A Tapestry: Of Life's Journeys

By Richard Ellis Shaw

Writing is the creation of images, the ability to stir emotions or share a common experience. I have enjoyed writing these stories and hope you will enjoy reading them. Ten Short Stories: The Gift - love letters and a doll’s cradle; Missing Summer - treasure - college graduation - small town-relationships; Author’s Character - blank page - character’s revenge; Rebirth - Finally figuring out who she is; The Photographer - Double Dog dare - strange camera - and a photographer; Susie’s Diner - small town - characters - lives changing; Chance Encounter - Stepping outside of her comfort zone; Interloper - noises and lights in an abandoned farmhouse; Snow Day - no school - best news ever; Dusty Book Emporium - unexplainable journey in a bookstore - maybe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781478791553

Richard Ellis Shaw

Richard Shaw has been dedicated to the art of writing since childhood; at the age of eight, he read one of his stories to the neighborhood kids, and the magic of storytelling has stayed with him ever since. He has attended writers' conferences in New York State and at the University of Iowa, and he is also the author of a poetry collection, The Heart of a Poet, and a book of short stories, A Tapestry of Life's Journeys. He and his fiancée Brenda live in Illinois with their dog, Madisen.

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The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

A Tapestry: Of Life’s Journeys

Ten Short Stories

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2017 Richard Ellis Shaw

v2.0

Cover Photo © 2017 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4787-9155-3

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

My grandfather was a great storyteller in my family. I learned to create stories from listening to him when I was a little kid. Like my grandfather, I am a storyteller.

I was eight years old when I read one of my first stories to a group of kids in my neighborhood. I liked the feeling of writing something and reading it to my friends. That feeling has never changed.

My goal is to use my words to create images within your mind or maybe to stir an emotion or maybe even share an experience with some of the characters of my stories. I hope that you enjoy reading my stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

I would like to thank my author rep Deni with Outskirts Press for answering all my questions and encouraging me. To my editor, Bobbie, I want to thank you for reviewing my stories and helping me create a finished product.

I would be amiss if I did not give thanks to my fiancée, Brenda, for patiently listening in the early mornings when I greeted her with Can I read something? David, my brother, thank you for listening forever to my Can I read something?

Mac and Willie, thanks for encouraging me and giving me advice on my stories and poems.

Contents

The Gift

Missing Summer

An Author’s Character

Rebirth

The Photographer

Susie’s Diner

Chance Encounter

Interloper

A Snow Day

Interlude

Dusty Books Emporium

The Gift

The stars stood out, each one sparkling against the black winter sky. The wind of the day had died, leaving a quiet that seemed to surround Jake as he stood on the back porch of his old Cape-Cod-style house. New England winters can be downright fierce, with snow and wind sometimes taking your breath away. Tonight however, the calm seemed to be something almost physical, as if you could reach out and touch it.

The old-timers, New Englanders for generations, would tell you to be wary of the calm before the storm.

Jake pulled his collar a little tighter around his neck and watched the night sky for any sign of a change in the weather. Jake’s left knee injury was his best indicator of a coming storm. It was throbbing, and Jake felt sure that this lull in the wind and the snow would not last until morning.

Turning around, Jake made his way back into the warmth of his living room. The fire in his woodstove soon replaced the bone-chilling cold of the winter night. Pulling up an old black rocker that his mother had rocked him in when he was a baby, he settled in with a well-worn leather book that had helped him pass time. The fire crackled and popped in the woodstove as he reached out to pick up his coffee mug that sat on the stove. A sip of the strong black coffee sent a warm feeling deep inside him. Holding the mug with both hands, he looked at the stove and slipped back into some memories of when she would have been sitting in the other rocker on the other side of the woodstove. She would have been knitting a scarf or mittens for one of the grandchildren.

It was a few hours later when Jake awoke with a start, realizing that he had fallen asleep with the book resting on his belly. He looked around the room that had grown a little colder as the logs in the woodstove had burned down. Wind from outside beat against the windows as if searching for a place to enter the old house. The storm windows creaked and moaned with the onslaught. Frost had started to cover the windows as Jake peered through the glass. The old-timers would have been right in their prediction; the snow was coming down vertically from the northeast.

Jake threw a couple of logs into the woodstove and headed off to bed. Climbing the narrow stairs hidden behind a door in the kitchen, he made his way up to his bedroom. In the center of the room stood a heavy four-poster bed passed down from his parents on the day of his wedding to Abigail Beckwell. The bed, once warm and inviting, now seemed like a cold place and uninviting. For a long time after Abby passed away, Jake could still smell her shampoo on the pillows. Now that was gone too.

