guest editor’s note

The word “nostalgia”—a moment, a sentiment, a longing for something in our past that we can only grasp through memories, photographs, poems, and stories—is a word that all of us can hold in our minds and hearts, evoking all of the moments and memories of our past, whether they are decades ago or only a few months ago. In the summer 2024 edition of Our Jackson Home’s online literary journal, the selections of art, poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction convey nostalgia in only the way those who chose to share their creativity with us can. In this collection, you will find photographs, collages, videos, paintings, short stories, poems, and nonfiction that allow us into the memories of the creators. As always when selecting pieces for publication, the decision of what to include is difficult. All of the submissions for this edition were wonderful, and I enjoyed reviewing them all. While we can only select a few for each edition, it excites me for the Jackson art and writing community that we have such interest in sharing our work with others and that we have artists and writers of all ages submitting their work. It is my hope, as this part of Our Jackson Home continues, that we will feel our own moments of nostalgia one day in remembering the beauty of our shared memories of the artist and writer community here in Jackson.

–Kristy Sherrod, Guest Editor

Kristy Sherrod has had a love of writing since a simple short story assignment was given to her in the 7th grade, where she promptly decided to write a horror themed short story. She has been writing in multiple genres ever since. Her no-nonsense approach to writing focuses on a variety of topics including Southern-based (especially West Tennessee based) short stories, personal essays, women’s equity, social justice, religion, travel, nature, and local topics of interest. Kristy has taught literature, creative writing, technology, and law in her 15 years as an educator and currently works as an Instructional Coach at South Side High School with the Jackson-Madison County School System. She graduated in 2002 from Lambuth University, and holds two education graduate degrees from Freed-Hardeman University. Kristy also holds a Doctor of Education degree from the University of Southern California and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the Sewanee School of Letters at The University of the South.

poetry

The masses come down to sing
By the clocktower in the autumn cold
And fair spring.

All young and old,
Lost and weary,
Homeless, poor, sick, and dreary.

They ask not for bread and meat.
But instead, sing praises to the capitalist’s dream.
And hope their song will give them what they need.

But all the while, they dream of lives in meadows green.
Of past loved ones, dead and unseen.
Of troubles, washed away in the stream.

So in the dead of night when the crowds are gone-
And the cold draws near.
They sing of the dreams they hold dear.

And the song echoes through the town
Wanders the streets
And softly creeps into your house on silent feet.

You hear quiet words of strength.
Of desperation and sadness.
The multitude singing, all, of…

“How we fight the demons inside
I wish, my darling,
I wish you weren’t just memories in my mind.”
Seth Gatewood is a 22 year old aspiring artist and poet with empty pockets and a head full of dreams. He likes jazz, bacon, and a good story. And, really, that's all that needs to be said about him.
“But time makes you bolder. Children get older.”
Stevie Nicks

You are not yet
gone but there is still so much left
to teach you, so much you don’t yet know
about all that happened before.
The days stack into weeks,
stack into months,
stack into years,
layers piling up like laundry
before I have the time
to reckon carefully with them.

Here, let me play you this song
one more time.
“Mirror in the sky, what is love?”
Did I tell you about the time
that I got pulled over for speeding while
trying to change out the cassette in my car?
(Have I shown you what a cassette looks like?)
Did you know that when I was your age
we could not ask Siri anything?
I had so many questions without answers.

