Short Stories

I have created this new page as a place to post my short stories. I will add these short stories as I develop them.

Rat Plagued Hobgoblins

By Jean Blanchard

Old Stuart grumbled. “Not gonna stay with no long tailed rats in the house!” He placed three coals into the hearth, stirred the embers until they glowed deep orange. 

“Only two wee ones.” Duff’s tiny eyes squinted as he focused on polishing a boot. “Besides they’re locked in a cage.”

“No matter.” Stuart stroked his long beard. “Duff, you were too young to remember the great rat plague back in 1890.” Old Stuart shook his head, coal dust flew in all directions.

Roy scampered from under the table and jumped up and down. His red curls bobbed wildly on his head. “Look what you done!” He grabbed his tiny broom and swept up the coal dust settling around Old Stuart. “And you - Duff - don’t touch a thing with your grimy hands. I don’t have time to clean up after you.”

Duff laid the boot he’d polished onto the floor. “Don’t get all riled up. I got three pairs of shoes to polish before they wake up.”

“Them rats is trouble.” Roy swept the coal dust out the door. “Swarms of them carrying disease, folks fleeing for their lives.”

A tear clung to the corner of Old Stuart’s deep blue eye. “Tis the reason we fled to Motherwell twenty-five years ago, because the rat plague infested our borough”

The Hobgoblins silently finished up their nightly tasks. Roy swept the floors clean, then removed the cobwebs from the dark corners. Duff polished three pairs of shoes, checked each for signs of wear. Old Stuart dozed by the hearth and stirred the embers whenever necessary. Just before dawn they gathered a few scraps of food and vanished beneath the stairs and into their secret realm. 

~~~

Donald MacElwain stumbled down the stairs, rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Guid mornin. Thenk ye for polishing my boots.” He grabbed the brown sack from the table. “Tell Rhona to keep those two white rats in the cage. Gives me the willies to think about them scurrying around.”

“Ye have a nice day at work.” Alice kissed him on the cheek. “A love ye. And don’t worry about the little mice. Rhona is very responsible for a six-year-old.”

Alice cooked eggs and sang softly to herself. She was grateful for the hobgoblins who tidied up at night. It was her little secret. The hobgoblins had been part of her family since she could remember. As a child she often crept out during the night and watched them scurry around dusting, sweeping, and polishing. 

Upstairs the sounds of giggling, running feet and furniture falling over were followed by the appearance of  Adair, Rhona, and Davina flying breathlessly down the stairs. 

“What’s all the racket?” Alice studied her daughters’ faces. “Rhona, what’s going on?”

“Adair left the cage door open. Pinky and Red Eyes escaped!” 

“Oh my - we must find them.” Alice wagged her finger at her daughters. “Ye have them back in their cage before your father gets home.”

Everyone searched and searched for the two rats. They looked in the closets, under beds, and in every nook and cranny. Yet at the end of the day, the cage remained empty. Alice decided it was best not to tell Donald about the great escape. Along with the usual food scraps for the little men, she left morsels of cheese in the corners of the kitchen hoping to entice Pinky and Red Eyes out of their hiding place. Then she went off to bed. 

~~~

Roy poked his head around the corner, listened intently and peered into the dimly lit kitchen. “A dinna hear or see nothing.” He looked over his shoulder at Old Stuart and Duff. “The Rats ain’t in here.”

The three hobgoblins clustered tightly together, crept slowly into the room. Roy thrust his tiny broom out in front of them. Scratching noises emanated from the far corner. The huddled group stopped. 

“One of them rats is over there.” Old Stuart croaked, pointed his crooked finger across the room. Two beady eyes glowed out at them from the dark corner. The huddle moved back.

Duff trembled. “A dinna see nothing.” He squinted his eyes tighter together. It didn’t help.

“Stuart, you stay with Duff.” Roy gripped his broom tightly, thrust it back and forth in front of him as he ran toward the glowing red eyes. 

The beast shrieked, bared its teeth, lunged. “Lae me aloyn!” Roy stumbled, fell back onto the floor.   

“Let’s go!” Old Stuart tugged Duff forward. “Get the coal bucket.” 

Duff ran to the hearth, grabbed the bucket. “What now?”

Old Stuart hobbled over, snatched two chunks of coal, flung them at the rat who had pounced on Roy. One coal hit the rat, distracted him long enough for Roy to escape. Old Stuart keep flinging coals at the rat. The rat charged, red eyes glowed, teeth bared. 

