A Christmas Story... Feeling Needed

 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes

Little Gracie Gubler

 

Little Gracie Gubler was eight. She was a striking sight with her lava-red hair that hung as curly as a piglet’s tail and the sprinkling of cinnamon freckles on her nose and cheeks and fingers and toes. When she stood in place, it was with both feet apart, hands on her hips, shoulders square, chin high, lips grinning as if she were the most remarkable child in a school where nearly every other student towered over her. The truth is, Gracie’s confidence and pluck overflowed more than most. And it happened that these qualities—made manifest in her demeanor and countenance—were hard not to stare at.

Now, this freckle-faced, sprightly child had been born with a small frame and small ears that were somehow well-tuned to surrounding chit-chat. And Gracie Gubler had no qualms about joining in on a transpiring conversation if the topic proved of interest to her. In fact, she did so quite often. On one tulip-blooming spring day she happened to overhear Jeffrey Turner and Dylan Ewing gossiping about Mr. Quilter’s bald head—a head that had been covered with blond fuzz just a week ago. It was the last time they had seen their math teacher until he walked into school that morning without his hair. Jeffrey and Dylan were discussing Mr. Quilter as if they were piecing together a puzzle that would reveal the whole story; never mind if there existed any amount of truth to it.

“I heard that he was away on family business.”

“That’s what adults call it when it’s serious.”

“Yeah, like when someone dies.”

“Or when they’re going to die….like from a disease.”

“Like cancer.”

“Yeah. You know, they shave your head bald if you get cancer.”

“No they don’t; your hair falls out on its own. That’s what cancer does. That’s how they know you have it.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, really. And either way your head ends out bald, just like Mr. Quilter.”

“Poor guy’s probably real sick. No wonder he needed a week off.”

“Yeah. I bet he doesn’t even know that when your hair falls out it’s the worst kind of cancer. He’ll probably be dead in another week.”

“Or sooner.” The boys sighed a dismal sigh in concert. About that time, Gracie Gubler joined in their conversation.

“Do you two know what you’re talking about?” she asked. “Did Mr. Quilter tell you he was sick?”

Dylan and Jeffrey exchanged a guarded glance before answering. “Well, no, not exactly, but he didn’t have to say anything. He missed a week of school and came back with no hair…”

“And he’s acting really tired. It’s obvious he’s seriously sick.”

“Yeah, and only cancer takes all your hair that fast.”

Gracie pursed her lips together and placed both hands on her hips before swiveling about and marching directly to the school’s math room. There she found Mr. Quilter sitting at his desk, his bald head lowered into his hands. He did look tired. The classroom was empty; all the kids were outside on the playground.

Gracie interrupted the math teacher by clearing her voice. When he looked up, she asked him a simple question.

“Mr. Quilter, why is your head bald?”

After flashing a humored smile, he proceeded to explain how he had flown home to attend the funeral of his grandfather the prior week, and during that time he had been invited to play on his brother’s basketball team. Mr. Quilter had eagerly agreed, being tall and athletic and quite fond of the game. He had been less eager to agree to shaving his head in order to look like the other team players who took great pride in reflecting through appearances their team name—the Bald Eagles. However, a little guilt-ridden convincing by his brother had done the trick. Mr. Quilter flashed a wry smile as he rubbed his head and told Gracie, “It does make for faster showers in the morning.”

Little Gracie told her math teacher that she thought he looked fine with a bald head. Then she marched outside to report the truth to Jeffrey and Dylan who had already convinced a dozen surrounding children that they would soon be getting a new math teacher. Gracie stated that it was not so.

Later that day, outside the local grocery store where a troop of girl scouts was selling mint crèmes and coconut clusters and chunky chocolate cookies, Gracie was exiting the store behind her mother who stopped to purchase three boxes of mint crèmes, supporting the troop that her friend, Karin Summers, happened to direct as a parent volunteer. Both adults watched a neighbor lady, Miss Tyra Darling, walk out of the store carrying a case of beer in either hand. They began to talk in loud whispers, easily overheard by curious, young ears.

“That’s four cases this week. I saw Tyra purchase two cases a couple days ago.”

“Really? I say, that’s an awful lot of beer for a single woman who lives alone.”

“She’s got an obvious drinking problem. Beverly, who lives right next door to Tyra, told me no one ever comes over to that lonely house. Tyra never throws any parties or anything. Not that Beverly wants any loud, drunken partiers carrying on next door.”

“No, no, I’m sure she doesn’t want that. She would have to call the cops on something like that.”

“The woman is just a serious alcoholic. No doubt she’ll die from a bad liver—young and miserably alone.”

“What a tragedy. I don’t understand why people do stuff like that to themselves.”

During this conversation, every girl scout from Hannah Pepper to Hallie Nogues had their ears perked, listening. Gracie Gubler, alone, spun about and marched toward the silver sedan in which Tyra Darling had deposited her two cases of beer. The woman was just opening the driver’s seat door when a chipper “excuse me” stopped her. Gracie went to stand directly under Tyra’s nose and looked up to ask a simple question.

“Miss Darling, are you going to drink all of those beers yourself?”

