Out of Order Alice

This Day Forward

2010-11-05T07:00:00.004-04:00

After the pre-arranged signal lets her know the wedding is ready to begin, the organist nods. Family and friends stand and turn toward the aisle. I smooth down the front of my dress shirt. Several pairs of eyes are focused on me and, for a moment, I consider leaving from the side door.

But, it's too late to run.

As the music begins, I look down the aisle and our eyes meet. She smiles and I can tell that, while undeniably happy, she understands how I feel today. I appreciate this acknowledgment. Her father looks at me and leans down to whisper into her ear, and she nods as they continue their measured steps toward the altar and away from me.

My friends laughed and called me a delusional romantic when first I told them I wanted to marry her after I returned from our third date. It did not take too long for her to know she did not feel the same. She became a good friend, though eventually it was a roommate who took my place in her wedding dreams.

The music fades and the organist folds her hands on her lap and watches along with us as the minister steps forward, ready to begin the ceremony. When he asks, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” I wait until I hear her father speak.

“Her mother and I do,” he says with firm voice.

“I do, too,” I whisper.

I promised I would stay, but I can't help it. I leave without looking back at her standing at the altar with her husband.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Leg Man

2010-10-29T07:00:00.004-04:00

He loved the feel of silk stockings. Seamed. Preferably black.

Whenever his fingers brushed the full length of long limbs, he shuddered when reaching that spot where the lace at the top of the stocking met the flesh of thigh. Moments later, after he watched them rolled gently downward and shaken off the tips of toes to the floor, he liked to draw a line up the back of calves with his tongue.

The lovely young women were allowed only one night with him.

But this early evening duty summoned, and he had to leave for a little while. Before locking the door to the cool, dry, well-ventilated room he called his gallery, he stood before a vertical glass container titled Number Six. It showcased the glorious legs that had belonged to his most recent conquest, their length sheathed in silky sheer darkness with straightened seams and preserved in formaldehyde.

With a shaky hand he reached out and touched the glass, and traced a line up the calves with his fingers.

He could not introduce any of them to his family. They would not want to understand.

“Oh, there you are, dear.” His mother looked up from the table as he entered the dining room and greeted the waiting guests.

“Sorry.” He kissed her cheek and pulled out the chair at her right and sat.

“I was finishing my latest piece and . . .”

“Don't worry, dear,” his mother interrupted and patted his arm, “I've made sure no one took your favorite part.”

She held out the platter of roasted chicken and he speared a drumstick. He planned to eat quickly and return to his apartment. Though his mother would narrow her eyes and make those annoying tsk sounds to show her displeasure with such a short visit, he knew she would not keep him from his business. He was an artist, after all, and she always supported his need to follow when the Muse beckoned.

Later that evening, as he walked out of his home to patronize unfamiliar haunts and find fresh material for Number Seven, he left a new pair of stockings on the bed.

Brewing

2010-10-15T07:00:00.002-04:00

The unique aroma of mild-flavored coffee. He'd bring me some before leaving for work as I lay on his side of the bed. Awake but with eyes closed, I'd wait until he placed the porcelain cup of Blue Mountain regular roast - milk no sugar - on the nightstand before I sat up and gave him my best good morning and thank you smile.

On the mornings we were angry, the routine was the same, except there would be civil greetings but no smile.

The styrofoam cup of tepid coffee – sugar no milk – sat untouched in front of me as I listened to the neutral mediator work through all the issues my soon to be ex-husband and I needed to resolve.

“Because you share the same base of information, it will take less time to negotiate something that makes sense to both of you,” the mediator said after he invited us to sit down at the conference table in the center of his office.

It took one hour. We were married for a short time and there were no children to share.

Today, I sat in the coffee shop near my office and saw him walk by with her, his arm around her shoulder and throwing back his head as he laughed at her words.

I wondered if she waited on the bed for that first cup of coffee or if she sat with him at the table after serving him breakfast.

“Do you want a refill?” The waiter stood at my right and held the carafe over my cup.

I nodded and while he poured the hot water into my cup, I asked for a fresh teabag.

What the Doctor Ordered

2010-09-24T07:00:00.000-04:00

When she arrived at the hospital, he was still in the intensive care unit.

Seven days since an ambulance brought him writhing with the pain of an intestinal blockage.

Five days since the operation that cut away the small section of knotted obstruction.

Two days since a nurse snapped an oxygen mask over his nose and parted lips. She explained he needed the assistance; he was a “mouth breather” and his shallow inhales did not feed his lungs.

One day since he looked at her with eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“If you came earlier, I could have gone home with you,” he said and pointed a tremulous index finger at her. “You missed the window of opportunity. I know it was on purpose.” He turned his head away from her.

Though she tried many times during each visit, no amount of cajoling or explanation could disabuse him of the notion that nurses hated him and waited for family to leave before a daily ritual of torture. Doctors told her confusion and paranoia were normal in patients his age – after all, he was still under the influence of disorienting painkillers.

After several hours of sitting and watching him sleep, while listening to the whirls and pings of machinery taking care of his bodily business, she stood.

“Leaving?” he said after pulling the mask from his face. So he was feigning sleep, she thought.

“I'll be back tonight,” she said.

“Don't bother if you're not prepared to take me away from here.”

She kissed his forehead and helped him put the mask back on his face. He closed his eyes and did not say goodbye.

As she left the unit, she nodded to the hospital staff who looked her way. Torturers? She smiled at the thought. Tonight she would return and listen to his complaints and know they were fueled by irrational fears that he was never going home.

Always was a bit of a diva – for a man, she thought and laughed.

She walked the maze of halls that were very familiar to her now and stepped out into the sunshine.

Upstairs, the torture continued.

Alfresco

2010-09-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

If you encounter a grizzly, do not run.

That's what Andy had told Sylvia and the others a year ago as they sat around a campfire on their first weekend together in the woods. They were drinking, laughing, and telling ghost stories when Andy interrupted with this unexpected proclamation.

Sylvia looked around quickly, worried she would see a 400-pound mama bear waiting for dinner. Andy smiled and patted her back.

“The most sensitive part of the bear's anatomy is the nose,” Andy continued, and took Sylvia's hand and molded it into a fist. He told them that throwing the hardest punch one could manage right in the center of its nose would send a bear running away in pain. Sylvia laughed at the image, but Andy shook his head and looked somber. The others stared at their hands.

“I remember reading about this guy who saved his life that way,” Andy said while he stroked Sylvia's arm and stared at the fire.

“He described it like hitting a bag of thawed hamburger.”

No one said anything.

Andy looked up. “Okay, fine, let's talk about something else,” he said, and laughed as he lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“This round's on me.” He went to the cooler for more beer.

Now, after a year of many weekends spent in tents in the woods with Andy and their friends, Sylvia felt comfortable with the inconveniences - and joys - of camping. As usual, while Andy left for a last visit to the latrine, she spread out the double sleeping bag after packing for the drive home the next day. She was thinking about the appointments she needed to make back in the city when she became aware that the other campers were shouting. What she heard dried up her saliva and made her legs wobble.

“A bear! There's a bear!”

Don't scream or yell. You'll only aggravate the grizzly, Andy had said that first night, ignoring teasing questions about what to do if a ghost attacked.

Not breathing properly, Sylvia pressed both hands across her mouth when she heard Andy's high-decibel cries of fear and pain, cries that ceased after a few moments. Pale and queasy, she could not stop her horrified shout of “No!” as her head turned toward the sounds of snorting and huffing outside their tent.

She regretted packing the cast iron skillet.

As she waited for what might come, Sylvia raised a trembling hand and made a firm fist, thinking of chopped meat.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Bearing Gifts

2010-09-03T07:00:00.001-04:00

I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Molly thought as she looked in the hall mirror and brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. Although she had to beg, Charlie agreed to share a drink with her and was coming over.

“For the last time,” he warned her when they spoke on the phone that morning.

Molly decanted the wine in the kitchen and poured a glass to drink while she waited. When the doorbell buzzed, she shivered and went to let Charlie inside.

Each was on their best behavior after the initial awkwardness of their hellos. When Molly offered wine after a few minutes of small talk, Charlie smiled and nodded. “Be right back,” she said as she placed her glass on the coffee table and went to the kitchen.

“I know I can't change your mind about us, and I'm sorry about that,” she called out as she poured the wine and opened the drawer to her small desk. “I just hope we can be friends at some point?” She sighed as she took out the vial of Everlasting Love Trap potion. Two drops.

“Um. Yeah. If you would want to be just friends, why not.” Charlie answered as he took a miniature cellophane envelope from his pocket and leaned forward. Two shakes of the odorless, colorless, flavorless granules dissolved quickly in Molly's glass.

Earlier, an aged man at a rundown shopfront took his money and promised Charlie that in only a few days, the Repel Thee Forever powder would dissipate Molly's inconvenient attraction to him, never to be stoked again. A goodbye gift from Charlie. No sense in having her suffer needlessly, he thought.

Molly returned with his glass. Charlie stood and stretched his hand to her. She gave him the goblet and let her fingers linger on his for a moment before she let him go. He smiled and lifted the glass slightly above his head and waited for her to pick up her own from the table. They faced each other.

“What should we toast?” Molly asked. “To friendship?”

“Well, let's see.” Charlie said. He thought about the luscious Anita waiting for him at the bar. “May all our wishes come true. How about that one?”

Molly nodded. “Perfect,” she said and raised her arm.

They clinked their glasses and laughed for a moment before they each drank deeply.

The Yin and The Yang of It

2010-08-27T07:00:00.002-04:00

Kathleen is my opposite in looks and temperament. I have dark hair and mahogany eyes. Kathleen’s Irish eyes are cerulean and she was born a redhead.

“A true redhead,” she would tell new friends, “all you have to do is look at my…”

We usually interrupted here because we understood that Kathleen did not censor herself, did not feel the need, did not get embarrassed about using such words as hoo-haw in front of a stranger.

Reserved and hating to be the center of attention, that's me. But Kathleen knew how to break the draconian rules the nuns imposed without ever getting caught. The girl who could say things the rest of us could not because we thought the world - as we knew it - would end.

Everything is described larger, better, longer in her world. She told me when she met her future husband at a party, it took just "one look" before they kissed for three hours.

“It was only fifteen minutes,” her husband said.

My shyness troubled her. Once, while on a shopping trip with us, her husband modeled a pair of trousers too small for him. We tried not to laugh.

"I just need exercise, dammit," he said and people turned their heads to us.

I walked across the aisles to allow Kathleen time to tell him that thinking is not the same as doing. But, really, I was pretending not to be here with those two.

A saleswoman came to help and he complained he did not need "two wives telling me what to do.”

From across the room, Kathleen winked at me. I worried.

"You need to listen to us or there won't be any sex tonight," she told him.

Handing him a larger size, the nonplussed saleswoman looked over to me. She called out that “the second wife should come and have a look.”

Shoppers stared as I tried to hide in an empty dressing room.

Through the years, Kathleen’s dinner parties were never oh-I-just-will-throw-something-together affairs, and her telephone invitations held breathy promise of something themed.

“Sister,” she said during one of those calls, “Please come to my loggia party!”

So on a balmy August evening, we sat beside a mural of an ancient Tuscan scene she painted that morning. A group of male friends walked up the driveway dressed in white toga-like outfits. They carried a pallet where Ferret Bob, called that not because he resembled one but because he owned thirteen of the mammals, perched regally, with silver-plated leaves festooning his head and silver makeup highlighting his face in the twilight.

I looked over at some friends and knew we shared this thought: How on earth can we invite Kathleen over to just…dinner?

Kathleen dyed her hair to a golden blonde sheen that day. It suited her. While chatting new guests brought by friends, Kathleen told them she wanted to travel to Ireland to meet relatives, when the talk inexplicably turned to beauty products.

“Oh, no,” I heard her say. “This is not my natural hair color. No. I am a redhead. A true redhead.”

She stopped, and turned to me, and waited. I stood a few feet away talking to the toga boys. I cleared my throat and said, “She can prove it. All you have to do is look at her hoo-haw.”

Kathleen smiled. The world did not end.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Note: A year ago today, I wrote my first fiction piece for #fridayflash. This is it.

It's All In The Cards

2010-08-20T07:00:00.000-04:00

She stopped reading and rubbed her eyes.

“Is that it?” she said, and sighed and shook her head when her assistant pushed five more envelopes across the desk. Part of the job, she thought. The hard part.

As Director of Admissions at an elite college, she spent many long days sharing coffee and discussions with her team. There were too many qualified teenagers with similar credentials vying for the limited available spots still unfilled. Now, she needed to make final decisions on this last batch of applications left in the Yes or No pile.

Opening the next envelope, she read the name on the cover letter. “Ah, a male applicant,” she said. “We need more males to balance the freshman class.” Her assistant nodded and wrote in a notepad.

The letter consisted of eight sentences: My transcript shows I am an excellent student and more than capable to continue my studies in a stringent college environment. All awards, civic activities, inclusion in sports teams, summer employments, and teacher recommendations are attached as well.

As for my personal essay, when I was in first grade, my teacher had us write on note cards as part of an assignment. We had to say something we admired about our fellow students. Enclosed are the cards written about me. They were true then. They still are. Thank you for your consideration.

She shook the envelope, and a confetti of brightly colored laminated cards fell onto her desk. She glanced at her assistant, who held out her hands palm side up and shrugged her shoulders. Spreading them as if playing a game of solitaire, she looked at each one.

-Brian is smart and reads lots of books.

-He is fun and loves to sing.

-Brian knows lots of big words.

-He is kind and knows how to fix things.

-Brian helps anyone. Even if he doesn't like you.

-He brings good snacks. He shares his lunch if you forgot to bring one.

-He is good at sports. And wins!

And this one from his teacher: Brian is a leader.

She read all the rest, and put them and the supporting documents back in the envelope. Placing it on the small pile on the right side of her desk, she looked at her assistant, who smiled and handed her another one.

Full Circle

2010-08-13T07:00:00.000-04:00

He sat on the bed rubbing her back.

She moaned, then cried softly as she usually did when he touched her now.

When she was pregnant with their first child all those years ago, he would move his young hands and firmly press down and circle that spot in the small of her back.

Yes, right there, she would say, exactly there - but more slowly, please.

So he would slow his stroke and circle and caress until she fell asleep. In the morning, she would kiss him awake.

It was the same when the passing years brought two more children.

When she once told him not to bother waking up for her, he said he did not mind, that they married for better or for worse, and his rubbing her back was meant to make it better.

It does, she said.

Tonight, the oncologists came up to him as he paced in the family waiting room and told him again that all they could do now was to make her comfortable until the inevitable. They urged him to go home to rest for a while, but he shook his head. He turned to his daughter and sons and asked them to go home to their spouses and children until tomorrow.

After they left, he went to her private hospital room to sit with her for another night.

I can't do this anymore, he said now as he listened to her tears while he moved his age-speckled hands and gently pressed down with fingers that slowly circled and lightly caressed that spot.

She stopped crying.

No, don't say that.

But it hurts you, he said.

It does.

I only want to make it better, he told her, and lifted his hands to wipe his eyes.

I know, she said.

Later, she watched him sleep beside her. At least for another night, she fought her body's command that it was time to go.

In the morning, she kissed him awake.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Memento Mori

2010-07-23T00:03:00.000-04:00

The doctor read aloud: The RNA extracted from the formalin-fixed brain tissue identified a viral variant in the nucleotide sequence-

“Please,” Ann interrupted. “What is it?”

He looked at the mother of his eight-year-old patient with compassion evident in his heavy-lidded young eyes and shook his head. “It's rabies,” he said after a exhalation of breath, and watched as she hunched forward and brought one hand to her mouth while gripping the metal arm of the chair with the other.

Rabies?

Several weeks after her daughter returned from a happy vacation at her best friend's summer house in the mountains, she complained of pain in the knuckles on her left hand. Ann had not wanted to let Janie go, but the other girl's family promised to take very good care of the children. Since Ann's childhood summers had meant working on the family farm and her adult summers as a single parent now meant working long hours in a hot city, she pushed aside her worries and agreed to let her daughter spend the two weeks with them. Janie had shouted “Yessss!” and hugged her before running to phone her friend with the good news. Ann smiled as she heard Janie laughing and discussing possible activities. Apparently swimming and telling ghost stories were part of “Plan Fun.”

Rabies?

The throb in Janie's hand progressed to acute pain and infection throughout her body and later, violent movements, uncontrolled excitement, and depression. Alone at home, Ann lay awake night after night while Janie's doctors treated one possible diagnosis after another. Hopeful one moment, despairing in the next when the day's remedies proved false.

“You will need post exposure prophylaxis immediately,” the doctor said, and walked over to help her get up from the chair. “But...there is nothing we can do to stop the disease for her. I am so very sorry.”

Ann stood and brushed her hands against her silk skirt, smoothing down the pleats. She looked at the doctor's hand stretching to touch her shoulder and turned away. “I know it's not a diagnosis anyone wants to hear,” he said as he lowered his hand and tapped the file on his desk.

“Never.” Ann walked out into the hall and left the door open behind her.

“Goodbye, Mommy!” Janie said all those weeks ago as she ran to the car and climbed in the backseat where her friend waited. She looked out the window and waved. “Don't be sad. I'll bring you back a present. I'm not going away forever, you know,” and blew a kiss to her mother, who put out her right hand in a pantomime of catching and rubbing it against her cheek.

Rabies.

Ann now leaned her forehead against the door to Janie's hospital room, where she lay in a coma, and did not wipe her eyes before she went to the nurse's station to receive the first in a series of injections.

Fabulous Flash Award

2010-07-20T12:49:00.000-04:00

I am so grateful to the lovely and wonderful Karen Schindler for her bestowal of the Fabulous Flash Award, an idea Jon Strother had that would, in his own words, "spotlight some folks I feel deserve recognition for their, well… fabulous flash fiction."

So, many thanks Karen . . . and Jon!

Now I must pass it on to four writers. With great delight, here is my list:

Sam Adamson whose writing just captivated me from his very first flash story. His ongoing serial has fairies, pixies, gnomes, and an esoteric bookstore all set in a northern town in the United Kingdom, and it is just a treat to read.

Marc Nash is another gifted writer from the UK. He is a wordsmith of the highest order. It's all about the language with him. His stories are lush, at times lyrical, at times dark, and always leaves one feeling sated with the fecundity of the read.

Tony Noland is not afraid to experiment in his writing. I'm happy to say that whether it is science fiction, noir, love story, horror, etc., Tony's work is a strong example of excellent writing.

Jen Brubacher As she says in her bio, she's a librarian who writes fiction. What better combination, no? She's a wonderful writer whose flash fiction spans genres, and I look forward to reading anything she writes. She's that good!

Please take some time to visit these wonderful writers. I can assure you that you will enjoy their fabulous flash fiction!

Gratuitously

2010-07-09T07:00:00.000-04:00

Martha Frick sat on the edge of the yellow and orange flower-patterned chair Billy bought for five dollars at a yard sale and waited to accept condolences from the handful of mourners. The very chair where Billy was sitting when the stuffed and mounted moose head broke away from the wall and struck and killed him.

She closed her eyes. “Look,” Billy had said one evening not long ago after he called her in and pointed up at his newest acquisition.

“It looks great, doesn't it? And the guy at the flea market didn't charge for it. Just gave it to me on account of my being a good customer.”

He took her hand. “The chair will look real good under it. Help me push it.”

Martha frowned and pushed him away.

“I'm tired of all the junk you bring home!”

Her husband just smiled.

“Junk? You may think so, but remember that one man's junk is - ”

“Another man's treasure. I know, Billy,” she said, and went to find the pillow and blanket for him to use for when he slept on the sofa.

Until they moved from the city to the rural fishing town of his birth, Billy held a mid-level job in a government agency. Retirement brought them permanently to his childhood home. Martha volunteered at the nursery school; Billy spent his days treasure hunting.

Now, sitting and waiting for this day to end, she shook her head no when her daughter asked if she wanted something to drink. Martha looked around the room, at every available surface crowded with other people's unwanted detritus. She nodded when her son asked if she was ready and prepared herself as each mourner, in turn, approached, took her hand, and murmured words they thought would comfort.

“He will be missed, you can be sure of that.”

