The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 6

And now part six...  Tune in Friday for the thrilling conclusion...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 6

Mrs. Olive Treehousen for the first time in recorded history had told a Horsephat about their personal life.   She had crossed a line drawn many years ago.   She let her emotions take over her whole mind, body, and soul.  Oliver sat listening, stunned by this display.   Never before had he heard such information from a Treehousen.

Upon completion of her prognosis and desire to meet a gentler end, Mrs. Olive Treehousen took the first step towards a solution.   She asked, politely, that Oliver T. Horsephat, a member of the rival family, to end the curse that plagued her family.  He sat stunned by her request.  The proverbial ball bounced into his court.  For the first time in his life, he actually pitied a Treehousen.   And furthermore, he felt a twinge on his heart strings.   And to make matters even more exciting, from somewhere in the cosmos, Oliver T. Horsephat's first thought was to break these damned curses.   To make amends.  To clean the slate and start over.   For one very long moment, he saw into his future.

The name Oliver T. Horsephat would be credited with the discontinuance of an age old family curse.  A curse of unknown origin...  That one singular fact jumped up and tap-danced its way across his mind.  What was the origin of the curses?   This could be the salvation of the rivals.  The Treehousens and Horsephats endured these curses so long that, even when he inquired of Mrs. Olive Treehousen, neither knew the origin of them. 

Together, they would have to search for the beginning.  Someone, sometime, somewhere doomed their future.   Whoever that was now became the hunted.   Olive and Oliver both felt the answer to the riddle would be their salvation, not just for them but also their present and future families.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 5

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 5

That morning, Oliver T. Horsephat made also history.  He invited a Treehousen into his home.   Mrs. Olive Treehousen crossed cautiously into the hallway.  She feared being stuck down by an unseen force of Treehousen generations.   He invited her into the room he had christened the "sitting room" and offered her a seat.  

This gesture was then followed by another groundbreaking offer of tea.   She agreed and he exited to the kitchen, leaving the adjoining door open.  This decision was not only to keep an eye on her but also to commence the conversation.   He was suspicious of her since after all she is a Treehousen.  She on the other had eyed carefully all of his movements about the kitchen.  Occasionally, she had to lean forward, to the left, and to the right in order to see him.  Her eyesight was better than an eagle during the day and an owl at night.

Upon returning to the sitting room, he placed the tray on the table between their chairs.   He inquired if she wanted sugar, milk, or both.  She gave a specific procedure for the mixture -- first two lumps of sugar, then fill half of the teacup with milk followed by the tea.   Oliver, on the other hand, just poured the tea and dropped in one lump and then sat back to wait for the opposing team to make a move.

After the first sip, she complimented him on his ability to follow directions and in return he thanked her for it.  And then, like a newly-formed waterfall, she began to cry and told the prognosis of her visit with her doctor.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 4

I need an editor!

And now another episode of...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 4

Yesterday, Mrs. Olive Treehousen received word from her doctor that she had a slow growing tumor in her lower intestines.  Eventually it would become very painful considering its location and advised nothing but broth.  Between her age and the tumor's location, an operation was near impossible.

She began to fear the future.  Last March, she had turned 81.   She knew the speculation of her age by many people.   This remained one of her favorite secrets.   She believed a lady should never indulge or provide her actual age.  Even her doctor didn't know.   And now, she had some 20 years to go if she was unlucky.

Now Mrs. Olive Treehousen cursed the curse followed by cursing the Treehousens who cursed the Horsephats.  She almost cursed the Horsephats themselves but that may have only lead to more trouble.  She feared her life would be prolonged another twenty years slipping into a lingering painful death.  This possibility sent fear.  She cried.   After contemplating what to do, she made an historical decision.

Now, she stood on the front porch of the rival family.   The time had come to end this damned curse.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 3

Good news on my book.   I have been cranking away at it the past few days.   I am actually getting close to the end.   My goal is to finish it by the end of January.   I think I can... I think I can... I think I can...

