Funny story - Christmas nuttiness.

Christmas Nuttiness

Have you ever watched a squirrel on a fall day scrambling around gathering nuts?  They dash from place to place frantic to gather all they can.  They cram acorns into their cheeks until they look like fuzzed up electrocuted rats with goiter. Nuts!  Just plain nuts!  It’s all that’s on their mind.

My wife is a lot like that at the holidays - particularly the frantic scurrying around and nuts part.  Nuts remind me of the panicked call I received to dash to the store to buy nuts while the cookie recipe was still in the mixer without the necessary ingredients.  When I came home we went nuts with joy at being rescued from the nut shortage crisis contrived from the nutty idea we should start making cookies without all the necessary ingredients.

Today my wife took the cookies to the grandkids' daycare so they could decorate their own Christmas cookies.  These were the cookies, of course, without the nuts because who knows if one of the little darlings would be allergic to nuts.  Go figure.  I wasn't supposed to be involved in this project, but in a panicked rush to load her treasure trove of cookie decorating goodies, she forgot the cookies on which the frosting would be smeared.  I save the daycare day with an emergency cookie delivery.

I am as afraid of going to a daycare center where preschoolers are armed with plastic knives and green frosting as a squirrel is crossing a four-lane road.  This is nuts!  It is frightening to see squirrelly four-year-olds with sugar sprinkles and waving frosting covered knives like Zoro.  Still you gotta hug your grandkids.  Now my clean jacket is covered in frosting and red sprinkles.  Aw nuts!  Merry Christmas, dear wife!  I’ll tell her when she stops scurrying around.   

Spend a night on an island in the Canadian woods

It Takes Time

Ten thousand years ago, a geological heartbeat, the last ice age ended.  In that time the hard rocky ice smoothed island has become home to generations of proud towering spruce, and lively, ebullient birch with clean white bark and fluttering leaves turned golden from last week's frost.

 He reclines on a smooth rock next to a mirrored lake filled with last winter's snow and billions of reflected stars from whence light traveled millions of light years to touch him. Star light above and below burn a hole in his soul.   This month's full moon slides over an island a few minutes west by canoe where loons, hatched this summer, practice their haunting calls.  Mosquitoes hatched yesterday bite him and leave an itch he will feel tomorrow.  The night's heavy dew will be chased away by the dawn but for now he shivers a second.

 The solar wind that departed the sun last week is bent toward the magnetic pole this night.  Curtains of energy light the night with shrouds of green and blue that wave and dance on the aurora's breeze.  Shafts of red light penetrate the lake and orbs of white then green drift across the sky in a kaleidoscope of endless variety.  The lights wash a day's ration of fatigue from his body.

 In the universe it was an unremarkable brief event infinitely repeated.  For him the northern lights were one sleepless autumn night.  He will remember it always which will only be for a moment.

Halloween Short Short Horror Story

Reverend Ridley’s Horror

Reverend Thomas Ridley sheltered from the cold drizzle. The winter’s cold hadn't bothered the Lord's work thirty years earlier, but that was when both his zeal and heart were stronger. Since his heart attack he quit his congregation and now helped the Bishop with special projects. Meeting with prospective buyers for the old church was one. 

Pleasantries were brushed aside as the tall white-haired man and ashen-faced woman arrived. They were a reserved, unfriendly pair seemingly in a hurry. They hastily surveyed the building while Reverend Ridley chased after them being solicitous. 

When they stopped at the altar, Reverend Ridley felt pain in his arms. He tried to explain through shortened breath but the woman seemed to ignore him and nodded to the man who rushed outside. The Reverend found a seat in the strait-backed chair behind the pulpit and wiped sweat from his florid brow. 

The man returned carrying a silver bowl and a scarlet gown. She hooded herself. Her hand dipped in the bowl. On the white wall behind the altar she drew a five-sided pentagram with the bloody fingers as the Reverend sat in wide-eyed shock. 

The Reverend stood, No. You can't..." 

She reached into the bowl and revealed the dripping severed head of a white goat and hung it on the Crucifix above the altar. 

"In God's name, no!" the Reverend begged as he clutched his chest and slumped to his knees. 

"We'll take it," she said to the Reverend as his heart beat its last.

            

Short short stories - The entire tale in 2 minutes

Train Robbery

            "They'll remember you as Baby Face Tommy," the tall one said. 

         He had just been discharged from the Army after the war and looked huge and threatening in his wrinkled old uniform.  Tommy twisted his face into a fierce glare that dramatized his intention to use the six-gun.  He had practiced looking mean to make up for his small size.  They robbed from seat to seat in one car after another.  Tommy held a gun on the passengers and the soldier did the talking and scooped up the loot.

            She startled, "Hi, Tommy."

            "Sorry to wake you Ma'am," the soldier said softly.  "I get off in Denver."

            "Mommy look, I got seventy-six cents," Tommy announced.  "Sergeant and I robbed the train.  We said, 'Stick 'em up!'"

            "Just playing, Ma'am.  Hope it was alright.  Mostly we robbed my buddies."

          "Thank you Sergeant.  Long day on this train with a six-year old . . . I really needed the  nap."

