Mario S. Fedele
Mario's Pad Books and Art Exercise your mind!
Contents
"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1"
"Fear-o-lots" - Chapter 1 - The Mission
"A Sickness by Any Other Name" - Chapter 1 - Leonov Leninski
"Stories for a Stormy Night II"
"Bugs" - Chapter 1 - Mark Simpson
"Runaway" - Chatper 1 - The Decision
Let there be light - A short story
If only - A poem
A wayward waif - A poem
"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1" is intended for Young Adults.
Sample chapters:
Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1
Book 1
The Fear-o-Lots
1 The Mission
There was once a kingdom where a benevolent king ruled. His name was King Kindly. He was especially committed to helping those in need and to see to that had formed the Circle of Exalted Knights. Of all its members, though, a certain threesome stood apart as the least likely of heroes.
On appearance alone, they had obvious shortcomings. Though it was in emotional fortitude they were lacking most. For they were a highly insecure and fearful lot, rendering them ill-equipped for deeds of daring or acts of valour. Because of that, they DREADED going on missions. For one thing, plagued by self-doubt, they always feared they’d fail. And for another, they’d always fret about this or that going wrong and everything else in between. But worst of all, their greatest fear was that serious harm might actually come their way.
Stories of the trios’ fearful disposition and the ensuing problems it posed whilst on missions abounded. Over time, in the retelling of these accounts, some assigned a collective name to the group to allow for easy reference. It began with ‘The Fearful Ones,’ then moved on to ‘The Fearlings,’ and changed again to ‘The Fear-e-Lads.’ There were other proposals along the way. Some were short lived. Others stuck for much longer. But eventually the name everyone agreed upon as the most fitting for the group was ‘The Fear-o-Lots.’
One day, the king called for them, “Page!” he said. “Get me The Fear-o-Lots—Scaredy Pants, Yellow Belly, and Shadow Boxer.”
It seemed that King Kindly had a mission for them.
The page found them sleeping tucked neath their beds, lest the fire-dragon swoop down and steal them away.
The page roused them from their sleep and indicated, “The king wants you guys.” The three, realizing what this meant, shivered partly at the thought of a mission and partly from the chill in the air. But their duty was to obey, and they followed the page back to the king.
“You c-c-called for us, y-your highness?” they stuttered in unison.
“Yes, fellows. I’ve asked you here for something very important. Now I know how much you hate to go on missions. But I must have your help on this one.” They cringed at the words. “It seems,” the king continued, “there’s a young man in need of help. He is in dire conflict with his parents and himself, and is practically at war with the world. In short, he gets along with no one. So special intervention is called for. And this is where you guys come in.”
“But we have other things to do!” they protested in unison— Like staying away from danger and harm, they thought to themselves. “So do we really have to help?” they pleaded. Having gone through such scenes many times before, and knowing the script full well, they knew their plea was all in vain.
“Yes, fellows. I’m afraid so,” responded the king, holding firm. “You know that as members of the Exalted Knights you are committed to doing good. If ever there was a case that called for that, this is it,” he emphasized.
“But, your highness, what if we should get hurt? What if we should fail?” continued the trio in their fruitless protest.
“Don’t worry. You fellows will do fine,” the king assured them, as he always did. “I suggest you start out tomorrow. The chief minister will give you all the details. Now I must go!”
At this point, Scaredy Pants wondered just where it was the king went when he spoke those words prior to each of their missions. Though his task really was not to question, but rather to act and obey.
He was a funny looking character whose name almost said it all. In fact, he was an actual pair of trousers into which the breath of life had been conjured by the court magician, Wizzard. For added effect, eyes, a nose, and mouth had been included as well. The eyes were situated in the upper portion of his suspenders, which also served as arms, making for a unique arrangement. That is to say, by extending the very tip of one of these extremities around corners, he had the uncanny ability to see beyond obstacles without himself being seen. It was somewhat like having a periscope always at the ready! He had also long legs, which made him highly adept for great speeds. Luckily, that was an added bonus as he needed such quick flight for safe retreats from danger. You see, Wizzard had failed or rather had overlooked to provide Scaredy and his friends with any semblance of courage or bravery. And that made them the insecure and fearful lot they were.
Scaredy turned to Yellow Belly and said with a note of resignation, “I guess we’re doomed to the mission. Aren’t we?”
“You know we are,” replied Yellow in a similar tone, he too sharing the same fears to this mission as Scaredy. But that was as far as any likeness went.
In physical form, Yellow was totally different. You could say he was rather on the roundish side. He wore a tiny head attached to a short, thin neck. For arms, he had what appeared to be two stick-like forms. His feet were short and stubby, and his body was covered in fur. What really set him off from Scaredy, though, was his ability for retraction. With that, his outer features could be fully drawn in, much like a turtle’s. So when threatened, this more than made up for his lack of courage—he would simply pop his appendages in and bounce away like his life depended on it. (For it probably did.) At such times, he would appear very much like a yellowish, fluffy, and pudgy fuzz ball.
In fact, that is what he’d originally been before Wizzard had instilled life into that old beat-up ball the night of the Royal Grand Ball. Wizzard had done it to amuse the guests, but more so to make a fitting contribution to the night’s festivities. He had wanted a GRAND performance to mark the occasion, one that would impress and be long remembered. To that end, he’d decided on a TRIPLE CONJURING, a task deemed so difficult it was considered nigh impossible. Other wizards knew well enough to shy away from it, daring not try their hand at the feat. Wizzard, however, having partaken freely of the wines that readily flowed that evening, had felt all-powerful. Drawing on every ounce of his being (there being much to draw on from his hefty size), the old man had pulled off the triple conjuring without a hitch. The results of his herculean effort had been Scaredy, Yellow, and the other in the trio, Shadow Boxer.
