Geeklog Site

Jeff Gardiner

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 17:00:01 -0700

Jeff Gardiner is a writer who lives in West Sussex, England. He is the author of contemporary novel MYOPIA, published by Crooked Cat, which explores the themes of bullying and prejudice. His collection of short stories, 'A Glimpse of the Numinous', was published by Eibonvale Press. For more information go to http://www.jeffgardiner.com or to his blog at jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/.

Regular Contributor Has a New Novel Published!

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Regular contributor Jeff Gardiner has had his contemporary novel, MYOPIA, published by Crooked Cat Books.

MYOPIA explores the themes of bullying and prejudice. Jerry has to respond to being bullied in creative ways, discovering that being short-sighted is not a disability but just a new way of seeing things. He learns a lot about himself and the boy who is making his life such a misery. It is a novel about friendship, growing up and learning the hard way.

For more information please visit www.jeffgardiner.com or http://jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/

MYOPIA can be purchased at Amazon.

Ermine Winter, by Richard Hartwell

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A new poem about the beauty of the season from one of our regular contributors. Poetry Editor

Ermine Winter, by Richard Hartwell
I stumble downstairs out the door into
a velvet and ermine morning of winter
too fast too smooth for me to complain
wrapping me with a layer of hoarfrost

While virgin flakes envelope my soul
I recall a childhood not experienced
yet still remembered for all of that
by me if not by those older others

Beginning to slow down and stiffen
listening to feathered ones on a line
not yet a symphonic cacophony but
just a conflict of squawking crows

Feet turned to numb blocks of stone
fingers too gone from all memory
like nose and ears frozen cartilage
common sense fleeing from mind

No reason to be out so very long
except the real reason of beauty
wrapped in the ermine of winter
to spite body and reminiscence

Candice Carnes

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Candice Carnes lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico while earning her BFA in creative writing at Goddard College in Vermont (it's a heck of a commute). Her academic focus has been in experimental memoir and illness narratives. She is the winner of the 2009 Leo Love Merit Scholarship in fiction from the Taos Writers' Conference. Her work has appeared in *Adobe Walls: An Anthology of New Mexico Poetry *and the inaugural issue of *The Apeiron Review. *

Wacky Willy's, by Candice Carnes

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A hilarious take on "children's entertainment", and where humor writers go to hide, from a new contributor. Humor Editor

Wacky Willy’s, by Candice Carnes

Wacky Willy’s restaurant caters to small children and specializes in developing vices that will someday grow into full blown addictions and dysfunction. For the bargain price of a second mortgage on their parents’ house, kids can indulge in: gambling, rough-housing, excessive spending, fighting, whining, cheating, and stealing, all while hopped up on legal stimulants such as cake and caffeinated sodas.

It’s heaven!
If it is his or her birthday the lucky boy or girl can also celebrate with a Styrofoam crown and a false sense of superiority, setting each of them up for a lifetime of inflated egos and expectations.

For those who’ve grown up someplace isolated, like say Pluto, and are living in blissful ignorance of American childhood, please allow me to explain: Wacky Willy is a pirate with an unusually large felt head and plastic eyes, though his name isn’t really Wacky, or Willy. His true identity, among other things, has been changed. Willy, you see, is in The Humor Writers’ Pirate Protection Program. You can try asking his name, but he won’t tell you. He doesn’t say much, probably because his mouth is painted on. Willy’s limited communication includes hopping up and down and making exaggerated hand gestures.

He gives small children hugs because he’s paid to, and grown women hugs because he can get away with it. No woman who’s been hugged by Willy will ever look at plastic wiggle-eyes and a papier-mâché head the same way again.

Every child and parent has met Wacky Willy or one of his relatives, most of which are anthropomorphic absurdities in hats or vests, and occasionally pants. Willy, being a pirate, and not a frog, or duck, or whatever, does wear, you know, pants.

The owner of Wacky Willy’s knows that teenagers have tried to de-pant Willy. In order to protect Willy’s more innocent patrons, Willy’s pants are sewn, stapled, and super glued to the rest of his costume.

