The prompt for the Monday Chatham Writers Group was to write something, in any genre, relating to the photo above. My story follows.

Father Pappas gazed out the window of his office, deep in thought about how to end his sermon for the Sunday services. Engrossed in his sermon, he didn’t hear the gentle knocking on the door, only stirring when he heard his secretary ask, “Father? There’s a visitor with an urgent message. May we come in?”

   Spinning his chair around to face the office door, his deep baritone voice replied, “Mrs. Cosmos! Yes! Please come in.”

    Mrs. Cosmos opened the door and ushered in a boy with a post card sized envelope gripped in his right hand.

  “Father, this is Elias Artino. He has a message for you. He claims it’s urgent.”

   The boy was nervous. His eyes darted around the office.

   Father Pappas smiled, “Ahh. Master Artino. It’s good to see you. You have an urgent message for me? Is everything alright at home?”

   As presbyter of the Parish of St. Demetrios in Karpenisi, he felt he was not only the Father of the church, but the father of each parishioner’s family. His level of concern for the people of his community ran deep, they felt it as well.

   “M..m..my family is well, Father Pappas,” Elias stammered, “It’s note from Mrs. Tsolis.” He thrust his tiny hand out and placed the note on the Father’s desk.

   “Thank you, Elias. Which Mrs. Tsolis? The one at the bottom of Ydros Way? Or at the top?”

   “Top. May I go now?”

   “Of course. Tell your family I send my best wishes.” Father Pappas chuckled as Elias scampered away.

   Opening the envelope, he removed the card. His brow furrowed.

   “Is Mrs. Tsolis okay?” asked Mrs. Cosmos.

   Father Pappas shrugged and said, “I don’t know. The note is asking me to come to her home as soon as possible. It’s urgent, so I better be on my way.”

   He rose from his chair, put his cassock on and placed the kalimavkion on his head and looked in a mirror to make sure it was straight.

  “Mrs. Tsolis at the top of Ydros Way,” he sighed, “My cardio workout for the day, Mrs. Cosmos.”

   Reaching Ydros Way, Father Pappas paused for a moment and stared at the steep, cobblestoned road. “OOOH boy,” he exhaled. Seeing a line of mopeds outside of a bakery, he said, “I could use one of those.” He stepped into the bakery and bought a few pieces of Baklava to bring to Mrs. Tsolis.

   He stopped twice to catch his breath while climbing Ydros Way and tried to envision the reasons for Mrs. Tsolis’ sense of urgency. It was 18 months since her husband had passed away. Father Pappas had visited times and had also spoken to her at church. She seemed to do well. However, her son, Achilles, was her Achilles heel. Displaying a rebellious streak when he turned 14, it accelerated and led to several run-ins with the Karpenisi police, culminating with his arrest for breaking into a neighbor’s home to steal some jewelry. Because he was too young for jail, the court placed him under house arrest and required community service. At 18, Achilles left home to work on a fishing boat on the island of Mykonos but fell in with a bad crowd and was now one of several men suspected of robbing a bank in Lamia. The news shattered his mother. Perhaps she needed comfort and support. Father Pappas looked up Ydros Way once more. “Almost there,” he sighed.

   Reaching the house, Mrs. Tsolis yanked the door open before he knocked. “Come in Father. Hurry. Please.” She shoved him into the foyer and looked both ways on Ydros Way before shutting the door.

   Father Pappas asked, “Mrs. Tsolis! What’s wrong?”

  “I’m what’s wrong.” Said Achilles Tsolis as he stepped from the kitchen. A snub nose revolver was in his right hand, pointed at Father Tsolis.

  “That’s unnecessary, Achilles. I won’t harm you.”

  “I know, Father. But I hope you understand,” said Achilles, before adding, “I did something terrible.”

   “I understand you are a suspect in a crime in Lamia. Is that what this is about?” asked Father Pappas.

   “I was involved in a robbery, Father. But I have done something even worse.”
   “What could be worse than robbing a bank?”

   “I didn’t split the money with my accomplices. Now the police and three terrible dudes are looking for me.”

   “Do you wish to turn yourself in? Is that why I am here?” asked Father Pappas.
   “NO! Absolutely not!!” exclaimed Achilles. “You’re here because I want you to give me your clothes. That’s my ticket out of here.”

    Momentarily confused, Father Pappas exclaimed, “What!?”

   “Your clothes. Now!”Achilles pointed the gun at Father Pappas.

    Father Pappas asked a sobbing Mrs. Tsolis to get him a blanket.

   When she left, he undressed and handed his vestments to Achilles, who took them and went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Tsolis returned with a blanket.

