Serendipity

Cindy Kicker Policewoman

2011-12-13T18:03:00.000-06:00

Friday was quieter than normal. The Judge was out of town, which meant no court. The weather was wicked—cold and blustery. Those who could stay inside did. Few were thrilled to come to the courthouse to pay fines or traffic tickets even on a good day. Monday and Tuesday were busier than normal, so on this quiet Friday we were playing catch up, or at least I was, until the telephone rang.

“Good Morning. Circuit Clerk’s office. May I help you?” I asked in my most congenial voice.

“Mom? Are you busy?”

“No more than usual,” I said. “What’s up?”

I could hear the excitement in the pitch of her voice as she spoke, “I kicked the door in.”

Thinking I had misheard her, I asked, “You what?”

“I kicked the door in,” she repeated.

“Oh,” I said. “What door?”

“The house door.”

“The front door?”

“No the garage door.”

“Your garage door?”

“Yes!”

Thank goodness, there for a moment I thought perhaps my daughter had taken up breaking and entering. But why would someone kick their own garage door in? Confused, I asked, “Why?”

“I locked myself out. I dropped the older kids off and school and when I got home, discovered I only had the car key. I forgot to pick up the house key when I left.”

In my motherly voice I asked, “Don’t you check these things before you leave the house?”

“We were running late. I guess I thought I had it in my pocket. Luke was with me and he was having a less than cooperative morning. When we came home, it was too cold to keep him outside very long. So, I kicked the door in. Aren’t you excited for me? Those Cindy Crawford workout DVDs have given me strong legs. It only took five kicks before the door came out of the frame.”

I envisioned the garage door hanging loose, dangling from some unknown wire, ready and waiting to fall on one of my precious grandchildren’s head. “And that’s the only solution you could come up with? Kicking in the garage door?”

“I left my phone on the kitchen counter. Besides, Chris is out of town on business until tomorrow.”

“Well, why not use the neighbor’s telephone to call a locksmith?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t think of that.”

“Have you called someone to fix the garage door? It could fall on one of the kids and cause serious injury.”

“It can’t fall, it’s still on the hinges.”

“Hinges? Garage doors don’t have hinges, do they?”

“Not THAT garage door, the one that comes into the entry hall from the garage.”

“Oh,” I released the breath I held.

“Still, you should call someone to fix the door. How will you lock it?”

“I can lock the back garage door. No one can get in. Chris will be home at 2:00 A.M. tonight. He will have time to fix it in the morning before I take him to the airport. He’s going to the Czech Republic for a week.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about someone walking inside the house through an unlocked door.”

Obviously annoyed at my attitude, after all, I wasn’t gushing over her ability to kick down a door, she asked, “Don’t you think it’s exciting that I had the strength to kick in the door? Maybe I missed my calling. Maybe I should have been a policewoman,” she crowed.

At the precise moment the word ‘policewoman’ came out of her mouth, I heard a fellow employee say, “Maybe she should have been a policewoman.”

“Maybe you should have,” I said. “Cindy Kicker, Policewoman. Yes, it has kind of a ring to it.”

As she predicted, Chris came home the following day, fixed the door, and packed his bags—again. They left for the airport in plenty of time for his 1:00 o’clock flight. As Tami pulled up to drop him off, he said, “Crap! I forgot my passport.”

Never fear, Cindy Kicker was on the job. She kicked that accelerator to the floor and got him home and back in record time. He had a full five minutes to spare. Cindy Kicker had saved the day—again.

Pull the Curtains after Dark

2011-10-17T21:14:00.000-05:00

I am five years old today. It is bedtime, but I’m not sleepy. I beg Mom to let me sleep on the couch, she finally agrees. I smile. My hand-me-down doll is on the floor behind the sofa. I dressed her in pajamas and tucked her away where no one would find her. I’m not allowed to sleep with her because one night I rolled on top of her head and she made a really loud squeaking noise. Dad came running into my room to find out what was going on. He was mad.

I stay under the blanket until the lights are out and dad’s even breathing tells me he’s asleep. I slide off the couch to find Trudy. Bright moonlight spilling in through the window guides me to where I’m sure I left her. I feel behind the sofa and under the lamp table. She isn’t there. I almost giggle, but stop myself. It wouldn’t do to wake Dad. Certain Trudy is playing hide and seek, I crawl to the other side of the couch and find her lounging against the back leg. “You are here. I thought I lost you,” I whisper. I hug her before crawling back under the blanket.

I kiss Trudy goodnight and tuck the blanket under her chin. My eyes stay closed for a minute or two before I open them again. I’m wide awake, staring out the window, watching the shadows as they move back and forth. I’m not afraid. I know a soft summer breeze flutters the leaves on the tree next to the front door. Trees are my friends.

I wonder why the curtains are always open at night. Outside is scary when it’s dark. I wonder what I would do if someone tried to climb in the window. The thought gives me a chill. Gooseflesh appears on my arms, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and my heart beats faster. I worry about the possibility of a burglar, or even worse a monster climbing in the window. Beads of sweat are popping out on my brow. I want to run and hop in bed with Mom, but fear keeps me from moving.

I begin whispering to myself, “You are being silly. You are being silly. You are being silly.” After about twenty times, my heartbeat slows, the hair on the back of my neck stands down, and the gooseflesh disappears. I am waiting for Mr. Sandman to bring me a dream. He isn’t coming.

I open my eyes, close them, and open them once more. I stop breathing, certain there is someone outside the window. A lump forms inside my throat as a man’s face, cupped on each side by a hand, peers into the window. My mouth flies open, but the lump won’t let me scream, I can only croak. My unsteady legs finally allow me to jump off the sofa and run down the hallway. Inside my parent’s room, I leap up on the bed, and then scream—right in Mom’s left ear.

Mom grabs her ear and immediately sets up. I fall off the bed. Dad yells at me to be quiet. Someone is knocking on the front door. I slide under the bed. I try not to breathe. I don’t want the scary man to find me.

Dad turns on the light, steps into a pair of overalls hanging on the back of the door, and leaves the room. I hear the front door open. My teeth are chattering. I try to stop them and bite my tongue. Pain brings tears to my eyes. Dad is laughing and asks the man to come in.

I hear the man say, “I didn’t mean to scare her. I looked in the window to see if there were any lights on in the house. I didn’t want to wake you if you were already in bed.”

The voice sounds familiar, in a good way. I relax.

Dad yells, “Betty. Come here. Your Uncle Clint has brought you a birthday present.”

I say to myself, “See you were being silly.”

I crawl out from under the bed and dust off my nightgown. Red-faced, I slowly make my way to the living room. I pick up Trudy and whisper, “The next time you want to sleep on the couch, we’re not.”

Uncle Clint gives me a hug and a pretty pink box. I look up at Mom, “From now on, could we please pull the curtains after dark?”

Linking to Sunday Scribblings

Guilty Pleasure

2011-08-07T10:07:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Okay, so if you know anything about me or this blog, you know I am NOT a poet. I know nothing about poetry. I admit to rarely understanding most of the poems I read. However, as I contemplated the Sunday Scribblings prompt, pleasure, Hubby mentioned going down to work in the garden. The following, is what appeared inside my head.

Hot sun beating down,

Sweat Dripping from my brow.

Cool rain stays away.

Dry, cracked earth another day.

Pole beans are dying,

Morning glory and weeds are climbing.

A hoe can’t make a dent,

The rototiller blades are bent.

Give it up.

Load the truck.

Dairy Queen is waiting.

The Good Life

2011-08-01T06:23:00.004-05:00

This story is a continuation of Twinkle Toes Malone. To read it, click HERE.

Tonight, the moon would be full, which meant today would be the workday from Hades. It started out pleasant enough. Today was Brigitte’s early day. The Courthouse was empty. She logged on to her computer and began running the weekly report, which is what requires her to come in early once a week. She clicked the correct links, and then leaned back in her chair to wait for the printer to print the preview. Once that was done, she would correct any errors and send it through again.

As Brigitte waited for the report, she contemplated life in Podunkville, Illinois. With the excitement of the circus life behind them, Brigitte and Lilliah had relocated at the request of Giselle and Elvira who had moved here two years ago. They loved living in Podunkville and convinced their friends they would love it, too. Sadly, they didn’t. This tiny town was just plain dull. What the town needed was more excitement like last night, but alas, there wouldn’t be any fun today. Today was a work day.

While waiting on the report, Brigitte leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. As they always did, her thoughts strayed to Matthew Whitcomb, a.k.a. Mr. Lexus, a.k.a. Ken the Clown, the love of her life. Matthew, where are you? If you are alive, why haven’t you called? Brigitte queried silently. Matthew didn’t answer. The copier clicked, bumped, and then began a rhythmic whir as it spit out the one hundred sixty plus pages of the report. Brigitte brushed a tear away with the back of her hand, and got to work.

Brigitte was in the middle of reviewing the report when she heard muffled footsteps out in the hallway. She glanced at the clock. It was too early for Giselle and Elvira, and way too early for the always tardy Lilliah. It could have been Jillian stopping by her office across the hall. She sometimes stopped by to drop off her briefcase before heading over to the coffee shop, but Jillian wore spike heels, which made a distinctive clickity-clacking sound. Besides, Brigitte hadn’t heard the echo of the door closing. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, gooseflesh rose on her arms, and her hands shook. She held her breath, trying to be as quiet as possible. A shadow passed the door. Certain it was Herman, one of the courthouse ghosts, Brigitte screamed.

It was time to leave. Brigitte slowly picked up her keys, tiptoed to the open doorway, and peeked through the crack. One of the hinges blocked her view, so she stooped slightly. What she saw wasn’t a ghost; it was a man carrying a large suitcase. When he turned to start up the stairs, Brigitte breathed a sigh of relief, “Tobias! What are you doing here so early?” Tobias sat down on the bottom step, propped his elbows on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, “I didn’t think anyone would be here. I came to get my tools. I’m leaving town.”

Brigitte came out into the hallway, “What? Leaving town, when, why?”

“You have to ask after last night?”

Brigitte couldn’t help herself, she started laughing. Not one of those tiny little giggles, but a full blown belly laugh. She laughed so hard she had to sit down to keep from falling down. Tobias scooted over to make room. Brigitte laughed until she was gasping for breath. Finally she cleared her throat, wiped her eyes on the back of her hand again, and slowly got control. “But—but—why are you leaving town?”

“I can’t face everyone after last night,” Tobias said.

“After last night? What does that have to do with your leaving town?”

“The pink tutu.”

“The pink tutu?”

“Yes, the pink tutu? How can I face everyone? I’ll be a laughingstock.”

Brigitte couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh, all the while pinching herself to keep from an all out rolling on the floor kind of laugh. “Wh-what do you mean?” She managed to say. “That was the best Halloween costume ever! You were the hit of the party! Who would have thought a macho man such as yourself would have donned a pink tutu just to entertain us.” Brigitte stopped laughed. Her smile faded, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

Brigitte clapped a hand over her mouth, “Are you gay? Is that it?”

Tobias whipped his head around, “NO! I’m NOT gay! Who said I was? Did somebody say I was?”

Holding up her hand to halt Tobias’ tirade, Brigitte answered, “No, no one thinks you’re gay. I just thought—well, you know—that you had—come out last night—or something. You don’t look gay or act gay, but since you were so upset, I thought maybe…”

“Well, I’m NOT!”

“You sure? You did perform those complicated ballet moves as if you knew what you were doing.”

“I said I’m NOT gay!”

“Well, you must have practiced a lot to get those moves just right.” Tobias was glaring at her, so Brigitte decided to stop questioning his sexuality, “Okay, okay. I believe you. But if you’re not gay, why are you leaving?”

“The people in this town are going to think the same thing you were thinking,” Tobias explained. “Can you keep a secret?”

Brigitte nodded.

“My mom made me take ballet classes. I may not be a Baryshnikov, but I am good. No, I’m more than good, I have talent, but people around here wouldn’t get it.”

“No, they wouldn’t. But, I talked to the girls earlier. No one thought you were gay, or weird. They were all impressed. None of us have seen anyone so talented at flying through the air since we left the circus. We decided someone with your talent would have been perfect for Jaydra, may she rest in peace, and Lilliah’s trapeze act. Stay. You don’t have anything to worry about. People are in awe of your skill, nothing else. You are, and always will be, the courthouse hero.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now go put that stuff in your truck and get back in here. I’ll make you a nice cup of hot chocolate before time to get to work. There’s an awful lot of toilet paper to clean out of those trees.”

Tobias stooped over to pick up the suitcase, “Maybe I’ll leave town after all.”

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere. Who would clean up that mess if you took off?”

“Not me,” Tobias muttered before the door slammed shut behind him.

Beatrice watched until Tobias tossed the suitcase into the truck and started back up the sidewalk before going upstairs to the employee kitchen.

Back at her desk with a steaming mug of hot chocolate laced with a splash, or two, of Amaretto, Brigitte was ready for the day. She glanced at the clock, 8:05 a.m. Where is everyone, Brigitte wondered. It was then she heard the clang of the west door, followed by the expected thud of Lilliah’s hind quarter slamming into the wall, as she turned to make sure the door closed behind her. Brigitte heard a key slide into the lock on the east door, open tentatively, and the soft tap of Elvira’s footsteps, followed by the louder clomps of Jillian’s fashionable heels. After the usual greetings, the phone started ringing. Yes, the day was about to get underway.

“Good Morning, Podunkville Courthouse,” Brigitte said into the phone. It was then she heard an extremely loud crash. Turning slightly, while trying to understand a foreigner butcher the English language, Brigitte pinched herself to keep from laughing. It seems Lilliah had overturned her chair, or stool, a mere chair wasn’t capable of holding her huge hummer-like backside. The stool tipped backward, and if not for the abundance of Lilliah’s elongated derriere which held the stool at an angle, would have fallen to the floor. As it was, Lilliah’s arms and legs were flailing about in an attempt to regain here seat. She looked suspiciously like a capsized turtle. Brigitte couldn’t help it, a laugh sneaked out, which caused the non-English speaking person on the phone to scream a few words of his native tongue before slamming the receiver down in Brigitte’s ear.

Elvira came around the corner of her cubical to see what the commotion was all about, gave Brigitte a disapproving look, and grabbed Lilliah’s hand to help her up. This, of course, was a mistake, a HUGE mistake. The force of Lilliah’s tug sent Elvira flying over her head. She flew through the air as if she were a flyer in their now defunct circus act. Narrowly missing the wall, she flew through the doorway into the file room, landing face first against one of the tall filing cabinets. With a domino effect, that file cabinet fell into the one behind it, and that cabinet fell into the one behind it, and so on until all the filing cabinets were stacked one on top of the other.

Beatrice slammed the rest of her chocolate, pulled a half empty bottle of Ameretto out of a file folder marked Felonies, and took another gulp before using all her might to push Lilliah upright.

Hearing the catastrophic crash from outside, Tobias, forgetting he was on the town square where everyone could see, performed a flawless grand jeté off the ladder he was using to extract toilet paper from the trees. He remembered after he landed in a plié, but before he would have danced a pas de chat (step of the cat), toward the courthouse doors. Looking around to see if anyone saw his graceful decent from the ladder, he decided to walk instead.

Once inside, he nearly ran Jillian down as she rushed toward Elvira’s shrieks. They tried to squeeze through the door at the same time, which plugged the doorway. Brigitte came to their aid, shoving Tobias backward, which allowed Jillian to enter first.

“Always let a lady enter the room first,” Brigitte admonished.

Tobias scrambled up and they all, with the exception of Lilliah, went inside the file room. Lilliah just couldn’t constrict her backside enough to get through the door. By this time, Elvira was furious. She glared at Tobias and addressed him through clinched teeth, “Get me down from here!”

“I’ll need a ladder. Be right back!” He said, as he attempted to exit the file room. Unfortunately, Lilliah blocked his way. “Excuse me,” he said.

Lilliah leaned left to let Tobias pass. Tobias turned sideways in order to squeeze by. When he was about halfway through the doorway, Elvira screamed, which caused Lilliah to swing back around. Her backside rammed Tobias in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him, while flinging him through the air like a cannonball shot out of a cannon. He flew through the open doorway, out into the hall, and through the open courtroom door. Unfortunately, court was in session. He landed on his back in the middle of the third row, right on top of some tattooed woman, who smelled like old beer and butt crack. She smiled provocatively while giving Tobias a tweak on his exposed belly. Tobias told himself to move, yet he couldn’t. He was mesmerized by a single, motley gray tooth, the only one remaining. He assumed the rest fled to get away from the stench.

Amid cat calls and laughter, the entire collection of miscreants stood to give Tobias a standing ovation. The Judge banged the gavel, “Quite in the courtroom! Tobias! Do you mind? Court is in session. Please leave immediately, or I’ll find you in contempt.”

The woman leaned close, “Wait for me outside—hon-ey.”

Her odiferous breath reminded Tobias of dead carrion, which helped to get him moving. Trying not to gag, he jumped up. In farewell, he admonished, “Watch out for buzzards!”

Tobias ran outside, but the ladder was gone. One of those felons probably stole it while I was inside, he muttered to himself. Tobias returned to find Elvira dangling from the top of the overturned stack of filing cabinets. One arm was all that kept her from falling to the cold, hard floor below. The other flailed about in an attempt to find a finger-hold. Jillian and Beatrice stood nearby, staring, open-mouthed, as Elvira teetered on the edge of death. Tobias looked around for some way to help Elvira. Just then, Lilliah peeked around the corner.

Tobias asked her to move out of the way. He maneuvered his way around Lilliah’s tonnage, and said, “Go inside the vault!”

“I can’t,” She said.

“Do as I say,” ordered Tobias.

“Okay,” Lilliah said.

Lilliah faced the doorway. Tobias walked to the far side of the room and headed for Lilliah’s backside, shoulder first, as if she were a wooden door in need of knocking down. Upon impact, there was a sound like a watermelon being sucked into a pop bottle. Lilliah was through. Unable to slow down, Lilliah banged into the stack of cabinets. Elvira fell on top of Lilliah, bounced twice, and then slid safely to the floor. Tobias wasn’t quite so lucky. He bounced off Lilliah’s rump, flew up into the air like a guided missile, struck the seal of the great state of Illinois, and slid down the wall. Now he sat upright, yet unconscious, against the west wall. The Courthouse Hero was unconscious.

Elvira raced to dial 911. However, before the ambulance could drive across the street, seeing her new love in trouble, the gray toothed lady leaped across the counter to save Tobias. She knelt down beside him and began performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Her unsavory breath acted as smelling salts, yanking Tobias out of his unconscious state. He woke to see one motley gray tooth surrounded by crusty lips heading directly toward his mouth. He jerked his head sideways to avoid contact, which caused Ms. Gray Tooth to place her slobbery lips on his left ear. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Tobias moved the woman back enough to get a foothold. With one shove of his size 12 shoe, she landed on top of the file cabinets along the east wall. Her motley gray tooth was now embedded in her bottom lip. Blood dripped down her chin, onto her filthy white t-shirt, highlighting the words, Shit Happens.

Tobias, now upright, ran past Lilliah, who was still flailing about trying to get comfortable in her chair, Elvira, who stared, openmouthed, at Ms. Gray Tooth, and Beatrice who called out, “Where are you going, Tobias?” Tobias didn’t stop to answer. He barely touched the floor as he ran outside. Beatrice watched him fling the gear shift into reverse, back out, and squeal his tires and he headed for the highway. She continued watching as he faded from sight. In her heart she knew, Tobias was off in search of the good life. The Courthouse Hero was gone…

VISIT SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS

On Hiatus

2011-03-30T06:43:00.002-05:00

It's time to take a break. How long? I'm not sure. I have too many unfinished projects requiring my attention. I'm taking some time away from posting stories to finish a Tween novel I'm working on and do some gardening.

I'll be back when I can.
I will still visit my favorites when I can, and you can always come visit me over at
Rubbish by Roan
where I will still post.

Thank you for your support!

There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too.
And up in the nursery an absurd little bird
Is popping out to say cook-coo cook-coo, cook-coo
Regretfully they tell us cook-coo
But firmly they compel us cook-coo
To say goodbye cook-coo...
To you...

So long farewell, auf weidersehen good-bye
Marta
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

So long farewell, auf weidersehen adieu
Freidrich
Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you

So long farewell, au revior auf weidersehen
Liesl
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
Yes?
Captain
No

So long farewell, auf weidersehen goodnight
Kurt
I leave and heave a sigh and say good bye - goodbyyyyyyeeeee!

Brigitta
I'm glad... to go.... I cannot tell a lie
Louisa
I fleet, I float, I fleetly flee I fly...

Gretl
The sun... has gone... to bed and so must I...

So long...farewell...auf weidersehen goodbye...
Goodbye...
Goodbye....
Goodbye....
Guests
Goodbye...

From "The Sound of Music"
Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2nd
Music by Richard Rodgers

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons

Sunday Scribblings - Eating Organic

2011-02-20T18:40:00.004-06:00

Little Johnny imagined he heard strange sounds coming from the direction of Mr. Gorman’s compost pile. At least his mother told him he imagined them. Johnny wasn’t so sure. He pulled the blanket down enough for his left eye to see the clock. It read 12:00 AM, the witching hour. The same as last full moon. There it was again. Johnny quickly covered his head. Beads of sweat covered his brow. One droplet ran down the bridge of his nose, pausing in the indentation above his top lip, before plummeting downward over his chin. It disappeared into the collar of his cotton pajamas. He heard the sound again, a muffled keening, as if someone or some thing were in distress.

Too scared to move, Johnny lay perfectly still for what seemed like an hour. In reality, it was only a few minutes. The sound paused, and then started up again. This time it seemed louder, closer, more cat-like. Perhaps it was Old Lady Crenshaw’s tom cat looking for a fight. Satisfied with his mind’s explanation, he peeked at the clock again. It was 12:15 and the sound stopped, suddenly, not like the creature decided to call it quits, more like a strong hand muffled the sound, right outside his window.

At the very moment sleep closed his eyes for the second time that night, a scraping sound opened them. Feeling braver now, Johnny crept from his bed, crossed to the south window, and peeked through a crack in the blinds. Mr. Gorman was busy shoveling leaves on top of his compost pile.

Mr. Gorman didn’t look like someone who worried about whether or not his food was organic, yet he used the compost to fertilize his garden. As a result, his tomatoes were bigger and redder than any Johnny had ever seen. He kept the neighborhood supplied in fresh vegetables: green beans, corn, okra, and those awe inspiring tomatoes. Everyone liked Mr. Gorman, except Johnny. Johnny didn’t trust him. Sometimes he seemed nice, other times he oozed evil.

Johnny watched Mr. Gorman shovel on one last scoop of leaves from the wheelbarrow. The man took a flashlight and pointed it toward the compost pile. He walked slowly around the pile, shrugged, and disappeared into the darkness. Puzzled as to why Mr. Gorman would work on his compost pile during the wee morning hours, Johnny decided to see for himself.

Although mostly overcast, a full moon managed to provide enough light for Johnny to find his way into the neighboring yard. He paused under a massive live oak tree before running the last few feet across the freshly mown lawn. He stopped beside the rotting pile of organic waste, wrinkled his nose, and held back the urge to present the pile with a large plate of partially digested spaghetti and meatballs.

Johnny looked around for a stick to displace the leaves. He was curious to see the most recent addition to the pile. He searched next to the fence where Mr. Gorman sometimes stored tree trimmings, but came up empty handed, and then remembered seeing a hoe propped against the garden shed. He grabbed the hoe and headed back to the compost pile. As he raised the hoe, a firm hand clamped his left shoulder.

“What do ya think you’re doing there boy?”

Johnny’s heart pounded in a race to come up with a good reason for standing beside Mr. Gorman’s compost pile with a hoe in his hand. Nothing came. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, only an odd squeak and then silence. He felt something cold touch his bare toes and looked down. He wanted to scream. Instead he spewed that plate of partially digested spaghetti and meatballs over the pale white hand lying on his foot, effectively hiding it from Mr. Gorman.