Duff took his boot polishing cloth and flung it over the rat’s face.

Roy lunged at the rat, banged it hard on the head. The rodent collapsed.

Duff lifted the cloth from the rat’s face. Blood leaked from the head wound. 

The hobgoblins dragged the dead rat into the coal bucket, covered it with the coal chunks, and set it upon the stone hearth. 

“That does it for me!” Old Stuart grumbled. “Time to move on.”

Duff and Roy nodded in agreement. The three hobgoblins gathered the food scraps, including the cheese, and slipped out of the house, leaving the kitchen in shambles, the shoes unpolished, the coals cold, and the dead rat. 

~~~

Alice descended the stairs in the per-dawn darkness. She switched on the light, gasped, and staggered backwards. Tears filled her eyes as she surveyed the wreckage that was once her tidy kitchen. A shiver ran through her; the embers in the hearth were dark. Her mother’s words from long ago echoed in her head. “Keep the rats away or the hobgoblins will stray.”

End

I Hate My Costume

By Jean Blanchard

Denise and Dennis were twins. No twins were more different than they. Denise had blond curls, blue eyes, and loved kickball. She could out-play all the kids in the neighborhood. Dennis had dark hair and brown eyes and liked playing dress-up, adorning himself with sparkly jewelry. Other children teased the twins which broke their mother’s heart. 

The day before Halloween Denise and Dennis peeked into the storage closet where they knew their mother had hidden their costumes. She always surprised them on Halloween with  their costumes. In a large brown bag they found a plastic sword, black eyepatch, and red bandana. In a second bag they discovered a sparkling crown, red feather boa, and large red jeweled ring. 

“These must be for our costumes,” Dennis laughed.

Denise looked around the closet. “Is there another bag?”

Dennis shook his head. “No - what will we be?”

“Me a princess,” Denise frowned, “and you a pirate.” 

“I hate my costume - gloomy old pirate.” Dennis stomped his foot hard on the floor.

“And I hate my sweet little princess costume!”

“Children” Mom called from the hallway. “You’re not peeking at your costumes are you?”

Denise closed the closet door. “NO!” The twins shouted in unison.

~~~

Halloween afternoon when the twins returned home from school Mom had hot chocolate waiting for them. 

Dennis sipped the delicious brown liquid. “Can we see our costumes now?”  

Denise stirred her hot chocolate until the marshmallows dissolved. “We need time to get ready.”

Mom brought the two large paper bags into the kitchen.

The twins looked at each other with sad eyes and frowned. Mom handed each a bag.

Dennis looked inside his bag. Sure enough it contained the sword, eyepatch, and bandana. “I hate my costume.” He fought to keep tears from dribbling down his cheeks.

Denise dumped the contents of her bag upon the table. Out tumbled the ring, crown and boa. “I hate my costume too - I want a scary one.” She stomped off without finishing her coco. 

“You two will look fine once you’ve put your whole costumes together.” From another bag Mom pulled out one of her old ruffled party dresses, a pair of black and gold stripped tights, a white shirt with puffy sleeves, and shiny red pumps. “Go to your room and put your costumes together.”

“I hate my pirate costume.” Dennis grumbled.

“It’s a whole lot better than this princess junk!” Denise stuck out her tongue. “Yuck!” 

In their bedroom Dennis pulled on the stripped pants. “I like these ok.”

“I’ll bet those red shoes will look great with those pants!” Denise giggled. “And the boa - wrap it around your neck.”

Dennis and Denise rolled around on the floor laughing.

“You put the pirate shirt on over the dress.” Dennis sat down on the bed to keep from falling over giggling. “Use the sash on the dress to hold the sword.” 

“I want the bandana. It’ll cover all these dumb blond curls.” 

“Hold still.” he commanded. “I’ll tie it on your head. Now put the crown on top.”

“Who gets the eyepatch?” 

“I do.” Dennis laughed. “And I want to wear the red ruby ring too.”

“You look like a flashy pirate, all dressed up for a ghoul time.” Denise laughed.

“And you look like my pirate princess twin.”

The twins sauntered out of their room. “Mom - can you put make-up on us?”

“Oh my goodness - what have we got here?” Mom shook her head from side to side.

“I’m a pirate princess - see my crown on top of my bandana?” Denise pointed at her head. “And I’ve got a neat sword too!”

