Prone to Whimsy

F3 - Cycle 63 - Hush

2012-01-16T16:01:00.001-05:00

Prompt: You know something, but you do nothing…ever, no matter what happens
Length: Let’s do it between 500 and 1500 words
Style: Noir, psychological thriller, or horror
Deadline: Wednesday January 18th 9:00PM

"Micky," she gasped, "You can't say a word to no one!"

"But..." I stammered.

"Not a word," she breathed.

I watched her. The sweat on her brow shimmered in the amber light at the back of the store room. I could still smell the burnt gunpowder drifting up from the Mauser at my feet as I pressed my too-small pocket square against her gut wound.

"Miranda," I begged, "I have to tell them what happened here."

"You can't," she said. "Joey...He didn't know what he was doing..."

"What should I say?" I pleaded, "They're going to come after me, you know it!"

"I don't know, Mick," she closed her eyes and swallowed, "You'll find the way out, you always do."

Dammit all! My eyes started to fill with tears. She was too young. Too good. Goddammit all to hell! I've loved her all my life and now she was slipping away because some stupid fool didn't get that sometimes goodness could really be pure and not a ploy. He couldn't believe her heart was still golden.

"I know I can count on you, Micky...I can count on you right? Keep this quiet so Joey isn't ruined; he didn't mean it" She opened her eyes and looked into mine, "Promise to hush?"

"I Promise, Miranda," I said, choking as the doom slid down my back, "Cross my heart..."

"Hope to die..." she said, as her eyes closed and her last breath fell from her lips.

Sirens began their distant cries as the boys in blue made their way to the docks. It was an election year so the cops were on high alert and quick to respond, even in this neck of the woods. They had a point to prove to the voters, I guess. They had to show that they were worth all that tax money. On an off year, I'd have had time to get her out of this dump, ditch the gun, have her funeral, and sing at her wake before they would have known she was dead. Lucky me.

I couldn't run. I couldn't leave her here like this. Let 'em find me. I could go for a good round or too with a fresh-faced rookie with a new billy club to try out. Served me right for missing clues. For trusting.

I could hear their cars screech to a halt right outside the loading bay. Jesus Christ, Joey must have told them exactly where to go. No one else was around, I know; I staked the place out for 18 hours before Joey and Miranda showed up, his goons in tow. Not a soul around, unless you count the dearly departed souls of the dead fish that crowded up around the docks.

What the hell to say. I had to figure something out. Joey and Miranda and I all grew up together on Buckeye Street. Stick ball, kick the can, hide and seek, you name it, we played it. Thick as thieves, we were. Joey, though, he always had that something extra about him, something special. People just wanted to be around him. But Miranda and I were the only ones he wanted around him. I always knew why Miranda was in his inner circle, but not me. I suspect it was because of Miranda. She could tell we were good for each other. He would draw me out of myself and I would help him stay in check. It all worked out pretty good, until the war, of course.

I went to Germany and Joey went to the Pacific, an officer. We changed, devolved, maybe. We came back different, that's for sure. He was a war hero on the fast track to political stardom and I was trying to turn my MP experience into something worth a damn. The police force wouldn't have me. They said I'd have to go through the academy first. Turns out, my military police experience and a quarter would get me a cup of coffee in this town and that was about it. You'd think Joey would have pulled some strings, not that I asked, but still.

I ended up checking out insurance fraud cases and spying on spouses, while Joey hit the big time, first on the City Council and now as a State Senator. He was also making a play for Miranda and she was falling for him. She could see his good intentions better than anyone and she believed in him, in me. She couldn't see how war tore up a man, left him less than ideal. To her, we were both just bigger versions of our childhood selves. It was intoxicating, really, to be thought of that way, to be with someone who believed the best of you, always. She was worried about Joey, though, and hired me to watch out for him, be his "guardian angel," she said. Well, what I saw, I didn't like. But there was no convincing her...

"Freeze!" a voice heavy with authority yelled in my direction.

I looked up and saw a hulking figure outlined in moonlight pointing a gun in my baby blues.

"Hey, officer," I said, cool as a jello.

"Hands up!" he barked.

I looked down at Miranda one last time and whispered, "Thanks, sweetheart. See you in the funny papers." I kissed her forehead and slid my arms out from around her, setting her down gently. Even with the pall, her face was more beautiful then I ever remembered it being.

"I said hands up!"

"You got it, sir," I said as I put my hands above my head as instructed.

"Did you shoot that woman?" he asked. His voice shook a tiny bit and I knew I was in the presence of a gallant rookie.

"What do you think?"

"Well, I see you and a gun and a dead woman alone on the docks, I've got to believe there's a good chance you shot her."

"That figures," I smirked, "Couldn't possibly be anything else, that's what they teach you in the academy, right?"

"Evidence don't lie, punk,"

"That's your opinion, and opinions are like assholes; everyone has one."

It only took him three strides with his meaty legs to make his way from the door to me and bring the butt of his gun down on the back of my neck, knocking me to the floor and the wind out of my lungs. It was going to be a long night. A night where I had to tell the truth but not the whole story. The best I could hope for was the better angel of Joey's nature would kick him in the ass and he'd figure out a way to protect mine. I'm not holding my breath on that one though.

Maybe Joey will get scared, start thinking about the good old days and remember the blood oath the three of us took. Remember that it wasn't kids' stuff; it was real. He could remember how it was, how Miranda thought it still was. He's not going to hear about it from me though. A promise is a promise, and a deathbed one more so. It's not like I haven't had the shit beat out of me before. It's just been a long time since I've had it done professionally.

"You have the right to remain silent," he began, as the rest of his buddies crowded through the door.

I have every intention to, I thought, as the room went dark.

A Dream Come True: Uncle Ralph Lives

2011-11-20T11:54:00.001-05:00

I haven't been blogging everyday for November, but I have been working on a creative project (see above). It all started when we went to my sister-in-law's house for Halloween. Alicia and her husband Rick are unstoppably creative. For example, they have built a spook house in their basement that they keep up all year around and change every couple of months. It is outstanding and imaginative.

While we were at their house, the kids were watching a Rankin & Bass Halloween movie, Mad Monster Party. I watched a bit of it and was entranced, as usual, with the puppetry and animation. I wandered out on the enclosed porch with my brother-in-law, Rick. He was puffing on a pipe and I started telling him about how I've always wanted to make a stop-motion animation film.

"Why don't you?" he asked.

"Well, I'd need a script," I said.

He didn't say anything. We looked out over the foggy valley beyond the Rocky Fork Creek that runs in front of their house. Then a thought occurred to me. I have a ton of material...all of the Uncle Ralph stuff I've written here! All of a sudden, the penny dropped and I suddenly knew how I could make it all happen. I also felt super-grateful for Rick's capacity for silence that gave me room to make this discovery. I moved away from all the obstacles and into the realm of the possible.

Doc and I started talking about it on the way home from their house. Then, we decided to make it happen. We are fortunate that we live in Speedy's old house. Speedy and his wife bought this house in the 50's when it was new and lived a very long and happy life together, if the love notes that are still taped to the inside of cupboard doors have anything to say about it. Speedy was a handy man and a shelf-builder extraordinaire. So, we had TONs of materials to start this project.

We began by building the set with a large piece of particle board...about 4x4. I had purchased a $30 circular saw and we angled the sides in slightly. Once that was built and suspended over two steel saw horses, Doc set the latter on top of it and climbed up into the rafters in our garage to pull down several pieces of paneling, press board and MDF that Speedy had stashed away for a rainy day. We also pulled down an ancient pair of wooden saw horses, who gave their life (and 2x4's) to support our walls.

After a few trips to Pat Catan's, or Pakistan's as my Grandma Jean used to call it, with Scotland (the Capn) and Elizabeth. We were ready to design and dress the set. And finish making Uncle Ralph, who is a drawing dummy under all that felt. I recorded Scotland doing the voice for Uncle Ralph.

The wallpaper and floor are contact paper. Doc made the wainscoting. Elizabeth covered the straw chair in felt and stuffing and doilies, and the kids decorated the tree.

We were nearly finished and ready to film, or so I thought. But Doc insisted that we build him a fireplace. I'm glad we did. It is a block of 2x4's glued together (another gift from Speedy). Doc cut out the fireplace part and painted it a shiny silver, selected from Speedy's vast collection of spray paint.

Then we broke up a piece of Speedy's slate and hot glued the pieces to the front of the fireplace. Now we were ready.

It was Doc and me in the garage on a very cold night. We set the tripod and the camera. We watched listened to short pieces of the video of Scotland and started filming. At first we tried to animate every single syllable. We were sure it would take us DAYS. We spent about three painstaking hours doing this. Doc would move the felt lips and the wooden arms and I would hold the camera in place and take the pictures. We thought we maybe had 10 seconds of material.

Then I loaded all the pictures into Movie Maker and the voice track. We set the pictures to .1 second duration and let her rip. We were confused to see that the images didn't exactly line up to the speech we thought we were animating. But we were pleasantly surprised by the fact that it didn't really matter. The movements matched the words, for the most part. And the unsteadiness of the camera gave it a Super 8 effect...totally the look I was going for. So after some careful cutting and pasting, we had a complete short film.

Now all we needed was the music. Doc and I went back and forth about what we should do. He suggested I play the piano. I wanted something better than that. So I convinced him to check out the royalty free music on iStock Photo. We found the perfect music: The First Flakes of Christmas. It was so earnest and heartfelt and very sweet, a nice counterpoint to Uncle Ralph's gruffness.

So last night, we finished up the editing and announced the birth of Uncle Ralph to Scotland and Elizabeth. They came over and we toasted our efforts and watched it together. It was a wonderful moment of the realization of a dream. Ever since Davy and Goliath and Rankin and Bass, I've always wanted to make a stop motion animation film. And since then, I've been blown away by Nick Park and Aardman Animations, who are responsible for Wallace and Grommet. I'm fascinated by the miniatures and the attention to detail on the sets.

I am so thankful to have the friends and family I have. Their creativity and willingness to pitch in humble me. And now I don't have to mail Christmas cards. Uncle Ralph will handle our message this year. So, watch the video and take the message to heart. Also, share the hell out of it, please.

Raging Red Bull Smoothie!!!

2011-11-10T12:57:00.001-05:00

It was very tasty, but if I didn't already have a bad case of ADHD this morning, I do now!

Woo-hoo!

F3 - Cycle 56 - Shields Up!

2011-11-09T15:10:00.003-05:00

600 words of Sci-Fi for Friday Flash Fiction.

I calculated all the alternatives. None of them would let me getwhere I needed to go. I was going to have to batter through the asteroid belt to make it into the Dentari region in enough time. My cargo wassmall but huge in importance. And this jump was more problematic than aCentauri whore-dog during Intergalactic Chastity Month.

It all startedwhen I was given the launch sequence that would let me leave the space station.Some joker in HQ thought it would be funny to encode them first. And he didn'tuse any standard code. I couldn't find it in the empire's code databases, that's for sure. I had to go to the space station library, find an actual"book," and spend my last day of leave and most of my prep timesolving the puzzle. That's OK. I got him back. He'll never look at a tube ofanti-itch gravity cream in the same way again, I made sure of that.

Once I was donefiddling around, I barely had time to cram all my gear into my shuttle duffleand kiss my cat goodbye. I ran from sector 17, through the dread zone, past thebarber shop and into shuttle bay 7, where I got chewed a new one by SargeBenson for being late. Fortunately, I'm a gifted pilot and my interns fall allover each other to get things set up before any mission I go on. One aw shucksand a country boy smile and I was off the hook. I made a quick sweep of thepanels as I plopped into the driver's seat. Everything seemed fine.

But I failed tonotice the tiniest of mistakes. My outstanding interns didn't factor thesubspace variable out far enough and caused my jump to land me here and not onthe other side.

So here I am, myartificial navigator cowering under the sub-engines while I prepare myself forthe ride of my life. I had some idea of what I was getting myself into. Mybuddies and I took turns showing off at the arcade playing Asteroid Belt, whichwas basically a simulation of what I was about to encounter.

"Alright, Arty"I said to my chicken-shit navigation computer, "Shields up!"

My shuttleshuddered as the force field unraveled itself outward from the nose cone. Icranked up the view screen and engaged the rock anthem music algorithm. I tooka quick scan with the front sensors and set the weapons array up so that itwould spread neon green static light particles over all the rocks in my path.It was all routine, really.

"Speed factorseven," I commanded, "Let's go!"

My field of visionlit up with green lumps that turned into tubes. I felt the impact of thesmaller rocks that bounced off my shields as I maneuvered my way around the bigboys. Every now and then, I'd see the shields shimmer and weaken; they weretaking a pummeling and there was nothing I could do but keep pressingforward.

"We make itthrough this, Arty," I said, hanging on tight, "I'll buy you abackbone."

We crossed in twohours, record time, and I delivered the package to the Dentari chief ahead ofschedule.

“Well, Arty,” I said, hopping back into my craft, “Want to see ifwe can beat our score?”

I think he passed out. And I laughed my way all the way back toanother medal and a new crop of interns.

Oh, God! I'm Bored! - Tuesday Haiku

2011-11-08T13:01:00.000-05:00

Moira and Riley

I know exactly what I have to do today. But I don't wanna.

Haiku for Tuesday

Tuesday is trash night.

So, out with last week's garbage

Empty cans, clean slate.

I'm Daylight Saving Time's Bee-Eye-Tea-See-Aitch

2011-11-07T14:54:00.000-05:00

Lucy

I love setting the clocks back an hour. It's a dream come true. I woke up at seven o'clock yesterday morning like it was the right thing to do. I'm sure after a couple of days, seven o'clock will feel too early again. But it's nice to feel like an early bird for once.

Plus, I got a bunch done yesterday. And took second place in our weekly poker match.

I wish we could set the clocks back one hour every other week. Then I'd probably feel normal most of the time.

Wish Me Luck

2011-11-06T08:05:00.003-05:00

I've decided that, in lieu of Christmas cards, I'd send my peeps a video short this year. And it's not just any short, it's going to be a stop-motion animation featuring none other than our Uncle Ralph.

Ever since Davy & Goliath and Rankin & Bass, I've had a fascination with this medium. And then Wallace and Grommet came along and took it to a whole new level. I've always wanted to watch the makers put these together...no strike that: I wanted to do one myself.

I was musing about this to my brother-in-law, Rick, over Halloween weekend. He's the right person to muse to, let me tell you. He and his wife have built a haunted house in their basement. He makes wooden toys and stilts. She makes costumes and their kids are all stilt walkers and jugglers. But Rick's got a certain quietness to him that allows room in conversations. And in this space, I told him that I wanted to make a stop motion animation short. He said that it was doable. And I said, "but I need a script..." He puffed on his pipe in response. I felt a little bit sunken...didn't want to face dreaming up a short script with one or two characters who didn't move much..."UNCLE RALPH," I exclaimed.

I started telling Rick about Uncle Ralph and we bounced ideas around. Needless to say, I am now inspired.

So far, I've made an Uncle Ralph figure and Doc has built the framework for the set. I'm hoping that the Cap'n will be able to provide the voice and that Spooky will help me do the set decorations.

The only thing in my way is momentum, of course. But it's nothing some Red Bull, an inspirational speech, and promise of pizza couldn't defeat handily. So wish me and my team luck. And look for this short coming soon.

Blimey! Can I waste time, or what!

2011-11-04T16:45:00.000-04:00

Riley

I'm trying to figure out what happened to two hours today. I can't account for them. Maybe I was:

In Rivendale, trying to sort out some business with a ring
Abducted by faeries and forced to listen to ballads and drink faerie wine
On board an alien ship trying to explain the difference between American Idol and X Factor
Sucked into the Bermuda Triangle
Given the opportunity to go on a trip to Paris that I wasn't allowed to remember ever
Under the influence of a sleeping draught while someone drank a polyjuice potion to turn into me and do some mischief

Lyrics I Don't Understand: Sometimes When We Touch

2011-11-03T15:28:00.000-04:00

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide...
--Dan Hill

Can someone please explain what it means when the honesty's too much? Too much what? Also, why must he hide? I don't get it.
Does anyone have a copy of the cliff's notes for this?
Please help me. This makes me crazy.
Do I just not get love in the 70's?
Am I missing some sort of passion/complexity gene?
Are my relationships just not meaningful enough?

Perhaps, I'm over thinking this.

Wednesday Haiku

2011-11-02T13:32:00.000-04:00

Lucy

It's nice to be done

Mostly with the week, Wednesday

It's all down hill now.

Edited to add: Haiku for a Bad Day

Hair Metal Soliloquy: Hence I Journey Anon

2011-11-01T14:07:00.001-04:00

From White Snake, Here I Go Again

I know not to where I go, but I knoweth certainly whence I've been
I graspesth on the promises in the ballads of yore
And in my mind's eye, I am certain
I waste time no more
Hence I journey anon, hence I journey anon.

Though I searcheth for an answer
I find and not find that for which I seeketh
Oh Lord, prithee, give me strength to carry forth
For I fathom what thou meanest
To abide along the lonely road of dreams

Hence I journey anon unaided
Wayfaring the only road of which I've henceforth had knowledge
As a vagabond, I was brought forth to walk alone
It is decided
I waste time no more

I be another heart requiring salvage
Waiting on love's sweet charity
And I shall grippeth tight for the rest of my days
For I fathom what thou meanest
To abide along the lonely road of dreams

Hence I journey anon unaided
Wayfaring the only road of which I've henceforth had knowledge
As a vagabond, I was brought forth to walk alone
It is decided
I waste time no more

But hence I journey anon, hence I journey anon...

F3 - Cycle 44 - The Fee

2011-08-17T21:45:00.003-04:00

Prompt: A story about unrest.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1500 words (or fewer).
Deadline: Thursday August 18th 2011 8:30 PM EST

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War
Part 4: Poker Face
Part 6: A Day Late and a Dollar Short

"Now git in there and don't cause any more trouble!" Elroy McCrane yelled as he shoved Susannah down the stairs and into the cellar of the Old Tin Cup. "We'll take care of you later, if the fall don't kill ya!" he laughed as he slammed the door and locked it.

Susannah had been caught by Elroy, one of the Dirty Boys gang, when she was so close to Dirty Dan, she could taste the oil in his hair. Dirty Dan was playing poker at the Old Tin Cup and Susannah was posing as a barmaid. Jeb Riley had tipped her off about the game when he found out about Dirty Dan's aspirations to poker greatness.

The game was supposed to be top secret. But the owner of the Tin Cup had lost his mother to the gang and they had taken his young daughter and wife during one of their many waves of terror. He was forced to host this game but he knew Susannah was coming and let her in through the window when he went to get more whiskey from the storage room.

Suzannah had melted in with the other ladies of the evening and edged closer to the main table. She gripped the handle of her knife with the point of it angled toward her elbow along the inside of her wrist. She was going to sidle up to him, drape herself on his shoulder and then pull the knife across his hateful neck. But what light there was in the poker room had bounced off the polished blade and caught Elroy's eye. Fortunately, no one recognized her as the Susannah, who had been causing so much trouble for the Dirty Boys gang for months. She would have been killed on the spot for sure.

Ever since partnering with Jeb and coordinating George Shaw's access, the Chief's stealthy warriors, and her money, Susannah had been systematically chipping away at the Dirty Boys' sphere of influence. Not that this was saying much; the gang had become so bold that they operated out in the open now. Most of the sheriffs in these parts were Dirty Dan's men. And they started enforcing his laws. Women over 18 years of age were to be kept indoors and out of sight unless they wanted to be shot. Schools were shut down. Boys were recruited for his gang. Children were taken. Men were forced into hard labor and those who opposed were hanged.

"Ow!" a voice shouted in the darkness as Susannah landed hard at the foot of the stairs.

Susannah froze and opened her senses. She could feel someone's leg beneath her and smelled something familiar...a strange blend of chamomile and sulfur.

"Doc?" Susannah whispered.

"Susannah? Is that you?"

"It is," Susannah said. For the first time in months, tears began to form at the corners of her eyes.

"Well, bless my soul..." his voice quivered.

"I owe you an apology, Doc," Susannah spoke softly, "I told you I wouldn't leave home and chase after the gang, but I did. I'm truly sorry for breaking my word."

"No, Susannah," Doc said, "I should'a recognized that look on your face, that air you had. I've seen it before, you know...you don't get to be this old without seeing the wrath of God at least once or twice being borne out by a person. I should never have told you to stay."

"Why are you here, Doc?"

"Well sister, Dirty Dan didn't take too kindly to me refusing to treat his right hand man's right arm. The scoundrel ended up bleeding to death. I'm to be hanged in the morning."

"I can only imagine what's in store for me now," Susannah sighed.

"It seems to me that neither one of us has a thing to lose," Doc pondered, "I think that makes us dangerous, don't you?"

"What are you proposing, Doc?"

"I know where there's a trap door into the store room," He revealed, "I also know where a group of sympathetic and angry men can be found. I say, let's get out of here, get them, come back and burn this place to the ground."

"The Chief and his men are not far away either," Susannah added, "I'm game if you are, Doc."

"We'd best hurry," Doc said, standing up, "The whims of the criminal mind change quickly; we must return in haste, lest they disappear from here and go on some other fool's errand."

Susannah got to her feet and felt for Doc's hand. He led the way, feeling for obstacles.

"I'd light a match or something, but I fear we'd blow the place up prematurely," he warned, "I can smell the gunpowder down here, can't you?"

"Yes, sir," Susannah replied.

"Now if I remember correctly," Doc whispered, "The store room is about 25 paces straight back from the stairs...now we just need to find the ladder and we'll be on our way."

They made their way slowly among the crates and cartons. They tried not to call out when barking a shin here and stubbing a toe there. They were both sweating from the exertion and fear of marching through the dark to overcome their recent fate.

"Ah," Doc breathed, "Here we are."

He pulled her hand toward the ladder and she gripped it. She began to climb silently up the rungs and when she reached the top, she pressed on the panel. It gave and she lifted it slightly, checking to see if anyone was in there. The room was still and lit with moonlight. She lifted the hatch the rest of the way and climbed up. When she pulled herself onto the floor, she turned back toward the opening and signaled to Doc that all was clear.

"You go on," he said. "Leave the window open and I'll come out after you. Make sure you get well clear of the building. I'll meet you at Doc Harmon's place. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

Susannah nodded and closed the panel. She moved toward the window and pulled it open. The air was still and the locusts' song throbbed around her. She looked up and down the main street and didn't see anyone. So she gathered her skirts and hoisted herself up and over the window sill.

Her landing was soft and she quickly found her footing and began to run silently toward Doc Harmon's, the hawk trailing her.

O, Warrior Mother, she called out in her mind, I have done everything you have asked. Help me bring an end to this bloodshed by spilling the blood of Dirty Dan. Protect Doc Shaw and see us safely out of this...

Her prayer was interrupted by a blast and a burst of light. Susannah stopped and wheeled around toward the Old Tin Cup, which had burst into amber flames and black smoke. She fell to her knees and began to weep. Men came running out, entombed in flames; the lucky ones found troughs of water nearby and extinguished the fire. Before long, the Old Tin Cup collapsed in on itself, windows bursting and black, acrid smoke belching outward.

She guessed rightly that old Doc Shaw had sacrificed himself and ignited the powder kegs, taking the opportunity to strike at Dirty Dan. And Mother Warrior took her fee, that was for sure. Blood had been shed and Dirty Dan was done, but at a huge cost. Susannah's heart broke a little bit more, which surprised her; she had no idea there was anything left of it.

Susannah...

