“Bull!” [Classic] (675 word story)

The stillness of the cool evening air and the soft whirring of the night insects did little to betray the terrible battle that ensued deep within the stony bowels of the mighty Labyrinth. In a dimly-lit chamber, a brawny Athenian youth was locked in mortal combat with the creature known as the Minotaur — the accursed son of Pasiphae, wife of Minos.

Themus, son of Labdacus, grandson of Poseidon drew forth his dagger from his belt as he and the Minotaur wrestled powerfully on the grimy floor, muscles stretching and sinews cracking. Both mighty opponents were bathed in sweat, and neither had the upper hand, until a powerful but awkward thrust of the dagger by Themus embedded the blade in the Minotaur’s left eye. The two drew apart — each quietly thankful for the brief respite from the fray.

Themus eyed his foe. Aside from the grossly disfigured head and the terrible, inhuman strength, the Minotaur was completely human in every respect. The gleam of intelligence that shown from its remaining eye made Themus pause, but the glimpse of the scattered bones along the chamber walls rekindled the fury in him, spurring him on with his sworn task: the destruction of this hell-spawned behemoth.

Due to the abnormal thickness of the monster‘s skull, the hurried knife thrust had not penetrated to the brain, but it had cost the creature the sight in one eye and a great deal of blood — though no signs of weakness were yet apparent. Themus attributed his lack of injuries to his quickness and to the oddly-defensive fighting style of the Minotaur.

He lunged toward the beast, attempting to bring it down and pound the dagger in the remaining inches needed to end this wretched creature’s life. The Minotaur easily sidestepped the lad and caught him from behind, its iron grip around his thick neck cutting off the blood to his brain. Themus’ mighty struggles became feebler as the world spun about him and blackness prevailed.

Sometime later, he stirred groggily to the realization that he was being dragged by his ankles down black, winding corridors through which the Minotaur’s rasping breath echoed ominously. Themus kept his own breathing even as he surveyed his surroundings through slitted eyes. He could dimly see the outline of the beast silhouetted against a slowly-increasing light far ahead — undoubtedly some chamber in which he would be devoured, Themus reasoned. He vowed not to give the creature a chance.

He was dragged past numerous intersecting corridors that darted off into deeper blackness. Gripping a corner as he was passing, Themus jerked his feet free and rolled to a standing position before the Minotaur was aware of what had occurred.

The Minotaur turned slowly, finally showing the effect of the loss of blood, but Themus was already upon it, bringing it down and pinning it to the cold floor. The monster looked up sadly, but did not struggle as Themus unhesitantly pounded the dagger the remaining inches, ending the beast’s wretched life. The world went dark once more.

Themus awoke confused amid a rush of memories as he tried to piece together the events of the last few hours. He looked at the still form next to him, noticing the dagger in the eye of the fine, regular, human features — peaceful in death — and was only dimly surprised when his own hand raised to his throbbing head encountered hairy, unfamiliar features.

He saw his battle with the Minotaur in a new light, only now realizing that the poor creature had been trying to prevent this terrible transformation.

He reached for his knife with intent to end his life but some force within him stayed his hand as his mind echoed with distant, hollow laughter. Cursing Zeus and resigning himself to his new fate, Themus began dragging the body in the opposite direction — away from the exit toward which the former Minotaur had been trying to take him.

His mouth salivated unconsciously as he brought home his meal.

Suicide [Classic] (600 word story)

No one dies this time — but not through lack of trying.

Side note: I used an online character recognition site to ‘read’ a scan of my old typewritten story and convert it to digital text. I had to make a boatload of edits to correct things so, at the end of the day, I’m not sure it saved me time over retyping the whole thing. Maybe…

More old stories here.


The man seated at the large walnut desk in the air-conditioned office glanced apprehensively at his wristwatch as he had done dozens of times within the last hour. It was five minutes to ten — time to begin. He called for his private secretary who came promptly into the office.

”Would you please get me a cup of coffee?” he asked, knowing that it would take her between three and a half and four minutes to return with the cup.

“Certainly,” she told him with a smile, and he watched her, as prim and neat as ever, as she closed the door behind her. He reached into his desk drawer and brought out an envelope which he set in the middle of the otherwise vacant blotter, rose from his padded chair, and stepped toward the large window overlooking Wall Street and the bustling people far below.