            "My pleasure Ma'am.  I didn't spend any time with kids in Korea.  I sure missed 'em.  Tommy's a fine boy."

            The Sergeant got off in Denver and Tommy sat beside his mother and spun the cylinder on his toy pistol.  Outside Tommy's window, the Sergeant ran to a woman on the platform holding a small boy and enveloped them in his huge embrace.  Before the train left the station Tommy counted his pocket full of pennies for the third time.

Humorous essay written when teenagers lived at home

Kids and Cars

I can remember the day thirty-five years ago when I told my Dad I wanted a car to drive on a date.  My peach-fuzzed and freckled face beamed in anticipation of the certain moment when he would reach in his pocket and toss me the keys to his car.

            Dad said, “Great son, go get one.” 

            Following a moment of contemplative silence, while I tried to figure out the meaning of his words, I realized that Dad’s keys were in his pocket to stay.   Dad went back to his paper and I went to the back yard to kick the heads off dandelions out of complete frustration.  Eventually I scrapped up seventy-five dollars and bought a rolling death trap with paper-thin tires and four-barrel carburetor.  Dad looked it over with aloof detachment and allowed that it might need some new rubber.

            My kids have a way nicer dad.  He is intelligent, thoughtful, warm and understanding …er…I mean… gullible, dumb, blind and apparently with excess cash.  When the time came for my kids to drive I told them to go get a car in just the same tone as my Dad used with me.  This time, however, the blank stare came from my wife who clearly signaled with her eyes that I was a thoughtless dinosaur.  The kids, each in there own tone of incredulity, simply replied, “Ya right!” 

            My wife explained with firm exasperation that the kids could not go buy their own cars because they needed help locating, financing and insuring a safe and acceptable vehicle.  I always thought my Dad had the right approach until my wife began to explain how little we, as underdeveloped males, understood about automobiles and the requirement they are safe and dependable.  She is right of course.

            So, I have bought enough cars to start my own used car lot.  Fortunately they are not all at my house at the same time.  My teenage son ensures that.

            When it comes to cars my son is truly a multitasking sort of guy - multitasking in the sense that it takes three cars to keep him mobile.  At eighteen years old, he is a magnet for car problems.  It must be an elevated testosterone level that attracts car problems.  Someone sideswiped his pickup while parked in front of the house.  While he was pushing its replacement out of a snowdrift, a friend driving made a mistake and blew up the transmission.  The next car had the brakes fail while it was sitting in the driveway.

            I have, as a father of kids driving, developed survival skills.  I know a guy out in the country north of town who does inexpensive body work.  I have a buddy out in the country south of town who does major mechanical work.  When I was a kid, a Sunday drive in the country was a treat but now it means we are going to get one of the cars repaired.

            My brother who lives in balmy Biloxi, Mississippi is also a big help in keeping my kids' cars running.  Over the phone, he will tell me that some mechanical problem is a minor repair.

“That’s easy to fix,” he’ll say.  “Put that water-pump in last week in twenty-minutes.”

Deluded by the notion that I can do anything my brother can, in a ten-degree garage with frozen fingers, the wrong tools, no skills, no experience and a bad temper I spend two days on the same minor repair.      
            So what’s the point, you might ask.  If you have teenage kids about to drive, move to a tiny island with no roads.  If that won’t work, just send the kids.     

Poetry Sampling

Poetry Sampling 

Dad’s Apparition

Last night Dad appeared in my room.

The stiff, slow walk of an old man,

Plaid shirt tan jeans and the same smile.

He sat on the edge of my bed.

“Dad, I am so glad to see you.

It’s been such a long time.

You died.

It’s been fifteen years.

I’ve missed you.”

His face was peaceful understanding.

We stood and I gave him a big hug.

Then we walked silently to the door.

He got on the elevator and stopped me while

Pointing, “You take the stairs”.

And was gone.

Poetry Reading

Poet looks poetic.

Sounds poetic.

Image matches expectation.

Thoughts in shorthand.

Meaning there?

Sometimes hidden.

Stories in shorthand.

Understanding?

Sometimes.

Few nod cognition.

All polite.

Mostly blank stares.

Above Platoro

From the desert basin we bump-grind

up the ungraded mountain pass.

The high Aspens are

not yet fully greened.

Our tent stands erect;

a rationalization of security in gossamer.

Cups of hot tea - later Scotch

radiate tranquility.

The fire glows warm.

Stars burn holes in the soul.

The morning snaps coldly.

Day lights the high peaks

gathering strength to melt the frost.

Our nylon womb is sympathetic.

But the cold fist of dawn

presses our bladders.

Discomfort is warm and cozy;

relief is freezing.

Wood smoke burns our eyes

but warms our hands.

Coffee fortifies existence.

Sun on the valley below

warms the heart.

Long Drive

Far looms the mountain

Endless two-lane center lines

Will they ever meet?

By the Pale Moon Light

By Monument Lake in the Spanish Peaks,

In whispering pines, by babbling creeks.

We set our camp in the towering spruce,

For modern convenience we have no use.

Thin mountain air has flushed our cheeks,

Unwind we must, of work no one speaks.

