Blessed Are The Pure of Heart

 A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.

Blessed Are The Pure of Heart

Robert took an unsure step. As his worn boot gently touched the floor the boards beneath groaned and screamed as if in pain. The next step was likewise, but with less groaning. Suddenly he found himself in the middle of a dimly lit room. He whirled and stared about as if he were expecting one of the portraits on the walls to greet him. There was enough likeness to convince him with little examination that they were indeed his ancestors. Above him a chandelier, he stepped from beneath it in some imagined fear that it might come crashing down. The sooty fireplace was no more than a reminder of how cold the room was and that no heat had been in the room in some time.

"Are you cold?" said a woman's deep voice from the stairway just beyond the entrance of the room. Robert turned quickly. She stood near the bottom of the steps, gaunt, pale, and sternly morose. The only flesh seen from beneath her black garb was her thin head with sunken cheeks. Her black hair with discernible strands of gray was pulled tightly into a bun. Her look appeared dismissive. Her lip moved as if trying to force a pleasant smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

Robert said nothing. His lips were pasted together and his mind was overcome by the total and utter bleakness of the surroundings and the abysmal figure on the steps.

"If you are cold we can start a fire."

Robert slowly moved his head ever so slightly as to indicate 'no'.

"You probably don't remember me," she said slowly descending the last two steps. "You were quite

young. I am your father's sister, Agatha."

Robert moistened his lips and mouth in anticipation that a question might come that he may have to answer.

She squinted and held her head as if looking through the better of her eyes slowly advancing into the room. "You look like your father," she smiled. "Now that takes all the mystery out of it. Doesn't it?" Robert stood motionless. As she moved closer she walked around him as if looking at a showhorse. He saw her nod as if approving.

"Not bad," she said. "You have the build of a farm hand and the eyes of a prince." She moved in close to him and looked at his face as if counting each stubble of his beard. "You know, don't you? You belong here."

Robert was not quite certain of how to answer. Again he moistened his lips to prepare to speak.

"That face has stood much weather. You are a man of action." She reached down and lifted his hands and examined them. "A smith would envy such hands. You have probably wondered why you are here."

Robert's eyes gazed for a moment beyond at two portraits on the wall behind her.

She returned his hands to his side and smiled. "One is your grandfather. The short one is an uncle, Silas. Good men," she concluded.

His eyes widened at the sight of his grandfather.

"How you come to be raised elsewhere is a long story - no real fault of your father. It was war and circumstances took you from us. You are now the only living male. I have little inclination, skill, or wit remaining to carry on the family's affairs. It is yours for the taking and your portrait shall hang with the others."

Robert wrinkled his brow.

"I know you have been briefed by my legal representatives, who by the way aren't to be trusted. They probably filled your head with such nonsense as to not make a move unless it passes through their greedy little mitts first. They are quite good, but pay them after the service is performed and only half of what they bill because they have already doubled it. You might feel as though you are not up to the task."

He gazed at her curiously.

"I've checked you out, dear Robert. You were quite bright in your studies although you have only a primary education." She paused. "But I know what you are thinking. How can I manage the entire estate with only a primary education? Well, that is what I'm here for my lad. The men have gotten all the credit while Agatha has pulled all the strings for years. You see my health and vigor are diminishing. That is why I need you. You will also attend to my needs in my lingering years. The most important thing you will need dear lad is something few possess." She pressed her hand against his chest, "But what of the heart dear lad, what of the heart?" She laid her ear against his chest. She listened and smiled. "It beats slow and strong. That's good."

Robert looked down on her and she looked up at him. "Is it pure," she asked with moist eyes.

"I shall make you a fire," Robert said.

The Porcelain Perambulator

A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback. 

    The Porcelain Perambulator

Alex held a small porcelain perambulator between his forefinger and thumb. He twisted it slowly examining the intricacies. His eyes slowly raised and looked around the shop of porcelain figurines of all varieties. The shop had not changed in thirty years. It was full of memories. Only one figurine was of interest to him. The hardwood floor creaked as before and in the identical places. The smell was as he remembered - the faint odor of lilac and cinnamon from a potpourri on a small table next to the door. His attention returned to the perambulator. For a moment he returned to a forgotten time - an innocent and carefree time, a time long ago. A tear of longing formed in his eye. A deep sadness hovered over him like a cloak.

