Veronica Randolph Batterson's Blog

Sharing my latest short story, entitled Precipice, from my blog. Thanks to all who take the time to read these offerings. It means a great deal to the authors who write them. I appreciate any and all who share it, but as always copyright applies. To view other stories and updates, please visit https://www.veronicarbatterson.blogsp.... Thanks!

Precipice

By Veronica Randolph Batterson


She ran. The meadow opened before her like welcoming arms ready to embrace, its colors beginning to alter as autumn waited patiently to paint the landscape with rich hues of yellows and reds. Wildflowers and wheat fields swayed on the horizon, defying the inevitable change as if crying, “not yet, not yet” but gradually all would bow and sleep; the palette of fall would insure it. The air was clean and she breathed deeply; she heard nothing but her own breaths and the inner turmoil that raged inside her head.

The image of her daughter strapped to a gurney and being rushed down a hospital corridor replayed, as it had done repeatedly for the last year. Had it been a year? The rawness of it made it seem like yesterday, and she wondered if it would ever ease. The helplessness, anger and hopelessness vying to take over her life consumed her days. Sleep had become her only release, yet even that small amount of deliverance was slipping from her grasp. Her daily actions were no longer dictated by the hours on a clock, as somehow time slipped past without her knowing how. Forgetfulness.

A dance of leaves just to her right made her turn, and she watched a hawk take flight from the branch of a nearby tree, soaring upward then dipping low in search of unsuspecting prey. Its wings spread wide against the sky made her think of freedom for some reason; she envied and wished for that feeling within herself, of simply letting go and gliding, feeling nothing but peace.

“I can do it,” her daughter had beamed, when at age five she pedaled off on the tiny bicycle, minus the training wheels, wobbling down the driveway.
“You did, you did!” she had exclaimed in response, clapping her hands with encouragement, yet fearful her little girl would crash before stopping.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” the child turned, looking over her shoulder after braking beautifully, with one foot balanced on the ground.
“Oh, just happy tears,” she replied, wiping one from her face with the back of hand.
“That’s silly,” her daughter laughed as she took off again, racing along the front sidewalk.

She’d give anything to shed those silly tears again. Twenty years later, the tears were gut-wrenching and unrestrained, inevitably evolving into sobs at the slightest thing, smell, sound or memory. Happiness wasn’t the source.

“Mom,” the whine came followed by six sets of giggles underneath multi-colored sleeping bags strewn across the family room floor.
“That’s my name,” she’d replied in an attempt to sound cool to her newly-minted teenaged daughter, rather than reflecting her annoyance that the sleepover party wouldn’t settle for the night.
“You don’t have to be in here with us,” her daughter said, followed by the eye roll that came with turning thirteen. A habit that nearly drove her crazy for years.
“I do as long as you don’t sleep. Early morning for the rest of the house,” she had said, hunkering down and crossing her arms.
And she had stayed until each rebellious little body gave itself up to the night.

The wind picked up, drawing her from the memories. All she had to do was walk a few yards and let go, removing the pain of no one else understanding. Time doesn’t ease anything; this too does not pass. Forget closure and healing. The door of unanswered questions remains open, bearing down and squeezing your heart and brain so tightly that reason and logic disappear; the ability to simply function is too great to handle because the only person with the answers is gone.

“Here, I made this for you,” her daughter had said, as she slipped the mixed compact disc into the car CD player for the two-hour drive.
“Who is it?” she had asked, hands on the steering wheel. Empty nester, freshman college drop-off and an SUV packed to the gills with things her daughter had to have for the new dorm room vied to make her into an emotional mess, but determination to stay strong was winning the battle.
“Taylor Swift,” came her daughter’s reply, with the slightest lilt to a voice betraying her youngest child’s struggle to remain strong as well.
“What’s it called?”
“Just listen.”

