The Portals of Lost Socks

 

"Master of the Portals" by Christine Graves via Leonardo AI

It was typical Sunday morning. I'd gotten out of bed and started my day. It was early and everyone else was still asleep, or so I had thought. I heard something in the laundry room, but I couldn't make out what it was. 

I went in to investigate, expecting to find my youngest child trying to hide from me or getting into something he shouldn't. But there was nothing nor anyone in the room. I chalked it up to not having my morning coffee and went on my way.

As the family began to stir, I got breakfast started and decided to do a load of laundry. I'd thrown a few things in the dryer the night before, mostly socks and undergarments, but never took them out to fold them.

I got one load started and pulled the other from the dryer. Nothing out of the norm, just threw them in a basket and took them to my room to fold. 

As I began to match up my socks, I realized that there were several that were missing. I always had a missing sock here and there, but this seemed different. Almost every single pair I'd thrown in the laundry the night before was missing its mate.

I barked at the kids, reminding them that they had to bring me ALL of their dirty clothes, to which they bellowed back that they had. I knew better. It sparked a full day of cleaning out closets, under beds, corners, and anywhere else I thought they may have left a lonely sock behind. To my dismay, we only found three.

At the end of the day, I got the kids bathed and off to bed. It was quiet in the house once again and I was set on enjoying a little of it before heading off to bed myself. 

As I sat in the silence, I heard something in my laundry room once again. I was sure my youngest had snuck out of bed and was into something he shouldn't be. I decided to sneak up on him and surprise him, but that's not what happened.

As I entered my laundry room, I noticed a tiny being digging through my dryer. I was stunned and a squeaky breath left my body. The sound jolted the being out of my dryer and I stood there staring at this creature before me. It looked like a tiny human, but had pointed ears and was wearing a red velvet cloak.

I could tell it was just as scared as I was, so I didn't make any sudden movements. We stood there for a few moments, then it reached out its hands to me. That's when I noticed it was holding most of my missing socks. 

"Forgive, please," it said in a tiny voice. "No hurt, please." The thought sent shivers down my spine.

"No, I won't hurt you if you promise not to hurt me," I whispered.

"Need socks," it said with its eyes turned down. "Need socks to go home."

I had no idea what it meant and it apparently realized this. It put most of the socks back in the dryer, except for one of my heavy woolen ones. The little creature held the sock up, closed its eyes, and began to chant in a language I'd never heard before.

The sock began to swirl and a portal formed in the center of my laundry room. I could see through the portal that a beautiful woodland lay on the other side. "Home," the creature said, pointing to the portal. 

I only nodded in silence, still to stunned to speak. 

"No come back," the creature said in a saddened voice. "No socks for to come back. I not mean bad for you. I go home now."

My heart felt as though it were being ripped from my chest. I watched as the little creature began to step through the portal.

"Wait," I exclaimed. The tiny creature stopped and looked back at me with apprehension in its eyes.

I slowly walked to the dryer and pulled the matching sock out and handed it to the creature. "You can come back and you can have all the old socks you want. All I ask is that you leave our newer and nicer socks alone."

The creature smiled and its eyes lit up. It stuck the sock in its cloak, bowed to me, then popped through the portal, which closed as soon as the being was through.

I wasn't sure if what I'd witnessed was real or if it was just an elaborate dream, as the next thing I remembered was waking up in my chair. 

My children are all grown up now and have children of their own. I live on my own and have a fairly good life. However, I still go out of my way to make sure I have extra socks and leave a few in the dryer for my little friend to come and go from their world into ours. I've never seen the creature since, but I'm always pulling socks out of my dryer and wonder where their mates have gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello, my lovelies. I know it's been a hot minute since I last wrote. Life has a weird way of getting away from us when we're not looking. 

The above story is from a prompt I received from Gemini AI. I use Gemini a lot and it helped me get out of my slump. I mean, it's helping me get out of my slump, I'm not there quite yet. But this helped.

The prompt was a "what if" prompt. Here's the whole prompt:

What if the reason you can never find the matching sock after doing laundry is because all lost socks are actually consumed by a tiny, velvet-cloaked being who uses them to weave portals to the past?

As odd as it sounds, this was exactly what I needed to get back into writing. Gemini wanted me to do a freewrite--only write for 5 to 10 minutes--however, once I started, I couldn't stop. It just flowed. I haven't felt that in several months. 

I'm hoping to get back into the swing of writing again, but I've got to find my rhythm again. I know I can't do that overnight, but this was a great way to start. Thank you Gemini. You're the best.

