My whole life has been nothing but one big joke. I don’t know why I expected otherwise, considering I was raised by a couple of clowns, but I did. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I’m not being derogatory. Not in the least. My parents are clowns .… literally. They are circus clowns and so am I.
Raffles and Mittens are my parents. Some of my aunts, uncles and cousins are Poodles, Flopsy, Jingles, Pogo and Skippy. Rumor has it that my great-grandparents were Bozo and Clarabell but we never know what to take seriously in this family.
We all live in a rinky-dink circus trailer and if you think walking into pantyhose drying in the bathroom is annoying, try existing with a squirting flower, a megaphone, a pop gun and a seltzer bottle every day of your life. This clowning around life ain’t that easy!
Anyway, we needed some mode of transportation to get around town for shopping and appointments so we went to the used car lot. Of course, the used car salesman tried to talk us into a clown car, which was terribly condescending. Clowns are people, too, dammit!
That’s when my boyfriend, Stumpy, had an idea. Stumpy is a coulro* and the best clown on stilts there ever was. Everybody looks up to him! With bicycle parts salvaged from the junkyard, he assembled the Clown Limo. With his long legs, Stumpy can drive us anywhere at all.
*Coulro is a Greek word that means “stilt walker” or “clown“. It may come from the ancient Greek word kōlobathristēs, which means “one who goes on stilts“.
The ambience in our house was different today, quietly busy as delivery men and acquaintances paying their respects came and went. My father and mother’s uncles directed the traffic of floral deliveries and positioned the many arrangements throughout the parlor. My mother and her aunts labored in the kitchen like silent worker bees preparing trays of food for the funeral dinner tomorrow.
We children sat meekly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically restrained. Occasionally we would glance toward the elevated casket in the center of the room and quickly look away. At 6:00 we were whisked off to the dining room where we wordlessly ate our evening meal, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil.
There seemed to be a never-ending flow of people, a soft parade of mourners entering our house. Veiled women dabbed their eyes and men removed their hats, heads bowed. This stream flowed seamlessly from 2:00 in the afternoon until 9:30 that evening, many people lingering to reflect while caressing their rosary beads. A priest arrived shortly after 9:30; he spoke softly in our native Sicilian dialect, offering prayers and words of consolation. When he was finished, everyone except my mother’s aunts and uncles departed. My little cousins, some no longer able to stay awake, were carried home and my sister and I were shooed off to our bedroom upstairs.
It had been a long and sorrowful day. My great-grandmother, the family matriarch, had died.
*Bisnonna is the Sicilian word for “great-grandmother”.
Author’s Note: I was nine years old when my great-grandmother died. Much of that day is etched in my mind; in particular, I remember being unable to sleep that night knowing there was a dead body in a coffin downstairs in my parlor. Never ever will I forget the cold and waxy feel of my bisnonna’s skin on my lips as I, along with all the other children, lined up to place a kiss on her forehead … not something we did willingly.
“Kevin! Wake up, man! You gotta see this. Wake up!”
“Quit it, Luke! I’m trying to sleep!” Kevin mumbled crossly. The disgusting smell of stale beer, Slim Jims and weed slammed Kevin in the face; gagging, he pushed his brother away.
“C’mon, Kev. Something heavy happened down at the beach, man. I swear it’s not of this world, bro!”
“The only thing ‘not of this world, bro’ is your breath. You’re stoned, Luke; go to sleep.”
“I swear on the Bible, Kevin. If you don’t see this, you’re gonna kick yourself.”
Kevin sighed deeply and swung his legs out of bed. “Alright, man. I’m up. Let’s get this over with.”
Kevin and Luke drove out to the Pacific Palisades beach where Luke had his sighting. Kevin recognized the beach right away.
“Hey, Luke … doesn’t your buddy Gonzo clean this beach?”
“Far out, man! I forgot about that. This is gonna blow his mind!”
When they reached Luke’s spot, he dropped to the sand and began to belly crawl to the top, motioning for Kevin to do the same.
“Check it out, Kev. Have you ever seen anything like this, man? They’re crop circles, like in that movie!”
“You got that right, Luke. This really is something else! Could be an alien vehicle way out on the left side. If I squint I can make out the words ‘GONZO’S LUNAR ROVER. I BRAKE FOR WEED!’ Brilliant detective work, Carl Sagan! C’mon, bro. I’m buying breakfast. I’ll explain it on the way.”
“Hm, what’s this?” I asked myself, cycling up to an abandoned car … a bit of excitement in my otherwise dull existence.
It struck me as odd that the car appeared to have been deliberately driven to the side of the road, the engine turned off while, in sharp contrast, the door had been hastily left open. The key was in the ignition, the constant reminder of “ding-ding-ding-ding” shattering the stillness.
Instinctively, I yanked out the key, pocketing it. I exhaled, savoring the calmness. Looking around, there wasn’t a living thing in sight, but two trash bins implied the presence of civilization.
I stood at the silent intersection, the roads reaching out to the horizon. The only change in landscape was a mound strewn with tree cuttings. I decided to scope out the area to see what was about, but my exploration yielded nothing. The car and I stood idle.
Shrugging my shoulders, I began walking back to my bicycle when an indistinct sound penetrated the air – a muffled voice coming from the mound.
With renewed vigor, I ran up the rise, stopping abruptly at the sight below – a traveling circus being dismantled. It was then I noticed a silver-haired man giddily leaping toward the carny folk, waving and shouting “wait for me!”
Before I knew what was happening, I was bounding after the man, yelling for him to “take me along, too!” He motioned for me to “c’mon!”
At some point the car key fell out of my pocket, no longer needed.
And for a bit of culture …. from the musical “Stop the World – I Want to Get Off”, this is the incomparable Anthony Newley with “What Kind of Fool Am I?”
Ten days out from spinal fusion surgery and my lower back still hurts like a bitch on wheels. This is a much more difficult surgery/recovery than I expected; bearing in mind what’s involved …. what has been cut through, ground down, fused together with various types of hardware, and stapled, sutured and bandaged closed …. I should have realized it would not be easy. And my doctor sent me home with Tylenol …. not even extra strength but regular Tylenol. Really?
