Dear Santa (4th of four) -- flash fiction

This is Dee's fourth and final letter written in 2015

Dear Santa,

Happy almost Christmas!

I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire-damaged house is being repaired.

Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. As much as it surprises me, I have to say the Labradors have been good about not bothering them, too. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney's and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

At almost ten, Michael is the wise, elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. From the Disney film Cars, but I'm sure you already knew that. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVDs and Netflix.

Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

Not that they get enough of that at my house. 

Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the little plastic manger, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up. He’s working graveyards. He saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. Thurman got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

Poor Rodney. Smoke billowed from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

After a late dinner, Thurman went to work and the rest of us went to bed. I'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep when Becca woke me to take her to the hospital. So here I am. Waiting on our new baby girl.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. We all thought it was a girl. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes. Wonder if they'll put him in those pretty little pink things they got at the baby shower. 

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy Saturday, we’re having a few friends in for a post-Christmas dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Outside the Window -- flash fiction

     She felt it more than heard it.
     She'd been tired, so tired she'd gone to bed leaving Carl in front of the TV.
     She didn't open her eyes. She heard only silence and drifted off.
     There it was again. A distant rumble, like a bowling ball running down the lane. She and Carl bowled a lot when the kids were small. The Bowlarama had thirty lanes, a bar and grill, and childcare. She turned over and went back to sleep.
     A different sound -- like a door shutting. Then rushing air. She kept her eyes shut. Maybe it was the heating unit. Or the wind. She felt Carl's side of the bed. Empty. He must still be in front of the TV. What time was it? Maybe she could go back to sleep.
     She opened her eyes.
     The room was dark. Totally dark. She reached for her glasses. The night light must be out. Maybe the battery. No, it didn't have a battery. It plugged into the wall. Did those bulbs ever burn out? She couldn't remember how long they'd had it. She touched the base of her reading lamp. Nothing happened.
     The power was out. Where was her phone? She'd use it for light. Yes, of course -- on the charger in the kitchen.
     She stepped into one of her house slippers, but she couldn't find the other one. Just another good reason to be more intentional about putting things away. Her keys, the remote control, the house phone.
     Carl was much better at that than she. He hung his coat in the hall closet as soon as he came in. He always recradled the house phone no matter where he'd been using it. Each of his tools hung in its place on the south wall of the garage.
     The living room was dark.

     "Carl?"

     No Carl. No TV, either. Of course not. The power was out.
     Maybe a breaker had kicked off. They did that sometimes, like when Carl was in the garage welding. Many years ago her father had shown her how to push the breaker switch all the way off, then on again. She couldn't think if the breaker box was in the garage or outside somewhere.
     Lightning flashed through the closed blinds, lighting the room in eerie strips. Too little light for too short a time. On then off like a strobe. Silence for a three-count, then thunder.
     First the wind. A gust front. She could feel it against the house. Then the rain started. From the popping sound against the chimney cap, they must be big drops. Or maybe hail.

     "Carl?"

     Maybe he'd gone into the garage to do whatever it was needed doing to get the power back on.
     She opened the blinds and looked out. The whole neighborhood was dark. So dark she couldn't see across the street. It wasn't just her house.
     Again, a flash of lightning. Wind driven rain lashed the window. Their beautiful bay window -- the window that sold them on this house.
     In that moment, she saw someone coming toward the house. Through her roses. Carl knew better than that. Her Mister Lincoln had been there for years. Her mother gave her the cutting. And the Tropicana, the most beautiful orange rose. Not the aggressive orange of a hunter's vest. More like mango sherbet. Carl said it didn't look right, next to the Mister Lincoln's deep red.
     Dark again, leaving only the bright blindness of eyes trying to adjust.
     Thunder and a scream. Amidst the raging wind and rain, something smashed through the window. Sounds of shattering glass and clashing Venetian blinds filled the blackness. Her chest constricted. She couldn't breathe. She pressed herself against the wall.
     Another flash lit the room. Harsh white light exposed a concrete bowl sitting on her living room floor -- the bowl and broken glass. Her birdbath. Carl told her it was too near the window, but farther away and it would have been on the other side of the roses. Where was he?
     Moaning wind battered at the front door. The moans sounded almost human. The moans became shouts, calling her name beseeching her to "please open the damn door."

     "Carl?"

     Lightning flashed as she opened the door. Carl stood there, silhouetted against the glare. Thunder roared over their heads, as though to shake the world. She pulled him inside.

     Too exhausted to be afraid any longer, they huddled in the hallway until the storm passed.

     Dawn came right behind the storm. In that quiet, first light, she examined the damage. Their living room was in shambles. Rain soaked the glass strewn carpet and most of the furniture. Blood streaked Carl's face.

     "Sorry 'bout the roses." He said. "And the birdbath. I fell against it."

     She gently plucked a deep red petal from above his left eye and a mango sherbet petal from his left cheek. Carl had been wrong. His face was beautiful. Even with the Mister Lincoln rose's deep red so near the Tropicana's orange.
   

Letters to Santa (1 of 4) -- Flash Fiction

Three years ago I wrote this series of four letters to Santa -- all flash fiction.

Two years ago I reprised them.

Last year I set them as my Christmas tradition.

Here they are again, this year.

Enjoy.

image from twinset.us

Dear Santa,

I saw you in the Thanksgiving Day parade. You looked right at me. I was between 14^th and 15^th Streets. In front of the Silver Spoon. You have such kind eyes. 

       You probably think I’m too old to be writing to Santa. Maybe I am. But 53 isn’t so very old.

Anyway, my husband Marvin died three years. Ironic isn’t it, him dying on Black Friday.

       Rodney’s moved back in. He’s my son. Thirty-two years old. His wife served him with papers  the Monday before Thanksgiving. Pretty cold-hearted to do that Thanksgiving Week, don’t you think? Still, it is nice to have the boy home again. He made the Thanksgiving turkey. The whole dinner, actually – green bean casserole, dressing, stuffed celery. And three pies. Apple, pumpkin, and pecan. Marvin always liked pumpkin. My favorite is strawberry-rhubarb, but never mind.

I thought Jennifer was a nice young woman. She just didn’t appreciate Rodney’s financial ventures. Adventures, more like. Not long after they married, he went in with a friend raising ostriches. You know, the birds. Turns out the people already in the business were selling breeding stock and dreams of wealth. They convinced people that there would be a market for the meat and hides. It never developed and Rodney got stuck with the birds. Those birds will eat anything. One of them knocked my sunglasses off and swallowed them before I could pick them up. I covered the vet bill since it was sort of my fault.

