27 posts tagged “short stories”

     Vince glanced at his ATM receipt and did a double take. He stared at it, positive that he must have read it wrong, but the balance still read the same: $75,137.17. With a shaky hand he quickly put his card back into the machine.

     From behind him an irritated voice called out, “Come on Dude.”

     Vince turned to see a teenage boy in a blue t-shirt and baggy, faded jeans with a black cap sitting on his head so the bill was turned sideways. He started to apologize, but changed his mind simply because of the hat. He always hated it when guys wore their hat sideways, thought it made them look stupid. Vince turned back toward the ATM without saying a word.

     He punched in his PIN number and made his way to CHECKING ACCOUNT BALANCE. He chose to view it on the screen and waited for the display. After a few seconds the screen confirmed his account balance: $75,137.17.

     His mind was racing. There was obviously a mistake. He had no doubt that the hundred dollars was his, but somehow an additional seventy five thousand had been deposited into his account. He stared at the screen, dumbfounded, until the teenager spoke up once again, “Hey old man, can you hurry it up?”

     Vince came out of his stupor. Old man? Did he just call me an old man? Vince was forty five years old and in good physical shape; made that way from years of working road construction. His skin was deeply tanned from the sun and a full head of sandy blonde hair hung down to his shoulders. His muscles were hard and lean and, despite the comment from the teenager, there was nothing in his six foot frame that looked like an old man. He tapped the screen to finish his transaction and retrieved his card from the ATM.

     Turning away from the machine he walked toward the teenager who was already making his way up the ramp. When they drew close to one another the teenager muttered, “It’s about time.”

     On the way by Vince bumped him, giving a solid push with his shoulder. The boy tumbled and caught the metal handrail in the square of his stomach, causing him to double over. The violent jerk sent his hat flying off of his head and Vince chuckled when it landed in a small mud puddle.

     The boy recovered quickly and yelled after Vince. Vince continued to walk away at a leisurely pace. Without even looking back he said, “Looks like you could use a new hat.” Then, with a satisfied grin on his face, he headed to his truck.

     Before he even got into the driver’s seat his mind was back on the seventy five thousand dollars. Where had it come from? One thing was for sure: it definitely wasn’t his. The bank had made a mistake, he was certain of that. However, it was in his account. What would happen if he withdrew it? Wasn’t there something about possession being nine tenths of the law? Could he even withdraw that much money at once? He didn’t know. He had never withdrawn more than a couple of hundred dollars at the time. Come to think of it, he never even had more than a couple of hundred dollars at the time. Every paycheck seemed to be already spent before he got it and spare cash was a commodity that he seldom had the luxury of. Seventy five thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money.

     A movement caught his eye and he spotted the teenager in front of his truck. He was walking with his head down, staring at the soaked cap in his hands. He looked up and saw Vince, gave him the finger.

     Vince jerked his door open and made like he was going to jump out. The boy took off and quickly made tracks to his car, pushing down on the remote unlock as he ran. He went past a tall van and disappeared on the other side of it.

     A few seconds later there was a squeal of tires and Vince caught sight of a car in his rear view mirror. It was a red, Ford Mustang. There was a large white racing stripe across the hood and the windows were tinted black. It stopped directly behind him with its passenger side facing his truck and sat there a moment, engine revving up and down. Then, the tires started spinning, but the driver held onto the brake and a large cloud of smoke rose up and drifted right over Vince’s truck. The driver took his foot off the brake and left the parking lot, squealing his tires all the way onto the main highway. He turned left and drove in front of the bank. As he went by the teenager rolled down his window and, through the smoke, Vince could see the smirk on his face… and the wet hat sitting sideways on his head.

     Vince shook his head as the smell of burnt rubber filled his nostrils. How do kids get cars like that anyways? He glanced around at his own vehicle, a ten year old Chevy S-10 pickup. It was a good truck, but it was getting old and had well over 150,000 miles on it. The headliner was starting to sag and there were a few cracks in the dash. He had thought about getting a newer truck plenty of times, but there just wasn’t enough money. After the divorce, there never seemed to be enough money. He survived from paycheck to paycheck, barely scraping by and, to be honest, he was pretty tired of it.

     A small band of onlookers had rushed outside to see what was going on. They stopped gawking after the speeding Mustang and slowly made their way back inside the bank.

     Vince sat in his truck, staring at nothing in particular. Seventy five thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. The sound of passing cars filled his ears. Somewhere, a bird chirped happily. Seventy five thousand dollars.

     Suddenly, Vince knew what he was going to do. With a new found confidence he opened the door, stepped out and walked toward the bank.

Preston Walters rolled his eyes and sighed heavily as warm air started coming from the air conditioning vents. This always happened when he was in the car line; it was one of the reasons that he hated picking Misty up from school. He shut the air off and pushed down on the electric window buttons. The front, passenger window glided down with ease, but the other three stayed put. He slammed down on the buttons with his fingertips repeatedly, hoping to get some kind of reaction, but the windows didn’t budge.  

 By the time he got to the pick-up point he was soaked with sweat and totally frustrated. Misty saw his car and started jumping up and down, waving excitedly. When the all clear signal was given she ran to the window and shrieked, “Hi Daddy!”

In a sour voice he uttered, “I’m hot. Just get in the car so we can get out of here.”

