Fiction

Short Story

/ peterjstavros

Happy Saturday, and just in time for Spooky Season, I have a new (mostly) true tale from Birchmont Village–“The Time Mrs. Shuttleford Ran Out of Candy on Halloween.” You can read it on my Medium page, or check it out below!

The Time Mrs. Shuttleford Ran Out of Candy on Halloween

It was Halloween in Birchmont Village, or, as Hank Walters Bryant had been repeating ad nauseum for the past month, Spooky Season, an expression he claimed to have coined though most everyone knew better. But they also knew this wasn’t worth arguing over with the braggadocious ranking member of the Village council because in his mind he was always right (about everything!), even though he hardly ever had a clue (about anything!). And besides, no one wanted to ruin the mood on this perfectly crisp and cool fall evening as a palpable sense of exhilaration charged the air.

With this close-knit community of overachievers, every house on every block was overly decorated, a holdover from the days when the owner of the best decorated home was awarded a generous twenty-five dollar credit at Lilabelle Durham’s upscale boutique in Poplar Square and a stuffed squirrel in a tiny tam and matching plaid scarf courtesy of Dwayne Weatherbly and his extensive taxidermy collection. Sadly, the town’s budget no longer allowed for such extravagance, since there was only enough money in the coffers for one house-decorating contest and the council, after considerable debating, and a number of surprisingly heated exchanges, ultimately decided by a unanimous vote with Eugene Bowlering abstaining as he was notoriously noncommittal, that it should be limited to Christmas. Even so, the townsfolk still went all out this October, vying now merely for bragging rights and to avoid being saddled with (aghast!) the curse of being named the worst decorated house.

Among those who had gone particularly over the top was Harris Maggiano and his collection of smiling skeletons lounging around a plastic swimming pool as if they were enjoying a leisurely afternoon sunning themselves. The Thingstons’ yard was crammed full with inflatables of every type, from werewolves to creepy clowns to a polka-dotted dinosaur wearing a tutu. Etna Pataskata showed off her collection of handmade ghosts she had fashioned from scraps of white fabric that she strategically hung from her holly tree to simulate full, frightening flight. The Chichesters’ display consisted of thousands of twinkling orange and purple lights that played a synchronous medley of theme songs from classic scary movies. And atop the Johnsons’ house was a humungous furry, fake spider ensconced in an icky sticky web. Even the renters who shared a two-bedroom suite at the Stonemill Apartments at the end of Blanchard next to the park got in on the fun by assembling out on their deck a coven of witches in black garb and pointy black hats and a smoldering cauldron in the center (though it was later determined that the pungent smell of smoke wasn’t coming from the cauldron but, rather, from the renters themselves).

Young Billy Milner, having recently turned twelve, was as excited about Halloween as any boy his age could possibly be. He simply marveled, eyes wide and mouth agape, at the homes and their varied themes and adornments on his early-morning paper route with his long-time bud, the cat named Chubz, riding shotgun in the bicycle basket, as always. Billy and Chubz planned on going out together tonight as their very own, made-up, superhero crimefighting duo with masks left over from a masquerade charity ball his parents had attended last New Year’s Eve (without the feathery filaments, which Billy thought, and rightly so, made them appear less intimidating). All of the children were exceptionally eager to get going and begin filling their buckets and bags with all sorts of sweets.

But, alas, the candy collecting could not commence until Hank announced that it could at the designated starting time of five-forty-five (determined, again, by a vote of the council after yet another surprisingly heated debate, based upon the falling of dusk and the subsiding of the rush hour traffic—“rush hour” being a relative term since the speed limit here was strictly enforced at fifteen-miles-an-hour). With a watchful eye on his wristwatch, and being certain not to be a second too early or too late, Hank firmly announced through his bullhorn while seated inside the official golf cart boldly emblazoned with the letters “B.V.” that “It is … it is … it is”—he wavered, on purpose, for among his many quirks, Hank had a flare for the dramatic—“time to commence with the tricks and the treats!”