I’m glad the zoo agreed to take them. Abandoning them in the national forest just didn’t seem right.

Then Rodney bought gold when it was at its height. And there was that land in New Mexico. The photos were beautiful. Mountain scenery. But no access and no water. I’m not sure what he intended to do with it.

But the boy’s always worked. It’s not like he spent her money on any of these, shall we say, investments. I think she objected to the way he works, too. He can’t seem to stay with a job very long. He was at that investments counselling place the longest. Good money, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

I don’t think the girl was pleased with him raising rabbits either. He brought the rabbits with him – two does and their litters. I’m not sure how many babies there are, but their eyes are open and they’ve got hair. Or is it fur? They are so cute.

I know my Home Owners’ Association probably has some rule against keeping rabbits, but he’s got them in the basement so nobody will ever know. I’m glad Marvin finished the basement.

We do have some good news. My daughter Becca is expecting. A little girl, due in a couple of weeks give or take. You know how that goes. Anyway, hopefully by Christmas. That’ll make four for her.

It's just as well that Rodney and Jennifer don’t have any children. Under the circumstances.

You may think I’m crazy, but I’m going to mail this. I’m not really expecting any response. I would have written to Marvin, but that seemed wrong somehow, him being dead and all. I just needed someone to talk to.

Very truly yours,

Dee

Deviled Eggs -- Flash Fiction

Without looking up from her laptop, she chirped "Here's one! Ham and egg lasagna. Twelve hard-boiled eggs, ham, Swiss cheese..."

"We had egg salad sandwiches for lunch," he put his tablet aside and got up from the couch.

"I know," she said. "But we need to use them up."

He went to the hall closet.

"The kids had so much fun hunting eggs. How about pickled eggs?" She called after him. "Eight boiled eggs, a jar of beets ...." She sent the recipe to the printer.

He came back through the dining room carrying his favorite day pack. He hoped they'd found them all. He didn't relish finding boiled eggs with the lawn mower weeks down the road.

"Bill? Did you hear? Pickled eggs?"

"Um hum. And beets," he said as he headed for the kitchen.

"I'm glad we didn't get plastic eggs," she said. "Here are a whole bunch of recipes for deviled eggs," she cried. "You like deviled eggs!"

He opened the refrigerator door. "I think I'll take Buddy for a walk."

Hearing his name and the magic word walk, the old Lab padded happily into the kitchen after his man.

"Buddy will like that. Greek deviled eggs. Italian deviled eggs. Mexican deviled eggs."

"Yes, dear," he said filling the day pack from the fridge while Buddy waited patiently at his feet.

"Crab stuffed deviled eggs. Real eggs are just so much more nutritious. Instead of all that chocolate for the kids."

"Nutritious," he echoed with an aside to Buddy, "For the coyotes and foxes and crows and coons."

Buddy pranced a bit in anticipation as Bill closed the refrigerator door and zipped the back pack.

"I just love Easter," she enthused as Bill and Buddy headed to the back door. "The kids do so enjoy dyeing eggs. Avocado Ranch deviled eggs." She hit the send button again and he could hear the printer spitting out yet another recipe for deviled eggs. "And they were so pretty."

"Yes. Very pretty," he said and snapped the leash onto the dog's collar. "They'll look very pretty indeed. Scattered in the pasture south of the neighborhood.

*   *   *

This bit of flash fiction is my piece for Days D and E in the 2018 A to Z Blogging Challenge for which I was too late to officially enter. So I'm just shadowing.

Technically, one is supposed to post a blog every day in April (except Sundays) and each post is supposed to be about something that begins with the letter for that day. April 1 was A, April 2 was B, and so on.

Quintessential, etc. Reprise -- flash fiction

Confession time:
I didn't have a Q post ready to go this morning. When I sat down to write one Facebook came up with one of those memories from past posts and this was today's, two years ago. It made me laugh when I wrote it and it made me laugh all over again today. So Fellow A to Z Bloggers you're getting a reprise of an old Q. And I'll use the one I was planning for today for when we get to T.

Quintessential, Quit, Quiet

note the date: 2015

“Oh, my goodness,” she wailed, tears streaking her smoke and ash stained face. “I tried to use the fire distinguisher. I did, but …”

“Maggie, it’s all right. You’re all right.” I hugged her and patted her back. “Take a deep breath, dear. It’ll all be all right.”

“I’m not being historical. Really, I’m not.” She settled against my shoulder, hiccoughing. “But, you always say I should be more remorseful.”

“Resourceful, dear.”

“What?” She pulled away from me, her blue eyes wide, filled with fresh tears.

“Resourceful. I always say you should be more resourceful.”

“I know. That’s why I tried to put it out myself.”

I knew I shouldn't laugh. She was my beautiful daughter who normally smelled of cherry blossoms and lavender. She spoke faster than she thought when she was in the throes of any intense emotion – anger, joy. And today, fear.

“And you did fine. I’m glad the fire department got here so quickly.”

“They asked me how it started. I tried to tell them. But I couldn’t remember all the perpendiculars.
I’m afraid I got them all mixed up.”

I laughed. “You, my dear, are the quintessential master of the malapropism.”

“Quinta what?” She stamped her foot. “Mom, you are being completely nonsensual.”

“Maggie!” I laughed. I cried with laughter. “Maggie, Maggie, please quit. Just be quiet for a little. My cheeks hurt.”

#atozchallenge

Initials (Only) -- Flash Fiction

image from YouTube

"B. J., you got everything you need?"

"Yes, sir. I think I do." The young man put his duffel bag on the rider's side floor of his old red pickup.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Too late to change my mind now. Already signed the papers. It's pretty much up to them." He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at his feet. "Long as I pass their tests, they'll let me stay."

"Oh, they'll let you stay all right, but four years. That's a long time." He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet, too.

The two men stood there, the younger one almost a reflection of the older one. In many ways he looked more like his uncle than he did his own father. His father had been gone too long.

"Uncle Arthur, you did twenty years. Made Master Sergeant. Raised two girls."

"I did. Worked well for your Aunt Dora and me." He followed his brother's son to the driver's side of the truck.

B. J. climbed in, closed the door, and rolled down the window.

Arthur pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and withdrew a crisp $100 bill.

"Nah, I got enough money to get there."

