short-story

Opposites Attract: A Tale of Love and Resilience

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Jane was a whirlwind of chaos, her laugh loud enough to drown out thunder, her curly hair always escaping its braid like wild vines reaching for freedom. She thrived on spontaneity, her life a chaotic collage of half-finished art projects and impulsive road trips that often took her to places she had never intended to visit. Her friends often described her as a comet streaking through the sky—brilliant and unpredictable. Steve, on the other hand, was a fortress of order, embodying the calm in the eye of the storm. His days were ruled by meticulously crafted schedules, his apartment a study in minimalism, where every book was alphabetized, and each item had a designated place. He found solace in routine and stability, a stark contrast to Jane’s vibrant turbulence. They lived in the same apartment building, their lives parallel, but had never exchanged more than polite nods—until the storm hit, changing everything and swirling their worlds into an unexpected collision.

The hurricane warning came late, catching the coastal town off guard. Power lines fell, streets flooded, and the building’s residents huddled in the damp basement shelter, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of a single flashlight. Jane arrived with a backpack stuffed with snacks, a ukulele, and a flashlight she’d painted with glow-in-the-dark stars, her vibrant personality a welcome contrast to the distress around them. She offered peanut butter sandwiches and granola bars while strumming a few chords, hoping to lift spirits with her cheerful melodies. Steve carried a first-aid kit, a notebook for logging supplies, and a scowl at the disorder around him, his mind racing with thoughts of what they might need in case things took a turn for the worse. When the lights flickered out, Jane strummed her ukulele, coaxing nervous laughter from the group as they clung to the music like a lifeline. Steve muttered about “unnecessary noise,” yet his eyes kept drifting to her, captivated by her ability to bring a sense of calm amidst the chaos, secretly wishing he could join in and forget the storm outside.

The crisis deepened when the basement door jammed, trapping them inside. Panic rippled through the group as the dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced ominously on the concrete walls. Steve took charge, organizing a plan to pry the door open, his calm voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. He shouted instructions, his authority rallying everyone around him as they grabbed makeshift tools—a crowbar, a sturdy chair, anything they could find. Jane, restless and ever observant, noticed a crack in the wall letting in water, a small trickle that quickly began to grow. While Steve barked orders, she grabbed a bucket and started bailing, her energy infectious, igniting a fire of determination among the others. “You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, Captain Clipboard,” she teased, tossing him a rag to dab his brow, laughter hanging in the air even amidst the tension. He caught it, surprised by the warmth in her grin, which brought unexpected comfort. It was this small moment of levity that reminded them all to keep fighting, to hold onto hope, as the sound of water felling echoed around them, each wave a chilling reminder of their urgent plight.

They worked side by side, Steve’s precision balancing Jane’s improvisation. He calculated how long their supplies would last, meticulously jotting down figures in a weathered notebook; she rallied the group with vibrant stories and enchanting songs that ignited their spirits. Hours passed, and in a quiet moment, they sat against the wall, sharing a granola bar from Jane’s stash, savoring its sweetness amidst the uncertainty. “You’re not as boring as you look,” she said with a playful nudge that broke the tension. He smirked, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re not as reckless as you seem,” he replied, which only made her chuckle more. Their laughter felt like a small rebellion against the storm, a defiance woven into the fabric of their camaraderie and hope, echoing through the desolate surroundings as they forged an unbreakable bond in the midst of adversity.

When the door finally gave way, revealing dawn’s light spilling into the dimly lit room, the group cheered with a renewed energy, their excitement palpable as the fresh air brushed against their skin. Steve and Jane lingered, suddenly shy amid the jubilant atmosphere, their faces flushed with both anticipation and uncertainty. “Coffee, maybe?” she asked, her bravado faltering as she fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, revealing a hint of her nerves. He nodded, a smile breaking across his face as he pulled out a pen, scribbling his number in her sketchbook with a flourish. “Only if you promise not to bring that ukulele,” he teased lightly, remembering how she had strummed it earlier, its jovial notes echoing off the walls, filling the space with an almost magical essence that seemed to linger in the air between them.

Days later, they sat in a cozy café, Jane doodling whimsically on a napkin while Steve meticulously folded his into a perfect square, each crease sharp and precise. Their differences sparked animated debates—her love for chaos and spontaneity clashed remarkably with his inherent need for order and control—but despite these contrasts, the pull between them only grew stronger. She playfully dragged him to a vibrant street fair, where the air was filled with the laughter of children and the enticing aroma of various foods; he patiently taught her to organize her paints, showing her how to create color palettes that reflected both their personalities. Each little compromise felt not just like a victory, but a new layer added to their deepening connection, as they learned to appreciate each other’s worlds, with Jane discovering the beauty in structure, while Steve slowly embraced a bit of delightful chaos.

