The Walls of Jerry Coe: Mysterious Photograph #4

 My fourth entry into Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine's Mysterious Photograph contest. Yes, it won nothing.

The Walls of Jerry Coe

He came a-tumbling down. It took three, but they did it. Smashed, left bleeding, gasping, the alley walls closing in. A forehead cut dripped down into his eyes. Jerry Coe was paying for his sins in the cruelest way possible.

What sins? Introversion? Dressing differently? Pushing back at Tommy Tuba, making the big bully look weak at practice? Breaking into his locker, spray-painting two words – TOMMY TUTU?  

Jerry realized the alley shortcut was a mistake. Yes, he'd get him home quicker, but he didn't factor in how isolated he would be. And that Tommy Tuba would bring friends who'd make easy work of Jerry.

Jerry tried to scream, but no sound came out, frightened into silence. Looking at the right alley wall, he saw his trumpet. They had thrown it there, miraculously undamaged. He stretched to reach it. No good. Too much pain.

 He wouldn't give in. Jerry Coe tooted to the sound of a different trumpet. Two tumbling rolls, and Jerry grabbed his horn. He put it to his lips. If Jerry couldn't speak, how could he play? He closed his eyes, concentrated, mustering as much breath as he could.

And he played. A beautiful reveille. A clarion call echoed down the walls and into the nearby street.

Someone heard it. Help was coming.

But not for Tommy Tuba and his bully buddies. This was not over. Jerry Coe wouldn't let this go unavenged.

Soon, the walls would tumble in on Tommy Tuba.

 

One More Lick: Mysterious Photograph #3

 

Once upon a time, I knew everything there was to know. But now, that time is gone. At my age, I’ve forgotten more than I remember.

I look down at my beautiful stamp collection. One stamp for every country. Switzerland, where I pushed a man off the Matterhorn. Gambia, where I injected a man with strychnine. France with poisoned wine. Strangulation in the USA. 

Every country in the world. But somehow, I had missed Uruguay. I couldn’t stand being incomplete. I had to correct my lapse. Even at 86.

I booked a cruise to Montevideo. As the cruise was leaving port, I knew I had to act fast. Failing to kill in the city itself, I acted before we entered international waters. I pushed an old woman over the railings, but my mind was not what it was. I left a witness, and the police slowly traced it back to me.

Now I sit at my desk, holding the precious Uruguayan stamp in my tweezers, ready to place it in my collection. I hear loud knocking. I move the stamp towards my tongue. I hear the door breaking down.

I need time.

Time for just one more lick.

Like most of my entries, this one neither won nor received an honorable mention.  Nevertheless, I persevere!

The Cleansing of the Soles: Mysterious Photograph #2

 Everybody has dreams. 

One of mine was to see my name as an author in a pulp fiction magazine.  I was reading Worlds of If and Fantastic Stories from when I was as young as 8, buying them for 35 cents.  I fantasized about what it would be like to have a story published in them one day.

Sixty-one years later, I still dream about it.  What feeble efforts I made over the years were ignored and easily swatted away,

But I'm not giving up.  I have found a contest in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, a short (flash fiction) story based on a "mysterious photograph."

My first submission, One Small Step, did not win.  It did not receive honorable mention.

Nevertheless, I persist.

I submitted the story below. my second attempt.

I am pleased to report that it was runner-up, and my name will be in the January/February issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine! 

So, part of my dream has been accomplished!  The story itself won't be, but my name will be in a pulp magazine, and for writing!

This reinvigorates me to keep trying, that maybe there is some merit to my writing!

And now, for the winning runner-up!

The Cleansing of the Soles

by T. M. Strait 

It had to be you. Of all the people to walk into my basement, it had to be Marvin. Restraining order be damned – there you were.

“Get out!’ I shouted. “You can’t be here!”

“Yes, I can! I don’t care what the lawyers say! This is my house, and I’m taking it back!” Marvin moved menacingly toward me, a bat in his hands.

Enough of his belittling and abuse! I’d had my fill. Rather than cower, I surprised him by rushing toward him, my arms in front of me. I took advantage of his confusion, and I knocked him down. He fell heavily, his head crunching on the concrete basement step.

He didn’t move. “Marvin? Are you okay?”  I kicked him, but he didn’t respond. I checked for breath. There was none. A pool of blood under his head seeped out to redden the gray of the step.

Marvin would never threaten me again. It wasn’t easy, but I stuffed his body in the freezer. I mopped up the blood. I thought I was done when I noticed the blood on the bottom of my sneaker.

In a panic, I took off my shoes, and threw them to the washer.

I needed to be done with this.  I wanted the last remnant of Marvin off of me.

I wanted to wash that man right out of my sole.

One Small Step: Mysterious Photograph #1

Everybody has dreams. 

One of mine was to see my name as an author in a pulp fiction magazine.  I was reading Worlds of If and Fantastic Stories from when I was as young as 8, buying them for 35 cents.  U fantasized about what it would be like to have a story published in them one day.

Sixty-one years later, I still dream about it.  What feeble efforts I made over the years were ignored and easily swatted away,

But I'm not giving up.  I have found a contest in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, a short (flash fiction) story based on a "mysterious photograph."

I submitted the story below.  I did not win the grand prize of $25.  I did not get honorable mention.

Nevertheless, I persist.

