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

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Time Machine, #IIChallenge - Northern Ireland

Ballyholme Short Story, Time Machine Caroline Gerardo






The do-over spirit arrives in Natalie’s room under a waxing gibbous moon.

“I’m sending you back to a moment in time where you may correct any error,” the ghost says.

Natalie is unable to move her limbs, terror climbs from her toes to her chest, but the pain does not waken her. She cannot roll over and pull the covers over her head.

“Go away, I’m not buying any magazines, ghost.”

The apparition is not lovely, her knotty pine hands touch the smile lines on Natalie’s cheek.

“I’m taking you back to points in your life,  twice you may change the tide of events, a time machine-”

“What do you think this is, a Christmas Carol?” Natalie says.

“No, trust me,” the phantom says.

“I’ve heard that line before, it never leads to good fortune-”

“It is 1980 and you are in Ballyholme, Ashley Gardens. Open your eyes Natalie back in time.”

“Oh, I know the stone façade of the flat- if I could shake myself awake, or put my feet on the floor,” Natalie says.

“Natalie you were in love, Robby does not know you were MI5.”


**

Back in the apartment, a slouching bed rests in the guest bedroom, like a rock swallowed by the sea. Fireplace ashes need clearing, the penetrating smell of soot consumes the confines. In the kitchen, a fit woman cranks the gas meter with twenty-five pence coins. This pays for the stove and hot water. She opens the window to allow the smell of salt air fill her heart. Robby is in the living room with his guitar. His brother Shaun and Michael Connelly (a rough and tumble punk with piercings and tattoos on his upper body) are speaking with sullen tones. Robby is six foot and lean, not as robust as his brother Shaun, the three of them make up the band Moondogs.

“He was such a fool to listen to his older brother, they should have stuck to punk music not politics, damn god and Ulster.”

“So - change what happened-” the spirit says.

They sent me there with instructions to infiltrate the Blacknecks. I was doing my job as military intelligence,” Natalie answers.

“Didn’t they tell you not to fall in love?”

“Yeah, but they also knew I was incapable of not caring, that and my abilities made me great.”

“Seems like you should’ve known with your code name-” the spirit stops.

“Cumaean,” Natalie sighs remembering the taste of chili-mac dinner that stormy night. “We were poor and the boys thought it exotic compared to potatoes.”

“You have the chance to run, to back away, change what happened-” the spirit offers Natalie an out.

“No. I locked away my abilities with my past. I still analyze; but I never write down dreams. Going back doesn’t change who I am," Natalie says.

“This was your first kill?”

“They planned to bomb Belfast Central Rail Station. The VBIED (Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device) was already in the trunk. I slashed the tires to stop them, figuring they couldn’t substitute another car in time. I called the car location in. Then they borrowed a van, I had to stop them.”

“Don’t shoot three boys, change the altercation-” the spirit taunts.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I lost a love for Queen and Country, but I saved many others. Take me away from the smell of the ocean it makes me regret and feel shame,.” Natalie says.

“Then I direct you Natalie to a time you recall well, it is recent history. Again choose to change the course of events, perhaps better your life.”

Natalie says, “I don’t want to play this game. I have regrets but I’ve made my road.”

“About a year ago, you were betrayed by your fiancé, and made a choice that perhaps was unwise.”

“I don’t regret the geriatric pregnancy. I'm not taking anything back,” Natalie says.

“The Doctors warned you, elevated blood pressure might kill you or cause a stroke.”

“One life is not better or more worthy than my life.”

“Your other children what will they do as orphans? Will Catholic guilt help?”

“I believe in love, and giving unconditional love,” Natalie says.

“But-” the spirit plays devil's advocate.

“No there is no but, point out all the people who have hurt me, those who lied, cheated me and my children. It doesn’t matter, I choose to love, to forgive, every day of my life.”

The ghost grows more white and translucent. Her voice is higher in tone as a child’s, “Natalie you have chosen to stay on this earth.”



**

The doctor removes the disposable gel foam pads and applies gummy candy to the paddle, “hit her again, the foam on the pads are not making a good connection.”

The Defibrillation depolarizes a critical mass of Natalie's heart muscle. The sound of the force punches the delivery room. Her body bounces, the arrhythmia stops, and normal sinus rhythm returns oxygen to Natalie’s cells.

