Retrogression

“Mama, what does this word mean?”
Tuesday handed me the tattered bound up papers and I read the words.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

“Grandpa gave it to me. He said it was his grandmother's. I've tried reading it, but you have to turn the pages,” she took it back from me, “like this mama, you just turn the paper over and there is more on the back of it.”
“Yes Tues, it's called a 'book'.”
“I know THAT. Grandpa told me. But I don't understand most of it. What does this word mean?”
She pointed on the page.
“It doesn't matter. You shouldn't be looking at that. Grandpa shouldn't have given it to you. It's... it's not allowed.”
“Why?”
“Here, give it to me and get your Tech Pal out, you should be sitting in your room gaming instead of reading anyway. It's not good for you.”
Tuesday thrust the book towards me and shrugged her bony shoulders. She was small for eight years old.
“Here, you can have it. None of it makes any sense anyway. A bunch of words I don't understand, and I tried to look them up, but ROXIE says they don't exist. It's stupid.”
I fought back tears. The old man shouldn't have done it. Stirring up things long forgotten. I barely knew what any of the words meant either. But the one Tuesday had pointed to, I knew.
“Slavery”. It was on the list of canceled words. It had been since my mother was a baby.
There were only a handful of people left that remembered what the canceled words were. I struggled to recall, but only came up with seven of them; there had been over a hundred. Never spoken, never written, erased from time, but not from the memories of a select few that were still alive. It hadn't changed anything. The words still existed in action and thought, only they weren't allowed to be spoken now so everyone could pretend like the things they did weren't wrong. Never getting called out had cleared consciences and provided false virtue.

Back then, people called it 'political correctness', but it was nothing more than a way for the government to control our words. It was censorship that we all embraced.

Grandpa had tried to teach me about it when I was Tuesday's age but mama wouldn't hear of it.
Fourteen years of Process Clearing worked on most, and mama had been no exception.

So Grandpa was shushed, and I'd grown up like everyone else, oblivious to the horrors of the past. And I'd chosen to keep it from Tuesday. After all, I wanted to be a good citizen.

Keep the old ones quiet long enough, and they would die out. Then history could be re-written, so no one would know about the sins of the ages. Our ancestors looked noble and innocent, and so would we. No matter what crimes we committed.
It was a perfect plan. Utopia would finally exist. Or would it?

©LoLa Autry 2022

Photo Cred: Seannel 123rf.com

Our Is Not to Reason Why

“I'm ready to die.” It was matter of fact. She was sure.
“No, you're not.” I pleaded with her. We'd come too far for her to let go now. It had been six months, and they'd told her she had three.
“Yes dear, I've lived a long life, I've done everything I ever wanted to do... it's time.”
I squeezed her hand.
“No, I won't let you go.” Tears streamed down my cheeks, I couldn't choke them back.
Machines started beeping, her eyes fluttered and closed as her hand went limp.

I screamed. I was still shrieking when the nurses came running into the room.
I'd prayed, and I'd fasted, and I'd promised the world for her to live. I'd done everything. Everything except sell my soul. I'd failed her. And now she was gone.
The lights dimmed and everyone slowed to a standstill enveloped in darkness. My skin was burning, and I felt ill.
“No!” I bellowed angrily into the shadows, “You can't have her!”
Blinding light filled the room forcing me to my knees. I didn't dare look up, I could feel His presence.
He was not there to bargain. He would not listen, He never had. His will not mine. Never mine. I couldn't accept it. But He allowed me to fight.
The room was still and silent, frozen in time, He was granting me a moment. A moment to process, a moment to say good-bye, a moment to make a choice.
“Take me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth without a thought.
I looked at my grandmother and she opened her eyes, crystal blue and clear as a summer sky.
“It's not your choice, it's mine,” she spoke softly but her voice was strong and firm, the voice of calm reason I'd heard all my life.
It didn't matter. She was all I had left, I had no one else. He had taken them all over the years. One by one. And each time, I'd grieved and dealt with the loss. But no more.
I saw no purpose for my life other than the one now presented. He knew.
“You will not be alone.” His soothing voice was inside my head.
The room was darkening once again and I collapsed to the floor. As I lost consciousness, the bright light dissipated, and my grandmother closed her eyes again.
When I awakened, I was in a hospital bed, aching all over. I struggled to remember, but could not.
I was startled out of my attempted recall as a nurse with a wide smile came in carrying a swaddled newborn.
“Good morning, mama! You did a beautiful job. Want to see her?”
My memories flooded back. Now I understood. He was right, I would not be alone anymore.
I held out my arms and took the infant, snuggling her close.
“You had us worried for a while, but God knew what he was doing.” The nurse patted me on the arm. “Yes,” I shook my head, “He sure did.”

