Summary:  In honor of all mothers who are still with us in person or in spirit, Bonanza Brand presents this Mother Day’s compilation containing the work Inca, MonicaSJ, faust, Southplains, Krystyna, Patina, DJK, and Sibylle–authors who responded to the 2012 Pinecone Challenge prompt:   “Mama died today…”  from The Stranger by Albert Camus.  These wonderfully creative writers had to limit their entries to under 500 words.  The stories are presented in the order of posting.

Rating: T
Word Count:  3,880

Inca

“Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.”

“It was four days ago, Little Joe,” says Adam, and his face looks sad.

I nod. “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” I’m never quite clear about days. Grownups seem to think it’s important though.

I climb up on the seat next to him and he puts his arm around me. I dig my fingers into his ribs the way I know annoys him, and he wriggles but he doesn’t tell me off.

“When’s she coming back?”  He puffs out a big breath. Makes him sound like Pa.

“She’s not coming back, Little Joe. She’s dead. That’s what dead means. It means someone isn’t coming back. We buried her, by the lake, remember? Where she liked to be.”

“In the box.”

“Yes.”

I nod. “But she’s coming back.”

“No.”

I don’t like it when he says that. I dig him harder in the ribs and he says,

“Don’t do that, Joe, it hurts.”

“Why?” I ask. He knows I don’t mean about hurting him.

“That’s just how it is. Everybody has to die. One day. Animals, people, everyone.”

I know now he’s being ridiculous. I pull away from him and climb off the chair. “That’s a lie! I ain’t gonna die!”

“No, not for a long time.”

“Never!” I tell him. When he doesn’t say anything back, I pout my lip and shout it at him. “I ain’t gonna die, Adam! I ain’t!”

“Joe,” he says, like he’s asking me to do something. But I don’t know what.

“I want to see her.” My voice is all whiney.

“I know you do. We all do. We just can’t.”

“Yes we can,” I insist. “Where is she, Adam?”

He puts his face in his hands. “Oh, Joe!”

“I want Pa. Where’s Pa?” I start to cry. I don’t know why Adam’s being mean to me and saying things that aren’t true.

“He’s in town. He’ll be back later. Don’t cry.” He holds out his arms to me, but I back away. “I ain’t gonna die, Adam,” I tell him again.

“I know you’re not, Little Joe. Not yet anyways. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Mama’s in town too.” I sniff back the tears as I realize that’s where she must be. Why I can’t find her.

Adam looks funny. Like he’s gonna cry too, but I know he can’t cry ’cos he’s a grown up. “Mama’s by the lake, Joe,” he says, and his voice sounds funny too.

“When they coming back? They coming back soon?”

Adam presses his hands over his eyes. When he looks up again, he says, “Why don’t we take your pony out for a ride? He hasn’t been out for a few days. Would you like to do that?”

I nod, because I would. Adam stands up and I follow him out to the barn, feeling better. “Can we ride out to the lake?” I say. “See if Mama’s there?”

-ooOoo-

MonicaSJ

Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. Yesterday morning when I was holding her head up to drink some broth, she looked at me and smiled; the first smile I had seen in at least two weeks.

“Levi, sweet Levi,” she had whispered, her eyes smiling, her hand reaching up to touch my face. “I need you to go fetch the doctor. I know you don’t hold to leaving me here alone, but my sweet boy, I’m not going to beat this sickness on my own. I want you to leave some broth and some water right here on the table next to me, and then I want you to ride down to Virginia City and bring the doctor back. He’ll know what to do.”

I didn’t argue as I had before. She’d not spoken to me that way since she came down with the fever. It was as if she had found some kind of peace in her sickness, and though I should have been happy by that fact, it mostly frightened me. She wouldn’t even let me kiss her goodbye. She just wore that same smile; one that made it into her eyes.

I did as I was told and left her, riding straight through the night to the doctor in Virginia City. I told Dr. Martin what Mama said, and he just nodded kinda sad-like. He gathered his things and we left, but on the way out of town, he waved down Mr. Cartwright and one of his sons. He got out of the buggy and went over to speak to them with his hat in his hands. When the Cartwrights got back up on their horses and turned to follow us, the son…the oldest one, looked me square in the eye. For some reason, I couldn’t look away. Then he leaned down to Dr. Martin. “He doesn’t understand.”

Doc Martin glanced back at me real quick-like. “No, I suppose he doesn’t.”

I knew they were talking about me, but I didn’t pry. Mama always told me to speak only when I was spoken to when it came to men’s business. But I’m twelve now. Just the other day Mama said what a fine young man I was.

When we got back to the farm, Mr. Cartwright and Dr. Martin went inside while Mr. Cartwright’s son put an arm around my shoulder and walked me over by the well.

