The Yin and The Yang of It

Kathleen is my opposite in looks and temperament. I have dark hair and mahogany eyes. Kathleen’s Irish eyes are cerulean and she was born a redhead.

“A true redhead,” she would tell new friends, “all you have to do is look at my…”

We usually interrupted here because we understood that Kathleen did not censor herself, did not feel the need, did not get embarrassed about using such words as hoo-haw in front of a stranger.

Reserved and hating to be the center of attention, that's me. But Kathleen knew how to break the draconian rules the nuns imposed without ever getting caught. The girl who could say things the rest of us could not because we thought the world -  as we knew it - would end.

Everything is described larger, better, longer in her world. She told me when she met her future husband at a party, it took just "one look" before they kissed for three hours.

“It was only fifteen minutes,” her husband said.

My shyness troubled her. Once, while on a shopping trip with us, her husband modeled a pair of trousers too small for him. We tried not to laugh.

"I just need exercise, dammit," he said and people turned their heads to us.

I walked across the aisles to allow Kathleen time to tell him that thinking is not the same as doing. But, really, I was pretending not to be here with those two.

A saleswoman came to help and he complained he did not need "two wives telling me what to do.”

From across the room,  Kathleen winked at me. I worried.


"You need to listen to us or there won't be any sex tonight," she told him.

Handing him a larger size, the nonplussed saleswoman looked over to me. She called out that “the second wife should come and have a look.”

Shoppers stared as I tried to hide in an empty dressing room.


Through the years, Kathleen’s dinner parties were never oh-I-just-will-throw-something-together affairs, and her telephone invitations held breathy promise of something themed.

“Sister,” she said during one of those calls, “Please come to my loggia party!”

So on a balmy August evening, we sat beside a mural of an ancient Tuscan scene she painted that morning. A group of male friends walked up the driveway dressed in white toga-like outfits. They carried a pallet where Ferret Bob, called that not because he resembled one but because he owned thirteen of the mammals, perched regally, with silver-plated leaves festooning his head and silver makeup highlighting his face in the twilight.

I looked over at some friends and knew we shared this thought: How on earth can we invite Kathleen over to just…dinner?

Kathleen dyed her hair to a golden blonde sheen that day. It suited her. While chatting new guests brought by friends, Kathleen told them she wanted to travel to Ireland to meet relatives, when the talk inexplicably turned to beauty products.

“Oh, no,” I heard her say. “This is not my natural hair color. No. I am a redhead. A true redhead.”

She stopped, and turned to me, and waited. I stood a few feet away talking to the toga boys. I cleared my throat and said, “She can prove it. All you have to do is look at her hoo-haw.”

Kathleen smiled. The world did not end.

© 2010 Marisa Birns


Note: A year ago today,  I wrote my first fiction piece for #fridayflash. This is it.

It's All In The Cards

She stopped reading and rubbed her eyes.

“Is that it?” she said, and sighed and shook her head when her assistant pushed five more envelopes across the desk. Part of the job, she thought. The hard part.

As Director of Admissions at an elite college, she spent many long days sharing coffee and discussions with her team. There were too many qualified teenagers with similar credentials vying for the limited available spots still unfilled. Now, she needed to make final decisions on this last batch of applications left in the Yes or No pile.

Opening the next envelope, she read the name on the cover letter. “Ah, a male applicant,” she said. “We need more males to balance the freshman class.” Her assistant nodded and wrote in a notepad.

The letter consisted of eight sentences: My transcript shows I am an excellent student and more than capable to continue my studies in a stringent college environment. All awards, civic activities, inclusion in sports teams, summer employments, and teacher recommendations are attached as well.

As for my personal essay, when I was in first grade, my teacher had us write on note cards as part of an assignment. We had to say something we admired about our fellow students. Enclosed are the cards written about me. They were true then. They still are. Thank you for your consideration.

She shook the envelope, and a confetti of brightly colored laminated cards fell onto her desk. She glanced at her assistant, who held out her hands palm side up and shrugged her shoulders. Spreading them as if playing a game of solitaire, she looked at each one.

-Brian is smart and reads lots of books.

-He is fun and loves to sing.

-Brian knows lots of big words.

-He is kind and knows how to fix things.

-Brian helps anyone. Even if he doesn't like you.

-He brings good snacks. He shares his lunch if you forgot to bring one.

-He is good at sports. And wins!

