Walking with a Notebook

Posted on November 20, 2017 by Dave Oney

I woke early this morning, before the sun, before the dog, and finished my normal morning routine, including breakfast and newspaper. I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Rosie, our rescued Havanese mix, came slowly stretching, one end at a time, around the corner for her morning belly rub. Another creature of habit.
“Time for our walk,” she said.
“Yes, Rosalita. Let me unplug my phone and turn on POTUS and we can go.”
“Speaking of going, Dad, let’s get a move on.”
Now, I don’t know if she really calls me Dad but I don’t think her little brain is big enough to think “Father.” Of course, I am not really her father, or dad, either. She is obviously adopted.
Remembering our assignment for the writer’s group today, I set the phone back down and picked up the steno notepad I bought at the office store the day before. The steno pad is one of those with the wire binding on the top and two columns, which I ignore, stiff brown cardboard cover and light green paper. I like these notebooks because they fold all the way over flat, although I only write on one side of the paper.
Our plan was to go for a walk at dawn and not take the phone, just the notepad, and a pen of course. I like Pilot G-2 blue pens. They don’t smudge and write a bold script; too bad no one but me can read my script, and I have to decipher it within a couple of hours or it is lost forever.  I was to pay attention during our walk and write my thoughts and impressions as we went. It’s too bad the steno pad is too big to fit in a pocket and I will have to either carry it or stuff it into my belt.
“Daaaad…”
“Yes, Rosie,” I said, clipping her pink braided leash to her identical pink braided collar, opening the door and leaving the house.
We walked to the end of our street, sniffing each bush and peeing on every lawn (her, not me.) We continued down the sidewalk to the gate barring the way to the paved walking path that meanders through the community grounds behind our home. Following the steep path down the hill and across the little wooden bridge, we turned left and walked up the equally steep hill to the cement bridge with wrought iron railing. I remembered how beautiful this little glen was, especially during autumn leaf season; tree limbs umbrella the path which divides steep slopes strewn both up and down with multicolored leaves.
“Are there leaf peepers here, like there were in your home in Vermont?” she queried.
Without thinking I replied, “Probably, it’s very pretty here. Wait a minute! How did you know about leaf peepers? You’ve never been to Vermont.”
“Squirrel!” she squealed, changing the subject while jumping to the left, tightening the leash.
“You can’t catch a squirrel. They are too fast for you. Anyway, it’s at lease a hundred yards away. How did you ever see it?”
“I would be faster if I didn’t have to drag you behind me. C’mon Dad, let’s go down the hill to the little stream at the bottom. I bet I could catch him there.”
“No. You are more likely to scare up a deer, or rabbit, or worse, a skunk. Anyway, we need to work on our project, and the stream is wet, and you don’t like wet.”
I untucked the notebook from my belt and reached for the pen I had clipped inside my shirt collar, or rather was supposed to have clipped there.
“Rats! Notebook and no pen. How am I going to remember our walk and this gorgeous little glen?”
“No problem, Dad. Let’s go home and I will describe it to you as you type it into your laptop.”
We retraced our steps, back to our home. The next day, with the labels still on it, I returned the notebook to the office store. Who needs it with a dog with a little, uncomplicated brain and excellent vision?

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Summertime

Posted on November 20, 2017 by Dave Oney

First the lyrics, to refresh your memory:

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high
Your daddy’s rich, and your momma’s good lookin’
So hush little baby, don’t you cry

One of these mornings, you’re gonna rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky
But till that morning, there’s a nothin’ can harm you
With Daddy and Mammy, standing by

Remember, this is Alternative Fiction. I tried to incorporate all the ideas and images found in Gershwin’s song into a short narrative that fits the lyrics. A bit dark, but I am satisfied with the result.

