Story # 12 “You Understand”

“You Understand”

Anne had been quiet all day. She got like that sometimes. Working as a clinical psychologist can be stressful. I get it. I hated to see her sad, so I offered to take her out to The Professors’ Pub down on Water Street. Good drinks there, and cheap. I thought Anne probably just needed to unwind a bit. She offered to drive even though it was only a couple blocks from the apartment, but it was the end of February and cold as hell, so I said what the hell, let’s drive. Beats walking in the snow.

I was feeling good. We hadn’t had a chance to go out together for a few weeks and she was looking really pretty. When work was good, I always tried to pay for everything- our meals, our drinks, our concert tickets—and lately, work had been good. I held the door open and let the warm rush of air from the pub waft the scent of her perfume over me as she walked inside and took a seat at our usual table a little ways from the bar. I swear to God, as long as I live, I’ll never forget the scent of her perfume.

I ordered a scotch for myself and a pint of cider with cinnamon sugar on the rim for her. She liked it sweet. I glanced back at her as Jason, the bearded bartender who could quote Mallrats line for line, poured our drinks. Her shoulder-length blonde hair fell about her face as she hunched forward, typing out a text or a Facebook status update. I smiled. She was the kind of girl who proclaimed her undying love by tagging you in her post, like “He just brought me a pint of my favorite Ben & Jerry’s at work. OMG love u babe!!!! – with Conroy Sweeney,” eye-rollingly lame, but sweet.

She gave me half a smile and reached back to put her phone in her coat pocket when I set her drink down in front of her. Progress. We sat in silence for a few moments as some Bruno Mars song played over the speakers. She tasted her cider and licked at the sugar rim with that pink tongue of hers as I sipped my scotch. I figured it was up to me to break the silence. I picked up on the awful pop song. My awful taste in music was always a surefire way to get her talking.

“God, this music. Who wrote this song, a fifth grader? I mean, I know you like this kind of stuff, but I prefer folk music. Americana. Like Mumford and Sons, you know? There’s just something raw and real that you just don’t get with other styles of music.”

Anne sipped her drink. She seemed fixated on tracing the woodgrain of the tabletop with her manicured fingernails.

“Ok, what’s wrong Anne? You haven’t said a goddamn word all night. Used to be I couldn’t get you to shut up when we would talk about music.”

She just fingered the rim of her glass, flicking the cinnamon sugar into the cider below.

“Come on, you don’t want to tell me how my taste in music is trash? That the only music truly worth listening to is post-rock?”

Story # 11 “Mr. Haversham’s Augury”

Greetings, readers. In the months since my last post, I’ve got quite a lot of writing done, and I’ve had two pieces published in the latest edition of ‘The Ashbelt’, the University of Akron’s undergraduate literary journal. I’d like to share one of those stories with you.

Please enjoy, “Mr. Haversham’s Augury.”

~T. S. Ash

Mr. Haversham’s Augury

By T. S. Ash

            Dick Haversham was sitting alone, in the small Chinese restaurant beneath his apartment eating Mu-Shu Pork when a strange thing happened.

He placed a fortune cookie in his mouth and crunched, pausing after the first bite to extract a thin slip of paper from between his teeth.

Dick adjusted his thin round spectacles and stared down at the paper, expecting to see a short phrase of fortune and some lucky numbers.

But instead, a strange thing had happened.

Written in tiny type on the paper ticket was not a fortune, but a job offer:

MR. HAVERSHAM, PLEASE COME BY THE OFFICES AT J&J FORTUNE COOKIE FACTORY AT YOUR CONVENIENCE FOR A SHORT INTERVIEW. POSITION OFFERED: PHILOSOPHER.

Story #10 “The Spacemen That Survived Love”

I came across a writing prompt asking for a 3-paragraph science fiction story that had to be titled, “The Spacemen That Survived Love,” and got really excited. As those of you who have followed my work before will know, I am a big fan of writing sci-fi. Although this story did start out with the intention of conforming to the rules and only being 3 paragraphs long, I got carried away and wrote almost a thousand words.

Anyways, here is a story about a pair of astronauts who come back home to Earth, only they don’t quite get the reception they were expecting.

Enjoy.

“The Spacemen That Survived Love”

By T. S. Ash

Alan Richford had spent over two years in low-Earth orbit, and now it seemed like his body had forgotten the feeling of gravity. Even sitting on the thin metal chair in the debriefing room just felt heavy.