I'm five years old
It's getting cold
I've got my big coat on

I hear your laugh
And look up smiling at you
I run and run
Past the pumpkin patch
And the tractor rides
Look now, the sky is gold
I hug your legs
And fall asleep on the way home

I don't know why all the trees change in the fall
But I know you're not scared of anything at all
Don't know if Snow White's house is near or far away
But I know I had the best day with you today

I'm thirteen now
And don't know how
My friends could be so mean
I come home crying
And you hold me tight
And grab the keys

And we drive and drive
Until we find a town far enough away
And we talk and window shop
'Till I’ve forgotten all their names

I don't know who I'm gonna talk to now at school
But I know I'm laughing
On the car ride home with you
Don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay
But I know I had the best day with you today

I have an excellent father
His strength is making me stronger
God smiles on my little brother
Inside and out he's better than I am
I grew up in a pretty house
And I've got space to run and hide
And I had the best days with you

There is a video I found
From back when I was three
You set up a paint set in the kitchen
And you're talking to me
It's the age of princesses and pirate ships
And the seven dwarfs
And Daddy's smart
And you're the prettiest lady in the whole wide world

And now I know why the all the trees change in the fall
I know you were on my side
Even when I was wrong
And I love you for giving me your eyes
Staying back and watching me shine

And, I didn't know if you knew
So I'm taking this chance to say
That I had the best day with you today.

They had driven in silence when the song ended, and suddenly her daughter said, “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too,” she replied. With that sweet, wonderful song called ‘The Best Day’ the daughter had confirmed her mom had done it right. With all the imperfections and even despite them, perhaps she had done okay.

She looked over her shoulder and there the car waited, ready to take her back to life without a daughter. But standing before her release beckoned, beyond the precipice a wide-open space offered flight and quick relief; the turmoil within would be over and freedom would be hers. Peace.

A gust of wind, a shadow across the rocks from the trees as the leaves rustled, then she heard it. Faint but clear, meant for her ears only.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too,” she replied, the words a breath, carried away from her lips toward the memory that was now her daughter.

She sighed and looked up one last time, then turned her back on the precipice that offered no answers. The car was waiting.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson 2019

Just sharing that my website has been polished and updated. Check it out at https://www.veronicabatterson.com. I share updates, stories and such on my blog, https://www.veronicarbatterson.blogsp.... Thanks for looking!

The Kindle version of my book, Williamsburg Hill, is now available as part of a Goodreads Giveaway until April 29, 2019. If you're interested in historical fiction, historical romance, Scottish fiction, Scottish romance, and/or contemporary romance, request a copy. One hundred are available. The paperback version can be found on Amazon and in select bookstores. Many thanks!

My latest book, Williamsburg Hill, is now published and is available right now on Amazon in both the paperback and Kindle versions. It crosses genres, including historical fiction and romance. Kindle Unlimited (as well as Prime, I think) offers the ebook for free. Thanks to all who read it. Reviews are welcome and appreciated, too! Veronica Randolph Batterson

I will be participating in Bookstock - The Memphis Area Authors' Festival at the Benjamin L. Hooks Central Library in Memphis, Tennessee on Saturday, April 23, 2016. Sponsored by the Memphis Public Library, the event runs from 11am-3pm. Over forty authors will be at this event, selling and signing their books. Stop by and say hello if you're in the area.

It's interesting how music can spur an idea, and I'm not sure if other writers visualize a story before they put words to it, but I do. This short story started forming recently while we drove from Chicago to Memphis. Leaving a snowstorm with white-out conditions behind us, listening to Robert Earl Keen on the iPod (particularly "I'm Comin' Home" and "Gringo Honeymoon"), and driving toward new beginnings, the idea started formulating. While a story doesn't "wrap up" in my head and it only evolves (and changes) as I write, I get a general sense of what I'd like it to say as I think about it. This story really isn't a reflection of the music I listened to that day, but I guess the songs set the tone and direction.

It feels good to get back to work after a long break. Also, I'm looking forward to getting back to writing and finishing my next book, Williamsburg Hill...it was coming along nicely until a little thing called "moving" happened.

January 2016 is an anniversary of sorts for me. Four years ago, I started this blog and thought it wouldn't last. But I'm still around and posting stuff. Thanks for reading my stories and musings. I hope you enjoy Cowboy Ridge and Honor and, as always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Cowboy Ridge and Honor

By Veronica Randolph Batterson
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

His horse pawed the earth, scraping away snow and foraging for grass to eat. Spring thaws were starting and bits of green, suddenly awake after a long winter’s sleep, sprouted through the slush. Soon the ground would be a muddy mess and he’d be digging muck out of hooves, boots and from more things than he cared to consider.