Summertime

Her shirt was soaked-through transparent. It was one of her older brother JJ’s cast-off white wife beaters. She hated that name, maybe because it rang too true ‘cause she saw Mammy some mornings before she put on her face. Trickles of sweat dripped down her throat, between her breasts. The hot plastic truck seat stuck her shirt to its back and burned her butt. She’s gotta remember not to wear those torn-off blue jean short shorts, even if they do show her off. But it didn’t really matter.

She hated her jacked up 1976 Ford F150 truck. It was JJ’s before Daddy bought him a new ‘84 F250 Custom and gave this POS to her.  The closed windows didn’t work and the AC only blows warm. Damned JJ. Daddy could have bought her a new truck, if he wanted to. Or maybe a sports car, he could afford it. She knew he wouldn’t, but, again, it didn’t matter.

She drove through miles of cotton fields, bolls bursting from the branches, sometimes she sang sad songs out loud, more often she simply hummed quietly. Just past a solitary giant Southern Magnolia she turned left, off the highway onto the Lower River Road. The road sign was barely visible behind the overgrowth. It didn’t really matter. Some kids blasted it three or four years back while road plunkin’ with a shotgun and the county never got around to replacing it.  The River Road was wet and she slowed as she drove through red clay mud puddles and ruts in the road.  Reeds and cattails lined the road making the turn blind to town-bound traffic, but it didn’t matter. “Better be careful, having come this far,” she murmured out loud.

She used to come down here all the time, nearly every day, ‘til last May. Mason would drive her down, after his work, to fish in the slow pools, casting toward fish jumping, chasing flies. Her pole was still in the gun rack behind her head. She hadn’t been back all summer, until today. She and Mason. What a joke! One time, her first time, then, nothing. No driving, no fishing, no Mason. Then in July no period. Again, this month, nothing. She took a deep breath, her breasts pushing against her wet t-shirt and suppressed a sob. “There, there,” she said to herself. “No sense in crying over… anything. You got yourself into this and you will damned well get yourself out.”

She parked the F150 in the pull-out before the bridge, under a moss laden cypress, opened the door, and slid out of the truck leaving a slick of butt sweat on the seat. She caught her reflection in the large outside mirror, long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, sweat-stringy now. She had her Mammy’s looks, and body. She knew she looked good, but of all days, today it didn’t matter. She gently closed the truck door and started walking toward the bridge, humming softly.

The river ran fast here, over rapids-creating rocks. “I bet the spray from the rapids is cool,” she chuckled. She looked down as she walked. Pink flip-flops on her feet, mud between her white toes and bright red nails, the fine hairs on her legs glistened with sweat, even her arms seemed covered with soft down.

In the middle of the bridge she climbed onto the steel pipe railing. Her pink flip-flops were red-muddy. Her toes like talons as she gripped the middle rail. She lifted her arms, fingers spread like a hawk’s wingtip feathers. “Just another predator, like Mason.” She growled.

“From up here you can almost see Daddy and Mammy’s house back in town,” she thought. “I wonder if they are watching this way,” as she arched her back, bent her legs and thrust herself out, over the rail in a raptor’s dive.