I have submitted two more stories since.  I've heard nothing back, but I am determined not to give up.  Like a monkey in front of a typewriter, someday I may stumble out a winning entry.

Meanwhile, as I lose, I will continue to post out my losing entries as the deadline passes.

One Small Step

by T. M. Strait

I don't always think things out. Rob the Scherba Museum's space exhibit of its rare Martian rocks? Not a bad idea. Hiding in a spacesuit until closing? Not so much.

Lisa got me into the suit and convinced others it was part of the show. Near closing, she told them she needed to take me to a backroom to remove the suit.

Instead, she left me in the suit, kissing me for luck, leaving bright red lipstick on the face glass.

I waited several hours after closing, timing my exhibit exploration with the security guard's routine.

The rocks lay on a Martian landscape, including a Mars Rover. Lisa's app neutralized the lasers protecting it. I filled the suit's pockets with valuable rocks. Lisa's fence thought we could get millions!

I left the museum and went into the streets behind it. Lisa was to meet me and help me out of the suit, 

But there was no Lisa. I waited. And waited.

Dawn approached. Where was she?

I heard a ding from inside the suit. A voice said, "Ten minutes air remaining."

What? I had no idea how to get out of this suit. I screamed for Lisa.

I don't know if she heard me, but suddenly she was skipping towards me. She smiled, reaching into my spacesuit pockets, gathering the Mars rocks. I couldn't hear her, but she was dancing and making happy noises. She mouthed the words, "Thank you!"

And she danced away.

Nope. Didn't think that part out.

A Glimpse of Better Times

 There were some tough times.

That was inevitable with how history flows - it's not always a smooth course. There are always steps forward and steps back. You just have to hope you're lucky enough to live in a time when the forward steps exceed the backward ones.

Finally, in the deep twilight of my life, I feel blessed to have seen us progress towards a brighter future.

I thought we would never get a handle on global warming. And we didn't. Not completely. But it's nowhere near as bad as it was in the late twenties. We finally did the right things, moving to renewable fuels and taking better care of the Earth.

Sadly, poverty still exists. But very few live in starvation and misery, and we've ended the Age of Billionaires. Population peaked and stabilized, and we've learned much about sustainable agriculture.

In 2033, we finally gained true universal health care, thanks in large part to the efforts of President Ocasio-Cortez and the Progressive majority. Electoral reforms, such as the elimination of the Electoral College and ranked-choice voting, universal voting registration, increases in the Congressional delegation (Senate and House) based on population, the outlawing of legislative gerrymandering, increasing the Supreme Court to 13 (matching the number of circuit courts) and limiting their terms to 18 years, all of these increased the democratization of the American experiment.

Education flourished as public universities were made free, and critical thinking skills took preeminence at our public schools. Public libraries became central, parks were prioritized, and urban planning was implemented to beautify many cities, including the blooming of urban gardening.

People were free to love who they wanted. Gender and sexuality were a brilliant rainbow. Diversity was respected and enriched us all. We were no longer a white majority country, and except for a stubborn few, that made the country richer, more tolerant, and more loving.

With the essential safeguards in place, people felt more secure in becoming entrepreneurs, pursuing their dreams, and making the nation a rich patchwork of businesses and enterprises.  

At times, it looked like Christianity would be a thing of the past. But once the domination of the Christian Nationalists was broken, the Christian Progressives took center stage, and now Christianity is stronger and more purposeful than ever. The power of love and inclusivity, the desire to bring us closer to heaven on Earth, proved to be more potent than the power of hate and exclusivity.

As I sit here, on my porch in the Catskills, overlooking the beauty of nature, here in 2113, I look back to the early days when I was a child and my parents who fought so hard to end the country's teetering toward fascism, and the remarkable turnaround that began with the election of our first female President (amazing to think that it's been almost seventy years since our last male President), I see a world that is far from perfect but is so much better than it could have been.

God bless President Harris, and god bless all who voted for her. You made my world so much better.

Love to all,

Pastor Retta Strait

The Walk Away

 Tired of all the baggage, he set off down the road.

He carried nothing with him. No backpack. No bottled water. No phone.  

He went without sunscreen. He wore blue jeans and a pale blue T-shirt. He wore slip-on tennis shoes. His socks were white and were almost to his knees.

He left when the temp was 93, the feels like skirting 105, the humidity near 80%.

He did not know where he was going, but going he was.

When he left, no one else was home. Melissa worked, and the kids were in school. He left no message or explanation.

After just one block, he was already feeling the effects of the heat. He suffered heat exhaustion very easily. Normally, he would not go out in heat like this, except maybe to pick up the mail.

Melissa worked. He did not. Not since the incident. Not since his small mistake. Twelve years of devotion flushed down the toilet with one error in judgment.  

And now he made no contribution to his family. He was a useless fifth wheel, draining resources. All his efforts turned to naught. It was hard finding a new job when you were fired from the last one for slugging your boss.

Only a block away from home, and he was already feeling the effects of the heat. He didn't sweat much. It would help if he did. He just felt disoriented.

Three blocks away, he turned to the woods. The shade helped. The swarm of bugs around him did not.

None of that deterred him from continuing to walk.

He crossed a creek. Even though the water was only ankle deep, it was enough to soak his shoes, making them sticky and damp.  