The man let go of Little Johnny’s shoulder and took a step back to avoid splatter, “You sick?”

“Yes sir, but I-I-I thought I heard Mrs. Crenshaw’s cat out here. I figured she didn’t know he was out.”

Mr. Gorman started back toward the house, “That cat can take care of himself. You get on back home before you catch pneumonia.”

Johnny’s bare feet flew across the lawn. Once he was safe inside the house, he made a beeline for his bed, hopped in, and covered up his head.

A few minutes later, Little Johnny imagined he heard noises coming from the direction of Mr. Gorman’s compost pile. This time he didn’t quiver with fear. Instead, he crept out of bed, across the floor, and peeked through the blinds. Mr. Gorman was busy shoveling leaves. Once the wheelbarrow was empty, he leaned against the shovel’s handle, and looked straight at Johnny.

Johnny envisioned himself suffocating beneath a pile of leaves, reached for the phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

As dawn approached, Johnny watched from his bedroom window. Officer Franks stepped back to allow the detectives to do their job. The coroner had transported the deceased Mrs. Crenshaw and her cat to the morgue, Mr. Ronald Gorman had been dragged from his bed, handcuffed, and helped into the back of squad car, and Johnny’s mother had grounded him for the rest of his life for sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night.

Someone else watched from across the street. Mr. Gorman’s identical twin threw a shovel in the back of his gardener’s truck. After climbing into the cab and starting the engine, he drove off to continue his efforts in convincing the world the importance of eating organic.

One Brush of a Hand

2011-02-05T07:26:00.005-06:00

For Sunday Scribblings - Story
For Writer's Island - Beguile

Story. According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, a story is an account of incidents or events, a statement regarding the facts pertinent to a situation in question, a widely circulated rumor, or lie.

As a writer, I think of a story as a group of words put together to either entertain, educate, or inform. Members of the writer’s group I belong to are currently writing stories about their life, which will eventually culminate in a completed memoir. I enjoy writing true life stories. Stories will give my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on, more information about their ancestors than I have about mine.

Although I am enjoying our group’s foray into non-fiction, my preference is fiction. I love nothing more than sitting down in front of my computer and letting the words flow through me to my fingers. It is as if someone is dictating to me, and I am merely the narrator. I can’t seem to stick to an outline. When I am writing a fictional story, it is as if I am the reader and can’t wait to see what happens next.

I often write stories from prompts. I sometimes ask friends for a word, phrase or scenario to use for a story, or visit Sunday Scribblings or Writer’s Island. I also get story ideas from listening to people talk. The story below, posted for Writer’s Island, was conceived from listening to a co-worker tell a story about attending an Alumni dinner—a late 50’s man seated at a table with recent graduates, all female. To this day, he doesn’t know what a wonderful gift he gave me. To find out, read on…

***

The room was loud, filled with pre-marathon voices discussing recent wins, losses, and finish times, excited about the following day when they would run the San Francisco Marathon. This was Myles Richardson’s second visit to the City by the Bay, yet only his first time to run the marathon. He had been invited by Stone Thornton, a former classmate from Stanford, and San Jose native.

Stone wouldn’t make it to the marathon this year, or any other year for that matter. Stone had died tragically while in Texas on vacation. A Mercedes drove off the Central Expressway interchange, which is the highest lane making up the High Five in Dallas. Unfortunately, Stone had been running alongside the freeway at the exact spot where the luxury car made first contact with earth. The car drove him into that hard-packed Texas clay, like a nail into an oak board. Poor Stone didn’t live long enough to realize his dream of winning the San Francisco Marathon. Stone and Myles planned to run the marathon together this year, now it was up to Myles to run in Stone’s place.

Myles went to San Francisco alone. His wife, Minnie, wouldn’t be attending the race. She was out of town on business. Finding himself with nothing better to do, Myles decided to attend an Alumni Dinner for Stanford students running the marathon. Looking around, he felt a little out of place. He was seated at a round table filled with young people, all female.

When it was time for introductions, each attendee stood and announced their name and the year they graduated. The girl to Myles’ left was Emma Rae Watson, class of 2002. She was a petite blonde who spoke with a very pleasing southern drawl, the kind that can make a simple hello seem like an invitation to spend the night. The girl to his right was Mercedes Espinoza, class of 2001. She was also petite, her dark beauty the midnight version of Emma Rae’s sunshine. Of Spanish decent, Mercedes’ voice was heavily accented, but it was the way she looked at him with those brown eyes that made him wish he could tuck her under his arm and keep her. He immediately dismissed such an impossible notion. Not likely either would go for him. Myles graduated from Stanford in 1973, and even though he worked hard to keep his slim runner’s body, his hair grew grayer with each passing year. He was still a handsome man, but happily married.

Even with the age difference surrounding him, Myles found plenty to talk about with the all girl table. Either they were very good at pretending, or they really did enjoy his storytelling. All the girls listened intently, especially Emma Rae and Mercedes. Those two girls hung on every word he spoke. It was as if Myles were giving them the formula for everlasting life. Several glasses of wine later, each girl took possession of an arm. Fighting with his now inflated ego, Myles extricated himself from entwined arms and retired to his room, alone. He meant to honor his marriage vows.

Dawn rose over a city shrouded in fog. Myles found his way through the nebulous morning to Justin Herman Plaza, across from the Ferry Building at Market and Stuart Streets. He waited at the staging area for his call to the starting line, by the waterfront on the Embarcadero at Mission Street. He stretched and hummed his yoga mantra, reaching out for a mindset that would get him through the arduous race. It was still ten minutes until race time when his concentration was interrupted by two familiar voices and squeals of delight from Emma Rae and Mercedes.

Although Myles really did try to stay away from the girls, their pace matched his. As they passed Pier 39 and Fisherman’s Wharf, he was flanked by the two beautiful runners with their buff bodies and skimpy running shorts. Admonishing himself to concentrate on the course, he kept his eyes forward, listening to the bark of the sea lions while breathing in the heavy salt air.

The runners continued through Fort Mason and up McDowell Drive, along the Marina and its plethora of private yachts and multi-million dollar homes. They entered the Presidio, passing by Crissy Field. As if a magician waved a magic wand, the fog lifted at the top of Crissy Field Avenue. The view of Golden Gate Bridge threatened to take his breath away. He couldn’t believe he was finally running this race, preparing to cross that magnificent structure.

Those wonderful little endorphins, often referred to as a runner’s high, kicked in as he took his first step onto the orange vermillion bridge. Unfortunately, Myles’ high ended too soon. Emma Rae moved into his line of vision, her beguiling derriere impossible to ignore. Myles tripped, probably over his tongue, falling in what seemed to him as slow motion, skidding along the roadway, stopping inches from the railing built to protect the pedestrian lanes from passing motorists. Fearing something was broken, or at the very least strained, he lay there believing the race was over.

Before he could move, Emma Rae and Mercedes each grabbed an arm, pulling him to his feet, urging him to continue. Amazed at his lack of injury, Myles trotted onward, vowing not to be side-tracked again.

The runners entered Marin County, looped around Vista Point and began the return leg across the Golden Gate Bridge. This time Myles made it across without incident, but then the girls were a few paces behind and he couldn’t see them. Unbeknownst to Myles, the girls were busy admiring their view of Myles well-toned physic.

Once they crossed back to the San Francisco side, the route turned towards Sea Cliff, through the Richmond District, and into Golden Gate Park. They passed by Spreckels Lake, Stow Lake, and Sharon Meadows, home to the free rock concerts of the 60’s. They raced through Alvord Lake Tunnel, through famed Haight Ashbury, past the Mission District, Potrero District, and into Mission Bay. Now, the final stretch loomed before them.

As Myles ran along the Embarcadero toward the race’s end at Folsom, Emma Rae and Mercedes passed by on either side. Both picked up their pace. Unfortunately for Myles, he found himself once again fixated on Emma Rae’s posterior. As if in a trance, he reached out toward her, just one touch and he could forget her. As his arm straightened and his hand went in for the feel, Myles lost his balance. He landed on his stomach, sliding straight ahead, his arm still outstretched, stopping mere inches from the finish line. This time there were no helping hands to drag him to his feet. It was up to him to cross that line alone. Six runners passed before he could get up and take that one last step across the line, three hours and fifty-seven minutes after the race began. Dismayed by his poor finishing time, Myles looked around for his ego builders, but they were no where to be found.

He didn’t see the girls again until he arrived at the airport for the long flight home. Walking down the concourse, his heart skipped a beat when he saw Emma Rae and Mercedes approaching. They stopped to say goodbye. After their brief conversation, Myles reached down to pick up his carry-on bag. That was when his hand inadvertently brushed Emma Rae’s. It was a touch filled with electrical current. Their eyes met, and then darted away. Myles was intrigued by the attraction they had for each other, yet he turned on his heal and walked the other way. He was a married man.

Myles and Minnie had one of those relationships where they could express personal thoughts or feelings, such as lusting after Emma Rae, without fear of reprisal. Their first night together, Myles bared his soul to his wife. All was forgiven and forgotten…until two weeks later.

Myles picked up the mail at the post office, laid it on the counter provided for customers' use, and thumbed through the magazines, advertisements, and a bill or two. His hand froze when he saw the pink envelope, with a bouquet of roses imprinted along the bottom edge. He remembered the bowl of pink roses placed in the center of the table at the Alumni dinner. Nerves fluttered in his stomach. The return address was missing; however, the penmanship spoke of a female hand. He held the envelope to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of roses. His first reaction was excitement, feeling certain this letter was from Emma Rae, followed by guilt for being excited. Myles ripped open the envelope and pulled out a note on matching paper. It merely asked the question, “Miss me?”

Crumpling the envelope and shredding the note, Myles threw the letter in the trash can, beneath several catalogues and flyers he had no interest in taking home. He hurried out the door, bumped into poor old Doc Carter, lost his balance, and tumbled down five concrete steps. Lying flat on his back on the sidewalk, Minnie reached down to help him up. Emma Rae still had the power to bowl him over.

***

Almost a year had passed since the San Francisco Marathon, and it was time to send in his registration form. He had trained hard over the past year, and he was ready. This time he wouldn’t be distracted by Emma Rae. He would ignore her as he had all those pink envelopes and the anonymous phone calls to his office throughout the past year. Each letter seemed more cryptic that the previous one, all with suggestive phrases which became more graphic as the months passed. When she called, she didn’t speak. All he could hear was soft breathing. Even though he categorized her as a stalker, Myles was still intrigued by the sensual southern girl named Emma Rae.

Myles walked home for lunch, planning to print off the SF Marathon registration form, fill it out, and get it in the mail that afternoon. The phone was ringing when he walked in the door. He picked up the phone expecting to hear Minnie’s voice.

“Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes,” Myles confirmed.

“I’m calling about the San Francisco Marathon. I have a registration form for Stanford Alumni, which requires no entry fee. Would you like me to send you one?”

Myles was silent for a moment, analyzing the Southern accented voice, “What did you say your name was?”

“I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. This is Emma Rae Watson. Would you like one of the registration forms?”

Myles started to accuse her of stalking him, yet she didn’t sound like a weirdo. She didn’t even act like she remembered him. He decided to ask her if she had been calling and writing letters, when he was interrupted by the doorbell. Instead of accusing her, he told Emma Rae he would like to receive a registration form and waited to see if she asked for his address. If she asked for his address then he was wrong about her. If she didn’t, then he would know she was the stalker. Emma Rae didn’t ask.

***

It was the morning of the San Francisco Marathon. Myles didn't attend the Alumni dinner this year. He avoided all areas where he might run into Emma Rae, until this morning. Miles paced back and forth across the staging area; Emma Rae was with Mercedes, talking to a group of men, a mere three yards away. He knew she was crazy. Still, he couldn’t avoid watching her. She turned to meet his gaze, smiling timidly. His heart skipped a beat. If he didn’t know better, he would say she didn’t even remember him. Emma Rae must be an excellent actress, he thought.

At the starting line, Myles made certain he was far away from Emma Rae. He kept his concentration on the race, never once catching a glimpse of the woman he now knew was his stalker. He moved to the front of the pack, setting a strong pace as he crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The course took him through Golden Gate Park. He passed the landmarks he remembered from last year. His stride remained strong.

With the finish line looming closer, he picked up the pace, trying to catch up to the runners ahead. As the race ended, Myles knew he wouldn’t be the winner this year either. He would have to try again next year. As he crossed the finish line, he was distracted by a woman. He tripped, falling into the arms of a lovely brunette with familiar brown eyes.

“Minnie,” he puffed. “You came. I thought you were in Miami.”

“I was. I finished a day early, so changed my flight to watch your race,” Minnie said, reaching into the pocket of the red jacket she wore. In her hand was a pink envelope, which she handed to Myles.

Myles felt a moment of panic. “I can explain,” he said apologetically.

“No, I can explain,” Minnie chuckled.

Inside the pink envelope was a note written in the same feminine style as all the others. It said, “Miss me? I missed you. Lesson learned?”

“You sent the notes?”

“It was me.”

Pretending anger when all he really felt was relief, Myles grabbed his wife, hauling her against him for a passion-filled kiss. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said against her lips.

As the bellman threw the bags in the back of the airport shuttle, Myles helped his wife into the window seat. Before he could sit down next to her, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number displayed. He answered anyway.

“Hello. Hello?” He said, recognizing the soft breathing on the other end of the line. Myles raised his eyes to see a woman standing with her back to the street, a cell phone to her ear. He would have recognized that derriere anywhere.

A Walk in the Park

2011-01-09T14:33:00.002-06:00

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk through the park, I saw Ladies wearing dresses pushing baby carriages. They watched while their older children were sliding down slides, swinging high toward the clouds, and climbing on jungle gyms. Teeter-totters were busy going up and down, while other children waited their turn. Woven baskets filled with food prepared in kitchens that morning, rested upon a handmade red and white cotton tablecloth sewed specifically for such a day. The boys’ haircuts were called flat tops, while the girls wore their long hair in pigtails or ponytails. The park was crowded. Everyone was smiling, laughing, talking, and having fun.

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk through the park, I saw ladies wearing culottes styled into dresses, shorts, or skirts. They pushed toddlers in strollers, while watching their older children slide down slides, swing, and show their strength by quickly moving hand over hand across the monkey bars. Mothers usually stopped by the Golden Arches on the way to the park. They placed paper bags containing hamburgers, french fries, and strawberry milkshakes atop paper tablecloths. The boys’ hair was growing longer, while the girls wore theirs shorter.

School was out for the summer. As I walked through the park, I saw mother’s wearing bikinis while watching their children swim in the pool built a couple of years ago. Only a few children occupied the playground equipment. These days it was barely used.

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk through the park, I saw mothers wearing jogging shorts, circling the newly built track while dragging their complaining children along on roller skates, skate boards, or bicycles. The girls’ hair was big, bouncy, and full of product. The popular boy haircut of the day was the now dreaded mullet. The playground equipment was rusty, its paint peeling from neglect. The pool was closed due to a hepatitis scare. The kids preferred to be home playing Pac-Man.

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk through the park, the few mothers I saw were wearing business suits while letting their children play a few minutes before going home to make dinner. The children had been cooped up at daycare all day. No one went to the park at night, with the exception of drug dealers and a few homeless people.

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk in the park, I didn’t see one mother. The mothers were all at work. All I saw were teenagers hanging out by the picnic tables, smoking questionable cigarettes. They wore jeans with holes in them, on purpose. Left to their own devices, many experimented with alcohol and various illegal substances. No one dared let their young children go to the park alone, there are too many drug dealers, perverts, and predators out there.

School was out for the summer. As I took a walk in the park, I marveled at the lack of parental supervision. The children actually taking advantage of the park were alone, unkempt, and wild. They wore whatever they felt like, dirty or clean seemed irrelevant. I wondered if anyone listened to the news anymore. Didn’t parents understand how dangerous it was to let children out of the house alone? I wondered where the rest of the children were. I decided they were probably home playing video games, or sneaking out to break into homes to steal items easily sold or traded for drugs while their parents were at work. Although law enforcement seemed to be keeping the park safer and the playground was filled with new, brightly painted playground equipment, few had time to take their children. The occasional mother who did manage to find time to take her children to the park, usually sat on a park bench, talking on a cell phone, ignoring her offspring. Emulating their parents, kids, oftentimes with hair colored bright red, green, or blue, sat on the picnic tables, or moved back and forth in the swings, while interacting with their friends through text messaging. Reportedly, this sedentary lifestyle is shortening their life expectancy.

This year, when school is out for the summer, perhaps mothers and fathers should take some time off work, turn off cell phones, games, TVs, and computers, and take their children to the park. They could teach their daughters how to sew a tablecloth and then pack a picnic lunch, like the good old days. They could spread the tablecloth over a picnic table, set out food they made together in their own kitchen, and sit down with the children they love. Talk. Eat together. It’s free entertainment. The park would once again be filled with smiling adults and the laughter of children.

As I was typing that last line, the phone rang. It was my daughter. While we were talking, she asked me to hold on while she told her son to turn off the TV and get dressed to go to the park. Even though it was cold outside, instead of complaining, he clapped his hands. Doing things as a family is what life should be about.

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Writer's Island Prompt - Masquerade

2010-11-01T07:06:00.001-05:00

A letter addressed to Bianca Devlin lay on the hall table, its envelope yellowed by age. The corners were bent, its middle bowed, as if gravity had tried to fold it in half. The return address was missing, yet Bianca recognized the handwriting. Even after six years, there was no mistaking how the n continued upward in its quest to dot the i in Devlin.

Nervous fingers involuntarily moved toward the envelope, coming to a halt when Flossy interrupted. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Roberts. Mrs. Devlin is in the sun room. She’s expecting you.”

“Flossy,” Bianca stopped the maid’s retreat. “What’s this?”

“The letter M’am?”

“Yes. The letter. Where did it come from?”

“Jane found it when she was cleaning earlier.”

“Jane?”

“Yes M’am,” Flossy continued. “Jane took over Ella’s position. She’s the new housekeeper Mrs. Devlin hired. She was bragging earlier as to how no one had cleaned under that table for years. I guess it was too heavy for Ella. And you know Ella, she would never think of asking for help.”

Bianca Devlin Roberts nonchalantly placed the letter inside the pocket of her linen jacket. “Something smells wonderful, Flossy. Have you been baking again?”

Flossy smiled meekly, “I have. I baked those orange cranberry scones you like so much. You go on in and see your mama. I’ll get the tea tray.”

Bianca walked down a long hallway toward the back of the house. The aroma of freshly baked scones, mixed with the sweet smell of honeysuckle blowing in through an open window. She stopped outside the French doors to watch her mother. Inside, Carolyn Devlin sat with one elbow propped on the arm of a white, wicker chair, an open book in her lap.

Carolyn didn’t hear the door open, nor did she hear the muted tap of leather soles against the shiny hardwood floor. As Bianca planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek, the book slid to the floor, Carolyn shrieked and jumped up from her chair, knocking a stately fern from its pedestal. Potting soil flew across the room, some bouncing off the baseboard, some stopping to add color to the neutral tones of a wool rug in the center of the room. Bertie, the parrot in the corner, whistled, flapped his wings wildly, and then began his manta of, “What’s wrong Bertie? What’s wrong Bertie?” Chaos mocked the peaceful intent of the room.

Mother and daughter's laughter echoed throughout the house. Regaining some semblance of control, Bianca observed, "I see you're reading Stephen King again mother.”

Flossy stood in the doorway holding the silver tea service. Glancing around the untidy room, she said, “There is a lovely breeze off the lake. Shall I serve tea on the deck instead?”

Butter melted quickly into the steaming center of the scone on Bianca’s plate. Flossy poured the tea and returned to the house, leaving mother and daughter alone.

The mood had changed from joyful to somber. This was the anniversary of a tragedy both women hesitated to mention. Exactly one year had passed since Bianca’s husband, Matthew Roberts, had been killed after loosing control of his car out on Hillsborough Road.

Carolyn was the first to bring it up. She placed her hand over Bianca’s arm. With a compassionate squeeze, she brought up the subject they had been avoiding, “How are you holding up?”

“I got through the day better than I expected. Jen put a stop to my plan to wallow in despair. She literally dragged me to lunch and then insisted we go shopping after. You know Jen, she talked non-stop. There wasn’t time to think; besides she’s so perky it’s impossible to be depressed around her.”

“Good for Jen.”

Bianca took a sip of tea, “She’s a good friend.”

“There was a time when I thought you two would never speak to each other again. Right before the wedding. Remember? What was your little tiff about anyway?”

Bianca raised an eyebrow, “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I do, but only if you want to tell me.”

“Remember Ben Lawson?”

“I know Ben. I still play tennis with his Aunt Delia.”

Bianca watched as a rabbit hopped across the corner of the lawn, making a mad dash through the peony bushes. The pink blossoms jerked back and forth as the rabbit made his way toward the safety of the woods beyond. Bianca considered escaping herself, but it was time her mother knew the truth.”

“Bianca?” Her mother questioned.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “What you don’t know is that Ben and I, we, well we dated.”

“You dated Ben? How? When? He never came to the house.”

“Ben and I spent four years together at Stanford, well not really together until our last year. I didn’t bring him home because I knew Daddy had his heart set on my marrying Matthew.”

Carolyn stared at Bianca, wondering how she could have overlooked something so important to her daughter, “But you married Matthew the June after you graduated.”

“Yes, and that’s why Jen and I argued. She tried to convince me to cancel the wedding. She thought I should be with Ben.”

“But you loved Matthew, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. We had five wonderful years together. Years I will always cherish. My feelings for Ben were...different.”

Carolyn finished chewing a bite of scone. “How?”

“Matthew was sturdy and dependable, the kind of man you marry because he would be a good father to your children, and he would have been a great father, had we been able to conceive. Ben on the other hand was daring, exciting, and unpredictable.”

Carolyn noticed the change in Bianca’s voice when she spoke Ben’s name. It was softer, almost reverent, with a hint of amusement, and a large dose of longing. “You loved Ben.”

“Yes, I loved him.”

“And Ben loved you, too. That explains why Delia is always so curious about you.”

It was Bianca’s turn to be confused, “She is?”

“Delia invariably turns our conversations into quiz-fests. She wants to know everything you are doing, are you happy, that kind of thing.” Carolyn looked into her daughter’s eyes, “You know Ben isn't married?”

“Mom! No matchmaking. It’s too late for us now. The day I left Stanford, we had a huge fight. I told him about Matthew. I hurt him. He left without saying goodbye. He didn’t try to contact me at first, and when he finally did call, I was angry and wouldn't take his calls. Maybe if I had talked to Ben things would have turned out differently, anyway the invitations had already gone out, and so I married Matthew.” Bianca reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter.

“What is it?” Carolyn asked.

“It’s a letter from Ben.”

“He sent you a letter?”

“No. Yes. I mean not recently. The letter was mailed from Italy, postmarked on June 4, 2001, two weeks before the wedding.”

“Bianca, what did the letter say?”

“I don’t know. I just got it today.”

Carolyn threw up her hands, “You are so frustrating. How did you just get it today?”

“Your new housekeeper found it when she was cleaning under the hall table.”

“Impossible.”

“Possible.”

“Are you going to open it?” Carolyn asked.

Bianca didn’t answer.

Exasperated, Carolyn repeated her question, “Bianca, are you going to open the letter?”

“I don’t know,” Bianca responded. “What if I regret my decision to marry Matthew?”

Both stared at the letter in silence. Carolyn was the first to speak, “Think about it. Don’t you find it just a little odd that you found Ben’s letter today? Maybe this is fate. Open the letter Bianca.”

Bianca calmly opened the envelope. The letter was brief. It read:

Bianca, I’m coming home today. Please don’t marry Matthew, marry me. I love you, Ben.