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Einstein

Posted on November 20, 2017 by Dave Oney

The sun hovered just below the horizon, blankets of gray/white fog slept in the valleys below, nestled between small rolling hillocks, reaching up with slowly undulating arms to the tall maples and pines. Unable to see anything but the tops of the tallest trees, everything will depend on only feel and sound until the fog burned off. The grass underfoot was wet. Slippery. The flat shelf of ground cut deeply into the steep hillside overlooked what, in a few hours, would be a beautiful landscape.
Tauntingly, “Go ahead, Einstein. Hit me. I️ dare you.”
Wham!
Snidely, but a little flustered, “Is that all you got? What a wimp. “
Angrily, “Shut up. “
“Next time, swing like you mean it. “
Pop.
Sarcastically, “Ha, ha, ha, ha. You almost missed.”
More angrily, “I️ said shut up.”
Sneering, “Yeah, but you did almost miss, and besides, it didn’t hurt a bit. “
Defiantly, “I️ said, be quiet. I️ am not listening to you anymore. “
Swing. Bam!
“Oooooh, nice hit. Wow I️ can really see a long way from up here. “
Fingers in ears, mumbling “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey, hey, good bye.”
“Oof! I tell you what. That was a pretty hard landing. Next time let’s try for that smooth grass over there, or maybe the nice soft sand, but only if it hasn’t been raining. Wet sand is like cement.”
Whispering, “Quiet. Don’t say a word.”
Tap.
Roll, roll, roll.
Shouting, “Watch out! Hard right turn ahead! Wheee! That was fun, I️ am so dizzy now, I️ may puke.”
Grumbling, “You can’t puke. Shut up!”
Tap.
Roll, roll, roll.
“Watch out. I’m gonna hurl.”
Ignoring him.
Tap.
Roll, roll, plunk!
Silence.

Wham!
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! You can’t hit the broad side of a barn. How about a nice slice of pie to go with that? Get it? Slice?”
Screaming, “Shaddup! You are not funny”
“Hey Einstein. Take it easy, ok? Relax, slight bend in your knees. Keep your left arm straight, lower body still and head down. What is so tough about that?”
Thunk!
“Again? Better sand that hole you just dug. Is that really the best you can do? Keep your head down, I tell you. Blank your mind. Empty your brain of all thoughts, but somehow, I️ don’t think that’s really your problem. I don’t see much going on up there anyway.”
“Will you please shut up? You are not helping at all. “
Innocently, “Sure I️ am. I told you about keeping your head down didn’t I? Is it my fault you didn’t listen? Hey! Maybe you did empty your brain. Heh, heh, heh. Hey! You know what? I think you are missing something here. When you tee off, you try to kill me. Maybe you don’t realize that I am already dead. You can’t kill me!!”
Maniacal laughter.
Ping!
“Now this is more like it. Nice smooth swing. You hit me nice and square. I️ love the feel of the sweet spot on my butt. “
“Oof! Right on the green. Wow! Putting for a birdie. We don’t see many of those, do we, Einstein?”
Tap. Roll, roll, roll.
Oops.
Tap. Roll, roll, roll,
“#$@&%#*”
Tap. Roll. Plunk.
Snarling, “What? No snarky comment? I️ was trying for a birdie and ended up with a bogie. And why do keep calling me Einstein?”
“I call your Einstein because you do exactly what Einstein says; You make the same mistakes over and over again and expect a different result each time. I just thought it was nicer to call you Einstein than Insane.”
Ping!
“Enjoy your trip into the swamp you miserable little know-it-all. Good riddance!”

The sun crested the horizon. It was already bright and sunny. Far above, thin white cirrus clouds crowned the light blue skies. Giant maple trees to the left, a stand of pine trees behind, and two deep bunkers flanked the smooth brilliant green. The tall pine tree is the target. Hitting that line gives easy access to the green and avoids the traps.
Tauntingly, “Go ahead, Einstein. Hit me. I️ dare you.”
Wham!
Snidely, but a little rattled, “Is that all you got? What a wimp. “

Posted in fiction, Humor, short story | 1 Comment

Passages To Ruth

Posted on October 30, 2017 by Dave Oney

Please purchase your copy of “Passages to Ruth,” my short story

collection, from Amazon or Kindle.

Long, long ago, in a world lost in the misty past, I wondered about everything. Why is the sky blue?  Why didn’t people on the other side of the earth fall off the earth and up into space?  What if some of the stories we read, or were read to us, didn’t happen exactly the way they were presented?

As George Gershwin so aptly penned:

The t’ings dat yo’ li’ble

To read in de Bible,

It ain’t necessarily so.

Herein are biblical matriarchs and patriarchs without their baggage, (think carry-on only.)  Meet other ancestors who, overlooked as minor characters, waiting patiently in the wings for their day on the stage.