Getting around the house with a walker, dressing myself and doing basic toilette is not problematic; beyond basic, it’s damn near impossible. What’s not allowed: stomach sleeping, bending or twisting at the waist, lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. And, apparently, pain medication.
These days, I just about live in my electric recliner, getting up every hour or so to walk around, followed by icing my back. I tried eating my meals in the kitchen with Bill; it’s good to have a change of scenery and some normal time with him. The chairs, however, are not comfortable just yet so we eat together in the living room where there’s an over-large electric recliner with my name on it.
Making myself comfortable in a recliner is easier than in bed but still more difficult than I would have thought; the vertical 6″ incision is centrally located on the small of my back so I’m aware of every movement. There’s always something that hurts, that’s too big or too small, too hard or too soft, flattened out or all scrunched up, or just out of reach. Finding the perfect cushion has been a crusade; thankfully, Bill holds on to everything! Fortunately, once I fall asleep, I’m out for most of the night. Getting out of the recliner in the morning is slow-going as I’m stiffened-up from sleeping all night. It’s a process.
As far as my blogging goes, I’ll write when the mood strikes. I miss you and our camaraderie but my energy and strength are down. It took me two days just to write this! I apologize for not reading or commenting on your posts and I’m sure I’m not going to …. at least not for a while. I’m just not up to it.
Well, that’s the story, kids; taking life one day at a time.
Be good to yourselves. See you on the flip side. 😎
PS – As much as I’d love to hear from you, please try not to compare your own situation to mine or tell me about your dear Aunt Betty who was never the same after her surgery. I know you mean well but we’re all different and heal differently; downer stories don’t help. It’s human nature but a “get well soon!” would be far better and greatly appreciated. Thanks!
Eastern-most Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. “The End”, according to locals. Drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and you’re in the Atlantic Ocean … literally.
1984 was our first visit. “Let’s go out for a weekend. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.” Famous last words. We stayed at a no frills family motel on the beach; it was paradise.
Step outside the motel and watch your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool filled with sunburned families having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas cover the beach.
An old salt regales us with tales about the first German U-boats arriving off Montauk in June, 1942. Psyched, we ride our bikes to the lighthouse where we discover WWII bunkers buried deep in the woods.
Montauk’s pizza place and ice cream joint are constantly busy. Drive five minutes west on ‘the stretch’ to a place known simply as “LUNCH” for a mouth-watering lobster roll or puffers and chips.
At night little fires dot the beach, glowing and crackling. Kids stab marshmallows with long sticks and plunge them into the flames for a gooey sweet treat that won’t be eaten again till next summer. Our boys’ hair is sun-streaked, skin bronzed, feet perpetually coated in sand. They’re happy as clams.
In time we started renting a house with a pool; vacations lasted six weeks; 35+ years of unforgettable family memories made, Montauk style.
The Memory Motel has been a fixture in Montauk since the mid-1920s. When the Rolling Stones were out at the east end, they would visit the bar at the motel for some heavy drinking, dancing, shooting pool, tussling, scuffling, and playing the only piano in town until sunrise.
Sometimes in life you make a connection with another person and you know right away it’s special. That happened to me 40 years ago on the day we moved into our new house.
We weren’t moving very far – just about a quarter mile from where we were living. That’s the wonderful thing about this little town; no one wants to leave! It’s quaint, friendly, clean and quiet with it’s beautiful harbor full of ships bobbing peacefully on small waves.
Moving day arrived and the crew was busy getting our boxes loaded for shipping to the new house. My husband stayed behind making sure all went smoothly while I headed over to the new house with our two small sons to wait for the moving vans.
We were sitting on the floor of our empty house playing a game when someone knocked on the door. It was our new neighbor, Debby, who came over to introduce herself. When she saw us sitting on the floor, she insisted we go over to her place which was right next door. When I explained that I was waiting for the moving vans to arrive, Debby said I’d have a clear view of my house from her comfortable sofa. I didn’t need any more convincing and agreed to go over.
When we walked into Debby’s house, the first thing I noticed were the numerous framed photos of large fishing ships, most of them with her husband grinning and displaying a huge fish. I thought how nice it would be for my husband to have a fellow fisherman living next door.
Debby and I started talking and it was as easy and natural as rain. We had so much in common, it felt like we’d known each other all our lives. She also had two young sons and my boys had instant friends. We talked non-stop while I waited for the movers to show up; by the time the vans arrived, a great friendship had been formed and is still going strong. We’ve been through bad hair days, secrets, laughs, tears, vacations, runs to the emergency room, weddings, flooded basements, missing cats, birthdays, Covid, lots of wine, illness, school fairs, Christmases and devastating deaths.
It’s so nice when you have neighbors you get along with; it’s priceless when you have a great relationship like mine and Debby’s. We’re very close and so much alike, people think we’re sisters. If I need to cry or share a laugh, Deb’s the first one I call. The same is true for her. We are each others best friend, two women lucky to have this amazing “soulship” to carry us through the calm and choppy waters of life.
The claustrophobia started gradually for four-year-old Phoebe.
She had climbed into the back of her father’s flatbed truck to investigate the crates of chickens ready for market. Phoebe went unnoticed as her father threw a tarp over the back and locked the tailgate. When her dad found her, she was curled up in a ball, crying pitifully.
Over time, Phoebe seemed to forget about the incident in the truck.
Years later Phoebe was accidentally locked in her bedroom closet when a gust of wind blew through the window and slammed the closet door closed. Her parents were out and her older siblings were watching television; her frantic cries for help went unnoticed. Exhausted, Phoebe fell asleep in the closet, her family unaware. Her mother found her the next morning, traumatized.
Incidents like that kept happening. Phoebe became obsessed with her surroundings and her parents sought professional help. After eight years in the hospital, Phoebe was declared “cured”.
She met Evan, a great guy, and they began dating. Life was good again for Phoebe. For her birthday, Evan and Phoebe planned to see her favorite band. She felt safe with Evan and was unafraid to ride public transportation.