The shocked recipient of the question put a hand to her heart, and her cheeks flushed red. She laughed at the thought. “Oh dear, dear, no, no!” She then leaned forward and explained to little Gracie that her hobby and passion was gardening. Every spring and summer she tended to a half an acre of garden behind her house which included rare flowers mixed with all sorts of herbs, fruits, and vegetables. The beer was used as bait in homemade bowl-traps that effectively lured and killed slugs, snails, and earwigs. She also sprayed the trees and bushes with beer because it attracted the most beautiful butterflies to her garden. Tyra laughed again and skewed her eyebrows. “I don’t even like the taste of beer,” she said. “But I will admit, I do mix up a pretty good beer batter when I’m in the mood for a fish fry.”

After accepting Miss Darling’s invitation to drop by at a later date and visit the beer-fertilized garden, Little Gracie Gubler marched back to report the truth to her mother and Karin (as well as the eavesdropping girl scouts.) The adults stared silently at Gracie for a few stunned moments.

“Huh, that’s good to know.”

“Yeah. I wonder if I could get her beer batter recipe.”

The next day at school, freckle-faced Gracie was in the library checking out a fairy tale storybook about Dimearians—people born with moth-type wings on their backs. She cocked an ear when she overheard Russ Montgomery whispering (partly because he was in a library and partly because he was gossiping) about LeiAnn Jones, a new girl from Wisconsin who had joined their class two weeks prior. She had proven to be a quiet sort and had checked out five thick books after receiving special permission from the librarian.

“She’s a snot, I tell you. Thinks she’s smarter and better than the rest of us. I bet she doesn’t even read those books. Just showing off, hoping the rest of us will think Wisconsin grows brainiacs like it grows cheese.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t grow cheese…” someone started to say.

“You know what I mean. That LeiAnn girl is so big-headed, she won’t even say ‘how d’ya do’ to anyone. Has she talked to you? ‘Cause she hasn’t said one word to me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Nope.”

“Not one word.”

“And have you said one word to her?”

The question took the other kids by surprise, in part because it was voiced louder than appropriate for a library setting, but mostly because the speaker had not been included in the conversation. Gracie Gubler ran her probing eyes over every kid huddled about the reading table. Then she turned and headed to a corner of the library where LeiAnn Jones was sitting by herself with a pile of books on her lap. She had one cracked open hiding her face. It took LeiAnn a moment to lower the book when she heard someone address her by name. As soon as Gracie could see the blue of LeiAnn’s eyes, she asked a simple question.

“Why don’t you join the rest of the class at the reading table?”

LeiAnn glanced in the direction of the other kids who were staring with tight eyes at Gracie’s back. The new girl swallowed hard, and then timidly explained that she felt uncomfortable. No one had invited her to sit with them, and she didn’t want to assume they would welcome her. Shrugging it off, she told the inquisitive red-head that she was fine—“I have my books.” LeiAnn then confessed, “I’m not very good at making new friends.”

After chatting with LeiAnn Jones, finding that they had a common love for fantasy books, Gracie marched back to the reading table to report the truth to Russ Montgomery and the other children, after which a few of them decided to go introduce themselves to the new girl.

And so it was with Gracie. Whenever she heard someone speak a word of assuming gossip, she was quick to learn and share the truth. Thus, Bobby Black learned that he had not been callously dumped by Darin Caraway as a best friend; the birthday invitation had been mailed by his mother to the wrong address. Elizabeth Bifano learned that Kimmy Jackson did in fact adore her daisy-yellow dress, even though Kimmy’s least favorite color in the world was yellow. Madelyn Jenks learned that their school teacher did not own a jar where he kept the names of bad students he meant to feed to the alligators at the end of the school year. And Mindi Bergeson learned that Scarlet Elliott’s unfortunate case of acne was not the result of kissing frogs in the pond on the Elliot’s farm. Therefore, when anyone saw the little freckle-faced redhead marching near, they would check their conversation—because if their comments weren’t the verified truth, it was foolish business to gossip in front of Gracie Gubler.

-- A short story from Slaying Dragons by Richelle E. Goodrich

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich

A Santa Story by Richelle E. Goodrich

I could feel excitement radiating from every person in the auditorium. Holiday carols featuring jingly bells and brash horns boomed from surrounding speakers. Glitter-heavy, paper snowflakes twirled overhead, dangling from silver string. There were lots of kids. Dozens. Most of them my age, some younger, not many older. An entire line of us were eagerly waiting, smiles pinned on our faces. Why would we not smile when Santa Claus—plump, jolly, fluffily bearded, and in the flesh—sat on his golden throne at the front of the line?

The fat man in red was surrounded by skinny, happy elves dressed in festive attire. None of the elves were as dwarfed as I had imagined they would be, but that meant nothing. Short or tall, they were plainly Santa’s elves. I could tell by how they beamed pure joy while handing out candy canes to mesmerized kids seated on Santa’s lap. I could hardly wait for my turn to tell the big guy how well-behaved I had been this year and how desperately I hoped for a brand new, cobalt-blue, silver-striped, Razor SX500 McGrath Rocket Electric Motorcross dirt bike for Christmas… with matching-blue full-face helmet of course.

I’d been waiting in line for a full thirty minutes, watching elves twirl candy-canes around their fingers, when a larger kid at the front of the line climbed up a set of wide, wooden steps to meet Santa. It was hard not to stare at the kid because he looked like an actual son of St. Nick. They were both big guys, both dressed in Christmas-red pantsuits with black belts and gold buckles. I suppose what happened next should have been anticipated, but it actually surprised us all.

