Short Stories …(Some a Little Longer)

By Larry Fanning

A series of short stories, which brings to the reader a close connection with a man whose character evolves from a myriad of lifes experiences from childhood to middle age. Stories that touch on hope, faith and then despair. Questions of what would my life had been like if only then to find, that even though you have touched the very essence of life, you realize that fate or destiny actually may be out of your control. But you discover a spiritual lesson no matter what, you will continue on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479713202

Larry Fanning

Mr. Fanning was born in Oklahoma to poor parents who traveled to California as itinerant farm workers. The second of six children, he lived a life straight from The Grapes of Wrath. Highly intelligent as a child but rebellious, defiant and filled with self will, he spent several years detained in youth camps and then prison because of these traits. He married at age 20 then divorced at age 42. Heavy drinking led to alcoholism and he eventually joined AA and because of an ever present feeling of restlessness, he followed the U.S. and Canadian highways just to see where they would take him, with an anticipation of all the new people he would meet. Driving over 800,000 miles in eighteen years and making hundreds of new friends gave him an insight into the human nature that few get the chance to experience. Larry now has 22 years of sobriety.

Book preview

SHORT STORIES

 (SOME A LITTLE LONGER)

Larry Fanning

Copyright © 2012 by Larry Fanning.

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.

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Contents

THE GREAT LOVE AFFAIR

QUEENIE

KITTENS

RAIN

ENVY

THE PLAINSMAN COFFEE SHOP

DINING LOUNGE COCKTAILS

THE DANCE

THE CONNECTION

THE MOON RISES—THE MOON FALLS

LETTERS

FORTY-TWO THOUSAND MILES

(MORE OR LESS)

THE FINAL LETTERS

THE LAST DANCE

To give special acknowledgment to my partner, Beverly White, who did the typing and formatting of this book.

THE GREAT LOVE AFFAIR

I knew her for so many years before we became lovers. She had been in my life for so long, but I had not paid too much attention to her. She was there at the parties I went to. When I went camping—she was there at the bars. She was there almost any place I went.

Then there came the time in my life that I was very lonely. I needed so badly for someone to love, someone to care for—someone that needed me as I needed her. But I could find no one. I was afraid to reach out for love, in fear that it would be rejected.

Then the one that had been around for so long—the one that I had hardly paid any attention to for so many years, she stood there before me one night—a night when I believed that I would die with this loneliness and pain that was inside me. I stared at her for what seemed like ages. I looked at her as I had never looked at her before.

I put my hands around her and felt the coolness of her body, but knew of the warmth of her insides. I brought her to my lips and felt the cool nectar of the gods—the nectar that I savored before allowing it to flow through my body. My loneliness slowly dissolved. Here was somebody that knew of my feelings and was helping me to rid myself of all the hurts and fears—somebody to stay with me for the rest of my life and not reject me for any reason.

MY NEW LOVER WAS ALCOHOL ! ! !

It seemed we couldn’t get enough of each other. No matter where I went she was there with me. We could not be out of each others sight, not because of jealousy, but because we seemed to have been made for each other.

To sit there and caress her, to stroke every part of her before bringing her life-giving nectar to my lips, seemed to be the only pleasure that we needed. We had each other and needed no one else.

This had to truly be one of the greatest love affairs. So many years passed with just her and I. Together we could conquer the world. Apart, we were nothing.

Then came a day I thought would never come. She didn’t give of herself as she had before. At first I was confused. Then I became afraid. She stood there before me, I would bring her to my lips, but she would not give of herself as she used to—she gave me nothing. I was like a crazed person, I took more and more of her, expecting the old feelings to return—but to no avail. They were gone. She had nothing left to give me.

I did not know what I had done wrong, but it must have been something very bad for her to abandon me in this way. So many years of togetherness, of complete compatibility and understanding—gone.

There now lies in me a fear—a terror that never again will I have a companion, a lover, that will do to me and for me what that one did.

