Short Story:
A friend challenged me to write a story about a dog named Harley, so I had to take up the challenge. The setting came to me right away followed by the two characters, a father and his young son. The weather also presented itself as a compelling third "character". The pup eased into the story as it developed. - bf
-- published in O.Henry magazine, December 2017
-- published in O.Henry magazine, December 2017
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It was one of those nights. The wind was prowling around outside, and Jack’s father wasn’t home yet. A storm was coming, and he would be on his way from work. As soon as the dark crept up the mountain and chased the final pale shards of December sunlight from their tin roof, Jack listened for the beat-up Ford to come chugging up the hill, the truck they used for everything from hard work to Sunday-best. But tonight, its familiar note would be drowned by the wind. So, Jack sat with his back to the sparse rooms of their cabin, looking out the window and down the road as the first insistent raindrops hammered the tin roof like impatient fingers tapping on a steel drum. |
Jake guided his old pickup along the familiar, but tricky dirt road. He had to be careful not to let his mind wander. The storm’s tempo was increasing, and the road had a washboard surface cut by deep, muddy ditches rimmed with early flecks of ice on both sides, either of which could rear up and bite him. Even so, as the truck crawled its way toward home, the man couldn’t help but think about his boy. Jack was an only child and becoming more of a handful at fourteen than Jake had anticipated. Since his mother’s death two years ago, on the cusp of Christmas, it was almost all Jake alone could do to keep up with him. There were impulses driving Jack that Jake didn’t understand. The son was a dreamer, at least that’s what other folks said, and Jake was anything but. Black was black and white was white--that was that; there was nothing in between. Life was simple: you either were or you weren’t, you did or you didn’t. Jack, however, seemed to slip from one dream to another, forever held captive by the next possibility. Anything could happen by Jack’s way of reasoning; all you had to do was think it and it was likely to come about ...
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Jake's Mountain copyright 2017 by Brian E. Faulkner. All rights reserved.
Children's Story #1: 600 Squirrels
The idea for this story came unexpectedly, as sometimes happens in life. Out of the blue, my then five-year-old grandson Brian (same name as me) called. "Grandpa," he said in his matter-of-fact way, "there are 600 squirrels on your roof!" It was such an absurd idea that it appealed to me right away, and a rather silly story was born--one that even adults seem to enjoy.
The phone rang as my dad sat in his recliner reading a magazine about bowling, a sport that he dearly loved, even though Mom said bowling wasn’t a sport at all but a habit. The phone rang and rang, but Dad was so absorbed by his bowling article that he didn’t want to answer it.
My name is Stanley, and this is not so much my story but my dad’s story and how he got pranked by a flock of squirrels. The story begins with that jangling phone that he tried his best to ignore. After more than a dozen rings, he finally picked it up in the hand that wasn’t holding the bowling magazine and said, “Hello?” (His answer sounded like a question because he didn’t know who was calling.)
My name is Stanley, and this is not so much my story but my dad’s story and how he got pranked by a flock of squirrels. The story begins with that jangling phone that he tried his best to ignore. After more than a dozen rings, he finally picked it up in the hand that wasn’t holding the bowling magazine and said, “Hello?” (His answer sounded like a question because he didn’t know who was calling.)
“There are 600 squirrels on your rooftop!” a voice said.
Dad thought about this for a few seconds and said, “I don’t think so,” after which he ended the call Less than a minute later, the phone rang again, and because hearing a phone ring twice in a row was a considerable curiosity, got my immediate attention. He tried his best to pay it no mind but soon got tired of hearing the thing and picked it up ...
Dad thought about this for a few seconds and said, “I don’t think so,” after which he ended the call Less than a minute later, the phone rang again, and because hearing a phone ring twice in a row was a considerable curiosity, got my immediate attention. He tried his best to pay it no mind but soon got tired of hearing the thing and picked it up ...
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600 Squirrels copyright 2021 by Brian E. Faulkner. All rights reserved.
Children's Story #2: How Orville Learned to Love Snow Angels
The idea for this story just floated into my mind, like so many do. I could easily picture this kid because I was a lot like him. I didn't like snow all that much and got cold easily--even during fun snow stuff. Like me, we all likely can identify with our young hero in another way: his reluctance to be made to do something he dislikes and, in Orville's case, an uncertain relationship with girls. -bf
It was Saturday morning and time for Orville to get up. He jumped out of bed, because he did not have to go to school. It was a day to play, and even though it was wintertime, Orville was looking forward to riding his bike up and down the sidewalk in front of his house.
But when he opened the curtain to look outside, Orville got the surprise of his life. It had snowed and snowed and snowed all night long and covered the sidewalk in white. Snow already was a foot deep on the porch and now was inching its way up their front door where the wind blew tiny frozen bits of it through the mail slot.
But when he opened the curtain to look outside, Orville got the surprise of his life. It had snowed and snowed and snowed all night long and covered the sidewalk in white. Snow already was a foot deep on the porch and now was inching its way up their front door where the wind blew tiny frozen bits of it through the mail slot.
He had only been downstairs a minute when Orville heard his mother calling.
“Time to go out and play in the snow!” she said, her voice floating up from the cellar where she was getting Orville’s heavy pants, jacket and boots ready. These were precisely the words he DID NOT want to hear, because Orville hated everything about snow and did not want to go out in it.
“It’s a good day to make snow angels,” his mother’s voice chimed.
Ugh. Orville hated making snow angels even more than he hated snow. He even hated thinking about making snow angels, especially how the snow snuck down his neck and worked its way up his arms and legs when he made angel wings. No matter how many layers of clothing his mother dressed him in for the battle against winter, Orville always ended up cold and wet and miserable. Which is why he hated any and everything about snow angels ...
“Time to go out and play in the snow!” she said, her voice floating up from the cellar where she was getting Orville’s heavy pants, jacket and boots ready. These were precisely the words he DID NOT want to hear, because Orville hated everything about snow and did not want to go out in it.
“It’s a good day to make snow angels,” his mother’s voice chimed.
Ugh. Orville hated making snow angels even more than he hated snow. He even hated thinking about making snow angels, especially how the snow snuck down his neck and worked its way up his arms and legs when he made angel wings. No matter how many layers of clothing his mother dressed him in for the battle against winter, Orville always ended up cold and wet and miserable. Which is why he hated any and everything about snow angels ...
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How Orville Learned to Love Snow Angels Copyright 2019 by Brian E. Faulkner. All rights reserved.