Category Archives: Fiction – Stories in my head

A Dilly of a Dilemma

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I love to write to prompts. Quick stories, handwritten in a limited amount of time, jump-start the right side of my brain. The windows to my imagination are flung open and words fly freely onto the page. They are untethered to logic, only conforming to the guidelines of the prompt. Often, I am taken by surprise at the words that leave my pencil and show up on the page. Most of the time, they are zany musings, sometimes the beginning of a story to develop later, and sometimes a dark force compels a tragedy. Occasionally, nonsense dribbles out, and I find it hard to follow the labyrinth of thoughts. I am always in awe of the process and its revelations. The following story popped up when given ten minutes to write a scene from three different points of view.

The Scene: A female hitchhiker is dropped off at an emergency room with a problem. Tell the scene from the POV of the nurse, the patient, and a hospital administrator.

Nurse POV:

A young miss came into the ER early this morning with a problem. One I haven’t seen in my twenty-four years of nursing. She had been hitchhiking along Highway I-10 from Mobile on her way to Jacksonville, Florida. Her thumb was the size and color of a pickle, not dill, more like a large sweet. She didn’t appear to be in pain, and the rest of her hand looked quite normal and pink, but she complained that since the weather had turned cold, it had been impossible to put on her gloves. I took her vitals, then sent for Dr. Shambala, who was on call. He came in and examined the majestic, inflated digit with no discernible dismay.

His only question to her was, “Is it easy to get rides with that thing?”

To which she replied, “Actually, it comes in handy.”

“Well then, no surgery,” he said. “I think the answer is to buy larger stretchy gloves. I wouldn’t want to inhibit your travels or your gardening.”

I discreetly took a photo of her thumb. I wanted to show it to Hiram, our hospital admin. We had a meeting just last week about the anomalies of the human body and how to address those issues.

Patient POV:

My thumb had been bothering me for several days. Snow and sleet had become an everyday occurrence, even though I had consciously chosen a southern route for my winter journeys. My gloves just didn’t fit anymore. My thumb was getting larger and was really, really cold. I hitched a ride on a pig wagon to the nearest ER. It was a twenty-mile ride, but the farmer was swell. He asked me about my thumb, and I told him it was the reason I needed to see a doctor.

“Going to have it cut off?” he asked.

“Heavens no,” I replied, “just wonder if it could be made a little smaller for my gloves.”

In the emergency room, the doctor asked the obvious question. “How did it happen?”

It’s not the first time that question has come up. I get tired of the same old answer, “I was born this way”, so I told him I was picking crops in Mexico and got a cut, and the juice from the pickles I was picking dripped in, and lo and behold, I woke up with a pickle-sized green thumb.

The nurse at the ER looked a little disconcerted, but kept her cool, and the doctor suggested I get larger gloves for my travels.

“We wouldn’t want to impede your traveling abilities. It clearly is a significant benefit to your lifestyle.

As I was leaving, a sour-looking gentleman, round as a wine keg, came up and asked that I go with him to his office. I did, thinking he might have a suggestion for my thumb. I found out he was a pervert with a title and a fancy office. He wanted to suck my pickle. I left without “goodbye.”

Hospital Administrator POV:

Nurse Nancy came to my office this morning with a photo she took of one of our ER patients. That’s strictly forbidden, but when I saw the photo, I understood her motivation. The girl had a thumb the size of a juicy green pickle. I had given a mini-seminar to the staff about physical anomalies and injuries they could encounter in a rural hospital; everything from nails in the head or hand, to animal parts embedded in human parts – enough said. The thumb picture triggered something in me, and I had to go down to see it in person. The young lady was just leaving the ER.  I asked her to come up to my office for a chat. She obliged, but when the door closed, a powerful urge overcame me. I just had to taste that thumb. I had been a thumb sucker up to the age of fifteen when the shame heaped upon me by my peers finally inhibited the craving, and I quit cold turkey. The girl was offended by my request to suck her thumb and left in a huff. I wished her well on her journey and hope she has a dilly of a life.

AI generated picture

Who Done It? – A very short mystery

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Bequia at anchor in Doe Bay

Winston kicked loose rocks into the slow-breaking waves, his sandaled foot making soft plops in the water. Sand crabs skittered away at his approach across the rocky beach. Cold, briny air blowing steadily against his face ruffled his dark hair and brought the scent of faraway adventure back to him. His forty-three-foot sloop, Bequia, bobbed at anchor sixty feet offshore where the shelf dropped to deep, near ebony waters. Uneasiness haunted this return to his boat, hiding behind his sense of liberation. It had been a tense week on the island.

He untied his dark gold, black streaked, rubber dinghy from a large driftwood log and pulled it out into the surf. Slick clumps of seaweed made walking on the rocks like skating in slug slime. He grounded the dinghy with one foot and shoved off with the other until it floated on its own. The halo line of the rising sun on the east horizon above the hill cast faint magenta fingers into the morning-tinted sky. When he lifted anchor, he would say goodbye to Orcas Island forever. The only witnesses to his departure were three seagulls hanging sideways to the wind.

            It was one of those rare early fall days in the San Juans, portending sunshine at the crack of dawn, no cloudy onshore flow, and a bit breezy. Holly, the waitress at the Swing Inn Café, wiped the crusty pink and gray marbled countertop. Marla never seemed to get it clean before she left at night. She inserted the “daily specials” card into each menu on the stack. The little bell at the door announced morning customers when they arrived. That jangling bell at the door was her starting gun for the day. She watched for regulars – Ted, when he was in town, and Paulus, the Greek.

Then there was the dark-haired stranger who showed up at five am every day for the past week. She still didn’t know his name. That was unusual because, if anyone could charm customers, it was blue-eyed Holly. She hadn’t been successful in finding out where he was staying or why he was in their small town. He came in, ordered the breakfast special without even looking to see what Marty had on the menu, drank two and a half cups of coffee, left a $3 tip, and nodded goodbye. Other than his order and curt answers to polite questions, he didn’t utter a syllable. He was civil, but barely, a real challenge for the gregarious waitress.

Holly tucked her summer-streaked brown hair behind her ears and watched out the window as dawn slowly lit the street in front. The smell of biscuits and coffee filled the small café with a tantalizing good morning aroma. Soon, slices of ham, sausage patties, and strips of bacon would sizzle on the grill.