"I know you do." The uncle chuckled. "I know you do. You put this in the back of your bill fold and don't take it out except for an emergency."

B. J. pulled his seat belt across his chest.

The uncle rested a weathered hand on the open window, the money held loosely between his second and middle finger. "Let me give you some advice. Basic is rough. Your Drill Instructor will be the toughest, meanest man you'll ever meet, but he'll teach you everything you need to know."

B. J. tucked the $100 bill in his chest pocket and laughed. "Or maybe a woman."

"Well if it's a woman, she'll be even tougher. Whoever it is, don't draw attention to yourself. Don't do anything that might show you know something they don't. I guarantee they'll pick some poor slob to be the butt for the whole ten weeks. And you don't want to be him."

He drove seven hours to Fort Leonard Wood. Under the supervision of two Drill Instructors, one of whom was a woman, he waited nearly three hours for the rest of his group to arrive.

Wearing clean dockers and a buttoned shirt, B. J. observed his fellow recruits. One shaggy looking slacker lounged against a pole, his baggy shorts hanging from skinny hips under a dirty tank top. He looked like he'd partied all night long. B. J. thought he'd i.d.'d his group's butt.

Finally the woman Drill Instructor ordered, "Platoon, fall in. Four rows of ten."

The shaggy one finally found his place and the Drill Instructor took a clip board from her fellow D.I.

"Andrews, Carl David," she shouted and someone answered.

"Burkhardt, Donald Eugene."

"Don," came the answer.

She lowered the clipboard and searched the ranks.

A burly blond guy from the middle of the pack raised his hand. "I go by Don," he said.

"Well, excuse me all to hell. Did your mother name you Donald? Or did she not?"

He lowered his hand, "Donald."

"Donald what?" She glared at him.

"Donald Eugene," he barely whispered.

"Donald, Drill Sergeant." Turning on the rest of the platoon, she graciously explained, "the correct answer is always what I say followed by Drill Sergeant.

A few more names down the list she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

No one answered.

Twice more she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

Still no one answered.

Finally she stepped to the side and conferred with the other Drill Instructor.

She resumed her position center front and growled, "B. only J. only Christ."

B. J. swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here."

"Well, by Christ, I'm glad we got that straightened out. What do the B and the J stand for?"

"Nothing, ma'am. It's just the initials. And my last name rhymes with 'mist,' ma'am."

"Copy that Bonly Jonly. And don't call me ma'am. I work for a living. Drop and give me twenty-five. NOW."

B. J. had no doubt who the butt was.

#atozchallenge

Dialog -- Flash Fiction

Image from Johns Hopkins University

Jacqueline Mitchard was the Guest of Honor at the 2014 Rose State Writing Short Course in Midwest City, Oklahoma. She wrote The Deep End of the Ocean, which was the first selection for Oprah's Book Club.

She's not only a good writer, but a good teacher, too. One of the exercises she gave us to do was to write twelve lines of dialogue. Dialogue only. We could not use attributions or other narrative. It was to be an argument between two people, one of whom has a secret. The secret could not be that they were pregnant or having an affair.

From the dialogue, the reader should be able to identify the relationship of the two people, their gender, their ages, and what the secret was. These people are not arguing but here goes....


"May I sit here?"

"Sure. It's pretty full."

"Are you all right? You seem nervous. A little harried."

"My first flight. Going to ask my high school sweetheart to marry me."

"First marriage?"

"God, no. My wife and I were married forty-three years. Mary passed away two years ago."

"I'm sorry about your wife. My Bill and I are coming up on fifty-one years next month. October third."

"It was hard at first. Living alone, I mean. Not the marriage. These seats are nice. A little tight, but .... Then in June was my high school's fifty-year reunion. The bathrooms in the airport are nice. They're clean. Mary would have liked that. Do you know where the bathroom on here is?"

"There's one in the very front and one in the very back. So do you think someone should say something to someone if her slip were showing? Or, say, she noticed that someone had spinach stuck between their teeth?"

"Sure."

"What about if she noticed that a man's fly was unzipped?"

"Oh, God."

#atozchallenge

Better to Listen -- Flash Fiction

Image from archive.randi.org

"Look." He nodded toward the girl in the stacks. "She's beautiful. She's in my English Lit class, but she's never talked to me."

"Have you talked to her?" his friend asked.

"Nah. I don't want to bother her."

"Just talk to her. Give her a chance."

Leaving his friend at the head of the aisle, he wandered along looking at book titles as though for a particular book. An older woman entered the aisle and moved past him, shelving books. He waited until she left.

"Hi," he said to the young woman. "Come here often?"

She looked up at him and smiled. "English Lit, right?"

"Right." He read the titles of the books she was holding. "Tyson?"

"Your name is Tyson?" she asked.

"No, no. Neil deGrasse Tyson," he said indicating the books in her arms.

"Oh, yes. He's brilliant."

"He's got a TV show," he said sticking his hands in his pockets.

"I know, but I don't have cable," she said. "Do you watch it?"

"No. He's made some pretty controversial moves."

"Oh, yes?" she asked.

"Like downgrading Pluto to a dwarf planet."

"Yes. He was in on that. His argument seemed very sensible to me."

"Then he stirred the old religion-science pot with that tweet at Christmas time," he continued, crossing his arms and settling into his professorial mode. "You know. 'On this day long ago, a child was born who, by age 30, would transform the world. Happy Birthday Isaac Newton b. Dec 25, 1642.'" He was sure he'd quoted it accurately.

"Yeah. I was one of the thousands who re-tweeted it." She held the books closer to her chest.

"Next thing you know, he'll continue his crusade against astrology."

"Yes, he probably will." She arched an eyebrow.

 "My grandmother reads her horoscope every morning." He thought the girl had beautiful eyes.

 "I gotta go." She turned and left the stacks.

He went back to his friend.

"Did you see that?" he asked. "She just blew me off. It's because I'm a geek, isn't it. Girls just don't like intellectual types. I bet if I had a cool car or played guitar . . . ."

His friend shook his head. "She was in the library. In the physics section of the library. You love astronomy. She had two Neil deGrasse Tyson books. Why were you talking bad about deGrasse Tyson? You like him. And your grandmother's horoscope?" His friend crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling. "You're not a geek. You're an idiot."

A Boy with a Truck -- Flash Fiction

image from everydayfamily.com

"Gran, whatcha doin'?"  Michael asked as he climbed onto the bed.

