A Community of
Writers
A Collection of Short Stories
Edited by
Ann Elia Stewart
A Community of Writers
Copyright © 2012, by Ann Elia Stewart.
Cover Copyright © 2012 by Sunbury Press, Inc.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [email protected].
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
April 2012
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-620060-49-0
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1-620060-50-6
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-620060-51-3
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Camp Hill, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA
“Everybody’s life is full of stories. . .what is interesting is the way everyone tells their stories.” Gertrude Stein
Introduction
For ten years I have had the pleasure of facilitating a creative writing workshop at the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill, Pennsylvania. It began as a complement to a literary magazine I had been publishing at the time, PHASE, which at the end of its run, had published fifty central Pennsylvania authors (selected over time from five hundred submitted manuscripts). I was searching for new voices, interesting stories for the magazine, and I had been noticing writers making some of the same mistakes in those five hundred manuscripts that most first-time authors make when they put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).
The repetition of mistakes led me to create a writing workshop that addressed them, but also allowed for creative discussion and expression. The goal I set for each class was to try to polish a story to the point of confidence: continue to work on the story outside of the workshop, form writing and critique groups, pick up a book or two from the recommended reading list distributed at every workshop, and work at the craft.
Only then can a writer begin to send his or her babies out into the world to the myriad literary magazines, many of them now on-line, or develop a short story into a novella or novel.
In 2003, word of the workshop had reached Robert Craumer, a Camp Hill resident who was seeking a way to memorialize his beloved wife, Natalie, who had succumbed to cancer. Natalie had been a voracious reader, having read her way through four libraries, and having penned a few articles and short stories herself. Mr. Craumer set his sight on his hometown library and learned more about the writing workshop. He had decided that not only was this a perfect way to honor his wife, but it would further her love of stories by giving education and opportunity to other aspiring central Pennsylvania writers.
The Natalie D. Craumer Writer’s Workshop at the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill was born. Offered free to the community, it is a workshop comprised of a maximum of fifteen participants, some of whom have become familiar faces over the years. The workshop, offered in the fall and the spring, always fills quickly. And whether it is because of the camaraderie that is encouraged in each session, the wealth of information and discussion, and the participants’ willingness to complete assignments — or all three — the stories that emerge always overwhelm me in their breadth of creativity, voice and structure.
Here are twenty-five stories, written by workshop participants from nearly every year, many of whom have gone on to win competitions, publish their stories in literary journals, and even write and publish novels. The stories were either developed, or grew from seeds planted during the workshop. The writing levels represent intermediate to advanced, and each story is vibrant and engaging without the distractions of heavy-handed philosophy and stylistic tricks. The stories pull you in, and in some cases, teach you something about life. They also range from mainstream to literary fiction to fantasy, science fiction and satire.
To say that I am proud of each of “my” writers is an understatement. Their passion for story led them to the workshop, but their dedication to work at their craft landed them within the pages of this anthology as well as other publications.
A huge thank you to Lawrence Knorr, publisher, Sunbury Press, Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, who recognized the little gem that is the Natalie D. Craumer Writer’s Workshop at the Fredricksen Library. All profits from the sale of this book will be donated to the library so that the written word can continue to be enjoyed by all who walk through its doors.
Thank you, Mr. Craumer, for your belief in and support of creative writing. Thank you, Fredricksen Library, for offering the workshop twice a year and giving us a home. Thank you, Lee Johnson, for suggesting the workshop in the first place! Thank you, Jessica Nupponen, the library’s community events director, for your excellent support in all things administrative: registration, scheduling, materials and the endless handout copies of which I never seem to run out. You have been my right arm. And thank you, writers, for hanging in there, exercising your minds, and crafting these excellent short stories.
Enjoy!
Ann Elia Stewart
Workshop facilitator
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Hunting Season – Rayne Ayers Debski
Take Care - Margaret DeAngelis
Angel in the Mist - Laurie J. Edwards
Survivor Barbie – C.A.Masterson
A Soldier's Gift - Don Helin
Operation Pumpkin Patch - Gina Napoli
A Cautious Life - Larry C. Kerr
The Green Eyed Monster - Catherine Jordan
Smoke - Lori M. Myers
Number 11 - Maria McKee
The Things She Chose to Keep - Susan Pigott
The Surprise Party - Carol A. Lauver
an excerpt from "Oops," Said God - Duffy Batzer
Swan Song - Ann Elia Stewart
Dragon Riders – D.A.Morrow
Free as a Bluejay - Madelyn Killion
4:30 - Bob Walton
Fade to Black - Kathryn Grace
The Nature of Sin - Maria McKee
Dead Letters - Susan Girolami Kramer
Dissipation – C.A.Masterson
The Mirror - Susan E. Bangs
Betsy's Delight - Marlene Ross
Moving Targets - Debra A. Varsanyi
Creature of Habit - Don Helin
Hunting Season
By
Rayne Ayers Debski
It’s almost midnight when Andrew maneuvers our car up the serpentine road to the Sanctuary. Without street lights to illuminate the curves, the abrupt shifts are unexpected. My back stiffens in preparation for the next one. Andrew swings the car hard enough for my shoulder to knock against the door. I’m too tired to complain; he’s too intent on getting to our destination to notice. We were supposed to be there five hours ago. Andrew had to work late.