The shopkeeper asked politely, "Can I help you with something today, sir?"

"Yes," Alex said quickly shaking his melancholy and replying adroitly. "I wish to purchase this. No need to wrap it."

The shopkeeper chuckled and leaned forward propping himself with his hands against the counter. Looking over the tops of his spectacles he said, "Oh I'm afraid, sir, that one is not for sale. It is special, but if you're determined to purchase something we have many others I think you will find to your liking."

Alex smiled politely as he instantly took an estimate of the middle-aged shopkeeper with a broom mustache and a worn brown button sweater. "I was quite surprised that I would find this one still here. It has been thirty years and I will pay ten times its value."

"Others have inquired of that one over the years, but it is not for sale at a thousand times its value, sir."

Alex pulled on his French cuffs from beneath the sleeves of his custom-tailored Italian suit. "Is this not a shop and do you not earn a livelihood from selling porcelain."

"Yes, but everything else you may purchase, except the one you hold," the shopkeeper said reaching over and tapping the perambulator with his finger.

Alex pulled it from the shopkeeper's tapping finger. "If you knew how special it is to me you would fix a price and sell it to me. You see thirty years ago my young wife and I bicycled to this town every Saturday. We were poor then. We came to this shop and each time she picked out this very perambulator and admired it. We had no money for it then. It would mean so much to me if you would fix a price and send me on my way."

"Oh yes, I remember you two well. She was pretty, lovely, and kind. One does not easily forget beauty, loveliness, and kindness. Yes, I remember. Every Saturday at nearly two you strolled in to and out of the shop and down the street you continued. You had tea down the way. She was very much in love with you. I could tell. I was a young lad then dusting the shop for my father, who dusted for his father, who dusted for his father."

"I remember your father, a kind man who wore a monocle. I believe the right eye." "Yes, that was him."

"Is he still with us?"

"He tends the shop on Mondays only now."

"If he were here what price would he fix upon it?"

"You should have inquired from him thirty years ago."

"Are you being flippant, sir?"

"Why should I do that, sir? I stated my case and that is the much of it."

"Confound it, man! Sell me the perambulator."

"Sir it is not for sell."

"It is important to me," Alex pleaded.

"When it was important to her you would not even consider buying it. You did not even inquire about its

price then. My father told me he would have given it to the young lady if only you asked, but you had no intention or interest in it, but she did."

"Do you know who I am? I am Alexander Crowley. I have crushed corporations and banks. I've met half the Prime Ministers and heads of state in the civilized world. I could buy this shop. I could buy this town. I could buy you."

"But you can't buy that perambulator. I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. I read the papers and watch TV. Your wife is dead now, isn't she Mr. Crowley? I truly mourn your loss."

"Thank you, sir. Then you know how important this is to me."

"You see sir I won't sell it to you because it is important to you. Thirty years ago you had no intentions of buying it and she knew it. Did the years continue to be selfish Mr. Crowley? You are buying this for yourself Mr. Crowley, not for her. It will now only bring you pleasure. It will only make you feel good. Your opportunity to please her has long passed."

"I gave her everything she wanted," Alex exclaimed angrily.

The shopkeeper retorted, "Except the perambulator, sir. If you had passed first, Mr. Crowley, what do you think Mrs. Crowley would have held most dear?"

Alex held the perambulator tightly in his fist. "Sell it to me you stubborn fool." He slammed his fist to the counter and the perambulator snapped into several pieces. Alex frightfully looked at it as it fell and crumbled from his hand. He was horrified to see blood pool like beads of sweat in his palm. He murmured slowly, "What have I done?"

The shopkeeper looked at him pathetically and handed him a tissue. "I was about to say again Mr. Crowley it is not for sale, but it is yours for the taking."

Gun Control

A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.  