Make no mistake. The children who frequent Wacky Willy’s may look cute and small, but I know firsthand (as a former member of their society), that they are lean-mean-manipulating-machines.

Future members of Gambaholics of America can be found at the rewards counter where sticky hands pay for cheap plastic toys. Real money is no good at Willy’s. It must first be converted into tokens, and then used to win tickets. Such tickets are won in arcade games like skeeball, spin-a-wheel, and blackjack made to look benign by using an animated purple hippo as a dealer who wins all ties. Twenty-five dollars of Mom’s money will slowly morph into a relative street value of what might cost sixty-eight cents at a regular store.

You might wonder why a child doesn’t just buy a yo-yo or whistle in the real world. If you are wondering this then you’ve grown-up, and you’re just too old understand anything. It might all seem trivial to you, but to a six-year-old, the choice between a yo-yo and a whistle is serious business.

At the ticket counter a child’s goal is to convince the staff member to give out prizes beyond what the child can afford. This process usually takes average children between twenty and thirty minutes and superstar negotiators as long as two hours. One wears out the Wacky Willy staff by asking annoying questions for extended periods of time. Whining and other psychological war tactics are applied until the staff gives some brat a color TV just to get rid of him. I have never actually seen this happen, but I have heard rumors of a child who managed to obtain BOTH the yo-yo AND the whistle.

Should a child, say a seemingly cute little blond girl in pigtails, be unable to obtain a yo-yo or whistle from legitimate gambling practices there are other methods she can use, such as violence towards smaller children. Toddlers don’t play to win. They stick to the rides in the kiddy-corral. It’s only a matter of her luring a little boy into the ball pit with bits of pizza and then diving under to pry tokens out of his hands.

The toddler cries for his mother until the mother takes off her shoes and goes in after him. The sign clearly states No Adults Allowed. This sort of anarchy leads to the manager chewing out the mother, who’s not intimidated by the pimply sixteen-year-old. “Oh what are you going to do?” she snaps over the wailing toddler. “Call your dad?”

Tired mothers annoy the staff more than the kids do. No one who works at Willy’s can avoid drama. Those people really earn their minimum wage and paper pirate hats.
Children love to invite me to their parties at Wacky Willy’s. I won’t fight over tokens with them like children their own age (well just that once, but I said I was sorry). I am relatively good at skeeball and I always, always bring a gift, and not one of those just show-up with anything so as not to be rude toys. I bring the good stuff: the loud microphone, the messy finger-paints, or anything else I think will drive their parents crazy.

As a single woman in my thirties, all my married friends think that my life is glamorous, but mostly my life is pretty much like theirs. Maybe I should be having cocktails in trendy bars while wearing ridiculously expensive fashions, but instead I spend my few free Saturday afternoons wearing yet another pointy paper hat.

Afterwards, I’m always appointed to drive home the random child whose mother never picked him up. When I ask said-child where he lives he invariably answers with vague terms like “Near McDonalds past the mean dog where the red truck used to be.” Used to be?!?

I ask him questions, such as where he goes to elementary school. Then we drive around in the general vicinity of his neighborhood until he finally points and yells, “Hey look there’s my house!”

The rest of my night will then be filled with the exciting task of scraping frosting off the backseat of my car.

Ah, who needs those glamorized single-type-women portrayed on TV? At least I lead a life of freaking substance. That’s what I tell myself anyway whenever I put yet another TV dinner into the microwave or spill Cheerios all over the couch for the third time in a week. It’s all Willy’s fault for inflating my expectations. Once upon a time, I thought everything would be mine. All I had to do was have small pretty feet. Isn’t that what they say in Cinderella? What happened to my life? It’s all Willy’s fault for making me think that I could someday have it all, BOTH the yo-yo AND the whistle.

Citizens beware. Wacky Willy, his furry friends, and his establishments are a national epidemic. Adults might think they are immune, but that’s just wishful thinking. Next time you find yourself wanting a cell phone with gadgets and features you didn’t know you needed, annoying the salesperson over which one to buy, blame it on your childhood at Wacky Willy’s.

