The Cost of Living

The last short story in the Deadlines for Writers Short Story group is due today. The prompt is "price" with a wordcount of exactly 300 words. Here is my entry. 

The Cost of Living

If there was anything Marti had learned in her twelve years of the chaos that was her homelife, it was that everything has a price. If she wanted supper, the cost was obeying Daddy’s drunken directives quickly and without giving him “any mouth.” If she wanted to go to sleep at night, she had to give away a little of her reasoning power and believe that the yelling she could hear, AGAIN, through the wall of her bedroom, was just the television.  Protecting her little brother had cost Marti a few false confessions and the enduring of punishments he had earned. She sometimes had to spend a little of her integrity and pretend to be at the library working on a project when she needed time with her friends.

Now, holding her hastily-packed bag in one hand and Billy’s hand in the other, Marti stood knee deep in the creek beyond the woods. The stinging skin on her behind and the ache in her jaw was beginning to numb now that they had almost outrun the echo of the back door banging like a gunshot behind them.

Marti and her little brother turned to look at the orange glow they’d left behind. Above the trees, smoke billowed up almost blocking the big glowing zero moon in the night sky.

“Are we going to Grandma’s?” Billy looked at Marti, wide-eyed with fear, but trusting.

“Mama will pick us up there when she gets off work,” Marti affirmed.

Having paid the price for their freedom, the children stood in silence. Devoid of any external comfort or human sound, the silence was deafening. Still Marti could hear the echo of her father’s last words on Earth, as belt in hand, he growled, “Stop crying like a baby, Girl! Just buck up and take it!”

One Life

 Short Story #11 for the year is due today. The prompt was "jerk", and I started there, but the final story doesn't have much connection with the prompt. The required word-count was 1250. Here's the story I submitted this morning.

One Life

Fred felt a sense of completion as he put the car in park and began the walk up to the porch of his and Teresa’s beautiful home. The mellow October sun warmed the air, a welcome change from the harsh summer ball of fire that had baked the ground all summer! He lifted his eyes to watch the play of the breeze in the trees on the hill.  Branches bent and swayed in hypnotic waves, shaking loose a flurry of brightly colored snowfall. The tranquility of the scene soothed the turmoil that had filled his world in the last few months.

Fred sank into one of the matching pair of rockers on the big new front porch. Closing his eyes, he remembered himself and Teresa just a year ago. They had been traveling home from the city and passed a sign “Estate Sale.” Impulsively they had driven up to the farmhouse and immediately noticed the two lovely old rocking chairs on the wraparound porch.

“These would be perfect on our porch, don’t you think?” Teresa motioned for Fred to sit in the rocker beside the one she had already claimed. That’s all it took. They bought the chairs.

Now Fred sat, alone, in one of the chairs, inviting the tranquil surroundings to calm and sooth the depression and anger that had begun with the insanity of 9/11/01. This iconic display of man’s brutality, the inconceivable horror of man’s inhumanity to man, coincided with his own personal 9/11. That was the day that a metaphorical airplane crashed into his happy heart, causing the twin towers of love and trust to crumble into dust.

Fred’s shoulders slumped; the beautiful scenery could only do so much. He was still a man alone, a man defeated. Fred stomped his feet, hoping that the solid thunk of the well-bult floor would give him the sense of security he needed, but he knew that he would never again have the peace that he had enjoyed before the towers fell.

He rose and walked to the top of the steps and leaned on the strong support columns. He felt Teresa standing beside him. How often had they talked about replacing the porch of their old house? Teresa had made the interior of the house a place of comfort, but the small and shabby front porch had been a project repeatedly postponed. As Fred’s eyes tracked the railing all the way to the side of the house, he smiled at the flower boxes Teresa had so lovingly tended on the old porch for years. They looked so much better on the welcoming new front entrance to their home. Everywhere he looked, he saw her. He could feel her, even smell her.

He remembered Teresa’s giddy excitement when he brought her home from the hospital last year to find her dream porch, which had materialized while she had been recovering from the accident. So grateful that his wife’s life had been spared in the accident, Fred had asked his friend and contractor, Ralph Adams, if it was possible to do the job while Teresa recovered. They already had plans drawn up, and Ralph seemed happy to help Fred construct the surprise.

Teresa had taken so much pleasure from the gift. Sitting there on the spacious porch with her friends, talking and laughing under the gentle ceiling fans, had been her greatest joy. As Fred stood there now, he remembered how he could feel her presence there in the long evenings of his grief. Sitting there, rocking and remembering those happy times had been his source of strength during the hardest nights of his grieving.

What an irony! Her longed-for renovation was barely finished when suddenly and unbelievably she was gone. Friends and relatives tried to help, but they didn’t really understand how perfect their lives had been. How can a man explain what it feels like to have love ripped from his heart? How can he describe the emptiness he senses just knowing that the other person is not, and never again will be, there. How can he make anyone understand that in the midst of life and love and blessings, unexpected twists of fate sometimes wait to totally destroy a man.

It was six months after her sudden and unexpected departure that Fred finally got the answers he needed. It took him that long to devise a plan to deal with this massive life change to be able to step into his future. Now he had finally completed all he needed to do to enable him to get on with what was left of his life.

Fred looked up when he heard a car crunching up the long driveway.

He was not surprised to see Otis Clark exiting the vehicle.

“Evenin’, Fred. How’re you doing?”

“Lot better than I have for the last six months. And you?”

“Well, I'll tell you, Fred, I've seen lots of better days. I guess you know why I'm here? It's about that Physical Therapist Teresa worked with after her accident.”

“Yeah. I’ve been expecting you. You saw the note I left at his place?”

Otis rested his hand on his sidearm casually. “Yeah. I saw it.”

When Fred didn’t respond, Otis continued, “Fred, I can understand your being upset; Hell, who wouldn’t be?! But there’s better ways, Man. Did you really think killing him would solve anything? And writing that note was a bad decision, Buddy. Signing your name and writing ‘PAID IN FULL’ -  was that really necessary?”

He paused, got no response from Fred, then continued, “You know the note implies premeditation.”

Wearily, Fred raised his eyes to meet his old friend’s. “Necessary? No, but I can't tell you how good it made me feel!”

The two old friends stood, looking at each other solemnly. Finally, Otis took a step closer, “You know what I got to do, Fred. No trouble, okay?”

Holding his gaze, Fred paused then spoke, “Otis, you're the sheriff, so do what you gotta do. You'll get no trouble from me. Thanks for coming yourself and not just sending your deputies.”

Stepping up beside his old friend, Otis said, “Let's go then. I'm not going to handcuff you. Do you need to get anything?”

“Nope. I’m ready. I put that packed bag by the door last night.”

Fred reached inside and picked up his bag, not bothering to shut the door as he walked back out. He did, however, take time to flip the overhead light switch. He began walking toward Otis, knowing that the timing device connected to the light switch would ignite the drum of gasoline in the crawl space in about an hour. Last step of the plan.

Otis and Fred walked to the car like they had many times in their long history together.

As Otis held the rear door of the police car for Fred, he paused. “I just gotta know, Fred, while it’s just us two old friends here, “Did you really have to shoot Teresa too? Was killing her for running off with the jerk worth it?”

“Well, Otis, I thought hard about it. It was really the only way.  And they can't execute me any more for two than they could for one.”

The Dance - A Short Story

Short Story #9 for the year is due today. The prompt was "duck" and the word count was 1000 words exactly. Here's my entry.

The Dance

Manon leaned forward slightly in her comfy corner chair so she could see more clearly out the rain-steaked window. It had been a hectic and tiring week at work, and now the long, wet weekend was dragging slowly by. It had rained non-stop since she left work Friday afternoon. She had cleaned and taken care of household business through the long, saturated Saturday; and today she had read for a while after church and had watched a little TV. Now she had time but lacked inspiration to write or paint. So here she was -- simply BEING!

She gazed out the window and wondered when her life had become so gray and stagnant? Where was the romance and excitement that had filled her life last summer? Where was the joy and love she had thought were hers?

She sat up suddenly. What was that movement she had spotted out at the start of the woods? She wiped at the window to see if she could get a better look. The water forming rivulets down the windowpane distorted the view, so she wasn’t quite sure what she had seen. Was it someone (something?) ducking under that low-lying limb of the dogwood tree at the edge of the yard? She squinted and concentrated. Nothing there now, but she could swear there was movement there a minute ago. Perhaps the neighbor’s dog? Surely not an escapee from the jail on the other side of the woods! Probably just her imagination. She sighed. Then she also smiled, remembering ducking under that very same dogwood branch last summer. They had been seeking respite from the sudden rain under the huge sweeping branches of the large oak behind the blooming Dogwood tree.

