Writing Samples
OFFERINGS by "Doc" Sanborn
“I’m just hunky-dory, as usual. Just waiting around to die. And how are you, dear?” This was my usual response to Nurse Goodhart’s cheerful inquiry as to the state of my health. The assisted living facility’s medical watch dog was conscientious and well-meaning, but when you’ve had your fill of living and just want to join your husband in the silvery light of the hereafter, even the best-intentioned gesture is an irritant.
I reached for the pill cup and accidentally knocked it off the table. The pills flew onto the bed, the cup landed on the floor. “Sorry, dear. It’s been a clumsy day.”
“No problem, Mrs. Cortland. We all have those kinds of days. I’ll get them.” She retrieved my pills, put them in the cup, and held them out to me.
I was struck as from a bolt of lightning by a flash of memory of my Johnny at five years old offering me a nosegay of dandelions. He was my sandbox playmate and first and best friend. We slid down slides, swung on swings, played tag, and lay on our backs making up stories about the clouds.
Later, we were high school sweethearts. Not the fairy tale football hero and cheerleader crap the Danielle Steele romance stories are filled with, but the down to earth work after school at the local Safeway for college money kind. That was back in the days when such a thing was possible.
During Harvest Festival of our junior year, Johnny invited me on a moonlight hayride. As he offered me his hand to help me into the wagon, I could have sworn he held dandelions. Must’ve been the moonlight playing tricks.
In our senior year we got our class rings. He offered me his just like he did that damned nosegay when we were kids—and with that same shy, hopeful smile.
College for us was much like high school, only harder. While we were on scholarships we still had to work part-time. I worked in the library and Johnny got a maintenance job with the college. We lived in separate dorms, studied together, and tried hard not to get pregnant. Those were the fastest days of my life. Just before graduation, Johnny formally asked me to marry him. He did it proper on bended knee and outstretched hand, offering me his grandmother’s engagement ring. There wasn’t any doubt I’d accept, yet he still wore that shy, hopeful smile.
In a blink of an eye that memory shifted to two others: Judy, our daughter at seven years old holding out her crayon drawing for approval and posting on the fridge. Then Judy’s twin Jake’s dead turtle in proffered hand believing I had the power of resurrection. They both enrolled in ROTC in college, went to Afghanistan, and were killed—Judy in a rocket attack on the hospital where she served as a nurse, and Jake in an IED explosion while in a jeep bound for his first posting.
The loss of the twins sucked the happiness out of our lives, and I clung to Johnny in my grief, and he to me in his. Such devastation often creates a void between lovers. Not us. We both strove to hold up the other. The welfare of the other was the only reason we had to keep struggling. Then Johnny died. They said he died in his sleep without pain. How the hell would they know.
“Take your pills, Mrs. Cortland.” Nurse Goodhart’s voice shook me out of my reverie. I took them and went through the motions. As soon as she left, I took them from under my tongue and put them in my candy box along with the others.
Tonight, when the moonlight streams through my window and Johnny’s wavering image offers me his hand, I’ll join him in the silvery hereafter.
Published in The Florida Writer, June issue, 2023
“I’m just hunky-dory, as usual. Just waiting around to die. And how are you, dear?” This was my usual response to Nurse Goodhart’s cheerful inquiry as to the state of my health. The assisted living facility’s medical watch dog was conscientious and well-meaning, but when you’ve had your fill of living and just want to join your husband in the silvery light of the hereafter, even the best-intentioned gesture is an irritant.
I reached for the pill cup and accidentally knocked it off the table. The pills flew onto the bed, the cup landed on the floor. “Sorry, dear. It’s been a clumsy day.”
“No problem, Mrs. Cortland. We all have those kinds of days. I’ll get them.” She retrieved my pills, put them in the cup, and held them out to me.
I was struck as from a bolt of lightning by a flash of memory of my Johnny at five years old offering me a nosegay of dandelions. He was my sandbox playmate and first and best friend. We slid down slides, swung on swings, played tag, and lay on our backs making up stories about the clouds.
Later, we were high school sweethearts. Not the fairy tale football hero and cheerleader crap the Danielle Steele romance stories are filled with, but the down to earth work after school at the local Safeway for college money kind. That was back in the days when such a thing was possible.
