I am madly in love with this piece of yours, Mary. It contains so much of life.
By the way, every time I hear the phrase ‘time flies’ I hear it as the last two words of “Head Over Heels” by Tears For Fears. My god were they amazing. Part of the soundtrack of my life, time and again.
I'm wearing the jacket I bummed off the only friend I have in this town. It's too big for me, but it's a jacket. I'm sitting on one of the khaki skai easy chairs in the lobby of Blockbuster Books, Inc. Turning the pages of some corporate bullshit that was piled on a low table in front of me, like they were giving something away for free. Nervous, keeping still, looking business-business for the security guy by the door. Waiting for my chance.
Here she comes, my chance. Power-dressed in heels and an impeccably-tailored anthracite suit, skirt just taut enough over her ass to show it really exists. She's heading for the elevator. Me too.
"Ms Van den Prada!" I call.
She makes like she didn't hear and disappears into the elevator. I manage to just slip between the closing doors. She punches 15. She doesn't ask what floor I want.
1
Damn elevator takes off like a rocket. No time to go through the introductions. I take a deep breath.
2
"Guy who's down on his luck invents a microchip that makes his brain invent fabulous stories
3
that become N° 1 Bestsellers!' I gabble. Time is of the essence.
4
She doesn't raise her head from the how-would-I-know-what-it-is she's eyeballing.
"He makes a fortune for himself and his publisher!" I add.
5
My storyline ends with his publisher hits on him, very hot sex ensues, I decide (you gotta be quick on your feet) to leave that out for the moment.
6
She might at least look at me. She's wearing expensive black-framed spectacles with gray-tinted glasses that hide her eye movements.
7
"What kind of market do you see for this book?" she asks in an amused voice.
"Oh, I..."
8
"I mean, look at all the superheroes that have secret powers," I say. "My idea would probably be worth millions in film rights."
9
She raises her eyebrows and sighs a brief sigh.
10
"Look what I've got here," she says, taking a kind of pen from her purse. Thick for a pen, looks like a stainless-steel frankfurter.
11
She presses the end of the gizmo, blue light shines from the other end.
12
She points it at my forehead. It emits a sound somewhere between a growl and a raspberry.
13
I raise my hand to cut off the ray that I can feel tickling my forebrain.
14
"It farts like that when it hasn't found a single worthwhile idea in the brain it's examining," she says.
15
The elevator bumps to a halt. The doors begin to slide open. I stand in the way so she can't get out. She looks up at me, surprised and angry. For the first time, I can look straight into her eyes through those murky glasses.
"Not a single idea in there either," I say. "Good thing my microchip is nothing like as gross as your frank."
I stand aside then take the elevator back down. Why try to write books when you could be a superhero?
Hubbard walks the Strait of Juan de Fuca beaches thinking of his dead wife, when out of the blue, a section of bluff lets go and an avalanche of sand and gravel pours down and stops at his feet. Could have been worse, and he considers all the material recently fallen. It’s been a winter of strong currents and erosion. Some days this half mile of beach is all stone, marbles to bowling balls sizes. Next day it’s a clear span of sand.
The whole goddamned shooting match thanks to Cordilleran Ice, specifically the Vashon Glacier.
From the beach the waters of the Strait might look empty, an occasional ship from China, but through the binoculars, which reminds him of the Swarovskis, birds are everywhere. Diving, floating, flying. It looked like a nice place to be a bird. A pair of golden eagles approached from the west, following the beach.
Overhead a cry fell from the air, within a gathering rush. He turned and saw another landslide. Up top a man peered over the edge. Another cry, and he sees a woman riding the avalanche. Her legs spread high in the air, arms flailing, and her head close to buried in sand. He thought her face was going under, but the rush of sand hit the beach and the woman’s momentum carried her and she rolled onto the shingle only feet from the wash of the waves.
No question in his mind the man was the rapist. Even from the distance he saw the man wore no shoes, his feet were large and clawed. He’d know the footprints anywhere. Predictably, the rapist hollered unintelligibly, the lapels of his suit flapped in the breeze because of who he was, then he turned and ran.
Hubbard moved toward the woman, who had rolled over and sat holding her knees blinking at the ocean. He knelt beside her, thankful she was clothed.
Are you OK, he asked, and took out a clean cloth he carried for his glasses so she could wipe her eyes.
Gasping, spitting sand, she looked up to where she’d fallen from.
That man in the suit, she said, tried to rape me.
I know, said Hubbard, which reminded him that before she died his wife told him she planned to buy the Swarovskis for his birthday.
So many places you could take this story. I love some of the details that are almost asides. For example, "He knelt beside her, thankful she was clothed." So much in that sentence about your main character's ethos. And I had to look up Swarovskis. Binoculars for birding?
Yup. If you look through a pair of Swarovskis you never forget it and everything else is a compromise. I don't have a pair, nor has anyone ever said they would buy me one.
It had been a scramble. It was always a scramble, if she was honest.
Somehow, putting a water bottle together for herself, finding a hat with a bill on it, and slathering sunscreen on her face always took far longer than expected.
And Nellie? Where was Nellie, now?
She trudged down the hall and found the dog, napping, of course, near the coolest wall in the bedroom.
“Come on!” she urged the nearly deaf animal.
Sighing, she walked over to Nellie, and startled the poor dog out of a peaceful nap.
Nellie was always game for a hike or a walk, but she was getting a bit slower these days about getting up from her comfy bed.
Nellie yawned, stretched, and labored to her feet, wagging her tail, and followed Joanie down the hallway. Nellie’s four paws made a clicking sound as she galumphed into the hallway, excited now that she had seen the leash Joanie was holding.
“Hang on a sec,” Joanie said to her canine companion, as she grabbed a portable water bowl, filled a water bottle for the dog, and a few cookies to entice Nellie into the back of the Subaru.
“We’re going to have to get you a ramp,” Joanie said, as she opened the rear of the car and encouraged the dog to put her front feet up on the rubber mat. She tossed a few cookies in, just to get Nellie fully engaged in the process, then grabbed the dog’s rear quarters and boosted her
up and inside the compartment. Nellie lunged for the cookies, tail wagging furiously.
“Whooof!” Joanie exclaimed, and wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve.
Carefully, she shut the rear compartment door, always mindful of that wagging appendage on Nellie’s bottom, and turned to walk to the driver’s door.
And there it was: A fully functioning TV set, unplugged, but broadcasting, sitting on her driveway. Joanie’s mouth fell open, and she leaned in, asking “What the–?” aloud.
