Summer Storm and Other Stories

By Glenda Baker

During the fi fteen years Glenda Baker was the publisher and editor-in-chief of NEWN, she read and critiqued hundreds of short stories. She also wrote many of her own. This volume contains twenty-two of Glendas storiesfrom short (21,000 words) to short-short (about 1,000 words) to flash fiction (52 words total) in which Glenda addresses subjects such as:

After doing a favor for his boss, how does a man end up in an maze he cant find his way out of?

What would happen if a contemporary kid created a golem?

What secrets do three generations of women learn about each other while on a weekend trip to Cape Cod?

How far will a passive-aggressive woman go if pushed to the limit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465325457

Glenda Baker

During the fifteen years Glenda Baker was the publisher and editor-in-chief of NEWN, she read and critiqued hundreds of short stories. She also wrote many of her own. This volume contains twenty-two of Glenda’s stories—from short (21,000 words) to short-short (about 1,000 words) to flash fiction (52 words total) in which Glenda addresses subjects such as: After doing a favor for his boss, how does a man end up in an maze he can’t find his way out of? What would happen if a contemporary kid created a golem? What secrets do three generations of women learn each about each other while on a weekend trip to Cape Cod? How far will a passive-aggressive woman if pushed to the limit? Glenda Baker is a graduate of the Famous Writers School, Clark University, and the 2001 Maui Writer’s Retreat, and a member of the International Women’s Writing Guild and Sisters in Crime. She has won prizes for her fiction, poetry, and personal essays. She is the author of Because It Works!, a compilation of articles on all elements of writing fiction and personal essays. Visit Glenda at www.nenmag.net and at www.glendabaker.com.

Book preview

Summer Storm

and Other Stories

Glenda Baker

Copyright © 2009 by Glenda Baker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

39305

Contents

Forward I

Forward II

Introduction

Summer Storm

Moleg

Keeping Secrets: A Trilogy

The Circle

The Charmed Life of Lucas McHugh

Falling For You

Just Try Again

Precious Time to Save

In Martha’s Spirit

Just a Friend

A Time to Blossom

Pink Satin

Private People

China White

A Wretch Like Me

Mary’s World

Winston’s House

The Last Remains

I Tried to Warn Her

Prey

To Serve and Protect

Take Warning

Forward I

Letters. Arrange at least two letters of the alphabet in the right order and a word appears. At least two words placed correctly will form a sentence. One or more sentences create a paragraph. One or more paragraphs equal a story. A bunch of stories together can turn into a book.

Sounds simple enough, right?

Not really.

Good writing requires a bit more than a bunch of letters, words, sentences and paragraphs. Engaging writing demands setting, character development, concrete objectives, obstacles, tactics, stakes, plans, complications, crisis, climax and resolution. A solid manuscript includes a balance of narrative description, dialogue and action. All this assumes, of course, that the author’s original subject and premise keeps her interested and motivated through the long and arduous process of writing, rewriting, revising and rewriting yet again. Even the shortest story takes much longer to write than to read. And after all the blood, sweat and tears, the lucky author presents her heart and soul between the front and back covers of her fully formed book.

A writer is told to write what you know. So when I began reading Mom’s Summer Storm, I knew the story was based on an actual trip we had taken. But so many of the facts were wrong that I stopped reading. Then I remembered that Mom was writing fiction. Fiction—where the writer takes a kernel of truth and, like a glob of Play-Doh, stretches it, exaggerates it, and molds it into anything from a golem to a coulrophobic (one with a phobia of clowns.)

I started reading again. I joined the fantasy of fiction and delighted in each character, objective, obstacle, and outcome that Mom stretched, shaped and sculpted out of golden nuggets of reality.

I know you will too.

—Judy L. Adourian

Forward II

I was delighted when Glenda Baker asked me to write the foreword for her new fiction anthology, not only because I am eager to share her work with you, but also because I am deeply indebted to Glenda and NEWN for helping me launch my own writing career. The reader is in for a literary treat with this volume which covers every genre from flash fiction, the traditional short story, the literary short story, to a novella as well. Indeed Glenda is a prolific, talented writer, who knows well her craft, and has taught it to hundreds through her teaching tenure at Assabet Valley Regional High School, in Marlborough, Massachusetts, and now to a greater audience with her recently published book Because It Works!