“Not much to eat here, old boy,” he said, patting the neck of the gelding that had been his companion for over a decade. The horse looked up at the sound of his voice, its ears swiveling.

It wasn’t far now. The old schoolhouse was just around the bend; he imagined smoke billowing from its chimney, and the bell ringing through the hollow signaling the start of a school day in what was now an abandoned structure. He guessed Honor had remembered it that way, too, as it had been the man’s history.

It had taken him nearly a week to complete this final trip with his friend. “Six days, thirteen hours and roughly twenty minutes,” he muttered, glancing at the pocket watch Honor had given him. It was almost over. Soon he would be home in the arms of his wife and sitting by a warm fire.

He’d been rough around the edges all those years ago when he first met Honor; he had plucked himself straight from the Chicago streets and landed in a hellish Montana winter without knowing a soul or understanding why he’d done it. Smiling, he recalled his attempts at fitting in. His new, brand-named outerwear didn’t fool anyone, nor did the shiny, leather cowboy boots that were in dire need of breaking in. His feet had hurt so badly. He recalled his first meeting with the man who would become his mentor.

“You ain’t from these parts, are you?” came the raspy drawl. The man was leaning against the checkout counter of the only grocery store within a fifty-mile radius.

“So it’s that obvious,” he had replied.

“Well, I know most folks from around here, and I don’t know you. So the odds of you being a stranger are pretty good,” the man smiled, lines deepening around his eyes and the tips of his full mustache lifting with his grin.

“And I thought the way I was dressed was the giveaway,” he’d said.

“To some it would be. To me, it looks like you’re trying too hard,” came the reply.

“Trying too hard at what?”

“Only you know that answer. Maybe to blend in, maybe to get a fresh start at something new. Nothing’s wrong with either one.”

“Guess I’d like to do both.”

“Well, let me give you a bit of advice. You really going to eat that?” the man had nodded toward the food he held in his hand.

“Why else would I be buying it?”

“Maybe to kill a stray cat. Look, old Sally runs a good store here, and she can generally cook a decent meal, but I wouldn’t say sushi is her specialty. That ain’t exactly something that flies off the shelves. Some might get a good laugh out of the city slicker who got sick off of old Sally’s concoctions.”

He’d looked down at the wrapped package and thought it appeared less appetizing than before. A wave of homesickness washed over him at that moment and he wondered what had made him think he could ever make it out west. Setting the food back on the shelf, he turned to the stranger.

“Thanks,” he’d said.

“My pleasure. Name’s Honor, by the way,” the man had replied, extending his hand.

He remembered shaking Honor’s hand and thought how that one gesture could sum up a person as a human being. Honor’s handshake was an indication of just who the man was. Genuine, strong, dependable and devoted. He’d known his friend for many years and Honor never swayed from being anything other than decent and good. The name had defined him.

“How’d you end up with the name Honor anyway?” he recalled asking the man once.

“Left on the doorstep as a babe with the word pinned to my blanket. I was raised by some good folks who simply used the name out of respect for whoever left me,” Honor had replied.

“You never wanted to find out who that was? Where you came from?”

“Why? I am who I am.”

And that was Honor. From the old buckskin coat with the torn fringe, to the weathered cowboy hat he wore, you knew what you were getting. And when his old friend, who never asked for any favors, drew his last breath, he knew what was needed. To honor a request that had come from the heart.

“The woman I loved told me that I was as mule-headed of a man she ever met, but she loved me in spite of it,” Honor revealed once, and had laughed at the memory.

“Didn’t know you were ever married.”

“Didn’t say I was. She and I never made it legal, but we lived together as man and wife up near a place we called Cowboy Ridge.”

“That far from here?”

“Pretty far. You can only make it by horse. Hard as heck building that little cabin, but we did it. Just the two of us.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s buried up there. Should’ve made it legal.” Honor had hung his head at the regret.

His mind came back to the present as he and the horse crossed into the valley. There stood the remote and dilapidated schoolhouse that Honor had attended, standing stubbornly against time and the elements. It had survived all who had crossed its threshold and served as one final visual of his friend. He would probably never pass this way again.