The TV was tuned to a local news station, and the talking heads onscreen were reporting a major disaster involving all the inhabitants of her surrounding neighborhood.
As Joanie leaned in to catch the full details displayed onscreen, she could see the smoking rubble of her neighbors’ houses. The screen showed full scale pandemonium complete with sirens, milling people, and deafening screams.
Now panicked, Joanie stepped back, and spun around to look at her neighborhood.
A serene and peaceful scene met her gaze. Overhead, two Canada geese flew toward the pond at the end of the road. From the backyard, she could hear contented clucking and the disgruntled quacking from Penelope, the always disgruntled duck. A breeze wafted through Joanie’s yard, scattering the last of the cherry blossoms in a pink snowfall.
The TV reclaimed her attention, and she turned once again to view massive devastation. And then she saw the date at the bottom of the screen. It was tomorrow’s date.
As she noted the date and felt her stomach plummet, the TV disappeared, and Joanie fumbled for the driver’s side door–badly needing to sit down and organize her thoughts.
Before she could articulate her feelings, she felt a gentle nudge on her arm. Nellie was leaning over the console and panting in Joanie’s ear. Turning, she looked at the dog, thinking Nellie might be the only rational element in the universe.
As she looked into Nellie’s eyes, Nellie suddenly opened her mouth to speak.
“No one will ever believe you,” the dog said. Then she turned and lay down on the rubber mat.
Ha! As it turns out when I first envisioned the scene I was going to have Ally make a snide comment about how bad the roast beef gravy smelled (assuming it was canned) but I didn't go there once the macaroni salad comment came into being!.
A row of seventeen brick chimneys rise like the spines of a prehistoric lizard along the apex of the Axson Steel Mill. Looking towards them from Brayford Rise, they divide the far-off skyline of Sheffield into hazy cross-sections. Every quarter of an hour they vent a glassy sheen of hot air. For a few seconds afterwards, a refraction in the heavens creates the illusion that they are an army of monolithic giants marching in formation, their destination uncertain, dependant upon your point of view. If you live in Tantwick, they are heading for the hills. In Birbridge they appear to be converging on the new motorway.
The birds, who have been roosting in the fissures in the chimney brickwork, rise up as one and wheel over the town as if they are a supplementary gear in the great industrial mechanism, dipping anticlockwise above the slate roofs; the foundry attempting to turn back time and erase itself from the landscape.
Margaret Lancaster, who has been sheltering from the windblown drizzle underneath the striped awning of Gilfrey's Butchers, seizes the moment and steps into the puddled road, the rain still present but momentarily stopped in its tracks by the overhead blast of heat; a memory of her childhood in India.
At the school gate, William Beel breaks into a short-lived run as he begins his journey home, to the far end Glover Road. He has to get all the way through the door before the next factory cycle or something bad will happen. His dad will lose his job, or grandad Riley will come to stay again.
Norman Brock goes out to the plastic sheets where the magnetised dew from the chimneys has mingled with the raindrops. He herds it, using a pair of U-shaped magnets, towards the semi-circular opening of a watering can. In the earth beds, the prize pumpkins slouch like grounded planets.
In the belly of the foundry, Gary Beel commences the climb between the blast chambers, against the advice of Neil Watkins who stands at the bell. The ladder is divided into four sections. If you haven't reached the silver rung, that marks the halfway point, when it rings, then it's time to turn back. He is barely past the the bronze rung when he hears it clanging last orders. He carries on, increasing his pace, the quickstep beat of his heart swallowing the seconds in double time.
My son walked into my home office at the end of a particularly long day with a red cashmere scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, one end dragging the floor. I was focused on my month-end reports for most of the day as he quietly played around the house. It felt like I had driven somewhere and didn't remember the drive. It was already past the time I should have shut down and started our evening. He stood just inside the threshold of the room looking down intently at the partially solved Rubik's cube, spinning it thoughtfully between his fingertips.
"Where did you get that?" I asked.
"From my desk?" he responded, confused by the question.
"No. The scarf. Where did you get it?"
"Mom's dresser drawers."
"What were you doing in her stuff?"
"I don't know the next algorithm. Do I start at the left or the right?"
I studied the cube from behind my desk.
"Start on the left."
He flicked and turned the cube in his hands as though it floated magnetically between his fingers and solved it in a few short turns. He held it up with a proud smile and met my eyes. I looked through him and my hands grew cold.
"Come here," I motioned.
He stepped over and I bent down and wrapped my arms around him. I buried my face in the scarf and I could smell the perfume she wore on special occasions. His smooth arms were around my neck, and for a moment, we were together again - the three of us.
Legend has it that Bugsy got lucky at 4:27 PM and fathered over 350 nymphs. The legend continues that the nymphs encountered a hungry and very aggressive school of bluegill and, sadly, none made it to adulthood.
And, there is another legend that the times of Bugsy birth and death, when strung together like this, 2-11-5-27, form the combination to a bank safe hidden somewhere in rural Missouri. But that has never been confirmed.
Shortly after I was born my parents divorced, I grew up an only child, but played little league with my two step-brothers, had a bunch of girlfriends in college, taught history classes at a local community college, got married, had a boy and a girl, got divorced as soon as the nest was empty, lived in different countries every year teaching English wherever I went, married a restless divorcee who wanted to see the world like I did, occasionally got back to the States to see my son and daughter who got married, had kids, did fairly well, but then cancer overtook me, I was cremated, and apparently my wife scattered my ashes, but where exactly I'll never know for sure.
Unhygienic? What’s unhygienic about it? I’ll tell you what’s unhygienic and that’s being left alone with your thoughts for the time it takes to do your business. With my thoughts, anyway; crawling around like those bugs right there scurrying between the tiles and the skirting board. They get where there’s not even a crack to let them in.
Of all the forms of torture, removing my book from the bathroom is bad enough, but not telling me and now I’ve started and there’s nothing to read is too much to bear.
Here they go. Hear them? Scratch scratch.
No. No I haven’t sorted that out yet. I don’t know why.
Look at them down there, not even scurrying into the damp corners, just wandering dreamily about amongst, is that more of your hairs on the floor? That bald guy they’ll call you. No, not bald. Balding. God that’s even worse.
Yeah I said that in class that time. Yeah I burned like hell my cheeks were hot with shame.
Why do they gnaw at those parts of my brain? Why can’t they go for some time a fire-green sunset had filled the sky and I’d seen it just me and the geese fly across honking and their bellies are lit up as they pass? Stuff like that must be in there somewhere.
