Do Not Spoil the Ending

I leaned on the wooden ledge surrounding the octagonal booth and stared at the agent. "But we bought the tickets months ago."

Bridget, my friend and traveling companion, leaned against a show poster framed on a marble exterior wall, and fought with the cool wind to tuck her curly hair behind her ear.

The agent pointed to a small cardboard sign taped to the inside of the glass. "We can't seat anyone after curtains up."

I checked the time on my cell phone. My body rocked with each pounding heartbeat. A thousand miles. We travelled seventeen hours to Toronto solely to see our favorite pop-opera tenor in a heartbreaking musical, and five extra minutes in line for the ladies room at the mall kept us outside the building. My hands shook as I pushed the phone in my back pocket, and presented my biggest smile. "We'll be quiet."

The agent winced and kept her head shaking. "I'm sorry."

There it was: the Canadian sore-y. The city had been nothing if not polite, and this woman, while refusing our will-call tickets, kept all snark from her face, and I believed she felt bad when Bridget and I crossed the street to enter the mall again.

On the third level beside a flyover to The Bay, a department store we didn't get in Memphis, Bridget and I absently kicked the table legs at Second Cup, sipping slushy coffee. The McDonalds across from the coffee shop with its tiny maple leaf in the logo defied our perception of the burger joint from back home. Clean floors and tables suited the smiling staff and courteous patrons.

"Almost makes me want to try it," I said. When Bridget frowned, I clarified, pointing with my straw, "Maybe they don't keep their burgers under a heat lamp."

She shrugged and took a long drag. "It's not just the show, you know? Alessandro was in it."

I nodded.


I've been wanting to see him in concert for years. The play was even supposed to have a twist ending, right?"

"It's really good."

Her dark eyes widened. "You saw it?"

I stirred my drink and looked past a lingerie place and the Apple store. Scaffolding blocked most of the aisle, but people bustled through like it wasn't there. "I saw a pirate version on Youtube."

She nodded slowly.

"The trip wasn't a total bust, though," I continued. "Don't you like Toronto?"

"Are you kidding? It's so clean and friendly, the place is a living cliché. In a good way." She looked down and rotated her ankles. "My feet are killing me."

"You wanna go back to the hotel?"

She slurped the last of her drink, her face screwed in thought as though she hadn't been listening. "Kat, what do you think would happen if we didn't go home?"

"You mean the hotel?" I asked, keeping the habit of referring to any place I spent the night as home.

"Staying in Toronto, I mean." Bridget wiped the water rings from the dark stained table with a napkin—or serviette, as they called it up here. "I guess it's not worth being illegal unless it's a really exotic place."

"Like where?"

The napkin went into the empty cup and she winced as we got to our feet. "Japan?"

"How would you get a job?" 

The first few steps smarted as though my soles were post-op, mirroring Bridget's complaints. My shoulders ached from my purse and shopping bags, which grew exponentially heavier throughout the day. It was probably just as well we hadn't gone to the theater because the bags wouldn't have fit under the seats. Or maybe coat check would have taken them. No use wondering now.

"I'm not gonna do it," Bridget continued, "I'm just saying if you're gonna break a rule, might as well do it right."

We took the escalators to the lowest level and walked a city block to where Eaton Centre dumped us into the subway. Because of the efficiency of the TTC, Bridget and I were standing outside Bay Station within ten minutes, staring into lights from stores on either side of Bloor Street. I set my bags down.

"More shopping, then?" Bridget asked.

I couldn't tell if she actually wanted to go or was trying to be nice. Since we might not get back to Toronto for a while, I said, "It's only eight thirty. We're leaving in the morning."

"What if we put our stuff down at the hotel first? It's like a block away."

My shoulders agreed; my feet seconded. All I wanted to do was lie down and watch the crappy comedy channel on TV—maybe order a pizza. "The minute we sit, we won't get up again." 

Bridget pulled her hair in a ponytail and released it. We'd met at work in the mall, kept in touch over the years, and recently, our mutual craziness for Alessandro led me to invite her along to our northernly neighbor. It turns out spending a long weekend out of the country with someone is more difficult than making conversation over a slow-customer evening.

"Club Monaco," she said, pointing diagonally. "The sale rack ought to have something good."

