My Stories

by ST

“March right upstairs and take care of it!”

Not a word came in reply, but the stomping tromp up the stairs was beyond the din of any troop wearing military issue footwear.

“I don’t know why I have to . . . ,” mumble was broken off when “the command-er” demanded, “What did you say?!”

“Nothin’.”

The crash of projectiles bombarding the wall of the room brought swift reaction from the superior’s force.

“What do you think you are doing?” blasted into the room.

“Nothin.”

“Well, ‘Nothin’ sounds like a war operation, and it had better be declared a ‘No Fly Zone’ immediately,” came the stern retaliation.

Tears started leaking out of clenched eyelids. A white T-shirt quickly tried to camouflage the traitorous outflow, but then a sob snuck through the failing bulwarks: the sound stealthily slipping into enemy detection.

A gentler negotiating voice proposed, “Truce?”

“Truce,” came the muffled response, and then an assuaging embrace melted both hardline combatants.

by Susan Ternyey, 2021

              Sitting beside his large, rich old mahogany desk, steel-grey eyes and hair gave an equal substantiality to the man’s composed demeanor.  He was a doctor, almost father and confessor, in the small community he’d lived for near 50 years.  Not much was new or surprising to him, but if it was, no one could tell.

              Across from him sat a young woman dressed to get attention, in what he assumed was the latest fad.  She had always been a rebel, continually looking for a cause.  But he saw that she was in earnest and was not like to be dissuaded with any superficiality.  He considered a moment how to answer her—the suggestion to consult with her parents would not be effective . . . they were prone to give into whatever she demanded, though he would never say so to her, or to anyone else.  That’s why people trusted him:  he was not a divulger.  And the difference between him and a priest was that he was also not a preacher.  When he spoke, it was with measured thought and word.

              Ordinarily when people came to him for a procedure he was uncomfortable doing, he would suggest they go to the newer, younger doctor in town.  That wouldn’t work this time.  Even his professional counterpart, he knew, would balk at this request. 

              “There is nothing wrong with it, it is fully functional,” he began slowly.  “Why do you want to get rid of it?”

              “I just don’t want it,” she easily, quickly retorted. 

              “You have to realize that there will be pain, both physical and emotional.  Once it’s gone, there will be no way to go reverse it.  What if you afterwards regret your choice?”

              “I won’t,” she glibly asserted in her typical way. 

              “Frankly, I don’t feel comfortable with this . . .” he calmly countered, with just a touch of emotion behind his low tone.

              “But you have to do it, because it’s my body, and I’ve asked you to do it.  You can’t hide behind your outmoded morals and ideology,” her tone had a slightly sassy edge.

              “Well, actually I don’t have to perform any non-life-threatening procedure that is inconsistent with my professional opinion,” he spoke as if from the bench.

              “Haven’t you been paying attention to the news?  You can’t refuse medical treatment.”

              “There’s no judge that would see it as such, or come to your conclusion, let alone a jury,” he said confidently.

              “Well, maybe we’ll see about that,” she spoke defiantly.  “You’ll have to pay, and it won’t be pretty for your reputation,” she threatened.

              He called her bluff by calmly getting up, walking to the door, and opened it with a nod to invite her to pass through.  

              “If you find any reputable physician who would amputate a perfectly healthy, functioning leg for no other reason than your whim, the world has gone nuts,” he concluded.

A hymn by Susan Ternyey

Copyright 2019 Susan Ternyey

With Joy we rise and lift our Praise
To God for this new Blessed Day.
New Hope, new Start, new Birth and Life,
By Grace from darkness dawns new Light.

With this New Year let us embrace
The converting power of His Grace.
Which gives us means to become as our Lord:
Led onward, upward, by His Word.

We stumble in our daily toils—
Forgive us, Lord, for human foibles--
And week by week to the Path anew
We commit ourselves and are renewed.

With joy we rise and thank our God,
With love for each new wondrous birth;
His Son came a babe, a babe all begin,
And in rebirth we begin again.

In purest water the old life is purged,
And infant saint by Grace emerge:
So in mortal Death we pass through the Door
To Never-Ceasing Life, and Joy Forever more.

by Susan Ternyey

The clock had stopped its interminable ticking,
The white-haired woman smiled.
At last no more its counting time
Would keep her waiting, impatient as a child.