She and Bradley, oh yes, she remembered Bradley! What a week they’d had! They had been caught in the rain that day - during that special week a year ago. It had been a lovely, early-summer walk until the sudden downpour had sent them scurrying and squealing. Bradley had grabbed her hand, and they had run, laughing, into the woods to find shelter, hoping the shower would be as short as it had been sudden. How quickly she and Bradley had become comfortable with each other during that week of pre-wedding activities! Such happy memories they had made! She had thought maybe the relationship would continue and grow. So sad, though, that now she was reduced to searching for happiness only by imagining and remembering! Presently, there seemed to be life only outside the dreary confines of her routine life. Outside the walls of her lonely apartment.

Manon leaned back again now, trying to close her mind to the memories and her eyes against the pain. As she drifted, the ghost of a remembered tune began tickling and teasing in the back of her head. It would quickly touch base there before skipping off to hide again. It was just a ghost of a melody, but somehow it persisted and held enough reality to capture her full attention. She couldn’t shake it loose, so she slowly breathed out and let her mind float on the haunting tune as it began to develop a full body. The music began to fill her head. The music lifted her arms and her heart. It pulled her from her comfortable reverie, and she began to sway with the music accompanying the memory that was playing inside her very core.

Time and space dissolved, and Manon was in the arms of the tall groomsman at her sister’s wedding last summer. Bradley held her like a precious jewel; a diamond. Or no! An emerald! One of those brilliant, rare red emeralds valued beyond the most priceless diamond. It was he, Bradley, who glided around the dance floor with her that night. He proudly glided -  happy in the knowledge that his arms were tasked with protecting and displaying this treasure. He held Manon with reverence and joy, delight and confidence. Her steps moved in perfect synchrony with his, although their entire history was encapsulated within that single week. He bent to position his lips near her ear and whispered the words of the love song as they moved together. He whispered, and the dance floor disappeared. They became the music, and the room dissolved. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat, and her own heartbeat began to keep time with his. They were alone in time and space, dancing to the music of the spheres.

As she circled under his arm in another smooth, elegant turn, her shadowy green eyes met his sparkling brown ones. They smiled in mutual remembrance of their romantic walk on the beach the night before, after the wedding rehearsal. As the waves had rushed into the shore and back out again in the twilight, they had strolled hand in hand along the shoreline. They walked long stretches in companionable silence punctuated by occasional pauses for soft kisses – kisses that mirrored the gentle ones the waves were dropping on the face of the shore.

He had held her hand, often in both of his. He had shortened his stride to accommodate her shorter steps. She had listened with rapt diligence as he tucked her hair behind her ear and told her of past disappointments and his dreams for the future; and she had become drunk on his undivided attention as she detailed the important life lessons she had learned and treasured from her faith and family. Their time together had seemed as rare as that 2-karat red emerald, and she had thought that it would be as enduring at that rare stone.

Now, as Manon danced alone in her room on this rainy Sunday evening, she smiled. An amazing man had loved her last summer. He never said so, and his absence now weighed a thousand pounds; but the wonder and the wondering lit her up as she remembered. Having almost certainly been loved still made her dance.

The Breakup Breakup

Short Story #8 for 2023 has been submitted to the Deadlines for Writers writing group. "Pick" was the prompt. I used the word 9 times in this piece. It is exactly 750 words, as prescribed. 

The Breakup Breakup

Sally glanced at the clock. Again. After a hard day at work, she was exhausted; nevertheless, she had hurried home and quickly cleaned up for the evening.  Don’s parents had insisted that she attend the monthly family dinner that night with their son.

Frank and Genevieve Edison were firmly entrenched in the Atlanta society scene, and Sally had been dating their son for 6 months; but, up until now, they had not considered Sally important enough to be invited to the family dinner.

Now here she sat, ready and waiting to do their bidding. She knew that the Edisons did not put up with tardiness, although their son had no such concerns. His circle of friends laughingly called him “the late Don Edison.”

As the minute hand snailed around the clock face, Sally became more and more irritated. Don wasn’t even answering her voicemails or texts.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Sally texted. All caps this time.

Silence.

Should she call Don’s parents and make their excuses?

No! that’s HIS job! They are HIS parents, after all.

Angrily, Sally extracted her journal from the drawer beside the sofa and began to make the list she had been thinking about for weeks.

Reasons to break up with Don

1.    This is the fourth time he has been more than an hour late picking me up for a date.

2.    He keeps picking fights with me about my regular outings with my friends.

3.    When I asked his opinion of the last article I wrote, he had nothing positive to say and just picked holes in both the style and the content of my work.

4.    He always finds fault with my choice when he asks me to pick the restaurant for dinner. And then stalls, hoping I’ll pick up the tab!

5.    When we spend the evening in my apartment, he never picks up after himself. He expects me to be a combination waitress/maid, picking my way through the clutter he’s created  - the coat he’s tossed on the chair and the shoes he’s kicked off and left in the path.

6.    He continues to expect me to make all the concessions and “pick up the slack” in our relationship.  When will he begin doing HIS part to make this relationship work?

7.    He doesn’t even care that his best friend is a pervert who “accidentally” rubs against me at any opportunity and even brazenly picks imaginary lint or crumbs from my clothes.

Sally thoughtfully laid the pen down and picked up her phone just as a text message arrived.

“Be there soon! Have some exciting news!  Dinner with Mom and Dad is off.”

Irritated, Sally huffed. Now she had to change clothes AGAIN! And she knew Don would expect her to magically come up with alternate dinner plans. Well, this change of plans was on him, so he could darn well make the alternate dinner plans himself!  She sank deeper into the sofa cushions, picked her pen back up, and angrily added #8 to her list.

He doesn’t consider my convenience when changing plans.

 Well, she WOULDN’T change clothes! Maybe it would penetrate his consciousness that she had spent time preparing to make a good impression on HIS parents. AND she certainly wasn’t going to put together a meal just because her self-centered boyfriend thought that the spotlight should shine on him fulltime. This “exciting news” undoubtedly involved some minor achievement at his workplace, and he’d expect her to celebrate with him!

Sally had worked herself up into a dither by the time the doorbell rang and the door opened simultaneously.

“Hi, Baby!” Don burst into the room and picked Sally up as she rose from the couch. He exuberantly swung her around then abruptly set her on her feet and kissed her soundly.

She looked up at him, questions firing from her eyes directly into his. The enthusiasm and vibrancy he had brought into the room was contagious, and she smiled in spite of herself.

“Remember that Quick-pick lottery ticket I bought Tuesday after my softball game?”

His eyes searched her face and saw realization dawn.

“Really!?” Sally was releasing her previous tensions at warp-speed now; her pulse quickened, and her eyebrows lifted in quest of details.

“The big one!” Don beamed. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Baby! I’m a millionaire!”

Don held the ticket out and watched in puzzlement as Sally quickly tucked her journal under the sofa cushion and held out her hand to receive the winning ticket.

1852

 Short Stort #7 for 2023 is due today. The prompt is 1852 with a wordcount of 1800 words. Here's my entry.

Anita smiled at her reflection as she finished blotting her lipstick. She was remembering the story of how, as a child watching her mother do this, she had misunderstood and characterized the action as “kissing the tissue goodbye.” Her parents took every opportunity they could find to tell that story. The frequent retelling had embarrassed Anita when she was younger, but she had come to appreciate that her family found it so endearing.

Now, dressed for her date and realizing that she had almost an hour before Nathan would be here, she took her insulated cup of iced tea to her reading corner to relax and mentally prepare for her night out with her new friend. She sipped and reflected on how her life had changed in the last month.

*****

Only a month ago, she had begun her new job as Associate Accountant at Premier Properties, a large firm housed on the 18^th floor of the spectacular Monarch Tower, a new office building in downtown Atlanta. She was a small-town girl and had been nervous about working in the big city. Navigating the heavy traffic was a daunting prospect, and she was a little concerned for her physical safety when walking busy city sidewalks. And a whole new work environment to learn! But, those early concerns aside, Anita’s first week at Premier had gone smoothly. It had definitely been very busy with the paperwork of a new hire, the orientation sessions, meeting all the new co-workers, learning the expectations of her job, new software, new workspace, new bosses, new procedures. But she was a fast learner.

She had hardly had time to breathe that first week, and she had not socialized at all; so she was shocked when she walked into her cubicle on that second Monday to see a modest-sized, but beautiful, bouquet of wild flowers on her desk with a card propped in front of it.

