STORIES BY OUR AUTHORS
Here are a few examples of short stories written by people who have worked with Ina. There are flights of fancy, which help build skills for memoir writing, and are just plain fun to write! And some memoirs.
 |
MEET ARABELLA BELL-MITCHELL
Arabella has a delightful British accent; her speech sparkles with phrases such as "rabbiting on." And her way with words punches through her writing. Enjoy this little gem she wrote in response to a challenge in class, and see if you can determine what the theme was to be. Do stay tuned -- we'll be sharing some of her other witty and intriguing stories. Arabella is definitely a writer to watch -- she's got novels coming one of these days, and we feel certain they'll gain an enthusiastic audience.
The story below is one of her fanciful ones...we think. It came from one of Ina's Weird Prompts, #2 on our page. |
TURTLELINI
By Arabella Bell-Mitchell
By Arabella Bell-Mitchell
I was idly wondering how long good manners required me to stay at this shindig when the door opened at the end of the room, and several late-arriving guests were ushered in. Our host, Harry Bengal, introduced them to us all, and then droned on about the athletic achievements of one of the newcomers, a man aged about 30. A basketball player, he was very tall, with a hard, muscular body, and deep blue, penetrating eyes.
When Bengal finally ran out of steam, the athlete strutted across the room as if he were on stage. I finally got through the crush of people to pay homage. A movement on the side of his head caught my attention -- a little green turtle was lodged atop the frame of his glasses. He appeared to be having a wonderful time, rocking with mirth at some private joke. The basketball player seemed totally unaware of his presence.
The jovial little turtle suddenly jumped onto my shoulder and whispered, “I have about had it with this schmuck. Have you got a car here?”
I nodded, dumbfounded.
“Then let’s hit the street!” the turtle said.
We proceeded to Sunset Boulevard and hit “Le Dome.” Everyone there is so obsessed with themselves, they barely noticed my dining partner. We happily nattered on through the meal.
Having looked for something different for a long time, I’ve become a firm believer in the adage, “There are no accidents.” Turtlelini and I are good together.
© 2005 Arabella Bel-Mitchell. First published in Stories From The Heart, Vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
When Bengal finally ran out of steam, the athlete strutted across the room as if he were on stage. I finally got through the crush of people to pay homage. A movement on the side of his head caught my attention -- a little green turtle was lodged atop the frame of his glasses. He appeared to be having a wonderful time, rocking with mirth at some private joke. The basketball player seemed totally unaware of his presence.
The jovial little turtle suddenly jumped onto my shoulder and whispered, “I have about had it with this schmuck. Have you got a car here?”
I nodded, dumbfounded.
“Then let’s hit the street!” the turtle said.
We proceeded to Sunset Boulevard and hit “Le Dome.” Everyone there is so obsessed with themselves, they barely noticed my dining partner. We happily nattered on through the meal.
Having looked for something different for a long time, I’ve become a firm believer in the adage, “There are no accidents.” Turtlelini and I are good together.
© 2005 Arabella Bel-Mitchell. First published in Stories From The Heart, Vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
INTRODUCING MOTY ZAHAVI
Moty is a man of many talents. From his early days in Israel, to today, he has demonstrated a strong dose of courage, the curiosity and determination to explore new places, ideas and tasks. We have felt entertained, enthralled and frankly happy to be in his company in classes, and while taping our recent show. You might see Moty on TV -- he's currently booking both feature and commercial spots.
Below is one of Ina's favorites, the very first he undertook in our class, and, he said, the first story he ever wrote. Look for more in the upcoming Stories From The Heart, vol. 4, to be published as soon as we can get it out there.
MY FIRST MEMORY
By Moty Zahavi
The air was heavy and still. The sun beating down on the soft sand raising heat waves up through the cracks of my playpen. I was able to stand up holding on for dear life with both hands on the wooden rail of the playpen.
I had no idea how old I was. Not that it mattered since I did not comprehend anything at all. And other than involuntary sounds coming out of my mouth life was a mystery.
The playpen was bought used for my older brother Jake. It was now one of the many hand-me-down items I was to receive during my early years growing up. It was located just outside the small adobe house that was our home.
The child playing next to my playpen was my older brother Jake. Just a few feet from him on an old wooden chair, wearing his undershirt and shorts was my father. He was speaking in a loud voice that was getting louder as he was reprimanding my brother Jake. No other sound could be heard. The sound of his voice fascinated me, or did it frighten me? I was listening intently for a very short time while trying to mimic the sound and failing miserably.