It’s not like I never imagined doing the same thing, but a nagging inner voice always warned me that no-way-in-the-north-pole could I expect a gift from Santa Claus if I ever succumbed to the temptation of tugging on his snow-white beard. Such an act of disrespect seemed a naughty-list offense for sure. That said, it genuinely stunned me (and everyone else in the room) when the big kid seated on Santa’s lap had the nerve to do just that! It was no gentle tug either. He yanked so hard that the pillowy beard ripped clean off the old man’s face! A collective gasp echoed within the vaulted ceiling like a sound of rushing water, and we all stood there frozen…stunned…staring at a most unexpected sight.

Green.

That was the color of the exposed facial hair. It was short, scruffy, and green. I had never seen a green beard before. Well, except once on an animated character from a show that rhymed a tale about some dastardly creature who hated Christmas so much he tried to steal it from an entire township of Whovillers.

The big kid who was holding an apparently fake, white beard quickly tore off Santa’s velvety hat as well, revealing a matt of hair as green in color as the man's real beard. A few girls screamed at seeing it.

I pointed an accusatory finger at the charlatan. “He’s not Santa!” I hollered. “He’s the Grinch!”

The little girls who had screamed a note of shock were joined by others who screeched much louder and much longer, supporting my hasty deduction.

Now, I’m not sure if things that happen as a result of what you say are rightly your fault, for I had no intention of setting into motion what transpired next; nonetheless, my announcement caused a bit of alarm. The Grinch—that Christmas-hating monster—had already heard and memorized the gift-wishes of numerous children. He knew what kind of presents would be under their trees on the eve of December twenty-fourth. Aghast at this thought, we understood that the greatest enemy of Christmas had tricked us in the same way he had tricked unsuspecting Whovillers! Christmas was in jeopardy, and unless something was done to prevent it, the holiday would be spoiled for everyone!

The bold kid who had unmasked the pretender was first to assail the Grinch, grabbing him by his green whiskers while accusing him in a loud voice of abducting the real Santa Claus.

“Where is he?” the boy demanded. “What have you done with Santa?”

The Grinch growled a sound of pain and attempted to pry the boy’s hands from his face, but the kid held on tight, demanding the release of old St. Nick. Many other children chimed in, voicing their concerns about the welfare and whereabouts of poor Santa Claus too until all at once we witnessed an unthinkable betrayal by none other than the candy-cane-toting elves! Three of them laid hands on the big kid and yanked him off the Grinch’s lap; however, the green-haired villain was pulled along because no one thought to remove the chubby fingers clamped to his beard.

A child in line shouted out the obvious. “Traitors! You’re not elves!”

I had suspected as much earlier, having naïvely forgiven their uncharacteristic tallness in light of a convincing merry performance. They had fooled us and nearly gotten away with it!

The nonelves ganged up on the big kid and worked together to pry him off their boss—the nasty Mr. Grinch. Just then, a lanky, blonde-haired boy in Harry Potter glasses cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and sounded a deafening war cry. It was instantly heeded by good little children desperate to protect their spot on Santa’s nice list. We rose up like an army, prepared to defend the old man who would have been dizzily proud of us had he witnessed our united act of loyalty.

Children stormed the stage—despite parental attempts at interference—and tackled the Grinch, taking down his pointy-eared cronies as well. The villains tried to resist but were outnumbered by angry boys and girls who hugged tight to limbs, tugging at hair and clothing. It was enough to force them to the ground where they were stripped of their candy-canes and festive hats. Soon enough, a chant began that quickly rose in volume.

“Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa!”

“Okay, okay!” the Grinch surrendered, shaking two toddlers off his arms in order to sit up. “I’ll go get Santa.”

“We want the real Santa Claus,” growled the big, bold kid. He eyed the Grinch distrustfully.

“Yeah, yeah… the real St. Nick.” But no sooner had the name been voiced when a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” carried across the room. It was a strong voice. It was confident. And it was jolly.

The nonelves were allowed to sit up as all eyes darted about, looking for the man in red. He appeared from behind a tall, decorated Christmas tree, his tubby tummy shaking with every “Ho, ho, ho.” No one moved. No one blinked or breathed or uttered a word. We simply watched the fat man in his plush, red suit; black, shiny boots; full, blushing cheeks and snow-white beard make his way to the stage before climbing up to take a seat on the golden throne.

“Well, now,” he said to the big kid who still looked the spitting image of St. Nick. “You mind letting my elves have their hats back?”

“Those are really your elves?” the kid asked. He looked skeptical. I was skeptical too.

“Yes, son, they are some of my best elves.”

The big kid scrunched his eyes wondering. There was only one way to tell if this jolly old man was telling the truth. Without missing a beat, the boy’s fingers clamped onto a fistful of beard and tugged. A collective gasp echoed once again but was quickly drowned out by cheers of joy.

The beard was real! The old man truly was Santa Claus in the flesh!

He belted a good, hearty laugh and accepted warm hugs from relieved young persons who then lined up to have a turn on the real Santa’s lap.

Thank goodness Christmas had been saved—due to the combined efforts of good, brave, observant boys and girls. We were heroes! At least I think we were. Our parents seemed less than pleased. And apparently no one noticed when the Grinch slyly slithered away. 