Permit me to prepare you for the amazing variety of fiction from the mercurial mind of one of our region’s most talented authors. I start by referencing her literary short story, Prey. Throughout the years Glenda has felt most comfortable with the traditionally plotted short story in which she excels, as you are about to discover. However, she had mentioned to me during one of our whirlwind writing sessions and gab fests that she had never tried her hand at the literary genre. I saw the look in her eyes and knew she planned to set herself to the task. The result is the cleverly crafted Prey, included here. With an economy of less than five hundred words, Glenda captures the sad fate of so many of our elderly. This story resonates with me as one of her finest, as Glenda, displaying a sparse style, captures with one scene the essence of nursing home life.

I would encourage the reader to start with Prey, and then turn to the novella, Summer Storm. In this novella, Glenda needed much more time and narrative to relate the complex relationships that spans three generations of women in New England, and the secrets they share during one eventful weekend as a raging storm envelops them. Her style is still succinct, but there is poetry in many of the passages, as Glenda lingers just long enough on scenes that need more fullness and depth.

In between these extremes of literary short story and novella is the treasure trove of stories that span her entire career, from flash fiction pieces that tell a story in a few sentences or paragraphs, to longer pieces where more detail and scene setting is vital to the impact of the story. Again I think you will be impressed with Glenda’s confident approach to story telling that initially grabs you and moves you along through tightly structured stories that end with satisfying conflict resolutions.

Glenda is a prize winner in the Worcester Magazine Short Story Contest of 2003 for the chilling tale of an unnamed woman who moves beyond depression to quiet desperation, then despair, and implodes just as her life explodes in the only way it can for Winston’s wife, living in Winston’s House. This story is a masterpiece of show, don’t tell, as each detail leads the reader to the inevitable conclusion. Winston’s House is included in this anthology, as are many of Glenda Baker’s previously published stories.

I also believe you will swear that Glenda took bits of Ray Bradbury’s, Stephen King’s, and Rod Serling’s work and spliced them together in some of the stories you’ll discover in this anthology. But, when you read Precious Time To Save, you’ll soon realize that Glenda has made this genre her own. Only Glenda’s imagination could find a way to put time in a bottle.

What about gripping themes like the loss of innocence and youthful idealism? They’re here too! Some of the most poignant points of view come from the young girls in Glenda’s stories. In Pink Satin, Glenda allows you to view what should be the most perfect of commitments, marriage, as seen through the little sister of the bride. The little girl, unfortunately, before the wedding commences, sees more than she could ever have dreamed. Will anything ever be perfect again?

In China White, Glenda reflects upon permanent loss seen through a child’s eyes. The young child discovers her mother is dead, though not fully realizing what she is witnessing, nor quite understanding what is happening. Glenda keeps tight control of the flow of the story so it never becomes maudlin. It is the understatement here that evokes your emotions as you read, and you become that little girl and know what is going through her mind.

Moleg, the story of a modern golem, is another piece for which Glenda needs the larger span of narrative to relate this tale of destruction, then takes you to its eerie conclusion, which prompts you to ponder its meaning and leaves you wondering what’s to come after THE END.

I think you are getting the impression that you are about to read the work of a versatile artist, who is comfortable with many themes, many genres, and characters of all ages, all of whom have one thing in common: they are living life with all its complexities, and they are all struggling with the human condition.

—James Calandrillo

Introduction

I started dabbling in short story writing when I was in high school. My one completed story earned me an A from Mrs. Estes in junior English, not an easy accomplishment, but it didn’t win a prize in the Seventeen Magazine Short Story Contest as I had hoped.

I dreamed of writing stories for women’s magazines—Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Companion, Redbook, and maybe even The Saturday Evening Post—so I took The Famous Writers School correspondence course in the 1960s. By the time I thought I was ready to write for these publications, the magazines no longer published short stories; or if they did, they were by well-known authors who didn’t need the publicity. The days of the women’s magazines free lance fiction writer were over.

In the 1980s when I joined the International Women’s Writing Guild and began attending the annual Guild conference, I concentrated on writing poetry, an experience which was essential to learning to write tight and not waste a word.