I keep making lists in my head
because then I can keep the time
at bay a little longer, keep it
from rushing by and carrying you away
in its current. We haven’t even been
out West yet or seen the Atlantic Ocean.
Someone needs to teach you how
to change a tire, how to balance your checkbook.
Come close and listen one more time.
“You took my love, and you took it down.”
Erin Mount is a lover of God who writes about faith, mental health, and motherhood. If she’s not spending time with her family, watching Gilmore Girls, or reading, she’s probably napping. You can read more of her writing over at https://erinmount.substack.com/.
Evil
is not ugly,
nor is it offensive,
it doesn’t sting falsehoods,
when you reach to touch it.
Evil
is soft on the eyes,
and sweet in the ear,
it fits well in the hand,
like no other thing on earth.
Evil
is gilded in gold,
it promises the world
and hugs you like a mother
when you’re at your weakest.
Yet
under the veneer
lies a rotten core.
Filth, ever so radiant,
it blinds the eye to true light.
All the world
Has Heard its song,
A web of lies,
falsehoods, and fables,
That chokes the heart.
Feel the warmth,
How snug you are,
You don’t know yet
how hot you’ll burn,
How the weight will crush you.
All in this world
will erode, decay,
Fall into the sea,
many will drown,
never to return.
but, Look high above,
and in all certainty,
When all else is unclear,
a great light will come,
To carry you home.
James Mullikin goes to Jackson Central Merry- Early College High, he's in the 11th grade, and he's been getting into writing poetry a little. He's more of a visual arts guy, he draws more than he writes, but writing has grown on him a bit. He feels more confident writing poetry, he likes the flow of it. It's entertaining to write poetry, it's almost like drawing words. He's going through a transformation of faith, so this poem is inspired by that.
It comes in with the summer breeze
When seasons change again,
The ocean crashes against my knees,
I smell the oysters' foul scent.
The full moon above me
Reveals the shells on the ground,
And as the sun sets ahead of us,
We find our way back to the town.
When we leave, I promise to the ocean
I’ll find my way back somehow,
But that is one easily broken,
And when I will return I wonder now.
So for now I sit in the grass and wait
For the past’s beauty I cannot recreate.
Ellie Pugh was born and raised in Jackson, Tennessee, and is a current student at Jackson State Community College. She enjoys creating all different forms of art and loves incorporating biology and ocean imagery into her work, as the ocean and nature are both dear to her.
Sometimes, on my really hard days
The ones where I miss you the most
I drive past your old house
Retracing steps of what feels like another life

I remember the marble foyer
Smooth and cold on my bare feet
And the real fireplace
And the big backyard

Baseball and black licorice
Chocolate chip cookies
Movies like Jaws and Jurassic Park
Games like Uno and Jeopardy

But the magnolia tree out front is sagging
And the yard is all a mess
The driveway is cracked
Tangles of wild grass pushing through

The warmth is fleeting
The moments are just beyond my reach
All that’s left is a vague feeling
That this place was once alive

With misty eyes and a final glance
Finality crashes into me
Filling the void in my chest
Little holes drilled by grief and loss

No matter how wildly I grasp
No matter how many times I walk this street
Those moments are fading
This house will never be the same

But the memories aren’t in the trees
And they aren’t in the marble foyer
They’re untethered to any place or time
Transcending the boundary lines

They’re kept alive through me and you
In how we live in the wake of searing loss

Sometimes on my really hard days
The ones where I miss you the most
I think about you and your smile
And I am grateful for a life fully lived

Daniel Deschenes has lived in Jackson his whole life. He started writing to deal with complex emotions associated with substance abuse and recovery. He hopes to help others with similar struggles.
People come and go,
not the ones that I met here though,
I know that because they help me grow.

That’s what family does,
they will always make you glow.

Family is not defined by blood,
it's more than a six letter word,
it's the people who don’t pretend,
but the ones that stay till the very, very end.

The more time we spend together,
the more memories I create that will stay forever.

I know we come from different sides of the world,
how so ever,
I'm sure they will be in my life forever.

It doesn’t matter that in four months we are going to be far apart because the people I love will always fill my heart.

Thinking about that makes me wish my exchange year could restart.
I wanna relive every part.

so now that the end comes closer and closer,
I wanna say thank you to the ones that helped me through Rian & Andrew.
Magdalena Seitel is 16 years old and from Germany. She has spent the last year in the United States at Jackson Central Merry Early College High School.
Tangerine Eating

This afternoon, I stab
a thumbnail into pockmarked skin
and citrus spray mists my blouse.
The two halves part unwillingly
and sticky pith fills the gap
between nail and flesh.
A section pulls free—a rush of fresh
sweetness tinged with the sharpness
of season’s end.

I brush my fingers past my nose
and inhale the scent of you by the river,
peeling summer and handing me pieces.

Seen From a County Highway
Akin to hundreds more, abandoned
in a rippling green wheat sea, devoured
slowly by kudzu—a house, metal roof rusty,
brick chimney somehow still upright,
walls and windows half vanished in tangled vines
like a ship’s stern slipping under indifferent waves.
What became of the children who wailed their way
into the world when those walls were new?

Sonic Trip

I order your favorite drink: Route 44 Coke with blackberry
(but mine’s diet) and the car is quiet except for the rumble
of the engine and the rustle of the straw paper
and as the carbonation fizzes on my tongue like a lie
I remember sitting here with you, a spontaneous outing
at 10 PM. We talked about your D&D character and not
the way I giggled, nervous as a schoolgirl, to feel
your presence so near, shoulder almost brushing mine.
(We’re just friends I told myself and wanted so much
to be wrong.) You’d made a playlist for your character,
songs to explain where he came from and where
he was going, and you played the song at his deepest
core, watching me react, your brown eyes reading me
like a well-worn book, and now I understand
the song wasn’t about a game anymore—the singer’s voice
a stand-in for your own, your choice of lyrics the plea
for me to know you and still love you anyway.