A man in a white button-down shirt and a NASA tie clip had come in and congratulated Alan and Specialist Frank Tamblin on setting a new record in space, told them how proud their country was of their achievement, and that by the way, a disease known as N2-L4 had swept across the human population over the last few months.

Story #9 “A Little Elf Told Me”

Merry Christmas, dear readers!

We have all heard the traditional stories of Santa Claus and the Elves, merrily making toys for all the good girls and boys. But what about all that coal for the children on Santa’s naughty list? Here is a tale of the darker side of Santa’s Christmas preparations up at the North Pole.

I hope you enjoy, “A Little Elf Told Me”.

-T. S. Ash

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A Little Elf Told Me

By T.S. Ash

Icy wind and snow swirled in the chill air outside Santa’s Ice Castle. He twirled his wispy white beard between his chubby, sausage-like fingers as he peered into his crystal ball. The wrinkles in his face deepened as he frowned. Visions of naughty children shone through the magic ball. So many bad little boys and girls… He leaned back in his chair and clapped twice. A pair of elves entered through the large door and stood silently awaiting orders.

“Send word down to the mines—we need to double this year’s quota.” Santa said.

One elf stepped forward. He was a thin, bearded figure, and the green tunic and hat he wore were patched and smeared with dirt. He opened his cracked lips to speak.

“But Santa, the elves in the coal mines are already being worked to death. To double our production would mean the death of twice as many good elves, he said in a small voice.

Story #8 “Eggnog”

Eggnog

By T. S. Ash

People like to talk about the Christmas spirit and how much the joy of the season means to them, but those people got nothing on me. I’m a hardcore Christmas fanatic. In fact, I love Christmas so much that I received a lifetime ban from Darrel’s Stop-N-Shop by the age of ten, and shortly afterward got my first set of stitches, just above my right eye. Yes sir, Christmas truly holds some special memories for me.

My family—that is my Ma and Pa and me—always used to go up North to visit “The Cousins” for the holidays every year. I was never clear who these people actually were, since our families weren’t actually related, but they were good folks, if a little rough around the edges. The thing I liked most about it was all the snow. They owned a huge area of land with pine forests, hills, ponds and fields, and every time we came to visit, it was all covered in the purest, whitest snow you could imagine. Not like the grey slushy stuff you get here in the city, but the kind of snow that laid out over the land like a blanket. The kind of snow you imagined Frosty the Snowman was made of.

Personal Essay: What I Think About “Frozen”

What I Think About Frozen

I watched Disney’s “Frozen” for the first time this weekend, and after hearing nothing but hype about it for months on end, it was honestly a bit disappointing at first. There were glaring plot holes, the typical true love cliché, meandering, unsatisfying story arcs, and mediocre animation. But there was something that set this apart from other princess movies that intrigued me. Upon re-watching it, I noticed several fairly deep themes such as filial love and the psychological effects of self-image, as well as the motifs of cold and heat and their necessary balance.

As the movie opens, we are immediately greeted with a warning: “Beware the frozen heart”, the ice miners sing. The ice and the frozen landscape is described as “Beautiful, powerful, dangerous, cold,” and we are told that “There’s beauty and there’s danger here.” This is important because it introduces the attitude of this world towards the “cold” and fuels Elsa’s negative self-image as she comes to personify the characteristics of this element.

Elsa and Anna personify two opposing elements whose harmony/disharmony make up a running motif in the film. As the snowman Olaf says in his song, “The hot and the cold are both so intense, put them together- it just makes sense”.
Elsa personifies the cold, with her white hair and magical snow powers, as well as her characteristics of isolationism, emotional distance, wariness, and fear.

Story # 7 “Buck”

I’m still learning a lot about writing, and every now and then I decide to try something that I haven’t done before. This is one sort of experiment. I hope you enjoy it.

 

Buck

By T. S. Ash

It was late December, but I was burning with sweat. The small pile of dirt was all I had been able to dig out of the frozen earth so far. My wife and daughter were standing in the snow, crying. Lucy cradled Buck’s body in her arms, which had been wrapped in an old bed sheet. He had not struggled against going to the vet this time. Maybe because the growing cancer over past eight months had left no struggle in him. I struck the ground again with my pickaxe and hit a root as thick as my forearm. I cursed, and my wife shouted my name.

“Well, this isn’t easy, Karen,” I said back.

