BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology Volume 4 Page 5
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About the Author:
Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is sometimes real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs and cats and the occasional dust bunny.
Suspense, random blood splatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia’s days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative. Only then are the voices free to haunt someone else’s mind.
Join Darcia in her fictional world: https://www.QuietFuryBooks.com
The characters await you.
The Very Useful Milkweed
By Jill Warren
Copyright © 2012
Once upon a time there was a happy little garden that grew on the edge of a sunny wood. The garden was filled with fragrant herbs and cheerful wildflowers, and was the pride and joy of the little old woman who lived in the neat and tidy house, also at the edge of the wood.
Every morning, the old woman came out into her garden. She tended the calendula and watched the bumblebees that buzzed from flower to flower. She harvested caraway seeds to bake in her bread and dandelion roots to grind for her coffee.
Every afternoon, she picked thyme to season her soup or cayenne peppers to grind into powder that would keep her hands and feet warm in the winter. She watched the warty brown toad emerge from the marigolds to eat a lunch of slugs and snails and felt the grasshoppers as they hopped against her bare legs.
Every evening, she sat outside in her favorite chair. She rubbed feverfew leaves on her skin to repel the tiny no-seeums that bit at her arms. She picked chamomile flowers for her pillow to soothe her stiff joints and mint leaves for a relaxing tea before sleep. She gently placed wayward ladybugs on her roses to feed on the aphids which were particularly hungry this year. When the sun set behind the trees of the wood, the old woman retired to her soft, warm bed.
One morning the herbs and flowers spotted something different growing at the edge of the garden. “What is this strange new thing?” whispered Buttercup to the rosemary. “Is it an herb?” Sage asked the daisies. “Could it be a flower?” wondered Wild Rose, “or a weed that blew in from the murky bog?” The newcomer quietly pushed its way up through the grass and dry leaves toward the welcoming sun.
When the old woman emerged from her cozy little house, all the herbs and flowers fell into a hushed silence. She snipped fragrant lavender here and picked sweet stevia leaves there. What would the old woman say to the curious stranger? the plants wondered. Would she find it useful, too? They watched as she took the clippings inside to make her lunch.
As spring wore on, the little garden at the edge of the sunny wood thrived. The herbs and wildflowers watched warily as the newcomer prospered as well. When clusters of delicate pink flowers began to appear at the top of its tall, sturdy stalk, Black-Eyed Susan and Sweet William turned away. “We were in the garden first,” they complained. “There is no place here for outsiders!”
Skullcap and Spearmint whispered amongst themselves at night when they thought the others were sleeping. “Soon all kinds of common weeds will try to move into our garden,” they cried. “They will take over our home!” The other plants of the garden grew afraid and joined in. “That weed doesn’t understand the family we have here in our happy little garden, where we have come from, and the struggles we have weathered in putting down our roots! Wouldn’t it be much happier with others of its own kind?”
The milkweed pretended that it was asleep and had not heard the whisperings of the garden plants. Sadness filled its every leaf and flower. Am I nothing but a worthless weed? It wondered. Am I not free to live where the water and sunlight are pleasing to me? Will I ever prosper here in this new place?
Then one day, the old woman came out of her little house just like she did every other day, except that today was the day that she noticed the tall strong stranger at the edge of the garden next to the sunny wood. The herbs and flowers waited to see what would happen. Would the old woman pull it up and toss it into the forest?
“Well, what have we here?” the old lady said as she picked her way carefully through the garden “Already you have grown taller than any of the other plants in the garden. I shall find some very important uses for you, Milkweed!”
The meddlesome chickweed, one of the smallest garden plants, complained to the plantain. “I need a place with plenty of sun in which to live, and this milkweed blocks all of my sunshine! The old woman needs my leaves to make tea when she has a cold. Without sun, how will I survive? How will the old woman make the tea that so soothes her head in winter?” The plantain nodded her flowered spikes in agreement.
The old woman stood and shaded her eyes with one hand, checking the position of the sun in the sky. “It was quite thoughtful of you, Milkweed, to take up residence on the north side of the garden,” she said. “You get the sun you need without shading other plants that need sunshine as well. What a fine neighbor you are to the others in the garden!”
Chickweed looked at Plantain, who in turn looked at the ground. She was ashamed to have agreed with Chickweed’s angry complaints.
As spring gave way to summer, the herbs and wildflowers grew fearful of the changes they saw in Milkweed. Bumpy green husks were beginning to grow on its stalks and the flowers and herbs of the garden were frightened. “None of the native plants in the garden have those things,” whispered Jewelweed to Sassafras. “What could they be? Such an odd looking plant, that milkweed…so different from everything else that lives here!”
“Those things are called pods,” interrupted Smartweed, who was a bit of a know-it-all. “Each one contains hundreds of seeds. If each of those seeds takes root in our garden,” he went on, “there will soon be many more of them than there are of us! This land will no longer be ours!” The flowers and herb raised their leaves in agreement. The old woman had to do something!
Screech! whined the ancient screen door as it opened. Smack! it complained as it slammed shut again. It was a beautiful summer day. The old woman came down the path to her garden.
