Fiction

Award Winning Fiction Writer

Besides her work in aviation, Rose is known for creating fanciful mysteries, poetry and children’s stories.   Below are a few of her stories and information on where you can find more!

 

Jet Lag

The last thing Lena expected to encounter on her way home from the convention was murder.

Lena did not consider herself to be an exciting person. Though she loved to read mysteries and detective stories, they touched her for only a few precious moments before she returned to her desk, computer, and the never-ending mountain of paper work.

The Certified Public Accountant’s conference highlighted her year, and she always stayed behind to help clean up. “That’s me,” she thought. “Reliable and competent, but hardly exciting.”

With boarding for the red-eye back to Albuquerque still an hour away there was not much to do at the DFW airport terminal but read.  Most of the restaurants were closed, and Lena had little interest in the sports bars.

Staring off into space from an uncomfortable little seat, she would never have noticed the tall dark-haired man coming from the skyway had he not lifted a sheet of paper to cover his face. She wondered why he would do that.

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Final Memories

“Rose, Dad’s in the hospital.” The call began.  “He’s undergoing emergency surgery on his colon, and there’s a good chance he won’t make it.”

I had been expecting this call for years.  Alzheimer’s Disease had created wormholes in his memory, but age had chivvied a herd of medical disorders into the starting gate and any incident from a stumble to an emotional outburst might begin the inevitable stampede.

My daughter and I packed for the trip to Indianapolis.  It was three weeks until Christmas.  Melissa dozed next to me on the airplane as I mused over the situation.  Dad had not known me by name for at least five years, the same with all my siblings.  When he called Mom, “Mother” we knew that half the time he thought she was his mother, dead for over thirty years.

Living twelve hundred miles from the family seat meant that in many ways I had already distanced myself mentally from him.  When he first went to live in the nursing home I would call at least once a week just to try to stay in contact.  He still knew who I was most of the time. During one call he asked where I was.  When I said Albuquerque, he asked what I was doing there?

I told him I lived here and he asked how long ago I moved.  “Fifteen years ago, Dad.” I said.

“FIFTEEN YEARS!!”  He shouted into the phone.  “And you’re just now getting round to TELLING ME ABOUT IT!”

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