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REVENGE IS SWEET

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

I don’t really think of myself as a thief; I’m more of what you’d call an “exchanger“. Has a nicer ring to it, doesn’t it?

See, here’s the deal: I take other people’s lunches from the refrigerators at work and replace them with mine. That’s not really stealing; it’s more like sharing without the other person knowing – kind of like a one-sided Secret Santa.

I’m a terrible cook. The staples in my house usually consist of protein bars, crackers, peanut butter, and microwave popcorn. Even if I could cook, I don’t make enough money in my nowhere job to stock up on the kinds of foods I like to eat.

My job is to deliver the mail to the different departments for the company where I work. There are 15 floors in the building and each floor has two kitchens where the employees can eat their lunch, so I have 30 refrigerators to look through every day. I’ve been doing this for a long time and it’s pretty easy to get away with if you do it right.

So far I’ve been lucky; I haven’t been nabbed taking anyone’s lunch. And, as I said, I always leave something in its place. Of course, it’s usually a protein bar or peanut butter on crackers but it’s something.

You wouldn’t believe some of the food people bring in for lunch – leftover veal parmigiana with pasta and salad, a nice piece of steak with vegetables, a giant roast beef sandwich – I’m talking real food! One day somebody brought in an entire rotisserie chicken with biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy – the whole nine yards!

I’m not allowed to leave the mail cart unattended; I could lose my job over that. I put my meager lunch on the bottom rack of the mail cart and when no one’s around I go into one of the kitchens and make a quick switcheroo. I always have my water bottle with me so it just looks like I’m in the kitchen refilling my bottle. Unless someone is watching me, there’s no way to know it’s me swapping out the lunches.

The trick is not to look out of place which isn’t hard because no one ever pays attention to an insignificant nobody like me. I’m practically invisible. I’d be shocked if anyone at work knew my name. I’m just “the mail guy”.

I casually wheel the mail cart into the kitchen, snatch something from the fridge and fill my water bottle. I hightail it out of there, leave that floor and head to a different kitchen where I heat up my pilfered lunch. After that I walk to a park by the water. Lots of people eat at the park and nobody knows me. If it’s raining, then I just eat lunch in my old Dodge in the company parking garage. People are constantly coming and going in that garage so I’m just another face in the crowd

My second job at Bob’s Barbecue Pit is where I eat dinner. The pay isn’t great but Bob’s an okay guy; he knows we’re all struggling and he lets us eat for free.

On Friday everything went off without a hitch. I grabbed a lunch, skedaddled outta there and headed for the park. Lunch was great – turkey, Swiss and avocado on a roll, a bag of chips and the biggest brownie I’d ever seen. Just as I was about to toss my garbage, I noticed the name “Chris Phillips” on the bag. Thank you, Chris, for a delicious lunch!

I finished the afternoon rounds, then headed over The Pit but I wasn’t even half-way there when my stomach started churning and I began getting bad cramps. I knew I had to get to a bathroom fast so I decided to go home. I made it just in time! I had the worst diarrhea ever! I spent Friday night and Saturday in the bathroom and all of Sunday recuperating. That’s when I realized it had to be the brownie! I bet Chris took a chance that his lunch would be swiped and he loaded the brownie mix with Ex Lax.

That rat bastard! This called for retaliation!

All week long I thought about how I could get back at Chris, but was it really worth it?    

Maybe it was time for me to move on, try to find a better job, earn more money.

Or maybe I could find the perfect payback for that weasel Chris. After all – I do like my sweets and revenge is the sweetest of all!

NAR © 2021

Reposted for http://fivedotoh.com/2022/12/14/fowc-with-fandango-rack/

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GUEST POST: THE BUILDING

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Once again it’s a privilege to post a story written by my 12-year-old granddaughter, Mckenna Richy. She makes me proud every single day.

Part 1 – Selected

There’s an abandoned building up on Bison Street. I know because I pass it every day on my way to school. I know because the Clean-Up Team at my school is hosting a fundraiser to fix it up. But there is something strange about that building.

“HENRY!” my friend Carlos shouts. I snap out of my daydream. “You’re standing when Principal Miron has told everyone to sit down!

I turned red and sat down. The principal began her announcement:

“Thank you, Carlos, for that loud clarification on your part” she laughed. “Well, good afternoon, students. Before you’re dismissed for the day I just want to say … WE DID IT! Starting next week every day after school a select group of students will start cleaning up the building on Bison Street! Special thanks to the school’s Clean-Up Team! That is all, students. Have a great weekend and I’ll see you all on Monday.”

I walked home with multiple thoughts filling my head: Am I part of the selected group? Why next week? HOW THE HECK DID THE SCHOOL GET ENOUGH MONEY?!

I opened the door to my mother’s restaurant. “Hola, Mama.”

“Hola, Henrita. I am a little busy with work right now. Can you grab an apron and help Marko and Linda with serving the customers for about three hours?” she asked.

I sighed “Sure, Mama.” I guess I’ll tell her about cleaning up the building when she’s not so busy.

*

I was lying on my bed. Mama’s restaurant didn’t close until 9:00 PM and I was feeling a little depressed. Before he died, my dad and I would always binge-watch our favorite TV show, “Detectives at Middle School”. It was a show about twins who would deal with mysteries, middle school life and parent drama. Mama promised that I could stay up late on Friday nights so we could watch the show together and keep the tradition going but lately she’d been forgetting our deal and I really can’t blame her.

The restaurant has been twice as busy with dad gone and everything. I enjoyed helping sometimes; other times I didn’t. My mom’s new boyfriend Jonathan works as one of the staff and I don’t really like him that much. He calls me “Henry”; everyone else calls me by my real name – “Henrita”– even my mom. Henry was my dad’s name and he gave me the nickname “Pequeño Henry” which means “Little Henry”. He said I’d always be his little girl no matter how big I got. I only let my friends Carlos and Sasha call me “Henry”.

Suddenly I heard a knock on my bedroom door. My BFF Sasha came in with some muffins. “Hi H” she said as she gave me a chocolate muffin, my favorite.

“Hey, Sashay” I said, reaching for a muffin.

“You thinking about your dad again? I’m sorry, Henry. I know how much you loved him.” Sasha knew me really well; it’s almost like she could see the thoughts in my eyes.

“Thanks for checking on me, Sasha. Did my mom fall asleep again?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, she did, but we can watch “Detectives at Middle School” together if you’d like.”

I smiled. “Sure. Let’s sneak downstairs to the restaurant and grab some snacks!” We stuffed our pockets with popcorn, cookies and sodas, then hurried back to my room as we heard Mama making noises like she was waking up.

“That was close!” Sasha said and I giggled. “As Mama likes to say: ‘Fisgones van a fisgonear’ (‘Snoopers gonna snoop!’). We both laughed as I turned on the TV and we began to watch the show.

*

Sasha must have woken up before me because when I woke up there was a sticky note on my forehead that read: “Went home. Left you something sweet on your desk!” On my desk was a box of leftover muffins plus a new batch of chocolate muffins. That’s my BFF!

I got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. I turned on the TV, sat on the couch and began to eat my cereal. Then my mother came down all dressed up.

“Mama, you look nice! Where are you going all dressed up like that?” I asked with a mouthful of cereal.

“Johnathan is taking me out for breakfast, Henrita, and you’re coming with us.”

I nearly choked on my cereal. “Huh?!”

“You heard me, Henrita. Now go get dressed.”

I didn’t want to go to breakfast but what Mama says goes; it would take at least a million dollars to get her to change her mind. I put on black sweatpants, a grey T-shirt and a black hoodie, pulling the hood over my dark brown hair. When I came downstairs Mama said “Honey, we’re going to a fancy brunch place. I wish you’d wear something nicer.”

I wanted to say “I really don’t care or want to go anyway” but instead all I said was “Well, at least I brushed my hair.” Mama sighed and we got in the car. On the way to breakfast I saw the abandoned building.

“Hey, Mama. Do you believe in ghosts?”

Mama laughed “What has gotten into you?? Of course I don’t believe in ghosts!”

When we got to the restaurant Mama sat down next to Jonathan and I sat across from them. “So, Henry, how’s school?” asked Jonathan.

“Fine. And my name is Henrita.”

Mama gave me a stare like daggers. Changing the subject, Mama explained to Jonathan “The school Clean-Up Team and some other students are going to clean up that old building down the street. I hope Henrita participates.” I rolled my eyes and put my head on the table. “Henrita! Sit up!” Mama scolded. I exhaled loudly and sat up straight.

The waiter came and asked us what we wanted to have for breakfast. I said “I’d like a way out of this place!” Mama glared at me. “Sorry. I’ll just have a bagel with cream cheese.” When the waiter was finished taking our orders I pulled out my phone and texted Carlos and Sasha on our group chat.

“I’M STUCK AT BRUNCH WITH MY MOM AND HER BOYFRIELD!” 😦 – HENRY
“YIKES, HENRY! I GOT SOCCER PRACTICE. GOOD LUCK!” – CARLOS
“JUST HANG IN THERE, GIRLFRIEND!” – SASHA

“Henry! This is the third time your mother has spoken to you!” Jonathan said angrily.

“Huh? About what?” Why does he insist on calling me “Henry?”

“No phones at the table.”

I put my phone in my pocket. “Happy now?”

*

I got grounded. Yep. Grounded. Mama said that Jonathan did nothing wrong and wouldn’t listen to anything I said. She said that my father would have done the same thing. That made me really angry and I yelled “If we were having breakfast with dad I never would have needed to text my friends. I was angry and dad never made me angry! I’m sorry, Mama, but I don’t like your boyfriend and I never will! Please don’t compare him to dad!”

Mama looked very sad and I felt terrible but I couldn’t take back what I said. Now I’m sitting here on my bed feeling sorry about everything and stuffing my face with one of Sasha’s muffins. Thankfully Mama said I was only grounded for today.

Carlos, Sasha and I usually have our video game tournaments on Sundays. I’m not a video game addict; however, Carlos is. All he ever does is play soccer and games. I’m not judging him; I’m just saying he’s the gamer of the group. Sasha has skills but prefers to draw and bake. Then there’s me; Sasha usually wins whenever she and I play ‘cause I absolutely SUCK at video games. I’ve got zero coordination. I always lose. I won a dance video game but only because I took dance classes from age 4 until I turned 12.

And suddenly there it was. BAM!! My mom burst into my room with my phone. “Your BFF and boyfriend won’t stop texting you!”

“I’m confused. Oh, do you mean my two best friends?” I replied sarcastically.

She just says “Oh, right. Well, I don’t know how to make it shut up! And I don’t like the way you talk about Jonathan!”

I want to get one thing straight: Carlos is NOT my boyfriend. Sasha, Carlos and I have been friends since forever. Anything else is just weird. Mama is always asking things like did I meet a boy? Or do I have a boyfriend yet? I think Mama wants me to have a boyfriend for some reason but what do I know? I picked up my phone and looked at our group chat:

*

“HENRY!!! THEY PICKED WHO’S GOING TO HELP CLEAN UP THE BUILDING!” – CARLOS
“REALLY? I HOPE IT’S NOT ME!” – SASHA
“WHY’S THAT?” – CARLOS
“I’M ALREADY BUSY ENOUGH AS IT IS. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW, CARLOS!” – SASHA
“DO YOU KNOW WHO’S ON THE LIST?” – HENRY
“NOPE. THEY JUST SENT AN EMAIL.’ – CARLOS
“THEY’LL PROBABY ANNOUNCE IT MONDAY AT SCHOOL.” – SASHA
“IF I’M ON IT, IT’LL GIVE ME A REASON TO STOP BEING THE THIRD WHEEL ON MY MOM’S DATES!” – HENRY

*

Monday morning started with an announcement by Principal Miron:

“Good morning students. The school board and I have selected the students for the Clean-Up Team … and they are Marcus Con, Jackie Kale, Martha Steward, Alex Tetry and Henrita Cruz. The Clean-Up Team has volunteered to work Mondays-Wednesdays. The selected students will work Wednesdays-Fridays. Congratulations! That is all for now. Have a great day!”

It’s official; I’m spending half the week cleaning up an abandoned building. I hope it’s not too bad. I mean, everyone is bugging me about getting out of the house so that’s taken care of. But still, why me? Is it a punishment? Did I do something wrong? I’m confused.

As I’m walking to math class, Sasha and Carlos appear by my side. “I’m convinced it was a random pick. All three of us had a chance” Sasha said.

“Yo, Henry. You find any ghosts, call us before you become one” Carlos laughed. Sasha lightly punched him; “Don’t joke like that, dude!”

*

The first days of the project were just the basic safety rules: don’t go to the top floor without an adult to supervise you; wear a helmet and goggles. Little things.

“Henrita, are you ready to go?” Mama called from downstairs. SHOOT! I forgot about lunch with Mama and her boyfriend.

I marched downstairs in jeggings and a grey T-shirt with a lightning bolt on it. My dark brown hair swayed side-to-side as I walked down the stairs.

Right away Mama was on my case: “Henrita, we’re going to Jacques Van Goldam for lunch. They won’t let you dress like that.”

“I’m counting on that. Besides, I’m going to the abandoned building – not to lunch.”

“Henrita, it’s a Saturday. That’s a day off from clean-up.”

“Extra credit, Mama. And there will be adult supervision.”

“Alright, Honeycomb. Just stay safe.” Mama kissed my head and smiled but I could tell she was disappointed.