She opened the door and jumped in, throwing a pink book bag in the floorboard. Totally oblivious of his bad mood, she said, “I like it when you pick me up Daddy.”

Preston looked her way, forced a smile and lied. “So do I Honey. So do I.”

Misty talked non-stop all the way home, going into great detail about every minute of her day. Preston simply drove and half listened, offering an obligatory, “Really?” or, “You don’t say?” during the rare quiet moments. When they reached the house Misty jumped out as soon as the car stopped. Before he could even get out of the car she was bursting through the front door. As he watched her run inside he could hear her small, excited voice, “Mommy, Mommy! Guess what I did today?” Preston sighed and leaned over to pick up the book bag.

Later on that day, while walking to the garden, he relived his drive home with Misty. He didn’t like the way that he felt toward his six year old daughter, but he just couldn’t seem to get over it. Misty was their third child and the only one that wasn’t planned. In fact, she was a total surprise, coming nine years after Tiffany and eleven years after Jack, now a senior in high school. He thought about having one child ready to graduate while another was just starting out. He suddenly felt tired… and very old.

He stopped at the gate and looked out onto the garden. This was his favorite place to be, his silent escape from life. He spent at least thirty minutes a day here pulling weeds, picking off bugs, looking for new growth and just enjoying the time outside. It always helped him get his mind straight. His eyes moved to the end of the garden. There, completely covering the fence was the plant that had become the central point of his backyard getaway.

He had found it about a month before, one little leaf poking out of the ground at the end of the bean row. He had started to pull it up, but it looked like a squash plant, so he left it where it was. He checked it almost daily and the little plant seemed to take on a life of its own. Before long it had put out large green leaves and Preston decided that it was a pumpkin. Then, it started branching out with long, wispy tendrils that reached out and took hold of the fence. One day he looked in on it and a beautiful white flower had opened up. There, attached to the flower, was a small green fruit shaped like an hourglass. He knew then what it was; it was a gourd.

Disappointed, he thought about pulling it up. It was, after all, in the bean row. Besides, you can’t even eat gourds. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He enjoyed watching it too much. So, he left it where it was and every day since then he had rushed out to the garden to check on it. He spent a lot of time manipulating the vines so they would grow up the fence and it had practically covered every square inch of it. He was amazed how something that started out so small could grow so quickly. 

Preston was still admiring the gourd plant when he felt something brush against his leg. He looked down and saw Misty. Her small hands were holding onto the chain link gate and her face was pressed up against it so that one eye was staring through a rusty link. She only said five words, “I like your garden Daddy,” and then she looked up at him and smiled. Then, as quickly as she was there, she was gone.

Preston watched her skip away and a disturbing thought crossed his mind. Misty was, in fact, just like his precious gourd plant. The gourd plant came up unexpectedly; so did Misty. The gourd plant showed up in the wrong row; Misty showed up in the wrong part of his life. He was disappointed when he found out what the gourd plant really was; he was disappointed when he found out his wife was pregnant with Misty.

His heart melted as he thought about Misty. Was he treating this gourd plant better than he was treating his own daughter? How much time had he actually spent with her, talking to her, really listening to what she had to say? Was it possible that he was holding a grudge against her for coming along so late in his life? Was he actually blaming her for some of his marital and financial problems? The more he meditated on it the more he shamefully realized that it was all true.

 He thought a moment and then looked back toward the flowing plant at the end of the garden. He had been so wrong about that plant. In a matter of weeks, with a little care and nurturing, it had become the centerpiece of his garden. What if he would have pulled it up when it was just coming out of the ground? He would have never gotten to watch it grow or see it bloom. He would have missed out on so much.  What was he missing out on with Misty by acting the way he was?

A sound shook him out of his thoughts and he turned to see Misty running across the yard with her arms held straight out to the side of her body. She turned and waved, “Come play with me Daddy.”

Preston looked at his garden, then back at Misty. He could almost hear the gourd plant silently pleading with him to step inside the gate. There was a moment of indecision. Then, somewhere in the back of his mind a distant voice spoke to him, Go play with her.

He spoke out loud, in answer to the voice, “But what about the garden?”

The voice answered back, Are you raising a garden or are you raising a daughter?

The question shocked him and he was still thinking about it when Misty called out to him again, “Come on Daddy, play with me. Please?” She stopped right in front of him, arms still extended, making bubbly airplane noises. Then, she stepped forward, wrapped her arms around his legs and said, “I love it when we play together Daddy.”

Suddenly the garden didn’t look so enticing and he found himself leaning over to hug her back. With a slight tremor in his voice he said, “So do I Honey. So do I.” And this time, he really meant it. 

The results have been released for the short story contest that I entered a few months back and my name wasn't on the winner list. Oh well, I'll just keep trying.

I'm going to post the story that I entered. I got the idea for the story from a short autobiography that was written by my great, great grandfather Henry Shaw. In the autobiography, he briefly mentions that he was in The Battle of Olustee. I researched the battle and found out that it was the largest Civil War battle fought on Florida soil and that it was also one of the first battles that colored troops fought in. In addition, Henry's batallion actually lined up right across from the colored troops in the battle. After researching the colored troops I found out that at a lot of them died because they weren't properly trained.

Loaded with all that information, I put a story together about a white Confederate soldier and a black Union soldier meeting on the battlefield face to face. I hope you can find the time to read it.

