Untethered

Untethered
by Marcia Lynn McClure

www.marcialynnmcclure.com

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

Published by Distractions Ink

P.O. Box
15971
 

Rio
Rancho
,
NM
 
87174

Published by Distractions Ink

©Copyright 2012 by M. Meyers
A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure
Cover Photography by ©Philcold, ©Olena Chyrko, and ©Fibobjects/Dreamstime.com

Cover Design by Sheri Brady

First Printed Edition: 
June
2012

All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

created solely in the imagination of the author.

Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

Untethered
: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

ISBN:  978-0-9852807-8-9 

Library of Congress Control Number:  2012940803

Printed in the
United States of America

And to think it all started in my sister-in-law’s backyard, with three salt licks!

Oh, how close we’ve grown over the years—

melded our hearts with plungers,
Christmas Vacation
quotes, cunning jewelry excursions, etc.

Yet in the end, the fact is our souls were always
meant
to be friends.

I love you two! More than words can ever express!

Untethered
represents my heart’s dedication to you both.

Cricket could see the ramshackle rooftop of the old Morgan house rising above the tree line on the horizon, and she smiled. Respite was almost hers. There were no dishes waiting to be washed, dried, and set in the cupboard at the old Morgan house. There were no chickens to be fed or cows to be milked or laundry to be hung out on the line.

She sighed, knowing that, tardy or not, there was fun and laughter awaiting her within the abandoned, dilapidated old house. And so she rushed on, lighthearted at the prospect of a lovely summer afternoon spent in merriment with friends.

Cricket’s
petticoat and dress felt
heavier
than usual
,
and she was sure they were slowing her pace.
Yet
she
knew it was only impatience mak
ing
her feel so irritable and weighted—her impatience and the blaze of the already hot morning sun.
Oh, she couldn’t wait
for late summer and early autumn
—when the weather softened to a comfortable temperature—when all the world was splashed with comforting colors and life itself seemed serene.

But for now, Cricket
Cranford
couldn’t wait to meet Vilma,
Marie,
and
Ann, finalize the plans for their Friday evening of mischief, and then race to down to
the old
Morgan
swimming hole.
As she brushed a trickle of perspiration from her temple, she decided then and there that she wasn’t swimming with every piece of her undergarments on the way Vilma had insisted they all do the last time they’d gone swimming. No indeed! It was too hot a day not to enjoy the cool water to its fullest. Furthermore, her corset had been damp for days following her taking Vilma’s nagging to heart and swimming in her clothes. Nope. Today Cricket would stand up to Vilma and her preacher’s-daughter propriety. No one ever happened upon the old Morgan place. It was deserted, discarded, forsaken, and long forgotten by most everyone in town. No one even knew who owned the Morgan house, swimming hole, and surrounding properties anymore. It was exactly why Cricket and her friends had begun meeting there. Furthermore, the brush and trees surrounding the old swimming hole in particular provided perfect isolation. No one ever went swimming there—not since a couple of young boys had drowned in it ten years before.

Therefore, as Cricket approached what had once been the front yard of the old house that had so long ago housed a family named Morgan, she wiped more sweat from her forehead and decided to really enjoy swimming that day.

She paused a moment to study the neglected structure looming before her. The old Morgan house was a spooky place at times. Age and elements had erased any hint of whitewash or paint that might have lingered on its outside walls or trim. Thus, it stood gray and lifeless—gloomy among the overgrown brush and old trees (many of them long dead) surrounding it. Its windows were glassless and dark, and it had no doors at all.

Cricket studied the old, battered, and sadly neglected place. She imagined that it once stood white and bright against a canvas of blue sky—that happy children had played in the shade of the old willow tree that still owned a few green branches. Yet now the house looked like something dead that had had its eyes plucked out—and Cricket smiled. The spookier the old Morgan place looked, the less likely it was that anyone would venture into it—anyone other than Cricket Cranford and her friends.

“For cryin’ in the bucket, Magnolia Cranford!” Vilma scolded with obvious irritation. As Cricket stepped into the dark, dusty parlor of the old Morgan house, Vilma continued to complain. “We’ve been waitin’ a month of Sundays for you to get here.”

“I’m sorry,” Magnolia (or Cricket—as everyone called her most of the time) apologized, brushing a strand of coffee-colored hair from her face. “My stepmama had a list of chores she wanted finished that I swear was as long as the Bible.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Cricket!” Vilma scolded again. “You know good and well your chore list wasn’t as long as the Bible. And you shouldn’t swear either.”

