From the doorway Amaretto Wryter was gazing in a serious manner at her husband and three sons. The look on her face told them that it was time to quit playing and get to work. Herbie had seen that look many other times. It was the look with one eyebrow lifted up and the other cast downward. There was an absence of a blank stare because it was scared away by the “Get busy” look. For a moment Herbie thought he saw a smile sneaking across her face and then he just realized that he was mistaken. The smile did return when the four boys resumed the work that was laid out for them to do.
Each of the four retired to their “cubby” or workstation that Amaretto called it. She felt that the word cubby was just a little too immature and that if the men in her life realized that it was a workstation then they might just get some work accomplished. Herbie on the other hand thought the word “workstation” was much to overpowering and it was not conducive to a writer’s frame of mind. Yes, the Wryters were a family of writers. Each particular person having their own favorite genre that really portrayed who they were and what they felt. Herbie was the master of the short story; there were exactly forty-two short stories currently in print with his name attached to them. Some of them had sold more copies than others, but all in all, he was somewhat successful.
Jim the oldest at age seventeen thrived on the horror stories that his brain could conjure up. He was not of the group that felt the horror story should be comprised of blood and gore, he rather felt that if the story line were more psychological and mind torturing that was a much better plot. After all with the abundance of slasher films that have overloaded the industry Jim felt that these particular films just gave a numbing effect on the movie goers as well as the faithful ones that read those types of stories. He has developed quite a following among the young adult crowd and dreams of finding the older readers exploring his works.
Carl who is a tall, wiry sort of guy likes to put together his newest writing challenge; the drabble. (A short story that is comprised of exactly one-hundred words) There is running through his mind a book collection of three-hundred, sixty-five short fiction works which he hopes to have published by Christmas time. “It’s going to be the greatest Christmas gift that anyone would want to give,” he exclaimed to the group. At first I thought that Carl was just trying to play around and not be serious about his writing, but then I took a stab at it and came up empty handed; writing a complete story with a limited number of words is a daunting task for someone that is used to rambling on.
Henry Wryter is the poet in the family. Rhyming words has always come easy for him and he seems to be a natural born poet. I told him that if he ever tired of writing poetry that he might have a chance in the world of rap music. He thought that was a silly idea and dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
Mom sent each of us into our respective “offices” with the order not to step out until we had a rough outline of our latest work finished; she is a tough publisher to labor for. One by one the outlines were conceived and printed on a paper for her approval. One by one they would come back to us in the form of a crumpled paper ball which brought back memories of those frozen balls of snow that were waiting for us in the front yard. The thought kept running through my head of three boys fleeing for their very lives as their madman of a father gave chase across the snow and ice field that used to be our competition field for football and other manly events.
An ear splitting whistle came from somewhere within the house at 23 Ice Hammer Lane and we all knew that was the call to gather together for a conference.
We each took our place around the oval table in the center of the room and waited patiently for our leader to enter. I had the chair at the south end of the table and each of the boys were seated according to age from oldest to youngest in a clockwise manner; and we waited and waited for what seemed like hours.
The room itself spoke in words of inspiration. Stationed at strategic points around the room were various objects to spark some level of creative genius from the four of us. There were the old stand bys, the camera from days before my grandmother, a broken clock that the hands ran backwards on. There were sitting on the table various things that Amaretto had found in yard sales, auctions and flea markets. Monetarily these had little value, but, they were rich in ideas for a number of stories.
The paddle and strings from a long missing wooden dummy had been the inspiration for one of my favorite short stories, “Moving Up.” I spotted an apple and an orange that had been the catalyst for another successful story. Each of the boys had a glazed look on their faces as they remembered their own unique items that had been the beginning of wonderful works of literature.
I saw the familiar sparkle in Henry’s blue eyes that signaled an approaching idea. Then the sparkle subsided and he had the same dull stare as the rest of us. We had been under attack and did not even know it. This was an enemy that we thought had been banished from the Wryter household years ago and somehow had crept in and quietly gained a stronghold while we were not paying attention.
Jim was the first to say it and when he did it brought tears to our eyes. “Don’t you see him?” “Who,” asked Carl? “Ya, who do you see,” questioned Henry. I saw him and he was just as mean and ugly as the last time he had appeared to me while in college. “Boys this is the brainstorm buster, he steals away all of our good ideas and causes what is commonly referred to as “writers block.”
He is very good at what he does and it seems that not one writer is immune to his deeds. “No, Henry he isn’t even afraid of Mom.” “We are in real trouble,” whispered Carl so as not to let the brainstorm buster hear his growing fear. Carl had never been at a loss for an idea to write about, not even when Mrs. Holt put him on the spot in English class and asked him to write a special announcement for the upcoming essay contest.