Copyright 2019 Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold

The Unique Rewards of Friendship

     “What is so rewarding about friendship?” my son asked, curling his upper lip into a sour expression.  “Making friends takes too much time and effort, and for what?”

I sat on the edge of his bed, understanding how it might seem simpler to go at life solo.

“Friendship has unique rewards,” I told him.  “They can be unpredictable.  For instance...”  I couldn’t help but pause to smile crookedly at an old memory that was dear to my heart.  Then I shared with my son an unforgettable incident from my younger years.

“True story.  When I was about your age, I decided to try out for a school play.  Tryouts were to begin after the last class of the day, but first I had to run home to grab a couple props for the monologue I planned to perform during tryouts.  Silly me, I had left them at the house that morning.  Luckily, I only lived across a long expanse of grassy field that separated the school from the nearest neighborhood.  Unluckily, it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella. 

“Determined to get what I needed, I raced home, grabbed my props, and tore back across the field while my friend waited under the dry protection of the school’s wooden eaves.  She watched me run in the rain, gesturing for me to go faster while calling out to hurry up or we would be late.  

“The rain was pouring by that time which was added reason for me to move fast.  I didn’t want to look like a wet rat on stage in front of dozens of fellow students.  Don’t ask me why I didn’t grab an umbrella from home—teenage pride or lack of focus, I’m not sure—but the increasing rain combined with the hollering from my friend as well as my anxious nerves about trying out for the play had me running far too fast in shoes that lacked any tread.  

“About a yard from the sidewalk where the grass was worn from foot traffic and consequently muddied from the downpour of rain, I slipped and fell on my hind end.  Me, my props, and my dignity slid through the mud and lay there, coated.  My things were dripping with mud.  I was covered in it.  I felt my heart plunge, and I wanted to cry.  I probably would have if it hadn’t been for the wonderful thing that happened right then.  My crazy friend ran over and plopped herself down in the mud beside me.  She wiggled in it, making herself as much a mess as I was.  Then she took my slimy hand in hers and pulled us both to our feet.  We tried out for the play looking like a couple of swine escaped from a pigsty, laughing the whole time.  I never did cry, thanks to my friend.

      “So yes, my dear son, friendship has its unique rewards—priceless ones.”


This story is from the book, Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year, by American author and poet, Richelle E. Goodrich

Sneak Peek—Little Gracie Gubler

I asked my followers on Facebook, Twitter, and my author website for name suggestions, explaining that I had an idea for a short story about a confident, young, school-age girl. I intend to include the story in a book I'm putting together for my son's graduation.  This book will be his gift from me with the promise that half of all royalties go to him to help ease the overwhelming cost of a college education.  I received some wonderful name suggestions including the following:  

Sadie, Hannah, Lucy, Deniz, Tina, Evie, Gracie, Madeline, Scarlet, Hope, Kathryn, and Kimberly.  From the suggestions, I chose Gracie and gave her the full name of Gracie Gubler.

I would like to share this short story with you now and hopefully wet your whistle, so to speak, for other short stories, poetry, and quotes to come in Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a Few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year, to be released this April.  Watch for a preordering option soon.

Enjoy!

Little Gracie Gubler was eight.  She was a striking sight with her lava-red hair that hung as curly as a piglet’s tail and the sprinkling of cinnamon freckles on her nose and cheeks and fingers and toes.  When she stood in place, it was with both feet apart, hands on her hips, shoulders square, chin high, lips grinning as if she were the most remarkable child in a school where nearly every other student towered over her.  The truth is, Gracie’s confidence and pluck overflowed, more than most.  And it happened that these qualities—made manifest in her demeanor and countenance—were hard not to stare at. 

Now, this freckle-faced sprightly child had been born with a small frame and small ears that were somehow well-tuned to surrounding chit-chat.  And Gracie Gubler had no qualms about joining in on a transpiring conversation if the topic proved of interest to her.  In fact, she did so quite often.  On one tulip-blooming spring day she happened to overhear Jeffrey Turner and Dylan Ewing gossiping about Mr. Quilter’s bald head—a head that had been covered with blond fuzz just a week ago.  It was the last time they had seen their math teacher until he walked into school that morning without his hair.  Jeffrey and Dylan were discussing Mr. Quilter as if they were piecing together a puzzle that would reveal the whole story; never mind if there existed any amount of truth to it. 

“I heard that he was away on family business.”

“That’s what adults call it when it’s serious.”

“Yeah, like when someone dies.”

“Or when they’re going to die….like from a disease.”

“Like cancer.”

“Yeah.  You know, they shave your head bald if you get cancer.”

“No they don’t; your hair falls out on its own.  That’s what cancer does.  That’s how they know you have it.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, really.  And either way your head ends out bald, just like Mr. Quilter.”

“Poor guy’s probably real sick.  No wonder he needed a week off.” 

“Yeah.  I bet he doesn’t even know that when your hair falls out it’s the worst kind of cancer.  He’ll probably be dead in another week.”

“Or sooner.”  The boys sighed a dismal sigh in concert.  About that time, Gracie Gubler joined in their conversation.

“Do you two know what you’re talking about?” she asked.  “Did Mr. Quilter tell you he was sick?”

Dylan and Jeffrey exchanged a guarded glance before answering.  “Well, no, not exactly, but he didn’t have to say anything.  He missed a week of school and came back with no hair…”

“And he’s acting really tired.  It’s obvious he’s seriously sick.”