  • Isaac—1704 HD (HebrewDate)
    • God commanded Jacob to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah to prove his devotion and obedience. At the last moment an angel of God stayed his hand, or so the popular story goes.
  • Rebekkah—1735 HD
    • In the Tanakh we meet Rebekkah when Abraham’s servant is sent to find a wife for Isaac. Who was this young woman and what part did she play in her own destiny?
  • Esau—2171 HD
    • Not favored by Rebekkah his mother, was Esau’s birthright really stolen by his brother Jacob and was his mother complicit in the theft?
  • Nahshon—2315 HD
    • Moses parted the Red Sea to save his people from the attacking Egyptians. At least that is what he wants you to believe.
  • Caleb—2315 HD
    • The Israeli spies returned from Canaan with reports of a “land of milk and honey,” but what really happened to convince Joshua to report this truly was the promised land?
  • Ruth—2621 HD
    • Ruth was the loving daughter in law, devoted follower of Naomi’s god, stranger in a strange land, or was there another less sincere reason for her adoration?
Posted in Alternative Fiction, bible story, Biblical Fiction, fiction, short story | Leave a comment

Flash Fiction

Posted on October 30, 2017 by Dave Oney

The Last Run

It was almost 4 o’clock and the sun was low in the west. The mountain blocked most of the last run featured imagethe direct sun and caused the flat, shadowless light, the bane of downhill skiers. I knew it would be like that this late in the day. I also knew most accidents happen then, when you are tired, and the flat gray light hid most of the moguls. It was almost like skiing by touch, the subtle changes in pressure on your skis indicated the up and down of the mounds and troughs. If you take it easy, it’s not so bad.

I made one critical mistake. When I skied off the chair lift, I forgot to tell myself I would take one more run that day. Most accidents happen on the last run, not the next to last. Usually, I lie to myself, saying the current run is the next to last, then at the bottom of the mountain, change my mind and decide not to go up again, thereby avoiding that dangerous last run. Read More ->

The Cell Phone

Preface: I saw a young (to me anyway) woman sitting at one of those cell phone charging counters in the airport this morning. Dressed pretty much as described here, she was Cell Phonealone, but apparently waiting for someone. She was charging an iPhone X, I think. Thus ends reality.

It sat there, on the counter, silent, waiting for the exact time, and it new the time, exactly.
The woman picked it up, checked the time and set it back face down on the counter. She wore a bamboo colored blouse and contrasting pleated skirt. A tartan Kerry jacket mocked the plainness of the blouse and skirt. Her short blond hair was cut in a Mary Poppins bob and a scarf of one of the tartan colors circled her neck while sensible heels of a second tartan color adorned her feet. Read More ->

The Corn Field

The corn was tall, even for this late in the season. It must be eight or nine feet, well Painted in Waterlogueabove my head. It was that light, dead, dried brown and would normally have been harvested a month ago, but for some reason, was left standing, cut in a precise straight line along the field.

I stepped between rows of corn, like a ghost, making no noise, rustling no stalks. Beyond the rows ahead, I could see the lush green field of short cropped grass and farm house up on the hill beyond. Feeling, awkward, unsure of my steps and movements, I stopped just short of the edge, remaining hidden in the corn. It was quiet. As often said in the thrillers I used to read, it was too quiet. There should be more farm bustle now, at the end of the season. I wondered where the farmers were. I wondered why they left this corn standing, yet grateful for the refuge. Read More ->

Havana Rose

“It’s 100 degrees out Rose. Do you really want to go for a walk?”img_4968
“It’s NOT a choice, Dad. I gotta go outside,” Rosie said with a strong sense of urgency. “Anyway, it’s a dry heat. Not like back home.”
I snuck a quick look out of the side of my eye at her, like a husband in a Hooters, and said, “It’s humid in San Jose, Rosie? California, that is.”
As I open the drawer on the end of the drop leaf table in the front hallway and remove her bright pink leash, Rosie started running around my legs, dancing and prancing.
“Let’s get a move on Dad. I really gotta go!” Read More ->