“And just what are you young man?”

“I’m a pirate too - see my eyepatch?” 

“I didn’t know pirates wore feather boas.”

“I’m a flashy pirate - see my big ruby ring?”

“OH - yes.” Mom laughed. “You are flashy all right. Nice red shoes too.”

The twins followed Mom into her bedroom.

“OK - who’s first?”

Dennis hopped up on the bench in front of the cosmetic table. “Me! I’m first.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you want Mr Flashy Pirate.”

“Red cheeks to match my boa and ring. And a black eye - cause flashy pirates get into fights.”

Dennis stared at his image in the mirror. A black eye, red lips and scarlet cheeks appeared. 

“How about a gagged scar down your cheek?”

“Ya - it’ll go nice with my black eye.”

After Mom completed Dennis’ make up Denise jumped up on the bench.

“What about you miss pirate princess?” 

“Blood! I want blood dripping from my mouth.”

“How about I put green eyeshadow on your face? Give you a eerie glow.”

“Can I have black fingernails?”

“Me too, me too.” Dennis jumped up and down. “I want black fingernails.”

The twins stood in front of the full length mirror. Denise in her pink ruffled party dress, white pirate shirt, sword hanging at her side tied to the pink sash. The green face and red blood dripping from her mouth completed her scary pirate princess outfit.

“Pretty neat sis.” Dennis admired her image. “I love your costume.”

Denise nodded, smiled, looked at his reflection in the mirror. Dennis’ black and orange tights were pulled up high on his chest. The red boa wrapped around his neck, hung almost to the floor. From under his eyepatch a long jagged scar emerged. “Pretty cool costume you got too.” 

~~~

As the sky turned from purple twilight into black darkness the twins emerged from their house. Each carried a plastic jack-o-lantern with a light inside and a paper sack for their treats.  
      “Look at our our pirate twins.” Mom told Dad. “They designed their costumes all by themselves.”

The twins raced down the street, knocked on each door, and yelled “Tricks or Treats!”

Neighbors opened the door and gasped - “What unusual pirate costumes!” 

“Everyone’s scared of the pirate princess and flashy pirate.” the twins yelled, running down the street.  

 END

Revenge

By Jean Blanchard

Mid July in the city brought hot summer days, sizzled the asphalt with shimmers of heat rising from the surface.  Five year old Bean snuggled into the cushions of the whicker sofa, eyelids heavy, a soft breeze rustling the leaves on the elm tree in front of the house. Napping on the screened front porch was a luxury of summertime. Music drifted through the open window, I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz, now I know just how much I have lost... the soothing voice sang her to sleep.  

Screeching tires jolted her awake. Daddy ran out the porch door. It slammed shut behind him. Bean stretched upright, peered over the railing into the street. A blue car idled in the road at the front of the house. Daddy talked with the man, then stooped down, picked something up. The blue car slowly moved away down the street. 

“What’s that?” Bean stared at the furry white and grey thing in Daddy’s hands. 

Daddy closed the screen door, moved past her. “I’ll be right back. You stay here - watch Lil’ El for a minute.”

El slept in her playpen. Bean stared at the her baby sister’s face, thumb stuck in her tiny mouth, moved in rhythm with a slurping sound. Up, down, suck, up, down, suck...

Red haired Russell, who lived in one of the block houses across the street ran by yelling. “HA HA - your cat’s dead.” Bean didn’t like Russell. He was big, stocky, with a face filled with freckles and just plain mean. He teased Bean’s big sister, Sissy, relentlessly. Mommy said he was a bully. 

Daddy returned to the porch carrying a brown shoe box. “OK Bean. I’ve got something to tell you.” He put the brown box on the floor next to the door, sat down on the wicker sofa and put his arm around her shoulder. 

She snuggled against his big, strong body. “What’s in the box?” 

Daddy’s eyes were shiny. He took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and cleared his throat. “Smudgy is in the box. She ran out in the road. The blue car couldn’t stop.”

“I heard a big noise and woke up.” Bean wanted to suck her thumb. Only babies like Lil’ El sucked their thumb. She was a big girl. “I saw the blue car...”

Daddy patted the top of Bean’s head. “I talked to the man driving the car. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t stop in time...”

“Is Smudgy taking a nap in the box?” 

Daddy shook his head. “No. Smudgy is dead, Bean. She won’t be waking up anymore.”