“Call him Bianca.”

“It’s too late.”

***

Carolyn Devlin’s costume ball was a highly anticipated event. Always held the weekend before Halloween, Bianca arrived as Marie Antoinette, with Jen dressed as Yolande de Polignac

Bianca mingled. Catching up with old friends, making new ones, and helping her mother make sure everyone had a good time. It was almost midnight when Carolyn pulled her daughter aside. “Sweetheart, we’re running low on wine. Would you mind telling Flossy? She’s in the kitchen.”

Bianca wove her way through the crowd of revelers, passing Davy Crockett, Scarlett O’hara, and Mr. Everett from next door dressed as Mark Twain, leaning precariously against the wall. When Bianca entered the kitchen, Flossy stood on the opposite side of the center island talking to Zorro.

Bianca cleared her throat. Flossy looked up, while Zorro swiveled to face Bianca.

“We’re running low on wine out there. I passed Mr. Everett in the dining room. I think he might be the cause,” Bianca said.

Flossy chuckled. “I’ll get Phillip to take Mr. Everett home and get the wine. You keep Zorro company until I get back.”

Bianca sat down on the bar stool next to Zorro and introduced herself, “Hi. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’m a huge fan. Huge. My name is Marie, you know, as in Antoinette?”

Always the gentleman, Zorro stood, removed his hat, and bowed gracefully. He reached out for Bianca’s proffered hand, and took it in his, “My pleasure Ms. Antoinette.”

Bianca stared into the eyes behind the mask. Her right hand still clutched tightly in his, Bianca tore away the mask with her left. “Ben! How? What are you doing here?”

A mischievous grin prefaced his answer, “Your mother invited me. Does this mean you’re happy to see me?”

Without saying another word, Bianca responded by stepping into his waiting arms, arms that surrounded her with a love that spoke of forever.

Carolyn Devlin and Flossy watched their plan unfold through a crack in the kitchen door; however, they saw more than was expected. Looking exactly like he had the last time Carolyn saw him, Matthew Roberts stood next to Bianca and Ben. The women blinked simultaneously, as if to clear him from their vision, but he was still there. Matthew gave the two women a conspiratorial wink, before slowly becoming transparent, and then disappearing altogether.

Carolyn closed the door gently, looked at Flossy, and shrugged, "This was OUR plan, wasn't it?"

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Writer's Island #25 - Unleashed

2010-10-17T10:02:00.001-05:00

This is my interpretation of today's prompt, unleashed. Unleashed always makes me think of something dangerous, as in horrific weather—or anger. For more stories, visit Writer's Island.

The rumble of the L train woke ten year old Mitch Lassiter from a restless sleep. He rolled over and closed his eyes against the bright colors of the flashing neon sign, but the message was seared to his brain. Kit Cat’s Lounge—Nude Girls—Kit Cat’s Lounge—Nude Girls, repeated over and over until he wanted to scream out in frustration.

The boy pulled the pillow over his head, trying desperately to block out the muffled sounds of his mother’s tears. Nothing worked, the walls were too thin. He couldn’t bear to lie there listening to her anguish, so he threw back the ragged blanket, too flimsy for a cold Chicago night, and dropped to the floor. If only he could block out the light, maybe sleep would come with darkness. Mitch dragged a rickety chair over to the window, climbed up and reached for the shade. Even on tip toes, he couldn’t quite reach the tattered blind.

The only heat was from the fireplace in the next room, not enough to counteract the wind blowing in through the cracks around the window frame. Mitch pulled the thin blanket off the bed, then sat down on the chair, and propped his knees under his chin. He draped the blanket over his back and wrapped it around his bare legs.

Mitch watched the street below. Even at this late hour, the sidewalk was crowded with drunken men and scantily clad women blatantly hawking their wares. His mind was wise beyond his ten year old body, he had seen too much of the unpleasant side of life.

A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed his fear, midnight had come and gone, and the man he called father was still at the corner bar.

If only his mother had kept her word. A few hours earlier, she had been packing a suitcase, tears falling from bruised, swollen eyes. She promised Mitch they would catch the express train to Springfield, a place he’d never been. It was where his maternal grandmother lived, a grandmother he had never met because his mother was too ashamed to admit she’d made a mistake. Ellen Burton married Jerry Lassiter against the wishes of her parents. Now, pride wouldn’t let her acknowledge defeat. Instead of asking her father for help, Ellen existed in a world of uncertainty and fear.

Jerry Lassiter named his only son Mitchell Burton Lassiter, after Ellen’s father. Not because of any great affection he felt for the man, but because he wanted a share of the family fortune. Jerry thought by giving the old man a namesake, Mitchell would forgive his only daughter for marrying against his wishes and reinstate her in his will. The plan failed. Now Jerry refused to call his son by his given name. He called him ‘worthless’ or ‘stupid’, that is, when he bothered to address him at all.

Before his father burned every reminder of Ellen’s past life, Mitch had seen his grandparents’ wedding portrait. Now, as he shivered from the cold, Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember that picture. His grandfather stood tall and erect, his smile undermining the forbidding stance. The smile covered a kindly face, crinkling the corners of his emerald green eyes. The man in that picture would have been the kind of grandpa to take his grandson fishing or teach him to ride a bike.

It was too bad Mitch would never have the opportunity to know his grandfather. Mitchell Burton had died of a heart attack last year. Ellen had cried for days, but she didn’t attend her father’s funeral. Once again, Jerry had used his wife’s meager wages to feed his alcoholic cravings. They didn’t have enough money for food. Coming up with money for a train ticket would have been impossible.

Mitch inspected the mental picture he carried of his grandmother, Ruby Burton. She was short. She wore her long raven hair in a braid, wrapped around her head to form a crown. A lace mantilla fell loosely over her shoulders. The silky fabric of the wedding dress, shimmered in the photographer’s light. Long puffy sleeves were graced with pearl closures on the cuff. The high neckline was accented by a wide bow tied around her throat. A ruby and diamond pin held the bow in place. The white dress accentuated the dark skin of her Cherokee ancestry. Her lips didn’t smile, but a glint in her dark brown eyes reflected the joy and happiness of the day. Mitch longed to know her, to feel the comfort he knew he would find in the circle of her loving arms. If only his mother could gather the strength she needed to leave this life of violence.

This afternoon, Jerry woke up earlier than expected from a drunken stupor to find his wife packing. Mitch listened outside their bedroom door while his father cried, without tears, and begged her not to leave. He filled her head with more of his flowery words and empty promises. At first, Mitch was optimistic. That is, until he heard his mother’s sobs, followed by her tearful acceptance. Dejected, he went back inside his room and closed the door against that momentary glimpse of hope.

Now, as he waited in the dark, he saw a familiar figure emerge from The Oasis, a sleazy bar down the street. The man tripped and almost fell on the sidewalk, but he caught himself and continued drunkenly weaving his way home. Mitch held his breath, dreading the sound of his father’s arrival.

The worn treads of the stairs creaked with each fumbled step, as Jerry made his way to their third floor apartment in the rat infested building they called home. About half way between the first and second floors, Jerry stubbed his toe and cursed loudly.

Old lady Peters whipped open her door, stood there with arms akimbo, waiting for him to reach the second floor landing. Her greasy hair was tangled from sleep and the nightgown she wore was colored with gray filth from too few washings. Putrid breath whistled through missing teeth as she spoke, “Don’t ya know people are try’n to sleep?”

“Shut up you crazy bitch!” Jerry growled as he started up the last set of steps.

“And don’t think ‘bout beatin’ that woman o’ yours.” She reached behind her and picked up the iron skillet from the stove. Tapping it against her hand, she muttered, “I’ll pound you into the ground with this skillet. It’d leave a dent in that useless head you carry ‘round.”

Jerry stared her down, “Go to hell old woman.”

Mitch heard the key scrape against metal and slide into the lock, and then listened to the screech of the hinges as the door opened. The only light was from the glowing coals in the fireplace.

“El-len, hon-ey. Jerry called in a sing song voice, “I’m home. Where are you sweetness?” He staggered over to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

Ellen lay curled up on the far side of the bed, her body trembling with fear. Her hands were raised, poised to ward off the blows she knew would come.

Jerry turned on the light and walked slowly toward the bed. In a deadly voice spit through clenched teeth, he scolded, “I thought you were going to wait up for me. We were supposed to eat dinner together, remember?” Jerry tilted his head up to sniff the air, “I don’t smell anything cooking, where’s dinner?” His voice spoke with affection, where no affection existed, only anger.

“I…I…you took the money. I couldn’t go t…to the store…” She stammered.

“You’re a lying bitch! I know you’ve got money stashed somewhere.” He put his knee on the bed, reached through her arms, and grabbed a handful of hair. “Where do you keep the money you spend on that little bastard of yours?”

“Please stop…please…there’s no money.” Her voice pleaded.

One tug brought her to the edge of the bed, but he wasn’t finished with her yet, instead he jerked her hair one more time, then let go. Her hands were tangled in the blanket when she tumbled off the bed. Unable to catch herself, her head hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the loud snap of breaking bones. Mitch held his ears to stop the replay of that sound…the sound of her head hitting the floor, the crack of her neck and the final exhale that marked her death. He peeked inside the room. His mother lay still, unmoving, not even a breath disturbed her quiet.

“Get up bitch,” Jerry demanded.

His father took an unsteady step backward, lifted his foot, and kicked her in the face. Mitch watched as his mother’s head flew up, bounced, and then lay limply on the cold wood. Jerry drew his foot back to kick her again, but Mitch crossed the room and leaped onto his back. He wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and pulled him backward.

Fearing the worst, but praying he was wrong, he yelled, “Stop it, you’re killing her!”

“You little shit, get off me.” Mitch’s arms were choking him. Jerry coughed and gasped for breath as he stumbled backward into the living room. He yanked Mitch’s arms away and swung him around, throwing his only son down onto the threadbare rug in front of the fireplace. The force of the fall caused Mitch to roll over and over, until he came to a stop inside the fireplace. He screamed from the excruciating pain, as his face melted into the red hot coals. He struggled to get up, but his father held him in place.

Mitch heard a shout from the hallway, “Police, open up!” The door splintered, crashed open, and then, mercifully, the pain faded into unconsciousness.

* * *

Six months had passed since his mother’s death. Mitch was in intensive care the day of her funeral, he didn’t even get to say goodbye. He wanted to cry, to mourn the loss of his mother, but tears evaded him.

When Mitch was finally released from the hospital, he found himself in the Cook County foster care system. He had already lived with three different families. Everyone averted their eyes from the ugliness of his face left rippled by fire and their patience quickly turned to frustration at his refusal to speak.

Mitch thought a fourth foster family was on the horizon the day his social worker, Ms. McWhirter, came to get him. He smiled for the first time since that dreadful night, when she told him they had found his grandmother.

Now, seated on a hard wooden bench outside family court, he waited for the Judge to decide his fate. Would he stay in foster care, or leave this courthouse with the grandmother he’d never met?

When he heard footsteps approaching the door, Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and folded his hands to hide crossed fingers. The door swung open, and he heard the clump of matronly shoes approaching. Someone stopped beside him, then sat down on the bench. A warm hand settled gently over his and a comforting arm slipped across his shoulders. He knew without opening his eyes that he would see the Grandmother he had yearned to know.

Nothing could have prepared him for the rush of love he felt when she spoke.

“Hello Mitchell.”

The sweet strains of her aged voice drew him to her. He peeked threw squinted lids and then opened his eyes wide to drink in the beauty of this woman’s kindly, wrinkled face. Happiness radiated from those same dark brown, almost black eyes he had memorized long ago. His mouth moved, beads of sweat glistened from his brow. His throat constricted with the effort to force words through dormant vocal chords. He spoke one word, “Grandmother?”

Tears coursed over the wrinkled skin of her face and gathered in the corners of her smile. Their tears intermingled. Tears of joy, and tears for the time lost between a grandmother and grandson, time that could never be recaptured. The tears were also shed for the woman’s daughter and the child’s mother neither would hold again. The old woman cradled the child as she would have a baby, rocking back and forth, crying until there were no more tears left to shed. She rummaged in her over-sized purse and came out with a packet of tissues. She handed one to the boy, and then wiped her eyes and dried her face. With his small hand in hers, she stood up.

“Let’s go home.”

Sunday Scribblings #237 - Harvest

2010-10-17T09:19:00.000-05:00

Click here for more Sunday Scribblings. I'm not a poet. This is my first attempt at Haiku. So, constructive criticism is welcome.

Farmer's out till dark.
Wagons filled with dusty corn.
Folks sneezing, achoo!

I love harvest time. It reminds of of all those fun trips to the elevator with my uncle. He would always buy my brother and me a pop to drink while we waiting in a long line of wagons. Unfortunately, now I suffer from allergies, which are raging right now.

Writer's Island #23 - Soar

2010-10-06T06:21:00.002-05:00

For more Writer's Island entries, click HERE.

I watched from the confines of the glass enclosed booth, moving my head from side to side in an attempt to see around the people staring in at me. Jaydra and Lilliah were leaning against the ice cream vendor’s truck enjoying an ice cream bar. They were licking their lips, more from watching Matthew Whitcomb get out of his car than from any residue left by the melting ice cream.

Matthew was the owner of Castner-Kline Circus. He was a very wealthy man, and he was hot. He unfurled his long legs and stood. The sight of him caused Jaydra to drop her ice cream in the dirt. His eyes were crystalline blue, clear as the Caribbean Sea on a bright summer day. Matthew's white-blonde hair was windblown; ruffled from the long drive in his convertible. The car he drove was the color of a sparkling glass of chardonnay, its interior creamy leather. The girls admired the car almost as much as the man they had dubbed, Mr. Lexus.

Jaydra and Lilliah were both gorgeous women. Jaydra had the look of a California girl, blond, tan, and carefree; while Lilliah was an exotic beauty with a pale heart-shaped face and hair the color of a raven’s wing. Along with Tavish, a red-headed Scott, and Timoteo, a New York Italian, Jaydra and Lilliah were members of a high wire act known as The Flying Nicholsons. There wasn’t a relative among them, nor was anyone named Nicholson. The name was chosen by blindly opening and pointing to a name in the phone book when they couldn’t agree on a name for their act. They were well known for their high wire antics, considered the best in their field. I was the bearded lady.

As he passed them by, Mr. Lexus nodded his good morning to the girls. I couldn’t control the smirk that crossed my face as Jaydra’s, and then Lilliah’s heads whipped around to follow his every move as he climbed the trailer steps.

The trailer served a two-fold purpose. The management office was on one side, while Ken the Clown’s dressing room was on the other. Jaydra had tried to convince Ken the Clown to trade dressing rooms with her, even going so far as to bribe him. She had promised to fix Ken up with Lilliah, her best friend. Had Lilliah known, she would have ended their friendship.

The girls were still loitering by the ice cream truck when Ken the Clown stepped out of the trailer and walked over to them, “Hi Jaydra,” Ken said in his sexiest voice. Jaydra turned away and stuck her nose in the air, not bothering to reply.

Ken the Clown was tall, yet rotund, his head bald on top. He often combed what was left of his hair upward, apparently trying to emulate the popular spiked look. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to pull it off. Instead of stylish he looked like he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. Today Ken wore a pair of burnt orange, houndstooth pants and a baggy jacket. No one would mistake Ken for sexy.

Amused by Jaydra’s reaction to his hello, Ken made his way to the door of my booth. Waving goodbye to the staring, pointing masses, I put the ‘gone to lunch’ sign in the window and shut the curtains. I opened the door before Ken had time to knock and practically dragged him inside. He started to move in for a kiss when I pushed him back.

“Wait! You’ll ruin my beard,” I said while unfastening the grotesque piece of hair.

Ken made good use of his time by removing his clown makeup, ripping off the fake bald head that kept his white-blond hair hidden, and unzipping his fat suit. Free at last, we were in each other’s arms. Mr. Lexus was mine, Jaydra and Lilliah never had a chance.

West of Toledo

2010-10-03T09:25:00.006-05:00

Click here for more Sunday Scribblings. This is my offering.

The Catalpa trees are still there. Those trees marked the entrance to the driveway, provided flowers for a little girl’s hair, and many a bowl of green beans to go with mud pie dinners. They still grace the entrance to what was once Grandma Burton’s house. As I think of turning up the driveway between those two trees, I can still feel the excitement, knowing there would be cousins and fun waiting at the top of the hill.

Once the car was parked, my brother and I climbed out of our two-door, gray, 1952 Ford, onto the dusty rock drive. The geese rushed toward us, hissing their evil hiss. Grandma stood at the back door. She opened the screen to let us in, while simultaneously shooing flies. We hurried so as not to allow too many flies to sneak in with us. Grandma Burton wasn’t the kind of grandma to scoop you up in her arms and give you a big hug and kiss, yet we all knew she was happy to see us.

We stepped inside the kitchen with its big white sink. The sink held an enamel covered basin for hand washing. The water was often already used, but it wasn’t changed until it was dirty. No one worried about germs back then, water was a precious commodity and not to be wasted. A bucket of water and a community dipper, sat nearby. We often stopped for a cool drink before heading for the dining room. Today, the thought of drinking from a community dipper would make me think twice, but back then it was just the way things were done. I can still remember when the cook stove still burned wood and the freezer inside the refrigerator was only big enough for two ice trays.

During baseball season, you could usually find Grandpa Burton sitting in a wooden chair, staring out the north window, while listening to the game on the radio. The radio sat on top of a small smoking table, which contained Grandpa’s Bull Durham bags and roll-your-own cigarette papers. We would exchange a few brief words, while I lifted the table cloth to see what was leftover from breakfast or lunch. We knew there would be something tasty under there; bacon, soup beans, or if the leftovers didn’t appeal to your taste buds, you could always find the makings for a jelly sandwich.

The living room had a room-sized wool rug on the floor and a warm morning stove along the east wall. During the winter you could see the curtains blowing in the wind coming in around the windows. To get warm, you had to stand next to the stove, while rotating from front to back. By the time your back was all warm and toasty; your front would be freezing, time to rotate. I remember lying on the floor, on my stomach, watching I Love Lucy on black and white television. This is also the room where the men played penny poker. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the pennies bounce on the coffee table and smell the strong scent of tobacco smoke.

The living room had a door leading into the entry hall. In the summer, the door was propped open with an iron frog. I wonder whatever happened to him? I’m sure someone gave him a good home.

Inside the entry hall were the stairs leading upstairs. During family dinners, the stairs doubled as a seating area for the younger members of the family. The older you were, the higher your place on the steps. There was a little door beneath the stairs. That door led into a dark, musty storage room. If you were brave enough to go inside, you could feel your way through to the far side of the room and find yourself back in the kitchen. Hopefully, the kitchen would be empty, because going into that old dark room was forbidden.

Driving down Route 121 west of Toledo, I still look for Grandma’s house. The Catalpa trees are still there, but the house is gone, as are its residents. Even knowing nothing remains the same, I can’t help but look up the hill. I still hope I’ll see that big old two-story house with Grandma standing at the kitchen door, waiting to let us in.

The Return of Victoria Valentine

2010-09-22T06:08:00.000-05:00

The clock on the wall came alive. A tiny door at the top of the Swiss Chalet opened. Mr. Bird appeared and cuckooed six times before retreating. The music box struck up a verse of The Happy Wanderer, while a blond lady wearing a traditional dirndl danced toward her sweetheart in his lederhosen. As if mesmerized, Lewis Parr watched until the clock returned to its unusually loud tick-tock. The clock had hung on the wall for as long as Lewis could remember. He wondered how his grandfather kept from pounding the thing silent with his cane, and then remembered it was a gift from Uncle Willis. The clock arrived the same day they learned their son wouldn’t be coming home from the war.

Lewis looked down at the sermon he was trying to write, tossed down his pen, and stood up. Maybe a run would clear his head, besides; the Montrose Marathon was only a month away. He was in training. After a quick shower, he donned running clothes and sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. He glanced at the picture on the bedside table, finished tying his shoes, and reached out to pick it up.

Henrietta Figgins smiled back at him from beneath a red umbrella. Old Mrs. Figgins took the picture at the spring run in Canton. She was proud of her granddaughter, and proud she had been successful in setting Henrietta up with Lewis. He couldn’t understand why anyone would actually pursue him as a possible match for their daughter, or in this case, granddaughter. He assumed, since they lived in such an isolated community where single men were at a premium; he was a better choice than Jerry, the town drunk. Lewis and Henrietta were approaching their six month anniversary. She was getting serious. Lewis wasn’t so sure marriage to Henrietta was in his future. What if she woke up one morning and really looked at the man she had married. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could love her back.

Lewis stood up, opened the closet door, and peered at himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over his shiny bald head, shaved to reduce the chance of thinking a comb over style might actually be a good idea. He had to look closely to see the nearly invisible, blond eyebrows hovering over brilliant green eyes, his only real asset. He stood as straight as possible, stretching his 5 foot 3 inches into 5 foot 3 ½ inches. When turned sideways, Lewis was so skinny he was barely noticeable. Perhaps, that’s why everyone in high school called him Stick Bug. Those thick lenses in his horn-rimmed glasses probably added the bug to the stick part. Thank goodness for contact lenses. Leaning in, Lewis inspected his acne prone face, found a zit in need of popping, and popped it. He smiled. Only half of his face cooperated, the other half stayed in place, a result of an unresolved case of Bell’s palsy from when he was a child.

Disgusted with his less than handsome self, Lewis closed the closet door and turned toward the kitchen. His mother designed the kitchen around her tall frame. She stood seven foot three inches. Lewis’s father was even taller at seven foot six inches. The counter tops were raised to give his mother a working surface which didn’t require constant bending. His father thoughtfully provided a step stool so Lewis could reach the contents of the upper cabinets. Now that his adoptive parents were both gone, he wanted to remodel the kitchen, but being a third generation Methodist preacher in a small town wasn’t lucrative. Remodeling would have to wait.

Lewis dragged a step stool across the kitchen floor and climbed to the top rung. He opened the cabinet, took out a large bowl, and a box of Frosted Mini Wheats. He ate half the box of cereal, two slices of toast with butter and jam, and finished breakfast with a slice of apple pie Henrietta baked for him. Lewis always ate a lot, even as a young boy. He wanted to grow up to be like his parents. Yet, no matter how much he ate, Lewis didn’t grow tall or gain weight. He was still a short stick.

After inserting the right ear bud into his left ear, taking it out, putting it in the right ear, and turning on his MP3 player. Lewis matched his pace to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon and turned down Maple Street.

To alleviate boredom, Lewis usually worked on Sunday’s sermon as he ran, but he was still having trouble coming up with a topic. Instead, his thoughts turned to a woman and the woman wasn’t Henrietta Figgins. In his mind’s eye, this woman was still a girl. Her long blond hair framed a face so beautiful it rivaled Madonna’s, the singer, not the depiction of the Virgin Mary. Her eyes were bluer than the bluest of skies and unlike other teenagers, her skin was flawless. The woman was Violet Valentine, the love of his life.

Violet and Lewis started dating their junior year in high school. Lewis would never have worked up the nerve to ask any girl out, especially not a girl as beautiful as Violet—she asked him out. Violet said she was tired of those football players and their groping hands. She wanted to date someone she could talk to, someone smart. They continued their relationship through high school and college.

After graduation, Lewis and Violet planned to spend a month backpacking through Europe together. When they returned from their trip, they were to be married and live the fairy tale life of happily ever after. Unfortunately, Lewis lost his parents a week before they were to leave. It was up to Lewis to take over his grandfather’s and father’s vocation and become the new minister at Morehead Methodist Church. Violet went to Europe alone. Their relationship ended with a Dear Lewis letter postmarked from Madrid.

