Short Stories by Melissa R. Mendelson ~Page 3 of 3~   Click on any underlined title in the list below to be linked to that story: “Breakfast at Noon” “Never in Stone” “Dear Mother” “Lives Along the Open Road” “Tracing an Echo” “Across the Bridge” “Past Mistake” “Almost Losing Home” “My Enemy”   “Breakfast at Noon” by, Melissa R. Mendelson One, please. Three individuals wavered by the door, total strangers asking for a seat for one. The hostess obliged, leading them to separate tables or booths, and a waitress would be with them shortly. Nobody exchanged looks as they took their coats off and draped them around the chair, and menus were picked up, covering their face. And their stomachs rumbled, ready to order food. Red hearts dangled from the ceiling. Cupid aimed his arrow but misfired. Love, laughter, and life raised high in the hour but fell on deaf ears. Only the clink and clatter of a local diner filled the view, and strangers parked in seats fade to black. Only the roar of thoughts and the ticking of time were the companions of the one seated alone, and the nice, old lady came and went, taking orders as she goes. In the left hand corner booth were a bunch of teen-aged girls. They gossiped and whispered, talking like the girls from high school once upon a time. How things have not changed or people, and they talked of one being a bitch. A small smile to think of those times now so despised, and attention roamed over their heads to those behind them and to those behind them, families, friends, and coworkers all huddled together. But one remained seated alone. She spoke into her cell phone, begging for contact. She did not look at the other seated a very short distance away at her own table. The third loner was led to the back near the bathroom, already munching on food. She spoke quietly, eagerly listening, but the connection was brief. She folded the phone in her hand and looked around but not at the other beside her. She wanted the order to come, the bill, and then to go. Why was it so wrong to eat alone? The pancakes were luscious. Like an artist, I painted each one with butter and then drowned them in syrup. Like a surgeon, I cut each piece delicately, savoring every bite. As a writer, I consumed my atmosphere, its occupants, and food for thought, but I could not stray too far. There were appointments still to be kept, and she left me the bill, taking away the empty plate. I rose from my seat, sliding into my coat, and dishing out a five and one dollar bill, and before I left, I placed that cash in the nice, old lady's hand. And then the glass doors gently slid closed, ending breakfast at noon.   “Never in Stone” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   The future is never written in stone. I tell myself that every day, but I still seem to find the feet of yesterday, wandering aimlessly. Nothing has changed, but the world is different. My life remains out of reach, and I am the ghost in the crowd. My voice is carried by the wind, and the pen is crying. The door is open, but I still remain half inside, thinking my life is set in stone. I will never live the dream, but to believe that is to surrender. And the future is never written in stone. I tell myself that every day, and I try to break free from yesterday. And I still try.   “Dear Mother” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   Dear Mother, We were once there, hand in hand walking through life together. We shared our moments of joy, and in moments of sadness, you did comfort me some. But then life cut in, and we were separated. No longer would we walk hand in hand but at a distance, and so rarely now do we share the moments of our life. We both had fallen time and time again, but I no longer fall. But you still do, and you no longer allow me to hold your hand. All I can do is watch you struggle to stand, and we still walk at a distance. There was a time that I would grab your hand and hold it tight, but you keep falling down. And you bring me right down beside you, and I cannot go there anymore. I cannot return to when all was good, and I cannot stand still. I must walk on, and I wish that you would walk with me. I wish that you would try to stand, and then I would gladly take your hand. But you now walk alone, barely sharing any moments of my life, and I feel as if I am leaving you behind. I must live my life, and we both know that. But I wish for you to walk with me, and I hope to find you again at my side, no longer falling down. Maybe it is a dream, but I hope it is a dream that we both share. And we will walk down this road together once more hand in hand. Love, Your Daughter   “Lives Along the Open Road” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   The open road would forever hold my fate.  I always wrote about the road.  I know where I began and where I got lost, but I’ll never know the end. The twists and turns are the mistakes in my life, and there are no U-turns. But I drive on.  I write of the open road. When we moved to the countryside, we would take long drives back to reality, the Bronx and Seaford. I felt lost in a world that I did not understand, parted only by a sheet of glass. I felt alone, wrapped only in thought, and nobody spoke to me. My brothers would elbow me or pull my hair, but there were no bonds to be shared.  