“Billy Frick was a good man.”

“Let me know if you need me to do anything for you.”

Reverend Hopwood was the last to lean over her. “We must remember that God works in mysterious ways,” he said as he squeezed her shoulder, but flushed in embarrassment when Martha laughed.

She did not expect to see any of them again. In several days the moving company would bring her things back to the city. The truck from the thrift shop would take the rest, including the screwdriver she last used to loosen the screws holding the bracket of the mount.

When In Rome

2010-07-02T07:00:00.002-04:00

Louis emerged from the Men's Room in the restaurant to hear his mother exchanging private telephone numbers with someone she met only scant hours ago.

“Please do call,” he heard her tell the woman whose name he could not remember. Something to do with Switzerland, he thought. Or was it nature?

“Let us go now, shall we?” He coaxed his mother as he helped her into her coat and nodded his goodbye to the woman. Berne? Oh, no. Fern. Her name is Fern. Nature, then.

He led his mother to the front door and before she stepped over the threshold, she turned to smile at her new friend.

“I've been told I give good phone.” she said and laughed before Louis grasped her hand and led her away.

The car ride was a quiet one, as usual. Louis glanced at his mother when he stopped at the last light before home. She moved her lips in silent conversation. Probably speaking to Father again, he thought and surprised himself by a fluttery bitterness he felt in his chest. It never was difficult for her to talk with Louis when he was a child. But as the years added growth, departure, and distance to her life, they also subtracted her ability to verbally demonstrate easiness with her son. She became shyly hesitant with the adult model. Now, after bringing her to live with him after she had escaped from the retirement center several times, their talks more closely resembled light, impersonal banter.

As he lay reading in bed later that night, Louis heard his mother laughing. Another talk with Deidre, he guessed. While pleased that his mother harbored friendship for his ex-wife, he never understood how anyone could speak for hours on the phone and enjoy it.

“Goodnight, dear,” he heard her say, then all was quiet.

Louis placed his reading glasses on the nightstand and leaned over to turn off the light. He settled into his pillows and closed his eyes. But moments later, his mother's soft pacing in her bedroom on the second floor interrupted the languid touch of his relaxation, and he sat up and turned on the light.

It's one of those nights, he thought.

Louis reached for his bathrobe, intent on going to his mother's room with tea and sitting with her in silence until she tired.

However, after looking across the room at the telephone on his desk, he shook his head. He left the bathrobe folded at the foot of the bed and walked over to his favorite chair.

His mother picked up on the second ring.

Picture courtesy of Cute and Cool BlogStuff

Wet Foot, Dry Foot

2010-06-11T07:00:00.001-04:00

That day, Beba and her daughter Maria jumped into the water to save their lives.

Caught between the demands and stipulations of two nations, they swam the last few yards to reach the beach on the Florida shore, eager to have their wet feet touch dry land, as required by the rules of an international game. If the United States Coast Guard had intercepted the boat they used to escape their homeland, they would be forced to return there – and to certain punishment. Managing to reach land ensured the chance to remain in the country and to qualify for expedited legal permanent resident status.

They made it safely that day of fear but no incidents and, despite knowing they were leaving many friends and family behind, they never regretted that decision.

Since their arrival two years before, Beba and Maria made a home with Uncle Mario and his family in Washington, D.C. They were happy; they were safe.

On the first warm day of one summer season, Uncle Mario took them and a group of friends on a hike along the Potomac River. Later, and no one could explain why, Beba slipped and fell.

Maria jumped into the water to save her mother's life.

“The calm surface is deceptive,” the fire chief said days later after the bodies were finally spotted and retrieved. “The river's currents are deadly, more so than ocean riptides. You can go down in seconds.”

Though it is illegal to enter the area from the park land and there are safety signs posted on both sides of the river in several languages, including Spanish, many people choose to ignore all warnings.

Uncle Mario will always regret that decision.

The Barkeep

2010-06-04T07:00:00.000-04:00

Weekend vampires, they called themselves. Every Friday night, after throwing the vestiges of conventional daily life to the bottom of closets, they donned black and red clothing, painted dark circles around their eyes, and snapped custom-fit fangs over their cuspids. All necessary to join the role play in the edgy back room of The Coffin Club.

He leaned against the cash register and watched the couple who moved to the shadows in the corner of the room. He tried to look away from the thin slice of razor cut against the willing participant's wrist, but could not. He parted his lips slightly and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, keeping his eyes on the blood.

“Hey, bartender!”

Startled and annoyed, he turned to the young man who interrupted his reverie.

What do you want, you damned fool?

That's what he ached to say. But he knew this job required a semblance of polite customer service, so he kept this thought to himself. He leaned forward and waited.

“Two Bloody Vampires,” the young man said, and put money on the bar.

As he prepared the drinks, the bartender knew he would not return tomorrow. While always working the late shifts at similarly themed bars across the country suited his nocturnal lifestyle, he never stayed too long in one place. Recently, though, he found himself thinking more about returning to his country. It was familiar and easy there. Also, while the other members of his family had allowed him to travel abroad and sample life in another culture, he knew that being away for much longer would not please them.

He placed the drinks in front of the young man and watched him take the hand of the girl seated at the next stool and suck her bloodied thumb before they clinked glasses in a toast.

He shook his head and looked at the others, many of whom were drunk on alcohol and fantasy.

Ridiculous, this business of playing games of dress up and spending weekends pretending to be doing something considered erotic and mysterious.

He laughed.

I wish I had that luxury.

He nodded to the people who called to him and requested drinks, and went to fill their orders.

Though he was centuries older than his regular clientele, spending time with them had been such fun. It only remained to decide whom he would kill before he flew home to the nest forever.

After all, he was thirsty too.

Rufus Bent

2010-05-27T18:03:00.003-04:00

Leaves sprouted from his fingers and his feet had taken root to the ground when he woke up in his recliner. However, Rufus Bent was not alarmed. Though his family argued that he was too old and feeble to live alone anymore, he always knew he would stay on the land that once belonged to his granddaddy.

“Of course, never thought it'd be quite this way,” he said as he looked down at his trunk and gnarled knees.

The family was in the kitchen, but Rufus did not call out to them. When they left him to nap earlier, he expected they would pass the time arguing. From what he could hear, they still were.

“I don't care what Daddy says; he's going to that home! It's a good place. He won't get better care.” This from his son.

Rufus laughed. I ain't going nowhere now, he thought as he moved the branch that was his right arm.

He had already refused his daughter's offer to live with her in the city. He told her he wanted to go to sleep at night hearing the familiar and beloved sounds of the backwoods, not the blasts and clatter of urban life which never welcomed him when he visited those few times.

“Maybe we can find someone else to come and stay with Daddy,” she now said to her brother. “Someone who doesn't know him.”

Don't worry, baby angel. Won't be long now. I won't need a nurse. Maybe a gardener? He cackled, as happy as he could be under the circumstances.

A few minutes passed before his children walked into the room. Though he could no longer see them, he heard their gasps and cries.

“I don't believe this,” his son said. “He's gone.”

No, I'm here, son, right where I belong. Rufus struggled to say more. Can you hear me? You'll always find me here.

There was no more he could do for them. As his last thoughts faded along with his voice, he hoped they would make common sense arrangements.

While his sister cried and dialed the phone, her brother reached over and closed his father's eyes.

“He looks so peaceful. Like he's asleep,” he whispered.

He pulled the blanket from the sofa and covered his father's body. His daddy always hated to be cold.

* * *

Note: The first line comes from a #storystarters prompt.

Tomorrow

2010-05-21T07:00:00.000-04:00

In the middle of the night, when her sleep was interrupted, Ella awoke to her grandmother's arms lifting her from the bed and leading her downstairs. Her questioning murmurs elicited only sshhhs from her Grammy. But, she could hear her father not being quiet at all.

“She's dead? You're lying!” His shouts came from the living room.

“Son,” Grammy called out, “Don't trouble the doctor none.”

When they reached the room and Grammy sat her on the sofa, Ella looked at her father, who was cradling a bloodied hand as he paced in front of the fireplace, the hearth covered by shards of the green Depression glassware her mother once collected.

“Mama is resting in heaven,” she whispered, and was surprised when he stopped.

“And I am going to hell,” he said, with a look to the doctor.

He left the room, taking a bottle of whiskey with him.

While Grammy accompanied the doctor to the front hall, their voices low and their sentences too adult for Ella to decipher, she stood and walked to the window.

“There are no stars up there,” she said. “How can I make a wish tonight?”

Grammy returned and stared at her grandchild, her eyes wearied by age and fear and tears.

“You don't really need them for that, honey,” she said.

Ella shook her head. She knew her grandmother wanted her father to be sent away to the special hospital. Too many times now he did not remember that mama had been dead for months. Skull fracture from accidental fall, according to the coroner's report.

She could not forget because she saw her die.

That's why Grammy woke her, then. To say goodbye to Daddy.

Ella wiped her tears and walked to her grandmother.

“Maybe I'll see them tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes, child.” Grammy kissed the top of her head. “There's always tomorrow.”

However, no matter how many she wished upon, the stars would not alter the truth that it was Ella who had pushed her mother to her death.

Minstrel

2010-05-14T07:00:00.000-04:00

It was always at the corner of the west side of the street where she went to sing. Every Monday morning at 7 a.m., while I sat drinking the first of many coffees of the day, I would see her. She would shuffle in her backless slippers to the entrance of the train station. She never looked at anyone, just walked with her head down as she moved to the left foot, right foot, do it all again beat until she reached the stool the news vendor had placed under the awning for her use. A guitar accompanied her musical notes of protest. They were Vietnam-era songs that baffled some of the commuters rushing to get to work.

“Make love, not war.” She would tell anyone this mantra of her long-ago youth as they tried to give her coins, which she refused. She, in turn, would hand out little slips of paper imprinted with a drawing of the peace symbol and smile whenever I took one, though I never stayed to hear the music. All I wanted was to look at her face before I went to work. I could not explain why but her serene blue eyes offered a cooling antidote to the anxious start of my work week.

On a day I was to leave for vacation, I stayed and waited for her to finish her song.

“Here,” I tried to press money into her hands. “I really want you to have this.”

She shook her head and tugged at the tie-dyed cotton blouse she wore.

This upset me. “Don't be crazy anymore. Please. There are other things to worry about. Vietnam is over. There is no war!”

She lifted her guitar and strummed the opening notes to a Bob Dylan tune.

“There's always something,” she said, and sang her song, blowing out the message to the wind.

Not many weeks later, she was dead. Mugged by someone who most likely thought the frail woman wearing the colors of the rainbow and singing of peace and love was an easy mark to rob, though he must have been surprised to find papers of the non-monetary kind in her pockets. The person did not even take the guitar – just left its splintered remains next to her body.

For several days, the community placed wreaths at the site of her last breaths and made plans.

It's my turn to join the neighborhood watch group that will patrol the streets tonight for several hours - veritable soldiers in the fight against crime. She might be pleased to know this. Though it probably would sadden her that we were not making love.

Mother’s Day – Twitter Chats Blog Tour

2010-05-06T08:04:00.004-04:00

Welcome to the Twitter Chats Blog Tour, organized by Mari Juniper at Mari's Randomities and Anne Tyler Lord at Don't Fence Me In

Today's theme is Mother's Day.

You'll be traveling with us through the blogs of some of the fantastic authors and writers who participate in our weekly -- funny, entertaining and educating -- Twitter chats. This tour will feature writers from #writechat, #litchat, and #fridayflash.

You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here. Happy Mother's Day!

~~~~~~~

Never Too Old

by Marisa Birns

Ellen Newman did not expect to be stuck in an elevator with her mother. But here they were, somewhere between the third and fourth floors in Aunt Judy's building. Her mother, of course, knew about Ellen's discomfort of being confined in small spaces, so she tried to distract her.

“Now, it's supposed to be my surprise party, but honestly, has your father ever been able to keep a secret from me?” She laughed. “Do you remember when – ”

“Mother. Please don't. It's not helping.”

Ellen sat on the floor and hugged her knees. Fortunately, the phone in the control panel worked, so the doorman knew about their predicament and promised it would be mere minutes before an employee from the maintenance office came to help.

“Are you hungry, dear?” Her mother took out an energy bar from her bag.

A shrug from Ellen. “Well, I didn't have lunch, so I guess I could eat something.”

She reached up and took it from her mother, along with the napkin she held out to her.

“I also have a bottle of water we can share.”

“Don't fuss over me. Please.” Ellen said, though she took the water. After a few seconds of thought, she looked up at her mother and patted the space next to her on the floor.

They passed the time remembering funny stories about various members of the family they would see tonight. Though she realized she was enjoying herself, Ellen still could not push away her worriment that it was taking too long for them to be rescued. Her mother noticed. She put her arm around Ellen's shoulders and kept on talking. Moments later, the elevator jolted in movement. “At last!” they said at the same time, and laughed as they helped each other to stand.

Her mother took out a comb from her bag and handed it to Ellen, who sighed before taking it.

“What am I going to do with you?

“Well, you want to look nice at my party, don't you?” Her mother said as she smoothed small creases from her dress. “And, sweetheart, don't forget that I don't know about it.”

As the doors finally opened to the anxious faces of her husband and sister-in-law, she turned to her daughter and offered her hand. They walked out together.

When they entered the apartment and the lights turned on, her mother acted properly startled at the shouts of “Surprise!” that came from every corner of the living room. But before she moved across the room for hugs, she looked over at Ellen, who winked and blew her a kiss.

“Yes, it was scary. But you know how Mom is.” Ellen said seconds later in answer to someone's question. “She made it all better.”

~~~~~~~

Thanks for stopping by. Your next stop for the Mother's Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is at Jemi Frasier of Just Jemi

The complete list of participants can be found at the hosts' blogs: Mari Juniper and Anne Tyler Lord

Office Mate

2010-05-03T09:02:00.000-04:00

I know her fingers are idle. She tried to write for over an hour but fear prevented that, and now she has run out of time.

“What can help me?” I hear her say. “I am in a pickle here.”

No! There will not be brined cucumber for her as long as I am around. After a few moments I hear it. Ah, she remembers I am stashed in the bottom drawer of the desk. Happy moment for me. She lifts me out and unwraps the foil that keeps my square shape fresh and beautiful.

While I do share the space with coarsely chopped peanuts, and some flakes that I believe would be better suited in a bowl full of milk, I know it is the dark part of me she craves. As I have done many times before, she hopes that the taste of my silky sweet wash of flavor will energize and inspire her.

After eating half of my chocolate goodness, she looks at the paper. Not a single written word mars its virgin pallor. Was it time to move those fingers?

Not yet. I beckon again. She closes her eyes and takes another bite. I can feel her mmmm of pleasure.

“Are you finished with the report?” Her boss stands in the doorway.

She looks at him and swallows. “The research is taking longer than I thought.”

I always have more work to do.

~ ~ ~ ~

A new chat can be found at #storycraft on Sundays at 6pm EST. In addition to all the good talk last week, participants were given an assignment: to write a story (300-500 words) from the perspective of an inanimate object. The above was my contribution.

The founders of #storycraft are @TamaraNKitties @Danisidhe and @IamJaymes

They share space at @Story_Craft

The Way of It

2010-04-30T07:00:00.000-04:00

Little Joey looked down at the gun held out to him.

“C'mon, take it. I ain't got all night,” Dix said, and poked him in the ribs.

“I can't.” Little Joey kept his hands by his side. “Need more time to figure things.”

Dix laughed. “If you want this, there ain't more time.”

The boys were standing in the shadows of a dilapidated apartment building where Little Joey lived, in a space crowded with siblings and disorder. When his family first moved here from a homeless shelter, he celebrated the positive change to their circumstances. He was able to go to school regularly, and he even earned a little money helping the elderly neighbors in the building carry packages home from the convenience store. Once, after putting beer down on Old Pete's kitchen table, he took out some of his drawings from his backpack to show him, and grinned when Old Pete complimented his talent.

“Yep,” Little Joey said, “I wanna be an artist.”

It was not long, however, before his parents surrendered without a struggle to the familiar ways of drugs and inattentiveness, and his older brother joined a neighborhood gang.

Little Joey stopped going to school, preferring the company of the boys who congregated on the block for most of the day with not much on their schedules except for smoking and killing time until the evening.

“Boy, don't hang out with them losers,” Old Pete had warned. “I know it be hard, but you can get out. Go to school. Learn. Be somethin'.”

But two days ago his brother died in a drive by shooting, and the word on the street implicated a new member of a rival gang fulfilling a rite of initiation. Little Joey spoke about revenge, and the neighborhood boys sent Dix to recruit him to their ranks.

Now, confronted with the stark sight of the weapon in Dix's hand, Little Joey hesitated. He understood he was at a crossroad. One way led to an unknown place where he saw the details imperfectly, the other to a plot in a drama out of his control.

“What's keeping you? Dix asked. “You in or what, man?” .

Little Joey looked up at the windows of his building. His parents had not been home for several days. He saw the lights go out in Old Pete's apartment, then looked at Dix, who smiled and held out the gun again.

There really is no one, he thought.

“We take care of our own kind, yeah?” Dix said.

Little Joey nodded in reply.

Transient

2010-04-23T07:00:00.001-04:00

The gentleman sitting across the room has not ordered anything since he arrived at the coffee shop. He is at the table nearest to the window, with the morning newspaper splayed across the table. However, he is not reading, just turning the pages one by one, each time touching his right index finger to his tongue as if he were taste testing the words. What intrigues me is that his head is turned to the ceiling as he flicks the pages.

I watch for a few moments, then think, “Maybe he is blind.” But he becomes aware of my gaze and slowly lowers his head and turns to look at me, hand still at his lips. Though embarrassed at being caught, I nod and smile. He does not acknowledge my greeting, however, just lowers his eyes and dampens the tip of his finger with his saliva.

As is my usual routine whenever visiting a new city, I prefer to go out for coffee first thing in the morning, finding places not far from my hotel. I like to watch the locals go about their day and hear the cadence of their speech. On this day at this place, I sit at a small table with a red formica top, drinking black coffee in a white mug. The group I travel with is probably gathered in the hotel's ornate dining room, enjoying a breakfast buffet with all the food and unlimited cups of coffee they can swallow in the hour before the meeting.

The job keeps us traveling for many months of the year. The early allure of spending nights away from my hometown lost its fizzle, not unlike a bottle of champagne forgotten overnight and uncorked on the table. While in the morning it may resemble the drink of celebration, the good taste is gone. The job is as flat and warm.

As I finish my coffee, I see the manager of the shop come up to the man. I am not close enough to hear the conversation but can guess he asked him to leave. The man nods and puts on the shabby jacket folded on the floor beside his chair. He stands, picks up a bag from under the table, and anchors it to his left shoulder by its strap. At the exit he hesitates as if summoning some resolve to go out into the city, then leaves without looking back. There is no tip on the table, of course. Just the opened newspaper, edges marked with the DNA of a nameless person whose story I will never know. Through the window I see him walk away with unhurried gait.

It is time for me to return to my work and colleagues at the hotel.

Later that night, after many hours of trying to fall asleep in one more unfamiliar bed, I think of the man in the coffee shop and decide that while he may be lonely and homeless in one city, I am the same in many.

One Hundred Twenty Minutes

2010-04-16T07:00:00.001-04:00

He is naked, immobile, and in searing pain, but refuses to use his safe word. He loves it when she treats him with contempt, when she is willing to push the limits – this is what he pays for, after all.

Right now his body is trussed with hemp rope and pierced with metal clamps. He hears the sounds approaching that always excite him – the click of heels, the crackle of leather, the strike of the bullwhip on the stone floor.

“You want this, Swine?” the woman asks as she places the end of the leather whip under his chin and lifts his face to her gaze.

He shudders and closes his eyes. “Yes, Mistress, he whispers, “Please,” and waits for her to walk around him and deliver the first of many burns of the lash on his back.

At the end of the session, after he dons his dark suit and kneels before her, she permits him to lick her boots in goodbye.

“Enough! You may leave, Pet.” she waves him away after a few moments. He rises, walks to the door, and turns to look at her. Despite the weekly promises to himself to stay away, he always returns, for he craves the lack of control and the need to be subservient in the hands of a capable sadist.