            Ting-a-ling.

            “Hey, Holly.  How’s tricks?” Old Paulus was always jaunty in the morning. He was a retired fisherman whose wife died four years ago. It became his habit to spend an hour each morning at the Swing Inn. He slid into his customary seat, third from the left end at the counter, and opened his paper, keeping an eye on Holly as she poured him a cup of coffee and put the brown cow pitcher of cream beside it. It made him feel almost married again to have his breakfast with a pretty woman. 

            “You want the special or just eggs and biscuits this morning?”

            “Mmmm.  Today’s Friday. Crab omelet, right?”

            “You got it.”

            “Okay, the special. Did you hear the fireworks last night?”

            “What fireworks?” Holly called over her shoulder, “Marty, one special for the Greek.”

            “Evidently, someone started a fight at the Razmataz, complete with gunfire, squealing tires, police lights, and sirens. No one got hurt or arrested. The guy who started it got away. Some stranger in town. A couple of fellas went to the station for questioning. I heard ‘bout it on the radio before I walked over here.” 

            “It must have happened after I went home,” said Holly. “I was out at Gull’s Wing until the band quit about 1:30 and didn’t notice anything on my way home. I drove right past Razmataz.”

            “How d’you do it? Out dancin’ at night and perky in the morning.”

            “I’m not telling my secrets, Paulus. I might want to sell them one day on QVC.”

            “Youth, it’s all about youth.”

            “I’ve been around awhile. I know what winds my stem. I figured out how to fit the rest of my day around dancing.”

            “Maybe I should try it. These old bones might like to jig.”

            “Come out with me tonight. I’m probably going back to Gull’s Wing. Colin Wilson’s band is playing. Good dance tunes, some country two-step, some swing, some salsa. There’s always a lively crowd when he plays. Plenty of singles. You’ll have your pick of partners, and I’ll certainly dance with you.”

            The door chimes rang again.

            “Mornin’ Sunshine, mornin’ Greek.” Ted took off his cowboy hat and swung his lanky frame onto the stool two down from Paulus. Ted did long-distance trucking. When he was in town, he was always at Swing Inn first thing each day. His wife, Tina, was the kindergarten teacher at the local elementary. She was a vegetarian and liked slow, quiet mornings with yoga and soft classical music, so rain or shine, he walked to the café for conversation and meat.

            Holly poured his coffee in a big mug – black, no anything. 

            “Order up.” Marty hollered.

            Holly pulled the warm plate from the serving shelf and put it in front of Paulus, and warmed up his coffee.

            “What’ll it be, Ted?”

Holly turned at the sound of the bell at the door to welcome the dark-haired new guy, but found her smile greeting an elderly couple who sat themselves in the middle booth of three next to the window.

            “Be right with you folks. Special is crab omelet.”

            The elderly lady, slightly stooped with her green coat pulled close, her gray bob snug in a scarf, nodded back to Holly. “No hurry, dear, but bring tea when you come.”

            “I’ll have double ham, side of bacon, sausage, and two eggs easy over, and a handful of those biscuits,” Ted said as he gulped most of his first mug of coffee. “Do you have grape jelly this morning?”

            “I’ll check. I’m pretty sure a delivery came yesterday afternoon,” she answered and poured more coffee into Ted’s mug.

“Double ham, jacked, and two easy, Marty,” she called to the cook.

            Holly filled two aluminum pots with steaming hot water, grabbed tea bags, put teacups, two napkin-wrapped bundles of silverware on her tray, and two menus under her arm, and went to the couple in the booth.

            “You folks are sure up and out early this morning? Welcome to our little town. Staying at the hotel?” Holly handed them the menus and set out the tea, silverware, and napkins.

            “Did you hear the commotion last night?” Paulus addressed Ted.

            “Lights out for me at 10:00. What happened?” 

            “Don’t know exactly, but there was a ruckus at Razmataz sometime after closing.  Reports say no one was hurt, but the fella who started it got away.”

            “We’re here visiting our daughter and her husband, the Jamisons. Do you know them?” the elderly man answered Holly.

            “Sure do. Millie Jamison clerks at First American Bank on the corner, and Conner works at the auto shop, right? Nice people. Going to stay long?”

            “Body was found out behind Razmataz, in the woods,” Marty called through the serving window. “I’ve been listening to KRG, local news. They just found it. Don’t know who yet.”

            The halyard clanged against the mast on the swaying boat as Winston stepped from the dinghy onto the swim deck of Bequia. He pulled the dinghy aboard and closed the swim deck.  After securing the small boat on the foredeck, he started the electric windlass to raise the anchor and prepared to unfurl the jib. Wind quickly filled the sail, propelling Bequia on its north heading. Revenge left a gnawing hole in his gut, not at all the relief he expected. He set the tiller and slipped below to grab a bite to eat before setting the mainsail. It had been a long night. After he abandoned the rental car, he had walked the rough terrain in dim moonlight nearly 10 miles through part of Moran Park from Doe Bay on the southeast side of the island. He wanted to be in Canadian waters as soon as possible.

What About Lunch?

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“It’s more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like “What about lunch?” – Winnie the Pooh

“What about lunch?” Jacob asked in a very low voice, looking straight ahead as we sat on the stone stoop in front of my cousin Maria’s apartment building trying to stay cool on a sizzling summer Saturday. Kids playing in the street were having water pistol fights dodging waves of heat with streams of water.

I wasn’t sure he wanted me to hear what he said. Maybe he was talking to his gurgling stomach.

“Huh? Did you just ask me to lunch or were you talking to someone else?”

“Aah, you, Valentina.” Jacob shifted a little closer. I got a heady waft of Old Spice Lime but I scooted away the same distance.

“You know I can’t be seen with you in public,” I tucked the skirt of my yellow sundress under my thigh just in case he might move closer again. One spaghetti strap slid off my shoulder and I quickly shoved it back up.

Jacob is my brother’s friend. He played basketball at Roosevelt High in Borough Park and my brother, of course, was the star forward on his basketball team at St. Francis in Crown Heights. Their teams competed throughout high school. Then, after graduation a couple of years ago, they became fast friends. Now they play together on an evening basketball team at the Brooklyn Youth Center in Bedford-Stuy. That’s how I met Jacob. We’ve been seeing each other on the sly for about six months.