Gun Control

It was a slow week at Billy Bronco’s, a local watering hole.

Last week, there was a shooting. There was an argument about gun control.

Three guys came into the bar: Joe, Hank, and Pete.

After the argument, their views changed dramatically.

Joe said he didn’t think guns should be in the hands of private citizens.

Hank immediately began quoting the second amendment. Of course, Joe said that was open to interpretation.

Pete didn’t care one way or another so Joe and Hank asked Pete to be the arbiter. They presented their arguments with passion and reason. So much so that Pete could not declare one the winner over the other.

“You are both my friends,” Pete said. “Your arguments are persuasive and articulated well. I just can’t make up my mind.”

“What do you mean you can’t make up your mind?” Joe said inches from Pete’s face.

“I mean what I said,” Pete said, backing away.

“You’re a coward not to take a stand,” Hank said, backing Pete off his stool.

“That is my stand,” Pete said. “It pleases no one.”

Hank reached inside Joe’s coat and pulled out his concealed handgun. Hank fired one round through Pete’s foot.

Pete screamed. “You idiot! You argued for gun control!”

“Yes!” Hank said. “To keep guns out of the hands of idiots like me.”

The police and rescue squad were called.

Joe was arrested for carrying a weapon without a permit. Hank was arrested for discharging the weapon and shooting Pete. Pete was taken to the hospital, treated, and released.

It has been six months since the shooting. Pete walks with a limp and carries .45. He swears if he sees Joe or Hank, he’s going to put a bullet through their foot. But it will be controlled; “I’m shooting feet only.”

An Unknown Friend

  A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.  

Quinn and Marty shared the same cubicle for two and a half years. Their chairs were back to back.

Quinn sat with his elbows resting on his desk. He clicked his ink pen over and over. Marty had hardly spoken a word in nearly a week. Quinn thought he had said or done something wrong.

Quinn swiveled in his chair. “Marty!”

Marty swiveled to face Quinn.

“What’s up?” Marty said.

“You tell me,” Quinn said. “You haven’t said more than a sentence or two in the last few days.”

“Sorry,” Marty said. “Nothing is wrong. “I thought maybe you might have noticed but I get this way a couple of times a year. I just like to be left alone for a while.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” Quinn said.

“I’m sure,” Marty said, “Why, do you think it’s something else?”

“It seems like no matter where I go I’m already there,” Quinn said.

“What is meant by that,” Marty said. “I bring everything with me; all the problems, all the troubles, all the insecurities, and all the things that make me miserable.”

“I know what you mean,” Marty said. “I used to feel the exact same way. I try to work through it.”

“How did you work through it?” Quinn said. “I can’t go on like this. I move every three or four years. I don’t make friends and if I do, I can’t keep ‘em.”

“Think for a moment about all the different experiences you have had by relocating every three of four years,” Marty said. “Most guys are afraid to pack up and start over, but you have adventure in your soul. You like to explore new things.”

“It’s not that I enjoy it,” Quinn said. “I’m forced to do it. People tire of me easily and I have no friends.”

“You have more friends than you think,” Marty said.

“Give me the name of someone you have not spoken to in 10 years,” Marty said.

Quinn thought for a moment. “Bruce Spruce.” And he chuckled.

“You got to be kidding me, Bruce Spruce,” Marty grinned. “I’m surprised that guy didn’t move and change his name.”

“Yeah, like Peter Ceder,” Quinn smirked.

“Where do you know him from?” Marty relaxed.

“Lubbock, Texas, we worked together,” Quinn said.

“Where did you work?” Marty said.

“Horizon Industries,” Quinn said, “his desk was next to mine. We started out as friends and it kind of turned sour.”

“What, a big blow-up or something?” Marty said.

“Things just got stale between us,” Quinn said. “I got bad vibes. I got on his nerves.”

“That’s what he said?” Marty said.

“No,” Quinn said, “but I could tell.”

“Give me just a moment,” Marty said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll get right back with you,” Marty spoke into the phone. “Lubbock, Texas for Horizon Industries.”

