#shortnonfiction

[kelliestes]

Stewards of the Land

I feel a shiver of unease as our walking guide directs us along the dirt road that will pass through the heart of property that is clearly a working farm. A herd of black, brown, and white cows stand near the feeding trough beside the track watching us, alert and suspicious. I imagine a farmer nearby watching with even deeper distrust.

I look down at the ground and see the imprint of tractor tires pressed into dried mud and I feel time shift backwards. I am on the farm where I grew up, walking to my cousin’s house to play. The air is scented by drying manure underlying the greener, dustier smell of hay. I know how to assess the firm clumps of earth for sure-footing, and how to avoid the muddier bits using grass or rocks. I’m trailing after my big brothers, a little bit scared of the cows but imitating the boys’ bravery.

I blink and I’m back in Scotland. Just like in my memory, I’m nervous walking here but today it’s not because of the cows. I am about to walk past the farmhouse and I cannot fathom that the farmer is okay with strangers tromping through his property every day.

Just as I followed my brothers, I follow my walking group now and move past the outbuildings. They are in need of repair. Then, we pass the farmhouse with lacy curtains on the windows. No human appears to shout at us, nor to welcome us. We, the cows, and some distant sheep are the only movement I see.

I learn later about the Scottish Outdoor Access Code and it makes me fall even harder for this country that I already love. Because of this law that allows walkers to respectfully cross private property, we are allowed to see the real Scotland – cow pies, muddy tracks, and crumbling buildings included. We won’t be chased off by a shotgun. As long as we leave no trace, and we respect the workings of the farm, no one will accost us during our hike.

I think of all the places this access can take me and a spark of excitement lightens my feet. This knowledge changes everything. I have so many areas to explore now.

Glancing back, I see that the cows have returned to their lunch, unbothered by us intruders. I hike onward, my mind spinning with plans. Today I’ve witnessed proof that land can successfully be accessed by everyone. I wish the whole planet was equally as open. After all, humans are only stewards of something that was here long before us, and will remain long after we’re gone.

*From my East Highland Way (Scotland) Collection. May 1, 2017.

© 2022 by Kelli Estes

[sharonenck]

Out of Place

She walked with the determined pace of someone who was running late. The interview was in five minutes, so she quickened her pace, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. Nice, she thought, as the glass door opened smoothly. 

The receptionist waved her on without getting her name, and she clacked her way to #205. Right on time. The door opened, and she turned expectantly. A smartly dressed man hovered there, his forehead creased in confusion. 

“May I help you?”

“I am here for the interview.” 

“What interview?” 

She looked around, realizing this wasn’t the right building. She was most definitely late.

[redlyoninherwords]

The Decline Of My Self Worth

I have played the role in diminishing my own-self worth.

Everytime I didn't speak up.

Everytime I let shit slide.

Everytime I did something-

I knew wouldn't get me far.

Everytime I gave more of myself.

When I let my light shine

Sat and waited

Waded & played.

Everytime I gave too much time & attention to part timers.

Taking the short end of the stick and calling it something great.

I contribute to diminishing my esteem.

For Evey interview I went on or job I applied to that was not for me.

I sunk a little lower.

When I was disrespected by men who were neglectful.

Daddy & the rest them...

For all the time I procrastinated.

Coulda did this... Shoulda done that...

I lost my self Everytime I chased or looked for explanations from thoughtless cowards dressed up as man.

I left my self worth in a club.

I dropped it outside his house.

When I was looking for redemption.

I misplaced it on social media.

When I didn't get reciprocity...

Chasing Love & that career.

I lost it.

I lost it.

I lost it.

[thefeministbibliothecary]

You can now read the full Lite Reads review of out most recent selection, The True Story of "Faccetta Nera" by Igiaba Scego, translated by Antony Shugaar (link below / through the link in the bio). I personally thought this short work of nonfiction was informative, insightful, and shed light on topics I'm not well versed in (Italian culture and history is not my strong suit). I'm eager to hear what others had to think, so be sure to let me know in the comments! https://wp.me/p9KSXu-UD #LiteReads #shortstory #shortstories #shortstoryclub #reading #essays #essay #shortnonfiction #womenintranslation https://www.instagram.com/p/CURyl9erv8l/?utm_medium=tumblr

[volopresspublishing]

Https://VoloPressBooks.com #writingcontests #shortstorycompetition #creativenonfiction #creativefiction #amwriting #shortfiction #shortnonfiction #Indieauthors https://www.instagram.com/p/BzV-4vLA1HV/?igshid=mwfzi80w1lz8

[21stcenturylitposts-blog]

Short Non-Fiction: Real Life Stories

Short Non-Fiction has evolved drastically over the years. It used to be always straight to the point and follows a set of formal rules. Now, events and news articles are conveyed in a creative way through feature articles and such.