Pulling the down-filled comforter up, he tucked it securely around his neck and listened to the wind as it howled and rattled the windows. Sleep did not come easily as Jake tossed and turned in the cold room. Sleep seemed so easy when he was sitting in his rocker next to the woodstove; now it felt like it was impossible to relax and let his mind rest. The hours ticked by as Jake tossed and turned until the early morning hours, when he finally fell into a deep sleep. Opening his eyes, he reached over to turn on the lamp beside his bed. The lamp failed; the electricity was down. After reaching for his clothes in a heap on the floor where he had left them the night before, he dressed and went downstairs to throw some logs into the woodstove.

The logs caught fire and sent warmth out into the room, and Jake checked his wood box. Logs of various sizes and shapes filled the box. Jake knew they would not last long without the electricity. Coffee would be the next thing that would be needed on this cold morning. Pouring some water into an old metal coffee pot with some coffee grounds, he set the pot on the woodstove. From the window facing the back of the house, he could see the trees bending and swaying to the whims of the wind. The snow that had started early in the evening had changed the back yard from a brown, somber landscape to a pure white sea of snow drifts. Swirling miniature tornadoes raced over the surface, carrying fingers of the snow.

While he sipped his coffee and rocked gently back and forth in his rocker, his mind slipped back to her. She was beautiful in the first days when they had met, and in the latter years her hair turned to silver gray. Looking over at the rocker sitting across from him, he could see her sitting there smiling when she caught him watching her. Finishing his coffee, Jake got up, walked into the kitchen, and grabbed some muffins that he had made with some of the blueberries from his summer garden.

Looking out from the back door, Jake could see the outline of his workshop through the drifting snow. It stood about twenty feet from the back door and was painted the same color as the house, a dark green that now was faded and peeling from the battle with the elements of short New England summers and long winters. Grabbing his heavy wool-lined coat and a scarf that Abby had made for him, he eased the door open, pushing back a small snow drift that was wedged against the door. The first step off the back stoop plunged him into a knee-deep drift. The door to the shop looked like it was miles away.

Using his foot to clear some of the snow away from the door to the shop, he entered the cold shop. Putting his hand on the woodstove in the corner of the shop, he opened the small door and felt the faint breath of warmth from inside the stove. He grabbed the poker from beside the stove and got a small flame to flicker. He tossed in some shavings from the floor along with some small kindling, and the flame began to grow. The feeble flame flickered and grabbed the shavings, immediately igniting them. A few logs placed in the stove brought the flame to life, and the room filled with the smell of burning logs and the promise of warmth.

Spread out on the workbench were various tools resting from their work the day before, when Jake had used them. A small wooden cradle sat on the bench, still unfinished, but with the promise of completion. Jake put his hand out to move the cradle to the end of the bench. Without electricity today would be all hand tools and muscle.

The quiet of the shop soon filled with the slow rhythm of a hand plane scraping across a future runner for the cradle. With each swipe of the snub-nosed plane, the piece of wood began to change shape. With a practiced ease Jake continued his work mindless of time and the storm howling outside the walls of his shop. The cradle, a gift for his granddaughter, was nearing completion as the time before her birthday approached quickly.

As the pieces of the cradle began to take shape and fit together, a smile spread across Jake’s face. He thought about the small knitted doll blanket that Abby had finished just before she passed away. His smile faded as the memories of her crowded into his mind. With more planning and focus on the task in front of him, he began to smile once again as he saw his granddaughter and the gift that he was creating for her.

Logs in the woodstove began to disappear as they gave off their heat. The shop began to cool as Jake rested his plane on its side on the bench. Stepping back, he looked at the cradle and pushed it with one hand. It rocked back and forth gently and then stopped. He had a few more days to finish the project.

The sun was beginning to fade away as the shop grew cooler; it was time to venture outside once more. The wind had lost some of it fury in the waning afternoon. The snow had stopped falling, creating a peaceful scene. The snow, light and fluffy, formed miniature clouds as Jake pushed his way back to the house. As he walked up the first step of the back stoop, he noticed that the light was on.

Approaching the back door, he gathered an armful of firewood for later that night. Even with the electricity and the furnace, the house would still be cold without the woodstove. Setting the firewood into the wood box next to the stove, he turned to look at the old grandfather clock standing in the corner of the living room. Its chimes announced