“Yeah, and only cancer takes all your hair that fast.”

Gracie pursed her lips together and placed both hands on her hips before swiveling about and marching directly to the school’s math room.  There she found Mr. Quilter sitting at his desk, his bald head lowered into his hands.  He did look tired.  The classroom was empty; all the kids were outside on the playground. 

Gracie interrupted the math teacher by clearing her voice.  When he looked up, she asked him a simple question.

“Mr. Quilter, why is your head bald?”

After flashing a humored smile, he proceeded to explain how he had flown home to attend the funeral of his grandfather the prior week, and during that time he had been invited to play on his brother’s basketball team.  Mr. Quilter had eagerly agreed, being tall and athletic and quite fond of the game.  He had been less eager to agree to shaving his head in order to look like the other team players who took great pride in reflecting through appearances their team name—the Bald Eagles.  However, a little guilt-ridden convincing by his brother had done the trick.  Mr. Quilter flashed a wry smile as he rubbed his head and told Gracie, “It does make for faster showers in the morning.”

Little Gracie told her math teacher that she thought he looked fine with a bald head.  Then she marched outside to report the truth to Jeffrey and Dylan who had already convinced a dozen surrounding children that they would soon be getting a new math teacher.  Gracie stated that it was not so.

Later that day, outside the local grocery store where a troop of girl scouts was selling mint crèmes and coconut clusters and chunky chocolate cookies, Gracie was exiting the store behind her mother who stopped to purchase three boxes of mint crèmes, supporting the troop that her friend, Karin Summers, happened to direct as a parent volunteer.  Both adults watched a neighbor lady, Miss Tyra Darling, walk out of the store carrying a case of beer in either hand.  They began to talk in loud whispers, easily overheard by curious, young ears.

“That’s four cases this week.  I saw Tyra purchase two cases a couple days ago.”

“Really?  I say, that’s an awful lot of beer for a single woman who lives alone.”

“She’s got an obvious drinking problem.  Beverly, who lives right next door to Tyra, told me no one ever comes over to that lonely house.  Tyra never throws any parties or anything.  Not that Beverly wants any loud, drunken partiers carrying on next door.”

“No, no, I’m sure she doesn’t want that.  She would have to call the cops on something like that.”

“The woman is just a serious alcoholic.  No doubt she’ll die from a bad liver—young and miserably alone.”

“What a tragedy.  I don’t understand why people do stuff like that to themselves.”

During this conversation, every girl scout from Hannah Pepper to Hallie Nogues had their ears perked, listening.  Gracie Gubler, alone, spun about and marched toward the silver sedan in which Tyra Darling had deposited her two cases of beer.  The woman was just opening the driver’s seat door when a chipper “excuse me” stopped her.  Gracie went to stand directly under Tyra’s nose and looked up to ask a simple question. 

“Miss Darling, are you going to drink all of those beers yourself?”

The shocked recipient of the question put a hand to her heart, and her cheeks flushed red.  She laughed at the thought.  “Oh dear, dear, no, no!”  She then leaned forward and explained to little Gracie that her hobby and passion was gardening.  Every spring and summer she tended to a half an acre of garden behind her house which included rare flowers mixed with all sorts of herbs, fruits, and vegetables.  The beer was used as bait in homemade bowl-traps that effectively lured and killed slugs, snails, and earwigs.  She also sprayed the trees and bushes with beer because it attracted the most beautiful butterflies to her garden.  Tyra laughed again and skewed her eyebrows.  “I don’t even like the taste of beer,” she said.  “But I will admit, I do mix up a pretty good beer batter when I’m in the mood for a fish fry.” 

After accepting Miss Darling’s invitation to drop by at a later date and visit the beer-fertilized garden, Little Gracie Gubler marched back to report the truth to her mother and Karin (as well as the eavesdropping girl scouts.)  The adults stared silently at Gracie for a few stunned moments. 

“Huh, that’s good to know.”

“Yeah.  I wonder if I could get her beer batter recipe.”

The next day at school, freckle-faced Gracie was in the library checking out a fairytale storybook about Dimearians—people born with moth-type wings on their backs.  She cocked an ear when she overheard Russ Montgomery whispering (partly because he was in a library and partly because he was gossiping) about LeiAnn Jones, a new girl from Wisconsin who had joined their class two weeks prior.  She had proven to be a quiet sort and had checked out five thick books after receiving special permission from the librarian.

“She’s a snot, I tell you.  Thinks she’s smarter and better than the rest of us.  I bet she doesn’t even read those books.  Just showing off, hoping the rest of us will think Wisconsin grows brainiacs like it grows cheese.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t grow cheese…” someone started to say.

“You know what I mean.  That LeiAnn girl is so big-headed, she won’t even say ‘how d’ya do’ to anyone.  Has she talked to you?  ‘Cause she hasn’t said one word to me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Nope.”

“Not one word.”

“And have you said one word to her?” 

The question took the other kids by surprise, in part because it was voiced louder than appropriate for a library setting, but mostly because the speaker had not been included in the conversation.  Gracie Gubler ran her probing eyes over every kid huddled about the reading table.  Then she turned and headed to a corner of the library where LeiAnn Jones was sitting by herself with a pile of books on her lap.  She had one cracked open hiding her face.  It took LeiAnn a moment to lower the book when she heard someone address her by name.  As soon as Gracie could see the blue of LeiAnn’s eyes, she asked a simple question.