“Promise me something,” Honor’s voice gasped, as he had struggled to form the words at the end.

“Anything.”

“Spread my ashes at Cowboy Ridge. I need to rest with her.”

He carried out his friend’s wishes in a manner he thought best. Two days to make Cowboy Ridge, a couple more tending to the property and cabin, two additional days to get back. The ashes were scattered without fuss near the gravesite of the woman Honor had loved, as rushing water from a nearby stream provided the only sound. He was certain Honor would have been pleased.

“Time to go home now,” he said to the horse, as he gently nudged the animal onward. “Bet there’ll be some nice mash waiting. Beats mud and weeds, don’t you think?” The horse nickered in response, nodding its head as if understanding.

The schoolhouse behind them, he didn’t look back. He’d done the right thing by Honor, who never regretted anything other than not marrying the woman he had loved. A sense of urgency filled him, as if time were limited. Soon his cabin appeared in sight, the warm glow of lights through the windows illuminating the twilight and warming his soul. His wife was waiting for him.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

To view my blog, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading!

"A joy that's shared is a joy made double." - English Proverb

As 2015 comes to a close, I would like to thank all who have purchased and read my books, referred them to others and supported me by reading this blog and following it. Many thanks also to those who have bought a print of one of my photographs on Fine Art America. I appreciate it all. I look forward to continuing this blog in 2016, and finishing my latest book, Williamsburg Hill .

Many wishes for a peaceful holiday to each of you, a happy new year, and I hope that we all somehow learn to share our joys in life.

Merry Christmas.

To read more of my work, short stories and such, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....

This Saturday, September 12, 2015, I'll be participating in the annual "Catch a Bunch of Authors" event sponsored by the Aurora Public Library in Aurora, Illinois. The author fair runs from 2pm - 4pm and will be held at the new Santori Public Library of Aurora, 101 S. River Street.

Copies of my books, Daniel's Esperanza, Billy's First Dance and Funny Pages will be for sale, and I'll be happy to sign them, too. Information will be available about the latest book I'm writing, as well.

If you're in the Chicagoland area, please stop by and say hello, and see this beautiful new facility. Plus, over forty authors will be in attendance, with many books for sale. Thanks to all who come out and support us.

John Singer Sargent, born to American parents in Florence, Italy (1856), was considered the leading portrait painter of his era. In 1884, he exhibited in Paris what would eventually be considered a masterpiece; at the time, Paris society hated the painting and his reputation suffered. He fled to London.

Sargent named the portrait "Madame X" and the only thing that exists of the original as it hung in the Paris salon is a photograph. The artist repainted the original (with right shoulder strap in place), which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

The painting was viewed as scandalous, but seems very mild compared to today's standards for modesty and indecency. I've written a flash fiction piece based on this...a very short story that I, too, call Madame X. Thanks for reading, and if you're interested in more short stories, I've shared a few on this blog. Just check out the links to the right on my blog. As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

To read this short story, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading.

Often I get asked to donate one of my books or photographs to benefit charitable auctions and non-profit events. From a recent League of Chicago Theatres Gala to an upcoming Association for Individual Development fall auction, I'm always happy to help. Prints of my photographs can be found at http://www.veronica-batterson.artistw.... If anyone reading this post is in search of auction donations, take a look at my work, then contact me if you're interested. I'd be happy to provide an autographed copy of one of my books, as well. Daniel's Esperanza , Billy's First Dance and Funny Pages are sold on Amazon, as well as other sites. For donations, however, the books would come directly from me. Comment here if you're interested, or send me a message via my website http://www.veronicabatterson.com or the Fine Art America site.

A couple of upcoming events: I'll be attending the Grand Opening/Ribbon Cutting Ceremony for the new Santori Library in Aurora, IL on June 14. The event runs from 1-5 p.m. Also, another Author Fair in September: Aurora Public Library's "Catch a Bunch of Authors", September 12, 2015 from 2-4 p.m. More information will be provided as the date gets closer.

I've been working on the manuscript for the new book and I like the way it's going. I hope to get another short story posted here soon. Thanks to all who continue to read these posts. It's always appreciated. Sharing some screen shots of new prints from the Fine Art America site. Visit my blog directly to see the images, http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....