And this one from his teacher: Brian is a leader.

She read all the rest, and put them and the supporting documents back in the envelope. Placing it on the small pile on the right side of her desk, she looked at her assistant, who smiled and handed her another one.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Gratuitously

Martha Frick sat on the edge of the yellow and orange flower-patterned chair Billy bought for five dollars at a yard sale and waited to accept condolences from the handful of mourners. The very chair where Billy was sitting when the stuffed and mounted moose head broke away from the wall and struck and killed him.

She closed her eyes. “Look,” Billy had said one evening not long ago after he called her in and pointed up at his newest acquisition.

“It looks great, doesn't it? And the guy at the flea market didn't charge for it. Just gave it to me on account of my being a good customer.”

He took her hand. “The chair will look real good under it. Help me push it.”

Martha frowned and pushed him away.

“I'm tired of all the junk you bring home!”

Her husband just smiled.

“Junk? You may think so, but remember that one man's junk is - ”

“Another man's treasure. I know, Billy,” she said, and went to find the pillow and blanket for him to use for when he slept on the sofa.

Until they moved from the city to the rural fishing town of his birth, Billy held a mid-level job in a government agency. Retirement brought them permanently to his childhood home. Martha volunteered at the nursery school; Billy spent his days treasure hunting.

Now, sitting and waiting for this day to end, she shook her head no when her daughter asked if she wanted something to drink. Martha looked around the room, at every available surface crowded with other people's unwanted detritus. She nodded when her son asked if she was ready and prepared herself as each mourner, in turn, approached, took her hand, and murmured words they thought would comfort.

“He will be missed, you can be sure of that.”

“Billy Frick was a good man.”

“Let me know if you need me to do anything for you.”

Reverend Hopwood was the last to lean over her. “We must remember that God works in mysterious ways,” he said as he squeezed her shoulder, but flushed in embarrassment when Martha laughed.

She did not expect to see any of them again. In several days the moving company would bring her things back to the city. The truck from the thrift shop would take the rest, including the screwdriver she last used to loosen the screws holding the bracket of the mount.

Office Mate

I know her fingers are idle. She tried to write for over an hour but fear prevented that, and now she has run out of time.

“What can help me?” I hear her say. “I am in a pickle here.”

No! There will not be brined cucumber for her as long as I am around. After a few moments I hear it. Ah, she remembers I am stashed in the bottom drawer of the desk. Happy moment for me. She lifts me out and unwraps the foil that keeps my square shape fresh and beautiful.

While I do share the space with coarsely chopped peanuts, and some flakes that I believe would be better suited in a bowl full of milk, I know it is the dark part of me she craves. As I have done many times before, she hopes that the taste of  my silky sweet wash of flavor will energize and inspire her.

After eating half of my chocolate goodness, she looks at the paper. Not a single written word mars its virgin pallor. Was it time to move those fingers?

Not yet. I beckon again. She closes her eyes and takes another bite. I can feel her mmmm of pleasure.

“Are you finished with the report?” Her boss stands in the doorway.

She looks at him and swallows. “The research is taking longer than I thought.”

I always have more work to do.

~     ~      ~    ~   

A new chat can be found at #storycraft on Sundays at 6pm EST. In addition to all the good talk last week, participants were given an assignment: to write a story (300-500 words) from the perspective of an inanimate object.  The above was my contribution.

The founders of #storycraft are @TamaraNKitties @Danisidhe and @IamJaymes 

They share space at  @Story_Craft

Avocation

Her work colleagues summoned the courage to confront her at an Intervention Breakfast one Friday morning after the exasperated company president ordered the division to solve the problem once and for all. Margaret Bepler, who now sat at the long conference table drinking coffee and eating half a bagel was the problem, and the solution was simple, really.

Margaret had to stop dressing like a woodland fairy.

At the beginning of the week, when she arrived at the office wearing a kelly green dress with hemp leaf and tulle trim, her colleagues smiled and asked about the joke. “Joke?” She frowned. “I don't know a single one.” She turned to make the morning's phone calls, leaving the others quite perplexed, though none felt they wanted to be the one to remind her of the company's dress code.

The second day, all conversation ceased when Margaret stepped off the elevator wearing an olive colored skirt overlaid with multiple layers of brown netting as well as a stretchy bustier laced with neon green ribbon in the back. When her boss took her aside for a private discussion, the others could hear Margaret respond with, “It's not as if I wear wings or a headpiece or even carry a wand.”