Here we go. Yeah it was me even though I promised it wasn’t but Dad knew somehow and I had to take it back to the store and admit it was me. Sure. Character building. Wouldn’t be who I am today. Thanks for that.
Just listen to that scratching, those metallic clicks and scrapes. What are they made from these thoughts to make noises like that? Not sure I can sit here listening to all this much longer.
Scritch scritch.
*****
Scratch scratch.
We’re not just down there, though he doesn’t ever look up here. Long long ago we mastered gravity. It’s easy for us, walking vertically and resting upside down. From here, from this corner of the ceiling, we look down with you at him. Yes, there’s certainly a thinner patch spreading around his crown.
Scratch.
He’s resting his elbows on his knees and holding the back of his neck and making quiet whispery noises.
We know his noises and what they mean, but he doesn’t know ours. If he did he’d know that Scratch scratch means, ‘you’re not alone’.
"Why do they gnaw at those parts of my brain? Why can’t they go for some time a fire-green sunset had filled the sky and I’d seen it just me and the geese fly across honking and their bellies are lit up as they pass? Stuff like that must be in there somewhere."
Thrilling. Love hearing geese honk as they fly V-shape across the sky like a memory of what Earth once was.
The teacup clattered in the saucer as it landed next to Bob’s paper. Bob suppressed a sigh, placed his right hand around the cup to enjoy the relief the warmth provided to his arthritis and kept his gaze on the paper, turning another page.
“Robert”. Oh no, not Bob but Robert. Something was up. People say that’s how they knew they were in trouble with their parents. But what about the Marks, the Pauls or the Johns of the world, how did their names get altered when it was serious? If you were a Bob, you became Robert when in trouble. If you were Tom, you knew it wasn’t good when you heard Thomas. Did the short-named people never know when they were in trouble? Bob was a thinker, sometimes a slow thinker but a thinker nonetheless and he wondered about the absurdities of life. He even got philosophical once and wondered if it was absurd to think about absurdities.
“Yes, Rebecca”, Bob carefully replied, taking a sip from the cup as he lifted it in front of his face. It acted as a brake, slowed his reaction to whatever was coming. Their polite names were an absurdity. When things were calm, the Bs ruled the house: Bob and Becky, careful and considerate. When things were rough, the Rs ruled: Robert and Rebecca, charging and challenging until they forgot what started the rough times and retreated to their corners, waiting till they could be Bs again.
He was surprised to see tears on Becky’s face. That normally didn’t happen till the Rs had done their best, had torn each other down. He wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t looking at him, so he looked back down and turned the page, another guard against whatever was to unfold. The headline stabbed at him “Old Age Divorce On The Rise”. Was he about to join their numbers? If she left him, he’d have to make his own tea. When was the last time he had made a cup of tea? He drew a deep breath, he didn’t know who would speak, Bob or Robert.
“Becky, I….”.
“Wait Robert. I have to tell you something and I don’t want you to speak till I’ve said it”.
hi my name is Bletch Batchley and I used to run Hockey. I have bought thirty seconds of Super Bowl time, now 28 seconds to tell you that my wife Georgia Batchley is the most slovenly pig I have ever met. She has used tampons in McDonalds bags next to her side of our once beautiful bed. She makes love like a staggering sea lion, squashing me, spitting and clawing and slapping me round the head-
afterwards - the sheets smell like a sewer full of dead hobo vaginas-
she is the most putrid gossip I have ever met and has made me unable to look at any of our friends or neighbours the same way, for knowing the sick things she has done with them or is blackmailing them with.
At Christmas the whole family caught her on her knees with my 88 year old Mothers 90 year old partner- she said he’d hypnotised her with Sex looks- He is 100% blind- she’s a horrible cook, but I realise women shouldn’t have to cook necessarily, and Im not an especially great cook myself.
anyway she’s a great Mum and the exact same girl I married -Happy Birthday Honey
Outside the principal’s office, Nanette fidgetted in one of the orange plastic chairs that always rubbed the skin over her backbone raw. She was old enough to know that the principal was intentionally keeping her waiting, but also that he wouldn’t want her to be late for her next class. She looked at the time on her phone; he had one minute to call her inside, five minutes to reprimand her, another two to get her to class. He was cutting it awfully short. She counted backwards from 60—she had always been annoyingly good at math—10, 9, 8, wait, she thought, 5, 4, 3...here it comes and bam! Right on time. She stood, pulled down the front of her shirt to cover her pierced belly button, put on her flip-flops— both against school rules—and shuffled into his office. She knew the routine as this wasn’t her first go round.
Miss Adams, he said in a dramatically disappointed voice, his left eyebrow rising as it always did when he was upset.
Yes, Mr. Hernandez.
I assume you know why you’re here.
Of course, Mr. Hernandez. She kept her voice sweet.
Well, then, no need to waste time, is there?
No, Sir.
Good, he said, stood up, and
held out his hand which she shook as if they were two warring countries, come to the peace table, finally agreeing on terms. She forced a straight face, then shuffled back out into the hallway.
She took off her flip-flops, let her top ride above her belly button. With two minutes left, she made a quick u-turn into the girls’ rest room, put on black mascara and red lipstick, Taylor Swift style, then rinsed out her mouth with the green mint mouthwash she always carried in her backpack. She quickened her step and caught Adam waiting outside the French classroom door. She puckered her lips, like actresses from old movies used to do. Ten seconds to go, plenty of time to break another rule…and kiss.
Hector kept wondering why he was nervous now, since in his memory he hadn’t been at all, on that long-ago evening when he’d had his first date with Elena. Here she came now, in her gorgeous gunmetal blue-grey Mustang, all flash and growling power, sliding into a parking slot. She leapt from her ride and threw her spidery arms around him as if to say, bro, how are you so fly?
Great to see you! It’s been far too long.
They started up the trail. It had been theirs, fifteen years before. She’d never hiked a day in her life before they started sleeping with one another. It hadn’t been long, though, before she came to love the mountains more than him. They’d traded lives. Now he was blessed with a spouse and children he hardly ever hiked, while she burned up and down the mountain paths like she was all goat.
Any new lovers? he asked.
Fuck that! They all want to take over your life. No matter their gender. I need my space. Oh, sorry.
That’s okay. I was tired of all my suffocating solitude.
A lovely, suddenly sunny day. The morning light on vast, ancient trunks. Higher up they crunched on sunlit snow, striated with shadow. Out of the mad rush of city life, feeling primitive, barbaric, free.