Inside, the racks and tables mirrored other Club Monaco locations we'd visited earlier. Same overpriced fashions; same strange jewelry with no apparent target audience. Like a pro, Bridget angled through the displays until she reached the back of the store and immersed herself in tangled hangers along the wall.

I glanced at the price tag on a sequined tank top (originally $130, now $70) while working out which memory of work to ask if she recalled. 

Bridget's nose brushed my ear. "Hottie at ten o'clock."

A row over in men's sale, a blond guy in his twenties with a backpack slung over one arm squeaked a hanger over the metal rod. He looked like he'd stepped out of one of the fashion ads on the walls to stretch his legs.

"Should I talk to him?" she asked.

I shrugged. "It'll be 'convenience marriage' accusations for all concerned if you get involved with a foreigner."

She pursed her lips and nodded. "Let's see where he's going. Maybe well have some fun after the theater disappointment."

"Stalker fun?"

"If he's going to a swanky club or restaurant, it can be like a free cultural tip. Look at him. He's got to be going somewhere cool."

"Yet he's in the sale rack."

She snorted. "So are we."

The guy took a T-shirt to the cashier. We occupied ourselves at a table of jewelry nearby while he finished up, then casually followed him outside. When he crossed the street and went into Bay Station—the place we'd left minutes before—I wished I'd taken Bridget's suggestion and stopped at the hotel first.

He didn't stop at the westbound platform, like I thought he would from his direction, but continued down the hall and disappeared through a door held open by a plastic chair.

"Does he work here?" Bridget asked.

"It's the way to the other platform," I said, and went through the door in time to see the guy's head disappear down some stairs, next to a decrepit escalator. The treads were gone, leaving a creepy, rusted skeleton of exposed mechanical parts.

A silent, empty platform with white tiled columns opened in front of us.

"Where'd he go?" Bridget asked.

From one end of the platform to the other, confusing signs lay along the walls, none of which telling us the direction the train would go. Some looked like they belonged in New York or other cities. Though there wasn't another exit that we knew of, Bridget and I were alone in the dingy room.

"Toronto was supposed to be clean," I said.

"Why aren't there any benches?"

"The train will be here any minute. Maybe we should go to Little Greece and eat, then go back to the hotel and order a movie."

"Is it Little Greece or Greek Town?" Bridget asked.

"It's like Little Italy or Little India."

"Or Chinatown?"

"Whatever. We need giros." I pulled out the subway map. "I think it's at Castle Frank station." I'd been to the city with my family when I was eight, and I pulled information from the memory of someone not fully paying attention.

"Maybe we should ask someone."

I turned around sarcastically.

She frowned and pointed at the approaching light. "Train."

The floor rumbled, and the train whooshed by without stopping.

"What the heck?" she shrieked.

"Excuse me!" A voice shouted, echoing on the platform. "Can I help you?" He was a transit officer.

"The train didn't stop," I said.

He smiled. "Why don't you girls come upstairs with me?"

Bridget and I followed him up and into a small room, swallowing and glancing at each other.

"Where's your friend?" he asked.

"There's just the two of us," Bridget said.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Why wouldn't we be sure?" I asked, probably stupidly.

"You didn't have a boyfriend with you?"

"Oh that guy?" My cheeks got hot. "To be honest, we were following him."

"Why?"

I arched my eyebrows. "You know."

"No. Tell me."

"He was cute," Bridget mumbled.

"Cute?"

She nodded.

"So where is he?"

"We thought he was gonna catch the train and he disappeared," I said. "Why didn't the train stop?"

"How did you get to the platform?"

"Through a door and down some stairs," I said.

"That door is locked at all times." He smiled. "How'd you get inside?"

Bridget shook her head. "It was propped open by a chair."

He nodded slowly. "Are you girls from around here?"

"We're on vacation," I said.

"Mind if I take a look at your ID?"

"Did we do something wrong?" Bridget asked.

We handed him our passport cards and he read them before answering. "That platform has been closed since 1966."

Bridget's expression probably mirrored mine: wide eyes, open mouth. "We were just trying to get to Castle Frank station," she said. "What happened to the guy?"

"We suspect he's an urban explorer. Probably went into the tunnel." He paused to look us both in the eye. "You're sure you don't know anything about this?"

