The porch sagged under the damp weight of rotting board-lumber and planks. Many times, Ruth had seen sweating, virile men insert fresh timbers, some still secreting sticky sap, to lift and support sagging porches. Sagging porches were a common feature among the rural cottages and shacks that still stood in her memories. This porch, the very porch of her fondest recollections, was presently far too putrefied for support by even the freshest of sticky timbers and the most virile of sweating men. The remnant proud paint and poor whitewash could cling only to the very edges of the decaying siding and soffit.  Ruth surveyed the disintegrating structure from the tangled brier thicket that had once been the front yard, the bright flowers her mother had planted now throttled by hardier and more dangerous vegetation.

Ruth feared that her modest weight might represent the proverbial straw that fell the entire structure, and yet she decided that summoned souvenirs of childhood might justify the risk. She proceeded with an abundant caution.

The floor creaked, and perhaps even swayed, but didn’t collapse. The front door, though moisture swollen and stiff,  opened with a strong shoulder shove. Ruth had always been a woman of strong shoulders. The opening door stirred thick dust that then floated in the rays that bore through the cracked and dirty windows of the front room. Though the scent and sights of decay and corruption were omnipresent, the home appeared much as it did when she had found her mother those three decades ago lying on her bed, cold and stiff, her hands folded across her chest as if preparing for an inevitable and endless slumber.

Ruth recalled the sadness of that morning and how the solemn men had wrapped her mother in a white sheet and slid her into the back of the long cream-colored hearse. She recalled how she had lingered for an hour or more among her mother’s pink and blue hydrangeas and wept. She recalled how she had driven by the homeplace many times and contemplated selling it or even burning to the ground. She finally decided that the lodging should pass into oblivion at its own pace, much as she had decided for herself, as if she and the structure shared a common senescence.

Ruth examined each room, its contents, and evocations. Finally, she came to her mother’s bedroom. She approached the large travel trunk that rested at the foot of the black iron bed frame. As a girl, Ruth had fancied that the trunk cloistered priceless treasures. A brass key still protruded from the lock and Ruth had but little trouble turning the key and opening the lid. Inside, she found neatly folded fine linens and bedcovers.  At the bottom of the chest, as if purposely hidden, she discovered a most beautiful and colorful patchwork quilt with perfectly hand-sewn geometric figures forming perfectly aligned rows and columns. Her mother, and her mother before her, had faced, bated, and backed many quilts. Ruth kept and treasured those coverings, but she had never seen this one. It appeared new, as if it had been completed only a few weeks, or even days, before.

Ruth neatly folded and returned all of the other lines and bedding to the trunk, but kept the new quilt pulled close to her breast.

She then carefully placed the quilt on her mother’s bed, making certain that it was perfectly aligned. She stepped back to admire its craft and symmetry and decided that it was the most elegant quilt she had ever seen.

Ruth then noticed that she was unaccountably tired and that her shoulders sagged with fatigue. She decided to recline atop the quilt on her mother’s bed, and soon found herself in a state of what one could only describe as complete bliss, as if she had consumed a hypnotic potion of some sort. She lingered in this state for what must have been an hour or more before falling into a deep and absolute sleep.  She began to dream of her childhood and of all the seasons and of all her revelry in all of those seasons. She saw all of these things through her very eyes, as if she were seeing them once more in actual time. Dreams and visions of her youth continued, and she could identify her lodging, its fresh white paint and level porch. She could see and touch the pink and blue petals of her mother’s flowers. She could detect the sweet scent of pound cake wafting through the open window. And finally, she could hear her mother humming soothing hymns from inside the kitchen.

Alan Caldwell has been teaching in Georgia since 1994 but only began submitting writing in May 2022. He has since been published in over two dozen journals and magazines. He is being nominated for the Pushcart this year. 

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark fiction and poetry, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

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It was the farthest north she had ever been, but it was nowhere near as far north as Clementina wanted to go. She had learned from maps that north was up. She had learned from lying on her back looking at clouds that the sky was up. She had learned in science class that the moon was in the sky up beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. She had learned in church that heaven was up somewhere beyond the moon—even beyond the stars.

Clementina wanted to go north to heaven and see her abuela; stand beside her again at the cracked Formica-topped kitchen counter and fold their Christmas tamales tight until they had made an even hundred. She wanted to go, but not yet.