For him, she is his dominatrix and he is her slave.

For her, he is Friday's noon appointment.

As he closes the door behind him, her phone rings and she answers it before the second brrring. It is her husband.

“Hey, handsome” she says, “If you're calling to remind me about picking up the dry cleaning on my way home, don't worry. I won't forget.”

The light at the side door flashes its one-minute warning.

“Have to get back to work, honey. Kiss the kids for me.”

She hangs up and looks in the full-length mirror. She adjusts the crotch-high leather stiletto boots and checks her face. There's no need to touch up her makeup; she never sweats on the job, though she does wipe off the crimson lipstick. This next one prefers nude lips.

She smoothes her hair and turns to greet the two o'clock submissive who is crawling on his hands and knees into her dungeon.

Dear Jesus Box

2010-04-09T07:00:00.000-04:00

Cherie Polite never expected to open her email and find a message from a deity. But here on her computer, was an email from Jesus with the subject heading: “More sex. More often. More exciting.”

She deleted it. After all, she was not one to bother saints or gods with prayers for succor, so she felt it unnecessary to be spammed, especially by a Jesus with a surname of 'Sanchez'.

Her singular connection to religiosity involved a rustic hanging cupboard of solid pine covered with green paint and artfully distressed to show the mustard-colored grain. From one important occasion to another, Cherie placed keepsakes on its shelves, memorabilia of her life. With them she enclosed chatty notes.

Dear Jesus: Sister Regina told me to stand in front of the class because I couldn't answer a question. She had the students say all together, ‘Cherie is a dimwitted girl.’ When I got the courage to say it wasn’t a nice thing to do, Sister told me to mind my manners. ‘Cherie Polite, be polite!’ The class laughed.

* * *

When the boy next door asked her to marry him, both sets of parents – blatantly eavesdropping – took turns walking past the room where the young man perched on his knee and held out a velvet box. Cherie looked down at the ring.

Dear Jesus: I'm happy I’m getting married, though I'm really not sure he's the answer to my prayers―if I did pray anymore―but then, what do I know?

* * *

Three months after the marriage, Cherie placed the annulment papers in the box.

Dear Jesus: Found out the answer to my question.

* * *

After moving to a new town, Cherie accepted a neighbor's invitation to join a Bible study group. She told herself it was just a way to meet the locals. During the coffee break, one woman gave her a slice of cake.

“You're gonna be happy here,” she said. “Prayer is power. Why, one morning I went to the building supply store and before I turned into the driveway I said, 'Oh Lord, please let me find a parking space by the door.' Guess what?”

Dear Jesus: Coffee was good, though.

* * *

One incandescently cloud-free Sunday morning on her last day in town before she moved back home, Cherie's friend telephoned. “Hey, wanna go hear the Dalai Lama speak?” Louie asked.

By the time they reached the event, it was too late. As far as Cherie could see, after enlightenment came celebration. There were many hundreds of people singing, dancing, and playing frisbee in the open field.

“Wow, look over there,” Louie said, directing her attention to a woman wearing Tibetan garb. She was rubbing the head of a young boy seated near her on a straw mat as she talked to similarly attired women, all clutching beads and laughing. The boy, oblivious, played with a hand-held game.

“That kid has the latest model. Now that's a religious experience,” Louie said.

Dear Jesus: Much belief . . . and joy . . . for people today. Even Louie!

Early the next morning, Cherie hitched a ride with Louie's cousin back to her hometown. For most of the trip, Franny talked in a scurry of words. “Just think,” she said at one point, “I actually heard the Dalai Lama.” She smiled. “I just love that inner peace.”

Franny saw a large sign on the right. “Food! There’s a rest stop in two miles. How about it?”

Cherie was writing in her notebook.

“Well?”

Cherie looked at Franny, who pointed to the exit. “Want to get some food?”

Dear Jesus: Yes. I'm hungry for that too.

Avocation

2010-04-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

Her work colleagues summoned the courage to confront her at an Intervention Breakfast one Friday morning after the exasperated company president ordered the division to solve the problem once and for all. Margaret Bepler, who now sat at the long conference table drinking coffee and eating half a bagel was the problem, and the solution was simple, really.

Margaret had to stop dressing like a woodland fairy.

At the beginning of the week, when she arrived at the office wearing a kelly green dress with hemp leaf and tulle trim, her colleagues smiled and asked about the joke. “Joke?” She frowned. “I don't know a single one.” She turned to make the morning's phone calls, leaving the others quite perplexed, though none felt they wanted to be the one to remind her of the company's dress code.

The second day, all conversation ceased when Margaret stepped off the elevator wearing an olive colored skirt overlaid with multiple layers of brown netting as well as a stretchy bustier laced with neon green ribbon in the back. When her boss took her aside for a private discussion, the others could hear Margaret respond with, “It's not as if I wear wings or a headpiece or even carry a wand.”

The rest of the week brought similar fantasy-inspired fashion to the stodgy office décor. Company officials were reluctant to take the definitive step of firing her. After all, she had accrued a little more than ten years of employment with them, and the excellent reviews collected in her personnel file were a testament to her diligence and performance. They also surmised that the recent death of Margaret's husband after many years of illness accounted for her unhinged good sense of propriety.

But on this last day of the work week, the vice president of the company hoped this intervention would bring a satisfactory resolution. Although Margaret declined his offer of extra vacation days with pay, she did apologize for any distress her wardrobe choices engendered, and thanked all for their concern. He sat in the conference room with the rest of the staff watching as Margaret chewed the last bite of bagel and finished a second cup of freshly brewed coffee. She stood and brushed crumbs from the butterfly applique patch on the apple green velour bodice of her dress.

“I did love all the compliments I received at the company costume party several weeks ago. It's not like I think I'm a real fairy,” she said by way of rational explanation. “I guess it was hard to give up that good feeling.”  

As part of the agreement to put this episode to rest, Margaret promised to don the extra set of clothing she kept in the hall closet, and went to her private office to change. A few minutes later, she stepped out wearing a navy pinstriped suit and white blouse that ineluctably personified corporate life in the forest of finance, and nodded at her relieved office mates.

“Back to work, shall we?” Margaret said and turned to reenter her office, giving them all a good look at the inky blue and viridian wired wings that spanned the width of her back.

Magic Number

2010-03-26T07:00:00.000-04:00

Julio the doorman knew how to keep secrets, and after many years of employment at the same upscale residential building in the city, there were many to keep.

“I'm like a bartender or a therapist,” he once told his wife. “Without the booze or couch.”

For example, the people in 3-G were married for five years, no children. Recently, whenever the wife went out of town on business for several days, Mr. 3-G returned home in the dawning hours with a young lady. Julio would unlock the building's front door, smile, and wish them a good morning as they stumbled to the elevator.

Then there was the fifteen year old girl in 7-H who always waved in a see you later salute as she left with a few friends on Wednesday afternoons. The private school the girl attended let out early on those days every week so that the students could perform the required community service of their choice. Julio overheard her telling her parents at the beginning of the semester that she planned on spending several hours fulfilling her assignment at a downtown soup kitchen.

“Where do you think they go?” the super of the building asked Julio once while sharing smokes outside and watching the girls walking across the avenue to hail a cab going uptown.

“Anywhere they want,” Julio said.

Of course, Julio's favorite was the judge in Penthouse A who every Halloween hosted a party while wearing form-fitted women's clothes, a red wig of cascading curls, and four inch heels. In the early part of the evening, when the kids in the building knocked on his door, the judge would sway to the table to get the candy to hand out to them. Once, the little boy in 5-K told Julio he did not like to go to that door for trick or treat because, “a scary, ugly woman” lived there.

The judge's courthouse friends attending the parties laughed at the very idea that the usually somber and humorless state official―nicknamed Hang 'em High Harold―enjoyed the holiday so much he allowed himself this one night of ridicule in such a costume.

But Julio understood that what the judge enjoyed more was the attention from the handsome young men who would come by after all the party goers went home. From the look of their costumes, the theme of the evening could be summed up as 'Bad Boys Who Need to Get Spanked While Handcuffed.'

In all the years he worked there, Julio never once felt any compunction to betray any confidences. However, there was a set price to pay for silence, and it escalated with the cost of living.

“You're a good man,” many of the residents told him time and time again, as they handed him an envelope with cash at the end of the year.

Yes, Julio knew how to keep secrets, especially from the taxman.

Voyages

2010-03-19T07:00:00.000-04:00

Kat thought about how when she was a little girl and frightened or worried she would whisper to herself, Angels spread your wings around and protect me, repeating it as many times as necessary for calmness to return to her. She needed the incantation now. Her father lay dying on the floor.

They were in the study after returning from another visit to the doctor. Complications from bronchitis this time. Her father napped on the sofa while she read but awoke with a suffocating cough and tried to stand up. He reached out for her but she could not lift his weight, and he slid to the floor.

“No hospital,” he rasped. “No more. Please.”

She nodded, though she did not tell him that other family members had already called the ambulance and were waiting outside for the paramedics.

Her father looked at her and smiled. Just yesterday he told his daughter he was ready to go. “Look how old I am,” he had said. “I've done everything I wanted, your mother has been gone for so many years, and you're all grown up. There's nothing left but the waiting.”

As Kat sat on the floor holding her father's hand and stroking his hair, she knew that no matter how much she wished it, he would not recover from this bout of illness. She was resigned and accepted this truth, and would wait with him.

He had loved the sea, and as a young man he left an accounting job to join the Merchant Marines. Kat and her mother would welcome him home with joyful kisses during his months-long leave, and send him off with tearful ones when he returned to the ships. His stories around the family table after the dishes were done told of Lucullan seafood dinners along the Mediterranean shore, rollicking taberna-hopping, bullfights in Spain, and wistful moments lying awake on the ship's deck, with smoke rising from his cigarettes to meet the stars in a Greek night. Frayed photographs showed him sitting with friends in a French cafe with cup in hand, intensity in his light eyes, and a black beret rakishly gracing his right profile.

“You're just like a character in an Ernest Hemingway story,” Kat told him once and made him laugh.

Whenever he returned from his voyages, his usual shout of, “Where is my Pussy Kat?” brought her running down the stairs shrieking and answering with, “Where are my presents?” The first time her mother admonished her for this, her father shushed his wife. “Just our little joke,” he said.

Now, his voice whispered, “I am so tired.”

They heard the sirens of the approaching ambulance. Her father closed his eyes.

“Angels spread your wings around and protect him,” Kat said, and went to tell the others.

Dawning

2010-03-12T07:00:00.000-05:00

She did not have identification on her, so police made a public appeal for help. Video from a nearby traffic camera showed a slight woman jogging across the street in the shadowy dawn. Quick moments later, a tractor trailer sped through the 30 mile an hour spot.

Officers believed the truck driver did not realize he had struck and killed someone.

“I always carry my ID now. Ever since that jogger was hit by the bus last month, I...well, just in case, ya know?” This from a bystander speaking to the local media. Other residents roused from slumber by the commotion came outside hoping to be on the morning news programs. They shook their heads and complained that they just knew this would happen again.

“We've demanded the city install a traffic light at this intersection,” one woman said. “But they ignore us.”

The police did not have much information to pass along to television viewers. Just a description of a white female approximately in her thirties, wearing dark exercise clothes, brightly colored sneakers with violet laces, and three crystal filigree bracelets on her right arm.

Apparently, she was listening to music as she ran—the earphones a possible explanation of why she may not have heard the vehicle turning onto her path.

Across town, a woman drinking a last cup of coffee before leaving for the office saw the televised appeal for any information, and gasped as she thought she recognized the jewelry displayed on camera. It reminded her of the ones her work colleague wore every day.

Half an hour later, news readers reported that, “Police have identified the victim but are withholding her name until the family is notified.”

* * *

The officers parked the cruiser in front of a darkened house a few blocks from the site of the accident. One of them checked the address and nodded to his partner. They walked the short path to the door, rang the bell, and waited.

Inside the house, a man was turning on the kitchen light and opening the back door to let out the dog when he heard the doorbell — followed by sharp knocking — at the front of the house. He looked at the shelf under the clock and saw his wife's keys hanging on its special hook. She's locked herself out again, he thought.

“Okay, be right there!” he called out when the bell buzzed once more. He walked to the hall.

“Is mommy back?” The little boy stood yawning at the top of the stairs on the second floor.

“Yes,” his dad said. “Come down and give her a good morning kiss.”

He turned and opened the door.

Blockade

2010-03-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

The city's resources were no longer adequate to feed the hungry after enemy forces arrived.

On most nights, Annie's mother smiled and promised she would eat later after she divided her portion of dinner between her children. But no amount of money could buy what they needed for survival anymore, and her weakness and apathy diminished her interaction with the surrounding world. Eventually her body, mind, and struggle against the inevitable stopped.

Yesterday, she died of starvation.

Today, Annie walked unfamiliar streets with her little brother looking for an address. Her mother's last whispers through puffed lips cleaved with arid lineations told of a place where rebels offered sustenance.

“Come with us,” Annie had begged as she held out a glass of water, but her mother shook her head and refused the drink. The fungi growing in her throat made swallowing unbearably painful.

“I'm sorry,” she said to her children in an exhale of shallow breath. A few hours later, there were no more words.

When the president of the country announced the unexpected and shocking news that war had come to their doorstep, Annie's father left immediately to rejoin his former military colleagues, all of whom were determined to take up arms against the invaders.

At one time in the past, a beloved politician intoned the immortal words, “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” But this battle had no precedent, and the citizens realized they could look neither to their stricken leader nor to history for guidance and comfort. Hope seemed non-existent; there was everything to fear now.

“Are we there yet?” her brother asked after she touched his shoulder and stilled his steps. They looked around the garbage-strewn area in the abandoned industrial section of the city.

“Yes,” she said. “We just have to stand behind this person, that's all.” She pointed to a man who did not acknowledge them except for moving forward a step and hunching his shoulders, as if to say this spot on this here concrete is mine!

Her brother turned to her. “Will we get food?”

“I hope so,” she said, and saw that he shivered. Taking a small sweater from her bag, she helped him put it on and, after all the buttons were secured, placed her arm around his frailty. She knew they would be here for some time.

Lines stretched for blocks as people waited for their rations. Starvation instead of annihilation. The aliens were smart.

Note: I thank Selorian for the last paragraph, a prompt found at his #storystarters page.

Trump Card

2010-02-26T07:00:00.000-05:00

She guzzled the second drink while she waited for her daughter to arrive and introduce her to the foreigner she planned to marry. When she snapped her fingers and then knocked on the table, the waiter nodded. He understood the keep them coming gesture.

“Of all the bad news you can give, this is the worst,” she complained to her daughter the week before as she paced in the sitting room. “How do you know he's not marrying you just to become legal?”

Several hours of argument. No changing of minds.

Now she sat in the back of the restaurant in an immigrant section of town and drank the third glass of the thick liquid she preferred whenever she was upset. She played with the stones on her fingers and suffered another rush of ire as she remembered that her future son-in-law had not bought her daughter a ring.

A necklace! She thought. The server arrived with another drink. “Maybe in his corner of the world a necklace is the right kind of jewelry for an engagement, but it doesn't impress me,” she said to him.

“Momu, stop annoying the help.” Her daughter's arrival caused many heads to turn in admiration. She laughed, blew a kiss at her mother, and waved the server away. She planned to make the few minutes before her fiance showed up very happy ones for her mother.

“Behold,” she said as she sat next to her on the banquette. “This is my gorgeous present.” She unlatched the chain and placed it on the tablecloth. She smiled as her mother put down her drink and, with opened mouth and widened eyes, picked up the true amber pendant.

“Daughter, do you know how rare and expensive this is?” she whispered, as she counted a dozen fossilized objects embedded in the resin. It was well understood among her circle of friends that collectors highly valued this gemstone with natural inclusions indicating mammalian life.

“Yes, Momu, it's the first one found in thirty years. And my love can afford any price,” she said with unrestrained pride.

“Wealth handed down the family line for generations?”

“Of course,” her daughter said. “The old-fashioned way.”

Her mother smiled. No need to worry about her child's future, then. She lifted the pendant and marveled at the pristine and complete specimen of bellicose creatures that, as legend has it, once roamed the world as soldiers in the Special Forces of the United States Army. This piece is truly a drama of ancient history, she thought, then looked up to see her daughter kissing her betrothed hello.

“Welcome to the family,” she said and extended her right arms. He bowed his three heads and kissed the back of her hands in reply.

Gifts

2010-02-24T15:25:00.000-05:00

I am happy and honored that two lovely people have passed on The Sugar Doll Blogger Award to me.

Many thanks to:

Deanna Schrayer at The Other Side of Deanna
Laura Eno at A Shift in Dimensions

I would like to pass along this award to:

Cathy Olliffe at Life on the Muskoka River

She is quite funny, sassy, and her comments on my stories always make me feel as if I done good!

Now look here.

If The Sugar Blogger was not enough reason to celebrate, I've also received The Silver Lining AND Honest Scrap awards from Anne Lord Tyler who can be found at Don't Fence Me In

What can I say? I am flabbergasted. I consider these women exceptional writers and friends whose support, encouragement, and sense of fun make any day great. Please visit them and you'll see for yourself.

The Silver Lining Award is given to blogs that help others or that focus on the good things in life to uplift others. This award comes with one condition. I must now pass it on to five other blogs that I feel have accomplished the same thing.

The Sugar Doll and Honest Scrap Awards require me to list ten things about myself that are true. Damn! Er. I mean, of course I will. I'll combine the two and keep it to ten for my sake, and yours.

1. I was born and raised in New York City.

2. I taught myself to read at four years of age.

3. I attended Catholic School until junior high. Yeah. I know.

4. The only sport I enjoyed playing in school was.... Well, I'll think on it and get back to you.

5. I was asked to the school prom by the captain of the football team, even though I was NOT a cheerleader. Didn't go because my father would not allow it.

6. I was a television reporter.

7. I have three children.

8. I enjoy living in Washington, DC, but miss New York and visit often.

9. Never inhaled or exhaled cigarettes or anything else. Which explains a lot.

10. Love listening to other people's stories than talking about myself.

Once again, please forgive me for adapting the conditions to my needs at the moment. Because I know that so many of my writing friends have or are receiving these awards from different people, I've decided not to overwhelm them. So I hereby bestow The Silver Lining and Honest Scrap awards to one person who is quite wonderful and inspirational, too. She also shares her wine with me. Virtually, of course, though if I could get her to visit maybe she'll bring a bottle!

Georganna Hancock. Her great blog is A Writer's Edge and it's so chock full of good information, amusing asides, no-nonsense thinking that one can consider it as getting five blogs for the price of one!

Frater

2010-02-19T07:00:00.015-05:00

You can only refuse to believe in something until you see it with your own eyes. Henry now believed in ghosts.

While waiting for the fraternity brothers to come downstairs for dinner, he walked into the lounge and saw a young man blowing chilled breath onto three of the mullioned window panes and tracing letters in the condensation.

“Who are you?” Henry asked. “You must know there's an investigation. We're closed.”

The young man stilled his movements and turned.

“You!” Henry said, heart thumping.

Thomas smirked, tilting his head to one side. “Me,” he agreed.

“You're supposed to be dead.”

“How very interesting,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Anyone would think I was unaware of this.”

Several days ago, “Two Die During Rush Week” was one of the many headlines in the local newspapers. Pictures revealed handsome young men with athletic builds and rakish smiles. When it happened, it was Hell Night, and Thomas stood with Henry and another freshman awaiting further instructions.

They endured several harsh antics and pranks, and only one thing needed to be done before these pledges discovered if the fraternity brothers extended a hand in bonding and unity or goodbye. The last test involved drinking lots of water quickly. The ones who drank the most within the half hour were assured a place in the house.

The autopsy report concluded death from water intoxication and its complications. Doctors were called too late and could not reverse the cellular damage from severe brain tissue swelling.

“What do you want?” Henry asked.

Thomas walked to the sofa and tapped his fingers along the frayed armrest where his head had rested that evening as he lay dying.

“It's you who needs to remember something,” he said.

“Me? You're crazy. Or I am, if I'm standing here talking to you.”

Thomas shook his head and returned to the window. He touched the last pane.

“I'll see you later, Henry.”