“Why don’t you join the rest of the class at the reading table?”

LeiAnn glanced in the direction of the other kids who were staring with tight eyes at Gracie’s back.  The new girl swallowed hard, and then timidly explained that she felt uncomfortable.  No one had invited her to sit with the others, and she didn’t want to assume they would welcome her.  Shrugging it off, she told the inquisitive red-head that she was fine—“I have my books.”  LeiAnn then confessed, “I’m not very good at making new friends.”

After chatting with LeiAnn Jones, finding that they had a common love for fantasy books, Gracie marched back to the reading table to report the truth to Russ Montgomery and the other children, after which a few of them decided to go introduce themselves to the new girl.

And so it was with Gracie.  Whenever she heard someone speak a word of assuming gossip, she was quick to learn and share the truth.  Thus, Bobby Black learned that he had not been callously dumped by Darin Caraway as a best friend; the birthday invitation had been mailed by his mother to the wrong address.   Elizabeth Bifano learned that Kimmy Jackson did in fact adore her daisy-yellow dress, even though Kimmy’s least favorite color in the world was yellow.  Madelyn Jenks learned that their school teacher did not own a jar where he kept the names of bad students he meant to feed to the alligators at the end of the school year.  And Mindi Bergeson learned that Scarlet Elliott’s unfortunate case of acne was not the result of kissing frogs in the pond on the Elliot’s farm.  Therefore, when anyone saw the little freckle-faced redhead marching near, they would check their conversation—because if their comments weren’t the verified truth, it was foolish business to gossip in front of Gracie Gubler.

​Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich

Excerpt from Slaying Dragons

I'm currently working on another book of quotes, poetry, and short stories to be released this coming April, just in time for my second son's graduation. It will be his graduation gift. The book is titled, Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a Few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year.

 I thought I would share a recently-written excerpt:

I used to play in the hot July wind and imagine it was dragon’s breath singeing my skin.  I would clamber up the hill behind our home as if I were a knight intent on hunting down and slaying the beast.  For I would try to rouse it by making a ruckus as loud and annoying as a lonely pup.  But no dragon responded to my verbal challenges, and I was never lucky enough to stumble upon any large, fire-breathing animal.  Not until the day I turned ten. 

That day was not unlike other hot and windy July afternoons when I scrambled up the green hill that blocked faraway scenery from the windows of our house.  And like every other time, I brandished my invisible sword, imagining it glistening in the sunlight, bejeweled at the hilt with priceless sapphires and rubies.  I swore aloud to slay the dragon whose hot breath was the source of the July winds—or so it seemed in a boy’s creative mind—and hustled with great energy and determination up the rocky terrain. 

I had climbed only partway when the toe of my shoe managed to lodge itself beneath the edge of a smooth, pearly rock.  I nearly fell over and would surely have dropped my treasured sword had it actually been made from physical substance.  But it remained in my hand and, finding my shoe unable to slide out from beneath the pale stone, I pretended to jab at it with the tip of my sword as if this poking attack would surely persuade whatever had taken such a fast hold to release me.  For a short period of time I entertained myself with fantasy heroics that pitted me against creatures of enormous girth, extraordinary strength, and fierce cunning.  However, this did nothing to free me.  As one might guess, a make-believe sword has little effect on genuine problems.  I soon grew anxious enough to reach for a real, solid stick in hopes of prying my foot loose.

To my great relief, the stick worked like magic and forced up the pearly rock.  To my great astonishment, I discovered that what had snagged my foot was no rock.  It had a peculiar shape; the unburied end tapered off to a sharp point.  But the fact that it rose in the air of its own accord proved most convincing. 

I staggered backwards, succumbing to greater degrees of shock with every inch this mysterious item rose off the ground.  I gasped aloud as it was joined by four near-identical ivory hooks.  It wasn’t until the sharp tips came together that it dawned on me what I was seeing.  The pale, pointed rocks were claws!  Five claws attached to crusty fingers that formed a fist larger than my pitiful, scrawny mass! 

I could feel my face drain of color standing there, wanting to flee, yet powerless to command my muscles to move.  White as a ghost, I watched the green, muddy hillside grow taller and taller while taking on a beastly form.  I cannot recall if I breathed at all during the time this thrilling phenomenon took place, but the creature extended its neck and breathed a waft of hot air down upon me as if conveying irritation at having had its nap disturbed. 

There I stood staring up at two glowing golden eyes, facing a magnificent dragon as real and alive as the hopeful, young knight at its feet.  My heart started with fright at what sounded like a boom of thunder, and I fell to the ground like a rag doll.  Under a sudden shadow, I realized the dragon’s wings had snapped open, mimicking a clap of thunder.  The air seemed to swoop up the beast in defiance of gravity, and it took my dragon far, far away while I watched, mouth agape.  I stared at the sky until no visible proof remained of what I had witnessed.  And though I told many a soul the truth of the matter, none believed me.