There must have been wildlife in the woods, but besides the buzzing insects, he saw nothing. A snake or a bear was too much to hope for.

By the time he reached the edge of the woods, the sun was starting to set. There was a stretch of farmland, a blueberry orchard. No fruit was in sight—it was not the season. He wouldn't have eaten if it had. There was no need to prolong this.

He found a dirt road and continued down it. It was day again, growing hotter. His brain baked.

He collapsed, twenty miles from home. Not an epic journey, but long enough.

A farmer found him. 911 was called, and he was brought to a hospital. He was feverish and dehydrated, but they soon rectified it.

No one could identify him.  

He had failed. And the hospital bill would cost his family.

He may remain unidentified, but how does that help Melissa collect the life insurance?

He could not walk away from his baggage. He had to go back and do the best he could.

He got up from his hospital bed, pulled out the IVs, and started to walk.

This time, hopefully, the right way.

Everything Changed: OHC Writer's Guild Writing Assignment #1

 Everything changed.  In an instant, my love was gone.

The bus stop was just a bench.  We were waiting for the 151 to the Palisades. 

The argument was stupid.  Meaningless.  Insignificant.  The same old thing.  My love wanted me to move away from my mother and come live with her. 

But I couldn’t leave.  My mother was too fragile, too dependent on me.

What did I know about fragility?

She huffed away from me, standing by the curb of the road, yelling at me to man up and break free.

Neither of us heard the truck.  The truck that was heading to the curb too fast.

I saw nothing until I heard the smack of her body against the oncoming truck. 

At first, she seemed stuck to its front, as if glued down somehow.  But that horrible image, forever ingrained in my mind, in reality only lasted milliseconds.

Then she flew through the air, at least twenty feet, landing harshly on the concrete, twisted like a rag doll.

It happened in an instant.  I would give anything for that instant not to have occurred.

Instead, it will haunt me forever.

A Letter From a Re-education Camp

 Dear Maggie,

I can't seem to forget you.

They say that time makes you forget the details. Faces and voices of the past begin to fade. Everything becomes a hazy blur.

But that's not happening. I remember your hazel eyes, the aquiline sweep of your nose, the redness of your full lips, the auburn curls, the tiny earlobes, and even the location of the mole on your cheek.

I have no picture of you; it is just what I have preserved in my mind. But that is enough to see me through this nightmare. I refuse to accept that I will never see you again.

I'm not supposed to be able to write you. But I have managed to have smuggled to me this one piece of paper, and a small pencil nub. On one side is my note to you, and on the other is the menu for the week. Yes, they got it from the kitchen. The pencil nub was from the guard's station, pilfered by the prisoner assigned to janitorial duties.

Do not worry about me. I am doing fine. I don't like being incarcerated, and I miss you tremendously, but I can and will survive.

I am so happy that you were able to escape the Kingdom. I pray that you are safe. I won't say where I think you are for fear that this letter will be confiscated. Just know that I picture you there, secure and happy.

They have not tortured me. I have no information they desire. Let me repeat that. I know nothing that could help them in any way.

I do spend long hours in counseling sessions designed to convert me to their religion and cause, I listen carefully, but I remain the same. It does not help that I am a Christian because I do not hold to what they are calling Christianity.

That said, I will do what I can to secure my release. Whatever it takes.

And rest assured, I will see you again.

Love,

Gregory

This is flash fiction from a series of stories based on the Kingdom, a near future in which America has broken up into several territories/nations. Much of the South has become The Kingdom, where Christian Nationalists have achieved dominance.

The stories may not always follow from one to the other, as they are adjusted to meet a reasonable extrapolation of current events. Think of them like DC's Elseworld stories or Marvel's What If.

Maybe someday I will edit them into a whole.

How much I write of any one thing may depend on the number of views it gets. So far, following that logic, I should refrain from writing about anything.

Burning Fields

 Tenderly, he reached out to her.

She bit off his hand.

Blood gushed from the open wound.

Who knew a harpy's beak and teeth could be that strong? She popped it off like a bottle top.

He felt faint. He was losing too much of life's sustaining fluid.  

She was no help. She just cackled incessantly at him, like a crow magnified. 

He yanked off his shirt with one hand and clumsily tried to wrap his bleeding wrist. It was to no avail. He could not abate the red torrent.  

"Why?" he cried out.

"Because it is in my nature,  you fool of a man! What did you think would happen?"

Everything was dimming. "I cared for you. I just wanted to ..." He hesitated. Focus was becoming harder. "...to help you."

He had defended her. Other neighbors were ready to clip her wings and burn her at the stake. But he saw something in her that made him believe she was worth saving. He knew that she could be tamed and cared for and be used to aid the community instead of threatening it.

He had come into the cave where she hid. He heard her weeping. "There, there now. I've come to help you, not hurt you."

She looked at him, sad eyes brimming with tears. "No one wants to help me. You all just want to see me dead."

"That's not true! I know you are good deep down. When my field burned, I saw you swoop down, pick up my niece, and move her from the all-consuming flames."

She looked at him, her eyes seeming to reach out and appreciate his understanding.

This was a fatal misunderstanding on his part.

Now, he was bleeding out. His shirt failed to staunch the wound. She did not move to help him.

"Of course, I moved the girl. I did not want the fire to take her. I prefer to cook my own food. She slipped from my grip. Before I could grasp her again, your entire village came out after me."

