No Regrets

By Pamela Gifford

There comes a time when you have to let go of mistakes and regrets, leave them in the past and move forward into your future.

The Silly Tree Anthology authors share stories of courage and strength, stories in which the characters finally find the will to forgive themselves and forget about what happened in the past so that they can fully explore the future.

Authors: Joseph Burrows, Phyllis Burton, Pamela Caves, Adrienne Clarke, Emily DeMaioNewton, Dulce María Gray, Mikko Harvey, Alan Kemister, Tom Leskiw, Jennifer Litt, David Lusk, Bob MacKenzie, Martin Marcus, Stephen Mead, Mary Katherine Meadows,
Jeremy Milburn, Kay Poiro, Bill Schneider, Scott Wiggerman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silly Tree Anthologies
• Release date: Mar 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311567246

Pamela Gifford

Pamela, as a former content writer, has had her work displayed on sites such as wiseGeek, eHow, Gather, various Yahoo! sites, Examiner, and more. She was the former toddler category editor for USMomsToday and a former category editor in short stories and poetry on Associated Content. She was a Featured Contributor with Associated Content in Arts and Entertainment and Parenting. As an editor, she helped shaped more than a dozen novels, short stories, anthologies, and non-fiction books. She writes fiction under the name Pamela Caves. She has published numerous poems and short stories, both independently and traditionally, and has released two novels. These days, while she continues to write and dabble in photography and graphic design, she is educating youth in the fine art of the English language.

Book preview

NO

REGRETS

Copyright © 2014

All rights reserved. No copying or reproduction allowed without the written consent of the authors and Silly Tree Anthologies.

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Smashwords License Notes

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, real places, locations or situations is purely coincidental and unintended.

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Authors:

Joseph Burrows, Phyllis Burton, Pamela Caves, Adrienne Clarke,

Emily DeMaioNewton, Dulce María Gray, Mikko Harvey, Alan Kemister,

Tom Leskiw, Jennifer Litt, David Lusk, Bob MacKenzie,

Martin Marcus, Stephen Mead, Mary Katherine Meadows,

Jeremy Milburn, Kay Poiro, Bill Schneider, Scott Wiggerman

Editor: Pamela Gifford

Table of Contents

A New Year

Scott Wiggerman

Countdown

Jeremy Milburn

Fumigating the Remains of a Year with Lilacs

Mary Katherine Meadows

When Spring Comes

Phyllis Burton

And I Enter Again

Emily DeMaioNewton

War Games

Bob MacKenzie

Innocent Like Snow

Joseph Burrows

Treasures and the Like

Kay Poiro

Going Too Far

Mikko Harvey

The Wish

Pamela Caves

For Auld Lang Syne, My Friends

Martin Marcus

The Reunion

Adrienne Clarke

Readying

Stephen Mead

The Evening Train to Jackson

David Lusk

Sonnet for December

Scott Wiggerman

You Take Twirled Bodies and Turn Them into Two

Dulce María Gray

It’s Been 15 Months

Joseph Burrows

Living with Greta

Joseph Burrows

Facing the Fire

Tom Leskiw

River Bend, Year’s End

Jennifer Litt

Yesterday Once More

Bill Schneider

Benjamin Franklin Ford

and his Quest for a New World

Alan Kemister

Authors’ Biographies

About Silly Tree Anthologies

A New Year

Scott Wiggerman

The leaves are gone, but black pecans still clutch

at limbs like children refusing to heed

a dinner call. While some pecans have fanned

their shells like tattered petals, darkened wings,

the great majority are tight as gangs,

their faces draped in hoods, though winter checks

such foolishness. A boulevard of oaks

is also empty, save a lone green leaf

that hangs on like a weekend birthday, deaf

to bitter winds. And yet I see hope here,

a tiny miracle, this green-veined door

to a new year. Let all those black nuts fall,

but keep this leaf—for faith could endure, full

of warmth and mystery. It might. Just watch.

Countdown

Jeremy Milburn

The ball is about to drop. The revelers start the countdown. I wish I could join them. Maybe I should join them.

Ten.

I can’t.

I light up a cigarette and inhale the acrid smoke. It sears my lungs, but the chemicals spread through my body, exciting the pleasure center of my brain. It makes me dismiss what I feel for what it wants me to feel.

