JT EVERGREEN SHORT STORIES

“Hello.” “Chip?” “No.” Whispers, “Shit.” “Excuse me?” “Sorry. Is this Clearbrook 3 6148?” “Yes, it is.” Whispers, “God dammit.” “Sir?” “Sorry.” “God’s last name is not Dammit.” “What? Oh.” Laughter. “I’m sorry. Someone gave me your number.” “Chet?” “Yes.” “He’s not here.” “Right. Hey, is that Gilda Radner singing in the background?” “Yes, it is.” “Sounds like ‘Let’s talk dirty to the animals’.” “Yes, it is.” “I’ve been looking all over for that thing. Where did you find it?” “On the Internet.” “Do you remember where?” “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Would you like the URL?” “Yes, I would.” “I’ll need your email address.” “Great. It’s nick an nora charles, all one word, at gmail dot com.  That’s ‘an nora’, not ‘and nora’.” “Got it. Are you a fan?” “Of Gilda?” “No, Nick and Nora Charles.” “Oh, yeah. I’ve got all their films.” “I’ll send that URL right away.” “Who are you.? What’s your name?” “Nick Charles.” I laugh...

by J.T. Evergreen It was one of those rainy afternoons when I stepped away from my typewriter and settled into the window seat in my studio. I plumped the big cushy pillows, placed my cup of tea on the window sill and leaned back with a sigh. A beautiful thunderstorm was making its way across the horizon; black roiling clouds with flashes of lightning and cracks of distant thunder completed this perfect scene. As a child, I had learned to count the seconds after each flash of lightning to determine how far away the storm was. One-Mississippi equaled one mile. I also used that measure after I’d sass my mother – gaging when her reaction would descend upon me.  I don’t believe I ever got beyond three-Mississippi. If you happen to be a comedian, counting that way provides an accurate measure of how funny you are or are not. The trailing edge of the storm brought gentle showers to the garden below my window, freeing me of the task I enjoyed but was happy to release to th...

As told by Maggie Fitzgerald I was nine years old, going on ten when this holiday event occurred at F itzg e rald H ouse, my family ' s seas i de coun t ry ho m e outside o f Wint h rop Har b or near the Illi n oi s/ W i sco n sin border. It ’ s a well-pr e served and charming Victorian home si t ting a top a hill o ff Bu t termi l k Lane with an a mazing vi e w of La k e Mi c h i g a n. The house, which had been in the family for several generations, was surrounded with beautiful gardens manicured to a leaf by my father. Atop the house is a turret which I claimed as my very own, only because no one else cared about it. I spent most of my time as a young girl in the turret, keeping watch for enemy pirate ships on Lake Michigan, and dreaming dreams only a child can dream before the door of childhood closes. I have eight siblings which I knew from a distance as they were much older and were mostly away at school as I grew up. I was the last one born into t...

As told by her Grandson, Romeo Lombardi Grandma Rose was only ill a few days before she passed away. It was like a knife in my heart when I was told she was gone, a pain I could not show or share with those near me. She was more to me than my own mother who would have been saddened if she knew I cared more for Nama Rose than I did for her. But it was true. They say your life flashes before your eyes at the moment of death. Well, it happens when you lose someone as dear to you as my Nama Rose was to me. The reality that she was gone hit me again as I approached her casket and the vision of her beautiful face came into view. The twenty-one years of my life with her flashed before me in an instant. I wanted to reach out and touch her but my hand trembled, so I withheld it. I was alone and would never see her again, be able to talk to her, be near her. I wanted her to hold me once more, to feel her hands pull me to the comfort of her breast, to hear her soft words that worked mag...