The Battle of Olustee

PART 1

Henry Shaw scraped a small layer of frost from a fallen pine tree and sat down, his gray, wool trousers quickly soaking up the left over ice particles. He took a deep breath of morning air and surveyed his surroundings. The terrain was similar to his home along the banks of the Withlacoochee River. The forest was mostly filled with tall, gangly pine trees, but every once in a while a great oak could be seen spreading its giant branches. Palmetto bushes littered the forest floor, their large, green fronds adding a splash of color to the carpet of brown pine needles. The distinct smell of swamp water filled his nostrils, stirring pleasant memories of hunting trips with his father. For just a moment he was back home, listening to the dogs as they tracked down a white tailed deer.

The woods around him were filled with thousands of Confederate soldiers. All along the tree line men were preparing for the battle that was soon to come. The Union troops were only a few miles away, slowly making their way along the Florida Atlantic Gulf Railroad. Their objective was to capture Lake City and then continue on to Columbus Bridge. They had no idea the Southern troops were setting up a defensive position in the trees near Olustee Station, thirteen miles east of Lake City, Florida.

Henry was six foot tall and skinny, weighing all of one hundred fifty pounds. Despite his size, years of hard work had left his muscles hard and strong. With dark brown hair, deep set hazel eyes and farm tanned skin, he looked much older than his eighteen years. Born and raised in Florida, he joined the Confederate Army two years earlier, ready and willing to die in defense of his homeland. But the last year had been rough and the war was starting to take its toll. He worried about his mother at home by herself and wondered if his father and brother were still alive. He was deeply concerned about his family, but he was also troubled about the upcoming battle. He had been in a few skirmishes, but this was shaping up to be the largest one so far. Things looked somewhat better three days earlier, when General Colquitt and his brigade of Georgia regulars arrived. This brought the Confederate numbers up from fifteen hundred to well over four thousand. At least the numbers were pretty even now, but as the Yankees drew closer, Henry was scared for is life.

PART 2

Like most of the other men in his company, James Lyons had never been in a battle. A former slave, he had joined the 8th United States Colored Troops in Philadelphia only four months earlier. He was proud to call himself free, but claiming freedom didn’t come without problems. There weren't a lot of jobs available and he learned rather quickly that any work that could be found was never given to a black man. The army proved to be the best place to go because it offered food, clothing and something he had never seen in his life - a paycheck.

Army life was rigorous but James enjoyed it. He was a quick learner and fit into military life quickly, becoming one of the top, new recruits. However, he wasn’t the only one who noticed that most of their time was spent learning how to march instead of learning how to fight. In fact, most of the men hardly even knew how to carry their rifles much less shoot them. James worried that they were missing out on some valuable training and it made him feel very uneasy. 

The 8^th was near the front of the line as they slowly marched beside the railroad tracks toward Olustee Station. It was a good indicator that they would be among the first to see action. Spirits were high and the others were confident they could win, but as joyful cries of certain victory were sounded, James looked around wearily, sensing that something bad was about to happen.  

Just then, he looked ahead and saw two Confederate soldiers turn their horses and start running in the opposite direction. Caught off guard, the troop movement stopped and the soldiers stood silently, dumbly watching the horsemen as they disappeared down the railroad tracks. Without warning, a shot rang out and James heard the bullet whiz past his head and sink into the body of someone behind him.

After the first shot was fired there were a few moments of chaos, but the Union officers finally got it together and called out defensive maneuvers. With bullets flying all around them, the 8^th was ordered to advance toward the heaviest gunfire. At first, the men were stunned and bewildered. Having never been in battle before some of them fell to the ground in fear and curled up like babies, but as bodies fell all around them and the fighting grew more intense, they gradually recovered their senses. Unfortunately, the lack of training proved to be their downfall and man after man succumbed to death or injury.

Standing six foot four and weighing over two hundred forty pounds, James made a big target, but he managed to scramble into position behind a large pine tree less than three hundred yards from where the enemy was set up. As bullets and musket balls crashed into the tree above his head, he stayed close to the ground and frantically tried to remember how to load his rifle. Finally, praying that he had it loaded correctly, he pointed it toward the Rebel line and pulled the trigger.

            PART 3

A February chill rushed through the air as Henry watched two regiments of men mount their horses and ride off. If the plan worked, they would make contact with the Union army and draw them back to the fortified battle line where the remaining Confederate soldiers waited. With Ocean Pond to the north, heavy swampland to the south and thousands of troops scattered throughout the tree line, victory was almost certain. The plan made perfect sense, but after contact was made the enemy failed to advance toward the trap that had been so carefully set. When word came that heavy fighting was taking place less than two miles away, more troops were sent as reinforcements. Henry stood firm at his post in the trees, but grew more anxious as he watched the other men leave. Finally, the order was given to move forward and the Sixth Florida Battalion moved out to join the others. Henry’s heart pounded heavily as Company G marched double time toward the front lines.

Cannon fire rumbled in the distance as the Sixth Florida Battalion made their way to the battlefield. It wasn’t long before shouting and heavy gunfire could be heard all around. They came up on a place where the doctor was busy treating some of the wounded men. The moans of the suffering soldiers only added to Henry’s anxiety. He closed his eyes as they rushed by and the bloody image of a badly wounded soldier etched itself in his memory.

