The Lost Words: A collection of short stories and prose 1995 - 2020

By John C Cole

From the gritty streets of Boston, Massachusetts to the warm and secure blankets that wrap up his children at night, John Cole has provided us with a collection of stories and prose that capture the essence of everyday working-class life.

From young adulthood to fatherhood, John Cole uses his own words to paint vivid emotional pictures of the blue-collar realism that exists for most of us during the earlier stages of the twenty-first century.

The weight of his words and the significance of his stories are delicate and powerful, and readers will handle these stories with the care and gentle reserve they ask for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886930832

John C Cole

John C Cole was born in Waukesha, Wisconsin, in 1971. He was raised in Boston, Massachusetts, and he studied creative writing at the University of Massachusetts Boston. He currently teaches composition and creative writing courses at Colorado Mesa University, and at Quincy College in Massachusetts. This collection of short stories and prose spans twenty-five years.

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About the Author

John C Cole was born in Waukesha, Wisconsin, in 1971. He was raised in Boston, Massachusetts, and he studied creative writing at the University of Massachusetts Boston. He currently teaches composition and creative writing courses at Colorado Mesa University, and at Quincy College in Massachusetts. This collection of short stories and prose spans twenty-five years.

Dedication

For Morgan and Madison

and all those who have inspired.

Copyright Information ©

John C Cole 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, experiences, and words are the author’s alone.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Cole, John C

The Lost Words

ISBN 9798886930825 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798886930832 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911938

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

5th and Broadway (2002)

Within five steps of a young boy

there was a newspaper on the sidewalk

a hubcap missing a tire

a woman dressed in fur and gold teeth

and a man reading from a book

out loud.

Within five steps of a young boy

there are poems

at his feet.

Release (2004)

Morgan said sure when I asked her to dance with me. So, I put down the oven mitt and lifted her off the kitchen counter. I propped her five-year-old frame onto my hip and we began to sway along the hardwood floors of the kitchen. The rhythm through the speakers above the sink soon locked our hips into the song. Is this a kissing song? she asked. I told her that it was. She smiled in response, wrapping one arm around the small of my back and the other around my neck. It was perfect…

So perfect that it soon brought me back to the day, eight years earlier, when my father reached for my sister’s hand on her wedding day. So perfect that I was soon reliving that day all over again—his long bow before her and the way she smiled, half-embarrassed, before rising to her feet, the way he twirled her in circles on the dance floor. My sister was radiant during that wedding song. It was perfect. I remember…

And it was during that song that she seemed to accept him as our father. Our father! The rebellious man of harsh drunkenness and stubborn judgment—the man we never understood—the man who was never there for us… Until that song, that is, that one wedding song, which seemingly brought them together for the first time ever.

I wondered if there was something in those twirls that helped her to understand why he left us when we were only kids? Did those twirls help her to understand why he was never there for us during those tough adolescent years? And why was he, at the age of fifty, now present, looking to dance with her on her one fine day? Was there a form of forgiveness in those twirls?

Well, if not, then why in the hell would she ever let him dance with her on her wedding day?

Ah! But it was the look on their faces as they embraced—a look the rest of the family waited years to see. It was a look indeed! A look that seemed to unleash all the years of built up resentment between them. It was a look that seemed to bring togetherness on a day reserved for release.

My daughter, Morgan, asked me why I was crying. I told her. She dropped her head onto my shoulder. She asked about who her grandfather was. I told her I was sorry she’d never get a chance to meet him. She asked if he was a nice man and I told her that he was on the day he danced with his daughter. She smiled as her toes brushed my kneecaps. I kissed the top of her head. She looked up to see the tears in my eyes. I didn’t try to hide them. She reached to wipe them away and I let her. She asked me why I was sad. I miss not having a father, I said. She looked puzzled. It doesn’t have to be that way with us, I said. She seemed to understand what I meant by that.

The Cellar Stairs (1998)

I’m sitting on the cellar stairs again because I can’t sleep

and I’m smoking one of two cigarettes I got.

I got five dollars and sixty-four cents in my pocket

and I’m thinking about spending it

on another pack of smokes.

I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight, it’s late

and the cigarette store will be open shortly.

Ya know, I’ve been thinking about life

and how quick things change—

people dying, lovers now crying, little kids

growing old before my eyes—

and I smoke another smoke because

the cellar stairs ain’t changing any.

Take your time in growing up, little boy

just take your time

because the cellar stairs will still be here

when you start spending your allowance on cigarettes.

Ya know, I got an uncle living on the shores of

New England

and he sits in a toll booth all day

taking money from people.

I got a mother in bed with the flu and

a crazy red-headed sister raising two kids on her own.

I got a father who’s dead now

and a grandmother who can’t remember names

all too well

and once knee-high cousins that are now

working Wall Street and doing Coast Guard stuff.