I smiled down at my new hope, and whispered softly, “Welcome to the world little Ruby.”

©2020 LoLa Autry

This story is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Ruby C. Land. 

Words

Emma never expected him to care. And then he did. He left her speechless when he said those words. And then he left; he left her alone to puzzle over his declaration of love, to over analyze it and pick it apart. He gave her time to rehearse her response over and over again inside her head. But then he left her waiting a little too long; and she never knew why. He disappeared from her life with no explanation; no phone call, no letter, no e-mail. He was just gone.

It seems just like yesterday, but it has been almost a year now. And deep down, she knows that he isn't coming back. She really never expected him to. It would have been too good to be true.

But even so, she had to be honest with herself; she knew that a small part of her would always be waiting for him to return. Always wondering what happened to him, and always replaying his words inside her head.

“I love you Emma.”

She still wonders if maybe, just maybe...he sits and ponders her words; the words that she still writes for him every day. She wonders if he reads her blog, and the poetry that pours from her memories of the conversations between their souls.

Or perhaps he has forgotten about her, and the words he spoke just once so very long ago.

She will never forget them. And she will never forget him.

It seems silly to even think it now, but she still loves him. And these are her words to him. 

©2012 Garden Summerland

The Promise

Caleb reached out and touched Lisbeth's cheek with the back of his hand. It was an innocent gesture, and yet there was such an intense undercurrent of electricity between them, even the purest of motives became lost. She pulled away, her face flushed with the heat of sudden desire.

“I don't think this is a good idea, I think you should leave.” She looked down at her hands when she said it, and Caleb nodded his head in agreement. She twisted the diamond ring on her finger.

“I'm sorry, it won't happen again.” He got up from the sofa, leaving her suddenly chilled and a little exasperated at herself for allowing him to affect her in such a way.

“You just call me when you're ready to move the rest of the boxes into the basement, and I'll send Billy or one of the twins over to help you, okay?” Caleb who was now a single dad had lived next door with his three sons for almost 10 years. He'd send them to help Lisbeth pack up James' things. He decided that he wouldn't come back though, it would just cause her more pain.

“Caleb...” Lisbeth stammered. “that... um...that would be very helpful. I...I'm really sorry. It's just... It's too soon... and I...” her voice trailed off, and she hung her head. She was crying again. That was how Caleb had ended up sitting with her on the sofa. She'd been crying when he came in; he'd sat with her and held her hands, and then he'd put his arm around her. Then she had stopped crying and she looked up at him with her sad brown eyes, and he'd wanted to kiss her. But he hadn't. Instead he had reached up and touched her face. He loved her. He had loved her for years, but she had been married; married to his best friend. And now she knew he loved her, because she just felt it in his touch. And then she'd asked him to leave. It was over before it had even begun.

Caleb and James met Lisbeth the same year. For Caleb, it had been love at first sight. James had only been interested in Lisbeth because he knew it would irritate Caleb; and it had. But it was very clear which of the two Lisbeth had been interested in; it had always been James. They were married just two years later, and Caleb, although heartbroken for a while, got past it and married a couple of years after that. They had all remained close friends, and now, 15 years later, James was dead. Caleb had lost his best friend, and Lisbeth had lost her husband. Three weeks ago, Lisbeth had come home from work and found James dead on the kitchen floor; at the ripe old age of 34 years old, he'd had a heart attack.