She spread her wings. "But now it is time for me to try again, see what strays I can find."

At that, she flew off, leaving him there to die.

Which he did.

Bending for the Dog

 

He bends down slowly. The only way he can bend now. The sciatica screams at him. The pain descends into his right thigh and calf.

But this is a good doggy. And he deserves a pat. And the man is determined to give it.

He pats the little dog, ignoring the pain. The joy of his little companion makes the pain drift away, at least for a few seconds.

He leashes the dog, and they go for a walk. Sometimes the walks help subside the pain,  Sometimes it does not.

Today is a winner. The pain no longer dominates his every thought.

The man sits in his reading chair, the dog on his lap. He loves to read. He can go anywhere when he reads. He can become anyone. Today's story is a mystery from Ellery Queen's magazine. He becomes a gumshoe solving a case in 1930s San Fransico. He has no sciatica and can run, twist, and deck a bad guy with one punch.

He gets up and does some sciatica relief exercises with the help of a YouTube video. It's the same video done by the same lady. She is friendly and calm, like an NPR host. The sight of her has become a comfort to him. One time, he thought he heard her use his name, but that couldn't be. He made a vow to never tell anybody. He didn't want his grown children to put him away.

He has lunch; salad, and some mixed fruit. He drinks a Coke Zero, his great daily indulgence. The salad has some chicken, but he doesn't eat it all. Some of it winds up in his little dog.

He takes out an old coin collection and, using an app on his phone, tries to identify its value. If he finds enough valuable coins, he might be able to afford a cross-country trip to see his family. It's a long shot, though. Most coins aren't worth much more than their face value, and the coin market is not that good.

He takes another walk with his dog. The sciatica continues to fade. This really is a blessed day, he thinks.

Later, with supper, he watches an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. He likes watching older TV shows, especially mysteries and cop shows. The episode he watches tonight came out when he was three years old.

He reads for a while and then finally goes to bed, the little dog with him.

He lays awake, haunted by the past, worried about the future.

But the little dog is there, sleeping quietly. The dog calms him. He pets the dog.

He falls asleep.

Inspire Me Shorts 92923

 More stories based on the Inspire Me app, constructed around three randomly selected words -

1 job, wouldn't, press

There is no job I wouldn't do for you. You don't need to press for me to impress you.

So, relax. They'll never find the body.

2 written, different, up

So it is written. Thus, it will be. Every word is infallible. The entire book is true.

I know. Different faiths have come to different conclusions; the same book that condemns slavery is used to defend slavery.

But, ultimately, there is only one true, literal interpretation of our good book.

And that, of course, is the one we possess, Brother Dan.

You can take that to the heavenly bank. There is only one way up to the pearly gates.

And that way is exclusively for us, we true believers. We keepers of the one true light.

3 flag, think, way

The original pledge of allegiance did not have under God in it. Even though it was written by a Baptist minister, he did not include it. It was a civic pledge, not a religious one.  

This is what minister Francis Bellamy wrote in 1892 -

"I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Over time, other changes were made. It wasn't until 1954 that the phrase "under God" was added.

As someone who does think that this should only be a civic pledge, in what way should I handle saying it?

Here is my compromise - I stand to say the pledge, put my hand on my heart, and say the pledge out loud, except I do not vocalize the phrase "under God."

A weak compromise, I know. But it works for me.

4 tall, lucky, last

I am not tall. I reached my maximum height of 5' 8" in 7th grade. But, at that time, it made me one of the taller boys in my class, about the third tallest. When we picked basketball teams, I would be the center. About eighth string center, but center nonetheless.

I didn't like being so tall. I thought the short kids were lucky because they could sneak ahead in school lines without people noticing. And it was awkward to be so much taller than the girls. I wished I wasn't so tall.

By the time I got to high school, I was suddenly one of the shortest kids, as everyone around me grew rapidly, and I stayed the same. I would always be picked last when the gym class selected basketball teams or volleyball.

Sometimes, you have to be careful what you wish for.

5 modern, Roman, tightly

Titus held me tightly. I could barely breathe.

"Oh, my dear Jocela! I am so fond of you! I must have you as my wife!"

I struggled to push him away. I could only tilt back a few inches. Enough to look up at him and tell him, "Titus, you must give me space! I need time to think on this."

"I have done this properly, my dear. The Roman way. I have secured the blessing of your father. Goods have already been exchanged to seal the deal. My asking you would only be a courtesy."  Titus clutched Jocala firmly again. 

Jocala pleaded, "But don't you see? Times have changed. Women have more respect than ever. The Senate has recently recognized women's marital rights to property in the event of marital dissolution. We are increasing our family participation and marital decisions. I'm just asking you to be more up-to-date, more modern, in your attitudes."

Titus laughed in a braying, cruel manner. "You silly creature! The Roman Way IS the Modern Way! Your father sides with me. Learn to love me. That is your only choice."

Times were not changing fast enough to save Jocala.

How Does My Garden Grow?

How does my garden grow?

Not at all. Nothing I planted came up.  

Except one frond emerged that indicated the potential of a carrot. One solitary carrot. When I pulled it up, it was black and sludgy. And it smelled like a backwoods outhouse.

