Whispering Down the Well

O’s Own Writers offers nine excerpts from “Whispering down the Well”, a taste of each contributor’s writing for readers to enjoy. from Sally Swedberg's "Deadly Spitfire" : . . . the boys were enjoying playing Frisbee in our spacious backyard with a background of jungle. Paul was relaxing with a book on our large screened-in porch overlooking the yard. I thought to myself, how good it is to have the boys home, having fun together, and being able to go to church as a family. Suddenly, from outside, Eric's panic-stricken voice broke through my reverie, shattering the tranquility of the afternoon. "Help me! Somebody help me! It's a cobra!" from Maureen Olson's "Excitement at the Ranch" : A gust of cold air blew in every time he opened the door but in no time at all he had a roaring fire going. We were enjoying the warmth and were almost ready to take off our coats when Mom arrived home, rushed in the front door and shouted, "Leave the door open!" Surprised, I did. Mom ran to the fireplace, grabbed the unlit end of a piece of burning wood in her bare had, hustled across the room and through the open door, then chucked the flaming log our in the snow. from Everett Marwood's "Nana's Beans" : Even a young child like myself could recognize that the home was in an unfortunate state of disrepair, with sagging troughs and curled shingles. The window frames, the few that you could see from the roadway, were bordered with peeling paint. The crumbling concrete walkway led to disintegrating steps and a weathered doorway. "I'm telling you boys. I want you to be very quiet. You are here to be seen, not hear," mother warned. "Nana's old and she likes it quiet." This was mother's final admonishment before we entered Nana's home. from Allene Halliday's "Miss Eames" : Making an unpleasant situation worse, Miss Eames was not my favorite teacher. She wasn't fun and imaginative like Mr. Kramer, my algebra instructor. Nor was she petite and dramatic like Miss Farnham, who taught French and English. Instead, Miss Eames was rigid and severe. Her hair was steely gray, wiry and tightly curled close to her head. Her two front teeth protruded and there was a pronounced gap between them. She wore unbecoming dresses in insipid blue, gray or green shades. . . Every dress accentuated her thin, straight figure and big bones. In addition, she towered over everyone in the class. from Sheila Blimke's "$48.50" : On the evening of the Social, just as my box was held high for the bidding to begin, the schoolhouse door burst open and in lunged a huge, swarthy, more than slightly inebriated stranger. Apparently, he had been on his way home from the local pub, when he noticed the array of vehicles parked at the schoolhouse and decided to join the party. When the auctioneer signaled the bidding on my box to begin the fellow bellowed out, "Five Bucks!" All eyes turned to the stranger since his bid was so unexpected. Usually the bidding started at one dollar and slowly inched upward, almost never surpassing five dollars. from Jody Chadderton’s “The Night I Met Jimmy Buffett”: “Meanwhile, the Coral Reefers are in one corner playing a familiar Calypso rhythm. Jimmy nods at the waiter who brings over a couple shots of tequila with lime. Jimmy has to search the other tables for our missing salt shaker, and we both laugh so hard my eyes start watering again. He wipes my tears away with his thumb and the gesture is so tender I can’t stop. That’s when he lifts me from my chair and gives me a warm hug and then his lips brush my eyelids and with my eyes closed I feel for a moment like we’re the only ones in the bar.” from Sue Whittaker's "Skating Home for Christmas" : While she ate, leaning up against an ancient fallen tree at the edge of the river, she worked at dislodging the heavy border of ice and snow that rimmed the hem of her long woolen skirt. As much as she hoped it gave her outfit a snow princess cachet, the weight of the ice was considerable. She knew the last half of her trip would be the most difficult as she grew tired and her skates lost the edge that her landlady’s oldest son had put on them the night before. Off she started again, thankful for the lighter skirt but wishing she had something to shield her eyes from the now bright sun and the blinding reflection from the surrounding banks of snow. . . from Maureen Kresfelder's "Losing My Self" : The truth is I don’t want to write about it. But I must. I promised my daughter I would keep a journal of my thoughts and feelings about this insidious disease. She will publish it after – after I’m dead? Or after I’m totally demented? She will pass it on to other Alzheimer families. To help them, she says. It hurts me to know that I may have passed my defective genes on to her. I have Familial Alzheimer’s. She must already be worrying and wondering if she will inherit this disease -- she has a 50/50 chance. from Anita Trapler’s “The Sheep Shearing”: During the back-to-the-land movement and those days of self-actualization, my husband and I, who wore city skins through and through, tried on the country life for size. We hadn’t been in the business of raising sheep for long, having purchased two pregnant Suffolk ewes in late fall. Then we added a speckle-faced Suffolk-Cheviot cross, a Cheviot, and a black-faced, rangy ewe to which no one could attach a lineage. We were attracted to this old sheep because she lacked grace and proportion. She was ugly. But, she was the mother of a scrubby, irresistible charcoal ram lamb.