This final character had been a creation of sheer genius on Wizzard’s part. With his powers ebbing and desperate to complete his triple conjuring, he’d had the brilliant inspiration to fashion Shadow out of NOTHING! That being the case, this last creation had the strange quality of having no true form. Rather, he had a transparent appearance and, at will, could assume the qualities of whichever object he touched. This gave him a strong identity crisis at times since he had great difficulty in understanding who or what he actually was. However, his being a ‘nothing’ did have its advantages. For instance, by assuming whatever shape he wished, he was easily camouflaged. That, in turn, afforded him a quick out from dangerous or scary situations, which more than made up for his fearful nature.
After expressing his farewells and his hopes for a speedy mission, the king left the throne.
The three loyal subjects turned toward the chief minister, visibly shaken. Noticing this, the minister offered them a pep talk, “Fellows, I know you’re nervous! It’s understandable. I’m also aware of your aversion to going on missions. But the king really needs your help on this one. Since all the other knights are out on missions, you three are the only ones left for the king to count on. And you wouldn’t want to let him down now would you?”
Being loyal subjects, how else could they respond? Their answer was a firm, “No!”
“Well good,” said the minister, pleased that his talk had earned their cooperation. “Now that that’s settled, we can get down to business!” Ruffling through some papers, he began, “Fellows, it seems that we have a youngster who is in great trouble. His name is Jacob. He is twelve years old and lives in the Flatlands. He is at that age when he is no longer a child, nor yet a grown-up. So, he is extremely confused. Furthermore, and this is the scariest part, his body is producing changes that he cannot understand or cope with. Therefore, to him, his life seems such a shambles that he is REBELLING against himself and everything else around him.
“You fellows must guide him through these difficult times and steer him back on track. But I must warn you,” and here the Minister shook his finger at them to emphasize his point, “this won’t be easy as his feelings are very strong. And THAT right now is about all he has to go on.
“Good luck, and be careful!” With that said, the Minister left.
The thought of a difficult mission frightened the trio. But they knew they had no choice. They straightaway headed to their quarters and packed their bags (each making sure to include their favourite stuffed animal). Then, after loading their horses, they set out for the Flatlands.
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*****
This novella contains mature subject matter!
Book 2
A Sickness by Any Other Name
1 Leonov Leninski
Leonov Leninski, the son of immigrant Hungarians, preferred to be known as Lenny Lenin, now that he was a fullfledged citizen of America. By outward appearance, he seemed twentyish or so. His hair was long and blond, his features finely chiselled. He bore himself with such aplomb and his attire was so impeccable that one could easily take him for an aristocrat (not that he was one, mind you).
Lenny was putting the finishing touches on his expansive mane as he prepared to go out. The sun was beginning to set, and it would soon be time to make his rounds.
Finally, with the last of the day’s rays disappearing, he fussed over his hair once more (not that it needed further sprucing), grabbed his cape and exited his solitary house by the edge of the cemetery.
“Bye mom,” he yelled, before shutting the door. “Don’t wait up for me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“You watch yourself, Len!” yelled back his mom.
Appreciating his vehicle’s power, Lenny drove his red corvette hard. It was a machine and as such was meant to serve, which it did unfailingly. He could have employed other means of travel to reach his destination. But he much preferred his “Slickster” (as he liked to call his vehicle), since it was good and handy, and would better suit his needs for later on.
Soon Lenny reached the new place he’d been itching to check out. It was called “The Mad House.” The name had intrigued him the moment it’d caught his eye, and he just had to know if the establishment lived up to it.
He entered its doors and strode across the floor like he owned the air around him.
Every head turned to follow his form. The men eyed the new competitor and woefully conceded they were nowhere in his league (nor even quite the same ballpark, for that matter). The women, on their part, were in total awe and kept their eyes riveted to his every move as he continued across the room.
Lenny proceeded to the bar. Occupying a stool, he drew the barkeep’s attention and said, “I’ll have a seltzer, please.”
Having come from such an ideal specimen, no one questioned or laughed at the order. Though had it originated from a lesser being, the person would have likely been ridiculed clear to the other end of town.
Turning himself around, Lenny slowly panned the crowd. He noted couples cutting a mean jig on the dance floor. A few had climbed onto tables and were swinging up a storm. Others were off to the side, having heated discussions; some were even arguing boisterously, not caring who might overhear. Further down the room, a food fight had broken out with more and more people joining in the fray.
It was a real mad house! So the establishment most assuredly bore up to its name, Lenny determined.
Unfortunately, there was no one that particularly caught his interest. But no matter! The night was still young and he was certain a female to his liking would show up.
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*****
"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 2" is intended for Young Adults!
Sample Chapters:
Stories for a Stormy Night II
Book 1
Bugs
1 MARK SIMPSON
Mark Simpson walked into his room, sidestepped his hockey equipment, jumped over a pile of clothes, and threw himself on an empty spot of the bed.
Mark was an eight year old who had learned to do the least of what was required of him. As his room was his own private domain, he did nothing there but loaf, eat, and sleep. Compared to a pig sty, one could say that the latter was tidier and cleaner.
The only time Mark ever made an effort at housekeeping was when he needed clean clothes. Only then would he stoop to picking up his dungy garments and bring them to the hamper.
On such occasions, his mom usually had cause for complaint. "Mark!" she'd say, "you've only brought me one of your blue socks. And I've got three that are different shades of red. So don't blame me if you won't have matching pairs."
Mark would just shrug off such comments. He had more important things to consider. Like getting the last few cards he needed to complete his 1989 hockey collection. Like finding out how Spiderman made out on his latest adventure. Like learning to hit harder at baseball so he could impress his dad whom he adored. Like thinking of how to avoid the street bully, who was a girl for heaven sakes. Like finding a way to dump his paper route so that he would have more time to loaf around and play with his friend Harold; and to boot, trying to get an allowance instead.