During that time, I also experimented with different genres, different voices, different styles, and different topics. I still enjoy variety in my writing and in many other aspects of my life

I like writing short. I enjoy the challenge, and I like the feeling of completing a piece. Just because a story is short, however, doesn’t mean it was written quickly. In fact, short pieces sometimes take a long time to write. As Mark Twain said, My letter would have been shorter, but I didn’t have time.

During the last almost thirty years, I have not only written a lot of short stories, but as Editor-in-chief of NEWN Magazine for fifteen years, I have read hundreds of short stories. I have published the ones that work well, critiqued those that didn’t, and offered ideas to the writers to make them work. All of which has made me a better writer.

By definition all fiction is not true; it is completely imaginary, created entirely from the writer’s mind. But what about the primary fiction rule: Write what you know! Obviously, ideas come from situations we’ve experienced, people we know, things we wonder about.

Writers continually play the what if game.

What if someone got lost at night in the maze that is the Lakeview section of Hudson, Massachusetts?

What if a contemporary kid created a golem?

What if three generations of women learned each other’s secrets while on Cape Cod for a funeral?

What does it feel like to have coulrophobia?

Why was that woman in a bright red dress and hat at the wedding I attended?

How far would a passive-aggressive woman go to make her point?

My answers to these and many other questions resulted in the twenty-two stories in this book.

There are several ways I could have organized these stories—chronologically (in the order they were written during the years 1964 to 2007), by subject, or by genre—but because one of the courses I teach is Fiction: Short, Shorter, Flash! I decided the way to organize my stories was by length. So the book starts with the longest story (21,124 words) and goes to the shortest (52 words—yes, an entire story in 52 words. That is FLASH). Feel free to read them in any order you choose. Start with the longest and go to the shortest, start at the end of the book with the shortest, or start in the middle and go either way. It doesn’t matter. Just enjoy!

But just in case you’re wondering I Tried to Warn Her was written in 1964; Just Try Again was written in 2007. Everything else was written in between. So some may seem dated—especially with the lack of cell phones—but the stories still work.

In Because It Works! I wrote about the theory to writing short fiction. This book shows how I applied all that theory to my short fiction writing journey.�

—Glenda Baker

With many, many thanks to Judy Adourian, Jim Calandrillo,

Donna Bruno, and Ann Hendricks.

Summer Storm

Labor Day Weekend September 1985

Could there be a worse way to spend the last few remaining days of summer vacation than with your aunt, your mother, and your grandmother—in a station wagon—going to a funeral? Sure, it was only for a long weekend, but to me at age fifteen even that was too long. I mean, I was missing the party of the century and a chance to make out big time with Kyle Brooks (which quite possibly could have led to going all the way), just because my great-uncle George had to go and die the week before Labor Day. He was only seventy-two, for God’s sake. He could have hung in there until after Labor Day so at least I could have missed school. Or just waited until the next week—after the party. But no, my family had to be the most inconsiderate family on the face of the earth. Even Uncle George, whom I hardly knew and hadn’t seen since I was about six, had to go and ruin what could have been the best summer of my entire life.

So there I was stuck in the back seat of a 1980 Chevy Caprice station wagon behind Mom who was driving, so of course I couldn’t see for shit. We’d only been on the road for an hour and already my grandmother was snoring so loud I could hear her through my Walkman. At least the snoring drowned out whatever Mom and Aunt Laurel were arguing about in the front seat. I was sure they’d been arguing since the minute Aunt Laurel was born when Mom was five. I was glad I didn’t have a sister.

Mom had this hit-the-road-at-the-crack-of-dawn-to-miss-the-commuter traffic thing. So we’d left Laconia, New Hampshire, at 7 a.m. Sure we’d missed the Laconia morning traffic, but then we’d hit the even worse rush hour traffic in Concord. Smart move, Mom.

The viewing of Uncle George’s dead body was scheduled that night from seven to eight-thirty in some little town on Cape Cod where he’d lived his entire life. So the only good thing about leaving at dawn was that I’d have all afternoon to check out the action at the motel pool before we had to go to the funeral parlor. I’d worked out every day all summer, had lost a few pounds, and had a great tan. I knew I looked hot in the white bikini I’d stuffed in the bottom of my knapsack.