I didn’t want to go into the garage to get the hacksaw for the root. When he was healthy, Buck would always come out into the garage with me while I worked on our family’s cars. He would sniff around and pant, just happy to keep me company. I would talk to him as I changed the oil or replaced a headlight. Instead, I hacked at the root with the pickaxe until it was splintered enough to be torn off.

I grabbed the shovel and scraped the loose dirt out of the hole and onto the snow. I could still see yellow spots around the yard, but I tried not to think of that either. I just focused on the digging, and the blisters, and the cold wind that bit at my sweaty face. It was my duty as the father to do the burying, and I knew that I had to be strong for the girls.

Karen rubbed Lucy on the back through her parka. “I know it’s sad, honey. But he was in so much pain and now he’s gone to a better place.”

Eventually the hole was deep enough. Lucy handed me the bundle of sheets. Buck’s body felt so light as I knelt down and set him inside. I tucked the sheet around him, as I had tucked Lucy in to bed each night. Karen placed his dog food bowl on top of him, and Lucy set his favorite ball and some milkbones at his head.

“Bye, Buck. Thanks for being our dog.” Karen choked out between her sobs. She held Lucy tight as I picked up the shovel once again and began to toss the frozen dirt and clay and snow over his body.

Afterwards, as the girls headed inside to make hot cocoa, I crossed the snowy yard to put the tools away. I closed the door, sat on the ground, and cried.

Story # 6 “Strawberries”

I recently returned to the United States after living in London for a time. This story is loosely based off an experience I had on one of my travels during that time. I hope you enjoy it.

Strawberries

by T. S. Ash

I bought the strawberry to my mouth, and juice ran down my chin as I bit into the plump, red fruit. It was a hot day, but the carton of strawberries I’d bought had me feeling fine. Besides, I was excited to explore Paris, which everyone had always told me was the most beautiful city in the world. I clutched the plastic carton and leaned against the wall of the train as it pulled to a stop. A cute girl got on and smiled at my strawberries. “Voulez- vous un fraise?” I said, hoping I had just offered her a strawberry. She blushed and shook her golden curls.

Exiting the train, I walked up the stairs and past a building covered in graffiti. I ate another strawberry and thought about how old and beautiful the buildings here were, and how this one had stood for centuries only to end up with French profanities spraypainted across its face.

Among the trash on the sidewalk sat a beggar with an empty cup and sweat beading on his dark forehead. He looked up at my strawberries. I thought it was rude to eat something so delicious in front of him, so I held out the carton. He eagerly grabbed several of the biggest ones and smiled at me with perfectly white teeth.

Poem #7 “A Whisper Bidding my Lover to Bed”

I’m not sure how to introduce this poem, other than to say that it was inspired by a memory which was sweet, delicate and comfortable.

Please enjoy.

 

A Whisper Bidding my Lover to Bed

By T. S. Ash

 

Ah, come to the bed, my love!

The day is done, and the sun sinks

Below the horizon, taking with it

All the anxieties of the day: Every

Fear and trouble, care and worry,

Fade with it now, as bright white and yellow

Fades to red and orange, to purple and to

Starry black. Come and let yourself

be wrapped in the blanket of my arms.

 

Let us breathe together as gently as

The night wind blows, over the

Moon-silvered grass and trees and pond.

Let us find within each other that peace which

Makes all the world grow quiet and restful.

For there is no greater balm to soothe an

Unquiet mind than a lover’s embrace,

And no better way to bid farewell the day

Than with a sigh, and a kiss.

Poem #6 “Rough Seas Ahead”

I found the inspiration for this poem while re-reading a favorite of mine, “Ulysses” by Tennyson. There is something about the narrator’s courageous optimism that I find truly inspiring.

Please enjoy, “Rough Seas Ahead”, which is dedicated to my father.

-T. S. Ash

Rough Seas Ahead

Time has embraced me here,

Sleeping under a blanket of warm content.

In the soil of soft comfort

I have grown deep roots which bind me.

But a strong wind there is

which blows and shakes the window pane.

Perhaps, were I to wake,

I would find it is my own breath.

A great Earth-shaking there is too,

Which tears the roots and turns the soil.

And were I to wake I would see

It is my own limbs thrashing.

 

I have grown restless of this slumber!

The time has come to wake. To rise.

To break these heavy fetters of content,

For I am not.

The time has come to chase those dreams

Which have flown before me –

To sleep, to dream no longer,

But to dare – to do.

Though Time and Fate be the wind and water,

The skillful sailor bends them to his will.

Thus I place my hands upon the rudder

And chart the course of my own destiny.