"Folding laundry. What are you doing?"

"Nothing." The three-year-old held out a small, battered red truck.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked, checking the tag in a T-shirt.

"Grandpa." He tried to see the tag, too.

She turned the shirt so he could see. "XL, that's Grandpa's shirt."

"Michael starts with M," he said.

"Right. But XL is the size. Grandpa starts with G."

"G?"

"XL stands for extra large."

Michael took his truck and ran to the living room where his Grandpa watched the news. He stopped in front of the TV.

"Boy, you'd make a better door than window," his grandfather said.

"Extra, extra," someone sang as the announcer shouted "Welcome to Sports Extra." Video of people swimming flashed in the background and the sports-caster said "One hundred days until the 2016 Summer Olympics. Michael Phelps and our own Missy Franklin are in Colorado Springs training."

"Michael? Like me?" the child asked.

His Grandfather nodded. "But bigger."

"What are Olympics?" One knee down, travelling in a half-crawl, Michael pushed his truck across the floor.

"It's for athletes who excel at their sport. There'll be wrestling and basketball and running and jumping."

"Extra large?" Michael asked. Sure that his Grandpa watched him, he ran fast and jumped as high as he could.

"That's pretty good. You just might get to go to the Olympics in sixteen years or so. When you're a lot bigger. Go ask Gran if she wants some ice cream."

"Can I take Red?"

"Red?"

Michael held up the little truck.

Half an hour later the three of them and Red were outside the ice cream shop. They had to wait and let Michael watch a convoy of trucks. Big white trucks with the iconic red logo of a Colorado electric company on the doors.

"Xcel Energy trucks, headed for Kansas," the grandfather said. "They're expecting bad weather."

"Extra large," Michael said, entranced by the passing trucks.

Michael's grandmother looked up at the clear blue sky and watched a man in shorts enter the ice cream shop. "It must be Spring. Tornadoes on the prairie and we're expecting snow."

"Not until Saturday." Grandpa laughed and scooped Michael up.

Inside the shop a teenager behind the counter asked "What'll it be, little man?"

From the vantage point of his grandfather's arms Michael had the ice cream man say the names of each of the possibilities.

Finally he said, "Chocolate. XL, please."

Dammit Jason -- Flash Fiction

Originally posted October 25, 2014, and then again in last year's A to Z Blogging Challenge, this is my personal favorite blog post. I had fun writing it and I have fun every time I reread it. Hope you enjoy it, too.

image from people.com

“Dammit Jason.”

“Honest Mom. I didn’t mean to kill her. She’d a killed me if I hadn’t done it.”

“Eighteen years old and you can’t handle your granny’s pig?”

“But she was gonna bite me. More’n bite me. She’d a killed me.”

“Dammit Jason. She’s a pig. Granny’s the one you’re gonna have to run from when she finds out you killed her pig.”

“That’s why I called you. I knew you’d know what to do.”

“You just be sure that blanket’s coverin’ up the floorboard. I swear the only danger my car’s ever been in has been you. You and your friends. Just two beers, my sweet Aunt Sassy. Smelled to high heaven for three weeks and now there’ll be blood all over.”

“But she ain’t bleedin’.”

“She ‘isn’t’ bleedin’.”

“I know, Mom. That’s what I just said.”

“Dammit, Jason. You said ‘ain’t.’”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“You pick up her front part. I’ll get her back legs.”

“She’s still warm.”

“And why wouldn’t she be? I came right over didn’t I?”

“Mom! I think she moved.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Pick her up. She can’t bite you now. You just wait ‘til your father hears what you’ve done.”

“Do we have to tell him?”

“No, Jason. We don’t have to tell him anything. You have to tell him. Now get in the car.”

“Can I turn on the radio?”

“No, Jason. You can just sit there in the quiet and think about what you’ve done until we get out past the Simpson place.”

“We gonna dump her in the river?”

“No. We are not going to dump her in the river. I’d have nightmares for weeks thinking of that poor, dead, bloated pig driftin’ on down to the Gulf. Your Granny loved that pig.”

“Did you hear something?”

“No, Jason. I didn’t hear anything except your snufflin’.”

“I ain’t snufflin’. Isn’t. I’m not snufflin’.”

“We’ll dump her in that old irrigation ditch just this side of the levee.”

“Mom, she’s movin’.”

“Jason, wishing and imagining isn’t going to make her alive again.”

“Stop, Mom! We gotta get out. She’ll kill us both.”

“Dammit, Jason.”

Apples to Oranges -- flash fiction

He looked at her book. "I like cats," he said.

The woman didn't look up.

"Good book, is it?" he asked.

She looked at him, her eyebrows drawn together as though she didn't understand his question.

"The book, Cat's Cradle." He nodded toward her book. "The one you're reading."

"Oh." She closed the book, keeping her place with her index finger. "Yes, I think it is a pretty good book. It's not about cats though."

"I know," he said. "It's one of my mother's favorites." He guessed the woman was late thirties, maybe early forties. "Read a lot do you?" he asked.

"Some," she said. "Especially when I fly."

"You want me to stop talking?" He smiled.

She smiled, too, the corners of her eyes crinkling. He liked that her whole face participated in the smile.

"I don't know. What do you want to talk about?"

"Religion and politics," he answered.

"Ah, safe subjects. And we've known each other how long?"

"Well, let's see. This flight will be about an hour and a half. I figure if we have coffee after we get there, we will have known each other a life-time."

She folded the upper corner of the page she was reading and closed her book. His mother would have a fit if he treated a book that way. The woman wore gray slacks, a cream colored blouse made of some kind of soft fabric, and a brightly colored sweater -- maybe handmade. His mother would like that. And the woman wasn't wearing a wedding ring. No rings at all, in fact. He twisted the ring on his right, ring finger. It had been his grandfather's ring. Silver and turquoise.

"I was born a Capricorn," she said. "But I've grown into an Aquarius. Aquarian? I'm a registered Republican, and I've always lived in states where my vote didn't count." She hesitated, then added, "I'm a dog person. Now, your turn."

"Capricorn is a religion?"

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"Okay, then I'm Comanche. My mother grew up in Oklahoma when everyone was Democrat until they all became Republicans, but she never changed, so neither did I."

"Indian?" she asked, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as though surprised.

As if she couldn't tell by looking at him. Unless she was blind which she obviously was not. For proof, the book lying in her lap.