She looked up and saw Doc's spirit approach her. She was stunned.

Susannah...I'm sorry to leave you like this; I know I told you I'd follow you, and I broke my word. For that I'm truly sorry. I suppose this makes us even now, heh. Don't you waste your time crying over me. I chose my end and I'm satisfied. Now go and finish this. I'll be seeing you...

F3 - Cycle 42 - A Day Late and A Dollar Short

2011-08-02T17:16:00.002-04:00

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: The aftermath of being late. Late. Late!
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1000 words
Deadline: Friday, August 5, 2011, 9 am EST

This is part 5 and here are the others...

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War
Part 4: Poker Face

"I left that night in pursuit of Dirty Dan and his gang," Susannah explained, "I knew the posse'd be chasin' them through the woods with dogs and such, but I was too late for that. So I hopped on Chance and started toward Two Forks. They've got a respectable Sheriff there, who I thought might have information about the Dirty Boys gang. I wanted to dig that weed out at the root."

"Well?" Jeb asked, "How'd that turn out?" Jeb and Susannah were sitting in old rocking chairs on the porch of his homestead, watching the stars as wind crossed the prairie and made dark waves in the grass.

"Sheriff Stanley was some help," she said, "He did provide me with a list of crimes they couldn't pin on Dirty Dan. I've been moving from town to town, sheriff to sheriff coming up with nothing but lists. I'd heard stories about the posse and how they couldn't find the criminals nor the missing Hailey twins," she winced slightly at this admission.

"George Shaw and the Chief are tracking them now," she continued, "But they keep missing the gang somehow...showing up moments before they hopped on a train or hours after they broke camp."

"Huh," Jeb responded, "That's damned inconvenient."

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "The gang's got help in high places and they've got the locals terrified."

"So it would seem," Jeb said.

"Anyway, I've spent my long evenings studying these lists and all these crimes had something in common: They all happened in the afternoon and women and children were the victims. Also, it seemed like the gang knew when extra money was going to be around...like they could sniff it in the wind. All the victims had recently gained access to piles of money."

"Hmm..." Jeb replied. "I wonder how they knew that?"

"Well, I can't tell you that, sir," Susannah said, "But I'm beginning to wonder if some banker isn't involved in all this, someone who knows about these kinds of things and can tip off the gang."

She let that float into the evening. It was the crucial piece of information that she wanted to bring to Jeb Riley, a man of influence and one of the few who could stand on his own against most authority and did so regularly. He had enough money and power to be heard, anyway, which is more than she could muster. She wanted to give him a chance to think.

Susannah had said her piece. At least he listened. Of course, she'd had to trick him into thinking she was a man and prove herself in a card game first. She could've called on Mother Warrior to help her again, but that tended to give people the impression that she was some kind of witch. Plus, Mother Warrior had a price when you call on her that left Susannah weak and sad afterwards.

But it was a nice night and she could use a breather. Jeb Riley had just won a bunch of money at cards and had a snoot full of brandy; she suspected it was likely that he'd agree to throw his weight around for her cause. Susannah looked up at the sky and watched the hawk circle her. She was used to him by now; he was always nearby as a constant reminder of her quest.

This evening had been a welcome respite from hunting. Her eyes were tired from searching and her mind ached from trying to put all the pieces together. And her heart burned with a mixture of righteous anger and holy terror. Tonight was a night of fellowship, really. The card table always bonds people, if they sit together long enough.

If only she didn't feel so far behind...grasping at straws and always arriving a moment too late. Dirty Dan was bound to make a mistake; he's only a man, not an actual monster. He'll trust the wrong person or tip his hand. It's the only hope she had, until tonight.

"Well, Miss Susannah," Jeb spoke.

"Yes, sir?" She asked, looking at his face, into his eyes.

"I think I can help you."

"I think you can too, sir."

"Heh," he chuckled, "You got guts, girl; let's just hope your mind is built of the same material and this ain't some wild goose chase."

"Thank you, Mr. Riley," she said.

"Call me Jeb," he replied as he stood up. "C'mon inside, sister. I reckon we've got a lot of planning to do."

F3 - Cycle 39 - Poker Face

2011-07-14T12:56:00.003-04:00

Prompt: Title Prompt – Write a story involving playing cards and using these words: Ante, Drag, Bluff, Busted, Blind
Genre: Open
Word Count: Up to 1300 words
Deadline: Thursday, July 14, 2011 4:30 pm EST

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

This is Part 4. Here are the first three parts, if you would like to read them

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War

"Ok, gentlemen," The Dealer said, "Ante up."

It was the usual crowd at the Old Tin Cup on a dusty Friday night, with one exception. A slight and mostly silent man had joined the game this time. He was dusty and had a weary posture. The brim of his brown, leather stetson was pulled down, covering his eyes and shadowing his face.

So far, he'd played a pretty tight game, calling here and there, and never raising the bets as they traveled around the old pine table. This was fine with the Dealer, who was no stranger to trouble from outsiders but certainly didn't care for it.

This old gang had a certain rhythm to their game and strangers never seemed to sense it when they sat down to play. They just bumbled in and mistakenly thought the best way to join the group was to show off and prove that they had the chops to play with the big boys. They had no sense of grace about them, always splashing their money in the pot, calling blind, and assuming that because the gang was old, they were also soft or stupid. This stranger was different though...steady and calm.

There were plenty of years behind these good old boys, some good, some bad. But they came through it all together and ended up with a respect for each other that made them close-knit and powerful. And the Dealer had been with them all along, was one of them really. He never liked gambling, though, despite his love for the game of poker. But his years of dealing had given him certain insights into all of them, and they knew it. Away from the table, he was considered neutral and the fellows often consulted him when they had disputes. He also represented the gang when they had common interests that needed worked out with others. The Dealer could not be bluffed.

"Raise," a quiet voice said, which pulled the Dealer out of his thoughts. "Thirty dollars."

Jeb whistled and said, "That's a pretty steep bet there, stranger."

"You gonna call?" the Dealer asked, nonplussed.

"Heh," Jeb said, "Well, it's only money...Call."

Jeb always said this when he had a good hand, the Dealer knew, but didn't let his face reveal it. The rest of the folks at table fell out of the hand and fixed their eyes on the stranger, waiting to see what his game was. He'd have to show his cards now.

"Well," Jeb said, "Whatcha got?"

The stranger turned over his cards and said, "Ten-high flush."

"Oh, well," Jeb said, "I guess that won't beat my full house...Aces over tens."

He chuckled as he dragged the pot towards him and started to stack his winnings. "You got to get up pretty early in the morning to catch me, stranger."

"Oh, I get up early every morning," the stranger revealed.

"I 'spect you get the worm then, most times, don'tcha?" Jeb replied.

"Nope," the stranger said, "That worm keeps slipping away from me. It's getting to the point now when I think I'd better give up sleeping and spend all my time chasing that worm."

"What's your name, son?" Jeb asked, curious.

"Susannah," the stranger replied.

"Funny name for a fellah," Jeb said.

"Ain't a fellah, sir," she said.

Jeb leaned in towards her and started to tip Susannah's brim back to see her face.

She stayed his hand and said, "I'd rather you didn't do that here."

Jeb sat back in his chair, his mouth hanging open. She did tip her hat up quickly so that for a moment the shadows fell away and the gang could see her feminine features. She pulled the brim down and settled back into a favorite pose of her fathers: Legs outstretched, leaning back with her hands crossed at her waist.

"So, are we going to play cards or sit here catching flies," the Dealer said, amused by the fact that every member of the gang now had their jaws hanging loose. "Ante up, gentlemen."

This certainly was an interesting woman who had managed to get into the Tin Cup and join this table, and past the Dealer's bullshit detector. He shuffled the cards as he mused. It's been a long time since anyone anywhere had been able to bluff him. He wanted to know more about her but respected the table, the game, and her skill too much to fuss here. Still, her worm hunting story interested him very much and wondered what could survive standing in this woman's way. He dealt the hand.

The game continued for another hour or so before the group decided to call it a night. The Dealer knew they were all going home a bit richer this night, Susannah having kept up with the game, calling except when it was time to show her cards. She never raised or stayed in to the end of the hand for the rest of the night. He suspected she did this on purpose, to put the old boys in a good mood.

"Well, boys," Jeb said, patting his vest pocket stuffed with his winnings, "Let's retire to my place for an after game drink and cigars."

The gang grumbled cheerfully at the thought as they stood and stretched, happy with victory. The Dealer packed up his cards and kept one eye on Susannah.

"Come on, son," Jeb said and winked, "I'd like to hear how you got to be such a smart player."

He put his arm around Susannah and led her out of the saloon.

F3 - Cycle 38 - Rage Diary

2011-07-07T16:55:00.001-04:00

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

Prompt: Write a story involving madness in whatever form appeals to you.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1200 words.
Deadline: Thursday, July 7th, 6 pm EST.

********

Dear Diary,

I know they don't mean to get in my way. How could they possibly understand? They belong to the realm of the bottom feeders; they should take what's given to them, nothing more! But can't they see? I need to pass through untouched. And I cannot bear their proximity or their scent. It used to be that the bottom feeders knew their place and separated themselves out. They had an inborn courtesy toward their betters.

You know what I'm about to say, now, don't you Dear Diary? It's time again to make permanent the reminder that they are bottom feeders. I know you fret when I talk like this, but I'm sorry! It must be done.

Think about the smell of them. Oh, I just gag to do it, but you must know. First it's their sweat. It's dark with a pungency redolent of their low nature. Dirt, poverty, onions, garlic, subatomic lowliness. I can see it waft off of them in stale brown waves. Don't give me that look, Dear Diary, I do see it. I am sensitive to the supernatural and you know it.

I can smell their hair. The cheap shampoo that only masks the oily funk rolling from their scalps. A combination of "seaside breezes" and crude oil. Their efforts at cleanliness are an open mockery of God. Who do they think they are kidding?

And don't even prompt me to reveal what I know about their sex. I shiver at the thought. Shame on you, dirty Dear Diary! Do not lead me further into torment!

The way they move, trying to stand upright and confident, like they have as much right to be here as I do. There is a hierarchy. There always will be a hierarchy. Their confidence is an affront to my superiority and their disrespect for the natural order of things. No amount of friendly teeth-baring will even us out.

It is time, Dear Diary, for the ritual. I will gather the ingredients and focus my holy power. God has told me it is time to do this. That is why I am so sure. What would you know anyway; you're just a book. It is time to enter the sacred armory and apothecary and combine steel and poison to scare the ever-living fuck out of these "people."

So, hold me in your heart Dear Diary. I will tell you all about it when it's done. And you will be pleased; order will be restored and I will be happy again.

What I Will Do For Music

2011-06-13T17:03:00.000-04:00

Recently I remembered that I am a musician, and more specifically, a singer. I may not have the best or most powerful voice, but I can carry a tune. I prefer to sing with other people because of a vestigial childhood shyness that I haven't completely conquered yet. I've been in and out of choirs for the past 15 years or so searching for the right place, with little luck.

My main frustration with being in choirs is that you rehearse and rehearse and then you perform for maybe 20% of a religious service. The rest of the time is gobbled up by the ritual of the lesson, reading, and mundane announcements. These aren't bad things, really. I'm just not interested. I want more of that magic of producing music with others. That's what fills my cup. The lesson is nice, I guess, and the sermon could go either way. But the music did it for me, spiritually speaking.

And getting my family to go to church has been a lesson in futility. The kids don't want to go and Doc's schedule usually prevents him from going. Our hearts aren't in it. Plus, Sundays are made for looking inward and getting the house in order. And poker.

In the meantime, I started getting together regularly with people from work to play Rock Band, which is fun and a quick and easy way to get to that camaraderie. I get a lot of joy from this and I'm pretty sure that my colleagues do too. It's a good time and we have bonded over it. I know that it's helped us build bridges with each other and work is easier because of it.

I did join a choir of three at a UU church, which was a unique experience but didn't have the manpower to get off the ground. Also, I felt stifled by the PC approach to every. single. fucking. thing. It was so rigid for an organization that espoused tolerance. But we had some moments and I met some great people, to whom I am still connected. But it was still not enough.

Elizabeth knows me well. We met in 1989 and have been steady friends ever since. She knows this stuff about me already. Because of my need to produce music, she doggedly kept setting "Kirtan" in front of me. It's a kind of call and response chanting that originated in India. It seemed strange and foreign (it is) and surrounded by people who seem fanatically devoted to the practice. I was skeptical...

But I trust her, so I decided to join her for a regular monthly Kirtan session in the art gallery in downtown Canton. It was Elizabeth, the Cap'n, me and a very nice person named Brenda. We were led by Su, who played guitar and harmonium. She led us in some chants and a meditation. But the point is that 80% of this was singing. And I felt open afterwards. Like the bouncers around my heart finally uncrossed their arms and opened the ropes to let me in, out.

I was very sensitive for several days afterwards and my intuition was working overtime; I was making very certain predictions about the future that were coming true. Nothing major, but I knew where certain mundane things were headed and I trusted that intuition. It paid off for me. I had removed the obstacles between my instincts and my decision-making. After all, I am 40 years old; there should be some things that I should just know.

Since then I've been to two more kirtan things: Once more with Su and another at a local holistic center. I believe the little gathering with Su is something super special and nothing will be able to compete with the way that goes. The other one was supposed to be bigger and the more the merrier, I've been told. This one wasn't as big as they expected; the local blues festival was competing with it and won.

I'm not sure I got the most out of it because of exterior interference (my phone rang, my pants were uncomfortable, the leader was a dude who seemed at times to be very sexual, which made me uncomfortable). But still, when I left, I felt good...filled up...centered...open, the heart bouncers at rest again.

And I realized that I don't think I'll be able to live without it in my life. And that is good but it comes with some challenges. I figure that I'll have to hitch my wagon to some people who tend to approach the world with a hippier than though approach. The kind of people who refer to themselves as "enlightened" or "evolved." I may befriend these people who may be annoyed by my glib attitude to this sort of thing.

I will also have to keep fighting back the image of the hare krishnas in Airplane! and Hair with their glazed over eyes and aggressive cheerfulness, praying that that won't be me in six months. Especially since I personally feel that I could join a kirtan that lasted for days and not care a bit that days had gone by.

Despite what complications my staunch squareness verses their infuriating dudeness may cause, when the "Om's" start, we are all one in music anyway. So, what the hey...I'm coming out of the closet.

And if you see me in an airport someday, please don't punch me in the face.

Je Ne Regret Rein!

2011-06-03T08:08:00.000-04:00

My pal G-Reg from work shared this neato blog with me. It contains "Inspiring Apologizes From Today's World Wide Web."

I thought you'd enjoy reading it...

F3 - Cycle 31 - The Lone School Marm and the Art of War

2011-05-19T13:02:00.004-04:00

Prompt: Write a story of a negotiation and have your characters use at least two tactics
I've used a Plant and an Expert in my story.Genre: Any
Word Count: 1000 words
Deadline: Thursday, May 19th, 2011, 4:30 pm EST

This is part 3 in a series. I think it stands on its own, but here are the first two parts, if you'd like to read them.
Part 1: The Lone School Marm
Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

"We meet again," George said.

"Indeed," Big Horse replied. "Come, join me in the home of my fathers."

Big Horse opened the flap of the tepee and stood aside so George could duck through the door. George paused before entering and looked at Big Horse for a moment. It was unlike him to be so formal. As he turned and entered the enclosed space, he expected to see the usual trappings of their annual negotiations: hot food, whiskey, tobacco, a warm fire and soft furs and skins to lounge on as they whiled away the hours discussing the fine points of boundaries and water rights.

Instead, his eyes found the steel blue eyes of a young woman, who returned his gaze with defiance and grief. He was stunned silent by her presence, his mouth agape. She held him in her power, which was amplified by the swirling smoke, sparks and an aroma of burnt sage and roasting meat.

Big Horse tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to George's usual spot. George moved slowly to his place at the fire and dropped into his seat. He continued to examine the strange woman.

"Big Horse..." George started to say.

"No," Big Horse replied. "No questions right now. No negotiations. The spirit world demands our attention."

"The spirit world?" George replied, stunned. "Since when do you care about the spirit world?!?"

"I've always cared," Big Horse said.

"Huh," George grunted, "Could'a fooled me."

"This is Susannah," Big Horse explained.

"Hello, Susannah," George replied, "I'm George Shaw."

"Mr. Shaw," she clipped and nodded her head slightly. "You're Doc Shaw's youngest brother, aren't you?"

"Dr. Charles Shaw?" George asked. "Yes, ma'am, he's my brother."

Susannah exhaled slowly. She looked at Big Horse and nodded slightly.

"George," Big Horse began, "The spirits have spoken to me in my dreams. It is time for war, as it was foretold to me during our negotiations last year."

"War!" George shouted, "Are you crazy, Big Horse? You can't go to war!"

"Yes, I can," Big Horse replied. "And I will, with your help or without. Preferably with it."

"Since when did you put any stock in spirits and dreams?" George pressed. "After all these years we've bickered back and forth over technicalities. You've always been the one to be reasonable. I've never heard you talk about the spirit world unless it was an Indian holiday."

"It's true, old friend," Big Horse sighed. "I haven't been impressed with what our shaman has been trying to drill into my head for thirty years. I prefer to put my faith in what I can see and touch and talk to. Contracts, boundaries, goods and services...these things will guarantee our success as a tribe and as part of a new nation."

"That's right," George said, "You and I have worked towards that for ten years now. And you're saying suddenly that the spirits have moved you to war? I don't understand..." George drifted and turned to look at Susannah again.

"Susannah is a harbinger," Big Horse explained.

"A what?" George replied.

"A harbinger...her arrival here confirms my vision is true. Her story completes our story."

George looked back to Susannah. "I'm waiting."

Big Horse began...

Last summer when we parted, I packed up a bedroll and some spiritual items to make remake my vision quest, as I have done every year since I was twelve. Every year, nothing happens. I camp, I enjoy the wilderness and the silence. My heart calms and I'm able to return to the business of our tribe's interests. But no vision. As you have pointed out, I am pragmatic and not bent by hokus pokus. I do not let intangibles govern my movements.

But this time was different. As I prepared the herbs and said the prayers. I inhaled, I exhaled. The great stillness returned to me and I began to relax after a wearing week with you. As I sat perched on my rock, I was visited by Mother Warrior. She stood before me and shook her spear and shield at me. She called out and the Thunderbird swooped down on me and struck my heart with lightning. I was being called to a quest, George. Mothers are angry as men stand by and talk. The blood of children spills on our territory and yours. Warrior Mother won't stand for it and will not leave me alone. She cursed me until I do something about it. Ever since then, I could not get the song "Oh, Susannah" out of my head...until, that is, Susannah showed up yesterday morning.

"Mr. Shaw," Susannah said. "We need your help.I have been tracking Dirty Dan's gang ever since they murdered most of my students at the old Prairie Schoolhouse. The closer I got to them, the more I began to understand that they aren't just a band of mavericks. They're one band of many bands of mavericks, loosely held together, but working together nonetheless. Working together to destroy our way of life...Big Horse's way of life. They want money, dominance, and flesh. It's time that men of consequence stand up and take action, lest all the women and children here are killed or enslaved and the men recruited forced into hard labor."

"Now, I remember you," George remarked. "My brother wrote to me about you, said you were on the run and dangerous."

"I am both of these things," Susannah admitted. "But I am also a warrior and spiritual mother to a graveyard full of innocent children. Which danger scares you more, George Shaw?"

"But war...we just got done with one!" George moaned, as he ran his hands through his hair. "It nearly broke us."

"It's not much, sir," Susannah said as she reached behind herself, "But it's enough to pull something together, don't you think?"

She opened a satchel George remembered. It was his brother's satchel that their father had given him when he started his practice. It was also stuffed to overflowing with paper money and gold. More than George had ever seen at one time.

He looked at her again and his vision shifted. She was glowing gold and red. Her eyes boiled and she seemed to be ten feet tall. Tears began to stream as he felt her pain pour out of her soul and into him. She was anointed by vengeance, it was undeniable. And what was another war, anyway. At least this time there was money and it was summer.

"War it is, Susannah." George replied.

Big Horse nodded and began to pray.

F3 - Cycle 27 - Goodbye

2011-04-27T14:23:00.003-04:00

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: RANDOM FIRST SENTENCE – Following the rules of the game listed above, find your first sentence.
Genre: Open, though Hardboiled, noir, crime action would be nice.
Word Count: Under 700 words
Deadline: Thursday, April 28, 2011 4:30 pm EST
First sentence lifted from Big Trouble by Dave Berry

"Bye," said Jenny to Matt.

"Bye, Jen," Matt said. He stood looking down at her, unable to move. In an instant, he saw their future and their past together, what could have been, what was.

The first day they met: She was standing in the light by a window. She glowed. Her skin was so creamy, like warm alabaster. The light blazed through the browns and reds in her short hair and pixie sparks of dust surrounded her in a dance of joy. His heart and lungs had contracted at the sight of her and threatened never to move again.

They met, they clicked. He marveled that she found him as magical as he found her. Both of them were awash in the grace of the other. Neither felt they deserved to be so happy and lucky. They walked through the gardens together and talked through nights. They laughed so hard their faces and guts cramped. Endless cups of coffee, endless bottles of wine. Sexual nirvana. His racing thoughts lingered there and wanted to stay. He needed to remember that.

But the future, unrelenting, swooped through his mind. They would wed on a beach. Honeymoon in the mountains. Christmas pictures yet-to-be stacked before him of them and their two dogs, then their dogs and their kids. Matching sweaters and well-wishes would festoon their images. He would bring her coffee as she wrote out the bills. She would meet him for lunch sometimes.They would golf...

And the recent yesterdays replayed. He saw the quick switches, the pulse flutters, the nervous glances, so subtle only a lover could detect them. She was hiding things. She was covering up. She was deleting the incoming call list on her phone. Her email trash bin was worn out from emptying. He wouldn't press her, but he did ask her what was going on. Why nothing, she had said, scratching the back of her neck (her only tell).

The photos from the private eye he hired to clear or condemn her cascaded on his dining room table. Flash after flash of naked elbow, hip, ankle, jaw...hers, her lover's...The sordidness of it all screwed his guts. He had vomited, chugged gulps from a fifth of Jack and vomited again. He wrote the check to the PI on checks she picked out for him, "Save the Rain Forest," they said. Save the rain forest! Why not? We are damned. He laughed and couldn't stop laughing.

Her betrayal un-wrote everything. It undid their fabric. It unraveled his soul.

He returned to the moment and saw her again. She knew now what she had done to him. He could see it in her eyes. Satisfied now that he knew she knew what she had wrought, he pulled the trigger and sent her to hell.

F3 - Cycle 26 - Tiger Balm

2011-04-12T12:52:00.001-04:00

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: THEMED WORDLIST – Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1500
Deadline: Thursday, April 14, 2011 about 4:30 pm.

"Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!" the crowd chants in rhythm, calling me to them.

I wait in the dark corridor for the official invitation into the ring, hopping in rhythm with the crowd. Nicky knuckles the muscles in my shoulders to keep them loose. I see flashbulbs exploding around the arena like so many June fireflies. My white-trimmed red satin robe swishes as I jab the air in front of me.

I've been training my whole life for this fight. Tonight I will win. I have the edge. My fists know what they have to do. I will win. I will out-think my adversary. I will win. I will dance just out of his reach. I will win. I will.

I breathe deep one more time. I smell tiger balm, fighters tape, blood. My warrior spirit centers. Nicky pushes me. It's time. We set out of the tunnel and prowl towards the ring. The crowd sees me and erupts its energy. I take it in and soak it up. Cameras watch me climb into the ring.

