMI,

Once again, I find myself stealing from you. Would it be OK to continue along is line with not only Susan, but Bryony as I can't seem to leave any of your characters in the graves you dig for them.


There were too many empty graves in Munsonville. Susan Betts had clawed her way through the dirt and grass, but she was not buried in the cemetery. The good Reverend would not allow the bodies of known damned planted in the same plot of earth as those just might have been saved.

“For all the good it did,” Susan thought bitterly.

If anyone wasn’t damned, it would be someone that didn’t live, someone that hadn’t died, or someone that never heard of Munsonville. You see, in that village, just like Hell itself, everyone was welcome. All the fires of Munsonville Hell lived below the streets, shops, shacks, boats, barns, and stables that proclaimed the village folk as too plain to be dangerous, too unremarkable to be monsters, too unimportant to be the hosts of Hell.

It was almost morning, and the full sun should melt her like candlewax. She didn’t care, but the heat was like the fire she had earned.

Susan.

Something called. It wasn’t him, but she ran down Blue Gill Road anyway. Anyway or anywhere, it made no difference, but she was scared and so she ran and kept running till anywhere became any road and anywhere was the mansion. She ran too fast for a lady. But now, she stood and stared at the hell that had come to her.

The Simons Mansion was not what it was. Instead it was everything it ever was. A plot of uncut trees; the scaffolds of its construction like a hundred little gallows; the palace where she labored as a servant of her friend, the old hulk of disrepair, decay, and death; The infernal scream of monstrous ruin on fire, the smoldering remains; and the empty plot of nothing; all transposed on the same spot. The greatest part of it was the empty plot, the least was its time as a palace.

This is where the bride got lost and found a locked door that she had no key for. This is where her friend left her in shame. This is where that terrible man…

Susan.

That call again! It was farther than it was at first.

“What!”

She heard her voice snap back impatiently as if she had a right to ever raise her voice.

Susan, run away. Away is lake.

Was it the trees that whispered now?

“I want to go back. I want to go to Fisher Farm. I want to be a summer sister again.”

No one lives there. Dead horses. No blood. Susan, come lake.

“Cowboy?”

Mr. Munson doesn’t ride. No one does. Come lake, Susan. Come me.

“But the Simons Mansion, why is it…”

No good, anymore. Vampires have parties there. Pain, lies, and death. Lake, Susan. Now.

“It was a palace. You were its queen.”

Someone else now. No good. Not her or him. What I am is where I am. Always is everywhere. Come now. Lake.

Knowledge pierced her undead mind.

“Bryony,” And she was there on her sandy shores. Now she could hear the voice of her former friend in full sentences as she spoke when she lived.

“Why did you leave me, Susan? Why, did you go and why did you kill yourself?”

“I never left.”

“You left before you went somewhere else. You never talked with me, not really. If you had, the whole thing would have been different. I lost you to shame and you were dead before you died. We should have stayed summer sisters. Failing that, I should have had you comb my hair instead of Trudi. Then, I would have also combed yours.”

“I am a dirty tramp, ma’am. Somebody tells me to do something, and I do it. That’s the way it is with a girl who lives and dies in bloody filth. Even you. You married a king, became a queen and I had to do what you say.”

“Don’t ma’am me!” Lake Munsonville darkens, threatening to storm.

But Susan was so far beyond caring.

“Ma’am because I worked for you. Ma’am because if you were my friend, you would have taken my baby instead of letting her go to the lowest bidder who was so desperate for a baby that she even could coup with the daughter of a filthy rag. If you’d have taken her, you wouldn’t have insisted on one of your own. You’d still be alive, Ma’am.”

“Fancy talk for Susan Betts,” the lake quipped. Then the waves calmed but the water darkened again. “He taught you.”

“He COMPELS me! I tried to stop him. I killed myself so he wouldn’t turn me, but somehow he did anyway. He said he couldn’t tolerate his blood whore sounding like an urban slut for the work he wants of me.”

“You don’t mean the twins, do you?”