The train was packed. During one stop, Evan was pushed out with a crowd of passengers; the doors closed before he could get back in. Phoebe panicked when the train started up. She lost it.
At the last stop, Phoebe was found in the corner – disheveled, mumbling, eyes wild in terror. She was finally noticed.
This is my 3rd story about Harvey and Fiona. For a look back at earlier installments, click here.
While Harvey slept during the day Fiona cleaned, shopped and cooked. She wanted a vacuum cleaner but Harvey said it was too expensive and the noise would keep him awake so she settled for a carpet sweeper. Their only chance to be together was at breakfast and dinner time – and of course for coffee and dessert when Fiona served Harvey his favorite apple pie. Fiona loved baking and it was all worth it to see the way Harvey’s face lit up every time she made another pie.
Fiona suggested a few times that it would be nice if Harvey worked during the day so they could be like a normal couple and spend more time together but her words fell on deaf ears.
She also longed for a baby. Each time she thought she was pregnant it turned out to be a false alarm. Fiona saw a doctor who wasn’t very sympathetic; he shrugged his shoulders, gave her ambiguous explanations and performed a couple of routine tests. He told her it was just one of those things; not all couples could get pregnant. When Fiona finally got up the nerve to mention to Harvey what the doctor told her, he laughed and said it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get pregnant; “Just ask that sweet little Frenchie I knocked up during the war” was his mean-spirited reply.
Fiona felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. When she cried that she needed something other than chores to fill her lonely days, Harvey yelled to “go get a job and start earnin’ ya keep around here! Who needs another mouth to feed anyways?” Fiona was reeling; how could he say such hurtful things? Heartbroken, she eventually gave up on having a baby and found a job as a presser in a shirt factory. The work was exhausting and she still had to clean the apartment and cook for Harvey … and bake.
What happened to the guy she married? Harvey was constantly annoyed about something or other and drank more now than usual. He got mean when he drank and Fiona bore the brunt of his anger. When he demanded sex every night before going to work, she kept her mouth shut but she was silently screaming. This was no way to exist, like a piece of property and not a person. She’d lie awake at night remembering her mother’s warning words: “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him, Fina girl!” The only thing in her God-forsaken life that she truly enjoyed was baking and she did it all for Harvey.
Fiona would fantasize about how lovely it would be to have her own little bake shop; she’d make lots of delicious cakes and pies for her large following of loyal customers – not just for her selfish husband. She knew she could do it if she only had the chance.
To be continued. For a look back at earlier installments, click here.
For the past few nights my sleep hasn’t been good but last night was the worst of all. We had a power failure! This was definitely not cool! No AC and nowhere to go to escape the heat. My apartment was dark and all the lightsoutside were off so I knew this was a widespread blackout, likely coveringmiles and involving the entire apartment complex. I aimed a flashlight at the thermometer on my balcony. Big mistake: it read 98º! Somehow knowing the temperature made it worse. And the mix of humidity and heat made everything feel gross. I desperately needed to get some rest. Winding my way into the bedroom, I heard a sound like heavy breathing coming from the bathroom. Sweeping the room with my flashlight, I located the source of the sound and I simply had to laugh; my dog Fred found somewhere to hide away from the heat and was fast asleep on the floor of the marble shower! This oppressive weather had done a number on him, too, poor guy. I was drained of all energy. I grabbed a small battery operated fan from the shelf, set it for high and collapsed onto the bed. I was asleep in seconds.
The life of a special agent is a lonely one. It’s nothing like a James Bond movie or a John le Carré novel.
There were no pens that turned into parachutes. There were no Alfa Romeos, Jaguars or Aston Martins to drive along the Positano coast in a high-speed chase. Not a single suave and dangerous owner of a multi-million dollar casino. Nary a gorgeous, exotic, provocative sex bomb with a highly suggestive name. There were no martinis … neither shaken nor stirred.
In short, there was no excitement, no risk, no action. Not once did I dive behind a sofa while bullets flew across the room. Never did I slide down a roof covered with Mediterranean tiles, land smoothly in my waiting MG and speed away from the bad guys. I have never been shot in the neck with a poison dart. Never was I threatened and tossed out a window by a jealous husband.
That’s the life I was expecting when I was recruited by the Enigma International Elite Investigative Organization .… otherwise known as E.I.E.I.O. My dream profession as a super-secret special agent was nothing but one boring stakeout after another.
Time to report in: “Negative, sir. Nothing going on at the location. Not even the car in the alley has moved.”
“Alley?”
“Yes, sir. On the left.”
“Your target has no alley, Hammer; it’s attached on both sides. You’re watching the wrong house, you idiot! Report to headquarters. Now!”
The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making Gregory feel very alone.
It’s hard to imagine life without her. When the hell did everything start to unravel?
Now he sat alone in the shell of their apartment, baseball game on the tv playing for no one, nursing his second scotch. This place used to be alive with people enjoying one of their famous parties. When he closed his eyes he could hear their friends’ lively discussions and the sound of her spirited laugh.
Everyone said they were the perfect couple. Theirs was a comfortable, easy marriage – dinner at Gallagher’s, cycling along Riverside Drive, steamy showers after Saturday morning sex. They were in sync in their choices of movies, paint colors and the biggest decision of all .… neither one wanted kids.
He sat there, head in hands while a thousand thoughts went through his mind. When did he begin having second thoughts? Was it when her sister asked them to be godparents for her first baby? Was it watching the kids in the playground across the street? All he could remember was the night he whispered in her ear that he wanted to have a baby.
She was blindsided. What? No! He was just named partner at Central Casting. She was food editor for Country Living magazine. Life was perfect. They had an agreement, dammit!
Would she just consider thinking about it? No! How could he spring this on her now?
Days, weeks went by. She remained adamant, distant. Then one day he came home after work and she was gone.
Here he sat alone with his scotch, ballgame long over, thumb rubbing his wedding band while he stared at divorce papers.
It couldn’t have happened to a more perfect couple.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo prompt below for inspiration. Here is my story.