   Achilles stepped from the kitchen, dressed as an Orthodox Priest. The gun in his right hand, a canvas sack in his left. He said, “I’m sorry”, opened the front door, scanned Ydros Way, and left, closing the door behind him.

   Sounds like firecrackers made both Father Pappas and Mrs. Tsolis jump. Police whistles screeched. Voices shouted, “He’s down!”

   Mrs. Tsolis buried her face in her hands and began to wail.

I wrote a flash fiction piece to the following prompt:

It’s the middle of the night.
There’s a band of heavy cloud.
You’re in the countryside.
There’s a cold feel to the place.

I titled it “ Smuggler’s Blues”. After I read it, someone asked, “What next?”, which became the title of the second flash fiction piece. I had fun writing these.

Smuggler’s Blues

When his plane’s engine began to sputter, Rutledge kept his cool and, with the aid of a brightly lit full moon, discovered a broad meadow to land in. He cut the engine just before touching down. The plane bounced twice and rolled forward a short distance before pitching nose down in an irrigation ditch. Releasing his seat belt and shoulder harness, Rutledge pushed open the door and dropped to the ground. He took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He knew the Canadian border was a scant 3 miles north. To his left, about 300 yards away, a large barn and farmhouse stood in silhouette on a slight rise. About 100 yards to his right was a thicket of woods he had noticed just before landing. A band of thick clouds passed before the moon, pitching the landscape into blackness. As the adrenaline rush of his crash landing dissipated, Rutledge became aware of how cold it was. When his vision became accustomed to the dark, he looked at the farmhouse again and speculated how helpful its occupants would be at 2:00 AM. Before approaching the house, two things needed to be done. “How long will it take me to hide 100 kilos of cocaine and $400,000 in that thicket of woods?” Rutledge wondered.  From the distant farmhouse, a dog began to bark.

What Next

As the sound of the barking dog reached his ears, Rutledge glanced at the farmhouse and thought, “What next?” From where his plane was nose up in the irrigation ditch, the thicket of trees was 100 yards away. Rutledge estimated he had about fifteen minutes to stash the coke and cash in the woods before anyone in the house checked to see why their dog was barking.

Markoff sat in the safe room of his farmhouse, staring at the display screen of his shortwave radio. At 1:50 AM, the static ceased, and a symphony playing the first few lines of the “Hungarian Rhapsody” filled his headphones. When the music stopped, a child’s voice, speaking Czech, recited a series of random numbers. He jotted them down in a notebook. After a brief pause, the child repeated the numbers. Verifying the sets of numbers matched, he tapped out a reply, removed his headphones, and switched off the radio. Exiting the safe room, Markoff was nearly bowled over by the greeting from his 90-pound Samoyed.

 “Tucker! Glad to see you too, my friend,” he rubbed the dog’s favorite spots behind his ears, “Okay, boy. Okay. We’ll go out, hold on, it’s freezing out there.” 

Tucker shot out into the yard the second the kitchen door was opened. Markoff pulled on his parka, walked out onto the porch, and stopped. Tucker stood rigid, tilting his head slightly, looking out into the meadow. The clouds blanketing the moon made it difficult to see what attracted the dog’s attention. He barked once, then grew restless and barked again. 

Markoff went back into the house and grabbed a pair of powerful night-vision binoculars. He returned to stand next to Tucker, rubbing behind his ears again. “Hold on, boy, let’s see what’s got you so worked up. I wager it’s your moose buddies.” 

Switching on the binoculars, he lifted them to his eyes and scanned the meadow. What the hell! Something was out there, but it was at the limit of the night-vision range. He clipped a leash to Tucker’s collar. “We need to get closer, boy.” When Markoff estimated they had crept forward about 100 yards, he stopped and peered through the binoculars again. He was stunned by what he saw. A small plane was nose down in an irrigation ditch, its cargo door hanging open. It didn’t appear anyone was around. Lowering the binoculars, he looked back towards his house, then toward the thicket of woods just beyond the plane. Something was moving. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Markoff saw a man bent forward with a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulders. He was moving as fast as his load would allow, bearing directly for the trees. The night-vision image was clear enough to see the man’s puffs of breath condensing in the frigid air. 

Markoff lowered his binoculars and absentmindedly rubbed behind Tucker’s ears. “What’s next, my friend? What’s next?” Tucker answered by head-butting his thigh.

Note: My second story begins with the character, Markoff, listening to a “numbers station” on a short wave radio. Numbers stations have been monitored for decades because they are believed to be used for communicating messages to spies and foreign agents. If you Google “The Conet Project” there is a wealth of information of how these stations are tracked and what methods are used to communicate. I find it fascinating. An example follows.