"Really," I said, "I wouldn't go into a subway tunnel. It's like suicide, right? If a train comes …" I paused, grasping for words, "You die?"

"It's very dangerous."

"So how do we get to the regular station?" I asked.

Within minutes, we were standing on the westbound platform with dozens of people, sure we wouldn't be pulled aside for trespassing again. The train dropped us off at Castle Frank station.

"Have you been to Little Greektown before?" Bridget asked, trying to make a joke about our previous argument, but I didn't get it at first and probably gave her a weird look.

"Years ago, I went with my family during this huge Greek street festival. So much food. Holy crap."

Outside, everything was dark, sort of in the middle of nowhere, and I was afraid we wouldn't find the station again once we left. I oriented myself with the street signs and headed toward the right. "We're on Bloor. We haven't gone that far," I said.

We walked a little way down Bloor, then down Parliament Street, where it looked like all the action was. By the time we passed a fenced-off apartment complex, two Pizza Pizzas, and a pet store in the grips of a dinosaur-sized iguana, I stopped.

"Where are all the Greek restaurants?"

"We could go to Starbucks or Pizza Pizza. Really, anything is fine now." The irritation mounted in Bridget's voice. Should have listened to her earlier.

Bridget crossed her arms. "Let's take a slice from Pizza Pizza back to the hotel."

We turned around where we stood, trying to figure out which direction to go. "Where are we?" I asked.

"Carlton and Parliament?"

I hated to be in a bad mood in such a nice city, but the fatigue and the looming bus trip home, and missing the show caught up with me. "I really wanted to see that show," I said.

"A hundred dollars a ticket," Bridget said. "Our bus fare was cheaper. Guess I'll wait for the movie." Bridget turned in a circle and checked the street signs again. "Gerrard? Are we close to Little India?"

I shook my head. Because my father was Indian and we spent the majority of our vacation in Little India, it was the one place I would recognize. "Let's backtrack to the subway."

We turned in what we thought was the right direction.

"If they make a movie version, I'll find out the ending before I watch it," Bridget said.

"You didn't know the end of The Sixth Sense, and it had a major plot twist."

"Yeah, but I haven't even seen The Crying Game and I know the ending."

"That movie is almost twenty years old. The secret's bound to get around." I said. "What about Star Wars?"

"What about it?"

I cupped my hands over my mouth and breathed dramatically. "Luuuke. I am your faaaaather!"

"I never understood the plot of that movie," Bridget said. "There are files, some emperor does some stuff. Who is the emperor they're talking about?"

I shrugged. "Luke's father?"

"And who is Boba Fett? That's still Star Wars, right?"

"Yeah." I checked the street signs again. "What the heck happened to Parliament Street? We're at Gerrard and Church."

"Get your map."

"It's just for the subway."

"Well, is there a Gerrard or Church subway stop?"

"No." I growled. "We never should have followed that guy."

"We still would have gone to get food," Bridget said.

"Let's keep going this way. I recognize these street names." I continued in the direction we'd been going.

"Why don't we take a cab?"

"I don't have money for my subway fare to get to the bus station in the morning. How are we gonna get money for a cab?"

The next block was silent. My feet hurt so badly I was limping. I couldn't understand why I always did this to myself on a vacation: instead of resting, I pushed myself much further than I ever did during a work week and went back home needing another break.

The main drag of Toronto crossed in front of us. The lights of Eaton Centre and Dundas Square twinkled in the direction we'd left after the incident at the theatre.

I deflated. "At least we know where we are. The mall is that way, so we need to go," I pointed right, after some thought, "this way. There's a stop at College Street."

The next morning found us more refreshed. We had our last breakfast at Second Cup, gathered our bags and legged it to the Coach Terminal at Bay and Edward Street. Taking a cab would have been better than fighting with my unstable suitcase, but at least we got there.

Bridget leaned over in her window seat on the bus and half whispered to me, "Before the bus starts, I'm gonna go to the restroom. I hate being jostled."

I shifted my legs so she could get through.

"I ran out of," she lowered her voice further and leaned in, "protection last night."

I handed her my purse and settled back in my seat.

The driver walked down the aisle talking to each passenger and checking something off a clipboard. By the time he got to me, I knew what he wanted.

"Passport?" he said.

I winced. "My friend is carrying my purse and she's in the bathroom. We're still stopping at the border, right?"