The storm had faded, but it left something behind: a spark neither could ignore, a tangible reminder of the tempest that had once been. Jane’s mess, the whirlwind of emotions and clutter that surrounded her, softened Steve’s usually sharp edges, turning him into a gentle force of nature, while his steadiness, like a sturdy oak, grounded her, making her feel secure in the midst of chaos. They were opposites, yes, contrasting in temperament and strategy, but in the crisis they’d experienced together, they’d found an unexpected rhythm—a melody of resilience that promised to outlast the rain. Each drop that fell felt like a heartbeat in their newfound connection, echoing the unspoken promise that they would navigate whatever storms lay ahead, together, in perfect harmony.

The moral of this tale is that you never know where a spark of romance and the deep-seated need for each other may arise; it can come unexpectedly in the most ordinary of situations, surprising you when you least expect it. This serendipitous encounter can set the stage for something beautiful to blossom, ultimately evolving into a long-lasting loving relationship that adds richness and meaning to your life. Each moment shared, from laughter and joy to trials and tribulations, helps to weave a tapestry of shared experiences, strengthening the bond between individuals as they navigate the journey of love together.

An Assignment for a Night

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Here I am hovering over my assignment for the night of October 31, 2024. My assignment was to make sure Tom makes it through the night. Sometimes I wonder, how are these assignments passed out? What spirit is assigned to who and why? Or is it just a random drawing? This is something that will never be revealed to the spirit army.  

From my orders I see that Tom is a male over eighty years old. He was in his mother’s womb when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Tom is living a typical American life. He was never famous or well known. Just one of the millions who try to do best with what they must encounter in their life. Tom was drafted into the army in 1964. He was very fortunate he did not have to experience the pain of war. He was assigned to Germany and the other seven he was drafted with went to Viet Nam. Tom always wonders why that happened and thought about that throughout his life. Why was he so fortunate? Tom did have some difficult times in his life though. Tom had to experience the hurt and pain of a divorce. Over five years of unemployment was hard and very stressful.  However, all in all, he has been very blessed during his eighty years on this earth. 

As I started my assignment, I noticed that Tom fell asleep very fast. No tossing and turning for Tom. Lights out, nighty night. His nights are full of dreams. He almost started dreaming immediately. Being a spirit I have the benefit of hearing and seeing subconscious and conscious activity. Can’t hide anything from me. 

His first dream was about Sandra. She was his first female attraction. They went through school together, from kindergarten through high school. Because of religious conflicts Tom started pulling away and after high school they went their separate ways and lost all contact. Fifty years later Tom had a dream. Sandra came to her and said. “Tom we were meant for each other. Our lives would have been totally different than what is has been”.  This woke Tom up with a start and finally after a week Tom decided to research the internet looking for some information.  

He had to go to high school alumni newsletters to acquire her married name and doing the search he discovered that Sandra died three days before he experienced the eye-opening dream. WOW! This convinced Tom that spirits and living do have on occasions contact between them. Since that experience Tom is convinced, there is time after life on earth. 

Now the time is around one o’clock in the morning. That eighty-year-old bladder says it is time for attention.  

After a couple of minutes of attending to bodily functions Tom returns to bed and immediately falls back to sleep. The next dream is about Viet Nam. Wait a minute, Tom was never in Viet Nam! This dream was through the eyes of a sergeant, and they were in a firefight with the Viet Cong. A troop crawls over to him and says, “Sarge, we can’t return fire because the Viet Cong is using civilians as shields, what should we do?” “They are slowly killing or wounding us.” After some tortious thoughts the Sargeant commands shoot them and kill those bastards hiding behind the human shields. Was this Tom or do we live parallel lives and that was a parallel life speaking and somehow the signals were sent to the wrong parallel life. The dream was through the eyes. I never saw what face I had. Mine or someone else’s? The name Sarge was used, not Tom. One will never know who it was.  

Three o’clock in the morning and the bladder is demanding some attention. Tom does what is demanded by his bladder but this time he does not go back to sleep. Coming back to bed he begins to toss and turn. He finally starts thinking about his latest project of creating video podcasts. Just before bed Tom was working on combining sound with photos or clipart and didn’t figure it out before bedtime so now some time had to be spent thinking about this obstacle. Tomorrow he will see if his options work out.  

Finally, he falls back to sleep and dreams about his near-death experience in February 2023. Tom experienced something unusual during that time. In his own thoughts he thought he took his last breath and went somewhere. He likes to say that he was in the waiting room waiting to go to time after death or return to life on earth. During that time, he experienced something out of this world. That was peace, total peace. A feeling he has never felt in his life before and has not felt since. Then the surgeons removed the blood clot and Tom returned to life on earth. Tom had a large blood clot between the lungs and the survival rate was 3 to 5%. Tom was one of the survivors. This dream was an attempt to experience that great feeling he had. Sorry, it did not work. 

Bladder calls again and then back to dreams. This was a Halloween dream since it was Halloween yesterday. It was a scary dream. Tom and his wife were in an old-fashioned streetcar, and someone came on and did something bad. The men on the streetcar started fighting with him and savaged him, tearing him up and mutilating him. He ended up with this gelatin-like substance you see in jars of pickled pigs’ feet. This nightmare was so bad it woke him up with a start. At that time, it was 7:30 in the morning and time to take his blood thinner medication and start another day.  