The rest of the week brought similar fantasy-inspired fashion to the stodgy office décor. Company officials were reluctant to take the definitive step of firing her. After all, she had accrued a little more than ten years of employment with them, and the excellent reviews collected in her personnel file were a testament to her diligence and performance. They also surmised that the recent death of Margaret's husband after many years of illness accounted for her unhinged good sense of propriety.

But on this last day of the work week, the vice president of the company hoped this intervention would bring a satisfactory resolution. Although Margaret declined his offer of extra vacation days with pay, she did apologize for any distress her wardrobe choices engendered, and thanked all for their concern. He sat in the conference room with the rest of the staff watching as Margaret chewed the last bite of bagel and finished a second cup of freshly brewed coffee. She stood and brushed crumbs from the butterfly applique patch on the apple green velour bodice of her dress.

“I did love all the compliments I received at the company costume party several weeks ago. It's not like I think I'm a real fairy,” she said by way of rational explanation. “I guess it was hard to give up that good feeling.”



As part of the agreement to put this episode to rest, Margaret promised to don the extra set of clothing she kept in the hall closet, and went to her private office to change. A few minutes later, she stepped out wearing a navy pinstriped suit and white blouse that ineluctably personified corporate life in the forest of finance, and nodded at her relieved office mates.

“Back to work, shall we?” Margaret said and turned to reenter her office, giving them all a good look at the inky blue and viridian wired wings that spanned the width of her back.

Magic Number

Julio the doorman knew how to keep secrets, and after many years of employment at the same upscale residential building in the city, there were many to keep.

“I'm like a bartender or a therapist,” he once told his wife. “Without the booze or couch.”

For example, the people in 3-G were married for five years, no children. Recently, whenever the wife went out of town on business for several days, Mr. 3-G returned home in the dawning hours with a young lady. Julio would unlock the building's front door, smile, and wish them a good morning as they stumbled to the elevator.

Then there was the fifteen year old girl in 7-H who always waved in a see you later salute as she left with a few friends on Wednesday afternoons. The private school the girl attended let out early on those days every week so that the students could perform the required community service of their choice. Julio overheard her telling her parents at the beginning of the semester that she planned on spending several hours fulfilling her assignment at a downtown soup kitchen.

“Where do you think they go?” the super of the building asked Julio once while sharing smokes outside and watching the girls walking across the avenue to hail a cab going uptown.

“Anywhere they want,” Julio said.

Of course, Julio's favorite was the judge in Penthouse A who every Halloween hosted a party while wearing form-fitted women's clothes, a red wig of cascading curls, and four inch heels. In the early part of the evening, when the kids in the building knocked on his door, the judge would sway to the table to get the candy to hand out to them. Once, the little boy in 5-K told Julio he did not like to go to that door for trick or treat because, “a scary, ugly woman” lived there.

The judge's courthouse friends attending the parties laughed at the very idea that the usually somber and humorless state official―nicknamed Hang 'em High Harold―enjoyed the holiday so much he allowed himself this one night of ridicule in such a costume.

But Julio understood that what the judge enjoyed more was the attention from the handsome young men who would come by after all the party goers went home. From the look of their costumes, the theme of the evening could be summed up as 'Bad Boys Who Need to Get Spanked While Handcuffed.'

In all the years he worked there, Julio never once felt any compunction to betray any confidences. However, there was a set price to pay for silence, and it escalated with the cost of living.

“You're a good man,” many of the residents told him time and time again, as they handed him an envelope with cash at the end of the year.

Yes, Julio knew how to keep secrets, especially from the taxman.

Offspring

Later, when Harold thought about his reaction when first he learned of his mother's death, he remembered being annoyed by the sounds of the television in the background.

"Doug, turn down that noise!"

His brother looked at him but did not move from the couch.

"Lost the remote. Don't feel like getting up." he said.

Harold sighed. "There's better ways to do things, you know."

It was his Aunt Gigi who called with the news. The last time that Harold and Doug saw her, they were eleven and eight years old, respectively. She sat with them at the train station to wait for the people who would take them away from their mother, and to their new safe life. When two women arrived, both dressed in black and faces arranged in similar business-like expressions, the boys went with them without a fuss. They were obedient children and if their Aunt Gigi told them they had to do something, they did. They trusted her. Their mother, not surprisingly, never argued with her sister over this turn of events. She wanted many things but none included her children.

