Stories from Last Wednesday

STORIES FROM LAST WEDNESDAY

Claremore, OK

Copyright © 2018 Spacebar Publishing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Second edition, August 2018

ISBN-13: 978-1-7323007-4-3

No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in print or electronic form without prior permission of the author.

For the art of storytelling and the power of a group coming together to accomplish a goal

Foreword

A little more than a year ago, I had the honor of teaching a short story class at Northeast Technology Center in Claremore, Oklahoma.  After the first two classes, I realized I was no longer the teacher, only a facilitator. In fact, all the students who enrolled in the class are better writers than I am.

During the six-week class, it came out everyone had a novel in their heads. We decided to start a writing group to help each other out. Thus, Last Wednesday Writers was born.

A few months ago, we decided to publish an anthology of short stories. Some of the stories started in our class, while others were born since then. Each short story features the diverse talent of each member of our group. From fantasy and science fiction, to adventure and everyday life, I am sure you will find a short story you will love.

Thank you for taking the time to read our stories.  If you like them, tell your friends. If you don’t like them, don’t tell anyone!

~Mark Cook

These stories are works of fiction. All names, characters, institutions, places, and events portrayed in each story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

1. FRITTER

2. HOW WOLF LEARNED TO HOWL

3. THE GAMES

4. LATE... AGAIN

5. LORD WILLING AND THE CREEK DON’T RISE

6. MY NAME IS EMMA

7. NIGHT CREATURE

8. THE LOST GOLD MINE OF IDAHO SPRINGS

9. HALLOW FOREST

10. SCRUBBED

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover Photo by Paul G Buckner

Special thanks to Debbie and Alger at Northeast Technology Center

1. 

FRITTER

By MARK COOK

PERHAPS THERE IS NOTHING harder than losing a good friend. In the summer of my twelfth year, I met and lost the best friend a boy could ever have.

The morning had been rough. Rounding up the cows for morning feeding took twice as long, and to top it off, I lost my favorite hat.  

By the time I got the cows herded to the barn, the sun was sneaking over Eldon Mountain. Once the cows were in the holding lot, I went inside the barn and gathered the green, plastic five-gallon buckets I used to haul the feed from the bin to the trough. The smell of fresh manure, wet cows, and fly killer aerosol hung in the air.

I flipped the latch up on the back door, walked around the wooden deck to the feed bin, and froze. There, under the gnarled arms of the pin oak tree that provided shade for the barn, and was the favorite route of squirrels to the feed bin, lay the meanest looking dog I ever saw. Its belly pooched out like a pregnant heifer.

The crimson fur ball looked like he was part chow, but he was no pureblood. Only his tail, neck, and tongue were chow, the rest of him was pure mutt. His sleek coat glistened in the sunlight as he finished off what looked to be an armadillo. What Texans call possum on the half shell. When he saw me he stood up, his tail hung between his legs, his teeth escaping from under his lips. The noise out of his throat made the hair on my neck stand straight up and sent a wave of goosebumps scrambling all the way down to my toes.

Whoa, there boy, I said, easing backward to the door. I won’t hurt you. He didn’t seem too concerned about me hurting him. The devil dog stopped growling, but still showed his teeth. They looked plenty sharp.

You go ahead and finish eating. I’ll come back later. I jumped back into the barn and slammed the door shut.

James, where’s the feed? Gramps shouted from the milking room. Hurry up, before these heifers start bawlin’ their heads off.

Sorry, Gramps, but there’s a big red dog out back and he don’t seem none too friendly! I hollered back.

He won’t bother you none as long as you don’t bother him.

I opened the door just wide enough to peek out. The dog was gone. Only the shell remained of the armadillo. I opened the door wider and eased out onto the wooden deck. I grabbed the two buckets and filled them to the top with sweet smelling corn feed, stopping several times to make sure the dog wasn’t sneaking up on me.

Whose dog is he? I asked Gramps as I hauled the feed to the trough and dumped it. The cows mooing their gratitude almost drowned out Gramps answer.

He’s nobody’s dog. He just showed up here one day about a month ago. I reckon somebody dumped him. Gramps was bent over hooking up the milkers to a Jersey’s udders. You leave that dog be.  He don’t want anything to do with humans.

Gramps moved onto the next cow and began washing the dirt off her udders with a wet rag.  I’ve been trying to make friends with him since he showed up and he won’t let me get within ten yards of him. I even tried to coax him with a weenie. He wouldn’t have any of it. He musta been treated bad by somebody. Gramps hooked the milkers to the cow and then rose up and patted the cow on the rear.  That dog just don’t like people. He seemed to notice my bare head for the first time.

Where’s your hat?

Ahh, that big old sycamore down by the creek snagged it when I jumped across this mornin’, I said, setting the buckets down by the back door. I didn’t wanna take time trying to find it in the dark, so I left it. I’ll go get it after lunch. Gramps laughed and told me to bring in the next batch of cows from the holding lot.

Altogether we milked nearly a hundred cows twice a day, once early in the morning and again late in the evening. When we weren’t milking cows, there were fences to mend, hay to cut, bale and haul, and a thousand others things to ensure we wouldn’t get bored. This was my grandparents’ dairy farm.