The previous day, his wife has brought up the subject of divorce along with the shocking news that she was having an affair. He knew most of the blame was his, for he had not been much of a husband in recent years, being too concerned with his job — which he had ironically come to despise with all his heart. This new situation with his wife was the proverbial last straw that caused him to decide to end his life today. At ten o’clock his wife was supposed to call about the divorce, but he planned on not being here at that time. The coffee was so that all would know the exact time of his death.

He opened the window wide and stepped out onto the ledge as the cold autumn wind tore at his hair and clothes. Thirty-five stories below him, tiny cars and specks of people inched their way along the narrow street. He pictured himself, sprawled on the pavement, a brighter speck amid the crowd.

He leaned forward, preparing to jump, when fear gripped him. The idea of suicide that had seemed so desirable a moment ago, now repulsed him. He realized that he still did love his wife — and that an apology and a reformed life might yet win her back. He also realized that he did not really dislike his job, and that the thought of living seemed much sweeter than the blackness of death.

But he was already off balance. He was on the very edge, pin-wheeling his arms in a losing battle to regain his balance and not plummet to the street, hundreds of feet below. Sweat rolled down his face and bile rose to his throat as he tipped that last centimeter.

Suddenly, a gust of icy wind caught him and seemed to set him back upon the ledge like a giant hand. His heart was pounding wildly as he pressed himself to the brick, his eyes closed in thankfulness.

He cautiously sidled toward the window, backed in, but did not feel safe until, with trembling hands, he closed the window tightly. He made his way shakily to his desk, absently fixing his hair and straightening his tie. As he fell back into his chair, his secretary, prim and neat as ever, came into the door carrying the cup of coffee that he had asked for — seeming ages ago.

She set it on his desk and, looking toward his suicide note, asked if he would like her to mail it.

“No,” he smiled, sliding the envelope into his jacket pocket.

”Your wife is on the line,” she informed him.

”Thank you, that will be all.” he said truthfully. He smiled as he reached for the telephone.

An Elephant [Classic] (700 word story)

Sad, another tragic death. Remember: my ‘classic’ stories were written when I was young and silly. More old stories here.


The carnival was bustling with the noise of the early-evening throng. The oppressive heat seemed to make the whole scene appear unreal as if in a dream or an old painting about to wear through – revealing the blank wall underneath.

Every night it was the same. Except tonight the freak show was receiving unusual attention partially due to the excellent hawking of Bob Edwards, and partially due to some new attractions that had not yet been seen in this town.

Actually, the crowd-drawing attractions – the tattooed lady, the elephant boy, the bearded lady, a family of midgets (not actually related) – had been with the carnival for years, but were only seen along this seldom-used northern route during exceptionally hot summers such as this one.


Joshua, the elephant boy, hated crowds – especially this one. There were no familiar faces, and they didn’t seem to treat him with the awe and respect that he received along their traditional route. He studied the faces anyway, catching what names he could, and storing them away for when they would next travel this route.

Joshua had an extraordinary memory. He knew by heart the names and layouts of all the cities along the carnival’s summer and winter runs. He could recognize all the faces he had seen and put names to those whose names he had heard in previous years. He remembered events as far back in his childhood with the circus as could be verified, and could tell you what shows were the best draws in any given city. The manager of the carnival, T. Farmer, had been meaning to work up an act using Joshua’s fantastic memory, but had never gotten around to it.

For that, Joshua was glad. The less attention he got, the better. He was content to lead his simple life and think about the woman that he saw in his dreams and assumed to be his mother. In his dreams she would come to him, take him in her arms and say she was sorry for leaving him, and the two would live happily ever after.

She had probably left him for some good reason, Joshua thought, and all would be well when she found him again. His dangling nose between his far-set eyes would crinkle up in excitement when he thought of the new, normal life he would then lead. And this might even be the night because the occasional glimpses of the town had convinced him that he had been here before as an infant. So he kept searching for that very special face in the crowd.

As the evening wore on, the crowd began thinning and Joshua had nearly given up, when … there she was!

She seemed to have aged more than Joshua’s fifteen years, and was much smaller than he remembered, even smaller than he was now. Speechless, he had reached out his hand for his mother as she passed, but she shrank back with a look of recognition and horror in her eyes, and had hurried out of the tent.