“What’s not public about this? We’re not exactly hiding. Maria knows we’re here.” His voice got a little louder and his dark cocoa eyes looked directly into mine.

“Jacob! Have you lost your senses? My pop would have me go to confession every morning if he knew I had anything to do with you. You’re a a a – oh, I don’t remember the word he said. He thinks all you want is to get into my pants.”

“And I do. I love you, Val. I want you to be my girl, maybe even my wife,” he paused. “After you graduate.”

“Italians can’t love Jews.”

“Where’s that written?”

“It doesn’t have to be written. It’s just the way it is.”

“What about your brother? He’s married to Rachel, she’s Jewish.”

“Yeah, but she got pregnant and they had to get married. Besides, she was a Jew and now she’s a Delconti and she converted so, she’s Italian”.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“If you love me, will you convert?” I was more than a little curious about his answer.

“Well, that’s something we’ll have to talk about. Maybe you might want to be Jewish… if you…”

“I don’t like the food.”

“Back to lunch. We could leave the neighborhood and walk to Koenig’s deli on Bedford Ave. They have the best knishes.”

“I just told you.  I don’t like Jewish food.”

“It’s not really about food. It’s about love. I know you love me.” He put his arm around my waist and drew me closer. I pretended to struggle but I knew he was going to kiss me and I didn’t really want to miss it so I gave in – a little.

Just as his warm lips touched mine soft as a feather, Maria shouted down from the third-floor window, “Hey Juliette, you and Romeo better hustle. My dad’s on his way home and you know he feels the same about Jacob as your pop does.”

I grabbed Jacob’s hand, scrambled down the steps and across the street dodging sprays of water. We started through an alley toward the next block, when Jacob suddenly stopped, pushed me against the brownstone building, his body smashed against mine, his hands against the wall on either side of my head, and kissed me full force like it was something he needed to keep breathing. My knees went wobbly.

“Ok,” I said in a husky voice as soon as I could catch my breath. “I’ll try the knishes”.

Little People – a nighttime revelry

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Lola is one of the people who live rent-free in my mind. I am the happy repository of many stories from many characters. From time to time they insist that I write one of their stories. I don’t know a lot about Lola. She has not revealed herself personally so I don’t know how old she is, or how tall she is, or anything else about her. I believe she is Hispanic because some of her stories are flavored with Hispanic references but I’m not sure. I only know that she lives with a lot of fantasy. This is a story she wanted me to write a few months ago. I did. Since then I revised it a bit and offer it today.

Little People – a nighttime revelry

An unknown force tugged at Lola’s eyelids begging them to open. Her brain slowly began to surface from indigo slumber. She could hear the soft purr of her lover’s breath as he snored lightly on the pillow next to her. Still holding fast her eyelids, she listened for any other sounds. What had awakened her? The house kept its nighttime silence. Then.  What was that? She heard a splash, the sound of drops of water landing in water and, even yes, the sound of voices. It seemed distant but yet…she felt her ears expand in an effort to catch the slightest detail of sound. Again, a splash. She tried to sense the direction of the noise. It wasn’t in the house.

She opened her eyes to the blanket of darkness, then immediately closed them again. Through her closed eyelids, she sensed a hazy glow as if with open eyes she was looking through a thick cloth that filtered a bright illumination. When she opened her eyes again all she saw was inky nothing. She concentrated on picking out objects in the room. Through the curtained window she could make out an outline of moonlight. The mirror across the room received and reflected tiny fragments of light captured from the window. Slowly she began to see the outline of furniture in the room.

What was that? Another sound, unmistakably a tinkling voice, very high and gleeful, almost a laugh.

Her mind tried to bend around the sensory evidence it was collecting. Was she awake? Was she dreaming? Why did she see more light with her eyes closed than when they were open? Where was water being moved and splashed? And who was talking or laughing nearby? She was absolutely baffled. She lay rigid, not from fear, but straining every fiber to pick up more clues to the strangeness she perceived in the night. It seemed quiet now. Maybe just a dream.

Slowly Lola rolled her head to the side and looked at the clock. 4:00 in the morning. She groaned inwardly and involuntarily began to review the tasks before her for the day. She had to get up in an hour, an early meeting at the office. Then there was the council luncheon and her report. Her aunt was arriving from Texas later in the afternoon, and she had to pick her up at the airport. She needed every second of sleep she could squeeze from the night, so she rolled over to cuddle her sleeping partner who hadn’t stirred at all.

Mid-turn she heard the sound again of water being moved. Now she was sure she wasn’t asleep. She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and pulled on her robe. She went to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out, astonished by the brightness of milky moonlight. The backyard was bathed in a pearlescent glow and stars twinkled above in a black sky. Sounds rang out again and she knew they came from the backyard, but she couldn’t see all of it from the upstairs bedroom window. She slid her feet into her slippers and tiptoed quietly downstairs to the back door.

Lola peered through the window in the door that led out to the yard and the serenity pond surrounded by rocks and plants. It was her special quiet place, where she sat to reflect on nothing when all the something in life got to be too much. Her eyes widened. The moonlight made everything very clear, but her eyes wouldn’t believe what they saw. Six tiny people, pixies, elves, or something of the sort were cavorting around the edge of her pond. The entire pool was only six feet long and five feet wide with maybe a foot and a half of water, but the little people swam around like it was a full-size swimming pool. They couldn’t have been more than ten inches tall. They talked together in whispers except once in a while, one of them would laugh aloud, only to be hushed by the others. She was tempted to open the door and walk out onto the patio to see what they would do, but she didn’t want to disturb their happy revelry. She stood silently watching. They were dressed alike in costumes like old-fashioned bathing suits – knee-length pants, with a tunic top. She couldn’t tell if they were male or female. All had short shiny hair.

Lola watched for a while as daylight spread like a shawl over the mountaintop. Mistress Moon gave way, her glimmer fading into the stronger radiance of her Brother Sun. At the exchange of light, the little people faded along with the moonglow leaving Lola to wonder. Had they really been there? Was she still dreaming? What a start to a new day!

Winter Shamrocks – a lesson in prejudice

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Our writers’ group often uses prompts to stimulate our imaginations. The prompt for this time was to write a morality tale using three words or phrases that came from the names on paint chips from Home Depot. My words were winter shamrock, roasted seeds, rumors. This is the short tale I wove.