Wisdom

The few wispy clouds reflect pale orange as the sun lay just below horizon. The sky over the city was gray and the buildings, still black silhouettes, were scattered with yellow lantern-brightened windows.
Fine silks drape him from the waist down as he lay on his side gazing out the door leading to his bedroom terrace. A wife, snoring softly, lay next him, naked, having no doubt kicked the covering off during the typically warm night.  Read More ->

The Pleasure Machine

She is a small, dark complexioned woman, not five feet tall, but of course, she is sitting now, one hand resting next to the button on the pleasure panel in front of her and the other holding both a now cold coffee between her forefinger and thumb and a dead cigarette dangling between her ring and little fingers. After one drag some of the ash fell into the coffee, but she is oblivious. Read More ->

Rosie, You Turkey

We left for our morning walk at 5:45 AM as usual, and, as usual, walked Photo Aug 06, 6 29 25 AMup the driveway before turning left up Scenic Drive toward Newsome Heights. The hedges lost their beautiful spring red flowers, or leaves, I could never be sure which they were. We turned right, past the yellow fire hydrant. Rosie has no interest in the fire hydrant. Maybe because she squats to pee and doesn’t lift her leg, or maybe because none of her friends frequent it either. We passed John’s house on the right then Harry and Kathrine’s house on the corner, next to the second yellow fire hydrant. Then we saw them, or rather they saw us. There were a lot of them this morning, not the three or four we often see. Read More ->

Rosie’s Secret Garden

“Garden, Rose. Garden!”Apricots Watercolor 3

She looked up from her designated spot on the sofa, cuddled up against Mom, then put her head back down on her front paws, oops I meant feet, not paws. She had corrected me about that often enough. I didn’t want to re-litigate that discussion.

“Hey! Let’s go to the garden, Rosie. Come on. Get up!”

Rosie lifted her head again, glanced in my direction, then back at Mom. Slowly she stood up, stretched her front end, legs out straight and low and butt high in the air before she leaned forward and stretched her hind end until her legs started to shake. Read More ->

Rosie We Are Home

Fran texted Jen when we were in Loomis to let her know we were five minutes away. We turned right, just past the Snoopy mailbox and drove up the dirt driveway continuing the big right turn, up and around the corner, through the open sliding gate. Rosie was leashed with her bright pink leash to the “waiting for pick up spot” as we entered the parking area. When she saw me open my door and start to climb out of the car she jumped up, spun 180 degrees and promptly slipped out of her collar. That was a cute trick she picked up when we first adopted her. I can never tighten her collar so that it isn’t too tight, but such that she cannot slip out of it. Excited, she ran over to me jumping up and down and spinning in circles. Read More ->

Nosy Rosie

Following our normal morning pee and poop routine I walked Rosie around 5:45 am last nosy rosieTuesday. As usual, she was a good girl, marking all her normal lawns and pooping on her favorite. Rosie likes to strafe poop, spreading the wealth across the lawn and ending up on the sidewalk. During daylight hours this makes dooty duty easy as you can just follow the path back to the first bomb. When its dark and you are using a flashlight, not so much. Even though her business was complete before we were half way around the block we decided it would be a grand adventure to continue on, rather than retrace our steps (and smells.) Read More ->

Rosie at the Lazy Dog

The steps leading to the entrance of the Lazy Dog Restaurant and Bar were sandstone tan

LazyDogand edged with dark brown, no doubt painted to help patrons better see each step and not trip. Too bad the architect thought adding one extra dark brown line on the tan sidewalk spaced one step width from the first real step would be attractive. All it really did was to create a fake step which caused me to trip before I reached the real step. Rosie thought that was amusing. Read More ->