Suddenly another sound emerged. I turned my head left and then right trying to locate the source. And there it was, my brother Jake was crying. At first in a low pitch that got louder without warning to a very loud wail as tears began running down his cheeks. I switched my attention to the new sound and tried to mimic it. Slowly and carrying a low pitch at first, then full throttle. To my surprise tears began to fall down my cheeks. Success, success.
With a puzzled look on his face my father stopped screaming.
The crying duet that stopped my father’s screaming.
We cried together a lot, my brother and I during my early years.
Crying was the first thing my brother taught me and I became very good at it. After a while I began to add crying renditions of my own.
I had a breakthrough. I began to understand!
It was my country Palestine.
It was my country Israel.
And I often cry.
© 2010 Moty Zahavi. To appear in Stories From The Heart, vol. 4. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
Below is one of Ina's favorites, the very first he undertook in our class, and, he said, the first story he ever wrote. Look for more in the upcoming Stories From The Heart, vol. 4, to be published as soon as we can get it out there.
MY FIRST MEMORY
By Moty Zahavi
The air was heavy and still. The sun beating down on the soft sand raising heat waves up through the cracks of my playpen. I was able to stand up holding on for dear life with both hands on the wooden rail of the playpen.
I had no idea how old I was. Not that it mattered since I did not comprehend anything at all. And other than involuntary sounds coming out of my mouth life was a mystery.
The playpen was bought used for my older brother Jake. It was now one of the many hand-me-down items I was to receive during my early years growing up. It was located just outside the small adobe house that was our home.
The child playing next to my playpen was my older brother Jake. Just a few feet from him on an old wooden chair, wearing his undershirt and shorts was my father. He was speaking in a loud voice that was getting louder as he was reprimanding my brother Jake. No other sound could be heard. The sound of his voice fascinated me, or did it frighten me? I was listening intently for a very short time while trying to mimic the sound and failing miserably.
Suddenly another sound emerged. I turned my head left and then right trying to locate the source. And there it was, my brother Jake was crying. At first in a low pitch that got louder without warning to a very loud wail as tears began running down his cheeks. I switched my attention to the new sound and tried to mimic it. Slowly and carrying a low pitch at first, then full throttle. To my surprise tears began to fall down my cheeks. Success, success.
With a puzzled look on his face my father stopped screaming.
The crying duet that stopped my father’s screaming.
We cried together a lot, my brother and I during my early years.
Crying was the first thing my brother taught me and I became very good at it. After a while I began to add crying renditions of my own.
I had a breakthrough. I began to understand!
It was my country Palestine.
It was my country Israel.
And I often cry.
© 2010 Moty Zahavi. To appear in Stories From The Heart, vol. 4. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
LOUIS WEINSTEIN AND LAUREL SHAPIRO ENGAGED IN A FAV ACTIVITY -- AN AUDITION
MEET LAUREL SHAPIRO, as in Ladies First!
Laurel won the coveted Coke Zero commercial spot, and has appeared in a gazillion commercials since. She's also growing chops -- and spots -- in features. And gets at least as much pleasure out of appearing in these as she does when she's writing. Her writing specialty? Fairy tales, when she isn't bumping someone off....
Here's one of our all-time favorites from Laurel, "The Falls," first published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 3.
Laurel won the coveted Coke Zero commercial spot, and has appeared in a gazillion commercials since. She's also growing chops -- and spots -- in features. And gets at least as much pleasure out of appearing in these as she does when she's writing. Her writing specialty? Fairy tales, when she isn't bumping someone off....
Here's one of our all-time favorites from Laurel, "The Falls," first published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 3.
THE FALLS
By Laurel Shapiro
Once upon a time, a long time ago in Fairytale Land, there was a village located on the edge of the falls. Their chief sources of income were tourists and bottled water from the Viagra Falls.
The women really hated the falls. Frisky men are good, but all the time? It was like something out of a slapstick comedy. Also the falls were very dangerous for the men. If a man fell in while getting a drink, he turned up the next day stiff as a board and just as dead. The women could drink the water, bathe in it, whatever, and it had no effect on them.
But the men, what to do about the men? Even the mist from the falls would invigorate them. The women set up a committee called WAF—Women Against the Falls. They plotted and schemed. The first thing they did was bottle as much water as they could and store it a hidden cave guarded by a dragon alarm system that only responded to women. Now when they solved the real problem, they would be able to dole out what was left as they saw fit. This gave them a heady feeling of accomplishment.