~~~  

Bean stood on the porch looking down the street. Sissy skipped along beside Mommy toward the house. Sissy and Mommy had gone shopping. Russell ran toward them. “HA HA - your cat’s dead.” and ran off down the street. Mommy and Sissy hurried toward the house. Sissy swung the screen door open. Tears streamed down Mommy’s cheeks. 

Why was Mommy crying? That bully Russell had screamed, “HA HA - your cat’s dead.” and ran off down the street. And now Mommy was crying. Sissy was crying too. 

Daddy took Mommy’s hand in his, led her to the rocking chair in the corner of the porch. “It’s ok. Smudgy didn’t suffer.” 

That mean Russell made Mommy cry.

Daddy sat on the stool, held Mommy’s hand. “She was chasing a squirrel. Car just couldn’t stop in time.”

Bean scooted over to the brown shoe box, lifted the top. Sure enough, Smudgy was inside. Blood oozed from the cat’s mouth and eyes. She didn’t move. “Yep - she’s dead.” Bean peeked up at Sissy who burst into tears again.

Outside, Russell ran up and down the street - “HA HA - your cat’s dead, your cat’s dead, your cat’s dead...,” he screamed.

Mommy sobbed softly. Bean nudged the brown box closer. Peeked at Smudgy again. Mommy and Sissy went inside. The front door slammed shut.

Daddy picked the shoebox up. “Bean, come with me.” 

Together they walked down the driveway toward the back of the house. “Can I hold the box?” He smiled, handed her the box. It was kind of heavy. 

They turned and walked toward the garages at the back of the house. The odor of garbage drifted through the hot, heavy air. Bean gagged. “Yuck! Someone left the lid to the garbage open.”

The garbage can was in the ground. Every week the garbage man came and lifted the can out of the ground, emptied it into his truck, and replaced the empty can. Daddy kicked the lid shut with his foot. “You stay here. I’ll get a shovel from the garage.”

Russell ran past the house. “HA HA - your cat’s dead.”

Flies swarmed around the closed lid. The stink of garbage hung in the air. Bean lifted the cover of the brown shoe box, peeked inside. “Yup. Smudgy’s still dead.”

Daddy and Bean paced around the perimeter along the fence in the back yard. “We’ll find a nice spot to bury Smudgy,” he told Bean. In the corner at the far end of the yard next to the garage was a barren spot where no grass grew, no flowers bloomed. Daddy plunged the shovel into the ground, scooped out dirt. 

Bean held the shoebox with dead Smudgy inside.

Russell ran past the house. “HA HA - your cat’s dead.”

Daddy wiped his forehead with a red bandana. “Go ahead, Bean. Put the box in the hole.”

Bean lifted the top, peeked inside once again. “Smudgy’s still dead.” Then put the box in the hole.

Daddy nodded, shoveled the dirt back into the hole. “OK - let’s pack down the dirt a little. Maybe Mommy will plant flowers here.” 

Bean and Daddy stomped down the dirt. 