Now what I said wasn’t exactly true; I was going to the abandoned building but I was going alone and it wasn’t for extra credit.

I grabbed my phone, put it in my bag and left. I was walking on Bison Street when I spotted the building. I’ll admit, it looked better than it did last week but when I walked inside it looked exactly the same as when I left on Friday. After I explored the first three floors, I decided to do what no one else had yet done. I was going to the fourth floor. The only way to get there was from a circular staircase. I knew it would be tiring but I was going to do it.

The fourth floor looked just like the rest of the building – dark, dusty, abandoned. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, shining it around the room. And then I heard it. A thump, like someone knocked something over. I looked everywhere with my flashlight. At first I didn’t see anything. And then I did.

I saw her

*

Part 2 – Construction

“Hello” I said.

The girl responded with “Hello”.

“Are you a ghost?”

“No. Ghosts are somewhere else.”

“So, who are you?”

The girl giggled. “I’m Scarlet. And I live here.”

 I was shocked by her answer. “You live here? I thought this building was abandoned.”

Scarlet smiled. “Technically it is, but my mother, brother and I used to live here.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

Scarlet looked heartbroken. “There was a shooting. I was at a sleepover. Whoever did it left no survivors.”

“I’m so sorry!”

She put on a fake smile. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

*

It’s been a month now and every day Scarlet and I have talked. I brought her food and clean clothes. One Sunday Scarlet and I were playing a game of ‘truth or dare’.

“Alright, truth or dare?” Scarlet asked me.

“Truth” I responded.

“Ugh, fine. Lame-o!” Scarlet joked.“Why did your family come to California?”

“Well, I used to live in the Caribbean but after my dad died in a car crash my Mama said it was best if we moved here” I explained. “Your turn; truth or dare?”

Scarlet seemed confident. “Dare.”

“I dare you to do a handstand!”

Scarlet groaned. “Aw, come on!” She sighed and attempted to do a handstand but she fell backwards and we both burst out laughing. “Truth or dare, Henry?”

To Scarlet’s surprise I said “Dare.”

Finally! I dare you to prank call someone.”

I smiled and pulled out my cell phone, dialing Carlos’ number.

“Hello.”
“Yes, your pizza order is outside on your doorstep. Twelve large pepperoni pies, four salads and three brownies –all for a cost of only $19.99.”
“Henry, are you ok?”

I hung up and put my phone down. “There you go!”

Carlos was left scratching his head wondering what was up with Henry and that strange call. He called Sasha right away and between the two of then they figured out that Henry was probably in the building. After all, it was a Sunday and she wasn’t at home or with them so where else could she be and what was she up to? The two friends were concerned about Henry but knew she could take care of herself. And if she WAS in any danger they knew she’d call back.

*

MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE THE BUILDING

*

“You can’t do this!” shouted Mr. Al.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this is our only choice” responded Matthew, a construction foreman.

“We’ll see about that!” Mr. Al dialed a number on his phone. “Diana, I need you at the building ASAP. There are people here.”

Five minutes later Ms. Miron pulled up in one vehicle and two police officers in another. “What’s going on, Al? asked Ms. Miron.

Mr. Al explained “These people want to demolish the building!”

One of the officers spoke up. “I’m Officer Jonane and this is Officer Benjamin. We heard that Middletown High School is renovating this old building.”

Ms. Miron took a deep breath. “Yes, that’s correct. We are.”

Officer Benjamin asked “Do you have all the official paperwork? Our scans say that you don’t and you just went ahead and began cleaning the building on your own without permission.”

Ms. Miron and Mr. Al became flustered, neither one knowing what to say.

“I think we have our answer” Officer Jonane spoke up. “We don’t need any more excuses. There are no students in the building. Is that right?”

Mr. Al replied “No. It’s a Sunday. The building is empty.”

“Good. The building will be destroyed in just a few minutes. Everybody clear the area!” And with that the officers walked back to Matthew and the rest of the workers.

*

MEANWHILE, BACK INSIDE THE BUILDING

*

Scarlet and I were sitting next to each other talking about our lives. “I guess we have a lot in common” Scarlet said.

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

Suddenly, R-U-M-B-L-E!!!

“What was that?” Scarlet asked, panicked. I got up to look out the window.

“They’re demolishing the building! I shouted.

Scarlet looked at the door leading to the staircase. “We need to get out!”

We ran to the door. Scarlet and I struggled to open it and finally managed to do so. We ran down the stairs as quickly as we could. Scarlet made it to the second floor but the building was coming down leaving me on the third floor. I could hear Scarlet shouting my name, just barely. I looked up and saw the ceiling cracking. My life flashed before my eyes and then everything went black.

*

I awoke in the hospital with my mother sitting next to me. “Mama?”

She gasped and looked up. “Honey, your awake! Jonathan and I have been so worried about you.”

I didn’t really care about Jonathan.

“How long was I out?” I asked.

One week, Henrita. One week!” Mama said, a bit over-dramatic. I smiled; it was good to see her again.

The next few weeks were busy with tests, therapy and horrible hospital food, but early in May I was able to go home. In the car Mama said “I hope you have an explanation, young lady. According to the principal, you weren’t even supposed to be in the building.”

I winced. How in the world was I supposed to tell my very traditional mother that I snuck away to a dangerous building in order to get away from her and her boyfriend?

When I got home Carlos and Sasha immediately ran up to me and hugged me. Sasha cried a little “Are you ok? What happened? Did you break anything? We figured you were in the building; now I feel bad that we didn’t call somebody. You never would have gotten hurt!” were some of the many questions and comments they had.

“I’m fine, you guys. I’ll tell you everything.”

We walked upstairs to my room. When we entered I saw a note on my bed:

“Henry, I’m on the run right now. If I was was with you, I would tell you everything but  at the moment I can’t. We’ll find each other again, I’m sure of that.
Love, Scarlet

“Who’s Scarlet?” Carlos asked, looking over my shoulder back and forth from Sasha to the note. Sasha put her hands up like a police officer was pointing a gun at her. “Don’t look at me. I’ve never heard that name before in my life.”

I smiled. “There might have been a few things I didn’t tell you!”

*

Epilogue – 8 years later

I’m 22 now. I haven’t heard from Scarlet since that note. Sasha and Carlos ended up falling in love and getting married; my mother married Jonathan. And although I wasn’t happy about that, Jonathan is part of the family now and I’ve come to accept it.

Sasha and Carlos know all my secrets. My mother, however … she has a slightly edited version of the story.

I don’t know if there is danger out there but I’ll find Scarlet … one day.

MFR © 2021

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SPREAD ‘EM

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Thanks to a similar story by my friend John Holton (see below), I’m submitting this post to Fandango’s One Word Challenge.
The prompt word is “chop”.
I’m also feeling mixed emotions for I see our recently departed friend Hobbo commented on my story when I originally wrote it last year.
RIP Hobbo.

This hairy hand is not mine!

When I became pregnant with my first baby in 1977, my husband Bill and I were over the moon! We were thrilled and dove headfirst into the whole pregnancy phenomenon – buying furniture and clothes and setting up a nursery. At the time I was 26 years old, weighed 105 pounds and stood 5’4” tall.

Throughout my pregnancy I craved barbecued hamburgers, fresh tomatoes and hot fudge ice cream sundaes every day. After nine months, I gained a whopping 72 pounds and at some point had to remove my wedding ring because my fingers were getting swollen.

Who cared if pregnancy gave me cankles and made my fingers swell? It also made my boobs huge and turned me into a nymphomaniac – a little perk my husband didn’t mind one bit! Besides, as soon as the baby was born I’d lose the weight. I thought I’d immediately jump back into my tiny Jordache jeans and halter tops. How naive I was! It came as quite a shock to discover I could only fit into maternity clothes after giving birth. I suddenly didn’t feel quite so sexy anymore!

A couple of weeks after the baby was born, we were invited to a Christmas Eve party. It had been a while since we’d been out so I was looking forward to slipping into my fanciest maternity outfit and sliding my ring back on. I wanted to look pretty and festive and it seemed like a good idea at the time but no sooner was my substantial solid gold wedding ring back on when my finger began to swell. Before my eyes it tripled in size and went from various shades of pink to red to finally a pulsating, throbbing blueish purple. And it started to hurt like a son of a bitch, too.

I immediately ran cold water over my hand but the ring wouldn’t budge. Bill filled a bowl with water and ice and I soaked my hand until I lost all feeling. No luck. We tried scrubbing with lots of soap and water – nothing. We dragged out every sort of lubricant we could think of from WD-40 to KY Jelly to olive oil. We even tried the “string thing” (don’t ask; that’s another story). Bill lovingly suggested I try to relax and take deep breaths while he pulled on the ring. I screamed at him to “fuck off” because “This wasn’t Lamaze Class and I felt like I was giving birth again.” Nothing worked. I was now in agony and convinced my finger would eventually shrivel up, die and fall off. Or even worse, we’d have to chop it off. Neither option was appealing.

There was only one thing left to do. I told Bill to take the baby to the party while I went to the hospital. Hopefully they’d give me a shot to reduce the swelling. When the nurse noticed my maternity clothes, she told me I was in the wrong section of the hospital and directed me to Labor and Delivery. I informed her that I was no longer pregnant and showed her my ever-expanding finger; she immediately dragged me into the ER.

Doogie Howser, M.D. and his assistants took one look at my digit, gasped and scratched their heads, perplexed. When you’re on the receiving end of that horrified reaction coming from professionals trained to remove knives lodged in skulls and vibrators stuck in various body orifices, it’s not a good feeling. Excusing themselves, the doctors stepped out of the room, consulted for ten seconds and returned with the verdict: “We have no choice but to cut it off.”

“MY FINGER??” I gasped.

“No, silly. The ring” they laughed. “We’re going to get Jerry and Ares. If he can’t cut it off, no one can” replied one doctor twittering like a giddy school girl. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shouting “Shut up, you fucking idiot!”

“And who, may I ask, are Jerry and Ares?” I asked through my pain.

“Jerry is our top custodian and Ares is the strongest 8” mini bolt cutter in his toolbox.”

That statement was not exactly reassuring.

Within minutes Jerry appeared; a sparkling red tool which I was pretty sure was Ares dangled prominently from his belt. I was also pretty sure Jerry had just smoked a joint but, hey, he was the best and given my predicament, beggars can’t be choosers. Jerry examined my finger, made all sorts of grumbling noises and proceeded to sterilize Ares before he scrubbed up.

At last the moment of truth arrived. Jerry told me to turn my hand, palm facing up and “spread ‘em”. I assumed he meant my fingers and did as instructed. Jerry made the Sign of the Cross, kissed Ares and with the precision of a neurosurgeon gently slid Ares between my finger and my ring.

One loud “snip” was all it took and the back of my ring was cut clear through. Jerry broke out his mini pliers and separated the ring enough to remove it from my finger. We all let out a collective sigh of relief. Tragedy averted.

In case you’re wondering, I never got the ring repaired. It sits in my jewelry box as a reminder that even though something may seem like a good idea at the time, that isn’t always the case.

Ares

NAR © 2021

#FOWC, chop

And here is a link to John’s story: https://thesoundofonehandtyping.com/2022/09/17/ring-a-ding-ding-socs/

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BLIND HEART POURED OUT

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

The setting is Sunrise Senior Living, a retirement home in upstate New York. Julian Vega, approximately 30 years old, has just arrived to pay an unexpected visit to retired Monsignor Patrick Bannon.

Receptionist: May I help you, sir?

Julian: Yes, I’d like to see Monsignor Bannon if he’s available, please.

Receptionist: Monsignor has just finished lunch and is in the library, his usual afternoon pastime. Please come with me.

[Julian follows the receptionist down the hall to the library.]

Receptionist: There he is in his favorite corner chair. Enjoy your visit.

[The library is a comfortable room with paneled walls, Persian rugs and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Light classical music floats softly through the room. A tray with a tea pot, cups and a dish of cookies sits on the table to the right of the Monsignor. An empty chair is on the opposite side of the table and an open book sits on the Monsignor’s lap. As Julian approaches, he notices the elderly priest’s book is in Braille. Julian speaks softly.]

Julian: Excuse me, Monsignor. My name is Julian. I’m sorry to intrude on your private time but I was hoping we could talk. I have some important information.

Monsignor: Ah, I thought I heard someone heading in my direction but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Do I know you?

Julian: No, you don’t know me but I’ve heard about you and knew I had to talk to you.

Monsignor: Well, it’s nice to meet you, Julian. Please make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to some tea and cookies.

Julian: Thank you, Monsignor. I’m fine.

Monsignor: So, what’s on your mind, Julian? You’re not from this area, are you? I detect a familiar accent.

Julian: I moved up here about six months ago; I’m originally from The Bronx. Quite a change of pace but I think I’ve finally found a place where I can settle down.

Monsignor: That’s good to hear, son. We all need to find our way home. And what a coincidence! I was at Holy Rosary Church in the Bronx for years! But please, you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on about myself. How can I help you, Julian?

Julian: Well, you’re right about finding my way home. I’ve been a drifter most of my life. Times have been tough for me and I could never catch a break. My demons followed me everywhere I went, constantly reminding me of my sins and failings.

[Monsignor Bannon closes his book and carefully places it on the side table, a sign that his attention is fully on Julian.]