Over the years, Aunt Gigi kept in touch with them but thought it best not to speak too much about their mother's life. Harold now listened to the details of her death.

"She died in a storm?"

* * * * *

After Doug was asleep for several hours, Harold stood at the doorway of the bedroom and stared at him. The light from the full moon was bright enough to cast softened illumination on Doug's green complexion. It was not unlike his own, Harold thought as he touched his face.

They resembled their mother.

Even though they lived an early life unnourished by an affection that never filled their mother's heart or their souls, he was saddened by her loss. But he vowed he would never tell Doug about the absurdity of her death. A house! A house had fallen on her and killed her.

Then, the locals cheered and danced and sang.

"Ding dong the witch is dead!"

He knew his brother would laugh himself sick at the story, and rightly so. But a dead mother deserved respect, he thought.

Harold left Doug's room and sat by the fire in the study. He allowed himself final thoughts on the matter. They were happy and settled in this place where magic was also known and accepted, though Doug refused to learn how to harness his gift. No matter. As always, Harold would take good care of things.

He stood, ready for bed,  and pointed a finger at the fireplace. Its flames hissed away instantly.

There was nothing wicked about him.

Blue Moon

At the first stroke of midnight Reid landed the sucker punch. Mark fell against the bookshelf, licked the blood from his lips, and lunged.

The men did not know each other when they arrived at the party, but a few hours later, they understood that their mutual interest in the red haired ingenue standing by the balcony door precluded friendship between them.

Though shy by nature, Ginger agreed to come to her friend's festivities without a date. She had moved to the city a few months before and knew that her plans to make significant changes in her life for the new year did not include sitting in a small apartment, especially on such a special evening.

So she mingled and introduced herself to strangers, and told stories and laughed at jokes. She also flirted with Reid and Mark during different times in the evening.  While flattered by their attentiveness and desire, she knew that she would go home alone. She wanted something more.

“I've always thought that getting a midnight kiss from a special someone is one of the most romantic things ever,” she said to her friend as she accepted a flute of champagne and looked at the two men throwing punches.

Her friend laughed as Reid and Mark stumbled past.  “For me, just making out with a random person is fun too.”

At the last stroke of midnight, as the revelers shouted, blew noise-makers, and kissed, Reid and Mark ran around the room shoving each other into furniture. Ginger turned away from her battling suitors and opened the door to step outside for a look at the luminescent sky.  She smiled. At home in the country, she had never been the type of girl men would fight over.

How can anyone not love this night? she thought, and raised her glass to the new moon.

Sassy Love

A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold. ~Ogden Nash



Harry has lived in New York for several years now, and planned to visit his parents in Arkansas for one week during the holiday season. He does not go home that often because he is miffed at his mother -- for many reasons, though one in particular rankles him the most. Harry is the youngest of four boys, and when he left home to find fame in New York theater, his mother replaced him with a squirrel.



Yes. That's correct. Sassy the Squirrel now has the run of Harry's childhood home in Little Rock. A year ago, his mother found the baby squirrel lying injured and abandoned in their backyard and nursed it back to health. Now, she is a coddled member of the family.

Sassy sits at the head of the table and nibbles on peanuts while the others eat dinner. At night she sleeps in a towel-lined basket in what was once Harry’s bedroom.

Not surprisingly, Harry’s two best friends in New York laughed at his tale of woe but tried to help him the only way they knew. They took him to a bar.

“Is your little sister cute?” This from Mikey, who grinned when Pete sprayed beer with his shout of laughter.

“Does she say cheese for the camera at family pictures? Or acorn?”

Harry ordered another round. “Not helping, you guys. That rodent should hunt for things in the woods and sleep in a damn tree!”

The bartender brought the drinks and leaned over the bar. “Whatcha buying her for Christmas?”

Mikey and Pete sprayed more beer.

Harry left New York several days later. His friends called and wished him a “happy holiday at Sassy's house.” They also reminded him that he should be polite once there because, after all, when he finally came out to his family, the one member that took it in stride right away was...

Well, you know.

Harry will stay in the guest bedroom. As he found out the last time he was home, Sassy prefers to sleep alone.

Lily

Marguerite died at night. Lily found her body the next morning in the hen house.