Joshua was momentarily paralyzed as tears came to his eyes. It all came back to him in a rush – how she had discarded him, not caring if he lived or died, in an abandoned lot when the carnival was in town. And also how Mr. Big, the midget, had found him lying there half dead. Joshua shook his head to clear it of its stupor, and dashed out of the back of the tent. Mother!

Joshua searched frantically for her and caught a glimpse of her receding form hurrying between two tents toward the back of the lot. As he ran after her, he noticed he had a tent stake in his hand. He reached her and brought the stake crashing down upon her head.

They found Joshua an hour later rocking back and forth, cradling the bloody head of his mother’s body in his lap, and repeating almost apologetically over and over again with tears once again in his eyes: “Elephants never forget, Mom, elephants never forget…”

Inheritance [Classic] (625 word story)

See? I can write a nice story where no one dies.


The young man stepped out of his car and into the slanting afternoon sunshine. His feet hardly seemed to touch ground as he crossed the small parking lot and bounded up the three flights of stairs.

Apartment 3-G. He rang the bell and poked his head through the unlocked door. Blouseless, she ran to greet him with hairbrush in hand. “Anyone home?” he smiled as she stretched to kiss him.

They parted, breathless. “Oh, this is for you.” He held out a slightly-crushed white corsage. “Now hurry up or we’ll be late.” He slapped her buttock through her black skirt as she turned to go. She giggled as she scurried back to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later. “How do I look?” He put down his magazine and looked at her framed in the the light from the hall. She had put on a blue silk blouse and had pinned back her long, dark hair. “Beautiful,” he said as he arose to kiss her.

“We’d better be going,” she said at last. He held the door for her as the stepped out into the warm summer air. Arms around each other, they walked to the car.


He slowed the car into his parents driveway. “We’re here.” She drew away and he hurried around the car to open the door for her.

As they neared the house, they could hear the sound of a woman’s raised voice through the storm door.

“…and those Rosalettis.” the voice was saying, “if only they had let things be. We could be rich, I tell you, rich…”

He whispered in her ear, “The Rozalettis are sone relatives out East that stole an inheritance, some ‘treasure’, intended for us, or so I’m told. Ma’s pretty big on the subject.” She returned his smile as they entered the house.

“…robbers! Theives!, I…” the voice belonged to a short, stout woman in her early forties who turned a surprised face toward them. “Mimmo! Antonio, my baby!” She threw herself about his waist nearly toppling him.

“Mamma, I’d like you to meet…”

“And you must be Clara. Antonio has told us so much about you.”

“Glad to meed you, Mrs. Marioni,” the girl responded.

“You’re early, Tony,” Mr. Marioni said from the doorway. The two men embraced. “Hello, Pappa.

“Pappa, this is Clara.” Mr. Mariani took the girl’s hand. He looked into her eyes. “Don’t let this one go, Antonio. They don’t come any prettier.”

Clara blushed. “Now I know where Tony gets his charm, Mr. Marioni.”

“Tony? Charm?” He slapped his son on the back and laughing, steered them both toward the living room.

They had only been talking a few minutes when Mrs. Marioni arose, “I had better see about dinner.”

“I’ll help.” The two women disappeared into the kitchen, their voices audible through the doorway.

Mr. Marioni turned to his son. “A very nice girl, Tony.”


“Eat, Tony, or it will get cold.” But Tony and Clara had eyes for little else than each other. Mr. and Mrs. Marioni exchanged a smile, remembering the days of their youth.


“Is it that late already?” Tony stood up. “We had better be going.” They had been talking in the living room for nearly an hour after Clara had helped Mrs. Marioni clear the table.

Mr. and Mrs. Marioni saw the younger couple to the door. With an abundance of hugs, they said goodnight. Tony put his arm around Clara to protect her from the chill of the evening as they walked to the car.

Mrs. Marioni watched them go and saw how her baby’s heart had been stolen.

“Such a nice girl,” Mr. Marioni was saying, “She must be some relation.”

“Probably a Rozaletti,” Mrs. Marioni said as she burst into tears.

The Smithean War [Classic] (1500 word story)

I submitted this as a mythology assignment in high school. The core story was too short to meet the required word count, so I padded it at each end by adding a narrator.