And so on, and so on!
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*****
Book 2
Runaway
1 The Decision
The Johnsons were an industrious couple, both strong subscribers to the ethic that the more one achieved the better off one would be. They worked long hours and devoted heart and soul to their chosen fields, leaving them little time for much of anything else. Their participation, therefore, in family functions was severely compromised. So to make amends on it, they'd always allowed their only son, Billy, whatever he wished in the belief this was enough to guarantee his well-being.
But proving the cliche money isn't everything, the eleven year old boy was utterly miserable. With his parents rarely home, he felt like an orphan, alone and sorely starved for emotional nurture. Worse, and only compounding the issue, he sustained serious deprivation in a host of other needs, such as help with homework, being enrolled in minor league sports, going to amusement parks, or just hanging out as a family for some old fashion fun and perchance garnering a few Kodak moments in the process. But there was simply none of that! Instead, his father's time was taken up with chairing the board, wheeling and dealing, being on the road, and overseeing countless other duties too numerous to outline; while time on his mother's part was doled out to church activities, socials, various club groups, and charities. Consequently, having parents who were such diehard workaholics (thus making them the home truants they were), Billy customarily found himself in the care of household staff, sitters, or relatives--a nasty predicament he loathed just as much, if not more, as the parental neglect he had to endure.
After contemplating his dismal plight long and hard and seeing no way out, Billy had decided to run away in a desperate bid for excitement and adventure. Under cloak-and-dagger, he'd made all his plans and arrangements, guarding carefully to mask his tracks and not tip his hand. It left him feeling like an undercover cop or secret agent even, and the accompanying rush of adrenaline had been a welcome boost to his sagging spirits.
It was fast approaching mid December and, at last, Billy was set to go! Excitement coursed his veins. So intense was the feeling, he didn't care the slightest that, in leaving now, he'd miss out on all the usual and meaningless presents his parents would offer up for Christmas.
Billy had written a good-bye note, which he'd attached to the fridge.
It stated, GOOD-BYE. I'M RUNNING AWAY.
DON'T TRY TO FOLLOW.
BILLY
He hadn't included the word "love" in his note because he wasn't sure if he loved his parents. This was not to mean they were bad or anything, but just that due to their chronic absence, he'd never had the chance to foster a close or intimate relation with them.
Being of diminutive stature, Billy had packed light to make the carrying of his suitcase less of a burden. Besides, most of what he'd need, which was his winter apparel, he was already wearing. As for cash, he'd been withdrawing money from his account a little at a time to not arouse suspicion and had even left some behind to further mask his intent. When he'd totalled all his withdrawals, he had the grand sum of $865 and change.
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*****
This short story won first prize in a contest for the 125 Centennial Celebrations. It was then adapted into a play and performed as part of the festivities.
LET THERE BE LIGHT
Angus McFarlane was a good farmer. From dawn till dusk, he worked the fields, cared for his livestock, and made repairs without ever a complaint. At day's end, he'd head for the pub and put as much gusto into his drinking as he did his farming, perhaps even more so.
To-night was no exception. As Angus chatted and sipped suds with his friend Charlie, talk invariably turned to their everyday struggles.
"One of my darn cows," Angus was saying, "went and got herself stuck in that mud hole again. Had to push and pull so hard that I kept slippin' and slidin'. By the time I had her out, I was covered from head to foot in that goo!"
Charlie gave a little chuckle at that, picturing the sorry sight Angus must have been.
"I wasted so much time with that fool cow," Angus went on, "that I had no time to head home for changin'. Jus' kept on workin'.
"When I did get home, it was even worse! The wife took one look at my clothes and had a ruddy fit, she did. Kept rantin' and ravin' that I ought to take more care in my work, and that she wasn't goin' to be a slave to her washin'.
"Jus' couldn't wait to get out to the pub to-night! Know what I mean?"
Taking Charlie's nod for a 'yes', Angus rambled on, as he often did after he'd had a difficult day or trying time. To-night he kept on and on about everything. Luckily though, Charlie was the perfect listener who knew just the right moments when to nod, shrug, or laugh to punctuate his friend's remarks.
Soon, like every other night, the pub owner called, "Time gentlemen, please!"
Angus, who always begrudged having to go, protested, slurring his speech, "Aaaaa-h, do w-eee ha to?"
The pub owner held his ground and pushed Angus out the door.
Angus teeterd up Tower guided by the lamp light outside the pub. But as he rounded the corner on St. Andrew, he was met by a wall of pitch dark. Not being able to see where he was going, he kept stepping into animal droppings and, with his balance not being at it's best, he kept flying to the ground. Cursing and swearing, he'd try to get up only to slip again. This slowed him terribly. But somehow, he managed to make it home.
His wife, Annie, was waiting for him at the front entrance. "Well, it's about time you found your way home, Angus Mcfarlane!!
"What's that you're smellin' of?"
"Ju-sss hada bit t-ooo drink, love!"
"Not that, you fool! You smell like a filthy animal. Well if you smell of one, you can be like one. Off to the barn with you!!"
As soon as Angus reached the barn, he found a spot to lay in. Being totally worn out from his stuggle to get home, he fell asleep immediately.
As he slept, the very cow he'd helped out of the mud that morning came over to his reclined form. Wether it was to express her gratitude for having saved her or whether she merely liked him, she licked his face several times.
Angus slept so soundly that he was not roused by the affectionate display. In fact, such was the depth of his sleep that other animal antics were not enough to stir him either. Thus, he slept through baby lambs bleating in his ear, playful piglets pulling at his socks, and even crazed chickens running wild and pecking at his hair.
