For Posterity: An Ensemble of Short Stories & Poetry

By T. L. Taylor

For Posterity is a work of short stories and verse.

This ensemble spans the past, present, and future, as generations do. An artist’s imagery introduces each tale, blurring the lines of certainty and coaxing the reader to imagine. A father is clueless as to who and what his daughter knows. A woman’s vision is recounted in years, and not only in words. A couple, long separated, still searches for the meaning of relationship. The myth of a white-bearded gift-giver is rediscovered from a different perspective on New York’s 42nd Street. Music is real but life and death are but a mirage. A man discovers that his identity is formulated by those who envision him.
The stories within dabble in a world not real, but the outcomes are long-lasting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. L. Taylor
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014

Book preview

For Posterity: 

An Ensemble of Short Stories & Poetry

Copyright 2013 John James Lynn

Published by John James Lynn at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

In memory of James Charles and Rose Marie Lynn, married for nearly sixty years. They are their son’s guiding light as long as I live.

Foreword

For Posterity is a work of short stories and verse.

This ensemble spans the past, present, and future, as generations do. An artist’s imagery introduces each tale, blurring the lines of certainty and coaxing the reader to imagine. A father is clueless as to who and what his daughter knows. A woman’s vision is recounted in years, and not only in words. A couple, long separated, still searches for the meaning of relationship. The myth of a white-bearded gift-giver is rediscovered from a different perspective on New York’s 42nd Street. Music is real but life and death are but a mirage. A man discovers that his identity is formulated by those who envision him.

The stories within dabble in a world not real, but the outcomes are long-lasting.

Table of Contents

El Camino Real

In Four or Five Weeks

Generations

Going Home

Mirage

Mrs. Madison’s Tales

Numbered

Once & Again

Peel The Onion

Santa Meets Her Match

The Catalyst

The Mirror

About The Authorc

EL CAMINO REAL

The street light flickered. I walked under the magnolia tree. A few quick steps down Milpitas Avenue and I’d be out of sight. The eucalyptus swayed with the evening breeze, fresh off the ocean. Low clouds curled in wisps along the coastal hills. I paced onto El Rojas, turning back to see if anyone followed. Doesn’t matter, they’ll be waiting.

My pace quickened as I approached the bright lights ahead. Cars zipped up and down the thoroughfare, my thoughts drowned out by the constant buzz of a busy expressway. I rushed up the road and neared El Camino Real, my heart pounding. What was waiting behind by now? She’d have told them if I hadn’t stopped her.

The light glowed green upon my reaching the intersection. I dared not trot out onto the crosswalk, but rather stepped in pace until the light flashed red; walking across such a busy thoroughfare had never been a consideration, driving across the bottleneck was a courageous act. Why won’t my thoughts cease? I turned around—no one.

The light blazed green. I raced onto the street. Tires squealed behind me as a car charged into the thoroughfare. I jumped along the medium at the road’s midpoint, scrambling along the crosswalk to the other side.

A quick but steady pace seemed best after I’d reached the sidewalk. Large pines, pruned into cones near their apex, lined the road ahead. I reached another intersection and turned right onto Chauncey Way. Modest homes, sitting not twenty yards from the roadside, lined the block, their value some one hundred thousand dollars less than the one I’d just vacated. The front porch lights glowed with an inviting hue.

I approached a single story dwelling stationed between two oaks. I wonder what it would be like to live there? A dim light shone above the side door. My steps shortened as I inspected the front of the house.

Background noise from traffic on the El Camino droned unabated, interrupted only by the loud chirp of a finch perched high in a eucalyptus that fronted the driveway.

I stopped at a gravel drive leading to the side entrance. My breaths shortened. I inched down the walkway, turning up small stones as I treaded over them. What am I doing?

The screen door squeaked. A brunette some thirty years old pushed the door open. I turned to run.

Jonathan, there you are? Get in here. We’re going to sort this out before anyone goes to bed.

Jonathan? Uh, sure.

I stumbled across the remainder of the walkway and reached the door. She must be mistaken. After all, I’d been standing in the shadows. I let go of the door handle and turned to leave.

Just where do you think you’re going?

I turned to face her. Her blue eyes opened wide and I smelled the faint smell of a cigarette. I’m sorry, but—

But nothin’. We’ve got some ground to cover before you go out for another smoke, or whatever. Where were you a minute ago? Talking to Amy? I told you, leave that poor little girl alone. She’s better off with her mother. She turned and stepped inside, holding the door for me.

Are you sure you want me in here? This time she’ll take a good look at me and realize her mistake. Heck, I must be ten years older than her.

‘Course I don’t want you in here, but that’s what my mother said marriage was all about, taking the bad with the good. She strolled toward the kitchen table where a pile of papers were strewn.

I shut the door behind me. I don’t even know my new wife’s name. I reached the table and pulled out a chair. The chair’s frame was metal, the seat red and puffy, as if it were made of cotton. I sat down.

She pulled the papers to her. I took a glance at the few that remained on the table. Legal stuff, huh?

Her eyes opened wide again. "You don’t say. Your brother looks to be in a lot of trouble. Somehow we’re supposed to get him out. Now quit stalling. I asked you an hour ago, before your hiatus, what do you think we should do? We don’t have much in the savings, but I don’t want Ted going to jail.

She paused until my eyes met hers. "Do you?"

Her cell phone rang and she pulled the flashing gadget from her jeans. I breathed for what felt like the first time in five minutes, pulling the legal papers toward me while listening to the voice on the other end of the line.

Yeah, the boss told me we both need to be at the meeting, tomorrow. That’s eight o’clock, Rachael, hear me?

I leaned back in my chair with relief. Rachael, that’s her name. I picked up some of the papers as she chatted with her friend. ‘Ted Savry, twenty seven years old.’ I scrolled down the next page. ‘Taxes due in arrears, total: $82,616.35.’ Why did I pick this house?

Rachael bid her coworker goodbye and set the phone on the table, shaking her head, her brown locks sliding from her shoulders. Shit, gotta be at work by eight. You know what traffic’s gonna be like? Can’t get close to 101 that time of morning.

She pulled the papers toward her. Okay, you said you can get a reduced rate on a loan at your bank. We were talking about two percent. I didn’t believe you, and somewhere in there you stormed off in a huff. I’d say if we can get fifty thousand out of Wells Fargo at that rate we can cover the rest. She pushed the papers aside. Look, Jonathan, I’m putting my ass out on a sling for that lying brother of yours. Don’t give me reasons to change my mind.

Rachael pushed her chair back and stood up, turning away from me. I’m taking a shower. She strutted out of the room and into the hallway before I could mutter a word.

I pondered the situation. I should bolt for the door. Whatever had just occurred was a terrible mistake. Do I have a twin brother? Chills ran down my spine and through my legs. If