No sooner had Hank giving this much anticipated, and ballyhooed, go-ahead when the kids instantaneously scattered, as if shot from a cannon (or cannons), speeding, frenzied and furious, from house to house, nearly causing Hank to topple out of his golf cart. Officer Fifeson, the police officer from Ridgeland who was contracted out by Birchmont Village to patrol the streets in his off-hours, cautioned through the loud speaker on his cruiser for everyone to be cautious, and to be careful, and to remain courteous, but this surely fell on deaf ears for this mob of youths was off on this hectic scavenger hunt for confectionary goodies.

The roads and sidewalks of this normally quiet and quaint community were abuzz and alive with the hustling and bustling and screaming and yelling and just a general unbridled merriment in celebration of this singular day on the calendar when the dutiful denizens opened their arms (and more literarily, their doors) to bestow upon these offspring gobs upon gobs of bon bons and suckers and chocolates and gumballs and jawbreakers (and … well, you get the point)! There were trick-or-treaters of all shapes and sizes running amok through this usually sleepy hamlet.

The starting lineup of the St. Martins Dragons, the reigning regional Little League champs, who always traveled in a pack, were making the rounds en masse in their team uniforms, and what that might have lacked in originality, these players more than made up for in their exuberance, skipping and jumping and some sliding as if coming in for the game-winning run. One of the youngest of these treat hunters had to have been Chip Charoothers’ infant son, Chip Junior, who was made up like an adorable lion cub, with Chip Senior dressed as this little lion cub’s proud lion papa while he pushed the sleeping baby in a stroller. And some of the oldest were quite obviously the several graduate students—either oblivious to the age limit of sixteen (another decision handed down by the council after much debating) or choosing to ignore it—who were trekking door-to-door with canvas sacks scrounging for whatever they could, with their preference being canned goods and other non-perishables, noting that their university meal plans had expired and they were in need of sustenance. And these candy-grabbers weren’t limited to the human variety either because Molly, the Steversens’ lovable and playful Golden Retriever, strolled about with her pup parents decked out in a pumpkin sweater that suited her ample frame, especially her rotund backside for Molly never could refuse a string cheese or a strand (or more) of spaghetti.

It got so crowded that Old Man Williams commented, to no one in particular as there was no one around him at that moment, that many of these juveniles must have been transported in from the adjacent districts of Ashfork, Chester Hills and Limerock, and even as far away as Rollingway. But the Villagers didn’t seem to mind (Old Man Williams was just surly), and some even made a party out of it. Max Chetak had set up a fire pit in his front yard where he was serving s’mores, and the Bernheim Boulevard Bird Club was holding its annual chili and hot toddy fundraiser under a tent on the grounds of the Birchmont Village Church. Even those who couldn’t be present left something out for these costumed beggars, like Ted Canari who was at the casino across the river for a big baccarat tournament and placed a bowl of candy on a TV tray on his stoop with a note that trustingly entreated, just take one, please!

The night was going off without a hitch, as smooth as the sticks of saltwater taffy that Lizzie Strumblesom was giving away, which she had bought in bulk from a cute shop on the Jersey shore when she was vacationing there over the summer with her boyfriend, Poindexter McGregor. After only thirty minutes in, Hank Walters Bryant declared this to be an unmitigated success—though Hank, as another one of his quirks, was prone to hyperbole. Unbeknownst to Hank, or to anyone for that matter, there was a serious situation brewing at the address of Mrs. Shuttleford. She, too, had been surprised by the increased turnout, no doubt attributed to the uncharacteristic temperate temperatures and, as Old Man Williams continued to postulate, “interlopers” (his word). Not only was Mrs. Shuttleford surprised, she had been caught completely off-guard. She began this evening with the same amount of caramel squares she always distributed, but with such an influx of treat seekers, Mrs. Shuttleford was (aghast!) running low. And when three princesses and a miniature firefighter came through, she found herself facing the unimaginable—she had run out of candy!