“Here is what we are going to do,” said Mom with a look of confidence. The Brainstorm buster might not be afraid of mom, but mom wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him either. “We are going to each write down a story idea from our genre and put them in a basket then one by one we will take turns choosing an idea from each other’s genre and that will give us the needed spark to get this family moving in the right direction. “Mom,” said Jim with a puzzled look about his face. “Yes son.” “You said we, does that me all of us are going to write; even you?” “Yes, Jim, even me; I once wrote a short romance in college and although it was never published I was told it was very good by many that read it.
The ideas in the basket came off from the top of our head and we didn’t try to think of plots or characters just story ideas; simple ideas that we hoped would grow into weapons that we could use to defeat the brainstorm buster.
The task would be for each of us to draw out a slip with the genre on one side and the idea on the other side.
The story basket:
A campfire, a scream, and a small lie that gets bigger and bigger.
A stolen ring, fear of spiders, and a sinister stranger.
A child moves into a new house and it is rumored to be haunted…
Your character is beginning school in the seventh grade and meets a kid that went to summer camp
Write about the Dying Land of Angels.
A poem about cows and rice.
Suspicious gifts arrive for Alice, who sent them and why?
What about that loud groaning coming from under the bed?
The contest to choose our new story was under way and Amaretto said that each one that completed their work in a two week period would be rewarded with something that they would enjoy immensely.
Excitement filled the air and the room was blanketed with a warm comforting feeling that covered each one of us. Mr. Brainstorm Buster was still lurking in the shadows waiting for one of us to relax and lose our focus; and that was where he would remain, for now.
Scars are an amazing thing; they leave marks of character upon the wearer. They bring stares of strangers as they wonder, what hap
pened? Scars are really markers of past struggles in a person’s life. Some regard scars as ugly while others see beauty in them. Samuel Fishbern was the proud owner of a number of these conversation starters. Some were small and nearly unnoticeable and only those close to him knew about those and their stories. Then there was the midsize one that stretched from his left elbow and stopped three inches from his wrist. That was nothing more than a defensive wound that told the story of the time that a crazy clown named B’Zongo had attacked him behind the circus tent. The scar that drew the most attention was the red, jagged one that stretched from his left ear to his right one. The scar itself was nearly a quarter of an inch thick and it had always retained the fresh red color that had shown while it was healing. This was a self inflicted wound that Samuel had done while he was showing off at a party. He knew that the knife had to be sharp and the course exact; one slip in the wrong direction and he would’ve cut a major artery. There was enough blood spewing from the minor veins to create the effect that he wanted. They said that it was due to the fact that he had been taking a variety of drugs that he had attempted to take his own life. That was not the case at all; at the time he had been enjoying life to its fullest and this was just a mere party trick. The authorities did not see the situation as he saw it, so they locked him in a mental ward under direct supervision. That had been ten years ago and now the doctors were convinced that Samuel Fishbern was capable of leading a normal life in society.
The house that he peered into had been quiet for some time and Samuel knew that the residents must be sleeping soundly. His thoughts were confirmed as he climbed through the open window and into the front room. There was an ear splitting screeching as his left foot came down upon the back of the family cat. This should have been enough to bring to life the residents of the house. He stopped and held his breath, one, two, and three… fifteen seconds and there was not a sign that the security of the house at 1238 Oxbow Lane had been breached.
He had observed the object of his quest on the finger of the lady of the house. The ring was a rare find indeed; she had told him about it at a dinner party that he had met her at and through certain sinister means he had found where her home was. Now they would know that all of their riches were no match for his intelligence. Samuel had tricked the security system into thinking that everything in the house was just as it had been before he broke into the silence of the night and invaded the dwelling place of the rich and uppity. The alabaster box sat on the mantel in the exact place that his victim said it would be. Inside the box was the object of his desire, a copper ring made of wire salvaged from some electrical wiring. That would not seem to be a great prize and it wasn’t; not on its own. The prize was the large diamond that was mounted on the base. That was what would be his salvation from the depths of poverty plaguing his miserable life. Yes, gone were the days of fun and parties and now he had at times intended to revisit the act that gave him his eloquent tissue necklace; things changed when he saw the ring and saw that it may be better to be rich than dead. The act was done and now all that remained was to make his escape through the pathway that he had chosen previously on a survey trip to the house; posing as a cable TV technician.
The rear entrance of the house was where Samuel was going to make his escape from. Downward he crept, slowly moving forward through the dark. Somehow he had missed the fact that there was no light covering his escape route and now he was having to deal with one of his fears; the dark, he hated the dark, he despised the dark. Though he often used the dark to cover his actions he still did not like it. There was only one thing that overshadowed his fear of the dark and that was his fear of spiders.