"I thought Indians are supposed to be the strong, silent type," she said.

"And I thought Aquariuses or Aquarians, whichever, are supposed to be progressive, original, independent. Hardly sounds like a Republican."

"So, do you read?" She asked, changing the subject.

"I do. Some narrative history. McCullough, Ambrose. Some classics. Hemingway, Kesey, Follet, Asimov. And I like Vonnegut, too," he said pointing toward her book.

"Classics? I'm more like Jane Austin, Atlas Shrugged, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Those are classics," she said.

An hour and a half later, he said, "We're apples . . . ."

"And oranges," she said.

"Would you like a coffee?" he asked.

"Sure, why not," she said.

Something Woke Her -- Flash Fiction

Something woke her.

Fear kept her eyes shut. Her chest, so tight it hurt.

A dream maybe. 

She moved her hand to his side of the bed. Empty. She hated it when he traveled.

She felt stupid. Of course there was nothing to be scared of. Her house. Her neighborhood. A safe neighborhood.

She opened her eyes. A shadow spread up the wall.  A strange, long-beaked bird across the ceiling.

Think. She had to think. The bathroom door stood open. The nightlight above the sink. Behind the soap dispenser. Nothing more. Just the almost empty soap dispenser which she should refill in the morning.

But something woke her. Was it a sound?

The cat? No. The cat stood rigid at the foot of the bed. Eyes wide in the gloom. He must have heard it, too. 

A cat. A scaredy-cat. She should have a dog. Her husband wanted a dog. A big dog, he said. For when she was alone. But she'd argued that you have to walk a dog. Every day, rain or shine. Or snow.

She pulled her arms close against her sides. She liked to sleep naked. There was just something about slipping into an empty bed. She could take up the whole bed when he was gone. Stretching as far as she could. Her skin, warm from the shower, against cool, smooth, freshly laundered sheets.

Not now, though. Being naked made her vulnerable. At risk. Defenseless. 

Quietly, she moved the duvet aside and sat up. The cold struck her bare skin like a slap and she reached for her robe. For her phone. 

Three, thirty-eight. She could have slept another hour and a half. Maybe longer. No need for an alarm. He was gone and she didn't have to work that morning. A day off. On her own. She could do anything she wanted. Or nothing.

Light seeped through the closed blinds. Moon bright light on snow. Something clattered across the deck outside her window. Should she look through the blinds? If she moved even a single slat, they would see her. If there were a 'they' out there.  

The wind. That's all it was. Chinook winds coming down out of the mountains. Snow eater winds bringing warm days to February. Sixty-seven degrees, the forecast high. She could walk to Starbucks. Then maybe around the lake. She didn't have to have a dog to walk.

She padded barefoot down the hall and through the kitchen. The floors were cozy warm. That was the nice thing about living in a house with a basement. The floors were always warm in the winter. She'd never lived in a house with a basement before.

The basement. Had she remembered to close the window in the basement bedroom? Yesterday was warm, too. She loved opening all the windows and letting the world in. It was a perfect day. Not as warm as today would be, but welcome sunshine and winter neighborhood sounds.  Children playing, taking advantage of the warmish weather. No lawnmowers, yet. And no snowblowers.

Was the window locked? It stood less than two feet above ground. No bars. She hated barred windows. Bars made a home look besieged. Susceptible to invasion. If there weren't real danger, why would a home need bars? What if there were a fire?

She hesitated with her hand on the basement door knob. She hated scary movies. They were either dumb or really scary. Screeching violins warning the hapless heroine not to go down those stairs. But she always went. The idiot.

The cat rubbed against her legs then sat waiting expectantly for her to open the door. He always wanted to be first down the stairs.

She held her breath and opened the door just a crack. The cat -- his ears and eyes focused on her -- waited for the door to open enough for him to run through. She knew he thought she was acting strange. She thought she was acting strange. 

She listened for a sound, any sound. The heat came on and the vent in the entryway across the hall rattled. Just as it always did. The familiar sound should have calmed her. Or irritated her. She'd asked him to try taping it open so it wouldn't rattle. He said he had duct tape in the garage. She'd do it herself in the morning.

She opened the door wide. At the base of the stairwell, the laundry room door stood ajar. A narrow beam of light sliced across the basement floor leaving the terracotta tiles beyond in deep gloom. Maybe she should have chosen light colored tiles. 

She didn't remember leaving the laundry room light on. Growing up in her father's house inculcated the mantra "waste not, want not." On leaving a room, she always turned the lights off. Sometimes to her embarrassment, if someone was still in the room.

The cat did not rush headlong down the stairs. Had he heard something? Sensed something? 

Should she call the police?

And tell them what? It's dark? Her husband is gone? The cat's afraid to go down into the basement?

Maybe she should just make a pot of coffee.

She closed the basement door. And locked it. She was glad he'd put the lock on the door to keep their youngest grandchild from tumbling down the stairs.

She'd wait and see.

Someone from Home -- Flash Fiction

image from saintpaulalmanac.com

"Know what you want?" she asked him.

He hadn't slept well since he got there. Hotel beds never felt right. Hotel cuisine was uninspiring and too expensive. "Home cookin'," he said.

"Depends on where home is," she said. "Ray there, bless his heart, is from Chicago so I guess it's Chicago cookin'."

He rubbed the stubble on his chin and turned the menu over to look at the breakfast offerings.

"Breakfast 'til ten," she said. "You've got three hours. Take your time."

"Not breakfast without grits and biscuits and gravy." He laid the menu down.

"Honey, you are so right." She laughed. "Where're y'all from?"

He laid the menu down and looked at her for the first time. "Tyler, Texas, ma'am. Rose capital of the world. Where're you from? Not Saint Paul with an accent like that."

"Accent? Why ever would you say that?" She looked down the counter to check her other customers. "Back in a jiffy." She grabbed a coffee pot and was gone.

He felt more alone that he'd felt the whole time he was up here. Just Thursday. Meetings all week and it wasn't Friday yet.This world was cold and windy and cloudy. And the snow looked like it would be here until April. He missed his family.

She returned to him taking up their conversation where she'd left off. "Greenville, Mississippi, by way of New Orleans. Ray can fix you potatoes any way you want 'em as long as you want hash browns."

"Okay. Hash browns. Coffee, black. Two eggs, over easy. Bacon. Whole wheat toast. You got Tabasco?"

"Does the Mississippi run east past St. Paul and New Orleans? Of course we got Tabasco." She relayed his order to Ray and poured him coffee.