“She was old,” Lily’s mother said, and tried to put her arm around her in comfort, but Lily jerked away.

I wish your stupid boyfriend would leave her alone, Lily thought as she watched him firmly grip the dead chicken by her neck and carry her over to them.

“So I’m guessing this is on the dinner menu tonight?” He laughed at Lily’s gasp.

She grabbed Marguerite from him and cradled her. “No! She’s gonna have a burial.” She didn’t add, you bastard, but her mother heard it in her tone.

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” she warned.

But Lily didn’t have anything more to say and ran off to plan Marguerite’s funeral.

* * * *

As a small child Lily’s family could not get her to eat anything more complicated than a peanut butter sandwich. She never liked the taste of meat and as she grew and collected beloved pets, she unequivocally refused such fare. Especially chicken.

Or pasta.

Her father was to blame for that quirk. When she was six years old and stayed at his place for their bi-weekly visits, her father entertained her with bedtime stories about the year he lived in Rome, including one where he and his roommate, Sam, were cooking a pasta dinner for an Italian friend. They didn’t have a proper kitchen, so they boiled water on a hotplate. When Sam strained the pasta over the toilet bowl, the downstairs buzzer startled him, and he let go of the colander.

Her father opened the door ready to confess that dinner was ruined, but was interrupted by Sam, who came to the table carrying a platter of spaghetti topped with spicy tomato sauce and pecorino cheese.

“Ciao, Marco,” Sam said to the guest. “Buon appetite!”

* * * *

It was early evening, and Lily returned to the house to find her mother’s boyfriend drinking beer in the TV room. Oh, it’s Tuesday, Lily remembered. On those nights her mother worked as a volunteer in the hospital’s emergency room and always arranged for someone to watch her daughter. It was his turn, then.

Lily stared at him and thought about her father, gone into dust for three years now. She walked over and touched his arm.

“How about some dinner?”

He looked up at her with narrowed eyes, unused to such familiarity. She gave him a tight forced smile. He relaxed. “Yeah? Well, sure kid, thanks.”

Before Lily reached the kitchen he called out, “But I don’t want any peanut butter sandwiches, are we clear?”

She glanced at him. “Sure. That’s just for me. I can cook some things.”

“Great, kid. What’s on the menu?”

“Spaghetti and sauce. It’s from a special family recipe.”

Lily sat on her bed later that night and arranged her stuffed animals. She hummed and laughed at her thoughts. Her strike against the enemy would be considered infantile in some older cliques at her school, but she was only twelve years old and this was enough for her tonight.

Not a Platonic Dialogue

It happens every year. Eating. Drinking. Stories. Hurt feelings. Forgiveness.

Better remembered as dinner at Dela’s.

But today she had a plan, a catalyst for change. Her family arrived minutes before the meal, and instead of grace, she gave a pep talk. The theme? Love. Though, just as the pilgrims probably advised everyone at their maiden meal on new land, she told the family  to check their fighting implements at the door. 

She sat at the head of the table and gathered the rest of her thoughts. Her family did not wait to hear them.

BROTHER:  Nope, don’t wanna deal with any love business. Just give me D&D. Drinks and debauchery. NOW you’re talking!

Dela frowned. This is not about boozing and one-nighters, she thought. Her brother could do that any time. This is about family and love. 

And stew.

DELA: You guys, just think.  Everything that happens — the good, the bad, and the…well, anything else — are like ingredients.  And, while some things don’t taste that great all alone, mixed together they can add a delicious spicing to the rest of the pot. Right?

SISTER: We’re having stew for dinner?

BROTHER: I don’t like stew!

DELA: No, no, it’s not really about stew.  It’s about how family love is a mix of all the things that happen to us and make our lives rich and bubbly and...

SISTER:  You know perfectly well that I’m a vegetarian, so don’t even think of adding any sodding meat to that pot!

She dated a man from England, so the family made allowances.

DELA: You’re not paying attention.  I’m trying to explain that though we sometimes don’t agree on so many—I mean—a few things, we really love each other and we should celebrate.

BROTHER: I’m not loving the idea of stew. Really.

MOTHER: I want turkey.  I hate it but damn-it-all, it’s tradition. I did not just drive three hours to come and eat vegetable stew!

UNCLE MARYLAND: No problemo.  I bagged a 6-point buck this past weekend. So let’s add it to the pot.  Look! I got me a photo.

