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Reflections by Karen Devaney
The Rain
(Excerpt)
The old man puffed his cigar spitting out the tip as he stared at the solid veil of rain he had been waiting for. “California,” he muttered to himself half disgusted and partly relieved. “Took long enough,” he sighed. The entire damn state had been in a drought barring the occasional pockets of showers that fell February past. They did little to raise the depleted reservoirs and dusty stream beds. A musky smell of moist dirt rose to comfort him as he shuffled to sit on the re-strung ladder back rocker. Its dilapidated legs moaning like an old dog as he settled into the seat. Back and forth the squeaking rocker swayed as the old man lifted his eyes to scan the sky and ground, alternating between the two. Swirls of gray exhaled cigar smoke snaked around his face filling the porch. The porch suffered from withered paint peels that hung like shavings off a carving stick. Patches of stained wood speckled the floor slats while the shingled walls of the two-bedroom house sagged from neglect. Colby had bought the, now jalopy looking, home, forty years prior when it stood tall like a soldier saluting his country’s flag. He’d survived the granddaddy of wars, WWII, lived to forget about it, marry his sweetheart, and even raise a brood of kids in this house
A good short story crosses the borders of our nations and our prejudices and our beliefs. A good short story asks a question that can’t be answered in simple terms~
Walter Mosely
Dr. Curly & the Runaway Cathater
Part 2 of a Nursing Story Series
(Excerpt)
Meet Dr. Curly, a tall wide smiled middle-aged man with slightly thinning hair who all of us nurses referred to as Dr. C. Dr. C had a sense of humor that could make a corpse chuckle. He also had a penchant for storytelling that rivaled Mark Twain, his attention to detail down to accents and wrinkles was pure literature. Dr. C was one of the Hospitalists (physicians whose primary focus is general medicine for hospitalized patients) at a small community hospital I was working at, somewhere around 2003, and I absolutely adored him, we all did. He listened to his patients and was honest with them. If he didn’t know something, he’d call in a specialist, he had no ego, which was refreshing.
It had been a long time since I’d seen the beauty of Dingle, over thirty years of life come and gone. The old house is now a swank café with people moseying along the sinuous cobblestones. As the Atlantic air swirled around me, I pulled my coat close shut my eyes and inhaled the familiar salt air that took me back in time. We were young girls then, Maeve and I and filled to the brim with hopes of escaping this place.
Well, I’ve come to claim our past. I pray you recognize me—I’m chubbier than I was then, but I’m not afraid any longer. Fear took a back seat after therapy and finding my way back.
I decided to stroll along the coast to clear the ripple of anxiety that swelled up by surprise. I scolded myself, for god sake Neve, most of those people are dead or long gone. Somehow though, their leathery skin and sinister smiles with darken teeth haunted me; flaunting painful memories I had stored away.
I listened to the crash of waves on the empty beach and the repetition lulled me into a trance as I walked watching a parade of faces march through my mind wondering how many of them knew what really had happened.
No More Potatoes
NORMAN
(Excerpt)
“He’s fine, Raymond, really—we’ll have the homecare nurse take a peek once a week—but otherwise, he’s absolutely ready to go.” Sharon, the discharge planner at Apple Valley rehabilitation center in Napa California declared. She was a veteran well versed in letting folks go—the steward of parade waves as another shriveled elder clung to their walker shuffling out of the door.
“But he only has two cans of ensure and one cola a day.” Ray protested. “He lives alone, can’t cook, can’t hear, can barely see--and I don’t have the time or money to take care of him. He needs fulltime supervision.” Raymond sighed, envisioning Norman’s dilapidated home. Norman had not cleaned the place since his first turn of the key back in 1952.
“Well, I’m sure the homecare nurse can send out a dietician. There’s simply nothing more we can do for him here—he’s graduated—you know how Medicare is. We wouldn’t want to burden Norman with a huge bill.” Sharon snorted, squinting her eyes as if the sun were shining into her lifeless grey office. She winced a half smile and glanced at her newly polished nails—she had just had a manicure the night before. Sharon kept a strict schedule dividing her day into sessions of texting, shopping online for plus size dresses and eating tootsie rolls she stashed in the dull beige file cabinet sandwiched between her desk and the wall. She hated most people, especially those that were desperate and in need of social services. They annoyed her.