I have yet to cross paths again with that golden-eyed dragon, but you will find me still climbing hills where the winds blow hot.  With watchful eyes and a solid Terillian sword in my grip, I search for unusual rocks as white and smooth as pearls.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich

The Mossy Hill

Behind my house within walking distance is a big, beautiful hill.  I fell in love with it growing up as a child years ago.  I would look to the hill many times a day, studying its mossy spots; its hairy, golden veins; and the muddy flecks that mimicked a scattering of bulbous rocks.  Because of the hill, I learned to adore the evening sunset for unusual reasons no one would ever believe.  Not because the red sun dyed the hump of my hill a dark maroon when the two appeared to touch.  And not because of the way the sky mixed rosy and smoky clouds together as they reached down from above…or up from below—it was hard to say which way they swirled to spread as sheer as a veil.  No, the reason I loved the sunset enough to watch it faithfully every night, either from up on the rooftop or from a private spot in the cattails near the creek below my house, was because that beautiful hill showed me twice in a night the same marvelous sunset. 

First upside up.  And then upside down.

Please don’t laugh.  The sun did indeed set twice in a night for me.  My mother would laugh whenever I tried to convince her it was true.  More than once I persuaded her to sit and watch, directing her eyes to a small rise attached to the steeper hill next to it.  When the final red tinge of sun vanished completely and the world went dark, I would look to the lesser rise, knowing a red sun would manifest itself once again on its rugged face.

“Look, Mama, look!  You will see it!  The sun will show itself again, it will!  And it will set upside down—I’m not lying!”

But no matter how long she waited, her patience was never long enough.  “Silly girl,” she would say.  “I see nothing but stars.”

“But it’s true, Mama!  The sun will show itself again if you wait.”

And she did wait.

But it didn’t show in all that time.

“It must be an illusion,” she finally decided, believing her daughter would not lie.  “Perhaps the moon reflects the sun onto that rise on rare nights.”

“On every night, Mama,” I corrected.

Her smile was playful and doubtful at the same time.  She then walked away sighing, “Oh, silly girl.”

Alone I would wait until, as faithfully as ever, the red sun appeared on the smaller rise, divided by a vertical wisp of black.  Slowly, surely, it sank upside down until it disappeared.

And so it was I grew to be a young woman in love with a magical hill—for that is the logical conclusion I drew at its repeating of an upturned sunset each night for my eyes only.  Mother, though she never witnessed the miracle, labeled it an illusion.  I dubbed it magic.  For what else could explain a single sun setting twice within a span of minutes, and topsy-turvy at that?  I will admit there were occasions when I stood on my head in the grass, feet propped high against the trunk of an oak tree, in order to see the second sunset properly.  Never with Mother nearby.  For she would surely gasp and say, “How terribly unladylike!” 

One cloudy evening, only a few sunsets after my seventeenth birthday, I was nearing my quiet spot amongst the cattails by the creek when something stirred in my stomach.  It felt awful.  At the same time, I glimpsed a figure move within the cattails, but I had no idea if what I’d find there would prove as awful as my stomach’s uneasiness seemed to anticipate. For those who doubt, I emphatically insist that it is a wise rule to listen to your stomach.  It has an uncanny sense about the reality of things.  On this particular occasion I failed to heed that uncomfortable warning and continued cautiously forward to my spot within the cluster of tall cattails.  My stomach did a somersault when a very large man stepped out into the open and faced me.  He was smiling in a manner that could never—even by the most naïve minds—be mistaken for friendly.

I turned to run back to the house, but I was grabbed by the man who lunged at me with the speed of a cobra.  He yanked my body to him.  When my lungs filled with air, preparing to scream, he stifled the sound with a firm hand, smothering my face.  Desperate to breath, I tried in vain to pry his fingers away.  He dragged me into the cattails before slipping his hand down off my nose, allowing me to draw in oxygen but still barring any ability to scream.  As the man growled in my ear, insensible words dripping with malice, I feared for my life.

“They thought they could hide you from me, that I wouldn’t detect your putrid stench out here in the middle of nowhere.  But I swore to them I’d hunt you down—every last one of you.  So far I’ve kept my word.  I’ve diminished your numbers and robbed you of those abominable service creatures.  And I never stopped searching for you, young one—in caves and deserts and every other inhospitable corner of existence.  I even bribed the vagrant sailors of pirate ships, thinking they might find you in transport when your superiors finally decided to call you overseas.  But no—you’re not quite old enough to be summoned yet.  So I’ll kill you now as I did the others.  I’ll end your life before it becomes my misfortune.  When you’re dead, I’ll wait here for your service creatures to show their vile forms, and then I will slay them as well.” 

I was sucking in air through my nose while these words hit my ear, void of meaning.  Nothing he said made the least amount of sense to me.  Surely, he had mistaken me for a hostile individual capable of causing him torment. 

I was no one to fear.  No one at all.

His fingers clamped down over my nose once again as if he meant to suffocate the life out of me.  I fought him with all my might, knowing my struggles were futile; his strength far surpassed my own.  My eyes flickered back at the hill I loved so much as if to say “goodbye,” at which time I caught a peculiar sight.  Two suns were visible at once—one red orb hanging above the hill and a second orb aglow on the face of the lower rise.  I thought, perhaps, that my senses were being impaired by lack of oxygen. 

When the ground quaked beneath my feet, it seemed as if the planet itself had chosen to come to my rescue.  The tremors managed to pull the grassy footing from beneath my assailant.  He tumbled over and his hands flailed outward, releasing me.  Coughing and gasping for air, I scrambled to get away from him, deterred by the shaking ground until it suddenly ceased.  My eyes darted from the grass to my beloved hill, only to find that it was gone.  The setting sun hung low in the sky over a completely flat horizon!