Rosie and the Bitch

Just before dawn, the sun still hidden behind the trees, hills and homes to the east, and the sky paling to light blue, orange and white. The crescent moon and one star, actually it was probably the planet Venus, were barely visible in the western sky. We turned right a couple of minutes earlier and were now approaching the next right turn. Rosie pranced along the sidewalk while I followed keeping up with long strides. I am shorter that I was a couple of decades before but luckily still have long legs. She likes to keep the leash taught to be sure I am still there. I always try to keep the leash slack so she will look back and up at me every few steps, just to be sure. She is so damn cute. Read More ->

Run Rosie Run

“Dad! DAD! Can we go outside now? Please!”
“OK, Rosie. Let me get my raincoat.”
“Oh no! Is the sky crying again, Dad?”
“Not yet, but it looks like it will be soon. This is a perfect time to go for your walk.”
I put on my raincoat and clicked Rosie’s bright pink leash to her bright pink collar.

As usual, she spins around in several circles, tail wagging and a big smile on her face. I open the door and step out of the way as she prances out the front door, first again, as usual. We are nothing if not two creatures of habit, and Rosalita always goes out first.

Just outside, she stops.
“Dad, the grass is peeing up.” Read More ->

A Lucky Dog

“Dad!”
“Dad!”
“Don’t leave me here, Dad! I’ll be good! Please!!”

“We’ll be back next week, Rosie,” I said, rubbing her head one last time. “Have fun with the other dogs.”

Fran and I were dropping Rosie off at her boarding home while we vacationed in Southern California. Read More ->

Einstein

The sun hovered just below the horizon, blankets of gray/white fog slept in the valleys below, nestled between small rolling hillocks, reaching up with slowly undulating arms to the tall maples and pines. Unable to see anything but the tops of the tallest trees, everything will depend on only feel and sound until the fog burned off. The grass underfoot was wet. Slippery. The flat shelf of ground cut deeply into the steep hillside overlooked what, in a few hours, would be a beautiful landscape.

Tauntingly, “Go ahead, Einstein. Hit me. I️ dare you.”
Wham!
Snidely, but a little flustered, “Is that all you got? What a wimp. “
Angrily, “Shut up. “
“Next time, swing like you mean it. “
Pop.
Sarcastically, “Ha, ha, ha, ha. You almost missed.”
More angrily, “I️ said shut up.”
Sneering, “Yeah, but you did almost miss, and besides, it didn’t hurt a bit. “
Defiantly, “I️ said, be quiet. I️ am not listening to you anymore. “

Swing. Bam!   Read More ->

Walking with a Notebook

I woke early this morning, before the sun, before the dog, and finished my normal morning routine, including breakfast and newspaper. I am nothing if Walking with a Notebook Watercolornot a creature of habit. Rosie, our rescued Havanese mix, came slowly stretching, one end at a time, around the corner for her morning belly rub. Another creature of habit.

“Time for our walk,” she said.
“Yes, Rosalita. Let me unplug my phone and turn on POTUS and we can go.”
“Speaking of going, Dad, let’s get a move on.”  Read More ->

What A Good Poopy Dog

I just finished adding the bread ingredients to my larger mixer. (Fran bought me a 7-quart KitchenAid mixer last summer as my little one was tired from heavy use.) Before I could attach the dough-hook and start the initial mixing, I heard,
“Daaaaaad! Gotta go!!”
“Just a minute Rosie. Let me start mixing this then we can go.”
“No Dad. I don’t mean I have to go soon, I mean I have to go now. Like, right now!”
Sigh. “Fine. Let me get my coat with the hood and your leash and a poop bag. Then we can go.” Read More ->

Warm Fire

It’s warm in front of the fire. The rug is soft, so soft. I am glad they bought that thicker rug pad. In a few minutes the blower will come on, then… pure heaven! You know, I could pull my bed over right in the hot air stream, but that may be too much comfort and definitely too much bother. I would probably doze off and not be able to just lay here and enjoy myself, watching them.

