Backroads Errand
by Claire Gillian
“When you see the red wagon wheel on the left side of the road, turn right and you’re there.” My mother’s thin voice had detailed the ten mile route to the only country store that carried her beloved Tastee Cakes. During her better days, she drove herself once a week.
I hadn’t lived in the back woods of North Carolina in over two decades, so I’d taken meticulous notes. Five turns, she’d told me, marked by a graffiti-covered boulder, a burnt trailer, a bait shop named Frosty’s, a volunteer fire station and a red wagon wheel.
After several wrong turns, I pulled into Lou’s Little Store and began my search. I scanned the most logical places, but couldn’t find any Tastee Cakes.
“Can I help you find somethin’, honey?” A blonde wearing foundation a shade too dark called out from behind the counter.
“I’m looking for Tastee Cakes.” I don’t normally ask for help in convenience stores. I shouldn’t have to because it’s supposed to be convenient which is supposed to mean easy to find.
“Sorry, we’re all out.” The woman walked to where I stood and pointed to a rack on my left. “But we got Little Debbie’s right here. They’s just as good.”
“No. I don’t want anything but Tastee Cakes. Are you sure you don’t have any in the back?” I began to gnaw on the inside of my mouth as I considered the consequences of returning empty-handed.
“I’m sure.” She shrugged and returned to her station behind the counter.
“Could you please check?” My breath came faster and my voice rose.
“There’s nowhere to check, honey. What you see is all we got.”
I caught a glimpse of a nearly naked man on the pages of the magazine she flipped. “Do you know any other places near here that sell Tastee Cakes?”
“No. Sorry. I think you should just try the Little Debbie’s. They’re fine.” Another naked man flashed by on a new page.
Hysteria shoved at the edge of my self-control. Between clenched teeth I said, “I don’t want Little Debbie. I want Tastee Cake! My mother used to come here every week for them. She doesn’t eat much these days, but I know she’ll eat one of those.” I choked back the tears that formed. If I hadn’t allowed myself to cry thus far, I’d be damned if I’d do it over a cupcake.
She put down her magazine and looked at me with new interest. “Is your mamma Miz Carolyn Teague?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I got Miz Teague’s cakes right here.” She pulled out five packages of chocolate cup cakes and two coffee cakes from a box beneath the counter.
The cellophane wrapped treats caught the light and winked at me. “Oh. Oh, thank you so much.”
“You tell your mamma we’re prayin’ real hard for her.”
I nodded and fished out my wallet. “How much?”
She patted my hand, smiled and shook her head. “We don’t never charge for these.”
I exhaled the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d held and gave her a long teary smile. “Thank you.”
“See you next week?”
“I hope so.”
My mother’s cakes in hand, I began my trip home, making a left at the red wagon wheel.
Bio: Claire Gillian, The Word Busker, is a number-crunching executive by profession but an after hours writer by passion. With three completed novels, a fourth in process and countless short stories and flash fictions to her name, she’s currently dipping her toe into the publishing arena. Though her parents have lived in rural North Carolina for over thirty-five years, she’s been a Pacific Northwest transplant for the past sixteen, with previous stops in New Mexico and Texas.
Showing posts with label Hushed Recall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hushed Recall. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Heather Spiva wins VAJ Hushed Recall Writing Contest in Professional Category
Moving
by Heather Spiva
I didn’t see it at first.
Maybe it was because the sun was setting and the endless spread of wheat in the sky blinded me. Even if this had been my view for almost twenty years, it still made me stop.
I hadn’t been gone forever; only away from the farm for a year. But when I rounded past the barn and took a short cut to the house, I tripped.
No one saw me fall. And if they did, I didn’t care. If living on my own taught me anything it was “get over yourself.” You know, as in, forget about your mistakes, keep moving forward; that type of thing. I wasn’t embarrassed by anything anymore; I didn’t have time for regrets.
I lay still, like the oak trees lining the perimeter to our property. With the cool, damp floor and smell of dry grass awaiting the dew of night, I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t get up. The grass had claws or something and this time, they had tied me to their fortress; waiting to eat me alive. I’m not sure how long I was there. But it was long enough to see the sky move, and watch the stars poke through their thick tapestry.
“Ellie? Ellie where are you?” I could hear anxiety in my sister’s voice. Sam was looking for me, but I could do it. I couldn’t get up. What was wrong with me? Maybe, I’d hurt my head harder than I thought.