But they hadn’t fixed it yet. They decided to get some legal advice. After all, the government must be able to put a stop to this nonsense. They hired Boston Legal’s foremost attorney, Denny Crane. Denny Crane flew in with his entourage, studied the situation from every angle, visited with the powers that be and finally declared, "It behooves you to leave the falls alone because everyone in charge is a man and they like it just the way it is, and so do I." For payment Denny took a car full of Viagra back to Boston. He made his second million rebottling the elixir in very small containers, naming it Denny’s Viagra, and selling it at enormous prices.
Back at the falls, the women hatched a desperate scheme They would blow up the source of the water supply and go from there. The women hid, the mountain exploded and Hilary was elected President.
Too much? Ok, the women hid, the mountain exploded and a new falls emerged. It had a new name, Niagara Falls, and the men gradually forgot their halcyon days. Occasionally, when they were very good, the women would slip a little something extra into their water. It became a myth…Once upon a time, a long time ago a long time ago there was a falls called Viagara.
From Pawprints class prompt, "What a difference a 'V" makes..."
© 2006 Laurel Shapiro. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
By Laurel Shapiro
Once upon a time, a long time ago in Fairytale Land, there was a village located on the edge of the falls. Their chief sources of income were tourists and bottled water from the Viagra Falls.
The women really hated the falls. Frisky men are good, but all the time? It was like something out of a slapstick comedy. Also the falls were very dangerous for the men. If a man fell in while getting a drink, he turned up the next day stiff as a board and just as dead. The women could drink the water, bathe in it, whatever, and it had no effect on them.
But the men, what to do about the men? Even the mist from the falls would invigorate them. The women set up a committee called WAF—Women Against the Falls. They plotted and schemed. The first thing they did was bottle as much water as they could and store it a hidden cave guarded by a dragon alarm system that only responded to women. Now when they solved the real problem, they would be able to dole out what was left as they saw fit. This gave them a heady feeling of accomplishment.
But they hadn’t fixed it yet. They decided to get some legal advice. After all, the government must be able to put a stop to this nonsense. They hired Boston Legal’s foremost attorney, Denny Crane. Denny Crane flew in with his entourage, studied the situation from every angle, visited with the powers that be and finally declared, "It behooves you to leave the falls alone because everyone in charge is a man and they like it just the way it is, and so do I." For payment Denny took a car full of Viagra back to Boston. He made his second million rebottling the elixir in very small containers, naming it Denny’s Viagra, and selling it at enormous prices.
Back at the falls, the women hatched a desperate scheme They would blow up the source of the water supply and go from there. The women hid, the mountain exploded and Hilary was elected President.
Too much? Ok, the women hid, the mountain exploded and a new falls emerged. It had a new name, Niagara Falls, and the men gradually forgot their halcyon days. Occasionally, when they were very good, the women would slip a little something extra into their water. It became a myth…Once upon a time, a long time ago a long time ago there was a falls called Viagara.
From Pawprints class prompt, "What a difference a 'V" makes..."
© 2006 Laurel Shapiro. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
RE-MEET BIG LOUIS (WEINSTEIN)
Class clown now, as then, Big Louis never fails to make people laugh, whether in class, reading one of his stories, or just while having a bite to eat. We miss Louis. He had the nerve to move back to what is also Ina's hometown, Philadelphia a couple years back.
The man has worked in many fields, among them as a chef and taxi driver. He's retired now, spending free time doing a variety of acting gigs.
Enjoy his unique sense of humor in this little fable below.
AVOIDING GETTING YOUR JUST DESERTS
By Louis Weinstein
The man has worked in many fields, among them as a chef and taxi driver. He's retired now, spending free time doing a variety of acting gigs.
Enjoy his unique sense of humor in this little fable below.
AVOIDING GETTING YOUR JUST DESERTS
By Louis Weinstein
Taking a little time off from my archaeological studies for the museum back in Philadelphia, PA, I was about two hundred miles south of Cairo, deep into the Sahara Desert just west of Baris.
My, it was hot, but being dry, the air was much easier to bear when I was not in the direct sunlight than even 80 degrees humidity is back home. I was partaking of cold water, a continual and necessary act, when suddenly I saw something approaching me from the distance. As it got closer I couldn’t help but think, “My, oh my, what a beautiful being!” When close enough for me to hear without shouting, nonetheless out came the shout, “So it’s you, so it’s you, where the hell have you been?”