“Lisbeth, are you going to be all right?” Caleb stood at the door, watching her sob into her hands. She choked a little and got up to come see him out.

“Yeah, I'll be fine. I just need some time to adjust, I can't seem to focus on anything Caleb. I'm really sorry, I am just so lost now. And... I'm all alone.” She was standing too close to him, crying and frail. He pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he stroked her hair.

“Shhhhhh, everything's gonna be fine, just fine.” He wanted so desperately to take away her pain.

She looked up at him, and moved her lips to say “thank you” and suddenly his mouth was upon hers, years of restrained passion let loose, and for a moment, she was kissing him back. For a moment, she was no longer alone, she was safe and loved, and she knew everything really was going to be okay.

He pulled back from her, expecting her to be angry with him, expecting the tears to return, or for her to send him away. He was prepared for anything other than the look of sheer love that was in her eyes, and the wistful smile upon her lips.

“You're gonna be okay Lisbeth... I promise, you're gonna be okay.”

He kissed her again.

©2012 Garden Summerland

Fled

“I'm in love with you.” I blurted it out, and then stared down at my hands. “I have been for a very long time...it's just that... well, I couldn't tell you.” I didn't look up at him but I could feel his face change. I knew he had that pouty expression he always got whenever I disappointed him.

“You mean you wouldn't tell me.” He sounded irritated, and I glanced up at him.He was hanging his head and looking up at me sideways, his long lashes wet with tears. But then he smiled, in that impish way that drove me mad with desire. He had to have known.

“No Daniel, I mean I really couldn't tell you. I was married, and then...well, you know how your family feels about me...and the incident at Christmas. It's just been too much, I never really wanted you to know. It's too complicated... what I'm trying to tell you is that it doesn't matter how I feel, it just can't happen.” I tried to make him understand, but I knew he didn't, or couldn't.

“Alison none of it matters... it never has. I love you too, I have since the very first time we met.” He spoke softly and matter-of-factly, with a sincerity of youth I no longer possessed.

I laughed a little and fought back tears of my own. “ Yeah, I remember that. The laundromat... you and one of your friends had dragged that huge rug in there, trying to cram it into one of the machines.”

He laughed too. “Well it seemed like a good idea at the time. How else was I supposed to get hunch punch out of an oriental rug? My mother would've killed me you know... and you saved me, honestly you did.”

We both smiled, and I held his hand underneath the small table. I wasn't comfortable with any of it. I was sixteen years older than Daniel, and even though he said it didn't matter, I knew deep down that one day it would matter a great deal.

I sighed and took a deep breath. “Oh Daniel... how could I not love you? But telling you? That's admitting it to myself, and I've tried to deny it for so long... I just couldn't tell you. And I had no idea of how you felt, and it's not exactly like you ever said anything either.”

“Yeah, well that's because I was waiting on you to leave your husband. I knew it was only a matter of time. And well, to be honest, I knew after you did that you'd eventually end up on my doorstep. Good God Alison, it's been 6 years. I have waited for you for six long years, doesn't that tell you anything?” He squeezed my hand and I pulled it away as the waitress came to take our order. She smiled at us knowingly and I blushed. It was a small town and people were already talking. I couldn't stand it. Daniel didn't know what he was getting into. I had to end it before it got out of hand.

As the waitress left, I grabbed my purse and jacket, “Daniel, no.. I just can't.” I got up to leave, but he was faster, his arms around me, pulling me against him and I didn't push him away.

His dark green eyes were filled with the longing only youth can contain, and tears that flowed freely down his cheeks. Then his lips were upon mine and I was lost; lost in fantasy and in the reality of Daniel and six long years of denial.