Winter Shamrocks

There were rumors throughout town that the witch who lived in the old shack at the edge of the forest roasted seeds of the winter shamrock to make a powerful hypnotic potion that she gave to farmers so they would keep her supplied with food for the winter.

Of course, it was false.

Because the witch was different, an outsider, she became the fodder of gossip.  No one in town tried to know her; they rendered her a thing rather than a person. It is an unfortunate human tendency to reify the ineffable; to reduce it to a familiar or popular code with which to beat someone over the head.

The townspeople were completely ignorant of the commerce between the witch and the farmers.  They could only make up stories to fit what they saw happening.

The previous summer, the witch had come to town and moved into an unoccupied shack on its north side. Without obvious means of support, she managed to slowly reform the old shack into a lovely cottage. As winter approached and lingered, she was assisted with large baskets of food donated by the farmers.  Did she bewitch them?

In reality, the farmers recognized her horticultural and homeopathic skills and honored them. She collected all manner of herbs and plants in the woods for the entire summer, putting them to dry in bunches on lines stretched from the low corner of the cottage roof to a tree at the forest’s verge. She made elixirs for the common cold, headache potions, and ague therapies and gave them generously to whoever came to her door. The townspeople avoided her and codified her existence as dangerous, suspicious.  They made note that the farmers nearby regularly visited her cottage. They could only surmise that she had put a spell on them to make them do her bidding.

The lovely, mystical winter shamrock was one of her favorite plants. She made a tea from the leaves and flowers to help those with heart conditions.  Farmer Elmer O’Reilly, who had suffered from hypertension since his early 30s, swore that three cups of the witch’s shamrock tea each day had relieved his symptoms within two days.  She toasted the shamrock sprouts to add crunch to herbal salads like the one she made with fennel leaves, kale, spinach, and arugula with a little goat cheese and ripe pear.

The witch roasted the delicate seeds of the winter shamrock to make her special elixir that she sold to the farmer’s wives. It was the enlarging potion and it had many uses, among them: 

2 drops of the potion could double the size of the roast when unexpected company arrived;

1 drop in the wash water could make a child’s leggings or shirt expand to one size larger avoiding new clothes every season (that could be done twice without compromising the strength of the fabric);

1 drop each on vegetables growing in the garden would assure an extra-large pumpkin, tomato, potato, pepper, or ear of corn;

3 drops added to 1/8 cup of olive oil and massaged slowly onto the farmer’s member resulted in enlarged smiles for both the farmer and his wife.

This potion alone assured the witch a special and welcome place in the community. The townsfolk, however, because of their narrow-minded determination to keep outsiders outside, continued to shun the witch and never reaped the benefit of her wisdom and gifts.

Moral: Prejudice results in the shrinkage of rewards.

My Fling with Fabio

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Prompts are a favored way of getting my mind engaged, setting aside whatever “project” I’m working on which may or may not be stalled, and opening myself up to a challenge. I am always surprised by what I write when I sit down to approach a random topic that is presented. This short short story was a prompt from our writers’ group. Sally authored the prompt. I chose to write it as a letter to a former lover. It was silly and fun.

  • The title is “Fling with Fabio”
  • In this story, you must use the words:
  • Churlish
  • Gallantry
  • Lame
  • Senescent
  • $5.00 (or use a five in another creative way)
  • and a quote of your choice from Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

Dearest Fabio,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. I know that sounds like a lame cliché. Still, the truth is that most of our relationship has been cliché — from the beauty, the passion, and those glorious mornings sitting on the deck of your condo on San Diego Bay drinking our $5 lattes and watching the sun peek its head above the horizon, sending shivering shards of light across the gentle waves of the Pacific.

You were, are, and will always be my gallant lover, but your senescence has become a problem. I don’t wish to sound churlish, but when you cuddled me and called me Shirley, I knew we were done.  

I would like your remembrance of me (which will be irrevocably short due to your lapses) to remain of our good times, our joy, our gayety, our desire.  As Romeo said,

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears.” Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1.

Forever yours,

Julie

I especially love my reference to the sunrise above the horizon in the West on San Diego Bay, where the sun decidedly sets every day. It was an intentional faux pas that added to the silliness.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover

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This was written from a prompt for the critique group I’m in. The prompt was to rewrite something from a favorite children’s story, add to the story or change it in some way. At the same time I was considering the prompt, Hurricane Helene struck the East Coast. The two ideas came together as I wrote.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover.

Alice was snuggled close, her head on my chest. Her hand on my cheek.

“I can’t sleep Grammy,” mumbled the toddler who had been fast asleep for four hours. Slivers of lights from passing cars and trucks flashed through a wedge in heavy curtains at the window of our motel room. The roar of trucks on the highway, a sound that made the room quiver, woke her.  I was amazed she slept as long as she had.  We were on the way to my home in Georgia and stopped for the night to get respite from the very stressful day. Hurricane Gianni had torn through the Florida town where Alice, her Dad, and Mom lived. I had been staying with them for a long weekend. The storm tracker indicated that Gianni was due to hit only the edge of land about one hundred miles south of their town. Suddenly it took a swing northward and inland, a giant locomotive ripping through San Colima. Tyler, my son, and his family live on the edge of town and were not in the direct path but the debris from the leveled town flew into their neighborhood. A grand piano crashed through the roof and landed in the middle of Alice’s bedroom. Fortunately, we were all in the underground hurricane shelter at the high school. We returned to their house to find the devastation. Luckily only two rooms had been seriously affected, Alice’s and the guestroom where I stayed. Wind and water had done more damage through the open roof, but the house was mostly intact.

“Take Alice and go back to your house Mom, Tyler said. “We’ll stay and help our neighbors then come up to get her when things are sorted out.” We hastily put things in a bag for Alice and I packed up a garbage bag with soggy clothes from my battered suitcase.

There was no electricity or water when we left to drive the three hundred miles to my home in Georgia. After a couple of hours on the road, the trauma of the day caught up with me and I needed to rest and regroup. I stopped at several motels along the highway but they were all full of people fleeing inland from the hurricane. The old Flamingo was the only motel with a room available. It had seen better days but at least it was a refuge for the night.