“My Mom is the most thoughtful person in the world,” she thought, her face alight with the affirmation the gift implied. Frances Miller had been the epitome of the loving mother, giving her daughter freedom to grow but also guidance to help her avoid the worst potholes of childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. So naturally, Anita’s first inclination was to assume that the flowers were evidence of her mother’s continuing support.

Anita picked up the card.

                “New jobs can be stressful. I hope these flowers will brighten your days.”

It was signed simply “1852.”

Anita blinked in confusion. What could that mean? Why would Mom sign the card like that? She’d call Mom tonight and see what the signature meant.

******

“Really?! You didn’t send them? Are you kidding me, Mom?” Anita talked into the hands-free speaker on her way home from work.

“No. I wish I’d thought of it, Honey. Can’t you think of who else might have sent them? Wow, Anita, I guess you have a secret admirer! Maybe it’s someone at your job. What was that signature again? “

“1852”

They brainstormed possibilities as Anita wound her way through traffic out of the city.

“You must have some idea what that number means!” Frances commented. “How about phone extensions in your office? Cubicles? Addresses?  Why don’t you check that when you get home.

After a fast food dinner she picked up on the way and ate at the counter in her apartment when she got home, Anita looked through all her orientation materials and pulled out her copy of the company directory. Following her mother’s suggestions, she checked to see if the number 1852 came up in anyone’s address. It didn’t. “Hmmm All the phone extensions are three-digit numbers. Cubicles? Nope! Two-digit numbers there.” She texted her mom that those investigations had netted no clues.

There was no social life for Anita that week or even that weekend. New jobs are SO exhausting! She came straight home, ate dinner, and crashed every night  -- and then almost slept the weekend away.

Coming out of weekend hibernation, Anita walked into her cubicle Monday to find a new bouquet on her desk! Again?! This time there were three perfect yellow roses. Her favorite flower! And there was Baby’s Breath added - and a sprig of fern and a fluffy white bow. So pretty!

She picked up the card and read, “What a successful first week you had! Here’s to an even better one!” Again the note was signed “1852.”

Throughout that second week, Anita often glanced at the flowers as she worked. She smiled. And wondered. She had little time to think about it while at work, but each night her mom would call to suggest other possible meanings of the signature. On Thursday, Anita even stayed at work until nearly seven because her mother thought that the number might reference the military time of 18:52. As Anita left the eerily-quiet building that evening, after 6:52 came and went in silence, she swore to just forget the mystery. Whoever was sending the flowers would let her know when he/she wanted Anita to know. This staying late thing had been based on a silly theory. What if she got mugged in the darkening parking garage!

That Saturday, Anita and her college friend, Bridgett, met up for their monthly catchup. As they leaned together to talk in the noisy coffee shop, they reminisced about their carefree college days and discussed Bridgett’s on-again-off-again relationship with her high school boyfriend, Mason. That relationship had survived the separation of college years, although none of their friends could understand how. Two people could hardly be more different than those two. Mason had been a buttoned-down, serious student and their senior class president, while Bridgett’s life revolved around art, music, and fashion. She loved flamboyant clothing and vivid make-up. She was the only girl in their class whose hair was seldom the same color on any given week. Mason was now a lawyer in his father’s firm in Marietta, a suburb North of Atlanta, and Bridget was a free-lance designer still struggling to master the logistics of making her creativity profitable. Still, the couple’s frequent breakups always ended in reconciliation.

After Bridgett had finished updating Anita on the current state of hers and Mason’s relationship (hot and heavy right now!), she turned to Anita with her usual question.

“Any new men in your life?”

“Well, you know I started my new job three weeks ago, so I haven’t had time for a social life,” Anita hedged.

But Bridgett was spellbound as Anita began telling about her “secret admirer,” as Mom insisted on calling the flower-sender.

Bridgett, being Bridgett, immediately went into flower-child mode and began proposing several “out there” possibilities to explain the questionable signature on the gift cards.

“Hey! You know in the metaphysical realm, Angels are numbered. When a number comes up in your life, it could be an angel. A lot of people believe that some numbers are messages from the spiritual universe that offer insight. They can confirm that you're on the right path, or give invaluable insight on a complicated situation, or even explain events you experience throughout your life.”

While Anita looked at her, speechless, Bridgett was frantically thumbing her phone.

“It says here that Angel #1852 is an encourager. If you see this angel, the message is about personality development and creativity, suggesting that your personal growth is strengthening. Hmmm. That’s not much help, is it? The flowers ARE encouraging, and a new job certainly shows personal growth; but that doesn’t help figure out who sent those flowers.”

Bridgett’s thumbs began their work again. “Numerology! Why didn’t I think of that before? Let’s see 1852 reduced down to its base number?  1+8+5+2 is 16. Then 1+6=7. So 7 is the base number of 1852.”

Bridgett continued to tap at her phone. “Wow, Anita! Seven is like the best base number you can have! It’s in the Bible as the perfect number; and it’s a prime number, which means that it has power. It says here that ‘Number 7 is a true seeker of truth. It represents an inner need to dig deep to find golden truths…’ ” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll run that one by Mom,” interrupted Anita. She always said that 7 is the number of perfection. That was her explanation for why she and Dad had 7 children. They stopped having children after they reached #7 – the perfect family.”

As Anita and Bridgett hugged goodbye and each put the date of their next get-together into their calendars, they agreed that the mystery of 1852 was still just as obscure as it had ever been.

Sunday, at church, Anita managed to forget her job and the mystery of the flower-sender while she listened to the music and Pastor Jennings’s inspiring message; but she got a funny feeling afterwards when she talked briefly with Edward. This young man, just slightly older than she, had begun attending Anita’s adopted home church in the city just a few months ago. They had been friendly and talked a little each week after the service but never saw each other outside church. Today Edward asked how her new job was going, but he certainly didn’t seem overly interested.  Hmmm…

When Anita arrived at work Monday morning, she was almost afraid to walk into her cubicle. She actually closed her eyes as she stepped through the opening, afraid she wouldn’t see the bouquet she had begun to expect on her desk.  

When she opened her eyes, there, beside her computer, was the most beautiful artisanal pottery bowl holding a live purple amaryllis! The colors of the flower and the pottery that held it were so aesthetically complementary, it took her breath away!

Anita’s phone dinged, drawing her eyes away from the flowers for a minute. She looked down to read a text from her Mom.

“Good Morning, Baby. I hope you have a great day. About the mystery. I was just thinking could the number be broken up into two numbers? Could it be 18 and 52 for example? Just a thought. I love you.”

Anita put her phone away and picked up the card propped in front of the pretty pottery bowl.

“Happy Monday, Anita! How about dropping by my cubicle (#52) during your break, so we can finally meet.”

Looking closely at the signature, 1852, Anita noticed for the first time that there was the tiniest of dots between the 8 and the 5.

*****

And, as they say, the rest is history.

Tonight Anita is sitting in her reading corner sipping iced tea and remembering how she met Nathan, her new friend who works on the 18^th floor, cubicle 52 of the Monarch Tower.

The doorbell rings.

She opens the door to her date, and the story of Anita and Nathan begins.  

 

Shopping 2023

Today is deadline day in the Short Story group of Deadlines for Writers. The prompt was "thin" and the story was to be exactly 1200 words. Here's the story I submitted. 

Shopping 2023

“So, Madam, did you decide on the black leather or the red suede?” I had just discovered the cutest little shop on a back street near my office and had found two purses that I really liked.

I swung the black bag onto my shoulder and examined my reflection in the mirror. Turning quickly, I looked at the other side where the red suede purse hung.

“I’ll take them both, thanks…..Jacinda,” I said squinting to read her name tag.

“Very good, Ma’am. We can offer you a 5% discount on the matching wallets. We have the bi-fold and the tri-fold available for the suede bag, but just the zippered one to match the leather.”

“I don’t think so. Just the purses please.”

“Many people who bought these purses also bought the double-helix keyrings made especially to coordinate with these bags,” said Jacinda, “but the matching Kleenex holders are no longer available.”

I glanced at the salesgirl in puzzlement. “Oh,” was all I could manage.

“Well,” I finally continued, “I’ll just take the two purses.”

“Customers who bought suede items also bought our ForeverYoung suede care kit. That comes with a lifetime guarantee and a free SuaDeCare brush for maintaining the new appearance of your beautiful purse. With this purchase, you can also get 10% off anti-stain seat covers for your car. The complete set is only $150.”