Finally!  She could forget the dust
And the un-come visitors,
Her mind could follow its wanderlust
In pleasant Past Time tours.

Her anxious moments had been so many,
Her nervous hands unstill:
When would they come?  Oh, would they come?
How oft she'd paced 'tween here and window-sill.

And when they came, "Oh, here they come!
I thought I had just dusted!"
She'd flit and fly around her home,
Each treasured thing re-adjusted.

"Please come in, please do come in!"
"But grandma, we can't stay long--"
Before "Hello," or "How are you--"
The greeting of every tongue.

"Please don't mind the dust," she excused herself.
"Oh, grandma it looks just fine--please don't make a fuss."
But it wasn't fine, and she fretted so:
Her dusty house made her blush.

Half an hour was all they could stay,
Their lives were so full (hers so empty).
Half an hour, of one hundred sixty-eight,
When the door closed, she sat staring blankly.

She should get up and "Mind that dust!"
She told herself, the clock told her, too.
But where now was all that energy?
Nor hands, nor arms, nor did she move.

But now the clock had quit its ticking
And she went rambling on--
Noiseless, effortless, in her mind--
She saw her friends, her old, old friends,
She hadn't seen in so long a time.

The tiny woman with delicate hands,
And wrinkles, and perfect hair of snow,
Drifted off into peaceful sleep--
When her relatives came, she didn't know.

"Oh look, the clock has stopped!
We must wind it again for her."
"Tiptoe you boys; no giggles, girls;
We mustn't her dreams disturb."

And out they crept without saying, "Hello,"
Or helping her with her dust;
"How contented she looks,"--how contented they felt,
Not to have made her fuss.

The clock again with its relentless ticking
Began again to count the time.
The woman awoke, her undusted room
Intruded once more on her mind.

A Victorian Tale

by Susan Ternyey

                Nicholas was mischievous. He was a nuisance.  He was unmanageable, spoiled, and so lovable, in his mischievous, nuisance, unmanageably spoiled way.

                His father knew something must be done to guide the boy aright and correct his behavior.  But Nicholas was the eldest, and the only son, and after all, none of his behavior was really wicked–he did it all in fun.  So would Nicholas’ father think in his fatherly way.

                Nicholas’ mother knew the boy must be controlled and taught to be mannerly as a young man ought to be.  But after all, he was only yet eleven, and his laughing eyes and mischievous smile were so infecting that she could hardly keep her own face straight as she reproved him.  He was her eldest, and her only son, and O, how she loved him!  So thought Nicholas’ mother, in her motherly-thinking way.

       And Nicholas knew that his father thought his fatherly way, and that his mother thought her motherly way, and that he never really must suffer much correcting of his behavior, or punishment for his manners.  He knew he was too lovable, and too beloved.  Even his three younger sisters, whom he teased unmercifully and constantly, really actually adored him, and on Christmas (and his birthday) they gave him their best and most thoughtful gifts, along with a kiss and a hug.  He was their older and only brother.

                No, Nicholas was not really wicked, though his mother occasionally accused him of it; he knew she meant only to shock him into good manners.  Of course, Nicholas was only as lenient and charitable to himself as he could think he deserved.  He thought of himself as his family thought of him—lovably mischievous.

                And so he paid no more attention to threats of getting a lump of coal for Christmas this year than he had last year. He couldn’t help but grin at it (something devilish in him made him smirk at correction).  His mother, in private, wavered in the resolve.  But his father, as least to his mother, was determined.  Nicholas must have his behavior corrected.

                Christmas Eve was just as full of excitement in anticipation as a household could be the night before Christmas, with children aged four to eleven years old dancing more lively than any sugarplum fairies.  Their heads were full of a great deal of nothing at all, their mouths were full of a great deal of jibber-jabber, not to mention candy.  Ten wild horses could not drag them to bed–but the reminder that Santa could not come ‘til they were asleep sent them scampering.  Each of the three older children was determined to trick ol’ St. Nick and catch him.  Each was asleep before midnight, and Santa came without being spied.

                Nicholas was first up.  At 4 am he crept into his sisters’ room to wake them.  The excitement was too much not to be shared.  The oldest sister woke quickly, the second more slowly remembered what day it was, the 4-year-old got up groggily and followed the others uncomprehending, ‘til they reached the stairs.