            By the time Henry got to the battlefield the fighting had been going on for over two hours. They were quickly moved up to the front lines and told to scatter along a large embankment. Henry crawled to the top of the large hill on his belly, passing two or three dead soldiers on the way. He pushed himself along numbly, trying hard not to look into their faces. The smell of gunpowder filled the air while gun fire, cannon blasts and the shouts of fighting and dying men rang out everywhere.  There was no escaping the sounds of war.

When Henry reached the top of the hill and looked out on the battlefield he couldn’t believe what he saw. Bodies were scattered everywhere and the Union troops seemed to be in disarray. One particular body that lay grossly disfigured on the ground caught his attention. Staring at the dead man’s face, it took a few moments before Henry realized he was a black man. He squinted, trying to see the other fallen soldiers and noticed that almost all of them were black. His mind was still trying to take it in when the desperate troops tried to rally around a cannon. It was clear they wanted to make a final stand, but man after man was shot down. At last, when it was clear they didn’t have a chance, someone grabbed the colors and they all made a hasty retreat, leaving the cannon behind. Shots rang out after them and more men fell to the ground as they tried to get away from the relentless Confederate gunfire.

A sound to charge was given and the Rebels took chase. Hundreds of men rushed after the retreating Union troops and Henry jumped to his feet. With adrenaline pumping he took off down the hill, but when he was almost to the bottom he stepped on a large pine branch and it rolled out from underneath his foot. In the split second that he was falling he saw a large pile of rocks and knew instinctively that he was going to hit them head on. He closed his eyes to brace for the impact and then felt something slam into his side. He missed the rocks by two feet, but his head crashed onto the hard ground causing him to pass out.

PART 4

Henry woke up to the smell of dirt and pine needles, his face partially buried in a mixture of both. Slowly, consciousness crept back and he became aware of a sharp, throbbing pain in his head. He suddenly remembered the battle and jumped to his feet. His brain revolted at the sudden movement by releasing a swarm of small, angry lights that attacked his eyeballs and left him both dizzy and nauseated. He tried to take a step, but was unable to find his footing and fell backwards onto the carpet of pine needles. This time he stayed there.

"Are you alright?"

The deep, unfamiliar voice seemed to be traveling down a long tunnel. Henry stirred on the ground, still feeling the effects of the dizziness. Then it came again, "Hey! Are you alright?”

            When Henry opened up his eyes he was startled to find a large, black man leaning over him. He noticed a blue, Union Jacket and he could see the man’s left shoulder was covered in blood from a gunshot wound. Everything about him was big, even his face, which was beaded in sweat; large drops of it forming across his forehead and dripping down his cheeks onto his chin. Henry couldn’t move or speak so he sat there motionless, expecting the worst. The dark stranger spoke again, his voice softer this time, “I ain’t going to hurt you.”

Ignoring the statement, Henry looked around for his rifle and spotted it lying on the ground a few feet away. Following his eyes the man said, “You don’t need the gun.”

Though trembling with fear, Henry spoke bravely, “Why don’t you go ahead and kill me?”

The man pulled his big face closer to Henry’s and said, “If I wanted to kill you then I would have let you fall into those rocks.” Then, the man waved his arm at the battlefield and said, “Besides, I seen enough killin’ today.” After that, with much difficulty, he sat down on the ground across from Henry. 

Henry propped himself up on one arm and watched the man sit down. His head was still spinning slightly, but he was slowly regaining his senses. Surprised by what he had just heard, he asked, “So… you kept me from hitting the rocks?”

The man answered quietly, “Yes.”

"Why?"

"Because you could have been killed!"

"But we're at war. You want your enemy to die!"

“I told you, I seen enough killin’ today.”

The answer wasn’t what Henry expected, but in a peculiar way he understood. Why were they trying to kill one another anyway? Because they had different skin colors? He thought about the war and tried to remember why it even began. When it first started everything seemed so clear, but now the reasons seemed blurred and unimportant. A big part of him wanted it to be over, to be back home with his family.

From where he was sitting, Henry looked out onto the battlefield. There were hundreds of dead soldiers, many so badly shot up that they were seriously disfigured. Cannon balls had ripped through the trees and large branches were scattered about, some still giving off small wisps of gray smoke. A heavy thump caught his attention and he looked toward the other man. He was lying on his back and there was a large blood soaked stain on his trousers just above his left knee. It was clear that he was badly injured and Henry thought about the gun. He could easily reach it and finish the man off, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he called out to him, "What's your name?"

The man sat up slowly and glanced over at Henry. After painfully readjusting he answered, "James."

A movement caught Henry's eye. Their position in the woods wasn't too far from the railroad tracks and through the trees he saw three men walking down the tracks toward them. From the jubilant sounds of their voices, he knew it was the first of the Confederate troops on their way back from the chase. A decision had to be made quickly. James was badly wounded and it would be easy to jump and run to the other men, but he couldn't escape the fact that the man had tried to save his life. James heard the voices and an uneasy look came over his face. Both men knew that if James was found on the battlefield alive that he would be killed. Henry could think of only one thing to do. He whispered, "You got to hide." 

There was a large patch of palmetto bushes nearby and Henry motioned toward them. He went in first and helped James crawl across the rough trunks and through the noisy fronds to the center of the largest bush. It didn't offer a lot of cover, but at least it was on the outer edge of the battlefield. He looked at James; his huge body twisted to fit in the tight area and said, "Stay here. I'll be back soon." Then, he turned and exited the makeshift hideout.