“What do you mean?” I replied. ” Who the hell are you?”
“Who am I, who am I? How soon they forget. Just ten months ago we were together and you know I got pregnant and you weren’t man enough to be here in time for the birth of a lovely female offspring?”
“It’s not mine, it’s not mine and I can prove it!”
“Liar, how can you prove that?”
“Well it’s really easy. I was in the U.S. at the time of your conception
and also, I haven’t slept with a camel for over two years.”
From a class prompt, “You are in a forest, and suddenly a being approaches. I don’t know what the being is. What happens?”
© 2010 Louis Weinstein. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 3. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
My, it was hot, but being dry, the air was much easier to bear when I was not in the direct sunlight than even 80 degrees humidity is back home. I was partaking of cold water, a continual and necessary act, when suddenly I saw something approaching me from the distance. As it got closer I couldn’t help but think, “My, oh my, what a beautiful being!” When close enough for me to hear without shouting, nonetheless out came the shout, “So it’s you, so it’s you, where the hell have you been?”
“What do you mean?” I replied. ” Who the hell are you?”
“Who am I, who am I? How soon they forget. Just ten months ago we were together and you know I got pregnant and you weren’t man enough to be here in time for the birth of a lovely female offspring?”
“It’s not mine, it’s not mine and I can prove it!”
“Liar, how can you prove that?”
“Well it’s really easy. I was in the U.S. at the time of your conception
and also, I haven’t slept with a camel for over two years.”
From a class prompt, “You are in a forest, and suddenly a being approaches. I don’t know what the being is. What happens?”
© 2010 Louis Weinstein. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 3. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
INTRODUCING JANE MADELINE
Jane is a gifted writer, who has turned her artistic hand to painting and crafts as well, fields in which she also excells. Her unusual writing voice will take you to a time back a bit ago, in the U.S., where childhood events led her and her friends down some interesting paths.
In the tale below, from Stories From The Heart, vol. 2, recounts a memory about her mother. Told as only Jane could write it.
MOMMY AND ME AND GORGEOUS GEORGE
By Jane Madeline
In the tale below, from Stories From The Heart, vol. 2, recounts a memory about her mother. Told as only Jane could write it.
MOMMY AND ME AND GORGEOUS GEORGE
By Jane Madeline
I don’t remember much of my mother when I was growing up. She was always busy, and she died shortly after my 11th birthday. But some of the special times I did have were because of the wrestling matches.
It must have been early 1950 that I finally got some quality time with Mommy. We had just gotten a small television set and Mommy found late-night wrestling. My mother was a no-nonsense German woman; so the fact that she could fall under the spell of Gorgeous George is hard to believe. George was beautiful, with his long blond curls (remember this was 1950), grand cape and strutting stance. He was gentle until he started to wrestle. And always in the wrestling if you mussed up his hair, he became furious.
Mommy and I would watch the small Emerson together, lying on the couch, with me fitting just behind her tucked up legs, and my arms around her waist, sort of spoon style. Sometimes I’d fall asleep that way and wake up when the TV screen test pattern came on. I think Mommy slept a bit sometimes, too.
The wrestler that I liked the best was Antonio La Rocca from Argentina with the flying kick. He was all muscle and feet and dark and handsome. I would feel happy, so safe spooned behind Mommy’s body, enjoying her warmth and the intimacy of having my mom all to myself, sharing her with no one except for Gorgeous George.
© 2005 Jane Madeline. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 2. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
It must have been early 1950 that I finally got some quality time with Mommy. We had just gotten a small television set and Mommy found late-night wrestling. My mother was a no-nonsense German woman; so the fact that she could fall under the spell of Gorgeous George is hard to believe. George was beautiful, with his long blond curls (remember this was 1950), grand cape and strutting stance. He was gentle until he started to wrestle. And always in the wrestling if you mussed up his hair, he became furious.
Mommy and I would watch the small Emerson together, lying on the couch, with me fitting just behind her tucked up legs, and my arms around her waist, sort of spoon style. Sometimes I’d fall asleep that way and wake up when the TV screen test pattern came on. I think Mommy slept a bit sometimes, too.
The wrestler that I liked the best was Antonio La Rocca from Argentina with the flying kick. He was all muscle and feet and dark and handsome. I would feel happy, so safe spooned behind Mommy’s body, enjoying her warmth and the intimacy of having my mom all to myself, sharing her with no one except for Gorgeous George.
