The Chosen One

By Kent Breazeale

Includes bonus: the first 15 chapters of "The Willmakers", coming Spring 2014.

Set in the South in the 1950s, a young boy, disabled at birth, relentlessly hopes that his birth mother will return for him one day. Taken in by an older black woman, the young boy relies on the woman for all his needs. When faced with her sudden death, the loss of the only person to truly care for him is not all the young boy faces. Ultimately he learns that family is more than blood and that love transcends death.

“...a touching short story.” –Danielle C., 5 stars

“I loved it from the start.”—Tina S., 5 stars

“From the opening line, I wanted to know what had happened. The story was artfully crafted and interesting... emotional without gimmicks. As a southerner, I thought the dialect was realistic and understandable. A very good piece of writing.”—Donny H, 5 stars

“What a great way to be introduced to the South. The dialogue was very interesting to a born Yankee. Tears at the end of a very well told story. Thoroughly enjoyed it and would recommend it to all.”
--Maggie L., 5 stars

“What an awesome story! Can't wait for the writer to come out with more!”—Brandy C., 5 stars

“What a beautiful reminder of the power of love. Great story!”—Adam D., 5 stars

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301018628

Kent Breazeale

Kent Breazeale has loved the art of story telling since he was a young boy. Growing up in rural Mississippi has given him an understanding of the culture and the eccentrics of the people living in the south. He has written many short stories, poems and wedding vows and has been published in Church magazines. Kent has a collection of short stories that illustrate his natural art of storytelling. Kent and his wife Deb served as missionaries in the remote village of Bullima on the plains of Tanzania, East Africa. They currently live in Falkner, Mississippi with their adopted dogs Harley and Ubu.

Book preview

The Chosen One

A short story

Kent Breazeale

THE CHOSEN ONE

Copyright © 2013 Kent Breazeale

Published by Touchpoint Press

www.touchpointpress.com

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design: Abracadabra Designs

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to [e-mail].

Table of Contents

The_Chosen_One

About_the_Author

Bonus_Material

The Chosen One

The day he was born his father cursed God—and his mama cried. They had him quickly taken away and when he was gone his mother held her baby in her arms and wept.

Miss Jess, do ya thank my mama will ever come git me someday?

The old woman pulled him tighter to her and rocked slowly, not answering. The rocker creaked each time it made its slow, easy hypnotic roll forward and he was quiet for a while just as she had hoped he would be. He had asked her the same question many times before tonight, but she had never answered. She had just rocked him in that quiet, easy, constant, hypnotic motion—and he had slept those nights but tonight he didn’t sleep and she knew this night would be different from the others. So she just kept rocking—and waiting—and dreading. For nine years Jessie Broom had dreaded this hour; the hour when the questions would come, the hour when he would expect answers, but she didn’t have any.

Miss Jess, why do ya thank my mama had ta go home without me when I was borned? he asked, his soft voice interrupting the calm, quiet of the room.

Jessie’s eyes moistened as she barely shook her head. Only she would know that, she answered, holding his head securely to her shoulder.

Miss Jess, do ya thank my mama thanks about me since she had’n ever been able ta find me yet?

Yes—yes, I do. I ‘spect ya mama thinks about you often. The old woman’s voice was soft and gentle, but empty, and she knew it, she felt it. She felt his pain and hers, and maybe even the pain the boy’s birth mother might feel, even now. Maybe especially now. Through the years Jessie had hoped that he would call her mother though she was old enough to be his grandmother. She would have even settled for grandmother or granny, but he had always just referred to her as Miss Jess.

Miss Jess, how’d you end up with me?

The old woman smiled, gazing distantly across the dusk lit room. End up? Is that what you think? That I jist ended up with ya?

She felt his head nod on her shoulder. The emptiness was suddenly gone and in its place came a warm fullness. He had asked a question that she could answer honestly.

"There was other babies there that day an’ I coulda picked any one of ‘em, but I chose you. I knew as soon as I saw ya, you was the one I wanted, the only one. After I saw you I would’n of had none of them other ones. They was jist babies, but you—was special—an’ you’ll always be special.

Miss Jess, do ya thank my mama thanks I’m special Maybe she went home without me ‘cause of it."