                They tip-toed.  They were going down to wake their parents, but somehow Christmas requires one to tip-toe.  Even Nicholas, who rarely tiptoed, except to sneak into or away from some mischief, tip-toed on Christmas morning.

                A magnet drew with powerful force as they passed the parlor.  But it was dark, and only mother and father could light the gas lamps this morning—a job that ordinarily belonged to Nicholas.

                Nicholas, as oldest, knocked softly at their parents’ door.  None but the children heard it.  He knocked a little harder.  No answer.  A little harder knock brought forth, “What is it?” in his mother’s tired voice.

                “It’s Christmas morning . . . “

                “Wait until six.”

                There was no arguing Christmas morning.  Upstairs they stole again, on tip-toe.

                They could not possibly sleep now.  They all went into Nicholas’ room and sat on his bed.  They talked excitedly about what they might get.  The youngest was asleep again in half an hour, despite Christmas morning.  How slowly went those two hours!  Nicholas sent one of the girls to check the clock in the hall, again and again.

                Talk became slower, then ran out.  The second youngest dozed.

                At last!  The clock pointed five minutes until six!  Nicholas said that was close enough.  The other two were awakened.  Downstairs again they crept.

                Nicholas knocked a little more confidently.

                “What is it?” mother asked, not as tiredly.

                “It’s six o’clock,” Nicholas said proudly, but not loudly.

                Muffled “Hmmmmmm” and “Mmmmm”s were heard, and creaks of the bed, as mother and father got up.

                Father opened the door in his robe.  The children’s eyes lit up.  Could this really be it?

                “Well, let’s go . . .” he said, and the children danced and pranced around he and mother as they all made their way to the parlor.

                “Oh, look!” they each cried, they all cried, again and again.  The parlor was a fantasy of bright and pretty things.  It was crowded with gifts—all but one corner.  No one saw that corner.  Each devoured every gift with her eyes, as she sought her own.  They made their way to the fireplace where all the stockings were no longer hanging but brimming full on the hearth—except one!  It was Nicholas’!  In it there was a note:

                “In the southwest corner of this very room,

                You’ll find all you deserve,

                And to what you can assume”

                Excitedly he looked around—the southwest corner . . . he was too full of excitement to think; which is south and west?

                “Father,” he asked quickly, “which is south and west?”

                “South and west?  Why?” his father asked, apparently surprised.

                “Because,” said Nicholas, “. . . because . . . look at this!”  He held up his note, which his father was too far away to see, as he was standing in the doorway.  Nicholas read:

                “In the southwest corner of this very room,

                You’ll find all you deserve,

                And to what you can assume.”!

                Nicholas put an exclamation to it.

                “Well,” his father asked, “where does the sun shine, when it sets, in this room?”

                “There!” Nicholas pointed to a great pile of things.

                “And if the sun sets in the west, it’s light shines toward the east.  So, the west must be the direction from which the sun shines,” his father reasoned.

                “There!” Nicholas called out even more loudly and excitedly as he pointed at the opposite side of the room, which had a greater pile of things.

                “And if you turn so that your right shoulder is toward the east, and your left to the west, you’ll be facing north,” father went on.

                Nicholas too some time to get himself facing north, but at last he said, “Ah, it’s there!”  Oh, what a pile was before him!

                “Now, the south and west corner must be . . . which?”

                Nicholas puzzled.  His right shoulder was east, his left west.  His front faced north, his back faced south.  The southwest corner must be . . . left west . . . back south . . . slowly he turned around, unsure, looking at his father, he pointed, “There?”  His father nodded.

                Nicholas looked, then saw . . . NOTHING!  Nothing but a great lump of coal!  He could not speak for astonishment.  He stared at the lump of coal.  He looked again at the paper in his hand.  He read it once more.  He looked at the corner again.  Then he began to comprehend—there was nothing for him this Christmas but a lump of coal!

                Tears burned to come out.  He blinked them back.  He looked at father.  Father looked at him, firmly, his eyes conveying the words, “Son, your behavior only deserved a lump of coal.”  Nicholas looked at his mother.  She clung to his father’s arm.  Seeing her tears started Nicholas’ own.  He ran out to keep anyone from seeing his.