James called out in a whispered voice, “Wait! I don’t know your name.”

Without slowing down to look back he answered, “Henry.”

By now, the men were drawing closer and one of them heard the commotion in the bushes. He pulled his rifle up to his shoulder and yelled, "Who goes there?"

Henry called out, "Don't shoot! I'm on your side." Then, in order to keep them away from James he rubbed his stomach and said, “I wouldn’t go that way if I were you. Breakfast didn’t set well.” The three soldiers laughed, the one lowering the gun, and they walked on.

It didn’t take long before more men filtered back in, filling the woods with Confederate soldiers. Henry tried not to draw attention to himself or run into anyone from his company. He listened closely to the conversations around him trying to find out what direction the Union troops were headed.

Dusk finally started to settle in and Henry breathed a sigh of relief as the troops started lining up to head back to Olustee Station. He managed to gather some supplies and creep into the woods without being noticed. The air was turning cold when he came back to the palmetto bushes. He called out quietly as he drew near, "James, are you still here?"

A deep voice answered back, "Yes."

Henry made his way through palmetto bushes as quietly as possible. It was almost eight o’clock and the crescent moon barely gave off enough light to see by. He crouched in front of James and handed him a canteen and a few pieces of salt pork. James took the food and water greedily and ate as Henry laid out the plan, “After you finish eating we’re going to crawl out of these bushes. When I’m sure it’s clear, I’m going to help you down to the railroad tracks. From there, we’re going to walk along the tracks at the edge of the trees until we find your camp. I’ll leave you there and come back here. I believe your camp is quite a few miles away.”

James responded with a painful look on his face, “I don’t know if I can make it. I’m hurt pretty bad.”

Henry assured him, “Yes, you can. I’ll help you.”

After a few seconds of silence, James asked solemnly, “Why are you doing this?”

Henry’s answer was hesitant, but sure, “I owe you for saving my life, and I always pay my debts."

James reacted defensively, "You don't owe me anything."

Henry tried to explain, "Listen, soldiers on opposite sides ain't supposed to help one another, but I know this is the right thing to do. Now, will you let me help you?"

The pain in James's leg and shoulder was starting to get worse and he knew he could never make it back to the camp alone. After a moment, he answered with a humble, "Yes".

They sat quietly as James finished his meal. When he was done they crawled out of the palmetto bushes. Henry instructed James, “When you need to, put your weight on my shoulder as we walk.” Then, with the battlefield to their backs, the two men slipped out into the darkness.

The rain came down slowly, but no one seemed to mind. For the most part, it had been a sunny, three-day weekend, so a little rain while packing up didn’t really bother anyone. Chad stopped what he was doing for a moment and stared at the black and gray clouds as they passed quickly over the short, choppy waves. He had just spent a great weekend of fishing, snorkeling, and camping with his thirteen year old son near Key West, Florida. Jake was sitting at the picnic table and he seemed distracted, obviously in a world of his own. Chad walked over and asked, “What’s on your mind, son?”   

To Chad’s surprise, he answered, “Dad, I want to jump off the bridge before we go.”

The tent was set up right beside a small canal leading out into the ocean. Just beyond the entrance to the canal stood an old bridge that had been abandoned and put out of service so a higher, safer one could be built.  In order to allow boats to pass under it, a large portion of the old bridge had been cut away. This left a perfect spot to jump off the thirty-foot high platform into the warm, salty water below. The two older teenagers with them had jumped off the bridge quite a few times, but Jake never mentioned a desire to follow suit. In fact, it never even crossed Chad’s mind that he would because his son was not one to take chances.

He tried not to hide his surprise, “Are you sure?”

Jake answered back, “I’m sure Dad.”

Thinking quickly, Chad yelled over to one of the other teenagers, “Hey Evan, you want to jump off the bridge with Jake?”

“I don’t think so Mr. Neal, I don’t feel very good.”

He tried the other boy, “How about you John?”

“No, I still have a lot of packing to do.”

Chad looked back at Jake and saw the disappointed look on his face. Then, quietly, Jake whispered, “You can jump with me Dad.”

Immediately his muscles tensed up. The last time he had tried something like this was a few years earlier when the whole family went camping along a local river. They had stopped the boat where an oak tree hung over a deep spot. There were wooden slats nailed into the tree and Chad climbed up to a place where hundreds of other jumpers had stopped many times before. Right between two large limbs that branched out to the left and right, there was a naturally formed platform. It was the ideal location for jumping into the icy water twenty feet below. Chad stood there for a few seconds and stared at the quickly moving water. His head began to spin and he started to wonder what he was trying to prove.

He was brought out of his stupor by cheering voices below. His family was yelling for him to jump, but his mind kept telling him to climb back down the tree. Feeling a bit uneasy, he sat down on the platform and let his legs dangle in the air, but that only proved to increase his nervousness. After a few more minutes, he finally made up his mind to jump. With all of his courage summoned up, he pushed off the tree. Almost immediately, he changed his mind, and tried to grab onto the limb that was extended out to the right. His body swung sideways and he felt the rough bark of the oak tree as it scraped across his arms. Unfortunately, his muscles were no match for the entire weight of his body and the law of gravity quickly proved itself. He flew off the limb sideways and never managed to straighten out, so instead of hitting the water with his feet he smacked into it with the left side of his body. He came out of the experience with some scrapes on his arms, a massive red mark on his side and a bruised ego.