Jessie felt the emptiness again, as though she was nothing more than a dark hole, waiting for emptiness to pour in. The rocker stopped abruptly and she urged his head from her shoulder.

No, No! honey, no! Look at me. You’re special in a lot of different ways, not jist one. God thinks you’re special an’ that’s all that really counts anyhow. Do ya know that?

He smiled and nodded. God thanks I’m special an you thank I’m special.

The old woman pulled him to her and hugged him even tighter this time. Yes, oh yes, I think you’re special. You are my life. Always know that you are my life – an’ maybe—maybe you could call me mama; I mean if ya want to.

She felt him shake his head on her shoulder and she felt the pain of the emptiness flood into the dark hole. She wanted to cry, and she would cry, but not until long after he had gone to bed and she knew he was asleep.

Miss Jess, if I call you mama, when my real mama comes to git me, she might thank I’m yours.

The flood of emptiness almost burst forward. She fought with every ounce of her strength just to keep it to a lonely trickle.

I understand, she said barely above a whisper.

Miss Jess, do ya thank God only sent half of me when I was borned hopin’ I would come back ta heaven one day ta pick up the other half?

Jessie tried to answer but uttered only a low, short groan. She rocked in that same slow, constant rhythm trying desperately to clear her throat and trying a second time before she could answer.

Honey, I ‘spect when that time comes you’ll not want those ole legs you’re missin’. You’ll be git’n somethin’ better than you could have ever imagined. Don’t worry yaself that ya did’n come with legs, you walk on ya hands better’n most people walks that was given a pair of legs anyhow.

The old woman looked in on the boy. She watched the slight motion of his chest and she listened to his almost unnoticeable snore. This boy, her precious child, with only half a body, made her happy and sad at the same time. Happy, because he was more than she could have asked for in life, and sad because he carried a heavy burden and it wasn’t the burden of having been born without legs. He had accepted that at an early age and had overcome it in a unique way—by walking, and walking well, on his hands as though it was completely natural. No, the burden he carried was that he wanted something so badly that he couldn’t get beyond it; to be with a mother he had never known. And he wanted it more, much more, than he had ever wanted legs. He spent his nights dreaming of her and he spent his days watching and waiting for her to come to him. His burden was heavy and tonight Jessie had felt her burden become heavier, too. There was nothing she could do to replace the image he had of the woman he called his real mama.

Jessie lay still and wept, first softly, then in hard quiet convulsions, then softly again. She wept for the boy’s pain and for her own. To hear him call her mama just once would be a gift. She slept. She awoke and wept again until she slept. Then quietly Jessie Broom passed away sometime before dawn.

Jessie Broom

1878 – 1957

The boy sat low in front of the headstone, gazing at it. He hung his head and picked at blades of grass, then gazed at the headstone again for a while. It had been three months since Jessie Broom’s death and today was the first time he had visited the cemetery. He had walked on his hands a little more than a mile, just to talk—and he had questions.

"Miss Jess, we don’t have a house no more. I heard ‘em say it was condemned, an’ a bulldozer came an’ pushed it down. I saw it after it was done, our rocker got mashed. It’s always somethin’ ain’t it, Miss Jess? I live up town on the square now. I did’n know the town was built square, but it is. Mister Scarbo let’s me live in the alley out behind his drugstore an’ he gives me a quarter every week ta sweep the floor. He’s a nice man. An’ I have friends, Miss Jess. If you hada known I woulda had so many friends you woulda let me come up ta town ‘fore now.

My friends call me Tadpole. I ‘spect it’s cause I did’n come with legs. They crowd aroun’ me an’ give me a dime jist ta watch me walk on my hands an’ it makes ‘em happy. You should hear how I can make ‘em laugh."

He was quiet for a while. He gazed at the headstone then hung his head and picked at blades of grass. He studied his hands, first the backs, then his palms; they were rough and calloused. He gazed at the headstone. He touched it and rubbed his palms across the simple inscription. He hung his head and picked at blades of grass.

I wish me an’ you could rock in our rocker, he said, just in a whisper. Then he was quiet again. He sat with his hands folded and watched the breeze barely moving the flowers of the cemetery.

"I wish you could talk to me. I wish I could hear your voice again. I have a lotta friends—a lot of ‘em—but I don’t have nobody ta talk to, not like me an’ you did. Thays a nice woman, real