© 2005 Jane Madeline. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 2. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
MEET THE LADY OF THE SALTY SAYINGS, ANNA HAGER
Anna has a sharp wit and keen eye, and suffers no fool lightly, in life or in her writing. You'll be reading her life story, which is breathtaking and rather harrowing at times, but as always laced richly with humor, And what you'll be reading here is a side of Anna not unlike the one she displays through her take on the Writing Life, on the mousepad on the left (which you can buy at our online shop), a kinder, gentler, though as often in her writings, slightly self-mocking tone.
My Mirror and Me
By
Anna Hager
My first encounter, I'm almost three
A chubby little girl smiles back at me
I hesitate as I head for the door
Then hurry on, there're worlds to explore
Later it's an open love affair
The face in the mirror with soft blonde hair
I love the child that smiles at me
I leave her there reluctantly
I'm sixteen now and need to know
Where did all that perfection go
Nose is too big, my eyes too small
My hair's a mess, I'm skinny and tall
Now the mirror's no longer my friend
It's too quick to tell me when
There's another flaw for me to see
My mirror no longer smiles at me
I'm older now and this mirror mine
Smiles and says. “You’re wasting time
Trust me my friend we both now know
That's as good as it gets ... go on and go.”
Anna
Feb. 25, 1994
A chubby little girl smiles back at me
I hesitate as I head for the door
Then hurry on, there're worlds to explore
Later it's an open love affair
The face in the mirror with soft blonde hair
I love the child that smiles at me
I leave her there reluctantly
I'm sixteen now and need to know
Where did all that perfection go
Nose is too big, my eyes too small
My hair's a mess, I'm skinny and tall
Now the mirror's no longer my friend
It's too quick to tell me when
There's another flaw for me to see
My mirror no longer smiles at me
I'm older now and this mirror mine
Smiles and says. “You’re wasting time
Trust me my friend we both now know
That's as good as it gets ... go on and go.”
Anna
Feb. 25, 1994
© 1994 Anna Hager. To be published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 4. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
ALLOW US TO INTRODUCE ELIZA CRAWFORD
Eliza Crawford, a resident of Los Angeles who attended our Grief Lifters™ as well as writing workshops, comes from an unusual background.
She was a British citizen, brought up in India during the time of the Raj. The stories she wrote are of times spent there, with her husband, who was an important official in the British Police, often assigned to supervise security for VIP's. This is one of those tales.
We are saddened at the loss of this incredible lady, but happy to have shared the time we did have. Look for more stories by Eliza in our first three volumes of Stories From The Heart..
GOD SAVED OUR LIVES - TWICE!
By Eliza Crawford
She was a British citizen, brought up in India during the time of the Raj. The stories she wrote are of times spent there, with her husband, who was an important official in the British Police, often assigned to supervise security for VIP's. This is one of those tales.
We are saddened at the loss of this incredible lady, but happy to have shared the time we did have. Look for more stories by Eliza in our first three volumes of Stories From The Heart..
GOD SAVED OUR LIVES - TWICE!
By Eliza Crawford
Most times when my husband investigated things, they were upper levels of crime. This time he had to investigate two foreign criminals who smuggled gold into the country, and silver out of the country. One was an American and one was French. They were very bold.
My husband had to go where the small plane on which the smugglers arrived had got stuck in the sand, abandoned country near the seashore; the only signs of life were a few dolphins dancing about in the sea.
My husband was good enough to take me and our daughter, who was 6 or 8, because I hinted strongly that I really wanted to go. I wanted to see this part of India. It was near the city of Janjira, where they grow nuts and there was a lot of smuggling going on. I couldn’t go alone or with our daughter so such places; we’d have been killed.
When we got there we had to sleep in the dark bungalow, where wild animals came at night. I was doing photography so I got up very early to capture the sunrise. Lo and behold, there were tents up and gypsies were walking about.
My husband got alarmed for us and sent a constable to us. He saw to it that we took an early exit from that place. So we left and we were driving slowly. My husband would not stop ordinarily, but this time we stopped so I could look at the sunrise. To do that, we had to turn the car in the opposite direction of where we’d been heading. I finished taking pictures, and my husband asked the jeep driver to turn back around and resume our journey.
During the rest of the trip we saw many villagers. Suddenly we came to a place where many of these people had sticks in their hands and were shouting something and banging. We all of a sudden realized the ground had shifted and there was a gap. If we had gone toward it we would have been killed. As the land shifted, it had created a big landslide. Thank god we came through alive – in both situations.
