The Virtual Storytellers Campfire

By god, gus, you're talented. I liked that piece best of all your posts so far. Reminds me of the Sinatra record:
Polka dots and moonbeams
Sparkled on a pug nose dream

I believe that if we keep this thread going long enough it can build a following and lots of new contributers. Thanks for starting it, Cav.

BM

Bookmark!

Gautam - do you know what BM is an abbreviation for in the USA?

KP

Nopes !

Well, let's stoke up the fire and get some stories going, people.

Good morning Edgar,
It is hard to think of submitting something after reading Gus and yourself.
You're so FUNNY and interesting Gus, and you all are SO talented.
We need stories from Colorbook- Letty- Ceili- Cav- and some other talents I have read here. come, come come....

Some random thoughts about one particular long-term patient from my hospital stay:

Eyes open, skinny shafts of orange peeking through the blinds like tiny observers...must be morning. Mrs. Bantry gazed at the room and thought, how drab. The ceiling tiles pressed down on her like some hopeless sad-sack you just couldn't get rid of. The dim flourescent lights were certainly making her mad, and everything was painted a faded yellow, as if the walls themselves were sucking the life out of the room and it's inhabitants.

There is a clatter of wheels, and then the sound of a rich, booming voice. "Good morning, Mrs. Bantry, time for your medicine, and breakfast. Remember, you have to eat, doctor's orders."

"Oh, thank you dear. Just put it over there if you don't mind. Nurse, I'm not terribly hungry at the moment, could I sit by the window for a bit? I really do enjoy watching the sun change colours."

"Mrs. Bantry, I'll wheel you over there if you promise to finish your breakfast before I come back to collect the plates. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, thank you. I promise." Mrs. Bantry smiled.

"Okay, here you go, careful now...here, I'll get the blinds for you."

"Thank you."

"No trouble. Just buzz me if you need anything else."

Mrs. Bantry's room overlooked an old church that always reminded her of the one she attended as a child. It was early January, and a new snow had fallen. The sun lit up the virgin-white landscape in tiny crystals.

Mrs. Bantry's thoughts started to wander. Despite what the kids thought, she was not losing her mind. Sure, it had become difficult to remember the little day to day things, a completely natural part of aging, she believed, but she was in full control of the memories that really mattered, especially those of her dearest Jack, and their days of courting, getting married, starting a family...she remembered all.

My my, she thought, the snow is beautiful. So white and pristine. It brought her back to early days with Jack, ballroom dancing in pre-Castro Cuba, enjoying the white sand beaches, the Cuba Libres, and a perfect tango. Jack always wore a white tuxedo with a red carnation. Mrs. Bantry wore a crimson gown, and they positively glowed on the dancefloor.

As Mrs. Bantry reminisced, two men appeared in the churchyard and caught her attention. They talked, and then argued. The argument seemed to get quite heated. Then, in a quicksilver flash, one man pulled out a stilletto and jabbed it first into the neck of the other man, causing an arterial spray to dot the snow with blood, then, a quick attack to the stomach. The man fell and died in a pool of blood.

Mrs. Bantry's eyes popped wide open. It was all there, like a flood. "Look at how the carnations grow," she said to nobody in particular. But there it was in plain view, dots of red upon the white sand beach. She looked at the dead man and saw only her crimson dress pressed against her Jack's pristine white tuxedo, dancing that perfect tango, and she nearly wept with joy. Slowly, she closed the blinds.

Mrs. Bantry looked at her drab surroundings, and then at her breakfast. For a moment, a brief moment, she saw scones with clotted cream and fresh raspberry preserves instead of dry toast, and was happy.

I love that, cav. Excellent. Excellent.

Bravo! Wonderful!!

The games poor people play
It's harder than you think to write a story with a limit of only 250 words---BBB

WHAT DID HE SAY?
By BumbleBeeBoogie
(2nd place winner, Alfred Hichcock Mystery Magazine 250 word limit Photo Story contest in 1995.)

Jeb had grand ideas but not much success in life. One of his money-making schemes was to raise penguins on his ranch, but it was a financial disaster as the Great Depression grew worse. He had to get rid of the birds before he lost more money.

Jeb tried, but failed to sell the penguins. Because he had grown fond of the birds, he couldn't kill them. So, desperate, he loaded them into his truck to drive 75 miles to donate them to the City Zoo. As he stopped for gas, he noticed a young man standing by his pickup truck and struck up a conversation with him.