“Just the purses,” I repeated, smiling determinedly.

“Would you like more information about red suede products? That shade can be hard to find, and I can put you on the list if you like, Ma’am. First name? Surname?”

“I don’t think so, Jacinda. Just the purses, please.”

“Certainly, Ma’am.’ Jacinda took my card and discreetly looked the other way while I input my PIN.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” she said, handing me the receipt. “You may also be interested in these other black leather items,” she added, showing me a range of shoulder bags nearly identical to the one I’d just bought but at slightly lower prices.

“Hey, wait a minute!” I said, “Can I exchange the black purse for one of these cheaper ones that look just like it?”

“Of course, Ma’am, you are free to make an exchange within 7 days of purchase. Purchases will be refunded in full by mail within 30 days, subject to terms and conditions and must be accompanied with a valid receipt. Of course, all refunds are at the sole discretion of the store manager.”

“Never mind,” I sighed.

***

I had stopped at a traffic light on the way home when suddenly the passenger door opened, and Jacinda calmly got in and seated herself in the passenger seat of my car.

“Thank you for choosing The Bag Lady for your purchase today,” she said. “Would you care to rate your shopping experience? On a scale of one to five, how happy were you with the service you received today? One is not at all happy, and five is very happy.”

I stared in disbelief. The light changed, so I accelerated. “I’m sorry, Jacinda, but really…“

Unfazed, she continued, “How would you rate the value of the items you purchased today on a scale of one to five, where one is very poor value and five is very good value?”

Talking a long, slow breath, I exhaled and spoke calmly, “Look, I don’t…“

“How would you rate the layout of our store, on a scale of…“

As I stopped at the next light, I reached across the car, opened the passenger door, and glared at the persistent salesperson until she stepped from my car in a huff and slammed the door behind her. I quickly locked it.

Relieved, I continued driving home.

***

The following morning, I was showered, dressed, and just finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang. Who in the world would be at my door this early in the morning? I didn’t have time for this! I couldn’t afford to be late to work! 

“Riiiiiing!” Sighing, I walked into the foyer and opened the door. A tall, thin man stood there - trailed by a large rolling suitcase.

“Good Morning, Ms Firstname Surname! As someone who’s interested in red suede products, you’ll be delighted to know that you’re eligible for an exclusive 15% discount on our extensive range of toilet bags, wallets, TV remote control holders and sundry goods, all crafted from AlmostReal Suedina….”

I stepped back. “I’m not interested. How did you get my name and address anyway?”

“Our company is a ‘selected sales partner’ of The Bag Lady, their affiliates and subsidiaries. As such, we from time to time….”

“Just because I bought two purses from that store, you…”

“Well, Ms Surname, you explicitly expressed an interest in receiving information about suede and suede-related items at the time of your purchase from our associate store. This purchase entitles you to receive special promotions and…“

I slammed the door. I didn’t remember agreeing to be put on any list. I’d stop by The Bag Lady on the way home from work today and put a stop to this madness.

***

As I parked in the lot behind The Bag Lady and stepped out of my car, I was tapped on the shoulder by a wiry little man wearing a turban and speaking with a middle Eastern accent.

“Excuse me, Madam,” he said, “I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me with a small problem."

I began fumbling with my purse to see if I had some change.

“It is my uncle,” the man explained. “He is the former exchange minister of my country, and he has been forced to flee his home leaving all his wealth behind. It amounts to some 300 million dollars. I am prepared to offer you, Ms Firstname Surname, ten percent of that sum in exchange for your assistance in getting the funds out of the country.”

I sputtered in disbelief and quickly stepped away and toward the entrance to the store.

Just then, on my other side, a big bruiser of a man wearing a cowboy hat punched my arm.

“Hey, Doll! I got a deal for ya.” He began pulling me toward the alley. “I just got a great supply of those little blue pills real cheap. Believe me, these’ll do more for the old man’s libido than your sexy red suede purse will. I can let you have ten of these babies for..”

I ran.

Slipping breathlessly into The Bag Lady, I looked around for Jacinda.

“Excuse me,” I said to the nearest associate. “I’d like to talk to Jacinda.”

“I’m Jacinda, Ma’am,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“No, I talked to another clerk yesterday. Her name was Jacinda.”

“We’re all Jacinda,” she said with a bored shrug. “How can I help you?”

“Well, okay.” I said. “I bought a couple of purses here yesterday, and I seem to have got on some sort of list. I want to be taken off that list.”

“Of course, Madam,’ replied THIS Jacinda. “I’ll take care of that right away. Now, since you’ve expressed an interest in lists, I’d like to show you our extensive range of list-related products? We have a special offer…”

The Guest Book

 Short Story #4 for 2023 is due today in the Deadlines for Writers group. Prompt: paper. Exactly 1500 words. This is the story I submitted.  

The Guest Book

“I would have been there for you!”

I looked down at the guest book and what I’d written on the paper. I pondered my written words. What more could I say? Why had it come to this? The words blurred as my eyes filled with tears.

***

Last week I was sitting in my comfortable living room and strolling down memory lane. As I looked through old pictures from high school, I picked up a black and white photo taken at our Senior picnic. “Ah, Nicole Freeman,” I breathed. “We had a lot of fun together our Senior year. I wonder what she’s up to these days. I guess she and Chad are married. Probably have a house full of kids by now! How long has it been? I guess the last time I saw her was that time a few of years ago when I ran into her at the gas station while I was home from college for Spring break. So…..it’s been almost five years since I’ve seen her.”

As we had talked briefly that day, she said she was still dating Chad Lincoln and they were talking about getting married.  We’d both been in a hurry, standing there filling our gas tanks, so we couldn’t talk long. We promised to get together when I was home that summer, but somehow we never made the connection.

***

Back in the day, Nicole and Chad had been an established couple in our class. She and I didn’t usually run with the same crowd, but I was dating Chad’s good friend, Ashton for a while, and we double dated with them a lot. When Ashton and Chad were together, you could count on a lot of laughs and fun. Those two played off each other like a professional comedy team. The four of us laughed our way through a lot of movies and long drives together during those months. Nicole and I grew close as we spent so much time as girlfriends of those two popular jocks.  

One of my best high school memories was the Senior picnic, memorialized in the black and white photo I now held in my hand. That photo – eight years ago now! We four, Nicole and Chad, Ashton and I, had gone to the event together. Nicole and I had gone shopping that week to get new shoes for the occasion.  I picked her up that afternoon when she got off work at the Dairy Barn. It was my day off from my job at the local barbeque restaurant, and she got off early so we could make this shopping trip. We had driven to Gadsden because the mall there was larger. We grabbed a bite to eat in the food court before we began the hunt for the perfect sandals.

“Are these too strappy?” Nicole asked as she pranced toward me in the first shoe store we visited. She knew that I preferred more structure in my sandals and liked unusual colors, but she was modeling the kind of barely-there sandals with flat soles held on the feet with a few thin strips of white leather. They looked good on her narrow feet and flattered her long legs. After we looked in several other stores, I bought a pair of “mother Earth” style chunky tan sandals, and we ended up going back to the first store to buy the white strappy pair she had liked.

Later, when I dropped Nicole off at the Dairy Barn where she’d left her car, she called out, “Love you!” as she closed her car door and we both drove away. We had developed a relationship, independent of the original connecting link – our boyfriends.

On the day of the picnic, we spent the morning trying on each other’s best shorts and tops, making different combinations and critiquing how each one flattered (or didn’t) our best figure features.

“Absolutely not!” she said with great emphasis when I said that the red shorts made my behind look even bigger than I thought it was and drew unwanted attention to my short legs.  

“Easy for you to say,” I laughed. “That hiney of yours looks good in bright colors, but I think I’m going to stick with the navy blue!”

“Are you calling me fat!?” she demanded in mock horror. “If you think your hiney’s fat, then mine must be too. We wear the same size shorts, Anna!”

“But your long legs make your butt look smaller. My stubby little legs just draw attention to the size of my behind,” I explained.

By the day of the picnic, we had our shoes bought and our clothes picked out, so we turned to the big decisions to be made with makeup and hair. Nicole had a way with makeup and could do anything with hair, so she and I spent the rest of the early afternoon making those monumental decisions. We pooled our cosmetic supplies and tried endless combinations of eyeshadow, mascara, and lipstick, laughing hysterically at some awful choices before we finally got serious and applied flattering makeup for a casual afternoon and evening.