Ya know, the days are really weeks

when you think about it

and I’m walking through years like a little kid

running late for class.

I try to stuff all that I can into each day because

at the end of the year I’ll say

Wow, can’t believe I’m fifty!

And what the hell have I done with my life?

Well, I’ve smoked a hell of a lot of cigarettes

on the cellar stairs of tomorrow

as I contemplate yesterday and worry about today…

But time is like my family

always running forward and never sitting still.

Time is money, says my uncle

and I can hear my father through his voice

and I got five dollars and sixty-four cents in my pocket

and it’s almost time to get some smokes.

Ya know, my niece is almost two

and my nephew is nine

and he laughs at farts and bum jokes

and little sisters who fall down

and I look at him and say

Don’t ever start smoking.

Don’t ever sit in my spot on the cellar stairs

because I’ve spent enough time here

and look where it’s gotten me.

My mother’s still sick with the flu

and God bless my grandmother

and like a little kid I’m running late

to the cigarette store to buy myself

some more cellar stair time.

I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight, it’s late, and

please, little boy

take your time in growing up

just take your time

because the cellar stairs will still be here

long, long after I’m gone.

Palm Tree Christmas Lights

(2005)

She gave me a lava lamp for Christmas that year. It was the first year we were together, and we liked to smoke a lot of pot, so I guess the lava lamp was a good gift.

Yeah, that’s a good one, said Mary. My ex gave me a stereo for our first Christmas together. It was nice, a Sony, I think, with real big speakers, but he gave it to me because he liked it. It wasn’t what I wanted for Christmas; it was one of those gifts that he wanted, you know what I mean?

That was big of him, I said. What, you’re not a big fan of music?

No, I like music just fine, she said, it’s just that he’d come over and play his headbanging rock stuff all the time. He never asked me what I wanted to listen to, it was always about what he wanted.

Did you ever play music when he wasn’t around? I asked.

No, not really. She laughed.

Yeah, I never really looked at the lava lamp when she wasn’t around, I said, but I kept it on my desk so she’d see it when she came over. Ended up giving it to my nephew a few years later.

Oh, the joys of Christmas, she said, with a sigh and a smile. I’m gonna go inside. The meeting is about ready to start. You comin’ in?

I’ll be there after my smoke, I said.

The room was quiet that night, about fifteen people. There were no couples or people holding hands, only people who didn’t seem to have anyone to spend Christmas with. I took a seat next to Mary only because I had been talking to her outside. The chairperson, a scruffy middle-aged guy wearing a Santa cap, introduced himself as Ron. Everyone responded, Hello, Ron. When he asked if there were any announcements, a woman sitting by herself in the corner asked if the overhead lights could be turned off so the lights on the fake Christmas tree could fill the room. Nobody objected, so the woman turned them off.

This guy leading the meeting, I said to Mary, have you ever seen him before?

No, she said, but I think this is the only midnight meeting in town, so he’s probably from the other side of the ditch.

Yeah, probably, I said. Probably from San Marco or the Jabba Club.

After reading a passage from one of the books, the scruffy Ron Santa guy asked if there was a topic for discussion anyone was interested in. The room fell silent and everyone looked around to see if a hand would be raised. So, when did she leave? whispered Mary.

Who? I said.

Your wife, she said. I heard you sharing about her the other day at the noon meeting.

Oh, I said. Yeah, that’s right. I did share that. She left about six weeks ago.

A woman on the other side of the room raised her hand and said she’d like to talk about gratitude. Figures, I whispered to Mary. Gratitude is always popular this time of year.

Yeah, right, said Mary.

The woman talked about her son and how he was serving a five year prison sentence for supposedly molesting a young boy. She spoke of how troubled she’d been by it. The tears began to well-up in her voice, but she overcame her emotions by claiming her son’s innocence. Santa Ron was nodding his head as she talked. But he was convicted by the court, said the woman, and now he and I both have to deal with it. It’s been awfully hard, she said, because I didn’t raise my boy to be like that. There was a pause, as she wiped the moisture away from her eyes. "Anyhow, I love to bake cookies this time of year, so I baked four dozen snickerdoodles and drove them down to the prison today. Hell, I don’t know if I feel any better now that I did that… I didn’t even visit with my son… I just gave the cookies to one of the guards and left. And I felt so sick to my stomach on my way back home… I just couldn’t wait to get here tonight because I don’t feel any gratitude. And I know that I should, but I just don’t."

Mary shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. I took a long look at the Christmas tree lights and how they sparkled off the wall behind it. Must be hard for her, whispered Mary.

Yeah, I said. Better her than me though.

Mary shot a confused look my way.

All I know, I said, "is that that woman wouldn’t