“Woods. Roger Woods. Please check again” I implored the desk clerk at the Hotel Moderne.
“I’m sorry, madame, there is no reservation for that name.” The young man looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment and pity.
“You must be mistaken” I replied, my voice shaking.
“There is no mistake, madame. Perhaps you have the wrong hotel” the clerk suggested, offering me an out.
Of course I didn’t have the wrong hotel! Roger and I had been meeting here the second weekend of every month for three years.
I checked my phone for missed text messages or calls from Roger; there were none. Rather than stay in the lobby looking distraught and abandoned, I sat in the lounge and ordered a martini. I had a clear view of the front desk on the left and the entrance on the right. I’d be able to see Roger the moment he arrived.
After thirty minutes and two martinis, I began feeling paranoid. It was painfully obvious, at least to me, that I looked like a lonesome and tedious woman who had been stood up.
I became aware of someone approaching. Expecting to see Roger, I looked up, smiling; it was the concierge. Whispering discreetly, he handed me a note: “Dearest Cecile. I cherish our little rendezvous but it’s time to go our separate ways. Farewell. Roger”
‘Our little rendezvous!‘ I was shattered. Just like that, as unexpectedly as it began, it was over.
Looking straight ahead, I gracefully exited the hotel.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are challenged to incorporate the word “platform” into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
Flower child, barefoot Woodstock hippie …. no, she was never one of those; she was always the sophisticated cool one with her oh so very low-rise jeans, alluring halter tops, ridiculously high platform shoes and drop dead smile.
At twenty she was chic in a smooth and sensual way that was second nature, never one who had to try too hard; she had IT while embracing her imperfections which made her intoxicatingly irresistible.
Living in the fast lane, she danced all night at clubs, rocked out at concerts and hung out with everyone from judges to junkies even though she never really enjoyed drugs with the exception of the indescribably exquisite quaalude which now, at 75, she smiles and remembers coming on to the sounds of Procol Harum.
Memories of 1967, the Summer of Love …. friends and lovers, never a lack of either; men were drawn to her and women were envious of her but it was impossible not to like her.
She was no alley cat, no “screw-‘em-in-the-disco-bathroom” type; she made the rules to her game: never do anything you don’t want to and stop whenever you feel uncomfortable.
Her life was and still is a passionate one with no useless regrets, inadequate apologies or unbelievable explanations …. only her scars which show a life well lived …. and that’s exactly how she likes it.
It had been quite a long while since Rob and I had a chance to take a vacation, to escape the madness of the city to someplace remote and peaceful. Skiing sounded like a good idea, a break after the unbearably hot summer. All we wanted was a little get-away to relax and unwind.
Our Google search brought us to a place called Marmot Basin located in Jasper, an alpine town in Canada’s Alberta province. The photos were breathtaking; the area was one of the most natural and unsoiled landscapes we’d ever seen. The site said Jasper was “an authentic mountain community that managed to retain a cozy, warm and ‘real’ atmosphere with a laid-back vibe”. It was also one of North America’s largest protected nature preserves. It would be great to get lost for a few days, forget about our hectic lives.
The flight to Jasper was interminable; eight hours with a connection in Denver. The time change did a number on us physically but our welcoming and romantic chateau more than made up for the tedious travel. It was rustic yet charming with beamed ceilings, comfy furniture and a huge fireplace. We spent our first night snuggled up in bed.
Right after breakfast the next morning we set out for a day of skiing. Hoping to find a secluded trail, we consulted one of the guides who gave us a couple of suggestions. We headed out, delighted to see a pristine layer of powdery snow. Looking around we realized we were the only people in the area and there was nothing in sight except evergreens on the hillside.
We started off slowly then gradually picked up speed; the conditions were perfect. About twenty minutes into our run we came upon a split in the trail. Taking a break, Rob leaned against a tree and consulted a map, deciding which way we should go. Suddenly we felt movement beneath our feet and the ground gave way in what sounded like a whispering waterfall. In an instant we were tumbling down, enveloped by cascades of snow.
It seemed like an eternity before I came to a stop. I was unable to move but realized I was still clutching my pole. Somehow I managed to wrangle my arm free from under my body and began whacking the snow above me. I didn’t know if I was under three feet of snow or thirty; I had to try to free myself. Snow kept falling on me as I hacked away. Slowly my grave became brighter and I realized a magicsliver of sunlight was peeking through. I heaved myself into an upright position and broke through the snow.
It was a struggle but I managed to climb out and started yelling for Rob. All I heard was my echo; everything was deathly silent. I found my phone in the inside pocket of my ski suit and dialed Rob’s number hoping to hear his phone ring; I heard nothing. Checking my phone I saw there was no cell service in the area; I couldn’t even call for help. Gingerly I walked around a bit, all too aware the ground could give way at any moment. My only hope was to try to find help.
I must have walked for miles; the sun had set and I found myself surrounded by trees. I had no idea where I was. Exhausted, I fell to my knees, sobbing. If Rob was still buried in the snow there was no chance of finding him alive.
Through my tears I thought I saw a glimmer of light. I squinted and could barely make out the shape of a cabin in the woods. Was it real or magic? Was I hallucinating? I had to keep moving or I would surely die during the frigid night. Slowly I got to my feet and walked toward the light, praying it was not an illusion. I was so very tired; if only I could close my eyes just take a little rest before I continued. It was so bitterly cold.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are challenged to incorporate the word “wire” into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
There are parts of Jersey City which are very dangerous …. dingy bars, seedy hotels, mob-run strip joints and dark alleys where unspeakable things happened; Jack Black had a taste for all of them.
Most nights Jack would slither into his favorite bar, sit in the shadows on the end barstool, case the joint, nurse his bourbon and smoke his Lucky Strikes; Jack had patience and sooner or later she’d walk in …. maybe a secretary working late or a bored and lonely housewife.
About 20 minutes later, a woman ran in from the rain and glanced around the room, her eyes ignoring Jack as she shook her damp dark brown hair, then headed to the bar and ordered a martini; she rummaged through her purse searching for her cigarette lighter and just as Jack was about to make his move, the bartender offered her a light.