Not accustomed to such a predicament (and who would be?), Mrs. Shuttleford, in a temporary moment of panic, did the only thing she knew to do in such an unfortunate circumstance: she switched off her porch light. But with the entire populace wholly engaged in these festivities, this had the precise opposite effect that Mrs. Shuttleford had intended, and, in fact, attracted increased attention upon her residence. The first person (or persons, if you counted Chubz, and who wouldn’t?) to realize this was Young Billy Milner, who had a trained eye for such irregularities, being in journalism as it were. He sensed that something was amiss with Mrs. Shuttleford, and did the only thing he knew to do in such an exigent circumstance—he hurried home to his mother.

Understanding that her responsible and reliable son wasn’t someone to cry wolf, Millicent Miller leapt into action. She logged on to the Birchmont Village neighborhood website and sent a blast message to all subscribers, with the subject line, in all caps, EMERGENCY!!! (momentarily agonizing if one exclamation point were enough to convey the notable significance of the situation before settling on three). She also texted, emailed and rang everyone whose contact essentials she had or could easily retrieve, regardless of the inconvenient hour, six-thirty-ish, when folks were still dispensing treats. But no one she got a hold of seemed to mind, and, indeed, everyone responded in kind. They knew exactly what to do as this bore the same signs of an identical issue several years prior when the Pryors, having just moved in and with no estimate of the requisite amount of candy to have handy, had likewise extinguished their porch light prematurely in the hopes of riding out the remainder of the night in silence (and to no avail).

People dashed to Mrs. Shuttleford’s house as if there was a clock timing them—and not just from Hank Walters Bryant who was vigilantly eyeing his wristwatch to call a halt to trick-or-treating at the designated ending time of seven-fifteen. These individuals came armed with bags of butterscotch discs and peppermint rounds and numerous other sugary bites, and trays of cookies and brownies and oatmeal-raisin clusters, and platters of ooey gooey caramel apples. Old Man Williams showed up with a roll of nickels, commenting to anyone who would listen, which equated to anyone who had the general misfortune of making eye contact with him, that “back in my day,” he stressed with a certain swagger (yet without specifying when that “day” was, though most assumed, and rightly so, that it was many, many, many days ago), a shiny nickel was all these “little monsters” (also his words) got. “And they liked it!” he added adamantly.

Initially, Mrs. Shuttleford was too proud to accept this charity, and only opened her door a slight crack to barely interact with these do-gooders.  As someone who did not suffer fools gladly, she firmly believed that her house deserved to be pelted with eggs for her blunder—though Officer Fifeson would certainly not allow something like that to happen, as was his charge, and he shone the spotlight on his cruiser at her home to deter such “hooliganism” (his word). But then, as more and more people arrived with their offerings—cupcakes, and shortbreads, and nougat bars, and both sweet, and sour, tarts (and Old Man Williams had gone back to his house to retrieve another roll of nickels)—Mrs. Shuttleford became overwhelmed by the compassion and the concern, and as stubborn as she could be, she nonetheless accepted these donations. And in a moment that brought a collective sigh of relief among this assemblage, she switched back on her porch light to a resounding round of applause, and cheers, and shouts of “Way to go!”

Trick-or-treating resumed at Mrs. Shuttleford’s house, and the first to ring her doorbell was, appropriately enough, Young Billy Milner with his superhero, crimefighting partner, Chubz, in tow, for Billy was instrumental in solving this crisis, and he would gladly do so again if need be because that was just how his mother had raised him, the time Mrs. Shuttleford ran out of candy on Halloween.

***

This short story is based on characters from the collection, (Mostly) True Tales From Birchmont Village, available on Amazon and for Kindle Unlimited, or order from your favorite independent bookstore [ISBN: 978–1–7375801–1–9]

Fiction

/ peterjstavros

Hello, my friends, and happy Thanksgiving eve! I haven’t posted much lately because I’ve been working on something longer, and a tad serious, so to take a break from that, I’ve written a new, humorous, short story that I just posted on my Medium page. It’s based on characters from my collection, (Mostly) True Tales From Birchmont Village, and inspired by our new doggie, Molly. It’s called “The Time Molly Took A Walk.” If you can’t get past the Medium firewall, I’ve also included it below. Hope you like it!