In the morning, when Angus woke, he was surprised to find himself in the barn as he couldn't recall anything from the previous night. He pulled bits of straw from his hair and brushed at strands clinging to his clothes. As he did so, he was shocked at how filthy he looked and how badly he smelled.
Flies were buzzing around him like buzzers circling their prey. He swatted at them. But they would retreat only long enough to regroup and then come back swarming. It made it seem that a dark cloud were shifting back and forth over him and as he head for the house to wash and change, the mass moved with him.
When Angus got to the house, Annie was at the doorsteps to intercede him again. Surprised to see her there, he asked, "Annie dear, I did my sleepin' in the barn. Would you know anythin' about that?"
"I sure do, you sot! You came home lookin' and smellin' like you did. So I sent you there! And don't you dearie me!"
As Angus tried to step past her, she snarled, "And where do you think you're goin'?"
"I'm goin' in to wash and change!"
"Angus McFarlane, if you think you're settin' foot in this house smellin' like you do and with those flies hangin' about you, you've less brains than I thought. You go clean yourself off in the horse trough and then I'll consider lettin' you in!"
Angus did not get annoyed at his wife for feeling the way she did. She had every right to those feelings. Angus did not blame his plight on his drinking. He felt he deserved it after a hard day's work. What he saw as the root of the problem was lighting on St. Andrew, or rather, lack of it.
This realization riled him so that he resolved to act. He reasoned that since he was a law-abiding, tax-paying citizen, he ought to have a say regarding the atrocious lighting conditions on St. Andrew! So he decided on the spot to go and visit town council that very day. In fact, to make his point more poignantly he was going in the way he was!!
That morning, when council members saw Angus walk through the chamber door, they raised their brows, shook their heads, and uttered expressions of disbelief. The reaction was more than Angus had hoped for, and it pleased him greatly. He approached the podium with flies swirling about him madly and began, "Gentlemen, we all know each other. So no introductions are necessary! You all know I have the largest farm in the area and if pigs are any indication of a man's worth, then I'd say I'm worth quite a bit. So I oughta have some say in the goin' ons of these here chambers!"
As Angus spoke, he swatted at the more aggressive flies without ever once breaking stride in his presentation.
"What I'm here to complain about is the lack of lightin' on St. Andrew. I feel this is interferin' with my freedom and liberty to walk about at night and see where I'm goin', and not hafta worry about steppin' on dung and such!"
By now, councillors were getting the drift of Angus' message quite strongly both in the vocal and olfactory sense.
Angus continued, "I don't like meddlin' in politics. But when somethin' touches matters close to my heart, I'm bound to act.
"I'm a tellin' you, if I'm not heard and nothin' is done about my complaint, I'll be withholdin' my propery taxes. You can bet on that!"
Having had his say, Angus left, flies and all, without waiting for the reply. If he had, he would have learned that a proposal regarding lighting on St. Andrew was already before council and WAS the next item on the agenda. Impassioned by Angus' plea, the members tackled the matter in earnest. The motion to put up lighting on St. Andrew passed and would be implemented forthwith.
It had been a month since Angus had appeared before council. As he had seen no action on his request, he was peparing for another visit.
The day he chose to go in was warm and bright. As he walked along St. Andrew, he noticed the town's P.U.C. working in the area. Out of curiosity, Angus approached and enquired, "Mornin' gentlemen! Doin' some work, are ya?"
"Yes, we are," replied the foreman. "Puttin' in eight new arc lamps!"
When Angus heard this, he almost dropped. "You don't say!" he said. His visit to council HAD paid off, it seemed! Who would have believed it?
Feeling proud of his achievement, Angus turned and started for home with his head held high. In doing so, he failed to see what lay ahead. His foot landed on something soft and squishy and, giving out on him, he dropped like lead. Angus found himself lying on a pile of fresh cow dung! He was about to curse and swear when the thought of his success lightened his mood and he laughed it off.
When he got home, he sneaked in to wash and change before his wife got wind of him. Only after well sprucing up did he dare seek her out. Then on finding her, he bragged about what he'd accomplished in hope that for once she'd appreciate what he'd done.
But, she responded in a harsh voice that displayed annoyance, "Angus, stop wastin' your time on matters you have no business in. There's more important things need doin'. Like your chores, for instance! Now, off with you!"
Annie just couldn't see what the fuss over lights on St. Andrew was. What use were they? No SANE person in their right mind should ever be out after dark anyway!!
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*****
A Poem
If only
Dear son:
I just wanted you to know
I loved you.
Oh, IF ONLY I'd said that
while you
were still alive!
I may not have expressed my love
the way
YOU
wanted me to.
But love you I did!
I use to be so proud of you at times,
that I would almost burst.
Like the time you came home
with straight "A's."
I was truly beaming inside!
Or like the time you offered
your favourite toy
to comfort
your younger brother.
I could have hugged you then!
IF ONLY I had.
But I couldn't.
It WAS NOT MY WAY!
For I'd been taught
showing one's emotions
was a sign of weakness.
So, by holding back,
I felt I was being strong.
Though I realize NOW that was UTTER nonsense!
I have cried
every
day
since your sudden demise.
IF ONLY my well of emotions
could
bring you back
again.
How I'd embrace
that smiling face of yours!!
Forever,
your loving dad.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
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******
ANOTHER POEM
A wayward waif
A wayward waif rubbed his hands
to fight the biting cold.
The wind was wantonly wicked
to both young and old.
Nosing his way to windows,
the waif espied in haste--
plush decor and party people,
foods for every taste.
It brought to mind days gone by,
when he TOO had all that.
And why he willful wisked away,
from a minor spat.
Foolish pride kept him out there
with no hope for return;
doomed to dreadful destitution,
living on a yearn.
One cold dreary winter morn',
his frozen body lay;
wedged beneath a westward window--
no more DUES to pay!