What was that sound that Samuel heard from behind him? It sounded like heavy breathing and something clicking on the tile in the room above him. He was petrified that someone had discovered his actions and was now in pursuit of him. The dark surrounded him and penetrated his very soul. Samuel could not move; he was gripped by fear and squeezed by the darkness. Samuel could not summon any air from within the depths of his lungs and “so this is where I am going to die,” he thought.
Just a few feet from the place where he was standing was a door and Samuel Fishbern urged his feet forward. From somewhere within his body his feet found the strength to obey his brains command. The hand found the strength to turn the door knob and Samuel leaped forward into the awaiting portal. It wasn’t as dark in the room as it had been in the corridor due to the fact that a few of the wall boards at the top of the room were missing allowing the light of the full moon to shine into this place.
Weary but relieved Samuel sat down on the floor and listened for his pursuers. A wind blew swiftly through the room and the seasoned, wooden door blew shut. The door finished its course with the sound of it latching closed. It was immovable, with a strength given by something that Samuel didn’t understand. He collapsed to the floor and examined the treasure that he held in his hand. The diamond exhibited its beauty in the moonlight, unblemished as it was and now it belonged to him and nothing would stop him from being one of the loaded people that he despised.
A slight pinch on his left forearm brought Samuel’s eyes from his newly found wealth to the area of his body that was calling for his attention. The cause of the pain was unknown, the assailant unseen due to the dimly lit room. Then there was another pinch, and another and yet another. The pain was becoming greater with each passing bite and as the moon moved into a different location casting more light into the room Samuel saw what was happening to his body.
The assailants on his body were quite small but they had arrived as a massive military force. The poison from their glands had found its way into Samuels’s bloodstream and was, at the moment, riding the blood flow to his heart and then northward to his brain. Moments before the juice made its conquering stand in his head, two blue eyes discovered that he was to be killed by his worst fear; spiders.
Mr. Brainstorm Buster sat in the corner of the room with a broken look about him. The poet in the Wryter family had discovered that if he used his imagination he could defeat that bringer of writers block. “Spiders,” would be Henry Wryters first short story, one that he would enjoy the fruits of for years to come.
“Sometimes Monsters Cry” that was the title of the drabble that Jim decided to write and this is how it looked on paper.
Pain and suffering are the two things that we have in common with monsters. It is hard to believe but sometimes monsters cry. Have you thought about what something beautiful does to a monster? Monsters are ugly and scary and that is the way things are supposed to be. Snarletta was the ugliest monster in her fifth grade class and she was proud of it. Now mom had been watching her show on TV and she had an idea that Snarletta needed a makeover. “If you only looked more human you would fit in. Yes friend, sometimes even monsters cry.
Two out of the four writings had been completed and it was only a week into the competition. Life around the Wryter house was going on as normal with one unexpected twist in the plot. Aunt Hattie had made a surprise visit to the house on Thursday and brought some distressing news for the family. It seems that all of her family wealth was gone; lost by Uncle Fred in a gambling fit last month. Now she was going to need a place to live. Aunt Hattie was the aunt that loved to pinch the fat rolls on your cheek and that was quite annoying; especially to Herbert. I on the other hand being the mother of the family was not part of the privileged few to obtain her particular welcome; which I didn’t mind at all.
All bad feelings for the poor woman set aside and looking for something good in her stay I was able to see that she had a certain way about her that cheered the family up and they really needed that. I was concerned about getting the latest books to print and that was a consuming fire in my life; something my husband and the children didn’t quite understand, and yet they were the biggest part in bringing my dreams to pass. I was the only one at the “Golden Goose Ladies Club” whose entire fami
ly was made up of authors. I had the top bragging right in the group and lately that had been slipping away. Her visit had brought some needed fuel for the fire as was evident in this poem that Herbert penned in the evening of her first visit.
I Am
I am witty and weird
I wonder why are there roaches
I hear a tinkling bell
I see green fish
I want to live under water
I am witty and weird
I pretend to travel through space
I feel icy cold
I touch the stars
I worry about sad children
I cry when you cry
I am witty and weird
I understand people are people
I say time is fleeting
I dream of new ideas
I try to help others
I hope I make a difference
I am witty and weird
“Herbert that is just the most wonderful poem that I have ever read,” Aunt Hattie said with tears rolling down her cheek.
No one had seen Carl for a few days and even after Amaretto called to him with the promise of his favorite snack; a peanut butter, bologna, lettuce and mayonnaise sandwich he still refused to emerge from his “cave of literary wonders” or more commonly known as his bedroom.