During Harvest Festival of our junior year, Johnny invited me on a moonlight hayride. As he offered me his hand to help me into the wagon, I could have sworn he held dandelions. Must’ve been the moonlight playing tricks.
In our senior year we got our class rings. He offered me his just like he did that damned nosegay when we were kids—and with that same shy, hopeful smile.
College for us was much like high school, only harder. While we were on scholarships we still had to work part-time. I worked in the library and Johnny got a maintenance job with the college. We lived in separate dorms, studied together, and tried hard not to get pregnant. Those were the fastest days of my life. Just before graduation, Johnny formally asked me to marry him. He did it proper on bended knee and outstretched hand, offering me his grandmother’s engagement ring. There wasn’t any doubt I’d accept, yet he still wore that shy, hopeful smile.
In a blink of an eye that memory shifted to two others: Judy, our daughter at seven years old holding out her crayon drawing for approval and posting on the fridge. Then Judy’s twin Jake’s dead turtle in proffered hand believing I had the power of resurrection. They both enrolled in ROTC in college, went to Afghanistan, and were killed—Judy in a rocket attack on the hospital where she served as a nurse, and Jake in an IED explosion while in a jeep bound for his first posting.
The loss of the twins sucked the happiness out of our lives, and I clung to Johnny in my grief, and he to me in his. Such devastation often creates a void between lovers. Not us. We both strove to hold up the other. The welfare of the other was the only reason we had to keep struggling. Then Johnny died. They said he died in his sleep without pain. How the hell would they know.
“Take your pills, Mrs. Cortland.” Nurse Goodhart’s voice shook me out of my reverie. I took them and went through the motions. As soon as she left, I took them from under my tongue and put them in my candy box along with the others.
Tonight, when the moonlight streams through my window and Johnny’s wavering image offers me his hand, I’ll join him in the silvery hereafter.
Published in The Florida Writer, June issue, 2023
CLIFFHANGER by “Doc” Sanborn
Fifteen feet below the cliff's top, the rock face presented a malignant convex surface, and that caused my current dilemma—reaching over the hump for a handhold tended to push my toes off their precarious foothold. Leaning back to stabilize my footholds put any handholds just out of reach.
“Remember, three points of contact.” Tom's voice drifted up from forty feet below, where he belayed me.
I fought the urge to look down. As a newbie rock climber with only seven climbs under my belt, anything higher than fifteen feet still seemed vertiginous.
My left hand reached up and caressed the rock, seeking a small lip of rock or a finger-width crack. Nothing. Only a small patch of rock tripe. I stretched as far as I could, and there, at the pad of my middle finger tip, I felt the thin outer edge of a small cup-shaped depression. I couldn't stretch far enough to get my fingers over the edge—but the smallest of jumps, an upward lurch of my body should be just enough for me to grab it.
A frisson of fear flickered up and down my spine as I psyched myself up for the move. I took a deep breath and hurled myself upwards, left arm flung up, hand hook-shaped to grab the tiny edge. My fingers stabbed into the depression and instantly clamped shut like a lobster's claw. I hung there like a man dropped from the gallows. My nanosecond of prideful victory—coupled with relief—was cut short by a faint crunching noise. The rock broke away in my hand, and fast as an eye-blink, down I went.
Tom had wisely taken up the slack, so my fall was only five feet. Most of that was due to stretch in the Goldline nylon rope.
“Falling,” I called, after the fact and half in jest.
“I see that,” said Tom. “Try a little over to the right. You might find more to hang onto. Just make sure it's solid, cuz there are some crumbly areas.”
“Now you tell me.” I spider-walked ten feet to the right and commenced to climb again. Indeed, there were more holds to work with and I gained ten feet—then the holds ran out. No more ridges, lips, or nobs. Only smooth rock. So frustrating. Only ten more feet to go, and no discernible way to get there.
My feet ached in my new climbing shoes, intentionally bought a size too small to eliminate any looseness between foot and rock, and to maintain rigidity when edging. My knees developed a slight tremor. My forearms and fingers ached from desperate clutching. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
“Take your time,” Tom hollered. “There's no rush.”
I knew he was trying to be helpful by cautioning me against any rash moves—like I'd just made. However, time was also my enemy as it inexorably sapped my strength. I didn't want to lose face by quitting, and I didn't want to fall off—again.