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"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1"
"Fear-o-lots" - Chapter 1 - The Mission
"A Sickness by Any Other Name" - Chapter 1 - Leonov Leninski
"Stories for a Stormy Night II"
"Bugs" - Chapter 1 - Mark Simpson
"Runaway" - Chatper 1 - The Decision
Let there be light - A short story
If only - A poem
A wayward waif - A poem
"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1" is intended for Young Adults.
Sample chapters:
Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 1
Book 1
The Fear-o-Lots
1 The Mission
There was once a kingdom where a benevolent king ruled. His name was King Kindly. He was especially committed to helping those in need and to see to that had formed the Circle of Exalted Knights. Of all its members, though, a certain threesome stood apart as the least likely of heroes.
On appearance alone, they had obvious shortcomings. Though it was in emotional fortitude they were lacking most. For they were a highly insecure and fearful lot, rendering them ill-equipped for deeds of daring or acts of valour. Because of that, they DREADED going on missions. For one thing, plagued by self-doubt, they always feared they’d fail. And for another, they’d always fret about this or that going wrong and everything else in between. But worst of all, their greatest fear was that serious harm might actually come their way.
Stories of the trios’ fearful disposition and the ensuing problems it posed whilst on missions abounded. Over time, in the retelling of these accounts, some assigned a collective name to the group to allow for easy reference. It began with ‘The Fearful Ones,’ then moved on to ‘The Fearlings,’ and changed again to ‘The Fear-e-Lads.’ There were other proposals along the way. Some were short lived. Others stuck for much longer. But eventually the name everyone agreed upon as the most fitting for the group was ‘The Fear-o-Lots.’
One day, the king called for them, “Page!” he said. “Get me The Fear-o-Lots—Scaredy Pants, Yellow Belly, and Shadow Boxer.”
It seemed that King Kindly had a mission for them.
The page found them sleeping tucked neath their beds, lest the fire-dragon swoop down and steal them away.
The page roused them from their sleep and indicated, “The king wants you guys.” The three, realizing what this meant, shivered partly at the thought of a mission and partly from the chill in the air. But their duty was to obey, and they followed the page back to the king.
“You c-c-called for us, y-your highness?” they stuttered in unison.
“Yes, fellows. I’ve asked you here for something very important. Now I know how much you hate to go on missions. But I must have your help on this one.” They cringed at the words. “It seems,” the king continued, “there’s a young man in need of help. He is in dire conflict with his parents and himself, and is practically at war with the world. In short, he gets along with no one. So special intervention is called for. And this is where you guys come in.”
“But we have other things to do!” they protested in unison— Like staying away from danger and harm, they thought to themselves. “So do we really have to help?” they pleaded. Having gone through such scenes many times before, and knowing the script full well, they knew their plea was all in vain.
“Yes, fellows. I’m afraid so,” responded the king, holding firm. “You know that as members of the Exalted Knights you are committed to doing good. If ever there was a case that called for that, this is it,” he emphasized.
“But, your highness, what if we should get hurt? What if we should fail?” continued the trio in their fruitless protest.
“Don’t worry. You fellows will do fine,” the king assured them, as he always did. “I suggest you start out tomorrow. The chief minister will give you all the details. Now I must go!”
At this point, Scaredy Pants wondered just where it was the king went when he spoke those words prior to each of their missions. Though his task really was not to question, but rather to act and obey.
He was a funny looking character whose name almost said it all. In fact, he was an actual pair of trousers into which the breath of life had been conjured by the court magician, Wizzard. For added effect, eyes, a nose, and mouth had been included as well. The eyes were situated in the upper portion of his suspenders, which also served as arms, making for a unique arrangement. That is to say, by extending the very tip of one of these extremities around corners, he had the uncanny ability to see beyond obstacles without himself being seen. It was somewhat like having a periscope always at the ready! He had also long legs, which made him highly adept for great speeds. Luckily, that was an added bonus as he needed such quick flight for safe retreats from danger. You see, Wizzard had failed or rather had overlooked to provide Scaredy and his friends with any semblance of courage or bravery. And that made them the insecure and fearful lot they were.
Scaredy turned to Yellow Belly and said with a note of resignation, “I guess we’re doomed to the mission. Aren’t we?”
“You know we are,” replied Yellow in a similar tone, he too sharing the same fears to this mission as Scaredy. But that was as far as any likeness went.
In physical form, Yellow was totally different. You could say he was rather on the roundish side. He wore a tiny head attached to a short, thin neck. For arms, he had what appeared to be two stick-like forms. His feet were short and stubby, and his body was covered in fur. What really set him off from Scaredy, though, was his ability for retraction. With that, his outer features could be fully drawn in, much like a turtle’s. So when threatened, this more than made up for his lack of courage—he would simply pop his appendages in and bounce away like his life depended on it. (For it probably did.) At such times, he would appear very much like a yellowish, fluffy, and pudgy fuzz ball.
In fact, that is what he’d originally been before Wizzard had instilled life into that old beat-up ball the night of the Royal Grand Ball. Wizzard had done it to amuse the guests, but more so to make a fitting contribution to the night’s festivities. He had wanted a GRAND performance to mark the occasion, one that would impress and be long remembered. To that end, he’d decided on a TRIPLE CONJURING, a task deemed so difficult it was considered nigh impossible. Other wizards knew well enough to shy away from it, daring not try their hand at the feat. Wizzard, however, having partaken freely of the wines that readily flowed that evening, had felt all-powerful. Drawing on every ounce of his being (there being much to draw on from his hefty size), the old man had pulled off the triple conjuring without a hitch. The results of his herculean effort had been Scaredy, Yellow, and the other in the trio, Shadow Boxer.