The upturned faces of the media surround the boundaries of my battlefield. I am lit from within, from without. Nicky pulls off my robe to reveal muscle and bone, skin and sinew, oil and sweat. I raise my fists and feel the wave of hunger that rolls across the arena and floods me.

I am ready and we start. I grapple with my nemesis. I introduce him to his new master. He fights me back. He tries to win. He is losing and I break the bad news to him. Hard. He will be better for the beating he is receiving. He will learn the locations of his weaknesses. I am giving him accurately detailed maps, a topography of pain. I find the treasure. X marks the spot and I dig in. He falls, then crawls, then falls for good.

We stare at each other while the countdown marches us towards our destiny. I see I have awoken in him the awareness of all that he doesn't yet know. He understands that I know all his secrets. His eyes close and he slumps on the mat. And I take my glory.

FFF - Cycle 24 - It's a Man's World

2011-03-31T12:14:00.000-04:00

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: PERIOD FICTION – A pulp styled story set between 1900 and 1950
Genre: Pulp Genres – See above.
Word Count: Under 1800 words

I climbed out of the taxi cab, one leg at a time and opened up my umbrella. It had been raining for six days straight and most people had just submitted to the damp and let the rain pour down their waterlogged stetsons or raincaps. Well, I was tired of it, tired of everything. I'd run out of options, which is why I found myself overtipping a cabbie in front of Number 7 Lucky Street and the door to the offices of Max Fletcher, Private Investigator.

I'd gathered a lot of information about P.I.'s in those lonesome evening hours after John went missing. None of them were interested in a case where a husband took off and left a Plain Jane like me. I finally figured out that it took a bombshell to get the kind of personal assistance I needed. So I'd given myself the full treatment: Shampoo, rinse, and style at Ros' Doll House and a new dress and undergirding undergarments from Macy's. My red hair was shaped into glowing waves that flooded my back and eddied around my face. My makeup was flawless and the red dress and spoke for herself.

John had left for a pack of cigarettes one night and had never came back. I always thought that was a euphemism for something else until it happened to me. Certainly someone would already have to have plenty of reasons to be suddenly moved to leave home forever. Going for smokes was just a way to get out of the door. But we were happy. He said he was happy. He didn't have a reason to leave. He smiled a lot, laughed, loved my cooking, bought me thoughtful gifts. Why, oh, why would he disappear?

The police did the minimum: Filed the report, posted signs, retraced his steps. Then a kindly old commissioner sat me down and filled me in on the facts of life.

"Men are animals," he said, "I know; I am one myself."

"But John was different," I pleaded.

"You may think so, honey, but in the end, a man's going to do what a man's going to do. It ain't fair, sweetheart, but there's nothing you can do to cage us."

"I never wanted to cage him..."

"Sure, sure," he said, lighting a stogie, "But what is marriage but a trap, really? And when you trap a wild one, he would sooner chew off his own foot off than stay penned down. It's not you, honey, it's his nature."

"It isn't," I said.

"Suit yourself, doll, but there's nothing else the police can do for you."

P.I. after P.I. guffed my chin and sent me on my way home with nothing more then trite sentimentalities. They wouldn't even take my money to do three day's work, just to see what they could find. They all came to the same conclusions: Ain't nothing to stick around for.

So, here I am with a new look and a new tactic. I will set my trap knowingly this time. I stepped off the curb and crossed the street in my five-inch heels and tiptoed my way through the puddles and pot holes to the brownstone office building across the street. I climbed the stairs and entered the foyer. I thought it best to shake the umbrella and leave it here. Umbrellas are about as sexy as a doily on a lawn chair. I opened my clutch and pulled out my compact mirror. I held it up and looked at myself critically. My mother always said I was beautiful, but it was only now that I could really see she was right.

I pursed my lips, shook my hair then bared my teeth to make sure none of the "Lover Red" lipstick had smudged my white teeth. Satisfied, I put my compact back in my purse and straightened the deep vee of my red dress so that there was just enough mountainside to give Mr. Fletcher a reason to cross the valley between us.

I breathed deep and considered for a moment what Lana Turner would do. Then I headed down the hallway to Mr. Fletcher's office and opened the door.

There was an empty waiting room. The walls were amber with age and nicotine. There was a brown plaid couch with a small, rough hewn coffee table. The air was filled with the scent of burnt coffee and dust. And the clock that had quit working at 11:20 some day long ago hung above the receptionist's empty desk. This told me the man was too busy to clean but not busy enough to turn me away.

I sashayed my way over to the office door and struck a pose with the dreary light behind me, casting a curvy shadow on the opaque window. Then I knocked on the door and called for him.

"Mr. Fletcher?" I called and opened the door, "I need your help."

I found myself facing a large desk with a man who was old enough to know what he was doing but young enough to appreciate what I had to offer. He was peering through a magnifying glass at black and white pictures strewn across the blotter.

"Whaddya want...can't you see I'm bu-" He started to say, but stopped when his eyes refocused on me.

"I can see that you're busy. Do you want me..." I let that float and then finished with "...to come back some other time?"

"Yes, I want you..." he stammered, "I mean I can see you now, just have a seat."

He pointed me to a chair and I took my time over there, hovering over the seat and then finally resting and crossing my legs. I noticed he enjoyed the show. I opened my clutch and found my silver cigarette case. I opened it, selected a long smoke and held it between two fingers.

I looked into his eyes and held his gaze for a moment. He had hazel eyes behind long thick eyelashes, the kind that are wasted on a boy. His face was rugged and dark, with thoughtful lines around his eyes and brows. His hair was longer than it should have been and fell in brown-gold locks on his forehead, despite his efforts to tame it with quick, smart fingers. His mouth opened slightly and we both sat there sizzling.

"Got anything to light me up?" I asked.

His pupils dilated as he considered the possibilities. I wiggled my cigarette to bring him back to earth. He recovered. He stood up and bent over the desk to give me a light.

"What can I do for you, Miss...?" he asked.

"Missus," I corrected and watched his face fall slightly.

"Missus...?" he prompted.

"Mrs. Smith, if you must know and, yes, that's my real name."

"How can I help you Mrs. Smith?" he asked, regaining a bit of his professional polish.

"I need to find my husband," I said and explained the story to him, but this time I added some embellishments. Not lies, just facts with some sparkle added to draw him into my trap.

"I really need to know where he is," I explained, "I know it's not a case of marital disharmony; he was completely satisfied."

"Who wouldn't be?" Mr. Fletcher muttered under his breath.

"At any rate," I replied, "I've never worked and I can't claim my sizable inheritance without some closure here, do you see what I mean, Mr. Fletcher?"

"I do see," he said.

"And while I do have some savings, enough to pay you for sure, I know it won't last forever. I want him to come home, but failing that, I at least need to be able to survive. You understand, right, Mr. Fletcher? Yes, you do. I can see it."

I watched him again and saw his eyes swim with lust. I knew he was dreaming of screwing me on my pile of money someday. He reached for a contract and started filling it in with the facts I had given him. I never had to repeat myself like I had in the past. Good doggie, I thought.

I sat and confirmed the facts as he wrote them down and considered how different this experience was from the twenty other people I consulted. How did I never realize this before? That a turn of the head, a direct gaze, some strategically placed red and holding myself in a state of neediness and not neediness would get me exactly what I wanted.

I want John back and I'm going to get him. And I'm never again going to stand by and accept only what I've been offered, be happy with what other people want me to have. If John is an animal, so be it. I will track him with my faithful doggie and trap him so good, he won't even know that he can never escape.

Aunt Frances Chimes In: Honey, You're Going to Need to Tone it Down a Little

2011-03-22T13:12:00.001-04:00

I know you're excited. But we don't need to let the neighbors down the street hear you. We all know what a bright little penny you are and that everyone thinks the sun rises and sets on your pretty little head. You don't have to broadcast it on the six o'clock news.

Frankly, though, I think you might be ready for a modesty check, myself. Back when I was a girl, we never tooted our own horn like girls these days do. It was good enough to know on the inside that we did a good job on our own. We didn't have to bask in other people's approval. What good is that, anyway? That and a quarter won't get you much anymore.

But you go ahead and throw your little celebration. I'll make the punch; I told you I would. Still, I think you might not want to hang your dreams on this, young lady. There will come a day when the weather changes and your friends will get distracted by some other new shiny object and drift away. Do you have the energy to continue to try to astonish everyone around you? You might think you do now, but wait 'til you have a husband and some younguns. Plus that high-powered job you're chasing. We'll see how much ta-dah you've got left in your girdle then.

Well, of course I love you, dear, I'm just tryin' to prepare you for captial-L Life. I want you to have your moment and you will. Just remember to bottle up the pride and joy you're feelin' and save it for the day when your dragging your tired self to work after a night of babies throwing up and husbands snoring, with the back of your skirt tucked into your panties and your slip hanging out. Just remember to carry the knowledge around that you are special and no amount of puke on your sleeve will change that.

Now come on and let's put the casserole on and let me brush out your hair 'til it shines.

Top 40 Countdown: Losin' It

2011-03-21T13:23:00.002-04:00

As of the counter at the right, I will be 40 in 7 weeks time. It's time to get serious. I've restarted my fitness regime again. I want to lose one to two pounds a week as a birthday present to myself. If I meet my goal, I will likely be one clothing size smaller.

So far, I've been working out by alternating fitness DVD's. At present, my favorite one is Bob Harper's Strength Training. It's 66 minutes long and there's a progress bar at the bottom so you know exactly how much longer you have to go until you're done. After having this, it's hard to tolerate the other work out DVD's and trust the trainer. I've mixed in a couple of Jillian Michaels DVD's too...the Six Week Six Pack is featuring heavily in the rotation. And there's a bonus: Neither one of these trainers feels the need to say "Don't forget to breath!" which is nice.

I've been working out daily for the past week and I'm just now starting to notice some changes. My biceps have definition, which is new. Now, if only the rest of my body would follow suit and fast. Maybe next week...

I need to do this for my health, but more importantly, I'd like to look good on TV when I get famous. So, wish me luck and let me know any secrets you have on sticking with it.

The Perfect Storm

2011-03-10T21:54:00.001-05:00

"You've got your social security card, right?" I asked Doc. It was around nine o'clock on Monday, the night before our Bankruptcy hearing. We were required to bring our drivers license, our social security cards, and to be on time. I was a bit worried about my social security card; it still lists my maiden name. But I wasn't worried about Doc's. He's the kind of guy who knows where his social security card is.

"It should be in my old wallet," he said.

His old wallet used to be on the shelves next to his side of the bed at our old house. We could have dashed in there and got it, no sweat, had we not changed sides of the bed (my side was closer to the bathroom and easier for him to get in and out of after he broke his femur), packed up those shelves and moved to a new house.

We spent the next couple of unhappy hours going through the remaining unpacked boxes, looking for that old wallet. What we found was all the other flotsam that surrounded his social security card in the past, like a miniature laminated copy of his high school diploma, a tattered list of old phone numbers, and some defunct credit cards, but no social security card. I did find his old wallet, but it was emptier than a banker's heart.

It was at this point that things might have gotten ugly. We've known for weeks that we've need our drivers licenses and social security cards for this hearing, that was scheduled back in January. I could have harrangued him about why he didn't start looking for this months ago. I was kicking myself for not bringing it up two weeks ago when it crossed my mind. He could have yelled at me for not being a careful packer or reacted to my harranguing by throwing some past misdeed in my face.

Resigned to the fact that we may have to forfeit our hearing and refile for bankruptcy, all for want of a tiny blue slip of paper, we made our way to the computer to find out what we might be able to do before 10:30 a.m. the next day. I found the toll free number for SSA and called it. Of course no one was there to monitor the phones at 12:00 a.m., but they promised to be there at 7 a.m. the next day.

We formed a plan. I'll call SSA and see what we can do. If we can work something out, fine. If we can't, I'd call the lawyer and see what our options were. We went to bed and spent our time tossing and turning in wave after wave of anxiety.

The next morning, the alarm went off at 7 a.m. I grabbed my phone and redialed the SSA. After dragging myself through a morass of phone tree options, I finally spoke to a person who told me that we could go to the SSA office and apply for a new card. Then they could give us a receipt that should do for the courts. I also discovered that the SSA office and the courthouse were in very close proximity. Things were looking up.

We got dressed in our finest clothes and dropped the kids off at school. We made our way downtown to find the SSA office and Courthouse, which proved to be tricky since they were located off on McKinley Avenue Southwest and not McKinley Avenue Northwest. But after a call to my Mom, we found our way there and were delighted to find the courhouse and the SSA office in the same building.

We parked the jeep and headed in. The snow was gone but the wind cut through us as we hiked to the new courthouse. We entered into a glassed in grayscale atrium. We had almost an hour until we had to meet the lawyer. Should be plenty of time, we thought. We entered the SSA office and found ourselves in a packed house. It was new and clean, but everything was gray.

We weren't sure what to do and looked around. I found a little touchscreen kiosk whose screen read: Touch here to sign in. So I did. It took a moment but I found the reason we were there and hit it. The little machine spit out a receipt with a number on it. Now this wasn't any ordinary number. It was in fact A116. At the front of the room there was a flat screen TV that was displaying the "Now Serving" numbers across the bottom. We saw such numbers as A113, H56, I23, K321 and L23. So, we could be three people away from Now Served or we could be 3.14 x 10 to the third power away from next served. Who knew.

Above the Now Serving display, they were playing endless ads for how easy SSA stuff is to do online. These ads featured an older Patty Duke portraying both Patty and Cathy from the Patty Duke show. Also, the guy who played Richard (her boyfriend) and her Dad showed up. The sound was turned down and the closed captioning was on. All we could hear was the space-age musak and read {Patty Duke Show Theme Song Plays} on the closed-captioning.

Doc and I took a seat in the front row and watched the Now Serving numbers not move. I sat and watched the digital clock readout on the flatscreen TV and willed it to slow down. Each time the next number was going to be called, the current number glowed red for a moment. We noticed the A113 glow and change...and then SKIP TO A117. It blew right past us. Horrified, we got up and approached the security guard.

"Yeah," he said sympathetically, "That happens sometimes. People get more than one number, then they get called up and the clerk has to clear out both numbers. It makes the numbers jump ahead."

We groaned.

"I really hate that board," he said, "It causes more problems..."

We sat back down, discouraged, but slightly comforted. And then the numbers righted themselves and we were set to staring down A113 again.

As it approached 10:10, I began to feel the crush of inevitibility. We had blown it. I just couldn't believe it. We had worked so hard and waited so long for this day, for this new door to a fresh start. And now we'd probably have to refile and pay the lawyer more money. I wanted to just weep. But I didn't.

I breathed in and went back to the numbers. I thought to myself, I'll have to leave in 10 minutes to meet the lawyer and face the music. But, God, if you're there, you've got me. I'm here on my knees, helpless. I need help and there is nothing I can do to save myself. It's in your hands.

I waited until 10:22 and left Doc in the office. He needed to stay there no matter what. I went back to the lobby and then through security to enter the courthouse. We were supposed to meet the lawyer in the meeting rooms, which were just inside the entrance. I went into a waiting area with chairs in rows and a desk to the side. There were two meeting rooms off of the waiting room, which were occupied. I sat down and fretted.

Five minutes later, I saw our lawyer approach. He made his way in and walked into one of the meeting rooms. He came out shortly thereafter and looked around, saying our names.

I stood up and he came over to me.

"Is he here?" he asked.

"He's in the SSA office," I started. Then told him the whole story in 25 words or less.

"Relax," he said, "All he needs is verification of his social security number; it takes 2 minutes, tops."

I did relax a bit. I asked him if I could go over and tell Doc what he needed and he said that was fine and he'd arrange things with our trustee.

I made the quick walk back to Doc, who was still waiting for A116, which was "next." I explained what we needed and headed back.

Our lawyer was sitting at the desk like he owned the place and was flipping through our files. He assured me that everything was fine and we'll get through this with no problem. A few minutes later, Doc strode in with a piece of paper in his hand, verifying that his social security number was indeed his.

We were then called into the trustee's meeting room and enjoyed some brief, joyless chit chat about how the people who come to the social security office have no idea that they should use the SSA parking only spots and there's never any place to park when you come to the courthouse. Our trustee lady said to hell with it, she just started parking in the SSA spots since they were all in hers.

Then she started the tape player up, swore us in, and ran us through 800 questions in seven minutes. And we were done. I was a bit wobbly but stood up and Doc and I left with our lawyer. We made our way out into the Atrium and he assured us everything was in order and that in four to six weeks we should be done.

Doc and I thanked him and shook his hand. We left the building, all buttoned up and walked back to the Jeep. We climbed in and I called my Mom, who fussed over us as we made plans to join her for lunch...after I let Doc drive me to Statcare. Oh, did I mention this? All of this happened while I was in the throws of a serious sore throat and swollen glands episode.

We spent a less painful two hours at Statcare, got my perscriptions and met up with Mom at Samantha's Sunny Corner for a little Fat Tuesday comfort food.

Later in the evening, Doc and I reflected over the events of the day. We vowed to make good use of the big teacher's desk we couldn't fit in our old house. We're going to get our papers in order and store them properly. We were grateful for the wiggle room, slight though it was, that we were granted so that our trip out of the whole wasn't lengthened by one tiny piece of paper.

We also took a moment to appreciate our ability to work together and not freak out. We would have come undone completely, had one or both of us succombed to blame or name-calling. We also were very grateful for such a smooth lawyer. Say what you want about them, but I felt like I had a big brother who was going to let me face the music, but was going to stand behind me and make sure it all went down fair and square.

As far as bankruptcy goes, it's not as bad as it's cracked up to be. But it's also not an easy process. I'm thankful that I was allowed to go through it, but I really don't care to repeat it again. Ever.

While Doc and I seem to have a good chance to successfully wind this up, we have to be very careful for the future. We both had to take a 2 hour course on budgeting and financing. I'm actually taking it now as I write this. Most of the pages only take 45 seconds to read, but you're required to sit and wait at least 120 seconds before you can move along, guaranteeing that you spend 2 hours of your life learning about money.

The course has given us some new ideas, but it's not easy. It's not fast. But I'll be damned if I ever lock myself up in a prison of debt ever again.

Lesson learned. The hard way...as usual.

FFF #20 - Mel Gibson Verses The Korean Bagel Lady

2011-02-28T17:12:00.000-05:00

Submitted for this week's Friday Flash Fiction:

Prompt: ANYTHING GOES – Battle Royale with your favorite villians, monsters and myths.

Genre: Open
Word Count: Under 1500 words

Dedicated to Dale, who fought the Korean Bagel Lady in the original series.

It was a hot day in Tijuana, but it was a good heat, in that it was dry and several degrees higher than the current temperature in Canada. And several is a lot when you're talking Celsius. I was in the middle of my vacation, knee-deep in margaritas, burritos, and lots of direct sunlight. But it was about the time in a vacation where I started to need a taste of home. Also, there was going to be a beheading downtown in the evening and I really wanted to change into something more appropriate first.

I started the long walk back from the beach to my hotel, but there was a prostitute jam, so I had to side step it into an alleyway. I thought that if I continued in this direction then I could eventually take a right and another right and I'd be back on track towards the Casa del Suave Rico in no time.

I soon found myself wandering around and ending up in the "Real Mexico." It was tough and gritty and I was conspicuously sunburned. I kept my pace and continued in what I thought was a westward direction, hoping to at least get back to the beach, where I could be a victim of tourist traps rather than an abduction or worse.

As the sun began to set behind the buildings, a sign caught the light in a specific way, such that I was temporarily blinded. I stopped and rubbed my eyes. When the psychedelic retinal burns subsided, I was able to read the sign: La Tienda del Panecillo. There was a picture of a bagel on it. I couldn't resist heading over there. I was intoxicated by the bready aromas and the promise of some food that wasn't tortilla-based.

The bell jingled as I entered the bagel shop. I was hoping to find that they offered a cheese bagel and cup of coffee, an old favorite of mine. I hadn't stepped foot in any bagel shop since The Korean Bagel Lady closed hers down for good three years ago. She said she was retiring, but I believe she may have actually killed someone by adding bleach to his coffee and was skipping the country to head to Panama with her husband and stay one step ahead of the Mounties.

There was a small crowd around the counter. These were North Americans, if all the L.L. Bean labels and the highlighted hairdos I saw indicated anything. A man was shouting. I edged my way forward to see what was going on.

"There is something wrong with this coffee," he yelled.

"No there isn't, dumbass," came the reply.

That was all I needed to hear. It was her all right; that was what she used to call me. I could also tell by the antidulcet tones and the smirk that went with it. I was sorry I didn't already have my coffee and bagel as I settled into a chair near the fracas to take it all in.

"Yes there is something wrong with this coffee!! My tongue is numb!!!" he repeated, an edge settled on the side of his voice that made me take a good look at his face. He sounded familiar and with one good look, I knew where I knew him from: The Lethal Weapon movies they played on channel six.

"You think you famous and that mean you can yell at me, blame me for your coked-out tongue, but you can't!"

"Listen, lady," he said, wiping his face with his bandana and trying to calm himself, "I am not on coke, ok?"

"If you say so...yeah...you right, you too fat to be on coke."

Ignoring this, he pressed on, "My company hired you to provide coffee and bagels to us while we worked on our film..."

"You mean you try hire my shop but pay Mexican prices," she corrected. "I not Mexican, I Kor-e-an, deserve better. Go get some huevos rancheros from Juan if you want Mexican prices."

"But we still paid you, lady," he said keeping his calm, but I could see his hands were starting to shake, "That means we bought this coffee from you. It is bad. You need to either give us our money back or give us some new coffee, that's how it works."

"Pfft," she splurted and yelled something incomprehensible to the back room. More shouts returned.

"You know what she say about you back there?" she asked him.

"No, I don't speak Korean," he replied wearily.

"That not Korean, dumbass, that Spanish," she grinned, mocking him. "I'm bilingual, not stupid and ignorant like you."

"Fine, what did she say?" he asked. He really should have kept his mouth shut, took the coffee and headed back to work at this point. He's asking for whatever he gets now.

"She say you crazy, don't deserve good coffee."

"I...don't...I'm crazy?!?"

"Yes, and I agree. Get lost, fatty," she said, waving the back of her hand at him.

"That's it," he said, his eyes bulging, "You cannot tell me that I don't deserve good coffee!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" he retorted. "I have Oscars! I have money! I am the most feared man in Hollywood! I am beholden to no studio and I don't have to kowtow to anyone. I produce my own work and I say what I want, I drink what I want and I interpret history how I want! How would you like it, lady, if my next movie was an expose on how shitty Korea is? Huh?!? How about I tell everyone what a jerk you people are?!?"

"You think you can tell the world how shitty Korea is? What, you think you surprise them? Why you think I not in Korea? I'm smart, that's why...unlike some other people in this room like you," she snotted and pointed into his face.

He jumped over the counter and grabbed her finger and twisted with all of his might. The Lady screamed and fell backwards toward the dual coffee machine. She reached for the decaf pot and pitched the contents into his face and then slammed the empty pot onto the edge of the countertop, shattering it.

"You want a piece of me?!?" she yelled, waving the shredded remains of the pot in his face.

"Aaargh!" he screamed as he toppled backwards, his face sizzling.

"Come on, fatty dumbass!" she taunted, "Show Lady Gin what you're made of!"

