Tag: Fiction

Jeremy Flynn was 7 miles from the Tennessee State line when he remembered the livermush and Cheerwine. He immediately took his foot off the gas, but it was too late: the sign for exit 7 was already swishing past him. He accelerated again and started looking for another road sign. Karen wanted the livermush for something she was making for the wedding. Jeremy didn’t know why she insisted on doing all the food preparations for her own wedding–her parents were more than willing to contribute whatever was necessary. But some strange manifestation of Southern pride had convinced her that she was the only cook for the job. He sincerely hoped the Cheerwine wouldn’t end up in the punch. Continue reading “Bed and Breakfast”

There’s a legend in our village, I don’t know how old it is. Sure it was an old story when I was a boy. There was this great city that stood on this very spot. No one knows any longer the name of that city, it was so long ago, but we know that it was called “The First of the Great Cities of the South.” That’s a very strange thing because, as we recon it, this village is in the northern part of the country. Continue reading “The Legend of the White Gate”

When my sons were first born, I thought I should be a happy man. I mean: five! Who could not help but be a happy man?! My darling Rebecca, she gave birth to five boys all at once. Well, not all at once: it took her all the night. But right in a row, she gave them. Five to me! I thought I should burst! But my darling Rebecca, after giving me so much, she gave up the last thing she had left, and she died before I even had her in my arms. And then, again, I thought I should burst. I could not hold back from weeping. Five sons or no, how could I ever survive without her?

Five sons! That’s a big job now. And not a woman in sight! That’s another one. And plus, it’s not easy, living as we do. I’m not a wealthy man, though I’m not a poor one. But it’s hard, being who we are, and surrounded by so many people who don’t know. We have to hide it. No one must ever know the magic I have inside of me, or the secrets I’ve been entrusted with. No one must ever know about the Well. Continue reading “Deep The Well”

The lion looked at me with a gleam in his eye.

“Will you come in?”

He looked like some Egyptian monument; his haunches reached up as much as forty feet; his head was twice as tall as me. Settling down on his belly, he placed his head near the ground before me, and opened wide his mouth.

I thought of every enchanted treasure-house I had ever heard of. Aladdin’s cave, the open tree with the dog guardians with eyes as big as plates and saucers, holes in the ground, and leprechauns. Stable, fixed, every one of them. This creature, though, once I was inside of him, could travel anywhere. He was no stone lion. He was living; I could feel him breathing.

“If I go in, can I come out again?”

“Perhaps.” Continue reading “Unseen Treasures”

“Henry, come away from the window. It’s time to get back to work.”

Mrs. Jennings pushed her mottled brown glasses back toward her mottled brown eyes and dusted chalk off of her sleeve. Henry sighed, turning back to his desk, and pulled out his MacMillan Reader. Outside, the rain was coming down in little sheets of grey and white that danced and braided in the wind. It was hard to tell, with the water on the glass, but Henry thought he could just make out the shadows of his little town folding out against the sky. Continue reading “The Rain”

“Lord, You lead like a drunken man.”

The dust picked up again under the crunch of sweat-soaked feet. Carolina Snibbs was walking. Outside the city gate and up toward the hills, his mouth was dry again. Another city turned away. Another dry day. And comes the wind.

“You always tell me step one and step ten. Never mind that step five is West and step seven is North when my path is heading South. Never mind that. I’m following Your rhythms. And You lead like a drunken man. Continue reading “A Day’s Journey”

When the king set on his throne, a very tired and lonely man, he was, at that moment, ready to die. Had someone stepped up to him and told him that that day would be his last to live, he would have smiled, almost grimaced.

“My eyes have grown cold, and so have my hands. My heart, that beats soundly enough, but everything has grown so cold within me,” He wheezed to himself, more amused than distressed. Distress would have cost too much caring, a substance he had run very poor on long ago. He thought he must have a small bottle of the stuff saved up somewhere.

He supposed he ought to find the stuff and use it up on something useless before it went to waste. Tiresome stuff. A wonder the young had so many uses for it.

Just then a mouse scampered up to the arm of the throne. Mice were generally not allowed in throne rooms, but the king had not much kept up with that of late.

“My master, please: a bit of cheese!” squeaked the mouse. Continue reading “Silly Story”