He took out his wallet, which was a No. 10 standard white envelope, and passed the picture of him in camouflage attire with his victim. Uncle Maryland is grinning and giving two thumbs up. The deer is not. The family all murmured distress sounds.

UNCLE MARYLAND: Man, what a lucky day. Yeah, it was.  Hey! You can say I got game. That’s right. I got game!

He danced around the table until he had a coughing fit and had to lie down on the sofa.

DELA: Stop. We’re not eating stew. We’re not eating 6 points of deer. We’re going to spend a lovely time eating other things and drinking—God, yes, drinking—and telling wonderful stories and giving thanks for all we have.

SISTER: Actually, my investments are still at the bottom of the toilet. I don’t have all that much. So piss off!

DELA: Oh? On your investments?

BROTHER: O.k. I’m thankful we’re not eating stew.

MOTHER: Oh, good. Though I feel bad for Dela. She does love her stew. Can you imagine? Love and stew on Thanksgiving.  She always was an odd child.

Dela stared at the Spode dinnerware she inherited from Granny Edna and realized there was only one more thing to say to her family. 

In all the earlier planning, she forgot to turn on the oven

UNCLE MARYLAND: So? When do we eat?

〜 〜 〜 〜 〜

About 20 minutes later, the pizzas arrived.

Indulgence - #fridayflash

It’s not like I killed anybody. Or cheated with my neighbor, for God’s sake! I’m here because it’s the end of the week. You know that. 

So, what should I tell you? Oh! I’ve managed not to go camping with my friends this year. It’s not easy because everybody I know loves to pitch tents and hang out with Nature. Me? I don’t like crowded living spaces or the lack of privacy or the stupid bugs or that burying of human waste. Yeah. Not good. 

Once there, there’s so much work to do! It’s not relaxing. First, you have to find the perfect spot. This takes us all morning, and then we have to set up the tents. Directions claim it’s easy: just put a into b, then twist into c, then – several hours later – point to q. Then scream and throw into the stream.  

Well, that’s how I do it. 

At this point it’s dusk, and it’s now that people figure out something’s missing. Hot dogs? Marshmallows? Scary stories? Vodka? Hope not. After all, Grandma is with us. Oh, please, not…toilet paper?  

It’s matches. Apparently no one smokes anymore.

Of course my friends want to fish for dinner. You would know all about fish, right? Anyway, this part sounded like fun that first time. I thought, how hard is it to stand on the rocks of the rushing water and catch the fish as they jump into your arms? I’ve seen the nature shows, and the bears do it all the time. I was sure my friends were smarter than the average bear. But that’s not how they do it. They prefer the hard way.

Once, I was forced to read a ‘How To’ dig a latrine. It said the hole should be six to eight inches deep. Ugh. I mean, unless I had a ruler, how would I know when to stop? Though I guess I could walk around and look at the guys at the next camp and figure out which one might measure up to … um… never mind.

Oh, sorry Father Thomas. No, I didn’t forget or suffer a stroke of stupidity, why do you ask?

Of course I know I’m supposed to be confessing my sins! But I’ve been really good since that last time, and don’t have anything to update in the evil department. So my thinking was that…

What? Surely not!

Sorry. I’ll go start on all those penances right away.

Damn.

I mean, Amen.

Take Five

Working on fridayflash story. Yes, yes I am. Trying to find my little notes to help me along. Some blew out the window but didn't lose these.

 

 

 

 

 

Theo

After lying on my bed for ten days waiting for death, I looked around my room and thought—well, maybe it isn’t coming.  Almost a month ago I was here, packing for a move to a new apartment.  The stranger’s voice on the telephone told me three things I’d like to forget: there was an accident, it involved my husband, and he didn’t make it. He was killed instantly by a taxi that swerved to miss a stalled car, and jumped the curb. Witnesses said my husband managed to push a woman out of the way but was crushed against the office building he had just left. When told he was dead, I knew that I was going to die, too, because Theo and I always did everything together. 

That’s why I took to my bed and waited. 

 When I finally appeared in my living room and saw the ashen, stricken pallor of family and friends, I said to them, “I don’t want to live anymore, but it seems that I must.  I don’t want to do this.  I don’t know how to do this.” As the voices assembled there murmured about the extent of their sorrow over Theo’s loss and offered to give me whatever I needed, I stood uncertain about what to do next.  It was then that I saw the boxes.  Ah, right. Moving day. So I walked over to a bookshelf and started packing Theo’s books. This I can do, I thought, just move my hands from shelf to box. This I can do. 