October

The air smells like new beginnings:
alive like a deep breath, crisp like apples
with cinnamon nostalgia, a respite—
morning sun tender like a lover’s gaze
leaves glittering in the silk-soft light
dark green turning chartreuse turning
gold, translucent in their new oldness
not so much a death as the taking-out
of coats and finding last year’s
gloves and hankies in the pockets
and catching last year’s perfume on the lapel
a whiff of memory, longing, and hope.

How Missing You Feels

Some years back—it must have been March—
I stood shuddering on the shores of Lake Erie
wind piercing my too-thin sweater like arrows
sky and lake both battleship-hued, wild
white-frothed waves beating like fists
on a locked door, no sign of spring
and no horizon, only one great sheet of gray.

Stephanie Traylor has been a Jackson dweller since 2011. Some of her favorite things are early morning sunlight, the smell of her church, a cup of hot decaf coffee in the evening (with or without dessert), and her feline companions. She likes her hopes, dreams, and feelings like she likes her Sonic drinks: large.
Go and water the Gladiolus
Right before they should freeze over
May the frost give them a transient life
Then move on to the naked clovers
The Milkweed will wilt and die
Underneath the overcast sky
The ice will pierce your skin and bleed
But you still go against your creed

These are the only lives you come close to controlling
For the gods and mortals are not shareholding
Thou shall be left in eternal denial
They say the five stages tend to last a while
So I’m stuck here waiting until you come back
Society preaches better days I don’t believe that

So I intend for this poem to be about you
But I can’t help believing it might be for me too
When you lose a life you gain a little pre-existent knowledge
Something locked up in your head until a fantasist is honest
They say they’re in the clouds but they’re really in the dirt
Nobody will understand unless they feel the hurt
But whenever you try to turn all your emotions into words
It always backfires on you and the public’s eyes avert

If there were better days they’d bring more flora and more fawn
It can’t get any better than what nature can add-on
Because the more that you add-on the more you feel you’ve got your way
But the more Demeter gives is more Hades takes away
Sleeping feels more like a seed that starts its sprouting at ground-zero
It goes from nightmares then to darkness then to light outside the neuro
And the older you get the more that life treats you like a pawn
And you can’t have your hopes and dreams when all that’s good is gone

It’s gone, it’s gone and there’s nothing more to that
It’s seems that you’ve misplaced your own figments with your facts

Nicolas Rauchle is a 14 year old boy, and he lives in Crockett County, Tennessee. He is currently editing a book that he's taken the past four years to write, and he has more poems than he could possibly count. He loves writing, and his only wish is for people to know his name and hear his stories.

