The fictional “All Bets Off” delves into the common backstory and connected final chapter of two disoriented seniors.
The also fictional “Wild Rice River” steps through 24 hours in the beleagured life of someone with both an awkward problem and a painful memory.
“Ramblings” are the remembered, mostly true stories we share with family and friends to kindle memories. We rarely write them down. Mine are here to inspire you to do just that.
Fictional Short Stories
ALL BETS OFF ... by rSkaare
When I died a week ago Monday from life’s complications, I hadn’t quite finished telling you the story about this woman, an older woman – I’m not sure how old — sitting in an unfamiliar chair late one afternoon wondering why she was wearing a nightgown. Certainly it was her nightgown, her disagreeable odor, the same kind of gown and odor wafting from the parade of bent women clutching walkers, shuffling determinedly, habitually, back and forth in the hall.
WILD RICE RIVER WILD ... by rSkaare
Olaf Sneen stared dazedly into the mottled mirror behind the rows of dusty liquor bottles. His third beer and shot sat untouched in front of him like strangers wanting but unwilling to start a conversation. Dull sunlight pushed its way through the grime of the two small windows high to his right on the street side of the small-town, country bar, and spread across the smoke-dulled, knotty pine paneling behind him. Silted warm air waited patiently at the front screen door, stopped by the bar’s coolness and brutish odor from years of cigarette smoke and sweat.
True stories as I remember them
Shabby Kim
My friend Kim didn’t offer much as a kid, even as a young adult. She wasn’t all that pretty, couldn’t sing well, and was much too timid. At least that’s what she told herself and is probably why she read “The Littlest Angel” over and over as a child.
Basement Strippers
About once a month, very early in the morning, our mother would load us two youngsters onto a bus that took us to a subway station that took us to Boston and to the opening of the Filene’s Basement “Dollar Day” sale and impromptu strip show.
Zipper Down
In her final hours, as she lay in her hospital bed, in and out of consciousness, surrounded by a gaggle of family members, my always smiling mother-in-law said something softly to me that got the room laughing loudly.
Write Like Emily
When American Literature Professor Oscar Daub returned our college essays on an Emily Dickinson poem — mine was quite impressive, I thought — written on my two-pager was a large, red “D” and the words, “See me!” I hung back after class, somewhat anxious, not really angry, but expecting that I was about to experience something awkwardly eye-opening.
Last Meal Out
Natalie smiled constantly as she listened from to the stories and hilarity of relatives and friends gathered near her. She was one of them but did not participate. Ninety-three years of joys and challenges and sadness had run their course. My mother was now dying. And then she got up and went out for Sunday dinner and grocery shopping.
Payback Kiss
My mother broke her foot back in the early ’50s when she had two young children, when my father was off to sea with the Navy, when money was tight, when we lived on the top floor of a double-decker house, and when we didn’t have a car. My mother was alone and trapped and reluctant to seek help. Then comes the really good part of the story.