The writing prompt for last Tuesday’s Sturgis Library Writing Group was the photo displayed above. The source of the photo is Anders Saling who is spending the summer on Cape Cod as the team photographer for the Harwich Mariners of the fabulous Cape Cod Baseball League. I encourage everyone who reads this story to visit Anders’ website “Salingmedia.com” to see more of his terrific sports photos and portraits. Thank you Anders for allowing me to post your photo on my blog.

When I saw this photo, for some reason I was immediately drawn to the experiences of former Major League Ballplayer George “Doc” Medich. Twice during his career he leapt into the stands to administer CPR to fans who had suffered heart attacks during the ballgame. At the time, in addition to his pitching duties, “Doc” was a student at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. My story that follows is completely fictional.

Choices

Aaron Henry, first baseman for the Mashpee Mollusks of the Cape Cod Baseball league, had finished his warmup throws and began a few exercises to stretch his leg muscles. He paused a moment during his squats to reflect on the argument he had with his dad the previous night.  As much as Aaron loved baseball, a game he began playing when he was five years old, he had begun to feel it was not going to be his life’s goal.  His experiences over the two summers he spent as an EMT with the volunteer fire department in his hometown had convinced him his true calling was to be a doctor, a surgeon. His academic prowess, along with his baseball skills made him a highly sought after scholar/athlete. His choice to attend a small liberal arts college disappointed the recruiters from all the major universities and Ivy League schools, but he was drawn to the school’s neuroscience program.  He argued with his dad about leaving the Mashpee team mid-season to attend a seminar on the use of stem cells in battling Parkinson’s Disease.  His father was adamantly against it.  “You are the most sought-after college baseball player in America,” his father declared, “I don’t know where this Doctor stuff is coming from.  With signing bonuses, in your first minor league season alone you’ll make 5 times what any Doctor makes.”

“It isn’t about the money,” he told his dad, “There are no guarantees of a long, lucrative career in any sport.  Jim Bouton once said, ‘you spend a great piece of your life gripping a baseball, only to discover it was the other way around, all the time’. I don’t want that to be my life.”  

“Jim who? Sounds like a loser to me and you sound like a fool!”  The phone call ended.  In his crouch, Aaron stared at the grass, seeking an answer.  His thoughts were disrupted by the shouts of his teammates calling him to the dugout for the coach’s pep talk.

When the National Anthem ended, Aaron pushed the argument from his mind and gave his full concentration to the game.  Going into the bottom of the 9^th inning, Mashpee held a slim one run lead over Chatham.  With two outs and runners on 2^nd & 3^rd  bases, the Chatham batter fouled a pitch high into the air along the first base side of the field.  Seemingly an easy, game ending out, Aaron drifted to his left, tracking the ball’s trajectory.  He glanced down for a moment to check his distance from dugout when he spotted a woman in the stands clutch her chest and fall to her side.  Her husband, startled at first, realized what was happening and began to cry out for help.  Aaron’s attention was no longer on the ball as it bounced near his foot.  Shouting to the Mashpee team trainer to bring the first aid kit, Aaron vaulted the fence and was next to the stricken woman in two leaps. 

Kneeling and leaning close to the woman’s face, he observed she was not breathing and immediately began to perform CPR.  After a few chest compressions, the woman choked, moaned and began to breath on her own. He was able to get her to take an aspirin.  The EMT’s from the Chatham Rescue Service arrived and rushed the woman to the hospital.

The game eventually resumed.  With the missed foul ball, the Chatham player was still at bat and lined the next pitch out to the fence, driving in both runners and, thus, winning the game.  But the celebration became surreal as the players and coaches from both teams rushed to the field and surrounded Aaron, giving him hugs and shaking his hand.  They were soon joined by a crowd of fans.  The outcome of the game was never remembered, what lingered in everyone’s memory was on that June day, Aaron Henry saved someone’s life.  On that day a decision was reached.

In the second round of the Major League Baseball draft, Aaron Henry was selected by the Pittsburgh Pirates.  He shrewdly invested his $750,000 signing bonus, and after two minor league seasons, began classes at the University of Pittsburgh Medical School.  

Post Script: if you didn’t catch on, the name of the character in my story is in reverse order of one of my favorite baseball players, the Hall of Fame member Henry “Hank” Aaron. Also, if you haven’t read it, I recommend “Ball Four” by Jim Bouton. It has the distinction of being listed in the New York Public Library’s Books of the Century, the only sports related book on the list. It is also identified by Time Magazine as one of the 100 greatest non-fiction books published.

Ernie Stricsek

The Sturgis Library Writing Group

June 20, 2023

The prompt for the Chatham Writers Group for Monday was the Edward Hopper painting titled “Gas”. My fiction story follows.

