Icicles And A Warm Breeze

By Jeff Lassen

‘Icicles And A Warm Breeze’ is a collection of short stories and other writings by Jeff Lassen, author of ‘Desert Creek’ and ‘This Poor Collection’. It is something of an eclectic anthology as the stories are about very different times, places and people.Includes the post-apocalyptic western thriller, 'Desert Creek'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StreetWise Publications
• Release date: Oct 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465760166

Jeff Lassen

Jeff Lassen has written 'Desert Creek', a novella, several short stories published as 'Icicles And A Warm Breeze' and a collection of poetry titled 'This Poor Collection' over the years, now available online and in hard copy. Jeff is currently awaiting the next stage of his life's journey in Cebu, Philippines and has appointed StreetWise Publications owner Perry Gamsby as his Literary executor.

Book preview

Icicles And A Warm Breeze

Jeff Lassen

Including

‘Desert Creek’

Icicles And A Warm Breeze

Including ‘Desert Creek’

Published by StreetWise Publications

22 Waikanda Cres, WHALAN,

NSW 2770 Australia

http://streetwisepublications.info

Copyright 2011 The Estate of Jeff Lassen and Perry Gamsby as Literary Executor

ISBN: 978-1-4657-6016-6

Smashwords Edition, License Statement

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The people and events described herein are fictional and any similarity unintentional.

Introduction

‘Icicles And A Warm Breeze’ is a collection of short stories and other writings by Jeff Lassen, author of ‘Desert Creek’ and ‘This Poor Collection’. It is something of an eclectic anthology as the stories are about very different times, places and people. They were written across Jeff’s lifetime, drawn from events and memories lived through in places as far afield as Jamaica, Ghana, the Philippines and of course, the USA.

When Jeff first asked me to be his literary executor in 2009 I was not sure if I was up to the task, never having been entrusted with a man’s lifetime of writing before. I have tried to offer Jeff’s oeuvre to the world as I felt he would like it to be but I know I have included a few ‘bits and pieces’ he probably didn’t expect me to include. I have done that in order to give the reader as broad a view of the writer as possible.

We all who are born, die, and sadly Jeff knew his time was short when he sent me his work and asked me to act on his behalf. Another great story teller, Louis L’Amour, said that no man can know the time of his passing, but he can do something about the way in which he goes. I hope Jeff leaves us feeling proud he has left behind a worthy legacy, his writing and his poetry and we are all the richer for that. Thanks Jeff,

Perry Gamsby

Sydney, Australia, October 2011

Icicles And A Warm Breeze

Table Of Contents

Icicles and a Warm Breeze

Mother, Charmin and Dr. Kevorkian

Sisyphus

Fairytale -The Magic House

Green-Eyes

Roadblock

Kwabena's Hunt

Smiles

Easy Writing

Dear Mitch,

Love: Honesty, Trustworthiness, Loyalty and Honor

On the Essay as a Form of Communication

I Will Be the One

Desert Creek

About The Author

I asked Jeff to write his own bio-blurb. He left out how he has travelled the world, been married eight times, fathered four children, earned a Bachelor’s Degree and, in his own words;

"Worked at a vast number of different jobs in many fields including alcohol/drug counseling, apartment management, building cleaning, camp counselor, carpentry, casino worker, computer programming, copyreading, counselor training, factory, farming, fast food, fire fighting, gas station, labor, lawn care, motel, office clerical, restaurant, sales, shipping and warehouse, state/federal government worker, stevedore, tile-laying, well-drilling

here is Jeff’s ‘authorized’ bio-blurb:

" Jeff Lassen was born in 1943 in New Jersey at a very young age. He was an active alcoholic until 1972 when he began his recovery. He died with 39 years of continuous sobriety.

He started writing from age 10. Thankfully, none of this early work is extant. His published works included articles in a number of periodicals, and one work of fiction. He always wanted to write stories, and hoped to pursue that more in his retirement.

Among his final wishes were that his works, especially his fiction, might be made available for others to enjoy.

Foreword

My first work of fiction was a story written at about age 10. Thankfully it is not included in this collection. What is found between these covers are 9 stories which cried to be born.

Stories have a life of their own. The author assists them, a little or a lot, to reach the page. Some stories pour out, seemingly of their own volition, almost effortlessly. Some require much in the way of agony and tears in order to drag them forth. Some reach maturity in hours or days; some have a very long gestation period. Those here are a mix of these types.

Through years of writing – poetry because I had to; articles because occasionally I got paid to; and many lines of code because I wanted to eat – I always had the dream of making it as a fiction writer. Retirement was to be the opportunity to finally write what I so passionately wanted to write – fiction!

Life had other plans for me! And now, about to lay down my pen for good, these few stories which would not stay unwritten are going to make a public appearance. This is happening through the efforts of a man who believed in me, my editor and friend, Perry Gamsby. Thanks Perry.

I’d like to dedicate this volume to Jason Mitchell Tecumseh Lassen, b. 4 AUG 1966, my lost son, whose name appears in so many of my characters.

So, readers whoever you may be, here are the stories I have been privileged to help into being.

Jeff Lassen, 10 JUN 2010

Sisyphus

This story lived within my head for many years. One day, finally, I typed it out. It has collected more rejection slips than anything I ever wrote, because I believed in it and continued to try. I still do.

Desert Creek

The idea for a science fiction story had been in my head for a few years but it didn’t turn out to be sci-fi really. The first draft was written over a couple of weeks in my van camping on the banks of Desert Creek in far western Nevada. It was late autumn 1990, cold nights, and fingers so cramped I could barely type on the old portable typewriter. I remember shouting with elation into the cold mountain night about 3 am. It was the first story I had actually completed.