“What? No! Why would you haunt me? Didn't I try to call the police, when the others wanted to wait until morning to see if things got better?”

Thomas laughed. “You could not do very much.”

“I tried to help!” Henry insisted. "But no one would listen to me." He took a calming breath, trying to relax his features, trying to look less like a frightened boy. Thomas pointed to the window, then looked at him over his shoulder.

“Just returning the favor,” he said, then winked and dispersed into curling grey wisp that fogged the fourth pane and outlined a last word.

You Are Dead Too

[Edited to add few lines to clear up confusion for several readers]

Traditions

2010-02-12T07:00:00.000-05:00

This is how Tasha died: pinioned by the arms of her grandfather as her father struck her chest with her mother's favorite kitchen knife. She expected her mother to scream, or rush at her husband, or call the police. She did not expect her Ammi would stand at the top of the stairs and nod her head in support.

Tasha has a sister, her mother thought as she watched, her eyes rimmed with dampened kohl.

Earlier, Tasha had returned home from an afternoon of studying at her best friend's house. She was introduced to an older cousin who was visiting for the weekend. He helped them with their studies and, several hours later, they walked Tasha home after stopping for a drink at the coffee shop. She waved goodbye and turned to see her parents and grandfather standing in the hall. “I'm late, I know, sorry but---”

“You were out all day with a boy?” Her father's spittle landed on her face and she stepped back.

“Not like that. We were studying!”

Her grandfather spoke. “You were told you will marry the young man we chose for you, with ties to our village. His relatives here saw you.”

Tasha did not want to talk about this. She was born in this suburban house 16 years ago, not a dusty village. Yes, her mother and father were very strict, overly protective, and infuriating at times, but is that not the way of all parents?

“You know I don't want to get married,” she said. “Especially to some guy I don't even know. I want to study and get a job and not be tied down to your old-fashioned...”

Her mother's slap to her face sent Tasha running upstairs to her room. She sat on her bed and held her old stuffed bunny to her chest. It was her comfort in the night since she was four years old. A few minutes later she heard someone walk up the wooden steps to her room. Her father came in without knocking. He carried a cup of tea.

“You acted in a way that has brought shame to our family!” he said and closed the door. He held out the hot drink. “Your grandfather and I will give you the chance to do what you must to preserve the honor of our family members.”

He pointed to the cup in his hand. “It has rat poison.”

“Abba?” Tasha pushed one of Bunny's ears into her mouth to stifle the scream and bile and moved closer to the window.

“No one will marry your sister until our name is pure again.” Her father placed the cup on her desk and left without another word.

Tasha's tears obscured the familiar. What was her father talking about? Those traditions had no place here. Oh, she grew up hearing about these honor killings, but they were stories - they belonged to the old country, to the villages, to the old ways. This is the United States, for goodness sake. Her father could not mean this. He was just trying to scare her. She needed to find her mother.

She knocked the cup to the floor and left her room, running down the stairs. Her grandfather stepped from the study and stood before her.

“Oh, Dada, Dada!” she wept as he held out his arms.

Tasha expected them to take away her phone, or ground her for a month, or any other loss of privileges as punishment. She did not imagine this.

“I am justified,” her father whispered as he pulled out the knife. “Allah Haafiz.”

Bald Lying

2010-02-10T15:23:00.002-05:00

I've been tapped by Carol Kilgore at Under the Tiki Hut to receive the Lesa's ~~Bald Faced Liar~~ "Creative Writer" Blogger Award. I'm honored! Thank you, Carol.

As with the best things in life, this is not free. There are some things I must do before I can relax and stare at my lovely award.

Here are the rules:
1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth.
5. Nominate seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

That's it. Now, of course I must tell six outrageous lies about myself. Hmmm. Dunno why Carol thought I knew how to lie, but never mind. Will have words with her later. Oh. And one outrageous truth. Well, there's nothing outrageous about the truth. It can only set one free.

So, here goes:

I gave a drunken lap dance to a 21-year-old stranger at a transvestite club.
My father was the mayor of his New Jersey town.
I never went to college because I was kicked out of high school.
I gave up a rock star life because the sex and drugs became same-old, same-old.
I am now a happy little homemaker and cook, clean, bake every day.
My mother spoke French to me until I went to first grade.
I never learned to drive.

Now, I must ~~torture~~ nominate seven "Creative Writers" and warn them about it.

I'm tapping the side of my nose with my index finger as I think. All right. Here are the seven bloggers I'm passing this award to:

Deanna Schrayer at The Other Side of Deanna
Anne Tyler Lord at Don't Fence Me In
G.P. Ching at So, Write
P.J. Kaiser at Inspired by Real Life
Karen Schindler at Miscellaneous Yammerings
Tony Noland at Landless
Alex Carrick at Alex Carrick's Blog

That was a lot of work, Carol.

But it was an entertaining way to spend my snowbound day! Thanks again.

Ache

2010-02-05T07:30:00.000-05:00

The school yard fell silent as the two boys stood toe-to-toe at the center of the growing crowd. The bigger of the boys, whom everyone called Buster, kept his hostile brown-eyed stare pointed at his opponent. His beefy arms dangled loosely at his sides, but his fists were clenched and ready.

Teddy was new to the school. Earlier, while he ate lunch at a table by himself, Buster and four other boys approached and pushed his tray to the floor.

“You think you be so smart, laughing cuz I got the wrong answer in class?” Buster asked.

He looked around at the nearby students, who stopped chewing in order to hear what was happening. “Let's see him laugh when I break his face outside.”

He turned to Teddy and sneered. No one said a word until Buster and his cronies left the room.

Now, all the spectators waited in excited chatter for it to begin. When Buster spat on the ground, a signal that he was ready, the crowd stepped back to give him room. Teddy started to tell this bully he did not want to fight, but had hardly spoken when Buster struck and hit him in the head.

Fight! Fight!" came from those looking on, and this was taken up on all sides.

Though a cut in his temple was bleeding into his right eye, Teddy ducked the next blow and ran at Buster. They tumbled to the ground. Teddy, being leaner and quicker, rolled away and stood. He kicked at Buster's ankles and shins, but fell over when he lost his balance.

"Boys! boys! Stop this now!” It was the school principal. He forced his way through the crowd to where Buster and Teddy lay, still pummeling each other, and, reaching down, caught each by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

As they were led away to the front door of the school, Teddy thought about his grandmother getting the phone call. He lived with her now, after his mother had left him on her doorstep a week ago with a small suitcase and run off with another deadbeat boyfriend who promised her everything but stability.

His grandmother sighed when she answered his knock that day but knew Teddy could not live alone and had no other place to go. “Don't want trouble with you, hear?” she warned after explaining the rules of the house. He promised.

This is trouble, he thought as he and Buster reached their fourth grade classroom to collect their books while the principal spoke to their teacher.

Later, as he sat waiting in the hallway for his grandmother to come and sign him out of school, Teddy remembered his mother once told him, “Baby, dreams don't cost nuthin' but the time it takes to have 'em.”

So he will dream of a transformed life ahead. But, the world he inhabits will not make it easy.

He feared he will always have to fight to make his way.

NOTE:

I have Clifford Fryman to thank for the first sentence. I found it at #storystarters, his brainchild, a place to go if writers need a prompt to “kick start their creativity when their muse is a no show.” You can find him at Twitter here.

The Woods

2010-01-29T07:00:00.000-05:00

Billy Parker is famous tonight. And not just because his shots at the state police helicopter ruptured the fuel tank and forced an emergency landing, though that feat makes him mighty proud. His daddy tried to teach him to hunt deer, but it was always Billy's four brothers who brought down the bucks at the end of the day.

Lookie now, daddy, he thought as he stopped to rest against a tree in the Virginia woods, hands gripping the high powered rifle, listening intently. I finally bagged me something big.

What brings Billy notoriety this cold winter evening are the five bodies back at the house.

It was Wade from the gas station who found them earlier when he came by for their weekly cards and booze. He ran out to the yard, crying and spewing his dinner, before he drove to the neighboring farm for help. When Sheriff Walker arrived, Wade grabbed his arm and told him the Parkers are dead except Billy because “his body ain't lying in there.” The Sheriff nodded.

The other teenagers down at the Piggly Wiggly once told him, “Billy's not been right in the head since his mama passed.” Since then he always thought something awful would happen. There were too many nights he was called in to stop the drunken beatings. Yes, he worried about the boy.

The manhunt tracked Billy to his present location, a rural area thick with trees that gave way to large clearings. He knew he had a final decision to make since he could hear the hounds and see flashes of light. It was harder before, when the jumbled voices in his head cajoled too fast and too loud, and were of no help. But a few minutes ago, they ceased their shouts and whispered their goodbyes.

They'll come back, dammit, he said out loud. They always do.

His pursuers arrived. Billy stood up and walked away from the tree in calm and unavoidable surrender.

An Uncle

2010-01-22T07:00:00.001-05:00

A car horn jolted Nick out of his reverie. He sat in a favorite leather bound chair by the window in Uncle's study and looked at his wife with bleary eyes. Her peevish expression faded when she finally had his attention. “Yes?” he said with a slight inclination of his head, and put down his drink.

“You're being rude, you know. Go handle those people out there.”

“Forgive me but I'm going to need some more time alone.” He refilled the glass.

“Oh really? Well, sure. Of course.” She left without another word and slammed the door shut.

Nick looked out the window and saw three people striding up the short drive to the house. He gulped more of his drink, needing the alcohol to burn away the bile clogging his throat.

Many years ago Nick became Uncle's ward. His mother, a much beloved housemaid to the family, left the infant boy with Uncle and his late wife, and returned to her husband and children in their Central American village. Nick's biological father was never found. While never usually overtly affectionate, Uncle raised him in a dutiful and kind manner.

Just yesterday, the elderly man died in his bed.

Uncle once made an offer he thought would set his ward on a path of redemption. “I'll pay all the fees and living expenses if you go to law school.” But Nick refused. By then, he operated a successful business he enjoyed. Many times over the years, the money he made was more than he could have hoped, even as a lawyer.

Unfortunately, those lucrative times were gone.

Of course, I counted on Uncle's damn millions taking care of the rest of it, he thought as he swallowed the last of the scotch.

Earlier, after he greeted and comforted all who came over with their black clothes, their potlucks, and their memories, Nick stepped into the study for private time with Uncle's lawyer.

“I don't know why you thought you and your wife were in Mr. Stanford's will,” were the lawyer's last words before he left Nick shaken and nursing his drink.

He wished he knew that particular truth sooner.

The sharp knock at the door of the study jolted Nick out of his reverie. “Yes, yes, come the hell in.” He stood up and flung the glass at the fireplace, and waited for the detective to walk over to him and recite him his rights, while two policemen clicked handcuffs around his wrists, then guided him to the door.

As they walked past the people gathered and silent in the hallway, Nick looked up and saw his wife's ashen face and stopped. She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You know how to fix this don't you, Nicky?”

The police pulled her away and pushed him out the door. When they reached the car, and before a strong hand held his head down and helped him slide into the back seat, Nick turned for a last look at Uncle's house.

There were many things he knew how to do, how to fix. He was certain he had been careful one more time.

Yes, Nick was a killer. But I'm no lawyer, he thought as he was driven from the only home he never had.

Gasp!

2010-01-17T13:19:00.003-05:00

I awakened on this grey gloom of a Sunday with no idea that this second lovely award awaited me!

Corra McFeydon at from the desk of a writer has offered me a Creative Writer Award. I am so grateful and honored.

She created this new award and intended it "... as a gesture to further the premise 'writer' within 'blogger.' I'd love to see more writers acknowledged for the craft! Because we all are writers."

Yes, Corra, we all are writers and I am so happy to read, learn, and be inspired by all of you.

Thank you for the award and the sentiment.

Speech!

2010-01-15T15:32:00.000-05:00

To acknowledge those that have a blog and spend endless hours ensuring that other bloggers get feedback on their blogs by leaving comments, adding themselves as a follower or dropping by just to let you know there are people out there.

My very first award! It has been bestowed to me by the lovely Michelle Dennis Evans, my fellow writer from the friday flash community.

I thank her very much for the honor! You can find her at Twitter as @MichelleDEvans and please visit her blog http://michelledevans.blogspot.com/

Blue Ribbon

2010-01-15T07:00:00.000-05:00

Before he left for good that morning, Norman made a large pot of soup for the family while they slept. Grannie Sperr's award winning Country Baked Potato Chowder was a crowd pleaser, and he always added it to the dinner menu as comfort food during many bleak winter nights.

He rushed through final preparations. He normally took the local train to work, but today he wanted to meet the 6:10 Express, and he needed time to walk to the station. Usually he drove whenever he went out, but he was sure his wife would need the car today. He arrived with 15 minutes to spare and, despite the cold, sat alone on the bench outside to wait.

Moving to a gated community in a picturesque town a mere 45 minutes from the city was the best decision he made all those early years ago. He read the paper and drank coffee on the train to his job and his six-figured salary; his wife stayed home with the children. They were comfortable and did not worry about the price of anything. House needs a new roof? Done. Car needs work? Write a check.

Investing most of their money with a respected Wall Street guru was the worst decision he made all those years later. He called it financial planning. The legal authorities called it a greedy scam of such magnitude, no one could hope to recuperate losses.

The train's approaching whistle startled him away from his thoughts. He stood and walked to the edge of the platform. The train would not stop, of course, but he did not need that. He inhaled deeply.

“Hey!”

The shout from the stranger made him turn.

“Be careful! What are you doing? This train doesn't stop here, it's express all the way!”

Norman blinked and moved back a few steps. The stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him further away.

“Jeesh, Don't understand you people. You like to stand so close to the end. Could get hurt or worse.”

* * *

“You're home early, hon. Slow day at the office?” Ada said as her husband came in through the back kitchen door.

Norman placed the grocery bag on the table, took out a package, and leaned over to kiss her smile.

“Yep...I figured I could get a head start on crisping the bacon. Forgot to do it before.”

Ada stood and walked over to the pots and pans hanging on the wall next to the stove. “Oh, is it soup night, then?” She handed him the cast iron skillet.

“I thought it was. For you.”

She laughed. “You mean for us, or aren't you having some?”

Norman nodded and turned to the stove. “Who could turn down Grannie's Sperr's chowder on such a night.”

As he crumbled the bacon, he thought about tomorrow. He hoped he would find another good reason to come home then too.

Offspring

2010-01-08T07:00:00.002-05:00

Later, when Harold thought about his reaction when first he learned of his mother's death, he remembered being annoyed by the sounds of the television in the background.

"Doug, turn down that noise!"

His brother looked at him but did not move from the couch.

"Lost the remote. Don't feel like getting up." he said.

Harold sighed. "There's better ways to do things, you know."

It was his Aunt Gigi who called with the news. The last time that Harold and Doug saw her, they were eleven and eight years old, respectively. She sat with them at the train station to wait for the people who would take them away from their mother, and to their new safe life. When two women arrived, both dressed in black and faces arranged in similar business-like expressions, the boys went with them without a fuss. They were obedient children and if their Aunt Gigi told them they had to do something, they did. They trusted her. Their mother, not surprisingly, never argued with her sister over this turn of events. She wanted many things but none included her children.

Over the years, Aunt Gigi kept in touch with them but thought it best not to speak too much about their mother's life. Harold now listened to the details of her death.

"She died in a storm?"

* * * * *

After Doug was asleep for several hours, Harold stood at the doorway of the bedroom and stared at him. The light from the full moon was bright enough to cast softened illumination on Doug's green complexion. It was not unlike his own, Harold thought as he touched his face.

They resembled their mother.

Even though they lived an early life unnourished by an affection that never filled their mother's heart or their souls, he was saddened by her loss. But he vowed he would never tell Doug about the absurdity of her death. A house! A house had fallen on her and killed her.

Then, the locals cheered and danced and sang.

"Ding dong the witch is dead!"

He knew his brother would laugh himself sick at the story, and rightly so. But a dead mother deserved respect, he thought.

Harold left Doug's room and sat by the fire in the study. He allowed himself final thoughts on the matter. They were happy and settled in this place where magic was also known and accepted, though Doug refused to learn how to harness his gift. No matter. As always, Harold would take good care of things.

He stood, ready for bed, and pointed a finger at the fireplace. Its flames hissed away instantly.

There was nothing wicked about him.

Blue Moon

2009-12-31T08:44:00.000-05:00

At the first stroke of midnight Reid landed the sucker punch. Mark fell against the bookshelf, licked the blood from his lips, and lunged.

The men did not know each other when they arrived at the party, but a few hours later, they understood that their mutual interest in the red haired ingenue standing by the balcony door precluded friendship between them.

Though shy by nature, Ginger agreed to come to her friend's festivities without a date. She had moved to the city a few months before and knew that her plans to make significant changes in her life for the new year did not include sitting in a small apartment, especially on such a special evening.

So she mingled and introduced herself to strangers, and told stories and laughed at jokes. She also flirted with Reid and Mark during different times in the evening. While flattered by their attentiveness and desire, she knew that she would go home alone. She wanted something more.

“I've always thought that getting a midnight kiss from a special someone is one of the most romantic things ever,” she said to her friend as she accepted a flute of champagne and looked at the two men throwing punches.

Her friend laughed as Reid and Mark stumbled past. “For me, just making out with a random person is fun too.”

At the last stroke of midnight, as the revelers shouted, blew noise-makers, and kissed, Reid and Mark ran around the room shoving each other into furniture. Ginger turned away from her battling suitors and opened the door to step outside for a look at the luminescent sky. She smiled. At home in the country, she had never been the type of girl men would fight over.

How can anyone not love this night? she thought, and raised her glass to the new moon.

Happy Sunsets

2009-12-22T09:58:00.000-05:00

My first published story is up at Jim Wisneski's site for his Twelve Days of Christmas 2009 called Happy Sunsets. Please stop by and have a read.

Baby Fern

2009-12-21T21:32:00.001-05:00

This is newest addition to the family. Her name is Fern, and she came to us through a basset rescue group in Virginia. She is 9 weeks old and has the sweetest disposition!

Sassy Love

2009-12-18T00:00:00.000-05:00

A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold. ~Ogden Nash  

Harry has lived in New York for several years now, and planned to visit his parents in Arkansas for one week during the holiday season. He does not go home that often because he is miffed at his mother -- for many reasons, though one in particular rankles him the most. Harry is the youngest of four boys, and when he left home to find fame in New York theater, his mother replaced him with a squirrel.  

Yes. That's correct. Sassy the Squirrel now has the run of Harry's childhood home in Little Rock. A year ago, his mother found the baby squirrel lying injured and abandoned in their backyard and nursed it back to health. Now, she is a coddled member of the family.

Sassy sits at the head of the table and nibbles on peanuts while the others eat dinner. At night she sleeps in a towel-lined basket in what was once Harry’s bedroom.

Not surprisingly, Harry’s two best friends in New York laughed at his tale of woe but tried to help him the only way they knew. They took him to a bar.

“Is your little sister cute?” This from Mikey, who grinned when Pete sprayed beer with his shout of laughter.

“Does she say cheese for the camera at family pictures? Or acorn?”

Harry ordered another round. “Not helping, you guys. That rodent should hunt for things in the woods and sleep in a damn tree!”

The bartender brought the drinks and leaned over the bar. “Whatcha buying her for Christmas?”

Mikey and Pete sprayed more beer.

Harry left New York several days later. His friends called and wished him a “happy holiday at Sassy's house.” They also reminded him that he should be polite once there because, after all, when he finally came out to his family, the one member that took it in stride right away was...

Well, you know.

Harry will stay in the guest bedroom. As he found out the last time he was home, Sassy prefers to sleep alone.

Lily

2009-12-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

Marguerite died at night. Lily found her body the next morning in the hen house.

“She was old,” Lily’s mother said, and tried to put her arm around her in comfort, but Lily jerked away.

I wish your stupid boyfriend would leave her alone, Lily thought as she watched him firmly grip the dead chicken by her neck and carry her over to them.

“So I’m guessing this is on the dinner menu tonight?” He laughed at Lily’s gasp.

She grabbed Marguerite from him and cradled her. “No! She’s gonna have a burial.” She didn’t add, you bastard, but her mother heard it in her tone.