“This room is at the end of the building close to the road,” the clerk said. “It can get a bit noisy when trucks drive by.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in no shape to continue driving and Alice was cranky even though she had dozed off and on as we traveled toward Georgia. “I’ll take it. I’ll only be here a few hours, then back on the road again.”

It was about 4 am, I had rested but only snoozed a bit as I held Alice close. She began to squirm and whimper. “Grammy, I’m hungry.”

“OK Lambkins, we’ll get back on the road as soon as it’s light and find a place for breakfast. I have an apple and graham crackers for you now. Come snuggle and have a snack until then.”

“Read me a story,” she said.

“What story do you want?”  I knew perfectly well which one she would ask for. We had hurriedly tossed some of her favorite books in her bag along with a couple of stuffed animals and what dry clothes we found under the smashed dresser in her room.

“Alice in Wonderland,” she said. It was the book I read to her at least twice each time I stayed with them or when she came to visit me. In the four years of her life, she must have heard it five or six dozen times either by me or her parents reading. She knew each page and would correct us if we read it wrong or missed a word. Sometimes she would ask for just one scene. “Read the tea party, or read who stole the tarts, or off with their heads.” She would say when told there wasn’t time for the whole story.

“Gotta go potty,” she announced.” I retrieved the book with its colorful cover of Alice and the Cheshire Cat, the Queen, and the White Rabbit, from her bag while she went to the bathroom.

She came back to the bed, stopping to grab her pink and brown giraffe that had been her crib companion since she was born. It went everywhere with her.

“Ok. Where shall we start?”

“All the golden afternoon,

Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

By little arms are plied..,” *

My Alice started with the beginning poem as she nibbled on a cracker.

I opened the book and started to read. It had been tossed about in her room. Some of the pages were crumpled and water damaged but the hardback book was mainly intact. Something wasn’t right though. Glancing at the rumpled pages I noticed pictures I didn’t remember being in the book, but I began.

“…when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close to her…followed by three little pigs.” I read. And there on the page was a picture of the white rabbit in his tight-fitting plaid jacket and three little pigs dressed in red, blue and yellow jackets following close behind. 

“Grammy, there aren’t three little pigs in this story,” Alice objected.

“Look at this picture.”

She glanced at the page. “Hmmm,” she said and settled back on the pillow.

Then as poor Alice in the book shed a pool of tears because she couldn’t get out of the hall, she heard footsteps running and looked up to see a wolf dressed in a red cape. She peered out from behind the curtain that hid the door to the garden. “What big eyes you have,” said Alice to the wolf. “The better to see you with, my dear,” said the wolf.

“Grammy, that is the wolf from Red Riding Hood. How did he get into Wonderland?” Again, I showed her the illustration and again, she accepted the modification with no comment.

And on and on, the book had characters from Peter Rabbit, the Frog Prince, the giant from Jack’s Beanstalk, Snow White, and the three Billy Goats Gruff. Some attended the tea party with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter, some played croquet with the Queen, and some showed up at the King’s court to defend the Knave of Hearts.

Every once in a while, Alice would stop me reading to peer at the pictures – strong evidence that what I was reading was true because the illustrations verified the words.  “Grammy,” she said. “I think the hurricane jumbled my storybooks.” As the story ended, Alice had fallen back to sleep, snoring lightly, clutching her giraffe. I, too, was able to close my eyes and fall asleep. Restoration and renewal for a new day, a new adventure, a new Wonderland.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

Merlyn’s Miracle

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It was Merlyn LeRoy VanRune’s birthday.  Merlyn felt every day of his ninety-two years, hell he felt every moment of them. When it was suggested that “getting old isn’t for sissies,” he no longer considered it a joke. He was living proof that to get old was an uphill battle worthy of a warrior.  It was a battle in which he lost ground day by day. Every bone and tendon now had a voice, and they actively proclaimed exactly how much they objected to Merlyn’s lifestyle. If he sat, his back complained, if he walked his hips or knees complained. When he watched TV his eyes blurred sending a message to his brain that they were aggrieved. His dark wavy chestnut hair was still wavy but sparse. The color had turned to pewter. When his daughter suggested they have a birthday party, he petulantly retorted, “Why would I celebrate this creaking body that consistently betrays me? It will only complain more…sending me dispatches via tweaks and snarls.” 

All things considered, Merlyn was in pretty good shape for his age. When he was seventy-five he had kicked the smoking habit at the behest (read constant nagging) of his wife, Trixie.  According to his doctor, he had “the heart of a fifty-year-old”. Doc Winter hadn’t mentioned if the fifty-year-old had other mitigating issues.  His prostate was gone so it didn’t bother him anymore.  He was exactly the right amount of deaf – he only heard what he wanted to hear. His appetite was good – he enjoyed red meat and vegetables, none of that vegan, vegetarian shit. He had one shot of whisky before dinner and one glass of wine with dinner and a small brandy before bed – moderation, always moderation, a word he disdained when he was younger, seemed to fit like a glove now.

Merlyn was a magician when he met Trixie. At the time he had contracted with the Frontier Casino in Las Vegas, he was forty years old and a confirmed bachelor. He was a rolling stone traveling the world doing magic shows. He started out in a sideshow at a circus, then worked in a variety of venues as he perfected his magic act. He performed many times at the Magic Castle in Los Angeles and had been accepted as a member of the exclusive Academy of Magical Arts. Finally, he had a gig in Las Vegas – the big time.

When Merlyn was hired at the Frontier, he needed an assistant and Trixie auditioned for the job. Trixie was twenty-three, long-legged, with a shapely body and the face of an angel. She was a palm reader, fortune teller, and astrologer who practiced magic on the side.  It was love at first sight. They both knew it, but Merlyn tried hard to ignore his feelings. He liked his vagabond life and never entangled himself in romance for more than a week or two. Trixie predicted their marriage the day he hired her.  She said their mating was foretold by the stars and they had no control over the stars. Merlyn, mesmerized by Trixie’s beauty and talent, capitulated.

They were married within a month and performed their act together. Five years later Trixie became pregnant and announced that Merlyn would have to change his profession, settle down, so they could have a stable home for their offspring. It sounded to Merlyn like she was planning a litter. He cringed, balked, and recoiled from the idea. Gently, in her magical way, she told him it was a fact, and he would get used to it.