End of the Line

The whitewashed building and red gas pumps of Mal’s Derby Line Mobil station stood in sharp contrast to the deep green pine trees that rose behind it.  The last rays of the setting sun lent a golden hue to the dry grass that bracketed the Derby Line Road.  The black top road melded into the darkness of the dense pines so much that it appeared to end just past the station.  In fact, the road continued East for 100 yards before making a sharp left turn and crossed into Canada.  

It had been over an hour since the last car had stopped to fill its tank at the station so Mal Devine decided to close for the day.  He folded and stowed away the cheeky sandwich board sign that warned drivers “Last gas station in America”, locked the gas pumps and was preparing to move the cans of Mobiloil into the service bay when his peripheral vision caught movement inside the sales office near the cash register.  Startled, he blinked several times to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks.  No, there was movement in the office!  Shadows near the register for sure.  His mechanic had left right after the last customer stop, there shouldn’t be anyone else but him at the station!

Pretending to have not seen anything, Mal planned to slip into the office after securing the oil display cart.  However, the moment he entered the service bay, a voice behind him said, “Don’t do anything to make me hurt you Mr. Devine, but I need all your cash and I need it now!”

Mal’s brow furrowed; he recognized the voice.  He put up his hands.  “I won’t do anything rash. I am going to turn around, if it’s okay.”

“Real slow, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.  Please, just give me your cash, Mr. Devine. And I’ll be on my way.”

Doing as he was told; he came face to face with the robber, who’s partially raised arm brandished a tire iron.

“Teddy Dobbs, what’s wrong? Why are you doing this?”  

Teddy stepped towards Mal, grabbed him by his necktie and snarled, “I don’t have time to talk.  Last time, give me your cash or I’ll lay into you with this iron!”

“Okay,” gasped Mal, “but I can’t get the money if you hurt me.  And you’re choking me.”

Teddy loosened his grip somewhat, “You were always kind to me.  But I gotta get out of Derby Line and fast.  I did something bad, really bad. I don’t have time for chit chat!”

“Alright. I already closed the register for the day, the money is in the safe.  But, Teddy, it’s not much.”

Teddy followed Mal into his office.  Surprisingly, it was neatly arranged.  Not something you would expect t see in a gas station.  There were shelves on one wall of the office with various trophies and photos of little league baseball teams.  Teddy coughed to cover a gasp when he spotted a photo of him standing between his two coaches.  One coach was his dad. The other was Mr. Devine.

Mal hunched over to work the combination to the safe, but Teddy stopped him.  “Get in your chair and tell me the combination.  I don’t want to chance you havin’ a gun in there.”

“Okay, whatever you want, but there is no gun in the safe.  Can I ask you what you did that was so bad?”

“My Dad stole all my money.  I had saved up $1200.  He gambled and drank it away at the casino in Stanstead.”

 “Did you hurt your father, Teddy?”

“What? No! He’s my dad!  I’m really mad at him, but he hasn’t been the same since my mom died.  He’s lost one job after another because of his drinking.  I have to work instead.  I worked 3 jobs, two shifts and on weekends.  I take care of the bills and food and whatnot.  But I also saved for myself because I gotta get out of here.  This is no life for me here Mr. Devine.”

“How did your dad get your money?”

“He forged my name on a withdrawal slip.”

“How’d you know he lost it gambling?”

“My dad told me he lost it, claimed he was cheated by Mayor Trent!  Of all people.  I went to see if I could get the money back.  I tried to reason with the Mayor, and I didn’t mention cheating.  He got in my face, called my dad a drunk and said we were all low-lifes.  Then he jammed his finger in my chest.  I saw red, Mr. Devine.  I hit Mayor Trent hard, and a lot.”

Teddy opened the safe and pulled out a brown bank envelope.  It contained $40 in small bills and change.  “I’ll take what’s in your wallet too.” 

“No…”, was all Mal was able to say, then his world turned dark.  

Somebody was calling to Mal, from far away, a vaguely familiar voice. He thought it was coming from the forest.  Then he heard the melodic sound of his wife’s voice calling him.  He smiled.  The pungent smell of ammonia made him gasp and his eyes flew open.  His head ached and his jaw felt like wet sand.  “Oh, Mal! Thank God!” His wife cried out from somewhere behind him.  

“Welcome back Mal,” a smiling Doc Blanchard hovered over his face, waving a smelling salts pack.

The stern visage of a Vermont State Trooper leaned in next to the Doc and in a soft voice asked, “Can you tell us what happened Mr. Devine?  Do you know who hit and robbed you?”

He tried to speak, needle points of pain in his jaw made him wince.  “No. Wearing mask,” he mumbled.  

The State Trooper sighed.  His wife sobbed, “Oh Mal.”

Ernie Stricsek

The Chatham Writers Group

June 12, 2023