The Time Molly Took A Walk

It was an adventure that was most special, an expedition that was truly exceptional, a traipse that went well beyond the ordinary because Molly, the Steversens’ Golden Retriever, was taking her first walk through the neighborhood!

The Steversens were longtime residents of Birchmont Village, but with each having been fully immersed for years in the fast lanes of their careers (although no one knew what they did, only that they were gone most weekdays from nine to five and Mr. Steversen wore a tie), they neither mingled, nor mixed, and, thus, tended to dodge the dramas and dilemmas that the rest of these denizens were often embroiled in. However, all that changed of late with the Steversens opting to accept early retirement from their respective employers (again, no one knew who their employers were, only that they drove separately to their jobs and Mrs. Steversen had a yellow parking permit dangling from her rearview mirror). It was only then when this couple (soon to be a trio) decided to relax and unwind and enjoy the finer things in life, and what could be finer than a doggie, and particularly six-year-old Molly.

When the Steversens saw her at the shelter — that fluffy flaxen fur like cotton candy, that long red tongue with an inexplicable dot of black in the center, that tail wagging excitedly to and fro like a furious feather duster — they just knew this was the companion for them despite Mr. Steversen’s initial misgivings and nervousness for he wasn’t a “dog person” and had an irrational fear of canines nipping at his slim shins. But such worries were fast dispatched with this gentle pooch whose temperament made clear she wouldn’t harm even a fly despite her generous size. Molly tipped the scales at eighty-eight pounds as her former family, who could no longer care for her with the unexpected addition of a ninth child to their brood, had been overzealous with their feeding habits. This was something that Mr. Steversen could certainly relate to as he had packed on several pounds with his newfound penchant for enjoying a craft beer (or two) on the patio each evening, weather permitting.

Molly was somewhat anxious herself, having not had much involvement with outsiders and she hadn’t done a lot of socializing. Yet she took to the Steversens and the safe space they created for her in front of the fireplace (unlit, of course) with a comfy old comforter she could curl upon and a firm body pillow she could lean against. Molly spent the majority of her days precisely that way, along with intermittent trips to the backyard to tend to her personal affairs and to roll around in the grass and to stare quizzically at Johnny, the wild rabbit who had taken up residence in the garden the spring before last. But when the vet advised that Molly could benefit from some exercise that was when the Steversens set about to introduce her to the entirety of Birchmont Village by accompanying her on what they hoped would become regular jaunts through these sedate streets.

On this important morning, Monday at eight to be exact, Mr. Steversen fetched Molly’s leash from the closet in the pantry that had three shelves specifically allotted to her and her belongings — her food and her treats and her various playthings — and then set about to fetch Molly to clasp the collar around her neck. Not accustomed to such a contraption, Molly understandably bobbed and weaved and then, the natural problem solver she was, used her weight to her advantage by simply plopping down on the floor and burying her head between her oversized paws. It was not until Mrs. Steversen pitched in with a subtle ttch-ttch sound and a reassuring smile (though Mr. Steversen thought that it had to have been a “female bonding thing”) did Molly allow herself to be corralled. With the leash sufficiently secured, and a supply of lavender-scented plastic bags in case Molly decided to conduct her private business in public, the Steversens went forth out the front door, onto the front stoop, through the front yard, and into the heart of this community.

The first person to greet them was Young Billy Milner on his bike, along with his best bud, Chubz, the Johnson family cat, riding, per usual, shotgun in the basket, having just finished his paper route. Billy praised the Steversens for possessing such a “pretty pup” and volunteered to show them around since he was well familiar with the area being that he traversed these roads routinely. He set about to do just that when, alas, at the intersection of Swan and Forest he was hastily recalled by his mother, rushing out in her housecoat and scolding that he was going to be late for school, but then realizing that her tone might have come across as a tad harsh, and considering the circumstances, she softened by suggesting that perchance Billy, and perhaps Chubz, could meet up with Molly sometime in the afternoon to become friends.