Monsignor: Please continue, my son. I may be retired but I will always be a priest and anything you tell me will stay right here.

[Monsignor pats his chest to indicate his heart. Julian hesitantly begins to unburden himself.]

Julian: Well, I’m not really sure where to begin.

Monsignor: Wherever you feel comfortable, son, but I find the beginning is usually a good place.

[The priest feels around for the handle of the teapot and begins to pour out a cup of tea for both of them. Julian immediately comes closer to help but the Monsignor raises a hand to stop him; he’s learned to do this and many daily routines instinctively over the years since he became blind. He hands Julian a cup of tea, raises his own cup to his lips and waits for Julian to speak. The two sit in silence for a moment before Julian starts talking again.]

Julian: My mother was from Puerto Rico. She and her large family settled in The Bronx where her father did manual labor and her mother took in laundry. My mother would help with the washing and ironing of clothes. They were dirt poor; my mother and her siblings never went to school. My mother did some house cleaning for women in the area. Her family was very devout and went to church every Sunday. When my mother turned 17, she was offered the job of laundress at their church. She eventually became the cleaning lady for the rectory and brought home every dime she ever made. She was good and decent but that all changed in 1970 when my mother was 20 years old.

[Julian stops talking and looks out the window. The monsignor tells him to take his time, gently encouraging him to continue. The old priest knew Julian was going to tell him something of extreme importance.]

Julian: My mother became involved with an Irish priest at the church and they began an affair that lasted seven years. That’s when she became pregnant. She told the priest that she was carrying his child but he refused to acknowledge his responsibility and told my mother he would never leave the church for her. It was her word against his and my mother knew no one would believe her side of the story. She was humiliated and desperate. She fled to Ossining to find her good friend Anita from Puerto Rico.

[Upon hearing those words, the Monsignor sits very still, makes the sign of the cross and rests his head in his hand. He waits for Julian to continue.]

Julian: Anita lived with her mother in the tiniest of apartments and worked in the kitchen of nearby Sing Sing Prison. She provided a home for my mother and I was born in that apartment. Several times my mother tried calling my father, the priest, with no success and finally gave up. Eventually Anita got a job for my mother in the prison laundry; I was raised by Anita’s mother.

[Julian places his cup on the table and both men sit quietly for a moment. Julian continues.]

Julian: I was an angry kid with a big chip on my shoulder. I was always getting into trouble, disrespecting everyone and everything. For years I heard whispers about the Irish priest at Holy Rosary Church who knocked up my mother and tossed her away like yesterday’s garbage. All the voices in my head screamed at me to get my revenge. How different our lives could have been if only he’d been a man and did the right thing. So, one day I went back to The Bronx, right back to the church where everything fell apart and found that Irish priest. I called out his name and when he turned, I threw bleach in his eyes. Do you remember that day, father, when you saw the face of your son, my face, for the first and last time?

[Monsignor Bannon weeps silently, his head bowed. Julian continues.]

Julian: I heard your screams as I ran out of the church. I didn’t know or care where I was going; I made you pay and I just had to get away.

[The two men sit crying, shoulders heaving. The Monsignor reaches for the box of tissues on the table, offers one to Julian and takes one himself. After a long period of quiet, Julian continues.]

Julian: But I was punished for what I did to you. As I was running from the church, I was hit by a delivery truck. I was thrown like a ragdoll, my body shattered. That was 15 years ago and my life has never been the same since. While in rehab I discovered a hidden talent; I’m an artist and I spend hours painting every day. When I was finally discharged from rehab, no one would hire me. I found small jobs like being a messenger and selling newspapers in subway stations. I felt like I was being cursed, chastised for what I did to you. I came here today because I knew it was time to make my confession to you. I pray you can forgive me, father.

[The Monsignor extends his hands and Julian reaches for them.]

Monsignor: Julian, there’s something you must know. Please walk with me in the garden.

[The Monsignor reaches for his white cane and the two men make their way to the door. The Monsignor holds the door open for Julian.]

Monsignor: Please, let me hold the door open for your chair, Julian.

Julian: How did you know I’m in a wheelchair, father? I never mentioned that to you.

Monsignor: When you lose one sense, your other senses become heightened. When you first arrived I didn’t hear footsteps but I knew you were approaching because I could detect the almost imperceptible purring of your wheelchair. I also knew who you were the moment you began to speak. I only heard your voice once 15 years ago but I have never forgotten it. It’s very true that God moves in mysterious ways. It was His wish that we re-connect, that you find your way home and that we become whole together. Julian, I forgive you for what you did to me all those years ago but there is something vital you must know and you need to prepare yourself for what I am going to tell you.

[With great urgency, Julian grabs the Monsignor’s hands. The priest can feel Julian’s tears as they fall onto his hands.)

Julian: Please, tell me what I need to know.

Monsignor: Julian, your mother and I never had an affair and I am not your father. When you returned to Holy Rosary seeking your revenge, I had only been there for a couple of years, taking over the position of the former priest who had been reassigned. His name was Patrick Gannon, not Patrick Bannon – a very easy mistake to make. I never even met your mother and had no idea why you attacked me. Now it has become crystal clear but I carry no hatred in my heart for you.

[Julian is shocked by this revelation and sits dumbfounded staring at the man he believed was his father, the man he thought betrayed his mother and destroyed his life.]

Julian: My God, Monsignor! How can you forgive me for such a horrible act? You’re blameless in all of this!

Monsignor: Julian, no one is blameless. Being blind has taught me to see with my heart. It has made me a better person, a better priest. I see goodness in you. God brought you here for a reason – not just for you to clear your conscience but to give you back your life. Sometimes it takes years of pain and hardship but there are things in life we can’t comprehend. We can only try to accept them and see what good can come from them.

Julian: I’m sorry, Monsignor, but I don’t understand what good can come from my assaulting you all those years ago. You’re an innocent man. Please tell me what you’re talking about.

Monsignor: Several weeks ago the art instructor here accepted another assignment and the directors have been searching for a new teacher ever since. The job pays well and includes room and board but so far they haven’t found anyone. I’ve been here long enough to have some sway. Julian, I’m sure you’d be welcome here as art instructor if you’re interested.

[Julian begins to weep again and the Monsignor places his hand on Julian’s head.]

Julian: I will never be able to repay you for helping me this way.

Monsignor: Julian, my son, I feel no need to be repaid. I have had a good life. You’re the one who has suffered for too long, physically and emotionally. Yes, it’s ironic how this all unfolded but God has a plan in mind for all of us and I learned many years ago never to question His plans. I see things more clearly at this moment than I ever have before. Come with me. Let me introduce you to the directors. I’m sure God will open their eyes and minds to the great possibilities that lie ahead.

[The Monsignor places his hand on Julian’s shoulder. Julian reaches up and covers the priest’s hand with his. Together they leave the garden.]

NAR © 2021

Reposted for Fandango’s http://fivedotoh.com/2022/12/22/fowc-with-fandango-hardship/
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GUEST POST: FORBIDDEN LOVE, PART 2: REVENGE OF THE WINGS (Fantasy)

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It’s a thrill for me to post the second installment of “Foribidden Love”, a fantasy angels and demons story created by my granddaughter, Mckenna Richy. Last time we saw our star-crossed lovers Cameron, Princess of the Angels, made a huge leap of faith and love by joining Jasper, the demon boy, on the other side. This act resulted in Cameron becoming a demon and angering her mother, Queen of the Angels. Alex, an angel who was also in love with Cameron, could not believe what Cameron had done and was willing to do whatever it took to bring her back to the Land of the Angels.

Mckenna has been working on Part 2, among other stories which will also appear here, since before Part 1 was published in February, 2020. Much has happened in our world since then; a lot was very disturbing and frightening for all of us. There were many things our kids didn’t understand; sometimes as adults we forget that. I’m so proud that Mckenna kept her mind active and her imagination flowing by continuing her writing. She’s quite the young lady now at 12 years of age. She’s determined to give everything she does her best shot and I know she will succeed at whatever she chooses to do. And if she learns a little bit from me along the way, then even better. The universe awaits!

“So, what do you do for fun around here?” Cameron asked.

“Well, this place has no rules so basically you can do whatever you want” Jasper said with a smile.

“Huh!” exclaimed Cameron. The two walked through the town that the angels hated so much.

“Next question: Why the heck is there so much lava?” asked Cameron playfully, while pointing to the multiple volcanoes and lava-falls. Jasper just laughed.  Cameron flicked her finger against his head. “I’m being serious, y’know!”  

“Okay, well, this land has a very long history.  Do you want to hear it?  And I’m only explaining because I’m sick of the questions.”  Jasper said.

Cameron sat down. “I’m kind of offended, but I’ll take it” she said half-jokingly.

Jasper sat down next to her and began to explain the long and somewhat boring history of his home.

Meanwhile back at the palace, Alex was pacing his room, thoughts running through his head.  He knew that if he tried to kill Jasper, he would have to kill Cameron, too. But the truth was he didn’t really want to kill anyone. On the other hand, he also didn’t want to die. His mind was racing! All Alex wanted to do was fall asleep and wake up in a world where the past 12 hours never happened. Easier said than done! Suddenly the door burst open and Alex’s older brother, Mason, burst into the room.  

“What the heck did you do, Alex?! I heard that the Royal Guard is planning on killing the Prince of Demons and YOU’RE leading them. You’re supposed to be getting married to the princess in two weeks!

Alex sighed. “She’s no princess.” 

Mason was taken aback. “How can you say that?  Her mother is the Queen and she possesses the greatest power in the world.” 

Alex flopped on his bed. “Before you start shooting your mouth off, how ‘bout you look out the window?”  

Mason went to his brother’s window and saw Jasper and a demon girl talking. “Who is that demon, the one with the black hair?” 

Alex threw a pillow at his brother, “Take a wild guess, genius!” 

Putting two and two together, Mason sarcastically said to Alex “Ouch, bro!  You REALLY messed up big time!” 

Alex was annoyed. “Thanks for making me feel worse. It was your idea to marry into a powerful family.” 

Mason put his hands up. “I’m aware of that.”  He paused as Alex sat up. “But are YOU aware of what you have done?” And with that, Mason walked out. Little did anyone know that next time Mason saw his brother, he would be a different person.

TWO DAYS LATER

Cameron’s mother, the Queen, addressed Alex: “Now, I have put a spell on you so that when you cross over, you will not turn into a demon. I’m trusting you to bring my daughter back.”  Alex saluted the Queen and he and his troops marched to the border. They burst in and began putting out the fires.  

Jasper and Cameron were inside the demon castle when they heard the terrible commotion outside. The couple rushed to the window.

“It looks like war out there!” Cameron cried.

“Then we better go and fight.” declared Jasper. 

Cameron paused and looked out the window again. After what seemed like a million years, she replied “Yes, Jasper. You’re right. We must fight.” They both leapt out the window and flew over the battle scene.

Noticing Alex, Cameron asked “Jasper, why is Alex here?” 

“I have no idea” Jasper replied.

Suddenly Cameron and Jasper were sighted.

“DOWN WITH THE DEMONS!!!” Alex’s troops shouted.

Cameron flew down to Alex. “What are you doing?” she shouted.

“Just following orders” Alex answered.

“And what are those orders?!” demanded Cameron.

Alex replied: “To kill the demons.” 

“But why?” Cameron asked.

“You could ask your mother” Alex said. But wait – I think maybe there’s a way to make this all stop.”  He offered Cameron his hand. “Come back home to the Land of the Angels and never leave again. Then all this will end.” 

Cameron felt like she was going to explode. “You think I came this far just to go back after only 24 hours?!  I crossed the border because the demons did nothing wrong. I belong here as a demon with Jasper. YOU can go back and tell my mother that her daughter is gone!”  

“Listen, if I don’t bring you back to your mother…”  Alex’s voice trailed off.

“What, Alex?  What’s my mother going to do?” asked Cameron.

“She will leave me to die and come and fetch you herself” Alex replied quietly.

At first Cameron didn’t know what to say. Then she spoke what was in her heart: “I just want a peaceful world where people can love whoever they want, where there is no queen or king.”   

Suddenly Alex knew what had to be done. He snapped his fingers and the troops disappeared. Jasper flew down and stood next to Cameron.

“What are you doing, Alex?” he asked.

Alex didn’t answer. Then it happened. His angelic wings turned black and his blonde hair to a rusty red.  

Standing in the place of what once seemed like a lost cause was now a chance for redemption.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He failed!” said the Queen of Angels angrily. “If that so-called ‘angel’ can’t bring my daughter back, then I’ll have no choice but to do it myself.” 

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 3 OF

“THE FORBIDDEN LOVE” SERIES

MFR © 2021

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FRENCH KISSING LIFE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

There is a place somewhere called Paris
And I’m going there on vacation today;
A city where every useless worry or care is
Forgotten and carelessly tossed away.

I don’t need to see the Eiffel Tower
Or pray at Cathédrale Notre-Dame.
I’d happily pick a delicate wildflower
Or caress a charming man’s arm.

I’d love to stroll through Pére Lachaise,
Have a chat at the grave of Jim Morrison.
I’d play him some tunes like Jimi’s “Purple Haze’’,
Just dishing the dirt with that sexy rapscallion.

You won’t catch me near the Seine for dinner;
Much too highbrow and touristy for me.
Seat me at a bar with the saint or the sinner;
We’ll close the place down at quarter past three.