NONFICTION

Nostalgia and triggers, they are related, no?
Sure one fills you with a sad fondness for the “good old days” and the
other sparks a visceral sense of being small and scared again.
But both send you back in time
as quickly as your senses are engaged by the old familiar.
For me, the sense of smell is my conveyer. When I smell fresh cut grass
in the summer or chimney smoke in the fall, I am transported to some of
the most magical days of my childhood. Running barefoot after the ice
cream truck, warm pavement under foot, to get my favorite orange push
up pop with Fred Flintstone on the spherical package. Or snuggling into
my coat a bit more, my nostrils and lungs filling with crisp cold air, as I
collect firewood with grandpa and grandma cooks a pot roast dinner.
My god, I wish I was there again. I’ve spent much of my adult life trying
to recreate this magic for myself and my children. My message to my
children is this “Yes, you can run barefoot through the neighborhood and
come home when the street lights come on.”
“Yes, I’ll make pot roast and start a crackling fire now that the autumn
chill has set in.”
Much of this intention is in direct connection to the triggers that pop up,
too. Every Christmas the air is filled with the scents of evergreen and
cinnamon but the feeling that persists is that of loneliness, despite being
surrounded by family, friends, and festivities. I push in even harder in an
attempt to drown out the pain of being the child of a single parent who
often worked overtime. There’s a desperate urgency to feel joy in the
music, movies, and other sensory activities of Christmas. However, I
have recently learned that the best way to really feel the magic of this
life, is to allow ourselves to feel the pain of it.
Last year, I found myself grieving deeply during the Christmas season.
What happened when I allowed the grief to flow freely was surprising; it
was the most magical Christmas of my adulthood. I unlocked all the
goodness and wonder that was wrapped up and trapped with the pain I
was avoiding. Despite the moments of weeping and sadness, everything
that was good was more intense than ever. I experienced Christmas joy
for the first time in many years.
Here’s what I’ve found to be so amazing about all of this, both nostalgia
and triggers are reintroductions to ourselves. The younger versions of us
show up and, for a moment or two, we see our current world from their
perspective. Each of these moments are an opportunity to reconnect with
ourselves. We can become childlike again and feel the pure joy of the
simple things and we can hold space for and help our sad and scared
parts release the pain and grieve. We might even find, that when we heal
the trigger, we awaken a new nostalgia, and that today can become
tomorrow’s “good old days.”
Meg McNaughton is a creator using many mediums. She runs MegMc Photography, a portrait photography business, paints, quilts, and writes poetry and short essays. She is mama to seven children and wife to John Ryan McNaughton of BrazenRaven Art. She is passionate about authenticity and real discussions around the simultaneity of the difficult and the beautiful of life.
Watching her hands go across the piano keys and listening to the choir sing along as her mom played “How Great Thou Art” is a memory she never wants to lose. Her mom playing the piano is one of the many things that made her smile, what made her happy.
Even though it has been quite a few years since her mom sat on a piano bench and played one of the many hymns she knew and loved so well, it’s a memory that hopefully will never fade. Reminiscing on times of the past is mainly all that is remaining, and even then, those moments are fleeting. Her mom’s life was grand. She had a loving husband she lost way too soon and has a remarkable daughter who tries to keep a spark in her eye. Her daughter goes to see her every other day and works to help her remember the good times. Some days there are tears, other days there is laughter. The days with laughter and joy are the best. Those are the times they talk about how she learned to play the piano. Her instructor would hit her hands with a ruler if they were not in the correct position. They laugh together and don’t know how those memories are the joys instead of the tears, but that’s how her mom always told her she learned to play and what makes her mom reminisce of God’s music and all the years of playing. She thinks back to all the Sundays her mom played at church and the many hours her mom spent practicing at home. To this day when walking by a piano, she can’t help but think of the wonderful music her mom used to make and wishes the memory loss from an illness and arthritis could be taken away so she could hear her mom play one more time. It's the little things she thinks about when she can’t have them or experience them any longer. Those moments make her feel she needs a bit more time. It’s what also makes her smile, because deep down at the time of the tears or the moments that are hard for her mom to remember that make her grasp ahold of life and live in each moment. She realizes you can’t take anything or anyone for granted.
Memories are moments frozen in time. When she thinks back on those moments it is what makes her smile, cry or laugh. It’s what makes her know she and her mom have both lived a wonderful life. While her mom may not be able to play the beautiful piano keys any longer, she knows she is still beautiful inside, even on those extremely hard days, and she knows that a piano, wherever one may be, will always hold a special place in her heart because it meant so much to her mom and will always help her remember her mom’s amazing music and love.
About Amy Allison
A lady on a journey of embracing our differences, the randomness of life, laughing at yourself, simplifying and being happy no matter where you call home.

Turquoise-Teal Like the Ocean

By Gabe Hart

Our memories are passively malleable. They shift, turn, and contort until they calcify – the final image of the event polished and placed on our mind’s mantle. Truth be damned.

There’s a small child on the beach. She stands near the water, letting it almost touch her toes before she scampers backward – a two-legged crab on the lam. In her right hand is a sifter; her left hand is the depositor of sand and shells.

Dig. Clench. Release.

The sand leaves her hand and gently falls toward the sifter. The shells, too. Most of the grains escape through the holes and return to their homes on the beach. Some grains are stuck to other grains, though, and can’t free themselves. They surround the shells. The girl waggles the sifter. Sand begins to loosen, and the grains start sliding through the netting. The shells settle at the bottom – black, white, and pink. The girl is happy.

A few days later, in land-locked Tennessee, her father tucks her into bed. The shells sit neatly in a row on her bedside table – no sand in sight. Preserved. Present. Real.

Our memories are specifically general. They lack intricate detail but can whittle an image so precisely that we forget the sloppy parts of their reality.

The carpet had been pulled up a few hours before the painting started. The floors were pinewood, aged almost a century, and yellowed on some planks. The give in the boards was concerning, but nothing a good sanding, buffing, and waxing wouldn’t fix. She wanted this room because it had a closet and a bathroom; the walls needed some color, though.