Three days after Aunt Hattie arrived with the Wryter family there was a miracle in the household. Carl was seen sneaking out of his bedroom and down the long, dimly lit hall into the kitchen. It was 2:00am and the pathway should have been clear. Now, if this were any other family and this was any other early morning it probably would have been true. “That Wryter family defies all logic and common sense,” (name withheld to protect the guilty) was one of the comments heard at one ladies club meeting.
Carl felt safe in his pre-dawn excursion into the kitchen; to bad feeling are misleading.
The words flew at him from all directions and he tried valiantly to fight them off but it was no use, Carl Wryter lost that battle but he was still ready to be the victor in the war.
Who, what, where, when, why and how? They were all there and by golly they attacked with all of the fury of a third fist. Carl fought back with all of his intellectual might and just as it looked as though he were going to lose, Aunt Hattie spoke: “You let that boy be and let him talk when he is ready.”
“Yes the story is finished and I will share it with you in just a moment. I need a drink of cold water and to calm myself this was a very sad story to write and I hope that all of you can handle it. I believe that with all of my heart this is something that takes place in a majority of households in the USA and maybe in Europe and other countries across the globe. The title of this short story is “Simple Neglect”
Simple Neglect
The city was Chicago and the time was now. The family was sitting about in their usual places and doing the same mundane things that the family did each day. Nothing had changed since that fateful day in October and it appeared that there was never going to be a change. Oh there had been promises made and there had been fingers pointed but nothing changed. “Why has nothing been done to improve the situation?” The curious one asked. There was no reply, neither from the family or the others that watched and waited for a change. “Simple Neglect,” someone in the background whispered so as not to be heard. He has seen the neglect and knew that the cry should be heralded from the rooftop but fear of reproach stifled his speech.
New York City and Wooster were miles apart and yet the same simple neglect that was taking place in Chicago was also happening here. The situations were the same although the families and victims were not.
Every day there is loneliness and fear throughout the land and it seems as if no one cares about these victims. Who is going to speak for those that suffer this simple neglect? Who is willing to take a stand for what is right and to shout from the rooftops; IT IS WRONG.
Had this injustice been perpetrated against an animal then the guilty would be locked away from society. There are penalties for neglect of children and I believe that those that would harm children should suffer greatly.
Pain, pain, pain and more pain delivered unto to you that would harm a child. However, I am not the law and I have no power to enforce the penalties that are set forth for neglectful acts. While I may not be able to enforce the penalties for those illegal or immoral acts; I do feel that it is both my privilege and duty to echo the cries of the oppressed and neglected no matter how insignificant they may seem.
For those of you that are faint of heart you may wish to read this with the light near your bed on. Oops, of course you have the light on how else would you be reading this?
“You know all this does is break up a family and it happens all the time.” “I know what you are saying and I feel for you.” “They used to be a considerate family; I heard them say, I love you.” “I heard it too, but I think I love you is easier said than done.” “You are right there my friend.” “What is sad is that Dad used to stick up for us and tell them that it was wrong but now he is just silent on the subject.” “Maybe he has given up on defending us.” “It’s worse than that; there are times when he does it also.” “What does Dad do?” “He takes part in the neglect.” “No he doesn’t.” “Don’t defend him; he’s not our friend anymore.” “He hasn’t given up on us, I just know it.” “Were you there when he looked into the room and saw the neglect and then just shut the door and walked away; no, you were not, but I was.”
“Who will hear our cries now and who will be our voice to the world? “I’m afraid that it is just going to get worse.”
The situation is getting worse by the day and while there is some reprieve in places where awareness of this simple neglect is going on it is not enough. For it is my dream for here and now as well as the future and it is the dream of others like me that this neglect comes to an end.
Who are those that perpetrate this neglect and just what is it that is being done that is so neglectful. I am afraid to say that the perpetrators are all of mankind. Are you able to reach the freezer? Can you see the ice cube tray? Is there at least one cube in it? Will you allow that one lone cube to suffer a life of solitude because “I didn’t use all the ice and so I don’t have to refill the tray? Is that You? Is that Me? Does it really matter in the scheme of things? You must answer these questions for yourself and decide what to do.
If you look around you will see neglect in odd places. Is that the toothpaste asking, “Who will put my cap back on? I thought I heard the commode asking, “Hey put my lid down?
Amaretto Wryter finished reading this story out loud to the family and it looked as though someone would be injured as they fought to reach the refrigerator to check the ice cube trays; they were all filled and frozen just waiting to be added to the fresh pitcher of sweet tea in the fridge.
Each one looked at the other with a guilty look upon their face and then all eyes turned to Aunt Hattie; who just smiled.
Amaretto Wryter looked out over her family and exclaimed that “A lesson learned is the greatest prize anyone could win.
All the Wryters enjoyed their prize.
****
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