Stephanie, you rock!

It's time for another blast of original writing from our Press readers.

One of this week's authors is more than a Writers Corner reader.

When Stephanie Vichinsky, of Post Falls, read that we were buried under a deluge of your poems and short stories, she offered to come to the rescue. Stephanie is graciously volunteering her time to help us get your words on the page.

Stephanie, a creative writing student at Eastern Washington University, comes into the newsroom for a few hours each week. She feverishly types and edits your work, and she does it with a smile, because she is so passionate about writing.

Stephanie, our cramped fingers thank you.

So keep the writing coming, folks.

Another one of the writers whose work appears this week, Linda Fifer, tells us she challenges herself to write a piece in 100 words or less. It's an excellent exercise for any writer.

Some of our Press Writers Corner readers have asked that we limit the number of longer stories we publish each week. We heard from one reader, "I enjoyed several that I read, but it almost becomes like overload."

We've taken the suggestion to heart. If you send us something with more than 500 words, it might take some extra time for us to publish it.

Send your submissions to Maureen Dolan, [email protected].

We prefer e-mail submissions, and again, we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID, 83814.

TRAPPED

By Linda Fifer, Coeur d'Alene

"Pretty bird," he whispers upon walking to the caged parakeet hopping to the perch. His long-sleeved flannel shirt doesn't allow Pretty Bird to see the number tattoo when he reaches treats between the metal spines of the cage.

"Pretty Bird," he coos, breakfast bread between thick fingers, like that last moment as his wife fell by the razor wire . . . she needing food more than he.

These days, the staff only knows this: sense of humor, needs easily met, always a smile. The sadness, a bullet-flash in his wrinkled eyes, seen only by Pretty Bird, caged, looking out.

BUILDING ROAD TO TURNER PEAK

AUGUST 24, 1976

I'm sitting in the rain on a mountain,

Punching road for a doggone week.

Building a road thru the forest

Going to Turner Peak.

Got thousands of logs on the mountains,

Got thousands of orders to fill.

The only way to get them is -

Punching a road up the hill.

So, it's "move those 'cat', run the loader,

Push the men on the drill,

Clear the holes, and set the powder, and

Blow the road up the hill."

It's go to work in the morning,

And work till it's morning again.

Don't slow down for nothing,

Work thru the sun and the rain.

Then one day the road is finished and it's

"Thanks, Jim, George and Bill.

You've done a good job in pushing

This doggone road up the hill."

Then it's back to the 'hall' and some waiting

To be called on a job once again.

But I'll be darned if I want to be called

To sit on a "Cat" in the rain.

- John Sain, Coeur d'Alene

TEMPERED

By Stephanie Vichinsky, Post Falls

Gray light. His nails are gnawed, but his fingers are soft and clean. His shirt is buttoned.

His belt tight. Shoes shined. School starts today.

He's not going.

He knows they're arguing. They argue every morning. The house is modern, stark and neat. The staircase and living room are lined with elegant glass walls. Some with bubbles or etchings, but usually - just glass. He can see them.

"What is this?" The man pulls his hands from her purse. A bottle.

"It's nothing." She lashes at the purse.

"You said you'd stopped."

"I need them." She clutches the purse while shuffling toward the door. It's over.

The man makes no motion to stop her. He knows it is.

Upstairs the boy watches from the hall, like a statue. He rubs the blunt nubs of his fingers against each other. Eighth grade isn't that important.

The man runs his hands through his hair, standing in the kitchen. He stares at the counter. A bowl of artificial fruit stares back.

From the balcony he looks down. He's seen this before. He's felt this before. The white carpet brushes under his spotless shoes while he walks to the staircase. He sits neatly on the top step, trying to salvage the creases in his Dockers.

The phone rings.

"Yeah. I can make it," the man says.

The phone whips shut. The man straightens his hair, buttons his shirt and sweeps his blazer over his shoulder. It's time to go.

He sees it all through the glass side-panels of the staircase. It's time to go. He stands and brushes the bits of white carpet from his black slacks and shoes, checking again for scuffs and stains. Still clean.

The man swivels his suitcase toward the door. Cell phone, charger, razor, cologne, spare suit, aspirin - check.

"Dad?"

The man stops. "It's business, son." He opens the door, and wheels his suitcase down the driveway. The French door drifts shut, and the glass spits gray droplets on the walls.

He looks at his shoes. A scuff. Maybe some cold water will wash it off. He grabs his crested jacket while walking toward the sliding glass door. Spacious white walls seem to pass by in slow motion, blinking and whispering. The back yard is covered in leaves. Dead, gray and brown leaves. He stares at the thin, floating cover on the pool. It's covered with leaves too.

Maybe this water is cold enough. He watches his breath. It has to be.

He stands with his back facing the water. His heels on the edge, set in watery mud.