It had been a long day and now the five of us were sitting around a too-small fire finally getting something to eat. Out of the ten who had been assigned with us yesterday, two had been killed and the other three were already asleep, here and there, in their cloaks. It was pretty poor accommodations for an army if you ask me.

I was the only foreigner here because it was a local war, but I had been in the area and decided to act as a kind of mercenary and join the fun. I have certainly seen my share of fighting and it follows that I must be a pretty good swordsman or I wouldn’t be here today.

The language I picked up easily enough, and on this, my fifteenth day, we finally saw some real action.

Earlier today, I had saved the lives of two brothers whose names I won’t mention here mainly because I can’t remember them. Their chariot had overturned and I was in the area so I went over and held off a few of the enemy while the brothers collected their wits and drew back toward camp. I quickly forgot about it and went on bravely to get my shield run through and my right shoulder cut pretty badly.

Later, they reminded me of the incident, seemed very grateful, and kept me the center of attention at our so-called meal. That is if you can call some kind of dried meat that tasted like leather and a hunk of bread soaked in spoiled milk a meal.

Annacles, the fourth in the group, looked too young to be in this business but seemed very interested in the story they were telling. He was even younger than the twins.

Did I mention there were twins? That’s probably why I can’t remember the names — because I couldn’t tell them apart.

A fellow called Calmendes, the fifth in our group and a bear of a man, was reputed to be a very good warrior. He seemed jealous of the attention I was getting and he just stared into the fire doing his best to ignore us.

Anyway, we got to talking about my homeland and I found myself telling them about the Smithean War.

“A long time ago, there was a beautiful group of islands call Smithos. The water around the islands was a beautiful deep blue and it was said that, with all the wild animals and fruits on the islands, a man could spend all of his life there and never eat the same thing twice. Every nation wanted possession of Smithos but there were two who were closest and had the best claim on the islands and they were Darma and Horbos.

“Now Darma was part of the mainland, and the warm climate and tropical sun bred tall, copper-skinned warriors who had long, tall shields and were all versed in the use of the spear. Horbos was a fair-sized island that took two days to be crossed on foot but it was still smaller than Darma. The men of Horbos were stouter and fairer than those of Darma. Horbos had a fine navy but, because of its size, it had fewer men than Darma and this disadvantage is what finally turned the tide in the war.

“The war went on for about eight years with losses nearly equal on both sides. The Horbeans were becoming desperate because they were running out of soldiers so they planned to use the remaining army for one last thrust to end the war once and for all.

“It was clever scheming by the Horbean navy to feint a retreat through a narrow pass in the islands and then ambush from above and behind. It did end the war, but not the way the Horbeans preferred.

“The Darmides managed to escape and quickly destroyed what was left of the Horbean fleet. While the Horbean ships were being hunted down, they had no opportunity to warn Horbos of the inevitable raid — though Horbos did guess that the Darmides would come once the Horbean ships that came regularly to bring news and take supplies stopped coming.

“They prepared well for the siege and took all the islanders into the ruling city of Horbaetus and stocked the city well with food and water.

“The Darmide fleet collected the injured, divided their spoils, and prepared to set sail directly for Horbos. They were so confident of an easy victory that they did not stop at Darma first for supplies.

“The Darmides started the voyage with light hearts, but the voyage which should have taken twelve days took twenty. Wild storms battered them and filled the Darmides hearts with dread. Several times, they nearly turned back but decided instead to press on. On the morning of the twentieth day, they found themselves upon Horbos.

“The Darmide fleet anchored in the Harbor of Treve which was across the island from Horbaetus. Horbos had lost most of its navy at Smithos and they chose to conserve what little was left in case they had to leave quickly. The Darmides had decided to take the city by surprise from the inland and the army started on their trek across the island.

“When word finally came that the Darmide fleet had landed, the Horbeans were almost relieved that the long wait had finally ended until rumor spread that the Darmide army was five times as large as the remaining Horbean troops.

“With those left to protect the city, there were some old men who were once good warriors and were still able to take up a sword. Also, there were some youths who had just achieved manhood but had not yet gone to war. Together with the old warriors and youths, the Horbean force was doubled and they had two men for every five Darmides.

“They remembered back to the magnificent Spateus — the greatest fighter in the history of Horbos. In his day, the fame of Spateus had spread throughout the known world and he was hailed as the greatest warrior of his time.