He nodded. "You have your passport, through?"

"Of course."

He hesitated and went on to the next passenger.

Bridget came back almost as soon as the driver got back in his seat. I shoved my purse in the seat pocket.

"The driver wanted to see our passports," I said.

"Did you show him mine?"

"Showing another person's passport never works."

"So, what? We can still go, right?"

The bus rolled out of the terminal.

"We're going," I said.

The ride was uneventful. I listened to music, and Bridget worked on her laptop. I thought we might cross at Niagara Falls, but we bypassed the landmark and went to Buffalo instead. We X-rayed our luggage in a boring, boxy building and stood in line to show our paperwork to the agents.

Bridget was called to the counter first, me a few seconds later.

"Passport and ticket, please," The agent said.

I fished the ticket out of my purse and checked the empty compartment in my wallet where I kept my passport card. I checked the zippered compartment where I kept my unmentionables. The pocket for my phone. The bottom of the bag. In my sunglasses case. The front pocket. The slots for my credit cards.

"What's your citizenship?" She asked.

"American. I promise I have it in here. I had to use it to get in," I tried a laugh, but she didn't crack a smile. I checked everything again. And then I remembered the cute guy disappearing in the abandoned subway platform, and pushing my passport card across the table to the transit officer. I'd left it with him.

Bridget glanced at me as we sat in front of a desk in a small office. The agent left the room while we made calls to our parents and the US Consulate. We'd been silent since.

"So," Bridget said, "we're not stateless now, are we?"

"Don't be stupid."

The room lapsed into silence again.

"So we're probably gonna be detained or—"

"Yeah," I said. "We won't be home for a while." I studied my hands and swore my necklace twitched with every pounding heartbeat. "It's weird," I said after a moment, "the same thing happened to Alessandro's character in that play."

"Kat, if you spoil the ending, I swear I'll never speak to you again."

I couldn't help grinning. I already had.

You Can’t Go Home Again

The old ’42 Dodge truck growled along at a steady pace. Of course, it only had one gait once it got into high gear. If you tried to accelerate more, it only roared loudly, smoked a bit more, but hardly went any faster. The rain was coming down in torrents and showing flecks of snow in places as he left Fulton. By the time Luther got to Tupelo it was almost all snow and/or sleet.

The heater was minimal at best and the defroster was mostly non-existent. The weather was so frigid that the inside of the windshield was beginning to freeze as well as the outside. The windshield wipers were doing the best they could but with no heat, thus no melting, the ice was beginning to build on the glass.

A customer had called from Fulton late in the day, Christmas Eve, and said they were out of butane gas and could someone come fill their tank. Luther being the kind soul that he was, said he would go even amid the inclement weather. Leaving about quitting time he drove the fifty miles, filled the tank, made sure the heaters and appliances were all working properly, he then headed home. He wanted the folks to be warm for the holidays. His worn leather jacket shed most of the rain and snow, but was just a little on the thin side as far as keeping him warm enough. However, once inside the big truck, which got him out of the wind and rain, and the little help from the heater, he was all set to get back home again.

The snow and ice began to play havoc with his windshield as well as the road brought him concern. The truck was big and heavy with good tires and that kept him with sufficient traction on the road, but the freezing of the windshield was of major concern. Luther being a seasoned driver stopped at a little store in Bissell and purchased a large onion and a couple of candles. Lighting one of the candles, he warmed the inside of the windshield and wiped away the ice and frost that had gathered. He sliced the onion in half with his trusty pocket knife and smeared the cut face of the onion on the glass. The onion juice would retard the freezing on the windshield. Outside he used a scraper to remove the collected ice, heated the glass with the candle, then dried the glass and applied the onion to the outside of the glass. Putting the smelly onion back into the paper bag he then dropped a few spots of wax from the candle on the truck’s metal dash and stuck the butt end of the candle in it. He set the candle just far enough away to give heat to the glass but not close enough for it to break.

As he shifted gears; double low, low, second, then high; the big truck was back up to speed again. The rain had changed totally to snow now and although it did not splatter on the windshield, somehow it burst in all directions from a point just a few feet in front of the glass, almost like a fireworks explosion, and created a most disruptive white display. Between the onion juice and the heat from the candle, the visibility was much better now. This should hold him until he got home, for after all, it was Christmas Eve and he had to beat Santa to their home.