After that comes the editing... but then what?   Yes, I should try to publish it, but how and what does that entail?   I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 3

  

That morning, Oliver opened the front door only to face Mrs. Olive Treehousen. Some guessed she was about 87 while others gambled that she was actually 103.   Regardless, her unknown age had yet to stop her from being a rival of the Horsephats.   The two families had a turbulent history greater than the Hatfields and McCoys.   Only these didn't shoot at each other.   They opted for something more devious.  They had cursed each other.  

The Treehousens had made their fortune in olive importing.   Their business had grown substantially since its beginnings.  They had purchased land for warehouses next to the Horsephats farm.  However, they lived in the neighboring county of Olive Branch and had established its county seat, Olea, in the 1864 as well.   Like the Horsephats, the Treehousens were involved in everything, receiving high respect from the community.

 

While the Horsephats had received "the none-past-47 curse," the Treehousens in return got "the no-rest-for-the-wicked curse."  Not one Treehousen had ever died before the age of 100.    No matter what happened to them, they lived to ripe old ages.  

Ada Treehousen, Olive's third cousin, had literally been whittled to nothing.  First, she lost her left hand in a mountain lion attack which in turn spread gangrene up to her shoulder.  Later, she lost a leg to run-away tractor; the remaining leg meet its fate from a large boulder.   Eventually, she was noting but a torso with a head.  Excitedly, at the age of 101, she expired.  Her grave stone read "She lost everything but her head."  Many similar tales existed for the family.  Unlike the Horsephats, the Treehousens had branched out, thus cursing several generations to long, and often painful, lives.

The families remained rivals to this day with no end in sight.  

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 2

And now part 2 of my new short story...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 2

As a well-respected citizen, Oliver T. Horsephat's civic engagement was well-know throughout Sugar Beet County.  He lived contently in his simple home on Sweet Street in the county seat of Maple Leaf.   His claim to fame was inheriting The Horsephat Candy Company from his parents.

Maple Leaf, nestled in a shallow valley, was established in the 1864 when the Horsephats had migrated there to farm sugar beets.  Eventually, they had become the most respected sugar beet families in the area.   In fact, they were the only sugar beet growers.  In 1877, the family started the candy company, producing a wide range of sugary sweets, and gained a stellar reputation.

All was not easy with the Horsephats rise to fame.   They excelled in their share of misfortune.    While inspecting a bumper crop, Oliver's great uncle Horace was avalanched under the vegetable when the straps broke on a wagon filled with them.   It took two hours for the workmen to unearth him.    On his grave stone, his epitaph read "Gone to the great sugar beet farm in the sky." 

Later, one February night, his great aunt Miranda meet her death in the kitchen from drowning.  Being a cheap-skate, she had turned on one lone light. In the dimness, she misjudged her step, fell, and hit her head on a door frame.   While trying to get up, she passed out, ending up face down in a pot of sugar beet juice.   No one found her until it was too late.  They buried her next to great uncle Horace.   "Here lies Miranda who penny-pinched her way right into the sugar pot."  

These were only two examples of the strange and unusual deaths in the Horsephat family.   A curse hovered over the family that didn't allow one Horsephat to live beyond the age of 47. 

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 1

As I promised, this is a less intense short story.   After reading about different writing styles, techniques, etc., I decided to write this one in strict narrative format.   I have grown accustomed to lots of dialogue.  I prefer dialogue, so this was a good challenge for me. 

Here is my second short story in seven parts.   This is part one.

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 1

Oliver T. Horsephat turned 47 years old a few days ago.  So naturally, today, he continued fretting over this fact and the family curse.  He knew what he had to do.   Go about his daily business.   Death couldn't be cheated if it came for him.   Oliver hadn't married so no wife would fret nor had he brought any more Horsephats into the world only to meet the same fate.

However, for Oliver T. Horsephat, this day would bring the chance to change his life -- to redeem the family and break the curse.  Perhaps then, he could marry and start a new generation of Horsephats to continue the family business.

The adventure would start with an early morning knock on the door.