Jack toyed with the electrical wire in his pocket, annoyed at missing his opportunity to talk up this new beauty, but the night was young and he had all the time in the world.
Cool as a cucumber, Jack watched as the woman sipped her martini and smoked her cigarette, but when she asked the bartender for a menu, Jack knew he had been given a second chance and his fingers did a tap dance of anticipation around the wire in his pocket; just then the door swung open and a man blew in and when the woman at the bar spotted him, she ran to him and they embraced as she exclaimed that he was right on time as dinner would be coming out any second.
Jack was not a happy boy at this turn of events and, seeing no reason to hang around, he opened the door to leave and walked right into a gorgeous blonde; laying on the charm, Jack apologized profusely and offered to buy the woman a drink to which she smiled, agreed and replied that she was bored which was …. as she put it …. a fate worse than death.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to be creative in 250 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
He was neither old nor young and if he had memories … good, bad, happy or sad … they were long forgotten, washed away like tears in rain.
His hand reached for his breast pocket, fingers touching the familiar object resting inside. A harmonica. He had no idea where it came from nor did he know why it was in his pocket yet somehow with an intrinsic knowledge he knew it was his.
Removing the instrument from his pocket, he stared at it as he reverently caressed the wood, reading the faded inscription. Raising it to his mouth, he began to play an old tune he forgot he even knew.
People passing by dropped coins into the white cloth shopping bag at his feet. He might not remember much but he’d never forget the delicious aroma of the crusty baguette in his bag.
A little boy of perhaps eight years of age shyly approached, dropped a coin in the man’s bag and ran back to his father waiting nearby. There was something about the older man that made the boy’s father pause for just a moment.
This ritual continued for several days and the two men pensively acknowledged each other with a nod.
One day before the boy ran back to his father, the man slipped the harmonica into his hand. When the boy’s father read the inscription, he knew. He looked up but the older man was gone.
He closed his eyes as a teardrop landed on the harmonica.
The last time I used that title was for an essay in 4th or 5th grade!
Our vacation started the morning of Wednesday, July 10th. The destination? Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, CT to attend a concert and play the slots …. two things we haven’t done in a very long time. It’s a little more than a 2 1/2 hour drive straight up I-95. Check-in time wasn’t until 4PM but we lucked out because our room was ready when we arrived at noon and we were able to check in right away. We dropped off our bags in our room and headed for the slots.
One thing we forgot since the last time we were at Mohegan Sun is the place is enormous and designed in such a way that everything feels like it’s about 4 miles from everything else! We did a lot of walking and later in the day my lower back started barking like a junkyard dog but I wasn’t going to let that stop me! 😖
Sitting at the slot machines gave me a chance to rest and my back calmed down, but every time I started walking again the pain came back. We tried to limit our walking but it was extremely difficult.
Our main reason for going to Mohegan Sun was to see the Daryl Hall + Elvis Costello Concert Tour. We took advantage of the accommodations/concert package which meant we didn’t know in advance where we’d be sitting for the show or how much the tickets cost. You can see by the photo of my ticket that there’s no price indicated. It turns out the seats were very good and we had a clear view of the stage.
We were in section 16, 5th row, seats 1 & 2 on the aisle next to Section 15.
Our view of the stage
Elvis Costello and his group performed first. They were excellent …. a tight little combo …. and I was surprised how much my husband liked them; he wasn’t familiar with Elvis’ music and didn’t know what to expect. We were both blown away by Elvis and his band …. keyboard player Steve Nieve and drummer Pete Thomas.
And I can say the same for my man, Daryl Hall. In all honesty, though, his sound check wasn’t the greatest and the sound quality was mixed. Hall’s band of seven was extremely loud in person but it doesn’t come across that way on the video. The songs were great, Daryl was in good voice and his piano playing was excellent. Some of the most enjoyable parts of the concert were the sax solos by Charlie DeChant who’s been playing with Daryl since the early days. That guy can really play! The concert wasn’t perfect but it was great and a long time coming for me.
Charlie DeChant
The action at the slots was pretty good – teaser payoffs, nothing big – and we probably broke even. We’re not big time gamblers; it’s all about having fun and knowing when to walk away with some money in your pocket.
Just a few of the nearly 4,000 slot machines at Mohegan Sun
There were a few moments of panic during Saturday evening’s dinner when we heard about the shooting at the Trump rally. Our son Bill is a cameraman and teleprompter and has been assigned to cover some of the rallies. He’s a grown man and doesn’t check in with us when he’s out of town for work so that night we didn’t know if he was at the rally or not. A couple of quick texts reassured us that Bill was safe (and at the Met game in Citi Field with his sons). This scare reminded me of something I’ve said many times: it doesn’t matter how old our children are; we will always worry about them.
Once we were assured our son was ok, we were able to relax and enjoy the rest of our vacation. We left Mohegan Sun Sunday morning and made ourselves comfortable for the 3 hour drive to Saratoga Race Course, where we spent one very exciting and extremely hot day, weather wise. It’s incredible watching the people who are into racing or following a particular horse; they really go nuts! My back was throbbing like a bass guitar and I had to sit a lot during the races.
After a day at the races, it was off to Lake George …. only a half hour drive. The entire area of Lake George is gorgeous and so very relaxing, which was exactly what we needed after five days of busy-ness. There’s nothing like being right on the water, sitting in a lounge chair and staring at a beautiful, peaceful view. I did a lot of that while at Lake George!
Lake George view from our hotel
It was wonderful to get away for a bit; it wasn’t our usual month in Montauk but it was just what we needed. I was surprised how much I missed blogging and I’m happy to be back here with all of you.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where the prompt word is ‘paper’, which can be used as a noun, verb or adjective … or all three which will qualify for bonus points. Here is my 3-way stream.
On my nightstand I like to keep a pen and pad of paper where I can jot down ideas for stories, things I have to get done around the house, items I need from the store, etc.
