Thirty Short, Short Stories

© 2013 Gretchen BeDen Gregory. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2793-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2792-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904728

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Contents

Hannah May

Little Sam

The Attic

Angry

The Prodigal

A Dogs Life

A Little Light

Friends

Matthew

The Masterpiece

Reneen

The Path to the Woods

White as Snow

To Run

Thomas

The Little Stone

Aquaintances

Silent Sounds

An Ordinary Day

The House of Mother Mercy

Finding Home

Sound of Weeping

A Lifetime

Alone

The Soldier

Rob’s Point

The Journey

Her Love

Gone

And He Came

About the Author

Born and raised in the small town of Byron, Michigan, after marriage I traveled with my Air Force husband from Alabama, Japan, and Libya. After retirement we enjoyed an R.V. and doing volunteer work across the United States. We raised three boys, one girl, and am now busy in beautiful Petoskey, Michigan.

Hannah May

The moon shone golden across the lake. The birds were hushed and the night sounds were beginning. A big croaker sounded his gutteral call and another gutteral call soon answered from somewhere on the other side of the lake. Night peepers were singing their songs in the trees and marsh grasses.

Years ago he had bought this land, and under the big oak that had grown on the small crest by the waters edge, he had built a half-circle bench. He sat here now, leaning his broad back against the tree and watched the moon raise higher into the night sky.

This is where he thought his thoughts, this is where he dreamed, and here is where he reminisced. He was reminiscing now and, as it seemed so often in the last few years, his mind worked its way backward to his boyhood and the girl he had loved.

He could still remember the first time he’d seen her. He had gotten a shiny red wagon for his birthday. He was now eight and could travel farther from home. So, with one knee in the wagon and his hand on the steering handle, he had pushed himself several blocks and there on the steps of a big white house she sat playing with her dolls. Strange, he didn’t notice her face right away, instead it was the frilly white dress she wore and the black patent leather shoes. She looked so - clean! Then he saw her long, brown, wavy hair, a blue ribbon tied in the back. He slowed down. She looked at him out of deep brown eyes and he knew at that moment. At eight years old, he was in love.

Something stirred in the high grass just behind him but he didn’t move. His mind flicked back to the first time he’d held her in his arms. He walked her home from school every afternoon. He was twelve, she was ten. Her name was Hannah May. Everyone else called her Hannah, but he always spoke her full name. This day Hannah May wasn’t waiting in the usual place by the corner of the school and so he had started walking their same route home when he heard her sobbing behind some shrubbery. She was on her knees, her books on the ground and he knelt before her. It was only natural he should put his arms around her while she cried against his shoulder. The man laughed now. Such a simple thing as a bad grade on a paper had sent her into tears.

When was it that he’d first spoken to her? He rode by her house with his wagon nearly every day that first summer, hoping she’d be out playing. One day he had found a dolls dress on the sidewalk, so he stopped and picked it up. She was on the porch. He had called, Is this your dress?, not daring to come any closer. But she came down the steps laughing and said, No, silly, it’s my dolls’! They had both laughed then. And that was the beginning.

Deep in his heart he would always love Hannah May, he knew it. He wished he could talk to his children about this young girl he had loved. About how beautiful she was, and the funny little things she did. But they wouldn’t be interested very long. Why do children never seem to realize that even old people were once young like them?

Hannah May had made him feel like he was the strongest and cleverest young man in the world. Like the night of the Junior prom. He remembered his old car he drove.

He’d washed it and polished it, and polished it again, so he would not be ashamed to pick up Hannah May and drive her to the dance. She was stunningly beautiful in her pale yellow formal, and he had rented a tuxedo for the occasion. Then, halfway there, the motor had sputtered and stopped and refused to turn over. So he’d taken off the tuxedo jacket, opened the car’s hood and adjusted the wiring and the motor started again. And although they were late arriving, instead of being annoyed or angry, Hannah May had laughed and bragged to everyone about how clever he was at fixing things.

Before her senior year was out she had moved far away with her parents. She had become such a part of him that he felt as though that part was sucked into a vacuum. He had thought his life would end but found that life does go on.

The lake was silver by now with the white moon high in orbit. The night sounds were almost deafening but he liked to hear their strange voices seeming to sing in chorus.

He and Hannah May used to swim together in this little lake, often joined by others of their friends from the town. Under this big oak was where he’d first kissed her. They’d been swimming and splashing with others but they’d all gone home while he and Hannah May relaxed in the grass and talked. The need was urgent as he leaned over her and gently touched his lips to hers. Would she push him away, he wondered? Instead she had looked clearly into his eyes and his name was soft on her breath.

His reverie was broken by his wifes’ voice calling his name. Carl, Carl, are you still out here?

As her footsteps brought her closer he realized it was quite late, and answered her, Yes, Im here. Come, sit here beside me a little while, Hannah May."

Little Sam

F ish were biting down at the fishing hole in the creek, he just knew it. There were always alot of fish after a nice rain like they had yesterday. He wished his daddy would come and put his fishing pole in one hand and take him by the other hand and then say the usual words, Hey, Little Sam, let’s you and me go fishin’ . He and daddy would walk hand and hand down the hill and over the meadow to their favorite spot by the big maple tree. Little Sam could even put his own worm on the hook, his daddy had taught him how. And he had taught Little Sam how to wait for that firm bite before pulling on the rod to set the hook into the fish’s mouth. He’d almost become as good a fisherman as his daddy.

But it wasn’t really the fishing that filled Little Sams’ heart with warmth. It was just being there alone with his daddy. Sometimes they would just sit silent, and other times when Little Sam had alot to talk about, his daddy would always listen. Little Sam guessed there wasn’t anything that made him happier than when he and daddy went fishing together.

He couldn’t go by himself down to the fishing hole. His momma said there were deep hopes where the water eddied in circles and, Little Sam, she’d say, if you ever fell into one of those holes we would never find you again.

But he could climb up here in the haymow and lay in the deep hay whenever he wanted to. Momma said, Just don’t get too close to the edge, Little Sam, and you’ll be all right. So Little Sam spent alot of time in the haymow and the big window in the barn that overlooked the side porch of the house so he could easily hear when momma called. This was his favorite place to lay and think. He would lay back in the sweet hay and listen to the rustlings of mice running along the rafters, or beetles making clicking sounds as they made their way through the stalks down in the hay. Little Sam would listen to the bird calls, and his momma had taught him their names. Hear that, Little Sam? she’d say, That’s a chickadee calling, saying, Hey, everybody, I’ve found some good seeds to eat. or she’d say, Hear that, Little Sam? That’s a robin saying, Just wait, my little ones, I’m bringing a big, fat worm for you.

He thought about his little sister and how he liked to touch her soft, silky hair. Momma said that Margaret looked like she did when she was a little girl. But Little Sam didn’t know what momma looked like as a little girl.