[bclarkefinney]

Dear Bruce, I know that fifty years was not enough time to be with your wife.  And I know that five years is much too long to be without her. I know this because you are still smiling, and you are reaching out over your waffle, and you are looking me right in the eye.  And only a man who has known a life of love could be so giving to me on this Wednesday morning, when the rain has not yet stopped, when we have only just met. I give you three refills of a coffee cup.  You give me fifty years of your story, laid out as simply as a knife and fork.

You met your wife in the city.  Back then you were a cop, and while the trim lines of your gray uniform have faded, I can see how it might have hung on you. “This waffle is so damn good it’s almost misdemeanial!” you say, and wink and laugh and reach for the syrup. I imagine you back then, your mustache flat and black, short enough it did not reach your smile.  I think of you wrapping your gloved hands around a Styrofoam coffee, sitting in a police cruiser with the windows open.  You are blowing the steam gently off the rim of the cup, like the fog rolling over the bay, content to watch San Francisco lift its towers from the cool gray morning.  You are already thinking about being home for dinner. I imagine your wife.  She is half your size, with wild curly hair, and always wears the colors of sweet sorbet.  She keeps the seams in your police trousers crisp, not out of duty, but because she thinks it looks good.  She reads on Sundays because she believes in quiet moments. I see you kiss her on the Golden Gate Bridge.  I see the two of you holding hands at a parade, whooping at the fire trucks rolling by, hollering at old buddies waving the flag. That was before the conversation between you and the neighbors turned thick like chowder.  That was before what was once comfortable became suddenly impossible to even talk about.  Everyone knew something must be done.  How many heads of hair did you recognize as the crowd pressed slowly and unrelentingly into your police line?  How many sons and daughters locked eyes with you above the tip of your trembling rifle?  How did you justify the softness of your heart against the firmness of your stance?  I imagine you becoming acutely aware of the meat on your own body.  The meat on their young bodies.  How everyone is just a body, waiting to be tangled up in a mess from which they cannot escape.  I see you standing with your men, a bastion of limbs, your eyes cold and sharp with tears. That is why you left the city, you tell me.  The riots. The beatings.  Blood on the backs of brown and black skulls. You moved north.  You became an elementary school teacher.  That was forty years ago.  

How, when everything has changed for you, how, when even She is no longer constant in your life, how, do you find yourself reading the same headlines?   You are lost without her.  I can see that.  You have come from out of the rain and into this diner, to put your feet under a short stack with syrup and hope to find yourself somewhere new.  I find myself with you, Bruce.  I am lost too.

[certainlymad]

SO I have been trying to find a more ~official~ space to publicize my writing. Therefore, I created a DeviantArt! If you want to add me on here, you are more than welcome and encouraged. This is going to be the primary location if you want to read my poetry and short non/fiction works! http://hallowbranches.deviantart.com/

[kelliestes]

A Moment in the Métro

It is early morning and I’m standing, sleepy, on the platform of the Paris Métro, heading toward the 14th arrondissement for another day of sightseeing. The Parisians, however, crowds of them, are heading the opposite direction, toward the city center. I don’t think much of it at first. After all, it’s a beautiful summer day outside.

I find a spot on the platform to wait for my train to arrive. Soon, I notice the people on the opposite platform shifting and bunching, making room for new arrivals behind them. Strangely, no one appears grumpy in the early morning crush.

Yesterday was Bastille Day, or French National Day, with a parade on the Champs-Élysées and fireworks at the Eiffel Tower. Celebrations lasted late into the night. Perhaps these are partyers just now going home?

But, the energy in the crowd hints at something more going on. One man starts a chant that several others pick up. I don’t understand the words. After that, someone else starts singing. The tune swells as more voices down the entire length of the platform join in. The music echoes off the tiled station walls and sends goosebumps up my arms. The air is vibrating with joy.

I ask the young woman standing next to me, “What is happening?”

She smiles, her eyes laughing at my American ignorance. “France is in the World Cup Final. Today we go against Croatia.” Her gaze drifts across the station and I see yearning there. She wants to be with that crowd.

A thrill moves through me. I don’t follow soccer. I don’t even follow American football, or basketball, or any other sport. But there is a lot to be said for how an event such as this one can bring together an entire city, an entire country.

Sure, there were protests earlier in the week. The French are great at standing up to injustices done against them. But, today, every voice is raised in joy and hope. They are joined together to root for their team and it is beautiful to witness.