During a recent trip to the grocery store I noticed that it’s impossible to find milk in glass bottles. There’s every type of juice or flavored iced coffee available in bottles but milk only comes in those waxy paperedcardboard-like containers or plastic jugs. We’re serious about producing less garbage and using less plastic products so I decided to start getting our milk home delivered. Remember that service? Well, it’s back! All I had to do was place an order for delivery with one of the participating companies; my order was delivered in a metal milk box that is mine to keep for as long as I use the service. When it’s time to schedule my next order, all I have to do is place the empty bottles in the milk box and they’ll be replaced by full bottles of cold, fresh milk!
My husband likes to read the daily newspaper, even though he’s really only interested in the sports pages and the crossword puzzle. The headlines give him agita. That works out well because he uses the remaining sections to paper the floor under and around the cat’s litter box to catch any ‘spillage’ or litter that gets kicked out. Now that’s a proper use for the newspaper, especially the front page that’s always plastered with the arrogant face of one lying politician or another! A very fitting use indeed.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to write something creative in 250 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
Covered in filth and mange, the horde of dogs and cats that survived the hurricane were crammed into military vans. Those once long-haired canines with soft billowy fur now resembled stone creatures encased in a shell of thick crust. Scrawny, flea-ridden cats no longer purred contentedly but howled in fear. Muscular pit bulls were reduced to skeletons, the outlines of ribcages clearly visible in emaciated bodies.
The relentless rain caused the levees to burst, resulting in flooding; homeowners lost everything. Many scrambled to their roofs in a desperate attempt to save themselves while others tried swimming to safety. Those lucky enough to own a rowboat floated on the flood waters, dragging people into their boats along the way.
A state of emergency was declared; first responders worked ceaselessly. Overlong, the levees were rebuilt and people relocated.
Tragically, family pets were forgotten in the frenzy or deliberately left behind. When the waters subsided weeks later, they were found chained to fences and porch railings. Some had climbed up trees or hidden themselves away in the attics of abandoned houses. They were scared, starving, sick. Innumerable were dead.
Helpless, hopeless pets were brought to makeshift hospitals. With unbelievable patience, veterinarians treated every surviving animal, gently cutting away matted crusty fur, administering antibiotics and vaccines, providing food and water, bringing those nearly dead back to life. The doctors never rested; they desperately hoped to save more than they did but the struggle was too great. Too many innocents didn’t stand a chance.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are encouraged to write something creative in exactly six sentences, incorporating the word “hermit”. This is my six.
There was once a very old man who lived deep within the dense dark forest where he ate morels, mushrooms, berries and the little rodents who had the misfortune of getting themselves caught in the very old man’s traps, but the most delectable meals for this ancient hermit were plump little boys and girls lost in the woods – a rare but finger-licking-good scrumptious delight … or so the legend goes.
One unseasonably warm and sunny day several years ago in late November, young Ethan Collingwood and his even younger sister Penelope were on a journey, an expedition of sorts – (it was really just an assignment handed down by their mother) – to gather the chestnuts that grew in the woods at the entrance to the dark forest and bring them home for Thanksgiving dinner; the woods were once abundant with huge chestnut trees which were greater than 100 feet tall and more than ten feet wide, with acorn-sized nuts sweet like a carrot when eaten raw and even nuttier with a candied flavor after roasting; beside Mrs. Collingwood’s perfectly-cooked juicy and tender turkey, the roasted chestnuts were the highlight of their meal, making Ethan and Penelope’s mouths water at the thought of Thanksgiving dinner just one day away.
With strict orders from their mother not to go too deep into the dark forest, the siblings chatted happily on this warm November morning, baskets dangling from their hands for collecting lovely chestnuts but when they arrived at their destination there were no chestnuts to be found, prompting Ethan to suggest they go a tiny bit further into the forest; prudent Penelope protested but Ethan reassured her that all would be fine and, considering he was a whole year older, Penelope was sure he knew best so she agreed and Ethan was right, for only twenty steps deeper into the woods they found chestnuts covering the ground like a blanket; brother and sister began collecting the delicious nuts, filling their baskets and chattering away as they walked, collecting and eating chestnuts with every step they took and in no time they had gobbled up so many nuts, they grew tired, propped themselves against the mighty trunk of a chestnut tree and quickly fell asleep.
Time went by as time is wont to do, turning the warm day into night with a biting wind which woke the young ones who were disoriented, cold and with baskets only half full … something that would surely disappoint their mother … but Ethan, being a bright boy a whole year older than his sister, had an idea which he proposed to Penelope: “Let’s start to walk back home and fill our baskets with chestnuts along the way which will delight Mother when she sees how many nuts we collected and she will forgive our tardiness.”
Penelope sprang to her feet, cheered on by Ethan’s plan, but as she looked around, she realized she had no idea where they were and burst into tears, causing Ethan to inquire why she was crying; surprised by her response, the boy looked around and saw that they were indeed lost, making Ethan feel like crying himself but he refused to let his sister see his fear; instead, he said “Don’t cry, Penny, for all we need to do is follow the trail of chestnut shells we discarded while eating earlier today and we will find our way home.”
Encouraged by this brilliant idea, the siblings began retracing their steps but when they spotted a tiny ramshackle of a hut hidden among the trees, they knew they had walked in the wrong direction; the children realized this was the home of Donnegan Muldoon, the very old man who lived like a hermitfeasting on morels, mushrooms, berries, the little rodents who had the misfortune of getting themselves caught in his traps and plump little boys and girls lost in the woods, and they were sorely frightened, especially now that the moon began creeping out from behind a cloud, casting strange and horrifying shadows wherever the young ones looked, with low hanging branches taking on the appearance of bony arms and fingers ready to snatch them away, and as the crooked limbs inched closer, Ethan and Penelope turned to flee but were stopped dead in their tracks, for looming before them was the menacing figure of Donnegan Muldoon himself, dressed an ancient, threadbare cloak, his long, scraggly grey hair and beard reaching his knees and piercing blue eyes as cold as a tomb staring at the young brother and sister who were too terrified to move or utter a sound.