So Merlyn became a realtor, a salesman of properties in southern California. He was the most successful realtor in Coachella Valley due to his charming salesman patter and the magic he performed for prospective clients. They were enthralled and he sold more homes and land in the area than anyone in history. As his client list grew so did his income. He and Trixie were very wealthy. They built a magical mansion in La Quinta. His business card read “Miracles for Sale”. It was a job he loved until he was eighty-five. The year he retired, Trixie died suddenly of pancreatic cancer after forty-five years of marriage, leaving him alone again. Merlyn was at sixes and sevens. She was the sun he revolved around and the years after her desertion were long and painful. He withdrew more and more into himself.

Their daughter Dora was an only child despite Trixie’s efforts to have more. Dora was married and lived 150 miles away. After retirement, Merlyn didn’t want to be around anyone and even begrudged Dora her monthly visits. Dora was at her wit’s end. Her father had fallen three times in two months. The last time he landed in the hospital with a body full of bruises and a mouth full of curses. His left knee was sprained but hadn’t broken. He could no longer live alone.  When Dora and his doctor insisted he needed to be in a monitored environment, his surly temper turned truculent.

She researched options and found Restview Haven. It was a five-star resort-like retirement community. She knew she couldn’t have him live with her family. Merlyn was a master of negative confrontation over every small thing of which he didn’t approve and he didn’t approve of much. At Restview he would have a luxury apartment with two bedrooms (in case she wanted to stay over a night or two), two bathrooms, a full kitchen, a study and three large walk-in closets, and maid service and laundry service weekly. He could have meals brought to him twice a day if he chose not to mingle with other residents. Someone would check on him first thing in the morning, in the early afternoon, and again in the evening, besides mealtimes.

Merlyn moved into Restview Haven, a move engineered by Dora. He was not happy about it. Now instead of his own company, he was confronted with a plethora of ancients who had even more complaints than he. He withdrew into his own apartment refusing to go to the community dining room for meals. He opted to make his own from a cache of deli meats, rye bread and mustard that was delivered from the market or pizza from Eddie’s Pizza Palace. Dora, tried everything she knew to pull him out of his funk, but his only response was “leave me the hell alone unless you want to be disinherited.”

On this ninety-second birthday, he grudgingly agreed to go to lunch with his daughter, son-in-law, three grandchildren, and great-grandson LeRoy (named for his great-grandpa), age two. Now he was back at Restview. The luncheon celebration was everything he feared it would be, Happy Birthday singing, a tasteless cake that was smeared all over his jacket by the two-year-old, and crummy food. Even his glass of Burgandy tasted bitter.

He decided to sit for a while in the large common room near the lobby to read his newspaper before going up to his apartment. He picked an area in a secluded corner with large potted trees on either side of the overstuffed pastel brocade loveseat where he sat, reading and glancing at people as they came in. He was engrossed in the real estate section of the paper when he felt a presence near him. He looked up to see a boy staring at him shifting from foot to foot.

“Can I help you, young man?” Merlyn inquired. “Aren’t you supposed to be with someone?”

“I’m here with my great-aunt Lula. She’s visiting her sister Lottie. She’s my great-aunt too but she smells. Aunt Lula said I could come down here and sit and wait for her for a while if I didn’t raise a ruckus. I’m not raising a ruckus, and I’d like to sit with you.”

Merlyn sat squarely in the center of the wide loveseat with pieces of his newspaper on either side to discourage anyone from joining him.

“Well, I don’t know. Wouldn’t you rather sit in one of the big chairs in the center of the room, where your aunt can find you?”

“No. I think I’m s’posed to sit with you.” The boy moved the papers all to one side and plunked down on the loveseat next to Merlyn.

“Why me? Who told you that?”

“Jus’ know it,” said the boy. “My name’s Bobby Cox, what’s your name?”

Merlyn looked around the room. People were coming and going and not paying any attention to him or the boy.

“I like that you are an old person and you don’t smell,” Bobby continued. “I’m very sensitive so stuff like that is important. You look interesting and I’d like to talk to you.”

With that somewhat convoluted complement, Merlyn thought he could entertain a few minutes with the boy. If it became insufferable, he could always leave and go to his apartment.

“OK, for a few minutes. How old are you, Bobby?”

“Well, that depends. I’m eight years old now but I’m older in another life, but not as old as you.”

“Another life? How old do you think I am?”

“Oh, probably close to a hundred. But it is just a number. My great-aunt says I am precocious and sometimes beyond my years. I like stayin’ with Aunt Lula. She lives in a big house with lots of collections.”

“Why are you staying with your aunt? Where are your parents?”

“My dad’s a big shot and travels for his job. This time he was going to Swiser-land and Mom wanted to go along but they didn’t want me under their feet. As if. Why would I go under their feet? I stay with Aunt Lula when they go places for more than a week or two. I’ll be with her for a month this time, but I don’t mind. They’ll bring me something from Swiser-land, and maybe take me when I’m older.”

“What kind of collection does your aunt have?”

“She collects trains of all sizes, some really big and some really tiny but they all look like real trains. She collects buttons and keeps them in jars all around the house. She collects glass insulators. Do you know what those are?”

“You mean the glass bulbs that used to sit on top of telephone poles?”

“Yeah, they’re blue or green. I never seen them on telephone poles but that’s what she told me. She has a big glass cabinet of them. And she collects matchbooks from everywhere. Do you know what a matchbook is? It’s a cardboard folder that has rows of cardboardy matches inside and a scratchy place to strike the match. She has them from every city in the world, mostly from restaurants. Some have pretty pictures on the covers, some are very plain, but she can tell me stories about the places where she collected each one. She collects corks from wine bottles and frames them in picture patterns – collage she calls it. She collects stamps from all over the world and writes to people in faraway places so they write back with stamps on the envelopes. And guess what?”

“I can’t begin to guess, Bobby. Tell me.”

“You never told me your name. You have a quarter in your ear.” Bobby reached up behind Merlyn’s ear and produced a quarter.

That was a trick Merlyn had used for his daughter and her friends when they were children. It took him by surprise to have this youngster play it on him.

“You must be a magician. My name is Merlyn.”

“Merlyn is the name of a famous magician. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I do and I’m a magician too.”

“Well, that must be why I’m s’posed to sit with you. Can you show me a trick?”