Do you miss me?
Sometimes, he said.
Likewise. Sorry I broke things off so abruptly. The walls were closing in.
I don’t blame you, he said. I mean, I was sad, but grateful too.
Should we try again?
What? Polyamory?
Maybe yes. It’s safe, now you’re married.
You have a point. I have to think about it.
Or we could just become friends again.
Downward through snow and ice. The shadow side, every creek running, the river blasting its way to ocean.
Either way is good, Hector said, finally. Life is pretty short. You can’t have too much love.
Elena said nothing to that, but her smile, he thought, very nearly matched the trail, with all its ephemeral depth and promise.
It really makes more sense than trying to pigeonhole oneself into a kind of romantic straitjacket, but it’s also scary for many of us, to expand our limits, not to mention everything that comes with expressing what you really think and feel, out loud, and taking responsibility for that. The hard but ultimately rewarding work of open, honest communication.
Agreed. Funny, I just came back from a private English class for two, a woman, and her ex-husband who lives two doors down, while she's remarried. Despite this, they all get along fine. Cool stuff.
The telephone in our house sat in the living room on a table my mother called The Chippendale. The black telephone handset sat in the cradle atop the flat-topped pyramidal base. We shared a line with the woman and her daughter, Janice, who lived across the alley. I picked up the handset from the cradle, and with the other hand, slipped one finger in the numbered dial to call a friend. The two little plungers in the cradle released, and I held the round speaker to my ear. No dial tone. Hm-m-m. Janice’s mother was speaking on the other line. I breathed quietly, so as not to give myself away, and listened. Janice’s mother was talking about the husband, I had never seen because he didn’t live there, “That jerk refuses to pay the mortgage. I could kill him. He’s a drunk. Why did I even marry him? I should take him to court… Who’s there? Is someone listening on the party line? You better hang up right now….” I put my finger on the little plunger, pushed it down and set the handset back on its cradle.
Nothing happened to me, and as for Janice's mother, I was too young to know or to understand. (I made that part up--I only remember the harsh tone of her voice).
I know that you are writing non-fiction. But I couldn't help but see something fictional happening here--like the next time "you" and Janice get together and suddenly you have this information and she doesn't know that you have it. My mind just goes there, though I know you are sticking to real life! Which is just great!
Thats true. I didn't really play with Janice. I don't think they lived there very long. Or, we could play telephone and you can make up a story to add to mine.
She stood at the kitchen counter slicing strawberries. Faber was correct the berries tasted like cardboard. Her fist tightened on the knife slicing the quart of Limited Edition, California berries. This morning he'd chewed a few, not swallowed, then spit them into the sink and stomped out of the house. Her knife hit the cutting board with a thud.
What is happening to this tall-muscled man, the best and only lover she'd ever had? As Oscar Wilde said she was his first and he would be her last. Or something like that. This man who sensuously whispered as he made love to her. What is happening to him?
As she sliced the last berry the paring knife fell to the floor. She clutched her heart as her knees caved. This man of many words had before her eyes replaced conversation with complaints and emerged as a grumpy old man.
I like the way the ending is ambiguous. Don't tell me what happened--but i think perhaps her heart gave out on her OR she's suffering and her heart aches. Nice job with that single scene!
[deleted]
SPEAK UP, Mary, can't hear you!
I'M RIGHT HERE JOHN
Here? Where? Oh, right! Just let me turn on my hearing aids...
Thanks for your story, mary g. My mom was an RN in a nursing home and she had stories about finding old folks in somebody elses' bed.
Love that. Old people are just young people who got old.
I can attest to that!
ME TOO
So the moral of the story is - never turn off your hearing aids?
exactly. Or something like that.
Wait... stories have morals?
I love this scene and the ambiguity of "he" in the last sentence. I can feel the tension.
Thank you, Chris. Yes, he can't know if they are speaking of him or not.
I am madly in love with this piece of yours, Mary. It contains so much of life.
By the way, every time I hear the phrase ‘time flies’ I hear it as the last two words of “Head Over Heels” by Tears For Fears. My god were they amazing. Part of the soundtrack of my life, time and again.
David! Thanks so much. And Tears for Fears! Taking me back...
They were something else, to be sure. Speaking of music, Paul Simon’s new Seven Psalms is intriguing. Saw him on Colbert!!
oh i was reading about him this morning--about his hearing loss. I'll look up the Colbert. Thanks for the tip!
Great story Mary ! I love the end. Sometimes it's better to leave them on!
Thanks, Karen!
Even with hearing aids you can overhear weird stuff.
Hear me laughing.
Love the POV switch. Nicely done, Mary!
Thanks, Vishal!
Good story Mary and I like the twist at the end
Thanks so much, J.D.A!
Elevator Pitch
I'm wearing the jacket I bummed off the only friend I have in this town. It's too big for me, but it's a jacket. I'm sitting on one of the khaki skai easy chairs in the lobby of Blockbuster Books, Inc. Turning the pages of some corporate bullshit that was piled on a low table in front of me, like they were giving something away for free. Nervous, keeping still, looking business-business for the security guy by the door. Waiting for my chance.
Here she comes, my chance. Power-dressed in heels and an impeccably-tailored anthracite suit, skirt just taut enough over her ass to show it really exists. She's heading for the elevator. Me too.
"Ms Van den Prada!" I call.
She makes like she didn't hear and disappears into the elevator. I manage to just slip between the closing doors. She punches 15. She doesn't ask what floor I want.
1
Damn elevator takes off like a rocket. No time to go through the introductions. I take a deep breath.
2
"Guy who's down on his luck invents a microchip that makes his brain invent fabulous stories
3
that become N° 1 Bestsellers!' I gabble. Time is of the essence.
4
She doesn't raise her head from the how-would-I-know-what-it-is she's eyeballing.
"He makes a fortune for himself and his publisher!" I add.
5
My storyline ends with his publisher hits on him, very hot sex ensues, I decide (you gotta be quick on your feet) to leave that out for the moment.
6
She might at least look at me. She's wearing expensive black-framed spectacles with gray-tinted glasses that hide her eye movements.
7
"What kind of market do you see for this book?" she asks in an amused voice.
"Oh, I..."
8
"I mean, look at all the superheroes that have secret powers," I say. "My idea would probably be worth millions in film rights."
9
She raises her eyebrows and sighs a brief sigh.
10
"Look what I've got here," she says, taking a kind of pen from her purse. Thick for a pen, looks like a stainless-steel frankfurter.