Mona Lisa is enigmatic in a gilt frame so fine
But the thought of the Louvre is a total bore.
I’d rather be laughing in a park drinking wine
Or sharing a smoke on a bench with a whore.

I’ve got nothing to hide; it’s far from a secret:
When it comes to Parisian men I’m a big flirt.
The playboys in the square whisper “Come, be my pet”
And I purr “Oui, oui, mon cheri! Who will it hurt?”

There is a place somewhere called Paris
And I’m going there on vacation today.
I’ll give life a sultry lingering French kiss;
When I’m in Paris I like to do things my way.

NAR © 2021

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A SHELL OF A MAN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

A SHELL OF A MAN

Who the hell do you think you are,
Sitting out there in your fancy car?
Everyone knows that you’re just a tool
Strutting around town like a Goddamn fool! 

You spend more time on your pretty boy look
Thinking you can snag me with your Devil hooks.
Well, let me tell you something that you might not know:
Your looks count for nothing when it’s all for show.

You’re not a man, just an empty shell
Of someone I thought I knew so well.
It’s obvious to everyone who called you friend
You care for no one and deep wounds never mend.

What happened to your soul, your spirit, your heart?
Did you ever once wonder why we had to part?
Of course you didn’t; your conscience is clean
Of every misdeed you claim to have never seen.

You used and confused me, deluded and abused me
And made me forget the strong woman I used to be.
I don’t look any different; it’s inside I’m not the same.
It’s gotten so I don’t even recognize my name.

It won’t be long before you’re all alone.
No one’s gonna call you on the telephone.
You’re the biggest loser so face the facts:
People will judge you by your deeds and acts.

You think you’re perfect like Christ walking on water
But what kind of man abandons his wife and daughter?
My father always said you were a piece of shit
But I turned a deaf ear; I just didn’t want to hear it.

I trusted you once; I was blind, deaf and dumb
To the fact that you were nothing but a piece of scum.
How could I have been such an idiot not to see
What a snake in the grass you’d turn out to be?

You wooed and chased me, swept me off my feet
With pretty little gifts and whispered lies so sweet.
I felt so very special when we were out together.
Never listening when told I could do much better.

It didn’t take long for your true colors to show.
I caught you making time with some floozy named Flo.
That was just the start of a whirlwind of deceit.
You broke my heart to bits and I kicked you to the street.

So now you’re sitting there just like you own the place
With a look so smug I want to slap it off your stupid face.
You thought you could control me, break me down, but in the end
I turned into a willow tree and I learned how to bend.

Do us all a favor and get on outta of here.
Don’t come close to me or those I hold so dear.
Drive as far away as you can and don’t ever return.
You’re going straight to hell and I’ll be laughing while you burn.

NAR © 2021

Reposted for Fandango’s #FOWC http://fivedotoh.com/2023/01/06/fowc-with-fandango-swept/
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SHOULD HAVE GONE FOR PIZZA

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“End of the Line. What a clever name for a seafood restaurant!” declared my mother as we rode down Main Street in Sag Harbor. “Let’s stop for dinner, Mark. I’m starving.”

My sister Mckenzie, brother Jake and I exchanged looks and rolled our eyes. Going to a restaurant with our parents was our least favorite part of vacation.

“Sure, Jan. Looks like a nice little place!” my Dad readily agreed, as usual. “Whaddya say, kids?”

“Why don’t you drop us off at the pizza place and we can meet you back at the hotel?” I suggested knowing that idea would never fly.

“Rebecca Grace, this is the first summer vacation we’ve taken in years and we’re going to dinner as a family. There’ll be no further discussion, is that clear?”

Why do mothers always use our first and middle names when they’re cross with us? That conversation ended exactly as I knew it would but dammit it, I had to try for my sake and my siblings. Being in the company of our parents 24/7 sucked. We have dinner with them back home every night. We’re teenagers; we can handle pizza or burgers on our own once in a while – and some Mike’s Hard Lemonade! (You didn’t hear that from me!)

The restaurant was actually pretty nice – nothing fancy and it was right on the water. Even I had to admit it had potential. The proof would be in the pudding and by that I meant the menu. Mom was the pickiest eater on the planet and Dad, God bless him, had the patience of a saint. My sister, brother and me? Not so much.

First thing my eternally hormonal brother noticed was the pretty young waitresses in their tight white t-shirts and even tighter khaki shorts with “FORE” and “AFT” emblazoned respectively.

“Yeah, baby, this place is a bit of alright” Jake said, practically drooling over a cute redhead who smiled flirtatiously at him. Mckenzie laughed so hard she nearly choked on a breadstick and said “When did you turn into Austin Powers? You’re such a dickhead!”  I thought that was pretty hysterical coming from a 13-year-old. Jake gave her the finger under the table and Mom gasped “Mckenzie Faith! I swear sometimes the devil himself resides in that mouth of yours! Mark, why do you let them watch those nasty foreign movies?”

Dad was nonplussed and mumbled something that sounded like an apology even though he had no idea what he was apologizing for! He was just trying to avoid an unpleasant scene.

Much to Jake’s chagrin one of the head waitresses came over to our table. She wore black pants, a white blouse, a black vest and looked more like Sister Rosetta Stone than Emma Stone! She asked if we were ready to order; Mom gave her standard reply which we all silently recited, our noggins bouncing back and forth like those little bobble-head dolls on car dashboards: “Everything looks so delicious, I just can’t decide! You all go ahead and order first. I’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

Dad ordered first: “I’ll have the salmon with mixed vegetables and a Sam Adams, please.” BAM! Four seconds flat.

Jake said he’d have the pizza. The waitress pointed out the window to Sag Pizza then announced that ‘our pizza is on the kid’s menu and available only to children aged 10 and under”. She jokingly asked if Jake was 10 years old. I couldn’t resist replying that he only behaved like a 10-year-old but he was really 15. Jake hid behind a menu, his face turning as red as pizza sauce.

Giving Jake a chance to cool down, the waitress asked “How about you, girls? Do you know what you’d like to eat?”

Mckenzie and I answered in unison: “Fried shrimp, waffle fries, iced tea and extra ketchup, please.” BAM! Five seconds flat.

Recovering from his embarrassment, Jake sullenly said “Fish sticks, onion rings and a Coke.” BAM! Two seconds!

Shocker of shockers: Mom wasn’t quite ready! Flustered, she said “Oh, my! That was awfully fast! Let’s see” and she buried her head in the menu which the rest of the family had now committed to memory. Finally her recitative began:

“You know, I’d really love to try that soft-shell crab sandwich but I remember when I was a little girl I ate one and the shell wasn’t soft
at all. I’ve never forgotten that;
very traumatic! Tiny shards of shell getting stuck in my throat!
How’s the blackened swordfish? Is it spicy?
I just can’t tolerate spicy foods.
Delicate constitution, you know?
Sometimes they say it’s not spicy when it really is
so you can’t be too careful.
Uh, sushi? Definitely not! Anyone who eats raw fish
is asking for trouble.
You have to be out of your mind to order that horrid stuff,
no offense.
Oh, now, this looks promising: grilled tuna, but it comes with a horseradish sauce.
Why does everything come with some kind of sauce?
Seems all the rage lately.
I’m not so sure how I feel about that – almost like they’re trying to
cover something up”
(and she laughed at the little joke she just made).
“Hmm, baked potato or rice? All those useless carbs!
Can I substitute something healthy and gluten free,
maybe green beans or a salad but no cucumbers, croutons,
onions or dressing?
And absolutely no horseradish sauce!
Oh, yes, water to drink, with a lemon wedge, please.
Not a wimpy slice; a nice big wedge. Yes, that’s what I’ll have.
Thank you, ma’am.”

And she handed the menu back to the waitress whose eyes had glazed over five minutes ago – much like Luca Brasi who sleeps with the fishes.

The blessed waitress, who was even more patient than Dad, innocently suggested Mom try the plain grilled tuna on a bed of fresh salad greens to which Mom replied “Oh, goodness me! I didn’t even see the salad section on the menu. Why don’t you bring everyone their drinks and I’ll just give the menu another look?” I think we all died a little just then.

Jake grumbled “Should have gone for pizza” and we sat there contemplating the scrumptious Sag Pizza right across the street and another two weeks of meals just like this one – all except Mom who still had her head stuck in the menu.

Dad discreetly motioned for the bartender to keep the fortifying Sam Adams coming. Way to go, Dad!

It was gonna be a long night.

End of the Line

NAR © 2021

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CYBER HOOKUPS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Flower child, bohemian, hippie. No, she was never one of those. She was always cool with her oh so very low-rise jeans, halter tops, outrageously high platform shoes and drop-dead smile. She had a peculiarity for going commando, occasionally opting for the tiniest of thongs.

Classy in a smooth and sensual way that was second nature, she was never one who had to try too hard. Delightful imperfections that went unnoticed, she had IT and she was irresistible.

Living in the fast lane, she went to clubs and concerts, hanging out with everyone from hookers to Carmelites. She never really enjoyed drugs with the exception of the indescribably exquisite quaalude. She led a life of passion with no regrets, no apologies, no explanations.

Friends and lovers – never a lack of either. Women were jealous of her but she was too much fun to dislike. Men were ineffably drawn to her like the proverbial moth to flame. She was no alley cat, no “screw-‘em-in-the-disco-bathroom” type. She could be submissive when she wanted to be but knew how the game was played, never doing anything she wasn’t curious about, and stopping if she didn’t enjoy it.

And now in the autumn of her life when all her friends are winding down, she’s still starting up. A couple of seemingly innocuous messages online led to the start of a crazy, sexually charged and mutually intoxicating long-distance liaison. No attachments, no commitments, no worries. Something that could end as quickly as it began but would never be forgotten. Games with one roguish, audacious and charming devil who’s as insatiable as she.

And right now that’s exactly how she likes it.

NAR © 2021

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DOWNTRODDEN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
Betsy (middle) and the cotton mill girls
Georgia, 1909
Photograph by Lewis W Hine

Carry myself with pride, as my mama taught me. My name is Elizabeth but everyone calls me Betsy. I am sixteen, pretty and full of life. This is day one of my very first paying job – working in the cotton mills. I’m lucky and oh so grateful.

Mama is home doing chores and caring for my seven little brothers and sisters. Daddy left one day and never came back.

In my lunch sack is bread, an orange and a chunck of cheese; a plain lunch but it keeps me going. During my break I’ll sit by the banks of the Conasauga River and splash my scorched face. Life is good.

Carry myself with stooped shoulders. I’ve been in the mill for eight months. It’s hotter inside than the blazing Georgia sun. Humid, too, to keep the thread from breaking. Boiled potatoes, cabbage and river water for lunch. I’m sixteen. Maybe I’ll meet a husband here.

Carry myself on leaden feet. I work six days a week, twelve hours a day. I earn $1.00 each week. The air is thick with cotton dust. Nobody talks anymore; we keep our mouths covered but that doesn’t stop the coughing. I have no time or energy for anything else. I’m sixteen and feel like I’m sixty.

Carry myself with doom. I’m coughing up blood now and see nothing in my future except dying in the mill. I think I’ll just walk into the river and never come out.

Carry my dead body to the graveyard. I was only sixteen and my name was Betsy.

NAR © 2021

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SCREAMING OUT FOR HELP

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It was 7:00 AM when Jason Peterson’s cell rang. Reaching for the phone he saw the call was from Dr. Philip Zane. Jason froze. How long had it been since he last heard from Dr. Zane – twelve, possibly thirteen years? He hoped never to hear from him again. With great reluctance he answered the call.

“Dr. Zane. It’s been a long time. I assume there’s been a development.” Jason said with a strange combination of indifference and dread.

“Yes, Jason. Your father is showing signs of coming out of his coma. Considering the circumstances, I thought you’d want to be here when he wakes up” was the doctor’s response.

The only news Jason wanted to hear was that his father was finally dead. But no! The bastard refused to give up without a fight, damn him! Calming himself, Jason said “Thank you for the update, doctor. Please let me know when my father is fully conscious. ‘Considering the circumstances’ as you said, I want to be the first person to see my father when he‘s conscious. I’m sure you understand. Goodbye.”

Gregory Peterson had been in a coma ever since Jason bashed in his head that night of unspeakable horror in the Peterson house.

Jason was only fifteen when he called the police in a state of panic screaming out for help. His family was dead, butchered by his father, Gregory. When the police arrived at the house, they discovered four people savagely murdered, an unconscious man crumpled on the floor and Jason locked in the basement. The victims were taken to the morgue, the injured man transported to a high security hospital and Jason brought down to the police station.

The detectives sat in stunned silence as Jason described the events of that night:

“I was at Mike and Dan Kelly’s house smoking weed. Mike and Dan got really stoned and passed out around 1:00 so I left. When I got home I found everybody dead. My grandma and little brother Jake were tied to chairs. They’d both been shot in the head. My mom and sister Janice were on the sofa. They were naked and beaten so bad I could barely recognize them. They’d been raped, too. My dad just stood in the middle of the room, staring straight ahead like a crazed animal. He was clutching a huge bloody wrench.