Soft Music and Ambiance

 

"The Coffee Shop" by Christine Graves via Leonardo AI

It's amazing what a little soft music and ambiance can do for the soul. I was sitting here trying to come up with something to write about and decided to jump onto YouTube for some soft music. I love videos that are just images with soft, instrumental music. I find it very relaxing.

I found one that showed an image of a cute little coffee shop (not the one pictured above) and some soft jazz. I love soft jazz. I thought, "Yep, this is the one". Little did I know I'd get swept up in the image itself and my mind would wander off into another dimension. 

As I stared at the picture, with what appeared to be a sweeping rain outside the windows, I got lost in a never-before-written story. In my mind, I ran that coffee shop and it was a cold and rainy night. A homeless gentleman entered the shop, simply to get out of the rain. There was something about him that told me he wasn't looking for a handout or was there to hurt me. He just wanted to get warm.

I offered him a cup of coffee and a muffin. Though at first, he declined, I convinced him to accept my offer. I told him to remove his wet coat and I'd throw it in the dryer (I'd, of course, live above the shop). I had some old clothes in the back room and found him a dry pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. 

I handed him the clothes, an old towel, and a bottle of hand soap. I showed him where the men's room was and let him go in and wash up. He explained that he couldn't pay me for the kindness, but I didn't care. I wasn't looking for any money, I just knew he needed someone to give him a chance.

When he came out of the restroom, he sat down and enjoyed his coffee and muffin. I poured him another cup and joined him. He told me his story. A veteran down on his luck, trying to find his way in society. I could hear the sadness in his voice.

I asked him what he did in the military and was surprised by his answer. He'd been a culinary specialist in the Navy. Then he told me what it was like cooking for hundreds of his fellow crewmen. I saw the gleam in his eye and the pride in his soul. 

He finished his coffee and thanked me for the muffin. I asked him where he'd be staying for the night and he said he was hoping I'd let him sleep in his car in my parking lot. I told him no. Instantly, his eyes dimmed and his shoulders dropped. 

He said he understood and thanked me for the coffee and muffin once again. As he stood to leave, I asked him to follow me out the back door. Out behind the coffee shop was a small building that had been converted into an apartment many years before. I'd often used it when family came to stay or if a friend just needed a place to sleep.

I let the gentleman know that there were pillows and blankets in the closet and the stuff to make coffee in the morning. He couldn't hide the shocked look on his face. He said he couldn't accept it as it was too much. I just smiled and reminded him that it was too wet and cold to sleep in a car. 

He finally accepted my offer and made his way to the apartment. I told him good night and locked up the shop. 

As I opened the next morning, the gentleman greeted me as he walked back from his car. He entered the shop and I poured him a cup of coffee. He smiled and thanked me, then asked me a curious question. He wanted to know what the pie of the day was. I'd never had a pie-of-the-day, but the idea sparked my attention. When I shared this piece of news with him, he offered to bake a couple of pies as payment for the room. I agreed.

The gentleman grabbed his coffee cup and headed for the kitchen area. As he rounded the corner...my cat jumped up on the desk and broke me out of my little trance. It was gone. The gentleman, the coffee shop, the pies...all gone. 