The Steversens replied in the affirmative and then pushed on in this journey with delightful Molly. Without really walking her prior, they weren’t sure how she would behave, having witnessed many dogs meander about without any clear indication of what they were doing. Molly, however, seemed to be the exception for she proceeded as if she had done this before, like she was an old pro at going for a stroll. She moved straight ahead, and in a straight line, sticking close to her folks and against traffic at Mr. Steversen’s direction, only glancing about to confirm that both he and his missus were still in tow, not wanting to leave anyone behind, courteous like that. She was so good at this that Mr. Steversen was tempted to ease his grip, but he was relieved he didn’t when Molly stumbled over a branch that caught her off-guard and caused her to lurch forward. Mr. Steversen was able to pull her back, and Mrs. Steversen, again with her ttch-ttch sound and smile (and Mr. Steversen just shook his head at that), reassured Molly that everything was all right — and it was.

They kept on this way for a block, and then another, and one more still when a slow-moving, open-wheel vehicle deliberately approached and came to a leisurely stop. It was Hank Walters Bryant, the ranking member of the Birchmont Village council, who was making his typical Monday morning rounds in the official golf cart boldly emblazoned with the letters “B.V.” to check that trash cans were properly aligned at the curb with the opening sides pointing forward as mandated by ordinance. Hank had not yet met Molly, and he considered that part of his job, in his formal capacity, was to know everyone’s pets. He welcomed her with a stern pat on the head but first allowed her to sniff his hand (Hank was a “dog person”), which Molly licked vigorously as Hank had just eaten a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and apparently still had the remnants on his fingertips. He goodheartedly allowed that, and laughed it off as he drove away, discretely wiping his digits with a napkin he kept in the glove box for just such a situation.

Molly and the Steversens continued their walk with the nostrils on Molly’s wet nose flickering quickly for she was sniffing all kinds of new smells, from Harris Maggiano who was grilling sausages for breakfast to a pile of wet and musty leaves to fragrant dryer sheets from someone in the Chichester household doing laundry with the exhaust billowing out in a perfumed cloud to some scents that the Steversens couldn’t quite tell what they were since Molly was more proficient at that. The Steversens, for their part, were acquainting themselves with neighbors they didn’t know they had.

There was Etna Pataskata who carried a collection of dog biscuits in her fanny pack and was about to toss one to Molly but Mr. Steversen reluctantly declined on her behalf as Molly was on a strict calorie count per doctor’s orders. Old Man Williams, with his bowlegged gait, shuffled to the edge of his driveway to retrieve his newspaper, mumbling about how he would expect it to be delivered nearer given how much he paid for the subscription (and with annual increases), but then he caught sight of Molly and his consternation instantly melted. He was so smitten that he invited her to sit alongside him on the float at this year’s Christmas parade since Old Man Williams portrayed Santa, not understanding that this would need to go before a vote of the village council (like everything) before any such arrangement could be finalized. Ted Canari, absolutely resplendent in a burgundy velvet tracksuit that he had won at a raffle, was stretching his legs while listening to a true crime podcast on his headphones that he said helped him to relax. The starting lineup of the St. Martins Dragons, the reigning regional Little League champs who always traveled in a pack, sprinted in tandem to catch the bus with their pitcher, Jimmy Gee, the de facto leader, yelling to the Steversens with a pumping of his fist, “Your doggo rocks!” and his teammates, en masse, agreed equally enthusiastically.

The Steversens were finding that there was a lot happening, and more hustle and bustle than they could have imagined, though Molly didn’t seem to mind as she kept moving along, causing Mr. Steversen to ponder, a brief existential interlude, who was walking whom. It was not until they got to the far end of Blanchard when Molly became distracted by the group of renters who shared a two-bedroom suite at the Stonemill Apartments. They were out on the deck playing their guitars and bongos and tambourines (“But at such an early hour,” complained Mrs. Shuttleford, who did not suffer fools gladly, and who claimed she could hear “that hullabaloo” from well inside her living room.). Each thump of the drum made Molly jump so they swiftly retreated into the relative solitude of the nearby park. Yet no sooner had they stepped foot (and paw) upon the quarter-mile crushed limestone path when someone shouted, “On your left!” and just like that the guy who everyone called On-Your-Left for his habit of doing exactly that whenever he went for a jog came darting by. A little farther up, a group of deer had paused to gawk at Molly from afar, as well as the hawk that the Blenheim Boulevard Bird Club had been tracking, albeit obviously not very well since this was the first anyone had seen of it in months. Mary Ellen Plumberly, who would capture mice in her kitchen and release them back into the wild, came wandering through, and then, not fifteen minutes later, Dwayne Weatherbly, who dabbled in taxidermy, rushed past with a sack that appeared to have several inanimate mice inside.