You might have forgotten him, but your bad behavior and constant disappointments proves he will never forget you. Bar fights, road rage, excessive credit card spending, tax evasion, even divorce are all Willy’s doing. What good is life if you don’t get to wear a Styrofoam crown, fight, drive like you don’t care, overextend your credit cards on yo-yos and plastic whistles, and then lie about all of it on your taxes? Just remember what happens at Willy’s might stay at Willy’s, but the IRS knows everything and they are not nearly as patient as the Wacky Willy staff members.

I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to go and buy a box of Band-Aids and some Aspirin. I have a party to go to.

Michael Robertson

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Michael Robertson is a writer from the UK who feels so grateful to have found his passion. He's working on a novel and has recently started writing short stories. Any contact is welcome on: nomoreofficework@btopenworld.com

B.Obby, by Michael Robertson

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A new contributor gives us a reminder that not all bullies are in the classroom and not all friends can be seen. Fiction Editor

B.Obby, by Michael Robertson

Sitting on the packed and sweaty school bus, staring intently at his peers like a cheerful little mole, Bobby is close enough to the back to hear what the older and cooler kids are saying, but not so close as to be ejected from his seat by someone higher up in the social pecking order. While staring at a boy two years above him at school, listening to his conversation about getting drunk, Bobby laughs and says, “I know exactly what you mean.”

The conversation stops dead and they regard the eager twelve year old with utter contempt. The boy then snorts a laugh and returns to his conversation. Bobby pretends not to be hurt by this, runs a hand over his cropped fuzzy hair, and beams his broad and indomitable smile at his peers. None of them notice.

I’m watching over Bobby because the big man has asked me to. He’s a high priority so he gets an angel full time. I’ve just finished helping an eight-year-old girl cope with the death of her baby brother. It was a long a heartbraking assingment. Bobby is my next job. My main task is to hold his hand as much as I can, like we’re supposed to, like we were taught to. Sometimes, it can make the world of difference, sometimes they don’t even realise that you’re there.

The bus, like it does every day, drops him off at his grandma’s house. It’s cold out, so he scurries up to the front door and knocks as he shivers on the doorstep. I slip inside and see the cruel woman look up from her paper, glance through her window into the wintery dark, and then continue reading. He knocks again and there is still no reply. After five minutes of knocking, she finally gets to her feet and screeches, “Okay, I’m coming, stop banging will ya.” When she opens the door, she doesn’t even acknowledge him, she just walks away.

Bobby steps out of the cold and I hold his hand in the hallway as he shouts, “Hi Grandma, how was your day?” We’re swallowed by the silence.

Grandma’s house is all doily’s and crystal ornaments, and he has to make sure that he touches nothing. It also smells musty like an old coat at the back of a wardrobe.
Bobby and I sit on the hard sofa watching television. He only moves when he needs to go to the toilet, and even then, he waits for as long as he can because he doesn’t want to give her any excuse attack him.

Having spent too much time on her own, Grandma has lost the ability to compromise and is stuck in a rigid routine that she refuses to deviate from. It’s her way or get lost. Bobby is quietly compliant.

At four forty-five, she gives Bobby dinner on the same tray that he had yesterday. It has a wildlife scene on it that has worn away from years of use. The rim is chipped and broken underneath, making the white plastic jagged. It digs into his small legs, but he tolerates it. The dinner, as always, is straight from the oven. He has chips, peas and some form of breaded meat. He doesn’t ask what meat it is because it doesn’t really matter, the grey salty mush all tastes and looks the same anyway. Whilst chewing a bland mouthful, he says, “Thanks for dinner Grandma.”

Her reply cuts through the air like a bullwhip, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

There’s a quiz show on the television hosted by an ageing actor who is doing his best to pretend that he’s happy, but he’s not. Highly polished white teeth and a grimace of a grin isn’t enough to fool an angel. Nothing is in fact, we always see the truth. That’s one of the perks of the job. Or, if you’re in the company of a woman like Bobby’s grandma, then it’s one of the downfalls. Her dark heart is like fossilized excrement and being in her company leaves a horrible aftertaste.