In summary, this was an interesting assignment. It was more interesting than I anticipated. Tom has led an interesting and full life. Tom is over eighty and knows that he is near time after life. It may be ten days from now or ten years. He has loss his fear of death from experiences in his life especially his near-death event. Now I must go to my next day assignment. Spirits do not sleep. We do not need sleep.  

The Wicked Whispers of Willow Creek

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This was written by AI. Life is getting creepy.

In the heart of a dense, ancient forest, lay the quiet town of Willow Creek. By day, it was a picturesque place with cobblestone streets and charming cottages. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, the town’s character changed. 

Legend had it that the woods surrounding Willow Creek were home to the Wicked Whispers, eerie voices that echoed through the trees, leading lost souls deeper into the forest. Some said they were the spirits of those who had perished in the woods long ago, while others believed they were the enchantments of a powerful sorceress. 

Among the townsfolk was young Elara, an adventurous girl with a curious mind. She had grown up hearing tales of the Wicked Whispers but had never experienced them herself. One moonlit night, driven by her insatiable curiosity, Elara decided to venture into the forest, determined to uncover the truth. 

As she walked deeper into the woods, the familiar sounds of the town faded away, replaced by an unsettling silence. Then, she heard it—a soft, melodious whisper that seemed to call her name. “Elara… Elara…” The voice was both enchanting and chilling. 

Elara followed the whisper, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. The path grew narrower, and the trees seemed to close in around her. The whisper grew louder, more insistent. “Elara… come closer…” 

She stumbled upon a clearing bathed in the pale light of the full moon. At its center stood an ancient, gnarled tree, its twisted branches reaching out like the arms of a ghost. The whispers now came from all directions, encircling her. 

With a deep breath, Elara stepped forward and placed her hand on the tree’s trunk. Instantly, the whispers ceased, and a figure materialized before her—a woman with eyes like sapphires and hair as dark as the night. 

“I am Seraphina, the guardian of these woods,” the figure spoke, her voice as enchanting as the whispers. “The Wicked Whispers are a test, a trial for those who seek the truth.” 

Elara listened in awe as Seraphina revealed the forest’s secrets, its history, and the magic that flowed through its roots. She learned that the whispers were not malevolent but a challenge to those brave enough to seek their source. 

With newfound understanding, Elara returned to Willow Creek, her heart filled with the wisdom of the forest. She shared her story with the townsfolk, who listened with rapt attention. From that day forward, the Wicked Whispers were no longer feared but respected, a reminder of the mysteries that lay just beyond the edge of town. 

And so, the legend of the Wicked Whispers of Willow Creek lived on, a tale of courage, curiosity, and the magic that lies hidden in the heart of the woods. 

Black Widow Spiders

Not too long ago I was watching The Discovery Channel or National Geographic Channel about black widow spiders. This brought back memories about my experience with black widow spiders throughout my life. This series also caused me to dream about the spiders for a couple of nights after the show. I guess the show was pretty authentic. 

Anyway, my parents built their home where a cherry orchard was before. For the first years the home was infested with black widow spiders. The screen doors did not fit very tight in those days and the spiders could crawl in under where the doors hung over the floors. There was I suppose more than a half inch opening between the floor and the bottom of the screen door.  

During my young years I remember my grandma taking the broom and knocking the spiders off of the outside of the screen in the door. There were occasions where my mother would pull open a drawer in a dresser or kitchen drawer and she would discover a black widow spider in the drawer. The most dramatic event was one evening we were getting ready for bed and my mother found one of these spiders climbing up the bed spread at the foot of the bed. This was a scary event for a young child under five years old. I don’t remember if it took me a long time to get to sleep after that event or not.  

The TV show I was watching was about a young child that was bitten twice by a spider that crawled into her bed between the sheets and bit her twice before she realized what was happening. That could have happened to me when I was young. That is probably why I had dreams after that show.

The house did not have a basement; it just had a crawl space of about three feet. I remember when I got older my dad and I would go in the crawl space, and he showed me all the spiders between the rafters that died when he got a unit call “Hari Kari”. It was a small electrical pot that you would put these pills in and the heat from the heating element would cause the pills to evaporate and emit a poison gas into the air and kill the spiders. Those rafters were just covered with carcasses of those spiders.  That Hari Kari eliminated our spider problem. Before my dad passed away, we were talking about the Hari Kari and then he told me they had to take it off the market because it emitted cyanide gas and it was considered too dangerous.  

Another event happened in a field we used to walk through to get to Alameda and Federal. One day we were walking through the field and got curious about this piece of wood that was there for a long time. It looked like some kind of door where three pieces of wood was fastened together with hinges on one side. It was lying flat on the ground, and I decided to pick it up and see what was on the other side. I put my fingers under the edge and stood it up on its side. No more than an inch away from my right index finger was a bright shiny black widow spider. That was a scary moment. I could have been bitten so easily.  

On occasion I run into black widow spiders in the garage now. Sometimes I was washing something down with the hose and disturb a web and one comes crawling out looking very mad. They sure are black and shiny. Black widow spiders have given me some uneasy moments.