My train arrives and I board, my heart full. There is so much that tears humans apart from each other. Today, in the Métro tunnels and on the streets of Paris, everyone is one big family.

*From my France Collection. July 15, 2018.

[kelliestes]

Each Human Life

It is easy to imagine the field in front of me full of men, several just boys, carrying muskets and bayonets. I can practically see them in formation, standing shoulder-to-shoulder trying to be brave but shaking in fear.

No one is here today except for a few tourists and the grounds feel peaceful and park-like. Birds are singing in the trees and squirrels rustle the drying leaves as they scamper about collecting acorns for their winter stash. One could easily visit this historic battlefield and think it a nice spot for a picnic.

But, I’ve read the books, watched the movies, and asked questions of the historians and museum staff. I know this isn’t a tranquil setting. Horror happened here and the land remembers. We are on sacred ground where hundreds lost their lives in a war where each side was absolutely convinced theirs was the righteous cause. They believed themselves to be on the winning side as equally as their enemies believed the same thing. None of them won.

I look down the quiet barrel of a cannon and wonder what it would be like to see humans on the receiving end, and then to light the fuse anyway, knowing I was about to take lives, or at the least, limbs.

The cognitive dissonance required to fire would be staggering. I would have to actively forget that they are people just like me, with mothers, wives, daughters, sons, and whole communities praying for their safe return. I would have to forget that the thing I hate is not these humans, but the policies and laws made by detached, self-serving men in a city far away from here. I would have to intentionally blur my vision so that I do not see the shock of pain on a young boy’s face as my shot hits its mark. I would have to turn away and tell myself lies that what I’d just done was for a greater good, that my own life won’t be affected by my decisions this day.

I walk away from the cannon and try to force my attention on the orange and gold trees, the soothing sunshine easing away cold morning air, the dusty scent of dried leaves and grasses crunching under my feet as I walk.

I try to see the beauty all around me, but I fail.

All I see is the pointless loss of lives and the societal division that never should have gone so far.

I drive out of the park yearning for a release from the heavy sorrow that has settled over me. But, it clings to me, tenaciously. I can’t shake the thought that, even today 160 years later, we humans still have not learned that war irreparably damages so much more than it resolves. We still so easily forget the value in each human life.

*From my Tennessee Collection. Shiloh Battlefield. November 20, 2017.

[kelliestes]

The Old Tree

The sight of the tree stops you in your tracks. Some things are like that. You’ll be going about your business when some tiny current of energy demands attention and, even though it would be easy to ignore, you’ve learned to heed the call.

She is not tall and stately like her neighbors. She has been twisted and turned by the merciless elements and the ravages of time. An impossibly long root – or maybe it’s her trunk? – stretches along the ground for at least fifteen feet. She hangs over the edge of the rocks with the waters of Cascade Lake sparkling only a few feet below. Like a bonsai she has been sculpted by careful hands, yet you suspect these hands were not human, but those belonging to wind, rain, time.

Her face is turned southward toward the sun, and there her needles glow green in delight. She is peering around the corner past her bigger neighbors for her own sustenance, but also to better see and hear the kids swimming and splashing at the beach.

She has lived here for many years and she knows her days are numbered. But she doesn’t mind. She’ll be content on her solo perch for however long she is allowed.

She has lessons to share with anyone willing to listen. Go, sit near her long, undulating root-trunk and ask her what she knows. She’ll tell you that you’re doing exactly what you should be doing with your life – listening, noticing, learning, appreciating.

And yet, you grow impatient. You have a long hike to finish, after all. So, you stand to stretch your legs. You lay a palm against her bark in gratitude, and then you continue on your way.

She stays behind, and she hides a grin because she sees you have not yet learned the deeper lessons she is here to teach. The biggest life lessons come with time and tenacity. Someday, she knows, you’ll learn that a well-lived life is not about going further, doing more. It’s about less. It’s about stretching until you find the corner of your forest where you feel the warmth of the sun, and then lifting your face to soak in its rays.

*From my San Juan Islands Collection. Cascade Lake, Orcas Island. July 14, 2021.

[kelliestes]

The Pull of the Trail

My feet ache. They feel swollen and tender, hot. In the last two days I’ve walked twenty-six miles and, right now, I feel every inch of that.

I’ve left my boots in my room, swapped for flip-flops. In the loose footwear I feel unsteady and awkward, as though the boots have melded with my body so that now, without them, I’ve forgotten how to walk.