"Does it run east past St. Paul and New Orleans?"

"It does," she said over her shoulder as she went to the cash register to take care of a customer.

She was taller and thinner than his wife. Probably about the same age, but Brenda was prettier. Both their girls looked just like her. He should be home in time to see Meagan's school Christmas play.

The waitress plunked his breakfast down in front of him and retrieved a bottle of Tabasco from her apron pocket. "Eat hearty, Tex."

"Ted, actually," he corrected her.

"Well, Ted Actually." She winked at him. "Enjoy your breakfast." And she was off again.

He hadn't thought about how he looked when he left the hotel. Sweats, a fleece lined hoodie, gloves, a knit cap. He'd gone for a run before breakfast. That's how he found Ray's Diner. He'd not showered or shaved. He felt good working up a sweat in this cold country.

When she smiled, she was pretty. Watching her take somebody else's order, he felt grimy.

She was back refilling his coffee cup.

"desJardin," he said. "Ted desJardin. How'd you end up in Minnesota?" he asked before she could go away again.

Still holding the pot, she put her other fist on her hip. "I'm a refugee," she said.

What could he say to that? She must have seen his confusion.

"Katrina, honey. The storm?"

"Can I have some ketchup?" he asked.

"Me and Gene just kept driving north. Neither of us wanted to get away from the river. We both grew up on it. We had a baby then and we've had two more since then. Kinda made a home for ourselves here. I'm even getting where I like snow."

The food was good. He ate slowly and watched the waitress work. He asked her questions as she passed back and forth. What kind of work did her husband do? Did she cook at home? What was there to do for fun in Minneapolis? But he didn't ask her what time she got off work.

She put his check in front of him and leaned her elbows on the counter.

"Listen hon. I get off at two. How'd you like to go for a late lunch?"

He didn't know how to answer that. He had afternoon meetings scheduled. He was leaving in the morning.

"I'm married," he said quietly.

She smiled and laid her hand over his.

Had he said it so quietly that she hadn't heard? Did he hope she hadn't heard?

"Why, honey, I am, too. But Mama Susie's Creole Cafe is just about five blocks from here and it's the only place I know of that you can get decent red beans and rice north of  Monroe." She patted his hand.

Maybe he could miss the last meeting of the day.

"Meet you there at three-thirty. Gene'll pick me up about five. That'll give us an hour and a half to have a good meal and talk about home."

Yes. It was all he could do to keep from pumping his fist in the air.

"Are you any kin to the desJardins over at Lake Chicot?" she asked.

He laughed out loud. He didn't think so. He didn't know where Lake Chicot was. And it didn't matter. He was going to have a late lunch with someone from home, no strings attached.

Flying Coyote -- flash fiction reprise from 4/15/2014

image from syracuse.com

“Always we remember your great grandfather. His name was Flying Coyote, and he was a very brave man and a fine leader. You are called Little Coyote because your father loved his father, your grandfather called Flying Coyote.”

The old woman stirred the fire and continued her story.

“When he was younger than you your grandfather fell from his father’s pony and hurt his leg very bad. It made him sick and the old ones feared to lose him.” She filled the horn spoon and blew softly across the liquid. “Bear With A Sore Tooth sang prayers for him and his old grandmother boiled willow bark and gave him the water to drink as I do you.”

“It’s not so bad,” he said swallowing. He cuddled the small coyote cub, he called Little Brother, close to him under the robes.

“I have been told it was this time of year – the time of the Full Pink Moon. The little pink flowers bloomed in the grass and the snow and the sun argued over who would have the land. Some mornings The People would wake to a deep blanket of snow, but by afternoon the sun would have eaten it.”

“Like yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes.” She filled the spoon again. “Like yesterday.”

She and the boy were outside the lodge so the rest of the family could sleep. A full moon hung in the black sky, so bright that only a few stars shone near it. The air outside the tipi was cold and still and fresh.

Little Brother squirmed out of the robes. Little Coyote grabbed the struggling whelp and held him tight by one hind foot.

“Little Coyote, you must let him go.” The old woman gently opened the boy’s fist.

They watched the pup caper and scamper around them.

“He’ll get cold and come back,” she said. “You’ll see.”

A red shadow began its slow march across the moon, but the boy did not notice. He watched the coyote pup.

“Your grandfather got weaker and weaker. He did not want to live.” She filled the spoon again and held it to the boy’s lips. “Does your foot still hurt?”

He stretched his leg, testing it. “Not so much.”

“Flying Coyote’s father went out onto the prairie to also pray. He played his prayers on his flute.”

An ember popped out of the fire and Little Brother stopped to sniff it.

“Will it burn him, Grandmother?”

She laughed. “No. His nose can feel the heat. He will be careful.”

She looked up at the moon, slowly being covered with red shadow. Little Coyote followed her gaze.

“What is happening?” Little Coyote asked in alarm.

“I have seen it before,” she said. “Some stories say that a great mountain lion is eating it.” Seeing his concern, she hurried on. “But I do not think that is what is happening. I have seen this before. More than once.”

Little Coyote could not take his eyes away from the changing moon.

She helped the cub back under the robes. “Soon the shadow will move on, and you will see your old friend the rabbit on the moon.”

Satisfied that his grandmother knew about things like mountain lions eating the moon he asked, “Did Flying Coyote get better?”

“Flying Coyote’s father was playing his flute under a moon just like this one. As the red shadow passed away, a bigger shadow flew across him. It was as big as he could reach.” She held out her own arms as far as she could. “And he was a big man.”

Little Coyote’s eyes grew big and round.

“Flying Coyote's father ducked so hard that the next thing he knew he was on his hands and knees. And something landed on the ground right in front of him. A ball of fur dropped from that shadow in the sky.”

Swallowing hard, Little Coyote held his own wiggly cub close under his chin.

“It was like Little Brother – a baby coyote. And its only wound was a broken leg.”

“What did Grandfather's father do with it?”

“His took it home to your grandfather and told him the Owl Spirit had sent it as a gift. And now he must care for the little flying coyote.”

“What happened?”

“Since your father is here and you are here, then of course he got well. And that is how your Grandfather came to be called Flying Coyote.”

Writing Contest

They're gone! My entries for the annual Rose State Writer's Short Course competition are in the mail.

No more editing. No more rewrites. No more thinking and rethinking. Questioning, doubting, second-guessing.

