Karl Boyd
Storyteller and Author
Short Stories
This section is devoted to a selection of short stories written by Karl Boyd over the last 20 years. They show the growth of Karl the author and storyteller, as well as giving you a glimpse into the many life experiences he has had. I will change the story presented periodically.
Enjoy! Please tell me what you think on my Write To Me page.
GRANDMOTHER AND THE WICKED WITCH
My wife has a few stories of her own. She told this one to me, and it is worth repeating:
I was born on March 16, 1938, in the small town of Urbana, Illinois.
For the most part, my youth was the same as my peers. I had a normal childhood and enjoyed life, unafraid of anything, until I was nine years old.
That year, I went to the movies with my older sister, Linda. We were anxious to see the tale of Dorothy and Toto - "The Wizard of Oz". I was fine until the wicked witch of the west showed up. She was the most frightening thing I'd ever seen.
Every time she was featured in the film, I hid my eyes and curled into a ball in my theater seat. I was happy to see her get her just deserts near the end of the movie, but I could only peek at the proceedings through half open eyes partly covered by my small fingers.
When the movie ended with Dorothy and her dog safely back in the arms of her family, I was happy and didn't believe I had been affected by the "wicked old witch".
My sister and I returned home and told our mother of the fright I experienced and we all laughed at my foolishness. I gathered my large collection of dolls around me and my younger sister, Judy, and I played happily for the remainder of the day.
When it came time for me to retire for the night, I was worn out. My mother helped me place all of my "babies" (my dolls) around me in my bed. After I said my prayers, she kissed my cheek and I drifted off to slumber.
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That night, I suffered the first of many, many episodes which were my doctor referred to as "fear dreams". I dreamed the wicked witch was chasing me, trying to steal my babies. She flew on her broom, through the open window, into my bedroom screeching at the top of her voice, "I'll get you, my pretties!"
I woke screaming and crying, with a terrible taste in my mouth. Of course, my mother ran to my side and attempted to calm me, but it took an hour or more before I could let go of that terrible vision in my mind.
I didn't want my mother to leave my side. Finally, she reluctantly agreed to sleep with me until I drifted off once more. She said I tossed and turned the remainder of the night.
The dream became a recurring nightmare. I didn't have them every night, but I did have them often enough to test the endurance of my parents. I wasn't getting any sleep; and neither were they.
My mother was at her wits end. No matter how many times she told me the wicked witch was only a figment of my imagination, and there were no such things as witches, I still had the dream and resulting nightmare.
Finally, my mother decided to call upon her mother, (my grandmother Callahan) to see if she could help rid me of the wicked witch.
I loved my grandparents. They lived on a small farm on the outskirts of town. Their nearest neighbor was more than a mile away, so my sisters and I could run and scream and never bothered anyone. After being told to keep our noise down so often at home, it was a joy to be set free at their farm.
My mother told my grandmother of my recent nightmares and she listened attentively.
"We'll see what we can do to get rid of that old witch," she said with a smile as she combed my hair.
"But, Grandma," I said, "Mom says there aren't any witches."
"That's true," Grandma said. "But you seem to think this one is real. Isn't that also true?"
"She sure seems real to me in my dreams," I replied.
"Well, don't you worry," she said. "Old Granny will take care of any witch that shows up here on the farm."
That night Grandma helped me tuck in my babies in a huge double bed in an upstairs bedroom. It was a warm evening and there was no air conditioning on the farm, so the bedroom windows were raised to let in what little cool air was stirring.
"I don't like the windows open," I told her. "That's how the witch gets in."
"Don't you worry," my grandmother repeated. "I told you I'd take care of any witch who shows up on this farm. You get some sleep, little one. Everything will be alright, just wait and see."
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I had a tough time getting to sleep, but eventually, I did manage to drift off. But, there came that old witch, flying in the window.
I woke screaming and crying.
Suddenly, the door to my bedroom was flung open. The light from the hallway revealed my grandmother standing there in her nightgown. She had a lit cigarette dangling from the right side of her mouth; and smoke drifted around her head.
In her right hand, she held a double-barreled 12 gauge shotgun.
She paused in the doorway and took a large "drag" from her cigarette, breathed deeply and then allowed the smoke to pour from both nostrils.
Then she moved swiftly to the window, stuck the shotgun over the sill and let go with both barrels: BAM! BAM!
Turning to me, she said, "No stupid witch can stand up to a fire breathing dragon of a grandmother."
She didn't say another word to me, but turned and walked out the door to the hallway.
From the living room downstairs I heard my grandfather call out,
"What's going on up there?"
"Hush, Harold," my grandmother replied. "I just killed Carol's witch. Sit down and finish reading your newspaper."
The smell of cordite hung heavy in the air, but I didn't notice it. All I could think of was: "MY GRANDMOTHER SMOKED!"
I had never seen her smoke before. Sweet little old ladies didn't do that in 1948. I never smelled cigarette smoke on her breath or clothes. She always smelled like lilacs and peppermint.
I couldn't believe it - she smoked!
All thoughts of the wicked witch were erased from my mind. I tucked in several of my babies who had been disturbed by the noise and drifted off to sleep.
From that day to this, I've never been bothered by witches.
In the future, if ever I or my children are bothered by such creatures, I know a gun totting, fire breathing woman who will make short work of them.
Thank you, Grandmother.
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