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” she warned.

But Lily didn’t have anything more to say and ran off to plan Marguerite’s funeral.

* * * *

As a small child Lily’s family could not get her to eat anything more complicated than a peanut butter sandwich. She never liked the taste of meat and as she grew and collected beloved pets, she unequivocally refused such fare. Especially chicken.

Or pasta.

Her father was to blame for that quirk. When she was six years old and stayed at his place for their bi-weekly visits, her father entertained her with bedtime stories about the year he lived in Rome, including one where he and his roommate, Sam, were cooking a pasta dinner for an Italian friend. They didn’t have a proper kitchen, so they boiled water on a hotplate. When Sam strained the pasta over the toilet bowl, the downstairs buzzer startled him, and he let go of the colander.

Her father opened the door ready to confess that dinner was ruined, but was interrupted by Sam, who came to the table carrying a platter of spaghetti topped with spicy tomato sauce and pecorino cheese.

“Ciao, Marco,” Sam said to the guest. “Buon appetite!”

* * * *

It was early evening, and Lily returned to the house to find her mother’s boyfriend drinking beer in the TV room. Oh, it’s Tuesday, Lily remembered. On those nights her mother worked as a volunteer in the hospital’s emergency room and always arranged for someone to watch her daughter. It was his turn, then.

Lily stared at him and thought about her father, gone into dust for three years now. She walked over and touched his arm.

“How about some dinner?”

He looked up at her with narrowed eyes, unused to such familiarity. She gave him a tight forced smile. He relaxed. “Yeah? Well, sure kid, thanks.”

Before Lily reached the kitchen he called out, “But I don’t want any peanut butter sandwiches, are we clear?”

She glanced at him. “Sure. That’s just for me. I can cook some things.”

“Great, kid. What’s on the menu?”

“Spaghetti and sauce. It’s from a special family recipe.”

Lily sat on her bed later that night and arranged her stuffed animals. She hummed and laughed at her thoughts. Her strike against the enemy would be considered infantile in some older cliques at her school, but she was only twelve years old and this was enough for her tonight.

Hot Spot

2009-12-04T00:00:00.001-05:00

After placing his first cup of morning coffee on the porch railing, Ben shook hands with the driver of the moving van. Just as he turned to walk inside his new home, he saw that the elderly man who lived across the street was waiting for him. Probably wants to say ‘welcome to the neighborhood,’ Ben thought, and smiled as the man cleared his throat.

“Ah’m Ernie. You know the habanero pepper’s 100 times hotter than a jalapeño?”

“Oh. No. I didn’t know that.” Ben laughed.

“Yessir. I can tell you wanna know what Ernie need wif somethin’ hotter than jalapeños, right?

I’d rather know if you’re a harmless old guy or not, Ben thought, but nodded. “I like spicy food, myself. But…”

“You be glad Ah’m your neighbor, boy,” Ernie said and picked up the cup of coffee.

For the next half hour Ben sat on the porch steps with him and listened.

When Ernie moved to the area called Pleasant Plains it was just after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the subsequent riots. Many homes and shops were vacant. Ernie didn’t mind. He was able to buy the house he dreamed about: one with a porch and a small front yard.

Rather than flowers he grew vegetables and habanero plants in terracotta containers. When the passing years brought gentrification and young white people to the neighboring homes, Ernie still preferred to eat from his garden rather than shop at the upscale food market two blocks west.

He told Ben now, “Them peppers better than medicine. Ain’t never been sick. Well, not serious sick.”

Ernie stood up to leave. ““Never had no heart attack. No, suh. Strokes? Nope.”

The cars parked on the narrow street were so tightly wedged in their spots that Ernie couldn’t fit between them. So he walked to the corner and crossed over to his side of the street, still talking, though Ben couldn’t hear him. When he reached for his front door handle, he turned and shouted, “Ah’ll bring some peppers over later. Make your dinner real good.”

~ ~ ~
Ben and his wife were in the kitchen cooking when they heard the three quick knocks that signaled Ernie was at the door. For two years now, they had shared many Sunday dinners with him. They sometimes made dishes with names such as Spicy Barbados Pepper Chicken or Smokin’ Turkey Chili. On those nights, they drank beer with lime.

Ernie never brought wine, just peppers.

One early morning not long after such a Sunday dinner, Ernie shuffled over and stopped Ben on his way to work. He gave him the last of his crop.

“What’s going on?”

“Nuthin. Don’t need ‘em no more.”

“You don’t need them? I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

Ernie sat on the porch steps and looked across the street at his little garden.

“Well, here’s the facts. Ah’m 85 years old. Now, them habaneros hurt goin’ in and comin’ out, that’s fer sure!”

He laughed and took out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

“So I guess my butt hole is too old for 'em!”

Ben helped Ernie stand and walked with him down the steps. “How are you going to stay healthy now?” he teased.

“Taking medicine, boy.”

When Ernie reached the door to his house he turned and waved. “Hey, Ben,” he called out, “Don’t worry. Your butt hole is still young!”

~ ~ ~
Ernie was certainly right about one thing: it wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke that took him from the neighborhood.

It was a bullet.

The police never found the person who shot Ernie as he walked to the corner bodega to play his numbers.

~ ~ ~
“What are you doing?” Ben’s wife asked after she found him outside one night unloading several terracotta pots from the trunk of their car.

He placed them on the porch and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m going to grow my very own fresh habanero plants.” He hugged and kissed her and returned to the car.

She wanted to say they could just go to the market and buy any spices they needed but knew her husband was not listening. He was looking across the street at the house with a For Sale sign planted in the front garden. She nodded and walked up the steps to their front door and waited.

“After all,” Ben said as he closed the trunk door, then looked up at her and smiled. “I’m still young.”

Saying Goodbye to Zoey

2009-12-01T17:42:00.000-05:00

I was not a child who grew up with dogs or cats in my home. This was not a hardship for me since there were many friends in my New York City neighborhood that had pets and I could always go to their places and play with Scottie or Tiny or Killer.

My sister and I were allowed goldfish. But the lack of cuddle ability made them unsatisfactory. Also, the fish liked to fool us by floating belly up to the top of the tank and playing dead. It seemed to us they liked to do this too many times to count. We were not amused.

I grew up and never felt the want for a dog or cat. If I were honest, I would admit that if I did want a pet at any time, it would probably be a cat. But a scant 14 years ago I was introduced to a tiny black and white Jack Russell terrier. She came to live with us.

I did not want her at first. My family did.

Zoey. It’s Greek for life.

Oh, we’re not Greek. It just seemed like the perfect name for her.

She brought life and love and wonder to the family for every one of those 14 years since she walked over the threshold of our house.

A few weeks ago we learned that Zoey had cancer in her lungs and there was no hope for recuperation.

She was suffering.

This morning we could see she was also failing.

We wanted her to have peace.

I would like to say that I was very brave and accompanied family members to the vet for the final visit.

I can’t say that. I was a coward.

I did say goodbye to her before she left with the others and thanked her for being the best little dog ever. I also apologized for not being very welcoming when she first arrived in my life. She looked at me with glazed eyes that seemed to say, “Oh that? Pshaw! I knew I would get you to love me.”

I received a message from the family. They have left the vet’s office.

It’s over.

It was peaceful.

Not a Platonic Dialogue

2009-11-27T00:00:00.000-05:00

It happens every year. Eating. Drinking. Stories. Hurt feelings. Forgiveness.

Better remembered as dinner at Dela’s.

But today she had a plan, a catalyst for change. Her family arrived minutes before the meal, and instead of grace, she gave a pep talk. The theme? Love. Though, just as the pilgrims probably advised everyone at their maiden meal on new land, she told the family to check their fighting implements at the door.

She sat at the head of the table and gathered the rest of her thoughts. Her family did not wait to hear them.

BROTHER: Nope, don’t wanna deal with any love business. Just give me D&D. Drinks and debauchery. NOW you’re talking!

Dela frowned. This is not about boozing and one-nighters, she thought. Her brother could do that any time. This is about family and love.

And stew.

DELA: You guys, just think. Everything that happens — the good, the bad, and the…well, anything else — are like ingredients. And, while some things don’t taste that great all alone, mixed together they can add a delicious spicing to the rest of the pot. Right?

SISTER: We’re having stew for dinner?

BROTHER: I don’t like stew!

DELA: No, no, it’s not really about stew. It’s about how family love is a mix of all the things that happen to us and make our lives rich and bubbly and...

SISTER: You know perfectly well that I’m a vegetarian, so don’t even think of adding any sodding meat to that pot!

She dated a man from England, so the family made allowances.

DELA: You’re not paying attention. I’m trying to explain that though we sometimes don’t agree on so many—I mean—a few things, we really love each other and we should celebrate.

BROTHER: I’m not loving the idea of stew. Really.

MOTHER: I want turkey. I hate it but damn-it-all, it’s tradition. I did not just drive three hours to come and eat vegetable stew!

UNCLE MARYLAND: No problemo. I bagged a 6-point buck this past weekend. So let’s add it to the pot. Look! I got me a photo.

He took out his wallet, which was a No. 10 standard white envelope, and passed the picture of him in camouflage attire with his victim. Uncle Maryland is grinning and giving two thumbs up. The deer is not. The family all murmured distress sounds.

UNCLE MARYLAND: Man, what a lucky day. Yeah, it was. Hey! You can say I got game. That’s right. I got game!

He danced around the table until he had a coughing fit and had to lie down on the sofa.

DELA: Stop. We’re not eating stew. We’re not eating 6 points of deer. We’re going to spend a lovely time eating other things and drinking—God, yes, drinking—and telling wonderful stories and giving thanks for all we have.

SISTER: Actually, my investments are still at the bottom of the toilet. I don’t have all that much. So piss off!

DELA: Oh? On your investments?

BROTHER: O.k. I’m thankful we’re not eating stew.

MOTHER: Oh, good. Though I feel bad for Dela. She does love her stew. Can you imagine? Love and stew on Thanksgiving. She always was an odd child.

Dela stared at the Spode dinnerware she inherited from Granny Edna and realized there was only one more thing to say to her family.

In all the earlier planning, she forgot to turn on the oven

UNCLE MARYLAND: So? When do we eat?

〜〜〜〜〜

About 20 minutes later, the pizzas arrived.

Cherie Takes Over

2009-11-20T07:00:00.000-05:00

Cherie Davis took her first baby steps in an Amish kitchen on a hot summer Sunday afternoon, hours after the family car shuddered to a stop in front of the Pennsylvania farm. The women of the house took Cherie from her mother’s arms and, deciding that the baby needed nourishment, gave her unpasteurized milk to drink. Her mother tried to stop them. She considered the milk “dirty and full of germs,” but the farmers stored no baby formula. Cherie guzzled the drink all day while the men worked on the car.

Later, whenever she got ill while growing up, her mother always blamed the cow.

As a young adult Cherie took her mother’s gift of caution and anxiety and made it her own. She was a committed creature of habit. For instance, before she drove anywhere unfamiliar, she needed such explicit directions that in one case she wrote: at the third light, make a left turn past the white house with black shutters and wave at Grandpa O’Malley (who’s always rocking on the porch). Don’t worry; he never waves back.

Sometimes, Cherie would make a trial run the day before she drove to a new address, giving herself time to get lost, as she usually did.

That is, until her grandfather came to live with the family. Poppy was a retired merchant marine and worried about Cherie’s reluctance to change her routines. One midnight, while sharing milk, cake, and conversation, he asked her, “What do you think will happen if you get lost? Nothing. You’ll find another way. It’ll be an adventure.”

“Just because you loved being on the high sea doesn’t mean I inherited your pirate blood,” she retorted.

Poppy walked over to Cherie, gently pulled her face upward and kissed her forehead goodnight. At the door he turned and smiled. “I want you to be happy, you know? Be happy while you’re living, hon, for you’re a long time dead.”

“For goodness sake, why are you telling her that?” Cherie’s mother yelled from her bedroom.

“It’s just a Scottish proverb.”

“You’re not Scottish!”

* * *
Despite any maternal attempts to stop it, the day arrived some months later when Cherie left home. She was offered an internship in Washington, D.C. and Poppy convinced the family to let her go. Cherie was going to drive herself there. On a beautiful cloudless day, the family’s goodbye involved much hugging, kissing, and crying – all of it on Cherie’s part. Surprisingly, her mother was calm and accepting.

When she first left the driveway and headed south, after giving the family a smile and a thumbs up, Cherie thought about how she felt. Worried? Yes. Frightened? Yes. Ready, willing and able? Yes, yes, yes.

* * *
A few hours later, a two-mile long line of drivers on the interstate sat in their cars waiting. The helicopter, ambulances, and police cars kept everything at a standstill.

No one could have survived this crash.

* * *
Of course, Cherie missed an important turn not long after leaving her home. But remembering Poppy’s words, she stopped at a fast food joint and ate something to calm her nerves. She asked for directions from a man gassing up his car. They were simple and concise and the man assured her his way was easier and, more importantly, toll-free. Cherie soon found herself not on the interstate as the detailed note from her family advised, but on a parallel road.

She turned on the radio. She felt happy.

“Just a detour. Just another way to get there,” she encouraged herself out loud, and sang along with the music.

Mojo Mama

2009-11-13T07:00:00.002-05:00

Later, after the woman had worked two lodestones and some magnetic sand together in her hands all the while intoning feeding the he, feeding the she, Gina would remember the waxing moon. She also would not forget her embarrassment at being in the woods, shivering and crouching at the foot of a tree with this woman who was her aunt’s friend.

A friend who believed that magic would bind Auntie’s husband and stop him from straying.

Gina was living in Argentina with her paternal relatives for a year. Her family wanted her to learn Spanish and to travel before she began high school, or so they said. But Gina believed that her mother’s new marriage to a much younger man was closer to the familial truth of the matter.

While Buenos Aires was a very beautiful capital city with many areas of old worldly charm and new sections of posterity and modernity, Gina felt lost. Everything was strange. Wonderfully strange. But at that time, she was a girl who preferred the familiar. At her home away from home she liked to stay in her room reading or playing online games. Her aunt, however, would open Gina’s bedroom door with a “This is not a hotel. We do not stay hidden away from each other. We share la vida!”

Because Auntie had many friends, there was always an event to attend, a dinner to eat, afternoon teas to consume. It was at one of these teas where the plot was hatched.

After the other guests left, Auntie’s best friend Mirta stayed to talk. Gina’s Spanish was still rudimentary but she understood that Auntie worried her husband might be swayed to have an affair with his secretary. Mirta said she knew a very good love spell.

Gina was clearing the table and caught a teacup before it fell from her hands, her shoulders shaking, not with shock, but mirth. Her uncle? Never. She may not be experienced in la vida de amor but she knew that her uncle’s little everyday courtesies and the happiness carved on his face when he came home and kissed her aunt hello showed he was besotted with her.

Oh, he was tall and trim with salty peppered hair and he did have a beautiful smile and mesmerizing green eyes. He was very rich, and very charming – maybe too charming for his own good. But cheating? Love spell?

She made a mental note to ask her aunt to stop watching those silly telenovelas.

Mirta walked over to Gina and grabbed her arm and her attention. “I need your help tonight.”

“Mine? Don’t you mean Auntie?”

“No.” She let go of Gina’s sweater. “I have everything I need from her.” Mirta looked at the comb that Auntie gave her earlier. “And from him.”

A few dark hours later, they were in the cold countryside.

It only took a flash of movement before the spell was cast. When they reached the car, Gina’s uncle stepped out from the driver’s seat and opened the back door for them. He put his hand out, palm up, and smiled. “Adventure over? Let us go home.”

Later, when Gina thought about her year with her paternal relatives, she would remember the waxing moon, Mirta, and her uncle who cared for Auntie so much he would join in whatever nonsense she desired. So wonderfully strange.

They are still married after many years. Gina calls it love.

Mirta says it’s magic.

Monday

2009-11-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

It was one of the darkest times of her life. The heavy rains added an appropriate dirge to the wintry early morning sounds. While she waited for the bus, Homeless Reggie, towing a toy wagon filled with plastic bottles, came up to her singing and offered a new refrain: You’re like an angel, honey.

Of course she had to pay him, for that was his self-appointed job. Compliments. He walked over to the others -- the usual commuters at that hour -- and said something to each that would lift the spirits. Love your hair, dear. Sir, that tie is a good one! New shoes? Good taste!

It usually cost them a dollar apiece. Not every day, only on Mondays, for Homeless Reggie had other corners and other compliments to bestow.

It was one of the darkest times of her life, but for the briefest of moments there was light.

A dollar well spent, she always thought.

The bus arrived and she sat by the window in the back row and sniffled as quietly as she could. She had a plan if anyone asked: “Sorry, it’s my allergies.” But the few people seated at the front kept their eyes on their newspapers, and their ears minded their own business.

Her lover’s words to her this morning were as goodbye as they could get, “I’ve got to go away. Sorry, but I can’t come back.”

He looked in the mirror while he dressed, and spoke to her reflection as he knotted the tie she never liked: a pink silk that was as thin as a tongue. “I do want to be here but my wife needs me more.” Oh yes. The tie had been a gift from his family.

But today was their anniversary. One year.

Apparently, a time misspent.

Later, when she returned to her small empty apartment after a trying day of work and sorrow and scanned the room, her eyes stopped at the slate fireplace in the corner. Her ex-lover’s picture still sat on the mantle next to the one of her as a small child. In her photo she is seated on a dark velvet-covered chair, and is wearing a simple white lacy frock and an antique cap, handed down from some ancient ancestor, no doubt. Though she is smiling widely, one can see tears in her baby brown eyes.

Smiling through her tears. Nothing has changed.

Outside, several cardinal birds perch along the telephone wire that extends to the back of the alley, their garish red plumage appearing as bloody slashes against the grey and cloudy dusk. She turned away. She refused to think about tomorrow.

After all, Homeless Reggie will not be there either.

Dia de los Muertos

2009-11-01T09:58:00.000-05:00

My sister is a collector of Day of the Dead tschotskes. She isn't Mexican, and she doesn't have an altar set up in her stylish NYC apartment, with favorite foods and drinks of the departed strewn about. At her office, however, she does have a collection of skeletal icons including a bride and groom calaveras, and a diorama of a Mariachi band with their bony fingers holding onto their instruments. Why? Don't know. She just likes the art.

After reading about the origins of this celebration, I was excited to learn that if one had an altar set up, this might lure the souls of the dead to visit and hear the prayers and comments from the living. I thought of a plan!

ME: Sis! I have a great idea! Why don't we set up an altar and lure Dad to come and hear us out!

SIS: WHAT! Hear us out about what?

ME: Well, you know how he always joked to us that when it was his turn to go to the other side, he would let us know the lottery numbers? Today's our chance!

SIS: Oh. Well, let's see. ARE YOU MAD! That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard from you. Er, so far, because you have many more years to be as ridiculous!

ME: It seemed like a good idea when I first thought it. But I guess you're right. I mean how would he even know the numbers ahead of time...

SIS: STOP!

Well, it seems that the only way I can get richness in her life today is to take granulated sugar, meringue powder, and water. And hope that it turns out like this:

And, maybe a little altar, because --who knows-- Dad might be willing to ...

Hocus Pocus

2009-10-30T07:00:00.000-04:00

When Celeste cut his head off, which took a long time because she used a small hacksaw, she decided to arrange the body by the front door. She wanted it to be the first thing the others saw when she answered their knock. The head sat on a small table next to the tray that held her keys, phone, and vial of tin-white powder.

Everything was almost ready.

She could hear the others talking and laughing as they walked up the street to her door. They’re here. Celeste looked at her wet hands. There was no time to wash so she rubbed her face and her tattered clothing with her palms, and raked her fingertips through frizzy blonde hair.

She counted to five and opened the door, and laughed when she heard the cacophony of screams and shrieks.

“Happy Halloween!”
“Trick or Treat!”

The Grim Reaper, otherwise known as her neighbor Freddie, was the first to enter. He gasped as he looked around the room at all of its gory décor.

“You outdid yourself this year! And, wow, couldn’t figure out why you wanted that old mannequin from the dumpster. But, man, it’s freaky.”