"Heroes," my entry for Flash Fiction is my absolute favorite. It is my way of honoring all those mothers out there who allowed their children to do dangerous things because those things needed to be done. Like my friend Allegra's grandmother who let Allegra's mother take part in the lunch counter sit-ins in Oklahoma City in the late 50's and early 60's.

Flash Fiction is almost poetry. It must tell a whole story in two or fewer pages. That means the writer must use the absolutely, most evocative, right word -- Hemingway's mot juste. The writer must engage the reader's experiences, their sensory memories, their fears, their dreams, and their hopes. And, most importantly, the writer must trust the reader to be willing and able to participate as an involved reader.

"Dead Birds and Broken Bottles," is creative nonfiction -- a new field for me. The trick to creative nonfiction is that it has to be true. Somehow my personal experiences have just never seemed exciting enough or well-plotted without embellishment. Or they were too personal and I was not comfortable being a character in my own story. Or somebody would get their feelings hurt and get mad at me. It wouldn't be safe to accidentally meet them at the local Walmart.

Everyone, no matter where they live, has a weather or natural disaster story. And being from Oklahoma, tornadoes lend a certain excitement to my own memories. Living in a small town offers all kinds of interesting characters. So I had the excitement and the familiar characters for a nonfiction piece. Then the creative part was to turn the factual time-line into a plot.

This particular tornado happened more than half a century ago so most of the characters are dead now and not likely to show up at Walmart. I'm feeling relatively safe in that respect.

Then there's "The Girl in the Reeds." Those of you who know me, know that I am particularly fond of mysteries. Murder mysteries.

Because I am currently working on a follow-up novel to Murder on Ceres, a Science Fiction/Murder Mystery, I didn't want to take time away from it to spend days and weeks on a murder mystery for this competition. I decided to write a murder mystery short story.

Keeping in mind that Murder on Ceres started out as a short story, this was a dangerous undertaking. I didn't know if I could write a mystery in short story form. Short stories are generally 7,500 or fewer words. I'd written short stories before, but not murder mysteries. The question was could I construct an interesting puzzle and solve it within that number of words.

And, you know what? I did. (Here insert a vision of a white-haired sexagenarian doing a happy dance, whilst humming the Theme from Rocky.)

I am excited. I am pumped. Look out, Oklahoma. I'm on my way!

Phobias -- Flash Fiction

“Greg, don’t go alone,” Dr. Porter said.

She’s a nice woman, well-intentioned, but hard, hard, hard. And pushy. We identified my severest phobia and used exposure therapy to treat it.

We had many to choose from – agoraphobia, the fear of crowds or open spaces, I was afraid of crowds but not open spaces. I don’t know how I missed that one. Ophidiophobia, the fear of snakes, that’s not a severe problem. All I have to do is avoid the herpetarium at the zoo and my Uncle Matt’s house. How anyone can consider a snake as a pet, I’ll never understand.

Caligynephobia, the fear of beautiful women. It’s not that I think they’ll kill me and eat me like a snake really might. But I can’t talk to them. I can’t think. I can’t breathe around them. I know that’s a dumb phobia for a man to have. But are there any sensible phobias?

With Dr. Porter’s help I chose my worst demon to work on first. Acrophobia or altophobia is the fear of heights.

Those exterior elevators? I’d stand facing the interior wall, trying to ignore the rattle and shake as
they carried me to my doom. My co-workers in their business suits and shiny shoes would ooh and ahh at the vistas. I prayed for deliverance and hoped they didn’t notice.

And who can afford seats on the main floor at the symphony? I can’t remember how many times I’ve had to practically crawl on all fours to get up to balcony seats with a date. Actually, I can remember every single time with every single woman. None, of course, very beautiful, but mostly nice.

Seats at the top of stadiums? Indoors? Free tickets for basketball games? Forget about it. The court looked postage-stamp size under spot lights. A black hole threatening to suck me down past the writhing, screaming humans – Albrecht Durer hell, Twenty-first Century style.

Dr. Porter estimated it would take six months to see significant progress.

“Greg,” she said. “Let’s start small.”

Yes, let’s, I thought.

She had me climbing open stairwells. I stood on first floor balconies. Second story balconies. I crossed walk-ways six flights up in atriums. Or is that atria? Whatever. All in downtown Denver.

It may be The Mile High City, but the city itself never gave me a problem. Denver’s out on the prairie east of the Rocky Mountains. A nice city on level ground. No sense of altitude at all.

During that six months I also, at the good doctor’s urging, hiked with my buddy Steve. Mostly in metro-Denver’s open spaces. Some near the base of the foothills. Some within sight of Fourteeners.

Summiting Green Mountain was the goal that Saturday morning. Identified as a mesa southwest of Denver, Wikipedia puts Green Mountain’s altitude at 6,854 feet, almost seventeen hundred feet above the Mile High City.

The parking lot and trail head were part way up the mesa. Signs posted at the entry to the trail warned of possible dangers. Beneath what looked like a wild-west wanted poster of a coyote I read Coyotes are active in this area. The sign said to keep children and dogs under close supervision. Another warned Mountain Lions are active in this area and gave some information in avoiding them.

For some reason coyotes and mountain lions didn’t seem like real threats. For one thing it was 8:30 in the morning and those animals, as I understood it, were nocturnal in their activities. Or at least mostly active at dusk and dawn.

But a third sign hit me like a slap in the face. Rattlesnakes are active . . . . I couldn’t see the rest of the sign.

“Snakes are more afraid of us as than we are of them.” Steve said. I wanted to believe him.

Green Mountain’s trails are well used by the public – hikers, old and young, some carrying infants in back packs, many with dogs on leashes; bicycle riders, also old and young; and people on horseback. Motorized vehicles were not allowed on the trails.

At the first turn, I looked back toward Denver. A spasm shot through my chest. The city of Denver huddled in a haze far out on the plains and farther below me than I’d ever imagined possible. I'd never been so high up outside. Not cocooned in a car or a train or an airplane. When I flew I sat on the aisle and read a book or a magazine. The safety instruction card. Something. Anything. From take-off to landing. I never saw the Earth from a plane.

On Green Mountain, I quickly learned not to look downhill. And not to think about how I’d get back down.

I learned to step off the trail to let others pass. It made sense to me to step off uphill so if I fell, I’d fall up. Falling down that hill could go a long way.

A bird trilled. “That’s a meadow lark,” Steve said.