We wander, explore, and hike the main trail,

Searching for wild flowers dainty and frail.

For pine cones, chipmunks and trees that are old,

For white shiny rocks that we hope will have gold.

We climb to an outcrop after quite a travail,

And scramble down quick when a storm brings small hail.

Damp misty air has chilled us to the bone,

We truck back to camp to the place we call home.

But, a stones throw from camp we find lots of spoor,

Big piles of dung, this place has lost its allure. 

What digests Cinch Saks and has freedom to roam?

Have we invaded his space?  Will we have to atone?

I don't tell the family of what I afear,

There are really big critters, I am sure, that are near.

Our camp stove I've lit and it glows hot and bright,

We need to have supper before we lose light.

A grandmotherly camper wanders by, "Oh my dear,

Last night did those nasty old bears come by here?" 

"Bears? You said bears? We just got here this morn,

We drove all night long."  I musta sounded forlorn.

She said, "Now don't worry, Hon," as I stirred the hash,

"Those bears just come through and get into the trash.

I've camped around bears since before you were born,

Just keep your camp clean and nothing gets torn."

So I stashed all the food out of reach of the bears,

Don't feed the beasts is the rule everyone swears.

I can't stay awake - thirty six hours without sleep,

(Remember, last night we drove here in the Jeep.)

My wife and the kids watch the fire with blank stares.

I'm tired.  Let's sleep.  Let the bears come. Who cares.

Some time after midnight there went up an alarm,

Down the road, cross the creek, a few screams, but no harm.

It will take more than screams to get me full awake.

Its been days since I slept.  Leave me alone for Christ's sake.

"Where's Mom ?"  my son asks, his nails dug in my arm,

He's alert and perceptive, but at midnight lacks charm.

Fresh mountain air, couple Cokes and you know,

Sometimes in the night a person just has to go.

She wandered around by the creek near the falls,

Just to find the right spot for when nature calls.

Just then I saw movement in the creek bed below

"There's bears out there Dad," my son says soft and low.

Sleep walking in camp, she was really a sight,

Dropped her drawers, shot the moon in the pale moon light.

They both were there squatting, their backs to each other,

"My dear God!  Don't look son.  Oh my Lord!  It's your Mother.

Just then fell our lantern and we startled in fright,

And from off in the brush came two gasps in the night.

They spied each other from over their shoulder,

Mother took off one way, a big rock she crawled over.

The bear musta had the crap scared from him too,

Cause he bolted the creek and ran down long the slough.

"If you don't come in now, you won't grow a day older."

Tomorrow night I will sleep at the Best Western in Boulder.

North of Home

Smooth gravel road

Ends at the 4-way

Must manage ruts north

Anticipation builds

So close to the farm

Old barn on the hill

Evening sun glints off roof

Sides once red

Kids bounce on the car seats

Turn at the lane

Jackie and Julie at the end

Pink boulders to the left

Trash ditch to the right

Both drifted with snow

Windmill turns slowly

One light on the pole

Dog at the car window

Jack breaks bales for calves

Looks up and runs

Park in front of the house

See Janet just inside

Separator whirls

Pails of milk and cream

Jeannie coming from the barn

Julie close behind

Struggling with buckets

In the dark

Cats at the door

Manure covered coats hung near

Rubber boots in a line

Frost covers the farm house windows

Silhouettes in the kitchen

Something good inside

Smell it in your mind

Fresh cut cedar for lights

Leans against the wall

Best part of Christmas

Arrival

 Limericks 

There once were two lads from the wheat lands,

Who went looking for trout and fine gold sands,

But from drinking too much,

(and influenced as such),

They saw hills as small Tetons at hand.

There once were two boys from the plains,

Who thought they were mountain-type swains,

But in looking for gold,

(and trout we are told,)

They decided sleeping was best when it rains.

There are these two guys that you know,

To find gold and to fish they did go.

Out West to the mountains

To camp in the high lands,

But all that it did was to snow.

Copyright © 2013Tom Ellis. All rights reserved.

Novel by Tom Ellis - political murder thriller

Candidate to Kill

This political thriller full of twists and turns tells what happens when a district attorney with a dubious past succeeds a congressman who has suddenly died.

A Midwestern Congressman is killed in a car accident four months before his re-election. A stunned state party hierarchy scrambles to identify a likely candidate who can become a four month incumbent. The prestige of the state's most powerful senator, who is planning a future run for the Presidency, requires that they salvage the campaign and retain the congressional seat. Joe Murphy, a young ambitious county prosecutor, is appointed to fill the unexpired term after a hurried investigation into his background reveals nothing. Hidden in Joe Murphy's past is a dark episode from his college days, which twenty-five years later he has pushed into the hidden dark attic corners of his life. Joe Murphy's campaign is headed for victory when people and events from past threaten to ruin everything. Powerful forces of evil take over. The campaign ends with a thrilling surprise that evolves from a primeval soup of excitement, love, anguish, greed, justice, corruption and power.

Tom Ellis is a new author but an old political junkie. Candidate to Kill is his first novel which looks at the dark side of power and corruption to craft a thrilling story, richly described, with plenty of twists and turns.

Order at:  www.candidatetokill.com