Filed under: fiction
“Mom, we’re in our thirties, now. We’re old enough to hear the truth. Yes, it happened a long time ago, but we want to know the real reason Dad left us.”
Curt nodded to show that his elder sister, Leah, spoke for both of them. “We appreciate that you’ve tried to protect us, and our memories of Dad, but we can’t accept the explanation you’ve always given.”
Margaret looked at them both and sighed. She had known the day would come when they would badger her together rather than separately.
“Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to tell you this story only once. I never want to discuss this again. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” her children said in unison. Read the rest of this entry »
Filed under: fiction
“Let’s draw,” Ronald said to Jay. “I like drawing.”
“Okay. So do I.”
Ronald got his nice drawing paper and a new box of colored pencils from the hallway closet. He sat at the little table in his room and began to draw a house.
Jay stood and looked at him.
“Can I draw, too?”
“Sure,” Ronald agreed. “Go home and get some paper and colored pencils and come back and draw.”
Jay stared at Ronald again. Meeting the new kid on the block wasn’t going as well as Jay had hoped. He went home, but he didn’t come back.
Ronald’s mother, Bettina, confronted him gently when she realized Jay had gone.
“You sent him home for his own colored pencils and paper?”
“Yeah, and he didn’t come back. Maybe he didn’t have any.”
“You could have easily shared your pencils and paper.”
Ronald looked up from his drawing. He gave his mother the look all children give their parents, the one that wordlessly says, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you be so dumb?”
Bettina ignored the look. “Ronald, in this life you can keep your colored pencils to yourself, or you can have friends.”
Ronald’s face took on a quizzical expression; his mother thought it was preferable to the previous one. She went on with her housework but looked in on Ronald from time to time. He was sitting stock still, mulling the Hobson’s choice he had been given.
Bettina grew tired of the boy’s pondering after a while. “Well? What have you decided?”
Ronald picked up the orange pencil and calmly set to work on the chimney of his house.
“I’d rather have colored pencils.”
He didn’t see the shiver that shook his poor mother.
*
Forty-six years later, a falling tree claimed Ronald’s life. Four people attended his perfunctory funeral: his widowed mother, her sister, a cousin who attended only because he happened to be in town that week, and his boss at the drafting firm.
Before the coffin was closed, Bettina gave the funeral director a new box of colored pencils. “Please put these in his inside suit pocket. He always carried a box with him.”
*
A month later, the principal of Ronald’s old elementary school called Bettina. “The children will be drawing today if you’d like to come watch.”
She met the principal at his office and he led her down a short hallway to the kindergarten room. She looked through the window in the door and saw the children paired off. Each child had a piece of paper, and a single box of colored pencils rested between them.
“Is this what you had in mind?” the principal asked.
“It’s exactly what I wanted to see. It’s so important that they learn at an early age to share.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And we’re so pleased you’re sharing your late son’s art supplies with the school. It’s a good gift in these hard budget times. I’m sure he would be pleased, too.”
Bettina could almost hear her late son screaming at this injustice, and she simply smiled at the children taking turns with Ronald’s colored pencils.
Filed under: fiction
Katydid sat on the couch and looked at the bare, boring linoleum floor. She had nothing better to do.
Mommy had been lucky enough to get a job at a diner and was gone most of the day. There was no TV, no computer to play games on, no one to play with, and only three books, all of which she’d read dozens of times. She stared at the floor, trying not to cry from sheer exasperation and misery and memory.
This isn’t real, she thought. This isn’t my life. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
Over and over again. It became her mantra as she stared at the floor and let her eyes go unfocused. She gradually gave up thinking the words and let herself fall into the belief that what she was living was not real.
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Filed under: fiction
“I told you that report had to be done today. Why isn’t it?”
Hal tried not to wince as his boss grilled him. “I don’t have all the information I need from marketing yet.”
“Then get it,” Lydia said. “Just go down there and wait until someone hands it over.”
“Max Grillke says he can put the info together, but his boss has him working on other things. This isn’t a priority in marketing.”
“It’s a priority for us. Get it done.” She started to walk off but turned back. “Work smarter, remember?” Hal threw a few mental daggers after her and picked up the phone to call Max yet again.
Lydia stopped at another cubicle.
“Karen, did you get that mess with Rogers untangled yet?”
The older woman nodded entirely too much. “Yes, it’s all straightened out now. It shouldn’t happen again.”
“You shouldn’t have let it happen once. How long have you been here? Keep up the good work.” Lydia speared Karen with a hard look and moved on to her next problem.
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Filed under: fiction
A birdbath sat in the middle of the little park in the center of the upscale housing complex. It was a popular attraction.
Mrs. Williams watched it to see the birds that came to use it.
Mr. Fiore watched it to gauge the amount of extra bird droppings that would fall in the area had it not been there.
Ms. Saito watched as the groundskeeper dumped out the previous day’s water and refilled it. Surely this was a nonessential use of a precious resource.
An ordinary gray tiger cat that answered to several names watched it with the thought of catching a meal.
Mr. Loess watched it to see if Viking — his name for the cat — would catch a bird, as called for by the feline’s place in the food chain.
Mrs. Pantini watched it with a BB rifle at hand to shoot the cat if it killed a bird.
Mr. Pantakis watched it with a hunting rifle at hand; he knew of Mrs. Pantini’s BB gun, and if she shot Cuddles — his name for the cat — it would be the last thing she ever did.