Merlyn reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “I’ll make this coin disappear.”

“Oh. that one. It’s easy. Can you do a harder one?”

“I’ll have to go to my apartment to get something that I can show you.”

“OK.”

Merlyn went to his apartment to get some cards, a pencil, and a rubber band for a couple of easy tricks he could show Bobby.

When he returned Bobby was gone. Merlyn went back to his apartment feeling lighter. The next day he went to the reception room again with his magic kit hoping Bobby would come in with his aunt. After a couple of hours reading his newspaper, he retired to his apartment disappointed.

The following day, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Bobby.

“I have to go to the bathroom. D’you have one in here?”

“Of course, come in. How did you find my apartment? Does your aunt know where you are?”

“I told her I’d be with the magician.”

“You go to the bathroom and then we’ll go downstairs to the reception area so she can find you when she wants.” 

“It’s okay if I stay here. She’ll find me.”

“No, I want to be in a public area, so she doesn’t have to hunt for you.” Merlyn wasn’t ready to have anyone, let alone a child, invade his personal space.

Merlyn and Bobby spent an hour downstairs in the same nook where they met. Merlyn showed Bobby some magic tricks. Then the receptionist paged Merlyn to say he had a phone call. His daughter tried his cell phone, but he didn’t have it with him, so she called the main switchboard to track him down and tell him it was important that he call her immediately. Merlyn went upstairs to get his phone. Dora told him she had scheduled an appointment with his orthopedist early the next morning. When he returned downstairs, Bobby was gone.

Merlyn met Bobby three more times that month, always in the downstairs common room in their cozy nook. Bobby shared some of his magic tricks and Merlyn showed him more. Merlyn practiced magic in the common room as he waited for Bobby. Other residents gathered to watch his magical exhibitions. Merlyn began to make friends with his neighbors. His outlook improved, his temper leveled out and his old charm returned. 

Bobby didn’t show up for several weeks. Merlyn asked the residential manager if he could contact Lottie. He didn’t know her last name but maybe it was Cox. He wanted to find out if he could see Bobby again, even if they met somewhere else. Mrs. Binghamton said there was no one named Lottie living at Restview Haven. She tried Carlotta, Charlotte, and other names that could be shortened to Lottie, but no one had heard of Bobby Cox. No one remembered someone named Lula visiting Restview. No one with that name had signed in as a guest. No one remembered a little boy coming or going with an old woman. But magic had returned to Merlyn.

Do What You Gotta Do

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Nellie Mae stepped back into the cook shack after ringing the big brass bell that hung between two poles at the edge of the back porch. It was a call to breakfast for the men in the peach orchard. Her bare feet scuffed across the wood threshold into the cook shack. She figured she had about fifteen minutes before they appeared in the yard to wash at the pump. They had been hard at work since just before dawn with only the bread and cheese they grabbed to start their day. She made breakfast by about eight each morning. The merciless Kansas wind that awakened with the sun had subsided to a heavy breeze as the day ripened. It was mid-July, the second picking of the trees. They liked to be finished by two when sweat from the heat and humidity blinded their eyes. Nellie Mae’s dad and five brothers made up most of the crew. Four hired men helped through harvest season.

The long trestle table at the end of the room was set for ten with big tin plates, cups, forks, and spoons. Each man carried his own knife. Coffee was made. Cream was in the pitcher. A platter was heaped with chunks of ham, fried fatback, and twelve pieces of fried chicken left from yesterday’s dinner. A big plate of butter sat between two jars of blackberry preserves. Four dozen biscuits were piled in a red woven cloth basket at the end of the table. Sausage gravy bubbled in a small pan at the back of the wood-burning stove. The oatmeal was ready and all she had to do was scramble the eggs. The chickens gave thirty that morning.

Nellie Mae gripped the big handles on the hot cast iron pot with two towels to move it to the side of the wood-burning stove so she could begin the eggs. One hand slipped and the pot fell to the floor. Oatmeal spread in a slow ooze. Nellie Mae jumped back and looked around for a solution. No oatmeal was not an option. She didn’t have time to cook up a new batch.  She grabbed the wide trowel she used when making bread dough and quickly scooped the oatmeal back into the pot, setting it on the stove. She took a jar of left-over cinnamon she had grated for cookies two days before and dumped it into the pot. Dust and cinnamon look roughly the same. Then she added a generous pour of maple syrup and stirred the whole thing quickly. She moved it to the counter beside the stove and got her pan out for the eggs, scrambling them with green onions fresh from the garden. The floor was sticky where the oatmeal landed so she dragged the oval braided rug from by the door to the front of the stove. She knew she’d be washing the floor as soon as the men returned to work and before she could start fixing dinner. She served dinner at three.

The first one through the door was Uri, a hired man from Germany. Prussia, he insisted. He was slender built and shorter than her husky red-headed, blue-eyed Hutchison clansmen whose ancestors arrived from Scotland generations before. When she first met him, Nellie Mae thought he was Cherokee with his swarthy complexion, nearly black hair, and hawk-like nose. Her brothers respected him because, even with his slight build, he was as strong or stronger than any of them.

Uri carried a bucket half full of blackberries. He handed the bucket to her. He looked directly at the rug then his snappy brown eyes smiled at her.

“Just came up to pick berries for breakfast,” he said in his slight accent. With a head nod, he indicated the window across the room from the stove. Blackberry bushes grew on that side of the cook shack among the windbreak trees.

“Thanks,” she replied. A niggling feeling of being watched came over her. Passing by the window, had he seen what happened with the oatmeal?

“I think I’ll skip the oatmeal today,” he said with a wink.

She heard the men in the yard washing dust and sticky peach juice from their hands. One by one they filed in scuffing their feet at the door where the rug usually lay. It was there to catch the dirt and debris from the orchard before it could get all over the house.

“Whadya do with the rug?” William, her eldest brother asked.
“My feet got cold while I was cookin’,” she answered, not daring to look toward Uri.
“Get some shoes on, girl.”
“Too busy.”

They took places on long benches at two sides of the table. Nellie Mae scooped a helping of oatmeal in bowls for each man, except Uri. A quiet giggle bubbled up in her every time she looked at him. She could tell he was stifling a laugh too.

“Not sure I like what you did with the oatmeal today,” her taciturn father commented. “Too sweet.”
“It suits me right down to my toes,” her youngest brother, Ben, chimed in.