I learned later that the smugglers were deported. When my son was sent to America he was studying to be a doctor. The American smuggler and another man phoned him and invited him to lunch. Thank God my son had the brains to refuse.
© 2005 Eliza Crawford. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 2. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
My husband had to go where the small plane on which the smugglers arrived had got stuck in the sand, abandoned country near the seashore; the only signs of life were a few dolphins dancing about in the sea.
My husband was good enough to take me and our daughter, who was 6 or 8, because I hinted strongly that I really wanted to go. I wanted to see this part of India. It was near the city of Janjira, where they grow nuts and there was a lot of smuggling going on. I couldn’t go alone or with our daughter so such places; we’d have been killed.
When we got there we had to sleep in the dark bungalow, where wild animals came at night. I was doing photography so I got up very early to capture the sunrise. Lo and behold, there were tents up and gypsies were walking about.
My husband got alarmed for us and sent a constable to us. He saw to it that we took an early exit from that place. So we left and we were driving slowly. My husband would not stop ordinarily, but this time we stopped so I could look at the sunrise. To do that, we had to turn the car in the opposite direction of where we’d been heading. I finished taking pictures, and my husband asked the jeep driver to turn back around and resume our journey.
During the rest of the trip we saw many villagers. Suddenly we came to a place where many of these people had sticks in their hands and were shouting something and banging. We all of a sudden realized the ground had shifted and there was a gap. If we had gone toward it we would have been killed. As the land shifted, it had created a big landslide. Thank god we came through alive – in both situations.
I learned later that the smugglers were deported. When my son was sent to America he was studying to be a doctor. The American smuggler and another man phoned him and invited him to lunch. Thank God my son had the brains to refuse.
© 2005 Eliza Crawford. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 2. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
INTRODUCING HARRISON STEPHENS
Harrison has graced our stages on many occasions as a guitarist. Then, one day, he said he was inspired by one Ina's Weird Prompts, and out came this delightful piece. Hats off, Harrison! It's a gem. And thank you for allowing us to reprint it here. A bit about the gentleman...He graduated as a journalism major from Stanford University, and worked for several publications, with time off the U.S. Navy in WWII. Later, he had his own weekly for three years, then spent twenty years in various newsroom tasks at the daily Pomona Progress-Bulletin, the last as news editor. He spent his twilight career years working as director of information at the Claremont Colleges. Since retirement, Harrison’s written (on consignment) four non-fiction books, numerous articles, and in his “doddering years” writes columns for the Balboa Yacht Club and Stanford magazines, and plays gigs with a small jazz combo. He lives with wife Doris in Claremont, CA. The couple has two sons, two daughters, ten grandchildren, and, at last count, fourteen great-grandchildren.
BLACK CAT TAIL
By Harrison Stephens
BLACK CAT TAIL
By Harrison Stephens
The moment the black cat stepped in front of me I knew him. I can’t say that we were friends, but we’d met.
Identification was easy. He’d stand out in a police lineup of black cats. He had a torn ear and an unnatural kink in his tail, emblems, I suppose, of old battles won or lost. I’d seen him in my back yard from time to time. Maybe he’d once caught a mouse or a bird there and was prowling for more.
He was feral as a coyote and had the wary ways of all such animals. If I’d call “Kitty, kitty,” he’d stop at a safe distance and stare at me with his big yellow eyes. They seemed particularly bright and baleful against his ebony face, and he watched me with what I fancied to be a combination of apprehension and contempt. Sometimes he’d sit down insolently and tidy up some spot on his glossy black fur, emphasizing the contempt, I thought. But if I made a move toward him he was gone.
One day I looked out the kitchen window, saw him and, in a mischievous moment, crumbled some raw hamburger onto a saucer. I put it on the porch step and sat down in the swing to test his courage.
He crept toward the feast a few steps at a time, watching me intently. Finally he arrived at the dish. Scarcely taking those yellow eyes away from my face, he gobbled all the meat, backed away as if waiting for some sort of trap to spring and skittered out of the yard as though he’d stolen something. I didn’t see him again for a week or so.Now here he was in front of me, much closer than usual, and he had troubles. Only one yellow eye glowed in his face. The other was half closed. I sat down in the porch swing again to see what would happen. The cat suddenly bounded up on the porch and then onto the swing next to me, and I could diagnose the eye problem. It was a barley bristle—one of those pesky, one-way darts that catch in your socks when you cut across a weedy lot. In some way the bristle had gotten under the cat’s eyelid, pierced the lid and worked half its length through it, providing a constant brush against his eyeball. It must have been maddening.
