Lost in Notebooks

David Straw

Description

Strangers is a short story about bestfriends who join old college friends in Alaska. After an adventurous day, author David Straw takes us into the minds of both kids, as their discussion will forever alter their lives. Tension was written when David Straw was 16. It is the story of a young sailor, and his battles on Biscayne Bay and with growing up. A Moment in Hiding is a story of two siblings and a gentleman with a mysterious book. Scotland is the backdrop, as two worlds will meet in unexpected ways.

Sujets

• Mystery
• Short Stories

Informations

• Publié par: Toplink Publishing, LLC
• Date de parution: 26 février 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781948779159
• Langue: English

Extrait

Lost in Notebooks

A Collection of Short Sto ries
David T Straw


Copyright © 2018 by David T Straw.
Paperback: 978-1-948779-14-2
eBook: 978-1-948779-15-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Ordering Information:
For orders and inquiries, please contact:
1-888-375-9818
www.toplinkpublishing.com
[e-mail]
Printed in the United States of America


Contents
Stran gers
( 1994)
The Green F lash
The Anschutz Sprint Fortner-V1 meets the Brown ing A-Bolt Hunter CRT
The Vantage Point of Keller Cheno weth
Erika Campwell’s longing for a Time Mac hine
The Voice of Roy Orb ison
Ten sion
( 1988)
Re wind
The 1984 Donruss Baseball Card #413
What if it Wasn’t a Girl
The Rush on Water Sweeps onto Land
A Moment in Hi ding
( 2003)
Wingtips and Old Jag uars
The Squareness of a Locker and Picture F rame
The Man from County Down and the Great est Scotch Pour in the W orld
The Original C rack
( 2013)
Less is More
Vertebrates to Invertebr ates
More is Less


Stran gers
( 1994)