Then he saw me and snapped to life. He came at me like a wild man swinging that wrench. All I could do was run, try to get out of his way. I stumbled and fell on top of Janice. Her blood was all over me and I scrambled away as fast as I could. I saw the gun on the floor and dove for it. I pointed it at my dad but it jammed. I threw the gun at him and he lunged at me but the wrench slipped out of his hands. I grabbed it and swung at him. He was gonna kill me, too, just like he killed all of them. I had to do something to protect myself so I bashed him over the head. I hit him pretty hard and he went down. I dropped the wrench and ran to the basement. I locked myself in and called 911. It was horrible, a nightmare. How could he do something so awful?”

And he broke down, sobbing.

After checking out Jason’s story with the Kellys, the police saw no reason to detain him. The dead were buried, Jason moved in with relatives and Gregory languished in a coma. The years went by.

Three days after the call from Dr. Zane, Jason heard from him again. Gregory was conscious and speaking but repeating only one word: “Jason”.

It was evening at the hospital, that twilight time when patients sleep and hospital staff chat quietly. A bored policeman sat outside Gregory’s room, dozing. He checked Jason’s visitor’s pass, did a cursory pat-down and told him he could go in. Gregory was asleep, neatly tucked in and handcuffed to the bed rails. In the dim light he looked old and frail. Jason flipped the switch flooding the room with light.

Abruptly awakened, Gregory mumbled his disapproval. Approaching the bed Jason could see the apprehension in his father’s eyes as he focused on his son’s sneering face.

Bending close so that their faces were just inches apart, Jason whispered menacingly “I wish you died that night, old man, just like everyone else. I should have finished you off. That was sloppy of me. Think how much easier if would have been without having this to deal with all these years. Well, we can’t have you spilling the beans now, can we?” Jason removed his cell phone from his pocket, the same one he used to call the police that grisly night. Smugly he thought how stupid the police were not asking to see his phone. It was laughable but then again his performance down at the station was magnificent. By the time he was finished every cop wanted to hug him and make all the terrifying images go away. Smugly he showed his father one selfie after the other; each one was of Jason standing over the bodies of his family, his victims. The final images were graphic videos of Jason raping his mother and sister. Too bad their mouths were taped shut; he would have love to have heard their screams.

With each photo Jason grinned as Gregory became more and more agitated, his breathing labored and his eyes bugging as his face turned crimson. He opened his mouth to cry out but only silence filled the room.

“What a shame to remove such works of art” Jason said as he deliberately deleted each photo, unfazed by the fact that Gregory was in extreme distress. He smiled coldly as his father died before his eyes. If only he could have bashed in his head just one more time.

Slipping into character, Jason strolled to the door of his father’s room and flung it open, screaming out for help.

NAR © 2021

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KATHMANDU DÉJÀ VU

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

The other day I got some news that threw me for a loop;
I felt like a headless chicken running ‘round the chicken coop.

You see, I met this awesome guy who made me lose my mind.
A handsome man so witty and sexy can be awful hard to find.

We both had friends from childhood days who knew us oh so well.
They figured if we two hooked up we’d get along rather well.

My friend called me and his called him and we agreed upon a date
To meet at Charlie’s Ribs and Ale next Friday night at eight.

Well, I was pretty keen on the idea of meeting someone new;
The last few dates I had were dull as hell and that would never do

See, I’m the kind of girl who likes to go out and have some fun.
A couple of hours with some boring dude would have me on the run.

I’m really not high maintenance, I just need some stimulation;
The kind that gets my juices flowing and speeds up my circulation.

I know you know what I’m referring to; I can see it in your eyes.
I want a man who knows what’s what, the hows and the whens and the whys.

So, there we were at Charlie’s just waiting for our dates
When in walked these two cool guys and I could barely wait.

They came straight to our table and I knew right off the bat
This blue-eyed, bearded devil was a curious kind of cat.

He looked at me and I at him and our eyebrows began to rise;
When we thought perhaps we knew each other almost all our lives.

We’d no idea that this blind date would not be so blind at all
For although we thought we knew each other we couldn’t quite recall.

In fact, we never took the time to even learn each other’s names.
Our paths crossed countless times before as kids playing kiddie games.

Yes, we were nameless friends in school in days from way back when.
We went to games and dances, seeing each other now and then.

We attended the same college where we learned a thing or two
But we never said “Hey, what’s your name? I think I may know you!”

Now here we were having loads of fun, hitting it off like two peas in a pod;
But the incredible fact that we sorta knew each other was really very odd. 

The night flew by, we ate and drank; this guy could talk the talk
And deep inside my womanly mind I knew he could walk the walk.

So, I took a wild chance and asked him to come back to my place;
He looked at me, eyes twinkling and a roguish grin upon his face.

We tried to act all nonchalant, no need to rush the night.
He said he was a poet; I said “No kidding? I like to write!”

We sat real close on my old couch and he said “Tell me, what’s your sign?”
I turned to him, said “Pisces” and he said “Yeah? That’s the same as mine!”

He wove his fingers through my hair and slowly pulled back my head.
I opened my mouth and licked my lips saying “Take me to my bed.”

We started slow, real nice and easy, just feeling each other out
But it didn’t take long before both of us were doing the ‘Twist and Shout’.

This went on the whole night long; he was quite the voracious lad.
I was his match and he was mine and none of it was bad.

We spent the next few days together; we got along really great.
He told me his name was Kevin and I told him my name was Kate.

He said he lived in Baltimore now but was born in Kathmandu.
His eyes nearly popped out his head when I said “What! I was too!”

Things were really getting eerie now; we both knew this was bizarre
Especially when we simultaneously said “On March 10th at Paropakar!”

Now hold on, wait just a damn minute; how could this possibly be?
We were born in the same hospital on the same day in 1983!

Our piercing eyes stared at each other as we silently sipped our tea.
Who was going to ask the next question? Was it me or possibly he?

I grabbed the bull by the horns and asked him “What’s your mom’s name?”
He lowered his cup rather slowly and replied “Why, it’s Germaine.”

I heaved an enormous sigh of relief which proved to be premature
Cos he was adopted, his birth mom was Faye, of that he was quite sure.

I bolted straight upright and nearly fainted as I screamed “No way!“
For you see, I was adopted, too, and my birth mom’s name was Faye!

Now this is no laughing matter, dear readers, for I’d just had me a night like no other
Who turned out to be to my shock and dismay my long-lost fraternal twin brother!

NAR © 2021

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GUEST POST: TWICE AS SLOW AS MOLASSES

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

TODAY I AM FEATURING A NEW GUEST ON MY SITE – ROBERT CAMPBELL. HIS POEM IS ONE OF THOSE PIECES THAT REACHES INTO YOUR CHEST, GRABS ONTO YOUR HEART AND WON’T LET GO. IT PIERCES THE SOUL AND WRIGGLES INTO THE BRAIN TO MAKE YOU FEEL AND THINK AND PRAY FOR CHANGE. THIS POWERFUL HOMAGE TO ALL WOMEN EVERYWHERE IS APPROPRIATE AND NECESSARY EVERY DAY, PARTICULARLY NOW AS WE CELEBRATE MOTHER’S DAY. THANK YOU, ROBERT, FOR ACKNOWLEDGING THE PLIGHT OF WOMEN AROUND THE WORLD. IT’S AN HONOR TO SHARE MY SPACE WITH YOU.

AND THE MUSE CAME AGAIN AND SAID,

“Bard, Mother’s Day is this Sunday. It
should make us ponder how our mothers
lived and died to determine if our society
should look for ways for it to improve in
regard to their welfare from the cradle to
the grave, improvements in areas such
as education, gender equality, and health care.”

AND THE BARD REPLIED,
“It would be wonderful if we would all so
ponder and make vast improvements.”

How Can You Call Yourself a Woman

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you weren’t molested when you were young,
And you haven’t been told by everyone,
That you are ugly, boring, fat, and dumb.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been asked to be nice,
Or reminded to keep your nose clean,
And not have to be told anything twice.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been taught how to cook,
To get up at four in the morning,
And be pretty for all who want to look.

How can you call yourself a woman
If you have never been told a lie,
And how you must learn to live with it,
To suck it up, and never ever cry.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you were not raped on your first date;
And then hear all others blame you for it,
And say, “Some bring about their own fate.”

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you weren’t screwed on your wedding day,
And then got to find out soon thereafter,
You were forever in a family way.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you have never done no child care,
If you have never scrubbed a dirty neck,
Or gotten crap out of soiled underwear.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been told a million lies:
Or if you’ve never had to believe them,
Or in a bunch of feeble alibis.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never gone to Sunday School,
And had to hear all of the Brothers say,
“Be like us and practice the Golden Rule.”

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never forgiven everyone,
For each of their cruel and hateful acts,
And for everything else they have done.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never had a dreadful disease,
And never gotten help from anyone,
Unless you begged for it on bended knees.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you have never died all alone,
And have felt oh so grateful for it,
And had “At Rest” etched on your tombstone.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

Copyright 2016 The Bard & Mrs. Bard R. Campbell

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A HIGHER BEING

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Quick. When was the last time in the past 16 months you felt truly happy, safe from the perils all around, free to travel, visit your family or even simply take a walk? 

Oh, there were happy days but they were few and fleeting. For me and my husband it was the day our grandchild was born. I remember anxiously arriving at White Plains Hospital to meet our precious granddaughter. She, an innocent, peaceful, beautiful little soul completely dependent on family for every aspect of her life. We saw her exactly twice in the hospital before she was whisked away to the safety of her loving home. That was February 2020, just as COVID hit, and we didn’t see her again until May. We were among the lucky ones; in light of what was about to unfold, three months was nothing.

Think back to the time you brought your first baby home. Many of us had the wise and caring help of our parents to guide us and pitch in when we needed encouragement or just a break. We had friends to run to the store for formula or diapers, family to help cook meals and do the laundry. 

Now imagine as first-time parents bringing your baby home and you are stricken with an unknown and dangerous virus. That’s what happened to our son and his wife. They couldn’t believe what was happening to them but being a doctor herself, our daughter-in-law had to face reality; they obviously contracted COVID while she was in the hospital. She broke out in a cold, damp sweat fearing the worst, praying for the best. New parents, both sick with what was now categorized as a pandemic; could anything be more horrifying? Would they be ok? Would the baby be ok? Would they survive when so many around them were dying?

Thankfully they had mild cases of this scourge that raged like wildfire from north to south and east to west. They managed to get by while masked family members delivered bags of groceries and supplies, rang the bell and left. Our son would hold the baby up to the window as we waved and blew kisses, mouthing the words “I love you“. We would make the slow walk back to our car and cry – heartbroken that we couldn’t be with them yet thankful that – so far – we were all well. We all found ourselves praying more than ever before. Our son and his wife made it through the most terrifying period of their lives. They regained their health, the baby thrived and their faith was strengthened.

Finally that day in May arrived when we all agreed that our isolationist lifestyle and carefulness allowed us to visit our granddaughter. We were overcome with joy and thankfulness. There were more than a few tears shed that day.

As time went by how many people lost their businesses, homes, jobs, loved ones or their own lives? And through all this I am constantly reminded that there is a higher being protecting us. If we lose sight of that, we lose everything.

Our healthy son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter

NAR © 2021

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WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬


WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Children are a blessing, a fact no one is denying.
They come into our quiet lives all wrinkly and a-crying. 

Parenthood’s a heavy task you never learned in school
And if you think it’s easy then you’re just a God-damn fool. 

You take them home as newborns not knowing what to do.
Warm their bottles, wash their clothes and clean up all their poo. 

Those little babes can tire you out and run you in the ground
And when bedtime rolls around you pray their sleep is sound. 

You do the very best you can to teach them right from wrong
And feed them milk and vegetables to grow up big and strong.

Some kids are such a pleasure, they warm their mother’s hearts.
All they do is such a joy; you can’t even smell their farts! 

They do their chores, their homework, too, and never answer back
And when it’s time to go to bed they jump right in the sack. 

Then there are the nasty ones who don’t do what they’re taught.
Like Harry Potter’s nemesis they act like Lord Voldemort. 

They’re mean to all the other kids like a dog without its bone,
A bunch of little shits who make life miserable at home.

They say that kids learn from their folks to live a proper life
So try to fill your child’s world with happiness, not strife.

And don’t forget in sixty years-time, give a year or two
It’s your kids who’ll be feeding you and cleaning up your poo! 

NAR © 2021

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SOMEWHERE THERE’S A KILLER

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It was a beautifully warm Saturday afternoon in East Hampton, New York. The sun was glistening off the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, waves just the perfect height for surfers in early Spring. A few people sat on beach chairs basking in the glow while others wandered through the chic little town looking in boutique shop windows and stopping for a latte. 

The scene inside the exclusive beach house on Oceanview Drive, however, was quite a contrast to the glorious panorama outdoors. It was nothing short of gruesome. 

Inside that house lay wealthy divorcée Linda Myers Bronson, sprawled out on her kitchen floor. Judging by the impressive crossbow bolt protruding from the middle of her chest and the copious amount of blood on the gleaming Italian marble floor beneath her, she was most definitely dead. 

The police showed up after being notified by Linda’s friend, June Parker Singleton. Apparently Linda failed to show up for their usual Friday lunch at ’The Palms’. June said she’d been trying to reach Linda since then but all her calls and texts went unanswered. 

Nothing looked out of place in Linda’s house – no sign of a struggle, robbery, forced entry or even a shattered window. The police were certain Linda was killed by either someone she knew or allowed in. 

Linda’s cell phone was on the kitchen table; police checked messages and calls but there was nothing even remotely unusual or suspicious. Then they discovered a landline phone with a recording machine on a bookshelf in the study. A little red light was blinking, indicating there were messages. The detective in charge, Tony Collins, was anxious to hear what was on that machine. 