Cricket sighed, rolled her lovely violet eyes, and smiled at Vilma’s predictably. After all, Vilma was the preacher’s daughter. Auburn-haired and green-eyed—pretty though she was—Vilma was an utter pill sometimes, and nauseatingly self-righteous a good majority of the time to boot. The fact was Cricket often found herself wondering why in all the world she even counted Vilma among her friends. Yet Reverend Stanley’s daughter owned a good heart—for the most part. And besides, girls of the same age who lived in small towns like Pike’s Creek needed to stick together. At least to Cricket’s way of thinking.

And so Magnolia “Cricket”
Cranford
determined to silently remind herself of all good things about Vilma and her character.

Thus, she conceded, “You’re right, Vilma. My chore list wasn’t as long as the Bible. I
was
exaggeratin’.”

But Vilma wasn’t one to let anything go without the proverbial
I told you so
. Letting a sinner repent and move on wasn’t her way. She preferred to follow up repentance with an affirmation that
she
would always remember the sin.

“Of course you were exaggeratin’. You always do,” Vilma sighed with barely disguised pride in triumph.

Yet, as it always did, Vilma’s preacher’s-daughter haughtiness tweaked Cricket’s tendency toward mischief a bit too deeply to be ignored. “Nope,” Cricket couldn’t resist adding. “You’re right, Vilma. You’re right. The list my stepmama gave me wasn’t as long as the Bible…only as long as the Old Testament.”

The other two young ladies in the room—Marie King and Ann Burroughs—attempted to stifle giggles while Vilma glared at Cricket as she took a seat in one of the rickety old chairs gradually decaying in the Morgan house parlor. Cricket inhaled deeply. She loved the smell of the old wood, the dust, and dried leaves that had collected in the old parlor. It gave her the sense of bathing in the past. She often wondered if spirits of the departed lingered there, enjoying the quiet isolation and sharing dearly cherished memories of laughter and love.

“Blasphemin’ ain’t something to scoff at, Cricket,” Vilma warned. Casting reprimanding glares at Marie and Ann, she added, “And you two will find yourselves dragged straight down to hell right along with Cricket if you don’t quit gigglin’ every time she does it.”

Marie and Ann exchanged glances. It was their way—exchanging glances and somehow communicating without even speaking.

Ann nodded to Marie, and Cricket knew that some unspoken agreement had passed between them.

Marie, nodding to Ann in return, giggled, “Careful with that sanctimonious attitude of yours, Vilma. Or else I’ll tell your daddy you said ‘hell.’
”

Cricket tried not to laugh, but Marie and Ann were always so willing to come to Cricket’s rescue where anything was concerned—especially Vilma’s nagging.

Marie King’s raven hair and azure eyes gave her the look of a young woman of strength and determination—exactly what she was. She was somewhat the mama bear of the group—strong and protective when one of her cubs (or friends) was being threatened in any way.

“Hell is in the Bible, Marie King,” Vilma reminded. “It ain’t profanity if it’s in the Bible.”

“Now you all quit,” Ann interceded. “We’re here to have fun, not to squabble.”

In perfect contrast to Marie’s strong, determined self, Ann’s sky-blue eyes and corn-silk hair offered the appearance of frailty—the misleading appearance of frailty. Ann—though the smallest, fairest, and most soft-spoken, the peacemaker and nurturer of the group of small-town friends—was as tough as new nails and twice as sturdy.

Buoyed by Marie and Ann’s support, Cricket chimed, “That’s right, Ann. We’re here to have some fun…and we’ve got plans to make before we go swimmin’. So let’s get busy makin’ ’em. It’s hotter than hell outside.”

“Cricket!” Vilma exclaimed with pure as much fire-and-brimstone wrath as her father often preached with. “Do not profane like that!”

“But you said it yourself, Vilma,” Cricket began, “that hell is in the Bible…and that it ain’t profanity if it’s in the Bible.”

Marie and Ann exchanged amused glances, simultaneously covering their mouths to muffle their laughter.

Vilma simply inhaled a deep breath, shook her head with feigned disgust, grinned, and mumbled, “Well, just say hello to Satan for me when you get there, Magnolia.”

Cricket smiled as Vilma’s sense of humor finally showed up.

“I do not know why I put up with your shenanigans,” Vilma giggled. Shaking her head, she added, “Heaven help me, because I do not know why.”

“For the sake that we do the best we can to make others feel better…to leave only good things in our wake,” Cricket replied. “And besides, we have much too much fun ourselves when we’re doin’ it.”

Vilma nodded and picked up the pen and tablet she’d brought along to the old Morgan house. “Well then, let’s get started,” she began, dipping the pen’s tip in the small inkwell sitting on the floor at her feet. “Now, what’s our next order of business gonna be? Or rather, who is our next order of business gonna be?”