When I first saw Theo those years ago, I was a freshman at an all-girls school in the Finger Lakes region of New York.  He had come to visit his best friend, my professor in World Literature, and was to be a guest lecturer in our seminar. We were so excited that a real writer was coming to talk to us about his books, which invariably centered on protagonists who were imbued with a sensual passion for life and sexual adventure. 

On the day of his talk, not one student was late, even my best friend Cecily had managed to make peace with her alarm and was sitting in her seat with her hair combed and her clothes properly straightened, something we never thought she knew how to do.  At 9:30 sharp, we heard the approaching footsteps and held our breaths and looked at each other with isn’t-this-exciting fervor and then turned to the door. 

First impressions?  Theo was rather short and round.  He had cerulean blue eyes, a beautiful nose and thick dark hair that curled around his head.  From the neck up he looked like Michelangelo’s David. From the neck down he resembled Danny Devito.

* * * * * *

“No, NO, NO! This is awful!” Kat said. “What am I going to do? What am I going to write?” 

 “It’s not that bad,” her friend Alicia said, then immediately ruined the moment by choking back a laugh. 

“Really? You think so?” 

But Alicia could not stop the heaving of her shoulders and just let go, laughing until her tears washed away the sight of a not amused Kat — Alicia has to leave. Now.

A few minutes after Alicia blew her a kiss and closed the door behind her, Kat returned to her story of Theo and his tragic demise. She couldn’t start over, she just couldn’t.  Minutes passed, then hours. She had to have something, for goodness sake, and soon. It’s Friday, after all! Some of the people in her online writing community said they had even written theirs at the beginning of the week. By the way, who are these people? And why wasn’t she one of them?

Kat looked at the computer screen and became hopeful.  It’s not that bad, right? What if Theo had the body of Michelangelo’s David and Danny Devito’s face?

After a moment, she hit the delete button and started over.

Flash Fiction Ready?...of course...not

He pities me.

Oh, yes, working on flash fiction. Well, maybe not this minute. During a very short break that has lasted…um…about three hours, I found another diversionary tactic. I kid. I’m researching. Really. Even though it would seem that I’m just reading silly things on the net.

This is true: I once worked in a private school and would help the administrators fill out student absentee forms, among a billion other things. The letters from parents telling us why their child was not coming in that day were not particularly amusing. These are. I found them when I was goofing researching on a rinkworks site.

Megan could not come to school today because she has been bothered by very close veins.

-Those uppity veins! Should just mind their own business and get blood around and not harass people.

Chris will not be in school cus he has an acre in his side.

-Not following the diet yet, eh?

Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.

-Oh? Not British, then? Clip and tighten. Repeat.

Please excuse Tommy for being absent yesterday. He had diarrhea, and his boots leak.

-Tommy, I think I know what’s on your Christmas wish list.

Please excuse Jimmy for being. It was his father's fault

-Yes…and the Trojan missing in action?

Please excuse Jennifer for missing school yesterday. We forgot to get the Sunday paper off the porch, and when we found it Monday, we thought it was Sunday.

-I hate when this happens! Well since today is Tuesday, I guess I have plenty of time to write. What? Not Tuesday? Damn.

Sally won't be in school a week from Friday. We have to attend her funeral.

-It’s always good to know your plans ahead of time. Makes life easier.

My daughter was absent yesterday because she was tired. She spent a weekend with the Marines.

-Ah, bootcamp.

Please excuse Jason for being absent yesterday. He had a cold and could not breed well.

-Did he miss the show and tell from last week? Better luck next time. And study better, not harder.

Please excuse Mary for being absent yesterday. She was in bed with gramps.

-Ok. Enough said.

Gloria was absent yesterday as she was having a gangover.

-Those study groups really take a lot of work.

Maryann was absent December 11-16, because she had a fever, sore throat, headache, and upset stomach. Her sister was also sick, fever, and sore throat, her brother had a low grade fever and ached all over. I wasn't the best either, sore throat and fever. There must be something going around, her father even got hot last night.

-Love is blind. I sigh at the romance of it all.

Please excuse Burma, she has been sick and under the doctor.

-So glad to see doctors are making house calls now! Don’t have to bother with the getting undressed part at the office…