Sanctuary is a misnomer. Our vacation home in the Blue Ridge sits on a half acre of trees, among dozens like it. We selected the name because that’s what we wanted: Andrew, a getaway from his accounting firm, and me, a place to bring
environmental magazines and Terra chips. We haven’t been here since the summer when the forest hid everything. Now, in October, leaves pile along the road.
“Did you tell Jake to turn on the heat?”
I shake my head. “I thought we’d build a fire.” I imagined we would sit in front of the fireplace, watch logs spit out insects, and plan what to do during a long weekend together. It seemed more exciting than calling the caretaker to start the furnace.
“We’ll be getting into a cold bed.”
“I thought we’d dance naked in front of the fire.”
“We’ve never done that.”
“I never ate mussels until I met you.” This is a game we play, a reminder of “firsts” we’ve shared during our nine years together, a game of truth and lies. Usually, my husband responds with something like “I never farted in silk boxers before I met you.” Tonight he stares at the road ahead.
“Did you remember to buy fruit?” He turns the car into our driveway. “I didn’t put it on the shopping list.”
“Blueberries,” I say. “And bananas.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. This affectionate gesture belies the distance that has grown between us.
“Are you okay?” He still holds my damp hand.
“Fine.” I remove myself from his grasp and gather my things. In the last year we’ve gone to cooking classes, cleaned out the basement, taken up digital photography. We joke. We share stories with friends. We rarely look each other in the eye. “You?”
“Yes,” he says.
We are here in the mountains with its bracing air and snakes in the laundry room to have three days without anyone else.
He locks the car. “I’m fine.”
By dawn, barn swallows are singing. Sleep is impossible. With a blanket around my shoulders, I walk through the kitchen onto the mildewed wooden deck.
I scan the tops of the yellow hickories for the Orionids. Last year we stayed awake all night to see the meteor showers. The luminous streaks we’d read about—meteors every five minutes!—never appeared. Instead of going to bed, Andrew insisted we return to Richmond so he could ride with his bicycle club. We drove home in silence. This morning I watch a single meteor streak across the sky. From its position, I know it’s not part of the Orionids. Maybe I’ll tell Andrew it was. Slowly, the sky lightens.
Dressed for his daily run in new shorts and an old sweat shirt, Andrew slides open the door to the deck. “Do you want hot water for tea?” Without waiting for an answer, he fills the kettle. His six-foot muscular presence shrinks the space in the kitchen. The blender pulverizes bananas, orange juice, and yogurt. Jays bicker in the trees. I must remember to buy birdseed. A piece of blue cloth I shoved into the screen the last time we were here has turned dark green.
He pours his smoothie into a glass and gulps it down. Although he has recently turned forty, there’s no gray in his thick, dark hair. The creases in his forehead are recent, etched from worries about his firm’s survivability. He pokes his head out the door. “Water’s ready.”
“When will you be back?”
“You can come with me if you want.”
“I don’t feel like running.”
“Too wet out?”
“I feel like I’ll use up too much of myself. I’ve been feeling that way. Used. Used up.”
“Maybe you need new running shoes.”
“New running shoes?”
“You can tell your friends ‘I sprinted past my husband in my new Nikes.’”
“I’d never sprint past you. I can’t even keep up with you.”
He squints at the glass wind chime, his anniversary gift to me, its strands twisted into silence. “You should have brought that inside.”
“Sometimes things get away from me.” One of the bickering jays swoops toward the deck, then returns to its mate. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m not asking you to do anything.” He unhooks the wind chime and hands it to me. The glass is cold and slippery. “Just wish you’d take better care of things.”
I place the chimes on the picnic table and unravel the strings. I’m not a careless person. I may overlook the expiration date on a milk carton or mail a payment the day it’s due. But at the Piedmont Historical Society, where I’m the Executive Director, every object is correctly identified. Our home in Richmond is not a showplace, but the gardens are weeded. And here in the mountains, I sweep away spider webs and keep the wine rack filled. If something is amiss, it isn’t, as Andrew insists, because of negligence. After all these years, he still doesn’t understand there are things I do because of carelessness, but others I do for spite.