Copyright

I have had two people ask me about copyright.  Apparently, the moment you write it down, you own the copyright.   This I have verified on the U.S. Copyright web page.  I can register my book.   So now, before I post, I have to research and see when to register.

Did Charles Dickens have to go through this?

Latest on my book

For the past two mornings, I have actually worked on my book.   I've always heard they can take on a life of their own.   Mine is not exception.   Sam keeps running around in my brain.  Write me!  Write me now!   I'm stuck in the same place you left me!

Ah, what it must be like to be Stephen King or Fannie Flagg or Kathryn Lasky or... well I could go on for days.   Surely, they must just have minds that watch the world and write about it constantly.  

The Witch Tale -- Part 4

And now, the thrilling conclusion of The Witch Tale...

The Witch Tale -- Part 4

"Well, ladies, here's to us!" said Hazel.   All three of them lifted their mugs and toasted.

"Down the hatch!" added Hettie.

The trio drank the potion.   During and after swallowing, their faces grimaced at its taste.

"Oh dear god!" said Bertha.  "That's a taste I'm glad we only have to endure every fifty years!"

"What do you think gives it that nasty taste?" said Hazel.  "Maybe something washed off that girl.  You are sure she was a virgin?"

"Yes, not to worry," said Bertha.  "I couldn't take the other one.  She's a slut."

"I don't know, but I wish we could get a better recipe." said Hettie.

"Well, now we just sit and wait."  Bertha plopped down onto the couch and grabbed an issue of "Housekeeping for Witches."  Meanwhile, Hazel sat by the fire in her rocker and Hettie put away potion bottles organizing them in alphabetical order.

After an hour,  Bertha looked in the mirror.   At first, she glanced, then getting closer, she pinched her cheeks.   Her fair skin remained pale, her hair blond, her eyes blue, and cheeks still rosy.   Bertha turned to Hazel and Hettie who had stopped and looked at her.

"Well, how do we look?" said Hazel glancing at Bertha, then over to Hettie.   Bertha cocked her head a little examining both their faces.

"The same," said Bertha.   Hettie and Hazel both stepped in front of the mirror.   Hettie's hair remained auburn, her eyes green, her lips red, and her skin clear of any blemishes.  Hazel's brown bobbed hair still shined, her brown eyes twinkled, and, like the others, her skin remained soft and fair.  All three looked like ideal female models.

"DAMN!" shouted Bertha. "It didn't work."  Bertha kicked the end of the sofa, while Hettie cried.

"I can't believe this!" said Hazel. "All that work! Rounding up those damn kids!  Putting up with 'em! We did everything by the book!  Word for word! We measured each ingredient!"  She shook her head and started crying.

"I want to be pretty like other witches," lamented Hettie.  "I want the green skin... warty nose... black nasty hair...  But no, I look hideous!"

The Witch Tale -- Part 3

And now Part 3 of The Witch Tale...  It's like being on an old radio show... only on-line!

The Witch Tale -- Part 3

"Dinnng donng."  Mike raced to the front door and quickly opened it.  The light illuminated the front porch.  The grandfather clock started to strike eleven. The streetlights glowed.

"Joellen..." said Mike sadly. 

"Hello to you, too...," said Joellen sarcastically.

"Sorry, I was hoping it was..."  Tears began to well in his eyes.   Joellen stepped in and gave him a hug. 

Hannah had gone missing the day before.   The police, his parents, and several neighbors were out combing the neighborhood and surrounding areas.  It was one of their worst nightmares.  Mike stayed home in case she showed up or called. 

Mike and Joellen sat down in the living room.   "Dinnng donng."  Mike jumped up once again and ran to the door.

"Hey," said Seth.  "Any word?"   Mike shook his head and began to well up again.  Seth gave him a passionate hug before sitting down in the living room.

"Hey Joellen."

"Hey Seth."

"Dinng donng."   Mike once again jumped up.  When he opened the door, the porch was dark.  The metal light fixture swung back and forth despite the lack of wind.   He noticed a strange odor.