That single embarrassing moment became the one thing that everyone in his family remembered the most when they talked about their family vacation to the river. The conversation would usually start something like, “Remember when Dad tried to jump out of the tree by the river? That was so funny!”

He had no plans to repeat this scenario and once again asked Evan and John if they would jump with Jake. To his dismay, the answer still came back no. Out of the corner of his eye, Chad noticed Jake change position on the bench. With both elbows on his knees and his face between his hands, Jake spoke in a defeated tone of voice, “I guess I could wait until we come back next year.”

Chad thought about the situation that was in front of him. This was a monumental moment in his son’s life. He had never wanted to take a risk like this before. Was he going to squelch his spirit because of his own fears? Chad brought his right hand up, wiped the rain off of his forehead and then he walked over to where Jake was sitting. Looking up at the sky he said, “I’ll tell you what. It looks like the rain has stopped and since we’re both already wet, why don’t we go ahead and jump off that bridge?”

Jake looked up quickly, “Do you mean it Dad?”

With a silent panic in his chest, Chad answered back, “Of course I do.”

They put on their water shoes and started toward the bridge. Jake chattered the whole way, visibly excited about what they were going to do, but Chad didn’t say much. His mind was on the jump and he grew more nervous with every step. When he was a kid he loved to jump into the water from high places, but if he learned anything from the river incident it was that somehow, between the teen and middle age years, he had developed a fear of heights. Now, as the bridge loomed large in front of them, Chad felt a big knot in his stomach.

After they made it to the bridge they spent few minutes planning. It was decided to stand on different sides and take off running together at the count of three. Jake got on the left side and Chad got on the right. The bridge itself was about fifteen feet long and twenty feet wide. There was a brief moment of silence as they surveyed the scenery in front of them. The tide was going out and the strong current moved the dark water swiftly out to sea.

Finally, Chad looked over at Jake and asked if he was ready. When he shook his head yes, Chad started counting, “One”.

His heart began to pound and he could see Jake out of the corner of his eye, standing there anxiously. Now that the rain had stopped the humidity was thick in the air and Chad felt a large bead of sweat break out and run down his eyebrow. His throat felt like it was swelling up and he took a deep breath, “Two”.

  Suddenly, Jake took off running and, before Chad even knew what happened, the boy had bolted to the end of the bridge and jumped off. In what seemed like a second, he hit the water with a loud splash. Chad shook his head in disbelief and did what any sensible father who is standing on a 30 foot high bridge and is deathly afraid of heights would do. He clenched my fists together, threw them in the air and yelled, “Woo Hoo!” Then, without hesitation, he carefully walked down to the bottom of the bridge.

As Jake swam up, Chad reached out his hand and helped him out of the water. Before his feet even hit solid ground, he was talking excitedly, “That was great Dad! Did you see me? Can I do it again?”

Chad responded, “Yes, I saw you, but why didn’t you wait until I got to three/”

“I had to go before I lost my nerve, but I want to do it again. Can I do it again Dad? Can I?”

Chad looked at the young man standing in front of him and realized that he was out of touch he was his son. What happened to the chubby, blue eyed kid in diapers who used to walk around eating Cheerios out of the box? Where did this tall, lean teenager with curly, brown hair and a charming smile come from? He suddenly felt sick as he thought about the fact that he had tried to pawn the jump off on someone else. How many times had done something like that in the past? How many special moments like this one had he missed? 

He was shaken out of his thoughts by Jake’s excited voice, “What do you think Dad? Can I do it one more?”

Chad looked at his son and smiled. At that very moment, he made a mental decision to try and be a better dad for his son, to never pawn off his responsibilities ever again. He might have failed as a father in the past, but not today! With a new found determination he put both of his hands on Jake’s shoulders, looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course you can, but only if you promise to wait for me this time.”

I'm starting my fourth short story, but this time around I'm going to do it a little bit differently. With the first three stories Forgotten Treasures, Untitled Story, and The Battle of Olustee I posted parts of it as the story was progressing along. This time around, however, I am not going to do that. I want to share just a little piece of what I'm writing about now and then post the entire story after I have completed it. I did so many changes and revisions on the other three after I posted them on VOX that, in some cases, the story changed quite a bit. So, this time I want to give the final product. I hope you like it.

If you want to read one of the other stories you can go to my tags and click on either Forgotten Treasures or Untitled Story. I removed The Battle of Olustee for now, but I plan to post it again later.

NEW SHORT STORY

Kane stood there and slowly took off his black, leather gloves. After they were removed and neatly stacked on top of one another, he sat down and pulled the chair close enough to rest both hands on the smooth, metal table. The man who was slouching in the seat on the other side of the table watched in silent curiosity. Without introducing himself, Kane went straight to the point, “Alright Ramone, where is the girl?”

Ramone narrowed his eyes at the question, as if it hurt him to hear the words. Then, a big smile came over his face. He looked straight at Kane and spoke in slow, broken English, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Kane knew he was lying. A video camera in the grocery store parking lot had caught the abduction and neighbors had reported seeing Ramone go inside of his house with a child that fit the description of the missing girl. However, almost four days later, Ramone was in custody, but the girl had disappeared. Time was running out, if it wasn’t too late already, and Kane didn’t feel like playing games. He reached his right hand into his left jacket pocket, pulled out a picture and then placed it on the table in front of Ramone. He carefully returned is his hand so the palm was flat on the table and casually remarked, “She is a pretty little girl.”