Arms outstretched.

Let go.

The sky seeps through the cracks in the clouds. It looks like rain. The pool cover mouths and coils to the bottom. Sealed. Tossed to life, the leaves dance on the water.

The cover settles.

PERSONA

Oh to be a poet and not know it.

That I could walk the streets and not show it.

And others would think sane I be

Not caring by which brain dominance my glee.

To write crisp to targets desire

Not round corners in readers mire.

My creations make sense and not on deaf ears fall

Say it once and say it All.

-Larry Laws, Dalton Gardens

RAMBLINGS FROM A CONFUSED NEARLY 60-YEAR-OLD

There once was a man who was 60-ish.

Who longed for the days when he was 50-ish.

But then he remembered, that history rendered

Much of the past quite ridiculous.

When one arrives

At destiny's Y

It helps to humorize your way

Lest either leads to a rainy day.

- Anonymous

THE CHOICE

Judgment day is coming soon.

What will you say.

When you stand before God

Your creator

As each of us will, someday?

Will you say thank you Jesus

For your saving gift of grace.

Because of you, I am forgiven

So you've saved for me a

Place up in heaven?

Will you bow your head

In shame before him

Broken-hearted as you face

Your eternal fate?

Because you wouldn't listen

When he called you -

He has to tell you: "It's too late."

Will you choose life eternal

Or eternal anguish in hell?

The choice is yours to make.

Choose life.

- Cleopatra Lewis, Hayden

"OLD FAITHFUL"

THE FRENCH GULCH BEAR

By John Eisler, Kingston

I live in an historic location up French Gulch in Kingston, Idaho. The original owner shared almost two hundred acres with his two brothers. The house I own (with the friendly cooperation of the bank) belonged to Oscar Johnson. Oscar originally operated a dairy. Over time he changed from milking cows to killing them and operating a widely known and well-respected meat processing operation. Even decades later, when someone asks where I live, all I need say is, "I live on the Oscar Johnson place."

The responses are immediate. Almost as quickly they say, "My folks used to get their beef there." Some other responses are, "I used to get my beef there." That response usually comes from a senior citizen. The third response is, "Oscar processed my deer, elk, or moose." This comment depended on the game they had taken.

Oscar was a wise businessman and he served his customers well. Many of those folks that commented would also say, "I cut meat there." or, "My mom wrapped meat for Oscar."

You have to remember that Idaho is a mostly rural environment and years ago that was an even truer statement. Bears were a common sight. If you know anything about bears you know that they're voracious eaters. Public Television often runs specials depicting bears that break into vehicles and homes in search of food. Oscar was frequently troubled by bears coming onto his property to eat the hides from slaughtered cows that he hoped to sell to a tannery. To stop this pillaging, Oscar would take the assorted fat scraps from the processed beef and walk across French Gulch Road and dump it on the hillside. The bears would eat the scraps and leave his hides alone.

Many families that lived in the Silver Valley would plan an outing on Sundays to come see the bears eating the scraps laid out on the hillside by Oscar.

Bears like all animals, humans included, are creatures of habit. Bears not unlike many humans are also inclined to go the easiest way. There was one particular bear, "Old Faithful," that staked out a space on the hillside. He would show up about an hour prior to Oscar walking across the road and sit directly above a bare spot where Oscar dumped one of his meat scrap boxes. Oscar would walk up the hill to the bare spot and "Old Faithful" would sit quietly until Oscar dumped his meal. Oscar would go back to the processing shop for additional scraps and take those to two other spots on the hill. The other bears would amble down and occasionally engage in roughhouse play to claim their bounty. "Old Faithful" would finish his meal and walk off into the woods.

In spring, he was the first bear to show up for Oscar's scraps and as summer turned to fall, he was the last bear there prior to going into hibernation.

It's a privilege to inhabit this historical home and hear the tales of times gone by. This tale was told to me by an older fellow named, "Claude."

Claude went on to say, "I was just a little nipper and I would go to watch them kill the cows. Oscar always did the actual butchering. They would yank a cow up on the meat rail. Oscar would cut out the heart and then the liver. He would hand them to me and say,

"Take these to your Ma." My little arms would be full of the still warm heart and liver. I would arrive home all bloody from carrying the meat to my Mother. Oscar knew that we needed help with groceries and his gruff manner covered the true kindness in his heart. As I got older, I had a part-time job helping with the butchering. Even then I would go outside and watch "Old Faithful" when Oscar took him his afternoon meal.

SNOW DIAMONDS

My footsteps leave timbrels of noises

As each icy step makes headway.

Each thought and each memory rejoices

Don't hurry away such a day.

The snowy fresh diamonds lay frozen

In coldness, yet warm warmest of thoughts.

The purest of memories are chosen,

These simple joys, can't be bought.

- Ramona Hollenbeck, Pinehurst