A String of Stories: From the Heart to the Future

By Ann Chiappetta

A demon deer and a ghost cat. Sibling rivalry and sexual awakening. Self-image and self-confidence. The chance for an offworlder to breathe free at last on a new planet. Those are just some of the diverse themes of these remarkable stories. Some endings are happy, some are sad, and some are intriguingly open-ended. But once you step inside the author’s world, you cannot emerge unmoved.

Introduction

This collection, my most diverse to date, includes general fiction, science fiction, suspense, and paranormal pieces. Some, like “Lafayette 10,” are crossovers. Others, like “Bad Medicine,” stay true to the genre for which they were originally written. There is a romantic theme to some, and all are character driven. The three paranormal shorts are based on personal experiences.

I’d like to think there are stories here that will appeal to many different types of readers, and that there’s at least one story for each reader. Short stories challenge the writer as much as, if not more than, a full–length book. There is no room for the unnecessary or superfluous, and this is probably why I love the form.

I hope this collection appeals to you. Thanks for reading.

Ann Chiappetta, 2020

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Chiappetta
• Release date: Mar 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463075319

Ann Chiappetta

Ann Chiappetta is a writer, poet, and essayist. Her writing has been featured in dozens of small press poetry, fiction, and nonfiction journals and anthologies including the Pangolin Review, Poesis Poetry Journal, Dialogue Magazine, Magnets and Ladders literary magazine, and Breath and Shadow, a magazine of disability Literature. Ann hopes to make meaningful connections with others through writing.

Book preview

Introduction

This collection, my most diverse to date, includes general fiction, science fiction, suspense, and paranormal pieces. Some, like Lafayette 10, are crossovers. Others, like Bad Medicine, stay true to the genre for which they were originally written. There is a romantic theme to some, and all are character driven. Three of the four paranormal shorts are based on personal experiences.

I’d like to think there are stories here that will appeal to many different types of readers, and that there’s at least one story for each reader. Short stories challenge the writer as much as, if not more than, a full–length book. There is no room for the unnecessary or superfluous, and this is probably why I love the form.

I hope this collection appeals to you. Thanks for reading.

Ann Chiappetta

2020

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to fans, friends, and family. Without your support, I would not be writing this acknowledgment page. I want to make a special note of the writing groups, past and present, that have fostered me into becoming a good writer and supporting my aspirations of one day becoming a great writer. First Draft, LinkOnline, and Behind Our Eyes have all contributed to keeping me focused and creative. Special thanks to David and Leonore Dvorkin of DLD Books for believing in writers with disabilities and for creating a supportive and professional place for independent, visually impaired authors to pursue and attain their authorly goals.

Special thanks to, in no particular order:

Jerry Chiappetta, April Chiappetta, K. Juno Chiappetta, Chris Kuell, Patty Fletcher, Phyllis Greenberg, Cheryll Scarangella, Bill Shulman, Pat Weber, Bailey and Verona, Wendy Buckler, Teresa Latham, Lauri Wheeler, Lynda McKinney Lambert, Alice Massa, Joan Miles, Abbie Johnson Taylor, Brian Daniels, Dana Evans, and Anna Masopust.

A Temporary Perspective

Sloane held the small clay sculpture and traced its surface with her first two fingers. The flat black paint and misshapen facial features looked and felt as if a toddler had made the piece.

She felt her son watching her and asked, What is it?

Josh shrugged as if to say, No big deal, but didn’t reply.

Sloane tried again, wishing that engaging Josh weren’t such a workout. It’s a head, right?

Yeah, it’s a head. The teacher called it a bust.

Sloane nodded, hoping Josh would say more. He didn’t.

Did you have a model?

She knew a little about the art program in the middle school, having toured the art room on Back to School Night. Art had been a way for Sloane to excel in school, and she encouraged Josh to participate.

Yeah, he said, not even glancing at his creation.

It was really a sorry–looking thing, she decided. The thought was just making way for another when Josh’s reply brought her brain up short.

It’s supposed to be me.

Sloane blinked. Even with her poor sight, she couldn’t deny what she was holding. Her throat grew tight as she realized the impact this made—not just in her mind, but also in her heart. She examined it more closely, retracing the lumpy, hairless dome, the mismatched eye sockets, and the barely detectable nose and lips. She felt no ears or chin. It was, she had to admit, ugly.

Sweetie, you don’t look like this.

Josh turned away and logged onto his computer.

Josh, do you think you look like that?

No, he said, his attention on the monitor.

Then why did you make it look like that?

I don’t know. I just did it ’cause I didn’t want to get a zero. He started playing a game.

Sloane sighed and left the room, leaving the sculpture on Josh’s desk, trying her best not to overthink the black and ugly thing her son had made.

She started dinner, her mind going to other things.

A week later, Sloane found the little black head in Josh’s trash can. She plucked it out from under the used facial tissues and held it, then put it on the bookcase in the living room. She made a mental note to keep an eye on it and see if it found itself in another trash can in the future.

Oh, Josh! she said as she rubbed her temples, a sure sign of worry.

It was so hard, trying to pull him out of his shell. His only social interactions were with the damn video games, or on rare occasions with some of the boys at judo. Middle school could be a tough time, she knew. But as a mom, she couldn’t help worrying about things like bullying, or drugs, or—God forbid—molestation.