I went in the house for tweezers and fingernail scissors. The cat hadn’t moved when I came out; I’d rather thought he wouldn’t. I put him on my lap, receiving no objection, grasped the bristle top with the tweezers, snipped off the lower prickles and gently pulled what was left on through. Still on my lap, the cat licked a paw, swiped it over the just-freed eye and blinked a couple of times to be sure he had two functioning orbs. Then he jumped off my lap and left the yard, but this time he didn’t skitter. He walked out majestically with that crooked tail high in the air.
I haven’t seen him again yet, but perhaps now I can consider that he and I are friends after all. Or maybe he perceives the episode as conning the enemy into doing his bidding. He is, after all, a cat.
© 2008 Harrison Stephens. To appear in Stories From The Heart, vol. 4. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
Identification was easy. He’d stand out in a police lineup of black cats. He had a torn ear and an unnatural kink in his tail, emblems, I suppose, of old battles won or lost. I’d seen him in my back yard from time to time. Maybe he’d once caught a mouse or a bird there and was prowling for more.
He was feral as a coyote and had the wary ways of all such animals. If I’d call “Kitty, kitty,” he’d stop at a safe distance and stare at me with his big yellow eyes. They seemed particularly bright and baleful against his ebony face, and he watched me with what I fancied to be a combination of apprehension and contempt. Sometimes he’d sit down insolently and tidy up some spot on his glossy black fur, emphasizing the contempt, I thought. But if I made a move toward him he was gone.
One day I looked out the kitchen window, saw him and, in a mischievous moment, crumbled some raw hamburger onto a saucer. I put it on the porch step and sat down in the swing to test his courage.
He crept toward the feast a few steps at a time, watching me intently. Finally he arrived at the dish. Scarcely taking those yellow eyes away from my face, he gobbled all the meat, backed away as if waiting for some sort of trap to spring and skittered out of the yard as though he’d stolen something. I didn’t see him again for a week or so.Now here he was in front of me, much closer than usual, and he had troubles. Only one yellow eye glowed in his face. The other was half closed. I sat down in the porch swing again to see what would happen. The cat suddenly bounded up on the porch and then onto the swing next to me, and I could diagnose the eye problem. It was a barley bristle—one of those pesky, one-way darts that catch in your socks when you cut across a weedy lot. In some way the bristle had gotten under the cat’s eyelid, pierced the lid and worked half its length through it, providing a constant brush against his eyeball. It must have been maddening.
I went in the house for tweezers and fingernail scissors. The cat hadn’t moved when I came out; I’d rather thought he wouldn’t. I put him on my lap, receiving no objection, grasped the bristle top with the tweezers, snipped off the lower prickles and gently pulled what was left on through. Still on my lap, the cat licked a paw, swiped it over the just-freed eye and blinked a couple of times to be sure he had two functioning orbs. Then he jumped off my lap and left the yard, but this time he didn’t skitter. He walked out majestically with that crooked tail high in the air.
I haven’t seen him again yet, but perhaps now I can consider that he and I are friends after all. Or maybe he perceives the episode as conning the enemy into doing his bidding. He is, after all, a cat.
© 2008 Harrison Stephens. To appear in Stories From The Heart, vol. 4. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
 We are sad to report that our talented, unique and uplifting friend, Earl Boretz, suffered a fatal heart attack just before Thanksgiving several years ago. His four grown children, Jeanine, Lisa, Mike and Mitchell, told Ina they were surprised to learn some of the things he wrote about his feelings, and pleased he had an opportunity to create stories that please so many. Us, too! |
INTRODUCING EARL BORETZEarl had more of a penchant for puns than I do, and that's saying something. Have fun as you read the first of his MoTails series below -- entertaining adventures of a pussycat and scads of his wacky siblings.
You'll also see Earl's thoughtful side, as you read the first in a series of vignettes about people in his life, as an extension of our Grief Lifters Un-Workshops. Enjoy, and look for more of his works in the Stories From The Heart books. MEMORIES By Earl Boretz |
My sister made me feel good when I was with her. She was very down-to-earth, and I had no trouble understanding her; there was no confusion. Her personality was vibrant, alive and animated, and those traits became mine when I was with her.