It was almost as hard to look up the hill to the sky. Where we were going. That much higher. I watched where I put my feet. Rocks pocked the trail, some as big as your fist, half buried in the packed earth. Grasses and wild flowers grew knee high or higher on either side.

“Mariposa lily and yucca.” He pointed at first one flower then another. “Hear that? Frogs. May was so wet, we have frogs.” Steve’s enthusiasm calmed my fear.

I did hear the frogs and the rasping sound of a grasshopper fleeing up the trail ahead of me.

I didn’t hear a cyclist until he was almost on me. Without thinking, I stepped off the trail. Downhill.

“Sorry,” the cyclist called over his shoulder as he passed me, hurtling down the mountain.

I grabbed handfuls of some plant topped with purple flowers to keep from losing my balance. The flowers were fluffy. The leaves and stems were not. It was like grabbing blades, knife blades. But if I let go I’d fall. Two feet of down-sloping terrain and those killer plants stood between me and the trail.

Then I heard it. To my left. Like dry leaves rustling. No, not rustling. Rattling.

“Snake!” I screamed and spun away from the noise. I stepped off the hill into empty space.

Unlike the cartoon coyote, I was not suspended in midair. I dropped like a dead weight, landing on my feet. Pain flashed up my legs from my heels into my spine. Then I was running as fast as I could trying to keep my feet under me. My toe caught on something and I plunged down that mountain head first.

When I regained consciousness, I was strapped onto a litter. A firefighter in complete regalia walked down the trail beside me holding an IV fluid bag above me.

The firefighter turned toward me. “You’re going to be all right,” she said.

A wavy lock of brown hair escaped from her helmet. Dark eyebrows framed her brown eyes. She scanned my face, my arm. She touched the IV port in the bend of my elbow.

Her straight nose led to full, perfectly formed lips and a cleft chin. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

I tried to turn my head away.

“Be still.” She leaned over me, her beautiful face too close. “Can you hear me?”

I struggled to answer her. I couldn’t breathe.

Her brows furrowed with worry. “Be still,” she repeated. “We’ve got you on a backboard and in a neck brace. You’ll be all right. Just breathe. Slow and steady.”

Lulled by the rocking motion of the litter and her rich alto voice, I took a deep breath and relaxed. My panic melted away.

She smiled. “You’re safe now.”

Obsolescence -- flash fiction

image from forbes.com

“Ms. Phister, will you come into my office please?” He spoke to her through their new phone system.

“Yes, of course,” she said hitting the wrong button. “Just a minute,” she said hitting the same wrong button.

“Ms. Phister?”

She found the right button. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

She patted her hair. A bad hair day. What an appropriate term! Celebrities say it, and the woman meteorologist on channel 8. They were all wearing their hair long and swooshy. Not appropriate for a woman of my age. She gathered her steno pad and a pen and made the ten step trip to the boss’s office. Though I’m not all that old. Just past forty.

She rapped on the door. She looked at the back of her hand. Maybe a little past 50. Sunspots, not age spots. Mother told me to be more careful in the sun.

“Ms. Phister, thank you. Please come in and close the door.”

“Yes, sir.” Uh oh. Why close the door? There wasn’t anyone in reception and she really needed to be able to hear if someone came in.

“Ms. Phister, please sit down. As you know, our merger with Futures, Inc. has been approved and we’ll need to make some changes to accommodate their administrative staff.” He sat in his chair and looked at the mirror on the wall behind her.

This doesn’t sound good.

“They’re young and enthusiastic. They’ll make a big difference.”

This really doesn’t sound good.

“We’re also going to have to make changes in our tech support to improve information management. Our computer system is badly outdated.”

“Sir?” It and the coffee maker are the things I have no problem operating. He’s already gotten rid of the Xerox and fax machines.

“Obsolescence, Ms. Phister. That’s what we’ve got to get rid of.”

“Oh?” Fifty-seven’s not obsolete. Is it?

“Our new telephone system is designed to sync with the new computer system.”

“Sync?” My Nook is constantly trying to sync with something.

He turned around and gazed at the gold and red company logo hanging on the wall behind him. Global Prospects in clear Helvetica letters slanted a little to the right. A black arrow underlined it. 

Like a speeding train.

“What do you think of our logo? Of course it’ll have to change to include Futures.”

Old Mister’s barely gone. Less than two years. And Young Mister is wanting to change everything.

“But I like it,” she said. “It’s clear and recognizable. A brand the public is used to and trusts.”

“Hmmm.”

He looked at the steno pad she held in her left hand.

“Speaking of,” he nodded at the pad. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of those tablet things?”

“Tablet, sir?”

“You know. Those little gismos. You could use it to make notes. Google things. Use it as a GPS.”

“GPS?” She looked at the steno pad. She’d always used a steno pad. It felt right in her hand. She could doodle on it, if a meeting got boring. She could tear whole pages out and dispose of them. No record of what he’d said or done to be retrieved by some gee-whiz computer geek. Not that he’d ever done anything actually illegal. Sometimes he seemed to be just ruminating on it. His father would never have considered it. And she’d never have gone along with him anyway.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“A long time, sir,” she said.

“Pretty much since Dad opened shop, haven’t you?” He looked at the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.”

“You were with the firm when he bought this building, weren’t you?” He studied his hands.

“Yes, sir.” And, until this morning, I was planning to be here until retirement.

“The building’s old, but it’s solid and this is a good location. Uptown.” He picked something from his sleeve.

“Yes, sir.” I might be old, but I’m solid, too. He can’t even look at me.

“We need to update our look. You know, new furniture. Maybe a change in our color scheme. A total makeover. Obsolescence. We don’t want to be it. We don’t want to look like it.” He gazed out the window.

I’m out. He’s trading me in for a younger model. A member of the tech generation. Trade the old end-of-the-line Baby Boomer for a millennial.

“You got this place set up and running when Dad first moved in.”

“Yes, sir. I did what I could.” And I’ve been doing what I could ever since.

He put his palms flat on his desk and looked her in the eye.

“I need you to do it again.”

“Sir?”

“I need you to do this for me. You’ll have to work with this old building. I really don’t want to move."

“No.”

“No? You won’t do it? Do you want me to get someone in to help you?

“No. I mean, of course you don’t want to move.” She reached across the desk and touched his hand. “I don’t want to move either. Let me consider what we’ll need.”

She made a note on her steno pad and left the room.

She stepped back through the door and asked, “Would you like coffee?”