Turquoise-teal. Like the ocean, she said.

She was six, and painting wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be. The roller went up the wall, and specks of blue-green paint sprayed her shirt. She flung her shirt to the ground; the roller continued its slide – up and down. Paint splattered her shoes and shorts. Those were haphazardly discarded, as well. A photo opportunity too good to pass up — the light from the ceiling fan illuminating the smeared and spasmatic paint job.

Years later, she would see that picture of herself. It felt invasive; she felt exposed. The paint looked fresh, but she wasn’t paying attention to that. All she could see was her messy hair, bare back, and pink underwear. A feeling of embarrassment painted over her - up and down, up and down. Delete.

Our memories are deft illusionists. They conjure, manipulate, and shade our experiences until those experiences are only an imitation of reality – a house of mirrors refracting lies.

She was six, and the rabbit snorted, grunted, and circled her as she knelt by his food. It was a white rabbit like the ones pulled out of hats or obsessed with the passing of time.

She named him Fuzzy Ears and would spread a blanket on the ground in the grove of trees near her home. She would place her stuffed animals on it – her sheep, her dog, her elephant. The rabbit sniffed each of them, sprawled out among them, and no one could discern which animal was real.

Take a picture, she said. Send it to your friend. See if they can tell.

Fuzzy Ears was a carnival prize, not a farm-raised lagomorph. His circling the girl wasn’t a sign of emotional affection but rather an intention to mate. When he would lay with the stuffed animals, it was only after he had violated the gray sheep – his favorite of the three. The girl was too young to pay attention to any of it.

One April afternoon, Fuzzy Ears left his cage and never came back. The girl cried and cried and was only soothed when her father told her that the Easter Bunny needed some help with delivering all those baskets. Fuzzy Ears was clearly the best helper around, and there weren’t many other rabbits available to assist. The girl’s tears stopped. The lie became truth. A poor reflection of reality.

Our memories are rivers downcutting into the earth. They carve, sculpt, and wind their way where they please – repetition flowing and coursing.

He knew every gas station at every exit between Memphis and Dallas. The Shell in Forrest City, where he would stop for his coffee at daybreak. The Pilot in Arkadelphia, where he would pause to refill on food and gas. The local spot in New Boston, where the clerk learned his name after seeing him every other Friday year after year.

He fancied himself a boat captain on a concrete river winding its way through the delta, across the Mississippi, to the foot of the Ozarks, and finally to the flats of East Texas. Eight hours in a Ford Taurus ain’t quite Lewis and Clark, though.

Every other Friday, he would wake up at 2:30 and point his car west – an hour and a half in Tennessee, four in Arkansas, and two in Texas. He would arrive at his daughter’s school just in time for lunch, where he would sit with her and her fellow kindergarten friends. He would help open lunchables and milk; he would collect trays and trash as the kids filed out of the cafeteria. At the end of the day, he would wait with the other parents for her to walk out of school.

Trying to make the most abnormal situation feel normal.

But then, a rhythm formed. A flow. Every other Friday, the interstate seemed to carry him. Rote movements without thinking, exiting the same ramps two Fridays a month: Forrest City, Arkadelphia, New Boston - 241A, 78, 201.

Line markers and years passed, but the bends of the road and the weekend routines stayed the same. Every other Friday, he drove west – bending, stretching, carving his way toward Texas.

Our memories are accomplished chefs. They combine, curate, and integrate sensory experiences into a final dish served repeatedly.

She’s 17 now and planning for college. She has a boyfriend, a gym membership, and a driver’s license. She cooks our meals for us twice a week. Sometimes, I’ll ask if she wants any help, but she says she doesn’t.

She likes the process, she tells me. She likes to see what she can add to the pre-fab recipes.

Most nights that she cooks, I sit at our small kitchen table and try my best not to annoy her. She’ll talk through the steps of that night’s meal as she’s preparing it, and I’ll catch myself wondering if she’ll remember any of this because I know that I will. Sometimes, I think I remember everything.

I remember the beach and the shells she collected. I remember the turquoise of her walls. I remember that damn rabbit. I know every mile marker between Tennessee and Texas and a thousand other mundane experiences that have been polished and stored over time. Most of all, though, I remember how much I missed her when she lived 500 miles away.

Our memories are mystic fortune tellers. They drop hints, reveal clues, and give us glimpses of the future.