This final character had been a creation of sheer genius on Wizzard’s part. With his powers ebbing and desperate to complete his triple conjuring, he’d had the brilliant inspiration to fashion Shadow out of NOTHING! That being the case, this last creation had the strange quality of having no true form. Rather, he had a transparent appearance and, at will, could assume the qualities of whichever object he touched. This gave him a strong identity crisis at times since he had great difficulty in understanding who or what he actually was. However, his being a ‘nothing’ did have its advantages. For instance, by assuming whatever shape he wished, he was easily camouflaged. That, in turn, afforded him a quick out from dangerous or scary situations, which more than made up for his fearful nature.
After expressing his farewells and his hopes for a speedy mission, the king left the throne.
The three loyal subjects turned toward the chief minister, visibly shaken. Noticing this, the minister offered them a pep talk, “Fellows, I know you’re nervous! It’s understandable. I’m also aware of your aversion to going on missions. But the king really needs your help on this one. Since all the other knights are out on missions, you three are the only ones left for the king to count on. And you wouldn’t want to let him down now would you?”
Being loyal subjects, how else could they respond? Their answer was a firm, “No!”
“Well good,” said the minister, pleased that his talk had earned their cooperation. “Now that that’s settled, we can get down to business!” Ruffling through some papers, he began, “Fellows, it seems that we have a youngster who is in great trouble. His name is Jacob. He is twelve years old and lives in the Flatlands. He is at that age when he is no longer a child, nor yet a grown-up. So, he is extremely confused. Furthermore, and this is the scariest part, his body is producing changes that he cannot understand or cope with. Therefore, to him, his life seems such a shambles that he is REBELLING against himself and everything else around him.
“You fellows must guide him through these difficult times and steer him back on track. But I must warn you,” and here the Minister shook his finger at them to emphasize his point, “this won’t be easy as his feelings are very strong. And THAT right now is about all he has to go on.
“Good luck, and be careful!” With that said, the Minister left.
The thought of a difficult mission frightened the trio. But they knew they had no choice. They straightaway headed to their quarters and packed their bags (each making sure to include their favourite stuffed animal). Then, after loading their horses, they set out for the Flatlands.
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*****
This novella contains mature subject matter!
Book 2
A Sickness by Any Other Name
1 Leonov Leninski
Leonov Leninski, the son of immigrant Hungarians, preferred to be known as Lenny Lenin, now that he was a fullfledged citizen of America. By outward appearance, he seemed twentyish or so. His hair was long and blond, his features finely chiselled. He bore himself with such aplomb and his attire was so impeccable that one could easily take him for an aristocrat (not that he was one, mind you).
Lenny was putting the finishing touches on his expansive mane as he prepared to go out. The sun was beginning to set, and it would soon be time to make his rounds.
Finally, with the last of the day’s rays disappearing, he fussed over his hair once more (not that it needed further sprucing), grabbed his cape and exited his solitary house by the edge of the cemetery.
“Bye mom,” he yelled, before shutting the door. “Don’t wait up for me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“You watch yourself, Len!” yelled back his mom.
Appreciating his vehicle’s power, Lenny drove his red corvette hard. It was a machine and as such was meant to serve, which it did unfailingly. He could have employed other means of travel to reach his destination. But he much preferred his “Slickster” (as he liked to call his vehicle), since it was good and handy, and would better suit his needs for later on.
Soon Lenny reached the new place he’d been itching to check out. It was called “The Mad House.” The name had intrigued him the moment it’d caught his eye, and he just had to know if the establishment lived up to it.
He entered its doors and strode across the floor like he owned the air around him.
Every head turned to follow his form. The men eyed the new competitor and woefully conceded they were nowhere in his league (nor even quite the same ballpark, for that matter). The women, on their part, were in total awe and kept their eyes riveted to his every move as he continued across the room.
Lenny proceeded to the bar. Occupying a stool, he drew the barkeep’s attention and said, “I’ll have a seltzer, please.”
Having come from such an ideal specimen, no one questioned or laughed at the order. Though had it originated from a lesser being, the person would have likely been ridiculed clear to the other end of town.
Turning himself around, Lenny slowly panned the crowd. He noted couples cutting a mean jig on the dance floor. A few had climbed onto tables and were swinging up a storm. Others were off to the side, having heated discussions; some were even arguing boisterously, not caring who might overhear. Further down the room, a food fight had broken out with more and more people joining in the fray.
It was a real mad house! So the establishment most assuredly bore up to its name, Lenny determined.
Unfortunately, there was no one that particularly caught his interest. But no matter! The night was still young and he was certain a female to his liking would show up.
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*****
"Stories for a Stormy Night, Vol. 2" is intended for Young Adults!
Sample Chapters:
Stories for a Stormy Night II
Book 1
Bugs
1 MARK SIMPSON
Mark Simpson walked into his room, sidestepped his hockey equipment, jumped over a pile of clothes, and threw himself on an empty spot of the bed.
Mark was an eight year old who had learned to do the least of what was required of him. As his room was his own private domain, he did nothing there but loaf, eat, and sleep. Compared to a pig sty, one could say that the latter was tidier and cleaner.
The only time Mark ever made an effort at housekeeping was when he needed clean clothes. Only then would he stoop to picking up his dungy garments and bring them to the hamper.
On such occasions, his mom usually had cause for complaint. "Mark!" she'd say, "you've only brought me one of your blue socks. And I've got three that are different shades of red. So don't blame me if you won't have matching pairs."
Mark would just shrug off such comments. He had more important things to consider. Like getting the last few cards he needed to complete his 1989 hockey collection. Like finding out how Spiderman made out on his latest adventure. Like learning to hit harder at baseball so he could impress his dad whom he adored. Like thinking of how to avoid the street bully, who was a girl for heaven sakes. Like finding a way to dump his paper route so that he would have more time to loaf around and play with his friend Harold; and to boot, trying to get an allowance instead.