I'm not a scientist, but I had read enough to know something had gone terribly wrong. Something in the atmosphere was making it difficult to grow crops. And it wasn't just here. It was all over the world.

Much of the world's foods had to be grown in hot houses, green environments where the air and temperature could be controlled. Only purified water was used.

Could the world's needs be met by greenhouse environments alone? No, but everyone was struggling to open as many facilities as possible.

Some of my friends insisted it was just a temporary problem, caused mainly by incompetent growers and using the wrong mix of fertilizers and chemicals. But they weren't having any more luck than I was.

Ender Fenton, down the street, had put up a fancy greenhouse. His success was mixed. The right balance was hard to get. He had to filtrate the water and air, which was hard for one untrained individual to do. Nevertheless, he showed enough promise that others were jealous of his achievement. Jealous enough that last night, some neighbors tried to raid his greenhouse and did devastating damage to it in the process.

No, I was not one of the neighbors. Yes, my family was becoming desperate, but I still had too much civility and pride. I don't mean to sound too noble. I may yet hit a breaking point.

We were in for a tough haul. Not all of us will make it through it.

It's not entirely hopeless. Amateur and small gardens and farms may be becoming a thing of the past, but governments and large industrial agriculture had the potential to thrive.  

Of course, scientists could figure out how to rebalance the atmosphere so that it was not so poisonous. Media stressed how hard the scientists worked on it, but genuine breakthroughs and progress remained theoretical.

I came inside from my failed gardening. Little Sarah was coughing, her eyes watering, her nose running. Seasonal allergies, or something more?

Maybe it wasn't just the plants that were being affected.

My Super Power

 He had the type of personality that led everyone to like him. Except me. I couldn't stand him.

I don't know why I saw him differently. The charm that so enticed others repulsed me. Something in my experiences, or even in my DNA, made me suspicious of smiling glad-handers. The more charismatic one was, the more doubtful I became.

At first, he seemed to want nothing from us. He gave parties. He learned all our names and little details about our lives. "How is your daughter Sarah? Is she enjoying her third year at Mercer?" "Dan! You're walking much better today! Is your bout with gout almost through?" That is a gorgeous sweater, Maryann! Did you crochet it yourself? You just get better and better with each project! Maybe you should open up your own shop!"

Yes, please, Maryann. Open up your own shop in the shopping village he was planning on building. His shopping village sounded more like a strip mall, but who am I to argue with his honeyed words?

At first, his grand building scheme was nothing we needed to worry about. He had it fully financed. All we had to do was watch it being put together and enjoy the shopping and sales tax benefit, contributing to the support of better public schools and paved roadways.

But it sounded so good that a few couldn't resist begging him to become involved. Oh, please! Take our money, and we can also cash in on your dream.

So, the project got half built. Then, the work stalled out when some of the subcontractors were not getting paid. There was always some excuse about the quality or completeness of the work. Why, he had the money to pay. He just was waiting for things to fall into place.

When he left, most people thought it was just temporary. He was arranging the next wave of construction; he was finalizing blueprints with an Atlanta architect; he was simply taking a break. He would be back better and more energetic than ever.

Now, even though it's been two months, many are still optimistic that he was coming back, that the investment they had made with him would reach fruition, and they could glory in the returns.

I knew better. I knew he would not be back.

Everyone has a superpower if they examine themselves closely enough.

Mine is smelling out con men.

No, not every real estate developer is a con man.

But the ones that are? God help us if we can't detect them.

Friday Writing Randomizer 3

 Once again, my creative writing has dried to zero.

Once again, I'm turning to the randomizer to try to kick start my discipline.

The Inspire Me app picks three words at random, and from that, I try to construct a concise story using those three words.

Wish me luck.

leather, help, left

What's left of me? Stuck at the bottom of this ravine, the walls impossible to climb, especially with one arm badly sprained, if not broken.

This was supposed to be our reconciliation hike, working out our problems and coming back together. She had to know I was serious about putting in the work - the Rezlin Retreat was the premiere marriage counseling weekend in Colorado, and not only was I willing to come, I gladly forked over the $3,000 for the fee.  

We tred into the woods, our backpacks stuffed, our hearts filled with hope (or so I thought). When we came to the edge of the ravine, I looked down. It made me dizzy, and I started to teeter. I reached back my hand for her to hold me steady. Instead of her help, I got the tiniest of shoves, enough to cause me to tumble down into the ravine.

Collapsed at the bottom, clutching my now useless right arm, I cried up to her. "Get help, honey! I think I'm stuck down here!"

Her placid face irradiated hate. "Yep. You're stuck down there. Goodbye, ex-lover."

That was a day ago. I'm still down in the ravine. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I contemplate whether my leather belt is edible.

Surely, they will come soon.

Surely.

shake, lovely, plural

I wish I was the only one. But there are plural Toms at this school. So when someone calls my name in the hallway, I'm never sure it's really me they're talking to. Every time I think it's me, it's not, and I look stupid responding back. Every time I decide it's me, I ignore it, and I look rude.

The girl I have the biggest crush on, the lovely Ruthy Ann, does not seem to comprehend that I exist. But one time, I heard her shout my name. I began to shake. Should I turn around and acknowledge it? Why subject myself to that humiliation?

I made the dramatic decision to turn around. She was just inches away from me.

She handed me a book. "Here. You left this in class." She smiled briefly and then bounded away.