Green-Eyes

This story took about 40 years to arrive. The green-eyed girl briefly glimpsed on a bus, and the story she wrote in my head, refused to let me be and I finally gave in and wrote it.

Mother…

This was very easy to write, once I thought it through and discarded plans for a very different mystery piece. So I’ve written a eulogy instead. My mother helped through memories of her acerbic wit. I just fictionalized it a bit, and my brother still doesn’t want to talk to me.

Icicles…

This one just happened. I was talking with a friend one day about education. Back when there was such a thing. About significant influences in school. Mrs. Miller was one of mine! That night the story just flowed out unbidden.

I Will Be The One

As I remember it, Perry started some fiction in his newsletter, and invited others to submit. Thus, my first published piece of fiction! It is so easy to find interesting subjects here in the Philippines.

Roadblock

A demonstration, I learned later, because of traffic killing school children. Two bigshots were to come through on their way to the town I lived in. The roadblock almost caught me instead! I had to write something about it, and it just flowed. Probably the least effort of all the stories.

Kwabena’s Hunt

The trek into the bush was hilarious and I really liked Kwabena. The story put itself together after a while, and I got it down onto paper. Ghana was an amazing place for story ideas.

Smiles

This story went through several versions and major changes before settling down. The little village entranced me when I first visited there. The girl with the eyes made an impression, as did the father and daughter. Most of the rest built itself in my mind, and developed slowly. I didn’t always like where the story was going, but I finally got comfortable enough with it to call it final.

Icicles and a Warm Breeze

As a disorderly fifth-grader I met her for the first time. On my third trip to his office in a month, the frustrated principal had sent me to the eighth-grade classroom with a note. You only got sent to Mrs. Miller if you were very bad.

Opening the door fearfully, I saw a short, thin old woman at the blackboard. Her students turned to look at me with pity. She turned, fixing me with a stare which made me quake. Silently she strode toward me, her head held as high as her five-foot frame allowed. Hair in a neat gray bun, she wore a drab button-front dress and oxfords. I smelled Gardenia as she reached me.

Aren't you ashamed. It was a statement. Her voice was steel, hard and cold, each syllable enunciated deliberately. You have disrupted these children who are trying to learn. Are you so important?

I could make no answer at all. The nervous glances of her students filled me with dread.

Slowly she took the note from my shaking hand. Carefully opening the envelope and unfolding the piece of paper, she regarded me with withering scrutiny. Donning the gold-rimmed spectacles on a chain, she read the principal's indictment. She sighed and gazed at me over the top of her glasses several times. Then she carefully refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She removed her glasses and the gray-blue eyes looking out from her wrinkled face pierced me like icicles.

She looked down on me. My knees were weak, ears ringing, stomach full of writhing snakes, and my mouth as dry as the classroom geraniums after Christmas vacation. I was sure I was going to die.

Jeffrey, I don't think that you care very much about getting an education. The same slow, deliberate voice continued. I do not want to see you in here again wasting the time of these children.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Miller, I croaked.

There was a giggle from one of the students, and the icy stare was turned on him for a moment. She sighed again, then turned and walked slowly to the front of the room. I waited, still shaking, wondering what was to become of me.

Taking up the chalk, she resumed diagramming a sentence, explaining some fine point of grammar. Now her voice was a warm June breeze flowing over her class. No one looked at me. She had the interest of each of her students.

She turned from the board, in the midst of the explanation. A sparkle and a smile gave way to a steely stare and grim frown as she saw me. Her voice changed from warm breeze to icy gale as she spoke.

I told you I didn't want to see you again. Go. Learn!

Finally my wobbly legs carried me into the hall and I breathed a sigh of relief. I vowed to quit school and run away from home before I reached eighth grade.

Mother, Charmin and Dr. Kevorkian

It was like every day. The help-line phone rang constantly. One call after another, claimants wanting to know where their benefit checks were. Look up their account in the computer. Give them the answers they didn’t want to hear. Their claim card was not received, not signed, no benefits left in their account. Their check had been mailed on the usual day. Each expected that his call would magically cause his check to issue from his phone right then. Eight hours of unhappy callers one after another.

Jason, you have a call on Connie’s line.

I almost never got personal calls at work. But I knew what this one must be. I went into the boss’s office.

Jason?

Yes, Creigh, it’s me.

Jason. Mom died this morning, about an hour ago. They just called me from the nursing home a little while ago. They said she just went quietly in her sleep after breakfast. She’s at peace now, Jase!

Thanks, Creigh. Bye.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. It was not unexpected. She had been starving herself to death for the past three weeks, refusing to take any food at all. She had been tired of fighting.

I quietly returned to my desk. I stared at and through my computer screen. The phone continued to ring unheard, the calls answered by my many co-workers.

She’d had fifteen good years after she had first been diagnosed. She’d had a double radical mastectomy, radiation and chemo-therapy, and had remained cancer-free for fifteen years.

Then the cancer had returned. She had fought valiantly for about five years. Then she had given up. At the end her body was riddled with cancer. She had just had her seventieth birthday a month and a half ago.

I was sitting quietly at my desk with tears streaming down my face.

Jason, are you alright? asked my supervisor, Bob. Was it your mother?

Yes. I’ll be alright.

Why don’t you go home, Jason? No! I think I need to be here right now. I just need a little time, Bob. Life goes on. We had both lived in Carson City, Nevada. I visited her often, especially on Friday nights. She was still working, in Reno, and drove the 30 miles each way. On Friday she would do her food shopping on the way home from work. But she was too exhausted to carry her few bags of groceries upstairs to her apartment. She would bring the frozen stuff, leaving the rest in the trunk of her car. No matter how many times I