His assistant caught him and handed him a can of Red Bull. He hefted it in his hand and hurled it at her head with all of his strenghth. She ducked in plenty of time, then leapt onto the counter, weilding the jagged coffee pot.

"You leave now," she yelled.

"Not without my coffee!" he screamed and bounded toward her.

She shrieked and swung her leg around and nearly caught his jaw with her shin. He grabbed her by the ankle and gave her the crazy eyes and pushed her backwards.

She staggered and nearly dropped off the counter, but caught her balance. They locked eyes and began to circle one another. She dropped down from the counter and they squared off, grabbing each others shoulders and slamming each other into things.

My need for a bagel and a cup of coffee started to wear off. I thought I'd better leave before I was noticed and dragged into this affair. I got up from my seat and sidled over to one of the members of the production team.

"Psst," I hissed to one of the ladies. She appeared to be holding the movie star's keys.

"Huh?" She said, turning to me, slowly tearing her eyes from the dannybrook.

"Jessica?" I asked, recognizing my former co-worker.

"Dale?!?" She squealed.

"Shhh..." I hushed her and signled for her to join me outside this little Casa de Loco.

We slipped out of the front door as a table crashed through the front window.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you were working for the Ministry of Labour not Mel Gibson."

"I am working for the Ministry of Labour," she expained, "I'm just undercover right now. Come on, I'll take you back to your hotel and tell you all about it."

"Won't they miss you?"

"Nah," she waved her hand in dismissal, "That prick can find his own way home. Here, jump in the HumVee."

I hoisted myself in and plopped down on the luxurious leather front seat of the paramilitary monstrosity. She climbed in to the driver's seat and got situated. She turned the keys in the ignition. The engine roared in the way that only eighty thousand dollar engines can and I was immediately chilled to the bone by a fierce blast from the air conditioning and the Adam Lambert CD in the stereo. I hoped the windows were bullet-proof.

"Yeah, we almost had her in Toronto, but she figured out how to get to Panama on a loophole in the immigration policy. We had to let her go, but I followed her."

"Seriously?" I asked, "I mean, seriously? Why?"

"Violation of minimum wage laws. And attempted murder. I'm working with the Mounties on this one."

"How did you get in with Mel Gibson's crew?"

"Well, you'd never know it, but all of his productions are covers for covert investigations. It's a win-win. We clear the way for him to film his crack-pot histories and we slip in while the local government is temporarily blinded by Hollywood glamor."

"Wow," I said, stunned.

"Yeah," she replied, "But he might be at the end of his usefullness. I'm not sure he'll be able to take the Korean Bagel Lady down."

"Shouldn't you stick around and make sure?"

"Nah, policy says Canadians first and you are that, so I'm getting you out of this hellhole and taking you to the Mexican opera. We'll leave them to it and let the best asshole win."

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Execute!

2011-02-24T13:00:00.001-05:00

People waste a lot of goddamn time. They waste a lot of time dithering about this or that. I'm tired of all the indecision, chief, and I'm here to show you how cut out unneccessary mental processing so you stop wasting my time.

I always hear you talking about giving people "the benefit of the doubt." This means that you start every interaction trusting people. There's your first mistake, Johnny. You've got to let go of that instinct that everyone has some good in them. That kind of thinking may have worked for Anne Frank, but it won't work in this day and age. People need to earn their credibility.

If we all assume we are all untrustworthy from the get, there'd be a lot less heartache and drama, I guarantee it. And a lot less time wasted on waiting for these cheeseholes to follow through with what they promised to do. There's many a scoundral who count on your credulity, sport, and use it to their benefit and your expense.

Next step to saving time: never order Italian food in a restaurant in the Bible Belt. My neice dragged me to Nashville for her annual nerd migration. Jesus Christ, you'll never seen more buttheads in one room than you would at the Nashville Comic Con. But we were staying at a Hampton Inn and didn't have a car. So, we had to rely on the hotel bus to get around. My neice, being the kind of girl who tromps along where the wind blows her insisted that we get the driver's advice about where to eat. "He's a local," she said. Local, schmocal, says I. I mean, he was wearing diamond encrusted horseshoe ring, for Chrissake! What the hell does he know about a decent place to eat?

He asked us if we liked EYE-talian food; he had a favorite in mind for us. My neice of course said yes. She loves Italian food. We're from the northeast and we've got real Italians in our town who make real Italian food. What's not to love? I was skeptical. I didn't recall seeing any Italians wondering around the Nashville Music Center. I didn't see any Italian restaurants between the airport and the hotel, other than 'Sbarro, if you can count that, which I don't. I don't remember seeing any shows on the History Channel about any "Great Italian Migration" trapsing through the south, dropping pockets of immigrants who carried with them hundreds of years of traditional Italian cooking. There is no reason in the world that the meal we were about to eat would be memorable other than by the misery it would cause.

And I was right.

I might as well have ordered ramen noodles with ketchup on top. When I asked for crushed red peppers, our waitress looked at me like I'd asked for an Alpha Centauri Whoredog. But rather than admitting she didn't know what the hell I wanted, she suggested that she could come back with some fresh ground pepper, the old condiment standby. But I ate this abomination abondanza and thought of my possibilities in the afterlife as a distraction. It was gross, son.

I don't fault the driver; how the hell would he know good Eye-talian food from a kick in the nuts? But I say this: If you want a particular type of specialty food, don't get it in a place not known for that thing. You wouldn't order hush puppies in Milan...so don't order Italian food in the South. Trust me on this one; it'll save a lot of time. And you can trust me; I've pulled your dumb ass out of more tight spots than you've got holes in your head.

And don't give me that business about how I shouldn't judge the entire Bible Belt's Italian food offerings based on one experience in one city in one state. I'm sure some people there know Italian from Shinola. But I'm not going to waste my time looking for a noodle in a haystack, bub. And that's what I'm talking to you about right now: My time and not wasting it. And I'm sharing my wisdom with you, so don't you give me any lip.

FFF - Cycle 18 - Raw

2011-02-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

A poem submitted for Flash Fiction Friday.
Prompt: PHOTO (below)

Genre: Open

Word Count: Approximately 1,000 words

Deadline: Wednesday, February 16, 2011 4:30 pm EST

There's a worn patch

Where my elbow-through-denim

Bruised the body

As I strummed.

A tiny blood stain

Rests near the first fret

Left by my ring finger

When we played all night.

And I broke a tuning key

Trying to run for cover

When the rain startled us

That day in New York.

You remember how it felt

To strum, to sing, to unify?

We transformed ourselves

Into aether and atmosphere.

We were breathed in

By gods who breathed back;

Our muscles remembered,

Our minds unfettered.

I touch the neck and brush the strings

And memory echos back

Through the body in faint waves.

It's almost like you are here.

And I am grateful for

Whatever whiff breezes by

Carrying with it your scent,

As proof I haven't forgotten.

Your absence dims my senses.

I can't fly without you.

But I can be a person

Who knows what music feels like...or knew.

If you are gone, you're gone

But not without a trace

I present my soul

As evidence.

FFF - Cycle 17: An Alien Abduction in the Gay 90's

2011-02-09T17:03:00.001-05:00

Sumbitted for Friday Flash Fiction

Grab the book closest to you right now. Open to pg. 56. Choose the 5th sentence. Prompt: RANDOM FIRST SENTENCE – Following the rules of the game listed above, find your first sentence. I chose my sentence from A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson

This is dedicated to Randal Graves, whose style inspired this story.

One of the problems, ironically, was that there were too many observations, which when brought together often proved contradictory and impossible to resolve. We had spent a better part of the weekend trying to put two and two together and kept coming up with seven. We still do not understand what happened to John and Ludwig.

Mary had been in the garden sitting at the white wrought iron tables. She claims she was daydreaming or woolgathering; she couldn't settle on what. What is it called when you stare at the flowers and let your subconscious rumble around freely, rethinking past events and formulating alternative outcomes? Either way, she was seated and staring at flowers, wearing a floral dress and rosy cologne, immersed in gardenry, as it were. She said that her reverie, if that's what it was, was shattered by a loud zing. She said she blinked and looked out over the vast yard to see John and Ludwig disappear in a puff of smoke. She was sure some of the Independence Day fireworks had been set off accidentally or on purpose and blew them to smithereens.

Pierre was in the balcony above Mary, wooing Martha. Well, he didn't say he was wooing. Specifically, he was looking into her face and noticing the flecks of steel silver in her lovely blue eyes. He remembers telling her that her softness was betrayed by her inner strength and he had yet to see such a marvelous combination in any woman anywhere, even in Paris. She bent her neck and leaned toward him, finally crossing the bridge from skepticism to trust, recognizing the goodness and artistry housed in his soul, when the sky went dark. Startled, Pierre looked up to where the sun had once been, baffled by its absence. He was then blinded by a heavenly beam that shot from the darkness into the middle of the yard by the well where John said he was taking Ludwig to show him some arrowheads he had found. Pierre assumed it was heavenly intervention and felt blessed to be in the presence of an angel striking down sinners who lived in defiance of God's Law. Martha just marveled at the sound of Pierre's voice and the wisdom it communicated.

Old Man Jenkins was in the west garden closest to the well. He was on his hands and knees, clawing through the loose earth and sifting out the detritus. He was behind on his planting and was working tirelessly to catch up so that Mrs. Melody would have her impatiens in time for the flower show she put on for Founder's Day. As he readied the bed, he was planning the planting, working and reworking the layout over and over again. He was no fan of blueprints or graph paper. A garden must be organic, that is, it must be born from the heart of the gardener, he claimed. Otherwise, what was the point? How do you adjust for the unforeseen that Mother Nature inevitably puts in your path. No, he would not put anything on paper. It was a testament to his skill that Mrs. Melody didn't object to his methods.

He was rethinking the purple to pink ratio when he felt a breeze, which refreshed him at first. But then it became the absolutely frigid wind of February on the cliffs. His nose began to run and he stopped digging to reach for his handkerchief. He looked up to see John and Ludwig standing stock still, forty feet away from him. They glistened in a beam of light as Old Man Jenkins realized that the breeze was blowing down on him instead of across him, as it had for the prior seventy-some years he'd been noticing. When he looked up he was knocked down flat. When he came back to, Jack and Ludwig were nowhere to be seen and the field was burnt around where they were standing.

So there you have it. We are no farther along then when we started. Mary and Old Man Jenkins both saw smoke or something burnt but didn't notice the darkness. Pierre saw darkness and a beam of light, the Hand of God maybe; Mary heard a zing. And Martha was too besotted to notice anything other than the fireworks going off in her head, lit by Pierre. When you put everything together, we know less than we did when we start with the idea that John and Ludwig are missing.

The rest of us saw nothing, as we were embroiled in a debate about and whether women should vote or not. They shouldn't, we determined and the women stormed out in a huff.

For the moment, this case remains unsolved. We shall carry on with our leisurely summer and loll in the heat of August. Perhaps then, in the high heat of summer, we will be off on a stroll or having a picnic and some fact or other may drift through our minds and give us a thread that leads us to the truth or something like it. Until then we can only list what we know and astound ourselves by the multitude of things that we do not know.

F3 - Cycle 16: Possessions

2011-01-31T17:15:00.001-05:00

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 16

I stepped out into the frigid cold, instinctively I cowered into the depth of my heavy coat, shoving bare hands deep into its pockets. My fingers found the seams as I clasped the fabric and pulled it taught across my dry, cracked knuckles. I turned away from the courthouse and started walking toward the parking garage.

It's gone. I'm done. I've given the house back to the bank and now I'm free. Free of the collection agencies and the stacks of bills piling up like murder victims on my mantle piece. I felt so bad for so long. I couldn't catch up and I couldn't stop paying my bills. I also had to use credit to sustain myself, paying for groceries and gas at +20%, compounding the problem.

I kept thinking I'd turn it around with my ambition and grit. There was no reason I wouldn't eventually have enough money to pay my bills and have some left over. I kept saying why not when banks were standing in line to hand out money. There was a certain point when I got credit when I wouldn't have given it to me if I were them. And now I am left with this stack of things, these slightly dented mementos that they let me keep.

I tried to work with my creditors, but they wouldn't wiggle until I missed a payment. And I'll tell you this much: I didn't really miss paying my bills. But even when I stopped paying, they didn't really want to lift a finger to work it out with me. I even tried to get help from a credit agency, but they just kept jacking up my monthly payment. I was screwed.
But bankruptcy isn't so bad. It isn't like the cold bite of this wintry mix I found myself in. There is a relief and I can smell it like coffee around the corner. I've still got my car; no one would want it and it's not worth the trouble to repossess. I've also still got a job, which is what gives me hope that I won't slip on this sidewalk and end up in the middle of skid row. For now.

But it feels like divorce. It's nasty and divisive. The creditors and me, we fight over what's their's, what's mine. In the end, it's the one who fucked up the worst that ends up with the least. We both got roughed over in the process and neither of us were left with much to be proud of. And the lawyers laughed all the way to the bank.

And now, it's me and all this stuff. We're jammed into a studio apartment that smells like ramen noodles and mildew. But the nagging is over. And I am setting my jaw out into the biting wind. I've still got my grit, after all. That could be me, though, that guy asleep in the stairwell of a downtown parking garage. I could be holed up for shelter any old where. I could have nothing.

I have known temptation and I have seized it's promise like a rube in a casino. I couldn't help myself. I fell for every line, bought every story and the item to go with it. I was confident that I'd come out ahead. The things I bought were supposed to help me get organized, make my environment better, help me lose weight, share profits with the poor, make people happy, and save the world. Obtaining these posessions gave my life meaning. But when I opened the bill my heart stopped and I saw the wolf for what he was: Hungry.

Left with my bones and my coat I'm on my way home, such as it is, with no one dogging my steps anymore. I've got my scars and they'll be there forever. They will hopefully serve as a reminder of my folly and a warning to my future self. They certainly haven't had any effect on lenders. Everyday since I filed my case, I have received sympathetic letters about my situation from the same fuckers who got me here in the first place. So far, I've torn the offers up, every one of them.

In the meantime, I'll look for my car in the parking deck. And when I find it, I'll drive home. I'll park it in my allotted space in the parking lot and trudge into my cinder block home sweet home. I will sit on my threadbare couch and have a can of soup. And I'll wonder what the hell I'm going to do now.

How It's Made

2011-01-30T00:43:00.000-05:00

I could watch TV shows about manufacturing all night long, especially "How It's Made." Lucky for me there's a marathon on this weekend. I love this show. It's so random in it's choice of subjects. There's no theme or anything. Just items pulled out of a hat. The current episode I'm watching will show us how the following items are made:

Suits of Armor
Street Light Bulbs
Bent Hard Wood
Membrane Switches

And this will be done in less than 30 minutes. It's fast, folks. Also, you don't get to hear the manufacturing. They have a soundtrack that is generic rock or light rock. Some white guy tells you all about what's going on. And he really zips you through it.

Still...

You can't beat it. You learn something new and the kids pass out from shear boredom. Also, there's a lot of clunky puns.

What's not to love?

Also...How Bacon Is Made

Lucy the Mini Theologian

2011-01-12T14:37:00.000-05:00

Doc usually says grace before meals. He's got a nice little prayer he says. We hold hands and close our eyes. Well...I usually keep one eye open and on the girls and give them the hairy eyeball if they're not behaving as they should.

Sometimes I'll tag something on to the end of a prayer. I think at one time I was particularly grateful for having clean underwear in my drawer and said as much. Ever since then, Lucy has tagged this on to Doc's prayer: "Thank God for Mommy's underwear!"

Last night at dinner time, Doc went through his short but thorough prayer and when we went to let go of each other's hands, Lucy held fast and said she'd like to add something. We all thought it was going to be about my underwear, but she said no and proceeded with this little number:

Take my advice

We think you're nice

We love your Jesus

We love your Christ

Amen

I asked her where she'd heard this and she said she just thought of it herself. And I said, "Good job," and planned to remember this prayer forever. I like that she started it off with "Take my advice." It has a little chutzpah. Plus the "We love your..." stuff is wonderfully distant and stand-offish. I think this little prayer is just right for me.

Lucky me that I have such a Lucy in my life.

Disney

2011-01-11T11:55:00.001-05:00

Click here to view these pictures larger

Let's Meme Again, Like We Did Last Summer

2010-12-24T12:06:00.000-05:00

1. When do you usually know it's the holidays?

As soon as Thanksgiving rolls around and we have to figure out what we're going to do for the Miller Family Christmas party gift exchange.

2. What do you want for Christmas this year?

I want this bankruptcy stuff to finish up so I can relax. Also...Rock Band.
3. Do you go all out with decorations?

Nope. I have two boxes of decorations and the tree. I have this fear that the decorations will multiply and spiral out of control. Then I will have no choice but to leave them up all year around.

4. What are you doing Christmas Eve?

Watching Fred Claus, getting together with the Cap'n and Spooky, going to church for a Christmas pagent, having Chinese buffet and then to my parents so that they can give the girls their gifts.

5. What are you doing Christmas Day?

Opening the presents Santa brought and staying in our PJ's all day long. There will be no meals, only grazing.

6. It's Christmas time. What are you reading?

I'm finishing up An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison. It's a very compelling memoir of her experience as a psychologist suffering with bipolar disorder.

7. Favorite movie to watch during the holidays?

I can't find my copy of it but, I love to watch Love Actually while wrapping presents.

8. Favorite Christmas song?

This one (and don't give me any crap about it):

9. Favorite holiday drink?

Mead

10. How is your Christmas shopping going?

I'm done...I hope.

11. If you could spend Christmas Day anywhere else, where would you spend it?

I'd like to take my kids back in time to 1995 and spend time with Doc's parents, who we lost well before the girls could know them.

12. Any holiday traditions?

Our traditions have been a bit rocked since our matriarch passed this year. So we're hoping to start some new ones. Like a white elephant gift exchange and a Christmas poker tournament.

13. Favorite thing about the holidays?

Sitting around the Christmas tree with family. Also, bursting out into spontaneous caroling. My Work Wendy and I were singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" in the work kitchen while filling the dishwasher when Jeanne joined in with the alto part. We sounded awesome!

Thanks for the tag Dr. Monkey!

I tag the following folks:

Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks
Skyler's Dad
Some Guy
Genn6

Merry Christmas everyone!

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Merry Christmas, Goddammit!

2010-12-23T14:27:00.000-05:00

As you know, I'm an old softie. I appreciate the little things in life and for me, Christmas is all about the little things. It's all about babies and children and cookies. It's about saying please and thank you and Merry Christmas. It's about cherishing.

So let's stop for a second and think: How can we cherish? You probably don't know the answer for this, do you. Do you even know what "cherish" means, Johnny? It means to hold someone dear and to keep them fondly in your mind. It means take your eyes off your goddamned phone when I'm talking to you. It means look around and behold.

We're not all a bunch of slicked down avatars wandering around a virtual world to serve your adventure. We are not stage dressing for your biopic. We are people with minds and hearts. We are all cut from the same cloth, regardless of our age, our color or whether or not we can stand to listen to Nickelplay or Coldback. We are all part of the human family. And for God's sake, we have to look out for each other. Because if we don't, the government will. I've lived long enough to promise you this: They'll fuck it up and you can take that to the Federal Reserve, sport.

You may think I'm a mean old coot and you'd be right. I don't suffer asshats. That is because I cherish. I am here to be a voice for life and courtesy. And I am cranky because you never listen. So do me a favor, chief. Stop virtually caring. Don't send me e-cards for my birthday. Don't invite me to be your "friend." I am already that.

So, sit down with me. Listen to my stories because I've lived a lot and learned the hard way. I can help you skip some major pitfalls. And, in return, I'll listen to you, if you could find it in your heart to stop ending your sentences with "yo." And you can remind me what it's like to be a kid. Because pretty soon, I won't be around anymore. And pretty soon, neither will you be. So why don't we call a truce and make this bus ride a bit less miserable.

Come on. I'll buy you a cookie.

What A Relief!

2010-12-06T11:51:00.000-05:00

I was very pleased to hear that Tijuana was starting to gear up their tourism industry since there are "Far fewer beheadings and public shoot-outs" these days.

I mean, I guess a few beheadings and shoot-outs can add a little spice to a Mexican vacation. But you don't want too many.

That's a Tune of a Different Color

2010-11-22T14:47:00.000-05:00

I'll need to wear my boots to get through the molassis my Mom had delivered. She said it was good for the lawn. I have my doubts.

But we rarely argue except when we do. And then look out!

But I hear what you're saying and if I understand your point of view you are saying this thing, but I don't agree with it. I'm just blowing hot air by parroting you and saying I understand so I don't sound like such an asshole when I present my idea as the better one. It's not that I don't disagree with you.

So, with that in mind, I'm going to get a rake and a raft so that I can find the hose and get rid of all this sticky shit. You can sit there on your papasan chair and complain about stomach cramps all day long, if that's what you plan to do with your life. I can't be bothered by your gaseous anomolies. If a body can't be driven to take a tums every now in then, there's nothing I can do about it.

So cherrio and all that rot. I'm off to save the world.

The Lone School Marm Speaks

2010-11-19T09:59:00.001-05:00

A continuation of The Lone School Marm submitted for Icaras' Flight To Perfection

Of all nights that I had to trespass into the world of darkness it was this night. I had grown up in this frontier where the law was iffy at best. But Pa raised me to know right from wrong and we’d been able to hold our own against the various bands of criminals that passed through, sometimes enforcing the law ourselves.

But it had never been this serious, this personal. I returned to the school house to free my hostage students. I had the government money I had worked so hard to obtain and I was about to hand it over to a bunch of thugs to free them. I was prepared for a fight. I was prepared to kill. I was ready to die to save my kids, if I had to. I had also hedged my bets by asking Doc Shaw to form a posse to hang back in the woods to capture Dirty Dan and his gang of idiots as they made their escape. We had to protect the kids, especially the Hailey girls. Dirty Dan was very clear about his perverted plans for them.

When I opened the door to the school house, I was overwhelmed by the carnage I saw. Most of the children were left for dead and there was no sign of the Dirty Boys gang or the Hailey twins. I dropped the satchel and my gun and screamed for Doc Shaw. When I saw him and the rest of the posse tear out of the woods, I turned and ran into the school house to see if anyone was still alive.

Part of the posse went in pursuit of Dirty Dan and the Hailey Twins while the rest of us worked for hours tending the wounds of the injured and preparing the bodies for burial. The Preacher was among the posse, thank God, and was able to comfort the mothers who came for their children. It was well past suppertime by the time we had buried the dead and made sure the wounded got home.

I stood in the twilight and listened to the stillness. It was strange to stand in the empty school yard in this weird light. I felt tired, bereft, yet powerful. I knew that what had happened here made this school ground sacred and holy, the blood of children having been spilled here. I felt the cries of my students; the survivors and the perished propel me to act.

But, Doc’s parting words hung in my ears.

“Now, Suzanna,” he fathered, “Don’t you go gettin’ any crazy ideas about revenge. Your Pa didn’t raise you that way and we need you here.”

I remember nodding at him and seeing relief and a flash of skepticism cross his gray brows. I meant to follow his advice. I really did.

But once I was alone in between night and day, I knew what I had to do. It was written in blood on my apron, on my heart. I would find them with their guard down and kill them one by one. With the matter settled once and for all, I picked up my bag of cash, turned on my heel and headed home to prepare for war.

Why I'm Uniquely Suited To A "Bipolar Marriage"

2010-11-18T13:06:00.000-05:00

I am beginning to learn what Doc and I are facing. And it's been revealed a little bit at a time, lest it totally overwhelm us. Either that or we can only see a little bit at a time because it is HUGE.

