Thursday, October 26, 2017

Scardy Cat

I love to visit Aunt Edna. She is my grandmother's sister.
   I've heard Mother's friends whisper, "Poor Edna, she didn't have the looks to catch a man." I was under the table playing with my cars. I don't care, she is one cool pal.
   She didn't scream when I brought Toad in the house and he got loose. She helped me find him before Grand, her orange marmalade cat, made a meal of him. Aunt Edna bought a special house for Toad at the pottery. We put him in her garden so Toad could eat the bad bugs.
   Nights she lets me stay up late and watch scary movies on TV. She laughs at the freaky parts while telling me it's make believe.
   Aunt Edna knows about make believe stories. She makes up stories to put in books.
   Her house is old with thick walls made of stone. There is a window of colored glass by the stairs where the sun shines through in different colors. It's fun to move my hand and make it green like a snake, blue like a specter in a fog, yellow like a slimy serpent, or red like blood on a pirate's blade.
   A padded bench sits under the window where I stretch out and look at a picture book with Grand curled beside me.
   I'm not afraid when I see the ghost. Who can be scared by a ghost that sits on the top step sobbing like a sniveling sissy?
   I know it's a ghost because I can see through his grey self to the banister.
   Grand isn't having any part of the silly thing. He swells up like a balloon having a hissy-fit. I'm not sure what a hissy-fit is, but that is what Aunt Edna said the woman across the road was having one when she found my garter snake in her mailbox.
   She was hollering and jumping up and down while Aunt Edna got it out. Now she opens her mailbox with a broom handle.
   I try petting Grand to calm him down. He shoots across the landing, through the ghost and down the stairs without touching the steps.
   The ghost turns his head. Gives a hiccup without covering his mouth and squeaks, "That tickled."
   "Why are you blubbering? It's enough to wake the dead."
   Mother yells that when I slam the backdoor. Sounds good on my tongue, 'wake the dead.'
   "Don't want to be dead. Don't like being a ghost. No one will play with me."
   "But a ghost can't be seen or get in trouble. They don't have to take time-outs. You scare people."
   "How can a ghost scare people?"
   "Sneak up behind them and yell boo."
   "Boo. What does that do?"
   "Boo is ghost talk. Say it, Boo!"
   "Boo. Did that scare you?"
   "No, that lily-hammered little boo wouldn't scare an old shoe."
   "Why scare a shoe?"
   I'm about to explain I made it up when a horrendous crack of thunder tattles the window.
   Dumb ghost jumps up. Puts his hand over his ears. Races down the hall plunging through my door.
   As I open it the silly fool dives under my bed. All I can see are his bare feet sticking out like Grand's tail does when he hides under the sofa.
   I'm not supposed to call a ghost a fool, but that's how he's acting. Besides, I heard my dad say it about a neighbor so it can't be bad. Not like other words I can't say.
   I like big people words, like 'horrendous,' which means great big. It makes my mouth pucker.
   Aunt Edna went to the store. I've got to get this ghost out from under my bed. If I tell her about him she'll think I'm telling a horrendous whopper.
  How do I get rid of a ghost? If I grab his feet to drag him my hands will ball up into fists cause he's a fog.
   I crawl in beside him. The idgit is howling like a dog with a thorn in his paw. The floor under the bed is dusty. I start sneezing.
   "Why are you hiding? It's a thunder storm."
   "I'm scared," knucklehead blubbers.
   "Of what? Storms can't hurt you."
   "Yes, they can. That's how I got killed. I was playing in a tree." A loud hiccup stops his story.
   My nose answers him with a sneeze.
  "Go on. You were playing in a tree and . . . ."
   "Lightening came down from the sky. Last I heard was a crack of thunder."
   "You can't stay under my bed. You must hide."
   "Where?'
   "Don't know." I sneezed again. "I'll think of something."

   I scrunch out and run down to hall to get the vacuum cleaner. I drag it into my room. I know how to get rid of the scardy cat ghost who can't do anything, but hide and cry.
   I plug the cord in the wall. The motors roars. The ghost come flying out, Scuttles into a corner.
  I lift the quilt and stick the hose under the bed, running it up and down as I've seen Aunt Edna do. When I finish I step on the little button to shut it off.
   I turn to the ghost. He's sniffing. Wiping his nose on his sleeve.
   "What's that?"
   "It's a vacuum cleaner. I'm going to suck you up in the bag and throw you away."
   I walk toward him waving the tube like a magic wand. Don't want a ghost who is a scardy cat.
   "No. No."
   "Fly out the window. My aunt doesn't want ghosts who cry and can't say boo in her house."
   "I'm scared."
   "Can't be scared. You're a ghost."

   I stomp the button. He runs to the window and jumps. I put the vacuum cleaner back in the closet and slide down the banister.
   Aunt Edna is in the kitchen.
   "I heard the vacuum. What were you doing?"
   "Getting dust bunnies out from under my bed."