Next we tackled the hair. Nicole hoped to one day own her own hair salon, where she’d do all kinds of fancy updos for girls going to proms or being in weddings. She loved to practice, so we curled and straightened; we pinned hair up and then let it down; we put clips in and took clips out. Eventually we just brushed our hair thoroughly and put it up in messy buns on the tops of our heads, our go-to hairstyle. This was, after all, an informal occasion.

Late that afternoon, Chad and Ashton picked up Nicole first, and all three of them came into our house on the way to the picnic. My friends always loved my mom and dad, so they wanted to see them as well as me.

“Mr. Helton!”  boomed Chad, walking right past me when I opened the door. He shook hands vigorously with my dad before walking over to hug my mother. 

“Oh, Chad,” my dad loved to get the jump on Chad’s joke-telling. “What does it mean when life gives you melons?”

When Chad didn’t have an immediate come-back, Dad laughed out, “It means you might be dyslexic!” He laughed so long and hard at his own joke, we all just had to join in. Even Ashton, who had not yet become comfortable around my parents, laughed loudly.

Not to be outdone, Chad (who had a reputation as a jokester to uphold after all) followed that with, “Well, Mr. Helton, I guess you heard I got fired from the calendar factory, didn’t you?”

“Really?” my dad dutifully replied and waited for the punchline.

“Yeah,” said Chad, “It was really unfair! All I did was take a day off.”

They both laughed much harder than the joke deserved, but we all laughed along and began to feel lighter and in the mood for fun.

Ashton hung back, seeming to feel a little in Chad’s shadow, until we left my house to go on to the picnic, but then he loosened up, and the pair of them were in fine form the rest of the night. They kept the entire class entertained with their antics throughout the picnic. Nicole and I, as their girlfriends, basked in the reflected glory of Chad and Ashton’s popularity.

Nicole and I grew very close during those months of shared makeup sessions, shopping trips, and all the laughs with our best-friend boyfriends; so even when my romance with Ashton ended, Nicole and I remained friendly throughout the rest of the year and whenever we’d run into each other in town. We even had a couple of girls’ nights out together the summer before I left for college.  

***

As my reminiscences ended, I glanced one more time at the photo of Nicole, Chad, Ashton, and me at the Senior picnic. I replaced the picture in the album then picked up my laptop and logged on.

“Nicole Lincoln” I typed into the search bar. I thought she and Chad were probably married, so I used his surname. But, of all the results that came up, none seemed to be the right Nicole.

“Nicole Freeman” I tried. I really wanted to see what she’d been up to, where she was, if she still lived in town, if she had gone to beauty school and opened her own salon as she often talked of doing. I didn’t find any happy news about those things or anything else about her career or family.

My heart skipped a few beats when I found instead her obituary! Her death notice! Cold and factual. Words on a screen.

“Nicole Freeman, aged 26, was found dead Wednesday in a hotel room in Gadsden, a victim of an apparent suicide.”

***

Your obituary, Nicole! Your DEATH notice! Suicide! In some godforsaken, lonely hotel!

Why? Dammit! Why?

Why didn’t you call?

I would have been there for you!

?Que has dicho? - A 500-word short story

 The fourth short story of 2023 in my Deadlines for Writers group has to be 500 words using the prompt "teach." Here's my submission. 

?Que Has Dicho?

“Miguel, Miguel!’

I was painting the trim on my garage and looked up to see my neighbor motioning emphatically to the Hispanic man planting the new shrubs around his house. The worker looked up at George questioningly. I saw that it was Miguel, the husband of my teaching partner, Rosita.

“Aqui” said George, much too loud and pointing importantly a few inches to the left of where the gardener was working. “The. azalea. goes. here.” George continued slowly, enunciating carefully, and gesturing widely. “No aqui,” he continued then pointed emphatically, “Aqui!”

I knew Miguel well. His wife and I taught together at the local junior high school and teamed up to plan the fall festival each year.  Rosita and Miquel’s sons played soccer with my sons in the community league; in fact, Miguel had privately and generously stepped in last month and paid the participation fees for the Parker boys, whose father had left the family last year. Their mother was diligently working two jobs to try to make up for the loss of her husband’s salary, but she was having a hard time coming up with the money she needed for her children’s activities and equipment.

Miquel was a devoted father and conscientious citizen as well as the owner of a successful landscaping business that employed more than 20 workers. The Hernadez Nursery was the best place in town to find knowledgeable help with plants and to get dependable landscapers.

I watched in dismay as George continued to proudly pepper his and Miguel’s conversational exchanges with elementary Spanish words that any remedial third grader could comfortably use. I wondered how I could intervene to tell George that Miquel’s English was far superior to George’s Spanish.

As I continued painting around the windows on my garage, I caught George’s voice occasionally. “Bueno. Muy bien.” “Si, Amigo!”  “Aqui.” And even once the expansive and multisyllabic “bueno trabajo!” I glanced over at him when I heard that and found him looking at me to see if I’d noticed his Spanish vocabulary.

By the time that Miguel was nearly finished with the job --under George’s constant scrutiny, I had become absolutely fascinated with what was going on next door and was feeling a little insulted on Miguel’s behalf at George’s condescending manner. But no opportunity had come up for me to speak with George privately.  “I’d pay good pesos,” I thought, to hear Miguel just stand up and tell George to dial down the condescension.

As I began to put away my paint and brushes, I caught movement next door. Miguel was standing and extending his hand to George. I heard his dignified voice say in slightly accented English, “Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for your business. Hernandez Nursery stands behind our work, and we are always available to you for any ongoing landscaping needs. Please call if we can be of further service in the future. The office will put your invoice in the mail tomorrow.”

“Si!” I silently fisted the air.  

The Lady in the Mirror

 The third writing assignment of the year in the Deadlines for Writers short story group is due today. The prompt is "Lady" and the word count is 2500! My first draft was 800 words short of that goal; I thought there was no way to write that much fiction. But here it is - exactly 2500 words. (I've been assured that this is the longest assignment of the year, whew!) 

The Lady in the Mirror

“It’s gonna be a good day,” I told the lady in the bathroom mirror.

She seemed to believe me. Why not, after all? I was up early. I should have plenty of time to get ready for work. I had already made the bed, had a hot shower and washed my hair. Alright, so the hot water in the shower (who am I kidding here? The WARM water in the shower) lasted just BARELY long enough to wash my hair. The rest of me got the cold water treatment. Oh well! Cold showers speed up the metabolism, right? So, maybe the cold water was a karmic gift! One more blessing! 

Still it’s gonna be a good day!

Hurrying to get dressed, my clothes laid out last night, I found that the pants I had planned to wear were too snug on my hips (dadgumit!), so I had to rummage for a looser pair and a blouse to match. The new color outfit dictated that I also change purses. That little complication cost me five precious minutes as I hastily transferred essentials from one purse to the other. The unexpected clothes-selection process added several minutes to my allotted get-ready time.

I glanced at the dressmaker’s mirror standing in the corner to check my outfit. The lady there assured me that I could make up those lost minutes by taking my coffee on the go this smorning. Maybe I could even make up some time on the road -- if I could get out the door before the worst traffic hour started.

I haven’t lost it yet, I told myself.  It’s still gonna be a great day!

Back in the bathroom to finish my toilette, I smiled widely at the lady in the mirror. Psychologists assert that the muscle memory of a wide smile will transfer from the cheeks into the brain and tell the brain to turn on the happy chemicals. Come on, brain synapses, do your job! I need that joy juice!

“It’s gonna to be a good day,” I whispered to the mirror lady although my cheeks were aching from the prolonged smiling.

Make-up all finished, I reached for the hair dryer to begin drying my short hair and styling it to best advantage. Since it had begun thinning last year due to low thyroid levels, it takes more time and effort to get sufficient volume for a youthful and flattering look. Working with the heated air and a round brush, my less than voluminous mane was styled in record time!  And just like I wanted it! Yes!

It’s gonna be a good-hair day for this girl today!

I was out the door only a few minutes behind schedule; the sun was shining, and the birds were chirping. It looked like the perfect Spring day. Sure, I’d burned my tongue on that first sip of coffee, and those minutes I had lost finding a better-fitting outfit will put me on the freeway at the start of the worst traffic hour, and that means a slower commute; but maybe all the crazies who usually share the road with me will take another route to work today. Not likely, but it could happen!

I can still do this! It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s roll!

“No. no. no!” I groaned through gritted teeth as a sudden line of brake lights ahead foretold the future.  I had been breezing along at the speed limit and feeling optimistic, but now traffic had slowed to a crawl. 