“No. I was depressed. I was ashamed. But I would have lived despite the back and forth with the twins just to have my baby grow. But when he came to me, he made me evil. Do you know evil, Bryony? It’s not the twins’ they’re just hungry. Evil is when the only time it feels is when it hurts someone. Nothing else matters. That’s him. That’s what he’s going to make me when he finds where I’ve gone but I’ve nowhere to go. Kellen Wechsler is a powerful vampire and maybe the Devil himself, but now he’s my master. I can’t be friends with you Ma’am because I am to torment the son of his playthings. He wants your baby to punish John Simons for his disobedience and I have to obey.”

“To be fair, it was the King that refused your baby.”

“Because his husband master made him,” Susan mocked trying to hate the only friend she ever had.

“Perhaps, if you mean, John Simons but Henry Mathews is the father who is also his husband master. None of that worries me. The child was saved by all my many friends who fear nothing and are indifferent to the plans of vampires, ghosts, or devils. It was the trees that saved him, and you shall not harm him even if you must. You could forget all of that. You can forgive me for what I did as Bryony, and I shall forgive all you’ve done as Susan. But will you forgive what I do as Lake Munsonville?”

“What will you do as a lake that’s so terrible?”

“Drown all of the men.”

“You were Bryony then. You were as sad as I was.”

“Susan Betts, put your back to me and tell me what Munsonville looks like.”

Susan tried to comply but once her back was to the water, all she could see was the changing; the same thing she saw when she looked to the mansion.

“It’s always changing. It’s the same, but it’s always different. I don’t know.”

“And now look at me. Am I not always changing too.”

Of course she was, but always there was a limit and regularity to the change. The lake swelled and retreated, froze over and melted, grow choppy and calmed.

“I was once not Bryony, then I was but I was still the lake. One day, I shall wash the sins of the village and drowned everything that is not forest. I do not feel sad when I drown people. I bring them to where they live in my belly. Come inside me, Susan. Your master will never find you and I will never give you up.”

“What about the men that live in your belly, do they have to do what you say?”

“They don’t do anything at all, nor do the fish or the weeds. They just are, Susan. In my belly you will not call me Ma’am and of the men that still fish on top of me, you can whisper to me who I should take and who I should spare. We can be friends again. We shall be indifferent to the place that didn’t love you enough.”

“But you’re cold and I’ll drown.”

“You don’t have to breath anymore. You’ll like the cold once you get used to it. Vampires hide in deep water all the time. Come, Susan. I can’t comb your hair, but I can wash you clean. You’ll never feel ashamed in my belly. Just swim to my center and I’ll pull you in. Stay with me, Susan.”

And for the first hundred years as a vampire, that’s what Susan Betts did.


Thursday, March 5, 2020

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: “Federigo’s Falcon”


As part of my BryonySeries social media posting, I often include links to stories or poems that from the time period of that echo the themes.

Back in my family's homeschooling day, we read a lot of literature, far more literature than I'd ever read at one period in my life.

Here is a posting from the early days of the blog about one of those pieces, along with a link so that you may enjoy it, too.


Friday, August 24, 2012

“Federigo’s Falcon” (from "The Decameron"), by Giovanni Boccaccio

Yesterday, Daniel and I read Federigo’s Falcon by the early Renaissance Italian storyteller Giovanni Boccaccio. The selection is from The Decameron, a collection of ten tales told over a period of ten days by each of the people fleeing from the plague in Florence.

The story centers around a rich young man, Federigo, who is frenetically in love with a married woman. He spends his entire fortune trying to gain her attention and fails. Finally, the poor man owns nothing in the world but his beloved falcon.

One day, after the woman's husband dies and her son is near death, she asks the boy for his final wish. 
The boy states that he might return to health if he can possess Federigo's falcon. So off the woman goes, knowing full well she had spurned Federigo's affections in the past, to ask him to give her the bird.



Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for "Bryony"

Thursday, July 19, 2018

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: A Madman's Manuscript by Charles Dickens

Friday, February 18, 2011

A Madman's Manuscript by Charles Dickens

This is Chapter 11 of Dickens' The Pickwick Club, and, fictionally, it is exactly that.

A man who, unbeknowst to anyone, becomes convinced he is insane, relates how he goes about the business of life keeping his dark secret.

I found it more gripping than Edgar Allen Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart and really liked when the narrator screams: "'Damn you,' said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; 'I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!' 

You can read A Madman's Manuscript by Charles Dickens online.

