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10 Short Stories by Joe a. Carlyle-Stories

10 Short Stories by Joe a. Carlyle-Stories



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Published by lm31822

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Published by: lm31822 on Oct 15, 2008
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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All The Gold
FOREWORD“All the gold in California is in a bank in Beverly Hillsin somebody else’s name” is a line from a Country andWestern song that was popular a number of years ago.That song inspired me to write the following story. Asyou begin reading, you may wonder what “All theGold” has to do with the story, but keep reading. Icould have called it “The Perfect Crime”, but someoneelse has already used that title.We are the Greenleaf family; Father, Mother, my older  brother Steve, my younger sister Amy and me, Daniel;not Danny, Dan nor Danny-boy, just plain Daniel. Welived in a nice house at the end of Cedar Streetcompletely surrounded by large Oak and Cedar treesand many flowering shrubs and bushes. The trees wereusually filled with song birds and the squirrels playingall about. This small North Georgia town seemed like anice place to live, and it was for most people.Our parents worked outside the home and made a goodliving, but gambled and drank and wasted much of their money. They were very abusive toward their children,1
especially me, because I objected to their treatmentmore strongly than Steve and Amy. It seemed that oneof the three was always getting a beating, mostly duringthe weekend. I don’t remember ever hearing a kindword from either of them. I made good grades inschool, but they didn’t seem to care. I was good in basketball and baseball, but they never attended any of the games. They actually discouraged me from playing; said it was a waste of time. The same was truewith Steve and Amy, except Amy played softball in lieuof baseball.When Amy was about nine years old, Father was beating her because she forgot to feed the cat. I jumpedin to rescue her and landed in the hospital with aconcussion and missed school for a week.Several months later, Father was beating Steve soviciously I thought he would kill him, so I jumped onhis back and tried to put a choke hold on him, but itdidn’t work. I suffered three broken ribs from that fightand missed more school. I guess I was just plainhardheaded. I hated the beatings more than anyone.There never was any laughter nor fun around our house.Eventually, we learned to leave home and live deep inthe woods from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening.2
That’s when most of the beatings, rough talking,drinking, gambling, etc. happened.Our house was where the “trash” gathered for their weekend fun. As we grew older, the “trash” beganmaking passes at Amy. Mother and Father thought itwas amusing, but we didn’t. I think the “trash” is what prompted us to leave home during the weekends. We built a lean’to for comfort during inclement weather,and we got along pretty well.One Friday afternoon, Father came home, drunk, andthere were no kids to beat, so he slapped Mother acrossthe face and down she went. He attempted to kick her, but she rolled out of his path, quickly sprang to her feetand cracked his skull with an iron skillet. It’s good thatwe had hospital insurance, as it was used often. Father never struck Mother again. He saved it for us.We could never have friends over and we wereforbidden to visit in their homes, but sometimes we didanyway. And when we were caught you can guess whathappened. During early high school years I becamegood friends with a very poor boy, Charlie Ritz. Heinvited me to go home with him one Friday after school. I told Steve and he said he would take care of Amy.3

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