Why my anthologies are Twisted Tales

I have never understood the squeals and jumping up and down that I see women doing on game shows. Nor do I understand the squeals and screams of younger girls.
My mother-in-law gave one of those parties that involved the demonstration of pots and pans. Since she was my husband’s mother, I was obligated to attend. The sales pitch claimed that if used per directions, food would not stick. I was selected (probably because I was the youngest there) to be part of the actual food preparation demonstration. This was with the Dutch oven and the browning process of the meat. To my surprise (and everyone else), the food did not stick. I said something like “that is unbelievable.”
The salesman looked at me and said, “You sound surprised, but you didn’t scream.”
“Why would I scream over that? No one is hurt or in danger. I probably wouldn’t even scream then.”
His response? “I guess I picked the wrong person.” That meant he had expected me to squeal and jump up and down like a “girl.” Something I don’t do and did not do as a child.
The truth, however, means that I must admit that I once did that when attending Gray Consolidated School. I was in the first grade. The recess period had to be in the gym as it was cold and raining outside. Some boy child ran at me and other girl while we were talking. She took off screaming and I followed. We ran up into the bleachers and slid to what was supposed to be a safe spot. A huge splinter went into my thigh.
It’s impossible for me to remember how I was sent home as we lived five miles out of Gray. The school nurse must have arranged it as I remember, she would not extract it and neither would my mother when she arrived, driven by my father. That meant a trip into Audubon to see Dr. Jensen. He extracted the splinter, administered a shot (probably for tetanus), and put in a stitch. Big oowie!
That incident convinced me that running and screaming like the rest of the girls was futile. My mother told me, “The next time he tries that, tell him you’ll give him what for.” She made a fist and shook it during this admonition.
Sure enough, that boy child, tried the same stunt when we were once again confined to the gymnasium for the recess period. My friend (I’m thinking it may have been Betty Degault or Gault) ran off screaming. I turned around and slugged him. Why bother with warnings? He never bothered me again. It’s a pity, but retaliation isn’t allowed in today’s schools. It’s really an effective way to end bullying. That child just wanted to make us scream and make himself feel powerful. Somehow I knew that even when I was young.
By the time I was a teenager, I realized I looked like a very feminine, young woman. People tended to call me sweet because of my short stature. Somehow they did not realize that my reactions had been and remained less than feminine in many situations. That means that when it came to a confrontation, they would be horrified. They could never understand how they managed to misgauge what I would do.
In a way that explains many of my short stories. They simply do not end the way people expect them to end; hence the name Twisted Tales. Fortunately, I found a man that could not stand squeals, screams, or crying. He too tended to look at situation just a bit differently and encouraged my writing even when I felt like giving it up. The latter trait means that my last anthology sums up the two of us. It’s Twisted Tales From A Skewed Mind. You’ll find it here on Goodreads and on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Tales-...