The closest living relative to T Rex is … you guessed it … the chicken! So what does that tell us? Well, it’s obvious that neither the chicken nor the egg came first. The dinosaur came first!
Allow me to play devil’s advocate for a minute. Let’s say everything we read in the Bible is true, that God created all the animals in the sky, the sea and on the land. Since this all happened eons ago, we would then have to agree that God created the dinosaurs. The Book of Genesis doesn’t say anything about creating eggs but it certainly talks about the “beasts of the land”.
T Rex and friends stomped the earth, laying their eggs for however long they were here before an asteroid hit them. One theory is that some of those eggs survived and produced what has now evolved into the mighty chicken.
So there you have it, kids. No need to Google or go to the library or petition the Pope for his ex-cathedra decree. Thump on, you proud Bible-thumping, Chick-fil-A-eating, religious zealots. I do believe we have a winner. One might even say “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
Coming up next week: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to write creatively in 250 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
“No! Didn’t do it!” wailed Robbie, the dishwasher at Michael’s.
The waitstaff ran into the kitchen when they heard the crash. Shattered crystal covered the kitchen floor …. the new glasses for the lounge’s grand opening.
Robbie huddled in the corner like a little boy, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. He was a 32 year old man with the mind of an eight year old, courtesy of that one decisive extra chromosome …. a little thing called Down Syndrome. Robbie’s brother Gary, the maître d’, crouched next to him while everyone stood in awkward silence.
“Robbie, accidents happen” Gary said calmly. “C’mon now. Everyone will pitch in.”
The crew began sweeping up …. everyone except Vic, the bartender.
“Not me. I ain’t helpin’!” snarled Vic. “It was that moron’s fault. He shouldn’t be around normal people!”
Michael Banks, the lounge owner, stormed into the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on?!” Slowly he looked around, taking in the whole scene, then asked everyone to leave except Robbie, Gary and Vic.
“Robbie, it’s ok” Michael said. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
Robbie sniffled. “I saw the boxes but I didn’t touch them, cross my heart and hope to die. Vic rushed in the back door and pushed me into the boxes.”
“You lyin’ freak!” sneered Vic. “Look, Mr. B. I’m tellin’ ya I didn’t do nothing.Who ya gonna believe – that retard or me?”
“That’s enough! It’s over!” Michael barked. “Grab a broom. We’re opening tonight on schedule.”
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are challenged to incorporate the word “frequency” into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
Immediately upon arriving at their destination, Camilla bolted from the car, slammed the door and stormed off, leaving a bewildered Nigel alone to weigh his options: go after her, call her after she’s had a chance to cool down or declare this date a complete failure and forget about Camilla all together, something he was not keen on as he was not the quitting type …. plus, he couldn’t get Camilla’s amazing breasts out of his head; after some thought, Nigel decided to go after her but first he needed to find a parking spot and then purchase two cappuccinos, one for him and one for her, in lieu of an awkward verbal apology.
Camilla was at her desk, obviously engrossed in a conversation of great importance as she was speaking rapidly in an animated manner to a tall, thin woman with blonde hair when she noticed Nigel coming her way and quicky ushered the woman into a back room, closing the door behind them; however, Nigel was determined to wait it out when just then an unidentified man approached and informed him that “Ms. Saunders had left the building and gave no indication when or if she would be returning that day”; this new intel pissed Nigel off royally since he was not prepared to have Camilla pull a disappearing act on him .… a position he found alien, embarrassing and profoundly uncomfortable.
In a huff, Nigel stormed out of the library and quickly walked to his car, arriving just in time to see Camilla and the blonde woman sliding into a white convertible which, of course, he followed, managing to stay far enough away without losing sight of the car which travelled a route which was extremely familiar to Nigel; the more they drove the more convinced Nigel became that he knew were the white car was headed but when the convertible abruptly turned off the road into a parking garage, Nigel was none-the-less astounded when he realized that Camilla’s companion lived in the same apartment building as he did …. or perhaps it was Camilla who lived there …. and just as the convertible entered the garage, Camilla glanced over her shoulder and, spotting Nigel’s car, was filled with consternation.
Nigel kicked himself for not having learned more about Ms. Camilla Saunders while on their coffee dates for if he had he would have known this mystery woman was Camilla’s oldest and dearest friend from college, Eunice Blackthorne, who was also Camilla’s roommate right here in his apartment building; the agenda now was for Nigel to increase the frequency of his visits to his buddy, Vince, the doorman …. shoot the breeze …. buy him a coffee …. give him a few hot tips on the ponies and get him to spill the beans about Camilla, her blonde friend and which apartment was theirs.
Meanwhile, Camilla was pacing the floor of the apartment she shared with Eunice; men like Nigel enervated her, demoralized, frightened and reminded her entirely too much of her overbearing, demanding, unprincipled father, brothers, classmates, boyfriends, bosses …. in fact, every man she had ever known in her life …. and knowing Camilla had had it with men was exactly what Eunice wanted to hear.
Little did any of them know they were headed for rocky times.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge were Jenne encourages us to write something magically creative in 250 words or less using the photo below for inspiration. Here is my story.
The letter arrived the other day. Terse, to the point of being almost rude. Where have people’s manners gone in today’s society?
You see, this building .… the one with the orange shutters and the sign which reads MOULIN À HOUILE …. has been in my family for generations. We were among the best olive oil makers in the region for more years than I can count.
My twin brother, Marcel, and I grew up here at the elbows of our grandfather, father and uncle as they worked the presses in the mill to produce the purest of olive oils. The huile d’olive was then bottled and prepared for distribution to fine-end stores and restaurants. We had a thriving family business.
As is the nature of all familial enterprises, there was no question that Marcel and I would take our place working in the mill. It was as innate as taking our next breath. Then the unthinkable happened; our father died suddenly leaving no will and, during our grief, his brother secretly arranged for the takeover of the business, employing only his sons and kicking Marcel and me to the curb. We tried having the decision reversed but were unsuccessful.
