The Grey Forest -- Short Stories

By Maureen A. Griswold

Yes, traveler, you’ve discovered The Grey Forest.

You’ve arrived at a crosspoint: a collection of short stories from a parallel terrain of shadow and light, of illusion and truth, of mystery and revelation. In The Grey Forest's landscape of twists, turns, and tales, things are not what they may seem, it is for you to travel, for you to decide.

There is much for you to experience: irony, satire, intuition, darkness, light, and even moments of grace. 

* a Tibetan mandala services the enigmatic, reclusive, son of a Silicon Valley magnate.

* mysterious mental imagery spontaneously appears to young Army nurse.

* a unique U.S. mass shooting poses a special challenge for an iconic gun lobbyist.

* when a foolish marketing letter is mailed to a long-departed businessman, an unexpected, otherworldly, response results.

* for a few predestined moments, an unlikely pair of soulmates find each other.

These and other stories await and beckon. Breathe deep and step into a rich offering of tales from The Grey Forest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen A. Griswold
• Release date: Aug 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386195290

Maureen A. Griswold

Maureen A. Griswold served with the U.S. Army Nurse Corps and later specialized in pediatrics and neonatal intensive care nursing. After earning her journalism degree, she worked as Senior Editor for the former nursing magazine, California Nursing Review, and eventually as a medical writer in the pharmaceutical industry.

Book preview

Nelson’s Mandala

Conrad Nelson Winstead relished his name. During his lifetime he placed it on as much as he could, anywhere he could, including his only child: Conrad Nelson Winstead, II.

Conrad Nelson Winstead’s discreet, well-compensated legal team ensured this self-beloved name would long survive its owner. As Silicon Valley magnate, entrepreneur supreme of computer software used worldwide, Conrad Nelson Winstead could accomplish this and he did.

Now, Conrad Nelson Winstead was dead, thoroughly and completely dead. The seemingly impossible actually occurred to the bigger-than-life public figure, revealing him mere mortal after all. And, as if a deliberate affront to his spectacular life, Conrad Nelson Winstead had expired of natural causes in his advanced years.

For several weeks after the Grim Reaper collected him, the life and times of Conrad Nelson Winstead, foremost captain of American industry and capitalism, saturated print, broadcast, and digital media. His rise from middle class beginnings, his inventive genius coupled with brilliant marketing acumen, his temperamental and flamboyant personality and, of course, his lavish lifestyle and estates including multiple wives and mistresses sparked discussions and reflections lasting beyond typical news cycles.

There was, however, little mention of Conrad Nelson Winstead II, known by his own insistence as Nelson Winstead. Nelson Winstead, in his early forties, was a slimmer, darker, version of his father, their physicality the lone resemblance between them.

Nelson attended his father’s extravagant memorial. He appeared clean shaven, a novelty. He wore a proper dark suit, dark tie, and polished black oxfords. Silent, he was poised and attentive throughout the effusive tribute. Afterwards, he shook a few hands, nodded at several attendees, then disappeared. Those who noticed his sudden absence assumed he had returned to Il Fiore, his father’s hillside estate above Los Altos.

Want to bet how many minutes it’ll be before he’s back in gardener duds? quipped a Winstead vice president to a marketing director.

The director half-laughed. At least he wore shoes. Pretty good for a Zen Buddhist hippie dippie. How those two were biologically father and son is beyond me.

Nelson Winstead steered a wheelbarrow past a border of mimosa trees and proceeded to the furthermost portion of a small grove. He shoveled and worked summer-dry dirt, leveling and merging it with a clearing. Afterwards, he leaned on his shovel and sighed, contented to see a pair of delicate pink mimosa blossoms spin and drift in a dreamlike descent.

He left the grove to plant tulip bulbs for a springtime multicolor burst encircling the Renaissance oval fountain at the midpoint of Il Fiore’s Grand Lawn. Later, after the rise of a new full moon, he would stroll Il Fiore’s grounds and study his gardening projects. He loved a full moon for solitary nocturne strolls of the estate’s gardens, its fountains, classic statues, modern art mobiles and kinetic sculptures, and its small, intimate lake.

In the last light of dusk, Nelson stood straight and stretched. He gazed up the Grand Lawn to settle his sight upon Il Fiore’s palatial Tuscan-styled mansion. He observed the housekeeper had lit the correct rooms for night. He then made the long walk up to the mansion to check the security system’s activation then trekked down the main road to make certain the main gate was locked.

He returned to the mansion and crossed the Grand Lawn to an opposite side road, traversed a small parking lot then passed through a shoulder-wide gap in a thick border of Italian cypress. From there, he descended a narrow dirt trail leading to a small guest cottage.

The full moon afforded enough light through the cottage windows for Nelson to discern his lantern on the wood floor. The main room’s furnishings consisted of the lantern, a beige zafu cushion, a thin sleeping mattress, an incense burner, scattered books and magazines, several potted plants, and a pillar-sized beeswax candle set on a carved rosewood trivet. Between the candle and incense burner sat a small statue of serene Buddha in dhyana mudra, hands in lap, thumbs and fingertips just touching in a pose of absolute balance.

Nelson removed his shoes and crossed the room to light the lantern then sat on the floor. He scooted over to the candle, lit it then lit a cone of sandalwood incense which he placed in the incense burner. After sitting on the zafu placed in front of the Buddha, Nelson crossed his legs and settled into lotus position, mirroring the Buddha’s dhyana mudra.

He inhaled and exhaled long and slow. He prepared to chant, but in the last moment of closing his eyes a glint of amber light caused his eyelids to flutter open and his gaze to focus on the darkened corner opposite him.

Ah, yes, that. No wonder the distraction.

He saw the repetitive amber glints were from flickering candlelight cast onto an antiqued-bronze object. Nelson maintained his lotus posture and smiled the slightest of smiles. He spoke aloud.

"You had a good memorial, Conrad, a magnificent bon voyage — accolades, anecdotes, reminiscences, and yes, the press. A Mountain View boulevard has been named for you and next month your foundation will get that medical center wing named for you too. So be it."

Still smiling the slightest of smiles, Nelson closed his eyes, and again breathed deep. His melodious chant floated into sacred night:

"Arahaṃ sammā-sambuddho bhagavā.

Buddham bhagavantaṃ abhivādemi."

The next morning when Nelson arrived at his Los Altos book and gift shop, Namaste, he saw a memorial of flowers, candles, and personal notes dedicated to his father had been assembled on the sidewalk in front of one Namaste’s two large storefront windows.

Namaste provided a serene oasis in downtown Los Altos. Today, inside the shop, harpist Hilary Stagg’s The Edge of Forever played overhead. Votives in decorative containers accented subdued lighting and a delicate melange of floral essences scented the air.

Nelson nodded at his manager stationed at the front register. As Nelson walked the length the shop, no one recognized him. Melodious sounds of water lightly cascading through a large rock fountain in Namaste’s back section became louder as he approached. Additional customers and browsers meandered here and others sat by the fountain to meditate or read.

He entered the back office, kicked off his shoes and sat at the office’s large oak desk. Today, he would peruse catalogs. Namaste’s inventory needed replenishing and it was already the time of year to select and order Christmas merchandise.

Nelson spent the next two hours with the catalogs. There were dream catchers, hand-carved wall