Fiction Published in Schuylkill Valley Journal

 

One of my fiction stories, Love and Fury, has been published in Schuylkill Valley Journal. When I was twenty years old, and taking a college writing class, I wrote a poem reflecting on the death of my mother. While I don't remember the entire poem, I never forgot one of the early lines: my lips brushed her warm skin. That line has been with me for years, and provided the impetus for writing this story.

 

 

 

                                          Love and Fury

 

     With her sturdy boots tied tight, and warm layers for when the temperature dropped, Mary straddled her cherry red Honda 650 Shadow. She unscrewed the gas cap, wiggled the bike, and saw the fluid lapping just below the rim. Plenty of gas, she thought, so long as there were no detours. Mary turned the key and the engine came to life. She wished it was that easy for her. The engine purred, and a sense of relief seemed within reach. With her left hand, Mary grabbed the clutch. Her left foot pressed down on the gear lever, and she gave the engine some gas. The bike slowly rolled down the driveway and as Mary thought about what she was about to do, raw nerves pricked every inch of her skin.

 

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     It was Christmas Eve, the third since her mother died. Barely nineteen, and struggling to cope, Mary tried to comfort herself with holiday memories. Half the family Polish, half Italian, it was the only time of year when the smell of tomato, basil, and garlic commingled with beetroot and sauerkraut. Mary remembered how the steam from the pasta felt like a warm embrace. Now the kitchen was empty and cold. Back then, she sang Christmas carols while an album played on the turntable hidden inside the credenza. Shortly after her mother’s death, her father stuffed the albums in a thick, black trash bag and placed it at the end of the driveway. Mary knew he couldn’t help himself, his broken heart buried with the red rose he’d placed in her casket. Still, she watched as the garbage truck approached, and braced herself for a wave of deep regret. The garbage man slung the bag holding her mother’s memory in the back of the stinky receptacle. No longer any music in the house, there was only the sound of cartoons keeping the kids quiet. Mary was barely out of the driveway when she started to cry.

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     “I miss you mom,” Mary said, as if someone was listening.

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To finish reading, this journal is available for purchase from Amazon.