And so on, and so on!
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*****
Book 2
Runaway
1 The Decision
The Johnsons were an industrious couple, both strong subscribers to the ethic that the more one achieved the better off one would be. They worked long hours and devoted heart and soul to their chosen fields, leaving them little time for much of anything else. Their participation, therefore, in family functions was severely compromised. So to make amends on it, they'd always allowed their only son, Billy, whatever he wished in the belief this was enough to guarantee his well-being.
But proving the cliche money isn't everything, the eleven year old boy was utterly miserable. With his parents rarely home, he felt like an orphan, alone and sorely starved for emotional nurture. Worse, and only compounding the issue, he sustained serious deprivation in a host of other needs, such as help with homework, being enrolled in minor league sports, going to amusement parks, or just hanging out as a family for some old fashion fun and perchance garnering a few Kodak moments in the process. But there was simply none of that! Instead, his father's time was taken up with chairing the board, wheeling and dealing, being on the road, and overseeing countless other duties too numerous to outline; while time on his mother's part was doled out to church activities, socials, various club groups, and charities. Consequently, having parents who were such diehard workaholics (thus making them the home truants they were), Billy customarily found himself in the care of household staff, sitters, or relatives--a nasty predicament he loathed just as much, if not more, as the parental neglect he had to endure.
After contemplating his dismal plight long and hard and seeing no way out, Billy had decided to run away in a desperate bid for excitement and adventure. Under cloak-and-dagger, he'd made all his plans and arrangements, guarding carefully to mask his tracks and not tip his hand. It left him feeling like an undercover cop or secret agent even, and the accompanying rush of adrenaline had been a welcome boost to his sagging spirits.
It was fast approaching mid December and, at last, Billy was set to go! Excitement coursed his veins. So intense was the feeling, he didn't care the slightest that, in leaving now, he'd miss out on all the usual and meaningless presents his parents would offer up for Christmas.
Billy had written a good-bye note, which he'd attached to the fridge.
It stated, GOOD-BYE. I'M RUNNING AWAY.
DON'T TRY TO FOLLOW.
BILLY
He hadn't included the word "love" in his note because he wasn't sure if he loved his parents. This was not to mean they were bad or anything, but just that due to their chronic absence, he'd never had the chance to foster a close or intimate relation with them.
Being of diminutive stature, Billy had packed light to make the carrying of his suitcase less of a burden. Besides, most of what he'd need, which was his winter apparel, he was already wearing. As for cash, he'd been withdrawing money from his account a little at a time to not arouse suspicion and had even left some behind to further mask his intent. When he'd totalled all his withdrawals, he had the grand sum of $865 and change.
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*****
This short story won first prize in a contest for the 125 Centennial Celebrations. It was then adapted into a play and performed as part of the festivities.
LET THERE BE LIGHT
Angus McFarlane was a good farmer. From dawn till dusk, he worked the fields, cared for his livestock, and made repairs without ever a complaint. At day's end, he'd head for the pub and put as much gusto into his drinking as he did his farming, perhaps even more so.
To-night was no exception. As Angus chatted and sipped suds with his friend Charlie, talk invariably turned to their everyday struggles.
"One of my darn cows," Angus was saying, "went and got herself stuck in that mud hole again. Had to push and pull so hard that I kept slippin' and slidin'. By the time I had her out, I was covered from head to foot in that goo!"
Charlie gave a little chuckle at that, picturing the sorry sight Angus must have been.
"I wasted so much time with that fool cow," Angus went on, "that I had no time to head home for changin'. Jus' kept on workin'.
"When I did get home, it was even worse! The wife took one look at my clothes and had a ruddy fit, she did. Kept rantin' and ravin' that I ought to take more care in my work, and that she wasn't goin' to be a slave to her washin'.
"Jus' couldn't wait to get out to the pub to-night! Know what I mean?"
Taking Charlie's nod for a 'yes', Angus rambled on, as he often did after he'd had a difficult day or trying time. To-night he kept on and on about everything. Luckily though, Charlie was the perfect listener who knew just the right moments when to nod, shrug, or laugh to punctuate his friend's remarks.
Soon, like every other night, the pub owner called, "Time gentlemen, please!"
Angus, who always begrudged having to go, protested, slurring his speech, "Aaaaa-h, do w-eee ha to?"
The pub owner held his ground and pushed Angus out the door.
Angus teeterd up Tower guided by the lamp light outside the pub. But as he rounded the corner on St. Andrew, he was met by a wall of pitch dark. Not being able to see where he was going, he kept stepping into animal droppings and, with his balance not being at it's best, he kept flying to the ground. Cursing and swearing, he'd try to get up only to slip again. This slowed him terribly. But somehow, he managed to make it home.
His wife, Annie, was waiting for him at the front entrance. "Well, it's about time you found your way home, Angus Mcfarlane!!
"What's that you're smellin' of?"
"Ju-sss hada bit t-ooo drink, love!"
"Not that, you fool! You smell like a filthy animal. Well if you smell of one, you can be like one. Off to the barn with you!!"
As soon as Angus reached the barn, he found a spot to lay in. Being totally worn out from his stuggle to get home, he fell asleep immediately.
As he slept, the very cow he'd helped out of the mud that morning came over to his reclined form. Wether it was to express her gratitude for having saved her or whether she merely liked him, she licked his face several times.
Angus slept so soundly that he was not roused by the affectionate display. In fact, such was the depth of his sleep that other animal antics were not enough to stir him either. Thus, he slept through baby lambs bleating in his ear, playful piglets pulling at his socks, and even crazed chickens running wild and pecking at his hair.