“Let’s give the doctor some room. Your name’s Levi, isn’t it?” I nodded and watched the door.

“I’m Adam,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it but didn’t look away from the door.

Then Dr. Martin stepped out, shook his head and went back in.

“Let’s take a walk, Levi.”

My eyes started burning before I figured what that headshake meant, but before I could run back to the house, Mr. Adam had me in his arms, holding on while I tried to push away.

“Just let it out, son. You’re not alone.”

-ooOoo-

Faust

Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know, and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter; does it? Today, yesterday, a week ago…last year, it doesn’t matter. Time reckoning has lost its meaning. There are only two times left: before and after Mama died.

Before, that was when the days were golden, the house filled with activity, teasing, laughter, joy. When mornings were busy but structured, when midday smelled like rich soup and love, when nighttime was peaceful and spiced with wondrous fairy tales.

Before, that was when Papa had been whole.

After…after were tears. Rage, accusations, self-incrimination. Grandpa’s voice surprisingly low and soothing, Uncle Hoss’s arms stronger than ever – when have I seen Papa so small? Never before – and Uncle Joe’s presence calmer than I’d ever thought it possible.

After, that is now. Papa’s composed features – hadn’t that always been Mama’s specialty? His choked words, his shaking arms as he gathers me trying to appear more collected and more comforting than he actually can manage.

After, that’s been the eternity since Dr. Paul has left my parent’s bedroom with a face that showed more grief than a doctor should allow his professional heart, saying, “I’m sorry” and that he wasn’t able to save either of them, not Mama, and not my stillborn sister.

The eternity in which I did not become a big brother after so many years but an adult.

The eternity in which I discovered how fragile someone as tall and strong as my father can become in the blink of an eye. Never before had I noticed the grey at his temple. Surely, it must have been there, but if I must have dismissed it a play of light, a laugh. He would never be old — or so I had thought. And had his limp been as pronounced as now before?

Mama died today; at three thirty in the morning, sixteen hours ago. It feels like a lifetime.

Mama died today; at three thirty in the morning, sixteen hours ago. I’ll mourn her tonight, when everyone’s asleep. I won’t let Papa see me fall apart, too.

-ooOoo-

Southplains

Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I don’t really understand the concept of time, though I’ve heard the word often enough the last few hours.

From my mother. “Let’s head home, little one. I do believe it’s time to let your father know about you. Yes, I’ll tell him tonight.”

From my father, after the horrible screams from the horse died away. “Hold on, Darling. The doctor will be here in no time.”

From the doctor. “I’m so sorry, Ben. There just wasn’t time…”

And again from my father, over and over again, in a voice so wracked with rage and grief that the memory of it makes me shiver even now. “It’s not her time. For God’s sake, it’s not her time!”

Time, for me, is meaningless. We are simply…here. Mama and I are on our way somewhere else very soon, but we can’t yet let go. My father and brothers are hurting terribly, and their pain is an invisible tether holding us near to them. We stay close, so close that I am sure they would see us if they only looked.

My brothers stand a few feet away from the grave, shoulders hunched in misery against the light rain that has begun to fall. The biggest brother holds tight to the littlest one, wrapping his great arms about him as if to protect him from the cold and wet. The dark-haired brother approaches my father, who sits at the grave with his head bowed so low his hair brushes the tombstone.

“Pa, it’s time to get Little Joe home.”

Time. There’s that word again. My father ignores him and continues to stare at the freshly turned earth at his feet.

I watch the little one shiver in the big one’s arms, and I suddenly wish I’d had the chance to play with him. We would’ve had great fun, he and I.

Mama knows what I’m thinking, of course. Just as we have no need of time here, neither do we have need of the spoken word.

“You’ll meet Little Joe soon enough,” she says without speaking, and smiles gently. “Hoss and Adam, too.”

“And…” I remember the name my brothers use for our father. “…Pa?”

She nods, and her smile grows wistful. “And your pa. We’ll all be together sooner than you can imagine.”

I frown, studying the red-rimmed eyes of my older brothers and the tear stains covering my youngest brother’s cheeks. The way my father seems…broken.

“If we’ll be together soon,” I say, “why are they so sad?”

“They don’t understand how short time really is. On earth, years can seem to last forever.” She draws me to her. “Come. We must go now.”

I lay my cheek against Mama’s soft neck and watch as my father and brothers drift away.

Mama died today. So did I.

Time doesn’t matter to me, but I’ll be glad when we can see Pa again.

To tell him about me.

-ooOoo-

Krystyna

Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.

He stood looking at the people, a little boy with dark curling hair and red rimmed eyes that a few days earlier were wide and inquisitive and bright honey brown. He swallowed hard and turned to glance over his shoulder. He so dearly wanted his Pa to come and talk to these people and explain what had happened.