Once out of the park and back onto Blanchard, Molly was panting and slowing discernably as this was the most she had ever walked at once, at least as far as the Steversens were aware, and they decided it was time to return home. However, an ear-shattering howling stopped them dead in their tracks for before them were two of the largest creatures Molly had ever encountered (and the Steversens as well): Lilabelle Durham’s twin bloodhounds that must have stood, if they could stand on two legs, six foot two. Neither Molly nor the Steversens could fathom what this slobbering pair was up to, but they didn’t want to find out either. Molly tore off like she had been shot from a cannon (and the Steversens didn’t know the gal had it in her like that). Unfortunately, Mr. Steversen was unprepared for such a reaction. When Molly yanked at the leash, he tripped over his feet and rolled his ankle (those slim shins), tumbling to the ground and pulling poor Molly to an abrupt standstill. She whipped around with an expression to convey, “What are you doing? Can’t you see we’re about to be eaten alive by these beasts?” But all Mr. Steversen could do was lamely hand the leash over to Mrs. Steversen who tried to appease Molly once more with her ttch-ttch sound and smile (and Mr. Steversen didn’t care at that point because he was more concerned with how he was going to walk home).

Lilabelle apologized profusely, as best she could over the incessant (and increasingly louder, if that was possible) woofing and yelping and baying from her gargantuan animals, and explained that their bark was worse than their bite, and then she urgently clarified that they didn’t bite but she was just turning a phrase. Mrs. Steversen, the peacemaker of the clan, assured her that no harm was done. (Mr. Steversen had a different take on that as he winced in pain while he staggered to stand but he kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to cause a scene — or any more of one.) Nevertheless, Lilabelle, owner of an upscale boutique in Poplar Square, offered the Steversens a ten-percent discount on any of the tchotchkes, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac that she sold at her store. The Steversens nodded politely yet with no intention of taking her up on that because they already had more than their share of tchotchkes, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac.

Mr. Steversen’s hobbling, as they headed to their house, caught the keen attention of Officer Fifeson, the police officer from Ridgeland who was contracted out by Birchmont Village to patrol the streets in his off-hours to curtail any shenanigans and suspicious activity. He had been lying in wait, strategically placed and secluded by the arborvitaes on Fox Hollow Lane, in case any members of the Wheelmen, and Wheelwomen, Cycling Club, in their multicolor spandex, blew through the stop sign. But noticing Mr. Steversens’ adverse condition, the dutiful patrolman put a hold on that mission and offered the Steversens, and Molly, a ride. With the lot of them situated securely inside the cruiser, Officer Fifeson peeled out with lights flashing and siren blaring, which was not at all necessary but Officer Fifeson wanted to seize the moment, and besides, with Molly in the car, he imagined that he was part of an elite K-9 unit. Molly seemed to enjoy the ride as much as anyone with her head hanging out the passenger side window taking in the rest of the sights and sounds and smells of her newly adopted surroundings.

When they were safely restored to their abode, Mr. Steversen doddered to the freezer for a bag of frozen peas to place on his ankle, while Mrs. Steversen relieved Molly of her leash and collar. Once free, Molly beelined it for her space in front of the fireplace and promptly took a nap, with a satisfying snore, for she had experienced a lot for one day (and so too the Steversens) and looked forward to repeating it all over tomorrow, the time Molly took a walk through the neighborhood and discovered a whole new world set out before her.