I never should have started the filthy habit, but it’s my one vice. At least that’s how I rationalize it. Better than drinking everything away. I tried that, and all I got was lost time, cotton-mouth, and massive headaches.

It never took the memories away, though.

The cherry burns bright red, and the smoke triggers the memories. Memories that keep me locked in the prison I have built.

Nine.

Bethany seemed so happy when she brought our little Michael home. People talk about pregnant women glowing. It’s true. I’ve seen it. Only she didn’t just glow, she outshone the sun and the stars. The gleam of her blonde hair falling across Michael’s bald head, the shine of her crystal blue eyes moistened with joy. I never thought I could be more happy or in love. I leaned over and gave them both a kiss.

We took him home. My mom came to stay with us for a week. Then her mom took a turn. They weren’t about to miss helping with their grandchild. Our aunts and uncles stopped by, bringing food and presents. They would coo and fuss over Michael, telling us all the while how lucky we were.

Those first two weeks were exhausting, with the three a.m. feedings, dirty diapers, and constant crying. I wish I were the smartest man in the world so I could invent a time machine and stay there forever.

Eight.

My fist tightens. I have to work to unclench it. It takes a deep drag for my fingers to loosen. It knows what memory comes next.

The scream.

It wasn’t a normal scream, like when you stub your toe or anything else mundane. I wouldn’t be here now if it were something so simple. No, this scream told any who heard it that someone’s heart and soul had been ripped right out of her body. Painful, bloodcurdling shrieks that no one who has not experienced that sort of horror can imitate.

I jumped out of bed and ran down the hallway. Bethany had fallen to her knees, hair and eyes wild, tears streaming, as she kept screaming. I looked at the crib and my mind shut down.

Michael was still.

Seven

The doctors said Michael experienced SIDS. SIDS. Sounds better than Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, I guess. Easier to say, no stumbling over the word Death for the grief-stricken when trying to explain what happened.

SIDS. Damn, how I hate that word. How I hate that there is nothing you can do.

There is nothing you can do!

That’s what they told us anyway. The doctors, police, friends, family... There was nothing you could have done.

I didn’t believe it then. Neither did Bethany.

Six

The pastor of the church Bethany attended came over to go over the plan for the service. I’m not religious, so I wasn’t much help. Bethany just stared during the meeting. My brother and his wife took care of most of the details.

My brother. He’s a good man. If you know him, count yourself lucky. He’s a far better man than I.

The funeral. To be honest, the funeral is a blur. I don’t know whether to be thankful for that or not. Bethany was a zombie, and I wasn’t any better. I have vague recollections of people saying words and our mothers collapsing into each other’s arms, but that’s about it.

I wasn’t much good for anyone. And it would cost me everything.

Five.

Depression. Depression can kill. I know. I’ve seen it.

After the funeral, Bethany just wasted away. She would sit and stare out the window for hours on end. Eating became a chore to be done every other day, if that. Sleep became a distant memory.

I would like to say I tried to help, but I would be lying. I can’t lie. Not here. I was so wrapped up in my own selfishness that I did nothing.

To be honest, I blamed her. Just as I’m sure she blamed herself.

I didn’t do anything!

My dad always told me, The only thing you have at the end of the day is family.

I failed.

The doctor prescribed Bethany sleeping pills. I’d like to blame him for what happened, but I can’t. It wasn’t his fault she swallowed all the pills and drank a whole bottle of wine. It wasn’t his fault she never woke up.

It wasn’t his fault I failed my family.

Four

I don’t remember much of the next few months. That’s what happens when you try to drink away memories. Little vignettes play through my mind of that time:

My job calling and telling me I was fired.

My mother crying and begging for me to stop killing myself.

My father trying to talk me through a hallucination.

Spending time in jail for fighting someone I don’t remember.

The feel of having my stomach pumped as alcohol poisoning burned my system.

My brother visiting in the hospital and giving me a business card of a therapist someone at his work went to see.

My brother kicking my ass and dragging me, kicking and screaming, to rehab.

I was such a bastard during that time.

Three

My brother is a good man. I can’t stress that enough.

After rehab, he let me move in with him and his family. He had every right to make me fend for myself, but he didn’t. He helped me get a job where he works, and helped me through the tough times when I wanted a drink so badly I shook. If I believed in angels, he would be mine.

It took a while for his family to adjust to my being there, but everyone eventually fell into a