On four weekends during the summer, the homeowners association sponsored a picnic and everyone gathered in the little park and talked and laughed and ate. The cat made the rounds of his friends to pick up some choice treats. The birds went elsewhere because of all the people and their noise.
After the gatherings, the birds returned to the birdbath, the cat to his favorite stalking place nearby, and the humans to their individual stations to keep their vigils: to enjoy, to worry, to watch the hunt, to prepare to attack, and to be ready to retaliate.
Filed under: fiction
He was getting reports about this place, and there were stirrings in his own office that lent those reports credibility. Something looming this large demanded his personal attention.
He donned a disguise for his task, making himself appear to be a white male of average height with dark hair and a Van Dyke beard.
It was late in the afternoon when he walked in the door. The office held all the charm of a medieval sanitarium, only with overhead fluorescent lighting and Lysol. He took a ticket from the dispenser and waited in the shortest line. It also was the slowest line. Just as he was about to become annoyed, he recalled having instituted that perversity himself. He reined in his attitude; he was supposed to be the author of annoyance, not a victim.
“Six six six,” a flat female voice called, and he stepped up to the counter.
“Last name,” the woman demanded in the same monotone.
“Satan.”
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Filed under: fiction
“Trisha!” the man called.
The woman, on the verge of entering the coffee shop, looked up and there he was, embracing her and kissing her.
“Trisha! I haven’t seen you since oh my God you’re not Trisha.”
She shook her head a little, still caught in the surprise. “Gwen.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. I thought … well, obviously I thought you were my friend from college.”
“Trisha.”
“Yeah.”
“You must have been close to her.”
“We were pretty good friends.”
“Like you’re still close to me.”
He let go of her and took a step back. “Sorry, sorry.” He looked at the ground a moment in embarrassment. Then he looked at Gwen again. “I’m Travis, by the way.”
“I’m still Gwen.”
“Now that I get a better look at you, it’s not like you’re Trisha’s twin or anything. Something about your hairstyle and the way you were carrying yourself, I guess.” He paused. “Actually, you’re prettier than Trisha. But don’t tell her I said that.”
Gwen smiled slightly. “I won’t. If we ever meet.”
“Um, yeah. Which you probably won’t. Part of why I was so surprised to see you, I mean her, I mean…”
“I’m with you.”
“Well, she lives on the other coast. I wouldn’t expect to see her here.”
“OK, then I won’t expect to meet someone who kind of looks like me but I’m prettier than her.”
Travis laughed. “Um … I’m sorry. I must seem six kinds of idiot.” He looked at the door of the coffee shop. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Make it up to you? And, just maybe prove I’m not ready for a straitjacket?”
Gwen regarded him for a moment. “I’ll take that coffee. But you’re going to have to talk fast to avoid that straitjacket.”
He smiled through his embarrassment and she found it charming. He opened the door and she preceded him into the coffee shop.
Forty minutes later, he had her full name and phone number and an agreement to go out to dinner Friday night.
And, he thought, if things continued to go so well, on their honeymoon he could tell her the story of a shy young man who invented a college friend named Trisha to give himself a flimsy excuse to hug and kiss a particular young woman at least once.
Filed under: fiction
Lara was held spellbound by the young man who was spinning visions of wide-open spaces and new opportunities. Her eyes were lit with a fervor Stephen hadn’t seen in a long while, and it grated on his nerves.
“Friends,” the fellow said, “I’m sure you agree the price to buy into this particular wagon train is perfectly reasonable. It includes your transportation, all the necessary equipment for homesteading, and the deeds to your parcels. Now let’s hear it: Who wants to go settle this new land?”
“I do!” overlapped with “We do!” as the individuals and couples cried out their eagerness to go.
Stephen heard Lara shout, “We do!” and then she looked to her husband for confirmation. His sullen glare shocked her.
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Filed under: fiction
Acevedo checked Park’s office, just in case the man was ignoring his telephone. But no; he wasn’t there. Acevedo sighed and picked up the phone himself and made a call to building security.
“The atrium. Thank you.”
He shook his head as he walked down the hall to the elevator. He got out on the 70th floor and walked down another hall; it broadened into a large, open public space enclosed in glass. Various employees were taking their break there, looking out at the city or enjoying the numerous plants and trees that made the area a garden spot.
Acevedo quickly found Park; he was the only one not wearing correct business attire. Instead, he wore a black T-shirt with a wide red stripe across the chest, blue jeans, and yellow tennis shoes. He faced the center of the room and leaned back comfortably against the glass wall. Acevedo suppressed a shudder.
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Filed under: fiction
“Oh, look at the cute little jewelry box I picked up at a yard sale. Isn’t it darling?”
“It certainly is. And it looks wonderful on your dresser.”
“That’s why I got it. It matches beautifully. I put all my earrings in it yesterday.”
“Very nice. Well, grab a pair and let’s go.”
“All right. Wait. It’s empty! How can it be empty? I put every earring I own in here.”
“They’re certainly not on the floor. Is there a hole in the box?”
“No. It sure got dusty under there in a hurry, though. What could possibly have happened to my earrings?”
* * *
Scientists tell us that, fiction aside, extraterrestrial life will not have a head, two arms and two legs. Eating and digesting are assumed to be universal, however.
Posted on March 11th, 2010 by bryon
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