11
She presses the end of the gizmo, blue light shines from the other end.
12
She points it at my forehead. It emits a sound somewhere between a growl and a raspberry.
13
I raise my hand to cut off the ray that I can feel tickling my forebrain.
14
"It farts like that when it hasn't found a single worthwhile idea in the brain it's examining," she says.
15
The elevator bumps to a halt. The doors begin to slide open. I stand in the way so she can't get out. She looks up at me, surprised and angry. For the first time, I can look straight into her eyes through those murky glasses.
"Not a single idea in there either," I say. "Good thing my microchip is nothing like as gross as your frank."
I stand aside then take the elevator back down. Why try to write books when you could be a superhero?
Elevator Pitch! Too funny. What a wild little story, John!
Love the framing in this gorgeous piece!
love this John ! we've got our goals all twisted - vive les super-héros!
I haven't really got a chip in my brain, I couldn't get it to go in. Looking for a replacement.
I saw one of the latest superheroine's superpower consisted in having a 3-D printer up her behind.
I'm not so sure about that one.
OH, I just assumed everyone already knew about the chips. My bad!
How about the stainless-steel frankfurter?
Gee wiz, I thought that was part of the "fiction." Maybe I need to rethink this "creative" stuff.
I've got a microchip I can sell you. Results guaranteed.
Haha
Hubbard walks the Strait of Juan de Fuca beaches thinking of his dead wife, when out of the blue, a section of bluff lets go and an avalanche of sand and gravel pours down and stops at his feet. Could have been worse, and he considers all the material recently fallen. It’s been a winter of strong currents and erosion. Some days this half mile of beach is all stone, marbles to bowling balls sizes. Next day it’s a clear span of sand.
The whole goddamned shooting match thanks to Cordilleran Ice, specifically the Vashon Glacier.
From the beach the waters of the Strait might look empty, an occasional ship from China, but through the binoculars, which reminds him of the Swarovskis, birds are everywhere. Diving, floating, flying. It looked like a nice place to be a bird. A pair of golden eagles approached from the west, following the beach.
Overhead a cry fell from the air, within a gathering rush. He turned and saw another landslide. Up top a man peered over the edge. Another cry, and he sees a woman riding the avalanche. Her legs spread high in the air, arms flailing, and her head close to buried in sand. He thought her face was going under, but the rush of sand hit the beach and the woman’s momentum carried her and she rolled onto the shingle only feet from the wash of the waves.
No question in his mind the man was the rapist. Even from the distance he saw the man wore no shoes, his feet were large and clawed. He’d know the footprints anywhere. Predictably, the rapist hollered unintelligibly, the lapels of his suit flapped in the breeze because of who he was, then he turned and ran.
Hubbard moved toward the woman, who had rolled over and sat holding her knees blinking at the ocean. He knelt beside her, thankful she was clothed.
Are you OK, he asked, and took out a clean cloth he carried for his glasses so she could wipe her eyes.
Gasping, spitting sand, she looked up to where she’d fallen from.
That man in the suit, she said, tried to rape me.
I know, said Hubbard, which reminded him that before she died his wife told him she planned to buy the Swarovskis for his birthday.
What can I do, he asked.
wow, this did not go where i expected, which is what the best stories do. Lots of layers--I'll have to think about this one for awhile.
You're not the only one thinking about it.
Read it again— so intense!
Tod! When you let go, your multitudes emerge.
I love the background of this. The Straits, an opening between worlds, the insides and the outsides. A cry falling from the air with a gathering rush…
T,
write she said, just keep writing!
OK.
Where are those Golden eagles?^^
Between the west end of Fort Worden park boundaries, and Point Wilson Light. Lots of eagle activity along that stretch of shore.
I love the emotionless, almost Carver-esque twist at the end - that deadpan "what can I do"
My partner's working on a coastal erosion project, interestingly enough. I also didn't expect this to go thataway.
Lots of erosion to check out where you're going.
A life can always get grip from a new retread^^
So many places you could take this story. I love some of the details that are almost asides. For example, "He knelt beside her, thankful she was clothed." So much in that sentence about your main character's ethos. And I had to look up Swarovskis. Binoculars for birding?
Yup. If you look through a pair of Swarovskis you never forget it and everything else is a compromise. I don't have a pair, nor has anyone ever said they would buy me one.
Oh! I was thinking of crystals. But they are a kind of binocular! That makes sense!
A high end binocular ! But the company makes lots of different stuff out of glass.
It had been a scramble. It was always a scramble, if she was honest.
Somehow, putting a water bottle together for herself, finding a hat with a bill on it, and slathering sunscreen on her face always took far longer than expected.
And Nellie? Where was Nellie, now?
She trudged down the hall and found the dog, napping, of course, near the coolest wall in the bedroom.
“Come on!” she urged the nearly deaf animal.
Sighing, she walked over to Nellie, and startled the poor dog out of a peaceful nap.
Nellie was always game for a hike or a walk, but she was getting a bit slower these days about getting up from her comfy bed.
Nellie yawned, stretched, and labored to her feet, wagging her tail, and followed Joanie down the hallway. Nellie’s four paws made a clicking sound as she galumphed into the hallway, excited now that she had seen the leash Joanie was holding.
“Hang on a sec,” Joanie said to her canine companion, as she grabbed a portable water bowl, filled a water bottle for the dog, and a few cookies to entice Nellie into the back of the Subaru.
“We’re going to have to get you a ramp,” Joanie said, as she opened the rear of the car and encouraged the dog to put her front feet up on the rubber mat. She tossed a few cookies in, just to get Nellie fully engaged in the process, then grabbed the dog’s rear quarters and boosted her
up and inside the compartment. Nellie lunged for the cookies, tail wagging furiously.
“Whooof!” Joanie exclaimed, and wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve.
Carefully, she shut the rear compartment door, always mindful of that wagging appendage on Nellie’s bottom, and turned to walk to the driver’s door.
And there it was: A fully functioning TV set, unplugged, but broadcasting, sitting on her driveway. Joanie’s mouth fell open, and she leaned in, asking “What the–?” aloud.
The TV was tuned to a local news station, and the talking heads onscreen were reporting a major disaster involving all the inhabitants of her surrounding neighborhood.
As Joanie leaned in to catch the full details displayed onscreen, she could see the smoking rubble of her neighbors’ houses. The screen showed full scale pandemonium complete with sirens, milling people, and deafening screams.
Now panicked, Joanie stepped back, and spun around to look at her neighborhood.