The big talking electric window is turned off and Dad is sleeping in his chair. Mom is using her little electric window, reading. It’s quiet. Perfect.  Read More ->

Posted in fiction, Flash Fiction, Lyric Alternative Backstory, short story | Leave a comment

Caleb

Posted on September 21, 2017 by Dave Oney

Quietly he rounded the large sand colored boulder. He heard Joshua on the opposite side, trying, unsuccessfully, to be quiet. It was almost mid-day and the sun was high overhead. The two of them were about to ambush a band of the enemy, two alone against at least two hands of them. But this was not their first time. They knew their roles, what do to and how and when to act. But first they needed to be close, much closer, so they must be quiet, much quieter than Joshua was being worried Caleb about his friend, as they waded through the dry, waist high shrubs that blanketed. Position and surprise were their advantage.  With a hint of annoyance, Caleb unsnarled a small, leafless, light brown branch which grabbed his short white simla and refused to let go. It looked dead, yet it bent like a new limb and gripped him with an infant’s fingers, refusing to let go.

Having freed himself from the ensnaring branch, Caleb leaned against the boulder, feeling its warmth through his clothes.  For a moment, he rested his head against the hard warmth of the stone and closed his eyes, enjoying the peace. Then, leaning forward ever so slightly, around the boulder, he could see them, halfway down the hill, with their shadows cascading further below and away, perfect. From where he judged Joshua to be positioned, he knew he would see them too, if, this time, he was paying attention.

Posted in bible story, Biblical Fiction, fiction, short story | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Isaac

Posted on September 21, 2017 by Dave Oney

As consciousness slowly nudged him awake he felt the sun high overhead nibbling his neck and warming his back. He was naked. He lay face down unmoving for a moment, trying to remember where he was. He tried to clear his head, but the haze wouldn’t lift. He felt the sand under his body. He smelled the soft breeze and felt it blow his hair. Slowly he forced himself to roll over, then to sit up and stretch. It felt good to move.  He bent his legs and encircled them with his arms, gripped his left wrist with his right hand and pulled his legs up tight against his chest. To his sides and by his feet lie small lengths of cloth. He rolled to his left, pushing himself up to his knees first with his right hand then with both.  He rocked himself back onto the balls of his feet. As he rose from the sand he brushed it from the thick dark hair on his chest and thighs.

He turned and saw large boulders surrounding and protecting the clearing in which he awoke. The sun was warm, not hot. It was pleasant on his skin.  Low scrub brush bearded the white, sun bleached boulders. It was quiet, totally quiet. He stretched, arms extended towards the sun. He didn’t mind being outside naked, alone. He was warm and comfortable, at ease with himself, confident and at peace, a man used to being alone. That someone may stumble upon his shelter did not concern him, as it did not appear this was a frequently traveled area.

His robe was neatly folded and placed on a flat smooth rock nearby. Reaching for his robe, he stopped, looking around more closely. He noticed the remnants of a fire to his right. Ashes and unburned wood remained in a small charred pile near the center of the clearing.  Gently lifting his robe from the rock, he shook it to remove any sand caught in the weave. There was a knife hidden under the robe. Slowly he picked it up and looked at it closely. He knew this knife. It was his father’s…  his father’s sacrificial knife. Looking back at the remnants of the fire he realized it was not just a fire, but was a sacrificial fire. The pile was actually charred remains, and bones. He did not remember helping his father with a sacrifice; he must have fallen asleep before they began.