My bare feet are turning blue. Andrew is at least a mile into his run. The jays have quieted. I re-hang the wind chime but go inside before it begins to sing.
There is laughter from the neighbor’s yard, my husband’s loud and nasal, and Kit Barton’s, low and throaty. From the kitchen window I can almost see the house next door. The Bartons moved here last spring. Unlike us, they live on the mountain year round. Kit Barton is an expert bow hunter, and Mark Barton is the owner of a private fishing club. He’s a potential client of Andrew’s firm. If they’re outside when Andrew finishes his run, he talks with them. His chattiness with strangers irritates me—I hate feeling excluded. I run upstairs to his study for binoculars, as if they’ll help me hear what he’s saying to Kit.
After rummaging through his closet, knocking over the twelve-gauge shotgun and spilling a box of ammunition, I find the binoculars. By the time I place them around my neck, Andrew is in the doorway.
“The Bartons invited us for dinner tonight.” He picks at his fingernail. “I said we’d be there.”
Moments like this lead me to believe our marriage has become a game of Blind Man’s Bluff. If I remind him this is our weekend to be alone together, he’ll look baffled. I hold up the binoculars. “Bird watching. I thought we could look for eagles.”
He shakes his head. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Come early for drinks, the Bartons told Andrew, so we can get to know Susan.
“If they don’t like me, will they send us on our way without dinner?”
Andrew roots around the wine rack. Although I can’t see his face, I know he’s wincing. He has never enjoyed what he calls my overactive imagination. “Better fill up on hors d’oeuvres just in case.”
“Maybe they’ll drug us. Use us as decoys to lure wild animals.” The inanity of my words shields my nervousness about hanging with people who will judge Andrew by his wife. I hadn’t thought to bring anything dressier than jeans and a sweater. I try to dislodge a tiny piece of dried steak from the sweater with my fingernail.
“Bison burgers,” he says getting into the spirit. “That’s what they’ll serve. Fresh from the hunt.” He sets out a zinfandel and a cabernet, sizing up which would be the correct choice.
“Five o’clock is early for dinner.”
“Kit wants us to see the sunset.”
“Something different from what we see here?”
He holds each bottle to the light and examines its color. “Pretend you’re Eve, seeing a sunset for the first time.”
“I bet Eve didn’t eat buffalo. Or deer.” I scrape harder. “Or ostrich.” The meat disappears from my sweater, but a small star of balsamic glaze remains. I rearrange my scarf to cover it.
“You don’t know that.” He places the wine in a tote and hands it to me. “But I’m with you on the ostrich.” I grab some nuts to chew while we walk next door. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. We’ll listen to their stories and joke about them afterward. I turn to offer some nuts to Andrew, but he’s out the door. I rinse my hands and leave the wine on the counter.
It takes a few seconds to catch up to him. “Let’s not ruin this weekend,” I say.
He slows his pace. “This weekend?” His face is drawn. “Is that all you’re worried about?”
Heads of glassy-eyed animals cover the walls of the Barton’s living
room. A deer with a rack large enough to decorate at Christmas stares disapprovingly at my sweater. I tug at my scarf. Next to him is an antelope, his tilted head exuding disdain. Three elk eye the room as if looking for an escape route. Above them float a tarpon and four bass. I try to avoid their gazes and smell what’s for dinner; the burning wood in the fireplace displaces all other scents.
“The animals are Kit’s,” Mark says. “The fish are mine. Caught the tarpon off Key Largo.” His voice is quiet, as if he doesn’t want to rile the animals. I press my lips together and pretend to be interested.
From a group of pictures on the sideboard, he selects one and hands it to me. “She spent seven hours lying in the mud to get the elk,” he says proudly. I hold the photo like a piece of smelly underwear and glance at the picture of Kit in dirt covered camouflage, her bow in one hand, her foot atop the carcass, a patch of rust stained grass in the foreground. I hope dinner isn’t the remains of this animal.
“Seven hours.” I fight the urge to toss the picture into the fire. “I couldn’t lay that long in a spa.” Andrew shoots me a warning look.
Kit continues the tour. Next to the stone fireplace, a five foot bear skin is spread across the wall. “She was six years old,” Kit says nodding at the bear as if eulogizing it. “I shot her in Canada.” Her diamond earrings sparkle. I turn to Andrew hoping he’s as uncomfortable as I am and willing to leave.
“Did you have a sidearm with you?” my husband asks.
Kit’s chestnut hair swings across her shoulders. “They’re not permitted in Canada when you’re bow hunting.”
“What if you missed and the bear charged?”
She shrugs. “That’s the chance you take.” Her white silk shirt ripples. “Do you hunt?”
“We shoot skeet,” I say. Andrew looks as if one of the trophies has joined the conversation.
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