I am proud to introduce another one of the top three winning short stories from the recent LongShortStories “PAY IT FORWARD” Challenge short story contest.

 

Mopa’s Garden

by

J. B. Bergstad

 

 

                                                        August 19, 2001

Riversbend, Wyoming

 

For some death arrives on feet of stealth and for others amid cries of agony and fear. Death is the great equalizer. He favors none, ethnicity be damned. He gathers young and old, weak and strong, brave and cowardly. He takes the loved of the living. In His wake He leaves grief, a smothering shroud, cast in parting over those of us still breathing. Like a dry cleaner’s suit bag, grief clings in its attempt to suffocate those left behind. Though I am not of her flesh and blood, I am not immune—my breath is smothered in loss.

Mopa’s vegetable garden is parched and rife with wilt. The neglected ground Mopa once nurtured lies dry, puckered and cracked. The tomato vines she so lovingly cared for hang limp, showing white in the pale sunshine, while death’s anguish molders in my gut like a pus filled boil.

My ex-wife found Mopa lying among her beloved tomato plants—she was two days dead. Laura called me from her mother’s bungalow. The small house was empty when I arrived. I found Mopa face down in the dirt of the garden she loved, alone and unattended. Laura was gone. To run errands, she explained later. I was stunned. Now, the vegetables mimic their gardener—they are lifeless—turning to dust.

Mopa was seventy-six when her heart decided enough was enough. Mopa was my friend and mother and father-in-law combined. When I asked for her daughter’s hand in marriage, some twenty-five years ago, she said: “Call me Mom or Pa—just don’t call me Mrs. or ma’am.” She is the only Mom or Pa I ever knew and I called her Mopa from that day forward.

Mopa was a woman’s woman and a man’s dream, but she could be a wayward man’s nightmare at the same time. Not long after I married Mopa’s daughter, I became a wayward man. I didn’t start out that way, but Laura had bad in her blood. Unpleasant things just followed along.

Mopa’s birth name was Agnes Lisa Morre. Lisa is pronounced Ly-za and the Morre is pronounced plain old More. Thinking of trivialities like the pronunciation of Mopa’s name rock me with a guilty fist. Her wake was a crowded affair. I walked out the kitchen door of the one bedroom bungalow and followed the pea gravel path to her vegetable garden. Here, I knew, was the appropriate place to say my thanks and whisper my private goodbyes.

The hard, hollow sound of dirt thudding against her coffin’s lid came back to me then. I felt a rush of shame. I’d failed to confess my love for her while she lived. Tears put the sting of maddened wasps in my eyes. Why? The question was too late asked. The answer’s meaning as dead as the body I helped to bury that morning. I would carry the pain of my thoughtless omission through every waking hour.

My attachment to Mopa grew out of a bad habit—slow self-destruction. Mopa was the woman who opened my eyes to an eternal truth: The search for the bottom of a liquor bottle is not found by ingesting the liquid in the container.

I married Laura Agnes Morre straight out of high school. Laura and I were not an item during our school years, but we dated in our senior year…off and on…sort of. The fact we got together at all plays in my head like a bad cliché: Laura was the beautiful cheerleader. I was the football and baseball jock of Riversbend Polytechnic High School—rah—rah—rah.

Three months after our senior prom Laura saw me at the drug store and announced she was pregnant. Recalling my bad boy attitude at the time, I can’t think why I didn’t tell her tough shitski, y’all. I was a nutcase-screwball after graduation. I had no real home. I was raised by a so-called uncle who was either drunk or getting there depending on the time of day.

I felt the sharp planes of my cheekbones tighten as I remembered those early years. I was not the product of a good upbringing. Parental guidance was something I joked about. Yet, I thought I knew what a man should do. A man who got a girl pregnant took responsibility—I liked to watch old movies. That particular highroad, I imagined, would help show certain snoots in Riversbend, Wyoming, that Henry Daniel Straker was not a piece of trash.

My decision to settle down surprised my buddies. I vowed I would be a good husband and father. A month after our wedding I returned home from a long day of cleaning horse stalls. Laura told me she lost our baby while she nuked frozen macaroni and cheese for our supper.