"Would ya be willin' to take them penguins to the zoo fer me fer $5?" asked Jeb.

"Sure, that's no problem, I could use the money," said the friendly young feller.

The young man took the $5, loaded the penguins into his truck and drove off.

Jeb drove back to his ranch, happy to finally be rid of the birds and pleased that they would have a good home.

The next day, Jeb drove to town to buy supplies. As he left the store, the same young man drove up with the penguins still in his pickup truck.

"I been lookin' all over fer ya" he said.

"Why you lookin' fer me? How come you brought them penguins back?" asked Jeb in astomishment.

"Well", said the young man, "I took them to the zoo yesterday, like you asked me to, and they had a real nice time. But I still got some of the $5 you give me so I'm gonna take em' to a baseball game today! Where's yer ranch so I can bring 'em back tonight?"

Later that night, the sheriff stopped the young man for driving without headlights.

"What happened to yer lights?" asked the sheriff.

The clearly puzzled young man said "A crazy old man busted 'em with his fists."

THE MOUNTAIN MAN
By BumbleBeeBoogie - March 23, 1995

A mountain man, celebrating his 21st birthday in the town's gathering place, was entertaining his friends with tales of his first day trip to the big city. He leaned against the bar with a can of beer in his hand and described the long tour bus trip and the astonishing sights he saw along the way.

"I was jest wandering the streets buying trinkets for Mama and Little Sister and eaten the strangest food you ever ete. I run out of money and was walkin back to the bus depot when a sweet young gal leaning agin the brick wall of a bar called out to me. I'm thinkin to meself, she sure is friendly-like to welcome a stranger to her city, so I stopped to talk to her."

A pleasant memory spread across his face. "I jest liked her friendly ways so much and she were so purty, I din't notice how late it was gettin, so I jest decided to take the last bus home."

With a big grin the Mountain Man recalled, "Now that sweet young gal took me up the stairs to her room and she warn't embarrassed that the building were all dirty and her furniture ain't so good."

"What happened next?" his friends asked.

"Well, that little gal fixed me some soup and peanut butter sanwiches. And, he laughed, She gave me some of the fiercest White Lightnin I ever drunk and I be gawd dammed if I din't miss the last bus home."

How'd ya git yerself out'a that fix?" his friends wondered.

"Well, that sweet lil gal tole me it were too late to git a room. So I ast her what I should do. And you won't believe what happened next."

Blushing beet red he said, "She were so sweet she give me half her bed and shared her pillow. And, would'ja believe it, she were so kind that she din't wear her nightie because I din't brung no pajamas."

There was dead quiet in the room as his friends looked at each other.

Finally, he broke the silence. "In the mornin after I waked up from a long sleep, that sweet little gal done give me a real nice breakfast of coffee and toast with grape jam all over it. She even hugged me at the door afore me an she said goodbye."

Suddenly, the Mountain Man stopped in the middle of his story, noticing the older men were rolling their eyes and snickering behind their hands. With a mixture of astonishment and conviction, he took a swig from his can of beer and announced:

"Dang! you know what? If'n I'd played me cards right, I could'a had that sweet gal!"

SCHUBERT'S COST-CONTAINED UNFINISHED SYMPHONY
When I was a representative of the Union of American Physicians and Dentists during the 1970s and 80s, I wrote this in 1979 to alert the public to the risks associated with HMO health care cost containment policies.---BBB

SCHUBERT'S COST-CONTAINED UNFINISHED SYMPHONY;
A NEW PERSPECTIVE ON HEALTH CARE REFORM
By BumbleBeeBoogie

Have you ever wondered what would happen to the quality of your medical care under a draconian rationing program in your health plan? Let's look at it another way. Imagine, if you can, how a Bach fugue would sound with a harmonica instead of a pipe organ; a Sousa march without a booming tuba; or the Beatle's without Ringo's throbbing drum beat. Would the quality of the music be affected? Would you want to listen to it? Now, apply these examples to understand what could happen to the quality of medical care under the cost-containment goals of a health plan. Imagine Schubert's Unfinished Symphony as it would be performed by a civic orchestra under these circumstances.