There was the usual greeting recorded by Linda followed by a message from the landscapers letting her know they’d be planting the new arborvitaes on Monday. Another message from the local jeweler informed Linda that her pearl necklace had been restrung and she could stop by at her convenience. 

Detective Collins listened to the next message but it was Linda speaking: 

“This is Linda Myers Bronson. I need a job done.”  

Silence. The detective pushed the play button and Linda’s voice came on again: 

“What does it matter how I got your number? You were highly recommended and I’m willing to pay top dollar.” 

Again all was quiet before Linda spoke: 

“Please, I don’t need to know about your various equipment; that means nothing to me as long as everything’s done right. It must be taken care of quickly.” 

The pattern of conversation continued in the same manner with only Linda’s voice on the recordings. It didn’t take a genius to realize that for some bizarre reason the comments from the person she was talking to had been deleted. Two questions remained: who was Linda talking to and why was their part of the discussion deleted? The detective continued listening:

“Yes, that price is fine. The cost doesn’t concern me. I understand; cash only.” 

“A date? Well, as I mentioned before, as quickly as possible.” 

“Oh, that soon!” 

“No, that’s not a problem. I’ll be home.” 

“The address is 7 Oceanview Drive in East Hampton. What time will you be here?” 

“I don’t care if your other clients are okay with a two-hour window. I want to know the exact time you’ll be here.” 

“Oh, and use the rear entrance into the kitchen. I don’t want my rugs getting dirty.” 

Detective Collins listened to the recordings again, unable to hear even a trace of sound between Linda’s comments. “I want this tape machine bagged and brought down to headquarters”  he barked. 

“Hey, Detective” one of the cops called out. “You might want to take a look at this. I found this folder in the victim’s desk.” 

The folder contained medical records and reports from Linda’s doctor. 

Collins whistled, slapping the folder against his hand. “Well, I’ll be damned. According to these reports it looks like our victim was practically dead already. She had cancer everywhere and about two weeks to live.” Closing the folder the detective added “Looks like she decided to end it all and hired somebody to take her out. A classic case of suicide by murder.” 

Returning to the kitchen Collins took a close look at the bolt still sticking out of Linda’s chest. Common, no distinguishing marks, available in any hunting or sporting goods store. He’ll have forensics go over this baby with a fine-tooth comb. After all, somewhere there’s a killer.

“Goddamn! I gotta admit it. This lady had some set of balls!”

NAR © 2021

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GUEST POST: LOVED BY AN ANGEL

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

SOMETIMES IT’S BEST NOT TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A GUEST POST; DOING SO WOULD SIMPLY TAKE AWAY FROM THE INTENSITY AND BEAUTY OF A PIECE. TO EXPLAIN SUCH A PERSONAL MEMORY WOULD BE A DISSERVICE. I KNOW YOU WILL BE QUITE TAKEN BY THIS POEM WRITTEN BY MY DEAR FRIEND, PAUL GRIFFITHS – THE BIRKENHEAD POET. THANK YOU, PAUL, FOR ALLOWING ME TO SHARE IT HERE. ❤️

I loved her with a vengeance that even the devil failed to understand.
For her I would have gladly sold my soul and for eternity be damned.
She was worth crossing the great divide, the line drawn in the sand.
I’d have broken every commandment and dismissed God out of hand.

My angel who became a mortal and turned her back on heaven above.
Such things are worth the sacrifice if it’s done in the name of love.
When her wings were clipped she did not cry out or complain.
She said to feel true love for just an instant was worth any amount of pain.

I never knew why she would do such a thing, falling for a wretch like me.
She told me, when she looked into my eyes she saw what others failed to see.
To become a mortal woman yet my goddess to me was still held as divine.
I worshiped her with all my heart with a love that transcended time.

I think God punished us by punishing her for abandoning him for me.
God might be omnipotent but I think he got stung by that green eyed jealousy.
She made her choice and she fell in love and it was her free will.
But now she became vulnerable to human traits and my angel fell ill.

God now turned his back on her, as I turned my back on him.
She told me not to go to war with God, it was a battle we couldn’t win.
I told her I was sorry that she ever fell in love with a wretch like me.
She said she would not change a thing that our love was meant to be.

I have yet to face God’s wrath when we finally meet eye to eye.
He’d better beg for my forgiveness; why did he let her die.
For she held heaven in her eyes and a look of love so clear.
If the devil awaits me then I shall enter hell without a hint of fear.

I don’t know if I was blessed to fall in love or is love but a curse.
To be loved an angel briefly then to lose her, what scenario is worse?
God only knows the answer and he ain’t talking to a fool like me.
So I guess I’m damned to walk alone, and if so then it shall be.

PTG © copyright

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HIS MOTHER’S LOVE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“Fish” Mulally didn’t come by that nickname accidentally. There’s a good reason: there wasn’t another man who looked more like a cold-blooded vertebrate animal with scales, gills and fins than “Fish”. Radical as it may sound, it’s not an insult; it’s a fact.

Born in 1959, Brendan Mulally was one of those tragic thalidomide babies. His mother Maeve suffered terribly from morning sickness and took the unapproved drug during her pregnancy. She’d heard rumors about the anti-nausea medication being dangerous, possibly resulting in abnormalities to the fetus, but Maeve’s doctor assured her the drug was safe. The moment she gave birth, the delivery room fell silent. The only sound was Brendan’s whimpering.

Maeve knew immediately something was wrong and pleaded to see her baby. The doctor walked to the head of the bed and told her the baby was malformed and it would probably be best if she didn’t see him, but Maeve was of hardy Irish Catholic stock and demanded the baby be brought to her. A nurse gently cleaned Brendan, wrapped him in a blanket and put a little bonnet on his head. With sorrow in her eyes, she reluctantly handed the baby to Maeve.

Even though Brendan’s eyes were closed Maeve could see they were large and protruding. His face was long, his lips flabby. With trembling hands she removed the baby’s cap and drew in a startled breath. Where there should have been hair there were scales – massive amounts of tiny shimmering bony plates overlapping one another. His right arm and hand were covered in the same thin scales. Summoning all her courage Maeve carefully unfolded the swaddling; at first glance her baby appeared perfectly normal and she tenderly placed her hands beneath his back to lift him to her breast. It was then that she felt the two small fins sticking out of his shoulder blades.

The doctor spoke softly. “Maeve, I know this must be a shock to you but surely you realize your baby will not thrive. I suggest we call the hospital chaplain to perform the sacrament of baptism while we still have time.” Maeve silently nodded in agreement and the priest was summoned. At least now little Brendan would go on to heaven and not languish in Limbo with other unbaptized babies.

Maeve insisted that Brendan be placed in a bassinet next to her bed instead of the hospital nursery; she didn’t trust the doctors and nurses and wanted to keep her baby close. The doctor rambled on about going against hospital policy but Maeve would not back down; begrudgingly the staff acquiesced.

Maeve’s husband Patrick paced impatiently with other expectant fathers in the hospital waiting room. He toyed with the packs of cigars in his pocket, looking forward to proudly passing them out to his friends. Finally his name was called and he was allowed to see his wife and meet their baby. The nurse gave Patrick no information other than to say his wife had delivered a boy.

Patrick entered his wife’s room, his face beaming with joy. He kissed her forehead tenderly then turned his attention to his son sleeping in the bassinet. With eyes wide in shock and disbelief, Patrick flinched and recoiled.

“Holy Christ! Saints preserve us!” he exclaimed. “This is the work of the devil! He’ll not be coming home with us!”

Maeve was not surprised by Patrick’s reaction; he was an arrogant and inflexible man. It would take much convincing on her part to bring him around; however, Patrick was imlaccable and stormed out of the room. Maeve never saw him again. The first night home alone with her newborn son, Maeve knelt before the statue of St. Brigid and prayed for courage and patience.

Despite the doctor’s opinion, Brendan grew strong and healthy under his mother’s loving care. Maeve made sure he wore a cap and glove to conceal his scales but there was no hiding his face. Brendan was bullied relentlessly and everyone called him “Fish” but he never caved under the pressure. He gave as good as he got and eventually earned respect and notoriety.

Brendan’s fighting skills were impressive and he caught the eye of crime boss James “The Prophet” O’Neill who asked him to become his bodyguard. Brendan accepted the job with one condition: for his mother’s sake, he would never take another person’s life.

O’Neill respected Brendan’s devotion to his mother and agreed to his request. “Fish” Mulally made Maeve proud until her last breath.

NAR © 2021

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WHEN IN ROME

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“Name?” the incredibly bored girl working at the pizzeria asked me indifferently. It was clear she’d rather be doing anything other than doling out food orders. She gave a cursory glance at her clipboard.

“Nancy” I replied hoping my order had been received.

“No kidding?” the suddenly animated young woman said loudly, slapping her hand on the counter and grinning broadly. “That’s my grandmother’s name! You don’t hear that name much these days. What year were you born in?”

It wasn’t really any of her business but I reluctantly told her anyway. This was a new place in my neighborhood in Rome, New York so I tried to play nice.

“Get outta town!” she exclaimed, startling half the people in the place. “Same year as my grandma, too! What are the odds?” she cackled.

I gritted my teeth at the public announcement that I was as old as this girl’s granny. “Little twit” I said to myself.

“Well, Miss Nancy, your food ain’t quite ready yet. Just plop yourself down in one of those booths and I’ll bring it over.”

Plop? I may be old enough to be this bimbo’s grandmother but I definitely do not plop!

I found an empty booth, slid in and looked around the pizzeria. There was a hideously unappealing statue of a she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, framed photos of Frank Sinatra, Pope John XXIII and Christopher Columbus. On the far wall was a large mural of a ship with “Nina” emblazoned across the bow – no doubt an homage to the restaurant which was called “Nina’s Place”. The decor was tacky and stereotypical.

There was a sudden pounding on the back of my seat and I turned around to see two toddlers bouncing around their booth, a sullen child of about four years of age, a crying infant in a carriage and a woman, obviously their mother, at her wits end. Food, spilled drinks and toys were everywhere. The woman looked at me, her eyes pleading “Kill me now!” I half-smiled sympathetically at her.

I thought about changing seats but just then the pizza girl arrived with my food.

“Here ya go, Fancy Nancy! One caprese salad with grilled chicken and a Diet Coke. If you don’t mind my saying so, you look really good for a gal your age.”

I blinked a few times, unsure if I should say “Thank you” or “Kindly go the fuck away”. I chose the former which she took as an invitation to join me as I ate!

“So, anyway, my grandma – she’s named after Frank Sinatra’s song ‘Nancy With the Laughing Face’ ” pizza girl said, pointing to the photo of the legendary singer. “Are you, too?”

“No, I’m not. It’s a long story” I explained.

“Ooh, I love me a good story! I wanna hear all about it. But first I gotta make sure Mr. Rizzo doesn’t cheat me outta my tip, that old miser! Be right back, Nance.”

I cringed; only a select few called me by my nickname.

“Take your time” I replied. It looked like it was going to be a long lunch. I really should have ordered the wine!

NAR © 2021

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MARCH MADNESS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It was one of those rare March snowstorms, the kind that sneaks up on you after a couple of really nice spring-like days.

Our boys were super excited to see the unexpected snow and ran out to build a snowman. Just as soon as they got outside, the girls who live in the house across the street came out and started building a snow-woman.

The boys decided their snowman would be a basketball player. They packed snow into a pair of shorts, slipped a LeBron James jersey over the figure, stretched a headband across the forehead and placed a basketball on the ground as the finishing touch.

The girls dressed their snow-woman in a cute little cheerleader’s outfit, boots and pompoms for arms. They used blue buttons for her eyes and Twizzlers strawberry licorice for her smile. 

The ’snow couple’ looked fantastic all decked out in their costumes and the neighbors came outside to take photos. It was a really fun day for everyone.

Well, it must have warmed up considerably during the night because the next morning both the snowman and snow-woman had melted.

The strange thing, though, was the inexplicable trail in the snow that led from our house to the house across the street. And strewn about the last remnants of snow were a discarded jersey, shorts, pompoms and cheerleader’s uniform.

There was just a little bit left of the snow-woman’s head but that gal was still sporting a huge strawberry smile!

NAR © 2021

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TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Lighted gardenia-scented candles flickered throughout the Brevard Jewish Community Temple. I grew up in Brevard, North Carolina but moved to San Francisco at the age of 17 to “find myself“. After 20–plus years and still not certain who I truly was, I felt the time had come to revisit my hometown. 

It all began after reading an article in the Transylvania County Times about BJCT which my dear friend Marsha sent me; a few of the lines truly resonated with me: 

“It is good to enter into the spirit of the Sabbath, a time in which our personal concerns drop away for a few hours and we get a sense of the larger meaning of life and fellowship, one unconcerned with wealth or occupation or standing. That is what Shabbat can do – take us to a place of repose, equality, community and perhaps even peace of mind.” 

After my catastrophic marriage, peace of mind sounded like an impossible quest. Once my decision to return to Brevard was made, I called Marsha; she met me at the airport and our first stop was the temple. Services were already in progress so we sat in the back listening to the tranquil beauty of the ancient Hebrew chants. 

