Minutes: Conveniently Short Stories

By Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Do you ache for a good read but only have a few minutes? This is the book for you. This collection promises a memorable short story for the time you can spare, and leave you knowing your choice for those minutes was worthwhile.

This well written collection of short stories and poems runs the gamut of emotions from humour, to horror. Elizabeth Rowan Keith writes with intelligence and empathy, whether speaking of the final parting of a lover, a life lesson learned, or simply a good yarn. This collection will make you smile, make you think, and maybe even shed a tear.—Barnaby Wilde, author of The Women Furies

This collection of short stories and poems demonstrates Keith’s breadth as a writer and her ability to capture the unfolding events of daily life as portrayed in the actions of the best and worst of humanity in times of grief, in times of triumph, and in times of failure. –Joyce E. Williams, author of Lest We Forget, Settlement Sociology in the Progressive Years, and more.

In these stories, there are a variety of themes, from a farm wife’s reaction to an unjust divorce, to a poetic sanitation worker, to a redneck’s awakening, to a thoroughly disturbing pumpkin patch. Throughout, the author displays deep psychological insight and humanity, expressed in eloquent language. Each story and poem is a small gem. –P.C. Hodgell, author of God Stalk

This delightful collection of short stories will provide enjoyable reading from start to finish. Some stories will surprise you with the twist at the end, while others will leave you reflecting on the accuracy of the sentiments expressed. It would be a shame to by-pass this uniquely entertaining anthology! —Suzy Stewart Dubot, award-winning author of Quartet

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Rowan Keith
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215304785

Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Elizabeth Rowan Keith is an independent writer and researcher who writes on investigative, ethnographic, and scientific subjects. She also writes award-winning fiction and poetry. She has a doctorate in the biological sciences specializing in ethnobotany and a Master’s degree in public administration. Her teaching and research span the fields of sociology, geography, Native American studies, government, natural medicines, and the biological sciences. She holds certifications in many forms of mind/body/spirit medicine. Recently she relocated to the Twin Cities of Minnesota, USA, with her collie, Belle. She is the widow of award-winning author and photographer, David H. Keith.

Book preview

Minutes

Conveniently Short Stories

Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2024 by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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 person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The stories in this volume which have been previously published include:

Hot Spiced Tea and Ginger Biscuits © 2012 published in A Winter’s Tale

Willow in the Wash © 2018 published in In the Distance

Missing the Mark © 2014 published in The Man on the Corner

She Haunts Me © 2013 published in Stitches

Morning Break © 2014 published in The Man on the Corner

Spark of Sense © 2014 published in Back Roads & Water

Gone with the Spin © 2014 published in The Man on the Corner

Pumpkin Patch © 2013 published in Pumpkins

First World Problems © 2012 published in Why Me?

Left Behind © 2014 published in Pain

Second Sandwich © 2019 published in Poverty

Final Judgment © 2014 published in Justice

The Poet © 2013 published in Trash Day

Dedication

David H. Keith

a love of many lifetimes

Contents

Hot Spiced Tea and Ginger Biscuits

Willow in the Wash

Missing the Mark

She Haunts Me

Morning Break

Spark of Sense

Gone with the Spin

Pumpkin Patch

Left Behind

Panda and Me and Tea

Evolution

Birthday Gift

Second Sandwich

Final Judgment

The Poet

About the Author

Hot Spiced Tea and Ginger Biscuits

Hot spiced tea and ginger biscuits were part of winter in my grandmother’s tiny home, where the oil stove could not chase the cold from the corners of the room. We sat at her table and talked of matters important to a little girl. My grandmother might have a story, or a memory to share. She seemed to know all about life’s mysteries. We might prepare seeds for winter storage. Sometimes we sorted buttons. Eventually, she taught me to quilt and crochet. In time, I would read to her.

All these times we saved for the arrival of winter, when the hard chores of summer were over and we moved into a season of rest. We nested among baskets of winter supplies that were potatoes, squash, onions, pumpkins, and apples, brushed against jars of home-canned vegetables perched on shelves, and ducked under drying herbs hanging overhead. We listened to icy winds, and watched snow blow into drifts and shallows, until Jack Frost’s paintings filled the single-pane glass windows. And we always had hot spiced tea with ginger biscuits.

From high up in the cupboard, my grandmother would take my own special teacup and mismatched plate. Marked by a tiny chip on one side, my teacup could always be known from the rest. My plate, left from a set of dishes long broken and gone, was one of a kind, and all mine.

Knowing I had my own teacup and plate for tea and cookies at Grandma’s house always made me feel special and loved. Along with my grandmother, they were the dependable pieces in my little girl life. We all came together once snow began to fall.

Never, until more than a decade after our winter tradition began, did it occur to me that the plate and cup designated as mine might have been meant to keep the better dishes safe from little girl fumbles. Even then, it was with warm smiles that I retrieved my own chipped teacup and mismatched plate from their places high in the cupboard, so that I could sit with Grandma at the kitchen table, and share hot spiced tea and ginger biscuits.

Little girl days gone, my grandmother and I would talk as women. She never seemed to be without just the right memory to share, a well-placed suggestion, or an experienced point of view. To me, she was the wisest woman on Earth. Coming of age in the work of summer, with my grandmother to show me how to grow and preserve food for the winter, I learned the ways of the women who came before me. In the winter my grandmother told me nearly all else she knew. I wanted to become as wise as she.

My grandmother is gone from this house now. I am as alone as she was here. But I still feel warm, safe, and loved as I reach to the top of the cabinet for my chipped teacup and mismatched plate. In winter, I remember her into being, over hot spiced tea and ginger biscuits.

Willow in the Wash

I hadn’t seen it coming when he told me he wanted a divorce. It landed doubly hard when he claimed it was my fault. In the fifteen years we had been married, I hadn’t produced so much as one son. I hadn’t even managed to bring a girl. He had a responsibility, he said, to see that there was a next-in-line to inherit the family farm. And I wasn’t up to it. So he had found someone else. She stepped up where I had failed. So I would have to go.

I could not believe what I was hearing. I know my mouth fell open when I heard the word divorce and didn’t close until after he left the house. Heavily, I sat down at the kitchen table. Looking around the room, I tried to take in all he had said. I tried to understand.

When I was 20 years old I left my job at the Courthouse to marry the only son of a couple who’d had him late in life. From then on, my whole world had been this farm and his family. I woke early every morning, and went to bed aching and exhausted nearly every night. I wore myself out as his father, and then his mother became aged and ill before they died. And now he says I have to leave the place where I have worked myself weary and worn? I’ve worked at least as hard as he has for this place.

Where would I go? What would I do? My thoughts had never taken me away from this place. I couldn’t imagine anything else. The very attempt set me alight with fear, indecision, and dread. Anger ignited, only to be set aside by anxiety. How could any of this be right?

One thing I knew. I was on