A serene and peaceful scene met her gaze. Overhead, two Canada geese flew toward the pond at the end of the road. From the backyard, she could hear contented clucking and the disgruntled quacking from Penelope, the always disgruntled duck. A breeze wafted through Joanie’s yard, scattering the last of the cherry blossoms in a pink snowfall.
The TV reclaimed her attention, and she turned once again to view massive devastation. And then she saw the date at the bottom of the screen. It was tomorrow’s date.
As she noted the date and felt her stomach plummet, the TV disappeared, and Joanie fumbled for the driver’s side door–badly needing to sit down and organize her thoughts.
Before she could articulate her feelings, she felt a gentle nudge on her arm. Nellie was leaning over the console and panting in Joanie’s ear. Turning, she looked at the dog, thinking Nellie might be the only rational element in the universe.
As she looked into Nellie’s eyes, Nellie suddenly opened her mouth to speak.
“No one will ever believe you,” the dog said. Then she turned and lay down on the rubber mat.
What an ending! Great job!
The pacing is great. Pulled me in. from the TV to the end twisted me like a pretzel. I loved it.
eerily un- far fetched.
Magic!!
[Removed by author 24 March 2023.]
Oh, nicely done! Loved the way you set the scene up.
Thanks! Ally's been stuck at that diner for while now, I'm glad she finally gets a new scene!
That roast beef sounds pretty good, regardless.
Totally beside the point, I know.
ha!
Ha! As it turns out when I first envisioned the scene I was going to have Ally make a snide comment about how bad the roast beef gravy smelled (assuming it was canned) but I didn't go there once the macaroni salad comment came into being!.
Holy wow, this is good. I laughed so hard about the Medicare funding!
Wow! What a setup. I went in a completely different direction.
Very nice. That ending sneaks up on you!
A row of seventeen brick chimneys rise like the spines of a prehistoric lizard along the apex of the Axson Steel Mill. Looking towards them from Brayford Rise, they divide the far-off skyline of Sheffield into hazy cross-sections. Every quarter of an hour they vent a glassy sheen of hot air. For a few seconds afterwards, a refraction in the heavens creates the illusion that they are an army of monolithic giants marching in formation, their destination uncertain, dependant upon your point of view. If you live in Tantwick, they are heading for the hills. In Birbridge they appear to be converging on the new motorway.
The birds, who have been roosting in the fissures in the chimney brickwork, rise up as one and wheel over the town as if they are a supplementary gear in the great industrial mechanism, dipping anticlockwise above the slate roofs; the foundry attempting to turn back time and erase itself from the landscape.
Margaret Lancaster, who has been sheltering from the windblown drizzle underneath the striped awning of Gilfrey's Butchers, seizes the moment and steps into the puddled road, the rain still present but momentarily stopped in its tracks by the overhead blast of heat; a memory of her childhood in India.
At the school gate, William Beel breaks into a short-lived run as he begins his journey home, to the far end Glover Road. He has to get all the way through the door before the next factory cycle or something bad will happen. His dad will lose his job, or grandad Riley will come to stay again.
Norman Brock goes out to the plastic sheets where the magnetised dew from the chimneys has mingled with the raindrops. He herds it, using a pair of U-shaped magnets, towards the semi-circular opening of a watering can. In the earth beds, the prize pumpkins slouch like grounded planets.
In the belly of the foundry, Gary Beel commences the climb between the blast chambers, against the advice of Neil Watkins who stands at the bell. The ladder is divided into four sections. If you haven't reached the silver rung, that marks the halfway point, when it rings, then it's time to turn back. He is barely past the the bronze rung when he hears it clanging last orders. He carries on, increasing his pace, the quickstep beat of his heart swallowing the seconds in double time.
this is amazing. Just beautiful writing. I'm not altogether certain what's happening with Gary Beer, but I'm very worried about him.
Beautiful descriptions here. Very nicely done.
This is stupendously beautiful and wrenching. I’m just in awe of every word. Thank you!
Fabulous
Never heard of magnetized dew, but I guess it means what it says.
My son walked into my home office at the end of a particularly long day with a red cashmere scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, one end dragging the floor. I was focused on my month-end reports for most of the day as he quietly played around the house. It felt like I had driven somewhere and didn't remember the drive. It was already past the time I should have shut down and started our evening. He stood just inside the threshold of the room looking down intently at the partially solved Rubik's cube, spinning it thoughtfully between his fingertips.
"Where did you get that?" I asked.
"From my desk?" he responded, confused by the question.
"No. The scarf. Where did you get it?"
"Mom's dresser drawers."
"What were you doing in her stuff?"
"I don't know the next algorithm. Do I start at the left or the right?"
I studied the cube from behind my desk.
"Start on the left."
He flicked and turned the cube in his hands as though it floated magnetically between his fingers and solved it in a few short turns. He held it up with a proud smile and met my eyes. I looked through him and my hands grew cold.
"Come here," I motioned.
He stepped over and I bent down and wrapped my arms around him. I buried my face in the scarf and I could smell the perfume she wore on special occasions. His smooth arms were around my neck, and for a moment, we were together again - the three of us.
oh, beautiful. and sad.
This is powerful. Nicely done!
So true feeling.
Perfect.
Flutter flutter.
Splat.
Whoosh whoosh.
Wipe wipe wipe.
Here lies George “Bugsy” Mayfly
Born 18 March 2024, 2:11 PM
Died 18 March 2024, 5:27 PM
“A short life, well-lived”
hahahaha! Well done.
I hate it when splat happens.
Bugs me too.
Yuk-yuk!
Which begs the question what did George do between 2:11 PM and 5:27 PM on March 18, 2024.
He fluttered, obviously.
Legend has it that Bugsy got lucky at 4:27 PM and fathered over 350 nymphs. The legend continues that the nymphs encountered a hungry and very aggressive school of bluegill and, sadly, none made it to adulthood.
And, there is another legend that the times of Bugsy birth and death, when strung together like this, 2-11-5-27, form the combination to a bank safe hidden somewhere in rural Missouri. But that has never been confirmed.
Oh I like happy endings like that one.
Heading to Willow Springs National Bank of the Ozarks shortly.
Shortly after I was born my parents divorced, I grew up an only child, but played little league with my two step-brothers, had a bunch of girlfriends in college, taught history classes at a local community college, got married, had a boy and a girl, got divorced as soon as the nest was empty, lived in different countries every year teaching English wherever I went, married a restless divorcee who wanted to see the world like I did, occasionally got back to the States to see my son and daughter who got married, had kids, did fairly well, but then cancer overtook me, I was cremated, and apparently my wife scattered my ashes, but where exactly I'll never know for sure.