While at the store he happened to see a very realistic looking cap pistol with orange grips. He thought his little redheaded son might like that as a gift so he purchased it and slid it down in the sack with the onion and candles. He did not do much, if any, shopping for Christmas, usually just a gift of some kind for his wife, Helen. But this toy gun touched his Christmas spirit just at this particular time and he bought it, not knowing what other gifts his wife had already bought for their only son.

In that long stretch of bottom land in the Furr’s community the road was almost solid ice, but the big truck held well in the set of ruts made by the previous vehicles. From over the far hill a sedan sped. Down into the flat it came and in its rush, lost control, and skidded sideways but somehow managed to stay on the road bed. He was taking up most of the small two lane road and approaching the huge gas truck at an alarming rate of speed.

Luther sized up the situation very quickly and grabbed the large, non-powered, steering wheel and with all his strength turned the huge truck out of harm’s way. However, in so doing, he found himself slipping and sliding down into the road ditch filled with icy water. Just beyond was the Tallatoba Creek running full of that same half frozen water. Although not traveling very fast, the heavy truck had lots of momentum and it did not want to stop on the side of the road, nor in the road ditch. It plowed head long into the creek and came to rest nose down in the rushing water of the creek. Fortunately, there was no fire, no explosion, and no leaking gas. The heavy steel gas tank and fuel inside the tank, was heavy enough to crush the cab of the truck almost like an accordion. Luther was trapped beyond any measure of escape. The icy water began to fill the cabin almost immediately and the cold that Luther was experiencing was horrific.

Joe Butler was just returning from the barn when he heard the crash and saw the lights spinning around on the road at the bridge. He hollered for his two boys to come help as his trek carried him across the barn lot toward the scene. As he came by the wood pile he grabbed the double bit ax as he ran.

At the scene, an almost new ’46 Mercury sedan, sat sideways across the road but was otherwise unscathed. The two boys and two girls were still laughing and giggling in their alcohol induced stupor. They were oblivious to what had just transpired.

Turning to the truck Joe realized that the driver must still be in the truck and it as almost filled with water by now. Wedging the blade of the ax into the crack of the bent door, he prized enough to finally get the driver’s door open. There was Luther, almost submerged in water, unconscious, but alive. His head was barely out of the water, but it looked as if the water was about as high as it was going to get. David and Luke, his two nearly grown sons, showed up and the three of them tried to remove the driver from the cab, but the clutch and brake pedal along with some under dash wiring held his legs tight. With the murky water and no lights to speak of, try as they might, they could not release his legs from the truck.

“Luke, go harness Jim and Toby, hitch them to that big iron double tree we use at the pulling contests. David, you go over to Ike Weatherall’s and get that longest log chain of his. Both of you make haste; this man is freezing to death!”

“But Pa, the team can’t pull this big truck; the ground is so soft that they can’t get any footing. They’ll just flounder around and not move a peg.”

“Do as I say, they are the only chance this man has; now hurry!”

It seemed only a minute until David was back with a long log chain laid across his shoulders and dangling down his sides. Ike and his boy Billy were only a few steps behind him with a couple of blocks and tackles.

“We might get these block and tackles around a tree and help the mules out, in this slush their footing is not going to be very good, and that’s a hefty sized truck, no telling what she weighs.”

Luke came driving the two big mules pulling the big steel doubletree. Turning them around the group made good time in attaching the chain to the truck’s undercarriage and to the doubletree. Joe walked to the mules, first going and standing between them with an arm around each of their necks. He spoke to them, calling each by name with a soft, kind voice.

“Jim, Toby, we’ve got a big pull here, the ground is poor, but you can pull that old truck outta that ditch iffin’ ya want to, do it fer me.”

With that he walked to their rear, took the leather lines from Luke and eased the team up until the chain was taught. Ike and Bill had hooked both of the tackle lines to trees on the other side and had two men on the pulling line of each.

“NOW! JIM! TOBY! COME-UP! JIM! TOBY! HEEEEEYAAAAAAH! Joe shouted to the top of his voice.

