A Letter to the Landlord -- Flash Fiction

image from lisasellspontevedra.com

Dear Mrs. Bertrand,

I'm sorry if you want us to move. The girls and I've only been here for six months. Our lease is for one year with an option to buy, which we are seriously considering.

I do understand that we are not allowed to operate a business in this residential area, which of course we do not, so the city should not be concerned about us in any way.

We love your house. It suits us perfectly. Lots of parking. Even unobtrusive parking in the rear.

Perhaps you're concerned with the minor changes we've made. In the basement mostly. So each girl has her own personal space.

Plenty of bedrooms upstairs. And let me tell you, the elevator you had installed for your mother when she lived here is a Godsend.

Each bedroom has its own decor. One is all in pink like a little girl's room. And there's one with an African motif -- you know fake animal skin fabrics and a big ficus tree in front of the window. The one at the head of the stairs is more like a psychiatrist's office with a desk and book shelves and a couch.

The open design of the dining room/family room is perfect for entertaining, which we do only on a limited basis. We feel our parties fit in nicely with this quiet neighborhood. No loud music. No rowdy outdoor behavior. Nothing to draw undue attention.

I'm sorry if the neighbors complained about that time our friends arrived on their motorcycles. I assure you that will never happen again. But they certainly were not a motor cycle gang. In fact they were, every one of them, professionals. A couple of doctors, some accountants, even a judge. I know Harleys are loud and Harley riders do enjoy the sounds of their own engines. But did the neighbors tell you there were almost as many BMW's as Harleys in the group? Probably not. And BMW's are quite quiet. And expensive.

Mr. Davenport -- you know the Davenports? The neighbors to the north? He was most interested in an old Indian -- that's a motor cycle they don't make any more. He stayed the whole evening and has been back a number of times since. A charming man, Mr. Davenport. I believe their oldest son and your oldest play on the same lacrosse team. Both have visited us. They are fine young men. Very polite.

The living room is a wonderful room for greeting our guests. We are so looking forward to lighting the fireplace come winter. We've hung beautiful drapery on the french doors. Wine colored brocade, which we can close to give it that sense of warmth and intimacy. Judge Adams -- he rides the Indian, Mr. Davenport was so taken with -- he especially likes the living room. I believe Mrs. Adams is in your bridge club. She's never visited, but she seems pleased that the Judge has found some place to relax. Some place other than that smelly old bar where he used to go. Gets him out from under her feet, she says.

And the back garden with its hot tub is perfect. I especially like the wall and shrubbery. They  provide complete privacy. The Reverend, Mr. Smithwick sometimes takes advantage of the hot tub. Some days his work is just too stressful for words. And he so misses his dearly departed wife. You know him. He lives in the parsonage at the end of the street. Next to St. Lukes. That is such a beautiful church. I believe Mr. Bertrand has mentioned that you are members there.

If you are concerned about the minor changes we've made, you're welcome to come and look around. Although Mr. Bertrand has seen them all and he thinks they're grand. Early afternoons would probably be best for us. We tend to be late risers.

Very truly yours,

Victoria Shepherd

U is for Ukraine

I didn’t want to take up blogging. Facebook was traumatic enough for me. When I first started with it, I felt insecure. No. Worse than that. Threatened. I felt like I was giving access to my house, my private safe place, ultimately to me, to people I knew but would never have invited into my home. More than that. And worse. Hundreds of thousands, a world full of people I didn’t even know.

With a little help from my tech savvy daughter I learned enough about Facebook to feel like I have some control over who has access to me.

Then I wrote a book.

And people who knew what they were talking about said I would have to use ‘platforms’ to sell my book. To my horror, they meant Blogging and Twitter and Instagram and goodness knows what other invasive technology. All I wanted to do was write a book.

And have people read the book and enjoy it. To do that a writer has to sell the book.

I used to be a reporter for a small town daily newspaper so the concept of having strangers read what I write felt familiar to me. And I wouldn’t have to talk about me like posting my status on Facebook. I could maintain some sense of privacy.

I could write about writing and reading and other people’s books and movies and current events and . . . . Well you see. And it would feel quite normal that strangers would read my blog. It goes right along with people reading my book. I don’t need to know them either.

So . . . .

I chose Google’s blogspot to blog. Not because I knew what I was doing when I made the choice. I didn’t weigh my options because I didn’t know what options were available. I was using Google as my browser, my default research librarian, my street navigator. You get the picture.

Blogspot displays a curious set of information. (Actually a whole bunch of enigmatic sets of information that I have not yet had the courage to explore.) It’s “Stats.”

Stats includes something identified as Pageviews by Countries. I’m still not sure exactly what constitutes a pageview, but I understand the concept of countries. And one of the countries that began to show up on a somewhat regular basis was the Ukraine.

Of course I can’t tell if the person or persons are Ukrainian who are interested in practicing their English by reading a basically anonymous American’s writings. He, she, or they could be Americans currently in the Ukraine and missing home. They could be terrorist spies redirecting their internet connections through the UK to Germany to Japan to Indonesia and finally through the Ukraine.

But somehow, he or she or they felt like real people to me. I know nothing about the geography of the Ukraine, so it wouldn’t mean anything to know which city they live in. But I do know that the Ukraine is a battle ground where competing governments are putting people in harm’s way. And when those ‘stats’ from the Ukraine stopped showing up I worried.

I worried that they were ill and unable to surf the internet. Or that they were without power and I knew it could be cold there in winter. Or that the war had come to them.

I tried to remind myself that they could be on vacation in some nice warm country with good wine and rich food. Or that their own writing was going so well that they hadn’t time to bother with mine. Or worse scenario for me, that they’d gotten bored with what I was writing.

The good news is that they’re back.

Hello Ukraine. I’m so glad to see you.