Wig-wag lights in all colors flashed as I approached the accident scene. Cop cars flashed blue on one side of the lines of cars; wrecker trucks flashed yellow on the other side; firetrucks and ambulances flashed red both ahead and behind. Damaged vehicles were scattered willy-nilly across the lanes, and dazed passengers stood on the shoulder talking to each other or the officers attempting to manage the scene. One older couple sat on the grassy bank a few feet off the shoulder of the roadway looking forlorn and worried. 

A few of the more aggressive crazies in the cars ahead of me, who unfortunately did NOT choose a different route today, switched lanes repeatedly, slowing the traffic with each whim. Others slowed to a near stop so they could gape at the damaged vehicles and the first responders working the scene. As I inched past the chaos, I sent up a quick prayer for the people involved in the accident, knowing that this day was really off to a bad start for them. I was still hopeful, though, that the traffic would thin now and I could still salvage MY day and get to work just slightly late.

It’s ok, I reassured the anxious lady in the rearview mirror when I caught her eye, it’s ok. The traffic ahead is beginning to pick up speed. It’s still gonna be a good day!

The mirror-lady puffed out her cheeks and blew frustration out as she looked back at me. Something about her tight expression spoke to me, “Are we sure about this stuff we keep spouting?  Are we sure it is not just delusion? If these positive affirmations of ours work so well, then why is so much negative stuff happening this morning? When’s this good day we foretold going to start?”

I looked away from her gaze, left her questions unanswered, and concentrated on the road ahead. Good day! Good day! I kept reminding myself.

I arrived at my office building six minutes late and swung into the closest parking place I could find. Sadly, that space was in the far back corner of the lot, a good 3-minute walk to the employee entrance. Grabbing my workbag and purse, I quickly locked the car and began the trek, affirming myself with each step. You are here safely; all is well; it’s gonna be a good day!

Once inside the building, I tried to slip past Scott Hudgins’s cubicle without notice. Things had been awkward between us since our one ill-fated date. He had not been happy at the end of the long evening when he leaned in for a goodnight kiss at my doorway and I offered my cheek. And now I had run out of ways to turn down a second date with him. He’s a good guy, but I’d just don’t see anything in our future beyond friendship and collegiality.

But avoiding Scott was not in the cards for me this morning. “Oh, hi, Scott.” I made my voice breathless as I rushed past his outstretched hand in the hallway. “I can’t stop to chat this morning. I’m running late again, and I need to get checked in and speak to Nancy.” I didn’t look back to see the effect of my brush-off.

By noon, the migraine, which had begun in traffic and built up as I clocked in and explained my late arrival to the boss, was flaunting her most flamboyant persona – not only cranking out grinding pain but also producing zigzag lights mimicking those at the morning’s accident scene. She displayed lines and dots in all colors. These visual distractions paraded across the world my eyes tried to focus on; and dark spots in my vision made it tricky to even SEE the computer screen much less interpret the data on it. I knew that my pounding head wouldn’t let me work through lunch to make up the minutes I’d lost at the beginning of the work day. These visual disturbances, I knew from experience, would not go away until I rested in quiet darkness for at least 20 minutes.

A lump of anxiety grew in my throat as I left my desk and went into the plush and more softly-lit employee lounge. I sank thankfully into one of the of the upholstered chairs there and closed my eyes. My earlier search for cash to buy some lunch had revealed that when I changed purses this morning I had neglected to transfer my money clip and had no money for lunch; so I carried with me a granola bar of indeterminate age that I had unearthed from the back of my bottom desk drawer.

Still determined to be positive, I reminded myself that the granola bar was a good thing. If I hadn’t thought ahead and built up an emergency snack stash, I wouldn’t have had anything for lunch.

See. It’s all okay. You have lunch, I told myself. It is high protein and fiber with an acceptable number of calories. Remember those tight pants this morning? See, a light lunch is a good thing!

I reminded my determined-to-be-positive self, it’s gonna be a good day.

Eyes closed, I was dimly aware of someone entering the lounge and inserting money into the vending machine.

“Wow! Look at that!” a male voice exclaimed. “I got two apples instead of one!” he continued.

I opened my eyes in response to the enthusiastic and unfamiliar voice. I looked up to see two startling green eyes focused on my face. Those eyes were at home on an angular face sporting a fashionably scruffy chin and strong jawline. My eyes took in the good-looking stranger with the close-cropped light brown hair. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“A-are you okay?” the stranger asked, a little uncertainly. No doubt my pain-distorted visage had alerted him to my unwell state. Instead of hurriedly finessing a quick exit to avoid engaging, he looked at me with concern and inquired again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I began, “I had a migraine, but it’s easing up now.” I covered my face, blocking out the light, the man, and the embarrassment. First new man I’d met in months, and I was certainly not making a favorable impression! And how nice that he seems concerned for the welfare of a stranger! Who was this man anyway? I just hoped he’d leave without getting a good look at me. If he didn’t recognize me later, I might get another chance to make a good first impression.

Didn’t happen. “Here,” he said, “I’ll bet an apple would help that headache. The machine gave me two!”

I looked up to see a shiny red apple in his extended hand and kindness and concern in those amazing green eyes.

“Here,” the man said again, his voice much lower now, as he leaned down and gazed at me with interest. “I’ve had such a great morning – and now an extra apple!”

The apple lay in the palm of the broad masculine hand he extended toward me. I couldn’t help noticing that there was no ring on his nicely-manicured ring finger as I reached out to accept the apple and his concern. “Thank you!”

“May I sit?” He asked gesturing to the chair beside mine. “Can I get you an aspirin or something for the headache? I’m Mason Hardy, by the way. Today’s my first day in accounting. I’m Mr. Madison’s new executive assistant.”

I finally found my voice. “Nice to meet you, Mason from accounting. No thanks on the aspirin; the headache is already abating. I’m Sarah Eliott from payroll.”

He was handsome. Incredibly so. I couldn’t even bear to think about how I must look to him. I knew my hair was mussed from the temple massages I’d given myself in an effort to reduce the pain. I knew my morning make-up was long gone. Tears threatened behind my eyes again, choking my throat. I thought about turning away. I wanted to explain, to tell him that I wasn’t normally this big a mess, but I clenched my teeth and held my tongue.

I focused on the light blue fabric of his suit coat and reminded myself that he was a kind stranger who had offered to help. I had said thank you for the apple, and that’s enough. I didn’t need to thank him again, or apologize, or explain myself.

All of these thoughts cascaded through my blood in a matter of seconds Then I remembered the promise I’d made myself to stop avoiding social interactions for fear of rejection. Besides, this man seemed to be actually flirting mildly with me. Maybe I didn’t look as frazzled as I thought.

So I smiled at him - that easy warm kind of smile that I’d been practicing in the mirror this morning. I had etched it into my psyche. I made all the lines of my face tilt upwards, as his had when he smiled at me. I watched his green eyes turn more golden as the sunlight coming in the window behind me struck his face. I took a bite of the apple and consciously relaxed the tension in my neck muscles. 

I finally found my voice. “So, Mason, tell me about this great morning you’ve had.”

As Mason talked about the easy working rapport he’s already established with his new boss, I found myself relaxing into the friendly conversation as if we had not just met. He told me a little about his previous job; and we discovered that we had both played golf in college, although neither of us has played much since graduation. He was easy to be with. There seemed to be a kinship there as we jumped from subject to subject, discovering several shared interests. As we sat, eating our apples and maintaining frequent eye contact in conversation, he smiled often, and those green eyes sparkled.

He asked about the company gym, and I told him I usually worked out immediately after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I didn’t mention that I’d only started this routine about six weeks ago.

“Will you think I’m a stalker if I join you there tomorrow?” he asked with a smile.

“That’d be great,” I said. “Don’t worry. If it turns into stalking, I know your boss, and I can send him a memo!” I joked.

He stood. “Well, speaking of my boss, I’d better get back to work. I’m glad I met you, Sarah from Payroll. I hope your migraine goes away soon. See you tomorrow!”

I stood too and held out my hand, “Thanks for the apple and the conversation, Mason from Accounting. See you in the gym tomorrow.”

As he disappeared, I suddenly realized that my migraine seemed to be gone. Maybe all I had needed was a little food and some pleasant conversation. I tucked the uneaten granola bar into my pocket as I walked into the washroom and took care of business, preparing to go back to my desk. As I washed my hands and repaired my hair and make up, the lady in the mirror kept smiling at me.

“What are you grinning about?” I asked, with a smile of my own.

And we stood there – the lady and me – both just smiling these big ol’ smiles.

Feeling a little sheepish, I reached out and bumped fists with her.