She never spoke to me again.

close, gain, supply

I clean my clothes with Gain. It's the only detergent I'll use. When my supply runs low, I go to the store and buy more. If they are out, I'll try another store. And another. And if I can't find it, I won't get anything else.  

If I have no Gain, I just let my clothes get dirty and smelly.

Right now, I have been out for two weeks.

Don't stand. Don't stand. Don't stand so close to me.

slowly, me, outside

Agoraphobia is a bite and a B. I want to go outside, but I just can't get through the front door no matter how hard I try. I try to go fast - I can't do it. I try to go slowly - that's even worse. What's wrong with me?

Why I am so afraid of zombies?

cage, rain, Betsy

Betsy wanted to go out. But she felt like a rat in a cage. Outside, the acid rain fell hard.

Oh. And zombies. There were also zombies.

Zombies. Best story go-to ever!

My New Job

 Today was my first day at work.

At work in my new job.  I have worked before, but not recently.  I've been on self-selective medical leave for the last few months. My affliction was idontwannalevehomeitis. Eventually, this was trumped by whollpaythebillsphobia.

I pull my Volkswagon Rabbit into the strip mall's parking lot. There it is.  Horizon.  America's new cellphone network.  They call their phone the Horizon Rocket.  Most people know it from the commercial with kangaroos hopping into the sunset, singing, from West Side Story, "Got a rocket in my pocket."  Most people think it's clever.  I think it's annoying.

I enter.  A little bell chimes.  I'm already wearing the required uniform - a white polo shirt with a Kangaroo and the word Horizon on it, and a name tag that says "Hi! I'm Terry!  Let me tell you about my Rocket!" I also have on khaki pants and navy blue deck shoes. Socks are optional, but I chose to wear them.

A young guy, must be snap out of high school, introduces himself as the store manager.  He takes me back for a 30-minute training video. After, he asks if I had any questions. I didn't.  I wasn't interested enough to think about it.  Just get me to the floor and let me start earning my hefty hourly wage of $12.50 per hour. I could earn more based on my ability to upcharge people.

Three hours in, the manager said that  I was just hanging back and not dealing with customers. He warned me I couldn't do that.  I have to get engaged. It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn't expecting me to find a fiancee.

I have to make some kind of attempt. A middle-aged man was looking at some of the phones, glancing down at some brochures he had brought with him. I thought this guy should be an easy hit.  He already brought his own research.  I just have to agree with him and bingo-bango - I done my due diligence.

He says he is trying to decide between our phone and The Flash 3000.  I look at the plan summary for The Flash 3000 and then compare it to our own plans.

The answer is clear.

"Looking at both plans, I think the answer is unquestionable, sir.  The Flash 3000 plan is superior to ours and has a better, more established network. As a result, I think you'll pay less and have fewer outages."

The manager heard me say this.  He was not impressed.

Today was my last day at work.

The Start of Something

This is not a good time to start anything.

The night wanes deep.  The power has gone out.  The Kindle is drained, and the cell phone is at 4%.  Best to leave that for emergencies.

Nevertheless, my uninvited guest refuses to leave.  Insomnia has taken up residence, and I cannot shake it. It clutches me tighter than the blanket I have wrapped around me.

It is 45 outside.  And without a functioning heating system, the house is rapidly racing to match that.

I should have made sure that the flashlights had working batteries.  They stay on long enough for me to find a candle and some matches.  I set it on the dining room table and light it.

There is enough luminescence for me to see the paper and pencil I have set before me.

The dog looks up at me, shivering.  I put him on my lap underneath the blanket.  Thay way, we can warm each other. Dalton, my precious Chiweenie heater.

The paper, white and college-ruled, is looking up at me.  Fill me up.  Make me dance. It dares me.  It mocks me.

This is not a good time to start something.  Or maybe it was.  What else was there to do?  I can't sleep.  I can't do much of anything else.

Dalton is already asleep.  I envy how easy it is for him to slip into the dreamscape.

I clutch the pencil.  I shake my cobwebs.  Where to start?

After much brain strain, I birth my opening sentence.

Last night was a mistake.

There it is.  The start of something.  

I heard a woosh and a click.  The room was flooded with light.  The power was back on.

I stare down at what I had written.  What was I thinking?

I wrinkle the page into a ball and let it sear in the candle's flame.

Dalton clambers to the floor, no longer in need of my body heat and blanket.

That was not the time to start something.  As much as I was haunted, as much as I could not sleep, exorcism would not help.

A siren sounded, getting closer, flashing lights in the driveway.  Then silence. Then a knock at the door.

It might not be the time to start something. But it looked like something was going to finish.

I pray that someone will take good care of Dalton.

In the Dark

 I don't like being here.  In the dark.  No one to talk to.  Nothing to do.

How long have I been here?  I don't know.  My Fitbit ran out of juice hours ago. Or has it been hours?  Maybe it's just been a few minutes.  Maybe it's been days.  All sense of time has fled me.

Why am I here?  I don't know.  My grips on my memory of the 'before time' are starting to slip.  I'm married.  I have children.  I'm old enough to be a Grandfather, but I don't have grandchildren, at least not yet. I work...somewhere.  Something done mostly on computers.  Spreadsheets?  Some program where I enter data?

How did I get down here?  Did someone put me here?  Or did I trap myself? I don't know.