The others agreed that they were frightened witless though they laughed and walked to the tables shrouded in misty white vapor trails from the dry ice, and helped themselves to the food and drinks.

At the end of the evening, vampires, witches, French maids, gargoyles and all the other costumed people from Weeping Willow Lane raised their glasses and toasted Celeste on being the scariest person in the neighborhood on this night of all nights.

* * * * * *
Celeste didn’t feel like cleaning up after everyone left, though she did have them take the mannequin and set it by the curb for the garbage collection tomorrow. She went to her bedroom and locked the door behind her.

He was there.

He was lying on plastic sheeting under her window.

All trussed up.

Celeste would never forgive him for telling her that morning that he wanted nothing more to do with her or their relationship – that she was a freak.

What I am, she thought, is a do it yourself type of woman.

She drew the blinds. She picked up the hacksaw.

Father

2009-10-23T08:00:00.000-04:00

During the years that I lived there, my wife kept every light on in the house at night. I wasn’t happy about the bills, but she’d shake her head and say she needed to keep the shadows erased. What she meant was she wanted to know my every move – for protection, you see.

I loved her very much, once. But I fell crazier in lust with drugs and alcohol, and they became more important to me than anything, even my family. I used an awful lot, you know, and I can’t take that back. It was fun at first. Now, drugs are the only things that keep my darkness away.

We have two children – both of them boys. At the beginning, when they were new and soft and I was clean, I would tell proud tales about them to all my friends. The kids really are chips off the old block, I’d say. Then, later, when I forgot to pick them up from school too many times to count, and when I didn’t pretend to be looking for work no more, their mother asked me to leave. I did. I never contacted her – them – again.

Oh, I knew about their illnesses, their schooling, their sports, their happiness at growing up with a great mom, as well as their questions about having a dad who couldn’t be bothered. I turned to a few friends who kept me up to date. My ex never asked about me, and I guess I’m okay about it since I did throw that life away. You want the cross my heart and hope to … well … the truth? I wouldn’t change a thing. I have everything I want, everything I need. Yeah. I know.

So one cold rainy autumn evening, I’m standing across the street smoking and looking at them through the kitchen window. I catch a glimpse of my oldest boy. He’s carrying dishes to the sink and laughing at something his brother said. Their mother’s dancing around the room while she turns off lights.

It’s time for me to go. I flick the smokes to the curb and its little flame goes out as soon as it hits the oily puddle on the ground. I won’t come back to this corner any more, I decide. As I turn to leave, I’m startled by the sound of the front door opening. I don’t want them to see me so I quickly walk to my car. When I reach for the handle, I can hear the kids saying bye to their mom. She waves and calls out, “Make sure you take care of your brother. Have fun at the game.”

The youngest shouts back. “Mom, come on! Don’t worry. We always do.” He runs ahead to catch up with his brother.

I sit in the car and take one last look through the rearview mirror.

My boys. They are nothing like me.

You know what? That makes me proud.

Call of Duty

2009-10-16T06:22:00.000-04:00

A disheveled young man came up to Valerie and shouted. “Hey. Wadda ya mean standing here lookin’ like that! I wanna know why ya in my way? I wanna take a picture here.”

He was holding a radio with a missing battery cover. Valerie, not turning her head to him said, “You have no film in the camera.”

He looked at his hands. “Well. Then, ya have any spare change?”

The bus was ten minutes late and Valerie’s eyes kept scanning south, as if through directed strength of gaze, the bus would be pulled along, unable to stay Local and become an Express.

She had to get away from this crazy guy. A cab driver obeyed the come-rescue-me pull of Valerie’s finger and without waiting for the door to be fully closed took off. He tried to make small talk with his passenger but she did not have the look of someone who wanted to hear his words. He turned on the radio and did not say anything until he dropped her off at a house.

“Have a good day.”

Valerie turned to him. “It’s seven o’clock in the evening. I had my day and it wasn’t good.”

The women at the house were already seated in the den and drinking. Mimi, the oldest, opened the door. “You’re very late but The Affirmation Society Meeting can now begin.”

The other four stood up and formed a circle with Valerie and Mimi. They began chanting as they did every week.

“I’m valid. You’re valid. We’re valid.”

Mimi motioned for everyone to sit. “Ladies, here is the plan for tonight. First, we will hear a very nice little story from Lucy about her neighbor’s mother who was in the shower when her uterus dropped.”

She sat down and nodded at the frail woman seated across from her who stood up and cleared her throat for a few seconds.

“For our Design and Conquer portion of the evening, we have underwear, fabric glue, sparkles, beads and, oh I can’t remember. Well, nothing else. Wait! There’s also a prize for the best one.” She sat down quickly. The other women, except for Valerie, clapped.

Mimi took over again. She smiled at Valerie. “Dear, for our Open Up and Let your Heart Show segment, you will tell us about your problems with that horrible man? The others nodded vigorously and applauded some more.

The women were waiting for her to begin so Valerie sat and took out five yellow files from her briefcase. As a caseworker, it was her job to make weekly visits to this group home and to make sure that the residents were well. She would not call them crazy, just –

diminished. They had already forgotten their plans for the evening. They always did.

When Valerie walked to a taxi an hour later, she heard her name and looked up to see the elderly Affirmation Society waving and smiling at the door. Mimi blew her a kiss. Valerie knew that after the women closed the door, they would turn to the orderly waiting for them with their last cups of juice. They would sleep very well, the drugs would see to it.

As the car moved away from the curb, the driver spoke. “How are you tonight?”

Valerie looked at his weary face, and smiled.

“Well, actually, I’m valid.”

He laughed. “Aren’t we all.”

Indulgence - #fridayflash

2009-10-08T21:03:00.004-04:00

It’s not like I killed anybody. Or cheated with my neighbor, for God’s sake! I’m here because it’s the end of the week. You know that.

So, what should I tell you? Oh! I’ve managed not to go camping with my friends this year. It’s not easy because everybody I know loves to pitch tents and hang out with Nature. Me? I don’t like crowded living spaces or the lack of privacy or the stupid bugs or that burying of human waste. Yeah. Not good.

Once there, there’s so much work to do! It’s not relaxing. First, you have to find the perfect spot. This takes us all morning, and then we have to set up the tents. Directions claim it’s easy: just put a into b, then twist into c, then – several hours later – point to q. Then scream and throw into the stream.

Well, that’s how I do it.

At this point it’s dusk, and it’s now that people figure out something’s missing. Hot dogs? Marshmallows? Scary stories? Vodka? Hope not. After all, Grandma is with us. Oh, please, not…toilet paper?

It’s matches. Apparently no one smokes anymore.

Of course my friends want to fish for dinner. You would know all about fish, right? Anyway, this part sounded like fun that first time. I thought, how hard is it to stand on the rocks of the rushing water and catch the fish as they jump into your arms? I’ve seen the nature shows, and the bears do it all the time. I was sure my friends were smarter than the average bear. But that’s not how they do it. They prefer the hard way.

Once, I was forced to read a ‘How To’ dig a latrine. It said the hole should be six to eight inches deep. Ugh. I mean, unless I had a ruler, how would I know when to stop? Though I guess I could walk around and look at the guys at the next camp and figure out which one might measure up to … um… never mind.

Oh, sorry Father Thomas. No, I didn’t forget or suffer a stroke of stupidity, why do you ask?

Of course I know I’m supposed to be confessing my sins! But I’ve been really good since that last time, and don’t have anything to update in the evil department. So my thinking was that…

What? Surely not!

Sorry. I’ll go start on all those penances right away.

Damn.

I mean, Amen.

Let Go - #fridayflash

2009-10-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

Adam was on his way to break up his lover’s marriage.

A few minutes before, he found his phone under the bed and listened to the message asking him to come over to the house right away. He guessed that everything was out in the open now, and they could begin to make real plans. He thought about stopping at their favorite bakery to pick up…something…but this would not be the place or time for celebration. This was going to be hard, not happy.

But he smiled as he walked the short blocks to the other house. They had returned several weeks ago from the most wonderful trip to Italy. It was unexpected luck that they were able to stay at a friend’s house in Umbria for a week. They spent the time there relaxing, and eating all their meals outside under a pergola covered in Virginia creeper just off the kitchen. An ancient elm tree provided shade during the day, and the climbing roses colored everything romantic.

They made promises.

When they came back, they agreed not to see each other for a while. But this morning Adam’s first thought when he woke up was that he did not want to wait anymore, so he was very relieved to get the call. He also felt guilt for the anguish it would cause, but he pushed it away.

The door was not locked so Adam just walked into the living room, and was puzzled when he saw about a dozen people standing around talking. Laughing, too. Then he saw her. Angela. She was seated on the blue couch he knew so well. She looked ill, and he felt guilty again.

“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Of course I am!”

Her husband was leaning over her but straightened quickly when he saw Adam. He looked shocked. The flush creeping up his neck showed that he was also angry. “What are you doing here?” Evan asked. Angela touched her husband’s arm. “Adam is our oldest friend. I needed him to be here.”

Her mother came into the room carrying champagne. Adam could not understand what was going on. Champagne? For the dissolution of a marriage? He accepted a glass and drank it quickly. He accepted another.

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Adam!” This from Angela’s aunt.

“Wonderful? I really don’t know what’s happened.” Several people spoke at once, shouting the news – Angela was finally pregnant. She flashed him the happiest smile he has seen in a long time. “We’re over the moon about this! We’ve been trying and hoping for so long. You know that. I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner, but I wanted to be…”

She stopped, unsure. Adam’s grip on the champagne flute helped it stay in his hand, though he really wanted to fling it. The surprise on his face, his ashen pallor and unblinking stare made her uncomfortable, and she frowned. But it quickly turned into a small smile. “I’m hoping you’re happy for us?”

Adam nodded and turned away, then placed the glass on the fireplace mantle. He needed a few moments to himself. So. There wasn’t going to be a divorce. A baby! A little bump in the road, so to speak, has stopped everything and there wasn’t anything he could do.

“Adam?” Angela called. “Aren’t you going to say anything, for God’s sake?”

He turned, and gazed at his love, whose flush now reached higher on his face.

“You promised. We promised.”

Evan looked at him with tear-glazed eyes. “I can’t now, Adam. I can’t.”

Everyone stopped drinking, except for a cousin who took the bottle and swigged the liquid. He wanted to drink away what he hoped he was misunderstanding. Angela stood and stared at her husband. She walked over to Adam and put out her hand, then let it drop to the side, wringing and wrinkling the hem of her blouse.

“What…what are you two saying?”

Adam turned to the door and opened it.

“Just goodbye.”

He walked out.

Take Five

2009-10-01T15:12:00.000-04:00

Working on fridayflash story. Yes, yes I am. Trying to find my little notes to help me along. Some blew out the window but didn't lose these.

Theo

2009-09-24T22:08:00.002-04:00

After lying on my bed for ten days waiting for death, I looked around my room and thought—well, maybe it isn’t coming. Almost a month ago I was here, packing for a move to a new apartment. The stranger’s voice on the telephone told me three things I’d like to forget: there was an accident, it involved my husband, and he didn’t make it. He was killed instantly by a taxi that swerved to miss a stalled car, and jumped the curb. Witnesses said my husband managed to push a woman out of the way but was crushed against the office building he had just left. When told he was dead, I knew that I was going to die, too, because Theo and I always did everything together.

That’s why I took to my bed and waited.

When I finally appeared in my living room and saw the ashen, stricken pallor of family and friends, I said to them, “I don’t want to live anymore, but it seems that I must. I don’t want to do this. I don’t know how to do this.” As the voices assembled there murmured about the extent of their sorrow over Theo’s loss and offered to give me whatever I needed, I stood uncertain about what to do next. It was then that I saw the boxes. Ah, right. Moving day. So I walked over to a bookshelf and started packing Theo’s books. This I can do, I thought, just move my hands from shelf to box. This I can do.

When I first saw Theo those years ago, I was a freshman at an all-girls school in the Finger Lakes region of New York. He had come to visit his best friend, my professor in World Literature, and was to be a guest lecturer in our seminar. We were so excited that a real writer was coming to talk to us about his books, which invariably centered on protagonists who were imbued with a sensual passion for life and sexual adventure.

On the day of his talk, not one student was late, even my best friend Cecily had managed to make peace with her alarm and was sitting in her seat with her hair combed and her clothes properly straightened, something we never thought she knew how to do. At 9:30 sharp, we heard the approaching footsteps and held our breaths and looked at each other with isn’t-this-exciting fervor and then turned to the door.

First impressions? Theo was rather short and round. He had cerulean blue eyes, a beautiful nose and thick dark hair that curled around his head. From the neck up he looked like Michelangelo’s David. From the neck down he resembled Danny Devito.

* * * * * *

“No, NO, NO! This is awful!” Kat said. “What am I going to do? What am I going to write?”

“It’s not that bad,” her friend Alicia said, then immediately ruined the moment by choking back a laugh.

“Really? You think so?”

But Alicia could not stop the heaving of her shoulders and just let go, laughing until her tears washed away the sight of a not amused Kat — Alicia has to leave. Now.

A few minutes after Alicia blew her a kiss and closed the door behind her, Kat returned to her story of Theo and his tragic demise. She couldn’t start over, she just couldn’t. Minutes passed, then hours. She had to have something, for goodness sake, and soon. It’s Friday, after all! Some of the people in her online writing community said they had even written theirs at the beginning of the week. By the way, who are these people? And why wasn’t she one of them?

Kat looked at the computer screen and became hopeful. It’s not that bad, right? What if Theo had the body of Michelangelo’s David and Danny Devito’s face?

After a moment, she hit the delete button and started over.

Flash Fiction Ready?...of course...not

2009-09-23T10:14:00.001-04:00

He pities me.

Oh, yes, working on flash fiction. Well, maybe not this minute. During a very short break that has lasted…um…about three hours, I found another diversionary tactic. I kid. I’m researching. Really. Even though it would seem that I’m just reading silly things on the net.

This is true: I once worked in a private school and would help the administrators fill out student absentee forms, among a billion other things. The letters from parents telling us why their child was not coming in that day were not particularly amusing. These are. I found them when I was ~~goofing~~ researching on a rinkworks site.

Megan could not come to school today because she has been bothered by very close veins.

-Those uppity veins! Should just mind their own business and get blood around and not harass people.

Chris will not be in school cus he has an acre in his side.

-Not following the diet yet, eh?

Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.

-Oh? Not British, then? Clip and tighten. Repeat.

Please excuse Tommy for being absent yesterday. He had diarrhea, and his boots leak.

-Tommy, I think I know what’s on your Christmas wish list.

Please excuse Jimmy for being. It was his father's fault

-Yes…and the Trojan missing in action?

Please excuse Jennifer for missing school yesterday. We forgot to get the Sunday paper off the porch, and when we found it Monday, we thought it was Sunday.

-I hate when this happens! Well since today is Tuesday, I guess I have plenty of time to write. What? Not Tuesday? Damn.

Sally won't be in school a week from Friday. We have to attend her funeral.

-It’s always good to know your plans ahead of time. Makes life easier.

My daughter was absent yesterday because she was tired. She spent a weekend with the Marines.

-Ah, bootcamp.

Please excuse Jason for being absent yesterday. He had a cold and could not breed well.

-Did he miss the show and tell from last week? Better luck next time. And study better, not harder.

Please excuse Mary for being absent yesterday. She was in bed with gramps.

-Ok. Enough said.

Gloria was absent yesterday as she was having a gangover.

-Those study groups really take a lot of work.

Maryann was absent December 11-16, because she had a fever, sore throat, headache, and upset stomach. Her sister was also sick, fever, and sore throat, her brother had a low grade fever and ached all over. I wasn't the best either, sore throat and fever. There must be something going around, her father even got hot last night.

-Love is blind. I sigh at the romance of it all.

Please excuse Burma, she has been sick and under the doctor.

-So glad to see doctors are making house calls now! Don’t have to bother with the getting undressed part at the office…

Résumé Blues

2009-09-18T08:12:00.000-04:00

It was the tenth rejection in a month. As she closed the office door behind her she realized that, today, she just didn’t have the will to summon up any disappointment. Anger? Yeah. She could bring that to her thoughts. What the hell more do they want from me anyway, damn it? She was well educated, dressed nicely, and certainly knew her way around the field. It was communications, for God’s sake. She was born to do that!

But this last HR manager, just like all the others, told her that she would not be a good fit in their small medical journal department. Why? He told her that her writing would be a problem for their clientele. How can that be? She had always been told that her writing was in a class by itself. Sui generis. See? She even knew the fancy term. She was no fool.

On the walk home, she thought of all the interviews she had arranged during the last 30 days. Well, there was the law firm, the investment bank, the university academic journal, and the – no, I won’t think about this anymore for the evening.

She lived with her parents, of course, since she didn’t have a job and couldn’t move out, but they didn’t mind and she never really wanted to leave. Now, she was worried about bringing them bad news again. She knew they would be waiting when she opened the door. Yes, there they are. Smiling. But their smiles faded as she shook her head slowly.

Her dad sighed and her mom came over to pat her arm, and then left for the kitchen. She thought that a favorite dinner might cheer everyone. While she supported her daughter in all her endeavors, she privately felt that it was time to face reality. Her child had to look for work in less exalted areas. Her face was just too different.

She heard her daughter sobbing.

“Oh, Daddy, why can’t I ever be taken seriously?”

Her father sat her down.

“It’s a tough world out there. I know that’s hard to accept. But, sweetie, if you’re not born a Courier New or Times New Roman or Helvetica, you’re not gonna be able to join the others in the big league.”

Comic Sans dried her tears. Tomorrow she would try again. Maybe Beanie Babies has an opening.

A Kick in the A**

2009-09-16T08:37:00.000-04:00

When I was a student those eons ago, Sister St. Cornelia would write on the blackboard whatever assignment needed to be completed for the week. Then she had us copy it down in our little notebooks. This would ensure that we students could not claim that we did not know about it, or any other excuse for not doing the work and handing it in on time.

Sick? Send her the assignment with your mother.

Dead? Leave it to her in your will.

So, today I give a shout-out to that little lesson.

Sister St. Cornelia is not here but if she were, I would tell her that I don't need her to write any reminders for me on the blackboard. I can post it on the refrigerator. Also, I can see the others who tweet -- days before the deadline -- that they've finished their assignment. What? Oh, how I ~~hate~~ ~~envy~~ admire them!

So, here I am. Thinking. I am kind of tired, though, and I need something that will jolt me into action.

Oh. OK. That's a good start.

Breaks - #fridayflash fiction

2009-09-10T22:45:00.030-04:00

Jimmie knew that dressed or undressed, she wasn’t going to get money from her husband. But she had to ask just the same.

“Could you leave me maybe a twenty?”

“Nope. Don’t have any money,” Walter said and left.

While vacuuming the rug later that morning, the frayed edge of one corner got caught up in the machine. When Jimmie lifted the rug she screamed. She was looking at a wad of money.

“Why that bastard told you he didn’t have it,” Momma, her mother-in-law, said. She loved Walter but she loved Jimmie better.

Late in the afternoon, Jimmie, Momma, and Fatsy, were sitting on the porch after shopping. They had some fun spending several of those bills, if fun included getting basic products for the kitchen cupboards. But they also bought some lottery tickets. Momma felt lucky.

“Don’t worry, Jimmie,” Fatsy said. “If my brother tries anything with you, I’ll kick his ass.”

That was not an idle threat. As Momma always warned anyone who tried to pick a fight with her daughter, “she has a size 12 foot and she don’t play.”

Walter never did say anything about the missing money. But the next time Jimmie went to look, the remaining bills had been removed. However, she would find money left on the bureau from time to time, so all was good enough for her.

There was only one time that it wasn’t. Jimmie was getting ready to go out with her husband and Fatsy. The neighbor was coming over to baby sit. She had taken care of little Maggie before, and knew how to keep a baby with cerebral palsy safe and happy. Jimmie was applying the finishing touches to her make-up at the bathroom mirror. Walter was in the living room already buzzed from communicating with his favorite bottle. When Jimmie came in looking real curvy in a red dress, he barely looked her way.

“You know something?” he said. “I think it’s stupid that your sister had another baby and she’s not even married.”

“So what? Your sister had a baby and she wasn’t married. And what about your Momma?