In a year, she’ll leave for college. I know what that will feel like because I’ve felt it before – her leaving. I know what distance will feel like because I’ve felt it before. I know what FaceTime and phone calls will feel like because we’ve lived that life over and over again.

I’m not sure how much she’ll remember, though.

Her life is out there, way ahead of her now – the best parts still invisible. The memories cemented in my brain will only be passing thoughts or nonexistent events for her when she’s my age. She’ll have her own stories to tell - for better or for worse. Truth be damned.

Whatever our memories are - real or imagined, phantom or flesh - they sustain us. They give us understanding and hope - callbacks to times that weren’t as easy as we thought they were.

Ordinary objects with extraordinary meaning - shells, paint, rabbits, and roads - framed and amplified, running on a reel.

fiction

The day was growing dark earlier and earlier each night as the air grew cold. The sky was flush with the waning light of day, and already stars were beginning to sparkle high above the world. The ground below was covered in a patchwork quilt of autumn leaves; soon it would snow, and the world would be covered in white.
Jack sat on the wooden steps outside his father’s inn, watching his breath escape from his mouth in white plumes and imagining he was a dragon. In his great and terrible dragon body, bigger than a house and stronger than a thousand men, he spread his scaly wings and circled up, up, up into the sky.
He watched the world he knew drift away and become small as he climbed ever higher. There was the inn, and the village, the forest to the east and the mountains to the west, and the river flowing right through the center of it all, and the whole sum seemed smaller than the palm of his hand. He imagined swiping it with his claws, and watching it all roll away, and roll, and roll, until it stopped in the desert, or floating on the sea.
And he kept climbing, through the soft pink layer of damp clouds, past the brilliant orange glow of the setting sun, and out into the darkness of space with a roar of flames. Now he drifted in the company of a billion stars. It was more beautiful than anything he had ever known.
“Jack! You’ll catch your death out there, come inside!” Jack’s mother called, clipping his majestic wings. Jack came back to his little world with the rushing sensation of falling, and stomped inside, arms crossed.
The whole Inn was ablaze with warmth and firelight and soft voices conversing. Jack slipped through the crowded dining room, sliding against the back wall, and coming up short at the door to the kitchen.
His Momma stood there silhouetted by the orange lights of the ovens. Her hair was wrapped in a tight knot atop her head, but many long pieces had fallen loose, and her face was streaked with flour. In fact, her whole body was covered in it; her usually black apron looked almost white for the coating it had. She was crossing her arms and smiling lopsidedly at Jack.
“That cold’ll be the death of you, Jack.” She said.
“You already said so,” He huffed, “And besides, I’m not a baby.” He was almost seven years old, practically full grown!
Jack’s Momma grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him close, ruffling his hair and pinching his cheeks.
“But you’re my baby.” She cooed.
Jack wriggled free of her grasp and glanced back into the dining room. A few men close by were snickering into their dinners. Jack flushed bright red.
“Ho, Jack! Run upstairs and give Mr. Doe his dinner, will ya?” Pa said, stepping behind jack’s momma and plugging up the light from the kitchen like a cork. The very top of his head, and the edges of his shoulders, were blocked by the door jam. Pa had never met a door he didn’t have to duck to get through. He would make an excellent dragon.
“Fine.” Jack said.
He wilted at his fathers stern glare.
“Yes sir.” He tried again.
“And keep him company for a bit, too.” Jack’s Momma said, still smiling.
“No! Please! He tells the most boring stories!” Jack begged, hands clasped together like when he said his prayers each night.
“Jack Horner! The poor man is on his death bed for Pete’s sake.” She said. Pa held out a plate of chicken and green beans and a mug of cider to Jack, which he seemed to produce from thin air.
“But Momma!” Jack whined.
“Go on. Now.” Pa said, and with both of his parents staring down at him, fierce looks daring him to disobey, he couldn’t refuse. He took the food and turned on his heels, stomping up the dangerously uneven staircase by the kitchen.
When Mr. Doe had arrived at the Inn almost two months ago, He had stumbled in with naught but the clothes on his back, and had fallen into Jack’s Pa’s arms. He was so frail that Pa had to carry him up the stairs, and he hadn’t been back down since. Instead, Jack had been forced up almost every night, only to fall soundly asleep during one of his painfully mundane stories. Mr. Doe never talked about his life, or why he showed up at the Inn, or where he had come from. He just kept telling stories.
His favorite stories to tell, for unknowable reasons, were The Lengthy History of Paper, and The Ballad of The Tax Collector. He told one or the other almost every night that Jack was forced to sit with him. He’d never once made it to the end of either one, and Mr. Doe never seemed to notice when Jack was slipping into his dreams.