I felt the car slow up a little as we passed a rest area sign, and I knew exactly what was coming next. Without missing a beat Mom said it: Does anybody have to go to the bathroom? There’s a rest stop coming up.

I’d heard this every time we’d passed a rest area sign for the last twelve years—ever since I was potty-trained at age three. I slammed shut The Belle of Amherst which I’d been pretending to read ever since we’d left home.

God, Rose, you sound just like Ma when we were kids, Aunt Laurel said.

Well, do you?

Do I what?

Have to go to the bathroom?

Of course not. And when I do, I’ll give you plenty of notice.

Karen?

No.

Are you sure?

Yes, Mother, I said with as much sarcasm as I thought I could get away with.

Watch your tone, young lady. Mom continued calling the roll. Ma?

She’s asleep, I said.

Ma!

Gram jolted awake. What?

Do you have to go to the bathroom?

No, no, I don’t

Sign says there won’t be another rest stop for forty-two miles.

I hadn’t seen any sign saying that. I figured Mom had to go and for some reason needed at least one of us as a companion.

Forty-two miles? Well, now that you mention it, Gram said, I did have two cups of coffee . . .

Mom swerved into the right-hand lane without the benefit of her directional signal. The horn on the red sports car she’d cut off sounded close in my ear.

You could get a ticket for an unsafe lane change, I volunteered. I knew the driving manual from cover to cover even though I wouldn’t be able to get even a learner’s permit for another six months.

Thank you, Karen, Mom said through clenched teeth. She pulled into the first parking space she saw in the rest area.

Can’t you get closer to the building, Rose? My hip is throbbing, Gram informed us. I don’t want to walk any farther than I have to.

You’ve been sitting too long, Ma. The exercise will be good for you. Mom cut the engine and hopped out before Gram could say anything else. Gram grumbled something as Mom helped her out of the car. Gram refused to use a cane, so she leaned heavily on Mom as they made their way across the parking lot to the restrooms.

I got out of the car to stretch. Aunt Laurel was already lighting up a Virginia Slims.

Can I have a drag? I asked.

Aunt Laurel looked at me as if I were serious. I smiled and she relaxed. No, she said, and I don’t ever want to hear that you’ve taken up this filthy habit.

But you smoke, and I want to be just like my Aunt Laurel, I teased in a little girl voice.

There are better role models, kid, she said. But what you can do is keep your mouth shut. Ma thinks I quit.

Why does she think that?

Maybe because I sort of implied . . .

Did you say ‘sort of lied?’

When did you get to be such a wise ass?

It’s better than being a dumb shit, I shot back as if Aunt Laurel was one of my classmates.

And I always thought you were on my side. She sighed deeply, the way Gram did when her feelings were hurt.

I am, Aunt Laurel, really I am, I said, afraid that I’d gone too far.

Gothca, kid. She laughed giving my ponytail a yank. She took another drag on the cigarette and then offered it to me. I reached for it but shook my head. Both Mom and Gram had bloodhound noses. If either of them caught one whiff, I’d be in big trouble.

Pretty scary, isn’t it? Aunt Laurel said.

What?

They’re starting to look alike. Aunt Laurel pointed to Mom and Gram slowly making their way to the restroom.

Who?

My mother and my sister—your mother and your grandmother. Aunt Laurel did a great job of imitating Gram who always had to explain family relationships as though we didn’t know how we were related to each other.

What do you mean? I asked

Well, look at them from the back. They look like a pair of pears. They walk the same way. Have you noticed that your mom is starting to get gray in the front the same way Gram, both her sisters (my aunts), and their mother (my grandmother) did?

I never even knew Gram’s sisters or her mother (my great-grandmother). What about you? I asked. You’ve got the same genes.

But I’ll never let it show. I’m never going to get gray. At the first sign of even one hair, I’m off to the hairdresser.

Sounds good to me. I really liked Aunt Laurel and did want to be just like her. She’d gone to college and had a great job with a huge computer company. I wasn’t sure exactly what she did, but she and Phil traveled a lot for their jobs. And they took wonderful vacations to places like Aruba and Acapulco and