“That’s different!”

Walter finished off the bottle.

“Well,” he said, looking at her. He didn’t need sticks and stones, his words would hurt too. “At least her baby ain’t damaged.”

Jimmie turned her head to the room where little Maggie was sleeping. “You know what?” she said softly, calmly. “You don’t have to worry no more ‘bout seeing your damaged child.

“Is that a fact? How you figure that?”

“Because tonight I’m gonna kill you!”

It was said later that Jimmie had hit Walter with everything in the room that wasn’t glued down. He didn’t even try to fight back. When Maggie began to cry, Walter ran out of the house.

The next morning the living room looked as if nothing had happened. Jimmie and Fatsy were sipping coffee and talking. The doorbell rang. Grandma stood there standing tall and scared.

“Grandie!” Jimmie said and hugged her. “What are you doing here so early? Did Grumples bring you?”

“Girl, I get to ask the questions,” she said putting out her palm as a stop sign to Jimmie’s words. “I got a call from Walter last night, and he told me you finally lost your senses. You were trying to kill him?

“Grandie, I can’t spin it different to you. I tried to hurt him but I sure wasn’t crazy. I was as sane as I’ll ever be.”

“You ain’t lying,” Fatsy said.

Grandie didn’t ask for details; it made no difference to rehash the bad. If you wait long enough the bad makes a return visit when you least expect it.

“Well,” she said, “What now?”

“Don’t really know. Though when he comes back, I’m gonna expect…”

“When he comes back? Are you letting that fool stay here?”

“You ain’t all that sane!” Fatsy said.

* * * * * * * * * *

The phones ring and the women know it’s back to work. They have heard Jimmie’s stories for many lunch breaks now. When she talks about the past, no one feels the need to take a turn.

“Your new grandson arrives pretty soon. Has your daughter thought about names?” one of the women asks Jimmie.

“Yeah. She wants to call him James Alphonsa King.”

“Alphonsa? You mean like Fatsy?

“Uh huh. My daughter loved Fatsy and wants to honor her memory.

“Forgive me, Jimmie,” another asks with some anxiety, “but isn’t Alphonsa such a… female… name to give a boy?”

Jimmie shrugs. “Oh, you know this family and crazy.”

“Will he be called Alfie, maybe?” offers another.

“Nope. It’s Junior.”

* * * * * * * * *

Jimmie sits in her office. She sees a picture of her family on the desk and remembers the night she told Fatsy that she, Jimmie Boyd, was the woman Walter Barnes would marry. This news had troubled her friend. She told Jimmie it would mean more heartache than not.

“Remember,” Fatsy said. “If you change the name and not the letter, you marry for worse and not for better.”

“ Nah. Just a rhyme we used to say as kids; it don’t mean nothing.”

Jimmie looks at the picture and thinks that Fatsy's words had turned out to be not too far off the mark. But she shakes her head and laughs at a thought, pushing away any others. Next time, she’ll tell the ladies about the night she cooked a stew for Walter, and met him at the door naked and wearing 3-inch heels and Nerf reindeer horns. She got that tip from a tv show on how to spice up your dinner. Walter had asked for seconds.

What's Cooking?

2009-09-07T12:59:00.027-04:00

The family wasn’t planning on driving this Labor Day weekend. Sitting stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge to the Eastern Shore of Maryland for a couple of hours loses its fun after several years.

However, I was awakened on Saturday morning very early, earlier than even a rooster gets up. First Son wanted to—had to—go to the beach and convinced his father, Mad Hatter, that we would beat the traffic if we went NOW. I admit the drive was easy-peasey.

The plan -- brilliant in its simplicity. First Son and Girlfriend would drop us off at the house, which is 30 miles from Ocean City, and they would go spend a few hours at the beach. Mad Hatter had to edit many things and wanted to stay in the house, and I just wanted to relax and read. I do like the beach, really. It’s great—except for the sand, the crowds, the sun, that shark. Oh, ok. It was just one time long ago but post traumatic stress, you know?

Anyway all went according to plan. Then it occurred to me after a couple of hours that I should go and see what was available in the kitchen for dinner. There was…nothing. We haven’t been here in a while and hadn't stop at a store since we were beating that darn traffic, after all. Two thoughts, apparently, were one too many for me at that hour. Now I found myself in a house, miles away from town and no car. But Mad Hatter smiled, patted my arm and told me that he had thought ahead. He had brought supplies.

I should have remembered that I live in Alice world.

MAD HATTER (taking out the goodies): See? Here’s the stuff.

ALICE: What, this? I can’t even begin to…

MAD HATTER: Thank me, I know. You’re welcome!

The “recipe” for the evening: One can of black beans. One can of chicken soup with matzoballs. One small jar of artichoke hearts. One tin of deviled ham. One tin of chicken spread.

What would Julia Child have done? Well, aside from slathering butter over everything. And drinking wine. Lots. Then what? Maybe I could just dump it all together and shape it into some sort of loaf and call it bon appétit!

Or, I could make it fun! We could pretend we’re at a Mystery Theater dinner. Except there wouldn’t be actors walking around asking us to guess who done it. The mystery? Who keels over first from this culinary mashup.

Did we eat any of this? Of course not! We went out to dinner, after we dealt with a little problem First Son brought home.

FIRST SON: Hey, guys, sorry, but I wasn’t paying attention and you know that little red light that shows if the car is really low on gas?

US: Yeah, why?

FIRST SON: It’s on. But don’t worry. I think we can make the 17 miles to the nearest station. It’ll be like an adventure, right?

What would Julia Child have done?

#fridayflash - Press Goodbye

2009-09-04T08:02:00.008-04:00

Just the two of us in the elevator. Good, easier to keep my heartbreak private. Piped music wafts from the speakers and fills the silence. I am struck by familiar thoughts of how to make myself feel better. I blame it on the tango.

How appropriate that the ludicrous Musak rendition of Adiós Muchachos fills the cubicle as she and I are falling to the first floor on the express. We are saying the final adios after two years of togetherness. One week ago, while folding the laundry, she confessed that while she “cares for me and always will” things have been changing for too long.

“We argue about nothing important,” she said.

I agreed. We were really good at hitting the wrong buttons, and exhausting our patience. But I want to make this work, I told her. I need time.

Well, the clock is not ticking anymore.

There’s another guy, she said, and asked me to move out. Unfortunately, we share too many friends who arrange too many parties too frequently. What about our poker nights? Our ultimate Frisbee games? The camping? She insisted she had no problem with seeing me at any of these gatherings. We were friends at the beginning, and we can keep up the friendship. Ok? This, however, is not ok nor enough for me. Go back to square one? No. I stopped her hands from picking up another piece of clothing.

“Look at me,” I said. “I can’t live like that. I can’t see you at Jason’s house or Leanne’s apartment or at anybody else’s place and just pretend that it doesn’t affect me. Especially if you bring…him.”

She pulled away and walked to the other end of the room.

“Then, we have to arrange something. Maybe our friends can invite us to different things.” she said.

“You want us to share custody of our friends?”

“If you want to call it that.”

People fight over children, over pets, over property. What would a judge rule in our case? I laughed at the absurdity.

I picked up my keys and walked to the front door. I knew she needed me to tell her something that would settle everything. She waited, probably nervous that I would beg her to stay.

“It’s best that we never see each other again.”

I saw sadness. I saw guilt. But I also saw the quick glint of relief in her eyes.

I turned away, and stepped out into the daylight.

We have spent this week emptying the apartment and moving my stuff to a new place. Many nights I walked from the living room futon to look at the bed we once shared with great excitement. She is never home at night, but I will not sleep in the bedroom by myself.

This last elevator ride is to be my final memory of her. She smiles. I know she is grateful that I have kept it friendly during this week of packing. Well, I have always been known as a good guy, too good, if you ask my male friends. My seemingly civilized acceptance of what I call The Betrayal, and she calls Fate, is what allows her to laugh and finally make small talk with me in unconcerned relaxation as we ride to the end. I hand her my copy of the keys and think about how happy I was when I first used them.

“Do you remember when we would go dancing on Friday nights? And how we always promised ourselves that we would learn how to dance the tango?” I ask while keeping an eye on the descending numbers. I do not have much time.

Her grey eyes look at me, and she nods. I push her dark bangs away from her face and place a kiss on her forehead. I always did this every morning before the elevator reached the lobby floor. She does not flinch this time. That is her goodbye gift to me.

We pass the fifth floor and I give her mine. I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. She gasps. She always does this whenever I give her what she calls my Papa Bear hugs. I am not sad, just resigned.

“Goodbye,” I whisper as we reach the ground floor and the elevator stops.

She stares at me with wide eyes. Does she regret her choice? Does she now wish she had not fallen in love with someone else?

No matter. There is no turning back for us.

The doors open and I walk into the empty lobby. I look back at her. She has slid down the wall and sits on the floor of the elevator, eyes still wide. Her white blouse is soaked with the red of the blood that seeps from her back.

I know the knife lodged deep between her shoulder blades has everything to do with that.

I turn away, and step out into the darkness.

No, I do not C

2009-07-29T21:14:00.008-04:00

Alice was at odds and ends. She was waiting for Something to Happen, though she knew that it has been said that people shouldn't wait for such a thing, people should make it so. Yes, she knew that. However, she decided to just wait for Something to Happen.

She wanted fun, she wanted adventure, she wanted fate to step in and show her the way to the good life. She wanted to not have to clean the place. What she got was an email from her friend, whom she hadn't seen in several weeks. Her friend didn't write any news about her family or her art or her loves. Her friend didn't write anything; she just forwarded a chain email. Alice was number four on the chain.

Money Goddess

This is a Money Goddess Lakshimi. Pass it to 6 of your good friends, or family and be rich in 4 Days.

Pass it to 12 of your good friends or family and be rich in 2 Days.

I am not joking. You will find an unexpected windfall. If you delete it, you will never know!

SHE WORKS SHE REALLY WORKS

Alice could not believe that her friend — just call her Daffy — would send her such a missive. She telephoned.

DAFFY: Alice! I was just thinking of you. Did you get my...

ALICE: Yes, and what the hell, don't tell me you believe such nonsense!

DAFFY: Ordinarily not, but my friend in France, you know, the one who went for a week then broke her ankle and met the carpenter who had left the box on the ground that tripped...

ALICE: DAFFY!

DAFFY: Right. Anyway she sent it to me after getting it from the nurse who always blows milk bubbles for the children while they shiver in the cold office...

ALICE: Once again, DAFFY!

DAFFY: Right. So I sent it along to 12 people because I want this business to be over in 2 days.

ALICE: 2 days. You expect to be rich in 2 days.

DAFFY: She works, Alice, she really works!

ALICE: And you know this, how?

DAFFY: That's what my friend in France said.

ALICE: Oh, is she rich yet?

DAFFY: Noooo. But that's because she's only sent it to 6 people so it will take 4 days before she sees the results.

ALICE: I'm deleting it, Daffy.

DAFFY: You're making a big mistake! Just think. If you do this, you won't have to look for a job.

ALICE: Already deleted!

DAFFY: ALICE! Now you'll never know what could've come your way!

High winds and violent rain. That's what was coming. Alice heard on the radio that the Rabbit Hole was under a tornado alert. She went out to the balcony to bring in the yoga ball and the bicycle, and thought that given the circumstances, it wouldn't surprise her to look out the window and . . .

Not Lakshimi. No. It wouldn't be her.

Eat Me, Drink Me

2009-06-05T08:25:00.001-04:00

A dinner party. Alice was looking forward to the dinner party. Well, that's what she told herself. Mad Hatter had invited two people to share a meal, and even though he didn't tell Alice until a few hours before the guests were to arrive, and even though it was very hot and too humid down the rabbit hole, she was game and didn't really mind using the oven. But then Mad Hatter told her that it had to be simple because one of the guests – the male one – had strict medical orders to eat with consideration for his newly unblocked arteries.

Wow, Alice thought, this dinner party needs to be renamed to...well, just dinner; the word “party” wouldn't have a place at this table. But she was game. So she baked rather than fried, and made sure there were plenty of roasted vegetables, salad, fruit, and polenta. She added spices rather than salt, and did everything she could to titillate the taste buds with all that taste buds needed for titillation, for umami.

The guests arrived and brought lots of wine and cheese, and pâté. Well, maybe a party was on!

They refused to eat or drink any of it.

Or not.

They also didn’t eat any of the food that Alice prepared, except for the salad. And they only drank water. The male guest told her that he was not allowed to eat: meat, cheese, bread, sugar, salt, blah, blah, or drink: wine, soda, coffee, tea, blah, blah.

Mad Hatter ate all the pâté and the cheese so he wasn’t hungry when the actual meal was served and only ate some fruit.

The guests didn’t eat, but they did talk. They discussed a friend who had married a much older man; they felt she was a prisoner in her new life as wife to a professor who was only interested in hunting for mushrooms. That was all he did during his leisure. That was all he talked about at their dinner parties ...er... at those moments when he sat at a table with them in the evening and edible things were on the table.

FEMALE GUEST: Why did Martha marry him? I mean, after all, it’s not as if there’s any sex going on!
MALE GUEST: Yes. Yes. No sex, just hunting for mushrooms and --
FEMALE GUEST: AND did you ever see the mushrooms he brings as gifts? The ones he's picked? Aside from making me worried that we'll be poisoned, they look like. . .like . . . CACA!

Alice, who was eating decided she wasn't hungry after all.

ALICE: Well, maybe she's in love.
FEMALE GUEST: Love? No! How can you love someone who can’t blow up the balloon?
ALICE: What?
MALE GUEST: Also, he’s not attractive. Rather rectangular and looks as ugly as a homemade fence.
MAD HATTER: What are you people talking about?

So on a very hot and humid evening, Alice was sitting at her little dinner party that didn't really involve dinner, or a party. But she learned plenty about Martha and her unattractive, rectangular Mushroom Man who, while not good with balloons, could put a pig to shame as he elbows his way to the front of the line and digs, digs, digs deep in the woods.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Drink is the curse of the land. It makes you fight with your neighbor.It makes you shoot at your landlord and it makes you miss him.”

2009-05-14T15:17:00.005-04:00

While sitting – and waiting – for an appointment, Alice picks up a magazine from the metal shelf in the room. Another five minutes. Alice is now sitting, waiting, and reading about the uses of elderberry wine. One could drink it or better yet, according to the article, one should use it as a face wash. . . with rosewater.

Apparently, this is an ancient way of keeping one’s face youthful. Well, Alice doesn’t really follow beauty trends, especially here in the rabbit hole where things generally have an unusual look. But she does find herself in a liquor store one afternoon and remembers the article. No sooner does she walk into the wine section than an employee looks her over, decides that she knows nothing about booze (unlike Alice’s sister, Not Alice, who knows everything ... well that’s neither here nor there) and offers his help.

EMPLOYEE: What can I do you for?

ALICE: That doesn’t make sense, you know. But if you are asking do I need help in finding something then, yes, it’s elderberry wine.

EMPLOYEE: What? Elderberry wine? Well, if we have any it would be found way over on the other side of the store. So, go there.

Once there, another helpful employee approaches Alice.

ALICE: Please. You cannot do me for. I want to see a bottle of elderberry wine.

EMPLOYEE #2: Elderberry wine? Well, if we have any, it would be found way over on the other side of the store. So, go there.

ALICE: Very amusing. Your colleague over there has just sent me here to find the wine. But I do like your shtick. The two of you have worked it out well. Vegas beckons.

EMPLOYEE #2: Oh. Well, let’s see. What kind of wine is it? Elderberry wine? What is it made of?

ALICE: Elderberry. Which is a surprise, I know.

EMPLOYEE #2: Well, I don’t know anything about it.

ALICE: Sorry. I just thought you would have been some sort of sommelier, you know?

EMPLOYEE #2: Some-a-what?

ALICE: Well. Wine expert. That’s what I need right now, but never mind.

The store’s manager comes up to them and announces that they do not carry elderberry wine.

MANAGER: Why it’s been years since I’ve seen that wine. Your best bet is to travel to the South. One of the stores in the South might carry it.

ALICE: I see. A store in the South. Any particular place in the South?

MANAGER: Well. Um. Well, not really. I just think. . . everywhere.

ALICE: Alrighty. Thanks for your help.

MANAGER: Wait! There’s a better idea, though. You could make it. Make your own elderberry wine!

ALICE: I see. Just go to the South, and make wine.

MANAGER: Yeah. That’s my advice. Go and make your own elderberry wine. Glad to have helped.

As Alice leaves the store EMPLOYEE #2 is admiring the manager for his wine expertise.

EMPLOYEE #2: Why, Tom, you’re a regular some-a-something. MISS! What is that s word again?

ALICE: Somnambulist.

EMPLOYEE #2: Yep, that’s it! You’re just a somnambulist, and don’t you know it.

MANAGER: Well, yeah, I try.

à la carte

2009-04-29T16:24:00.005-04:00

Alice’s sister, Not Alice, had taken a vow of silence. At least until her sore throat and laryngitis pack their bags and move away from her.

Since she couldn’t spend some time gossiping with her sister, Alice decided to take an hour and study her French language tapes. She had reached a really good point in the lessons. It seems that a man had knocked on a woman’s hotel room door and after she told him to entrez, he did. He looked around, smiled, and asked her that very important question.

FRENCH MAN: Where is your husband?

Of course this was in French, but Alice knew enough to know what was up!

FRENCH WOMAN: I don’t know. Where is your wife? By the way, who are you?

FRENCH MAN: I don’t know. About my wife, I mean. I am Mr. Jones.

Now Alice was a bit bored by the exchange. Would she really ever need to know how to ask a stranger in France where his. . . well, maybe.

FRENCH WOMAN: Do you want to go to a restaurant with me?

FRENCH MAN: Nah. I want to stay here and...you.

No, that’s not he said.

At the restaurant, the waiter came over and asked for their drink order.

WAITER: Would you like to drink some beer, or some wine?

FRENCH MAN: Well, my dear, would you like to drink some wine? White or red?

FRENCH WOMAN: I will have tea.

Alice thought that was an odd thing to want to drink in a posh restaurant, especially at 11:00 p.m. But she realized that the tapes were teaching her how to ask for things, and not meant to be a torrid story about illicit trysts.

Though she was sure that she would go for the wine. That is, if she ever found herself in a restaurant in France with a man who had misplaced his wife. And if she had no idea where…nevermind.

FRENCH MAN: Tea? Mais non. You must have some wine!

FRENCH WOMAN: No! I do not want wine! I want tea!

WAITER: Tea for madame, oui. And you, monsieur?

FRENCH MAN: I will have, attendez! Is that not your husband? Coming into the restaurant?

FRENCH WOMAN: Why yes, and he is with a woman?

FRENCH MAN: That is my wife!

Ooh la la, Alice thought. Things are getting good! These tapes were worth the money. There’ll be bitch slapping!

TEACHER’S VOICE: This is the end of lesson 18.

ALICE: Nooooo!

She immediately checked ahead to lesson 19 to find out if the police had to get involved but, no, it was all about travel, shopping, and finding out train schedules.

Oh well. If Alice ever found herself in France, and she had studied really diligently, she could look at a handsome stranger and ask him in her most sultry voice, quelle est la bonne route à Paris?

Merde.

Tra La La

2009-04-25T17:15:00.007-04:00

Alice and the Mad Hatter spent several days visiting a family friend who can only be called Madder Hatter. She is 81 years old and very slim, very feisty . . . alright, difficult would be more correct . . . and when her light green gaze is aimed at another – as Alice learned quickly – one must accept that, yes, Madder Hatter is the boss of you.

One very warm and golden afternoon, Mad Hatter told Alice that they were all going into town to eat lunch in a diner. A diner? How could that be? Madder Hatter was accustomed to having maids cook and clean; she would go into her kitchen for three reasons only: to get ice, to insist that dinner not be served until after sunset, and to warn that any red meat served should be as rare as one can get away with before being labeled a cannibal. Why, she had never been to town, it being the place where her driver would go to buy her newspapers. So Mad Hatter was proposing that the very first time she was taken to town, it would be to a diner?

More relevant: Madder Hatter never ate lunch.

However, the three of them rode to this new little place that the gardener had recommended because Mad and Madder Hatters wanted a hot dog.