She would settle for going north to the moon, but only if her friend Francisca could go with her. Francisca was Jicarilla Apache on her mother’s side and named after Francisco Chacon,

the Apache chief who kicked blue coat ass at the Battle of Cieneguilla in 1854. Clementina thought an ass-kicker would come in handy on the moon.

Clementina had been a little bit north before to Truth or Consequences with her mother for what her mother called a “girls’ spa weekend.” They had paid to sit in a hot spring pool and drink Coca-colas, the good ones from Mexico with real cane sugar. Her mother said she could have stayed all day soaking her bones, but they only had enough money for an hour. They saved enough to have carne adovada that night at La Cocina—with red chile, of course. Carne adovada requires red.

Clementina had traveled even farther north on a school trip to Socorro to see the Very Large Array of radio telescopes that listen for messages—greetings or jokes or recipes—from aliens in the north part of the universe. She laughed to herself to think of what an alien joke would be like. Would an alien recipe look anything like her tía Julia’s recipe for posole?

But now she was way up north in Albuquerque—the big city. It was an annual trip for her father, Miguel, a big man with a small chile farm who had been growing chiles forever. The harvest had been good, but it had been hard to find pickers. Miguel had picked along side the others from dawn to past dusk while Clementina helped feed them all. Miguel shipped most of his crop to the big processors, but he always saved the best of his chiles to bring himself to Albuquerque on his old flatbed truck with the removable sides. They were perfect chiles with just the right amount of heat.

Miguel loved having Clementina with him anytime, and she had finally been free to accompany him on his delivery to the Hatch Chile pop-up store in the South Valley that had been selling Miguel’s special chiles every year for over twenty years. Tiago, the proprietor, took time off from his regular job to sell chiles when the harvest came in. The site for his pop-up was a buddy’s vacant used car dealership, and Tiago depended on Miguel’s chiles. His customers knew they were the best.

Miguel sounded the horn when they pulled into the cracked asphalt parking lot next to the small shed where Tiago had his makeshift office. A small, black dog leapt up from under an outside table and barked a greeting. Tiago came from the shed wearing a green cap that read, “Chile Heaven.” It matched the chipped sign that hung over the shed. Tiago had used the same sign since the beginning.

The men hugged and slapped backs while Clementina patted Zoro, the grinning dog. Miguel brought his friend over and introduced him to his daughter, pride puffing his chest and widening his grin. “Bienvenida, señorita,” Tiago said, bowing low. “At last, I meet the famous Clementina. I have heard about you for 20 years!” Clementina laughed, “I’m only 13.” “Yes,” Tiago said, “But your papa has been talking about you for 20 years.”

Tiago had red chile ristras hanging across the front of the shed and roasting baskets ready to fill. It was mid afternoon, and Tiago knew it was the perfect time to begin roasting the chiles. Soon the distinct aroma would fill the neighborhood, and by the time people were getting off from work, the parking lot would be crowded with patrons carrying everything from burlap sacks to washtubs to fill with the seasonal staple they craved.

Clementina and Miguel pitched in to keep the chile roasting baskets full and turning and also to help serve customers. It was a fiesta atmosphere with mariachi music blasting from Tiago’s battered CD player. The site was crazy busy for a while, but by 7:30 p.m., the roasters were quiet. Tiago pulled a chain across the entrance.

Miguel went to Blakes for cheeseburgers, and they sat in lounge chairs eating and enjoying the evening air. They would soon drive back to Hatch, and it would be late when they got in. It had been a long, full day. Clementina felt good. Her papa had wanted her company, and she knew she had been a big help to him and Tiago.

Clementina lay back in the webbed, aluminum chair and looked up at the shifting clouds. She thought about being all the way north in Albuquerque from her little home in Hatch. Clementina knew she and Francisca may not make it to the moon, but maybe, when they were older, they could go as far north as Santa Fe. They may or may not have to kick ass when they got there. Clementina knew she would not be with her abuela for a while, but she also knew her abuela would have loved to be with her there that day under the big New Mexico sky in Chile Heaven.

David Cameron catches poems and stories half-formed from an off-hand comment or a surprising twist of phrase. His career was as a Presbyterian pastor in Virginia and New Mexico, and a Meals on Wheels director in western NC where he now lives with his wife and son.

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark fiction and poetry, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

Please repost this to give it maximum distribution.