Posted in bible story, Biblical Fiction, fiction, short story | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Esau

Posted on September 21, 2017 by Dave Oney

He heard them just ahead. His could envision the clearing waiting for him over the next rise. He remembered every tree, shrub and rock. Eyes closed, he imagined they would be standing, spread slightly apart, on guard. He imagined he smelled them too, but he knew he wasn’t that good. He was good, but not that good.  He did smell the breeze in his face. Luckily, he was approaching from downwind; otherwise he would have circled far around. He gladly sacrificed the sun at his back for the wind in his face.  He knew they were good enough to smell him.  He closed his eyes and pictured them at the bottom of the rise. He thought there were three, but could not be sure, certainly two, but he thought three. Three was enough for him.

It was a little easier for him this time. Back before the drought ended, the leaves would rustle, crunch and crackle under his feet, the noise magnifying his every movement.  Now he moved silently, quieter even than the wind.  The forest was old, canopied far above him, unwitting protection from the relentless sun. The tree’s children grew up around him, some looking down on him with the haughty disdain gained from the confidence trees develop knowing they will be enjoying the warm sun long after the fleeting lives of the nomadic life beneath them has returned to the earth. Mostly they looked him eye to eye, or tried to grab his legs as he passed by. But he was good, very good and moved past them without a sound. The wind danced with them more than with he.

His eyes never stopped, he constantly looked around him, but focused his attention ahead, towards them.  He moved silently through the low brush. It barely moved as he passed. The larger trees watched, occasionally groaning a warning to those ahead, but they never heeded it. They knew it was just the wind in the tall branches gently rocking the trees.

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Rebekkah

Posted on September 21, 2017 by Dave Oney

She woke to the gray dawn as the others began stirring. She lay there, forcing her breathing to remain shallow and slow, eyes gently closed.  Still sightless, her mind saw the colorless dull dry desert outside her tent in early morning light. Mother was up and moving about beginning to prepare the morning meal which would doubtless be the same meal as yesterday, which was the same as the day before, and the day before for nearly as long as she could remember.  The morning break fast held little mystery beyond the food that sustained them. The drought saw to that. She supposed she was grateful there was at least adequate supply for all of them.

The sleeping mat felt warm and smelled of sweet yellow hill flowers, thanks to the airing her mother insists on giving it every day, unlike the heavy coarse blanket that she pulled to just under her nose.  It always reminded her of the scrub brush, the eshel, which encircled the camp. It too was coarse, gray-brown and scratched when you walked through it.  She wondered, why clean the mat every day if the blanket were only aired after the Sabbath?

Her summer nightdress was twisted and caught up high between her thighs as though she were wrestling during the night. Her long deep brown hair was likewise tangled around her head in its typical morning knot that would require half the day to unsnarl. She knew she should remember to tie it back before she fell asleep, but…

 

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Ruth

Posted on September 21, 2017 by Dave Oney

“I really don’t want to go,” she said to herself for the third time this morning. “I know I must go, but I dread what lies ahead.” As she left the encampment and started across the hills towards her family’s lands she felt the dread building.

Yet, she didn’t want to stay either. With her husband dead, she had no protection, no income and certainly no security. Her mother-in-law was of little use to her. She told her to go, convinced her that her future lay behind her, not ahead. Why did she tell me to return to my mother’s house? She knows my mother is long dead. Was she just being stupid or did she simply mis-speak or was there some deeper, crueler, more hurtful meaning?

And her sister-in-law was completely useless. Even with that all understood, she still didn’t want to go. As she started down a small hill she did not look back as the camp disappeared behind her. Her sandaled feet picked their way along the seldom used rocky path. Dry, dead, scrub brush as far as she could see ahead. And the heat! Why didn’t she start this trip earlier in the morning, before the sun rose to bake her as it had the desert around her? There wasn’t so much as a haze in the clear blue sky. No shadows within which to rest, just the shimmering heat rising from the sand looking like cool blue water in the distance dissolving the monotonous tan of the desert. She looked up and saw the path winding down to the dry stream bed, not looking at where she walked. She felt the beginning of a thirst, on her lips first, then the back of her throat. She quickly dismissed it. It was too early in her journey to start thinking and worrying about water.

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