“It’s Nixon,” she shouts at the inanimate object. “The answer is President Nixon.” Her raspy voice feels like a dentist’s drill into my skull and her bony body that’s perched on the chair, along with her thinning black hair, makes her look like a vulture in its twilight years.

“No, it’s not,” Bobby says. “It’s President Clinton.” He instantly regrets speaking.

When the depressed television host concurs with Bobby, his Grandma hisses at him, “Shut up boy. I didn’t ask you for the answer did I?”

Bobby drops his head and mumbles at his knees, “No Grandma, you didn’t.”

Staring at him like she has murder on her mind, she adds, “Remember that you’re here as a favour to your mother, not because I want you here. Have you got that?”

“Yes Grandma.”

This woman will have some serious questions to answer when her day comes to leave this earth. I hope I’m called upon to give evidence.

“You would also do well to remember that children should be seen and not heard. Living by that mantra never did me any harm.”

Bobby stares at his plate and bites his tongue. He then takes another mouthful of the foul tasting salty food, a light gag lifting his stomach as he swallows.

*****

Sometimes his mum is punctual, but today is like most days where five o’clock comes and goes and there is no sign of her. Five o’clock is Grandma’s time to start on the gin and it’s the worst part of Bobby’s day. For the next hour, the only sound in the house is glass clinking glass as she tops her drink up, and the only place she looks is at the side of his tanned face.

After ninety minutes, she’s halfway though the bottle and her piercing blue eyes have turned predatory. She shakes like a sufferer of Parkinson's, but she doesn’t have that disease, her ailment is a bitter mind and an acid tongue. Her trembling is a fight to contain her fury. Then her sharp blue eyes narrow for the kill and she starts muttering indecipherable ravings that sound like satanic incantations.

He stares straight ahead, her glare making it feel like the side of his face is on fire.

After two hours, she speaks more clearly, “Your mum doesn’t love you you know.”

Bobby stares at the screen, his brown eyes pinching at the sides from the pain of hearing this. This is the only reaction he shows her, but I feel the hurt in his chest and the nausea in his stomach.

Her thin lips curl down and she says, “She’s probably busy with whichever man she’s trying to line up as a replacement to your dad. The sex is more important than you.”

I can see him tremble, luckily for him, she’s too drunk to notice and gives up on the insults.

*****

After three hours of the poisonous old woman’s company, he’s finally watching her house get smaller from the passenger seat of his mother’s old white BMW. She drives fast like she’s trying to get him home in record time so she can go out again.

The speed makes him feel sick, so he takes a deep breath before he speaks. “Why is Grandma so cruel?”

Hunched over the steering wheel, her face a fierce mask of concentration surrounded by off blonde hair, she says, “Ah, you know that she doesn’t mean all of the things that she says, don’t you honey?” She calls everyone honey, he’s not special.

Although her expression is as bland now as it always is, he sees the lie. He even understands it. To admit that she’s a horrible old woman, is to admit that he shouldn’t be going there every night, and she’s clearly not prepared to do that.

The smell in the old car is sweet and sweaty, and it threatens to turn bad like souring milk. An adult would recognize it instantly. All Bobby knows is that it makes him uncomfortable and he continues staring into the darkness ahead.

*****

He goes to his room and turns his computer on the second he gets home. He listens as the front door slams shut and her car starts up outside. She doesn’t even tell him that she’s going out. His small frame sags at the thought of another night alone. I hold his hand. He doesn’t feel it.

The virtual world of his online fantasy game is where he thrives, where the real Bobby, hiding behind an avatar, comes to life. This is where his true friends are, and although they’re cyber companions represented by virtual avatars of buxom women or stacked men, all of them attractive, powerful or intimidating, all of the things their creators are not, they’re kind to him and he belongs in their ranks. Bobby’s name is Deathbringer and his avatar is an axe-wielding hulking necromancer. His friends, like him, are on every night. They give him the consistency that a twelve year-old boy needs, and because of his game playing ability, the praise that he doesn’t get anywhere else.