"Hello?" said Mike as he gazed in the darkness and wrinkled his nose.  There was no answer. 

"Who is it?" said Seth from the living room.   He and Joellen came into the hall.

Just as Mike stepped out, the porch light slowly glowed back to its original brightness.

"Hannah!" yelled Mike.  Hannah laid unconscious on the front porch.  All three bent down next to her.  

"Yuck!" said Joellen.  "What's that smell?"

Seth held her wrist.  "She's alive."

"Let's get her inside," said Mike.  "Joellen, call an ambulance."

Mike and Seth carried her into the hall.   Hannah moved a little.  She was alive.

Writing, editing, and find a place

I just re-read part 1 and 2 of my short story, The Witch Tale.  I found it interesting that I let myself go crazy and into dark places.   Cutting out someone's heart!   Really!   That's like Hannibal Lecture level stuff.   Although, I have no regrets about writing it.   And I also feel like my stress level had gone down.  

My personal thoughts are that I have found something that I can do to let my creativity go wild as well as letting go and lower my stress.   I finished parts 3 and 4/the ending.   These will be posted this week.

I was just telling my co-worker, Ann, that I can't write fast enough.   Now, I have lots of ideas for stories and I can't write fast enough.

Anyway, thanks for taking some time to read this.   I know that everyone is busy with so many other things that making choices is necessary.     Keep watching/reading -- I will be posting the first chapter of my book, The Fingerprint of Jack, very soon.

The Witch Tale -- Part 2

Here it is -- Part 2 of my short story.   I finished it, re-read it, and said to myself "Did I just write that?!"  Stay tuned for part three of this four part series.

The Witch Tale --Part 2

Hazel stood over the large metal pot on a wood fire stirring the steaming concoction.  After brushing her hair from her face, she finally looked up at her sister.  "Hettie,  have you noticed these kids today just aren't the same as what we used to get?" 

"I know," said Hettie as she shook her head in dismay. "It's just not like what it used to be.  Remember when they used to beg for their lives?"

Hettie was standing next to one of the boys who was strapped to a chair.  His eyes were starting to open.  "Uh-oh, looks like this one is coming to.  I just hate it anymore when we have to knock them out." 

The boy came to and looked up at Hettie before realizing that he was strapped to a chair.  "You fuckin' bitch!  I'm gonna kill you!  You bitch..."  Hettie pushed his forehead back and slit his throat before he could finish his last sentence.  Blood gushed down his shirt and all over the floor.   He choaked and tried struggling free, but his actions slowly faded.

"Such language these days," said Hettie.  "And that last batch of knock-out spell must have been weak."

"You have to look at it this way," said Hazel smiling.  "We still get to see lots of blood."

Hettie sighed.  "I know.  But I want them to be awake and aware that they're young lives are coming to an end."  She shook her head again in dismay.  "It's just not the same."

"I don't see how we can be so upset with them," said Hazel.  "They don't appreciate their lives any more than we do."

"Yes, but they used to be so nice about it," said Hettie. "Today all they do is swear at us.   They don't even beg for their lives.   I feel that this generation just doesn't care about their lives or anyone elses." 

Hettie was trying to drag the dead boy to long narrow wooden table.  Hazel stopped stirring and laid the ladle on a nearby table.  "Here let me help you with him."

"Thanks.  He was a bit heavy."   Hettie took a long blood-covered knife and sliced open the boy's chest. 

"You know I'm surprised that I even find hearts in these kids these days."  She reached in and pulled out his heart cutting the arteries with the knife.  

"Here's one more." Hettie tossed it into the pot.   "Eleven down and one more to go."

"When do you think Bertha will be back?" asked Hazel who was tossing in some herbs and started stirring again.

"I don't know," said Hettie.  "Hopefully she will find someone who will help finish the spell.  It's not easy these days."

"Was she going to try to find one of those girls that saw us?" said Hazel.

"Maybe.  I'm not too worried about them.  Who would believe them anyway?"

"You're probably right." 