WAITER: Something to drink?
MADDER HATTER: Bring me a tall glass of ice.
WAITER: Yes, but what’s the drink?
MADDER HATTER: That’s all I need. Now just go away . . . I mean . . . carry on and do what you do.

She flapped her right hand at him and Alice wasn't sure but it did seem to her that the waiter did not love being shooed away by a customer. Perhaps it was the way he pointed a finger at Madder Hatter when she looked away that gave Alice this insight. It wasn't the ring, pinky, or index finger. Nor was it the thumb.

When the waiter returned with a large tray in his hands, and irritation in his eyes, Madder Hatter rummaged in her large bag and brought out a cup. Once, it had belonged to her oldest son.

She filled the cup with ice and then put her hand back into her bag and brought out a small bottle of vodka. After pouring out the proper, well her proper amount, she took the lemon from Alice’s water glass and twisted the peel, took a drink, sighed contentedly, and proceeded to eat.

Alice had a bad feeling. After all, it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. A quick look to her right confirmed her worriment that the staff had been watching. They were whispering and pointing to the table, probably saying something like, “What! That crazy old bitch is getting sloshed at our little diner! And not even paying for it!”

Madder Hatter drank about four cups of her vodka throughout the lunch. Well, to be fair, it was a little cup. Though to be unfair, it had been full strength, even with the ice. No tonic or dry vermouth for her! To be fair again, she did share with Mad Hatter.

While they waited for the bill, Madder Hatter began to talk to Mad Hatter about her newest little grandson who loved to sing.

MAD HATTER: Ah, what does the little angel like to sing?
MADDER HATTER: He loves the old songs.
ALICE: What old songs?
MADDER HATTER: You know, like Irving Berlin songs.
MAD HATTER: Splendid!
ALICE: Irving Berlin? How old is your grandson?
MADDER HATTER: He is four and his most favorite song is This is the Army, Mr. Jones.
ALICE: Uh. What?
MADDER HATTER *leaning toward Mad Hatter*: We all have been selected from city and from farm.
MAD HATTER: They asked us lots of questions, they jabbed us in the arm.

Alice became very alarmed because their singing had stopped conversation in the diner, and the irritated waiter was bringing the check.

IRRITATED WAITER: Will there be anything else?
MADDER HATTER: We stood there at attention, our faces turning red.
IRRITATED WAITER: O.K. nothing else. Pay in front. Thank you for leaving. Now and quickly.
MAD HATTER: The sergeant looked us over and this is what he said:
ALICE: Alrighty. Shall I take this over and pay the bill and we can just go back to the house and you both can take a nice little nap and . . . .
MAD AND MADDER HATTERS: This is the Army, Mister Jones. No private rooms or telephones. You had your breakfast in bed before, BUT YOU WON'T HAVE IT THERE ANY MORE!

So there it is. Lunch in town. Lyrics courtesy of Irving Berlin (1943). Singing courtesy of vodka and a baby silver cup.

Now if you're ready, Oysters, dear

2009-04-04T16:14:00.005-04:00

Alice’s sister, who is named Not Alice, came to visit for a few days and wanted to spend everyday walking and seeing the tourist sights in the rabbit hole. Alice doesn’t really like to say no to Not Alice. Maybe because Not Alice considers Alice’s no to mean oh yes, absolutely, please let’s!

NOT ALICE: Oh, look! Paddleboats! Let’s rent a paddleboat!

ALICE: Oh, look! Paddleboats! Let’s not rent a paddleboat!

NOT ALICE: Come on! It’ll be fun. We can just drift around and see everything and get exercise and it will be a new thing to do.

ALICE: Well, I don’t really swim so it wouldn't be fun for me. I’d be worried that something would happen. Like drowning.

NOT ALICE: You can’t swim?

ALICE: No. Not really.

NOT ALICE: Let’s rent a paddleboat!

O.K. So it's not too hard to guess where Alice found herself in a few moments.

At first, Alice was apprehensive, especially when once they were well away from the dock, Not Alice wondered how one “steers” the boat. Alice begged Not Alice to make sure not to crash against anything including bridges, seawalls, other paddleboats, fish, birds, the Loch Ness monster, etc.

NOT ALICE: Well, you certainly take the fun out of everything.

It did turn out to be a peaceful experience and lovely views. Later on in the evening, Alice was telling the others about how brave she had been to sail the high seas.

MAD HATTER: High seas? The water there is at most two feet deep!

NOT ALICE: Two feet? You could have walked around if you had fallen out of the boat.

ALICE: Laugh if you must, but I’ve heard that people can drown in a wading pool or a bathtub.

NOT ALICE: You were wearing a life vest.

MAD HATTER: A life vest? And only two feet of water? I really think you have to stop putting yourself in such danger when you go out.

NOT ALICE: Do you want to go climbing on that really steep trail that only a billy goat would love? We could do it tomorrow.

ALICE: It’s supposed to be stormy and windy and rainy and very cold tomorrow.

NOT ALICE: Yeah? So do you want to go?

Alice doesn’t really like to say no to Not Alice.

Time's fun when you're having flies. (Kermit the Frog)

2009-03-17T16:45:00.004-04:00

Once upon a time, Alice was very punctual and her days began at the same time every morning, and she was pleased. For many years she was. Then one day, after moving into the rabbit hole, she misplaced the sense of time. Mad Hatter would lose his keys or his glasses as hatters are wont to do, and he would include Alice in looking for them but he never helped her when she needed a search party for her lost time.

MAD HATTER: Have you seen my new glasses? I’ve been looking for hours!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Well? Why didn’t you tell me hours ago. Where are they?
ALICE: On your face.

And so they were.

MAD HATTER: Have you seen the keys to the car? I’ve been looking for hours!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Well? Well?
ALICE: In the ignition.
MAD HATTER: What! But the car is locked!
ALICE: Yes.
MAD HATTER: Now what?
ALICE: What time is it?

It never was the time it was supposed to be. Mad Hatter would tell Alice one night that they were going to drive somewhere the next morning and they would be leaving at 10:30 a.m. But at 8 a.m., Mad Hatter would come into the room and announce that they were heading out in half an hour.

ALICE: But that would make it only 8:30 and you had said 10:30. I’m not ready.
MAD HATTER: Well, I thought about it and I changed my mind. Now don't think that it's just because I can get a Nathan's hot dog sooner. Oh, no. 8:30 is just infinitely superior to 10:30.
ALICE: I see.
MAD HATTER: Just pretend that it’s 10:00 and we’re leaving in half an hour.

As Alice packed, she pretended that it was many years later (alright, not that many actually) and that Mad Hatter was no longer among the living.

Last week, Alice returned from a trip abroad and learned that it wasn’t the time she thought it was because the country had sprung forward. She had forgotten about that so all her clocks were off by one hour. And she couldn’t consult the White Rabbit because all he ever told her was that it was late.

So imagine Alice’s relief when she found a clock, a perfect clock.

At last Alice has found her sense of time and it is perfectly suited for her life in the rabbit hole. And she is pleased.

A Xmas Tale

2008-12-10T11:15:00.012-05:00

Several days ago, Alice was browsing in a Gap store in the Eastern Shore. Holiday music was playing, shoppers were waiting in line to pay for discounted items, and several store employees were standing near the door looking out at something and ignoring the customers. Alice joined the group at the door and looked and saw nothing particularly interesting. She was standing near a male Gapster who was rather – how to explain – oh, yes, rather flamboyant, and asked him what was up.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Oh, sweetie, wait for it. It’s hilarious! Wait! Here he comes!

A short rotund man, with a look of George Costanza on Seinfield but attired as Santa Claus, opened the door and began screaming HO HO HOs. He was accompanied by two young females who were wearing outfits that called to mind army nurse corps olive drab uniform, circa 1943.

How cute. Christmas and Halloween on a date.

The women stood next to Santa George, stoic and unsmiling. Santa, however, was screaming and laughing. He walked over to a woman who was probably in her 80s.

SANTA: WELL! WERE YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL THIS YEAR?

“No,” she said. “I was really very bad. And I don’t care!”

SANTA: EXCELLENT!

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: He cracks me up! He was here this morning and he just doesn’t listen to what anybody says. He just screams and doesn’t even hand out a stupid candy cane or nothing. Then he goes to the other stores. He’ll come back before closing time and I think that I'll tackle him to the ground! That’ll be funny, right?

ALICE: Uh, no, not really.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Unless he gives me a present. Then I won’t hurt him.

Alice thought of what kind of present Santa George would hand over.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: I just know what you’re thinking! But if that happens, I’ll just ask my dad to get me everything on my list and I’ll use the coal to do something really cool.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: So, whadda think, huh?

ALICE: That's great, actually. You know. When life hands you lemons...yada, yada.

FLAMBOYANT GAPSTER: Lemons? Nah, you don't get it, dude, do you? Santa's not gonna give me lemons, he. . .

ALICE: Never mind.

2008-11-08T09:28:00.006-05:00

In a Wisconsin city, the rain-swollen Rock River has risen fast and strong and has flooded downtown Main Street. In addition to bringing -- well, you know -- lots of water, the river has upchucked fish. Yes, lots of fish who have been spotted swimming in the streets.

The locals, apparently, are calling these visitors "Rock River salmon” because the larger ones are trying to swim upstream in the parking lot of the United Way.

In the wild, salmon jumping upstream more than likely end up here

The ~~lazy~~ clever bears are probably chortling something along the lines of, “It’s waaay too easy, yo. Like taking candy from a baby!”

In the United Way parking lot? No clue.

They’re not salmon, though, they’re carp.

Ah, po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes.

Unless, these “salcarp” are just trying to cross the road.

Which does finally put to rest that pesky age-long question about the chicken.

Red Alert!

2008-10-28T11:16:00.004-04:00

Red is a power color. Most politicians, business people, VIPs walking the red carpet, and the Red Queen know this.

Red is a color of danger. Emergency lights, stop signs, do-not-walk lights, and Satan know this.

And now, researchers at the University of Rochester have concluded a study that finds that men go GAGA over a lady in red. And not only when she is dressed in the color, a picture of a lovely lady framed in a red border apparently also gets the male heart pittering and pattering and opening his wallet to spend lots and lots of money on a date.

Why is this? Well, the researchers surmise that it’s probably related to more primitive biological roots.

Huh?

You know, humans are related to higher primates, and those primates are really hot for the girls displaying red.

Primates? Red?

Oh. Yeah.

Evolution-wise, humans have given up their monkey ways, but this study points out that -- maybe not so much.

What about gay men? What about color blind men? They weren’t included in the study, so who knows about the primitive urges there.

So, a baboon's bright red butt screams sex. A woman wearing red screams sex.

Alice’s favorite color is blue. She wonders about the screaming there.

Morning has Broken

2008-10-27T16:22:00.004-04:00

Usually Alice’s sense of smell is the first to awaken in the a.m. Roasted coffee smell. Ummm. Very good. That first cup of coffee? Well It’s just okay, and she is always surprised that the taste is not on par with the smell. But then she does love the smell of freshly mowed grass, and is quite sure that eating a clump of it will not lead her to look for recipes.

Also, they say (you know those vague They people out there who are always saying something) that just smelling coffee is good enough for changing the activity of several genes. Well, okay, this result came from testing rats, but you know.

An interesting odd factoid is that chemical compounds, known as thiols, are found in many things, including coffee. Thiols are also the lovely ingredient in skunk spray. Hmm. Cofee. Skunk spray. Yum.

But Alice’s awakening yesterday morning was not brought about by brewed thiols. It wasn’t her sense of smell that was alert. It was her sense of touch. But there was no cup of java placed into her hands. There were towels. Lots of towels.

An overnight visitor had done something to the bathroom in the middle of the night and an overflowing toilet had drenched the wall-to-wall carpet in the living room. And the owner of the house (TOOTH) had thought it a great idea to take all the towels and throw them on the rug and stomp on them, then take the soaked towels and throw them into the dryer. Step two: repeat the above. Step three: ibidem.

ALICE: But the dryer will take hours to get the towels dry enough and. . .
VISITOR: Don’t worry! This is a good plan.
ALICE: Plan? You call that a plan? We need a professional. Someone who knows how to fix this mess.
TOOTH: You are being very dramatic and it’s really too early for this. What we need is coffee. We’ll take turns stomping on the towels and drying them. It’ll be a useful thing to do. But, actually, I have to go to work so I’ll leave you two to do it.
VISITOR: Well, actually, I have a train to catch this morning so I must beg off.
ALICE: WORK? BEG OFF? Nuh, uh! I’m NOT staying here alone to stomp on towels. Why, it’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever. . .

Alice looked over to the rug and noticed that her footprints were clearly marked in the wet depressions. She noted that she was not flat-footed or high-arched. Which was good.

Thus, by tracking our foot-prints in the sand, we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it, when it never dreams of being so observed. Such glances always make us wiser.

That’s what Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote in a story found in Twice-Told Tales.

“How will I be able to take a shower if ALL the towels are on the floor?”

That’s from wiser Alice .

Star Struck

2008-10-25T21:30:00.004-04:00

No, not the kind that populate the night skies.

And not the kind that congregates in a land far, far, away.

The star that struck the man of the house with the power of incapability is not as jazzy or as razzy as the above.

It can usually be found on the lower left-hand side of an implement that millions use with little or no instruction. Otherwise know as this.

Man of the house (Moth) lives in an apartment building in Washington, DC, which doesn't have a doorman or concierge or even a neighbor who will open the door to visitors. If one decides to stop over for dinner with Moth, one calls on the phone in the foyer, and then Moth has to press "*" and then "9" on his phone in the apartment. A buzzer sounds and the visitor opens the door and is on the way to food, drink, and conviviality.

Except Moth doesn't get it, yet. Though he's lived here for over a year. He can't coordinate the two steps. Sometimes he presses "9" first, then the star symbol. Other times he presses the "pound" key. Just for good measure there are times when he presses "*" then "9" and the "pound" key. It usually ends up that I have to go downstairs and unlock the door. The reason I have to go is because Moth says that since I am only the Visitor of the house (Voth), that chore falls to me.

Moth is not a dull-witted person. Really. He is quite knowledgeable about many things; he gives lectures, he writes, he edits. He. Just. Can't. Or. Won't. Press."*". First.

So his oldest son came to visit. Brilliant man. Thinks, writes, lectures at university. Moth went out to walk the dogs and forgot to take his keys. Again. When he returns, he calls on the phone in the foyer. Oldest son is the only one awake and he answers. Wakes me up because he doesn't know what to do.

"Just press * and then 9."

I doze off.

"It's not working. It's not working! Why the hell is it not working!"

I go downstairs in my pajamas to open the door for Moth and the dogs.

Here's what I think:

Any Road

2008-10-24T14:49:00.003-04:00

For a moment, nothing happened.Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.

--Douglas Adams

So I read -- again -- that Stephenie Meyer, author of the vampire-centric Twilight series, had had a dream about two people in a meadow murmuring to each other, and then had awakened to type fast, faster, fastest, since she didn't want to forget what she was hearing in her head. Days of hearing the dialogue in her head. Nights of not being able to sleep more than a few hours because like a snooze button on her alarm, words and sentences were beeping every nine minutes or so, and she had to type, type, type.

I had a brilliant idea! I would go to bed early, and fall asleep right away. I would sleep and I would dream. Yes. A plan. That's what I would do. That's what I did. Except it was not early. I did not fall asleep right away. I did not dream. Or maybe I did. *shrugs*

I think the b*tch used hallucina. . . um . . . hallucinati . . . I think she used drugs.

I had a brilliant idea! I would go to the master. You know, Mohammed. Mountain. Etc.

My sister! I would ask her what to take so that I could hear voices in my head speaking in complete sentences with character, plot, rising climax, denouement and all that stuff just waiting for me to process and sit and type, type, type to the nth power.

There was a problem, though. I imagined it would be like this:

ALICE: SISTER! I NEED DRUGS!

SIS: Don't we all.

ALICE: NO. I NEED DRUGS. JUST ME. LET IT BE ABOUT ME!

SIS: Why are you shouting?

ALICE: I NEED . . . drugs. So I can hear the characters in the book I'm going to write murmuring somewhere. Then I can stay up all night typing and in four days I will have a finished and complete book that YOU can read.

SIS: I see. You don't need drugs. You need discipline. You need organization. You need to STOP BOTHERING ME AT WORK. I'm busy. Put down the magazine, get off the email, and WRITE. Do I have to remind you -- again . . .

ALICE: Not about that stupid dog, is it?

SIS: . . . about Marley and Me?

ALICE: Maybe I'll write about a vile and wicked sister who is not sympathetic to her sibling's plight!

SIS: That's the spirit! Throw out those ideas! Don't you think that it's nice that you have me in your life as a sounding board?

ALICE: I think fish is nice, but then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?

SIS: Stop quoting Douglas Adams.

ALICE: No drugs?

SIS: Not yet.

So, to avoid all that, I'll just not call her. After all, it is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.

SIS: Stop quoting Douglas Adams.

Sharing and Caring

2006-12-23T16:31:00.000-05:00

Sarie is visiting for the holidays. She is trying to convince me to move from Deacon's apartment, and live with Tina, who is looking for a roommate. Tina has an apartment in midtown NY...she also has an ENORMOUS dog. I like dogs but this one is too big. The story is that many years ago, Tina went to buy a puppy -- a chihuahua, actually.

However, once she locked eyes with this other cute puppy, she was hooked. It turned out that said cute, little, puppy grew up to be an ENGLISH MASTIFF. It's huge and it's mouth spews out streams of slobber, just like Fang in the Harry Potter movies. As a matter of fact, Tina has baskets of rags throughout the apartment. She calls them slobber rags and uses them to clean whatever the dog soiled with his mouth...furniture...people. Lovely.

SARIE: Don't worry about the dog; he doesn't slobber all the time.
ALICE: Oh? It sure looks like it.
SARIE: No. It will be fine, you'll see.
ALICE: Another thing. When I went to visit them, the apartment smelled of...dog, too much dog.
SARIE: Pshaw. That was because Tina hadn't been cleaning in a while.
ALICE: What? So you think I would enjoy being with a roommate who doesn't clean?
SARIE: Don't judge. She hasn't been cleaning because she's depressed.
ALICE: What? So you think I would enjoy being with a roommate who doesn't clean her dog's slobber AND is depressed? Why would that be a good situation for me?
SARIE: Well, she thinks you're fun and wants to hang out with you. It's not all bad. I mean she likes to go out and oh yes, she would sit around at night with you sharing a bottle of wine. That would be cool, no?

Well, I guess I've had worse offers, so I am considering it. But then, an image comes to mind of me -- being an excellent roommate -- walking the dog AND using a big ole garden shovel to scoop the poop.

Now a chihuahua! THAT would have been a no brainer.

This Little Piggy

2006-12-21T20:08:00.000-05:00

So, Alice here had three hours of sleep before it was time to return to work. Deacon had a holiday gathering last night and his friends brought their friends and so on and so forth. So it was a very late night -- or, rather, an extremely early morning.

It's not so bad arriving to work with a hangover. Really. It gives one a unique perspective on the mundane. And my office mates decided that the only way to shake off the boozetastic lethargy was to drink more. So, yep, that's what we did at lunch...finished off the eggnog -- without the doctors.

All was well; I was feeling better and alert and I was rushing to finish the day's paperwork. Then Office Mate #1 came running into my room to pick up some files.

OFFICE MATE #1: MAN! I have to be in turbo mode right now. I mean, the pig is high and I still have to get the blood.
ALICE: Well...um...okay.

Apparently, it isn't enough to know how to use a computer in this office -- even though we don't have a computer in this office. It seems not to matter whether one knows how to unjam belligerent copy machines. No. As far as I can tell, other duties as assigned apparently include some sort of sacrificial experience. Which I don't have -- yet.

So I decided not to worry about my office mate, a high pig, or blood. After all, I had to locate a file, which turns out to have been stored in the bathroom. I climbed into the tub and found it after five minutes.

I'm really good that way. Not for nothing, but that should count for something.

Yes, I am going to sleep very early tonight. Why do you ask?

If it had grown up,' she said to herself, 'it would have made a dreadfully ugly child; but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.

--Alice in Wonderland