Irregardless...

My earliest thoughts were rueful but truthful: God only gives us what we can handle. And I was like, "Gee, thanks, God!" And sent Him out the door with a here's Your hat, what's Your hurry."

I'm still not ready to invite Him over for Thanksgiving or anything. But there have been several moments where I'm getting VERY CLEAR messages from the universe from a diverse group of sources, like:

Samantha the Witch and My Therapist: the former knowing nothing about me and the latter knowing a great deal about me, who have both said: You've got to stop carrying the world around on your shoulders/You're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders
Pandora: It seems I'm hearing the right music at the right time, including the video above, which caused me a bit of a breakthrough this morning

I'm also taking this time as Doc recovers and we move to a new house to re-evaluate myself and who I think I am. I've realized that over the years, I've let go of things I thought were essential to who I was...the very top item on this list is music and being a musician. I can recall recently walking up the stairs of the new house and saying to myself, "I am a musician," and how wonderful and right that felt to say. I plan on doing more of this...figuring out who I am, what I value and sticking to it. This will be a source of strength.

Another thing about me: It is impossible for me to hold a grudge or be very mad for very long. I can store up hurts and slights, but eventually, if given opportunity to let them flood out of me onto a caring person's shoulder, I'm over it.

And how do I set the world down and stop dragging it around? I ask for help, that's how. And I've done that. My parents have been great, and I have now asked the kids for help. Recently, we've had trouble with bed time. And I happened upon an article about why it's hard for grade schoolers to settle down for bed. The article suggested coming up with a bedtime contract together with the kids, which we did and they took to like ducks to water. And would you believe it? They love it and want to stick to it religiously! And I told you this story to tell you another...

One of the things in our routine is to spend some time talking about our day. This was suggested in the article because grade schoolers have a lot going on in their days and talking about it could relieve some stress, allowing them to quit worrying and settle down for a good night's sleep. Night #1: Riley finally opened up to me and told me everything that was worrying her. She said she felt so much better afterwards and we didn't get a fight at bed time. Night #2: I asked for their help keeping the house clean. And I felt much better. So two big items (Riley's anxiety and my feeling of overwhelming responsibility) were lightened.

Keeping an open heart and mind (which I have vowed to do and am doing) + Listening to the Universe and letting in the messages through music + a deft ability to build a bridge and get over it = A person who can handle rough patches that crop up suddenly and without reason.

Maybe I'm naive, but if so, that's a good thing. I'd rather not be jaded right now. And my unfailing optimism and our strong family bonds and friendships will pull us through. Not to mention all the hard work that Doc is doing, dispite his grave injury. He's practically single-handedly moved us into the new place.

I don't know if this makes sense...I feel like I'm rambling. But something is brewing in my head and heart and it's a good thing.

My Phone Is Broke

2010-11-16T15:28:00.000-05:00

It may be time to switch providers. I'm currently with AT&T...it's the most expensive provider out there from what I could tell from the 10 minutes of research I did.

I'll probably go to Revol.

I just thought you ought to know.

They seem to have the coolest new phones with the latest technology, like touch tone dialing. And great weight.

What Do You Mean I Went 2 Days Without Posting?

2010-11-15T11:28:00.001-05:00

I simply don't remember not posting to my blog. I'm sure I did it on Friday and now it's Monday. And I challenge you to prove to me the alleged "weekend" was an actual two solid days.

It wasn't.

First of all, I was in motion all weekend. So, it may have looked like two days worth of activity from where you were sitting. But for me, time bended in such a way that my perception of it was that it was not two days, but rather about four hours.

And Since perception is nine tenths of the law, I am of course correct.

The weekend was only four hours, which does not equal a whole day. It's only a sixth of a day. And you got a sixth of a day's worth of posting from me on Facebook, plus some Disco Empire updates and some "Which Harry Potter Character Are You" results from my children.

As far as I'm concerned, I haven't missed any days and am in compliance with NaBloPoMo.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Piano Jams

2010-11-12T16:31:00.000-05:00

Last night I started teaching Riley how to play the piano. Let's just say, I got off on totally the wrong foot. I forgot lesson number one for training:

If you're going to teach locksmithing, don't start out by teaching people the history of locks; show 'em how to pick a lock.

I started out trying to show Riley how to read music. And that's about as interesting as the history of locks. Plus, she wasn't getting it. And she's a bright kid. She got instantly frustrated and buried herself in the sofa after about 5 minutes into it.

"I never accomplish anything like this!!!" she wailed.

I realized I had failed. Granted, Riley has a very short stack of patience when it comes to learning something new and often gives up quickly if she's not a natural at it. But I was very concerned that I was turning her off to making music for life (like I have turned her off to riding bikes forever and ever amen).

"Listen," I reasoned. "This is not about your inability to accomplish something; it's my fault. I should have started with something fun."

Eventually, I struck on a good reason for her to try again and we sat together at the piano. I put the piano primer aside and we played a good round of Chop Sticks. Then, I showed her the song you can play using a fist and the black keys. Then, I played the rhythm for Heart and Soul and I had her improvise a melody.

It was much better. And we even sounded good. I'd change up the tempo or synchopate it and she'd adjust to the mood. We had a blast. And I was able to work in some nuts and bolts: She can identify "C" on the piano and she knows that the musical alphabet goes from a to g and then starts over again.

I think that's a good start. She can be creative and hands on and I'll sneak in some technique as we go along.

Pictures My Kids Drew

2010-11-11T11:21:00.002-05:00

My kids have been having a good time with Paint lately. Enjoy!

"How Beautiful! How Wonderful!"

I do not get the joke

Ding Dong the witch is--Oh sorry!

Celebrities Who Have Appeared In My Dreams: Genn6

2010-11-10T16:13:00.001-05:00

I'm in New York City for work. I'm wandering around in the pre-dawn hours with my co-workers trying to find a prostitute...we needed to ask her some questions. We went into a bar, but it was fairly empty. We stepped outside and I realized I was close to Genn6's apartment. So, I told my co-worker that we should stop by and see if Genn6 wanted to get something to eat with us.

We walked up a couple of floors and entered her apartment. It was three dark gray rooms and the main room had a black futon. My co-workers gathered around and decided to play Sorry! with Doc and Lucy. Genn6 and I agreed to go out and get food to bring back to the apartment. One co-worker was delighted to see the board and that it was the abbreviated version of Sorry!. He said, "There are a ton of different ways to play this game!"

We left them to it and hit the road. When we got to the street, it was gray but starting to lighten up. Then it started to rain. It was glorious and refreshing. We both looked up, raised our hands and started to dance. We eventually sought cover in a store that sold candles. They had a large collection of Beatrix Potter stuff, but none of the candles smelled like anything but candles.

They had a vintage clothing section in the store and Genn6 found a retro teal and gold tweed suit. It had a long jacket and a skirt. The shop ladies kept saying, "It'll never fit you..." But when she tried the jacket on it fit perfectly. The skirt had some problems; someone had tried to turn it into shorts. I thought I could probably fix the skirt for her and recommended that she buy it.

And then I woke up.

Adventure Set List

2010-11-09T09:28:00.000-05:00

So here's a list of the good stuff that's coming around the corner for us:

November 25th: I'll be hosting Thanksgiving for my side of the family, something I haven't been able to do because my last house did not have a dining room or really enough room to have more than a couple of people over.
November 27th: It's off to my sister-in-law's place for Thanksgiving, Part 2
December 30th: We're off to Miami by way of Savanna, GA. Once in Miami on the 31st, we'll be waiting for my cousin Wendi and our dear friend Carol to finish their 10,000 plus mile walk around the perimiter of the US.
January 1st - 3rd: Disney World!
January 5th: Pal around with Dr. Monkey and Sparky in their neck of the woods
February 2011: Carol will be staying with us 2-3 days a week so that she can write her book and I can help her. Actually, I'll be helping her and so will Riley. I'll be editing and Riley will be proofing.
April: The girls' birthday parties (JoAnn Fabrics party for Riley, Chuck E. Cheese for Lucy...oy).
May: My birthday
And summer returns...

Not a bad agenda, if I do say so myself. Plus I'll be starting my official mental health regimen tomorrow with good old Dr. P.

We've got a lot of demons to fight off. And I was telling Doc last night, there is so much against us right now and probalby for the duration, so we need to be vigilant and optimistic.

Also, I've learned that that 90% divorce rate applies to those bipolar marriages where no treatment is happening. When treatment is in place, the divorce rate is the same as it for couples who do not have a bi-polar marriage.

So, we've got a 50/50 chance just like you do. I'll take those odds.

My Poem From the Other Day

2010-11-08T14:59:00.000-05:00

I'm having a really hard time. It's been very busy at work...busier than I've ever been at work. In fact, I did not have a day off in October. Also: We moved. This leaves me with very little time for reflection or thought. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara in that I find myself saying, "I'll think about that another day." And the "that" in that sentence covers a host of items.

Now that things have slowed down a bit, those big items I've postponed thinking about have swum back up to the surface and want my attention. One of these things manifested itself in the form of the poem I wrote the other day that ended with:

On rainy days, when things get tough
When you forget the milk or
I offend your mother
We'll think of this trip
And recall how beautiful we looked with
Moondust in our hair.

This idea of making memories for the purpose of protecting yourself in the future is new to me. I've never been one for the past and I never saw the need for memory. This has changed a bit since Doc and I are trying to adjust to this new thing called bi-polar disorder that has entered our lives. Listen, yo, the statistics are against us. Ninety percent...that's NINE ZERO percent of marriages where one person is diagnosed with bi-polar disorder end in divorce. And that doesn't count the marriages that end when the spouse with bi-polar disorder commits suicide.

Sobering, isn't it? And the stakes are high. Especially when you consider that married people tend to have a lower risk for suicide. When I put two and two together, I get this: People with bi-polar disorder have a better chance of surviving when they are married. And bi-polar marriages have a 10% success rate. So it seems that our work is cut out for us and it is a matter of life or death.

But among those kinds of statistics, I stumbled upon this piece of advice:
Take vacations to help your bipolar marriage survive. One way to help save a bipolar marriage is to take time away from the day to day tasks of everyday life, including the stress of a bipolar marriage. Take trips away together and also mini trips away from each other.

This seems sound and it feels right because it was also an idea that came to me organically when it appeared in that poem. My instincts are: We need to be making some good memories together. We need to be apart to miss each other. So that we're not all, "You don't get me!" and "You never listen!" when things go wrong. We need to put some mutual good will in the bank and maintain our fondness for each other so that we can proceed with a minimum of pain and heartbreak.

I know this isn't a cure-all. But it is one prescription I can get behind. Afterall, we're only here for a short time, why not adventure? And it doesn't have to be as grand as a trip to the moon. But it does need to leave a sparkle behind.

The Kids

2010-11-07T17:17:00.000-05:00

The girls are loving our new place. They just met some nice kids from the neighborhood today and got to play with them or a couple of hours.

As you know, my kids have their own unique sense of humor. For example, yesterday, they found gummi worms and spent a goodly amount of time ripping them in half, licking the ends and sticking them to their hands and arms. Then they ran up to us and yelled, "OH MY GOD I'VE GOT LEECHES!!!"

I pulled them off and gave them back and my stomach turned as they popped the "leeches" into their mouths.

And for some reason, Lucy has decided to start layering: First a pair of underwear, then some jammie bottoms, then another pair of underwear. It's quite a look. I think she's doing this because her newest pair of fleece pants are a little big for her and the second pair of underware helps to hold them up. She's a belt-and-suspenders type of girl.

Anyway, they are the best and I look forward to their wackiness everyday.

Movin' In

2010-11-06T19:21:00.000-04:00

I spent most of today making the new place look like we've always lived here. Plus I cleaned my fingers to the bones. It reminds me of a little poem my Mom used to say when she ironed:

I'm Girty Schmertz
I iron shirts
I iron shirts
'Til my fingers hurts

I'm not sure where she picked that little ditty up, maybe from my Grandma. Today is Grandma's birthday and i thought about her on and off all day. She was a cleaner and she loved to help people clean. I dusted, did the windows, scrubbed the floors and vacuumed. I cleaned the bathroom and got stuff put away. I did leave to go to the store and when I came back in the house, it smelled like Grandma had been here. And she was, kind of.

So, the house looks beautiful and I feel like I don't miss her so much. And now that the Cap'n and Spooky are here, I'm going to have a nice evening of snacks, puzzles and movies. And maybe some Yatzee.

Fly Me To The Moon

2010-11-05T11:57:00.001-04:00

This poem is inspired by the song of the same name and by Wallace and Grommit's "A Grand Day Out"

Let us gather our gear and build a rocket
So that we can take a trip
Through the atmosphere
Stratosphere and blogosphere

We'll make sure we bring
Important things
Like our camera and some drinks
Magazines and a deck of cards

You take the wheel and fly
While I backseat drive
And read you the billboards

When that gets old we'll pop in
Audio books like Dune or Huckelberry Finn
At some point, I'll need to use the john and
You'll be annoyed

We'll land and disembark
To a lonely lunar park
Where Moon Men will find us and start a conversation
About the how much they are misunderstood.

Eventually we'll tire of their hospitality
And say our goodbyes after the requisite formalities
On our moonwalk back to the rocket
We'll put our hands in our pockets

We'll look up and our breath will be stolen
By the earth up in heaven
And the stars around us
And the glitter below us
We'll see each other again in a new light
Reflected from the ground
Upside down

Let's go, we'll say
And turn into the windless night
Back to the rocket and home again

On rainy days, when things get tough
When you forget the milk or
I offend your mother
We'll think of this trip
And recall how beautiful we looked with
Moondust in our hair.

Fortune Cookie Fail

2010-11-04T10:33:00.001-04:00

So yesterday, I had a fortune cookie with this message: "You will move to a wonderful new home by the end of the year." Which is either really old news at this point or the universe has a strange sense of humor.

As you may or may not know, we hired a lawyer to start the bankruptcy process in August. This was after many angst-ridden discussions between me and Doc and my parents. The clincher was when my Dad said to me: If you want to stay in the house, we'll figure out how to do that. If you don't give a shit about the house, then we'll give it back to the bank and find something else.

It was at that point that I realized, hey...I don't give a shit about this house. It was liberating really. It allowed me to move forward and start to get us out of our financial prison.

What ended up happening is this: My parents wanted to invest in real estate while it's still cheap. We needed a place to rent. So they bought a house not far from ours that we all worked together to fix up and now Doc, the girls, the cat and I rent it and live there. You can see a picture of our fireplace in the banner for this blog. It turned out to be a good deal for all involved.

So we've spent the last couple of months moving and Tuesday, I had to move my desk at work. So you can imagine the chagrin with which I received the above fortune on Wednesday. I hope to God I don't have to move again this year.

I know fortune cookies do not have the insight of, say, a Mama Witch. But still...wouldn't that just be a kick in the teeth if I had to move again in 2010? And that would be the sort of irony and bad luck I've experienced this whole year. So many mistakes, miscommunications, and missteps. I'd just have to sit back and laugh. Then I'd put on my tin foil hat and find a nice warm bridge to live under.

Yeah, that'd teach the universe something.

Remember Screen Beans?

2010-11-03T12:48:00.001-04:00

They were really cool, weren't they? Of course, now, if you try to use them in a PowerPoint, you'll be mocked, perhaps openly. I'd prefer to be mocked behind my back, so I don't use them.

Why I Fell In Love With Glee

2010-11-02T13:21:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid, I needed music. I wanted to play music. I would listen to certain songs over and over again just to absorb the sounds. When I moved into adolescence, it was more about the lyrics. I defined myself with music, what I played, what I listened to spoke to who I was.

In high school, I was in the jazz band, the concert band, marching band, and small ensembles. Lyrics faded to the back and the vocals represented another instrument. I wasn't so much interested in what people were singing about, but rather the landscapes they painted with sound.

In college, I started out as a music major and quickly learned that I didn't want to study music. There wasn't any joy in the music department. It seemed like all the wacky and fun people I went through band with in high school went somewhere else and I was left with the humorless and the pale oblates that spent all their time alone in practice rooms.

I ended up leaving the music department and joining a much more joyous group of people in the Classical and Medieval Studies program, many of whom were fine musicians in their own right and all of them were ravenous music consumers. I joined the choir to keep involved in music. I did figure out somewhere along the line that I could use my voice to sing. Painful shyness in childhood always prevented me from trying. I grew out of that, though, thanks to the help of alcohol and a need to spread my wings.

Somewhere along the way between college and here, I forgot what music was all about. I've been in choirs here and there. I've done karaoke. I've played Rock Band and Sing Star. But music didn't have the same effect on me and I let it go.

It started to come back to me when American Idol burst onto the scene. I started to remember what it was all about. But then there was Glee. Here was a show that took music I was familiar with and integrated it into the story. And I began to hear the words again, which always escaped me in the past. I would listen to a song and could repeat the melody or even the guitar solo note for note. But ask me what the words are? No dice. Which is ironic since my work is words and I consider myself a writer.

I know how hard you struggle when you write lyrics or poems or even essays. And then to mesh it into music, it's quite an effort. But I couldn't get invested in lyrics at all. But with that first episode of Glee and the first few notes of "Don't Stop Believing," some hard shell cracked around my heart and I got it: The music and the lyrics. And I was moved hard.

It's still difficult for me to hear the words, especially if they are very emotional or manipulative. But if they are on Glee, I get it. It's a gift from the artists on that show. And because they cover songs from many different eras, I am often reintroduced to an old friend of a song that I never knew was so rich and wonderful. I am also open to new songs, their meanings made apparent by the gifted singers on the show.

I get that it's not everyone's cup of tea. But It's the way I take mine. And now you know why.

Quoth the Cap'n

2010-11-01T12:55:00.004-04:00

"When a witch offers you advice on Halloween, you probably ought to take it."

--Cap'n Ergo Jingobollocks

So, here we go with NaBloPoMo. I have committed to posting once a day every day for the month of November. And it is fitting that this inaugural blog post is inspired by the Cap'n because he got me started in this blog business in the first place, way back in 2004. I promise to post daily in November and I intend to make it meaningful.

Yesterday was Halloween and it is also known as Samhain (pronounced Saw-win by those in the know). It is a day when the veil between the living and the dead thins and we're supposed to be able to feel the presence of the dearly departed around us better at this time. It was an emotional day for me. I was singing in the choir at church and we were performing All Souls Night by Lorena Mckennitt. It's a really cool song and kind of ambitious for our choir of three. But we were joined by our pianist, a violin player, a flute player and a fourth singer with a very powerful voice.

The service was led by a Wiccan who took us through a focused meditation and also had us share sentimental items that we had that belonged to someone we loved who had passed. As you know, I've lost my Grandma this year and it was quite a painful experience and continues to ache. I tried to be open to contacting her spirit during the meditation, but I couldn't get there. I've done meditation before, but always laying down in the dark by myself, not sitting in a chair in a well-lit room full of people.

I became very emotional when I placed a photo of her and my Grandpa on the altar and tried to share the minimum (who are they and something about them) with the congregation. I got very choked up and I don't think anyone could understand what I said.

But we got to sing at the end and, really, music is my spirituality. When I sing or play music, I feel connected to life, the universe and everything. I opened my hands and closed my eyes and sang my heart out.

After the service, I was standing around with Spooky and the Captain and, I really have no better way to describe her, this old witch named Samantha (I'm not kidding) walked up to us and said, "I have a message for you...and you," pointing to Spooky then me.

"Your mother," she said to Spooky, "loves you and wants you to start taking care of yourself now. Stop worrying so much about others."

"And you," she said to me, "you need to stop being so stubborn. You're always going here and there, working and working. You need to have some fun, lighten up."

"Oh, ok," I said.

"Is your name 'Atlas'?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Then stop trying to carry the world around on your back."

She then turned to the Cap'n and said, "And your halo's being held up by horns. You're quite the trixster...but not lately. You'd better get out there and start having fun too."

Then she hugged and kissed each of us and left the building. We stood there in wonder for a moment and The Cap'n concluded "When a witch offers you advice on Halloween, you probably ought to take it."

We smiled and then they drifted away into the post-church crowd and the sun began to blaze through the windows. It was a bit magical and I stepped outside to see the old mama witch pull away in her burgundy sedan. I stood there in the glory that is bright sunshine on an autumn morning. Heavy clouds hovered over the horizon. A breeze blew my hair around while the sun warmed my face and neck.

I felt loved and part of a spiritual family that means as much to me as my biological family. It includes my friends, old and new, who sing with me and challenge me to think about things differently. It also includes the memories I have of Grandma Jean, Grandpa, Aunt Gail. And now an old woman who mothered me out of nowhere and blessed me with her insights and kindness.

And when my friends found me out front, I was so glad to see them again. And I thought: Maybe this was what heaven was like.

I hope so.

Wheat, Chaff, Circled Wagons

2010-10-26T13:59:00.000-04:00

It's been tough around here lately, folks, a hell of a ride. As we make huge transitions, we are learning who our friends are for sure. And it's a painful process, like trying to navigate a field full of rakes. Every now and then, THWACK! And shock, pain, and tears form momentarily. But we pull together and the circle gets smaller. We are tough, my family and friends and we'll make it through, I believe. But we have paid a dear price and have the scars to prove it.

I realize I'm being vague. I'll tell you more later. I'm on my way to Cleveland for a work related romp. I should have time to fill in the blanks.

I look forward to catching up with you. Take care and wish me luck. I'm gonna need all I can get.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Virtual Ralph!

2010-10-07T14:42:00.000-04:00

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: I Hate Waiting

2010-09-20T15:24:00.002-04:00

You know I just won't do it anymore. I've wasted enough of my precious time in line, on hold, and in the waiting room to earn a Ph.D in queuing theory.

So, let's get something straight, Cupcake.I walk into your store and head up to your counter. You start by greeting me with something cheesy and folksy that the airheads in your corporate brainwashing center came up with like, "Hi there, how can I brighten your day?" and I immediately want to punch you in the throat. So already we're starting off on the wrong foot, aren't we, Sunshine? And then your goddamn phone rings and you sparkle off to go answer it.

And this is where the heat in my oven hits broil.

Why is it that someone who gets up, gets showered and shaved, gets dressed, hauls his ass into his car, burns expensive gasoline, orbits the parking lot for 13 of your earth years, finally finds a spot and hikes the 42 miles to your front door get sidelined by some loser in her pj's that picked up a phone and punched a few buttons? How is it that actual people in the flesh are left standing with their orders half out of their mouths while some Housfrau in a hair net asks a bunch of hypotheticals about the philosophical implications of the side orders attached to your Family Meal Troughs?

Well, I won't stand for it, Peanut, and here's what I expect you to do: Get a goddamned answering machine and while I'm here in the flesh, let the callers rot in the digital wasteland of "Hits from the 90's" hold music while you start giving a damn about the real people in the room. Otherwise you'll find yourself out of the people business and into the business of delivering food to agorophobic hoarders who can't even find the energy to pull on a pair of dockers. You will have contributed to the slobifying of America.

So put down that phone and get your priorities straight before I reprioritize your face, Tinkerbell.

Dedicated to Capn Ergo Jingobollocks for his birthday

FFF #41: The Good Old Days

2010-09-07T10:46:00.003-04:00

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk.

"Here's your proof, old man," Leon said, rolling a toothpick around in his lips. "Here's the picture I took of him in the act and, as a bonus, just for you...his phone records."