Ramone looked at the picture and shrugged his shoulders, “I never saw her before in my life.”

Drawing from information in Ramone’s personal files, Kane spoke coldly, hoping to strike a nerve, “She looks a lot like your daughter. Didn’t she die two years ago?”

Anger swept across Ramone’s face and he sat up quickly, bringing his fists down on the table, “Leave my daughter out of this!” Then, slowly regaining his composure, he said, “I want a lawyer.”

Kane stood up and looked at his watch. Not bad, he thought, less than two minutes.  He picked up his gloves and put them back on, carefully pushing the leather all the way down each finger. After that, he turned and walked toward the door without another word. In that brief moment of time he had found out where the girl was… and much more.

Two weeks after the violent attack outside of the cafeteria, Shane’s body was showing signs of healing. He still had dozens of bruises up and down both arms, but the color of them had faded from an angry shade of purple to a yellowish brown. The swelling on his face was almost gone and the soreness in his chest was slowly starting to subside. The hardest part was getting used to having his mouth wired shut. This had been required because of the surgery that repaired a broken cheek bone. The doctor didn’t want to take any chances that he would open his mouth up too wide before everything healed properly. He could open just far enough to get a straw in between his teeth and no farther. He was feeling better, but he was pretty sick of being on a liquid diet.

Coach McFadden had been a constant in his life since the day it all happened. He was at the hospital from the time he got there all through the surgery and had visited every day since he went home. Shane enjoyed his visits and had gotten to the point where he looked forward to them. When he heard a light rap on his bedroom door at 4:15 pm, he knew who it was. “Come in coach,” he shouted, the words sounding slightly irregular as they passed through his clenched teeth.

The coach peeked around the door, exposing his trademark mustache and stringy blonde hair. “How are we doing today kid?” he asked as he opened the door and walked in.

“I feel pretty good today coach.”

“That’s a good thing since you’re coming back to school tomorrow. Right?” The coach sat down in a wooden chair by the bed as he waited for Shane to answer.

“Yeah, that’s what they say.”

“You don’t sound too excited about it. You know, Hal isn’t going to be there.”

“I know,” answered Shane, “I’m not worried about school; it’s just that I’m not sure how I feel about all that happened. It’s hard to explain, but part of me is mad at Hal for what he did, but another part of me feels bad for him. Does that make sense?”

“You mean you actually feel sorry for the guy that beat you up?”

“Well… kind of. I remember waking up in the hallway. Everything was spinning and I my head hurt really bad. There was a lot of commotion and I heard all kinds of sounds, but above everything else I heard someone crying like their heart had been ripped out. I’ll never forget the sound of it. When I asked who was crying someone told me that it was Hal. I don’t know what he was crying about and I know it doesn’t make sense, but yes, I feel sorry for him.

Coach McFadden looked at Shane in amazement. “You never stop surprising me. I’ve hated that boy ever since he did this to you and now you’re trying to make me feel bad about it.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad; I just want to know what he was crying about.”

“I think I can help you with that. I happened to be checking my school mailbox today when Craig Flynt was in Mrs. Connor’s office. He was yelling loud enough that it passed through the closed door and I heard Mr. Flynt say that he was going to sue the school for what happened. He said that Hal had been diagnosed with teenage depression and that the school should have recognized it and did something. He screamed about how Mrs. Connors was going to lose her job and the whole school was going to be shut down. He was completely out of control and I thought I was going to have to intervene, but he stormed out of the office and left before I had to."

Shane listened to the coach's story with interest. When he was finished he asked, "Depression? Isn't that just a medical term for being sad? I mean, everybody gets sad at one time or another. You’re saying that he was crying because he was sad?"

The coach shifted in his seat and considered his words thoughtfully, "Not because he was sad, but because he was depressed. Depression is more than just being sad. It's hard for someone who hasn't gone through it to understand, but it runs much deeper than that. It can take your legs right out from under you and then, when you try to get back up it feels like you have a two ton weight on your back. It can destroy your whole life if it isn’t treated. I should know, because I've been there."

Shane could tell that he hit a sensitive issue, "Do a lot of teenagers get it?"

"I know a lot of teenagers who have dealt with depression at one time or another.”

"Is there a cure?"

"There are medicines that can help, but that isn’t the recommended treatment, especially in kids. It takes professional help and a lot of time."

“How long did it take you to get better?"

The coach was slow in answering, "Let's just say that I've been dealing with it for a number of years and leave it at that."

It didn't take much to see that the coach didn't want to talk about it, so Shane steered the conversation to college football. Later on, however, after the coach left, he got on the internet to see if he could find out more. What he found out changed his life forever.

Over the course of the next two months Shane read everything that he could get his hands on about teenage depression. The more he read, the more he realized that he had not only seen the signs of it in Hal, but he could see in other kids at school. He was driven to do something about it and with the help of Mrs. Connors and Coach McFadden, he put together some information to promote teenage depression awareness. His information was handed out at a parent teacher meeting one evening and it was well received by the parents. In fact, word got around and another school in the area asked for the information for their next meeting. Before long, schools from across the county were calling Mrs. Connors to find out where they could get it.