“What lovely ground ivy,” she remarked as she cut a handful of leaves with her shears. “I shall have you in a delicious salad with some fresh carrots and cucumber. And you, Japanese Honeysuckle!” she said as she clipped another handful of buds and flowers. “I shall make the most wonderful pudding for dessert!” Ground Ivy and Japanese Honeysuckle were proud to be such very useful plants.
The old woman made her way around the garden, cutting here and there until she reached the milkweed. She snipped off a few young pods and a cluster of unopened flower buds.
Jewelweed sniffed as if he had just smelled something bad. Dandelion, being much younger and very inclined to imitate the actions of the older flowers, sniffed, too. “It has been many years, Milkweed”, she said, “since I have dined on the first pods of summer. Such a lovely dish with a taste like green beans!” Having filled her basket, the old woman went inside to prepare her dinner.
“What right do you have, Milkweed, to provide nourishment for the old woman?” snapped Purslane, whose flavor was also reminiscent of green beans. “Why should I be forced to share the pot with the likes of you? You have only just arrived and already I am not as useful as I once was. If I am no longer needed, then what shall become of me…? ”Purslane’s voice trailed off as did his vines along the ground, for he was as sad as he was angry.
As summer melted in to fall, the vivid green of the garden began to fade into soft shades of orange, yellow, and brown. Milkweed’s pods turned dry and brittle.
The garden herbs and flowers watched with interest as the pods cracked open and white, fluffy seed parachutes emerged. They observed as the orioles carried mouthfuls of it to their nests, high up in the trees at the edge of the wood. “What a beautiful sight,” sighed Wood Mint.
“What delightful songs they sing!” breathed Baby’s Breath.
“They bring such color to the garden,”
agreed Plantain. “How wonderful that they have decided to nest here where their beauty can be shared by all.” The garden herbs and flowers were so enjoying the orioles’ display that they hardly noticed the old woman gathering clumps of white milkweed fluff with which to stuff a warm winter quilt. Jeet-jeet! a bold mother oriole sang as she stole some seeds for herself and flew away into the tree tops.
As September arrived, so did the monarch butterflies. The garden herbs and flowers had been so busy bickering amongst themselves all summer that they had not noticed eggs being laid on Milkweed a month earlier.
Even Smartweed did not know that monarch butterflies choose only the milkweed plant on which to lay their precious eggs. The monarchs feed on the milkweed, and store its unpleasant taste in their bodies. The flavor of the monarch is so vile that predators will not come near it.
The herbs and flowers only knew that until Milkweed had arrived, they had never seen such cheerful birds or beautiful butterflies in the garden. It had been a wonderful summer after all. All of the herbs and wildflowers had flourished – sun had been plentiful, and water, too. The old woman was happy and healthy, and had found uses for all of the plants in the garden.
Plantain put her thoughts into words, saying, “Is it possible that our happy little garden at the edge of the wood has become a more beautiful and diverse place because a milkweed seed blew in on the wind and put down roots?” The herbs and flowers all raised their leaves in agreement, and this time, the milkweed did, too.
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About the Author:
Jill Warren has a B.A. in Psychology and works as a Behavior Specialist Assistant with preschool children affected by Autism Spectrum Disorders. Sharing the joy of reading with her students and her own son over the years inspired her to write stories for children to enjoy and talk about with their favorite adults. She resides in New York and is currently working on her third book.
Hurting the One He Loved
by Sydney S. Song (pen name for Cynthia Meyers-Hanson)
Copyright © 2012
People speak in clichés or variations of them- all the time. “You always find what you are missing in the last place you look!” Of course you do because who in their right mind keeps looking after the object of the search has been found? People, also, put their faith in generalizations. “Three’s a charm!” A lucky one or not? In my lifetime, I found truth in some of the verbal nonsense- especially the one that goes, “You always hurt the one you love.”
As I sat in a salon waiting for my sister to add to the attractiveness she already exuded, her neighbor, a beautician, rambled on and on about finding true love. That friend spoke as if we awaited her wisdom with baited breath. As she wandered through her history and wisdom about romance, my mind meandered in and out of her conversation.
Quickly, she set the scene, “I wed my high school boyfriend to get out of the house. After the annulment of my first marriage, I moved to California to be discovered,” Momentarily, my thoughts merged with her wandering monolog. Searching her face and mannerisms, my eyes couldn’t find a single star-like feature in her appearance.
“Delusional!” I nearly heard my thoughts hoping no one else in that shop did.
The lady in a chair nearby giggled causing me to turn her direction. Catching a glimpse of her wide smile, my heart stopped skipping its beats. That woman was laughing at the shenanigans of a man; he just entered the premises. Obviously, he entertained her as his silly faces concerning her hairstyle continued for a few minutes before she walked hand in hand with him out the door. Regardless of what I perceived as good or bad looks, he was captivated by her beauty and her by his gracious charm.