“Spateus was reputed to have single-handedly defeated the savage Trespites from the South and stopped their invasion of Horbos. He disappeared years ago during his battle with the sea beast Clormeus who was terrorizing the island’s eastern shore. Clormeus was believed immortal and Spateus sought only to drive him off, but the beast’s carcass was said to have washed up on the beach at Clydes, a land many miles north, a few weeks later.

“His son Androus was also a great warrior but, when he was young, he had set off in search of his father whom he believed was not dead, and Androus had not been seen since.

“Even though the Horbeans were far outnumbered by the Darmides, they knew that with just one such man as these, they might stand a chance to defeat these raiders.

“The Darmides made the journey across the island and came without hardship to within sight of the walls of Horbaetus where they set up camp. They knew that with the great warriors Spateus and Androus gone, they should have no trouble defeating the Horbaetus so they expected the siege to be over very quickly, and —” I stopped. I must have gotten carried away with my story because I didn’t notice that I had put everyone to sleep.

The fire was nearly out and my fellow soldiers had all curled up in their cloaks leaving only big Colmendes awake and still staring into the fire. I rolled up into my own cloak and closed my eyes.

“…and —?”

I opened my eyes and found myself looking into the big face of Colmendes. He said again:

“…they expected the siege to be over very quickly and —?”

I was too tired to risk angering him by mentioning his previous lack of interest but I smiled in the near darkness and continued.

“…and it was over very quickly.”

He was clearly disappointed by this ending as any man would be. Listening to a long tale late at night and then having it end poorly is not my personal favorite pastime. The fire had gone out.

I closed my eyes again and paused for a time to allow him to think the story over. Then I said:

“Yep. The siege was over quickly because two unexpected arrivals came to the rescue of Horbaetus. It was said that the Horbean cheering nearly drowned out the sound of men being cut down as father and son waded through the sea of Darmides and, with the aid of those remaining Horbean warriors, cut down the Darmides in a day and a night.”

I waited for comprehension to dawn upon the giant and, if it is possible to hear someone smile, then I did that night.

The Prowler [Classic] (440 word story)

I awoke from an unusually vivid dream to find the apartment pitch black and my bedside clock showing 2:42 AM. My body was drenched in sweat. The sheets clung to me as I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Sitting hunched over in the darkness, I tried to recall the dream whose echoes still troubled my sleepy mind. I shivered in the night as the swirling images returned.

A prowler…across the hall. I had dreamt that someone had broken into Sarah Burgess’s apartment. The thought nagged at me: what if I’m right? I could picture the incident clearly — someone breaks in through the front door… awakens Sarah… jumps her… she hits her head on the table… dies….

I struggled into some pants and stepped out my apartment door.

At last, my efforts had paid off! For months, I had been trying to achieve extrasensory perception through focused meditation. Five nights a week were devoted to a deep searching of the mind in an effort to expand perception. Now it seemed that I had a vision of clairvoyance — the ability to know current events outside normal human perception. It must have taken a significant event such as this break-in to trigger it.

I tried her front door and, frowning, found it locked. Maybe my vision was more general than specific — maybe the intruder entered some other way. Fortunately, the locks in the apartment building were not constructed very well. With the proper lift and push, it was possible to open the doors without too much trouble.

I did so, but made more noise than I intended as the bolt suddenly sprung free. I had wanted to enter Sarah’s apartment silently to take the prowler by surprise, but now it seemed that I had to work fast. There! In the doorway! A dark figure moved slowly into the room. I sprang and collided with the figure bringing it down under me.

Thud. I heard a sickening crack as the figure fell and hoped that I hadn’t seriously hurt whomever it was. Rising to my feet, I felt along the wall for a switch and turned on the lights. I looked at the figure on the floor and groaned in despair as it all became clear.

Sarah!

She lay motionless on the carpet next to her coffee table in a puddle of blood, her eyes now staring and lifeless. There was no one else in the apartment.

“No!” I screamed, but it was true. I had not had a vision of clairvoyance but of precognition — seeing the future.

I was the prowler.


This is one of those ‘surprise ending’ stories that I warned you about a few days ago.

NOTE TO SELF: At some point in the past, I rewrote/expanded the first few paragraphs but, looking now, I decided to go with the original — which is better.