Russell screamed, “HA HA - your cat’s dead.”

~~~

That was the end of Smudgy. It was not the end of Russell’s taunting. 

Across the street Russell grinned, leaned against the elm tree. Bean was not allowed to cross the street but she had a plan. “Hey Russell!” She waved her fists in the air. “Bet you can’t catch me!”

Bean was a speedy runner - could outrun any kid her age and some of the older kids. Russell’s short stubby legs were no match for her long skinny legs. As soon as Russell took off across the street, Bean started running. Russell chased after her, panting, and steadily falling further behind. 

Bean ran through the neighbor’s back yard, down the driveway and back onto the sidewalk. “Come get me, you sissy!” she yelled.

Russell breathed hard, grunted, “We’ll see who’s the sissy!”

Bean rounded the corner of the house, stopped, stepped on the lever and raised the lid of the garbage can. 

Russell rounded the corner of the house, head down. His eyes widened but he couldn’t stop. Splotch! He fell smack into the garbage.

“HA HA! You stink.” Bean danced around in front of Russell. “That’s for making my Mommy cry!” 

Russell pulled himself from the muck. Garbage clung to his bare legs, his clothes. “I’ll get you, just you wait.” He shook his fist and ran down the driveway, a swarm of flies at his heels.

This was the first day of the Bean and Russell feud.

END

My Mother's Husband...

John has died. Yesterday morning, before he was officially gone, I sat with my morning coffee and thought about him in a way  I never have before. You see, I never really accepted him as a member of “my” family. Never before had I explored the reasons why I felt this way.

As I thought about John and my  mother, I remembered something she said to me recently as she dealt with his failing health. “I always thought  I’d go first." You see, he was nine years younger then she whereas my father had been seventeen years her senior. She buried my father in December 1983; he was eighty years old. My mother and John married on January first 1985, just a little over one year after my father died. I remember feeling shocked and hurt when they married - kind of a betrayal to my father. My mom said at the time she had not wanted to have sex with him until they were married. I never, in the over twenty years of their marriage, sent them an anniversary card. 

My mother is a woman who has always been “taken care of” by those around her. She was nineteen when she married my father. I have a black and white photo of the two of them hanging in my hallway and my friends always remark about how much in love they look. I also have a photo of my sister and her family that includes my mother and John. John is on the far left, and before I put it in a frame, I carefully folded his image to the back, out of the picture. 

The last time I saw my father he was in the hospital, waiting for death to come. He told me he was proud that he had always taken care of my mother. John was also a man who took are of her. He paid off her credit card bills when they married and encouraged her to retire - which she did enthusiastically. You see, my mother never wanted to work outside the home, to have a career. She was not of that generation. The first day she went to work full-time at a large insurance company, she cried all the way as she walked to work. 

Soon after they were married, John found some property in East Otis, on top of the mountain, which they bought. He completely renovated the small house and once it was finished they moved to the top of the mountain. I worried that my mother was isolated and in danger. I see now these were my own fears and projections not the reality of her life. John liked to be in control and his language was crude, but he was not a violent man. John always welcomed me with open arms; it was I who held fast to the wall I built between us. It was only in recent years that I allowed a stiff hug at greetings or departures. 

John’s health began to fail over the past two years. He had retired but still worked occasionally on jobs no one else at his former shop knew how to do. You see, he was a master machinist with a talent for abstract thinking enabling him to “see” how to fix complex systems. Although he left his tools at the shop he became less physically able to go down the mountain and make those fixes. The same was true for the upkeep of the land and house on top of the mountain. John would take a chair with him when he went outside to do something in order to sit and rest as he worked. Last summer he told my mother that he did not think he would be around this summer.

This past winter John was diagnosed with lung caner; this was in addition to the emphysema he’d been living with for years. “He has no breath.” my mother said when talking about John’s health. But the lung cancer brought with it severe pain to add to his inability to breathe. He reluctantly agreed to radiation treatment and then a stay in a nursing home for physical therapy. John desperately wanted to “go home” and die on the mountain. My mother stayed with my older sister while John prepared to go home. When the day came, my brother in law helped my mother get John up to the mountain. “John’s come home to die.” my mother told the folks in their small community. My mother took a photo of John and one of his long time buddies sitting in their chairs with their oxygen tanks, on top of the mountain, waiting to die. 

John spent a few days struggling to stay on the mountain, but finally asked my mother to call 911 to transport him to the hospital because he just could not catch his breath. After four day of treatment in the hospital, John again returned briefly to the mountain for the last time. The day he came home he told my mother he wanted to go to the hospice. Arrangement were made quickly by a wonderful VA nurse whose job was to help with home care, not make arrangements for transport or admission to hospice. John made the decision to stop all medication and therapy and to let his body determine his fate. He was concerned about my mother; he knew she would not care for him and wanted to make his own ending as easy on her as possible. 

Once John made the decision to spend his final days in hospice, his children came to say goodbye. His youngest daughter and her three children arrived from Main the day before he died and spent some quality time with him. John was still able to communicate with them - hugs and smiles, but as the day wore on, it was clear his body was failing My mother received a call in the middle of the night from the hospice that John had limited time left so she and my sister and brother in law went to the hospice. John’s daughter arrived in the morning. John was now unresponsive, although still technically alive.

John departed this physical realm late in the afternoon on July 12. I received a phone call about an hour later. I was surprised at the level of sadness that engulfed me. I wept, not only because he was gone, but because I never told him that he was a good man, a man who took good care of my mother. Today I still feel the ebb and flow of grief, similar to the waves in the ocean hitting the shore. I am strangely comforted when I remember how much John loved my mother, how concerned he was about her even as his life ebbed away. As I finish writing about my mother’s husband, John is still in control of his fate, even though his physical being has departed. I carefully unfold the photo to include him in our family.