Oh well. It was all nothing more than a dream. Not a dream from sleep. Not a dream of success. Just a few moments in an image of a coffee shop filled with soft music and ambiance.

~~~~~~~~~~

Christine Graves has been writing online for nearly 30 years. She has written everything from fiction and poetry to reviews and ad campaigns. She runs three other blogs. Graves Publications, Library of the Mystic Realms, and Collected Keepsakes. She also writes for a platform called Medium.com  where she runs several publications. 

Christine is an avid collector of vintage anything and an arts-and-crafts kinda gal. She is a sucker for a garage/yard sale, secondhand stores, and auctions. Because of this, she's opened her first real online shop called Prairied Treasures and another that showcases her AI artwork called Pathways through the Past. 

Be sure to sign up for the Graves Publications newsletter to stay up with all the latest news. 

Creating a Newsletter I Can Be Proud Of

 

Hey Y'all!!! 

Thanks for stopping by. I hope the new year is being good to you all. I'm having a blast right now. 

I've been in the process of revamping my Substack newsletter and it's coming together. I have a real plan in place, though I do still have a few kinks to work out.

I'm planning on doing both a free and a paid subscription. For the free subscription, I'm going to do two issues per month. Each issue will have links for any new posts I've added to each of my blogs (including my Medium.com account). I will also have links to any new items listed at my online shops and links to any new literary releases I might have.

Another thing I'm planning on adding to the free issues are links to other creatives around the web and reviews of sites I think y'all might like. I don't want the free issue to simply be about my stuff. I still want you all to find something of use to you.

As for the paid subscription, I have quite a bit planned. I'm going to open an artists' chat for all paid subscribers, as well as working on doing a few podcasts and/or videos. I'm planning on having a few writing contests and possibly some artistic contests. 

I won't lie. I'm still working out all the details, but I am working on it. By this time next year, I'd really like to see this become a wonderful resource for creatives of all types. There are a lot of sites out there geared toward creative writers, as well as several places made especially for artists. I want to bring all those sites together in one place. 

Though I've been writing for more than 30 years, I'd never thought of myself as an artist. One of my best friends in high school was an amazing artist. She could sit down and draw just about anything and it was just gorgeous. I was so jealous. It wasn't until here just recently that I began to understand that my crafty side was a form of artistry. I may not be able to draw or paint beautiful images, but I create unique gift tags and greeting cards that are all one-of-a-kind items. I built a miniature diorama of an old saloon. It was really cool.

I was pretty proud of this one. It took me like three months to put it together. It was 10"x10"x12", and made mostly of balsa wood, popsicle sticks, leather, and cardstock. 

This was the piece that made me believe that some of the stuff I created could be considered art. And if it took me that long to figure out that what I did was art, how many others out there feel the same? My goal is to find a way to bring some of those quiet voices to the forefront. 

Though I have a lot of plans, I also know I have to take a step back and do this the right way. I don't want to overwhelm myself and burnout before I even get started. I want to make this newsletter something that everyone looks forward to receiving. 

I've already sent out Issue 1, and Issue 2 should come out around the 15th. I don't want to overwhelm my subscribers and I really don't have enough stuff to send out to warrant sending more than 2 issues a month. 

If you're a writer or an artist and would like to see this journey come to light, I invite you to become a subscriber. I won't lie, as of right now, I don't have a lot put together for the paid subscriptions, but I will have something put together by the next issue. And if you'd rather opt for the free subscription, just to see how things roll for a while, I totally get it. I don't blame you either. 

Thank you for stopping by. I very much appreciate it. 

Until next time,
Stay Creative!!!

~~~~~~~~~

Christine Graves has been writing online for nearly 30 years. She has written everything from fiction and poetry to reviews and ad campaigns. She runs three other blogs. Graves Publications, Library of the Mystic Realms, and Collected Keepsakes. She also writes for a platform called Medium.com  where she runs several publications. 

Christine is an avid collector of vintage anything and an arts-and-crafts kinda gal. She is a sucker for a garage/yard sale, secondhand stores, and auctions. Because of this, she's opened her first real online shop called Prairied Treasures and another that showcases her AI artwork called Pathways through the Past. 

Be sure to sign up for the Graves Publications newsletter to stay up with all the latest news. 

I Published My First Amazon Short Read

 

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Well, I finally did it. I published my first book of fiction on Amazon. It's not the first book I've published here, just the first book of fiction. It's a strange feeling knowing I've finally done something I've dreamed of doing for years.

The book is called Investigating the Beyond--Celeste Bordeaux. It's the first book in a series, and it's a short read, only about 5,000 words. It's listed in the 30-minute read section. In the first 24-hours, my book made it to the top 100 in the 30-minute read/teen and young adult category. I was over the moon.

Of course, that didn't last long. But I'm okay with that. It just means I've got to finish Book 2. I'm about halfway through at the moment and am hoping to have it finished this weekend. Once the first draft is finished, I'll let it sit and simmer for a couple of days. Then I'll go back and re-read it. I'll fix a few things, make sure it's as close to perfect as possible, then send it off to my editor. Yes, I have an editor and she is amazing.

I also have a designer to do my book covers. I love her work. Some of her book covers just drop my jaw to the floor. If it wasn't for these two women, I'd probably never have had the nerve to hit the publish button. 

I've wanted to be a published writer for as long as I can remember. I've had a couple of stories published in print, a few poems, and have been publishing online since the early 2000s. But this is different. Yes, it's still online but I can honestly say I did it. I've written a story, had it polished and packaged by professionals, and put it up for sale. That's amazing.

Here's the kicker, I actually made a little money. No, not a lot...less than a dollar...but I made a little money. For me, that's a win. It was never about the money. If it was about the money, I'd have given up a long time ago. It's not for the chance to be famous. I'm okay living in the shadows. It's simply one of those dreams that never seemed to go away. 

I'm in my late 50s and I've finally seen my dream come true. And I'm not done yet. I have a few more writing dreams to work on and now I have the drive to do so. I'm not the best writer in the world. Not by a long shot. But I love what I do. If someone out there loves it too, awesome. If not, oh well, on to the next.

Remember, you're never to old to dream. Embrace your dreams. It's what makes you, you. 