Wishful Thinking [Classic] (430 word story)

He stood in the rain staring bitterly down at the wedding invitation. He held it gingerly, a faint look of revulsion on his face as if it were a snake about to deliver the killing strike. He appeared suddenly old, years of future loneliness weighing down his features into a seemingly irreversible frown.

Diane!

His immobility belied the fervor with which he had torn open the envelope. He had thought irrationally that it might be a letter saying that she had forgiven him and that it could once again be alright between them. Hadn’t it only been three months since he had last seen her? The invitation was postmarked Boston.

Boston? Diane!

He and Diane had once been lovers a short eternity ago. Their’s had been the dream world of timelessness. Happiness abounded, and he knew nothing could destroy their perfect relationship — or so it seemed. A chain of events bordering on unreality that had begun with his laughing off her suggestion of marriage had led to her sudden departure on a cruel winter morning. After one week he was ambivalent; after two, he was deeply sorry but could find no trace of her to apologize. She had escaped to parts unknown.

Boston?

He had even bought a house for them to live in when she came back, as he had been always sure she would. The invitation said the wedding was the day after tomorrow. He watched the invitation become blurry and washed out by the rain, or was it his tears? It slipped from his hand as he turned and began the quarter-mile trek from his mailbox at the side of the road down the driveway to the house, now forever empty.

The rain stopped and the sun emerged to taunt him about his loss. Birds tittered his agony and the puddles through which he splashed were the tears of nature’s sympathy.

No! It didn’t have to be like this, did it? What if he wished — what if he truly believed that things were different? Could his belief change the past? What if he hadn’t laughed at marriage? What if Diane were his wife? Grief fed his purpose. I truly believe that this has happened.

Then. It. Is. True.

He broke through the trees into sight of the house. She stood on the porch of the house — their house — as she always had. His eyes misted over as he ran to her. His smile shown bright enough to dim the morning sunshine.

“Why are you so happy?” she asked.

He took her into his arms.


Wow. This, conceptually, is a great story. It actually brings tears to my eyes. It might need more fluff to be great, but I really, really like it. 

Who’s There? [Classic] (500 word story)

Hey! I found a box of old writings.


“What do you want?” the old woman demands of the darkness, “Who’s there?” She stands at the top of the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other clutching her robe to her breast to calm her pounding heart. There is no answer save the wind. Her stomach knots in fear.


“I’ll be alright,” she had told her son and his wife when they had offered to take her with them to the show this evening, “I’d just fall asleep anyway. You two go and have a good time.”

They were wonderful children. Mark, her youngest, had married Laura shortly before Mark’s father had died. “But you’ve got to come live with us, Mamma,” Laura always called her ‘Mamma’, “This house is too big for just the two of us anyway.” This was two weeks ago.

Much as she hated to be by herself, she couldn’t have those two staying home every night because of her. It had taken her two weeks to become used to the house, two weeks to build up enough courage to try to spend an evening alone. Finally, she had ignored her fears and insisted that they go to the show.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Mamma?”


She stands frozen, not wanting to go forward and investigate the noise, but not wanting to retreat to her bedroom and hide under the sheets, waiting. She strains to hear another sound, her poor eyesight little help in searching the shadows of the living room below. Another noise. From where? Behind her? She looks around but sees nothing.

The throbbing in her ears once again grows louder.


“That’s just the house settling, Mamma.” They were downstairs in the dining room playing rummy when they had heard a noise. “Big houses do that a lot.” She had felt secure then. The house had seemed so safe with Mark and Laura around. But now…


Maybe I should call the police, she thinks, there’s a phone in Mark and Laura’s bedroom. But as she turns, a creak from down the hall stops her in her tracks. There’s also a phone at the foot of the stairs. She hesitates, then takes the first step down. Each step is a trial. She places her foot, then pauses to listen. Nothing.

After an eternity, she reaches the bottom and stops, robe held protectively about her, searching the room. The moonlight stabs through the window, revealing a face to her left. She screams and falls clutching her chest, her face unnaturally white.

Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Mamma?


“Is she going to be alright?”

The doctor smiled reassuringly. “She’ll be fine. People have mild heart attacks all the time. All she needs now is plenty of rest.”

Mark and Laura returned his smile, relieved.


“…so it was only the painting of grandfather that you saw, Mamma,” explained Mark.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Laura added, “Mamma, you nearly scared us to death!”