Here's one link: https://www.lang.nagoya-u.ac.jp/~matsuoka/CD-PP-Madman.html

Thursday, August 10, 2017

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: Guest Post by Ken McGee: Summertime In Sunny Severnaya

Friday, August 22, 2014


Guest Post by Ken McGee: Summertime In Sunny Severnaya


A member of WriteOn Joliet, this was Ken's rendition of an assignment for a topic simply called, "summer."

        Summertime In Sunny Severnaya
By Ken McGee


Taras Arkady rubbed his permanently stained dirty hand through his matted heavy black beard. He lay on his back under a thick goose-down comforter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee reached his nostrils. He absentmindedly reached out and felt Marat, his Siberian husky, lying next to him. When the sizzle of frying salo reached his ears, he moved out from under the comforter and sat on the edge of the thin mattress on the wooden bed frame. Marat jumped down and trotted into the cooking area only ten feet away on the opposite wall of the windowless, one-room dwelling. Taras groaned as he stretched his arms over his head. He turned back and forth in a vain effort to loosen the stiff muscles of his back. His neck cracked audibly as he bent his head to the side. He slipped his insulated boots over his thick woolen socks. The bed frame groaned as he lifted his 250 pounds and stood to his full height of six and a half feet.

Daria Zakhar turned around and waved her iron spatula at Marat. “You will get your share, but only after we have eaten.” Her breath hung in the air like a cloud of frozen dust.

Marat barked once, then sat on his haunches in strict obedience.

“This is the last of the coffee, Taras.”

“That it has lasted this long is indeed a surprise.” Taras grabbed his Mickey Mouse mug from the wooden shelf above the coal-fired stove. He poured a cup of the thick brew. He swallowed half of it as he put an arm around his six foot tall blonde companion. “I suppose I will have to make a trip into Severnaya soon.”

“It cannot be avoided much longer. We are down to our last bottle of Double Blow.”

“We cannot run out of vodka! Coffee I can live without, but not my vodka.” His laughter filled the room. “I will be back in a moment.” He grabbed his gloves and fur-lined parka.

“I tried to make it to the coal shed yesterday, but it was still blocked.” Daria held her hands over the stove in a futile attempt to keep them warm. “I could see most of it though.”

Taras opened the door and peered into the bright sunshine. He took ten steps into the wind. He looked around, then spat at a pesky weasel. His face registered surprise, so he spat again. He traced his footsteps back inside.

“Daria, I have good news.” His face beamed.

“What is it, Taras?”

“It must be summer because my spittle did not freeze until it landed on the snow.”









Thursday, January 12, 2017

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: "Dead Serious," by Kristina Skaggs

Friday, March 2, 2012

"Dead Serious," by Kristina Skaggs

For Michael Hudson, a routine doctor's appointment brings shocking news: he's not sick; he's dead.
But although being dead has some distinct advantages, before Michael will take the doctor's word, he needs confirmation. “You’re dead.”


This is the first story Kristina Skaggs, co-owner of Complete Chiropractic and Wellness Center in Joliet (www.completechiroandwellness.com), published  on Bryony's website.

She is also the founder of "Write On," the writer's group that meets every first and third Thursdays of the months at the Three Rivers Arts Council in Minooka (http://www.three-rivers-arts.org/index.htm). Read Kristina's blog at www.pokkadotdog.wordpress.com.
  

Michael Hudson glanced up at his doctor, suspecting there was more to what she’d just said. There wasn’t. He decided to ask her to elaborate. “Are you sure?”
    
“Yes.”
   
Doctor Michelle Hughes clicked her pen several times, as if spanking a bad child on its bottom, and continued to script and scroll through paperwork. A bad cold was one thing, but to be dead was a completely different scenario. Would family and friends need to be contacted? How much paperwork would this involve?
   
“You’ve been dead for a while. I’m surprised you were even able to make this appointment.”
His doctor clicked her pen once more and placed it into her lab coat pocket. Her lips, when she went over the charts, made lines, which he did not find charming. Mostly, they frowned.
    
“I should….”
    
“You should relax, Mr. Hudson. You are dead now. These things happen.”
   
The pat on the back she gave him was friendly, but nothing more than a pat on his back. She began to walk away, indicating the end of their appointment. But she paused and turned her head back to him, as if getting one last look at the dead guy. Whatever thought she had to say made a final attempt as her lips parted. He thought how the color of her lipstick made her look crass. Dr. Michelle Hudson closed her mouth, turned the knob on the door, and walked out, leaving Michael in nothing but a thin juniper-colored exam gown.
   