Feeling the need for speed, Lewis fumbled with his MP3 player. He found a faster paced song which was a better fit for his thoughts, Soul Sucker. Lewis envisioned Violet as he sang along with Ozzie,

Get out of my face

the past is running in place

the slivers cut me as you

suck the soul right out of me

Lewis practically screamed the last words, SOUL SUCKER, as he rounded the corner onto Sycamore Road and came to a screeching halt. He grabbed Henrietta to keep her from falling. Pulled her into his arms, held her tight, and then kissed her on the mouth. Their kiss wasn’t just any old kiss, it was their first kiss. Henrietta stood there, speechless, staring with her mouth open wide enough for a 747 to fly inside. Lewis turned her loose, lifted his arm in farewell, and continued his run.

Certain seeing Henrietta at that exact moment was a sign, Lewis flew down the street with a little added giddy up to his step. He would put Violet the Soul Sucker to rest for good and marry Henrietta. Once Lewis made a decision, he moved quickly. He would propose tonight. After all, he already had his grandmother’s engagement ring. All he needed was a place, and what better place than church. He would ask her to meet him there, propose, and then take her to dinner at Luigi’s. Henrietta would be the perfect wife for a minister.

Dressed in his best Sunday suit, Lewis opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out a velvet box. Inside was a half carat round-cut diamond solitaire. He slipped it on his pinky finger, trying to judge whether or not it would fit Henrietta. Thank goodness his grandmother wasn’t a large person like his parents. He took the ring off, tucked it in his pocket, and started toward the door. That’s when the telephone started ringing. He looked at it, ignored the incessant ringing and opened the door, and then closed it again. He was a minister, what if someone needed him. He answered the phone.

The voice on the other end of the phone said, “May I speak with Lewis Parr?”

Lewis didn’t recognize the voice, or so he told himself. A knot formed in his throat, causing him to labor over three simple words, “This is he.”

“Lewis! It’s V.” When she didn’t get a response she continued, “Violet, Violet Valentine. Remember?”

Lewis was silent, unsure whether or not he heard the caller correctly, “Violet?”

“Yes! Violet! It sure is good to hear your voice.”

Lewis coughed, cleared his throat, and then coughed again. “Yours, too,” was all he could manage.

“I’m back in the states. I know, I know. I’m ten years late, but I really need to see you. Can we meet tonight?”

Violet Valentine, the woman he had loved for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t believe he was actually talking to her. Lewis pulled the ring out of his pocket and dropped it into a crystal candy dish on the hall table, “When? Where?”

“In twenty minutes at Clarice’s Diner. It is still there isn’t it?”

Lewis laughed, “Yes, it’s still there. I’ll see you then.”

After a quick phone call to cancel his date with Henrietta, Lewis drove the ten miles in less than seven minutes. He climbed out of his car and rushed inside. The place was empty except for Clarice and a man sipping coffee at the counter. He sat down in the first booth and breathed a sigh of relief. He was the first to arrive.

“Just coffee,” he called to Clarice.

The man turned to look at Lewis, and then picked up his coffee cup, walked over to the booth where Lewis was sitting, and sat down opposite him.

The man looked a little familiar to Lewis, but he couldn’t place him. “I’m waiting for someone,” Lewis said.

“I know,” the man said. He held out his hand, “You’re Lewis, I’m Vincent Valentine.”

Lewis took his hand, “Pleased to meet you. Are you related to Violet? I believe I see a family resemblance.”

“I guess you could say we’re related. I didn’t want to tell you this way, but there’s no easy way to say this. I am Violet, or I was. I changed my name to Vincent two years ago. I’m not a woman anymore.”

Lewis stared, mouth agape. “V-v-violet?”

“Yes, Lewis. It’s me, your old friend Violet. Really Lewis, I’m sorry, but I need your help. I’m getting married to my long time partner, Kimberly. Since you are my friend and a minister, I want you to perform the ceremony. Please say you will.”

Lewis stared, mouth agape.

“Lewis? Please?”

“So, basically the only reason you dated me was so everyone would think you were straight?”

“It wasn’t like that, Lewis. Really it wasn’t.”

Lewis felt like the coffee he had ingested was about to reappear. He stood up, pulled a five dollar bill out of his pocket, and threw it on the table. He gave Violet—or Vincent—one last look and turned on his heel. “No!” He called over his shoulder.

Safely inside the car, Lewis dialed his cell phone, “Henrietta, my plans have changed again. Meet me at the church in fifteen minutes.”

One More Fish

2010-09-18T06:34:00.003-05:00

The shrill ring of the alarm jerked me awake. I tried to read the clock’s bright red numbers through sleep-filled eyes, finally deciding it said three-thirty. For a moment I was disoriented, unsure if it was three thirty in the afternoon or morning. Had I missed work? Then I remembered, it was Saturday and we were going fishing. I groaned and rolled over in an effort to find the warm spot I left so abruptly when I turned off the alarm, but a wintry breeze blowing in the bedroom window had eradicated all signs of warmth. There was no escape, so I forced myself to sit up. As my legs dangled off the bed, I listened to the jovial sounds of whistling coming from the kitchen. At least the coffee was brewed, its aroma was the only reason my feet were able to touch carpet. Slowly, I dragged on a pair of jeans, but instead of rushing to get ready for the day, I succumbed to the pillow’s call.

I didn’t hear the door open, nor did I see Bob standing there all giddy with excitement. “Wake up sleepyhead,” he teased.

“I’m up,” I said forcing myself into an upright position. I slid off the bed for the second time that morning, eyes still closed. I forced those stubborn eyes open wide enough to search for those shirts I had laid out the night before. Three shirts were the magic number, I was told, to keep me from freezing in the chilly air off the lake.
I heard Bob clear his throat. Somehow, even trussed up like a Christmas turkey, I was prone once again. I opened one eye to find my husband leaning against the door jamb, shaking his head in despair. I smiled an apology and dragged myself up.

Sitting down in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the bedroom, I donned thick socks and those old comfy sneakers I was glad I hadn’t tossed in the garbage. I took two sips of the coffee Bob had been so thoughtful as to leave for me, and leaned back in the chair.

From the back door I heard, “Ready honey? It’s getting late.”

“No,” I muttered under my breath, slowly making my way upright. While adding a hooded sweatshirt to my attractive ensemble, I wondered how anyone could be this excited about a fishing trip. I wriggled unwilling fingers into gloves and donned a coat before making my way to the kitchen.

The truck was packed. Two travel mugs filled with steaming coffee were waiting by the door. I was in the middle of tightening the caps when Bob came back inside, “It’s getting late. We should already be on the road.” I sensed a little irritation behind that wide smile, so I hurried, probably more like trundled, outside.

After trussing myself up in the seat belt, I glanced at the clock on the instrument panel. How could 4:30 a.m. be considered late? I almost asked the question out loud, but in an effort to keep an amicable atmosphere, I refrained.

An hour later, we were still driving toward that fishin’ hole and my stomach was complaining about the lack of food supply. Running over a mental list of the gear my husband had packed the night before, I realized food had not been mentioned. How would I survive?

As if reading my thoughts, Bob enlightened me, “We’ll stop in Middleofnowhere Town to get some breakfast before we get to the lake. No sooner had the words crossed his lips than I saw the Golden Arches looming ahead. My tummy breathed a sigh of relief.

Thoroughly stuffed and disgusted by my appreciation of the unhealthy food I had ingested, we pulled into the State Park entrance. After meandering around the curvy, narrow road, we came to a parking area. I squinted through the dark in search of water, but didn’t see any.

Bob pulled into a parking space and dug out a flashlight. In the artificial light, he was able to see well enough to hand over my share of equipment. I was to carry a heavy bucket and two fishing poles. He gathered up the rest and started through the darkness. To where, I had no idea. I tried to keep up, lumbering along behind him like a bear ready for hibernation, only tripping once or twice. At least I didn’t actually fall down over that concrete car stop, and I didn’t break my ankle in that unseen hole in the grass. So far, I had been successful in keeping Bob in the dark as to my klutzy tendencies.

We passed several idiots, I mean avid fishermen, with lines already in the water. In a voice that was more a whisper than actual words, Bob asked one guy how he was doing. The reply was, “Nothing yet. Maybe when it starts getting light.”

By the time we finally stopped walking, I could almost make out water. Bob set up two folding chairs and began teaching me how to fish. He assembled a rod for me and cast it out into the lake. He motioned for me to have a seat, and then stuck a whittled-off piece of tree in front of me. He indicated I should rest my fishing rod in the forked wood. I did.

“Now watch it,” he said while setting up his area.

Watch it? This is going to be a long day, I thought to myself. I scrunched down in the chair and closed my eyes.

The harsh words, “Set the line!” awakened me from sleep.

Set the line, set the line. What does that mean? After Bob yelled it a couple more times, I asked. Obviously disgusted by my ineptitude, Bob took possession of the rod, which, by the way, had begun to bend and shake as if Jaws himself had swallowed the hook. Bob wrangled that fish like a Texas bull rider taming a bull, finally reeling in the errant trout. With the fish flipping from side to side, Bob finally got that average-sized trout to hold still long enough to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out a pair of surgeon’s clamps and began removing that fish hook. After twisting and turning, gritting his teeth and saying a few choice words, he finally ripped that thing out of there. I felt like I had been given a tonsillectomy without anesthesia—poor fish. Hey, but guess what? I got credit for catching the first fish.

More confident now, I took possession of the rod. I watched, fascinated by the bright colors, as Bob stuck more bait on the hook. One jar was fluorescent green, another brilliant orange, yet another was marigold yellow, and one was even the color of a rainbow.

As soon as Bob finished baiting the hook, I pushed in on that little knobby thing on the reel and stuck the rod out behind me. I gave it a mighty flick toward the water, while simultaneously letting go of the knob. I looked through the misty dawn to see where my hook had landed, but couldn’t see anything. Bob walked around behind me and began the task of untangling the line and digging the hook out of a clump of grass about eight feet to my right.

About fifteen minutes later, my rod was finally working again. It was silently decided Bob would cast the rod on my behalf.

While waiting for a bite, Bob taught me about fishing. I learned that ‘set the line’ means to give the rod a yank to securely imbed the hook in the poor fish. I learned that Bob would take the fish off the line and re-bait my hook, all I had to do was hand him the rod. I learned that legally, we were only allowed to catch five trout each. Since Bob wouldn’t allow me to cast, I learned that my job was to rest in my chair and nap—I mean watch the rod.

I quickly caught two more fish, and Bob followed suit with five more. Wow, at this rate, we’ll have our ten fish caught and be home by eight a.m., I thought. It was then the fish stopped biting. I learned that fish often take breaks while feeding on fish hooks. I learned that instead of packing up and going back home, one waited for the stubborn fish to start biting again.

As the hours dragged by, I started shedding all those layers of clothing. By ten-thirty I was down to one shirt and wishing I had thought to wear short sleeves.

Eleven o’clock passed, and then noon, by one o’clock my impatient stomach started complaining. I think Bob heard those loud grumblings, because he made a comment about leaving if we didn’t have any luck soon.

At the thought of leaving, my first reaction was a resounding WOO HOO, but then I took a look around me. There was a father and son fishing to our right, the dad patiently instructing his son on the art of fishing, while telling a few fish stories. To our left was a married couple fishing together, making memories. All around us was the beauty of nature. Instead of impatient to go home, I discovered I might just like this fishing thing.
As Bob reeled in fish number nine, I found myself asking, “Since we’ll be trout fishing again in the spring, would you teach me to cast?”

“I thought you were ready to go home,” he commented.

“We haven’t caught our limit yet. Just one more fish, and then we can go,” I said.

Knowing he had won me over, Bob grinned and reached for my pole.
***
For more fishy stories, visit Writer's Island.

If Only I Were You

2010-08-28T18:11:00.002-05:00

Everyone suddenly burst out singing, and I was filled with such delight, as was everyone lining Main Street the night Vivian came home. Viv, as her friends called her, was our hometown celebrity. The day she turned sixteen, New York City and Broadway swept her away. She occasionally made it home for a holiday, usually Christmas. The last time she came home was for her mother’s funeral seven years ago. Now she is making movies.

Viv is my best friend. We have known each other since first grade. Since our last names both end in G and our teachers usually seated their classes alphabetically, we spent most of our youth together. Truth be told, I was a little jealous of Viv’s singing voice. I always wanted to sing, but I couldn’t carry a tune in a rusty bucket, so I decided I would be a dancer. The only problem with that idea was, I had, and still have, two left feet. Yes, I’m a no talent klutz. Still, Viv and I remained best friends. Our letters and phone calls have deteriorated to birthdays and holidays, but at least we still keep in touch.

Viv is a celebrity, and I’m a stay-at-home mom. I often wonder what her glitzy life in New York City is like. She has invited me, but I'm always too busy with my husband and our three boys to make the trip. Therein lies my talent, if housekeeping can be referred to as a talent. My home could be featured in one of those decorating magazines. Each room is color coordinated and neat as a pin, even with two teenagers doing their best to muck it up with mud from soccer shoes, football cleats, and in-line skates. Of course there is baby James, now four, our final try for a girl, who is more than capable of muddying up the place without any help from his older brothers. I am a gourmet cook, when I have the time, and I even go so far as to iron sheets, even though the fabrics are mostly wrinkle free. I’m a little bit of a neat freak. Okay, so I’m a whole lot of neat freak, but that’s who I am. Viv is a talented singer/actress, I’m a neat freak. Alright, I’ll embrace the truth. I’m a whole lot of jealous when it comes to Viv.

The moment Viv’s car turned the corner onto Main Street, the crowd starting singing Viv’s most recent hit, If Only I Were You. That little green monster disappeared the moment I saw Viv’s smiling face. When she saw me, she stopped her car, and jumped out. We gave each other the biggest hug we could manage, and started chattering away like the old friends we were. Once the initial exuberance had waned, Viv asked, “Want to come with me to my hotel for a drink?”

I looked toward my husband. After greeting Viv he said, “You go on. Have fun. I’ll pick up Trey and Greg from soccer practice. James, come with me.” He took his youngest son by the hand, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

Thrilled to be on my own for a few hours, I hooked my arm through Viv’s, “Let’s go!”

Inside the Remington’s penthouse suite, I nearly salivated over the décor. I mentally took notes on how I could use some of the decorator’s ideas when I revamped the master bedroom at home. After room service brought a bottle of champagne and tray of appetizers, we sat down on the sofa, which offered a magnificent view of Lake Louise.

I looked at Viv, “Wow. This room is amazing. You are so lucky, traveling around the world, rubbing shoulders with celebrities. What am I saying, you are a celebrity. You have a truly wonderful life. You know, I’ve always been jealous of you.”

Viv nearly choked on her champagne, “You’ve been jealous of me? I can’t go out in public without having my makeup and hair done, and must always wear the perfect designer outfit. I rarely sleep in the same bed a whole week. Tabloids say mean things about me. I cry myself to sleep more nights than I can count. My dream is to find a husband who wants me for me, and not my name. I want to be a wife and mother. I’ve always been jealous of you.”

The two women looked at each other, and burst out singing, If only I were you and you were me, oh how happy we would be…

Check out more stories over at Writer's Island.

Sunday Scribblings #229 - Dangerous

2010-08-22T09:06:00.007-05:00

The foghorn’s melancholy wail warned of what was to come. Oblivious to the danger lurking outside, Monique Thibodaux picked up her sweater and prepared to leave J. G. Clancy’s Seafood Grill. The door to Fisherman’s Wharf opened, revealing a world shrouded in mist, street lights hidden within the nebulosity of the city by the bay.

Footsteps echoed over the wharf. Monique paused to listen, yet nothing but eerie silence surrounded her. A sense of foreboding pushed her toward the car parked in the blackness of Pier 47. Even though visibility was severely limited, Monique located the sleek, black Mercedes her father had given her the day she left for San Francisco. She opened her purse and reached inside, relieved to feel the key’s jagged edges. She unlocked the door and was about to sit down when he appeared. His strong hands gripped her upper arms from behind, dragged her back out, before shoving her against the car. She struggled unsuccessfully against the man’s steely grip. His hot breath skimmed her cheek, sending ripples of fear racing down her spine.

A familiar voice whispered, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Monique turned when the assailant loosened his grip, “You scared me! What are you doing here?”

“Watching you,” he spit, tightening his hold on her arms.

“You’re upset. What’s wrong?” His voice was low, accusing, “You know what’s wrong. You’re a slut, that’s what. Why are you sneaking around behind my back with Avery?”

Trying to subdue his barely contained fury, Monique laughed awkwardly, “I wasn’t with Avery. I was having dinner with a few friends from art class. Avery is with Jennifer.” Monique tilted her head, forcing a smile. In what was meant to be a teasing voice, she asked, “Are you jealous?”

The man’s hands inched toward Monique’s delicate neck, “I saw you leaning toward him, laughing, whispering together. How long have you been sleeping with him?”

Monique’s smile faded, recognizing the rage he had promised to control after the last time, and the time before that. Her skin paled under the thick layer of makeup, strategically applied to hide the ugly bruises his temper left on her face. “I’m not sleeping with him. I told you, he’s only a friend who happened to be sitting next to me. I came here to be with my friends, not Avery.”

“Liar,” he said through clenched teeth. Vice-like fingers surrounded her neck, thumbs moved slowly up and down over her throat, emphasizing its vulnerability. Monique grabbed his wrists and pulled, desperate to release the hands constricting the flow of life-giving oxygen, but he was too strong. Darkness compressed her vision, leaving only tiny specks of light, and then nothing.

Monique regained consciousness in the trunk of a car. She tried to move, but couldn't. Her wrists were tied to her ankles, making any movement impossible. The car made a right turn, drove up a rough incline, and came to a stop at the crest of the hill. The driver got out, slamming the door behind him. A dim light came on when the trunk clicked open, allowing a brief glimpse of the demented face above her. He untied her ankles, and then dragged her out of the car by the hair. Her screams were muted by the gray tape covering her mouth. She struggled against the heavy rope still binding her wrists, helpless to save herself.

As he dragged her across the rough terrain, Monique tried to block out the pain with thoughts of Oliver. Monique was in love with Oliver, yet while he was away on an extended trip, she betrayed that love by sleeping with Jerry. She thought Jerry was charming and kind, now she knew the truth. He no longer tried to hide the dangerous monster within his soul. When Monique told Oliver about Jerry, Oliver left, slamming the door behind him. She had betrayed the only man she would ever love, and now she was faced with the enormity of that mistake.

Jerry lifted her body over a fence, dropping her on rock covered ground. Through a break in the fog, she saw the dark orange towers and flashing red beacons of Golden Gate Bridge. Her tormentor glared down at her. His crazed eyes told her she would soon find refuge from the pain.

Monique didn’t cry out when she saw the knife, the foghorn moaned for her. She lay still, quietly accepting the blade as it pierced her heart.

For more Scribbles, click HERE.

The Help

2010-08-09T06:24:00.005-05:00

The Help is Kathryn Sockett's first novel. A friend of mine from work loaned me her copy of this highly recommended read. I was hooked from the very first line. I loved this book so much I bought my own.

The Help is set in Jackson, Mississippi, the South during the civil rights movement. The story is told through three women, two black and one white. The black women work as maids for wealthy families, and the Caucasian is a writer looking for a story to sell. While interviewing the maids, their story becomes more important to her than a mere writing credit. Her eyes and heart are opened up to the plight of these women.

Each character comes alive within the pages of this novel. I became so involved, I felt as if I were sitting at the kitchen table listening to their conversations. I cared about each of these wonderful characters.

If you are looking for a book you can't put down, this is it. One of the best books I've read this year.

My LIfe as Abraham Lincoln

2010-08-09T06:23:00.000-05:00

My Life as Abraham Lincoln is a truly wonderful autobiography. It isn’t about that Abraham Lincoln, but one who is related to and shares the name of our 16^th President. Written as a series of short stories, this book chronicles Mr. Lincoln’s life in an entertaining, interesting, and even educational manner, a truly unique presentation. Be ready to laugh, cry, and even stomp your foot. Mr. Lincoln’s autobiography is well worth your time. Be prepared to read late into the night, you won’t want this book to end.

Purchase your copy from Amazon.com

Half-Way to Texas - Sunday Scribblings

2010-08-08T09:55:00.009-05:00

Our trip to Dallas started out like any other. Tami, my daughter, and I visit our friends in Dallas at least once a year. Even after 8 years, we still miss living there. Since we usually start our twelve hour drive Friday after work, we stop in Joplin, Missouri for the night and finish the drive Saturday morning. Joplin isn’t exactly half-way, but close enough. Since school was out for the summer, Lauren, my granddaughter, came along on this trip.

We pulled into our usual hotel just before midnight.  It was a fairly new hotel, clean, yet affordable.  We opened the door to our suite, impressed by the way it was decorated—dark red and gold accents, smelling fresh and clean.  We all called dibs on the bathroom at the same time.  Lauren got to go first.  Once we were all squeaky clean and pajamad up, Tami helped me put sheets on the hide-a-bed, before quietly making her way into the bedroom where Lauren was already asleep.

I crawled into the almost comfortable bed, making sure the sheet covered the blanket.  Yes, I am a germ-a-phobe.  After all, I’ve seen all those investigative reports on how many types of germs are in hotel rooms even if they look clean.  I closed my eyes, opened them, stared at the ceiling, and closed them again.  I tried counting sheep hopping over one of those wood rail fences like you see in Tennessee, relaxing my body from the toes up, and counting backwards from one hundred.  Nothing worked.  I was wide awake.  I found the remote and turned on the TV.  After flipping through several infomercials, I stopped to watch a repeat of Conan O’Brien, hopeful he would put me to sleep—and he did.

Unfortunately, I didn’t stay asleep very long.  All that water I drank earlier was begging me to get up.  I didn’t want to get up, not because I was too sleepy, but because the bathroom was through Tami & Lauren’s room and I didn’t want to disturb them.  So, although I knew a trip to the bathroom was imminent, I put it off.  In denial, I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.  Of course, I couldn’t.  The TV was still on, so I watched a little more of Conan being Conan.  

Still unable to sleep, I faced the inevitable.  I rolled over onto my right side, facing the interior of the room, my back to the window.  I was about to throw back the blanket and stand up when I felt someone sit down on the bed behind me.  Sweat popped out on my forehead, every muscle in my body was tensed.  I held my breath.  I wanted to jump out of bed, but I couldn’t move, not even an eyelid twitched.

Whoever sat down on the bed lay down behind me, snuggling up to my back, as if we were spooning.  I could feel a hard chest and muscular legs against the back of mine.  I identified my intruder as a man.  It was then he lay one hand on my side.  It paused for a moment and then slid across my stomach to tuck itself beneath me, pulling me closer against him.  I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out.  My teeth began to chatter.  I’m not sure if it was from the intense cold in the room, or from fear.  

Still unable to move, or scream, my mind raced with questions.  How could I get out of his tight grip?  What could I use as a weapon to defend myself?  If I was successful in getting away, how could I protect my daughter and granddaughter in the next room from this intruder?  And then the man was gone.  

I didn’t hear a sound, or feel his weight leave the bed.  He merely vanished.  The arm tucked around my middle wasn’t pulled away.  It didn’t move.  It became lighter and lighter, as if changing from flesh and blood into vapor, before disappearing into thin air.  The intense cold warmed, yet I still couldn’t move.

About fifteen minutes later, I was able to roll over onto my back.  I looked toward the window.  It was closed, and the floral arrangement on the table in front of it had not been moved.  No one could have gotten in through the window without moving the flowers, which confirmed my suspicion.  My visitor was not an ordinary human.

I finally got up the nerve to go to the bathroom, even considered shoving daughter over and climbing into bed with them, but I made myself be brave.  I crawled back into my bed, this time facing the window.  I eventually fell asleep.

The next morning, I told my story to Tami, who said, “Mom!  You were just dreaming.”

After more explanation, which fell on deaf ears, she came up with, “Are you sure someone didn’t climb in through the window?”