With that he flapped each mule with the leather line and they dug in. They slipped, churned, and could not find traction for their feet, but they kept trying, pulling together just as they had been taught. The truck shook at the power but did not move out. After some slipping and sliding the mule’s feet found some tree roots growing through the mushy mud. The team hunkered down, their bellies now touching the water in the ditch, but they had found something to pull against. They slowly moved the truck about five feet and the guys on the block and tackles locked them so what they had gained would not slip away. Joe halted the mules and let them blow for a moment. David opened the truck door, now that it was out of the deeper water, and let the cab drain.

Still not out enough to rescue the driver, once again Joe called, JIM! TOBY! COME IN THAR! Once again they gave their best. Slowly, ever so slowly, the truck groaned as it eased out of the creek and up into the road ditch and partially onto the side of the roadbed. The block and tackles held it from sliding back into the creek.

“Luke, unhitch the mules and lead them down the road a way, but keep them here till we know for sure they won’t be needed again. When you do take them to the barn, feed them again, they’ve earned their keep tonight.”

Grabbing the ax, Ike looked inside and cut the many wires from under the dash that had encumbered the driver’s feet and legs. Slowly they removed Luther from the cab and stretched him out on several of the quilts Martha, Joe’s wife, had brought. She had brought two arm loads of coverings to keep the driver warm when they did get him out of the icy water. They quickly rolled him up as warmly as possible. In the meantime, Billy had run back to their house and brought their old farm pick-up down and they loaded Luther in the back and gently drove him to the Butler’s house.

Joe and Luke got the cold wet clothes off the driver and slipped a clean warm flannel shirt and a pair of overalls on him. Martha had made a pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace and had punched up the logs till they burned brightly.

A strong knock was heard at the front door and as Martha opened the door she recognized Dr. John Rayburn from Pontotoc. Millie, Ike’s wife, had gone up the road to the McCullar’s house and called the doctor on their phone as soon as she realized what had happened.

“I knew we would need the doctor for at least one, possibly more before the night was done,” said Millie.

Dr. John went about tending to the half frozen, injured man. Martha was in the kitchen doing what she did best, and that was to cook. She made some hot vittles, coffee, soup, and warm up a plate full of left over tea cakes. What the injured man would not, or could not eat, the kind doctor and her husband, boys and neighbors would.

Soon the doctor said the patient was coming around. He had a big ugly looking gash and knot on his head and his left arm was beginning to swell. As Dr. John was bandaging the forehead he asked David to go spilt a piece of stove wood up real thin and bring several pieces to use as a splint, it seemed the driver’s left arm was broken in two places. That would hold until he could get him to the hospital.

Soon, they had Luther sitting up in a chair beside the fireplace and Martha was spooning him some of her good hot homemade chicken soup. Dr. Rayburn was sitting at the table with Joe and the boys, drinking coffee and eating some of the tea cakes.

Since the McCullar’s were the only ones with a telephone nearby, Millie had also called the Sheriff about the wreck while she was there. Officers had been dispatched to take care of the drunks in the Mercury. The Sheriff had in turn called Helen, Luther’s wife, who would meet them at the hospital in town. He also called the Butane Gas Company and they sent a man out to check on the truck and shut off all the gas that might possibly escape.

After being thoroughly bandaged and warmed, Luther was carried to the doctor’s car in a straight chair by Joe, Luke, and David. The pair drove away in the cold dark night, bound for the hospital.

Luther awoke about mid morning in a hospital bed, Helen by his side and a nurse was taking his pulse and holding some pills for him to take. His head ached badly and his arm was inoperable. No longer were the homemade splints on his arm, in their place was a sparkling white plaster cast. He raised himself up with his good arm and was about to swing his feet off the bed to get up when the nurse planted her palm flat on his chest and pushed him back down.

“These will help ease the pain and also cause you to sleep, what you need now is lots of rest. Now lay there and don’t give me no trouble, you took quite a jolt last night; you’re very fortunate that your truck did not blow up and clear everything from Furr’s to Bissell. We could have had The Furr’s Grand Canyon there this morning if it had gone up. You just lie there quiet for a while and talk to your wife,” said the nurse in a no-nonsense voice.

Before Luther drifted off to sleep, their son Tommy came bursting in the room. After a period of hugs and kisses, Dr. John came by and checked on Luther then took Tommy down the hall to show him the baby that had been born last night and also the new x-ray machine the hospital had bought last week.