At the time I thought it was shock—Laura shed no tears for our child. My naiveté in matters concerning human gestation became obvious a year later. During a routine physical I brought up my wife’s miscarriage. “Is Laura still okay, Doc? Can she still have kids after her miscarriage?”

“I didn’t treat her for a miscarriage, Hank,” he said. “Who diagnosed her pregnancy?” the Doctor looked hurt.

I confronted Laura with my discovery. Dry-eyed yet again, Laura admitted her lies. That night marked the beginning of my romance with liquor. After too many addled nights and blurred weekends Laura and I divorced. We were married twenty-nine months.

My life stepped aboard the skids and began a rapid descent into the land of the lush. Despite the divorce, Mopa stepped in and took charge. Mopa was a woman who loved big. She made my salvation her personal mission. Like a fresh, green, cocklebur she fastened herself to my life and never let go. Her patience was remarkable. I cringe when I remember the nights she sat with me as I raved about furry bugs on the wall. I remember her phone calls, forcing me from a bed filled with hangover. Before I realized what was happening a sob racked my body….

“Henry?”

I jumped at the sound of that familiar voice. I knew the timbre and inflection. I didn’t turn or acknowledge my name. I hoped my silence would indicate I had nothing to say. My hopes disappeared with the sound of her feet mulching the pea gravel path.

I turned away from her approach and wiped the tears from my cheeks. Her voice, when it next came was at my left shoulder. “Henry? What the hell are you doing out here? I’d like a little privacy. Can you do something? Get these people to leave?” she said.

I turned, and as usual, I wasn’t ready for the surprise. At first glance time’s finger had done little to alter the face and body of Laura Morre. Prior to Mopa’s death I’d received an invitation. It was an RSVP announcement for my twenty-fifth high school reunion—class of 1976. Laura still had the look of a high school cheerleader, only her eyes and voice give her away. Both now convey the coarse, loveless personality hidden beneath her surface beauty.

“I’m here for Mopa,” I said. “To pay my respects.” I swept my arm to encompass Mopa’s garden.

“Her name was Agnes, Henry. I wish you’d can the Mopa shit. Your eyes are red. Don’t tell me you’ve been out here crying—Jesus Christ. Did you think she was your mommy?” Her smile was not even mocking, it was simply cold.

“Laura,” I said. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re the same cold bitch. When your time comes your wake’ll be a quiet one. Bet the damn ranch on it. Now. What makes you think I’ll do anything you ask?”

Laura smirked and it was better than a cold shower for me. “I’ll tell you why, Mr. do-good. You serve the people of this hick Burg and right now the people is me.”

I stared at that petrified face. Studied the hard angry lines around her mouth and shuddered. A breeze came up pushing the fragrance of wild prairie flowers ahead of it. It was a fresh, fruit like smell, mixed with the aroma of fertile soil, fresh turned.

“You’re right,” I said. “I serve the people hereabouts, but you’re just one. There’s sixty odd folks in your Mother’s house. They deserve a little time to say goodbye.”

Laura returned my stare. A few more lines appeared around her eyes and deep slashes cut away from her nostrils. She opened her mouth to speak, but I held up a hand. “Before you go on about my duty I’ve got a question. Did Mo—I’m sorry—did Agnes talk to you about problems with her garden? I’m curious. The day you called I found her out here. She wasn’t dressed for gardening. There was no reason for her to be out here. The garden was tended—everything healthy, except maybe the tomatoes—I’m wondering why she came out here to die. Out here in the tomato vines.”

Laura opened her mouth to answer, but heavy footfalls coming our way made her turn instead. A tall young man with premature gray hair approached. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, starched white on white shirt and muted burgundy tie with matching hanky in the breast pocket. I might’ve been intimidated, standing there in my khaki twill shirt and pants, but my black cowboy boots were shined and my beaver Stetson was square on my head, so I relaxed. As he covered the remaining distance between us I noticed his black wingtips with their thick, rubber soles. My shine was better than his.

Laura stiffened at the stranger’s intrusion on our conversation. He stopped a few feet away and gave us a hard look. “We found it, Sheriff Straker. Right where you said it would be.” His voice was flat. He didn’t smile, but moved to his left blocking the path back to the house.

I nodded. “She doesn’t have much imagination, does she?” I said.