I’ve given up trying to explain myself.  No one believes I was awake.  I know my spooner was real, maybe not real, but really there.  I was wide awake at the time.  To this day, if I bring up the incident, Tami shakes her head in disbelief.  We’ve been back to Texas since then, but we’ve never stopped at that same hotel.  I’m thinking my daughter might be a believer, as I am—in ghosts.

For more Scribblings, click HERE.

I Believe She's Amazing-Sunday Scribblings

2010-07-18T09:03:00.008-05:00

Okay, so the prompt is Source. Well, the Sunday Scribbling's source for prompts wasn't posted when I pulled the blog up this morning. Unfortunately, I didn't check the date, which means I wrote my piece on last week's prompt, the video. So source, smource...I'm posting anyway.

This is the video from last week's prompt source. ;)

During the video, I became quite emotional. I smiled, frowned, smiled again, and then felt sad. There were tears in my eyes by the end. I’m not sure if they were sad tears, or happy tears, they were simply tears. I immediately thought of my daughter.

I remembered the first time I saw her, all pink and cuddly. I remembered the tom boy jumping off the roof of our utility shed, having a clod fight with her brother, and climbing trees even though she was warned not to.

I remembered how beautiful she looked in the sapphire blue dress she wore to the prom, how proud I felt watching her graduate from high school and The University of Texas, and how beautiful she looked on her wedding day.

I remember touching the name plate outside her classroom, running my fingers over her name and wondering how that mischievous, freckle-faced child could possibly be old enough to be a teacher.

I remembered seeing her hold her firstborn child in her arms, and then her second, third, and finally, fourth. I remembered the devastation she felt when she was told her son was autistic, and how hard she has worked to make sure he has the best life possible.

I remembered how close she was to my mother, and wished Mom could see the woman she has grown up to be.

For other reactions to the prompt, or to join in, click HERE for Sunday Scribblings

What Goes Around Comes Around

2010-07-18T08:10:00.003-05:00

When I was a young thing, sixteen to be exact, my friend Carolyn and I went to a party. I wasn’t really a wild child, but liked to hang out with those who had a more exciting life than me. Carolyn and I didn’t want to be the only people at the party not drinking, so we split a beer. Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten all day. No one warned me beer doesn’t hang out in an empty stomach. It wasn’t long until I found myself in the front yard, depositing that slightly used beer under a weeping willow tree. Even though the very thought of drinking a beer made my stomach churn, the day I turned twenty-one I drove to the liquor store and bought a six pack of beer. Why? To prove I could. When asked by the cashier to show my ID, I smiled and proudly produced my Illinois driver’s license.

Back in the day, movies didn’t have ratings. Movie productions were governed by the Hays Code, which spelled out what was acceptable and what was unacceptable content for movies produced in the United States. Because of this, theater owners sold tickets to anyone and everyone. Of course, in the time of Old Yeller, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Cinderella, who would have expected nudity, profanity, violence and drug use? In the 1950s there wasn’t a need for ratings. When movies became more graphic, the Hays Code became obsolete. In November 1968, our current rating system took effect. By then I was 18 years old and wouldn’t be barred from seeing any movie. Right? Wrong!

In April 1989, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in Dallas, Texas, I decided to go see an afternoon matinee at our local theater. I stood in a long line of excited movie goers, anxiously waiting to be scared out of my wits by the newest Stephen King movie. When it was my turn to pay, I handed the ticket taker a five dollar bill. It was then I heard, “ID please.” At the time, I was thirty-nine years old. I smiled and handed her my Texas driver’s license.

The week I turned forty, I went to Austin with John. Since he always paid, I left my purse in the trunk and we walked to a bar on Sixth Street for a margarita and some country western dancing. When we started to walk in, an extremely large man stepped in front of us. He let John pass, but stopped me. “ID please,” he said. I laughed out loud. He didn’t. John walked me back to the car to get my ID. Back at the bar, I smiled and handed Mr. Big my Texas driver’s license.

After that incident, the only time I remember being asked to produce ID was when writing a check or confirming my identification, not for proving how old I was—until yesterday.

Bob and I went to Menard’s to buy paint for the house. After pouring over paint samples and waiting for the paint to be mixed, we were starving. The nearest eatery was Ryan’s, so we decided to go there. Inside, Bob noticed a sign advertising their Senior Citizen’s discount. The girl didn’t automatically give us the discount, Bob had to ask.

“One discount?” She asked, looking at Bob.

“No, two,” he said.

She glared at me.

I asked, “What do you consider senior?”

“Sixty,” she responded.

“I turned sixty in May,” I said.

I knew the definition of stink eye, but never had one looking at me—until then. “You don’t look sixty. I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.

I thought the days of digging in my purse for my driver’s license were over. I went from age twenty-one and being angry when asked for identification, to being sixty and happily turning over my driver’s license. After all, how could I be angry with someone who didn’t think I looked old enough for a senior citizen discount?

Dead Pansies

2010-05-26T05:43:00.000-05:00

Sixty? Sixty. Sixty! No! It can’t be. It is. It isn’t. It is! How did I get here? Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago I learned to drive? And sneak out of the house to meet friends? When did I become an adult? Or have I? I opened my eyes, threw back the blanket, and sat up. I winced once, well maybe twice as I stood up. I may only be sixteen in my head, but my aching back was certainly a reality check.

Bob was already in the shower. It was just another school day for him. I didn’t have to work today. I took the day off. Better to wallow in self-pity alone, than burst into tears in front of customers and co-workers.

I pulled on my robe and made my way to the kitchen. Coffee! I need coffee, lots and lots of coffee. I picked the largest mug in the cabinet and filled it to the brim. I considered adding a little Kahlua, but decided against it. The twilight years didn’t seem like the right time to start an addiction. I might break something, like a hip. I remembered watching a show on TV about broken hips shortening the lives of old people. No need to risk it, I decided.

Finished with his shower, Bob moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. I decided to brush my teeth. I looked in the mirror. Was it my imagination, or were there more lines than normal around my eyes? Turning my head to the right and then to the left, I decided there were. The dark circles seemed a bit more pronounced than usual, too. Gray roots reminded me it was time to make a hair appointment. And what was that odd thing beneath my right eye? I looked closer while picking at it with my finger. Horrified, I realized it was one of those skin flaps like I had removed from my underarm. The one the dermatologist told me was due to carbohydrate intolerance or something like that. Fearful of what else I might find, I discontinued the inspection and picked up my toothbrush.

Liar that he is, Bob told me I looked beautiful, gave me a quick kiss, and wished me happy birthday, all while hurrying out the back door. I closed the door behind him, turned around, and leaned against it. I listened to the quiet. It was way too quiet. Willie was still sleeping and he wasn’t even snoring. I went to check on him. I watched to make sure he was still breathing. He is, after all, over ten years old, which is even older than me in dog years. Thankfully, he was still alive. I thought about giving him a pet and a pat, but then he would be awake and want to play fetch with his toys. I tiptoed out of the room.

I walked back into the kitchen and flipped on the TV. A reporter was interviewing someone about the oil spill coming closer to the Louisiana Wetlands. I was already depressed, so I turned the channel. Obama’s face appeared. I quickly hit the off button. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to anything that man had to say.

The whole day lay before me. I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, but what would that be? I took a drink of my now cold coffee and put the cup in the microwave. I watched the cup twirl around for thirty seconds, and then cautiously removed it and took another sip, much better. In the dining room, I noticed those ugly spots on the carpet. I intended to clean the carpet two weeks ago, but Hubby decided we needed to go to the nursery to look at plants instead. I could clean it today, if this wasn’t a vacation day. I should be doing fun things, not work. I decided to see if there was a chick flick on pay-per-view, something I wanted to watch, but Bob didn’t. I bent down to turn on the TV and saw another spot on the carpet. I glanced around and noticed yet another spot over by the door. I ignored the spots and sat down in the cushy TV watching chair and flipped through a few channels, finally settling on The Food Network. Paula Deen was cooking up some southern fried chicken. I tried to concentrate, but those spots seemed to be growing larger by the minute. I turned off the TV and put on my work clothes.

After vacuuming and cleaning the carpets, a glass of iced tea and a rest seemed in order. I sat down to cool off and called Tami. When she heard my voice, she asked her usual question, “So, now what are you doing?”

“I just finished cleaning the carpet,” I replied. My response was followed by silence, complete and total silence. So, I asked, “What are you doing?”

After a long pause, I heard, “Nothing much. What are you doing home?”

“I took the day off. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” More silence followed by, “Have you had any deliveries today?”

“Deliveries? Oh, yes. I got that book I ordered last week.”

“What book?”

“It’s called The Thirteenth Tale. Sounds good, like one of those ghostly tales I like so much.”

“Is that all?” Tami asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Crap! I planned to surprise you at work with flowers, but I forgot you wouldn’t be there. I better call them to let them know where to send them. I’ll talk to you later. Bye!”

“Bye,” I said to an already dead phone.

I put the vacuum and carpet cleaner away, picked up my new book, and tip-toed across the damp carpet to the front porch. I sat down, adjusted the cushion until it was just right, and opened the book. The telephone rang. “Oh H…! Why hadn’t I thought to bring the phone out with me?” I asked out loud. Willie, being the only live being in the area, didn’t reply, merely looked at me, sympathetically, with those big brown eyes. Reluctantly, I got up, tippy-toed back across the still damp carpet, and answered the phone.

“Did they come yet?” Tami asked without even so much as a hi, how ya doin’.

“No, not yet,” I replied.

“They were ready to bring them when I called.”

“Well, they haven’t come yet.” I saw Bytha’s car turn into the Life Center across the street, make a u-turn, and pull into my drive. “Wait, she’s here. I’ll call you back.”

I saw Willie prick up his ears. I envisioned Bytha having a heart attack when Willie barked his mean bark, so grabbed Willie by the collar and practically dragged him into the bedroom and shut the door. Bytha wasn’t young.

By the time Willie was contained and I had slipped my feet into a pair of sandals, I heard, “Yoo Hoo!”

I walked across the wet carpet to the front porch and unlocked the door.

“I think it’s somebody’s birthday. Happy birthday,” Bytha said as she thrust forward a gorgeous multi-floral arrangement.

I smiled and took the flowers, “Thank you. I’m not sure it’s a happy birthday, but it’s a birthday. They seem to show up even when you don’t want them to.

Bytha nodded knowingly, started to turn as if to leave, and then pointed behind her, “Your pansies need watered.”

I looked down at the pansies Bob planned to plant along the sidewalk. They were limp, slumped over, more dead than alive. “Oh, dear. I think they’re already dead.”

“If you water them, they’ll come back. The ones at the store looked like that this morning, but they are fine now. It’s the hot sun.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks for the tip.”

“Enjoy your birthday.”

“I will. Thanks again,” I called, as Bytha climbed into her car.

I looked down at the pansies and decided Bytha didn’t know what she was talking about. I made sure the bouquet had plenty of water, placed them in the center of the dining room table, admired them, and read the card. I smiled. Pleased my children were so thoughtful. Remembering the dead pansies, I located a pitcher and filled it with water. After unceremoniously dumping water over the flowers, I returned to my comfy seat on the porch and opened my new book. I read the first line, It was November—and then the telephone rang.

“Happy Birthday,” Bob said. “Are you having a good day?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“I twisted my knee this morning. It popped and now it hurts like the dickens. Do you think we could go out to dinner some other night?”

My heart fell. I was looking forward to having something fun to do that evening, now it sounded like I would be cooking dinner instead. However, knowing he would only cancel if he was in excruciating pain I said, “Sure. No problem.”

I looked at that new book I wanted to read, picked it up, set it back down, and turned toward the kitchen. By now it was well past lunchtime and my tummy was growling. I opened the cabinet door, stared inside, closed it and opened the refrigerator, stared inside, closed it, and returned to the cabinet. I pulled out a can of tomato soup, poured the contents into a bowl, put it in the microwave, and then fed Willie.

Willie wolfed down his food and was standing at the door, wagging his tale, by the time the microwave beeped. I let him out, and crumbled crackers into the soup. Just as the first bite was ready to pass between my lips, Willie barked his ‘let me in’ bark. I dropped the spoon and opened the door. Willie came bounding in. As he passed by I saw something on the floor. I bent down to get a closer look. Mud! I ran after him, grabbing his collar mere moments before he touched down onto freshly cleaned carpet. I pulled a raggedy towel off the stack kept for just this reason, cleaned his paws, and ordered him to lie down on the rug in front of the back door. He gave me his most pitiful look, which I ignored. I picked up my spoon and took a bite of soup. Cold!

I paced back and forth between the kitchen and front porch, bored. What to do. I decided to walk down to get the mail. I opened the mailbox. The neighbor’s dog, which is out more than in, jumped up on the gate. I snatched the mail out of the box and hurried back to the house.

As I turned up the front walk, I thumbed through the ads, a couple of bills, and pulled out 2 birthday cards from my kids. I stopped and opened Brian’s first. It had a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. Teresa and Brian vacationed in San Francisco several months earlier. I opened the card and read what he wrote. He said he bought the card while in San Francisco, saving it all this time to send to me on my birthday. He’s always apologizing for not being a better son, but he is the best son any mother could want. Well, he could visit more often, but after this card he was forgiven.

I started up the steps, missed the first one, and fell up the rest, banging the screen door open with my head, and landed sprawled out on the porch floor. I felt both hips to make sure they were still in place, and looked behind me. Fortunately, no one was around to witness my lack of grace.

By the time 4:30 arrived, dinner was ready to serve. Bob rarely ate food during the day, which means he is always starving when he walks in the door, thus the early dinner hour. I heard Willie bark and head for the back door. He stood there with his nose in the crack until Bob came inside. Willie backed up just enough to allow Bob to squeeze by on his way to the freezer with the box of dog biscuits on top. Bob took out two. He gave Willie one and stuck the other in his shirt pocket for later.

Once Willie was in the dining room, getting crumbs all over the clean carpet, Bob gave me a hug and wished me happy birthday again. With a proud smile, Bob took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. He likes making his own cards, and this was obviously a Bob original. It wasn’t in an envelope, so there wasn’t anything to open, so I merely looked at the front. It said Happy Birthday in bold letters. Beneath the caption was a picture. It was of an old woman, well endowed, with a figure more like Miss Piggy than a woman. She was dancing around, twirling long beads, while wearing a party hat. Now, I knew Bob was trying to be funny, because he isn’t the type to be mean. Still, I was immediately offended. I opened the card. He wrote some very nice words inside, and added a section about owing me one Mexican dinner in the near future. I gave him a quick hug, tossed the card on the table, and whispered a quick, less than thankful, “Thank you.”

As soon as dinner was over, I got out the scissors, cut off the front of the card, and left it on the table where Bob was sure to see it. I don’t like confrontation, but I was mad. My reaction even confused me. All evening, Bob kept giving me a now-what-did-I-do look, and was exceptionally nice. He even went outside to plant the beautiful tea rose he bought for my birthday. Still, my lips remained in a tight, straight line.

Bob tried to find something on TV I would like to watch. I turned on the computer, pulled up Facebook, and farmed.

When it was time to go to bed, I brushed my teeth while ignoring the mirror. No need to count any new lines that may have cropped up during the day. Bob gave me a hug, and said he hoped I had a nice birthday. I said I did, and crawled under the covers. All in all, it was a fairly good day. At least I didn’t break a hip. Still, I kept wondering how such a silly thing as a humorous card could make me so angry. I closed my eyes. They popped open again. I’m 60! That’s why! I quickly apologized.

Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day. Hubby hopes so, too. And for those of you who were worried, the pansies actually lived.

Stowaway

2010-05-09T08:04:00.005-05:00

The bouquet was made up of six red roses with just a whisper of baby’s breath, held together by a bright blue ribbon tied in a bow. It was even more beautiful because of its simplicity. The bride grasped the bouquet tightly, as if it would keep her knees from buckling beneath her as she walked down the aisle toward the man she would marry.

As the groom watched his bride walking toward him, a gentle smile played across his lips, his wink let her know he shared and understood her nervousness. When the bride reached out, the groom took her gloved hand, watching her tiny fingers disappear inside his larger ones. His strength helped calm his bride, as together they walked up the three steps to where the priest waited.

As Father Gilford droned on, the guests fidgeted in their seats, children cried, refusing to stay seated, constantly trying their parent’s patience. The older relatives napped, heads bobbing up and down as they lost their battle with the sand man. Bobby Joe remained awake, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to implement his devious plan.
As soon as Grandma Heim closed her eyes, Bobby Joe reached inside his jacket and pulled out Wicket. Bobby Joe rescued the weasel-like animal from Rosie’s Pet Shop in nearby Grimsville. Every time he went inside Rosie’s store, the ferret seemed to beg Bobby Joe to release him from his prison. Bobby Joe asked Grandma Heim if he could buy Wicket, but she said no. Grandma Heim thought ferrets were kin to possums and she hated possums.

Since Bobby Joe didn’t have the money to buy Wicket, he decided to help the ferret escape. He waited until Miss Rosie was busy with a customer. He opened the cage as quietly as possible, while keeping one eye trained on Miss Rosie, hiding Wicket inside his shirt. Bobby Joe closed the cage and wandered around the store, playing with a few kittens, patting a collie puppy on the head, making sure to smile and tell Miss Rosie goodbye before calmly closing the door behind them. Wicket was free.
That was a month ago; today Bobby Joe was sending Wicket on a mission. His sister, Mary, was standing at the alter making the worst mistake of her life. She was going to marry William Abbott, the president of First City Bank. He was twenty years her senior and a real stuffed shirt. Bobby Joe had to stop his sister before it was too late. Bobby Joe and Wicket spent hours practicing; now it was time to see if Wicket could pull off their plan.

Bobby Joe looked toward Grandma Heim to make sure she was still napping. Her faint snore assured him she was. Scanning the nearby guests, Bobby Joe confirmed no one was watching before loosing the beast. Wicket raced through feet resting under the front pew, made his way along the hems of the wide skirts worn by the bridesmaids, and slipped beneath the multiple layers of the bride’s long gown. He peaked out from the front of the skirt, rolled over onto his back, and shinnied up the dangling ribbons of the bouquet.

When his front claws were attached to the bouquet of roses, Wicket nipped Mary’s thumb, not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to make her scream and let go. At that point, Wicket’s plan went awry. Instead of dropping the bouquet on the nice soft carpet, Mary flung the red roses over her head. It was as if the church were filled with single women fighting for the right to get married next. Yet this time, no one tried to catch the bouquet, it fell hard on the top of the last pew before making three bounces across the carpet, finally coming to a stop on the hard marble of the lobby. All eyes were on the bouquet as it raced through the open church doors and disappeared down the front steps.

The bouquet leapt onto Tiny’s back. Tiny was one of a matched pair of white horses waiting to pull the carriage that would take the new bride and her husband to their wedding reception. When the bouquet’s claws dug into Tiny’s withers, he tried to shake it free. Tiny jumped, bucked, turned sideways, even tried twisting his head around to bite the prickly bouquet, but he only succeeded in making his twin angry. Timmy, thinking Tiny was being a brat about pulling a carriage, nipped Tiny on the neck and again on the shoulder. Tiny took off like a thoroughbred racer, dragging Timmy and the carriage along with him. The entire wedding party watched open-mouthed as the bouquet rode off into the sunset. Bobbie Joe’s plan was a success. Mary was convinced her runaway bouquet was a bad omen and called off the wedding.
Unfortunately, Bobby Joe didn’t tell Wicket when to stop, so Wicket just kept on going. Finally winded, Tiny came to a stop two blocks from the Greyhound Bus terminal. Wicket headed for the nearest bus to New York City, still disguised by the runaway bouquet. The passengers were too busy finding seats to notice Wicket snuggled up under the driver’s seat.

The next morning, Wicket was awakened by the driver announcing their arrival in the city. As the bus door opened, Wicket charged forward, almost knocking down an old lady picking up her purse. When she saw the bouquet running across her path, she promptly screamed and then fainted, her voluminous body blocking the exit. The unplanned distraction allowed Wicket to get away without notice.

Peeking through the rose petals, Wicket toured the city. Strange how no one paid attention to the runaway bouquet. Tired and hungry, Wicket found himself walking toward New York Harbor. Once there he didn’t see any food, but there was a passenger ship at the dock, which surely carried food for hungry travelers. Wicket made his way toward the gang plank; however there were too many people to board unnoticed. Searching for another way aboard, Wicket spied a huge rope tied around a bollard on the pier, reaching upward all the way to the deck of the huge ocean liner. Wicket climbed the rope.

As he dropped onto the ship’s deck, Wicket was startled by a voice behind him, “Psst. This way. Quick!”

Before Wicket could decide if the voice was generated by friend or foe, the sound of heavy footsteps sent him scurrying for cover beneath a nearby deck chair. Beside Wicket was a fat, brown rat.

As soon as the human danger passed, Wicket turned to see if the rat posed any threat. “Thanks,” Wicket said. “My name is Wicket, what’s yours?”

“Basil. Basil Ratamuffin,” the rat responded.

From his distinct English accent, Wicket deduced Basil wasn’t American, “Are you from England?”

“Dreaming Spires, Spireshire, United Kingdom.”

Having never heard of that place and not wanting to appear uneducated, Wicket said, “Oh.”

“Are you going on vacation?” The rat quizzed.

“No, I’m just looking for food,” replied Wicket.

“Well,” Basil said as he pointed toward the west. “I think you are going home with me.”

Wicket looked toward New York Harbor. He could see the lights of the city fading away in the distance. The ship was heading toward open sea.

“Since we’ll be traveling together, mind explaining what you’re doing with those flowers on your head? Wait; let’s make that our topic of conversation over dinner. Follow me,” directed Basil.

Five days later...

Basil hopped off the baggage cart. “Welcome to Dreaming Spires. Come on, I want you to meet my mom,” Basil called.

Wicket, still wearing the rose bouquet on his head, followed Basil as he dashed through the unfamiliar streets. They came to a stop in front of a building surrounded by lush gardens. “Come on. We’re almost home.”

Basil swiftly climbed a tree, stopping to wait for Wicket to untangle a rose wedged between two leaves. But poor Wicket couldn’t tug the rose loose. Wicket slipped, grabbing hold of the tree limb to keep from falling…unable to save the bouquet.

Meanwhile on a bench in the garden below...

Two lovers sat on a wooden bench, holding each other closely, knowing this would be the last time they would be together. He had other commitments in another country; she would be staying in Dreaming Spires alone. They were not meant to be a couple…or were they? All they needed was a sign from above, a bolt of lighting…something to convince them to fight for their love.

As his lips touched hers for what would be their last kiss, the somewhat wilted, yet still recognizable, stowaway bouquet fell from the clear blue sky, dropping into the arms of the woman. The impact opened their eyes, both in reality and figuratively, forcing the lovers to face the truth. They were meant to be together…together forever.

It's a Bar Isn't It?

2010-04-24T16:31:00.000-05:00

A man walks into a bar. But it isn’t a bar. It looks like a bar, sort of. At least to Jake’s fuzzy brain it did. He walked past several rows of empty benches. Frowning, he climbed four steps onto what appeared to be a stage. Instead of drums and microphones, someone placed a makeshift bar directly in the center. Instead of bottles of beer, the long table held a carafe, now empty, and a silver dish. He lifted the lid. Inside he found a stack of appetizer crackers. Food, perhaps a cracker would settle his rolling stomach. Jake took a bite, chewed four times, and then scrambled to find somewhere to spit. He decided on a freshly laundered napkin, which just happened to be lying next to a wine glass. After spitting and sputtering until every crumb was expelled, Jake took a moment to admire the pure, white tablecloth. Someone had stitched little blue symbols along the edge. He picked up a corner, squinting to identify the emblem. The strain caused his head to pound.