“We said it first thing this morning, right?!’ she winked.

“Today is a good day,” we chorused.

Sisters - A Short Story

 The deadline for this month's short story is suddenly here. In order to keep my options open, I submitted this very incomplete story just to have an entry. I might very well drop this challenge before the end of the year. This month the prompt is "Blossom" and the word count is exactly 1250. 

Sisters

Amanda’s eyes fluttered open. As she became aware that it was light in the bedroom, she sat up abruptly looking to the crib on the other side of her parents’ guest bedroom where she had put Eli to bed last night. They had both been tired from their stressful trip, and Amanda had slept soundly.  

When she saw the empty crib, she smiled. Her mother, the consummate nurturer, had obviously come into the guestroom and taken her grandson downstairs. The smell of coffee wafted up the stairs, backdropped by her Mother’s strong soprano singing hymns, as she always had done when working in the kitchen. At home, as a military wife of a deployed husband, Amanda was on call 24/7 for her 4-month-old son’s needs, so the extra rest was appreciated; still she hurriedly slipped her feet into her slippers to go feed her surely-hungry child, who had only just begun to have a few bites of cereal to supplement his main diet of breast milk.

“Good Morning, Honey!” called her mother when she heard Amanda descending the stairs. “Your Dad’s already left for work, but he said he’d be home early.”

Eli looked perfectly content with runny cereal dripping off his chin. He was sitting in Amanda and Marcy’s old highchair looking at his grandmother expectantly - apparently waiting for his morning concert to continue. Obligingly, Grammy resumed her concert, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound….”

Later, as Eli napped, Helen and Amanda discussed what activities they would like to include in these rare days together.

Helen said, “I called Marcy yesterday. I asked her and Paul to come for dinner tonight so that I can spend some time with BOTH my girls and BOTH my grandbabies while you are here. I got a feeling that something wasn’t right with them; she was vague and wishy-washy on the idea.  Why don’t you call her and see what she says?”

***

Later, Amanda rang off her call, “Great, Marcy. I’m looking forward to seeing you and Ava about 6. I’m sorry Paul can’t come with you.””

“How did she seem to you?” Helen spoke as soon as Amanda looked up from her phone.

“Well, I DID feel like she was holding back or hiding something; but she’s probably just pre-occupied with some household issue. It’s not easy having an out-of-work husband underfoot all the time. She said that Paul hasn’t had any new job leads lately.”

***

Amanda carefully placed Eli into his cousin’s arms. Ava’s eyes shone as she played “big girl holding the baby”; and Eli looked adoringly up into her eyes. “He likes me now!” Ava grinned. “He didn’t smile at me last time.”

“He was too little to smile then,” her mother assured Ava. “Eli has always loved you.” As she spoke, she adjusted Ava’s sleeve, but not before Amanda spotted a string of circular marks around the little girl’s arm.

As Marcy turned back to the adults, Amanda noticed that under her sister’s unusually-heavy makeup there appeared to be a bruise on her cheek.

Amanda, trying not to draw conclusions, quickly spoke. “Dinner was so good, Mom! I haven’t had real fried chicken since the last time you cooked it for us. So, Marcy, have you done any painting lately?”

Listening distractedly as her sister complained about lack of time for personal interests when there is a small child in the house, Amanda tried to gauge whether her sister was acting normally. She was beginning to suspect that Marcy’s husband’s frustration with job hunting was finding an unacceptable outlet.

Marcy’s explanation for her lack of creative product slowly wound down, and Amanda casually, at least she HOPED it sounded casual, reached toward her sister, “Hey, is that a bruise on your cheek? What happened?”

Marcy quickly disguised the alarm that flashed briefly in her eyes and chuckled artificially, “Oh, I’d forgotten about that.” She put her fingers on the bruise. “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing. I bent to pick up Ava last week when she was behind the sofa. Somehow I managed to stumble when I turned. I staggered into the doorframe, hitting my face. But I managed to stay on my feet and not drop Ava! I did notice, though, that my grip on her was so tight I left finger marks on her arm.” She lifted Ava’s sleeve to show the marks she’d tried to hide just a few minutes earlier.

“Mommy,” interrupted Ava, “I looooove baby Eli. Can I have a baby brother? That’s what I want for my birthday.”

“Well, not for your birthday, Sweetheart. That’s too soon; but maybe we will get you a baby brother or sister someday. And now, how about giving me a chance to hold Eli?”

As Marcy took her nephew into her arms, Helen stood. “I feel a little sluggish after that big dinner, Girls. How about a we take a little walk around the block? Ava can help push Eli’s stroller.”

“That’s okay, Grammy,” said Ava, importantly. “Mommy can push him. It’s her turn to have Eli. I’ll get Melody June. She’s been just sitting in that chair a long time. I’ll take her on her on our walk too.” She ran into the playroom to get the doll’s stroller.

***

After Amanda got Eli down for the night, her dad, Jack, excused himself to finish an ongoing project in his study; so Amanda and her mother sat sipping tea in the sunroom.

“Mom…” began Amanda.

 At the same time Helen turned and said, “Darling…”

Their eyes met in understanding.

“What can we do?” Helen looked at Amanda, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Have you talked to her about it at all?” asked Amanda.

“No. And I think it’s time we addressed the elephant in the room,” replied her mother. “The question is how do we start.”

“She might be less embarrassed to talk about it with me than with you or Dad. What do you think?” Amanda ventured.

At her mother’s thoughtful nod, she continued, “It might actually be a relief to know that she doesn’t have to keep the secret anymore.  I could stay a few extra days to find a good time.”

Helen’s eyes lit as an idea hit her. “I have been telling her I’d like to keep Ava more. How about you two girls plan a night out, and I’ll keep the babies. Sharing a hotel room would give you an opportunity for an intimate talk.”

“Great idea. Do you think Paul will agree to her spending a night away from home? And are you sure that you and Dad are up to keeping both babies at the same time? I can pump some milk for Eli before we leave in case he won’t take the formula. We could go to that Monet exhibit downtown.  It’s this coming weekend. I know Marcy’d love to see that. I’ll order tickets now; with tickets already bought, she will have to agree!”

“It’s good to have a plan! Now, help me figure out what to say and what we can do to help her resolve this.”  

Amanda and Her Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I am hoping to write "12 Short Stories in 12 Months" this year.  I have done the "12 Poems in 12 Months" challenge for several years, but fiction-writing comes hard to me, and I've been reluctant to try this challenge. I wrote this month's story in one sitting today - on deadline day! The prompt was "The Question" with a word count of 1200 words exactly.  

Amanda and Her Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

“Could this day get any worse?!” I shouted in frustration.

Standing beside my canted Nissan parked on the shoulder of the country road a hundred miles from home, I watched the clouds gather and darken. I looked into the truck again and saw that Eli was beginning to stir in his carseat and realized that it was past his nursing time. My three-month-old would be wailing for food soon. I prayed that he’d sleep a little longer so I’d have time to see if I remembered my dad’s lesson on changing a flat tire.

I had managed to find and extract the spare when I heard an approaching car and realized it was slowing.

Salvation? Or greater crisis?

The young man emerged from his car and called out, “Can I help you, Miss?”

As he approached my pickup truck, I quickly abandoned the tire and moved to stand beside the door closest to my son’s carseat.

The man was average in almost every way. He was, however, wearing a tie and sport coat, and my first instinct was that salvation had arrived. This man appeared to be the very epitome of a knight in shining armor – sent to rescue me.

Nevertheless, I cautiously and dismissively replied, “I think I can manage. Thank you for stopping, but I will be fine.” I had watched too many true-crime documentaries to allow myself to trust this stranger, no matter how respectable he appeared. I held my breath, willing him to walk back to his car and leave.

I had been absorbed in evaluating the situation and hadn’t heard my son’s beginning cries until the man said, “Oh, you have a baby with you!  You have enough to deal with here. Why don’t I just change the tire while you take care of the child?”

As Eli’s wails gathered strength, the accumulated stress of the day overwhelmed me. What if this man intended harm? How would I protect myself and my child? But it would be dark soon, and there was no family or friend within 100 miles that I could call to come help me. Soon I’d be in an even more precarious situation because of the DARK factor.  

Impulsively, and spurred by the frantic wails now coming from inside the truck, I decided I had to take the chance.

Seeing my inner struggle, the stranger said, “Look, I know what you’re thinking, and I understand. I promise you I only want to help you. My name is Jeremy Cagle. I live just down the road a couple of miles that way. I was just on my way to a town-hall meeting in Coverdale. I’m a district representative.”