With an obvious need presenting itself, Mrs. Connors asked Shane if he would be interested in started a program to help distribute the information across the country. Shane had no idea how to do what she was asking, but she promised to help him with it. By February, with the help of a lot of people, it had grown into a full-fledged organization called Teen Crossroadz, complete with a charitable organization status and web site. No one had any idea that over the course of time, Teen Crossroadz would become one of the country’s leaders in helping prevent, diagnose and treat teenage depression.

On a cold afternoon in February, six months to the day after being beaten up in the hallway outside the cafeteria, Shane was walking down the sidewalk to his house when he heard a familiar voice call out to him, “What’s up Preacher?” He turned around and saw Hal running toward him.

When Hal was still in juvenile detention, Shane had asked to speak with him. He wanted to tell him that he was forgiven, that he didn’t hold a grudge for what had been done, but Hal had refused to see him. So, Shane wrote letters to him instead. He was faithful in writing every week, but he never received anything back. Now, Hal was running at him and the scene from the hallway flashed in front of him. He closed his eyes, tensed his body and waited for the collision. When it didn’t come, he opened his eyes to find Hal standing only one foot away, staring at him.

“What are you doing?” asked Hal.

They had long been cut away, but to Shane, it felt like the wires were still holding his mouth together. He managed to utter out his answer, his lips and mouth barely moving, “I thought you were about to knock me down again.”

“I don’t want to knock you down, but I do have something for you.” Hal reached inside his coat and Shane flinched, still not sure what was going on. He was surprised to see Hal pull out a small bundle of envelopes. “These are all the letters that you sent me. They were the only letters I got when I was in that place. Did you really mean what you wrote?”

Shane was still confused, “Of course I did.”

“I don’t know why. Listen, I know you weren’t expecting this, but… I want to thank you for the letters. They saved my life. I really mean that, more than you can ever know.” There was a long silence. Hal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his big body moving back and forth like an oak tree in the wind. Then, he said, “I’m… I’m not sure if you'll believe me, but I'm really sorry for what I did to you.”

The two boys stared at one another, neither one sure what to do next. Finally, Shane looked up at Hal and said, “I believe you.” And as the two boys talked on the sidewalk, a light snow began to fall around them.

After the meeting with Mrs. Connors, Hal’s dad told him to go home and wait for him there. Hal went home and waited, but his dad didn’t show up until after midnight. Hal was in his room playing a video game when he heard the front door open. There were two voices, one of them female, so he knew right away that he had brought home one of his many girlfriends. He picked up his ipod, put the headphones on and turned the volume up loud so he wouldn’t have to hear what was going on.

He got up late the next morning and both his dad and the woman were gone. There was a mess in the kitchen and there were empty beer bottles in the trash can. Hal was used to this; it had been going on for as long as he could remember.

Hal didn’t know his mother. He didn’t know who she was or if she was even alive. He had asked about her numerous times when he was little, but Craig refused to give him any information. Finally, after he was tired of hearing him ask, he blew up at Hal and told him to never ask again. So, he never asked again, but he grew up imagining that she was like all of the other trashy women that his dad brought home and, even though he didn’t know her, he learned to hate her.

The week of suspension went by quickly and Craig Flynt never mentioned the incident in the auditorium. On Monday night, Lucy, the live-in housekeeper/cook had just finished preparing a meal when Craig unexpectedly walked through the front door. For the first time in a long time, father and son sat down to eat together. They ate quietly for a while, neither one extremely interested in the other. After a few minutes, Craig said, “I picked up four new clients today.” Hal kept eating, not even bothering to look up. There was another long period of silence as Craig fidgeted around in his seat. This was harder than he thought. Finally, he said, “Hal, I’m getting married. What do you think about that?”

Hal stopped chewing and slowly looked at his dad, “It’s your life. Do what you want.” Then, he finished his meal in silent protest.

The Rub Club met Monday after school as planned. Even though all of the members were on the wrestling team, three of them also played football, so only Coach Lowry and the four remaining members were present.

After what happened between Hal and Shane the previous Tuesday, everything had gone extremely well. They couldn’t have asked for a better display of how the system was supposed to work. Hal had been caught trying to bully Shane and was immediately suspended for one week. It let everyone know that the school was serious about the bully policy. It had been a nice, quiet week without Hal, but he was scheduled to come back the next day.

Geremy started the meeting, “I think everyone knows that Hal will be back in school tomorrow. I don’t believe he will be dumb enough to start anything, but just in case, we need to keep a close eye on him.”

Hal’s class schedule had been provided by Mrs. Connors and it was shown to the club. They compared it to their own schedules, making sure at least one of them was in the hallway between every class and that someone was in the cafeteria during lunch. When they were done, Coach Lowry reminded them that no physical contact was allowed. “Just make yourself visible,” he said, “that should be all it takes.” Geremy left the meeting with a bad feeling that the coach was wrong.

That night, as the full moon shone brightly on the sleepy town of Crossroads, Hal Flynt lay in bed and thought about how much he hated his dad, hated his mother and hated his life. In a large house on the corner of Broderick and Hazel, Geremy Walker lay in bed and worried what Hal was going to do the next day. And farther up the road, in a modest little home in a quiet suburban neighborhood, Shane McKnight put down his Bible, turned off the light and fell fast asleep.