Stories From My Mother's Basement

By Darla Ferrara

"Izzy was a girl that lived inside her own head. Most thought her odd, but not me." Set in the 1960s, We DItch the Moon is the story of Izzy Washington, a black girl growing up in the poor part of a segregated town in the South, told by the man who must live with the secret of why Izzy is afraid of the moon.

Award-winning author Darla Ferrara pairs her acclaimed novella "We Ditch the Moon" with short stories about how fear can get the better of you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darla Ferrara
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463501283

Darla Ferrara

Darla Ferrara is a full-time freelance writer published internationally and an award-winning author. She was the debut edition Author-in-the-Spotlight for Mezzo Magazine. You can find Darla as a regular contributor to The New York Times About.com and Lance Armstrong's LiveStrong.com.Living with the Gray Tones, Ferrara's premier novel, has been labeled a Must-Read by her peers in the mystery genre. Gray Tones was ranked as one of the 250 Breakthrough Novels for 2010 and a quarter-finalist for the ABNA award.Darla was born in La Junta, Colorado but spent most of her childhood in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Book preview

Stories From

My Mother’s Basement

We Ditch the Moon Novella

And Other Short Stories

Copyright © 2020 Darla Ferrara All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781234567890

ISBN-10: 1477123456

Cover design by: Darla Ferrara

Original artwork by: Darla Ferrara

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Annita Christiansen

September 1936 - November 2020

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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

"There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls."

– George Carlin

Izzy was a girl that lived inside her own head. Most thought her odd, but not me.

You’re late, girl. Can’t say why I put up with you.

I know.

Get on those tables now ‘for I change my mind.

Izzy grabbed an apron and wrapped it around her waist. As she pulled the ties tight, she caught a glimpse of the moon shining bright outside the bar window and turned her head.

Pull that shade down a bit, will you.

Henry just stared at her. There was no need to ask. Everyone knew Izzy was scared of the moon. As he reached one fat arm up to adjust the shade, he added, You’re more trouble than you're worth, know that?

I can’t work with it staring at me. You know how I am.

Henry gave his head a slow shake to emphasize the fact that she was nothing but trouble. You get on those tables now while you still can, girl.

Yes, sir.

It hadn’t always been this way. Izzy wasn’t sure what had changed, but she knew when it happened. She had told me the story many times. For me, listening to Izzy tell a story was like taking a cool drink of water. I had known her my whole life and loved her most of it, not that she paid me much mind. Truth be told, Izzy didn’t pay much attention to anything or anyone except for that devil moon, as she liked to call it.

That morning everything seemed the same as the day before — with the sun out, nothing seemed different. Mama was making hotcakes just like always. The scent of bacon grease danced through the air and under the door of her room, calling her to breakfast. Izzy’s mouth watered when the smell drifted past her nose, heading towards the open window.

She put on a pair of old denim jeans that Artie couldn’t wear anymore. Her twin brother Artie stood tall and stocky, just like their daddy. Not Izzy, though; she was a tiny thing — petite. Mama used that word when she talked about her. I always thought it was a bit too uppity to describe Izzy, though.

If you didn’t know her, you’d swear Izzy wasn’t a day over ten years. That soft cocoa skin could fool you real quick, especially the way she would braid her hair tight around her head, working what she could into a knot at the back of her neck. The effort pulled everything smooth from ear to ear.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like she was old, but her 17 years had been hard enough to call themselves thirty, at least, I reckon.

Of course, her brother Artie’s pants didn’t come close to fitting her, but Izzy would cut the bottoms off and roll them up at the ankles to cover the frayed edges. She still had to tie them on with a bit of clothesline to keep ‘em from dropping off her skinny hips, though.

Izzy examined a shoe that morning that felt kind of strange on her foot and swore as her finger came up through the bottom. She stuffed a piece of cardboard inside to cover a hole the size of a penny. It looked like a rock had poked through. The soles were worn thin from years of wear. She couldn’t remember stepping on a rock, but most of the streets were covered in gravel and dirt back then, and it’s not like she looked at her feet all day long, anyway.

Now is not the time to need new shoes, Izzy Washington.

Mama had rent to pay. Rent came before everything else, even her feet. Izzy’s family was lucky to have what they had — three large rooms and a closed-in back porch for Artie. Mama had helped a local white family when the lady of the house took ill. Out of appreciation and respect, the husband allowed her to rent a little brick house just off the main road that he purchased for peanuts after his wife passed.

He was only charging Mama what she could afford to pay, too. It was more than most of the families in the Shanty had, and Izzy was proud of it. Mama didn’t take advantage of her bounties, though. Rent was due when rent was due.

The Shanty

The Shanty was the part of town where the colored folks stayed. It wasn’t even part of the town, not really. It sat curved around the very southern edge of it, set back far enough that the rich white folks couldn’t see it from their backyards and barbecues.

Railroad ties ran between the two areas with trains out of Morristown barreling down them three times a day, four on Saturday. The Shanty shook every time one went by enough that your teeth rattled inside your head.

The Shanty streets were lined mostly with one-room shacks, shaded by a few two or three-story tenements. Each one of the tenements showcased wood landings decorated with a clothesline and drying shirts.

Towards the middle of Main Street sat a small market. It carried some basics like potatoes, lard, bags of flour, sugar, beans, and even fresh vegetables from the locals if the price was right. Tiny’s Store, that’s what we called it, also carried many of the town’s folk when times were hard, and money was scarce.

The best part of Mama’s house was