                Nicholas kept running, out of the house and down the street.  He was dressed, but not for out-of-doors.  He had expected to be indoors several hours yet, unwrapping presents, admiring them, showing them off . . . Then after breakfast he would take one or two out to play with and to show his friends.  He had nothing to show his friends but coal, and he didn’t care if it was cold out—he kept running ‘til he couldn’t run any further, then walked, and kept walking.  He did not know where he was going, and he didn’t care.  No one was out and about to stop or question him at 6 am Christmas morning.

                After walking for some time, his tears dried.  He saw that he was downtown, but did not recognize any of the buildings where he was.  He now had lost all the warmth of the house.  The cold was penetrating to the bone.  He was tired.  Then hunger joined the chorus of complaints from his body.  A little wind blew, biting him through.  He went to the nearest protected stoop and sat himself down.  The step was cold.  He sat and shivered and hugged his body heat as best he could.  He began to think of home, and to realize that he was lost, and knew not how far he’d come, nor from whence.  He didn’t know how long he’d walked, even.  He sat and shivered and wished he was home, even if all he had was a lump of coal for Christmas.

                He saw a ragged boy coming up the walk, looking for something.  He was as blue-purple as Nicholas could imagine, and more than he felt even himself to be.

                “What are you looking for?  He called, with a jaw rigid from the cold.

                The boy looked up suddenly, not expecting to meet anyone at this time on Christmas morning.  He was about Nicholas’ height, but much thinner.

                “Just looking for lost change,” the boy said, trusting a boy his own size with the truth, unafraid of reproofs.

                “Why?” asked Nicholas.

                “To help pay our bills,” the boy said simply.

                “Did you find much?”

                “Twenty-three cents,” the boy said proudly.

                “That’s not very much, is it?”  Nicholas had fifty cents in his own pocket: his own allowance.  He knew that wouldn’t pay much of any bills.

                “It’ll buy a little bread and a soup bone,” defended the boy.

                Nicholas knew his mother spent much more than twenty-three cents on food.  He was astute enough to see that bread and most likely very thin soup was probably this boy’s family’s best food.  Nicholas had always scorned soup that wasn’t more vegetables and meat than broth.

                “What are you doing here?” the boy asked.

                “I’m lost.”

                “You look cold.”

                “I am.”

                “Do you want to come home with me?”  the boy offered.

                “Oh, yes,” Nicholas shivered and jumped up to go.

                As they walked, the thin boy introduced himself as Alex.  Nicholas introduced himself.  They walked briskly and didn’t talk much along the way to where Alex lived.  It was in a run-down apartment building in a poor section of town.  They climbed up a lot of stairs and entered a small apartment.  It was nearly bare.

                “Mother, this is Nicholas,” Alex introduced, “he was lost, so I brought him home.  Alex introduced a younger sister, brother, and baby.  Alex’s mother looked very ill and weak, but she made Nicholas welcome very kindly.

                After the cold outside, the room seemed warm, but then Nicholas noted there was no fire in the stove.  The children all were in one bed, or what blankets were made into a bed on the floor.

                “How did you come to be lost?”  Alex’s mother asked.

                Nicholas bent his head down, ashamed to answer.  “I ran away,” he said, as he had always been taught to tell the truth.

                “Why?”  Alex asked, amazed

                “Because I got a lump of coal for Christmas,” he said, then stole a look at Alex.

                “You got a lump of coal for Christmas?” Alex’s eyes were shining.  He obviously thought that the best present in the world.

                Alex’s mother asked, “Where do you live?  I’m sure your parents are very worried.”

                Nicholas knew it was true and suddenly felt anxious to get home.  “I live at 1639 Oak Avenue.”

                “Alex, do you know where that is?” his mother asked.

                “Well . . . I think I know where Oak Avenue is, anyway.”

                “Perhaps you can help him find the way back.  Or find a policeman,” she said to Alex, then to Nicholas, “Can you retrace your steps?”

                “I don’t think so,” he said sadly.  He had paid no attention, as he usually would have;  he’d never lost himself before.

                Alex took the twenty-three cents from his pocket.  “Here, mother, is all I found; and this.”  He pulled an orange from his other pocket and gave the bounty to his mother.  He went to the door and indicated for Nicholas to come.

                Nicholas took the fifty cents from his pocket.  “I found this . . .” he said shyly, and gave it to Alex’s mother.  She looked at him, and a tear started from her eye.  She thanked him and bade him go.