We were all lost to our own world, surrounded by time and memory.  We were young, and we dreamed bright. But do we still dream? I often wonder this. How did I get here?  All those detours have led me across broken, jagged bridges, and I bled.  And I cried.  So many mistakes, and no U-turns. I don’t regret all my life, but I regret the major moments that did not have to exist.  If only I listened to myself, if only I knew, but these thoughts were now just whispers. And I’m here standing across the road. I’ll never know the end. The road continued to wind, and I am finally on solid ground.  But am I following the right path? It’s so easy to get lost, forget where you should be going, and before you know it, your destination is claimed by the rearview mirror.  And to another end, I go, hoping for bright skies and not dark remains. The road would always be my friend and my enemy. I have traveled alone for a very long time.  Bah Lerman was right when he said that friends may come and friends may go, but I believe that they are the strangers that we meet on the road, strangers to forever change our life. We are better and worse because of them. Sometimes, we tried to be careful, avoid the hitchhiker, but what journey would wait, if we kept the door closed?  There’s caution, and there’s life. And life is a lonely place, if stuck driving down a long, dark road. My story would not stop here.  There’s a bridge in the horizon, another turning point, another year.  It might be a slow crawl or a fast and furious ride.  Solitude might be my companion for now, but who knows who waits down the road?  And I drive on. I write of the open road, ready for another chapter to begin.   “Tracing an Echo” By, Melissa R. Mendelson   “I want to fight you,” she said. It was early morning.  I just had walked off the bus and into the school.  For some reason, I was walking in line, heading to class, and behind a boy. He stopped, making me stop, and the girl stood to my left. “I want to fight you,” she said to me. I was like a deer caught in headlights.  The boy in front of me smiled with anticipation.  The girl laughed, but she was serious. I remained still, hoping to pass them, but the hall was crowded. The boy blocked my way, and he wasn’t moving.  And she edged closer. It was my senior year of high school.  Usually, the seniors were left alone, or we were doing the fighting.  This girl, this boy was younger than me, and I had never seen them before until this day. Maybe they knew each other.  Maybe they set this up, but why me? I was a senior.  Who the hell were they? Neither one budged.  The boy looked on, hoping for a brawl.  The girl edged closer, repeating her words. I had no words to give.  I just stared at them, hoping for them to move out of my way.  I had no time for this, for them. I was going to be late for class because these two jokers were trying to make a name for themselves, and if I was who I am today, I would’ve wiped the floor with both of them.  In that moment of time though, I wasn’t. Finally, the boy moved out of my way.  He was disappointed.  I made no remark. My hands remained at my side. Impatience shined in my eyes.  The girl literally stood on top of me, but she made no forceful move.  The kids in this hall were notorious for tripping me, elbowing my sides, pulling my hair, knocking the books out of my arms, an endless barrage of assaults, but she used her words as a weapon. And they failed to cut me open. As I walked past them and down the hall, I knew they remained behind.  I didn’t look over my shoulder to know that they were watching me.  I knew they were satisfied. They thought they had won without fighting first. They thought they had scared me, but I felt no fear. They felt mighty, but who was the senior?  Me or them? The kids in this hall always thought of me as a joke, but they were the joke instead.  Going through life, tearing people down, making themselves feel better was a tactic used in the real world, on the roadways, and even in a mall or grocery store.  Angry wagon barons that run your foot over or people looking to start a fight were on the menu almost every day, and this girl, that boy were no different.  They just targeted me. I thought about that moment in time. I thought about it today.  I could have punched her in the face. I could have hit him, but what would’ve been the point?  They still would’ve won. They wanted to feel mighty.  They wanted to tear me down.  They probably do those childish games today, filling a hole that would never be filled, but the joke is on them.  I have no void but the demons that I carry, but I do not need to play their games.  Not anymore because I know better. Still, that image remained.  A girl stood behind a boy.  Another girl turned at the right moment.  Everyone in the hall paused, waiting, anticipating. Class was ready to start, but so were they.  “I want to fight you,” she said.  “I want to fight you,” her words forever an echo across my life.   “Across The Bridge” By, Melissa R. Mendelson   The heart of the city could be felt by the beat of traffic.  Life rushed by without a pause, haunted by the brakes of death.  Time blinked in and out of existence, where we’ve been and where we are, but where are we going?  