The following memo from the symphony's treasurer may make you sick---but with laughter:

Under the Symphony's new cost-containment program, the attendance of the orchestra conductor will be unnecessary for public performances. The orchestra musicians obviously are required to practice. They have the conductor's prior authorization to play the symphony at a predetermined cadence and at an expected level of quality. Considerable money will be saved by merely having the conductor critique the orchestra's performance during a retrospective peer review meeting.

For considerable periods, the four oboe players have nothing to do. Reducing their numbers and spreading their work over the whole orchestra will eliminate peaks and valleys of activity.

Dispensing with either the snare drums or the kettle drums will eliminate an obvious redundancy and still produce the needed cadence for the musicians.

All twelve violin players produce identical notes with identical motions, an unnecessary duplication. The violin section will be drastically cut, resulting in substantial savings. Electronic amplification, with its high reproductive quality, may be used if more sound volume is desirable.

Much effort is expended by the musicians playing 16th notes, or semi-quavers, an excessive refinement. Most listeners can't distinguish such rapid playing. All notes will be rounded up to the nearest 8th. When this is done, it will be possible to use trainee musicians without loss of quality.

No useful purpose is served by repeating with horns, the same passage already played by the strings. Elimination of all redundant passages, as determined by a cost-containment committee, will reduce the concert from two hours to twenty minutes. A great savings in salaries and overhead will be achieved. In fact, if Schubert had attended to these matters on a cost-containment basis, he probably would have been able to finish his symphony.

Cavfancier, EXCELLENT! (I thought you were a master chef, and you are a WRITER??? )

BBB, wonderful stories. I have really enjoyed reading them.
Cav, this has become a treasure trove of great reading! May it go on and on and on...

Dear Gus: MORE, please. I could read your posts all day!!

Cav, Depression Dessert
Cav, your Mrs. Bantry story interested me because I'm a fan of an O'Henry twist at the end of a story.

I tried writing one a few years ago that I'm not entirely satisfied with yet and now that I'm retired, I may return to it to improve it---but not for now.

The story is based on true events told to me by a dear friend of her days in New York during the Great Depression and the rituals and games people play to maintain their own and other people's dignity during hard times.

DEPRESSION DESSERT
By BumbleBeeBoogie

Marconi's was comfortable old-country, a family place, where parents brought their young children to practice their table manners.

It was not like the mirrored walls, chromium furniture, and black linoleum sophistication that was all the rage in the City of Queen's former speakeasies.

In 1934, in the depths of the Depression, Marconi's was struggling to keep its former status, or at least its illusion of gentility.

A young couple opened the restaurant's worn oak door, its panel of bellflower-etched leaded glass reflected their image under the light cast by an overhead brass lamp. They moved through the soft lights and the aromas from the kettles of the Italian kitchen.

Ernesto walked toward them, dressed in the waiter's traditional black suit, white shirt and black bow tie, with his worn, but clean linen towel over one arm. As he moved closer, he recognized his young friends and greeted them with a warm smile.

Snowy white hair crowned Ernesto's head. The immaculate collar and cuffs of his shirt showed fragments of the stiffening along the folds where mending could no longer hide the frayed edges.

He pushed the silver wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose as he led the young couple to a table by the room's only window. Small panes of leaded glass admitted the rosy glow of the sun's last rays. From this spot they could watch the other diners, many of them regulars of all ages, like themselves, living in no-cooking apartments.

They unfolded their napkins as Ernesto handed them the yellowed menus, their edges torn and bent from years of handling. Over the last four years, the prices had been lowered so often there was no more room to line them out. Finally, the price changes were written on bits of adhesive tape that covered the original amounts.

Ernesto hovered over the table, lighting the candle that had dripped years of wax down the ancient green wine bottle. He recited the dishes that had made Marconi's famous during the pre-depression years.

The couple ordered their usual spaghetti; at fifty cents it was all they could afford. Ernesto congratulated them on their excellent choice as he gathered up the menus and returned to the kitchen. Moments later he returned and placed steaming plates of spaghetti on the table with a "Buon Gusto, my friends!"

The couple coiled the slippery strands of spaghetti around their forks, dipping them into the thin tomato sauce and wiping the dribbles from their chins. They soaked up the last of the sauce with hard-crusted bread, and raised their glasses of water in a toast to each other and to their good fortune for one luxurious hot dinner each week.

From across the room a chorus of voices rang out as a family sang Happy Birthday to the grandmother of the brood. The young couple waved their good wishes and raised their glasses in a toast.