What have I been eating?  What have I been drinking?  I don't know.  I can't recall eating or drinking anything?  And yet, I'm not hungry or thirsty.  If that's true, I couldn't possibly have been down here for too long.  

More time passes.  I don't know how much.  My stomach does not growl.  I do not feel parched.  As best as I can tell, I am not dehydrated.

And then a door opens wide, a doot I did not know was even there. 

Light floods in, so bright I shield my eyes.

I hear the sounds of many people. Children laughing.  Adults in spirited conversation.  Music playing.  It's KISS.  They're playing KISS, the song Rock 'n' Roll All Nite (and Party Every Day).  Is it the band, or a cover band, or a recording? I can't tell.

I gingerly step outside.  As my eyes adjust, I see many people milling about in a backyard.  Children appear to have laser guns and are chasing each other.  Groups of adults, a dozen or more in bunches of three to five, are talking with each other.  They are animated, most with drinks in their hand - wine glasses, cocktails, bottles of beer. Two men are cooking at a grill, a multitude of hot dogs and hamburgers.

This is nice.  But I don't recognize a soul.

A woman comes up to me - short, heavyset, pretty face.  She smiles at me.  She seems to know me.  I don't know her.

"Tony!  Good to see you!" She hands me a beer, a brand I've never heard of...Pirate's Cove Lager?  "Glad you could make it!"  Out of nowhere, my thirst was coming back.  I greedily slugged back about half the bottle.

I could barely speak; my voice had fallen to disuse.  "What/" I had to pause.  Took another swig of beer, hoping it would help.  "What is this?"

"It's a celebration!"

"A celebration of what?"

She looked surprised, as if I should know.  "It's over!  You mean you don't know?"

"What's over?"

"My goodness, you really have been out of it!"

"Yes.  Yes, I think I have."

"Well, it's over, Tony!  Really over! Everybody got vaccinated, and the last variant has played out!  It's been weeks since the last case!"

I remembered.  A global pandemic that had killed millions, including many here in the States.  Was that why I was hidden away?  And why would I just be by myself?  Would I not want to protect my family as well? Wait!  My family!

"My family!  Where is my family?"

She stared at him in disbelief.  "Tony.  You know what happened, don't you?  They died, Tony.  They all died.  From the pandemic.  It was after the funerals that you disappeared.  Don't you remember?"

Flashes came back to me.  Debbie being sick, having to go to ICU, and then his son and daughter.  And he couldn't get in to see any of them - they were in strict quarantine.

Tears rolling down my cheek, I turned around, heading back to the doors to my self-imposed prison.

"Where are you going, Tony?" she pleaded.

"I'm not ready yet."  I entered the doors and said as I was closing them, "Maybe later."

The darkness enveloped me.

Inspire Me #2: Flash Fiction

Well, let's take a break from the COVID-19 madness we are all surrounded by.


I'll try a game based on the Inspire Me app.  It selects three words at random, and then you try to construct a very short story using those three words.  There are no real length rules, but I try to stick to 100 words or less.

Maybe.  I'm not really counting.

I challenge all OHC Writer's Guild members to do the same, and post either on the group site or in the comments below.

LET THE RANDOMNESS...BEGIN!

#1

ranch, thirty, fought


George:  How many ranch dressing packets are you gonna put on that salad?

Melinda:  It's not a salad.  It's a zalad.

George:  Way to give in to the corporate monolith, Mel. 

Melinda:  I fought the salad, and the zalad won.

George:  OMG, Mel!  Another packet of ranch!  Your Zalad-O is swimming in a lake of Ranch-O!

Mel:  Lake Rancho.  I love it.  I'm taking a picture.  Remember, Instagram is Instafun.

George:  For you, maybe.

George starts to count the packets.  Thirty seconds later...

George:  Hokey smokes!  That's...twenty-nine packets! (What?  I already used thirty.  You expect me to use it twice?)

#2

hidden, walk, rapidly

Fluffly loved his daily walk.  He pulled his servant with him, using all the power of his eleven pound Shih Tzu body.  "Slow down, Fluffly!" complained the one the humans called Anita.  "How rapidly do you think I can go?"

Fluffy came to a screeching halt, but not because of his servant.  He smelled something just off the path, hidden behind the azalea bushes.

Fluffly growled.  The hair on the back of his neck stood up.  He had found his nemesis.  It snarled and hissed.

Today, there would be victory.

#3

merely, money, tonight

Tonight.

Tonight won't be just any night.

Tonight there will be no morning star.

Well. At least not for a few hours.

He waited in the gazebo.  He waited for Maria.  It had seemed like he had just met her.  The electricity had never left his body, and the lightning charges inflamed him whenever she was near.

This was different.  This was not merely another fling, a temporary infatuation.  It was a love that would light up the rest of his life.

Nothing meant more.  Not material things, not money, not the gang, not the family, not the church.  Nothing.

Tony has met Maria.  And nothing would ever be the same.

Man on the Run: Flash Fiction

At the end of the trail, the DeMarcos brothers gave up.

They would never find him.  The dogs had lost the scent. They circled around, sniffing desperately, unable to determine where he had gone once the trail ended.