Luther started to cry, “Baby, I thought I was a goner last night. When the truck slid off the road and into that flooded creek I thought I would never come home again, never enjoy a Christmas again. I thought it was my fate to drown in that muddy frozen creek water, or, I would be blown to smithereens when the truck exploded. Some voice kept saying, ‘You’ll never be warm again, you’ll never get home again, you’ll never see Helen or Tommy again, you’ll never get home again.’ My head hurt so badly, and so did my arm, but the worst part was the icy water that surrounded me. I prayed Lord only you can get me out of this mess, help me please! I vaguely remember sounds from time to time, and I could feel the truck moving just a little, but I was fading in and out. There was no way of telling whether I was alive or dead or what was going on around me. I heard someone shouting ‘Jim, Toby,’ what that was all about I have no idea. The next thing I knew Martha Butler was feeding me some of her hot chicken soup and they had a roaring fire keeping me warm. Dr. Rayburn was there and he gave me a shot that knocked me out. When I woke up you and Tommy were here and the nurse was telling me to lie down and be still.”

“Hey dad,” Tommy burst through the door again spouting. “There is this tee-ninety little baby down the hall, born last night about the time you were in the creek, so says Dr. Rayburn, and, and, and, he has a machine that can take a picture of your innards right through your skin and it don’t even hurt, ain’t that sumpin’?”

“Are you feeling better Luther,” asks Dr. Rayburn?

“I’ll make it if I can keep that old truck out of the road ditches,” said Luther.

“Your quick response last night put you in harm’s way, but it saved the lives of four teenagers. They are sleeping off their liquor at the jail, but they are all alive and well, thanks to you. They may even get to be home with their families later on this Christmas Day if they can make bail. You, can go home in a day or two.”

“Doc, do you happen to know who Jim and Toby are? I kept hearing their names last night while I was drifting in and out of consciousness.”

“Those are Joe Butler’s two big black mules. How they ever managed to pull that truck of yours out of that muddy creek I’ll never know, but somehow they did. You might want to go by and say ‘Thank You’ to them, even give ‘em a big hug.”

Next day, Luther’s friend from the gas company came by to see him and left his banged up lunch box and a wrinkled sack that contained two halves of a large onion, a candle, and a shiny new orange handled cap pistol. After a few days, Luther got his sea legs back again and was released from the hospital. As his wife drove up to the hospital in their old Plymouth, Tommy was shooting all the bad men along the way with a brand new orange handled cap pistol from the back window. However, Luther told her that he couldn’t go home again, not just yet.

“Where in the world do you want to go?” asked Helen.

“Take me to that store in Bissell near where we had the wreck.”

Helen pulled the old black sedan up on the gravel drive in front of the store, Luther gave Tommy some money and asked him to go inside and get a bushel of their best apples.

“Honey what in the Sam Hill are we doing?”

“I can’t go home again, I just can’t; till I’ve see a couple of friends of mine by the name of Jim and Toby. They would probably enjoy an apple or two about now!”

Welcome

Welcome to Generations: a multi-generational foray into creative writing. Here three generations from the same family will write an independent short story about a common theme. Each will write about the featured topic (listed under topic 1, 2, etc above), from any perspective, any time period, and in any style. In short, each of us will write in the style and voice unique to us. The goal is to see how different writers from different generations of the same family, raised in the same geographical region, but with different parents and environments will deal with the same assignment.

The writers to date are, my Father [RJ] representing the post World War II generation; myself [JJ] representing the post '60's edition of humanity; and my two daughters [D1: Melanie - D2: SJ] representing the post '80's and beyond. All of us have played with fictional writing with varying degrees of success in the past. The goal here is not to create a better story than the others, nor to compete, but simply to explore the unique perspective and voice each can bring to a common scenario. 

We sincerely hope you will enjoy reading the results. Our goal is to write 3 or 4 stories each per year, although, that is a mere guide line and not a hard rule. The stories will be whatever length they need to be in order to answer the question: what happens when ____________ (insert the current topic here)? 

It is our desire that this will prove challenging, rewarding, and fun for the writers; and enjoyable for the reader. If you find the tales compelling or interesting in any way, please leave us a comment. The individual writers will be responsible for moderating and responding to comments for their stories. 

Thanks for stopping by and we hope you enjoy the journey with us.