A red velvet chair with clawed feet beckoned from the side of the room. Jake sat down. He held his head between both hands, praying the pain would subside. He thought about going home, but someone told him the best cure for a hangover was another beer. Jake desperately needed a beer. He wondered when the bartender would decide to show up for work.

There wasn’t a clock on the wall, so Jake pulled out his pocket watch. The watch had belonged to his paternal grandfather, William. It was an antique, so it didn’t have numbers. The little hand pointed toward IX. The fog lifted enough for Jake to calculate the time. It was nine o’clock. At first he thought it must be nine o’clock in the morning because of the light shining in through the windows, but then he remembered there were street lights in the city. He forced his brain to think back over the past few days. Yesterday was Friday, which meant today was Saturday. So, it was either Saturday morning or Saturday night at nine. He felt sure it was Saturday night. So where are all the party people, he wondered.

The front door slowly screeched open, causing another wave of pain. Jake stood up, expecting the bartender to come strolling in. Instead, a feminine voice called his name, “Jake. Jake, are you in here?” Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “Dang,” he whispered. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he saw the face of an angry female. Jake quickly stepped behind a tall plant positioned next to the chair, pressing himself against the wall. The click of high heels on marble caused him a moment of panic. He peeked through the leaves, watching as the woman’s eyes scanned the room. She was beautiful. When the woman turned toward the exit, Jake admired her alluring walk. He thought about calling out to her, and then changed his mind. His head couldn’t handle an angry female voice right now. He stayed hidden until he felt sure she wasn’t coming back.

Beer, Jake needed a beer, or in lieu of alcohol, perhaps he could find someone to lop off his pounding head. Spying a door in the corner of the stage area, he decided to be his own bartender. Inside, instead of boxes of liquor and kegs of beer, he found several bottles of wine lined up on a shelf. Perhaps the wine would clear his head. He picked up one bottle, and after some thought, picked up another. He returned to the stage, carefully descended the four steps, and sat down on a bench.

Jake peeled back the foil on the first bottle of wine, only to discover a cork. He stretched one leg forward, leaned to the left, and reached deep into his pants pocket. Pulling out a knife, he proceeded to whittle away at the soft material. Bits of cork littered both his clothing and the floor, some falling inside the bottle. Jake lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. A piece of cork caused him to choke. After a couple of hard coughs, the foreign object slammed against the bench in front of him. Unfortunately, it didn’t attach itself to the bench. Instead, it bounced off, making a beeline for his left eye. With his reaction time greatly diminished, he was barely able to close his eyelid before the missile struck. The impact caused more pain, eliciting a stream of expletives.

Feeling the call of nature, Jake took a smaller sip of wine, making sure to avoid any cork crumbs, and pulled himself upright. He looked around for the men’s room. There wasn’t a sign, but he spied a row of wooden port-a-potties along one wall of the room. Jake proceeded to do the side-step between the benches, coming to a stop in front of the first port-o-let. He didn’t see a men’s or women’s sign, so he opened the first door and stepped inside. The door banged shut behind him. He couldn’t see anything in the inky darkness, not even the light switch. He did find the urinal, though. After conducting his business, Jake pushed open the door and returned to the waiting bottle of wine.

The first bottle didn’t relieve the pounding in his head, so Jake opened the second. This time he was careful not to let any cork fall inside the bottle. Halfway through the second bottle, his headache seemed to diminish. Just to make sure he had enough wine, he slammed the rest. One more bottle and he would be good as new.

Instead of standing up, Jake found himself draped across the back of a bench. He slowly dragged himself erect and took a few unsteady steps. As Jake made his way toward the stage, he noticed the stairs seemed farther away and the floor more uneven. He hadn’t realized there were dips in the floor until now. In fact, he seemed to be walking uphill. When Jake finally reached the steps, he misjudged the distance and ended up seated. Not only was the floor uneven and uphill, it was hard. The pain in his head relocated to his backside.

Too dizzy to stand, Jake stretched out on the floor. He decided to rest a moment and let his head clear. In an effort to find a comfortable spot on the cold, hard floor, he curled up into a fetal position. He yawned. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, he thought.

The soft sound of a female voice awakened him. When he opened his eyes, he saw a woman kneeling in front of the steps leading to the bar. A long necklace dangled from her hands. She seemed to be counting as she mumbled to herself. Her clothing was conservative, not the typical party type. She looked suspiciously like a mother. Frowning, Jake silently chastised the woman. Mothers were not supposed to frequent bars.

Jake sat up, ignored the pounding in his head, and crawled over to the wall. He glanced back toward the woman, thankful her eyes were closed. He made his way along the wall, praying he would reach the door without being seen. As he crept toward the row of port-a-potties, a door in the far corner of the room opened. Out stepped a man in a long white robe. Jake slid in behind the wooden port-a-let and peeked around the corner. He watched as the man opened the door to the one Jake had used last night, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

A more sober Jake took another look around the room. The woman was still kneeling before the bar, yet it wasn’t a bar. The stage wasn’t really a stage. The benches were more than benches, and the wall décor wasn’t the expected neon beer signs. Confused, he whispered to himself, “This was a bar last night, wasn’t it?”

The entrance door screeched open once more. The beautiful young woman from earlier stepped inside. This time he didn’t hide. He saw her expression pass from relief to anger, as she said, “Where have you been? Andrew said he dropped you off at home early this morning.” When Jake didn’t answer she continued sarcastically, “I guess your bachelor party was a success.”

Jake walked over to his fiancée, “I had a little too much to drink. I’m sorry Megan.” He smiled his most endearing smile, “Forgive me?”

Unable to stay mad when he was so pathetic, Megan nodded.

Relieved, Jake continued, “Would you mind waiting here? There’s something I need to do.”

Megan smiled her assent.

Jake stepped inside the inky darkness of the confessional, closed the door, and said, “Bless me Father for I have sinned.”

The Old Blue Truck

2010-03-27T08:30:00.007-05:00

Maggie wasn’t as oblivious as her mother and grandmother thought. She knew something was up. She could feel the tension and see it in their faces. Mom’s usual bright smile had disappeared into a thin line, her lips tipped downward on the corners. Grandma rocked manically in her chair, its usual comforting squeak more of a squeal. Grandma wasn’t enjoying a quiet afternoon on the porch, she was downright angry.

Miss Kitty meandered across the barn yard, spied Yeller Cat, and pounced. Yeller jumped three feet off the ground before landing on all fours. He raced after his sister, easily catching her. The two rolled over and over in the grass, and then stopped suddenly, their paws around each other as if hugging, ears laid back as if fighting. After losing interest in their game, Miss Kitty fled to the safety of a nearby maple tree. She peeked through the leaves, waiting until Yeller Cat disappeared around the corner of the house, before running up the porch steps. Maggie reached down and picked her up. It was then she heard the sound of Grandpa’s truck.

“Grandpa’s home!” Maggie called, as she jumped up to run toward the sound. Maggie’s wide smile disappeared when her mother grabbed her by the shoulder, abruptly stopping all forward movement. Miss Kitty’s claws dug into Maggie’s arm in an attempt to keep from falling. Maggie screeched, and dropped Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty took off for parts unknown.

Maggie watched the drive for Grandpa. Instead of its usual slow pace, the truck was coming fast. Maggie could tell from the cloud of dust rising above the trees along the gravel road. The moment the old blue truck came into view, Maggie screamed. The truck was sliding sideways. It tilted slightly, threatened to roll, before coming to rest against the old oak tree at the edge of the yard. Grandpa crawled out the passenger door, waived, and stumbled toward the porch.

Relieved, Maggie waived back and tried to run toward him. Her mother’s hand still gripped her shoulder, successfully preventing all forward movement. She looked to her mother for help, but her mother turned her toward the house and gave her a shove through the door.

“Stay inside,” was all she said.

Confused, Maggie obeyed. She peeked outside through the living room drapes. Grandpa stumbled on the steps and fell at Grandma’s feet. Grandma reached for the straw broom leaning against the wall and tried to sweep Grandpa off the porch. Maggie’s mother merely stood with her arms on her hips, looking disgusted.

Risking a trip to the woodshed when her father got home, Maggie raced outside. She didn’t know what she could do, yet she knew she had to do something. No one, not even her grandma, was going to hurt her beloved Grandpa. Maggie grabbed the broom and hung on. As the broom took one more swipe at Grandpa, Maggie’s hands slipped. She fell on top of her grandpa’s chest. She lay there for a moment, breathing like a marathon runner nearing the finish line, inhaling Grandpa’s breath. Her eyes moved from the old blue truck to Grandma, to Mom, and then she lifted her head to see her Grandpa’s face. Maggie involuntarily wrinkled her nose. That’s when she realized why everyone was mad. Grandpa was drunk.

Meeting Miss Daisy

2010-03-21T09:24:00.004-05:00

The race was almost over. Kyle Bush was in second position, which meant he would be making his move soon. It would be an exciting finish, yet my eyelids didn’t care. They drooped. I opened them and blinked. They closed. Even with the volume up loud enough for the neighbors to hear, sleep shut off the sound. Nothing could keep me awake, except the shrill ring of the telephone. I groaned and forced my eyes open.

Fortunately, I had placed the phone within reach. Tami, my only daughter, gets bored when driving, and she was on her way back to my house in Illinois from their former house in Tennessee. They are in the process of relocating to the northern part of the state. This was at least the fourth call of the evening.

I picked up the phone and pushed the button, “Hello.”

“So, n-o-w what are you doing?” Came the familiar query.

“The same thing as five minutes ago,” I said sleepily.

“I thought you were watching Nascar. Were you asleep?” She asked with a slightly accusatory tone.

On the defensive now, as if taking a nap were a cardinal sin, I replied, “No, I was watching the race. Well, maybe listening to the race. Okay, so I dozed off.”

Tami laughed at my confusion, “Can you wake up? I really need to think about something other than this move.”

“I’m awake,” I said. I could hear a quiver in her voice. My little girl was on the verge of tears. Alert now, I sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m a little homesick. You should have seen the house. The painters are finished. Everything looks so neat and clean. Missy misses her friends. I miss mine. What if moving was the wrong decision?”

“Does Chris like his new job?”

“He loves it.”

“You can still keep in touch with your friends. You can email, talk on the phone, and visit. Tennessee isn’t far.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m just feeling a little sad.”

“Once you have a new house and you’re settled, things will get back to normal.”

“I know you’re right. Listen, it’s starting to rain. I better hang up and concentrate on the road. I’ll call you later.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Other than a brief call to let me know they arrived at the Toledo House safely, I didn’t hear from Tami again until the following morning.

“So, n-o-w what are you doing?” Daughter asked. This is almost always her opening line when she calls.

“Working on a story,” I said.

“You’ll never guess what came to the door last night.”

“What?”

“You know how sad Missy and I were feeling last night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we were sitting in the living room, feeling sorry for ourselves, while listening to the storm. We kept hearing a noise out on the front steps.”

“A noise?” I asked worrying the front porch had washed away in the torrential rain.

“When we went outside to investigate, we found a tiny kitten sitting beside the pansies. It was soaking wet, mewing, and trying to climb up the screen.”

“What did you do with it?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. My daughter is one of those kind hearted souls who can’t leave a stray along the side of the road. Her daughter is the same.

“We brought her in and dried her off. We’re going to keep her.”

Surprise, surprise, I thought. And then my immediate concern became the carpet. “I hope you have a litter box set up, outside, on the screened in porch would be good.”

“Well, we don’t yet, but we’re on our way to go get one.”

“Please do not leave the kitten in the house while you’re gone. The odor of cat urine is impossible to get out of carpet.”

“I know. She’s out there right now. You’ll fall in love with her. Wait and see. You’ll want to keep her for yourself.”

“No I won’t,” I stated firmly.

“I know you. You’ll fall in love.”

“Have you named her?”

“Yes. We named her Daisy.”

“Did you choose that name to make sure I wouldn’t toss the little thing out on its ear?” My beloved grandma’s name was Daisy, and I always named my dolls after her. I once had a calico kitten I named Daisy. Tami knew this about me.

Innocence oozed from her reply, “No. We merely liked the name.”

“Yeah, right,” I said sarcastically, letting my daughter know she wasn’t fooling me with her feigned innocence.

“It’s a good name,” I said. “You know, Grandma Daisy may have seen how sad you and Missy were after your trip. Maybe she thought a kitten would be just the thing.”

“It could be,” Daughter agreed. “Whether or not she was sent to us by some unseen entity, Daisy’s arrival did cheer us up. Wait until you see her, you’ll love her too.”

Having a soft spot in my heart for kittens and puppies, I knew it would be love at first sight. But I didn’t want my daughter to think I was a push over, so I said, “We’ll see.”

I always have lunch at the Toledo house. Monday was no different. I picked up a sandwich at Casey’s and drove to the house. A note indicated the gang was off having fun at the Charleston Park, so I opened my sandwich and settled in to watch the noon news. I had licked the last crumb from my finger when I heard an unfamiliar noise. At first, I thought it was a baby crying. I muted the TV and listened. Silly you, it’s the kitten, I thought. I threw away my trash, slugged down a drink of water, and headed for the front porch. It was time to meet Daisy.

I peeked out the front door and there she was, preening in the sunshine. She was all gray with beautiful gray/green eyes. She was tiny, barely weaned. A litter box had been placed against the far wall. Bowls of food and water waited to quench the kitten’s hunger or thirst. She was being well cared for. I opened the door and tip toed outside.

Daisy didn’t jump and run, but she did stop washing her ear to stare at me. I reached down and scooped up the little ball of fur. I tucked her under my chin and listened to her purr. Cute. Yes, I was in love. Even though my screened-in front porch is on the north side of the house, it was hot, so I carried Daisy inside to cool off.

I sat down on the sofa to get to know Daisy. I scratched her ears and she told me how much she liked being scratched and petted. She walked around on my lap looking for a comfy spot to sit down. She sat down. I continued to scratch her ears and talk to her in a soothing voice. I was in the process of thinking how much I would like to have a cat again, when I felt something warm on my leg. It was very warm. My confused mind tried to discern what could have caused so much warmth. It was then the light bulb went off. This wasn’t cat body heat. Yuck! It was cat pee! Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!

I grabbed the kitten and carried her back outside. Instead of drop kicking the beast, I gently placed her on top of the cat litter. I shook my finger while explaining what cat litter should be used for. I swear that kitten was smiling!

After changing clothes to go back to work, I heard the back door bang open. Missy led the pack of grandkids. Mom followed behind. They were all laughing and talking at once. I couldn’t understand a word they said, yet intuitively knew they were excited about my meeting their kitten. They were confused by my frown.

“What’s the matter, Grandma,” Missy finally yelled above the chatter.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Did you meet Daisy? Isn’t she the cutest?” Tami said.

Still frowning, I said, “Yes, she is cute. But, I don’t want that kitten inside until she learns how to use that litter box.”

Without speaking, I held out my yellow-stained, white pants.

“Oh Grandma, what happened to your pants?” Missy asked.

Stoically, I explained, “Your sweet little kitty peed on my leg.”

“Oh,” Missy said.

Instantly, everyone was silent. You could have heard that clichéd pin drop. All four kids stood totally still, unmoving. I could almost see the wheels turning while they assessed the situation. Would Grandma be mad enough to take away their kitty? And then Tami laughed, giving her children permission to taunt their poor grandmother.

Addy pointed toward the pants, “Daisy peed on you!”

I’m sure their laughter could have been heard next door.

“Yes, she did,” I chuckled. Their hilarity was contagious. I gave up and joined in. After all, it was just a pair of pants!

If Only I Could Fly

2010-01-09T00:05:00.000-06:00

A cool morning breeze ruffled the leaves on the maple tree next to the porch. I took a sip of coffee and leaned back into the soft cushion of a faded lawn chair, faded from too many seasons on the front porch. I took a deep breath, inhaling the last remnants of summer, and closed my eyes to better hear the familiar sounds of morning.

The neighbor’s door opened, and then shut. Mr. Wonderful, so named because of a constant smirk and better than thou attitude, climbed into his crew cab. The engine came alive and he reversed into the alley. Willie barked his most vicious bark and chased the mean green machine along the back fence, continuing to bark until the truck turned the corner onto Main Street.

Across the street, The Singer, named due to his penchant for belting out hymns after church on Sunday morning, threw his lunch box into the passenger side seat of his truck, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in. His truck needed a new muffler, but Willie didn’t bark at The Singer. Odd how dogs choose who gets a bark and who doesn’t.

A mourning dove landed on the porch railing, saw he wasn’t alone, and then flew away. I watched him as he stopped for a quick peck in the grass next to the road, and then soar high above the roofs to land in the pine tree across the street. He answered the mournful cry of another dove before taking off for parts unknown. I envied his ability to fly high over the tree tops.

I took another sip of coffee and contemplated my life as a bird. There wouldn’t be a time clock to punch, no mundane chores, only the world to explore. I would sit on the wires, fly from treetop to treetop, and probably flirt with that cute little Blue Jay over by the pond. I would live outside, enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and maybe find myself a worm or two over in Mrs. Larkin’s garden. I couldn’t imagine eating a worm, so decided I would sample her tomatoes instead.

I took another sip of my favorite beverage, and wondered if birds liked their coffee black or with cream and sugar. Willie joined me on the porch, flopped down on the hard, tile floor, and then hopped back up. He whined as he watched Mrs. Hatfield’s cat stalking an unsuspecting sparrow. The cat pounced, Willie barked, and the bird flew away. It was safe, this time.

As I took another sip of coffee, I glanced at my watch. Now it was my turn to hop up. In doing so, I spilled coffee down the front of my new, pink robe. I brushed at the spot, and then leaned down to pat Willie on the head, “I guess birds have difficult days, too.” I scratched his ears and continued my contemplation, “I wonder if birds wish they were human.” Willie merely wagged his tail. I gave him one last pat, shrugged, and winked, “Well, better fly or I’ll be late for work.”

Blogoversary

2010-01-05T00:09:00.003-06:00

Has it really been three years since I decided to start a short story blog? I actually signed up with blogger in 2005, soon after I moved back to my home state of Illinois. Yet, I don't count that as my Blogoversary, since I only used this blog once to upload some pictures from Picasa to share with my out-of-state family. So, when I decided to post short stories, I didn't start a new blog, I merely made use of the one I had.

Why did I start blogging? At the time, I knew I should be writing every day. Writing is like learning a musical instrument, or another language—practice makes perfect. As an adult, I didn't have parents to make me sit down at the computer and practice my craft, so I set goals for myself.

I posted my first story on January 5, 2007. From that date forward, I posted one story every week or two, which has resulted in my writing nearly two hundred short stories. Last summer, I took a break, only posting two short stories since July 31, 2009. This year, I resolve to get back to posting a new short story every week or so.

I want to thank those who choose to stop by and read my ramblings, especially Blue who was my first and most loyal follower. Thanks!

So Cheers! Here's to a New Year and a new beginning. Happy New Year!

Murder at the Rialto

2010-01-03T07:51:00.005-06:00

By the time the pews were filled at St. Boniface, Prima Donna, Madam Bibi Bessette would be where she belonged—in hell. No longer worried about how many calories she consumed, Claudia raised the wine bottle to her lips. She swallowed the last drops of Riesling, while remembering the night Thomas gave it to her. It was the night he told her he would marry Bibi. He presented Claudia with a three carat diamond pendant and a bottle of her favorite wine, as if he could bribe her into being his mistress. Thomas seemed to think Claudia would go along with his deceptive ways, and still be happy to see him on the rare occasion he could manage time away from his happy little home. Thomas was wrong.

Claudia tossed the empty wine bottle toward the trash can, missed, and watched as it shattered, spreading shards of glass over the hardwood floor. She shrugged, and then laughed until tears slid down her cheeks. Claudia couldn’t believe she had been stupid enough to believe the man’s lies. He was clever, hiding the fact he was already engaged, for months after they met. His actions led Claudia to believe she would be Mrs. Thomas Arceneau. Now she knew the truth.

The bells of St. Boniface began chiming the hour, calling all sinners to early morning mass. Claudia ignored the call. Instead, she synchronized her watch, put on the coat her father gave her last Christmas, and made her way outside. The soft light of dawn, combined with a fresh layer of snow, made for a visually stunning morning. Claudia didn’t notice. She was too busy plotting revenge. As she crossed Hawthorne Avenue, she failed to see the snow plow careening toward her. The deafening sound of its horn caused her to run the last few steps, slipping and sliding to safety. As she stepped up onto the sidewalk, she lost her balance and sat down hard, breaking the fall with her hands.

She checked for injuries, found none, and then felt inside her coat for the small silver gun hidden inside her pocket. She held her breath while she searched, exhaling only after her fingers wrapped around the weapon. The Derringer belonged to Thomas. She took the gun from their cabin hideaway last weekend. He wasn’t even suspicious when she asked to see his guns. After all he would never have guessed his besotted lover capable of shooting one. Relieved to find her weapon in tact, Claudia pulled herself up and continued down the street toward the Rialto Theater.

The Rialto was home to the prestigious Le jeune Ballet Company. Bibi, their Prima Ballerina, lived upstairs. Claudia checked her watch. Satisfied the bride-to-be would still be asleep, Claudia dashed across the street and crept around to the side entrance. The door was locked. She felt along the top of the door, inside a potted plant, and finally came up with a key hidden under the mat. Claudia shook her head, muttering something about Bibi’s stupidity for leaving the key in such an obvious place.

Claudia walked slowly, carefully up the wooden stairway. Each creak seemed to echo throughout the building. When she arrived at Bibi’s door, she was surprised to find it ajar. She looked up and down the hallway to make sure she was alone before pushing it open and stepping cautiously inside.

The room held a strong metallic-like odor so strong Claudia had to wrap her scarf over her nose to breathe. Still, she crept farther into the room. When her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she focused on a dark mound beside the sofa. Claudia gasped and grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling. Bibi was lying on her back. Curled up next to Bibi was Claudia’s beloved Thomas, both bodies were covered in blood. Claudia quickly opened the blinds and felt for a pulse, but she was too late. They were both dead, killed execution style, with a bullet to the center of each skull.

Claudia sat beside her beloved Thomas, rocking back and forth. She stopped rocking when she saw a gun and a cuff link on the floor between Bibi and Thomas. She reached down to pick up the monogrammed, gold cuff link. She recognized it as a Christmas gift from her mother to her father. Claudia helped select them at Morry’s Jewelry Store down on the boulevard. She was certain the cuff link belonged to her father. Claudia’s heart fell when she recognized the gun as a vintage Luger from the display case in her father’s study.

It was then she heard the sirens. As running footsteps approached the door, Claudia bent down to give Thomas one last kiss. Just before the officers entered the room, Claudia tossed the cuff link down the heat grate, rubbed her hands in the blood, and picked up the Luger. One of the officers called out, “Hands above your head!” Claudia slowly raised her arms.

Twinkle Toes Malone

2009-10-31T10:27:00.004-05:00

The clock high above the town square chimed midnight. The courthouse windows emitted a dim, yellow light, giving them the appearance of eyes peering through the darkness. Inspector Tobias Malone moved stealthily across the lawn, stopping under a sycamore tree. He leaned back against the trunk to catch his breath. I’ve got to stop eating so much peanut butter pie, and drag out that Bowflex, he thought to himself. The street lamps, dimmed by dense fog, did little to alleviate the blackness of all Hallows Eve.

In this tiny town, with little else to do on Halloween, the teenage population threw all caution to the wind and morphed into vandals. Their target, the town square in general and the courthouse in particular. Tonight, Inspector Tobias planned to catch them in the act and toss them all in the pokey. The townspeople didn’t seem to mind the children’s antics, turning a blind eye, even enjoying their artwork. Last year, there were even parents out taking pictures of the mass of toilet paper streaming from the trees and the plastic wrap blocking the entrance on a busy court morning. Inspector Tobias, who doubled as maintenance man/groundskeeper, planned to change all that. He was sick of cleaning up toilet paper, and after all, vandalism was a crime. This year, he would be the courthouse hero.

Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, Inspector Tobias jerked his head left, and then covered his mouth to keep from crying out in pain. However, the crack of his hard head striking an even harder tree seemed to echo around the downtown square. He dragged a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped up the warm blood trickling down the side of his face. He expected to wake up tomorrow with yet another black eye. Note to self, try to be less clumsy, he admonished.

A black cat joined him under the tree. He couldn’t see it, so he didn’t know it was old Mrs. Gilbert’s tom. He could only tell some furry creature was busy attacking his leg, and it hurt almost as much as his head. He gave the animal a swift kick. Only as it sailed through the air on its way to the side of the building, did he recognize the cat’s angry yowl. The noise stopped mid-screech. Tobias bent down to rub the scratch marks, only to discover his trouser legs were soaking wet. “Whoever the County is paying to mow this lawn needs fired. The grass is too high and the leaves need raked,” he muttered, and then remembered he was the groundskeeper. He briefly wondered if slamming a black cat against the side of a building was bad luck, shrugged, and turned his attention back to the task at hand.

After searching the dark, nebulous grounds for signs of movement, Inspector Tobias darted from tree to tree until he reached the courthouse doors. He slipped the master key in the lock, turned, and disappeared inside.

Inspector Tobias peeked outside. His eyes darted back and forth, coming to rest on a dark figure standing on the gazebo steps. Tobias jumped backwards. Just as he slammed his back against the wall, the hall lights came on. Certain he was not alone, Tobias dropped to his knees while simultaneously pulling his gun out of its holster. Unfortunately, the safety wasn’t on. The resulting gunshot reverberated throughout the building. The slug ricocheted off Abe Lincoln’s Portrait, curved back around, and made a bee line for Tobias. Fortunately the bullet missed his skull, merely removing a small section of the left ear lobe. Tobias spouted off his entire repertoire of curse words. Realizing he was responsible for tuning on the lights when he bumped into the switch, Tobias cursed again and turned them off.

With the aid of a pin light, Inspector Tobias made his way up to the third floor communications room. From the window, he would be able to keep an eye on the grounds and thwart any attempts at Halloween trickery.

Once inside the room, he propped the door open with a folding chair, and returned the pin light to his pocket. He looked out the window, relieved to see the fog seemed less dense. It was then he saw Brandon Carter slip from the cover of the sycamore tree and crouch down next to a bench. Other shadows separated from trees, moving toward the basement door. Before Tobias could turn to leave, the door behind him slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place.

Tobias tried opening the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. Unfortunately repairing the broken latch was on his ‘to do’ list and he hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it.

“Let me out of here, you little bastards,” he called.

A rustling near his feet had him turning the light on. Someone had slipped a note under the door. He muttered a curse word or two under his breath, as his eyes scanned the contents of the note—Put on the costume and we’ll let you out. Tobias turned around, and nearly screamed. At first he thought a woman was standing behind him, but then he realized it was only a frilly pink tutu hanging against the wall, leggings and matching ballet shoes lay on the floor beside him.

Inspector Tobias lost his cool. He kicked the door as hard as he could, and then hopped around on one foot until the pain lessened enough to speak, “Let me out of here you little shits!” Silence greeted his outburst.

Someone slipped another note under the door. Put on the costume, or you’ll be in there the rest of the weekend. It seemed to Tobias, there was nothing to do but comply or be locked up indefinitely. Besides, as soon as he had those vandals in handcuffs, he would put his uniform back on.

With his uniform neatly folded, Tobias wiggled into the pink tights, and then pulled on the tutu. It was a perfect fit. He slid his feet into matching ballet shoes, and resisted the urge to try a pirouette or petit jeté (jump) in such a small room. Still, habit forced him to stand erect in first position. He looked down at his feet and wondered if someone knew his mother had forced him to take ballet lessons, or was the costume a coincidence.

“Okay! I’m ready!” He called.

The door groaned loudly as it swung open. Inspector Tobias decided to give his audience a show. He closed his eyes, flipped on the third floor lights, and began a pas de chat (step of the cat), as he had done while performing Swan Lake so many years ago. He leaped off his left leg, starting from a plié and raised the right leg into retiré. In midair, he raised his left leg into retiré, too, so his legs formed a diamond shape in the air. He landed on his right leg and with his left leg still in retiré, brought it down, landing in a plié. He expected applause, but when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

He heard voices from the second floor courtroom, and made his way toward the railing to see what was going on down there. It was then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to his right in time to see a wheel of cheese, or no, it wasn’t cheese, it was a large wheel of toilet paper, rolling toward him. In order to avoid being struck by the roll of speeding toilet paper, he performed a grand jeté. Unfortunately the jeté (jump) was too grand. Inspector Tobias gracefully slid through the air, over the third floor railing, and descended into the second floor courtroom. As he dropped toward the defendant’s table, he saw Brandon Carter again, and realized he was falling toward a Halloween party in full swing. The costumed attendees called out, “Happy Halloween Inspector Tobias!” Upon impact, the room went black.

When Tobias came to, he lay still, keeping his eyes closed. It was then he heard a distant voice call out, “Yoo whooo Poopsie! You awake? Yoo whoooo Twinkle Toes Malone, wake up. Did you forget you have a special Halloween matinee of Swan Lake?”

His mom knocked loudly on the bedroom door. “I’m up,” Tobias yelled.

Still, his mother continued in an accusatory voice, “Do you have a hangover? You didn’t spike the punch at the Courthouse Halloween party again—did you?”

On Hiatus

2009-07-31T06:23:00.007-05:00

It's time to take a break. How long? I'm not sure. I have too many unfinished projects requiring my attention. I'm taking some time away from posting stories to finish editing a second book of short stories, and at least one of my two novels.
I'll be back when I can.
I will still visit my favorites when I can, and you can always come visit me over at
Rubbish by Roan
where I will be posting occasionally.
Thank you for your support!
There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too.
And up in the nursery an ubsurd little bird
Is popping out to say cook-coo cook-coo, cook-coo
Regretfully they tell us cook-coo
But firmly they compell us cook-coo
To say goodbye cook-coo...
To you...

So long farewell, auf weidersehen good-bye
Marta
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

So long farewell, auf weidersehen adieu
Freidrich
Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you

So long farewell, au revior auf weidersehen
Liesl
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
Yes?
Captain
No

So long farewell, auf weidersehen goodnight
Kurt
I leave and heave a sigh and say good bye - goodbyyyyyyeeeee!

Brigitta
I'm glad... to go.... I cannot tell a lie
Louisa
I fleet, I float, I fleetly flee I fly...

Gretl
The sun... has gone... to bed and so must I...

So long...farewell...auf weidersehen goodbye...
Goodbye...
Goodbye....
Goodbye....
Guests
Goodbye...

From "The Sound of Music"
Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2nd
Music by Richard Rodgers

My LIttle Chickadee

2009-07-25T12:16:00.004-05:00

The Fillin’ Station isn’t really a filling station. You can’t buy gasoline there, at least not anymore. There was a time when you could have had your car repaired and fill up your tank, but that was before competition made it impossible for a small company to compete. So, the owner converted the building into a restaurant. Today, The Fillin’ Station only fills tummies, which is all Amy was looking for when she walked in the door Sunday evening.

The room was full. After all, it was all-you-can-eat fish night. Amy looked around for an empty table, but they were all occupied. No waitress came to assist her, or put her name on a waiting list. The Fillin’ Station seated customers on a first come, first served basis, and regulars knew to wait their turn. Amy waited. She leaned against the wall, and then the counter, waiting patiently, but no one seemed to be leaving. Everyone had their heads together, whispering, while glancing toward the last table in the far corner. Amy hated gossip, yet she always listened.

Amy allowed her eyes to wander toward the topic of conversation. A woman and a man such as she had never seen before, at least in her lifetime, were perusing the menu. The woman wore an oversized hat with a cluster of feathers reaching for the ceiling, and a figure-hugging blue gown with bugle beads. The man wore a dark suit. A top hat rested on the chair beside him. As Amy stared, the woman smiled and motioned for Amy to join them.

Without thinking, Amy slowly walked toward the table. As she came closer, the woman stood up. “Have a seat Honey,” she said.

The man took a silver flask from his pocket, “Care for some lemonade?”

Amy sat down, and shook her head in answer to the lemonade question. “Hi, I’m Amy,” was all she could come up with to say.

The woman’s voice was loud and authoritative, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Amy. You can call me Mae. This old codger is Bill.”

“Welcome, my little Chickadee,” the man said.

The word Chickadee got Amy to thinking. Yes, a Chickadee is a bird, but that wasn’t what tugged at her memory. She looked at the woman, and then at the man. Pointing, she said, “You’re Flower Belle Lee.” Turning her attention to the man, she said, “And you’re Cuthbert J. Twillie. Grandma and I watched your movie the other night.”

“Ah, yes. My Little Chickadee,” Bill said. “That movie was released in 1940. The first big screen success for Universal after Gone With the Wind. Although, the critics didn’t like it much. Flower Belle and Twillie were our character names. I’m W.C. Fields and this is Mae West. But you can call me Bill. Mae here didn’t like me much at the time, but she got over it.”

“That’s what you think, you old drunk. Do you remember your last line?”

“Come up and see me sometime. And you said?”

Mae chuckled and then said, “Mmm, I will, my little chickadee. And then I sashayed up the stairs. The editor put the words ‘The End’ over my well-endowed posterior.”

The waitress interrupted, “Have you decided?”

“What’s good here, Amy?” Mae asked.

“The all-you-can-eat fish. That is, if you’re not dieting. It’s pretty greasy.”

“I never worry about diets. The only carrots that interest me are the number of carats in a diamond.” She closed the menu, handed it to the waitress, and said, “I’ll have the catfish. And toss in a piece of cherry pie with that.”

Bill pointed to the flask on the table, “I’ll just have my lemonade.”

Amy ordered her usual shrimp and the waitress left. Amy said to Mae, “Are you and Bill married?”

“Heavens no, honey!”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Not to Bill, but I gave marriage a try. It’s easy to get married, but hard to stay that way. I say, don’t ever make the same mistake twice, unless it pays.”

“Do either of you have children?” Amy asked Bill.

“I like children – fried. Children should neither be seen or heard from – again. I never met a kid I liked.”

Mae gave Amy a wink, “Don’t let the old fool fool you, he has a son. He just hasn’t seen the kid in a while. It’s a sore spot.”

“And I haven’t stopped drinking since. Excuse me, I must have a drink for breakfast.” Bill tipped up the flask and took a gulp of the contents.

Mae frowned, “It’s dinner time you old fool. Why don’t you try drinking water?”

“I never drink water. I’m afraid it will become habit-forming.”

Amy watched as the two traded insults. She couldn’t quite decide if they hated each other, or if they were in love. Before she could decide, the food came. The women ate in relative silence, while Bill took a nip or two from his flask and watched people watch him.

Bill leaned in to whisper, “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull.” And then he stood up. He looked around, made eye contact with the obvious busy-bodies in the room and said, “Some weasel took the cork out of my lunch.” With that, he staggered toward the exit, and disappeared through the door.

Mae pushed back her chair and stood up, “I like a man who’s good, but not too good – for the good die young, and I hate a dead one. Better go make sure he doesn’t get run over crossing the street. It was nice meeting you, honey.”

With that she too disappeared through the door.

The waitress brought Amy’s food: a plate of fried shrimp, slaw, hush puppies, and a piece of cherry pie.

Realizing she was here to work, Amy shook the daydream from her head, opened her notebook, and picked up a pen. She began writing a review for the movie, My Little Chickadee.

The Hogg House

2009-07-18T07:08:00.008-05:00

This is a joint effort for Portraint of Words and Sunday Scribblings. Plus I have provided a happy ending for Dr. John and Bettygram.

It was hot even before the sun broke through the fog over Moss Lake. An eagle circled high above Salt Lick Creek, spied an unsuspecting rabbit, and dived down to retrieve its prey. A doe lifted her head, listened, and went back to the destruction of Edna Faye’s garden. Bobbie tucked the old frayed sheet under her chin and covered her head with the extra pillow. It was way too early to start the day, so she tried to go back to sleep—unsuccessfully. As if the birds were not loud enough, Edna Faye’s mutt started barking. Bobbie was ready to permanently silence the flea ridden creature, when she heard Grandma Hogg moving around in the kitchen and caught the first whiff of bacon frying. Bobbie sat up in bed, remembering why she had returned to the hills of Tennessee.

Although Bobbie Jean had grown up on Badger Mountain, she moved away as soon as she could after graduating from high school. She knew there was a better life out there somewhere, and she promised herself she would find it. But, without a degree, her options were limited. The only thing she really knew how to do was wrestle. She was a champion wrestler in school, so Bobbie Jean Hogg took a job as a mud wrestler in a dive down in Possum Hollow. When she had enough money put back, she moved to the city, changed her name to Bobbie Hogan, and took another job mud wrestling at a club in Knoxville. The job didn’t pay much, but the tips made up for the pitiful wage. So, even though she loathed her job, she blocked out the cat calls, fought hard every night, and saved her money. From there she began her career as a WWF wrestler named, Bobbie the Bad. She was one of the top names in the business, which allowed her to branch out into commercials and eventually television.

Moving to California made her a rich woman. Now she wanted to help her family. If only she still had a family. Her parents were killed two years ago when a tractor trailer rear-ended their car on Highway 67, and since Papaw died before she was born, Granny Hogg was her only living relative. With her sitcom on hiatus, Bobbie came home to hire a contractor. She planned to surprise Granny Hogg with a new house filled with modern conveniences.

Dressed in a pair of newly cut off jeans and t-shirt, Bobbie looked overdressed in a room with only a chair and the rickety, old bed Papaw built using rough hewn wood. She tucked the sheet neatly under the mattress and went in search of breakfast.

Granny wasn’t in the kitchen. To keep flies off the food, Granny always placed a tablecloth over the table. Bobbie lifted the age-yellowed cloth to reveal eggs, hash browns, and bacon. She folded the cloth and threw it over the back of a chair, filled her plate, and poured a cup of coffee from the pot left warming on the stove. She carried her plate outside and sat down on the steps. Granny was across the road chatting with Edna Faye. If it was possible, Edna Faye’s two-room shack was in more disrepair than Granny’s. Both were no more than cabins most people wouldn’t even use for camping.

When Edna Faye saw Bobbie Jean, she waved. Granny smiled. Bobbie waved back and took a bite of bacon. As she chewed and watched the two friends laughing and talking, she had an idea. She would build two new houses, one for Granny, and one for Edna Faye.

With her mind busy formulating plans, Bobbie didn’t notice the truck until it stopped in front of her. She read the name on the side, Moss Lake Contractors. As the door opened and a man got out, Bobbie Jean stood up.

A man about Bobbie’s age got out of the truck and slowly walked toward her. She met him halfway. He held out his hand, “Hi Bobbie Jean. It’s good to see you again.”

Bobbie took his hand and looked up into familiar green eyes. Her mouth opened to speak, closed, and then opened again. She finally managed one word, “Marshall?”

“It’s been a long time.”

Bobbie nodded, and let go of Marshall’s hand as if it were a hot coal.

In a voice laced with hurt, Marshall said, “You left.”

“I had to.”

“You left without answering my question.”

“I answered your question by leaving,” Bobbie took a step back. “We’re not here to talk about the past. I want to hire a contractor, and you’re obviously one, so let’s talk business.”

It wasn’t easy convincing the two women to accept Bobbie’s gift. Yet, after a lot of friendly banter, they both agreed. As days turned into weeks, Bobbie and Marshall worked together to make sure Granny Hogg and Edna Faye had houses they could be proud of. The Hogg's house was gone, as was Edna Faye's shack. In their place were two small, ranch-style homes. Granny’s house was gray with white trim, Edna’s yellow with green trim. Marshall even built a matching dog house for Old Pete, Edna Faye’s dog. It was almost time for Bobbie to go home. California waited.

Edna Faye’s niece, Trixie Sue, had been hanging around the job site. At first Bobbie thought she was merely visiting her aunt, until this morning when she saw Trixie’s hand on Marshall’s arm while they talked with their heads together. The sight caused Bobbie to clench her fists. It was all she could do to keep from grabbing the woman by the hair and tossing her off the mountain. Her reaction opened her eyes. She was falling in love with Marshall all over again, and he was obviously smitten with Trixie Sue. It was time to leave.

That night, Granny Hogg invited Marshall to stay for dinner. He tried to decline, but Granny convinced him to stay and enjoy a celebratory meal. After dinner, Bobbie excused herself, stating she was tired. Yet instead of going to bed, Bobbie escaped out the back door. She took a path through the woods toward Salt Lick Creek. She found her favorite spot next to a shallow pool of water, and sat down on a rock. It wasn’t just any rock, it was her special rock. As a child, this was where she came to dream.

Bobbie pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. She took a deep breath, marveling at how fresh the air smelled. She listened to the night creatures singing, realizing how much she missed this place, and how much she missed Marshall. She was so deep in thought she didn’t hear footsteps on the path until Marshall sat down beside her.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, placing one arm around her, pulling her close.

Bobbie relaxed against him, “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. This is where we had our first kiss. This is where I fell in love with you.” Marshall gently tipped her chin up until he could see her eyes, “Why did you leave without giving me an answer? Without even saying goodbye?”

“Because I had to go and I knew if I looked into your eyes, I would have stayed.”

“Would that have been so terrible?”

“I thought so at the time.”

Marshall held his breath, “And now?”

After a long pause, Bobbie whispered, “If I could, I would stay.”

“Then stay. With me.”

Bobbie pulled away and stood up. She leaned against the hard bark of a tree, bringing herself back to reality, “What about Trixie Sue? You two seem pretty cozy.”

Marshall laughed, “Trixie Sue is married to Curtis. You remember Curtis? My best friend since forever? We have been planning a surprise party for his thirtieth birthday next week.” Marshall laughed again, “You thought we were?”

“Well, you were always whispering together.”

Marshall’s smile faded. He took Bobbie’s hands in his, and said, “I’m going to ask you again.”

Bobbie’s hands shook. She couldn’t speak.

With one hand, Marshall reached into his pocket, pulled out a small box, before bending down on one knee. He opened the box, revealing a large marquis cut diamond, and said, “I’m not a pauper, I make good money as a contractor. I even built a house up on Eagle Peak. Victorian, like you always wanted. It’s our dream house. Remember? I know you have a job in California, but you can commute. We will find a way around the obstacles. Bobbie Jean Hogg, Hogan, or whatever you call yourself these days, how about changing your name to Bobbie Sadler? Marry me?”

Without hesitation, Bobbie Jean answered, “Yes!”

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One Little Word

2009-07-01T06:11:00.008-05:00

Roger tucked his work gloves into the back pocket of his jeans, threw a hammer and a box of sixteen penny nails into a beat up tool box, padlocked it, and walked slowly toward his truck. The truck’s once bright red color had faded to a dull red mixed with rust. The tailgate bowed in, the result of old Mrs. Hackett rear ending him at the stop sign on Hawthorne Road. The right front fender was caved in, through no one else’s fault. Roger was driving too fast around an icy curve, when the truck veered off the road into a grove of trees. He was lucky there wasn’t more damage. The back window, broken out last month, had been replaced by a piece of plywood. Roger climbed inside and turned the key, but all he heard was a clicking sound. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, threw his cap down on the seat beside him, and leaned back against the seat.

His life had become a series of unfortunate events, beginning with Nancy’s death last year. He had watched his wife die a slow, painful death. He tried everything to make her more comfortable, but nothing he could do helped. On the day before their thirtieth wedding anniversary, Nancy left him alone. Melanie comforted her father, as he did her, yet there was no comfort in the loss of their beloved wife and mother. A few days later, Melanie went back to her husband in California, and Roger to a life alone. Nancy’s medical bills had taken their life savings, leaving Roger’s personal finances depleted and contracting business running in the red. He ran his hands threw his hair, picked up his cap, and climbed out of the truck.

It was a short walk to Sweet Sue’s. Sue operated a bake shop and coffee bar, which also served croissant sandwiches. Roger’s stomach grumbled. He looked at his watch and decided to eat before calling his friend Larry for a ride.

Roger finished his chicken salad sandwich and chewed the last bite of a dill pickle. He put a dollar bill on the table and went outside. He stuffed the proper coins in the slot of the pay phone, and punched in Larry’s number. No answer. Roger hung up the phone, listened to the coins fall, and plucked them from the coin return tray. He couldn’t think of anyone else to call. He started to try the number again. Instead, he dropped the coins in his pocket and proceeded to walk the two miles home.

The park wasn’t the quiet, pleasant place he had hoped. He skirted the gazebo, pausing long enough to listen to one song by the local pop band holding a free concert. The drummer was the son of an acquaintance from church. The music was too loud, the pounding drum threatened to cause a migraine. Roger started to walk away, when Myrtle stepped in front of him.

Myrtle’s husband died of a heart attack two years ago. Since then, Myrtle preyed upon the widowers of the community. Roger was her most recent target. He tried to step around her, she stepped the same way. They collided. Roger wasn’t in the mood. Without saying a word, he took her by the shoulders, gently moved her aside, and continued his lonely walk home. No one could take the place of his Nancy. He wanted to turn the clock back. All he wanted to do was be with his wife.

By the time Roger turned up the walk to his house, it was almost dark. He stopped in front of the door, dreading another evening alone. He sat down on the stone bench beneath a weeping willow tree. Nancy bought the bench from a garden shop down the street soon after she learned she was sick. She had the words LIVE WELL––LAUGH OFTEN––LOVE MUCH inscribed on the seat. Roger ran his finger over the words and spoke softly to the sky, “How can I live, laugh, or love without you Nancy?”

With tears streaming down his face, Roger walked down to the dock and climbed aboard The Promise. Instead of traveling around the country in an RV after retirement, Roger and Nancy planned to spend their time fishing in the gulf. But he wouldn’t be retiring anytime soon. Nancy’s medical bills were about to push him into bankruptcy. He hated giving up their dream. Roger ripped the For Sale sign off the side and watched it float away in the water. He stood there until the sign disappeared into the darkness, and then picked up a coil of rope before returning to the house.

Returning to his seat on the bench, Roger fashioned one end of the rope into a noose, something he had practiced as a youngster after watching a Gunsmoke episode. He looked at the noose, surprised how easily he remembered to tie the slip knot. Calmly, unwavering in his resolve, Roger unlocked the front door. His foot bumped into a package left on the mat. He picked it up and carried it inside.

Roger tossed the package on the sofa, looked at the blinking light on the answering machine, and turned on a lamp. He tossed one end of the rope around the open cross beams in the living room and tied it securely. After positioning a dining room chair beneath the noose, Roger stood on the chair and pulled the noose over his head, tightening the slip knot around his neck.

It was then the telephone rang. On the third ring, the answering machine picked up. He listened to his daughter’s excited voice, “Dad. Are you home yet? Did you get my package? Call me!”

Roger stared at the package on the sofa, wondering why his daughter was so excited about a package. Curiosity had him removing the rope from around his neck, and jumping down from the chair. He picked up the package and ripped off the paper. Inside he found a letter and a huge diaper pin. He read the letter.

Hi Dad,

Guess what? Brad is being transferred back home. We’ll be moving by the end of the month. I know you have the house up for sale, so we want you to sell it to us. The master bedroom suite would still be yours. We would hire you to build a couple more rooms on the back of the house. Please let me know.

In case you are wondering about the diaper pin, well, you’re going to be a grandpa. I hope you are excited as we are. I only wish mom were still here. She would have made a wonderful grandmother.

Call me when you get this.

I love you,

Melanie

Roger reread the letter. Not only was he going to be a grandfather and have his daughter back, but selling the house would certainly help with his money problems. This time when the telephone rang, Roger answered it.

“Hi Dad. Did you get my package yet?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, what do you think?”