The young man signaled Ernesto to ask, since it was a special evening, "What glorious creation has the chef prepared because they would like to order a memorable dessert."

"Tonight!" cried Ernesto in his most stentoriian tone," you are fortunate, because the chef is inspired. Not only do we have your favorite vanilla gelato with caramel sauce, but he prepared a biscuit tortoni and a zabaglione to please the gods!"

The discussion of which dessert to order was difficult, as it always was. Finally, after much indecision and urging by Ernesto to try this or that, the woman ordered the Zabaglione and the man ordered the Vanilla gelato with caramel sauce.

Ernesto returned. With a flourish he presented a silver tray containing two cups of steaming coffee and two plates, each containing two small vanilla cookies.

After the couple ate the cookies and drained the coffee cups, Ernesto returned to accept the celebrant's congratulations for the fine dinner and their special compliments to the chef for the lovely desserts. The young man laid two half dollars and a nickel tip on the table.

With old-country dignity, the kindly waiter accompanied the couple to the door. As they walked outside, he straightened his stooped shoulders, grasped their hands and bade them "Goodnight my young friends, until next week."

Ernesto closed the door. He resumed his role with the other guests, hovering over them to ask if he could bring them anything special. Did they want dessert, more coffee, an after dinner drink, a cognac perhaps?

unsettling tale, drom; interestingly told.

BBB
I had not suspected you were so good with prose. Great going.

If you are male, and remember your high school role in the dating pecking order as dumping ground for your secret crushes' boyfriend troubles, then you are familiar with the emotional paralysis that often overcomes young, sensitive, well-meaning people. You were always the perfect friend, but always feared trying to take things to the next level, because having her near you, in any way, was better than screwing things up, and not having her at all.

For many of us boys who came of age in the 80s, the rules of courtship were a confusing, muddled quagmyre of tied hands and fear, especially in light of the changing role of women, and the AIDS crisis. University solved these problems for a lot of young men and women who had never been away from home before, and virtually exploded in a Dionisian frenzy during frosh week. For others, like myself, the role of professional friend haunted me still.

Carellin. My beautiful red-dyed-hair crush of 1989, first year university. She was pretty, smart, a reporter for the school newspaper, with an eye towards a masters in journalism. She was also a foodie, with a taste for anything exotic. I fell hard.

We became fast friends. We had a lot in common, and loved hanging out together. When we got to know each other better, and I thought hey, maybe I can make my move, she mentioned a boyfriend. I was floored. When we got to know each other a little better, I started hearing the stories about how although he was a really nice guy, he couldn't give her an orgasm, and so I went quietly, defeated, into the dark night of professional friend.

She was too good a person to give up, so I accepted my role, and we continued to hang out. There were lunch meetings at the local souvlaki joint, dinners out for Vietnamese or Laotion, coffee breaks, movies, and just long talks about everything and nothing. Times were grand.

Back then, I was still a young pup in the kitchen, but I finally mustered up the courage to invite her over for dinner, not long before winter break. I was good with a stir-fry, and made great steamed rice...a nice college dinner. She said she'd be there at 6.

An hour went by, and she hadn't shown. I called her, she wasn't home, I left a message. About an hour later, she called.

"What's up? Where are you?"

"Umm, I'm at the University of Montreal, something big is happening here, I have to cover this for the paper."

"Holy s**t, what's going on?"

"There's been some sort of shooting. I don't know. Nobody can get near the building, and we can't get any information."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty far from what's going on. Listen, I have to go, sorry, can I call you tomorrow?"

"Sure, no problem, take care."

"I will, thanks for understanding."

It was about a month before we saw each other again. By then, the world knew what happened that day. On December 6, 1989, Marc Lepine walked into the University of Montreal with an automatic shotgun, separated the men from the women, shouted something barely coherent about feminists before taking the lives of fourteen women, and then turning the gun on himself.

When I saw Carellin again, I didn't know what to say. I must have been obvious, as she asked me "What's going on? Are you moody?"

"I'm okay", I lied. "How are things with you?"

"Well...I didn't know if I should tell you or not...but I've met someone."

"Really? Wow...that's great."

"Yeah, it's working out pretty well so far."

"So...who is it?"

"Her name is Anne."

Bada bing.
Good tale, cav.