I wrenched myself away and fled the restaurant. I couldn't look back.

 ©2012 Garden Summerland

The Muse

Lily opened the dishwasher and began putting the dishes away. The flashbacks started, and she stood motionless for a moment, thinking about Calum. She shook herself from the memory and picked up an earthenware coffee cup and held it to her face, it was still warm. But she couldn't fight it; she closed her eyes and fondly recalled the way he used to come up behind her when she was working in the kitchen. He would pull her back against him, turn her around and kiss her passionately, making her forget all about whatever mundane task she had been toiling away at – those were the days – but they were over; they had been for some time now, and it was all her own fault. That was a bracing thought that brought her back to reality.

She set the cup down and lifted out the plates one by one and stacked them gently on the counter. Her fond memories were from the days when she was a writer. She had always had a gift; a magical gift. She could write scenarios and people into her life– make them real. In fact, she had created Calum; and then he had become her muse. All she had to do was type a scene, or write a few words in her notebook or journal and he would come to her, stories creating themselves. She wrote pages and pages without pause; because he set her free. He released her from the shackles of her humdrum existence, and then, over time, he became so much more. He was her inspiration, and her best friend, and then he became her lover.

He always knew exactly what she wanted, and when she wanted it. He adored her. He was romantic; he brought her flowers, and wrote her poetry. He danced with her in the moonlight. They drank wine together and watched sunsets. He kissed her softly, and held her hand. He fed her strawberries and cream, and stroked her hair as he held her on cold rainy nights. He made love to her for hours upon end, as if no one else had ever existed or ever would.

She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes again. She used to be able to summon him into existence with only a thought; and he would appear like a demon hungry to possess her soul. He would enter her mind, taking over her thoughts and then the words would just pour out from her; Calum holding her face, kissing her lips and then her neck. Calum pressing her against the cabinets, then lifting her up onto the counter top. His hands pushing up her skirt, and wandering all over her body as he kissed her mouth, slowly and hotly, seemingly for hours.

But not anymore.

The ideas had just stopped. She no longer wrote fascinating scenarios, with romantic characters that came to life and entertained her. It had all ended with the last journal entry she had written almost six months ago. Maybe because she had created a new character, James; a young handsome man with romantic interests all his own; and apparently, Calum hadn't liked it. It wasn't even a love story, it was just a few lines of free verse inspired by a dream she'd had, and Calum hadn't been back since.

She sighed and opened the cabinet to set the plates inside. She wanted to feel his hands around her waist again. She closed her eyes and tried to get the words right, but they would not come. She could picture him, and she could still feel his hands hot and wanting upon her skin, but the story wouldn't flow. It was the worst case of writer's block she had ever had. She had lost her muse. She was useless without him, and she had to have him back; today – right now. She went to her bedroom, frantically searching for the journal. It had been months since she'd had it, where had she put it?

After tearing her room asunder, she found it in the corner under a stack of overdue library books. She hastily flipped to the last entry and read the first couple of lines:

James, my love...I remember the pouring rain, drenching us both as we kissed for the first time; Standing together on the white sand, the vast expanse of the great blue ocean, stretched out before us in witness to our profession of love...

She ripped out the page and tore it to shreds. Little pieces of confetti now covering her floor, she closed her eyes once more, and concentrated. Nothing happened. She waited; and then she whispered his name. Another minute passed, and then she felt it; Calum's hot breath on the back of her neck, his hands around her waist. She kept her eyes closed as he spun her around, his mouth immediately upon hers. Her muse was back. Now she could write again.

©2011 Garden Summerland

A Letter from Lorna

“Excuse me, you're Chris aren't you? Chris Mason? Well, um, Mr. Mason my name is Kristoff Avery... and ah, I think you knew my mom...um... years ago. Lorna Avery?” Kristoff ducked his head under the enormous patio umbrella to shield himself from the blinding sun.

The old man looked up at him, with a puzzled expression.