*****

The next day in school, he sits at the front dreaming up online strategies to become the best assassin. The seat next to him is often empty, so he is surprised when a boy takes it. The boy’s name is James Hernandez and he’s a popular kid.

Laughing, Bobby says, “So you decided to sit up at the front today James?”

The look from the shaggy haired boy shows his latent anger. “No B.Obby, Miss said I have to,” he spits out.

Slightly confused by the pronunciation of his name, Bobby leans back in his seat, put his hands behind his head, which receives a look of aggression from the moody boy, who is staring directly at his sweaty armpits, and says, “Ah it’s not all bad up here. You get to hear what the teacher has to say.”

James ignores him.

His eyes flash wide and sparkle as he adds, “Sometimes you get to see down Miss’ blouse.”

Having heard this, Mrs. Brown points to the door and says, “Bobby. Out.”

Silently compliant, Bobby leaves the room to stand in the hallway. For some this isn’t a bad punishment, but Bobby loves to be around people, so solitude is torture for him. I hold his hand. He doesn’t feel it.

*****

That night, when he walks into his Grandma’s house, she pulls a sticker off his back and reads it aloud. “Hi, My name’s B.Obby and I stink.” Sniffing the air, a cruel smile lifting one side of her face, she says, “Makes sense,” and leaves him standing in the kitchen on his own with nothing but the low buzz from the freezer.

*****

Desperate to discuss it with his mother in the car on the way home, Bobby tries to talk to her, but she spends the entire journey on the phone to her boyfriend, scowling at him every time he tries to interrupt. The reason for the smell making his skin crawl may have eluded him, but the giggling and innuendo… For the first time he wonders if his mother realises that he exists.

*****

The next night his Grandma finds him by her purse. “What are you doing?” she snarls.

“I’m putting some money back.”

“You’re putting money back? Why do you have to put money back?”

“I borrowed some, Grandma, and I’m putting the change back.”

Grabbing his wrist with a pincer like grip made him drop the money on the floor. Pointing at it, she says, “Pick it up boy.” Bobby obediently obeys and when he bends down, receives a whack around the back of his head. “Now give it to me you horrible little urchin.”

Rubbing where he’s just been struck, his head spinning and tears standing in his eyes, he hands it over. “I was just buying --”

“Sweets I bet. You fat little brat. Sweets.” She then leaves him on his own in the hallway.

Pulling a huge breath into his body that smells of dust, Bobby stares at his feet. “Deodorant,” he whispers, the gentle throb on the back of his head staying with him as a reminder of her cruelty.

*****

“I can’t repay her you know.” His mum says in the car on the way home. “That was her food money for the week and you stole it from her. You won’t be able to go back there now. You’ll have to go to the library after school from now on.”

He doesn’t try to explain.

*****

Walking to the library after school, ‘the little thief’, as he was now referred to by his family, shuffles slowly because he doesn’t like books. He’d much rather play video games.
Although he hated going to his Grandma’s house, standing in the large sterile space of the library makes him feel like a spare part. Like he doesn’t belong. All he can do here is count books and try to ignore the smell of disinfectant.

*****

After two weeks, he’s worked out that each shelf holds approximately seventy-five books and there are seven hundred shelves. Pleased with this knowledge, he walks over to the librarian and says, loudly, “Did you know --”

But before he can finish, she scowls at him and says, “Shhhh.” He’s heard that before.

The library’s open for another half an hour, and he’s supposed to stay here until it closes, but because his mum’s never home when he gets in, he decides to leave early and hope that today isn’t the day that she has her boyfriend over. He’s never seen her boyfriend, but he knows what he sounds like because his television won’t go up loud enough.

As he walks home, he fantasizes about a hot meal on the table and a warm hug from his mum. He imagines her saying how pleased she is to see him and that she loves him. I hold his hand as we walk, and for the first time, I think he feels it because I see his little hand curl slightly.

It starts to rain so we break into a gentle jog, well, Bobby does. I float. The large rucksack on his back flick-flacks like a wild pendulum as he dodges puddles and tries to ignore the cold water seeping in through the holes in the bottoms of his shoes. He makes it home in record time, and when he gets into the kitchen, he shakes his head like a dog to lose some of the excess water.