The roads would never tell but cluster together, complicating lives with twists and turns, and it would never be a straight path. But as they rolled on by, bent on their destinations, nobody saw the one ready to jump off the bridge. It was a cold October day. It was just after ten. The morning commute had finally died down, and all worker bees were nestled in their four-walled rooms. Bosses were sitting in spacious offices behind large, oak desks, and time marched to their tune. That was the way of the world, eat, sleep, and work, and there was no time to waste.  And there were those still desperately searching to fill the hole left by unemployment, but some had already given up. The world was in turmoil.  Horror stories painted the news day in and day out. Homes were abandoned.  Loved pets wandered cold streets. Friendships faded. Trust and Honesty were a rarity, flashing across a neon sign.  They were just trying to survive now, and the false tongues of politicians could only soothe their pain until their own skeletons fell out of the closet.  And then we would be left in disgust, betrayal, and what would be the point to keep on living? Why not give up? It was getting colder. Winter was already on its way, and once officially here, it was here to stay. It would bury the world in white, keeping misery company.  The chill of loss and defeat would flicker against the fires of love, but love walked out the door one late night. Now, there was nothing, and where we’ve been, where we are has been buried six flurries down. But where would we go once winter was gone? These things no longer bothered me.  Life did not bother me. Time was a mere acquaintance, visiting from time to time.  The world continued to roll on by like the cars over this bridge, and nobody saw me standing here. It was already too late. I jumped off this bridge a long time ago, way before the world got flushed down the toilet.  I came home late one night after clearing my desk with a pink slip in hand.  Her bags were packed by the door. She kissed me on the cheek, and without saying a word, she left, driving off down a dark road.  And I was left behind. There was nothing to live for, or so I told myself.  I walked here, leaving my car, my things at home. I didn’t care. I stopped caring a long time ago, and the waters below me looked welcoming. Nobody stopped me. Nobody talked me down, so I jumped.  And here I am today. I turned toward the passing cars.  They just kept on going, hoping to get somewhere, but what if they just wound up nowhere?  Did they think of that? That thought, that small voice that crawled into the back of your mind and told you to give up, and I listened. I was wrong. I’m trapped, watching this city, this world, these people live on. I want to tell them that I was here, that I am here.  I want to tell them to keep on driving and never stop, never listen to that voice that likes to charm its way into your mind. If I can’t leave here, then maybe I could do something.  I’m so tired. I just want to go home. What if I never jumped?  My boss nearly fired me that day, and my wife threatened to leave. I talked her down. Her pink note wound tightly around my hand.  I couldn’t let her go.  How could she be so selfish?  How could she just give up? That’s the cruelty of this world.  It wants you to give up through the burdens pressed down across our backs, through the corporations that make a circus out of our lives, forcing us to jump through hoops, and through the bull that we have to deal with day in and day out. Life was not fair, but I wish it was.  I wished these damn roads before me led to where I want to go, but nobody knows. We thought the world was going to end, but the truth was that we were afraid that we were going to end. And some did, but they never died. Here on this bridge, we stood together, a legacy lost. Our eyes drank in the lives that you take for granted.  Our thoughts are yours, and our despair, our doubt is washed away by your strength, your need to go forward.  Our lives are written for all to know, all to remember, and never would we be forgotten.  Our heart, our soul is here not trapped in suffering but in hope, hope that we find that second chance to make things right, and some way, somehow, we would. And the heart of the city could be felt by the beat of traffic tonight.   “Past Mistake” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   “Only Time” by Enya was the sweet voice begging the fear to fade away. There would be no more tomorrows.  There are no yesterdays.  There are only fragments, pieces of who I was, who I should’ve been, and the world was nothing now than a broken mirror with deep footholds. But home was nowhere.  Family, friends…  They were all gone. All that was left was me.” What was left of this house after the nuclear war was my only shelter to bare. Food was scarce, and if I strayed too long from this foothold, I would surely disappear.  There was no telling when I would go, but I would never come back. It was always night, never day, and I was freezing as if living in space.  What fires I could make were pieces of this house, but I was trying to survive.  I don’t know why. Everyone was gone. The world was gone. We cheered the day we created the first robot, our slaves. We applauded the clones of man, those to provide us with a second chance, if we needed an organ or limb.  