Roger smiled, “You have made me the happiest man in the world and saved my life, all with one little word.”

“Now you’re being dramatic. But I’ll play along. What word Dad?”

“Grandpa.”

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Purple Girl

2009-06-15T05:48:00.022-05:00

Disclaimer: I'm not nuts. Really. I swear, when I first looked at this picture that girl had purple hair. She had her hair dyed blue to trick me! ;)

There are no Mulberry trees on Mulberry Lane. It is rumored the first resident, Ashby Howard, didn’t like purple berries staining his veranda, so he had all the trees cut down. In the mid 1800’s, Howard replaced the Mulberry trees with Live Oaks along both sides of the lane leading from the house to the main road. Today, those trees provide a roof of perennial green leaves, shading the entire street and driveway leading up to Howard Hall.

Mulberry Lane is two blocks long, beginning at Maple Grove Road and ending at the locked gates of Howard Hall. Only two other homes, Heritage Place and Gilmore House, were built on Mulberry Lane, each by Ashby Howard’s two sons after they married. Ashby’s granddaughter, Bernice Howard, an eighty year old spinster, lived her entire life in Howard Hall. Heritage Place was sold after Ashby’s death and has been occupied by the Hellerman family for the past forty years. Gilmore House is currently for sale, or it was until yesterday when the Realtor placed a sold sign by the front gate.

Bernice was a hermit. It had been over twenty years since the last time she ventured outside the gates. Visitors were not encouraged. She only left the house to ride her yellow Columbia bicycle to get the mail. The mailbox was a two sided box secured in the fence next to the gates. The mailman opened it from the front, left the mail, and Bernice opened it from the rear to retrieve the mail. She would park her bike, get the mail, and promptly return to the house. However, a particularly warm mid-June day changed her routine.

As Bernice closed the mailbox, a moving van turned into Mulberry Lane. Her curiosity aroused, Bernice watched as the truck came to a stop in front of Gilmore House. A black Mercedes passed the truck and pulled into the drive a little too fast, barely missing a support column, before coming to a quick stop. A woman with long blond hair jumped out of the driver’s side and hurried to the front door. The passenger door opened more slowly, revealing the silhouette of a young girl, possible in her teenage years. When she stepped into the sunlight, Bernice took a step back. Purple hair! The girl had purple hair. Bernice had never seen anything quite like it before. She knew of such things from watching television, but never believed anyone would actually dye their hair such an offensive color. The girl saw Bernice watching, smiled, and waved. Bernice dropped her eyes, turned her bicycle toward home, and pedaled home faster than she had in several years.

After parking the bicycle next to her father’s 1946 Buick Roadster, which was regularly cleaned, but never driven, Bernice went through the rear door of the garage. She bent down to enjoy the fragrance of a tea rose the gardener, Klaus, planted a few weeks ago, and entered the house by way of the kitchen. Bernice ignored Phyllis, who was busy dicing onions to put in a pot of soup. The onions made Bernice's eyes sting. She thumbed through the mail, put the electric bill on the table, the newspaper under her arm, and tossed the rest in the trash can. After pouring a glass of iced tea, she went outside. She took a seat on the veranda, in the wicker chair she hated, but which just happened to provide a clear view of Gilmore House. Bernice told herself she wasn’t being nosy, merely curious.

The movers were busy unloading the truck. Bernice watched a tall man set a chair and side table on the lawn. The chair reminded her of the ultra contemporary chair her niece, Krista, gave her a few years ago for Christmas. Krista thought she was an interior designer. Instead of using the chair in her bedroom as Krista intended, Bernice tucked it away in a rarely occupied guest room. She preferred more comfortable chairs. The purple haired girl reappeared, this time carrying one of those newfangled musical boxes, with headphones over her ears. She plopped down on the ugly chair, her head bouncing up and down, presumably to the beat of the music.

The girl sat cross legged, pulled a book out of her pocket, and settled back to read. Bernice considered reading an odd activity for someone with purple hair. Bernice retired from teaching many years ago, still the teacher in her smiled. She thought kids should read more instead of watching television. Of course the girl was probably reading one of those vampire books the young people were so crazy about these days. Still, she was reading and that was a good thing.

Another car turned onto Mulberry Lane, this one a red convertible. A much older man pulled into the driveway of Gilmore House and parked beside the other car. Bernice assumed he was the girl’s grandfather, until the blond came running out the front door, practically jumping into his arms. The two kissed longer than was appropriate in front of the movers. The girl didn’t look up, and the man didn’t acknowledge the girl. The girl’s stepfather, Bernice surmised. Bernice analyzed the scene before her and decided the blond was a gold digger, who probably married the unsuspecting older man for his money.

The clock on the mantle chimed twelve. It was time for lunch. Bernice and Purple Girl, as she dubbed her, rose simultaneously. Their eyes met. Bernice went inside, while the girl walked toward a bench shaded by a sugar maple tree.

Monday of the following week, promptly at 10:00, Bernice climbed aboard the yellow bicycle for her daily ride to the mailbox. A few wispy clouds dotted an otherwise blue sky. She parked the bike and took a deep breath. The roses were in full bloom. Bernice broke off a pink one, and tucked it in the buttonhole of the white sweater she wore. She inspected a few leaves to make sure there were no aphids, before getting the mail.

As she looked inside the mailbox, she saw a pair of emerald green eyes, surrounded by wisps of purple hair, staring at her. Bernice took a quick step backward, grabbing her throat. Realizing this was the girl from next door, Bernice spoke through the gate, “Look here young lady, I’m an old woman. Are you trying to scare me to death?”

The girl peeked through the bars of the gate. To her credit, she looked embarrassed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize––I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“Other than my heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings, I guess I’ll survive. What are you doing down here anyway?”

“I’ve come to see if you really do cast spells on people.”

“I see you’ve been talking to the Hellerman’s brat. If I could cast spells, I would cast one on that little monster.”

“He thinks you can. In fact, he tells me you fly on your broom when the moon is full.”

Bernice reached inside the mailbox and pulled out the newspaper and a catalog, “I do have a broom. It’s made out of straw, but it doesn’t fly. If it did, Micah’s window would be my first stop.”

“So why is he scared of you?”

“Probably because I caught him stealing my garden gnomes. I had six of them over there under that willow tree. I noticed one was missing. The next day, another one was gone. I decided to catch whoever it was, so I hid behind the tree one evening. When I saw the little thief, I reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He screamed like a banshee. I told him those gnomes were really bad little boys I turned to stone. When I let go, he took off faster than a streak of lightening. I haven’t seen him since. Good riddance, I say.”

“Don’t you like kids?”

“I don’t have much use for them.”

“Me, either. Most girls my age are just plain mean. All they want to do is gossip and make fun of anyone that doesn’t fit into their group.” the girl said.

Bernice looked past the purple hair, catching a glimpse of herself at that age. Feeling sympathetic, yet not wanting to become attached to this odd girl, Bernice climbed aboard her bicycle, and said, “Goodbye Purple Girl.”

The girl raised her arm to wave, but Bernice was already halfway up the driveway and didn’t see.

For the next few weeks, each time Bernice opened her mailbox, she saw Purple Girl peering back. Bernice would complain and tell the girl she was a pest. Yet she secretly enjoyed their conversations. Bernice taught Purple Girl about the care of roses, and told her stories about Mulberry Lane and the Howard family. Purple Girl taught Bernice how to operate an ipod, and talked about how much she disliked her new stepfather, and missed her father. Bernice learned Purple Girl’s favorite foods were egg rolls and peanut butter cookies. The two found they had a love of books in common. Even though the girl’s name was Meagan, Bernice vowed to call her Purple Girl as long as she had purple hair. Bernice would never admit it, but she was becoming quite fond of the girl.

It was a Monday morning in early August, August 5^th to be exact, and even though Bernice disliked baking, that morning she baked an entire batch of peanut butter cookies. She wrapped them in red cellophane and placed them in a bag along with a bottle of milk, a bag of egg rolls ordered from China King, and a well read copy of Jane Eyre. It was Purple Girl’s birthday. To mark the occasion, Bernice planned to open the front gate and invite the girl inside for a picnic.

Bernice arrived at the mailbox early, spread a blanket on the ground under a shade tree, and waited for Purple Girl to arrive. As Bernice paced back and forth across the driveway, she thought about how much she looked forward to seeing the girl everyday. On Sundays, she found herself looking forward to Mondays. The bells at St. Barnabus chimed ten, eleven, and then twelve. Bernice waited. Purple Girl didn’t come.

At one o’clock, Bernice paused by the gate. Her eyes searched the grounds of Gilmore House for some sign of movement. She didn't see anyone, not even a groundskeeper. Worried, Bernice placed a quivering hand on the latch. Her heart beat gained momentum. Breathing became difficult over the lump in her throat, while beads of sweat gathered across her brow. She gave the gate a quick tug. It opened.

Bernice stood there, looking at the invisible barrier between her comfort zone and the unknown terror beyond. She lifted her right foot to take a step forward, set it down, and lifted it again. She wanted to know her friend was okay, but her psyche wouldn’t allow her to cross the line. Exasperated, she slammed the gate, packed up the uneaten food, and rode slowly back to the house.

Out on the veranda, Bernice sat down in the chair nearest Gilmore House. Her eyes continued to search for signs of life. There were no cars, and no mother or stepfather. Bernice decided Purple Girl was spending the day with her mother. What better way for a teenager to celebrate her birthday than lunch and shopping. She was just starting to relax when she saw movement in an upstairs window. Surely the girl wasn’t alone on her birthday. Yet there she was, staring down from her window.

Bernice went inside, where she paced from the dining room, through the living room and back to the veranda where she had a good view of the neighboring house. She wondered when she had become so dependent on human contact. There were people in her daily life. Klaus and William were the groundskeepers, Phyllis cooked all her meals, and Peg and Midge cleaned. She talked to these people. Bernice wondered why, after twenty years of self imposed exile, she missed Purple Girl so much, and then she knew. She didn’t just miss taling to the girl, she missed her friend.

The yellow bicycle sped down the driveway. Bernice’s favorite blue scarf flapped in the wind, loosened, and flew through the air like a kite with a broken string, but Bernice didn’t stop to retrieve it. Bernice pedaled faster. When she reached the front gate, she stopped long enough to open the gate. Without considering what she was doing, Bernice got back on her bike and turned toward Gilmore House.

Bernice grabbed the bag of cookies out of the bicycle’s basket, and with the help of a sturdy handrail, made her way up the winding steps to the front door. She rang the bell and waited. She was about to ring the bell again when a young girl with long dark hair opened the door. Bernice couldn’t help but notice her red nose and puffy eyes. The girl reached out and took Bernice’s arm. At first Bernice resisted. At least until she recognized the girl’s smile.

“Meagan? Is that you?”

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Get Your Party On

2009-06-02T06:01:00.007-05:00

Keith has come up with a great writing meme called Carry on Tuesday. This is my offering:

When Edith Hammond, was ten years old, she ordered an acoustic guitar out of the Sears Robuck catalog. She paid for it with money earned from selling eggs. After paying for the guitar, there wasn’t enough money for lessons, so Edith taught herself to play.

When her granddaughter, Sadie, was old enough to learn, Edith taught her to play on that same guitar. At age six, Sadie wrote her first song while her grandma picked out the melody.

After Grandma Edith passed away, Sadie continued writing songs alone. Instead of going to sorority parties during college, Sadie’s light burned late into the night, softly strumming that same old guitar, while melodies magically mixed with words. The summer after she graduated from Vanderbilt University, Sadie sold her first song. Now, a mere ten years later, she would play hostess to record executives and music company moguls. The guest of honor was the man who had been her inspiration, Paul McCartney. Sadie had worked hard to become the successful songwriter she was, and this Christmas party was designed to reflect that success.

Striving for perfection, Sadie picked up the last red and green napkin, folded it into the shape of a fan, shook it out, and then folded it again. Satisfied, she pulled the cloth through a silver ring. The napkin was then placed next to the plate at the head of the table. The Christmas china and silverware were from Neiman Marcus in Houston, bought specifically for this occasion. The table sparkled in the light cast by the Venetian chandelier, designed for her by Linea Mazzuccato of Italy. Sadie ran her hand over the elegant fleur-de-lis pattern gracing the Bellagio table linens, and then took a step back to admire her handiwork. She had succeeded in her quest for perfection.

Satisfied with the dining room, Sadie moved on to the kitchen where she confirmed the caterer had everything under control. She paused to criticize her reflection in a mirrored panel. An errant hair was captured and tamed, faded lipstick refreshed. Sadie looked like one of those cover girls on Vogue magazine: tall, thin, and regal. Her gown was an original Victor Costa design, found in a quaint little shop in Dallas. When she twirled in front of the mirror, silver sequins sent sparks chasing each other around the room.

A glance at the clock had Sadie hurrying upstairs to put on her shoes. She went inside the walk-in closet she had designed herself, picked out the shoes she planned to wear, and sat down on the bench with her back to the door. She was leaning down to put on the first shoe, when the closet door slammed shut.

Startled, Sadie called out, “Hello,” but no one answered.

She wiggled her foot into the other shoe and tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. Sadie twisted the knob hard and pushed, still nothing. She was locked in the closet and her guests were arriving downstairs. Sadie banged on the door, jiggled the knob, screamed for help, yet no one came.

Frantically, she searched through the closet for something to break the lock. Clothes and shoes now lay strewn over the plush, white carpet. Sadie surveyed the room. If only she had kept one of the baseball bats from her softball days. Just then her eyes found a fireplace poker propped in the corner. She had left it there for protection the night a news story warned of an escaped prisoner in the area. Relief gave her strength, and one quick strike opened the door.

Sadie hurried down the stairs. She stopped outside the living room, composed herself, and made a controlled entrance. The room was empty. Laughter drew her toward the dining room. She pushed open the door, expecting to see her guests. Instead of Sir Paul, a large black pig sat at the head of the table. He was chatting with a duck sitting in the chair to his left. Another duck used its beak to shovel a stuffed mushroom off the expensive china. The rest of the chairs were filled with dogs, cats, goats, even sheep, and at the far end of the table sat a large black and white cow. All of the animals were chattering in their own dialect, adding to the chaos that reigned supreme. What were these creatures doing in her house?

“Get out! Shoo! Get out!” Sadie screamed at the top of her lungs. Not one of the animals moved or even looked in her direction. Were they deaf? She screamed at them again, still nothing. The doorbell chimed. Sadie panicked. The real guests were arriving and her beautiful table was ruined. She ran around the room trying to get rid of the intruders. Each time she removed a creature from the table, another one appeared. Now there were squirrels, raccoons, ground hogs, and the cow had been replaced by an over sized skunk. That smelled!

Exhausted, Sadie leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor. Resting her head in her hands, pandemonium faded into the background, the light dimmed, darkness prevailed.

Sadie! Sadie! Wake up.”

Sadie wiped the sleep from her eyes, “Mom? What is it?”

Sadie’s mom sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be late. I tried to wake you, but you kept yelling at me to get out.”

Abruptly, Sadie sat up, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get out of bed sleepy head, your appointment is in forty-five minutes. It’s a good thing we live so close to Music Row. We’ll celebrate when you get back. You know they’re going to love your song. Now get up, Little Miss Songwriter.”

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams. What seems is not always as it is. Yet, in Sadie’s case, the two dreams coincide, sort of. Sadie took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. She looked around the room, recognizing Grandma Edith’s Sears Robuck guitar standing in the corner. Sadie threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. It was time to make her dreams come true. Well, the Paul McCartney part anyway.

The Watcher

2009-05-24T14:49:00.003-05:00

Somehow, somewhere, somebody knows. Unaware he was being watched, the man glared down at the dead woman. With a smirk on his face, he lifted the axe high overhead and aimed for her neck. When the axe blade hit its mark, a loud thunk echoed through the dark woods. Blood splatters colored the white bark of a nearby birch tree. The decapitated head rolled downhill, scaring a rabbit who shot out of a clump of weeds. Twigs snapped and dry leaves crackled under the weight. As if a bowling ball rolling toward a strike, the head quickly made its way to the river below. After a loud splash, quiet settled over Gunther’s woods.

Meanwhile…

“Mary!”

Mary’s eyes flipped open. Sweat covered her body. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, and then slowly, carefully, turned her head enough to see the alarm clock next to the bed. The numbers were blurred. She blinked, and tried again, but she couldn’t read the time. Instead, Mary thought she saw the outline of a face, yet it wasn’t exactly a face. It was more like what she would consider an energy field. Mary rubbed her eyes. She chastised herself for watching too many Sci Fi movies before bedtime, and then looked again. The face was still there, hovering over the edge of the bed.

“Mary!” It called again.

The voice was that of her sister, “Lizzy? Is that you?”

As Mary stared, the mouth opened and screamed the words, “Get up! Run!”

Mary didn’t wait to be told twice, she was out of bed in a flash. She snatched her silk robe off the chaise at the foot of the bed, stuffing her arms in the sleeves as she ran down the winding stairway from the third floor to the second, finally reaching the front hall. Normally proud of her family’s opulent home, she wished it were a shorter trip to the exit. The robe billowed out behind her as she ran across the marble floor. Finally reaching her destination, Mary turned on a lamp, fumbled in the drawer for keys to the Mercedes parked under the portico, found them, and flung open the door. The door opened with such force, the knob embedded itself inside the wall. Mary raced outside, only to be stopped by a warm wall of human flesh. Mary screamed.

It was too dark to see the man’s face, yet she knew it was a man by his muscular build. His arms grabbed hers and pushed her back, “Mary! It’s me. Willard. What’s wrong?”

Even though she didn’t particularly like Willard, she was relieved to see him. She knew Willard from school. He was two years older, but their school was small, only fifty-two in her graduating class. Everyone knew everyone. Mary didn’t vote for Willard when he ran for sheriff. He gave her the creeps. She often saw him staring at Lizzy, and not in a good way. Still, Mary threw her arms around him as if he were a long lost friend. After all, he was the Bradshaw County Sheriff.

Once Mary stopped shaking, Willard tried again, “What’s wrong, Mary?”

Mary swiped a sleeve across her eyes, “I saw Lizzy.”

“What do you mean, you saw Lizzy?”

“I saw her. She called my name.”

“You couldn’t have seen Lizzy. You do know that don’t you? She’s gone. Seeing her buried today probably gave you nightmares, that’s all.”

“I saw her!” Calmer now, Mary thought about what she was saying, “Well, I thought I saw her. I know I heard her call my name. She was trying to warn me.”

“Warn you?”

“Yes. Warn me. She told me to run.”

“Run where?”

Emotion caused a quiver in Mary’s voice, “That’s all she said. I was leaving when I bumped into you.”

Willard pulled Mary back into his arms. She closed her eyes and relaxed against his broad chest. The fear she felt earlier, eased. That is, until she opened her eyes. This time there was no mistaking the face in front of her. It was Lizzy. The head was not supported by a body, yet a finger across the lips told Mary to be quiet. The mouth silently told her to run. Mary nodded. The head became misshapen, and then transparent, before disappearing into the blackness of a moonless night.

Mary took a step back. Willard let go. “I’m alright now,” she said as she took another step backward, and another. “I think you’re right, I must have been having a nightmare.”

Willard saw the fear in her eyes, as she backed toward the safety of the house, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Mary’s attempt at laughter came out as a screech when she spoke, “Don’t be silly, of course not. I’m just tired. I need sleep.”

As Mary said goodnight, Willard took a step forward, stopped, and retrieved something from behind a shrub. The lamp light from the hall table became a spotlight, illuminating a coil of nylon rope. A hangman’s noose dangled from one end.

Willard’s strong hand whipped out and grabbed Mary’s arm, “Not so fast, honey. We’ve got some unfinished business.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip was strong, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“I’m taking what belongs to me.”

“I-I d-don’t understand.”

Willard made a sweeping motion with his free arm, “All this. This rightfully belongs to me. I’m Jeffrey Winfield’s first born, not Lizzy. I’m his real heir, not you. My mother wasn’t good enough for the Winfield family. So you and your stuck-up family left us to rot in that shack down by Mueller’s Creek. I’m merely setting things right.”

Struggling to free herself, Mary tried to distract him, “What are you talking about? You’re crazy!”

Keeping his vice-like grip on Mary’s arm, Willard turned slightly and pulled down the collar of his shirt, giving her a view of the back of his neck, “Recognize this birthmark?”

The birthmark was about the size of a nickel, only it wasn’t round. It was shaped like the cursive letter R. Mary’s eyes moved to her arm, just below the elbow, observing an identical mark. Her indrawn breath told Willard she understood.

“Too bad you were so distraught over your sister’s murder that you hung yourself, isn’t it? Now get back inside.”

Willard twisted Mary’s arm behind her back, and shoved her forward. Once inside the house, he handcuffed her and forced her to lie on the cold marble floor. He cocked his pistol, “Stay there or I’ll put a bullet in your head.” He placed the noose around Mary’s neck, and then half dragged; half carried her up the stairs. When they reached the second floor landing, Willard tied one end of the rope to the railing, and shoved Mary forward.

“Please, don’t do this,” Mary said.

Willard merely looked over to the life sized painting of his grandfather, and spat out, “This is the last of your beloved grandchildren.”

As Willard was about to toss Mary over the edge, the front door flew open, and the deputy sheriff rushed in, “Hold it right there!”

“Eric!” Mary screamed.

Intent on his mission, Willard continued toward the railing, “Get out of here Eric. This isn’t your business.”

“It is my business. I swore to uphold the law. Crazy Lou said he saw you kill Lizzie, but I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just telling another of his stories.”

“Look little brother, I know you think you’re in love with this little tart, but she’s not worth your time. She’ll dangle herself in front of you until she’s tired of playing games, and then toss you out like a bag of trash. She’s a Winfield. That’s what they do.”

While continuing to point the gun at Willard, Eric walked slowly toward the stairs, “She’s also your sister. Blood. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. It means something. It means this place should be mine. I should have grown up inside this house, had the best education, and been respected instead of shunned.”

As Willard reached toward Mary, his intentions clear, Eric aimed his gun. “Don’t do it.”

Willard didn’t listen. Eric fired. Mary stared into Willard’s dead eyes, watched him fall, and then saw Lizzie’s face once more. Lizzie smiled and winked, before disappearing through the closed door of her old room.

Mary held onto Eric for support, before her wobbly knees collapsed, “How did you know to come?”

“We got your 9-1-1 call.”

“I didn’t call.”

“You didn’t? The call came from this number. If you didn’t call, then who did?”

Mary looked toward Lizzie’s closed door and said, “The Watcher.”

Serendipity

Cindy Kicker Policewoman

Pull the Curtains after Dark

Guilty Pleasure

The Good Life

On Hiatus

From "The Sound of Music"Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2ndMusic by Richard Rodgers

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons

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One Brush of a Hand

A Walk in the Park

Writer's Island Prompt - Masquerade

Writer's Island #25 - Unleashed

Sunday Scribblings #237 - Harvest

Writer's Island #23 - Soar

West of Toledo

The Return of Victoria Valentine

One More Fish

If Only I Were You

Sunday Scribblings #229 - Dangerous

The Help

My LIfe as Abraham Lincoln

Half-Way to Texas - Sunday Scribblings

I Believe She's Amazing-Sunday Scribblings

What Goes Around Comes Around

Dead Pansies

Stowaway

It's a Bar Isn't It?

The Old Blue Truck

Meeting Miss Daisy

If Only I Could Fly

Blogoversary

Murder at the Rialto

Twinkle Toes Malone

On Hiatus

From "The Sound of Music"Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2ndMusic by Richard Rodgers

My LIttle Chickadee

The Hogg House

One Little Word

Purple Girl

Get Your Party On

The Watcher

From "The Sound of Music"
Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2nd
Music by Richard Rodgers

From "The Sound of Music"
Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2nd
Music by Richard Rodgers