Then there was the troubling thought that somehow Josh was embarrassed to tell anyone she was going blind. Could her disability be responsible for her son’s social reluctance? Talk about your gut–wrenching guilt trips. Of course she could never ask him if this was happening, and even if she did, he would never tell her the truth.

And then there was the biggest weight on the guilt train: the lack of a father.

Sloane still seethed when she thought of Emilio, the rat bastard. He’d bailed years ago, but it still felt as if it had only just happened.

She’d come out of Josh’s room that evening and begun washing out his baby bottle before going to bed. Emilio entered the narrow kitchen and handed her an envelope. She dried her hands and took it.

What’s this?

Some money.

Sloane opened it and realized it was a few hundred dollars, a large amount of money now that she’d lost her job and they were living on only one income.

She looked up at him, confusion on her wholesome face. Emilio, I don’t understand.…

I’m leaving, he said without emotion, like he might tell her it was four o’clock, or there was ice cream in the freezer. It’s all I can give you until we get a divorce.

What do you mean? she asked, her entire body going numb.

I can’t be with a woman who’s handicapped. A kid is hard enough, but a blind wife?

Sloane felt the blood drain from her face, and she dropped the envelope to steady herself on the lip of the sink.

Hey, it’s not you, it’s me, he said. I need someone who can keep up with me. You know—driving, working, the bills, things like that.

He didn’t even attempt to pick up the dropped envelope. Instead, he went to the fridge for a beer.

Sloane’s legs turned to rubber, and she fought the impulse to simply slide down to the floor. Every word he said felt like a cut in her skin.

He went on. You’re still young and pretty, Sloane. You’ll find someone who can handle being with a blind chick.

He reached out to tap her on the chin, usually an endearing gesture. When his finger got close, she slapped it away.

Get out, she said, tears brimming in her eyes. Get out and don’t ever come back.

Emilio smiled, and she hated him in that moment. He stooped to pick up the envelope and placed it on the counter before turning away. Have a good life, Sloane, he said. I’ll send you some money for the kid. He picked up his duffle bag and left.

Thirteen years later, Emilio communicated exclusively through his attorney. And while he made sure the child support checks came on time and never bounced, he did not want or ask for his son. The abandonment still hurt more deeply than Sloane wanted to admit. A part of her couldn’t help thinking it was her fault. If she could see, Emilio wouldn’t have left, and Josh wouldn’t be struggling.

She finished cleaning and sat on the couch. Now Josh was floundering, and she didn’t know how to handle it. All she’d ever wanted was for Josh to be happy, to not have to face the reality that his father had never wanted a child—and worst of all, a wife with a disability. She didn’t want to face it either, she realized. The little black statue made it clear to Sloane that she had to find a way to talk to her son.

Josh stepped onto the bus and took the first available seat, doing his best to block the noise. He looked out the window and mentally tried to shut out the chattering, the rap music, and the laughter.

Today was a good day. He wasn’t being harassed, and he was glad to be left alone. As usual, his mom was having a cow about the clay sculpture he’d brought home the week before. Why couldn’t she understand that it was just a stupid project? He had just poked a few holes in it to satisfy the teacher. Art wasn’t his thing. What he really wanted to do was apply for the ROTC program and one day become an Army officer. But if he told her that, she’d really have a cow. She worried way too much about him. But he needed her signature to get in the program. His uncle Jerry and his other uncle, Ken, had both served in the military, and so had his grandfather. Josh had to figure out a way to get her to sign.

Kids his age weren’t thinking about the future—not like he did, anyway. Josh wasn’t a nerd or a jock or a band geek. He didn’t really fit into any group, and that was fine with him. He preferred to hang out with some of the guys from judo, either after class or online. Most of them went to private school, which obviously his mom couldn’t afford, although he’d love to switch. The public school was full of idiots, and while everybody laughed at them, they annoyed him.

The bus turned onto the street leading to the huge middle school. It resembled a castle, complete with four pointed turrets and a grand staircase to the main doors. Tonight, he would talk to his mom, give her the recruiter’s number. No matter how she reacted, he needed to convince her.

Sloane had ordered Chinese take–out, a treat on their fixed income. Josh loved eggrolls, and his smile upon seeing the containers made her day.

After clearing the dishes and stowing the leftovers in the fridge, Sloane noticed Josh watching her.

Josh, what is it?

Can I talk to you?

Sure, honey. She put her hands in her lap to hide her nervous fidgeting.

Mom, now that I’m in 8th grade, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do after high school.

You mean, like college?

Kind of. But not really. Mom, I want to join the military.

Sloane stopped fidgeting, shocked. This wasn’t how the conversation should go, she thought. He was supposed to say something different. Mom, I want to learn all about computers. Or Mom, I want to run my own business. But the military? She must have looked confused, because she saw the barest flick of an eye roll from her usually respectful and stoic son.

The military? she asked.

Yes, the Army—the Reserve Officer Training Corps, actually. It starts in 9th grade.

Sloane didn’t know how to respond. Part of her was relieved, and the other part wasn’t happy at all. That means you’ll be going away a lot.

Not until after high school, he said. Besides, Juan and Mark are joining ROTC, too.

Sounds like you’ve done your homework on this one, she said. I’ve tried my best to raise you to make good decisions and be practical.

They sat in silence at the dining table. Sloane couldn’t help finding the irony