One by one our uncle’s sons abandoned the business leaving him alone with strangers in his employ. Now it is our time for payback.
My gun is aimed at the open window while Marcel keeps guard. Our uncle appears, my finger teases the trigger and abruptly I’m plunged into darkness.
“’It wasn’t that long ago when Ethan was rarely bothered by mosquitos, but this year he’s being eaten alive by them’.”
I wrote that in my diary just a few weeks ago.
Thank you all for joining us today as we say ‘farewell’ to my beloved husband, Ethan …. another innocent victim struck down in the prime of life by the dastardly mosquito. Ethan was attacked last week while bringing out the trash for pick-up in the morning; it was just a quick run to the curb but he didn’t have his EpiPen on him. Who knew just a few moments later he’d be in cardiac arrest from anaphylactic shock?
Ethan was never bothered by mosquitos before and at first it was just an annoying surprise when he started developing a reaction a few months ago. The change in him was sudden and drastic and, as much as I will miss him, I’m so thankful his time of suffering was short.
Doctors can’t say whether this is a genetic trait, if our children Evan, Ella and Emily will develop this horrible allergy. To help our children realize the seriousness of this situation and to protect them, Ethan has left them his award-winning collection of swatters, his supply of EpiPens, his boxes of citronella candles, his stash of DEET and, of course, his journal.
When the allergic reactions started, Ethan began writing down his thoughts; as a poet, he wrote some of his best work over the recent months.He was most evocativein his agony.
In closing I would like to read one of his most poignant poems. It’s called ‘Ode To The Mosquito’. And please .… next time you see a mosquito, ask yourselves ‘What would Ethan do?’“
Ode To The Mosquito
How can such a little thing Be so damn annoying? Flying round my arms and legs It’s bothersome and cloying.
Go away, you vile thing I’ll swat you with a stick. You’re not welcome in my home You nasty little prick!
Who would think that tiny guy Could be such a bloody sucker? When he sticks his fangs in me I scream “You Motherf*#+er!”
You get me every time I’m out; My blood is extra sweet. Come and get me, little twit! Tonight I’m packing DEET!
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are challenged to incorporate the prompt word “move” into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
He looked real good so I made my move and walked right up to him, kissing him long and hard on the lips. He pulled me close, groaning as his hands slid up my dress and I could tell he was more than happy to see me, if you get my drift.
“Listen, baby”, he said sotto voce, “I had a nice gig dealing at a casino up in Buffalo and I made some serious moola running a fool-proof scam; I’m dealing here tonight so if you and me were to double up, we could make a killing.”
It sounded dangerous and exciting. I nibbled his ear and reached between his legs, giving him an approving squeeze, and whispered “I’m in”.
“Work first, then I’ll show you how much I missed you” he promised as I knocked on the door; the peephole opened and immediately slid closed, then the door cracked an inch and we were quickly ushered into a back room heavy with the scent of leather, cigars and money.
When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the “Great White Plague” due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special “tonic”, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousin’s earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousin’s body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousin’s chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesaria’s administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is “Who took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?” No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood …. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
The idea of Father’s Day was first conceived by Sonora Smart Dodd, a loving daughter from Spokane, Washington. It was also inspired by Mother’s Day as Dodd wanted a day to honor her father as well. William Jackson Smart was a Civil War veteran and single-handedly raised Sonora and her siblings after the death of their mother.
My dad was a Sicilian immigrant who came to the US by boat in 1930 at the age of 15. He arrived with his father and two brothers … one older and the other younger. His mother and sister remained in Sicily for another few years; according to my grandfather, “America is no place for a woman”.
None of them spoke a word of English.
My father was an apprentice shoemaker in Sicily who took up barbering after getting settled in Brooklyn, NY. His good looks and charm endeared him to many people and he was liked by everyone.
It was my dad’s boss at the barbershop who gave him a brilliant piece of advice. As was his habit, my father bought the Italian newspaper every day to read during his down time at work. One day the boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito! If you ever hope to speak English, do yourself a favor and start buying the New York Times every day and read it from front to back.” My father realized the importance of that advice and started buying the NY Times the very next day. With the added help of his English-speaking customers, he became fluent in English and lost his accent with no formal schooling. One of the proudest moments in his life was completing the NY Times crossword puzzle … in ink!
Dad became a US citizen and eventually landed a job with the post office. He was a US Army veteran who drove a jeep throughout Europe during WWII without ever having earned a driver’s license. He never did get his license and never drove again after his stint in the army.
My father loved music, especially opera, and I was exposed to classical music and opera at a very early age. The basics in life were Dad’s tenets … family, God, country, his job, providing a roof over our heads, food on the table and a good education. He was also the fun-loving one, with Mom always busy “cleaning up his messes”.
Dad loved people and entertaining in our home. He would often invite people for dinner without clearing it with Mom first. No wonder she was always pissed off! Dad was often in trouble for that and I found that devilish quality one of his most endearing traits. He truly meant no harm. He was a good and decent man who loved and was loved in return. And in the end can any of us want more than that?
Happy Father’s Day to all my guys on WordPress. I hope your day is as special as you are.
Written for Six Sentence Story where this week we are challenged to use the word “faint” in a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s mine.
After the boating accident, I returned to New York but didn’t have the heart to stay in the condo where Kevin and I used to live; I drove to my parents’ beach house in Amagansett, leaving the apartment untouched, thinking to return one day when I summoned the courage.
Too many memories and sleepless nights at the beach house brought me no comfort or closure …. an impossibility since Kevin’s body was never recovered …. and I now found myself back in Manhattan staring up at the window of my old condo and seeing ghosts …. ghosts of Kevin.
An overwhelming force drew me closer and I slowly entered the building and climbed the stairs to the apartment we once shared. Approaching the door, I could hear faint music, laughter and the sound of familiar voices; a man and a woman were inside, unaware of my presence as I stood outside the door for what seemed a lifetime …. and in that passage of time I knew beyond a doubt who they were.
Blood pounding in my head, I raised my fist to knock on the door, then stepped back.
The Elephant's Trunk 