We smiled when we made the first bit of dark matter to explore. We were a success finally when we broke the time barrier, and we broke the time barrier, splintering this world into a playground of era’s and erasing our own. We were gone in a blink of an eye because we had to play God, and we cheered, we applauded, and we smiled like idiots. And now, those brilliant minds are distant stars in a galaxy far, far away. Nobody knew what happened. We were so bent on 2012, thinking the world was going to end.  Mother Nature was truly kicking our ass, and we tried to battle her, never thinking that the true enemy lived deep within. Once that time came and went, we crawled back to our simple lives, thinking the end was now a new beginning, but we were wrong.  And I awoke one morning to find the sun refusing to rise, my bed was empty, and my family was gone. The worst thing in this world, in this life is to wake up somewhere you don’t belong.  The street that I used to drive around, that would always take me home was now a large, gaping abyss.  It was a nuclear war, some said, but then they too were gone, leaving me alone, leaving me to madness.  I wandered still, finding pieces of a world shattered like a broken mirror, and then with horror, I watched the survivors stumble into the black holes, disappearing forever.  When did they go, I’ll never know, but who knows if they survived or if they are now dead? And what about me? I’m circling the drain as I write this letter to you.  I don’t know when you will find it or if you will find it.  I don’t know if it’s too late to erase what was done, but I want you to be prepared.  This end might come, and you might awake in your darkest nightmare. This is what we get for taking the world in our hands and taking chances, chances better left alone. Maybe, in my final act, my life will matter. Something will change. That’s all we need for something to change, for you to find me. A knock came on the door two weeks later.  A police officer handed the teenager a crumbled, frayed letter. He merely cleared his throat as the boy took it and slowly opened it. He checked his watch to see that it was getting late, but something told him to stay, something told him that it would be important. So, he waited like he had all the time left in the world. “Where did you get this,” he slowly asked. “Off a dead body.  What’s the letter say, boy?”  Tears shined in his eyes. “Give it here, lad.”  He slowly pulled the strange paper from his hands.  “Your name and address was on this letter, and…”  He started to read it, and as he did, his hands began to shake. “It can’t be true.”  The teenager watched the police officer fold the letter up and stick it in his shirt pocket.  “What are you doing?” “Nobody is to know about this.”  He slowly backed away.  “Nobody.” “But what if it’s true!” “Then, we know when, and that’s all that matters.” He scratched his chin. Fear touched his heart. Somewhere in the distance, he heard that song by Enya, Only Time, and he cringed. “We know, and that may change something. All we can hope, boy is to change something.”  With that said, he walked away, leaving the teenager with only the ghost of himself. ©Melissa R. Mendelson   “Almost Losing Home” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   The winter days are coming.  Broken road are the dreams now lying cold.  The skies are gray, killing the silver lining. Strays lie dead or starving, and we’re trying to survive.  Our past is gone, fade to black, and the future is null and void.  And we’re close, so very close to losing home. They come every day now to see if I want to sell.  If I sell, where would I go?  The money would be crossed between that line for shelter and the need for food.  Ends are not being met, and prices soar at the local supermarket, making it impossible to feed families already trying to get through the next day and the day after that. My neighbors are leaving, leaving the key in their door, and going, but where are they going? There is nowhere to go. We have locked ourselves in, and it is a very long way down. We’re hoping for change, but no winds of change are stirring.  Only the winter winds are turning, and when winter comes, all could be lost. How much more would we have to pay to heat our homes, keep our family from suffering that bitter frostbite? What would we dare to keep a roof over our heads, venture out into a blinding storm with no hope of return?  What burdens overweigh our needs? Food or clothes? There is no change in sight and no one promising to keep us home. Fall is ready to die.  These days will go fast, chased by worry and fear.  Like the squirrels, should we prepare and hope for the best, knowing that it would be the worst?  The cry for help is deafening, an echo across this world, but help is few, not enough. And home is a second thought, if we can’t afford to stay here, and taxes go up.  Something needs to be done, but we all know that.  But won’t something be done? Winter is coming.  The clinics are full, and the sound of coughs and sneezes are already ringing through the air. Food kitchens are overwhelmed. Shelters are putting those animals that once called us family to sleep. The homeless are pushing their carts across the street.  We are living in a broken world, and we’re so close, so close to losing home, losing faith.  