I reached up to feel my head, but felt nothing.
Rolling onto my back, I breathed deep. The sky was fuchsia now, just like Mrs. Nelson’s flowers in her front patio. Surely, she would’ve cared to see me on the ground, floundering. Living with her had been different. She was old and senile; hated my skinny jeans and red lipstick. But it was her love of flowers; that was the tie that kept me paying $600 a month for a studio above the garage without a washroom.
I reached out, hitting my hand on metal. The sound of my mother’s engagement ring pinged softly on it. Flecks of rust tumbled off the rim, like crumpled sycamore leaves from November before the snow and after the heat.
Dad was the last one to use the tractor. He was the reason I tripped over it.
His stroke was unforeseen.
The cancer in mom, also unforeseen.
“Ellie? For Pete’s sake, I don’t have all night. I’ve got to get back home to the kids.”
I sighed. The only reason we were here was to figure out what to do with the house. I looked at the rust on the ring and put my hand behind my head, grinding the two elements into the dirt. The sky was black now, except for a faint glint of a sparkle on the horizon.
I wanted dad. I wanted him in his overalls. I wanted mom and her pies, and her thin hands working on the tractor engine.
“Ellie? What, are you dead?”
I raised my hand, heavy in memories and rust and diamonds. “Sam, I’m here.”
I got up, walked in and turned on the porch light. I paid over my share of the life insurance to Sam.
The house and barn had a new owner.
Bio: Heather Spiva is a freelance writer from Sacramento, CA. She loves reading and writing and spending lots of time with her two young boys and firefighter husband. When she has free time, which is rare, she spends it gardening or eating chocolate. heatherji@hotmail.com
by Heather Spiva
I didn’t see it at first.
Maybe it was because the sun was setting and the endless spread of wheat in the sky blinded me. Even if this had been my view for almost twenty years, it still made me stop.
I hadn’t been gone forever; only away from the farm for a year. But when I rounded past the barn and took a short cut to the house, I tripped.
No one saw me fall. And if they did, I didn’t care. If living on my own taught me anything it was “get over yourself.” You know, as in, forget about your mistakes, keep moving forward; that type of thing. I wasn’t embarrassed by anything anymore; I didn’t have time for regrets.
I lay still, like the oak trees lining the perimeter to our property. With the cool, damp floor and smell of dry grass awaiting the dew of night, I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t get up. The grass had claws or something and this time, they had tied me to their fortress; waiting to eat me alive. I’m not sure how long I was there. But it was long enough to see the sky move, and watch the stars poke through their thick tapestry.
“Ellie? Ellie where are you?” I could hear anxiety in my sister’s voice. Sam was looking for me, but I could do it. I couldn’t get up. What was wrong with me? Maybe, I’d hurt my head harder than I thought.
I reached up to feel my head, but felt nothing.
Rolling onto my back, I breathed deep. The sky was fuchsia now, just like Mrs. Nelson’s flowers in her front patio. Surely, she would’ve cared to see me on the ground, floundering. Living with her had been different. She was old and senile; hated my skinny jeans and red lipstick. But it was her love of flowers; that was the tie that kept me paying $600 a month for a studio above the garage without a washroom.
I reached out, hitting my hand on metal. The sound of my mother’s engagement ring pinged softly on it. Flecks of rust tumbled off the rim, like crumpled sycamore leaves from November before the snow and after the heat.
Dad was the last one to use the tractor. He was the reason I tripped over it.
His stroke was unforeseen.
The cancer in mom, also unforeseen.
“Ellie? For Pete’s sake, I don’t have all night. I’ve got to get back home to the kids.”
I sighed. The only reason we were here was to figure out what to do with the house. I looked at the rust on the ring and put my hand behind my head, grinding the two elements into the dirt. The sky was black now, except for a faint glint of a sparkle on the horizon.
I wanted dad. I wanted him in his overalls. I wanted mom and her pies, and her thin hands working on the tractor engine.
“Ellie? What, are you dead?”
I raised my hand, heavy in memories and rust and diamonds. “Sam, I’m here.”
I got up, walked in and turned on the porch light. I paid over my share of the life insurance to Sam.
The house and barn had a new owner.
Bio: Heather Spiva is a freelance writer from Sacramento, CA. She loves reading and writing and spending lots of time with her two young boys and firefighter husband. When she has free time, which is rare, she spends it gardening or eating chocolate. heatherji@hotmail.com
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