Until next time,
Miss Chris

Beatrice (Bertie) Margaret Calhoun/Montgomery/Clayton/Rosenthal, May She Rest in Peace

**WARNING: The following is a work of dark fiction. It may contain various triggers. Discretion is advised**

Image by Carolyn Booth from Pixabay 

Beatrice (Bertie) Margaret Calhoun/Montgomery/Clayton/Rosenthal, of Slaughterville, Oklahoma, passed away in her home with her 24-hour care nurse by her side. Her caregiver said she went out kicking and screaming and throwing things at the pictures on her walls. Her funeral will be held at the Slaughterville Memorial Chapel on Route 6 next Saturday at 2 p.m.

Bad luck seemed to follow Bertie throughout her life. Born October 20th, 1921 at 12:34 AM, Beatrice Margaret Calhoun was the eldest child of Charles and Lillian Calhoun, of Beaver Falls, Louisiana. Her parents had two more children after her, though neither one made it to the age of three.

In the summer of 1929, Bertie and her parents moved to Slaughterville where her father opened The Grand Slaughterville Hotel. Less than a year later, Charles Calhoun fell ill and passed away in his sleep. The hotel was purchased by the prominent Montgomery family. Bertie and her mother stayed on as housekeepers as a means to remain on the property. Within 6 months time, Lillian Calhoun was found at the bottom of a staircase and died shortly afterward. Her death was ruled an accident by the Slaughterville Coroner's Office. 

David and Dorthea Montgomery took little Bertie in and raised her as one of their own. In the spring of 1938, Bertie Calhoun married the Montgomerys' eldest son, Franklin.  Less than a month after the wedding, Franklin joined the military and was sent off to war. He came home 3 years later to find that his younger brother, Nelson, had died in a car accident and his only sister, Agnes, had fallen from the balcony of the hotel, dying instantly.

Less than a week after returning from the war, Franklin’s father, David Montgomery, was found dead in his office, of an apparent heart attack. Three days later, Dorthea Montgomery was found in her dressing room with a broken mirror shard protruding from her neck. It was determined that her cause of death stemmed from excessive alcohol. Heartbroken at the loss of his entire family, Franklin Montgomery apparently took his own life shortly thereafter.

Bertie took over the hotel and ran it as best she could. She hired Baxter Clayton as a groundskeeper and the two were wed in July 1944. Baxter kept the hotel and grounds in pristine condition until his untimely death in October 1947. While trimming branches from an old tree in the back of the hotel, Baxter had caught the cuff of his trousers in his ladder and fell to his death. The small handaxe he’d been using was found underneath him, buried in the back of his head. The coroner’s office called it a horrible accident.

Toward the end of the 1940s and the beginning of the 1950s, Bertie Clayon ran the hotel on her own. In 1954, she turned the west wing into a lounge and started hiring musicians to come in and play. By the early 1960s, The Grand Slaughterville Hotel was the place to stop for those who hadn’t quite made it to the big leagues. 

In 1966, Bertie met an older musician by the name of Herbie Rosenthal. He was working on becoming the next big music promoter but told locals that there was just something about Bertie that made him want to “dig this scene” and turn Slaughterville into a beatnik hotspot. 

Bertie and Herbie seemed happy in their little hippy culture home. However, in the summer of 1970, Herbie Rosenthal was found in the beer cooler with a full keg of beer lying beside his crushed skull. Investigators deduced that the keg had slipped off a shelf while Herbie was tying his shoe. His death was ruled a terrible mishap.

Between 1970 and 1992, Bertie Rosenthal remained alone in her hotel. Most Slaughterville residents had either thought her to be traveling the world or had forgotten about her altogether. In November 1992, Bertie attended the funeral of Jacob Johansson, the groundskeeper of the hotel at that time. She was welcomed back into Slaughterville society and began holding lavish parties at her hotel once again. 

Between 1993 and 2008, Bertie’s hotel flourished. In June of that year, the FBI came looking for several young men who had last been known to have stayed at her hotel. Though nothing ever came of the accusations, The Grand Slaughterville Hotel closed its doors for good.

Bertie became a recluse, being seen only by the 24-hour care nurses she’d hired to care for her in her golden years. Between 2009 and her recent passing, a total of 87 nurses cared for the aging woman. It is said that many of them packed up in the middle of the night and left town as they’ve never been seen nor heard from again.

Bertie Calhoun-Montgomery-Clayton-Rosenthal passed away on October 20th, 2021 at the age of 100. Her caregiver pronounced her time of death at 12:34 AM.

Bertie is preceded in death by her parents, both of her siblings, her adoptive parents, her adoptive siblings, and all three of her husbands. 

There were no survivors.