Tentatively I replied, “Thank you, Mr. Cagle…”

“Jeremy, please.”

“Okay, Jeremy. I’m Amanda, and I would appreciate the help.”

Careful not to turn my back completely to him, I opened the door and took my son out of his carseat to comfort him, and Jeremy bent to his task.

Eli began rooting into my chest, wanting to be fed. There was no way I could nurse my son while this stranger and I were alone in the gathering darkness, but Eli’s cries were becoming louder and more demanding.

I walked down the side of the road, passing Jeremy and the rear of the truck and bouncing Eli gently to placate him, then I turned to see Jeremy’s back as he knelt to put the spare on my truck. With the stranger’s back to me, I breathed deeply to calm myself and cautiously adjusted my clothing and the concealing blanket so that Eli could nurse.

“How’s it going?” I called as the baby greedily latched on and began to nurse.

“Should be finished in 5.” Jeremy replied.

“I hope you’re not ruining your clothes,” I continued, to fill the silence.

In the momentary calm, I began to mentally process the events of the last 24 hours.

In the early-morning quiet, I had held Eli and re-read the email from my husband, deployed for the last two months in Afghanistan. The letter was determinedly cheerful and upbeat, but I sensed the tension and loneliness behind Brian’s written words. Miliary regulations kept him from being able to relay any factual information as to exactly where he was and what his activities involved, but it had become clear to me that he was involved in actual combat and that he desperately wanted to be home with his family.

Since I was still on maternity leave, I had impulsively decided that Eli and I needed family around us for awhile, so I had called Mom and Dad and made plans for an impromptu road trip.

It is not easy to do laundry and pack for a trip with a hungry baby for company, so it was after noon by the time I had finished making the necessary phone calls and other preparations, loaded the car, and got myself and my baby started on our journey. We still should have been able to arrive at Mom and Dad’s house before dark, but the universe seemed to have conspired against that goal.

Usually a placid and easily-entertained baby, Eli had been fussy in the truck – not wanting to sleep, wanting to be held. I sang. I talked. Finally, I had stopped and had taken him out of the seat and cuddled a little, hoping that a break would help him feel secure and lull him to sleep. Just as we approached Madison, the only part of our trip that involved urban interstate highways, he, thankfully, began to doze. Traffic congestion worsened with the never-ending road construction that typifies the little city of Madison. No matter what I did, I couldn’t pick the lane that was moving, so we crept slowly along the interstate highway towards the last stretch of country road we would travel.

As Eli slept, I thought about what lay ahead when we arrived at my parents’ house. Eli would be rested and ready to play; I would be tired and still have a lot of work to do before I could rest. Just anticipating the arrival, unpacking, and setting up for home away from home with a baby had me tense, apprehensive, and exhausted. And then the truck began that ker-thunk, ker-thunk battle cry of the flat tire, and this final stress of the day had begun.

Now, standing beside the road in the gathering twilight, re-adjusting my clothing after Eli’s meal and watching a stranger changing my tire, I steeled myself for whatever was next. Would Jeremy get in his car and leave? Or did I have more crisis ahead? I braced myself as I watched the young man throw the flat tire into the back of the truck and brush his hands together.

“Well, Amanda, remember these little “donut” tires are just temporary. You need to drive slowly and get a real tire back on as soon as you can. You have a safe trip now.” He smiled and began moving toward his car.

I cuddled my sleeping baby closer to my chest and stepped toward Jeremy. “I can’t possibly tell you how much I appreciate this, Jeremy.”

“Glad to help! Be careful now!” Jeremy waited beside his car while I buckled Eli into his seat and got into the driver’s seat of my pickup truck.

My heart was light as I drove my happy baby the remaining two hours to security.  

 

I am an expository writer and a poet. Writing fiction is a stretch for me, so I joined the short-story-writing challenge for 2022. This is another division in the Deadlines for Writers group. The first prompt is "jewel" and the wordcount in 1000.  This is my submission. 2022-01

What’s Next?

 

Kady and Chad finished the last of their shared Moo Goo Gai Pan and reached for their fortune cookies.

“An old love will come back to you.” Chad laughed, “You’re going to have to step up your game, Kady. You have competition! An old love is looking for me! Read your fortune!”

“’A priceless jewel awaits.’” Kady laughed. “The priceless jewel dining with me tonight and the shiny ones on my left hand are all I need!” She reached across the table and took her husband’s hand.

Sighing contentedly, Kady slipped on her sweater and picked up her purse while Chad settled their bill.

Strolling back to their car, Kady commented, “You know I’ll give her a fight, don’t you? That old love of yours won’t stand a chance. I intend to hold on real tight!”

Squeezing her hand, Chad laughingly replied, “I’m going nowhere, Baby!  But let’s both keep our eyes peeled; we don’t want to walk right by that jewel that’s waiting for you.”

Just at that moment, Kady spotted something round on the pavement. “Hey!” she bumped his arm playfully and continued the banter, “I might have found it!”  She bent to better see the object on the ground in the parking lot - a flattened bottle cap.

The Next Morning 

After the school bus pulled away, Kady loaded the dishwasher and settled into her reading nook for a quiet time with her coffee before getting dressed to start the day. Engrossed in her novel, she was startled when the doorbell chimed.

Yikes! Go to the door in PJs or ignore the bell and hope they’d just go away?

The melodic three-note sequence sounded again.

Kady walked hesitantly to the door and peered through the peephole. Seeing who it was, she sighed, threw decorum to the wind, decided her attire was modest if not attractive, and opened the door.

“Pastor Bob!” she greeted the visitor.

Seeing his solemn and unsure expression, she gulped and continued, “Come in. Let me get you some coffee.  Is everything okay?”

“No thanks on the coffee, Kady. Let’s just sit and chat a few minutes.”

Settling on the sofa across from the pastor, Kady raised her eyes inquiringly at her visitor.

The pastor took a fortifying breath and continued, “Have the boys left for school?” Seeing her affirming nod, he continued, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

He rushed on, “There’s no easy way to say this, but I must tell you that Chad had an accident on the way to work this morning; he was killed instantly in the collision. I am so sorry, Kady.”

As Kady slumped onto the arm of the sofa, Pastor Bob quickly moved to sit beside her and pulled her comfortingly into his side with fatherly concern.

A Year Later

Three months after life for me changed inalterably and I found myself with the job of raising my two little boys alone, I came to a crossroads. I wanted to be a woman who pursued life fearlessly. I wanted to continue to find meaning in life; but how could I have a meaningful life without the man I loved - the father of my children?

My youthful naivete had utterly betrayed me. The universe was NOT unfolding as it should.  For more than a decade, I had built my life around Chad and labored alongside him as we built our family and pursued our vocations. He was my home. My partner. My best friend, co-adventurer, and the father of my children. His brilliant, creative, and steadying presence had been a major touchstone of our family and the most consistent thing in my adult life. I didn’t know how to live without Chad.  As a human being, wired to make meaning of an unpredictable and unfair world, I could not make sense of this loss.

So, nine months ago, as I stood at the crossroads, I finally realized that the biggest hindrance to my healing was my desire to make sense of why Chad had died. The only way to heal was to accept the harsh reality that some losses cannot be explained or redeemed. This loss just had to be slogged through, summoning grit when needed and accepting grace when offered, and always believing that there can be growth for those of us who choose to love life, even when living in the shadow of death.

Two roads awaited me. Must I continue down the road of “Why do bad things happen?” Or could I turn onto the route of “What’s next?”  The reality was that Chad was gone. I was still here. My boys were still here. Life was worth living. I could no longer risk the life I still had for the life and future that I had lost.

Resolutely I chose to find a way to make the grief help us build our future. I studied post-traumatic growth and resilience. I found evidence-based practices and principles to integrate into my own healing. I discovered I could CHOOSE to have a deeper love of life by cultivating a greater compassion for others and broadening the public conversation about adversity in life and healing.

Now, one year after that traumatic day and nine months after I chose my path. I am waiting for my Wednesday night support group to arrive. Our community of kindred spirits are courageous and honest enough to admit our frailties and failing. We are still open enough to make space for the wonders and mysteries of life. We are each continuing our healing journeys, empowering each other to engage in the world wholeheartedly. We help each other have more positive emotions, find meaning and purpose, and achieve greater physical and emotional vitality. Together we find hope in looking for what can unfurl in the future.

When I left the road of “Why did this happen?” and began the long walk down the road of “What’s Next,” I found the priceless jewel of hope that was waiting for me there.