PKT! You compressed your (fictional) life!
Time flew.
Slow-motion spacecraft on re-entry!
Unhygienic? What’s unhygienic about it? I’ll tell you what’s unhygienic and that’s being left alone with your thoughts for the time it takes to do your business. With my thoughts, anyway; crawling around like those bugs right there scurrying between the tiles and the skirting board. They get where there’s not even a crack to let them in.
Of all the forms of torture, removing my book from the bathroom is bad enough, but not telling me and now I’ve started and there’s nothing to read is too much to bear.
Here they go. Hear them? Scratch scratch.
No. No I haven’t sorted that out yet. I don’t know why.
Look at them down there, not even scurrying into the damp corners, just wandering dreamily about amongst, is that more of your hairs on the floor? That bald guy they’ll call you. No, not bald. Balding. God that’s even worse.
Yeah I said that in class that time. Yeah I burned like hell my cheeks were hot with shame.
Why do they gnaw at those parts of my brain? Why can’t they go for some time a fire-green sunset had filled the sky and I’d seen it just me and the geese fly across honking and their bellies are lit up as they pass? Stuff like that must be in there somewhere.
Here we go. Yeah it was me even though I promised it wasn’t but Dad knew somehow and I had to take it back to the store and admit it was me. Sure. Character building. Wouldn’t be who I am today. Thanks for that.
Just listen to that scratching, those metallic clicks and scrapes. What are they made from these thoughts to make noises like that? Not sure I can sit here listening to all this much longer.
Scritch scritch.
*****
Scratch scratch.
We’re not just down there, though he doesn’t ever look up here. Long long ago we mastered gravity. It’s easy for us, walking vertically and resting upside down. From here, from this corner of the ceiling, we look down with you at him. Yes, there’s certainly a thinner patch spreading around his crown.
Scratch.
He’s resting his elbows on his knees and holding the back of his neck and making quiet whispery noises.
We know his noises and what they mean, but he doesn’t know ours. If he did he’d know that Scratch scratch means, ‘you’re not alone’.
"Why do they gnaw at those parts of my brain? Why can’t they go for some time a fire-green sunset had filled the sky and I’d seen it just me and the geese fly across honking and their bellies are lit up as they pass? Stuff like that must be in there somewhere."
Thrilling. Love hearing geese honk as they fly V-shape across the sky like a memory of what Earth once was.
This is so funny. True bathroom humor! "Yes, there’s certainly a thinner patch spreading around his crown."
These people need their daily kiwi fruit. Does nothing for incipient baldness, but waiting time when seated considerably reduced.
Very funny - I like the high angle view !
Love this! Something of Beckett here…
The teacup clattered in the saucer as it landed next to Bob’s paper. Bob suppressed a sigh, placed his right hand around the cup to enjoy the relief the warmth provided to his arthritis and kept his gaze on the paper, turning another page.
“Robert”. Oh no, not Bob but Robert. Something was up. People say that’s how they knew they were in trouble with their parents. But what about the Marks, the Pauls or the Johns of the world, how did their names get altered when it was serious? If you were a Bob, you became Robert when in trouble. If you were Tom, you knew it wasn’t good when you heard Thomas. Did the short-named people never know when they were in trouble? Bob was a thinker, sometimes a slow thinker but a thinker nonetheless and he wondered about the absurdities of life. He even got philosophical once and wondered if it was absurd to think about absurdities.
“Yes, Rebecca”, Bob carefully replied, taking a sip from the cup as he lifted it in front of his face. It acted as a brake, slowed his reaction to whatever was coming. Their polite names were an absurdity. When things were calm, the Bs ruled the house: Bob and Becky, careful and considerate. When things were rough, the Rs ruled: Robert and Rebecca, charging and challenging until they forgot what started the rough times and retreated to their corners, waiting till they could be Bs again.
He was surprised to see tears on Becky’s face. That normally didn’t happen till the Rs had done their best, had torn each other down. He wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t looking at him, so he looked back down and turned the page, another guard against whatever was to unfold. The headline stabbed at him “Old Age Divorce On The Rise”. Was he about to join their numbers? If she left him, he’d have to make his own tea. When was the last time he had made a cup of tea? He drew a deep breath, he didn’t know who would speak, Bob or Robert.
“Becky, I….”.
“Wait Robert. I have to tell you something and I don’t want you to speak till I’ve said it”.
Bob swallowed. Robert tensed.
“A lump, Bob. The Doctor says I’ve got a lump”.
Really nicely done! That last line...
You had me with the warm cup in the arthritic hand.
Oh my.
hi my name is Bletch Batchley and I used to run Hockey. I have bought thirty seconds of Super Bowl time, now 28 seconds to tell you that my wife Georgia Batchley is the most slovenly pig I have ever met. She has used tampons in McDonalds bags next to her side of our once beautiful bed. She makes love like a staggering sea lion, squashing me, spitting and clawing and slapping me round the head-
afterwards - the sheets smell like a sewer full of dead hobo vaginas-
she is the most putrid gossip I have ever met and has made me unable to look at any of our friends or neighbours the same way, for knowing the sick things she has done with them or is blackmailing them with.
At Christmas the whole family caught her on her knees with my 88 year old Mothers 90 year old partner- she said he’d hypnotised her with Sex looks- He is 100% blind- she’s a horrible cook, but I realise women shouldn’t have to cook necessarily, and Im not an especially great cook myself.
anyway she’s a great Mum and the exact same girl I married -Happy Birthday Honey
You! Thanks for this one. It cracked me up in a really good way.
You’re welcome Mary
Love conquers all, sometimes.
The Heart wants what it wants 🗑️ 💓
“She makes love like a staggering sea lion” may stay with me a long time!🤣
For The Love Of Breaking Rules
Outside the principal’s office, Nanette fidgetted in one of the orange plastic chairs that always rubbed the skin over her backbone raw. She was old enough to know that the principal was intentionally keeping her waiting, but also that he wouldn’t want her to be late for her next class. She looked at the time on her phone; he had one minute to call her inside, five minutes to reprimand her, another two to get her to class. He was cutting it awfully short. She counted backwards from 60—she had always been annoyingly good at math—10, 9, 8, wait, she thought, 5, 4, 3...here it comes and bam! Right on time. She stood, pulled down the front of her shirt to cover her pierced belly button, put on her flip-flops— both against school rules—and shuffled into his office. She knew the routine as this wasn’t her first go round.