From our forth coming collection of ghost stories for all ages, Cauldron Tales. Nash Black
   

   

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

The Pumpkin People

   
Many years ago, there was a village where people farmed the land and hunted deer and quail. Their lives were happy and peaceful except for one thing. Once a year, at harvest, they found themselves at the mercy of a giant race of beings. These beings had eyes that glowed like jock-o'-lanterns and skin so orange that the villagers called them Pumpkin People.


   The Pumpkin People lived deep in the earth, but at harvest time they raided the village for furs and food. When they knock on the villagers' doors, they expected these things to be waiting. If they weren't, the Pumpkin People would leave and return again at midnight to punish those who refused to give them what they wanted.
   "Give us something you have planted," they warned, "or we'll take something of yours to plant!"
   One year, a drought struck the land, and the crops failed. The villagers were barely able to harvest enough food for their own families.  When the time came for the Pumpkin People to visit, the villagers had nothing left to offer. Knowing the consequences of leaving nothing, they put out what little they had.
   Only one man refused to share. Peter Vingle put out nothing. He had lost his wife when his daughter was born, and he treasured the child more than anything. She was perfect, except for a tiny birthmark - the outline of a star on her cheek. Peter thought that was beautiful, too, so he named the little girl Starlina. He was determined to have enough food to feed her through the winter.
   "Let the Pumpkin People grow their own food," he said.
   The people begged him not to anger the Pumpkin People, but he heeded no warnings. He looked at the food and furs the villagers had sacrificed and shook his head.
   "After tonight, they will know how foolish they've been," he told himself.
   The night they all dreaded came, and after dark, Peter heard the knocking. He did not answer. He fed Starlina her supper and tucked her in bed. Then he ate and went to bed himself. He heard the knocking again at midnight, but he did not get up. He buried his head between his pillows and slept on. He didn't hear his daughter's little feet patter softly to the door to answer the knock. It wasn't until morning came and he went to wake Starlina that he discovered she was gone.
   He frantically sounded the alarm, and all the villagers joined in the search. They shook their heads sadly, and Peter flew into a rage when they suggested that the Pumpkin People had taken her.
  "That's foolishness!" he yelled. "She has wandered off. We will find her!"
   When the day ended, however, there was still no sign of Starlina. They called off the search, and Peter Vingle walked home with his head bowed in grief.
  As he started to open the door, he noticed a single pumpkin seed on the ground. Anger boiled through him, and he stomped the seed into the earth.
   Winter came, and Peter Vingle's hair turned white to match the snow. He went into the village only when he had to. The villagers tried to engage him in conversation, but he barely replied in response.
   Finally, it was spring - the time of rebirth. Everything was blooming and growing. It was going to be a good year for crops.
   One day, Peter stepped outside and looked around. He noticed for the first time that a pumpkin vine was growing by the door. He looked closer and saw that it had one small pumpkin on it. He stared at in disbelief and fell to his knees. Eyes glowed from the pumpkin like jack-o'-lanterns, but he knew the features of the pumpkin face so well! The star outline was perfect on the cheek.
   The air grew cold, and a voice echoed from deep within the earth: "Give us something you have planted, or we will take something of yours to plant!"
   The pumpkin vine flew into the air and wrapped itself around Peter Vingle's neck. All went black as he fell across the glowing eyes of the pumpkin.

        From the book, The Walking Trees by Roberta Simpson Brown. Republished for Ono Almanac by Nash Black, with permission from August House Publishing. To enjoy more stories from the book click on the title.


Footnote: We've love Roberta Simpson Brown's multiple award winning stories. For many years she has visited schools, libraries and other arenas across Kentucky telling stories. Her fans are legion and she plays to packed houses that enjoy a chilling experience.
   The past winter Roberta contracted a virus that paralyzed her vocal cords and she lost her voice. A beloved story teller was silenced. At this writing, after months of treatment and rehabilitation she can speak to some extent, but has been forced to cancel her story telling sessions for the witching month.
   We are pleased to share with you a story from The Walking Trees and other Scary Stories, pub. 2006, when we were delighted to give it a well-deserved five star review on Amazon.com.
   We wish to thank Mr. Steve Floyd, publisher at August House Publishing for his permission to allow us to bring you a seasonal story from Roberta.
   Barbara Appleby designed the illustration for the story.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Forged Blade

  

Tuesday, October 17, 2017, 10 AM (CDST) is a special event in the lives of the writers of Ono Almanac. For the first time in their years of writing mysteries and ghost stories Nash Black will be holding an official book launch party to introduce their new detective novel, Forged Blade.
   As a party favor the ebook edition of Forged Blade will be free for downloading from Amazon's Kindle Store to any kind of device. The party will be held concurrently on Facebook, Twitter, and at Somerset Community College, Somerset, KY.
   Nash Black is a pen name for Ford Nashett and Irene Black. Please join them as they celebrate both the publication of Forged Blade and 29 years of working for IF Publishing.
About the book:

   Evan Blade is a private detective, who grew up in Ono County and on a traveling carnival circuit. He doesn't investigate murders because they have little monetary return. That is, until an old friend calls in a debt and he finds himself saddled with three kids, ages nine, thirteen, and twenty-one, who despite his best efforts to insure their safety refuse to follow his instructions.
   Life for Petra Isolta McIntyre life has never been easy. By the time she was five years-old she had been kidnapped, sold on the baby black market, had four names, and witnessed three murders. Now, a grown woman, someone wants her dead before she has a chance to live.
    When Evan learns 'the kid' is a girl he describes her as "so sexless a blind drunk couldn't find her in a dark bar."
  She assures him, that 'yes, she'd shoot him if necessary to get his attention' while pointing a .38 at him.
   Due to some computer glitches Nash Black was worried that Forged Blade would not be available for a free download so they've added a seasonal offering of Games of Death to the pot for a free download.

   We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed writing them.
Nash Black

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Skippy's Night Out

   Skippy, my black and white border collie was tethered in the backyard. He howled at the full moon from beside his doghouse. His mournful voice sent shivers of apprehension racing down my spine.
   Howling like he was in mourning was not normal for him. The direful sound was one of several unusual acts from my dog that my family noticed during the course of the week. He shied away from other dogs. He was highly alert to anything that moved like the shadows my basketball made when I bounced it in the driveway.
   Even the slightest crackle of dry leaves under my shoes would send his ears up as if he was listening to something I could not hear. Things he'd previously ignore as if they were beneath his notice. He cowed when the town's deep throated shift whistles called railroad employees to work. For us, watches were unnecessary, our body clocks were automatically set to that shill whistle. My parents departed for work and I went to school.
   Small towns are much the same everywhere. Family pets are left free to run the streets. Skippy seldom left our yard except to visit with Winky, Gary Neal's Scottish terrier in the middle of the street. He preferred to drape himself across our font stoop waiting to greet me when I came home from school. One day he wasn't there, but I wasn't worried. I thought he and Winky has gone to forage along the creek.
   Dogs are creatures of habit. The five o'clock smells of supper cooking brought even those who'd wandered afar home in anticipation of a bowl of leftovers waiting for them on the back porch.
   When the magic hour of five o'clock arrived, Skippy was AWOL. Still I didn't push any panic alarms, but as the daylight turned to the dark of night, my parent's knew from the lines of worry creasing my face. I was scared for Skippy. He hadn't come home. He'd never stayed out this late. Where was he?
   Gary Neal ran across the street. Winky was missing too. Whistles pierced the evening shadows. Not a single dog responded. Search parties were formed to no avail, our dogs were no where to be found.
   Neighbors told my father that earlier in the afternoon they'd watched two stray dogs, slinking with purposeful stealth, come down the street, followed by other dogs. They were immediately joined by Skippy and Winky.
   One of the strays led the pack while Skippy, the instinctive herder, kept the group together as they crossed Ford Street. They disappeared from sight behind a hedge row that lined a field of weeds, wild flowers, and honeysuckle.
   Mrs. Jones, who lives on the far edge of the field, told Gary's dad she'd watched them roaming the east bank of Lynn Camp Creek. They didn't stay but a few moments beside the stream devoid of most life with the exception of a few water snakes, snapping turtles, and two emancipated goldfish someone had dumped.
   Two miserable days dragged by as adults and friends became despondent with no word of a sighting of our missing pets. At school my history teacher gripped by shoulder in silent sharing when he caught me staring out the window hoping to see Skippy. He'd heard the announcement Gary's dad put on the radio to be on the lookout for Winky and Skippy.
   On the third, my parents efforts to bolster my hopes changed to reminisces of Skippy's place in our lives. As the bewitching hour of five o'clock approached, gathering storm clouds began to replace the day's bright sunlight. In the distance a faint rumble of thunder rolled across the steel grey western sky.
   Looking out my bedroom window, the thunder became a drum roll of sound and fury as the storm broke. Through the driving rain I spotted four dogs part the hedgerow and race up Hart Street with Skippy in the lead. Two frightened canines rushed past the house, while Winky peeled from the pack to crawl underneath the Neal's

porch."
   Skippy leapt onto the front stoop of our house where he frantically pawed the screen door.
   I flung open the door to my rain soaked collie who was covered with cockleburs, mud, and leaves. He greeted me with yelps of joy.
   I hugged my long lost friend then steered into a storage closet where my almost unrecognizable pet wedged himself against its most secluded corner.
   What happened to our dogs who completely disappeared for three days? Where did they go? What did they eat? Would their barks reveal a secret hideaway? My questions go begging answers. Their unknown destination forever remains a mystery.
   But, for on shining moment all was right in my world. Skippy has come home!
  Noel Taylor (Corbin, KY) is a guest writer this week. His story of a beloved pet has the right amount of weirdness to usher in the witching season.

  Skippy's portrait was created by Barbara Appleby.
Nash Black