Hearing the cantor’s resonant voice I realized it was familiar to me. I opened my eyes to see who was singing but my view was obstructed by a woman’s enormous hat. “I know that voice.” Glancing down at my program I saw a name that made my heart pound: ‘Arthur Rosen’.  So much time had gone by but his name still warmed my blood. ‘’The one that got away’’, as the saying goes, when in actuality he was the one I pushed away. 

As the people were leaving the temple, Marsha and I stopped to chat with Arthur; I wondered if he sensed my heart and mind were racing. He was as handsome as I remembered – a little grayer and sporting a closely-cropped beard which added to his rugged charm. His blue eyes were still captivating, his smile warm and inviting. I couldn’t help noticing he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. 

“Lois Efron! You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you after all these years! If I may say, you look radiant!” Arthur exclaimed. Truly happy to see me, he clasped my hands in his. 

No embraces, no awkward kiss on the cheek – just genuine pleasure in seeing me again. 

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Arthur – an especially nice surprise.” 

He asked me what I’d been doing all this time and laughed when I told him “I was on the road to find out.” 

“Aren’t we all, Lois?” he asked. “Tell me; were you victorious?” 

Now it was my time to laugh, saying “Oh, no! Not at all!” 

“Well, then, you must persevere!” Arthur replied with an engaging smile. 

We said our goodbyes and I realized we were still holding hands. I suddenly remembered those many nights we held hands listening to “Tea for the Tillerman”.

Marsha slid behind the wheel of her car and I casually asked “So, when were you going to tell me Arthur was still living here?” 

“Would you have come if I did?” and I found I honestly didn’t know the answer. “Lois, before we go to lunch I’d like to show you something.”

As we rode through the downtown area I was shocked by how much it had changed since I left. It was now dynamic and vibrant with eclectic stores, charming restaurants and lively pubs. Marsha parked the car, walked to a store and unlocked the door. 

“Wait a second. Is this YOUR store?” I asked.

“Founder and owner” Marsha replied proudly. “What? Don’t sound so surprised! Welcome to Theophilus – a little bit of everything for the discriminating client.” 

We were no longer in Brevard; this was a taste of the exotic Middle East. Gorgeous Persian rugs adorned the floors, hookahs, statues, belly dancing skirts bedecked with crystals, finger cymbals, lanterns, perfumes, jewelry boxes, coffee, almonds, candied dates and so much more filled the store. 

“Do you like it?” Marsha asked excitedly. 

“It’s magical, Marsha. I love it!” I responded, looking around in amazement. 

“And look” Marsha said, gently guiding me toward the front window. “See that blue house across the street? Arthur lives there … very much alone. I’m sure he’d warmly welcome your company.”

I smiled knowingly at my friend; she understood me like no one else.

Yes, I think I’d found my way home. 

NAR © 2021

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OUR LITTLE TRYSTS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“Given. Frank Given. Suite 412. Please check again” I implored the unfamiliar desk clerk at the Pierre Hotel. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no one registered here by that name.” The young man behind the desk looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment and pity. 

“You must be mistaken” I replied quietly. 

“There’s no mistake, ma’am. There isn’t even a reservation for a Frank Given. Perhaps you have the wrong hotel” the clerk suggested, trying to give me a way out. 

Well, of course I didn’t have the wrong hotel! Frank and I had been meeting at the Pierre the second weekend of every month for three years. I noticed two female clerks huddled in the corner looking in my direction and chattering conspiratorially. My face turned red knowing they were talking about me. 

I checked my phone for any texts or missed calls from Frank; there were none. Rather than stay in the lobby looking distraught and abandoned, I walked into the lounge and ordered a martini. 

I sipped my drink and absentmindedly fingered the outline of the crest of the Pierre Hotel on the cocktail napkin. From where I sat I had a clear view of the front desk on the left and the entrance on East 61st Street on the right. I’d be able to see Frank the moment he arrived. 

After thirty minutes and two martinis I began feeling paranoid. It was painfully obvious, at least to me, that everyone who saw me sitting by the bar thought I was either an elegant call girl just past her prime or a now lonesome and tedious woman who had been stood up. 

Now in a state of semi-panic, I took my phone out again and texted Frank. I stared at the screen waiting for an answer which would offer a perfectly understandable and forgivable explanation. 

Feigning nonchalance, I called Frank’s cell; it went straight to voicemail. Laughing flirtatiously, I left a message proving to no one in particular that all was right in my crumbling world. 

My mind drifted back to that night when Frank and I first met. We shared a taxi and instead of continuing to my apartment, I accepted Frank’s invitation for a late dinner at the Pierre. One thing led to another as it often does and we spent the night together. A fling turned into a romance. 

I became aware of someone approaching. Expecting to see Frank, I looked up, smiling; it was the concierge. Whispering discreetly, he handed me a note. It read: “Dearest Christine. I have treasured our little trysts but now we must go our separate ways. Farewell. Frank” 

“Our little trysts!” I was shattered. 

Just like that, as suddenly as it began it was over. Looking straight ahead, I gracefully walked out of the hotel. After buying a bag of roasted nuts from a vendor on the corner, I walked over to Central Park. I sat on a bench feeding the pigeons, thinking of everything and nothing.  

NAR © 2021

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WHY?

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

There wasn’t anything particularly special about the guy; he was actually rather ordinary looking but something made me uneasy. He just stood near the entrance, silently watching.

It was the usual Wednesday morning story time in the children’s room of the Lansing Library. Parents running errands could drop off their kids knowing they’d be safe and well-cared-for. The children listened intently as I read “The Adventures of Frog and Toad“.

I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable vibe I was getting from that guy. I caught the eye of my assistant, Grace, and with a slight tilt of my head I motioned toward the man. She glanced over and casually made her way across the room.

With cautious confidence Grace walked up to him and in a quiet but stern tone said “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain to me what you’re doing here”.

The man seemed rattled by Grace’s demand and stumbled over an apology. “I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t mean to alarm anyone. I’m here to pick up my son.”

“Oh, really? Who’s your son?” Grace asked.

The man replied “Nathan … Nathan Fletcher. I’m Jacob Fletcher. My wife Emily isn’t feeling well. She asked me to come fetch him. She’s pregnant, you know.”

“Yes, Emily. Of course! Such a lovely woman” Grace said. “Sorry to hear she’s ill. She seemed fine when she dropped Nathan off.”

“Yes, she was” Jacob agreed. “It’s the morning sickness; it really knocks her for a loop sometimes. Emily said she would notify library security that I’d be picking Nathan up.”

Before Grace had a chance to call the security desk to verify Mr. Fletcher’s story, Nathan spotted his father; the boy was overjoyed to see his dad and happily raced to greet him.

“Daddy! Daddy! I’m so glad to see you. Is Mommy here?” Jacob gave Nathan a big hug and scooped him up in his arms.

“Hi, buddy! Mommy’s resting. She asked me to come get you.”

“Yay! Can we get some ice cream? We can bring some to Mommy, too” Nathan asked, bubbling with excitement.

“Sure!” Jacob replied laughing. “C’mon! We better get going.”

Grace looked questioningly at me and I nodded in approval, smiling at the happy duo of father and son.

The two left, hand in hand, Nathan gleefully skipping along beside his dad. All was right in the library once again.

Later that night as I watched TV, the show was interrupted by a news bulletin:

“A police alert has been issued for the whereabouts of five-year-old Nathan Fletcher and his father, Jacob. The two were last seen leaving Longford’s Ice Cream on Lansing Street around 12:30 this afternoon. The body of Emily Fletcher, Jacob’s wife and the mother of Nathan, was found in the family’s home this evening by her sister. She had been stabbed to death. Mrs. Fletcher was six months pregnant. At this time police believe Jacob Fletcher is the only suspect in the murder of his wife, unborn child and the abduction of his son.”

I sat in abject horror staring at the TV screen; in the upper right corner of the screen was the face of the man I had seen in the library.

How could I have made such an unforgivable error in judgement? Oh my God! That poor woman! My heart froze when I thought of Nathan.

Why didn’t I follow my instincts?

NAR © 2021

Reposted for Fandango’s FOWC –  http://fivedotoh.com/2023/02/10/fowc-with-fandango-entrance/

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GUEST POST: TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

FINDING SOMETHING OR SOMEONE YOU TRULY CONNECT WITH IS A REAL TREAT AND THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I READ THIS DELIGHTFUL POEM BY PAUL GRIFFITHS, MY FRIEND FROM ACROSS THE POND. THE BEAUTY OF PAUL’S WRITING SPEAKS FOR ITSELF BUT THE FACT THAT THE POEM BROUGHT BACK MEMORIES OF PLACES IN MY OWN BACKYARD SUCH AS CONEY ISLAND AND ATLANTIC CITY MADE IT EVEN MORE SPECIAL. I’M SURE YOU’LL ENJOY “TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO” AS MUCH AS I DID. COME ALONG WITH ME ON A LITTLE VACATION. THANKS, PAUL!

New Palace Amusement Arcade

I’ll tell ya I love New Brighton.
Locally known as little San Tropez.
It’s a fantastic little place.
A place to while those hours away.

Just looking out across the Mersey.
Getting lost in life’s constant ebb and flow.
Hoping that my ship will come in.
Wondering where that ship may go.

Sailing off to the far horizon.
Disappearing beneath the setting sun.
Kid starts screaming at his fallen ice cream.
Then he starts screaming at his mum.

Snapped back to reality.
Right back to the here and now.
The ice cream man ducks for cover.
He reads the Mother’s mind somehow.

She grabs the cornet from her sobbing son.
Then she marches to the ice cream van.
For a moment there was a Mexican standoff
Between her and the ice cream man.

The kid got his 99 with raspberry sauce.
At the expense of a few expletives being said.
These New Brighton fish wives speak a strange local dialect
Unbeknown to us Posh folk from Birkenhead.

That’s why I love New Brighton.
There are so many things to see.
This little village is a hidden Pearl of a place
Nestled on the banks of the Great River Mersey.

I love the grand Art Deco design for the tuppenny arcade.
To be hit with that unmistakable smell of doughnuts freshly made.
Ticker tape parade of yellow tickets thousands of them in all
Gets you a paper aeroplane or a multi-coloured little bouncy ball.

New Brighton’s bygone days are over, those crazy golden years
Of grand ballrooms and iron towers, and sepia photos of the pier.
But that was a different time and time always shapes a place.
I guess that’s what makes New Brighton a special little space.

Grab a bag of fish and chips down by the seafront.
Take a healthy slow stroll along the prom.
Nod my head in respect for the Black Pearl.
Can’t believe it’s gone.

But the flotsam and jetsam is a gathering
Right where the Black Pearl used to be.
To be built on the bones of fallen pirates
Rising once again to sail the seven seas.

You see New Brighton is a magical place
Full of music, poetry and art.
I’ve even heard that you can find little fairies
Hiding in the woods somewhere down in Vale Park.

Or grab yourself a deckchair and hit the neo-classical bandstand.
Sit and listen to the little amphitheatre’s almost perfect wall of sound.
Chill and listen to some of the best of the local talent.
Bands come here to play from miles around.

Better still go and hit a pub, relax with a well earned beer.
Keep your eyes peeled for cut throat pirates or buxom buccaneers.
The pubs and taverns are all welcoming, easy come easy go.
.Just be patient with the yokels, some are just a little bit too slow.

But that’s the real beauty of New Brighton.
You slowly feel you’re traveling back in time.
And being a bit of a time traveler myself
I find that very concept in itself is absolutely fine.

So I’m not going abroad this year.
No, I’ll be going to little San Tropez.
Rhyl is so last year.
New Brighton is the future of local holidays.

We all like to escape to somewhere if only but for a day.
New Brighton is only up the road but it could be a million miles away.
I guess we all need a bit of a holiday, and with that being said,
I’ve Booked two weeks in Newbo for August, a mini break from Birkenhead.

PTG © copyright.

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GUEST POST: FORBIDDEN LOVE – PART 1: SEPARATED AS ONE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It is a thrill and a delight to post a story written by my 11-year-old granddaughter, Mckenna Richy. A smart, funny, talented and loving young lady, Mckenna can be just about whatever she wants to be in life, excelling in whichever profession she chooses. It’s obvious she’s already a very good writer! I’m extremely proud of her for writing this incredible love story. I hope we get to read Part II very soon!

“Hello.”

Jasper heard a voice. He looked up to see a girl angel about the same age as himself on the other side of the border. “Who are you?” he asked.

“The opposite of you” she responded.

“Yeah, I get that. I mean, where did you come from?” Jasper said.

“I came from my home on the side of the border that I am standing on” the girl replied.

“I’m Jasper” the boy angel said, hoping to make an unusual but true friend.

The girl angel smiled. “I’m Cameron.”

EIGHT YEARS LATER

“Cameron! Could you come here please?” called Cameron’s mother, the Queen of the Angels. Cameron walked down the hall of the palace and approached the throne room where her mother was seated.

“Yes, mother?” she said.

“I would like you to meet someone.” Her mother motioned to a boy angel about the same age as Cameron. “This is Alex. He will be your husband” her mother said.

Cameron was taken aback. “H-husband?” she weakly said. “Uh … can I use the restroom? I had a huge glass of dragon fruit juice!” and with that Cameron ran out of the throne room and flew out the window.

Cameron flew to the edge of the border, the place where she first met the love of her life, Jasper. She sat down near the edge and started crying.