QUEENIE

I look down at Queenie with her head lying across my knee. I’m thinking that in all my ten years on this earth, she’s probably the bestest and smartest dog that I’ve ever had.

We’re sitting in her dog house which Pop and me built special just for her. It’s built up against the back of the tool shed and it’s real big. It sticks out from the shed almost three feet and is about five feet long. The front is about three feet high and the roof slopes up another foot higher towards the back against the shed. The door is about two foot wide and two foot high.

I’ve put some burlap sacks and an old quilt inside for her to lay on and to keep her warm during the cold nights. Sometimes it seems like I spend almost as much time in this old dog house as Queenie does. Even though she’s only a girl dog, she’s my best friend.

She seems to know exactly how I feel and what I’m thinking. If I’m sad, she stays real quiet and close to me. When I’m happy, she’s just jumping all over me and grinning that dog grin of hers.

We never could figure out what kind of dog she is. Pop said part terrier and part spaniel, but definitely the runt of the litter.

But right now she’s just laying there with her head on my leg looking up at me because this is real serious. I tell her, Queenie, you’ve got to stop getting into that chicken pen and chasing those chickens. I know that you’re only chasing them in fun, but Pop said that the last two times that you did it, you killed three of the frying hens.

He told me that you scared some of the laying hens so bad, they ain’t laying no more eggs. Because of all that, you’re taking money out of our pockets and food off the table.

And Queenie, he said that if you did it again, he would have to put you down, you know, kill you. And he said that he ain’t never, or hardly never, seen a chicken-killing dog ever change.

I softly rub the back of her head and neck with my hand as I looked into her eyes. She was looking right back at me and I could tell that she understood. She was real smart. But even so, a shiver of fear ran through me on thinking of what might happen to her.

So to make sure that she wouldn’t go into the chicken pen again, I looked up towards the roof of the old dog house, then right through it, all the way to heaven. And I said God, please help Queenie not go in there and hurt no more chickens. She’s only a dog and is only doing what dogs do and she just don’t know no better.

And my Pop ain’t no mean man, but he’s going to have to kill Queenie if she don’t stop it. Thank you for your help God. Amen.

And then I figured out a plan to help make even more sure that she couldn’t get under the chicken wire and into the pen.

We left the dog house, found an old cardboard box, went out into the field and started getting rocks. I drug the box of rocks back to the pen and carefully laid each one at the bottom of the chicken wire fence.

I worked at this until supper time then had to quit. That night I snuck Queenie into bed with me, because there were still some holes along the bottom of the fence and I wanted to make sure that she didn’t sneak into the pen during the night.

The next day I laid more rocks around the pen and by early afternoon I was done. Pop had come out while I was working on it and then he was there when I was done. He said Butch, you’ve done a real good job. I don’t think that Queenie will get through them rocks to bother those chickens ever again.

And he was right. Every day when I got home from school, I’d walk around the chicken pen and not one rock had been disturbed.

Several weeks went by and then it was summer vacation from school. I went over to my cousin’s house and spent the weekend there. We went to the fairgrounds and spent all day Saturday and Sunday at the swimming pool.

Sunday evening as I was walking down the gravel road back to my house I could see Pop sitting on the steps of the front porch.

When I got closer, he got up and walked out to meet me. He silently took my hand and walked me back to the porch. We sat down and he said, Butch, while you were gone Queenie got into the pen. She killed the rooster, two hens and five of the chicks.

He grew silent and as I looked up at his face I could see tears welling from his eyes and down his cheeks. Pop never cried, but he was now—and I knew why. I just looked down at my feet resting on the bottom step of the porch and couldn’t feel anything other than the feeling of being completely lost and alone.

He spoke again, Butch, I know that you did everything that you could to keep Queenie out of that pen and you did a real good job. But she got in anyway.

"I buried her out by the old white corner post on the fence line. The place where you and