He held his hat in his hands and concentrated on what they were saying, too many words and too much confusion. Someone took hold of his hands.

“Tell us that again, son, what happened to your Mama?”

She was well meaning enough and her face, along with her voice was kindly, but the question brought a gush of emotion welling up in his heart so that it seemed as if his throat was being squeezed and he couldn’t get the words out again. He watched her look anxiously up at the man by her side and her whispered, “Poor child, he says his mother’s dead.”

“They killed her – his voice gasped out the words and he pointed towards the hills, The Indians killed her. There were arrows and there was shooting and Mama – and Hoss – and Pa he was crying too and – and – and then he was sobbing on her pretty gingham dress as she held him and her hand stroked his hair, just like Mama had done so often. Mama – I want my Mama. he whispered in a voice that quivered against her shoulder so that she caught at his arms and raised his face to look up as she asked him, “Where’s your father?”

He took her hand and led her to where he knew his father would be while the other people mingled with the remnant of survivors from their wagon train. He could hear them talking, their voices jabber jabbering over the sounds of the stiff mournful breeze that seemed determined to obliterate her death in the dust that constantly shifted about them.

His father turned when he called, he turned very slowly as though he were in a dream and to move too quickly would shatter it and force him into the reality of life, and death, once more. The infant sleeping in his arms stirred, a dimpled hand splayed fingers like the petals of a flower upon the shawl she had knitted for the little one.

Adam Cartwright released the woman’s hand and ran to his father.

She cleared her throat. “We didn’t know – we just arrived and your son told us—”

“Yes, my wife died today,” Ben said, turning to look at the grave. “Or it may have been yesterday, I don’t know.”

And the tears fell slowly as he bowed his head and buried his face in the shawl just so that he could capture the smell and the essence of her again, even if just for a very little while.

-ooOoo-

Patina

“Mama died last night. Or maybe this morning, I don’t know.”

“Calm down and take a deep breath,” Sheriff Roy Coffee said as he gently steered Salina to the chair and fetched her a cup of coffee.

“You’ve got to get a posse together!”

Roy sat down at his desk and leaned forward, resting his forearm against the corner of the desk. “Just tell me what happened.”

Salina held the much-used ceramic mug to her lips and studied the steam rising from the hot liquid within. She clasped it tightly with both hands, remembering how her mother had scolded her yesterday morning for splashing coffee on the clean tablecloth. Her mother would never fuss again.

“I think it was around midnight. I remember hearing the mantle clock ring twelve times.” She paused and watched the rising steam. “I thought it was thunder at first, but it didn’t sound right. Then there were gunshots.” She paused to catch a ragged breath. Coffee splashed from the brim of the mug as her body shook from the memory and tears rolled down her cheeks.

The sheriff pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. He wished he could console her and tell her everything would be okay, not make her relive what had happened, but he needed to know more details before calling men together to join a posse.

Heavy footsteps on the porch caught Roy’s ear and the door opened before he could escort Salina to the back of the office where she could have privacy. He turned as Ben and Joe stepped inside.

Ben stopped in mid-stride and thrust out an arm to prevent Joe from moving forward. He removed his hat and asked, “What happened?”

Roy gently patted Salina’s knee before walking over to the Cartwrights. In a low voice, he said, “Miz Ellsworth’s been murdered. Sounds like vigilantes.”

Joe noticed the rust-colored stains around the hem of Salina’s dress and asked, “Vigilantes? Are you sure?”

“Keep your voice down,” hissed Ben.

Salina raised her head with difficulty, as if it were made of stone, and turned her attention to the newcomers. Her red-rimmed eyes widened in shock as the mug slipped from her hands. The coffee leaked from the cup and soaked into the floorboards, staining the wood a deep brown.

“Why don’t you two go on over to the International House for coffee?” asked Roy. “I’ll join you later.”

“Why, Salina?” asked Joe.

She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “What do you mean?” she asked in a soft, tremulous voice.

“Let’s go,” said Ben, tugging on Joe’s arm.

“I passed Salina and her mother on the road last night,” said Joe, “on my way home from the Silver Dollar. They were arguing up a storm. That was close to midnight.”

Salina sniffled loudly but her eyes no longer glistened. “She wouldn’t let me marry Frank,” she said with a hint of venom.

-ooOoo-

DJK

Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.