Jack took one very tall step, one very narrow step, a very deep step, and a very short step, and he was in the hallway staring at Mr. Doe’s door. First one on the left. He knocked, then slid open the door without an answer. Mr. Doe was laying in near complete darkness, staring with full eyes out his little window at the sky. The only light was the moon, shining in and casting an eerie glow across the old man’s face, deepening his wrinkles till they looked like chasms.
Jack stepped in, and Mr. Doe looked a him. His smile was more apparent in his twinkling blue eyes, than in the weak upturn of his lips.
“Good evening Mr. Doe. I brought you some dinner.” Jack said. He set the chicken and cider on the man’s bedside table and took a seat in his chair. It was springy and yellow and gave a squeal whenever he sat in it.
“Jack, would you like to hear a story?” Mr. Doe asked. His voice sounded like the deep rumble and chug chugging of a train in motion. Wheels going round, and round, and round, but he never seemed to get anywhere.
“Yes sir.”
“I’m afraid I’m running a bit short on material. There’s only one more story left to tell.” He said. He began to cough deeply then, and shake the whole bed. Jack blinked, then handed him the cider, and helped him take a sip, which soothed his wracking cough a little.
“Thank you, Jack.” He said. With the fresh rasp in his voice, Jack worried that the train might break down altogether. He remembered what his mother had said about deathbeds.
“Yes sir.” He said. It took several moments of silence for Mr. Doe to remember the story.
“Ah, yes, the story! The story…” He seemed to chew on the word, “The story begins in the middle of the night. On a night not so different from this one, only there were no stars in the sky. Not yet.
On that night a mother passed away, and a young man became an orphan. Many doctors had tried to save her, but no one ever could. And on that night, death had got his grip on her and he wasn’t letting go. As she slipped away, she whispered a verse to her son of the song she sang to him when he was young.
‘When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.’
The boy ran away that night, out into the fresh air, and saw a bright star begin to glow in the empty, inky sky.
‘How I wonder what you are!’ He said. And he began to follow the little star, the brightest star in the sky, wherever she would lead him.
He walked in the night, and slept in the day, for three days before stopping for food. Then he had a simple dinner of blackberries and pheasant and went on his way.
After some days he stopped again, and inquired where he was. Somewhere in France with an unpronounceable name. He ate apples and wild turkey, and walked on.
Some days later he stopped…”
And the story went on, and on, and on, in the same fashion. Walk, sleep, stop, eat, walk, sleep, stop, eat, walksleepstopeat. Jack had heard this one before, only not from Mr. Doe. His Momma told it to him, although many details were different. Namely that there were less of them altogether.
Jack could recall his Momma’s soft voice, singing the walking man’s nursery rhyme to him. She would rock him back and forth, again and again, until he fell deeply asleep. With her song in his ears, it wasn’t long before he was slumped down in his chair snoring.
In his dream he was a dragon again flying between pulsing stars, only now he was chasing after one in particular, which seemed to move whenever he drew near. She took him soaring over mountains and waterfalls, castles and swamps, deep canyons and snowy valleys, oceans and cities as vast as the mind could imagine. Jack began to love the star as he followed her, as she showed him the world. But he was tired. He had been flying for many, many years, and he was weary beyond any sleepiness he had ever felt.
He couldn’t fly any farther, could hardly walk. He had to leave the star, and curl up in a small, dark cave beneath his heavy wings. And he would watch the star, night after night, and see her watch him. She was waiting for him, but he was just so tired. His body ached, his mind was fuzzy, all he had strength to do was sleep. Sleep and dream of better days, with his star.
She colored all his memories, shining in every moment. He couldn’t remember a time before she was there to show him the way. As he lay in the damp cave he sang to himself her song, to keep him from the dread of night.
‘Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for you tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.’
Jack awoke from his dream to the sound of the old man’s raspy voice, singing softly.
“In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”
Then all was silence. Jack watched the old man as he stared out his window, up into the stars, and wondered.
“What about the end?” He asked, and Mr. Doe turned eyes on him which reflected the moonlight like pools of water.
“The end?” He puzzled.
“When the man finds the star, and discovers the Golden Palace and the King of The Night?”
“You’ve heard this story before?” Mr. Doe asked. His thick eyebrows were knitted together tightly.
“Of course I have, Mr. Doe, everyone has. Though, you do tell it different than my Momma does.” Jack said. He wondered why Mr. Doe changed the story. Why was his version so sad?