Miss Adams, he said in a dramatically disappointed voice, his left eyebrow rising as it always did when he was upset.
Yes, Mr. Hernandez.
I assume you know why you’re here.
Of course, Mr. Hernandez. She kept her voice sweet.
Well, then, no need to waste time, is there?
No, Sir.
Good, he said, stood up, and
held out his hand which she shook as if they were two warring countries, come to the peace table, finally agreeing on terms. She forced a straight face, then shuffled back out into the hallway.
She took off her flip-flops, let her top ride above her belly button. With two minutes left, she made a quick u-turn into the girls’ rest room, put on black mascara and red lipstick, Taylor Swift style, then rinsed out her mouth with the green mint mouthwash she always carried in her backpack. She quickened her step and caught Adam waiting outside the French classroom door. She puckered her lips, like actresses from old movies used to do. Ten seconds to go, plenty of time to break another rule…and kiss.
Well done! What a character.
Thanks. She popped out of my consciousness fully born.
I love when that happens.
Me, too.
Who you dream of meeting in a hallway ten seconds to go.
Hector kept wondering why he was nervous now, since in his memory he hadn’t been at all, on that long-ago evening when he’d had his first date with Elena. Here she came now, in her gorgeous gunmetal blue-grey Mustang, all flash and growling power, sliding into a parking slot. She leapt from her ride and threw her spidery arms around him as if to say, bro, how are you so fly?
Great to see you! It’s been far too long.
They started up the trail. It had been theirs, fifteen years before. She’d never hiked a day in her life before they started sleeping with one another. It hadn’t been long, though, before she came to love the mountains more than him. They’d traded lives. Now he was blessed with a spouse and children he hardly ever hiked, while she burned up and down the mountain paths like she was all goat.
Any new lovers? he asked.
Fuck that! They all want to take over your life. No matter their gender. I need my space. Oh, sorry.
That’s okay. I was tired of all my suffocating solitude.
A lovely, suddenly sunny day. The morning light on vast, ancient trunks. Higher up they crunched on sunlit snow, striated with shadow. Out of the mad rush of city life, feeling primitive, barbaric, free.
Do you miss me?
Sometimes, he said.
Likewise. Sorry I broke things off so abruptly. The walls were closing in.
I don’t blame you, he said. I mean, I was sad, but grateful too.
Should we try again?
What? Polyamory?
Maybe yes. It’s safe, now you’re married.
You have a point. I have to think about it.
Or we could just become friends again.
Downward through snow and ice. The shadow side, every creek running, the river blasting its way to ocean.
Either way is good, Hector said, finally. Life is pretty short. You can’t have too much love.
Elena said nothing to that, but her smile, he thought, very nearly matched the trail, with all its ephemeral depth and promise.
This one! I see so much trouble ahead--or perhaps no trouble at all. Love the spare conversation here.
Hard to know how much trouble. Funny, on my edit I was thinking, whoa.
Thank you, Mary. And thank you (again!) for doing this!
Oh poly....in the news daily now. Need to get my book done and out.
Such clean writing, David, like melting mountain ice on a bright spring day.
Thank you!
There's something special about you and mountains and women, David.
The women and the mountains are special. I’m just grateful to be able to walk in the light of their shadow.
I believe in polyamory, what people used to call Free Love, more than monogamy, but these days if you say this out loud, people gasp and stare at you.
It really makes more sense than trying to pigeonhole oneself into a kind of romantic straitjacket, but it’s also scary for many of us, to expand our limits, not to mention everything that comes with expressing what you really think and feel, out loud, and taking responsibility for that. The hard but ultimately rewarding work of open, honest communication.
Agreed. Funny, I just came back from a private English class for two, a woman, and her ex-husband who lives two doors down, while she's remarried. Despite this, they all get along fine. Cool stuff.
Acrimony is not necessary…except maybe in a good story!
Really liked this piece, beautiful language, loved that last sentence.
Thanks, Vati!
The telephone in our house sat in the living room on a table my mother called The Chippendale. The black telephone handset sat in the cradle atop the flat-topped pyramidal base. We shared a line with the woman and her daughter, Janice, who lived across the alley. I picked up the handset from the cradle, and with the other hand, slipped one finger in the numbered dial to call a friend. The two little plungers in the cradle released, and I held the round speaker to my ear. No dial tone. Hm-m-m. Janice’s mother was speaking on the other line. I breathed quietly, so as not to give myself away, and listened. Janice’s mother was talking about the husband, I had never seen because he didn’t live there, “That jerk refuses to pay the mortgage. I could kill him. He’s a drunk. Why did I even marry him? I should take him to court… Who’s there? Is someone listening on the party line? You better hang up right now….” I put my finger on the little plunger, pushed it down and set the handset back on its cradle.
isn't it crazy that there used to be party lines like this??? This story makes me wonder what happens next...
Nothing happened to me, and as for Janice's mother, I was too young to know or to understand. (I made that part up--I only remember the harsh tone of her voice).
I know that you are writing non-fiction. But I couldn't help but see something fictional happening here--like the next time "you" and Janice get together and suddenly you have this information and she doesn't know that you have it. My mind just goes there, though I know you are sticking to real life! Which is just great!
Thats true. I didn't really play with Janice. I don't think they lived there very long. Or, we could play telephone and you can make up a story to add to mine.
The story is all yours!
The party line: your opportunity to be a fly within the wall containing someone else’s consciousness.
My grandmother had a party line. Much mischief went on with that.
She stood at the kitchen counter slicing strawberries. Faber was correct the berries tasted like cardboard. Her fist tightened on the knife slicing the quart of Limited Edition, California berries. This morning he'd chewed a few, not swallowed, then spit them into the sink and stomped out of the house. Her knife hit the cutting board with a thud.
What is happening to this tall-muscled man, the best and only lover she'd ever had? As Oscar Wilde said she was his first and he would be her last. Or something like that. This man who sensuously whispered as he made love to her. What is happening to him?
As she sliced the last berry the paring knife fell to the floor. She clutched her heart as her knees caved. This man of many words had before her eyes replaced conversation with complaints and emerged as a grumpy old man.
I like the way the ending is ambiguous. Don't tell me what happened--but i think perhaps her heart gave out on her OR she's suffering and her heart aches. Nice job with that single scene!
If she's still alive maybe suggest changing to a different strawberry.
Tod, you are on a roll today!
for god's sake don't encourage him!!
too funny!
Heartbreaking, gives me chills. So good.