In the morning, when Angus woke, he was surprised to find himself in the barn as he couldn't recall anything from the previous night. He pulled bits of straw from his hair and brushed at strands clinging to his clothes. As he did so, he was shocked at how filthy he looked and how badly he smelled.
Flies were buzzing around him like buzzers circling their prey. He swatted at them. But they would retreat only long enough to regroup and then come back swarming. It made it seem that a dark cloud were shifting back and forth over him and as he head for the house to wash and change, the mass moved with him.
When Angus got to the house, Annie was at the doorsteps to intercede him again. Surprised to see her there, he asked, "Annie dear, I did my sleepin' in the barn. Would you know anythin' about that?"
"I sure do, you sot! You came home lookin' and smellin' like you did. So I sent you there! And don't you dearie me!"
As Angus tried to step past her, she snarled, "And where do you think you're goin'?"
"I'm goin' in to wash and change!"
"Angus McFarlane, if you think you're settin' foot in this house smellin' like you do and with those flies hangin' about you, you've less brains than I thought. You go clean yourself off in the horse trough and then I'll consider lettin' you in!"
Angus did not get annoyed at his wife for feeling the way she did. She had every right to those feelings. Angus did not blame his plight on his drinking. He felt he deserved it after a hard day's work. What he saw as the root of the problem was lighting on St. Andrew, or rather, lack of it.
This realization riled him so that he resolved to act. He reasoned that since he was a law-abiding, tax-paying citizen, he ought to have a say regarding the atrocious lighting conditions on St. Andrew! So he decided on the spot to go and visit town council that very day. In fact, to make his point more poignantly he was going in the way he was!!
That morning, when council members saw Angus walk through the chamber door, they raised their brows, shook their heads, and uttered expressions of disbelief. The reaction was more than Angus had hoped for, and it pleased him greatly. He approached the podium with flies swirling about him madly and began, "Gentlemen, we all know each other. So no introductions are necessary! You all know I have the largest farm in the area and if pigs are any indication of a man's worth, then I'd say I'm worth quite a bit. So I oughta have some say in the goin' ons of these here chambers!"
As Angus spoke, he swatted at the more aggressive flies without ever once breaking stride in his presentation.
"What I'm here to complain about is the lack of lightin' on St. Andrew. I feel this is interferin' with my freedom and liberty to walk about at night and see where I'm goin', and not hafta worry about steppin' on dung and such!"
By now, councillors were getting the drift of Angus' message quite strongly both in the vocal and olfactory sense.
Angus continued, "I don't like meddlin' in politics. But when somethin' touches matters close to my heart, I'm bound to act.
"I'm a tellin' you, if I'm not heard and nothin' is done about my complaint, I'll be withholdin' my propery taxes. You can bet on that!"
Having had his say, Angus left, flies and all, without waiting for the reply. If he had, he would have learned that a proposal regarding lighting on St. Andrew was already before council and WAS the next item on the agenda. Impassioned by Angus' plea, the members tackled the matter in earnest. The motion to put up lighting on St. Andrew passed and would be implemented forthwith.
It had been a month since Angus had appeared before council. As he had seen no action on his request, he was peparing for another visit.
The day he chose to go in was warm and bright. As he walked along St. Andrew, he noticed the town's P.U.C. working in the area. Out of curiosity, Angus approached and enquired, "Mornin' gentlemen! Doin' some work, are ya?"
"Yes, we are," replied the foreman. "Puttin' in eight new arc lamps!"
When Angus heard this, he almost dropped. "You don't say!" he said. His visit to council HAD paid off, it seemed! Who would have believed it?
Feeling proud of his achievement, Angus turned and started for home with his head held high. In doing so, he failed to see what lay ahead. His foot landed on something soft and squishy and, giving out on him, he dropped like lead. Angus found himself lying on a pile of fresh cow dung! He was about to curse and swear when the thought of his success lightened his mood and he laughed it off.
When he got home, he sneaked in to wash and change before his wife got wind of him. Only after well sprucing up did he dare seek her out. Then on finding her, he bragged about what he'd accomplished in hope that for once she'd appreciate what he'd done.
But, she responded in a harsh voice that displayed annoyance, "Angus, stop wastin' your time on matters you have no business in. There's more important things need doin'. Like your chores, for instance! Now, off with you!"
Annie just couldn't see what the fuss over lights on St. Andrew was. What use were they? No SANE person in their right mind should ever be out after dark anyway!!
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*****
A Poem
If only
Dear son:
I just wanted you to know
I loved you.
Oh, IF ONLY I'd said that
while you
were still alive!
I may not have expressed my love
the way
YOU
wanted me to.
But love you I did!
I use to be so proud of you at times,
that I would almost burst.
Like the time you came home
with straight "A's."
I was truly beaming inside!
Or like the time you offered
your favourite toy
to comfort
your younger brother.
I could have hugged you then!
IF ONLY I had.
But I couldn't.
It WAS NOT MY WAY!
For I'd been taught
showing one's emotions
was a sign of weakness.
So, by holding back,
I felt I was being strong.
Though I realize NOW that was UTTER nonsense!
I have cried
every
day
since your sudden demise.
IF ONLY my well of emotions
could
bring you back
again.
How I'd embrace
that smiling face of yours!!
Forever,
your loving dad.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
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******
ANOTHER POEM
A wayward waif
A wayward waif rubbed his hands
to fight the biting cold.
The wind was wantonly wicked
to both young and old.
Nosing his way to windows,
the waif espied in haste--
plush decor and party people,
foods for every taste.
It brought to mind days gone by,
when he TOO had all that.
And why he willful wisked away,
from a minor spat.
Foolish pride kept him out there
with no hope for return;
doomed to dreadful destitution,
living on a yearn.
One cold dreary winter morn',
his frozen body lay;
wedged beneath a westward window--
no more DUES to pay!
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