I took a moment to finish signing the letter I was preparing and he slumped into one of the burgundy leather chairs I had in front of my desk for guests. He began to tap his fingers in a cascade of insistent thumps on the arms. I didn't really want to look at the picture and behold the proof it contained. I also didn't care for Leon's casual impatience, so I used my age to stall.

I took great care in replacing the cap on my pen. I made quite a show of patting myself down for my spectacles. Once found, I reached for my handkerchief and worked it over the lenses. My recent bout of bronchitis gave me a wonderfully phlegmmy cough. I had become quite adept at snorting and clearing my throat in the last week, so I added this talent to the show. It was for Leon's benefit, after all. Him coming in here with his proof. His smug, smart-alec aura oppressed me, as did the lingering smell of his breakfast. Let him stew in his own compulsions, let him tap his tattoo and dream of murdering me just to pick up the pace.

To be fair, I did ask him to do this, didn't I? I have a business to run and I needed to know if my nephew really was the leak. For months we'd been scooped by the other paper on critical stories. Leon, my best photographer, has great ambitions but also a nose for scandal. He brought his suspicions to me along with a report of dozens of complaints of nepotism. This was becoming a disaster on so many different levels. I made him get me proof.

I gave my spectacles one final wipe and added one more cough. I put the spectacles on my old face and reached out toward the photo, my hand shaking with its usual palsy. I dragged the photo towards me and picked it up. It contained the imageof my nephew in a booth at the Brown Derby, cozied up to that blasted female who heads up the news desk at The Herald. I could feel the electricity in the room as Leo stopped tapping and straightened in his chair. He was hungry for my outrage.

"I see," I said steadily, frowning a bit. "And what about these phone records?"

"I've gone through them and circled the calls that originated from Stanley's desk and were connected to the news office at The Herald offices," he said jumping up and grabbing the document.

"See? Here...and here," he flipped through the pages.

"You've been very thorough, Leon."

"And here..." he said, his eyes glowing with a new furor.

"Thank you, Leon," I said, pulling the papers from his hands. "I will review this thoroughly."

"Don't you want to call him in now?" Leon pressed.

"Why would I do that?"

"It's obvious he's the one leaking our leads!" Leon nearly whined.

"Leon, my good man, I appreciate all the hard work you've done to implicate my nephew in wrong-doing, but this has all the earmarks of a true witch hunt orchestrated by yourself perhaps with the help of some of your cronies."

"What?!?"

"I'm not going to call him in here so that you may satisfy your thirst for 'justice.' I must give this evidence proper consideration and hear Stanley's side of the story. We must keep open minds about this, Leon. You of all people should know this. You with your sympathies for the downtrodden...where are those sympathies now, hmm?"

"But...he...look at that picture again...can't you see?"

"I see very well. But I also know about due process. And I'm not about to rush to conclusions, especially when the evidence blends business, pleasure, and family."

"But sir, we must be quick about this! We can't afford to lose another story!"

"But we also cannot afford to rush personnel issues, your union saw to that. I remember back in the day when I could fire anyone anytime I wanted...I also didn't have to pay for such things as health care and vacation days and such. Ah, a golden age for the rich...then again, what days aren't a golden age for the rich, eh Leon?"

"Hmph," Leon snorted. He began to pace.

I was taunting him now and it really wasn't fair. He was a good photographer and reliable, mostly. But I cannot stand it when someone tries to push me into something. I had actually asked for Stanley's resignation this morning. He was embezzling money out of the petty cash account, treating it like his personal piggy bank. Indiscretion was one thing, stealing my money was quite another. And theft was something I could act swiftly on within my corporate restraints.

I looked at Leon and studied him for a moment. He was pacing in the light shining though my large window. A vein in his temple throbbed as he worked his toothpick back and forth over his bottom lip. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled on his lapels, straightening his jacket.

"Listen, Leon," I reasoned, "All will be handled in its own time. We can't rush these things. You understand, don't you?"

"I do understand, sir," he said as he stopped pacing; he seemed to have decided on something.

"What now, Leon?" I asked.

"I quit," he said, looking at me with righteous anger.

"Fine," I replied. "You will do me the courtesy of offering a two-week notice...without which you will get no reference from me. See Sarah on the way out so that you can complete all the appropriate exiting paperwork."

I returned to my signing duties as he stood in front of me. I could feel a his shock, disappointment, and anti-climax as he exhaled. I hated to lose a good photographer, but good photographers were a dime a dozen; he could easily be replaced. Besides, his union, leftist ways only caused trouble with my staff and gave me heartburn. So I let him dig his own grave. His only move was to leave and so he did.

It was almost as good as firing someone used to be.

Sumbitted for FFF#41

FFF #40 - Summer Lullaby

2010-08-31T08:44:00.004-04:00

I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk
And the sound of keys,
My piano, out of tune.

My heart sang the blues in the moonlight
And my dog
Ordered another round.

Our reverie on summer's passing
Bent our souls leeward
As we listened to the last storm

News of hurricanes blow through our sunburns and
We sandbag ourselves
Against the chill we can't feel yet

The thunder rumbles our bones
And is a harbinger
Of closing up, in

As we weep at the beginning
Of the end of warmth
The earth pulls us closer,
One last embrace before
Our bedtime of winter

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

FFF #39: The Lone School Marm

2010-08-24T09:57:00.001-04:00

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again. Susanna checked that her six-shooter was loaded and that her knife was firmly in its sheath. The knife was a gift from her Pa on her 13th birthday and she'd worn it on her left ankle ever since. She had Doc Shaw's satchel stuffed with the paper money and coins. Everything was ready but her nerve.

The last time she opened the door to the school house, she had found three members of the Dirty Boys gang holding her students at gun point, one of whom was lying on the floor, bleeding from the ear and whimpering. Stunned, she watched the men turn and train their guns on her when they heard the door shut. They smirked and licked their weathered lips as they took in the site of the local school marm. She nearly laughed at the sight of their wolfishness, some mania gripping her.

But before the laugh could find its way out of her gut, the children began to call out to her and scream, hoping she'd lead them out of this like it were another one of her lessons. They began to run towards her and the Dirty Boys started shooting. Eli Johnson, her cousin and prized pupil when down when a bullet landed in his spine. Desks splintered in reaction to the barrage of lead flying around the room and her world dissolved into screams, tears and utter devastation.

She felt herself slipping into panic, not knowing where to turn first. Her heart started to break as she remembered what her Pa told her. He'd said, "Susanna, you're as stubborn as my mule and smarter than my whip. Ain't nothin' anyone can throw atcha you cain't handle. People are gonna sense that about you and they're gonna look to you for help. You got the grit, girl. Just feel the fear and saddle up anyhow."

She let her fear wash over her and mix in with love of this school house and her own stubbornness. Her innards began to boil with anger and she knew then that she had to take control. She had found her voice and shouted her standard line to the children when she was ready to start her lessons and they were rowdy and preoccupied: "Looky here, lads and lassies!"

They all stopped running and screaming and turned their wide wild eyes at her. The shots stopped, the bandits having been school children once, too. She took a moment to look at each one of the children that could see. She tried to convey a calmness and love to them with her eyes. She then turned her anger to each of the three gangsters in turn, memorizing two of their faces, the third one obscured by the wide brim of his black hat.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, bringing out the tone she used on bullies in her classroom. "Why have you turned our school house into a battle field?"

The Dirty Boys had recovered their swagger and began to move towards her.

"Well, ma'am," the dirtiest and biggest one said, "We're here to take our cut."

"Yeah, our cut!!" the littlest one sniggered as he pulled out a bowie knife slowly from the sheath on his belt.

"What do you mean, 'your cut,'" Susanna demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

"Well, we heard tell that the gov'ment gave you some money...a lot of money to add on to this school and buy books and such. And since you're only allowed to use this school house by the good graces of Dirty Dan, we thought you'd like to return the favor and give us half."

"Half!" the littlest one laughed and hooted.

"So, why don't you hand it over and we'll let you get on with your history lessons and what not," the biggest and dirtiest one said.

"Well, I don't keep it here, you imbecile!" she retorted. "It's at the bank. Why don't you take your guns and your knives and go over there and try to help yourselves."

"Well," the third one said tipping up his hat, "We thought you might do that for us, save us the trouble of a bank robbery."

The children gasped, recognizing the face of Dirty Dan himself.

"Besides," Dan said, "I'm looking for a new wife...my current one is getting pretty long in the tooth."

"If you think I'm going to marry you, you've got another thing coming, mister!" Susanna declared, feeling the fear trickle between her shoulder blades.

"You? No, you're older than my last wife," he smiled. "Plus, I can tell you'd be trouble....while one of these fine young ladies might just suit me fine." His eyes moved toward the Hailey twins, hungry and clouded over with lust. They were 13 and beautiful with a sweetness of summer lemonade.

Susanna blanched. The twins looked at her in terror.

"Now why don't you get yourself over to the bank and get my cut while me and the boys decide which one of these bookends would look best on my trophy shelf."

"Don't you touch a hair on their heads!" Susanna screamed.

Dirty Dan looked at her, lust turning to ice. "You go to the bank, get your money and come back here by high noon or we'll just start taking our turns at the buffet...Elroy over there likes boys, so no one will be left out."

"Then we'll kill 'em all!" screeched Elroy.

"Now git!" Dirty Dan demanded. "And don't bring no law with you neither or we'll just set this place on fire, lock the doors and run. Pull yourself together and get that money!"

Susanna had turned on her heals and ran down the long country road. Her skirts flew and her mind raced. By the time she reached the edge of town, she flopped under a tree, her lungs rended. As she caught her breath a plan had formed. She went to Doc Shaw's office and told him quickly what had happened. She left him to gather the posse, then raced to the bank to withdrawl half her funds from the school account. The bank manager raised his eyebrow at her but knew her well enough not to question her when her tightly wound hair uncoiled around her face.

And now here she was at the door armed with money, a gun, a knife and her grit. She knew what she was facing this time. She'd never killed a man before, but she had helped Pa slaughter pigs and shoot lame horses. And what were these men, but animals, vicious and lousy with hunger? With the six shooter tucked in the bustle of her dress, the knife at her heel, a satchel of money at her side and her fear vibrating through her bones, she opened the door.

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

Shouting From the Mountain Top: Halleluia! We've Gone Bankrupt!

2010-08-17T09:14:00.000-04:00

So, we've been struggling to keep our heads above water for about 7 years now. I've tried to be good and do the right thing with my money. What I never realized was that our unsecured debt was never going to go away with the amount of money we made. We could only ever pay the miniumums and that will never be enough to make any progress.

I also fell for the bait that home ownership was the American Dream. I kept going down that path and sinking deeper and deeper. Looking back, I don't know why any bank in their right mind would have leant us the money to buy a house. Of course, we all know now that they weren't in their right minds.

But now, we're free. We get a second chance to do things right. It's like, when you're in your 20's, there's no tomorrow. We spent money we didn't have on luxuries because it was fun. Then we had to spend money we didn't have on necessities because all our money was going to the creditors. It was a snowball ride to ruin. But now, we can be forgiven and we have the opportunity to be smart, grown-up and mature about money.

I'm very sorry that I screwed things up so badly. But I'm super-grateful that there's a way to reboot.

PSA: Italics - Use Them Right

2010-08-16T16:43:00.000-04:00

Italics are not to be used for any old thing. They are not like cologne that you can splash all over yourself. You don't want to overuse them and take away what little power they have. They are for emphasis or book titles, right? Maybe foreign phrases...maybe the words of Christ.

Please don't use them as the standard font formatting on documents or emails. Unless you are Jesus. Also, if you use italics for everything, you aren't allowed to use the abbreviation IMHO (Jesus...please feel free to do whatever you like).

Thanks for understanding

FFF #38 Good Morning, Mr. Jenkins

2010-08-10T09:09:00.001-04:00

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction#38 where we are to use the words Bubble, Toil, Rubble, Coil in a story.

"Bubble, can you come here please?" Mr. Jenkins called from his executive squawk-box.

She sighed and turned from her typewriter to press the button on her end and say, "Yes, sir."

She'd been trying to finish typing this proposal all morning. She looked balefully at her typewriter, reluctant to leave it now that it was working. All morning, the "g" key kept sticking and then her ribbon dried out. She had to wait for Larry from maintainance to come up and fix the keyboard and bring her a new ribbon.

Ah, Larry, she mused. He's so good with his hands. And cute too. Her mind drifted back and she fell into the dreamy memory. He was sitting at her desk, examining the old ribbon. She stood watching him speak quietly about its properties, coiling it back up. The content of his speech was lost on her as she became hypnotized by the lilt in his gentle voice and methodical movements of his agile fingers.

"BUBBLE!" the box barked. "When I said 'come here,' I meant NOW!"

She jumped up and grabbed her steno pad and pencil. As she skittered up the three stairs to his office, she smoothed her red, pencil skirt and then ran her fingers through her blond hair to perk it up and reshape the coils of curls so they bounced in that way that Mr. Jenkins liked. She reached the door and looked down to make sure enough buttons were undone on her breezy chiffon top to tantalize but not so many that she looked easy. Satisfied, she opened the one of the double doors and stepped in.

"Good morning, Mr. Jenkins. I'm so sorry for the delay," she said but didn't explain herself. She had learned that he really didn't care for excuses and frankly, she didn't like giving them. In that way, they were a good match.

He had rules about how a person...a girl was to behave in his presence. She was never permitted to shut the office door unless he asked her to. She had to wait to be invited to sit down. And all ideas were his ideas and all communications had to come frm him. Even when she had to make requests for help with typing from the girls in the secretarial pool. Bubble understood she was his tool and he used her 120 words-per-minute fingers to break through enough of the red tape and bureaucratic rubble to become the top man at this firm.

He looked at her over his half-moon spectacles from behind his vast oak desk. She felt his eyes scan her. She put one hand on her hip, impatient for her invitation to sit. He grinned and slowly moved his eyes up to look into her eyes.

"You know I don't like waiting, Bubble," he said. "I didn't toil my way from the mailroom all the way to full partner waiting on cute little blonds to decide they were ready to work."

"I am sorry, sir," she said, dropping her arms to her sides. "What can I help you with?"

Notes from the Couch

2010-07-28T12:07:00.000-04:00

I'm on the poofy couch listening to Doc and Lucy play Lego Indiana Jones and Riley reading tongue twisters. The yard has been tended to, but the flower beds are asking "What about us?" And I'm telling them to relax because they now qualify as Jungle Chic.

Here's a summary of my vacation:

I love my job, but I think the stress of it all was getting to me. These five days were needed for me to recharge my brain and soul a bit.
Buster Keaton's
Buster Keaton Face
I've laughed and I've cried...I don't like to cry. I usually can't stop if I start. Doc complains about my "Buster Keaton" face, but sometimes, it's either that or Niagra Falls.
Things are tough vis a vis ye olde bank account right now. Doc and I are trying to figure out what to do next. We are definately at a crossroads, which people keep pointing out to us. I'm trying very hard to listen well to advice I'm getting from trusted sources. But any move right now is a risky one.
I'm going back and forth wondering if there really is a God or if this is all just some grand accident of chemistry.
Riley and I had a disagreement where we both dug in our heels and got mad at each other. But it was nothing a little homemade pizza offering couldn't cure.
Mostly, even though things are tough, we are all finding ways to laugh a little, sing some, and hug it out.

So, I get back on the merry-go-round tomorrow. I hope when the alarm clock goes off, I'll find that spring in my step again that was missing last week. I know it's there...it just needed oiling.

Oh, and Riley just said, "By the way, Mom, don't come into my room..." I'm off to investigate.

FFF #37 - Clown College Commencement Address

2010-07-27T10:28:00.005-04:00

As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down. There are days when you're not going to feel like putting that makeup on or pulling on your giant pants. But these are the things you are called to do. You've spent four years here in this safe place, testing your abilities and studying the masters. Now is the time for you to gather your glee and set forth into our sad world to spread joy.

And don't be mistaken; people are going to laugh at you. And not just because you're a clown. They're going to say, "Why be a clown? Why not do something more productive, more practical." Artists everywhere have had to face this question. And you must dig deep into your souls and sort through your own internal prop trunk to find this answer.

But we the faculty at Cleveland Clown College won't send you off without a bit of advice on this matter. We have been here for you these past four years and we can give you some pearls of wisdom that you can carry around under your rainbow wig to rely on when you're feeling like your seltzer bottle has lost its fizz.

In these dark days of bubbles bursting, oil spilling, and war, the world needs a pie in the face. And it needs to be delivered by someone who takes clowning very seriously. We need to be the ones to demonstrate the ridiculous so that people can stop being so serious about everything and see the situation as it is. Once we have a laugh together, we can shrug off the sadness, pick up our rubber shovels and get to work making the world a better place.

We need to bring smiles to faces lest the oppressive weight of it all crush the spirits of our collective souls. It is our duty to make farts visible with powder and to apply our acrobatic prowess to pratfalls to lighten up this universe. For if we do not do these things, the doomsayers win and we are left with a world where flowers don't squirt and handshakes are de-electrified and sadness reigns. These bits of whimsy brighten the world a little bit at a time. And if we continue to brighten the world together, the dark forces lose their grip and we can all shake our heads to clear them and face our problems with spirit and aplomb.

Tell those people who shake their heads at you and mock your life's calling that they can go ahead and scoff. They'll be tied to a desk, while you get to see the world, either in small scale at backyard birthday parties or in the Big Tent. You'll rub elbows with acrobats and lion tamers and ride elephants and unicycles to work while they carpool with grumps and drudge away in a cubicle. And you are charged with producing laughter in the hearts of children of all ages.

But the best part about it is to bring hope and happiness in such an intimate and face-to-face way. And hope and happiness are our beacon that will light the way to a better world. You have been prepared by the best and you are ready to pick up this standard and carry it forth. We the faculty wish you all the best and will be here for you as you face the challenges of clowning.

Thank you, Cleveland Clown College Class of 2010. You have strengthened our numbers and enriched our hearts so that we may all face the darkness with our balls in the air.

Mirth Finding

2010-07-23T16:51:00.001-04:00

So, God bless Some Guy, right? I mean, his exhaustive list of blurbs about the people on his blogroll was really wonderful. It brought back memories of a golden age, when blogging was new and exciting.

When I started blogging, it was scary. I had a really tough job where outrageous things would happen to me but if I talked about it to anyone in a format that could be traced back to me, I'd be toast. But I needed to write and I wanted it public. So, I started this blog and called it "Prone to Whimsy" so that I would remember that this is a place for the fun, silly, random stuff that crosses my mind and capture the small moments in my life that reverberated meaning. Things that floated into my day, dipped down and rested in my hands, then floated away again.

But something happened...maybe Facebook, which is so much more instantly gratifying. It allowed me to flit in and out without leaving much substance behind. I still feel kind of cheap when I reduce one of the meaningful moments in my life to a status update.

But back to this blog. I've always wanted my writing to be personal here. I wanted you to know me. I wanted to share the little things in my life, the marvelously mundane. The tag I use to categorize that kind of thing is "A Day in the Life of Flannery" and the last time I used it was in January. So, that's what, over seven months, right? Seeing Chris' post about me and my blog and reading the comments brought all that back home to me. In particular, my throat caught at this one:

"Flannery is one of those rare bloggers who, after you've read her, you'd run up and hug her on first meet because you just *know* her." - Beth

I was presented with proof that I've done what I set out to do. At least one of the people who reads my blog feels like she knows me. But anyone who has started reading this since Janurary probably wouldn't have the same reaction.

Fortunately, I've had Flash Fiction Friday to keep this blog from going completely defunct. But that's my fiction, not my facts. And while it's become very important to me, I feel a kind of loss for the other stuff.

Frankly, I've been resistant to sharing too much here. As you may know, my husband is going through a rough patch. Well, we both are. And I've circled the wagons, closed ranks. I've had to. What do I share here? How do I sort out my own head? How do I find the whimsy again amidst all this strife and angst. It's easier to just let it sit while I play Bubble Pop Party Island and shut out the world.

Well, I'm back, baby. I'm raising the windows and getting a little air in here. I'm shaking off the dust cloths and refilling the larders.

In short, I'm bringing whimsy back.

So thank you, Some Guy and Beth, for turning on the lights.

FFF #36 The Visit

2010-07-20T09:41:00.002-04:00

"In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was."

"Yes," he murmurred, "Go on..."

"I started walking towards the birds...and then I couldn't see them because I was walking into the sun, but I could still hear them. Eventually the sun sank beneath the horizon and I could make out the shape of a ramshackle house."

"I see," he paused, "Did you enter the building?"

"Yes, I did." I replied.

"What did you see?"

"The house was made of pine boards and roadside signs. It was low to the ground and there was tumble weed. It looked very dark in side. In my dream I knew it was my house. I walked in and found the place overrun with drugged out partiers. There was food everywhere and trash. Some of the walls stripped down to the studs and the toilet was overflowing."

"Go on..."

"When I went into the main room, people were passed out and strewn on old nappy couches. I was very angry and I could fee the bile rising to the top of my throat. I turned toward the fireplace..."

"Yes..." he said, leaning forward, more than mildly interested now.

"Well, a fire started and smoke swirled up and then the brick began to melt away and I could see the sun for a moment."

"And then what?" he breathed.

"The most incredibly large owl swooped in, spread her wings and hovered over the fire. And she was briliantly colored, like a mandala of reds, blues and yellows."

"That's it!" he cried.

"That's what?" I asked, startled by his fervor.

"You have been visited."

"What?"

"I thought that was the case when you came in here...you're aura, it's different."

"My aura?" I asked, blinking at him. My therapist never vered from your standard Jungian stuff; I'd never believed he'd even heard the word aura before. Now he's reading mine?

"Yes," he said, standing up and tilting his head as he looked at me intently.

I fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable under his direct gaze. I don't think we'd ever formally made eye contact before.

"Yes," he repeated, "It is golden..."

"So?" I asked and blushed.

"So, Marina," he said, "A visit from the Mandala Owl...this means that your awareness has expanded and you're psychic powers can be tapped. That she visited you when you were in a state of righteous anger means that you are called."

"Called?"

"Yes, and your golden aura seals it. You psychic vision is clear and you can see for miles. You are integrated...mind, body and spirit and you are ready."

"Ready for what?" I asked, standing, arms akimbo. I was starting to think that Dr. Falk might want to take my place on the comfy couch.

"Marina, Golden Marina," he said, looking at me with a tilted head and a glimmer of unshed tears under each eye.

I blinked.

"Don't you see? Don't you see what a combination like that means? Psychic powers, spiritual protection, righteous anger?"

"I don't see," I replied.

"Ah, yes, but you do see," he said with the smugness of a Zen master. "Close your eyes and let your arms hang loose. Stand with your feet hip-width apart and just breath."

I obeyed. It was dark and I could smell a combination of dust and peppermint. The same smell I'd inhaled every Thursday afternoon for the past three years. My eyes remained closed, but the room lightened. I felt immense pride and hope as I began to see the room, see myself standing with my eyes closed, my arms hanging at my sides and my feet firmly planted on the floor.

Startled, my eyes flew open and I took in Dr. Falk. He was crying in earnest now. He strode towards me and grabbed both my hands.

"Marina," he said, "Thank you...I haven't known the Mandala Owl's presence since your grandmother walked on to the spirit world. I was hoping that you'd have the gift too."

"I...you...Huh?"

"In time, you'll understand your gift. I promise. But for now, we must start your training. I also need to let the elders know of your return.

"I thought I just had some clinical depression issues you were going to help me with." I said as I slumped back down on the couch.