Anyhow, I always felt cheated because she had a sister but I had no brother. One day she met a wonderful guy and they married. Lo and behold, I had a loving, caring big brother. There was nothing this guy couldn’t or wouldn’t do for me. He got me my first car. And in 1946, I saw a cartoon, “Motor Mania.” In that cartoon, Goofy has a car with a gun sight to aim at pedestrians. I really wanted a sight like that on my car. Not only did he get it for me, he put it on the car so it couldn’t be stolen. Everybody noticed my car.
All my life I wanted an electric train, but my parents thought I was too young. He got me an electric train with extra track, and two bridges that lit up.
The love and respect I had for him I have today. He is the only person I feel indebted to, to this day. He lives in northern San Diego, and we still visit and talk, and if I need anything he’s like Santa Claus. He and my sister are two of the best memories in my life.
© 2004 Earl Boretz. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's and family's permission.
Anyhow, I always felt cheated because she had a sister but I had no brother. One day she met a wonderful guy and they married. Lo and behold, I had a loving, caring big brother. There was nothing this guy couldn’t or wouldn’t do for me. He got me my first car. And in 1946, I saw a cartoon, “Motor Mania.” In that cartoon, Goofy has a car with a gun sight to aim at pedestrians. I really wanted a sight like that on my car. Not only did he get it for me, he put it on the car so it couldn’t be stolen. Everybody noticed my car.
All my life I wanted an electric train, but my parents thought I was too young. He got me an electric train with extra track, and two bridges that lit up.
The love and respect I had for him I have today. He is the only person I feel indebted to, to this day. He lives in northern San Diego, and we still visit and talk, and if I need anything he’s like Santa Claus. He and my sister are two of the best memories in my life.
© 2004 Earl Boretz. First published in Stories From The Heart, vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's and family's permission.
MoTails #2: THE CANDIDATE
By Earl Boretz
By Earl Boretz
There are those rare occasions when a window of opportunity opens for a short time. So it is with Mo. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger, he, too, is on the Governor’s recall ballot. The reality of this election is it doesn’t take a lot of votes to get elected. So Mo decided to throw his litter box into the race and get his fifteen minutes of fame. However, unlike Arnold, Mo has expressed definite issues. Which he’ll be unveiling for the electorate to ponder after the debates.
Last week, Mo’s sister decided to bask in her brother’s glory. She invited him to a fund raiser at a popular night club. Mo hadn’t seen his sister for a long period of time, but wasn’t going to turn down any financial assistance. Though he had second thoughts about the offer, the time and date were set. That’s all Mo had to know. He figured, what did he have to lose.
He arrived early, and almost immediately had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he met his sister, her dress and make-up left nothing to the imagination as to her profession. She gave him her card; she ran a cat house. In short order his sister’s employees appeared. There was little doubt as to how she would fill his coffers. Mo was flabbergasted. But those invited to contribute were willing to make the sacrifice.
When the festivities concluded, Mo let his sis know in no uncertain terms this was the end of their relationship. Mo really got mad at his sister in that night club. His final words to her were, “Hasta la vista, Baby!”
© 2004 Earl Boretz. First published in Stories From The Heart, Vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's and family's permission.
Last week, Mo’s sister decided to bask in her brother’s glory. She invited him to a fund raiser at a popular night club. Mo hadn’t seen his sister for a long period of time, but wasn’t going to turn down any financial assistance. Though he had second thoughts about the offer, the time and date were set. That’s all Mo had to know. He figured, what did he have to lose.
He arrived early, and almost immediately had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he met his sister, her dress and make-up left nothing to the imagination as to her profession. She gave him her card; she ran a cat house. In short order his sister’s employees appeared. There was little doubt as to how she would fill his coffers. Mo was flabbergasted. But those invited to contribute were willing to make the sacrifice.
When the festivities concluded, Mo let his sis know in no uncertain terms this was the end of their relationship. Mo really got mad at his sister in that night club. His final words to her were, “Hasta la vista, Baby!”
© 2004 Earl Boretz. First published in Stories From The Heart, Vol. 1. Reprinted here with the author's and family's permission.
Keep coming back. We'll be posting more from authors Kay Roberts, Laurel Shapiro, Moty Zahavi, Jane Madeline, Louis Weinstein, Andre van Zijl, and many more. If you'd like sneak peeks, you'll find selections from the work of these talented and diverse authors' in our books. Click here to find out more.
