Writings by Jamie Lee
I am just transfering stories and other writings from my earlier site so be patient as I add to this. You can also see many recent material on my blog at www.jamielee.manykites.org
Currently on the site:
The Voice Store, a short story
Excerpt of Washaka--The Bear Dreamer, a novel
Excerpt from Silver, a novel (unpublished)
and below . . .
Flash Fiction Fun
Cabin Fever
In the summer of my life I built a small cabin from logs individually cut and peeled and dried in the sun. In the center of the cabin were stones piled around an iron firebox for heat and comfort. A high meadow fringed with Ponderosa pine held my cabin in its palm.
It was the perfect world until one day he walked up my path wearing a deep purple shirt and a pale lavender necktie and I said, would you like to come in, and he said, yes, don’t mind if I do.
I wanted to please and so shooed all solitary and private desires off into the hidden, dead energy corners of the cabin where they stayed quiet as little mice so as not to disturb my new lover. Hush, I whispered to them in their hidey-holes, be still.
We planted a garden, he and I, and set about putting together the good life. And it was the good life—except for the creatures hiding in the corners and under the furniture causing the most ridiculous mischief. They nibbled away at the good life as if it were a block of cheese laid down for their consumption alone. They disturbed my sleep, heating my dreams, rustling around in night in the dark; and each morning I’d find their messy remains and sweep them quietly between the cracks in the floorboards.
Naturally, after many months, this practice caused a certain odor to arise from the floor that, on hot days (or very cold days), would send me out into the restless world. I’d leave the door open behind me in hopes that the hiding creatures would flee into the sunshine and find a new home.
I thought he, the guest of my heart, didn’t notice the little buddies and their rustling movements, messy droppings or the odors arising from the floorboards until the day he confessed.
It was a funny, serious moment with the two of us sitting at the small kitchen table, the sunny morning light coming from the east window. When he took my hands in his, looking so serious and somber, I wanted to kiss the small crease between his brows and say, no worries. And then my heart, my soul—my mate—explained in careful language that he hadn’t walked up the garden path with no agenda or plan.
He was, in fact, looking for me, had been looking for a long time. And not only that, he hadn’t walked in the door alone but, in fact, a certain small tribe of creatures came with him born of his squirming ideas, his itchy desires, his many wants and dreams. He hadn’t wanted me to see them.
Now chagrinned, he feared the restless creatures were now multiplying in the unseen corner spaces of our little cabin, a certain rustling he’d noticed that kept him awake at night, a certain morning trail he’d seen me quietly sweep away, an unseemly odor (of spice and moss) rising from the floorboards. I’m sorry, my love, he said, But I simply cannot trap and kill them.
I laughed then. I laughed even harder when confusion creased his brow. What? he asked. What is so funny? The steady beams of light from the east wavered and I said, we have a family, you and I. It appears your little come-alongs have found my little stay-at-homes, and they’ve been mating in the shadows where we couldn’t see them.
What shall we do, then, he asked. I said there is nothing to do but chase the shadows from the corners and have a look. Yes, and we’ll have to stop sweeping away their leavings and, instead, add the stuff like compost to the garden we are growing. Don’t you think?
What a very good idea, he said. Astounding what strange creatures emerged from the shadowed corners once we allowed them visibility. They were not mice at all but tiny dragons and hummingbird creatures and mythical beings and things we couldn’t even name—but all beautiful, all alive, and all prepared to do whatever we asked. We let them mate and hum and sing while we made love and gardened and then it was no longer just a good life but a wonderful life.
For Milt, my husband of almost 20 years