After five minutes, he still feels out of breath, and his chest is tight like an elephant is resting on it. Sitting down, he drags thin breaths through his ever-closing throat.
After fifteen minutes, he looks like a fish on a riverbank with wide watery eyes bulging from his panicked red face.

Instead of getting better, it gets worse, the panic tightens his throat. Stars form in his eyes. His heart hammers. He turns purple.

*****

His mum comes home several hours later, eating a McDonalds that she has no intention of sharing. She finds Bobby as white as paper and slumped on the floor. His pulse is as absent as she has been for his entire life. She doesn’t cry, she just stares, devoid of emotion and chewing her burger. Before calling the emergency services, she thinks about her dog that died when she was a child and tears rise to the surface. Now she’s ready to make the call.

I hold his hand as we watch her frantically tidying the place before the ambulance arrives. She puts make up on and doesn’t give him a second glance. I stand by his side and wait. I will wait for as long as he needs me to. That’s my job.

Once they take his body away, he turns to look at me. Although his big brown eyes are full to bursting, he’s ready to go. Kneeling down and putting my hands on his small shoulders, I look into the sad face that knows more pain and neglect than a child should ever feel. I then lead him towards the white light. As we walk, I look down on his bowed head and rolled shoulders. “So Bobby, tell me about your day.”

He can hear me now for the first time. Looking up with a frown, he eyes me suspiciously. When I don’t look away, his features soften and he almost smiles. Drawing a gargantuan breath, he begins, “Well, I worked out that there are probably over fifty thousand books in the library.”

Putting my arm around his shoulders, I smile and pull him close as we walk together. He definitely feels it this time.

Sabbath with Aunt Helen, by Susan Lindsey

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A different kind of ghost story from one of our favorite contributors. Fiction Editor

Sabbath with Auth Helen, by Susan Lindsey

It didn’t take long before weird things started happening. On the first night in her new home, Megan crawled into bed, exhausted after moving boxes and furniture all day. Moving day sucked when all your relatives were six states away.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a faint glow in the center of the ceiling. She turned on the bedside lamp and saw nothing. She turned it off again. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the dark, there was that faint light again. She realized it was coming from the attic, through the edges of the hole cut for the light fixture.
“Aw, crap,” Megan groaned. “I must have left the light on upstairs when I took that last box up there.”

She rolled off the bed and onto her feet. She flicked on the lamp and made her way through the apartment to the back stairs and up to the attic. Sure enough, the light was on. She flipped the switch off and headed back to bed, stopping first in the boys’ room to check on them.

Her last thought before she drifted to sleep was, “I could swear I turned that light off earlier.”

Megan had lucked out when she found the apartment on the upper floor of the stately limestone home. She remembered the day she met the rental agent at the house. She had stepped out of the car and stared up at the beautiful, three-story façade. The late summer sun reflected off the diamond-paned windows on the top floor; the house seemed to wink at her. It was a fantastic place—she probably couldn’t afford it—but it was worth a look.

It was just as incredible inside as it was on the outside.

“You’ve got two bedrooms and two full bathrooms, plus the living room, dining room, breakfast room, kitchen, and sun room,” said Sam, the rental agent. “As you can see, it’s a little old-fashioned—built in the 1920s—but it’s roomy and in one of Louisville’s nicest neighborhoods.”

“It’s wonderful! I hate to ask, but how much is the rent?”

“What’s your budget?” Sam asked.

“I was trying to stay under $900 a month,” Megan responded. “I recently went through a divorce. I get child support, but even with that and my job, I have to be careful. I’ve stayed with a friend the last few months, but it’s time for me to have my own place.”

“Well, I’ve looked over your application and faxed it to the owners. They’re sisters who inherited this place from their aunt. The aunt and her husband couldn’t have kids, and they doted on these nieces. The nieces are older ladies themselves now and they’re anxious to have a good, stable renter. They were both real happy with your application.”

“But how much is it?”

“How do you feel about yard work? If you’ll mow the yard and rake the leaves come fall, then I figure we can knock off some of the rent and you can have it for $900.”