“Welcome back little mother.”

http://indieink.org/writing-challenges/

This was written for the Indie Ink Writing Challenge 9/11/2011 based on
Disease prompt to happen upon a time machine and go back and change something. I thought about the prompt last night, and given the opportunity, there is little I would change, except to grant myself more time.

copyright Caroline Gerardo

Character of Natalie I am developing to start another novel- in early stages noodling - getting to know her.
I would appreciate input about: female character who was a spy now middle aged. Can you like her or is she cold? This female protagonist may have flash backs to this past later in the story.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Short Story Wyoming

canyonroseplaymay2011 003
Chapter Two




People squawk about the bison verses the rancher but they don’t know the real fight is man verses man. Water is the number one resource fight in America. It is no different in Wyoming where you might think the thorns of hell catch your coat every time you leave the door. I suggested to Adam last summer to think about a dude ranch, you know a bed and breakfast for guests or specialize as a hunting lodge or something close enough to spend a couple days with the family playing little house on the prairie. They have a pretty stream, water rights and fair sized summer pond and the main house is large enough. He’s still thinking performance horses, studding his quarter horses and the glory past of a grand champion steer trophy. Adam has not gone to the State Fair in four years, fighting the cancer, being driven to town for chemotherapy is all he could lift his weary bones to survive. I will tell you point-blank this is the Third Great Depression but I was afraid to put it to him so harsh, he’s starting to look more ant-like with that distended abdomen full ball bad cells lumping.

I am musing as Shorty trots with the afternoon sun relaxing the muscles in my back, leaning light on the blades of bleached grass. Occasionally a stone or dip brings me back into real life, I am following my instincts not tracking when I actually find hoof marks about a mile from the border of land managed poorly by the Bureau. There are also the telltale signs of shoed horse prints spinning on the outside,“Shorty one can assume we’ve been robbed.”

The funny thing about animals, well dumb cows, they have no loyalty, but then I seem to find that in the men I pick, lying to everyone with a secret life. I am not speaking of cow brains that hold the mysteries of the universe but you would think they have enough sense to know who feeds them in the winter.

The tracks head toward a once marshy area of sycamores, old growth oaks and something that gives me great worry- wild berries: huckleberries, blackberries, and thimbleberries all wonderful to collect for a pie; but the favorite of black bears. I have Adams’ Colt 45 with me, and no, it is not an old -fashioned single shot it is a modern steel stopping machine. I could challenge anyone at the firing range twenty years ago, but I have not practiced much and even a center shot might not fall a Momma bear. I follow the tracks into the bushes knowing I must be dutiful alert.

Shorty snorts understanding my worry, he is between my legs and feels the emotion of full fire alarm. We slow forward, I grab a branch to wack bushes making noises singing. I cannot seem to stick with a song that makes any sense for the situation. I start with my Sally Gardens lullaby then Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes blurts from my vocal cords. Shorty likes the soothing one better but I do not want to startle any furry teddy bears because they are not reasonable. A doe leaps from my stick stomping on the branches and looks at me irritated as if to comment on my intonation.

“Would you prefer something of Michael Jacksons?”

Then I try Beat It however I mix up the lyrics. We trek on past dried rush and bull weed. The tracks are convoluted and I decide to get out from the heavy brush, I’m wearing Adam’s slicker jacket sweating like a big dog because I don’t want ticks hopping on me. If there are deer, there is lyme disease. My nose is itchy with dust and the smell of rain memory, the earth wishing for a drink. As we lift up the hill I see the infant bears and I know I am in for trouble. I kick Shorty on faster to get distance from them as soon as possible. He rumbles his lungs and shows me what a stallion is made of in a full canter. The dumb bears follow as if it is a game. They make crying sounds behind me and I am looking through the leaves and branches as they hit my cheeks hoping not to spot their mother.

(((pss more to follow and need title input))

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Thriller Two Buy This Book

I am anticipating my trip to New York July 6 - 9 to participate in Thriller Fest.
International Thriller Writers published it's second book of short stories by other members.
A few highlights alphabetically:
Kathleen Antrim -Through a Veil Darkly (excellent!)
Gary Braver Ghost Writer ( I love this story. I was a ghostwriter for others before publishing under my maiden name in 2009. )
Blake Crouch Remaking this is the author of killers, Serial Uncut and Run. If you haven't read his work you are missing out.
Jeffrey Deaver- The Weapon a very scary story about torture. I loved his book, Carte Blanche.

Worth the money. Buy the book

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Wade Alan Steele

Wade Alan Steele's short stories have dark patches of nature and mystic sunlight. I found him accidentaly, as is the best writing discovery.