Hettie left the room and returned a few moments later dragging a large girl by the legs behind her. 

"Hazel, help me with this one.  She's really heavy.  How did we get her back here?"  They both panted and heaved the girl across the floor.  They stopped by the table with the boy's body on it.  Hettie rolled him off to the side hitting the floor with a thud.

"Oh now, Hettie, you mustn't be so rude to them."

"Phttt... Like he would have cared."

"Hettieeeee...," said Hazel.  "You are becoming insensitive."  They picked up the girl and Hazel laid her head gently on the table.   Just as they finished adjusting her, the door flew open.

"I'm back," announced Bertha as she carried a body over shoulder.

"Oh Bertha, you shouldn't be carrying somebody by yourself like that.   You might hurt your back."   Bertha unloaded the body onto a nearby sofa.  

"Well, I got that last one we need.  That should do it.  Boy, was she hard to catch!  I had to chase her down the street."  Bertha smiled proudly at her accomplishment.   "How's the brew?"

Bertha and Hettie walked over the steaming pot.   "Well, the spell is fine.   I wish I could say the same about Hazel."   Hazel made a face over disapproval.

"I am fine," said Hazel.   "It's this damned generation that upsets me.  They have no respect."  She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and proceeded to cut open the girl's chest.  As she cut, she mumbled "I just don't get it.  Damn kids today."   After she laid the knife down, she reached into the cavity and yanked out the girl's heart.  And with a quick turn, she tossed it into the pot.

"There that's all! Hehe haha!"   Hazel announced with joy and a big smile.  "There I'm being happy."  Her dismal look returned quickly.

Bertha and Hettie just looked at her.   After a few moments, Hettie went back to stirring and Bertha helped Hazel carry the bodies out of the room.   They returned with mops in hand.  Blood was everywhere.  They started to mop the floor, clean off the chair and table, and push the blood towards the floor's center drain.

"I wish we could find a spell that would make all of this blood just go away in an instance."  Bertha lamented.

Hettie stopped for a moment from her stirring.   "Is that girl ready to go or do we have to prep her?"  Under her breath, she mumbled "Please let her be ready..."

"Nope.  She's all ready to go."

"Good," said Hettie. "I checked the pantry and we have plenty of forget potion so she won't remember a thing tomorrow."

After the mopping, all three stood around the pot.

"Yuck!  Why does this potion always have to smell so bad?    I remember that smell from the last time."

"Really!  That was over fifty years ago," said Hettie.  "I'm impressed by your memory."

"How could you forget that smell!"  Bertha grimmaced.

"Alright girls.  Let's get this done."   Hazel went over the limp girl in the chair.   "Let's get her out of these clothes and into the pot.   Did you check the temp?   I don't want her to get scalded."

"Yes, it's fine," said Hettie as she swirled her hand in the pot for a quick check.  The trio undressed the girl and carried her to the pot.

"Careful, don't hit her head," said Bertha.   "She's sleeping like a baby.  Let's try not to wake her up.  That would be such a mess."

The trio hoisted her into the pot holding her head so it wouldn't sink into the potion.   Hettie grabbed the ladle and started scooping it over her shoulders.  After about ten minutes, they pulled her out, dried her off, and redressed her.

"That's should complete the potion." said Hazel.

"Look it's turning bright purple," said Hettie excitidly.  "That's means it worked.   Good job on selecting the girl."  She patted Bertha on the shoulder.  They all breathed a sigh of relief.
 

"I'll have her home in no time," said Bertha,  After uncorking a small purple bottle labled "Forget potion," she put a couple of drops of the contents into the girl's mouth.   "That should do it."

Bertha heaved her over her should.  "I'll be back in a little while," she said closing the door behind her.  "Don't drink without me."

More to come...

Next week, you should see Part 2 of my short story, The Witch Tale.   It is such a tale of strangeness.   I re-read the second part and thought "Did I just write that?"

Also, I am planning on posting chapters of my young adult novel starting the first week of December.    I figure if I get a date on the schedule, I will make it happen.