                The boys walked back to the stoop Nicholas had sat upon, then went the direction he’d come from.  They looked down each street ‘til Nicholas thought it might be the one he’d turned from.  They walked on.  He could remember nothing more.  Alex steered them toward where he thought Oak Avenue was.  Not a soul was around.

                Then Nicholas recognized a building-top two blocks away.  It was not on Oak Avenue, but he knew how to get to Oak from there.  The boys ran, and laughed, happy to have found the way.  It seemed a great miracle.

                As they walked on, now, Alex asked Nicholas about the coal he’d got for Christmas.  Nicholas told its dimensions and guessed its weight.  “But we have a ton of coal,” said Nicholas, then added with embarrassment, “Maybe Santa mixed up our names!”

                Alex knew about Santa, but he went along with the game just for fun.  They laughed and joked ‘til they came to Nicholas’ house.

                “I’d better go home,” Alex said sadly, he wanted so badly to see the inside of such a fine home, and to meet such a fine family.

                “No!  Come in!” Nicholas insisted.

                They went in the kitchen door.  The smells made Alex’s mouth gape, then water.  Nicholas introduced Alex to the cook and left quickly.  Cook saw immediately that a plate of food was needed; heaped one up for Alex and made him sit down at the kitchen table and eat.

                Nicholas’ father saw him pass the dining room and called to him.  Nicholas came in.  His mother nearly jumped up to run to him, but was stayed by his father, so only her tears jumped forth.

                “Son, aren’t you going to have Christmas dinner with the family?  You left rather abruptly this morning, and have been gone so long your mother has been in a tiff . . .”

                “Sir, may I show my present to my new friend, then come?”  Nicholas was newly humble, so that his father acquiesced, though puzzled, on that account.

                Nicholas ran into the parlor.  To the southwest corner.  The coal was gone!  He ran back into the dining room.

                “Where is it?”  Nicholas asked frantically.

                “Where is what?” his father asked.

                “My lump of coal!”

                “Why it’s in the coal cellar!” father said amazed.  But before he could ask any more, Nicholas ran off down to the coal cellar.  It was dark.  There was a lot of coal.  Which one was his?  Then he laughed to himself.  What did it matter?  He chose the biggest one he could see.

                Father met him at the stairs.

                “Why are you lugging that coal, with your good clothes on?”

                “To show my friend, father,” he explained.  The coal was heavy.

                “Why don’t you bring him down to see it?”

                “Because I’m going to give it to him . . . if it’s all right.”

                “Give it to whom?”  father asked incredulously.

                “My new friend, Alex, in the kitchen.  Come up and meet him.”

                Father led the way to the kitchen.  Nicholas brought the coal.

                Alex stood up from the dinner he’d been devouring.  Mother and cook were there.  The girls peeked in from the doorway.

                “Father, this is Alex.  I was lost downtown, and he helped me find my way back home.  His family ran out of coal and can’t get any because it’s Christmas.”  Nicholas tried to make their plight less embarrassing in front of Alex.

                “Well Alex, are you going to let your new friend Nicholas carry this load for you, while you go home empty-handed?”  Father asked.

                Alex was confused and embarrassed, and speechless.

                “Mother, have an equal load ready for this boy to take home,” father said firmly, his generosity swelling as he realized his son might still be lost if not for this unfortunate boy.

                Mother caught on quickly and called for the stable hand to bring up a bucket of coal.  She and cook began packing a box of food for Alex’s family.

                “How far away do you live?”  father asked Alex.

                Alex and Nicholas guessed about 2 miles.

                “Well, I guess we’d better send you two in the carriage, or you won’t be back for dinner—we shall be waiting, Alex,” father said authoritatively, then more softly, but with a firm invitation, “I hope your family will come and join us for a Christmas dinner?”

                “Thank you, sir,” Alex stammered in unbelief.

                The carriage took Nicholas and Alex back to Alex’s home and brought back his entire family for dinner.  After dinner Alex’s family was taken home in the carriage, with several lumps of coal, a large basket of food, and some used clothes and blankets. 

Other helps came at other times from Nicholas’ home to Alex’s home—just enough not to be insulting–and the two boys became great friends.

                It seems that Santa had, after all, left Nicholas a great pile of things that year—in the closet.  Nicholas’ mother gave certain looks to his father, when she learned how far he had run away that day. Father never again insisted on Nicholas getting a lump of coal for Christmas, and, in fact, Nicholas never again deserved it.