And all we have are simple words, a touch of grace, and a whisper of hope. ©Melissa R. Mendelson   “My Enemy” by, Melissa R. Mendelson   I’ve always had enemies. Since third grade, I battled with Evan and the Gang. The fights raged on until my parents couldn’t take it anymore, and then we moved to the quiet countryside. But I still had enemies. Nancy and Kelly hunted me down one day by the lockers. It was at the end of the day. Nancy was thirsty for blood, my blood, and Kelly would be her cheerleader as well as backup to keep me down. But I slammed my locker door so hard that they both jumped back, unsure of what to do next. Maybe I wasn’t so little of prey for them to attack, and they left me alone after that. But neither girl still liked me, hating my guts. The bus ride to school and back was pure hell. Name calling tried to break my bones, but twisting my arm behind my back hurt more. Hair pulling was nuisance, and elbows in my side only made me angry. But my enemies were relentless and unforgiving, despising the fact that they had to share the same space, the same air with me. What did I ever do to them? High school came and went. I survived, making mistakes that I wished I could take back. I made plenty more after graduation, but shoulda, coulda, woulda. You can’t go back in time no matter how much you want to, you wish to, so those gone now could have more time with you. But life goes on, and it leaves you behind. I marched forward, hoping for a better chapter in my life, but none came. Now, I find myself in a room, where I am supposed to be having fun. However, in the corner of this room is a man that tortured me through my school years. He even threw me into a locker headfirst in hopes of drawing blood. I never did anything to him, but he hated me. He still did, seeing that intent hatred in his eyes. And I never did anything to him. My friend invited me to a party. There was laughter and smiles. Drinks were raised and toasted, but the merriment fell short from me. I just wanted to leave, but I couldn’t be rude. Maybe fifteen minutes, twenty tops before I head out the door, but I have no such luck. My enemy now stands before me. “I remember you,” he snarled. “Still alive, I see.” “Still alive and kicking.” I grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “How have you been?” He looked surprised, refusing to accept any drink or food that passed his way. “How’s your family?” He snarled at that. His family had kicked him out shortly after graduation, but that was his own doing. “My bad,” I said. “You think you’re funny? I could kick your ass right here and now. I couldn’t give a shit about this party.” He stepped closer. “Say something funny. Go on. I dare you.” “We’re not high school anymore. Grow up.” I downed my drink, but as I placed the empty glass to the side, I made sure that my back wasn’t completely turned his way. Never turn your back on your enemy, and he sensed this. “You touch me, and I will have you brought up on charges. You’ll go to jail not the principal’s office, so go ahead. I dare you. Hit me. Hit me!” For a moment, I thought he would. “No?” “No.” He stepped back. “We’re not alone. Too many witnesses.” He smiled at this. “I can wait.” “I bet you can.” I wondered how I would get to my car without him hunting me down. “What are you doing here anyway?” “Looking for you.” Now it was my turn to be surprised. “I’m here with a friend.” “You have friends?” Again, another snarl. “Maybe you have changed...” “I still hate you.” “I don’t see why.” I leaned up against the wall behind me, maybe not the best position. “I never did anything to you, but you rallied the troops against me, making my life a living hell. Why?” “Why not?” “Not good enough. Why?” He seemed puzzled. “Something I did in another life?” He raised any eyebrow. “I’ve moved on.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m not that little girl anymore.” “I could still take you.” He stepped closer. “I can still hurt you, and I want to hurt you.” “Why?” “Who gives a shit why,” he yelled, causing the room to fall silent. “I don’t like you!” “Good for you.” I moved away from him, but he grabbed me by the arm. Hard. “Let go.” “Or what? You’ll cry? You’re pathetic, weak, and I could tear you apart.” I snapped his arm back and then behind him, making him yelp like a dog. I knocked him to his knees, bringing tears to his eyes. I kept the pressure on as I stepped forward. I was poised and ready for his attack, but none came. “I told you.” I slowly released his arm. “I am not that little girl anymore, so think twice before coming after me.” He rubbed his arm. “You may always be my enemy, but I will never be your prey. Not anymore, so don’t you forget that.” I grabbed another glass of champagne and strolled away. I fell in step with the beat, kicking up my heels. Now, my back could be toward him because he remained kneeling, nursing his arm. Sure, I angered the beast, but I knew how to protect myself now. If he followed me to the parking lot, if I was foolish enough to go to my car alone, I was not worried. I would just return the favor for all those fights and tortures many, many years ago. ©Melissa R. Mendelson   Melissa R. Mendelson’s Short Stories - Page 1 Melissa R. Mendelson’s Short Stories - Page 2 Poetry by Melissa R. Mendelson Website Home Page