Limping, I cross the grass to the water’s edge. It is lapping gently against the stones on the beach. Out on the loch a speed boat zips along towing a shrieking skier. I wish they weren’t there, shattering what would otherwise be a peaceful evening. But, also, I am happy to see human life on the loch. Since lunchtime I’ve walked its eastern shore and saw no boat traffic at all. This loch used to be teaming with life. By boat was, after all, the best mode of transport and travel for centuries. Now the rowboats and steamships are gone. Locals and tourists alike zip along the loch’s western shore on the two-lane A82, casting only occasional glances at the water and mountains surrounding it (I know, I’ve driven on that terrifyingly curvy and narrow highway).

I spy a flat rock in the water and kick of my flip-flops to ease my aching feet onto its slimy surface. It is cold. Shockingly cold. But heavenly. I wish for a larger rock, or even a folding chair, so that I could sit with my feet soaking, healing in the cold. But there isn’t one, so I remain standing, easing my weight from one foot to the other.

The air is warm on my skin. The sun is only now reaching the mountaintops across the loch. These long summer days mean I won’t be awake to see full darkness.

Ball-shaped orange buoys bob nearby, drawing my attention, but my gaze is pulled even further afield to the north and the mountains in the distance. I’ll be walking to those mountains in the coming days. Like countless others who have stood exactly where I am now, I wonder what I will experience on my journey, who I will meet, what I will see. My stomach flips with excitement. If I had my boots on, I’d be tempted to get back on the trail right now.

*From my West Highland Way (Scotland) Collection. Loch Lomond. June 26, 2019.

[kelliestes]

The Beach at Night

It’s a perfect, warm, tropical night and I’m lying on a lounge chair staring at the stars. The constant roar and shush of waves hitting the beach and drawing back are lulling me into a trance. The sweet scent of pikake flowers mingles with the tang of kerosene from tiki torches on the bluff. When the breeze shifts, it carries delicious aromas from the restaurant, but I’ve already eaten. I could happily sit here until morning.

It is dark on the beach and the stars are brilliant in the sky overhead. I stare at them, looking for familiar constellations, noticing how they disappear into the ocean at the horizon.

But then, movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn to look that direction. Nothing is there. I turn back to face the sea.

Just as I’m starting to feel sleepy, it happens again. I don’t see anything moving, so I shift my gaze to the side a bit, knowing that peripheral vision is sharpest in the dark.

The sand moves.

I sit up, study the patch of beach. Nothing. I must be imagining it. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I go back to staring at the sky.

But then, it happens again. Movement on the beach. I sit up and stare into the shadows. There it is again.

I get up from the lounge chair, cell phone flashlight in hand, and move closer. What is it?

When I see movement again, I shine the light and find a crab about the size of my hand scurrying sideways down to the water. Nearby is an empty hole.

That’s when I realize the beach is full of holes and scurrying crabs. And, I am barefoot.

On the heels of that realization is the knowledge that the crabs are always here under the sand, even during the day when my kids are digging deep holes, their tasty little fingers invading the crabs’ homes.

I squirm with this new knowledge.

I return to my lounge chair and tuck my feet up, safely out of reach.

But then, I remember. We are the visitors here. This is crab territory and, so far, they haven’t pinched my toes or tasted my boys’ fingers. Maybe we do okay sharing the beach.

And, maybe…no, probably. Yes, for certain. I should go home and leave the crabs to their nightly work. I can always come back tomorrow when they are burrowed deep inside their sandy homes. Maybe I’ll leave the shovels behind, though.

I stand up. The beach is all yours, little guys. I slip on my flip flops, and walk carefully away.

*From my Hawaii Collection (Big Island). February 21, 2019.

[kelliestes]

First Paddle

It is my first paddle of the season and I go alone since the water is glass calm. As I follow the shoreline, I look at the waterfront homes and imagine the people who live there. Some are out mowing grass or tossing balls for dogs, but most houses are silent, their picture windows reflecting the sky and water back at me. The sound of an engine grabs my attention and I turn forward to watch a boat leave the boat ramp. I drift, waiting, conscious of staying out of his path.

Once the boat zooms away, I grip my paddle and dig the right side into the water. Pull. My kayak slices satisfyingly through the water. Left side, pull. I go faster. Left, right, left, right…my arms are burning in a way that feels so good, reminding me that I am alive, that my body can propel me where I want to go.

A high-pitched, stuttering cry sounds from the trees and I look up to see a bald eagle perched at the top of a Douglas fir. Down below the eagle, on the rocky beach, a mallard duck pair waddle to the water.

A huge floating log forces me to turn away from shore, so I head out into the bay. Before me spreads the distant Cascade Mountain Range, still topped with snow. Mount Baker towers over the rest, a brilliant white pyramid.