“Oh, I'm sorry, you must have known her as Matthews, Lorna Matthews? Well, anyway, I came across this letter, going through all her stuff...that I guess she just never mailed, and I thought you should have it. So here you go...” Kristoff held out the yellowed envelope and Chris took it with a shaky hand.

“Yes, I'm Chris Mason. Thank you. Would you like to sit with me?” he gestured to the wrought iron bench next to his chair. “It's quite a lovely day; they wheel me out here to sit when it's sunny and warm.” He nodded to one of the nursing staff as she brought him a small white cup and two pills. He took his medication and drank the contents of the plastic cup, the letter still grasped in his hand.

Kristoff sat down next to him, uncertain of what to say next.

“Thank you, it is a lovely day.” He paused and then, “Mom passed away last month, I don't know if you knew...she had been sick for a long time.”

Tears welled up in Chris's eyes and he looked away.

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Mason.... maybe I shouldn't have come.” Kristoff stood to leave and the old man held up his hand.

“Please, I didn't know she had been sick. You said you found this letter?” his voice cracked.

“Yes, and then it took quite a while to locate you, that address is almost 30 years old. And then of course, you are here now... They have a strict privacy code, it's an extraordinary place.” He looked around at the beautifully landscaped grounds, the over abundance of flowers & shaped hedges. A full medical staff tending to the other residents, sitting out in the sun.

“You look like her.” Chris smiled wistfully.

“Yes sir, that's what everyone has always said. You knew her well?”

“A long time ago...” He clutched the letter to his chest. “A long time ago we were friends. Just friends.”

But Kristoff could tell by the way he said it, that this man and his mother had been much more than just friends. Maybe he shouldn't have brought the letter. Now he just stood there in the awkward silence. Chris looked up at him. Oh yes, he looked so very much like Lorna, he had her eyes.

“I really should be going, it was very nice to meet you.” Kristoff didn't wait for a response, he quickly headed back through the immaculate grounds, disconcerted that the exchange had made him so uncomfortable.

Chris cradled the letter to his chest for a long time. Curious as to it's contents, and yet fearful of them. Maybe it was best if he never read it. There was nothing on the exterior of the letter to give him an idea of the time frame in which it was written. Was it written when they were only just friends?

Or after they had become so much more? Or even after then, when he had left her?

He laid the letter on the glass topped table in front of him. No. He would not read it. It would only bring him pain; and he was having one of his better days.

Twenty minutes later, he still sat staring at the envelope, pondering it's possible contents.

Then he grabbed the letter and tore it open.

Dear Chris,

I have waited for months to write to you. I have been trying to decide if I should tell you or not, and I suppose that I really have no choice. You will probably find out sooner or later anyway.

I am writing you because I cannot bear to face you. Perhaps if I had told you, you would not have left, but then... you would've been staying for the wrong reasons.

I am sitting here remembering the beautiful life that we shared, that now seems so very long ago. I used to sit up nights and watch you sleeping. Did you know that? I used to stroke your hair and whisper love sonnets to you as you dreamt.

And now, when I close my eyes each night, I can see your peaceful face, smiling in slumber. Oh Chris, if I could just have you back. How many times can I write that I love you, before you will return to me? How many days, weeks, months must I suffer? I still do not understand why you have left me. I thought that we were so happy.

It seems as though I should tire of writing letters to you that I have no intention of ever sending; most especially this one. I should burn all of them, lest they ever find their way into your hands.

If you ever come back to me, I want it to be because you love me, not because....

Well, that brings me to the purpose of this particular letter.

My dear Chris... since you left me, I have had another child. Now Maeve has a little brother, and we make quite the family. But it is an incomplete family without you.

I love you Chris, I always have and I always will. But just like I kept my feelings for you a secret for so long, so too must I keep another secret; Kristofferson is your son.

Maybe one day I will send this letter to you. And maybe one day you will forgive me.

Always ,

Lorna

©2011 Garden Summerland