“Dead.”
   
Saying it aloud, the word was foreign coming out of his mouth. Here, he thought he was just sniffling too much. Snot had a way of annoying him, and it was never tolerated. He’d go around with Kleenex sticking out of both nostrils, if he had to get things done. But, no. Now, he was dead.
   
Michael got dressed in the khakis and polo he’d arrived in. They were comfortable, better than the gown. He looked as if he’d just come from a game of golf. But maybe it would have been better to have died in a suit? He looked better with a tie on. He assumed most dead people walked around in their last worn clothes. He would be the dead guy in a polo.
   
The receptionist at the office didn’t ask him to pay his bill; the taxi driver who took him home didn’t ask for his fare. As far as Michael knew, being dead was a free world. At his apartment, the clothes piled up in his laundry basket did not wash or dry themselves. Can’t have everything.
   
After a lunch, which he had to make himself, Michael decided to call his family and friends. They had to know about his predicament. They had to know he was dead.
   
“Hey, Dad.” Michael rubbed his head raw, trying to come up with the best way to tell his parents.
His father pitched him the perfect segue," Michael, how are you?”
   
“Turns out I’m dead.”
   
There was silence on the other line. A pregnant pause so long Michael thought the connection had been lost.
   
“Dad?”
   
“I’m here, Michael. Your mother and I knew that you’d figure this out, one way or the other. Truth is, you’ve been dead for awhile.”
   
This time, it was Michael’s turn to be pregnant.

“You still there, Michael?” His mother’s voice lit up the line, and Michael knew she’d have a better way to explain it.
   
"Mom, how could I have been dead without knowing it?
    
“Sweetie, it’s been going on for quite some time now, honestly. I thought you knew. We figured it out at your junior high school dance. You took that one impressionable young girl from church…Maggie…Marcia….”
    
His mother strained to make her memory recall this girl’s name.
   
“Mary,” his father threw in.
   
“No, she was blonde with those cute ring curls. I always wanted a daughter so I could curl her hair like that.”
   
“Mom,” Michael blushed on the other line.
    
“Anyway, that’s when we knew. You took Mary or Marcia to the dance, and the entire time that you wanted to hold her hand or kiss her, you never did. She sat with her group of friends and left with 
them afterward.”
    
He was dead because he hadn’t touched Mary/Maggie/Marcia? Michael needed to make some more calls.
    
The afternoon was spent dialing friends from the office, friends from college, friends from high school. His best friend Mike told him he’d been dead since the day he passed up a promotion at work. His high school friend, Mickey, told him he was dead when he refused to smoke pot after gym class. 

There was one more number he needed to call. It was Michaela Kerry’s number, which had been burned into his memory three years prior, when they’d been dating. First on, now they were officially off.
   
Michael had scrubbed his routine clean. He would ask if she remembered him. If she said yes, and he hoped she would, he would tell her that some startling news had come upon him. He was dead. That had gone so well with the others, they knew exactly what he was calling about before he even had to say it.
    
“Hello?” Her crisp voice answered on the third ring.
Michael stuttered.
    
“Hello?” she asked, this time with more urgency in her voice, but still blanketed with her sweet politeness.
    
“Michaela, this is Michael. Do you remember me?”
     
It sounded so silly, to be asking an ex-girlfriend that question. Of course, she did remember, but had she wanted to forget him.
   
“Michael?” The name rolled off her tongue as strangely as it rolled off his.
   
“Yes.” He paused for the powerful effect. “I’m dead.”
    
“Dead?” she asked.
   
“Dead,” he repeated.

“Well, I don’t know about dead,” she scoffed. A nervous laugh trickled down her through the phone wire. “You were very serious and uptight, but you weren’t dead.”
   
Michaela went into a few stories he would have liked to forget. The time at the movies when the popcorn was too salty; the sock drawer he meticulously organized; the kitten heel shoes of hers he’d tripped over. If she didn’t think he was dead after the assortment of occurrences leading up to their break-up, then why did everyone else think so?
   
Michael hung up, feeling better about death, knowing that maybe it wasn’t so bad, as long as your ex doesn’t think you’re dead, just serious.