“Your Momma?”
“Yeah. So what about the end?” He asked. He was feeling a lingering ache in his chest, not knowing if the dragon ever found the star again. He wrung his hands in his lap, leaning forward in the chair with a squeeeeak.
The old man’s face seemed to focus, and- if possible- the lines in his skin appeared to deepen. A cloud passed over the moon so that all Jack could see were his blue irises surrounded by white. Like moons themselves.
“The way I tell it, there is no ending. The man grows old, and he will pass away.” He said.
“No! He does find the star, she takes him to the kingdom!” Jack said, fists clenched, “He has to.”
Mr. Doe’s eyes became soft as he studied the little boy. He reached out and pat his tiny fist.
“Maybe someday.” He said, “Go get some rest Jack, its late.”
Jack stood in a hurry, thrusting back his chair with a loud screech. He stalked to the door, grabbing the knob, then stopped, softening.
“Good night, Mr. Doe.” He said, turning around.
The bed was empty. Jack rushed forward, running around the bed to see if Mr. Doe had fallen. The floor was empty too. Jack spun in a circle, but Mr. Doe was nowhere to be found.
“Mr. Doe!” He called, heart racing. A breath of wind tussled his hair, tickling his nose and cheeks with a nip of coming winter.
Jack rushed to the window, which was opened, silky curtains fluttering in the breeze. And out in the night, he saw something which no one- not even he- could believe.
There, climbing up a staircase made of pure light, was Mr. Doe. He was climbing hand in hand with a woman who glowed brightly from a point of light that pulsed in her chest. And with every step the old man was revived, strength coming back to him the closer to heaven he got. And not only this, but he began to glow as well, radiating from the inside out.
As they walked, the stairs behind them dissolved into embers of light. Soon, they were so far away that Jack could only see them as tiny pricks of light hanging in the sky, like stars.
He leaned breathlessly out of the window, watching as the lights settled in and affixed themselves in the endless heavens. Just two more stars in the company of a billion stars.
Jack spoke quietly, the only witness to Mr. Doe’s miracle, and gave a timeless eulogy.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky!”
THE END
About Ava Pflasterer
I saw the post for the literary journal submissions, and its theme of nostalgia, when I was in the middle of reading a book about nursery rhymes. It felt incredibly serendipitous. What is more nostalgic than a nursery rhyme?
So I set out to write this short story, to capture the magic and mystery of the songs we’ve all been sung since before we can remember. I hope I’ve done just that.
As 34 year old Kate Wallce stepped into her old kindergarten classroom at Seaview Elementary School to pick up her daughter, all the memories began to flow back to her. As her eyes waltzed around the classroom she began to feel like she was there again. The first thing that truly stuck out to her were the smells. The smell of glue from her first ever art project - she had made a princess out of shapes with a vibrant pink background. She so clearly remembered how the princess was wearing a sea moss green triangle dress, a neon yellow triangle tiara, and a pair of baby blue circle shoes. The lavender scented Febreze air freshener, it was plugged in after both classes went outside for an hour straight. That was one of the best hours of her childhood. It was filled with laughter, joy, sunshine, friends, and best of all, memories. Each child had not a care in the world and they were all truly happy. When she looked at the sleeping cot that one of the kids forgot to put away, it was as if her mind so deeply looked back on this moment that she could see her friend staring back at her from across the room during nap time. She recalled when they were covering their faces so that the teachers wouldn’t catch them playing rock paper scissors, making silly faces at each other, and using every bone in their body to try not to laugh at one another. When Kate’s daughter approached her with her oversized backpack all that she could see in her daughter was herself. She remembered how big her backpack was that had Elsa and Ana’s faces all over it. Her lilac water bottle that had the words girl power on it fit perfectly in the light blue side pockets. She was suddenly brought back to reality when her daughter softly spoke the words what are you thinking about mommy. Suddenly a whole sea of memories rushed into her brain, but before she knew it she was out of the elementary doors and into the car. Now all of the memories had been stowed away in the back of her mind waiting to come out. Although Kate didn’t know when that time was, she looked forward to it everyday. Silently hoping that it was coming very soon.

Jazlyn Beckham is an 11 year old student who writes as if she has the life experiences of an adult. Her ability to capture a reader and place them in the heart of a character is unmatched by students her age. Jazlyn is a friend, athlete, sister, daughter, and tween with all the personality and potential to do great things in the world! (Written by her teacher)