"Those are side effects of your empathic nature," he said as he began throwing items from his desk into a satchel, "They must be treated before awareness can occur. I had to be sure that was the case and it wasn't just textbook twenty-first century angst."

He stopped searching and zipped up the bag. "Come, Marina, we must go."

"Where?" I asked.

"To meet your destiny."

Thank you to Wellesfan for such a compelling starter sentence!

FFF#35 -The Inside Job

2010-07-13T09:44:00.000-04:00

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position," Father Willem replied.

Of course it does, you beast, I thought but didn't say. I shrugged and let him waffle there with between the safe limb he created for himself and the tempting fruit I dangled before him. If I knew anything at all about Father Willem, it was that he would always go for fruit he shouldn't take, especially if he believed he could count on plausible deniability.

"It really is rather clever of you, John," he said, turning his chair toward the stained glass depiction of the nativity and steepling his fingers under his chin, contemplating. "We could put cameras in all of the rooms in the school, including the dormitories...sure, it would infringe on 'privacy rights' but those are very much undefined in the charter, whereas it clearly states 'We shall err on the side of safety, always...'" He stood up.

"Just the presence of cameras alone should deter any student-teacher extracurriculuar contacts and that should satisfy the board that we are taking a tough stance on this issue. Besides, we don't want a full clerical inquiry. Of course the Vatican aren't letting the secular law enforcers anywhere near us, for now. But we can't afford to let a tinge of unseemlinees darken our purity. We don't want to encur the attentions of the Bishop; the red tape alone involved with one whispered accusation could set us back years. We have important work, here, John, to educate the Catholic youth and grow the priesthood. Otherwise, what shall become of us and our important role of religious leadership and moral fortitude? Who shall lead the sheep through the valley? Certainly not the Baptists..."

I could tell he was going to go for it now; he never speechified on a topic that he wasn't going to deliver on. Finally, after thirty years, I will have the upper hand over a man who has dominated my life since childhood.

"Very well, Father," I said. "I'll proceed with the requisition then, shall I?"

"Yes, yes..." he said, distracted as he sat back down and turned towards his computer. "Make it happen as you always do."

I stood up and made my way to the large oak door of his office. This office, once a hell for me was now starting to feel more like a hall of justice. I can remember counting the books in here and recategorizing them in my head while he abused me. For a long time, the scent of office supplies would make me vomit. I had to spend my first turn as an assistant pastor in a church so poor, office supplies were the last thing anyone thought about.

Driven by righteous anger, I graduated a the top of my class in seminary and had many offers to join the most influential churches in the country. My choice of such a poverty-stricken parrish surprised my friends and worried my mentors. But I had visited that poor place in the ghetto and I was moved by its sadness that seemed to mirror my own. I also believed that spending time in the trenches like that would bring me a unique credibilty since I was one of the few that had chosen to walk the walk of poverty and help the poorest among us. That way, fat priests whose indulgences made them walk a fine canonical line would find me a good proxy. They could hire me away so that I could bring my humilty and they could somehow co-opt it for their own glory.

This seemed like a fast track to the top. I had learned what the poortest among us needed and I could work the white-guilt of the richer perishes to create conduits of money and resources and point them to my ghetto of God's forgotten children. I knew this would set me up as an important figure, one who would be a jewel in the crown of any parrish. Having been a victim of Father Willem, I took it upon myself to meet him on his own turf as a peer and take him down for good in such a way that it will look like his fall from grace happened due to anything other than child molestation. Then, I'll have access to his network of other like-minded men without alerting them and foment their clerical demise one by one. I had long given up on the idea that the law, sacred or secular, would have the balls to solve this problem between priests and boys. It has to be an inside job.

Little did Father Willem know that I had been spending most of the term with my students talking about the constitutionality of privacy. We had worked over many Supreme Court cases on the subject. I had also spent the first part of every day with them on the Heroes of Civil Disobedience: Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi, Rosa Parks. They are primed for a revolution. Father Willem will not see it coming as he never counted the students as anything other than his sheep for the taking. And I will walk away from here vindicated and ready to take out the next one.

Words That Make You Sound Drunk

2010-06-23T12:43:00.012-04:00

My co-worker Wendy and I keep a running list. I thought I'd share it with you and see if you had any further suggestions:

Fiduciary
Judicial
Similarly
Articulate
Reciprocity
Instantiation
Pedestrian
Substantial
Perambulate
Periodicity

Others?

Doc chimes in...

He had had a cold in the past.
penial implant
douche
travesty
wimple

Barbara's had a few...

perpendicular
cauterize
amyotrophic lateral sclerosis
... most disease names, really...

Gennifer6 threw one up...

facetious

Beckeye stumbled over a few...

Juxtaposition
Chartreuse
Mischievous
Arteriosclerosis
Goldschlager (and you usually get drunk if you're asking for it)

Skyler's Dad tied a few on...

Thudpucker
Lookie here
and of course 'Hold my beer and watch this'!

David Barber slurred...Phesant plucker and the Cap'n refused to let us have antepenultimate.

Other co-workers staggered through and coughed up:

Criticism
Phlebotomy
Ancillary

The Ice Cream Stand - FFF#34

2010-06-22T10:07:00.002-04:00

An effort for Friday Flash Fiction #34 where we are to use these words in the story: Sculpture, Culture, Cult, and Cohesive

********

"Here he comes, Lyla!" Wendy whispered as she brushed by on her way to the custard machine.

Lyla looked out the louvered windows to see his black BMW turn into the Kustard Korner parking lot. Her heart raced. She took a deep breath and side-stepped over to the small sink in the back of the ice cream stand. She washed her hands and straightened her bangs with wet fingers. She tugged on her apron so that the top portion pulled down a little bit and you could read "The Cult," which was splashed across the front of her t-shirt in white letters. She had cropped the sleeves and cut a v-neck into the shirt to better display her tan and her dainty cleavage. She bought this shirt on impulse. He had mentioned the band the last time he came to the custard stand and she hoped that wearing it and punking it out would get his attention.

When Lyla turned around to head back to the corner, she could see that a line had begun grown at the two sliding screen windows. As she stepped up to begin taking orders, the end of the line seemed to stretch out and redouble itself before her eyes. She felt like pouting and stomping her foot at the unfairness of it all. It will take forever to get through all these people and he might get in the wrong line!

"Can I help you?" she asked a mother who stood impatiently at the window, her two daughters telling her what they wanted at the same time. Lyla waited while they sorted out their order and stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. She could just see his car from where she stood and was delighted to watch the door open and one tanned leg land on the asphalt.

"We'll take two small vanilla cones...can you put faces and sprinkles on them?" the woman asked.

"Sure," she said tugging her eyes back to the woman. "Three dollars please."

The woman paid with a five and Lyla gave her the change. She hustled over to the custard machine to began filling the small cones with a tower of vanilla. She hit the lever and watched as the cold, creaminess slowly moved forth from the machine. She made small practiced circles to sculpture the coils one on top of the other and finished off with a flick to get a precious curly-q on top. She started the second one and flushed as she remembered the last time he was here. She couldn't stop watching him; the way he licked his cone was criminally sexy. She snapped her attention back to the machine to finish the second cone and headed over to the sprinkle station.

"Did you see him?" she asked Wendy.

"Not yet..." she said craning her neck towards the parking lot.

"Stop!" Lyla hissed. "We don't want to look like a couple of nerds! Be cool."

"Ok, ok," Wendy replied. "Sheesh, this used to be fun and I don't remember you ever worrying about being cool before."

Lyla gave her a look that would melt fudge. Wendy shrugged as Lyla finished making the faces on the cones and spun on her toe and headed back to the window.

"Two small face cones!" she shouted out and looked around as the mother made her way back to the windows. She couldn't see him yet. She handed the lady her cones and some napkins and began to chip away at the rest of the line. It was an endless list of custards, shakes, hot dogs, sloppy joes, and sodas. She and Wendy zipped around within the small confines of the ice cream stand. When it got busy like this, Wendy and Lyla always found a groove. This was their second summer at the Kustard Korner and they were veterans and moved like a unit. Their actions were cohesive and they had some kind of psychic link when it came to ice cream.

Wendy and Lyla high-fived each other when the last big order was finished. Lyla had forgotten about him in the fever of her work. They both turned back and started to head to their respective windows.

"Hey," he said.

Lyla looked up suddenly, her eyes bugged slightly as her heart fell on the floor. There he was before her, rugged and unshaven. His melon Izod pulled tight across his broad shoulders and his white bermudas wrapped his lower half like a present.

"Hey," she exhaled back. "What can I get you?"

"I'd like a medium twist and a face cone for Madison." he tilted his head toward his eight-year-old daughter standing next to him like a fine, cultured rose.

"Sure thing," she said. Wendy sensed the electricity and sent her last customer off. She hurried over to help Lyla.

"Well?!?" she demanded, "What did he say?!?"

"Just 'Hey.'"

"Just 'Hey'?"

"Yeah, and his order."

"Well, here," Wendy said as she took the small cone. "You give him the twist and I'll fix the face cone."

They worked quickly and Wendy handed her the small cone. Lyla took them to the window and didn't have to shout. He was watching her the whole time. She shivered and then leaned through the window to hand the girl her cone. Then she gave him his twist.

"Thanks," he said and smiled. His eyes dropped down to take a sneak a peak. "Hey!" he said, pointing, "The Cult! I saw them when I was in high school!"

"Yeah?" she said.

"Yeah," he replied, "I think I've got one of their CD'S in my car."

"Cool!" she said.

"Funny, I haven't thought about them in years and recently, they keep coming up. How do you know about them? I thought kids these days only cared about Lady Gaga."

"I've never heard of them before. I just liked this shirt." she said, trying to be casual. But she couldn't take her eyes away from his mouth as began to lick his twist. He started on the sides and worked his way around. Then he went in from the top and pressed his mouth into the curly-q, crushing it. She almost fainted right there on the spot.

"That's a shame. They're a really good band, especially when you're a teenager and full of angst."

Lyla giggled, then blushed. She had no idea what angst was, but it sounded dirty.

"Do you babysit?" he asked.

"Um, yeah," she stammered, thrown by his quick change of subject.

"My wife and I are going out tomorrow night and we need someone to hang out with Madison here," he turned toward his daughter and smiled. "I know it's short notice, but, if you're available..."

"Sure!" she said. "I'm here 'til six tomorrow."

"Ok," he said. "I'll pick you up then. We'll listen to the Cult on the way back to my house..." He paused and looked down at her nametag, then smiled, "...Lyla. I'm Jack, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," she said automatically and smiled.

"See you tomorow," he said.

"Bye..." she waved.

Slipping - FFF #33

2010-06-15T10:00:00.005-04:00

It was a shortcut that I would regret for the rest of my life. I had planned everything down to the last detail, but for the mayonaise. I hate the stuff myself, which is probably why it didn't leave the store with me when I did the bulk of my shopping. So, I decided to hoof it to the Circle K and get a small jar. I'm sure I'd pay the premium for convenience, but what else was there to do?

It was just a short way to the store and the car was stuffed with all my gear. I didn't want to drive it until I officially hit the road. I dashed out of the front door with my wallet and hit the pavement. It was beginning to drizzle and mist, which I hardly noticed. It was just another day in an era of almost constant meteorological moodiness we'd been experiencing since the beginning of June: Extreme heat, humidity thick enough to slice for sandwiches and precipitation that lingered around like your kid sister and rained down on you if you tried to play outside without her.

I cut through the neighbor's yard and began to navigate my way through the woods that separated their property from the park. It was damp under the trees and the earthy aroma of dead, wet leaves wafted upwards as my feet rumpled their slumber. The wildlife were restless; squirrels chased each other around, mad with the damp. They were probably just trying to get dry for once. I could hear crows arguing as the way began to tilt downward.

I'd taken this shortcut numerous times. Sure, it's a bit steep once you get past the first line of trees, but since there are so many trees, there's always something to grab onto and work your way down the hill. Confident in this knowledge and a feeling the pressure to get there and back, I began to follow my usual path down the slope. Grab a tree with one hand, strike out with one foot, reach to the next tree with the other. It was a sort of arborial hoedown, the rhythm of which was marked in my muscles so that I didn't really have to think about it.

My mind returned to my to-do list. I rethought through it and was just coming to the end of it when I heard a snap and my internal programing was interrupted by a broadcast of a pain. It bleated from my ankle all the way up my leg. My momentum was such that I continued to take one step and then another on the bad foot and fell face forward into a hot mud goulash. I lifted my head and blinked in time to watch my wallet dance down the hillside and land in the creek below.

I hung my head, gasping. I remembered my lamaze training and began to focus on something in the distance. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. I couldn't have broken anything, I thought as the pain stopped screaming and started to pout. I lifted myself into the cobra position and pulled my good foot under me. I started to drag my other foot forward, when the pain remembered what it was so pissed off about and began to rant anew.

I dropped down to my elbows and rolled on my side, digging for my phone. No phone. Shit. I could see a tree in front of me that was somewhat substantial. I walked myself there with my arms, dragging my wounded foot behind me. I was able to situate myself with my back against the tree and my legs aimed up the hill to keep the damn thing elevated.

As it began to rain, I had time to pull my ball cap down over my face and consider the implications of my situation. I'll never make it to the camp grounds now. And it was our last chance. We were going to give it one more shot. He took the kids for a week in Mohican State Park and I was to join them there for the weekend. They will have spent the week in a tent, but in concession to my contempt for camping out, he arranged for us to have a cabin for the last couple of days of their trip. I agreed to bring mayonaise and sandwiches and other refrigerated luxuries. We were going to leave our egos and attitudes on the firepile and try to start again. And now I'm a no show and incommunicado.

All the old arguments rafted through my mind. Every complaint he ever had about me floated to the surface for my examination. I began to form a vision of the consequences of this shortcut. I constructed the set, casted and directed our final showdown, complete with lawyers and child psychiatrists. I also imagined the possiblility with this weather and my location, the crows wouldn't have much to argue about in the very near future. Either way I was carrion for scavengers.

Posted for Friday Flash Fiction with David Barber's starter sentence

My Mother Will Be So Proud

2010-06-09T08:19:00.002-04:00

Thank you, Beckeye, for choosing my caption to be the winner of your contest. This award couldn't have come at a better time. It's been a long, dark week for me and now that my crotch is on fire, there is light in my life again.

I'm a little lost

2010-05-25T09:00:00.001-04:00

It's been two weeks since my Grandma passed away. And I've been able to go about life and do the things that must be done. It's certainly been easier since Doc has picked up the slack and has been working tirelessly around the house (outside and in). But every now and then I dip a toe in the pool of grief and feel the sadness. Sometimes I can withdraw my foot. Sometimes the grief pulls me under.

If you've been a long time visitor here, you know that since this blog started, I've lost my Grandpa, my Aunt Gail, and now Grandma Jean. When I lost Grandpa and Gail, I was working at my old job, which was a nightmare. My previous boss was domineering and manipulative. I basically had to turn off my emotions and go into survival mode to continue to work for her. For four years. The longer I worked there the easier it was not to feel things. This made work easier, but family life...well, I guess it was easier too. I wasn't feeling the pain. Or the joy. But I lost two people who were very dear to me and I couldn't grieve for them. I didn't dare, lest I come completely undone.

Since I've moved to my new job, almost three years ago, I've started to defrost. Here I've discovered I'm able to be myself and react naturally with out running every event through a processor to judge whether or not this reaction or that would cause me more trouble or more work. Over time, I've been able to start feeling things again. This came to a head last month when I got irregular results on an annual exam at the doctor's office.

Of course, I found out about the test a month prior to going back to the doctor to discuss it. So I had a lot of time to really face up to my life and see if it was going in the direction it should be. It wasn't. Inspired by the possibility that I might be seriously ill in the near future and my emotional awakening, I started cleaning my emotional house. As it turns out, the tests results aren't the death sentence I feared. But they were a wake-up call for me.

Since I lost Grandma, I have been feeling the full force of her passing. And it hurts. But I'm ok. I'm a little sensitive about grandma-related topics and sometimes I just want to curl up in one of her blankets and cry my eyes out. But this sensitivity brings about awareness. And it highlights the things about her that I loved and that I will miss. And those things I'm going to pick up and carry with me so that I'll be a bit more like her and then she'll still be with me.

I've started wearing perfume. I cleaned out my purse. Come payday, I'm going to stash a twenty in there and hide it from myself so that I can find it when funds are low. I'm wearing her beautiful nightgowns to bed instead of tee-shirts. I'm paying closer attention to the way my kids act and I want to make sure they are getting enough love and a bit more discipline. I'm standing my ground on personal issues that are important to me. I'm going to be more efficient. And every once in a while, I'm going to call on the river when I've only got three to a straight.

I'm going to do all these things in remembrance of her. I want her memory to be vibrant and three dimensional, close to me. I know she's gone and I'm a little lost without her. But if she were here, she'd tell me to stick close and don't get separated from the family. She'd say, it's ok to be sad but she'd advise that I might want to find something to do to perk me up. And I'll be on the look out for the good stuff while I try to handle the bad. I'll get out of the woods eventually, not as an empty shell, but rather as someone who has fully grieved and has been marked by the experience.

Celebrities Who Appeared in my Dreams: Dale

2010-05-23T09:43:00.000-04:00

I was getting ready for some folks to come over for my birthday when Doc popped his head in the bathroom and told me that Dale from Passion of the Dale was here.

"Really?!?" I asked, stunned.

"Yeah," Doc said, "He came all the way from Canada for your bithday."

"Huh," I said and started to put on makeup.

Once I was ready, I tried to decide how to best make my entrance. I went through a couple of ideas in my head before stepping into the garage and declaring, "Wilkommen, bien venue, welcome!"

Dale was sitting on the couch in our garage talking to my Uncle Charlie. He looked up and tipped his beer at me and went back to his conversation. I began to look around the garage and wonder what Dale's impression was. I knew he was judging and that he had an opinion. I was very curious. But this curousity hampered me. I couldn't think of anything to say to him or anyone else in the room. And I felt bad that he had driven all this way to be so underwhelmed. Until, of course the zombies arrived.

Aveatque Vale: Grandma Jean

2010-05-14T15:11:00.003-04:00

I’m really glad we are all here together today. More than anything, Grandma Jean wanted us to all be close to her. And never leave. She loved us all so fiercely and wanted to protect us all. She enjoyed our company and never wanted the good times to end. And what she would want, I believe, is for us to be sad today and feel the loss of her and the imprint she leaves in our heart as a remarkable mother, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt and friend. She would want us to miss her. To remember her and remember what she taught us.

We should also celebrate her life for she accomplished a lot, most times with very limited material resources. Grandma Jean had to grow up fast and she had to learn a lot at a very young age. She was born in Pittsburgh but lived most of her life here in Canton. She told us all of her experiences growing up in a household with, unfortunately, not a lot of adult supervision. It made her tough and independent. It taught her that she had to be responsible and look out for those who couldn’t yet. She told us stories about her rough childhood, but she would tell them in such a way that we could learn from it or be amused. She wouldn’t have wanted us to focus on the heartbreaking parts. She would want us to take away the lesson she shared with us, that we have it in us to overcome adversity and make the world we want to live in. And that we ought to take care of each other.

Having been in charge of her destiny for most of her childhood, Grandma Jean had very little patience with authority and she didn’t trust authority figures. She knew best. She grew tired of school and decided to hit the road at fourteen and go back to Pennsylvania and get a job. She was stopped, of course, and sent back home. But she was determined make her own way in the world and to do it in her own way. She taught us that sometimes, it’s more important to be true to ourselves than to the status quo. For what could faceless authority know better than we do about how to live this live we’ve been given?

When she met my Grandpa, she knew right away she’d met the love of her life. After a short courtship, they spent over 50 years married to each other. Together they created a family that was tightly bonded. And she was fiercely loyal to us all. How many times has she taken us shopping or helped us spring clean? And as she helped us clean, she shared with us what she knew about running a household. She never refused a cry for help and most times, she could hear the cry for help before we could utter it. She would be at our sides, applying her energies to help us. She showed us how to serve others and that it was just part of the family territory.

There were many good times with Grandma Jean. She was an encyclopedia of card games and never said no to a game. She taught three generations how to play hundreds of card games. And when it came to Black Jack or poker, she’d always be there to coach you or to slide some of her change over to your side of the table when you were running low. She showed us how to think, how to be fair, and how to give someone a boost when they’re down on their luck. And winning wasn’t as important as just being happy together.

And she was a dancer. She and Grandpa loved to dance. They took lessons together at Arthur Murray, went to dances and would cut a rug at home too. Some of my best memories include all of us jumping and dancing in her living room. It was heaven to celebrate and cut loose in that house of hers with so many cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. She helped us be joyful together.

Later in life, she suffered some tough blows. She was heartbroken when her son, Bob, had to leave. He went to Arizona and, for a time, the light left Grandma Jean. But she recovered and we would all get caught up in the excitement of his returns for visits. She lost her sister Donna too soon. But before Donna left us and her health began to decline, Grandma didn’t miss a beat. She helped Donna get around in her wheel chair and made sure she was still enjoying life, even with her disability. She lost Grandpa in 2004 and her daughter Gail in 2006. Heartbroken doesn’t begin to describe the depths of her woe from losing a husband and daughter within two years of each other. But she found joy again with those of us who were still with her. She showed us how to suffer and still live on.

Despite the blows her heart received throughout life, she never missed a chance to love. She doted on her grandchildren and great grandchildren. If you take a look at the memory board, you will see many of the pictures show her with a baby on her lap. I remember her with my children when they were just wee tiny babies and she would hold them, swaddle them, coo to them, dress them up and tell me all she knew about babies. She was a lioness, providing for the young and protecting them with all her strength. She loved us all so much.

Part of her lioness strength meant that she could be confrontational. She stood up for what she believed was right. In particular, she didn’t want us to stray from her and tried to keep us all close. Many of us still remain within a few hundred mile radius from her because life is easier, better with an ally like her in your life. But she would tell you exactly what she thought of your plans to move to New York City or Timbuktu and try to work you over to keep you close. She showed us how independence was good but family was better.

And she watched over her world. I remember her last summer. She was following the story of the sparrows that took up residence on the back porch. She watched them build their nest and told us about how the mother and father birds took turns gathering materials. She let us know when there were eggs and when they hatched. She told us when the couple argued and when the kids were ready to go out on their own. She soaked up the lessons of the creatures around her.

When she did get the blues, they hit her hard. Sometimes a pep talk would help. Often times, she’d have a long bath or go shopping. For sure, a win at bingo would brighten her day. I used to play bingo with her every Tuesday morning at St. Paul’s. I’d get off work at seven a.m. and meet up with her at her house. She’d have had her bath and coffee and was ready to go. We’d go out for breakfast and head over to get the good seats. We’d win here and there but mostly, we’d just enjoy the long mornings together doing something fun. I hope you had the chance to play bingo with her. That was when you got to see her joy and experience her gentle way of showing you how to do things efficiently and easily.

And she was efficient. She worked for years at Nationwide Insurance where she focused on the best and easiest ways to do things. I’ve often heard her speak with fondness of experiences there. There she learned her job and the jobs of her counterparts so they could support each other. She got to travel to Chicago and New York City. She and her sister Donna worked there until retirement, where they received a loving send-off. But Grandma was young yet to retire. She later began helping out at Grandpa’s office, then she took various jobs at Value City and Hills, where she was able to get all the linens she could carry at a discount. She taught us to do what we love and to use our time wisely so that there would be more time for fun, for family.