I swept my hands slowly over the rock above me. Upon closer examination, I discovered here and there a sparse sprinkling of minute edges, but only a tease, nothing to really get a grip on. A couple arm lengths to the right I spied a rougher surface, and what appeared to be crevices and thumb-sized holes.
“Slack,” I yelled.
Tom let out rope as I crawled to the right.
I found some finger holds when some kind of insect darting about my head distracted me. Then there were two, then three. Another landed on my hand and stung me. Bees, wasps, hornets—oh my. More swarmed out of a crevice, the air hummed. Within a heartbeat everything had changed.
I panicked. Without thought, caution, or three points of contact, I scrambled up that rock face like a mad monkey. I grabbed handholds that weren't there, swam up vertical surfaces, and slithered over the top. Unclipping the rope from my carabiner, I fled down the path that ended at Tom's side.
“Holy crap!” Tom exclaimed. “You trying to break a record?”
“Naw. I just got bored hanging around up there.”
Published in The Florida Writer, December issue, 2018
Fifteen feet below the cliff's top, the rock face presented a malignant convex surface, and that caused my current dilemma—reaching over the hump for a handhold tended to push my toes off their precarious foothold. Leaning back to stabilize my footholds put any handholds just out of reach.
“Remember, three points of contact.” Tom's voice drifted up from forty feet below, where he belayed me.
I fought the urge to look down. As a newbie rock climber with only seven climbs under my belt, anything higher than fifteen feet still seemed vertiginous.
My left hand reached up and caressed the rock, seeking a small lip of rock or a finger-width crack. Nothing. Only a small patch of rock tripe. I stretched as far as I could, and there, at the pad of my middle finger tip, I felt the thin outer edge of a small cup-shaped depression. I couldn't stretch far enough to get my fingers over the edge—but the smallest of jumps, an upward lurch of my body should be just enough for me to grab it.
A frisson of fear flickered up and down my spine as I psyched myself up for the move. I took a deep breath and hurled myself upwards, left arm flung up, hand hook-shaped to grab the tiny edge. My fingers stabbed into the depression and instantly clamped shut like a lobster's claw. I hung there like a man dropped from the gallows. My nanosecond of prideful victory—coupled with relief—was cut short by a faint crunching noise. The rock broke away in my hand, and fast as an eye-blink, down I went.
Tom had wisely taken up the slack, so my fall was only five feet. Most of that was due to stretch in the Goldline nylon rope.
“Falling,” I called, after the fact and half in jest.
“I see that,” said Tom. “Try a little over to the right. You might find more to hang onto. Just make sure it's solid, cuz there are some crumbly areas.”
“Now you tell me.” I spider-walked ten feet to the right and commenced to climb again. Indeed, there were more holds to work with and I gained ten feet—then the holds ran out. No more ridges, lips, or nobs. Only smooth rock. So frustrating. Only ten more feet to go, and no discernible way to get there.
My feet ached in my new climbing shoes, intentionally bought a size too small to eliminate any looseness between foot and rock, and to maintain rigidity when edging. My knees developed a slight tremor. My forearms and fingers ached from desperate clutching. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
“Take your time,” Tom hollered. “There's no rush.”
I knew he was trying to be helpful by cautioning me against any rash moves—like I'd just made. However, time was also my enemy as it inexorably sapped my strength. I didn't want to lose face by quitting, and I didn't want to fall off—again.
I swept my hands slowly over the rock above me. Upon closer examination, I discovered here and there a sparse sprinkling of minute edges, but only a tease, nothing to really get a grip on. A couple arm lengths to the right I spied a rougher surface, and what appeared to be crevices and thumb-sized holes.
“Slack,” I yelled.
Tom let out rope as I crawled to the right.
I found some finger holds when some kind of insect darting about my head distracted me. Then there were two, then three. Another landed on my hand and stung me. Bees, wasps, hornets—oh my. More swarmed out of a crevice, the air hummed. Within a heartbeat everything had changed.
I panicked. Without thought, caution, or three points of contact, I scrambled up that rock face like a mad monkey. I grabbed handholds that weren't there, swam up vertical surfaces, and slithered over the top. Unclipping the rope from my carabiner, I fled down the path that ended at Tom's side.
“Holy crap!” Tom exclaimed. “You trying to break a record?”
“Naw. I just got bored hanging around up there.”
Published in The Florida Writer, December issue, 2018