Turning my attention back to ‘the love life’ story of the beautician, I caught her superstar biographies. “Clark Gable came from a little town in Ohio and Rock Hudson from a small place in Illinois; they became well-known leading men. Betty Davis left Massachusetts travelling all the way to the West Coast to be discovered. Meanwhile, Greta Garbo lived her childhood in poverty near Stockholm before her rise to celebrity and notoriety. If those people found fame and fortune, it must be within ‘common folk’s’ grasp.” Her generalization actually made sense to me.
My mind continued to focus on her rambling story, “My best friend from high school and I decided that all we needed to do was leave our quaint, village life to find our bliss. Hollywood is always looking for leading men and a few good girls.” She paused dreamily looking at herself in the mirror- where clients could vainly enjoy the results of visiting the salon- before resuming her story. “All through high school, my best friend and I convinced each other that before we got too old or turned twenty that we needed to pack up and leave our tiny Midwest village heading out to dreamland.” She mumbled as she relived her graduation mistake, “When I eloped at eighteen, my girlfriend felt our shot at stardom was doomed. Weeks later, as soon as my annulment arrived, we left for sunny California.”
Refraining from judging her idea, for a short while, I listened to her ranting, “Immediately, we met the scoundrels that look for vulnerable girls that would do anything for a shot at fame and wealth.” As she relived her California nightmare, she grabbed a cross around her neck as if she needed it for protection in that very moment. “Hungry and downtrodden, I did some things that a good Christian girl never does before moving on.”
She brushed my sister’s golden locks while teasing it into the ‘Big Hair” style of a bygone era. As she calmed the frizz of each tier by brushing it back a bit then applying a ton of hair spray to each layer, that technician continued her sordid tale. Meanwhile, I separated out pertinent details from her saga - the ones that affected my goals. In the past, thoughts of becoming a world renowned star entered my life plan. My parents dismissed my idea, “All females in Los Angeles are just as the city name suggests; they’re lost angels.” My dad whole-heartedly believed.
“If you are not willing to give up your body to the devil and pose scandalously, then, forget about that city and the acting profession!” My mom added, “You want men drooling as you enter a room? If you do, I need to disown you, now!”
My sister’s beautician confirmed those ‘age old’ thoughts or generalizations wandering through my mind. “Good thing a few things happened to change my life’s course.” That lady spoke as if giving out a proclamation, “First, I only posed for one photographer; that man acted as if he was my future husband. We’d already gone on the honeymoon so I trusted he’d use those delicate shots- wisely.” She paused glaring at anyone appearing to judge her actions. Her explanation continued, “One day, as he invaded my privacy, I quipped; ‘take a picture! They last longer!’”
Feeling guilty, she tried desperately to dig out of a hole, “Immediately, he wanted to pursue the idea of lasting longer in my alluring wiles! It started as a game; the clicks of his camera felt very tame in comparison to what we could have caught on film. He directed me sweetly into various positions and locations in our home.”
Her outline of that photography session stopped as her eyes darted around the beauty shop; it appeared as if she felt judged by some salon guests. Finding no solution to their stares, the beautician simply stayed on track with her verbal illustrations of that day. “His photos weren’t as bad as you might be imagining! Most were ‘illusion based;’ they showed nothing really and were not too revealing. For example, in one picture, I sat on my knees with my arms folded over my front tempting thoughts but not revealing anything. My lover’s camera caught a side angle pose. In others exposures, I lounged on our couch and bed with pillows and silky sheets caressing while masking a full view of my body.”
She rambled on trying to prove she was not a slut but simply posed for the love of her life. “One day, after his first photographic study of my natural side, he took me to the open country by flowing creek that led to a pristine lake. After a romantic picnic lunch, he enticed me into allowing him some more natural studies of my biology.
It took more convincing than the private moments at home because I worried about being invaded. What if a hunter, hiker, or farmer interrupted us? After plenty of coaxing and prodding, I agreed to one more artsy session. He called me and my body of work his natural art studies.”
Even when I noticed that her face blushed, her temporary fever didn’t keep her from reminiscing aloud. She seemed on a roll, “My photographer studied every situation making sure he placed me in the best positions. It started with a dip in that lake; the setting presented me with a screen or shield of sunlit water. My boyfriend referred to those photos as his mermaid studies.”
“After a while, he convinced me that we were alone- except for the birds and the bees. He assured me that his ideas and placement of me in that environment would be tasteful. His designs brought to mind Adam and Eve because my boyfriend strategically positioned me behind vines, bushes, and leaves. Those locations and poses kept the illusions going. Good thing none of those natural things caressing my skin was poison ivy.”
Her mood went from exonerated to angry in a split second’s time. “However, he did poison our relationship. One day, during our intimacy, he slipped his thoughts in mentioning that his art studies of my biology would tempt men. His exact words were, ‘Men coveted what they cannot easily seize; we might make some money off those photos of you.’”
She stopped looking angry for a moment; I wondered if he tricked her from the beginning seducing her into posing for those photographs for some kind of investment in his future. Before dwelling on that thought, she resumed her explanation; she was hot. “When he entrapped me, I had no idea he’d ever sell our relationship on the open market!” She gasped before simmering down, “I asked him, ‘Can you imagine my shame- my mortification- if my family caught a glimpse of me hidden in the covers of a magazine?’”