Megan smiled and shook Sam’s hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

“OK, then. Let me show you the access to the attic. Some of the old couple’s stuff is still up there. The nieces don’t want it and haven’t gotten around to sorting it, but there’s still plenty of room up there if you need storage space. Oh, and the nieces said that if there’s anything up there you can use, you just help yourself. They don’t want it.”

Megan’s jaw dropped, “Seriously? I get this great apartment for less than I expected, I have free storage, and I get to pick through cool, old stuff? I’ll move in on Saturday.”

* * *

After that first night when Megan found the light on in the attic, other odd things began to happen. At first, she thought it might be one of her boys up to their usual mischief. Joe was five and Rainey three. They both had endless energy and imagination, but they denied turning lights on and off, leaving doors open, and moving objects around.

Then Megan thought it might Elle, her babysitter, who came each day to watch the boys while Megan worked. She was sweet, but a little quirky.

On the first Friday evening in the house, Megan came home from work and found her good silver candlesticks set out on the kitchen counter, along with two candles.

She stepped into the living room where Elle was hugging the boys good-bye.

“Elle, did you set out my candles?”

“Candles? No, why would I do that?”

“No reason. Don’t worry about it. Have a great weekend.”

After that, every Friday evening, Megan found her candlesticks and candles on the kitchen counter. Every Friday evening, she put them back into the china cabinet. One Friday, as she closed the cabinet door, she noticed her grandmother’s teacup had been moved forward on the shelf. It was a beautiful Haviland pattern with roses on it. Grandma had had a whole set of it once.

Megan moved the cup back where it belonged and closed the door. Just then the phone rang, startling her. She grabbed it.

“Hello.”

“Good evening. Is this Megan Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Hill, my name is Jean Hasson. My sister and I own the house you’ve moved into.”

“Oh, yes,” Meagan said. “The rental agent told me about you.”

“Miss Hill, I know this might be short notice, but I live in Nashville and I’m headed up to St. Louis tomorrow to see my sister. I wondered if I might be able to stop by and meet you. It would be nice to put a face to a name, and I could answer any questions you may have about the house.”

“Sure. What time?”

“I could be there about one o’clock if that would be all right.”

“I’ll see you then,” said Megan.

The next day, a few minutes past one, she heard a soft knock. The boys raced to the door. Joe flung it open and stuck his hand out.

“Hi, I’m Joe. What’s your name?”

A slender woman in her mid-sixties stood at the door. She repressed a smile and solemnly shook Joe’s hand.

“I’m Missus Hasson,” she said. “And who is this other young man?”

“That’s my brother. His name is Rainey and he’s shy.” Rainey peered at the lady from behind the safety of Joe’s back.

Megan stepped to the door. “Hi, I’m Megan. Please come in. Boys, you need to finish putting away your toys in your room.”

Mrs. Hasson smiled and stepped into the living room. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she said. “You’re nearly unpacked! I don’t think I could get settled that fast. It’s nice to see a family in the place. I know my aunt and uncle would be pleased --” She stopped speaking and stared at one of the many photos displayed on the mantel.

“What is it?” Megan asked. “Are you all right?”

Mrs. Hasson walked over to the mantel and picked up a silver-framed picture. “Where did you get this?” Her voice shook.

Megan walked over and took the photo from the woman. It was an old picture—maybe World War II era. A young couple beamed from the black-and-white image. The woman was wearing a suit and an orchid corsage; the man was in a U.S. Army uniform. “I didn’t put this there. I don’t know these people.”

“I do. This is my Aunt Helen and her husband, Charles . . . the ones who used to live here. She always kept this photo on the mantel.” Mrs. Hasson carefully set the photo back where she had found it and then sank into a nearby chair. “It’s started again,” she said softly.

“Pardon me?”

“After Aunt Helen died, Uncle Charles used to say that she was still here. He would find things of hers lying about, lights left on, and so forth. He swore she came to visit him at night. We all thought he was just getting old, but then my sister and I stayed here one weekend. Aunt Helen was Jewish and they always lit Shabbat candles on Friday nights. My sister and I found her good candlesticks and candles laid out on the counter.”