Grandma Jean had a heart of gold. She was so generous and giving of her time and resources. She wanted to give each of us everything our little hearts’ desired. I’m so sad today that her body wasn’t able to keep up with her heart and mind, because until the very end of her life, she was still worried about us. She still cared how we were and if we’d had success or needed help. Her mind and heart were solid. And she showed us that even bound to a bed; we can still be of use to each other and connected to the world.

So let’s go ahead and cry today. Let’s be sad for our own great loss. Let’s hold hands and embrace. We have lost a teacher, a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother, an aunt, a friend. In short: We have lost our rock. But what would Grandma do if she saw us so sad? She’d pull us all together at her kitchen table and get us each a pop or a bowl of soup. We could just sit and talk or get a card game going. Without her, we pebbles can band together and be almost as strong as she was. But I believe in my heart, as long as we are together and close, she is with us.

Thank you.

"With the Rich and Mighty, Always a Little Patience" - FFF #31

2010-05-11T09:45:00.003-04:00

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction #31 where the quest was to use the words batch, catch, latch, patch and coriander in the story.

********

"So, ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Coriander paused to light his pipe. "It has been a long weekend, has it not? And I am sure you are all anxious to depart this terrible place and return home. And all but one or two of us shall be able to do just that."

"One or two of us?" Mrs. Henry asked, her hand fluttering to her locket. "Why not all of us?"

"Surely you have guessed that we have all gathered here in the parlour because I now know who killed Mr. Bentley? And further that I believe one of us here in this very room is the murderer!"

"It can't be one of us!" Mrs. Henry gasped, looking around at her guests in all their finery. They were a cool and reserved batch of old money and good breeding.

"And why not? We are all humans who are, if nothing else, animals. When threatened do we not lash out or flee? Are we not all capable of having our mental strings snagged in a patch of madness where all civilized reason leaves us? And the only sensible way forward is to lay waste to one of our fellows?"

"But we are all civilized individuals of good reputation! We do not murder!" Mrs. Henry cried, reddening. She began to worry harder at her locket until the latch broke and the necklace fell into her hand. She looked at Mr. Coriander, furious.

"Ah, but you are wrong, Mrs. Henry." Mr. Coriander said with some satisfaction. "Do you not now wish to do me in? Your prized locket has been broken. I saw rage in your eyes just now. You'd like to bash me in the head with the fireplace poker, wouldn't you."

"You mock me, Mr. Coriander." Mrs. Henry said quietly turning away.

"See here now, you jerk! You can't talk to my aunt that way!" Paul said and he moved quickly to catch the locket that was slipping from Mrs. Henry's hand.

"I can talk anyway I want, Mr. Henry." Mr. Coriander puffed on his pipe, delighted with himself. "I too am a free man of means."

"But I thought we all agreed that the gardener was responsible for Mr. Bentley's death." Paul whined.

"Perhaps you all agreed on that," Mr. Coriander walked toward the mantel of the grand fireplace so that he could stand in nature's own spotlight shining through the parlour's windows. "But I believe differently and I'm prepared to prove it to you right now as we wait for the police to arrive."

"You called the police?" Mr. Galveston asked, finally looking up from his paper. "How common! Usually we handle this kind of thing quietly."

"Usually?!" Mr. Coriander barked and moved out of his good lighting. "What do you mean, 'usually,' Mr. Galveston? Are you in the habit of pinning murders on servants?"

"Yes, quite." Mr. Galveston stated and looked back at his paper. "Paul, would you mind terribly handling this as you handled Mr. Bentley?"

Mr. Coriander began to sputter. He gasped for breath as his face turned green and he dropped to the floor, dead.

"I anticipated you'd ask, Mr. Galveston." Paul said, picking up Mr. Coriander's pipe. "Right before we met here, I lined the mouthpiece of Mr. Coriander's pipe with poison from Auntie's locket. What shall I tell the Inspector when he arrives?"

"Ah the usual," Mr. Galveston sighed. "One of our guests let his imagination run wild. Fancied himself a kind of Poirot after we played at detective with the local murder mystery drama club. Let him know that all is well and that Mr. Bentley escorted our Mr. Coriander back to the city. And don't forget to tip the Inspector well for his trouble. Later, we'll put them both in Mr. Bentley's car and push them over some cliff or other"

"Yes, sir," said Paul, reaching for his wallet.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Galveston," Mrs. Henry cooed. "It's so good to have that all cleared up. Tennis anyone?"

FFF #30 - Breakfast

2010-05-04T09:00:00.004-04:00

"Is it me, or does this coffee taste weird?"

"It's you."

"Hmm..."

"Pass me the lemons, would you?"

"I don't have the lemons."

"Nevermind, they're right here."

"You're blind without your glasses."

"You're blind without your glasses; I'm wearing mine."

"This toast is burnt."

"It's just dark."

"I like my toast lightly toasted."

"Well put some butter on it, that'll lighten it up."

"Are you trying to kill me? You know I can't have butter."

"Then make some more 'toast' and let's move on with our lives."

"What did you put in these eggs?"

"Eggs, milk, salt and pepper, mustard..."

"Mustard?!?"

"Yes, mustard."

"What ever possessed you to put mustard in the scrambled eggs?!?"

"I saw Rachel Ray do it."

"She's crazy."

"I like her."

"That figures."

"Let me have the Life section of the paper."

"Here."

"Your horoscope: You may be disappointed in the morning, but don't be concerned you won't have to suffer overlong. Your life will flash by your eyes before lunch."

"You really aren't very nice until we start the second pot of coffee."

"I gave up coffee, don't you remember?"

"It's going to be a long day."

"For some of us...drink up."

Posted for Friday Flash Fiction.

FFF # 29 - Silenced

2010-04-26T10:00:00.006-04:00

A continuation of Between the Curtains, again dedicated to Coaster Punchman.

"I said that you don't have to believe me, and I certainly wouldn't...if I were in your shoes." Mrs. Stevens said as she fingered the silken belt of her robe. She tilted her head as she watched Mrs. Kravitz float above her dining room table.

"Well, I don't believe you!" Mrs. Kravitz snivelled. "Now get me down from here!"

"I'm sorry, I can't do that." Mrs. Stevens replied. "You've seen too much. I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but I can't have you starting up a witch hunt against me. Today my sisters and I are going to have a little prayer group and we will be praying to silence you. Now be quiet and try to find some peace. I've got to finish preparing the punch and finger sandwiches. Everyone will be here soon. " Mrs. Stevens turned away from her and entered the kitchen.

Mrs. Kravitz continued to float on her back above the early American dining table. Tears began to slide down the sides of her face and drip onto the polished oak finish. She was frightened but resolute. This must be some cruel joke. She had to be held up like this by some combination of fishing wire and hallucinogenic drugs. She couldn't feel any specific bonds; it felt more like magnetic force keeping her hovering. She shook away that train of thought. It had to be some kind of parlour trick. There is no natural way she could be suspended in midair like this.

Mrs. Kravitz began to pray. She started with a plea to damn Mrs. Stevens to hell for this. She had suspected the woman was either a circus freak or a whore. Strange people had been coming and going from her house at odd hours. Mrs. Kravitz sometimes didn't even see them approaching, which was unusual, since she kept a daily vigil at her window. Then it was the strange creatures that began roaming the back yard: a unicorn, garden gnomes and dragon.

It was the dragon that drew Mrs. Kravitz away from her window and sent her marching next door. She had pounded on the Stevens's front door and demanded entrance. She would no longer tolerate Mrs. Stevens's interest in unusual creatures. It was one thing to have wierdos in your house at all hours. It was quite another to go to great lenghts to alter God's creatures in one way or another to make them resemble the denizens of hell where all that old mythology was born. She said as much to Mrs. Stevens and the woman just laughed at her.

Mrs. Stevens then led her through the house and showed her the backyard, which no longer contained the beasts. She continued to deny Mrs. Kravitz's accusations and had almost convinced her that she was seeing things until a small, evil little creature dashed out from under the couch and bit Mrs. Kravitz on the ankle.

Mrs. Kravitz shivered at the memory. It was a terrible and vile living version of the little fishing gnome statue Mrs. Kravitz had bought and placed in her own garden. She was horrified and then filled with the glory of God. She fought back the pain and pulled herself up tall and let herself be God's instrument in the presence of the evil woman. Oh, if only her ladies prayer group had been there to hear her preach that day...

She had just been winding up to deliver the final piece of her invocation and damn Mrs. Stevens to hell when that woman wiggled her nose at Mrs. Kravitz and all went dark. The next thing she knew she was floating above this table.

"Ok, Mrs. Kravitz," Mrs. Stevens said, re-entering the dining room. "Everything's all set. Ah, there's the doorbell! Now you keep quiet." She wiggled her nose at Mrs. Kravitz and the latter felt a warm yet invisible hand cover her mouth.

Mrs. Kravitz heard a group of ladies bubbling in from the front entrance. She could recognize the snide tones of Mrs. Stevens's mother, Endorra among them. As she listened intently for any clue that this was a hoax, she began to decifer other voices. Several of them were ones she'd heard as she listened over the Stevens's back yard during their summer barbeques. But wait, was that Mrs. Cooper the minister's wife? And Miss Tibbs, the school principal? She peered out of the corner of her eye, trying to get a glimpse of the living room. It was! She struggled against her invisible bonds and shriek for help. It was no use. She must try praying again.

She watched in horror as the ladies removed their sensible trench coats and hats to reveal they were all wearing matching, black silk robes. Her eyes bugged out as she recognized most of her prayer group among the coven. Help me, Father! She sent this wish to heaven in desperation.

The ladies in the other room turned their attention to the floating Mrs. Kravitz. They smirked at her and began to jabber to each other.

"All right, ladies," Mrs. Stevens called and clapped her hands. "We are gathered here today to take care of a little problem, as you know. We've all been very patient with Mrs. Kravitz and have done what we can within the mortal realm to ease her mind and distract her from our important work. But, I'm afraid we couldn't expect to be successful forever. Afterall, she is a very clever and powerful woman. So let's work together to redirect her energy to something more positive and less interfering. Shall we gather in the dining room? Afterwards, we'll have punch and sandwiches and begin our work on the school levy, as we had originally planned."

The ladies moved into the dining room and formed a circle around Mrs. Kravitz. Mrs. Kravitz felt a strong energy warming and confining her. She began to pray but their words knocked her prayers down like so many sweat bees as they began their chant.

"Zolda Pranken Kopeck Lum Ippity Bippity Zippity Zoom Zoom..." and Mrs. Kravitz fainted.

Mrs. Kravitz shook her head and found herself sitting in an armchair opposite her husband. She glanced over to the window and shivered. It was repulsive to her.

"Are you cold, Gladys?" Mr. Kravitz asked her.

"No," she said, returning to her knitting. "I just can't stand those curtains anymore."

******

Posted for Friday Flash Fiction.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: I'd Like to Invite You to SHUT UP!

2010-04-20T13:12:00.001-04:00

I'm just sitting here on this park bench, feeding the squirrels, despite what the sign says. Why can't we feed stale bread to park critters anymore? Who decided that? How else am I going to see wildlife up close and personal without dropping sixty bucks at the zoo?!? To hell with those uppity park rangers and their goddamn non-interference policy. This is not Star Trek, chief.

But I digress...

I enjoy my community park. I like to feed the squirrels and ducks. I like to hear children playing from a distance. What I don't like to hear is your big yap flapping in the wind on your cellular phone! I don't care that the person on the other end of the satellite needs your advice. I'm sure he's already up to his asshole in advice, what with all the wiki this and google that! So you can take that loud voice and sanctimony and find yourself a cone of goddamn silence, which we used to call a "phone booth."

You see, sunshine, in my day, people had discretion. If they had personal business to discuss, they'd take into another room and shut the damn door. If they had a personal call to make and they were out in public, they'd find a booth and fold themselves into it. Hell, they'd even turn their backs away from the window so we didn't even have to read their lips. It was private, Jack! And that's the way I like it.

So get out of here and sit in your car, if you're going to fling your dirty laundry all over my park or I'll kick your blue tooth out!

Modern Marriage

2010-04-20T11:41:00.001-04:00

FFF #28 Favoritism

2010-04-09T14:14:00.007-04:00

The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I'm choking on the stuff. My first clue should have been the way she said my name. It was polite with a touch of frost. Usually, I can charm my way past most red tape scenarios, especially with receptionists of a certain age. But Miss Burke was not about to participate in my whine tasting.

"Sir," she clipped through glossy pink lips, "I understand that this is an inconvenience, but you're going to have to sit and wait. Please have a seat. Mr. Louis will see you when he's ready."

I smiled at her and tilted my head. She put her glasses on and returned to her computer. So much for that. I sighed and spun on my heal. I glanced around the room. They say many CEO's decorate their offices as God might: situate them at the top of the building, add lots of white and heavenly objects to their surroundings. The antechamber I was standing in certainly had a pearly gates feeling to it. The walls were white with wainscoting and lots of fussy molding. Niches, inlaid with shimmery gold and lit from within somehow, contained statuary from the classical to the abstract.

I dropped myself into a lush love seat across the room where I could see the office door and Miss Burke. I couldn't imagine what I was doing here. Sure, I hadn't been one hundred percent straight at the tables, but that's hardly a reason for the CEO of Running Waters Casino to bother with me. There was a grand collection of thugs on the payroll that could harvest my small potatoes anytime without the formality of meeting with the guy upstairs.

See, every now and then, I like to perpetute the myth of lady luck, in particular, beginner's lady luck. I don't cheat much, but I do like to ply my sleight of hand to make a young lady's heart race. Usually she leaves the table with a couple of hundred bucks in winnings and a date to meet me later for a fun romp. And no one's the wiser. It's harmless. It's win win win all over the place and it doesn't cost the casino much at all.

It had been a while since I had a go at it. We'd all received a memo about how any favoritism at the tables wouldn't be tolerated. So I decided to cool it. Until last night when I couldn't resist. Her name was Sharon and she was a bright little penny from Phoenix Arizona. I was dealing straight and she won her first hand. Her gasp of surprise and noises of delight when I pushed chips her way were just so charming. I had to hear them again. And again. I made sure others won too. I dealt her a winner about every fifth or sixth hand; everything else I dealt straight. That had been both a profitable and rewarding evening on the green and in the bedroom.

Maybe I'm being promoted, I thought. They must see that I'm a favorite dealer. My table is always full. Tips are bigger for me and the waitresses than any other table in the place. They probably want me to train the other dealers in how best to service our clientele. I began to visualize how I would spend some time with the human resources people coming up with the class materials and a catchy name. I saw myself in the center of the UN style amphetheater the casino has for employee training and development, sharing my wisdom and helping to lift up my fellow man.

I would be smooth and charming. I would keep them on the hook with anecdotes of my superior people skills. Of course, I would have to be self-effacing and shine a light on myself that wasn't favorable, only to lead them to the lessons I learned and how they helped me become the pillar of dealership I am today. I would have them in the palm of my hands...

"Mr. Quinn?" said the insistant Miss Burke.

"Yes?" I asked, breaking free of my plans for the moment.

"Mr. Louis will see you now." she said and swung the door open.

I stood up and smoothed my hair and checked my breath. I nodded to Miss Burke and made my way through the door. I stepped onto the lush white carpet and took in the view from the floor to ceiling windows that surround the office. I could see for miles. Heaven indeed! I moved my eyes over to the desk where Mr. Louis sat with two of his favorite thugs parked at either side of him like bishops on a chessboard. I smiled at them and took a step towards his desk when I was wallopped by the third thug who had hovered in my blindside.

Knocked to the floor, my head reverberated with the echos of his brass knuckles chiming my jawbone. I blinked and chased away the momentarily hilarity I felt when I noticed that the carpet smelled like cotton candy. I tried to get to my knees but thug number three dropped his size thirteens on my lumbar area. He yanked at my hair and pulled my head up so I could see Mr. Louis better.

"Did you read the memo I sent about favoritism, Johnny?" Mr. Louis asked.

"Yes, sir," I said and grimmaced as the pain extended its stay into next week.

"Did you also read the other memo that went out at the same time?"

I blinked.

"It concerned my new wife, Sharon..." he said, trying to prompt my memory. Thug three dug his heel in to my back and farted.

Oh, shit. I thought. So much for the lecture series...

********

Friday Flash Fiction 28 with a challenging starter sentence from Paulie Decibels

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Life Metaphors

2010-04-07T13:00:00.002-04:00

Son, sit down and let me tell you about life. Life is just a game of Minesweeper. You ever played that game? Yeah, I bet you have; you look like the type. Do you know that I've played that game 872 times on Expert and I've only won one time?!? And you know it's only like life if you play it on Expert. Don't give me any of that "beginner" or "intermediate" crap. That's not life. That's TV.

You set yourself down sometime and you start that game up and pick the expert level. And I want you to pay attention to what happens. You see, most games are winnable. Those guys that make games want you to win so you'll buy more of their stuff. You win all the time, you piss all your money away. Just look at that MC Hammer fella if you want proof. But this game was designed by someone who knew shit from shinola. Also? He got a contract with Microsoft to include it on all their shitty software. Why should he even bother creating another game for the rest of his life? He's in the promised land, sport.

So, when you play on expert, you have to start out with an absolute guess as to what the right move is. You could click on one of those 999 boxes and BAM! Game over. Or you could get lucky and open up a dozen or two free spaces. And this is just like life. You take that first step out on your own and you either pop on a clear spot and see the way forward or blow your goddamn foot off. And you know what else? And this is the most important lesson: You're gonna lose. No matter what. So get used to the idea, Johnny.

FFF #27 - Between The Curtains

2010-04-05T13:30:00.005-04:00

This time, Cormac gave us a list of words to incorporate instead of a starter sentence:

Cache
Cashew
Eschew
Through

I dedicate this short story to the Coaster Punchman. He'll know why...

Bon apetit!

Mrs. Kravitz twitched her chintz curtains to get a better view of the street below. She peered through the long, thin gap between the two panels to get a view of her neighbor, Mrs. Stevens, as she maneuvered her grand, wood paneled station wagon into the driveway. She watched as the young woman parked her car then leaned over the console to check her makeup in the rear view mirror. She preened at her volumes of golden locks and turned her head from side to side to get a better view of herself in the small landscape the car's mirror provided. Satisfied with what she saw, she pulled the keys out of the ignition and dropped them in her purse. She opened the car door and let one long leg out after the other.

Mrs. Stevens strode to the back of the wagon and opened the hatch as Mrs. Kravitz's eyes bored into her. She reached into the back end and extracted four shiny pink bags. With the bags hooked on her left arm she reached up and closed the hatch.

"That woman has no shame," Mrs. Kravitz tsked.

"What is it now, Gladys?" her husband asked from his easy chair, his mouth full of cashews.

"She went shopping again at that new ladies' department at Macy's. Who needs that much lingerie, I ask you?!"

Mrs. Kravitz took a mental snapshot of the brazen woman as she headed to her front door. She planned to add the details of what she saw to her growing cache of dirty secrets for use later. She would need to ask her Bible study group to pray for Mrs. Stevens. She would make an impassioned plea to them and warn them about turning a blind eye to the beginnings of oversexualization in the marital bed. She had read about the dangers of this somewhere. She wouldn't worry about the research now. The Spirit always led her when she took her place at her own informal pulpit in the fellowship hall at the church. She would find the words to convince them that they must save that woman's soul or to turn their backs and eschew her. Actually, Mrs. Kravitz thought, either way worked for her. If a woman was unwilling to conform to the Lord's Way, then she might as well be dead in Mrs. Kravitz's book. But that scarlet woman certainly couldn't be allowed to continue to strut around in this manner any longer.

"Oh, she's young, Gladys, why don't you leave it alone?" Abner whined.

"Someone's got to keep an eye on these things, Abner!" she huffed. "I'm only trying to do my duty as a Deacon's wife. Besides, you don't want her to burn in hell, do you?" Mrs. Kravitz turned from the window and a put her hands on her hips, arms akimbo. She gave her husband a look that would fry eggs.

No, but you do, thought Abner with some disgust. He grunted and shrugged. He set the nut bowl on the end table and dusted the salt from his hands. He decided to dodge this particular argument and sought cover behind a wall of newspaper. Personally, he thought Mrs. Stevens was a bright new addition to their community and her angel food cake was out of this world. He didn't think she needed to change one blond hair on that pretty little head. And what happened in other people's marital bedroom was none of his concern. He knew better than to take the fight bait his wife was laying before him like an Easter ham.

"Honestly, Abner, you used to be vigilant about maintaining community standards. What happened to you?" But Gladys could see she had lost him for the moment and turned back to the window. She could nearly see the Stevens' upstairs bedroom window from this position, but not quite as well from her own room. Curiousity burned in her heart. She knew her drive to gather knowledge about all the people in her community was her spiritual gift straight from Jesus and she never ignored the urge to witness. God put her here to watch and report and lead those sinners to salvation.

She threw one hmfph towards Abner and turned on her sensible heel towards the bedroom to get a closer look.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Get off of my Lawn!

2010-03-28T00:03:00.002-04:00

Since when do you think you can cut through my yard?!? Don't you see the signs?!? Can't you read, hippie? I didn't spend all that time in the shit to come back home and have you goddamn kids disrespect my Kentucky Blue! Why can't you drive everywhere like a respectable American? You think you're protecting the environment by walking, don't you. Well, just whose environment would that be? Certainly not mine.

I get up everymorning to water my lawn. I dig out every dandilion by hand. I've got the same lawn equipment they use at Wimbleden so that I can beautify my environment. I did not plan for lawn ornamentation that included you. Get this through your earbuds, buddy: Just because I'm between your house and the Circle K doesn't mean you can drag your knuckles across my environment! You'd best reprogram that GPS and find another route ASAP.

You kids today with your MyBook Faces and your iWhatevers have got no respect for anything around you.

Now, GIT! And don't let me catch you coming through here again. My Grandson's a cop!

FFF #26 - 2010 Senses

2010-03-26T16:46:00.000-04:00

"What do you see when you close your eyes?" he asked between kisses. His hands caught in her hair as they lingered near the archway, her back pressed against a marble column.

How could she tell him about the random parade of images marching through her mind? What a funny question to ask! She opened her eyes and looked at him directly in the left eye, then the right and back again. She wondered if she should even dare to speak and break the spell her inner reptile had cast on her. If I have to explain, I'll have to think...and then all the magic will end.

She leaned in and resumed kissing him, turning his body so that they switched places and he was now pinned. She unbuttoned his sport coat and reached inside with both hands and placed them on his sides. She felt bone, then meat, then bone through his linen shirt as she moved her hands up and down his ribcage, creating a xylophone symphony of sensations. The textures of the silky lining of the sport coat and the linen shirt combined and equalled a thrill greater than their parts. His heat warmed her hands and innards.

What do I see? Zebras running, molten silver, cymbal crash...

"I need to know..." he said, shivering as the sun set. He moved his hands from her hair down and across her shoulder blades, settling at the small of her back and pulling her closer.

Neon signs, wheat fields, lightning...

"No," she exhaled.

Footsteps fell, softly at first then louder, their doppler effect cooling them. She stepped back. He ran his hands through his hair and smiled at her.

"Come with me," he said and gestured for her hand.

She gave it to him and he brought it to his lips. After a swift, sweet brush, he pulled her in to his side and led her to the terrace. The footsteps faded as the sun sank into the horizon. Twilight and sunset entertwined and threw shadows and sparkles everywhere. Lilacs hummed with fragrance as the wind danced.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. He reached across and pulled her close. He looked into her eyes and asked, "What do you see when you open your eyes?"

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction with Cormac's Starter Sentence in Bold.