“Cameron?” she heard Jasper say. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m really not, Jasper! I’m sorry” cried Cameron, “but I’m being forced to marry someone else – someone I don’t love!” Cameron continued to cry.

“Is there any way out of it?” Jasper asked, trying to help.

“None that I can see. I’m doomed!” Cameron whined.

“I’m so sorry, Cameron” said Jasper.

Cameron got up and stood on the edge of the border. “What’s to stop me from jumping over?” she quietly asked.

“Huh?” said Jasper. “If you jump to this side there’s no going back!”

“That’s the point” Cameron replied.

“You really want to be with me, don’t you?” Jasper asked.

“Yes, Jasper. I do” Cameron responded.

“I’ll be waiting for you” said Jasper.

Just as Cameron was about to jump, Alex came out of nowhere. “There you are! Everyone has been so worried about you!” he said.

Cameron was surprised to see him. “AHHH! How did you get here?!” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“Your mother sent me to find you. Besides, I would like to get to know my future wife” responded Alex.

“Yeah … no!” snapped Cameron.

“Well, get used to it. In two weeks you’ll be stuck with me forever” said Alex in a sarcastic tone.

“Well, as you can see I’m fine! Can you please leave? I’m trying to talk to someone who actually means something to me!” said Cameron.

“Ooh. He just got roasted” said Jasper quietly.

“Cameron, you’re friends with this monster?” asked Alex.

Cameron got angry. “He’s not a monster! I’m in love with him!” she firmly said and without thinking she pushed Alex away and jumped off the edge of her side of the border. When Cameron opened her eyes, Jasper was standing over her. “Jasper, did I do it?” she asked.

Jasper helped her up. “You did it, Cameron!” he said.

Cameron hugged Jasper without any care that Alex was watching from what used to be her home.

“What did you do to yourself?” asked Alex, as white as a ghost.

Cameron was confused. “What do you mean?” She looked at herself. She had wings and horns almost identical to Jasper’s and her blond hair had become as black as coal. “Looks like crossing over has some benefits” Cameron said with a grin.

Alex ran back to the castle, probably to tell Cameron’s mother that her daughter was now a demon. But Cameron couldn’t care less. She and Jasper were finally united. Cameron didn’t care what she looked like or what side of the world she was on.

And neither did Jasper.

MFR © 2021

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BEWARE THE MALOCCHIO

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Rule number one: When you meet your Italian girlfriend’s parents for the first time, which is usually for supper, don’t show up empty-handed. No matter how many times you hear “It’s-a no necessary for you to bring-a anything-a; just the pleasure of-a you company is enough-a”, you bring something.

Believe me, I learned that the hard way. Cara’s mamma insisted I not bring anything; her papa even said they would be insulted if I brought something. In his head, my bringing something meant they weren’t able to provide whatever was needed for a respectable meal.

I wasn’t raised that way. My southern belle of a mother brought her famous peach cobbler to every luncheon she attended. The thought of showing up without so much as a bunch of wildflowers was a cardinal sin.

So when I asked again for what must have been the fifteenth time what I could bring and was told “bring-a nothing”, I brought nothing.

Well, from the moment I arrived at Cara’s house all I got was the ‘malocchio’; as a joke Cara bought me a big red evil eye to hang from my rearview mirror. I didn’t think it was very funny.

When I asked Cara why she didn’t warn me, she said “Everybody knows ‘nothing’ means ‘something’!”

Cara and I have been married six years now. We have three beautiful kids and a nice house. Still, her parents refer to me as that “cheap sum-a-na-bitch-a” who brought nothing.

Go figure!

NAR © 2021

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SWEPT AWAY

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

The afternoon was damp and raw, sleet stinging my eyes. I huddled deeper into my parka, pulling the hood tighter over my head. As I waited at the busy Brooklyn intersection for the ‘walk’ signal, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman in the distance. It was just a brief sighting but she bore an uncanny resemblance to my late fiancé Maggie.

The woman’s clothes were nondescript – dark jeans, a silver puffer jacket and a knit scarf – but it was her black and silver sneakers and the all-too-familiar shock of flaming red hair blowing wildly in the wind that gave me pause. She ran up the front steps of a condo – the same apartment we shared for three years before Maggie died.

My mind raced back to the day of Maggie’s death. We were vacationing by Lake Michigan with our friends Jeff and Rachel. Looking for a bit of adventure we decided to go jet skiing, something new for all of us and rather dangerous considering the lake’s infamous rip tides, caves and groottoes. Feeling overly confident, we took off like the daredevils we were. We all fell off several times, laughing, but kept on going. It was an exhilarating experience.

Maggie was a gorgeous creature. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she rode the waves, her exquisite breasts barely contained in a tiny white bikini while crimson tresses whipped around her face like the tail of a dragon. She and Jeff were natural athletes and it was difficult for me and Rachel to keep up.

Rounding a bend in the lake, we were thrown off our skis by a large wave. I lost my bearings in the current and when my head finally emerged from the water, I spotted my jet ski and swam to it. Rachel wasn’t too far away, clinging to her craft, but Maggie and Jeff were nowhere in sight. Mounting our water bikes we began our search, frantically calling out their names as we scoured the area. Unable to locate them, we headed for shore and alerted the authorities. Maggie and Jeff’s jet skis were found but there was no trace of them. After two days the search was called off. Rachel and I had no choice but to accept they had been swept away.

After the accident I returned to New York but didn’t have the heart to stay in the condo where Maggie and I lived. I drove to our beach house in Amagansett, leaving the apartment untouched; I hoped one day to return when I summoned the courage.

Now I found myself back in Brooklyn staring at my old condo and seeing ghosts.

An overwhelming force drew me closer. Slowly I entered the building and climbed the stairs to my apartment. 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. I stood outside the door for what seemed a lifetime. My heart pounding, I raised my fist to knock on the door, then stepped back. Resolutely and silently I walked away.

NAR © 2021

Reposted for Sadje’s picture prompt on What do you see #164 December 12, 2022

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THE GET-AWAY

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It had been quite a long while since Rob and I had a chance to take a vacation, to escape the noise of the city to someplace remote and peaceful. Skiing sounded like a nice idea, a break after the uncomfortably 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 ten 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 sliver 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 noticed 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 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; maybe just a little rest before I continued.

NAR © 2021

Reposted for FFFC #197 hosted by Fandango

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ON THE WAY

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

David’s decision to flee the scene was fueled by fear, self-preservation and adrenaline. An electrical storm during the night wreaked havoc with the streetlights causing them to flash at indiscriminate intervals. Even though his was the only car on the dimly lit road, the strobe effect from the lights was haphazard and dangerously distracting. There were shadows looming everywhere; David never saw the cyclist cross his path.

The impact was powerful yet made only a quiet thud like the subtle reload of a gun’s magazine. The visual impression, however, was appalling. The tableau switched to slow motion; David watched in horror as a mangled body performed a ‘danse macabre’ across the hood of his car while musical phrases from “O Fortuna” screamed in his head. The cyclist soared through the air like an acrobat and landed in a twisted heap fifty feet or so from the car.

David sat motionless in his car; no other living creature was anywhere in sight. “What to do? What to do?” raced through his mind. He’d never had a car accident, not even a parking ticket. Now he had run someone down – an innocent cyclist. Was it a man or a woman? Surely this person would be missed by family and friends, perhaps his or her parents or – God forbid – their children. What a terrible fate, a horrible accident. Yes, David had a few drinks with friends after work, just a few; the alcohol had to be out of his system by now. But wait; the cyclist wore no reflective clothing, not even a warning light on the bike’s handlebars or wheels. Out cycling in the night, alone; wasn’t that tempting fate? Maybe they got what they deserved.

Slowly David opened the door and looked around; the deafening silence was pounding in his brain, the absence of people other-worldly. With measured steps he approached the crumpled body. A gentle push of his booted foot confirmed what he already suspected: the cyclist was dead. A battered helmet sat near the edge of the road; the bright orange and black ‘KTM’ emblem of the bicycle manufacturer in Austria stared at David accusingly. The longer he looked at the emblem the more he realized he had two choices: he could report the accident to the police and face the consequences or he could clean up this mess and get on with his life.

As he walked back to his car David knew what he had to do. A look at the front end showed very little damage, a small inconvenience he could deal with later. More pressing matters prevailed; first he had to extricate the bicycle from under his car. David sat in the driver’s seat, shifted the car into reverse and gently backed up. After a couple of seconds he could feel the car and the bicycle disengage.

The bike was a wreck but there wasn’t much debris on the road. Retrieving his jacket, David wrapped it around the top tube bar and carried the bike back to the dead cyclist. Taking a few steps away from the road he realized it would be easy to throw the bike over the edge, making it look like the cyclist had swerved off the road – if the body was ever found at all. He gave the bike a hefty toss and it disappeared onto the woods below. With his foot David then rolled the cyclist’s body and helmet down the hill.

David walked back to his car and broke off a low hanging branch from a tree which he used to sweep the road clear of any pieces of glass or metal. Getting back into the car, he turned on the radio and cranked up the volume; the song was Euclid’s “On the Way”, his favorite revolutionary political heavy metal band.

“Ok” David murmured to himself. “It’s all gonna be ok. Just one last thing. Got to take care of that little dent in the hood of my car.” David kept driving until he reached a busy gas station. He drove up to a pump, intentionally smacking into a metal barrier; witnesses could attest to the mishap.

David drove home feeling much more relaxed and confident. He reached for his jacket but it wasn’t there. His face went pale and he broke out in a cold sweat. Closing his eyes he could clearly see his jacket wrapped around the bicycle, his phone still in the pocket, as it made its final descent into the woods.

NAR © 2021

For Part 2, “When The Fog Rolls In“, please click here: https://wp.me/pc3LSm-1az

Uncategorized

CANDLE IN THE WINDOW

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

One of the first things I noticed about the house across the street was the candle in an upstairs window.

It was December 1980 – two weeks before Christmas – and we had just moved into our new home. My mom quickly located the boxes marked ‘CHRISTMAS LIGHTS’ and put my dad to work decorating outside. When he was done every house on the street was aglow except for the one with the solitary candle.

I was fascinated by that candle; it was lit twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When I told my dad I was afraid the house would burn down, he assured me that the candle was either electric or battery-operated; the ‘flame’ didn’t flicker and the candle never melted. That made me feel a lot better.

About a week later there was a knock on our front door. Mom answered and I scurried along behind her, anxious to see who was visiting us for the first time. Standing on the front porch was a chubby little old lady with silver hair, twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks and I couldn’t resist blurting out “Are you Mrs. Claus?” She chuckled a bit saying no, she was Mrs. Granger from across the street and had come to bring us an angel food cake as a welcoming gift. Mom introduced herself and invited Mrs. Granger inside but she declined saying “perhaps another time”. Before she left I told her my name was Eleanor and I had just turned ten on December 1. She smiled slightly at us but there was sadness in her eyes.

Mrs. Granger’s angel food cake sat on one of her beautiful Spode Christmas plates. Mom said we should return the plate on Christmas Day brimming with sugar cookies, which is exactly what we did. We rang the bell and mom apologized for showing up unannounced, adding that she hoped we weren’t interrupting her Christmas festivities.

“No, dear. Not at all. I was just preparing myself one of those frozen TV dinners – turkey, for a special treat.” Mom made polite small talk while I glanced around the living room. There wasn’t a single Christmas decoration in sight, not even a card. A fading ember in the fireplace made me think that Mrs. Granger was probably very lonely.

I suddenly found myself asking the question: “Mrs. Granger, why is there a candle in the window upstairs?”

Mom gave me a withering look as Mrs. Granger slowly walked to the sofa and slumped down. I felt awful when she started crying, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Mom sat next to her and held her hand, not speaking.

In hushed tones Mrs. Granger told us her story: she married late in life and was blessed with a son, Edward. Her husband died in an accident when Edward was three years old and she raised the boy by herself. When the U.S. entered the Vietnam War, Edward enlisted; he was declared MIA on December 1, 1970 and she hadn’t heard a word in the ten years since then. The candle in the window was her way of holding vigil for Edward, steadfastly waiting for any news. We sat together for a few minutes, then Mrs. Granger politely said she wanted to be alone. Silently we left. It was then that I understood why she looked so sad when I told her my birthday – the dreadful day her son went missing.

Two days later mom returned to Mrs. Granger’s. She apologized for the intrusion on Christmas Day and said we hoped she would join us for New Year’s Day dinner. Mrs. Granger said gently “No, dear. I haven’t celebrated a new year since Edward disappeared.”

All week I thought about Mrs. Granger. Our New Year’s Day table was set for three, sparkling with mom’s best dishes, silverware and crystal glasses. I sat in the bay window watching the lightly falling snow; then I noticed the candle in the window of Mrs. Granger’s house was not lit.

“Mom!” I gasped. “The candle is out.”

Mom, dad and I walked across the street on leaden feet. Mom rapped softly on the door; we could see a dim glow coming from the fireplace. One more knock and the door opened slightly; Mrs. Granger appeared, her face wet with tears.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Granger?” mom inquired with obvious concern in her voice.

“Oh, my dear! My mind has been preoccupied all day” she replied, her voice trembling. “You see, I received some news today.”

Mrs. Granger turned and walked back inside, leaving the door ajar; apprehensively we followed her. By the fireplace stood a smiling soldier; her long-lost son Edward had finally returned home.

Mrs. Granger

NAR © 2021