The Green Flash
T he ocean seemed timid. The waves were mere speed bumps, gently rolling into the beach just kissing the sand. The wind was an elderly person’s breath; the high clouds were parked. There was no horizon, just smeared haze gluing the water and sand to the sky. Not that he would no tice.
A narrow strip of land makes up this portion of the Outer Banks. It was nothing but a two-lane road lined with wooden telephone poles, most straight, some looking more tired. Two and three story rental houses are spaced out on the ocean side between dunes and clumps of seagrass. Families from all over rotate in weekly. Deck railings are draped with towels flapping dry. Doormats are littered with sandy flip-flops. Sunburns become passport st amps.
The last time Keller was here, the waves roared into the beaches, crawling up and clawing at the sand. The ocean was hungry. With each crash of white spray, sand seemed to be sucked away an inch at a time. A spinning category three hurricane was 65 miles off Cape Hatteras, heading up the Gulf Stream to Nova Scotia. It pushed the Atlantic into the entire east coast. Paired with a full moon tugging at the ocean, the water was higher than most could ever reme mber.
That was a trip of firsts, or maybe distinctions. It was the first time the family didn’t go to the Delaware shore for a beach vacation. The Chenoweth’s usually found a beach house between the state park and South Bethany. It was his first hurricane, although technically it was only a small craft advisory with average gale winds. Even if it stayed offshore, it was close enough for a kid living in Vermont to clai m it.
Within four hours on the last evening, he smiled and pointed at a school of dolphin exposing dorsal fins in three-second intervals, then stared with wide eyes and arms crossed at a shark fin slowly cutting through the surface like a stuck saw blade through canvas. Keller thought it was unnerving how slow it swam as if stalking something. By the time it was 100 yards up the beach, where squinting eyes couldn’t even follow it, he had turned to see if he was the only one. Eight others stood with their arms crossed tightly across their ch ests.
It was also the last vacation with his parents. The packet of 36 photos came back from the Photo Mart. The 4x6’s were stuck under peal-away pages; four or five to a page, depending if some were vertical. That trip filled up the album, and it found a spot on the bookshelf next to the others. Nine photo albums of history. Keller Chenoweth’s very own art gallery and time line.
Five months later, the first week of December, the nine photo albums, his clothes, and an Anschutz Sprint Fortner-V1 rifle accompanied Keller to his first cousins once removed. They lived out in Oregon. Keller never quite understood the fancy, proper terminology. All he knew was they were his parents’ age, like an uncle and aunt, but not. The man’s mother was his grandfather’s sister. Keller moved out there because they were the two people who couldn’t make it to the family reu nion.
Thanksgiving weekend found 16 family members gathered in the Florida Keys. Most were escaping the cold, gladly exchanging coats, scarves, and electric blankets, for a hammock and a mask & snorkel. Some just wanted to see the sky and stars, not skyscrapers and lighted billboards. All wanted each other while savoring leftover turkey sandwiches on the weekend. Instead of cranberry sauce and green bean casserole with their turkey, they had conch fritters and shrimp cocktail. It was a welcomed, unique change of pace.
Standing with a great aunt and cousin, a 14-year-old Keller waved at the 40-foot sightseeing boat easing away from the dock. The sunset cruise had 19 people on board, 13 of whom were family. He decided to stay behind. Three sunsets were enough, and his aunt needed help making bread pud ding.
Along with unique side items on the dinner plate, the Florida Keys also offers something else to visitors. An old mys tery.
The green f lash.
It’s a legend, folktale, rumor, and treat all on one. According to locals, just as the sun falls into the ocean at sunset, there is a green flash on the horizon. His grandmother confirmed it, seeing it a decade ago from Key West. His grandfather said it was really the three Brandy Old-Fashions she had. Keller never saw it Wednesday or Friday nights. Thanksgiving night, it ra ined.
That Saturday evening, while dumping a cup of raisins and three teaspoons of vanilla extract into a mixing bowl, he thought he heard it. His aunt stopped beating the eggs just as he looked up at her.
“What was that?” She put the whisk down and grabbed a dishtowel. “Sounded like an explosion.” She began wiping her h ands.
“Yeah …… it did kind of.” He looked out the window despite being on the ocean side of the house. Confusion turned into enthusiasm. “Maybe it was the green light!” He sprinted outside. Sometimes when you hear something so foreign and out of place, you think like a small child and believe in anyt hing.
By the time Keller reached the bay side, a plume of black smoke was arching into sunset’s painting. Flames were kindled right out of the water. There was no boat left.
Investigators would determine that fuel had gotten into the bilge; a no-no in boating. All that it needed was a spark of some kind. Whatever the cause, if Keller tried to figure out what exactly a “first cousin removed” was, and looked it up on a family genealogy chart, the entire middle and left side of his family tree was gone in a blink of an eye.
The largest tour boat company in the Florida Keys had a major settlement with the families of all those on board. Between that and what his parents had, he was taken care of, in a cruel way. He would gladly give away his financial security to stop carrying around his photo albums everywhere he went. They are heavy in more ways than one.
For this trip back to the Outer Banks, he brought the last two. They were on the chair just inside the sliding glass doors. One was left open to pictures of he and his dad skiing. The dining room table, with a chandelier made of a ship’s wheel, became his work area, with a laptop, stacks of papers, and two 3-ring binders. Otherwise the two-story, five bedroom beach house looked exactly as it did in the brochure. The couch was covered with plump, square pillows. Seven fashionable magazines remained fanned out on the coffee table. Board games were stacked under the television. The carpet still had patterns and lines from the vacuum on Sunday morning. One person doesn’t make much of a mess in a 3,300 square feet.
It was the only house available for the week. He had it all to himself. 10 years after that last visit, he just felt like coming back to the prologue of his new life.
Today was the hottest day so far, unseasonable for June. The lack of wind helped grow a thick staleness in the air, mixed with the smell of sweat and sunscreen. Keller decided to stick to the deck today, leaving the sand for the seagulls and other kids. He also still had about 20 or so more pages to pump out. His last week of Summer Session I could be down remotely. With a map for a classroom, he decided his only walls would be country borders. Finishing your thesis on your own private beach seemed appealing. With no public parking for four miles in either direction, the only people on the beach were renters in the houses every 50 to 75 feet apart. It was pretty q uiet.
The high sun was behind him, about to be blocked by the porch sticking off the second floor. His skin was warm under his shirt. Like a solar panel, he soaked up enough sun this week to recharge. In two days he would drive to New Bern, propeller to Charlotte, then rocket to Boston, his home for the last two years. He stayed on the West coast at the University of Washington for undergrad, but planned on soaring away for grad school as far from Oregon as he could. Keller had one more summer session and he was done.
Keller leaned on the railing scanning the ocean. His father always searched for wind in the trees, even leaves