Laura tried to turn toward me, but I stopped her. I snapped a cuff on her right wrist and tightened the matching bracelet on her left. I took hold of her arm, it was a good feeling. Laura looked up at me. Her eyes tried to appear yielding, but the emptiness there couldn’t hide. Her white face had the look of eroded sandstone. She said, “What the hel…?”

I said, “Laura Agnes Morre, you’re under arrest for the manufacture and distribution of methamphetamines. This gentleman’s name is Philip Randolph. Mr. Randolph is with the Drug Enforcement Agency. They’re part of the Treasury Department in case you’re wondering. He was kind enough to allow me the honor of cuffing you. He’ll take you into custody now and serve you with a federal warrant for your arrest. When you’ve done your federal time, Wyoming and Riversbend county will be waiting to settle accounts.”

Laura looked over her shoulder at me. “I’m not….”

I shook my head. “It was good of you to run your errands the day you reported Mopa’s death. It gave me a chance to look around—once I got her off the ground and cared for, that is. You were dumb—leaving her outside like that—and then the scuff marks on the floor of the basement? I pulled on the workbench and…. Well, you know where your cooker is, don’t you? You put it in the wrong place. The fumes leeched through the ceiling boards of that old root cellar. Mopa had asked me to have a look. Said she was having trouble with her tomato plants. I’ve been real busy—didn’t get time…. Death in the commission of a felony is murder in the State of Wyoming—I’ll be waiting for you, Laura.

 

 

Hi Friends!

I get this question a lot. Maybe some folks think they’re being funny, asking this. Maybe not. So, I will once and for all demystify this mystery.

Traditional short stories tend to be between 1000 to 2000 words. There are always exceptions. Some have run nearly 20,000 words! Some classical short stories were so long that they were run in newspapers of the day as serialized stories. One modern literary magazine generally defines a short story as one no longer than it takes to smoke a cigarette. Wikipedia defines Flash Fiction as a short story less than 1000 words in length.

Modern print magazines usually specify in their “Writers’ Guidelines” that feature articles (stories) be less than 2500 words, due to space and editorial constraints. Woe to the errant writer who exceeds the dreaded “word count” stipulation!

LongShortStories generally run between 1000 and 2000 words. My tightest flash fiction generally will clock in at around 100 words. Again, the wise writer lets the story and its main character take the plot where it must go, for as long as it must go, to complete the arc of the story for the reader. Then, it’s Edit, Edit, Edit!That’s the inherent beauty of the short story form– that they be, well–short!

Now, with all that technical stuff aside, here’s the funny part:

My name is Wayne C. Long.

I write unique short stories.

Combine my last name with what I do best and,

voila 

 … you have LongShortStories! Get it!

I love Autumn!

Autumn is my favorite time of the year.

For me, Autumn is a time to reflect on all that is good the rest of the year. Autumn is a time to say a BIG “Thank You”

• to all my loyal subscribers;
• to those of you who risked 99 cents to check out one of my 25 Pay-Per-View stories;
• to those of you who visited and bookmarked www.LongShortStories.com and continue to spread the word about LongShortStories to your friends and continue to come back for more;
• to those of you who entered my LongShortStories “Pay It Forward” Challenge short story contest (you have already enjoyed Heather Haven’s wonderful entry “Socks” on these pages; there will be two more winners and their wonderful short stories posted here over time).

Yes, Autumn is a time for gratitude; gratitude for our Creator; gratitude for each other; gratitude for your love of the short story form of entertainment.

While the gears of world financial markets gnash their teeth, and wars wear on, the beacon of creative writing shines brightly on this sometimes dismal planet.

World citizens have a choice to make. Either they can see the proverbial glass as half-empty or, as I hope, half-full. You can actually choose your reality! Or, as my personal mantra states:

“BE what you wish to see!”

Yes, it’s really that simple, and yet, that profound.

Here in America, voters soon will have a simple opportunity to vote for a new president; a change in thinking; a profound re-direction in how America is seen, and yes, sees, itself and the world at large.

An unstoppable wave of optimism is about to be unleashed upon the shores of an expectant world. A world weary of glass-half-empty thinking and top-down policies. A world where money seems to trump the Golden Rule. A world where hope seems lost.

But I say with Christ Jesus, (St. John 4:35):

“Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.”

My friends, will you please join me, to  ”BE what you wish to see!”