Every summer, since I was a kid, I went to live with them. It’s what I looked forward to all year long. The work was hard, but I also got to fish, hunt, and explore the Cherokee Hills that grew up around Eldon Valley.

After lunch, I excused myself from the table, grabbed my .22 and headed down the hill towards the creek. The sun was at its peak, and the thick June air caused my t-shirt to grip my back like a clammy fist. I made it to the shade of the oak tree and the coolness of the creek as fast as I could.  Somewhere along the bank, I would find my cap. I wasn’t a big Chiefs fan, but Gramps was, and he gave it to me last year for my eleventh birthday. I sat down under a large oak tree to rest, looking first to make sure there was no poison ivy.

This was one of my favorite places to come and just relax. Soft grass made the perfect sleeping pad, while moss-covered roots from the oak tree provided the perfect pillow. The serene noise of the creek flowing over sleek, white sand stones was the ultimate lullaby. Songbirds sang their familiar songs, while feisty squirrels played in the canopy above me. I laid my head down on the blanket of moss and closed my eyes.

Just as I nodded off, I heard something rustling in the brush down the creek aways. It was the devil dog. He had a rabbit in his mouth and was crossing the creek when he saw me. He froze, and then after a few seconds, continued across about thirty yards from me.

Hey boy, how you doin’ boy? I said, trying to hide my fear. Whatcha got there, lunch? The dog dropped the rabbit and ambled forward a few steps until he was standing right over it. He didn’t growl, but he definitely wasn’t going to invite me to join him. Hey I was just leavin’. You enjoy your lunch and I’ll be seein’ you.

I backed away from him, turned and walked slowly back to the house, tensing my back muscles, expecting an attack. When I was almost back to the house I got up enough courage to look back. He was gone. I sighed with relief and walked through the front yard. Gramps sat in his favorite rocker on the front porch.

Where’s your hat? I thought you was going lookin’ for it?

I was, then I figured I better get that pole on the holdin’ corral fixed, so the cows won’t get out, I said, embarrassed that I was afraid of a stupid old dog.

Well, that’s a fine idea. You can look for that ole hat anytime. I could tell Gramps knew something was wrong and was letting me off easy.

I went in the house and headed towards my room. The smell from Grandma’s kitchen changed my mind. Those fancy pastry chefs in Europe couldn’t hold a candle to the heavenly smell coming from the big pot on the stove. Grandma stood over the pot, her bowl of batter next to her, dipping apple slices into the batter and then into the hot oil. The finished product was the best tasting apple fritters in the county.

Why James, I didn’t know you was here, she said, wiping her forehead with the tail of her apron.Gramps said you was off lookin’ for your hat.

I was, but then I decided I better fix the holdin’ corral.

Well, take some fritters with you to give you energy.

Thanks, Grandma, I will.

I grabbed a paper bag from under the counter and loaded it with fritters covered in powdered sugar, while Grandma stood with her mouth hanging open. I don’t think she planned on me taking the whole batch. I ran out of the house and down to the milk barn. I walked through the front door, out to the feed bin and then to the holding pen. I didn’t think it would take long to fix the corral, so I set the paper bag full of fritters on the corral post and walked across the barnyard to the woodshed.

When I came back, that darn dog was laying on the ground, his whole head stuffed in the paper sack. I was so mad, I forgot I was afraid of him. Git! You sorry excuse for a dog!

Startled, the thieving dog jerked his head out of the bag, and faced me. His whole muzzle was covered with powdered sugar and a grin spread across it. I ran at him yelling and cursing and chunking anything I could get my hands on at him. He just laid there scratching his ear with his hind foot.  Halfway across the barnyard I tripped over a rock and went down on my face. I swear I heard that fritter-stealing dog laugh. I grabbed a fist-sized rock and threw it at him. I missed, but it was close enough to let him know I wasn’t playing. He slowly got to his feet, stretched his legs, and trotted away.

Darn dog! I hollered after him.

When I made it over to the bag, I knew that dad burn dog had eaten my whole bag of fritters. I picked up the torn sack and threw it in the trash barrel. I’ll get you back you stupid dog! I muttered under my breath, and then gathered up my tools and finished fixing the holding pen fence.

When I went back to the house, Gramps was sitting on the front porch eating apple fritters and drinking milk. Grandma sat next to him hulling beans. I told them about that stinking dog eating my fritters.  Gramps laughed so hard milk went up his nose and all down the bib of his overalls. That stupid, thievin’, no account, fritter-stealin’ dog is going to get his though, I said promised. You just wait and see.  Next time I get him in the sites of my .22, I’m going to send him to the Promised Land.

You leave that dog alone, Gramps said when he finally quit laughing. You shouldn’t have taken that whole batch of fritters anyway. And ‘sides, Fritter was just doing what comes natural.

Fritter! Now you’ve gone and named him Fritter? I couldn’t believe it. That darn dog stole from me, and now Gramps is making light of me by naming him, Fritter!