“What are you doing!” Quinn said.

“Shhh,” Marty said, “I’m being connected.”

“This is embarrassing,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Marty said into the phone. “Can I speak to Bruce Spruce?” Marty looked at Quinn. “He still works there. They’re putting us through.” Marty pushed the button for the speaker and handed the phone to Quinn.

“Bruce Spruce, how can I help you?”

Quinn gave Marty a sour look.

Marty handed the phone to Quinn.

“Hey, Bruce, this is Quinn.”

“Quinn,” Bruce said and paused.

Quinn held his hand over the phone. “What did I tell you?”

“The Mighty Quinn!” Bruce said. “Is that you?” Man, it’s good to hear your voice. Where the heck are you now? Somebody said you were in Houston. Tell me what’s going on with you. My life hasn’t changed a bit; same desk, same wife, and same ole, same ole. Are you in town? We got to get together.”

Quinn smiled at Marty and whispered, “Thanks.”

“That did me a lot of good, too,” Marty said. “Nothing makes you feel better than seeing old friends back together.”

Shepherd's First Winter; Trap's Revenge, Episode 34

This is the thirty-fourth and final episode of the novel Shepherd's First Winter. It is available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle 

format. Thanks for following and I hope it was enjoyable. 

Trap's Revenge

Two weeks later, on that same knoll walked an old man. Shepherd could tell he was old by his gait and stoop. Something was strapped to his back. As he drew closer, he looked familiar to Shepherd.

“How are you doing? I am Ivan, head of the council. We met last winter.”

“Yes,” Shepherd said, “I remember you.”

“I wanted to speak to you about something,” Ivan said.

“Sure,” Shepherd said. “You have walked a long way. Have you eaten?”

Ivan said nothing.

“Come inside and let me feed you,” Shepherd said.

“It is not necessary,” Ivan said.

“Please come in,” Shepherd said.

Ivan placed his backpack on the porch as Shepherd showed him in. Shepherd quickly warmed elk and sliced potatoes.

“We will eat together,” Shepherd said as he placed the food on the table.

Ivan was quiet.

They began eating. Shepherd was curious.

“Tell me what happened between you and Dennis,” Ivan said.

“Whatever he told you is the truth,” Shepherd said.

“Dennis and truth are strangers,” Ivan said.

“If Dennis killed my dog I would kill Dennis,” Ivan said. “And it is said you grieved heavily over your dog. He was a gift from a friend and the dog became a friend.”

“Yes,” Shepherd said. “The wolf stopped me.”

“The wolf stopped you?” Ivan said.

“Yes,” Shepherd said. “He pulled the rifle away.”

“Smart wolf,” Ivan said. “I have come to tell you that no one will ever bother you again. There will be no more Amarok.”

“That’s good to hear,” Shepherd said. “I hold nothing against anyone. I’m a stranger. I understand.”

“That is good you understand our ways,” Ivan said. “Our ways are changing.”

“And I’m not here to change them,” Shepherd said.

“But, Daniel told me about an idea you had for a radio station,” Ivan said.

“Maybe not such a good idea,” Shepherd said.

“I was hoping you would go through with it,” Ivan said. “It would be a good thing. It would be one way to tell the valley about who we are and our culture. It would be a good thing.”

Shepherd smiled. “To tell you the truth I have it all worked out.”

Ivan stood. “This has been a most enjoyable meal.”

“You are invited back anytime,” Shepherd said.

“And you to my home as well,” Ivan said.

They passed through the door. Ivan stooped down and opened his pack back. He pulled out a husky pump. “A gift from the council, my friend.” He handed the pup to Shepherd.

Shepherd held him up. “He looks like a good dog. Thank you and thank the council.”

Ivan smiled and strapped the backpack on. He walked a few steps away and turned. “A strange thing happened to Dennis a few days ago. He was killed by what appeared to be a wolf.”

“That is strange,” Shepherd said.

“It really uncomplicates things, doesn’t it?” Ivan said.

“I guess he wanted him for himself,” Shepherd said.

Ivan smiled, waved, and walked away.