Cook came and sent the boy away before he could say much more than that she was dead. An accident at the factory was what he said. Davy sent me word. He couldn’t come himself, not with six young ones to look after and seeing to the funeral and all. The boy did manage to tell me they’ll lay her to rest tomorrow. I knew when he said it that there weren’t no hope of me being there. There’s no way I could make it there and back in a single day. ‘Sides, Mrs. Newell has guests, and tomorrow’s that dinner party she’s been planning these two weeks past. Just don’t see her letting me have the time. I’ll ask, of course, but ain’t no sense in expecting to hold the moon just ‘cause ya reach for it.

****

Well, that’s that. Mrs. Newell said plain out if I weren’t at my job tomorrow I’d have no job come Sunday. I can’t do nothing for Mama now anyway, and the best I can do for the others is to send them all the money I can. Hodgekins will give two week’s pay since the accident happened at the factory, but most of that’ll go for the burying. Davy’ll be needing all he can get from me and more. Cook says Mrs. Andervale is looking for some extra girls for Miss Victoria’s coming out; may I can earn a bit there. I do have half a day Sunday; I’ll go to the church and light a candle for Mama. Mayhap, it won’t feel like I’m a day late and a dollar short.

***

Da always said that there weren’t no use in crying; sometimes, though, I can’t keep from it. Didn’t think anybody be about to know, though, not when I went out in the garden so early. That guest of Mister Andrew’s, now, he’s an early bird. Cilla says he’s from out West somewhere, says Miss Beatrice was telling one her friends about him. A rancher she said he was, so mayhap that’s why he was up and about. Caught me crying in the garden just before sunrise, he did. He was kind of flustered at first. I don’t think he’s much use to weeping females. Still, he talked to me real gentle and had the whole story of Mama dying. Imagine one of Mr. Andrew’s college friends taking time to talk to someone like me. Mayhap, it was his losing his mama just ‘fore he came back East, and her his third. He said he’d hire a rig and drive me out to the grave tomorrow. It wouldn’t be right to let him, I know, but it was a fine offer. He wiped my tears with his handkerchief. Linen it was with his initials ASC. Fine gentleman he is and understanding. I’ve a feeling he might know what it is to be poor. No, that couldn’t be.

-ooOoo-

Sibylle

Adam sat upright in his bed, heart pounding, a thin film of sweat covering his body, with that little voice whispering to him. Was he running a fever? he thought as he lay back. What had happened?

He’d been running a wagonful of errands for his father and Hop Sing, and as the buckboard had rumbled towards Virginia City he had spotted a small figure sitting on a big stone beside the road. A little girl clad in pink: pink dress, a little pink cape and a matching bonnet. She surely wasn’t more than five or six.

Adam steadied the horses. “Hey, little lady, what are you doing here? Where’s your Ma?”

“Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know, mister.”

Adam could barely hear her whisper. He climbed down and approached the child cautiously, not wanting to startle her. “And your Pa, where is he?”

“I haven’t never known him, mister.” Her eyes were fixed on the ground.

That caught Adam’s sympathy. He himself knew enough of losing a parent and this poor girl had evidently lost both. “Is there nobody with you?” he smiled reassuringly. “I don’t know what to call you. What’s your name?”

“Jennifer, but Mama calls me Jenny.”

“May I call you Jenny, too?”

“If you want.”

“I would like that, Jenny. My names Adam.”

“O.K., Adam.” She raised her eyes and looked at him.

“Jenny, are you all alone?”

The girl shook her head. “My two brothers are on our wagon.”

“Where is it, Jenny?” Adam asked gently.

“Over there,” the girl whispered, pointing behind her.

“You came in a wagon across that rough ground? How?”

“It was night, and I was asleep, but Mama got in a hurry and drove off the road, and there was lots of noise, and then the wagon broke…” she said tearfully.

“How old are your brothers?” Perhaps one of them could be more helpful, Adam thought.

“One’s older than me, the other’s just a baby.”

“Can you show me your wagon?” Adam said soothingly and held out a hand. She nodded and put her own small cold hand in his as she hopped down from the stone.

Only a few hundred yards away was a small valley, with the shattered pieces of a wagon in plain view. And the smell came. An awful smell. Instinctively Adam gathered up the feather-light child and folded her close to his chest as he picked his way down to the valley floor. Closer up, the scene was worse; there were five or six corpses around the wagon.

He tried to shield the little girl from the sight. “Shsh, you’re all right, Jenny, you’re all right, don’t worry.”

The girl lifted her small head from against his shoulder. Adam caught a brief glimpse, as her mouth split into a wide smile, of serried rows of needle-sharp teeth before she sank them forcefully into the side of his neck.

The End

A/N:  The Bonanza Brand library isn’t the only place you can read fanfiction on this site. Join the Forums to gain access to the Virginia City Literary Society where authors respond to writing challenges like the Pinecones and Drabbles where the word count is less than 500 words. Challenge responses vary from the dramatic to the comedic to the romantic and even the spooky.