All that darn dog does is a steal. I’m goin’ to put an end to his stealin’ ways. Those will be the last apple fritters that dog ever swipes from me.

You’ll do no such thing! Grandma said as she broke open a shell and dropped the brown beans into her bowl. Fritter may be a thief, but since he’s been around, those wild dogs haven’t killed uh one of my chickens. He’s earned his keep. Grandma gave me the look all grandmothers seem to pass on down to their daughters: that you-better-listen-to-me-or-I’m-going-to-set-the-rear-end-of-your-pants-afire look.

All right Grandma, I won’t shoot him, but dadgummit why do we have to keep him around? I asked, backing down from Grandma’s stern stare. He’ll steal everything I’ve got.

For the next month, I tried to make friends with Fritter. I figured it would be better to have him as a friend than an enemy, especially since Grandma wouldn’t let me shoot him. The only problem was Fritter didn’t want me getting close. The closest I got to Fritter was when I had an apple fritter in my hand. I coaxed and sweet-talked him ‘til he was within a few feet. But even an apple fritter has limited power. Fritter wouldn’t get any closer. I started to walk toward him, and he backed up.

Fine, if you don’t want it, you don’t have to have it. I acted like I was eating it, but he was no fool. After weeks of trying to be Fritter’s friend, I finally gave up. I wanted him to hunt and play in the creek with me, like most dogs would, but if he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t.

At the same time I was trying to be Fritter’s friend, I also kept looking for my cap.  It was nowhere to be found. I looked all around the creek; it was gone. I didn’t want Gramps to be mad at me so I kept looking for it. One time I started to go look for it, and Gramps caught me going out the back door. Where you goin’?

Tired of trying to keep the secret, I told him about the hat. He didn’t have much to say other than to be careful. The pack of wild dogs that had been stealing all over the valley was getting braver. They had killed two of Mr. Rawlings’ finest coon dogs just the other night.

Take your gun with you just in case you see ‘um.

All right.  I usually took my .22 anyway.

Be back before evening milking. I may need you to start the milking.

How come?

We got a calf missing. I’m afraid them dogs mighta killed it. I’m gonna go see if I can find it.

I left Gramps reading the paper and hiked to the creek. After a couple of hours searching for my cap, I sat down by the old oak tree and watched two squirrels fight over an acorn like two kids fighting over a Hershey bar. Suddenly, Fritter came plunging through the brush, dragging his hind legs behind him, my Kansas City Chiefs cap in his mouth. I eased around the big oak tree and put the strong, gray trunk between us. I don’t think he saw me. He laid on the bank near the water, his breathing ragged. I crawled toward the bank above where Fritter lounged.  

As I peered over the edge, I heard Fritter whimper. I could see why. His whole right side was covered in blood. His hind leg nearly torn off at the hip. I slid down the gravel bank and crept up on him.  He raised his head and showed me his teeth; a soft growl came from deep within.

It’s okay boy. I won’t hurt you, I whispered as I edged closer.

What I saw when I got closer almost made me sick. Fritter’s throat was torn open, and his right leg was barely attached. His face had a long cut on it that ran from just below his eye to the tip of his nose. Thick red blood oozed from his throat and leg. I took off my shirt and dipped it in the water. I held the shirt above Fritter’s mouth and gently squeezed. He lapped up the water like a calf who missed breakfast. His breathing was slow, and he seemed to be calming down.

It’s okay boy. You’ll be alright, I lied. I knew there was nothing I could do for Fritter and I think he knew it too. I couldn’t help him, and he would never survive the trip to Gramp’s house.

Fritter whimpered and looked at me with sad eyes. I ran my hand along his smooth fur and scratched gently behind his ears. He nuzzled my other hand, raised his head to look me in the eyes and then lowered it. The last of his air escaped his lungs like air from a balloon.

What happened to you boy? What did this to you? I said, wiping my eyes dry on my sleeve.

I put my cap on, grabbed my .22 and ran to the house. Grandma was in the kitchen canning preserves; the pressure cooker hissed on the stove. Mason jars covered the table, and blocks of paraffin sat on the counter. The smell of strawberry preserves was so sweet it was almost sickening. Grandma looked at me and nearly fainted. Fritter’s blood covered my overalls. It’s okay Grandma. It’s not my blood, it’s Fritter’s.

I spent the next few minutes telling her about finding Fritter. I’m sorry about Fritter. I know you liked him, she said as she grabbed my hand and held it. I see you found your hat.

No, Fritter found it. Where’s Gramps? I said, collapsing in the kitchen chair.

He’s still out looking for the calf. It seems like those wild dogs will never die. No matter how many times Gramps and the other farmers hunt them down and kill them, there’s always more to take their place. Grandma reached into the fridge, pulled out a jug of milk and poured me a tall glass. Seems like they’re getting’ braver too. They got Mr. Rawlings' coon dogs, and Millie Brinks told me they attacked her dogs right in their pen. Would uh killed ‘em too if Paul hadn’t come out of the house with his shotgun and killed one of ‘em.

How long has Gramps been gone? I asked after downing the glass of milk.

"Since right after you left. Come to think of it, Gramps shoulduh