I rest my paddle, tilt my face up to the weak spring sunshine, and close my eyes to imprint the moment in my memory: Salty air touched with the scent of algae drying on the beach. Warm sun on my face and bare arms, cold plastic against my legs. The very slightest of cool breezes. My arms, shoulders, and back burn from my earlier sprint.

I breathe deep. Then, breathe again. This moment, right here, right now, is perfect. Just me and nature, and the wide-open bay.

 *From my Salish Sea Collection. Port Susan, WA. May 31, 2021.

[kelliestes]

Our Future Selves

My son and I start our hiking day, our sixth in a row, at the Glencoe Mountain Resort where we stand looking toward what we know should be a stunning view, but all we see is rain and fog. Even the iconic mountain – Buachaille Etive Mòr – that stands proudly like a pyramid at the top of the glen is hidden behind a smudgy gray mass. I fight back a crushing disappointment.

We walk for fifteen minutes down the single-track resort drive and arrive at the busy A82 junction. Fierce wind is whipping the flags with such force that I expect them to be shredded by day’s end. Cars and camper vans speed by, their wipers working furiously, and I’m worried for our safety when we have to cross the road.

But we do not yet cross. Although we��ve only just started our hike and have several miles to go today, we each unexpectedly stop walking and move to the side to peer down a short bank to the stream below. Until this very moment, I did not know that my son has been looking forward to reaching this location from the moment we first committed to the hike. He did not know that I have been equally eager.

We stopped here three years before on a family car trip through the Highlands. I remember clearly how I pushed open the heavy car door, made heavier by the force of the wind, and heard gravel crunch beneath my shoes. I stood beside the car and looked out at the stunning mountains and mystical valley, sensing we were on the threshold of something we would remember forever. Even the air was tinged with a delicious scent that was new to me – heather? Wild thyme? Something else? I then looked down at the stream flowing into the glen and caught my breath at the beauty of red rocks poking from black water between banks made up of a dozen shades of green. In the distance I saw people walking a wide dirt path that slashed across the hillside toward me and I wondered where they were coming from, where they were going.

It was at that moment that I promised myself I would be back someday to learn the answers to those questions. I would walk that trail, and continue on into the glen. I would leave my car behind and really experience this unbelievable landscape.

Unbeknownst to me, my thirteen-year-old son stood beside me making the same silent promise to himself.

Today, we’re both standing here a second time, fulfilling our silent promises. We have returned to this magical moor and glen, and we arrived here by the power of our own bodies. We will walk into the valley and then we will leave it by foot, just as our ancestors may have done so long ago. Just as those walkers had done three years before us.

I snap photos, and then I pick up a tiny red rock to slip into my pocket. When I am at home, dreaming of this hike, this day, this very spot on the side of the road, I can hold it and come back here in my mind. My son does the same. Neither of us cares anymore that we can’t see the mountain.

Then, we shoulder our packs and cross the road to continue our walk. We’ve become our future, dreamed-of selves, and we each walk a little taller.

*From my West Highland Way (Scotland) Collection. June 30, 2019.

[kelliestes]

Unremembered Heroes

 Today the kitchens are full of light with fresh air flowing through, but when they were in their heyday, they were hot, smoky, stinky, crowded, and dirty. At least two hundred workers slaved here every day over hot cauldrons, turning roasting spits in fireplaces bigger than their own bedrooms, which they probably didn’t have anyway. They would never taste the food they produced for it went upstairs to Henry VIII’s royal court.

I imagine all the scents that filled these rooms on a typical day – roasting meats, sweating bodies, the heady aroma of red wine, the sweetness of spun sugar. And the spices. Oh, the spices. So many were new to this part of the world and only available to the upper classes. Anise, cinnamon, pepper, orange peel,… And then there was chocolate. But, not here, I remind myself. Chocolate was stored and prepared in another, much smaller kitchen, on the other side of the palace where the temperature could be better controlled. I imagine the workers who got to whip the king’s daily drink were the envy of the entire staff.

I wander through, peering into huge vats, inhaling smoke and talking with the museum staff dressed in 16th century costume. These workers here today are probably better fed and smiling a lot more than their historical counterparts. I continue on to the other rooms and see where dishes were stored, where meats were processed, where milk was churned. So many people worked hard down here while, upstairs, Henry worked to change the country’s religion so he could get himself a divorce and a new wife.

History does not remember each individual who baked a loaf of bread, sliced a platter of meat, or chopped potatoes. But, without them, all the important events upstairs couldn’t have happened. I see the rest of the palace, but it’s the people in the kitchens who have captured my heart and my imagination. I’m going to leave Henry and his cronies to others. Give me the scullery maids and spit boys any day. They’re the ones keeping this place going.

*From my England Collection. Hampton Court Palace. July 6, 2018.