The brothers hesitated. Neither one wanted to plunge willy-nilly into the Westervelt Woods.  Was there dangerous wildlife in there?  Valukian Swamp Kats and rats the size of cocker spaniels? Yes, but the worst were the insects - murder hornets and the VW wasps among them.

If that's where Georger had gone, more power to him.  The odds of him ever being seen again were pretty low on the Rister Scale.

"I ain't going in there after him," said Reedly, the fat, and oily brother.  "Chance is, he's done for."

"Maybe," said Porter, the skinny and pock-marked brother.  "But are you gonna tell that to Raylen?  He's gonna have our hide if he can't have Georger's."

"I'd rather get a tongue lashing from Raylen that get et up by the VWs."

The DeMarco brothers heeled their dogs and then left.

A half-hour later, there was rustling coming from the woods at the end of the trail.  A man emerged wearing a beekeeper's suit.  He had a large backpack,  and he used it to put back his foldable beekeeper outfit.

Now he just had to hope the idiot siblings didn't double back.  Georger doubted they had that kind of foresight.  Patience, stealth, intellect - none of those were DeMarco's strong suits.

The trail led to Whisper Lane, one of Crater County's many backwoods dirt roads.  He would only have to pass three widely separated country estates (double wides on large weedy lots).  Then he would come to Maddy Lynn's palatial mobile home, where she kept a car he could use for the getaway, a thirty-year-old Rivian Pickup, colored in rust.

First, he had to pay Maddy Lynn his respects.  Then he helped her make the bed, gobbled a strawberry toaster strudel, kissed her goodbye, and then drove off into the sunsets.

Georger saw the fuel tank was full.  Good.  That gave him enough to get to Cape Cortez.  It was a busy port, but he was smart and cunning (unlike the DeMarcos brothers), and he had faith in his ability to stowaway.

Time to get off this planet.

Under the Shadow's Embrace - Flash Fiction; Keeping Your Distance 21

It was their tree. At least, that's the way he thought of it.  Out in the middle of the glen, a majestic sweep across the sky,  its branches reaching out for what seemed like miles, its shadow casting an ebony coolness, a comforting protection against the hot Georgia sun.

It was here that he had first kissed her.  It was here that they first embraced.  He had brought a blanket, a picnic basket filled with fried chicken, tater chips, and pralines.  He had even brought a cold thermos of her favorite drink, his homemade blueberry lemonade.  They ate.  They talked and laughed. One time, she snorted the lemonade out her nose, losing it during his story of his first muffed line in a school play.

Then they kissed.  They embraced under the shadow of the mighty Oak.

And then, things changed.

He saw her no more.  Even though they lived less than a mile apart, they no longer saw each other.  Except on Facebook Live.  It was not the same.

He ached to see her.  He did not mean to constantly bother her with it. He could not stop himself.

Finally, she gave in.  She agreed to meet him out here, by their beloved tree.

He could see her approaching from the other side of the glen.  His heart sped up.  She was dressed as she often was, blue jeans and a t-shirt that, like today's, most often celebrated her high school band.  Her auburn hair swirled around her, dancing in the slight breeze.

As she got closer, he could see the twinkle in her hazel-green eyes.  But could not see her smile.

That smile was behind her mask.  It was something she had made, designed like a cat, with painted whiskers and a feline pinkish nose.  It covered her, from her chin to the bridge of her nose.  Nothing about it inhibited her beauty.  It just made her stand out all the more.

She got about six feet away from him, and then she stopped.

"Hey," he said.  "Long time, no see."

"Silly," she said.  "I just saw you this morning on Facebook Chat."

"Not the same."  He took a step towards her, arms out, ready to embrace her.

"Stay back!" she warned.  "And please, put your mask on."

He did as he was told.  "It's okay.  I don't have it."

"You probably don't.  But you can't say for sure.  Many people have it, and they don't know they have it, and then they carry it to others."

"But I'm well.  I'm sure.  No one I come into contact with has it.  Where would I get it from?"

He could see a tear forming just below her left eye.  "I'm sorry.  I have to be over-cautious.  We live with Nana.  If I brought it to her and she got it, I could never live with myself."

"But we're both wearing masks.  We should be safe."

"That's the key, though.  We should be.  But no one knows for sure.  I can't take that chance."

He didn't know what to say.  He wanted to hold her so bad, and he kind of thought she might be overreacting, but he had to respect her feelings.  He would not belittle her concerns.

They talked for a good long while.  The shadows from the Oak moved as time passed.  They shifted with them to stay in the shade.

He wanted it to last forever.  But eventually, it came to an end.  She was going to leave.

She reached behind her back and brought out a small manila envelope she must have had wedged into the top of her jeans.  "Here.  I brought you this."  She laid it on the ground in front of her.  "This won't last forever.  Sooner or later, we'll be back here, and we can get much...closer."

"I'd like that," he managed to croak out.

"I won't forget about you," she said. Her tears were flowing freely now. "I'll hold on to the memory of our embrace.  I dream of that day."

And then, she was leaving.

He lay frozen in the shadow.  After a long minute, he got the envelope and opened it up.

It was a drawing, a beautiful black and white portrait of the two of them, embracing, under the shadow of their tree.

He held the picture next to his heart.  Now the tears were coming from him.

Now he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

They would survive the terrible shadow of the virus's embrace. 

And then embrace themselves, under the Oak's shadow, or in the light of day, or anywhere their heart's desired.