Two Gentlemen of Paris

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This is a writing exercise based on a scene. Prompt scene: A busy small neighborhood café in the 5th arrondissement of Paris. Two old men each alone at his own table ate peacefully by themselves. One picked up fries with delicate fingers as the other spooned an ice cream sundae into his mouth, both protected and seemingly immune from the surge and retreat of customers around them. How long had they been coming here, months or years? Did they know each other, even a little bit? What are their stories?

Gerard walked with purpose past several couples already sipping coffee and nibbling croissants at square tables on the terrace in front of Café Couronne. Gerard was rarely this late to brunch. The café was a short brisk walk from his flat on Rue de Rennes at the intersection of Rue de la Couronne. It opened at 10:00 each weekday. It was nearly 10:20. His table was always inside even during the glorious summer months. Today was one of those soft spring days, with filtered sun, and a cool dampness from the night’s rain. While Gerard loved the Paris sunshine when it appeared, he hated the traffic along Rue de la Couronne. It frustrated his need for quiet as he ate brunch each day. The peace inside the tiny café, only 16 tables, was perfect for contemplation. Martin saw Gerard coming in his gray wool topcoat, with a grey scarf and fedora. He had short gray hair and a conservative mustache. Martin waved to him, pulling out his chair.

Every weekday Gerard occupied the table near the back wall of the café so he could observe without hindrance those who came and went. Martin faithfully served the regular patrons each morning.

and knew his order, plain yogurt, strawberries, or blueberries, depending on the chef’s choice, frites, and strong coffee. He immediately went to collect it from the kitchen. In his seventy-three years, Gerard found routine to be the cornerstone of his existence.

Gerard acknowledged, with a nod, Phillipe as he entered the café. Phillipe always sat at a table smack in the center of the room. In his red cape and beret, he preferred to be the obvious but unapproachable sun around which the other diners and staff revolved throughout the morning. His thick white handlebar mustache accented a face with twinkling eyes. Although they frequented the same café for ten years nearly every day, neither man spoke to the other.

When each man had his order, they settled in to enjoy their respective breakfasts. Gerard finished his yogurt with fruit and picked with delicate fingers at his fries while Phillipe spooned his sundae into his mouth slowly, delicious bite by delicious bite as the world spun inevitably around them.

Martin hurried to Phillipe’s table after delivering Gerard’s breakfast. He placed a steaming pot of green tea along with a large mug on the table and asked after Phillipe’s health. Phillipe was a habitual diner at Café Couronne but not daily. His apartment on the sixth floor of the old Art Nouveau building was a bit further down Le Rue de Rennes from Gerard. Phillipe’s attitude was com ci, com ça. He abhorred routine. At age seventy-six, he was sometimes absent of a morning due to a variety of ailments, heart, back, liver, eye, shoulder, or hips, but he never missed Thursdays. He had come on thirteen consecutive mornings so Martin felt sure he might be due to have a breakdown soon.  Phillipe said he was sound this day and looking forward to meeting a friend for a stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg after his petit dejeuner. “I’ll have a strawberry parfait sundae this morning,” he told Martin.

The two men left the café within ten minutes of each other, Phillipe being the first, stopped at the flower shop down the street from the café and purchased two dozen white daisies. At precisely 12:00 pm the two gentlemen of Paris met at the Rue Guynemer entrance on the northwest side of the Jardin du Luxembourg (6th arrondissement). From there they silently strolled the path past L’Orangerie with its intoxicating citrus smells, then around the green grassy oval in front of the Palais toward their favorite statue. The statue reminded them of her. They took two side-by-side chairs at the edge of the path and quietly spoke of her. After thirty minutes they strolled together to the Cimetière du Montparnasse to stand at her gravesite, privately mourning the woman they both loved.’The two men left the café within ten minutes of each other, Phillipe being the first, stopped at the flower shop down the street from the café and purchased two dozen white daisies. At precisely 12:00 pm the two gentlemen of Paris met at the Rue Guynemer entrance on the northwest side of the Jardin du Luxembourg (6th arrondissement). From there they silently strolled the path past L’Orangerie with its intoxicating citrus smells, then around the green grassy oval in front of the Palais toward their favorite statue. The statue reminded them of her. They took two side-by-side chairs at the edge of the path and quietly spoke of her. After thirty minutes they strolled together to the Cimetière du Montparnasse to stand at her gravesite, privately mourning the woman they both loved.

Gerard loved her first when she was seventeen. A muscular athletic man, he was ten years older than she. She had been an aerialist in the circus where he trained lions, tigers, and bears. She only performed there for two years, but they remained lovers even after she left to study magical arts at Arcane University in Paris. He would take the train from wherever the circus was temporarily situated in Europe to see her when he had a few days off. His hope was to persuade her to marry him and start a farm retreat for old circus animals in the Loire Valley. She finally tired of their long-distance affair. She asked him to stay away. Heartbroken, Gerard married the circus horse trainer on the rebound, and they had thirty-one quarrelsome, combative, marital years. After his wife died, he retired to spend his days in Paris researching butterfly habits and habitats with his true love still very much on his mind.

Phillipe met her when she was twenty-six.  He was a professor of alchemy and enchantment at Arcane University. She was his most creative student, inventing unique ideas for magical entertainments. They became lovers within two weeks of her matriculation. She told him of Gerard, her first love, and the dozen or so that followed, but vowed he would be her last. They had happy times writing and producing magic shows for children. Sadly, she died of pneumonia after a mere five years together.

Twenty years went by, Phillipe and Gerard met one day at her grave in the Cimetière du Montparnasse. They eyed each other but didn’t speak. After several chance meetings, a coincidence neither of them questioned, they began a conversation about her. They assumed she intentionally brought them together. As time went by their meetings were formalized every Thursday at 12:00. When they met, they shared stories about how she enriched their lives. Each revealed a different side of her. To Gerard, she was a daring acrobat, lithe and supple, a physical wonder. To Phillipe, she was a cerebral partner with ideas flowing from her inventive mind.  It made them feel that she was still with them. They alternated taking flowers to her grave. Occasionally both took flowers when a specific memory was observed by one or the other. After a while, they began eating breakfast at the same café, but never spoke except on Thursday. Their only subject was of her.