A shiver traced Megan’s spine. “That happened to me, too.”

“Have you found lights on in the attic? Uncle Charles used to complain about that. We knew he wasn’t doing it; he couldn’t manage those stairs.”

“Yes, I have! And sometimes the hall light is on when I know I turned it off.”

Mrs. Hasson stepped over to the china cabinet and pointed to the cup that Megan had put back in place the previous evening. It was in front of the other cups again. “Aunt Helen had this china pattern—Haviland Bellefleur. She loved it.”

“That cup was my grandmother’s. I found it moved earlier.”

“Helen wants it where she can see it. Oh dear, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“Look, I don’t believe in ghosts, but this is pretty strange. Are we in any danger?”

“Oh, no! Aunt Helen wouldn’t hurt a soul. She probably adores having your boys here. They always wanted kids.”

“You know, one morning Joe told me he had had trouble sleeping, but that a lady came and sang to him,” said Megan. “I thought he was confused and meant our babysitter, but he said, ‘No, Mom. It was a different lady—like a grandma.’”

Mrs. Hasson stayed a little longer, telling Megan about the many years that Helen and Charles had lived in the house, crazy over one another and their home. When it was time for her to get back on the road, she gave Megan a quick hug. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Helen and Charles were wonderful people. If anything remains of them, you can be sure they are benevolent spirits.”

* * *

Over time, Megan really started to feel at home in the old house. She quit moving the Haviland cup and saucer to the back of the shelf, and left the photo of Helen and Charles on the mantel with pictures of her family and friends. She came to think of them as relatives, too.

Old children’s books appeared in the boys’ room—the Tom Swift books, Three Billy Goats Gruff, and Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Joe and Rainey often spoke of Aunt Helen. They said she told them stories at night. The boys were actually eager for bedtime and slept soundly.

Megan got in the habit of checking the attic light each night before she went to bed. She found some knickknacks up there and brought them into her home—a pretty antique cream and sugar set that she put in the dining room, an elegant brass bowl that she set on the hearth, and a hand-hooked rug of deep burgundy and gold that now graced her front hall.

Every Friday night just before sunset, she lit the two candles she always found on the counter. “Shabbat shalom, Aunt Helen,” she whispered. “Peace.”

A Raphael's Village Contributor Has a New Book Coming!

Sun, 28 Oct 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Frequent contributor Heather Gregson has a new middle grade historical fiction novel, A DOG OF WAR, releasing in November 2012.

Farm dog Tierza is devoted to her human boy, Aaron. Their idyllic life is interrupted when the German Army invades. Forced from their farm, Tierza accompanies her family to the Warsaw Ghetto. Together with her boy, they try and live as normal a life as possible under the terrible circumstances. For Tierza, all of that ends when her Aaron is taken by German soldiers and forced onto a train. Relentlessly she follows the traintracks. During her journey, she meets different people and tries her best to aid them any way she can, but she never stays for long. Her love for her boy drives her ever onward to the end of the tracks and her boy’s fate.

In the face of unspeakable cruelty, a loyal dog endures an epic journey while witnessing the horrors of war to find her beloved boy. A DOG OF WAR, by Heather Gregson -- available November 2012 from WritersAmuseMe.com http://www.writersamuseme.com/heathergregson.htm

A Raphael's Village Contributor Has a New Collection Out!

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 17:00:00 -0700

Frequent contributor Bruce J. Berger has a new short collection out -- "Dear Grandpa and Other Stories".

"Dear Grandpa and Other Stories" is a collection of six linked short stories relating the adventures of Gene Steiner, a recent widower as of the beginning of the collection. Gene must overcome depression and the desire to end it all, fight loneliness, and regain his ability to enjoy life's possibilities. An old and very closel friend, Alexis, and Gene's daughter, Emily, connive to get Gene and Alexis together. Will this work?

Get your copy today at Amazon.com! (www.amazon.com/Dear-Grandpa-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00988NA3Y/ref=sr_1_2)