I was about to flee for home, more concerned for self-preservation than the miraculous disappearance of an entire hill, when the man shrieked, making my eyes turn back to him.  My body slowly followed suit, astounded by what my eyes were registering. 

My would-be killer was on the ground looking up into the face of an ominous, hovering beast kept aloft by giant wings.  The body of the creature was humped, covered in mossy spots and hairy, golden veins and muddy, bulbous flecks that resembled exactly the missing hill.  It dawned on me that the low rise normally sitting adjacent to the hill was the beast’s head.  I knew this without a doubt because a red eye glared from the side of its head, mimicking the sun at dusk.  I gasped, realizing my beloved hill was in actuality a dragon!  My topsy-turvy sunset wasn’t at all a second sunset but a dragon’s bright eye which opened up each and every evening to look out at the world before vanishing under dragon eyelids.

I wondered, was this beast a service creature like those the vile man had muttered about in my ear?  There would be no asking him, for he was swallowed whole by the beast in question, scarcely able to let out a final shriek.

The dragon’s face turned to stare at me full on, revealing two glowing, red eyes.  My stomach felt calm, but in my mind I feared this was no service creature but a monster that meant to feed on me as it had the unfortunate man.  The dragon made no sudden moves, however, and the sword-like teeth I had glimpsed in its mouth were not shown to me again.  The dragon lowered its head.  Cautiously I approached, moving just close enough to reach out and touch its snout.  As my fingers made contact with the scaly texture of its skin, a waft of swirly, gray smoke puffed from both nostrils, startling me, convincing my feet to scuttle backwards.  Its immense body rotated in the air, and I watched in awe as a pair of giant wings took the creature back to its resting place where once again he appeared as a distant hill blocking out the setting sun.

“Thank you,” I breathed as the dragon closed its eyes.

I immediately ran to the house to relay the entire story to my mother who became greatly agitated at my mention of a stranger, and then greatly perturbed at my insistence that a man-eating dragon did indeed live past the creek behind our house.  The truth was ultimately labeled an outlandish illusion, and I was informed by my mother that a career in story-telling might very well suit me.

That was all about a year ago today.  And I shall never forget the life-changing moment I discovered that the hill I loved was in truth a dragon I loved even more.  Now, as I turn eighteen, my stomach twists itself up into knots.  I have learned to listen to it, for its predictions have yet to be wrong.  I know something is coming.  A change in my life and in the world itself.  What sort of change, I don’t know.  But I am sure it involves me and my dragon.  The great beast has awakened for the second time in my young life, but I have no fear.  It intends to take me somewhere.  Somewhere I am needed.  And when my mother sees that I and the great hill behind our house are both gone, she might come to believe in my illusions… and in dragons.

~ By Richelle E. Goodrich  Copyright 2016

His Open Door

"Ma'am," he said, reaching for the door.  He held it open, his posture as erect and sturdy as a pole.

I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position.  At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air.

At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude.  How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered.  The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity.  How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him?

As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy.  It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity.  

I moved through the entrance and thanked him.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.

~ From the book, Slaying Dragons by Richelle E. Goodrich

                      

Such a Nasty Bruise

     

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes.  I am stunned he can see it.  Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days.  My hand automatically moves to my chest.

     Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise.  My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings.  The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time.  I cry because they are invisible to most.

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart. 

     His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm.  He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona. 

     “Oh.  My elbow.”  I let the air exhale from my lungs.  Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor.  It is jerked up again. 

     “Can I do anything for you?”  I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings.  He tugs and I feel it.

     “No,” I reply to his question.  But it is a lie.  There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart.  I wish they would mercifully let go.

Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich

A Valentine Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a king and a queen though not of the same kingdom.  They were of different lands and ruled over very different subjects, possessing unique talents and single hearts.

This valiant king and beautiful queen one day found themselves treading the same route which happened to meander through both their lands.  Upon this chance meeting they detected in one another distinctive, worthy qualities, both intriguing and impressive enough to cause them to want to cross paths again.

Letters were exchanged from his kingdom to hers, delivered in haste.  For even the heralds could see what a marvelous thing it might be to join these two great empires.  And so, through written exchanges, it was agreed that this king would escort the queen in his grand, red carriage to view the celebrated, annual light festival in her land—an experience enjoyed after sunset.

On the night of the event, they rode along for hours, talking, laughing and smiling frequently at one another.  Their hearts beat in rhythm, pattering with pleasure and tenderness, one toward the other.  Jolly tunes played over the air, enhancing their bliss.  The king shared pictures of his royal family and subjects, portraits that pleased the beautiful queen.  And upon this enchanted night, surrounded by twinkling lights, their hearts swelled and the two fell in love.

It was not long before their kingdoms joined; a merger solidified through marriage.  It was a union that made them both forever good and rich.

To say that they lived happily ever after would be in error, because their days consisted of continual and unnumbered trials.  There were some periods that sparkled and warmed their souls like the festive lights under which this king and queen fell spellbound in love.  Other times proved darker, but not without growth and gain.  The promise was that through enduring these trials together—remaining a forever united kingdom in laughter, sorrow, hardship, and love—their uniquely beating hearts would eventually, someday, meld as one. 

The Valentine is one heart shared by two.  

   ~Richelle E. Goodrich, Making Wishes 

      Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich