“Good morning, Sunshine! Did you notice the wildflowers? It’s like they sprang up overnight. Itβs awfully stuffy in here, don’t you think, Charlie? I’ll open the window a crack for some air if you promise to behave. One little yell from you and Iβll be forced to put your gag back in. Do you want that, Charlie? Ah, that’s a lovely breeze, isnβt it. Oh, now Charlie! You really shouldn’t have hollered like that! Just when I was gonna untie you. Why can’t you follow orders? That makes me angry. You remember what happens when Iβm angry, donβt you, Charlie?”
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt is challenging us with the word “note”; in exactly 72 words, this is my response. πΈ
After thirty minutes and two martinis I began feelingΒ 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 lonesome, tedious housewife who had beenΒ stood up.Β
I became aware of someone approaching. I looked up expectantly, smiling; it was just the concierge. Whispering discreetly, he handed me a note.
Lisa is serving as host for todayβs dVerse Prosery prompt. We are to write a piece of up to 144 words and include the line βBut that smile was the last smile to come upon her faceβ. This is my response for Lisaβs dVerse Prosery prompt.
We were living in Tennessee with my Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz after my mam and pap were killed in the South Carrollton, Kentucky train wreck of 1917. Just five days before Christmas and our family was torn apart. My mam and Aunt Luella were sisters; mamβs death nearly destroyed Auntie.
Back in January we all had such high hopes for 1917. My cousin Henry, Aunt Luella and Uncle Bozβs firstborn, was set to graduate high school in June, the first one in the family with that distinction. Aunt Luella was so proud of Henry, she couldnβt help smiling thinking of Henryβs bright future.
But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face.
Henry enlisted in the army one month before graduation. He died in the Battle of Cambrai on Thanksgiving Day.
When Ekon and Mosi awoke they were not in the same place as the night before. They were in a higher elevation; it was colder and there were traces of snow. They were laying in a rudimentary tent, comfortably covered in blankets with a small fire nearby. Shiga happily munched on a shrub to which she had been tethered. Besides the change of location, there was a much more obvious and puzzling difference in father and son: both had aged approximately five years. Mosi looked to be about 25 years old and Ekon’s hair and beard were now as grey as the mountain sky.
A group of strange-looking men emerged from the woods and started walking in their direction; immediately Ekon patted his chest, feeling for the vial in his wrap, and was relieved to find it where he always kept it; he placed one drop on the tip of his tongue. The leader of the group, who looked like nothing more than a dead tree branch, spoke in a senescent voice, explaining that two of his people, while out hunting, had found Ekon, Mosi and Shiga unconscious near the brook and brought them back to a safe clearing just outside their village. The brook had been poisoned years ago after a mysterious storm and the tainted waters resulted in a deep, years-long sleep for anyone who drank; there was no antidote that they knew of.
These men were the last of the Twigorian order of monks; they were learned men, wise in the ways of the universe, science and nature. They lived among the members of the ancient San tribe as leaders and teachers. The chief monk assured Ekon and Mosi they were in no danger. When Ekon answered in San, the monks were surprised but quickly discerned that Ekon possessed the power of the Jalβmboor. After the men had talked for a while, a few San women approached; they asked Ekon and Mosi to follow them into the village where they would be able to wash, don clean clothes and eat. Mosi immediately caught the eye of a beautiful young woman called Tayla and they exchanged smiles.
Ekon and Mosi listened as the San people explained their ways. They knew how to preserve food in such a way that it could be dried to last a long time and reduced to a compact size for easy transport and storage. They developed a shield of invisibility which allowed them to disappear at the first sign of danger, thus avoiding any conflict, violence or harm to themselves or their land. They were philosophers and great thinkers but lacked basic skills such as tool-making and construction. Their homes were straw huts and tents in a great state of disrepair and their boats were rotting; everything was falling apart.
Mosi and Ekon told the San people of their quest to reach the top of the Sky Mountain Pines. Many had tried but very few succeeded. It was a treacherous journey but the San promised to help if Ekon and Mosi did something in return: teach them to make tools to build homes, boats and proper implements for hunting, fishing and farming. The pair agreed and spent the next two years working with the San people. During that time Mosi and Tayla fell in love and he promised to return to her after they reached the summit.
The San warned Ekon and Mosi about the Sanguine Precipice, the Gralapthian Dragon Den and the bloodthirsty gorillas known as the Ikorana Buhangi. The monks gave Mosi and Ekon a map to help them safely pass the precipice. In addition, the monks presented them with the invisibility shield to evade the monstrous beasts along their way. Their promise and mission now complete, Ekon and his son prepared to leave the San people the following morning.
Shiga was loaded down with new flasks containing safe, clean water, sacks of food, blankets and the invisibility shield. Bidding Tayla farewell, Mosi and Ekon followed the monks until they were safely on the other side of the poisoned brook. At the last minute, Mosi fetched a dozen old water skins and filled them with tainted water. Now they were truly on their own, prepared but anxious. The higher they climbed the colder it became and they blessed the San women for the warm clothing they now wore.
The pair hiked for days, sometimes not uttering a single word. In one terrifying second, their silence was shattered by horrific screeches and savage bellows. They knew they reached the first deadly threat: the Gralapthian Dragons. The sound of enormous flapping wings filled the sky and father and son covered their ears from the deafening noise. Mosi grabbed the invisibility shield just before catching a glimpse of the nightmarish creatures; he quickly covered himself, Ekon and Shiga, gently stroking the terrified mule’s nose to keep her quiet. The Gralapthian hovered over them, sniffing the air with gargantuan nostrils. Mosi gripped the shield tightly to keep it from flying off in the great gush of wind caused by the dragon’s wings.
The Gralapthian angrily flew away only to return moments later, obviously in the hope of catching their prey unawares. Again Mosi almost lost control of the shield. The Gralapthian spewed fire in different directions and spittle like molten lava rained down but Mosi, Ekon and Shiga stayed put undercover and the dragons missed their mark. Disgruntled, the Gralapthian flew off beyond the high pines. Mosi and Ekon remained where they were until they were sure all was safe. When they felt the time was right, they carefully retracted the shield and secured it onto Shigaβs back. The shield had served them well and once again they silently thanked the monks.
At first Ekon kept a journal of the passing days and nights but eventually lost count. They walked for what seemed an eternity and Mosi questioned himself a thousand times over if this was only a fool’s quest. Lost in their thoughts, Ekon and Mosi were surprised when they came to a divide in the path. Unsure which direction to go, they consulted the San map but it was of no help. Not knowing which way to turn, they finally settled on one of the paths; it proved to be the wrong choice.
Rounding a bend they found themselves face to face with the much-feared kings of the mountain β the Ikorana Buhangi Gorillas. They were hideous beasts, a mutation of a gorilla and a rhinoceros. Ekon froze as the monstrous creatures slowly came closer, snorting loudly, beating their breasts and baring massive teeth. Mosi thought quickly and placed a drop of the Jalβmboor potion on the tip of his tongue.
To the bewilderment of the gorillas Mosi began speaking in fluent Buhangarian: βWe are travelers. We seek no trouble. All we wish is to pass by safely.β
The largest of the gorillas growled: βHow is it you can speak to us, human?β
βWe are magicians. We can offer you whatever you desire. What is your greatest wish?β Mosi asked, covering his fear.
βTo rip your body to pieces and eat you!β shouted the Ikorana Buhangi.
βBut you can do that any time. Surely there is something you desire above all other thingsβ countered Mosi. βI repeat β what is your greatest wish?β
βABSOLUTE POWER!β roared the beasts. “RULERS THE UNIVERSE!”
βIf that is indeed your greatest wish, I can instantly grant it. Itβs as easy as drinking the mystical waters in these skinsβ and Mosi tossed the twelve old water skins to the gorillas. They greedily swallowed every last drop the tainted brook water and were poisoned before they hit the ground. The earth under their feet shook from the tremendous weight of the gorillas but Mosi and Ekon were safe.
Elated with their quick thinking and great success over the Ikorana Buhangi, Ekon and Mosi quickened their pace as they moved on. Their relief was short lived, however, when they reached the Sanguine Precipice. Never before had they seen such a narrow path or so steep a cliff. Mosi checked the San map and saw a widening in the path about four feet ahead. Crossing that short but deadly span would mean victory or defeat, life or death. They could not make one false move. Mosi believed he and his father could do it but he wasnβt sure about Shiga. The men decided to lighten Shigaβs load by dividing it among themselves. She stood a better chance without the extra weight. Slow as snails they placed one foot before the other, Mosi leading Shiga and Ekon gently pushing her rear.
Just as they reached the safety of the clearing, Shiga lost her footing and landed full force on top of Ekon who howled in agony. Working quickly, Mosi uprighted Shiga and tied her to a tree, then he returned for Ekon. As soon as he tried to lift his father, Ekon screamed and fainted; Mosi immediately knew his fatherβs back was broken. Mosi gently carried Ekon and laid him in the shade of the Sky Mountain Pines; it was only then that he realized they had made it to the summit. His quest was complete but at what cost?
Slowly, Ekon opened his eyes and whispered βWe made it, my son!β Then quietly he exhaled and died. Mosi cried out in grief and Shiga softly brayed where she stood, still tied to a tree. Mosi buried his father on the summit of the Sky Mountain Pines, laying his trusty spear across the grave. Snow began to lightly fall as Mosi packed his belongings and secured them onto Shigaβs back. Now, knowing the safe route, Mosi and Shiga began their trek back to Tayla and home to the Sangala Valley. They left the summit without looking back.
Leyland spoke softly as he comforted his weeping wife, Willow.
βHush, darling. Another season has come and gone and Iβm still here to protect you and the children. I realize I had a couple of close calls but so far, so good. I never thought Iβd say this but Iβm thankful for my disfigurement; itβs kept me from being selected and close to you.β
Willow sighed. βI feel terribly guilty. Thereβs no chance I will ever be chosen and I fear for our friends and family.β
βI know, darling. Iβll check on Douglas today. Pray the family is all safe.β
Author’s Note: Leyland and Douglas are very popular evergreens sold as Christmas trees. One of the saddest things is seeing all the dead and forgotten Christmas trees discarded by the curb after the season. Next time you go looking for a Christmas tree, consider buying one with its root ball intact instead of one that’s been chopped down; you can replant it in your yard or place it in a pot. Your tree gave you so much joy during the holidays; why not give it a chance to keep living?And BTW, artificial doesn’t need to have a negative connotation!
Out of the blue the call arrived. It was late and I was beyond tired after a day of Christmas shopping and decorating. We were tempted to let it go straight to voice mail, but Gary thought it might be important.Β
βGary? Hi, itβs Alice from the adoption agency. I hope you and Carol are sitting down! We have a baby for you! Can you come by in the morning to talk?β
Gary stood up; his face registered shock. βWhat? My God! Are you sure?” Completely convinced that something terrible had happened, I grabbed the phone from Gary. βThis is Carol Wheeler. Whoβs this, please?β
It was not bad news …. just the opposite. It was elating, magical, top-of-the-world, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year news!
A baby in need of a home! A baby for us to love!!
βYes!! Weβll be there! Oh, Alice. Iβm so happy! Thank you so much!β I was rambling.
Dumbstruck, we stood there β¦. then pandemonium broke loose. Laughing, crying, hugging, kissing, dancing, tossing tinsel around the room like crazy people. Anytime would have been amazing but for this to be happening during the holiday season was wondrous!
We didnβt think β¦. or even care β¦. to ask βboy, girl, age, etc., etc.β? After eight years of trying to get pregnant and faced with disappointment each time, an incredibly strong and loving stranger was presenting us with the most precious gift imaginable.
βGary, do you realize in a few days we will be a family of three?β I asked breathlessly.
IN A FEW DAYS!!
All tiredness forgotten, we raced to the attic for the plastic bins of assorted baby items. There in the corner stood the bassinet; it seemed to glow in the darkness. I believe at that moment I heard angels singing. We reverently carried it down to our room. I leaned into Gary, overcome with elated exhaustion.
And then the phone rang a second time. We stared at it, afraid to answer, sure it was Alice calling to say the babyβs mom had changed her mind, there would be no happy family for us.
I reached for the phone and wearily, warily said βThis is Carol.β
βCarol, itβs Alice again. Sorry to bother you and Gary but thereβs been a development.β
I closed my eyes waiting for the words I didnβt want to hear. Not now, not at Christmastime. Alice continued talking and I felt my knees growing weak.
Stunned, crying, all I could manage was a hushed βOh, Alice! Are you absolutely sure? How could this be happening? Yes. Yes, I understand.β
I hung up the phone without even saying goodbye. I was already crying when I turned to face Gary. He held me close and whispered βShh. Itβs ok, honey. Everything will be ok. Another baby is out there waiting for us. Itβs just a matter of time.β
On tiptoes, I reached up to give my darling husband a little kiss. I murmured βI love youβ, my mouth just brushing his. I looked into his eyes and spoke, my voice breaking.
βOh, Gary. There was a mix up at the hospital and Alice was given the wrong information.β
Gary started to speak but I gently placed my fingers on his lips to quiet him. I continued.
βAlice called just now to ask how we feel about adopting twins.β
Iβm quite sure neither of us was breathing at that moment. Garyβs eyes grew wide as the realization sunk in and I let out a little laugh. Gary put up two fingers and mouthed the word βTwoβ. I nodded and replied βTwo. Twin girlsβ.
We fell to the couch, a huddle of tears and laughter and hugs. Then I heard my loveβs voice next to my ear: βI told you another baby was out there waiting for us!β
It’s Six Sentence Story time with Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge. Yeah, it is.
“Other” is a word that rhymes with mother, which also happens to rhyme with smother, which begs the question: βAm I a dreadful person for wanting to smother my mother ?β
Mother wasnβt a bad person; there was no physical abuse β just a major lack of tenderness which can leave greater, more permanent scars β¦. a perfectionist who found it very difficult to show warmth or affection, even to her children; I donβt remember her saying βI love youβ, tickling me till I squealed or reading bedtime stories; what I do remember is proudly showing her a drawing I made in school with the inscription βSkyscrapers scrape the sky while butterflies flutter byββ¦. something my teacher called βhighly imaginative and showing great visionβ but mother said it was foolishness because butterflies canβt fly that high.
As a teenager I was forbidden to shave my legs but did anyway and not wanting my secret revealed, I wore jeans all the time, even to the beach in the middle of summer which also covered-up the fact that I used a self-tanner which turned my skin orange; mother watched as I scrubbed myself raw in the tub using a mixture of water and bleach β a humiliating experience β but it was at that time she discovered my shaved legs, causing her to explode like a slow gas leak and, of course, I was grounded but it was worth it.
Many days after arriving home from school I would find the contents of my dresser drawers dumped on my bed, simply because mother didnβt approve of how my clothes were folded; if I wanted to sleep that night, Iβd have to put all my things away (or push them to the floor, which I often did) and Iβd get hell the next day but it was a trip seeing her bulging veins and bugged-out eyes.
Years later when I had kids, mother would pop in unannounced and examine my house like the βWhite-Glove Ladyβ checking for dust; if my oven didnβt meet her standards, she would clean it (which, now that I have 20/20 hindsight, was a blessing in disguise because I ended up with a clean oven) and then she would depart as quickly as she arrived, leaving me with a spotless house but never once sitting down for coffee and a piece of pie or stopping to play with my children.
Lately Iβve been having a recurring dream about smothering mother with a pillow and when I wake up, Iβm smiling; I guess my earlier question bears repeating: βDoes that make me a dreadful person?β
Today she would find out if her entire life was a lie.
βWhere to, Mrs. Carmichael? Shall I call for your car?β asked her ever-attentive doorman, Harold.
βNot today, thank you. Just walking up to Brooks Brothers to buy an anniversary present for my husband. Itβs our 15th.β She remembered she also needed to make astop at her psychologistβs office.
βCongratulations, Mrs. C! You have yourself a nice day.β
Claire Carmichael smiled at Harold and walked the short distance to her therapistβs office on Earl Street. Ringing Dr. Brinkβs doorbell, she waited for his ubiquitous snobbish greeting of βEnter!β
βWelcome, Claire. Last time you were here we discussed your suspicions that Jeremy was having an affair. Why donβt we pick up from there?β he suggested.
Clearing her throat and adjusting her skirt, she began. βIβm no longer convinced Jeremyβs cheating on me. Iβm not saying that heβs never had affairs but something is different. Things have changed between us. Theyβre better. Jeremyβs calmer, more attentive, grounded. Heβs home every night by 6:00 and we enjoy our weekends together. No more overnight, out-of-town business trips and Iβm actually happy for the first time in years.β
βInterestingβ Dr. Brink acknowledged. βAnd to what do you attribute this change in Jeremyβs character?β
βWe had a long talk the other night and it wasn’t easy for Jeremy. He confided in me that heβs been having panic attacks for quite some time. He finally started seeing a psychiatrist whoβs helping him tremendously. Heβs on medication and takes an early lunch twice a week to see his doctor.β
βAnd you believe him?β
βI doβ Claire replied, uncomfortable with her therapist’s skepticism. And she did believe Jeremy; his explanation was credible and heartfelt.
βDid Jeremy happen to mention his psychiatristβs name?β
Feeling rather nonplussed she replied βNo, he didnβt and I didnβt ask. That would be prying β information I didn’t need to know. Now I really must get going. Itβs our wedding anniversary and I have errands to run.β
βGood luck, Claire. Ever vigilant!β he called after her.
When Claire stepped outside there was a chill in the air; the sky was mottled and gray. That session unnerved her and she lingered for a while smoking a cigarette wondering what Dr. Brink meant when he said βEver vigilant.β Muttering βshrinks!β, she wrapped her coat tightly around herself and quickly walked to Brooks Brothers. She chose a pair of monogrammed cuff links; they were elegant and ridiculously expensive but Claire wanted Jeremy to know how proud she was of him.
Leaving the store Claire decided to go across the street to their favorite French restaurant and arrange for a special anniversary dinner to be delivered to their apartment. Looking up Claire’s heart skipped a beat and she felt dizzy.
Exiting the restaurant was Jeremy, his arm around a captivating young woman. They were laughing, embracing and kissing as they walked.
Stunned, Claire threw the box from Brooks Brothers into a trash can and hailed a taxi.
βWhere to, your highness?βΒ The driver was uncouth with a big mouth, both physically and metaphorically. He chomped noisily on a cigar and Claire could smell his disgusting breath from the back seat. But he probably never cheated on his wife, she thought, acrid bitterness stinging the back of her throat.Β
βJust driveβ was all she said; the cabbie smiled greedily as he flipped the meter.
Monastic specters floated seamlessly between the leafless trees of the old forgotten cemetery. Round-eyed owls hooted from crooked branches while huge black crows swooped in and perched on weathered headstones. Sensing their imminent demise, the blind field mice scurried to and fro, frantically searching for safety. Alas, not fast enough for that one pathetic rodent chasing his own tail. The crow snatched him up and carried him off into the darkness. The weak and small have no rights in this most dreaded of places.
It wasnβt always this mist-enshrouded, wind-swept graveyard; many years ago the cemetery was a pastoral spot surrounded by blossoming trees and shrubs. It was lovely and visitors would come by frequently to pay their respects and linger for a while on a nearby bench.
High on a hill above the cemetery stood the Olde Dutch Church. The property was expansive with an outstanding view of the Hudson River. The focal point of the church was the belfry with its majestic wrought iron weather vane that could be seen for miles.
One parched and squally night in late October while parishioners were awaiting services for the feast of All Hallowsβ Eve, a giant thunderclap boomed, followed by an enormous lightning bolt which struck the weather vane. The glowing gas particles coursed their way down to the belfry, instantly setting it on fire. Within moments the entire church was engulfed in flames, imprisoning all inside. Horrified townsfolk who were still outside tried valiantly to save their friends, to no avail. The church had become an inferno.
The wind blew sparks into the cemetery, setting the wizened trees ablaze. The smoke was black, the air thick with an acrid stench. Those outside the church fell to their knees crying pitifully, covering their ears to block out the agonizing screams of the tortured. Finally, after what seemed an eternity in Gehenna, the screams became pathetic whimpers, then stopped completely and an eerie silence followed.
Just then what was left of the church came crashing down, leaving nothing but a mountain of ashes and the grotesque, twisted remains of the once glorious weather vane.
Forty-seven souls perished that ghastly night. Nothing that resembled a body was found, nothing was left to be buried and the church was never rebuilt. Eventually people stopped coming to the cemetery. The only denizens there now are the unremembered interred along with the owls, the crows, the blind field mice and forty-seven specters seeking final rest.
The haunted wind is eerily unsettling this Halloween night, my friends β¦. or is it the wind?
It’s the last day of October and the final edition of Metal Madness! You do not want to miss this one! Seriously. π₯ π€πΌ π₯ https://rhythmsection.blog/
Dear Diary: There’s a new boy in school named Carter. He’s so cool. He’s half black …. his skin is the color of milk chocolate and he’s got amazing green eyes. I dig him. If my parents find out, I’m dead! They’re so prejudiced!
Friday, 10/27/1961
Dear Diary: Great news! Carter is now my Biology partner! I know he’s into me. He winks whenever he sees me. My friends giggle; they’re so childish. Really! We’re 15. The black girls are giving me dirty looks. Beverly bumped me hard when she walked by. Carter likes me! He’s so hot!
Monday, 10/30/1961
Dear Diary: We were sitting real close in class, sharing the microscope. Carter’s arm brushed against my boob. I liked it. I leaned in closer and placed my hand on his leg. Then the bell rang! Carter whispered “Give me your phone number”. I scribbled it down and he winked at me.
Tuesday, 10/31/1961
Dear Diary: Teacher’s Conference Day. No school and my parents are at work. The ringing phone woke me. I was stunned to hear Carter’s voice: “Pretty Lily White. I’m bored. Come to my place. We’ll listen to music.”Β Β I said “Okay“, and got his address. I walked the three blocks to his house. The radio was playing Motown and we started dancing. He gave me a drink …. Scotch, I think …. and he laughed when I coughed. He took my glass and kissed me. I’d never been kissed like that before. We were drinking, smoking and dancing. I must have passed out. I only remember bits and pieces. I woke up in Carter’s bed. The Miracles singingΒ “Ooh, Baby, Baby”. Carter’s friends Warren and Kevin appeared in a cloud over my head; I have no memory of them being there. What did I do? What did they do? Next thing I know I’m dressed and Carter’s helping me down the stairs, mumbling something about having to “clean up the mess”. He opened the front door and I staggered out, the cool air clearing my head a bit. I smelled like smoke, Scotch and sex. Somehow I made it home, showered and crawled into bed. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Wednesday, 11/1 – Friday 11/3/1961
Dear Diary: Faked bad period cramps. Skipped school and missed the Halloween dance tonight. I just couldn’t face anyone..
Monday, 11/3/1961
Dear Diary: This morning at school I saw Carter walking with his arm around Beverly. He winked at me as we passed and Beverly bumped me hard. Carter’s friends laughed. I’m sure they all know what happened. I could just die.
Itβs all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! π https://rhythmsection.blog/
As soon as Briana Jeffries woke up she knew her AC had broken down. Her townhouse was like a sauna. She called the landlord to report the malfunction, then got ready for work. Stepping outside, she was enveloped in a cloud of oppressive heat.
Brianaβs townhouse didnβt have a garage β only street parking was available. Slipping off her suit jacket, she adjusted her shoulder bag and began walking to her car. With every step she took, a bead of sweat rippled down her neck and back until her blouse clung to her drenched body. She cursed her high heels and pantyhose but the real estate agency where she worked demanded appropriate attire at all times.
βI really should switch to McConnell Realty. Theyβre much more relaxed than Dalton & Banksβ she thought as she got into her car and switched on the AC. Sure, the commission she earned was great but she wasnβt truly happy. And dealing with that smarmy, perpetually tanned Joe del Vecchio was nauseating.
First on the agenda was the Monday meeting, then Brianaβs client at 10:30. With five houses to show, it was going to be a long day. As soon as she entered the office, Joe was all over her. βLooking hot, Briana. Nice lipstick. Looks all pouty. I like that. Iβm gonna start calling you BJ. Know what that means?β She always hated her initials.
What a dick. The only reason Joe was tolerated at the agency was the older female clients adored him and he could charm the panties off them β and probably did if it meant making a sale. Ignoring him, Briana sat at the mahogany table between two colleagues.
βAttention!β Charlotte Dalton announced. βWehave a large number of senior citizens today who want to see penthouses. Briana and Joe, I want you working together.” Briana sighed in exasperation, already defeated knowing she’d be with Joe all day. Joe grinned and winked across the big conference table, chewing on his pen.
“What a Neanderthal” Briana thought.
By dayβs end Briana was sick of Joe and couldn’t wait to be rid of him but he insisted on walking her to her car. βLetβs get a drink, moisten that luscious BJ mouth.” Involuntarily Briana licked her lips; Joe leaned in for a kiss as Briana slid into her car.
βStop it, Joe! I just want to go home, take a shower and go to bed.β She immediately regretted her choice of words. Joe bent down and whispered in Briana’s ear. βYou read my mind, baby. How’s about we have us a little party?β His fingers played with the delicate chain that dangled between Briana’s breasts. She pushed his hand away and drove off, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was at that moment Briana decided that was her last day at Dalton & Banks.
Arriving back at home, Briana was grateful to find the AC working and the house delightfully cool. Closing the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off her damp clothes and headed for the bathroom. Briana slid open the glass door and stepped into the shower. The warm water was so relaxing. She turned around so the water could run down her back. Briana felt the stress leaving her neck and shoulders and she sighed contentedly. “Ah, this is heaven.”
Funny how your mind plays tricks on you sometimes. Eyes closed, Briana thought she heard a noise outside the bathroom. She stood still, listening; nothing. Reaching for the shampoo, Brianna thought she heard a noise again. She listened intently; this time she was sure. SOMEONE WAS IN HER HOUSE!!
Instinct kicked in and Briana lunged from the shower to lock the bathroom door just as Joe del Vecchio burst in, knocking her backwards into the shower. Brianaβs head slammed into the tiles; blood tricked down her face and into her eyes. As she began to lose consciousness, she slid down the shower wall and barely made out the image of Joe running from her bathroom. She fell face down onto the shower floor, blood swirling down the drain. Clutched in her hand was Joe’s monogrammed pocket square.
Briana was right. That was her last day at Dalton & Banks.
Robert hadnβt realized that heβd passed the point of no return until he found himself frantically searching the kitchen for anything that would remove blood stains. After getting an urgent call for help from his brother Daniel, Robert raced over to see what was the problem. Now he was knee deep in a drift of dastardly deadly deeds.
βDISSOLVE IMPOSSIBLE STAINS … TAR, WINE, GREASE, EVEN BLOOD!β read the label on a spray bottle of multi-purpose cleanser stashed under the sink.
βI found it!βΒ shouted Robert walking back into the parlor. Daniel was still standing over the body of Stuart Barclay, his business partner.Β
βGreat! Gimme that, Bobby. I have to get this blood stain out of Marilynβs antique Persian rug before she gets back from her weekend in Manhattan. This is her favorite rug; it cost a fortune and canβt be replaced!Β
βDanny, I think youβve got bigger problems to worry about than your wifeβs rugβ replied Robert. βStuartβs dead! You said it was an accident so why not just call the police?β
βI canβt! Itβs not that simple, Bobby. Stuart had evidence against me.β
βMeaning what, Danny?β
βHe confronted me months ago. He had proof Iβd been embezzling and forging legal documents. Stuart was gonna turn me in and I couldnβt let that happen!β
Agitated, Daniel paced the room. He continued: βI found out that Stuart was having an affair with the wife of our wealthiest and most important client. I had him followed. I have photos of them together. I called Stuart and suggested he come over tonight to talk and told him to use the rear entrance just to keep things on the down low. When he got here, I told him I knew about his affair. Things got heated and he came at me. I sidestepped him and Stuart cracked his head against the mantle. Bobby, if any of this gets out, Iβll be ruined. My reputation as an attorney will be trashed. I need your help, brother! We gotta clean this rug and get rid of Stuartβs body!βΒ
βEmbezzling? How could you be so stupid, Danny?β exclaimed Robert. βOk, look. Whatβs done is done and thereβs nothing we can do about it now. Youβre right β we gotta take care of this mess. Iβll scrub the rug; you go see if you can find some plastic sheeting or a tarp. Iβve got a plan.β
By the time Daniel returned with a tarp, rope and rubber gloves, the rug looked amazingly clean. βGood as new! That’s one problem solvedβΒ Robert declared.
βAnd no questions from Marilynβ quipped Daniel. “Now tell me about your plan, Bobby.”
βOk, Danny, this is what we’re gonna do.Β We wrap Stuart in the tarp and put him in his car; you drive his car down the back roads to the ditch at Quarry Road. Take it slow and keep the lights off. Iβll drive my car down the main road and weβll meet up at the ditch. We canβt be too careful so if anyone happens to be watching the house, theyβll see only me leaving, not you. When we get to the ditch, all we have to do is get Stuartβs body out of the tarp, place him in the driverβs seat of his car, put the car in βDRIVEβ and give it a push down into the ditch. Then weβll get in my car and drive back here. Itβs perfect, Danny; itβll look like an accident.β
βYeah, that just might work, Bobby! Itβs got to work!β replied Daniel. βLetβs do it!β
The brothers snapped on their gloves, rolled Stuart onto the tarp and tied it up; the bleeding from the gash in his forehead had finally stopped. They struggled getting Stuartβs body out the back door and into his car;for a skinny little prick, he sure was heavy! Once they had the body secured in the passengerβs seat, Daniel got behind the wheel and drove off, taking the back roads to the ditch.
As planned, Robert and Daniel met up at Quarry Road. Still wearing their rubber gloves, they lifted Stuart out of the passenger seat, removed the tarp, placed him behind the wheel in the driverβs seat and buckled his seatbelt. Making sure the gear was in βDRIVEβ, they pushed Stuartβs car down the ditch and watched it crash into the stone wall of the abandoned quarry.
Tossing their gloves onto the tarp, they balled everything up and stuffed it into one of the old metal trash cans near the quarry. Robert threw a lit match into the can and the duo, now co-conspirators, smoked a joint as the tarp and gloves melted away into nothingness. Robert pocketed what was left of the joint, then the brothers showered the contents of the trash can with sand and rocks to smother any remaining embers. Taking a quick look around, they headed back up to Robert’s car.
Everything went off without a hitch and for the first time that night they relaxed. Once back at Daniel’s house, Robert cautioned his brother to speak about this to no one β¦. not his wife, not his priest, not his mistress.
Three days later the police discovered Stuartβs car in the ditch; there was no apparent sign of foul play. There was also no one in the car nor anyone nearby, dead or alive.
That evening Daniel got a call. βHey, partner. Youβre a bigger loser than I could have imagined! Weβve got some unfinished business to discuss, Danny boy.β
Daniel felt light-headed and slumped against the wall. The caller was Stuart and he sounded very much alive.
This is the American rock group Kansas performing “Point of Know Return”.
Itβs all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! π https://rhythmsection.blog/
Trigger warning: offensive and insensitive language, racial slurs.
Eddie & Jay
βDidnβt touch! Only looked!β wailed Eddie, the dishwasher at the Q.E.D. Lounge. The waitstaff came running into the kitchen upon hearing a tremendous crash. Shattered crystal covered the kitchen floor β the new shipment of assorted glasses for the loungeβs grand opening.
Eddie huddled in the corner wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, whimpering like a frightened boy. Due to that one decisive extra chromosome, Eddie was very much like a child β a 32 year old man with the mind of an eight year old. Just a little thing called Down Syndrome. Eddieβs brother Jay, the maitre dβ, crouched down next to him while everyone stood in stunned silence.
βEddie, accidents happen. Itβs gonna be okβ Jay said calmly. βCβmon, bud. Weβll help you clean up.β
Without hesitation the crew grabbed brooms and dust pans β everyone except Lou, the belligerent bartender.
βDonβt look at me. I ainβt helping!βΒ snarled Lou. βIt was that goddamn retardβs fault. He shouldnβt even be around normal people, fucking mongoloid!βΒ
Jay clenched his fists, eyes glaring at Lou.β Shut your filthy mouth, you miserable son of a bitch! Donβt ever talk about my brother like that!β
Martin Byrnes, manager of the Q.E.D., stormed into the kitchen. βWhat the hellβs going on?!β Slowly he looked around, taking in the whole scene. Martin asked everyone to leave except Eddie, Jay and Lou.
Martin spoke softly. βEddie, it’s ok. Iβm not mad. Can you tell me what happened?β
Eddie glanced over at Lou, then shook his head βnoβ.
βMr. Byrnes is real good to us, Eddie. He deserves the truthβ Jay added encouragingly.
Eddie sniffled and rubbed is swollen eyes. βI saw all the boxes and I was curious, Jay, but I didnβt touch them, cross my heart and hope to die. Then Lou, he came rushing in the back door and pushed me into the boxes and they fell.β
βYou lying freak!β yelled Lou. βI was out back chasing that bum whoβs always looking for a handout. Eddieβs mangy mutt was there and he tore a hole in my pants cuff!β
βYeah, after you kicked him, Iβm sureβ declared Jay.
βOk, Lou. What happened when you came back into the kitchen?β asked Martin. βWere you so ticked off at the dog that maybe you bumped into Eddie?β
βLook, Mr. B. Iβm telling you I didnβt do nothingβ sneered Lou. βWho you gonna believe β this idiot or me?β
βAlright! That’s enough! Whatβs done is done.β Martin sighed. βJay, you and Eddie finish cleaning up in here. Lou, go down to the basement and bring up whatever glasses you can find. Weβre opening tonight as planned.β
Disgruntled, Lou headed for the basement. He remembered a prior shipment of glasses that Martin didnβt particularly like. Rather than return them, they were put in storage. And there they were, two towers of boxes at least four feet fall.
βWhy am I stuck doing this shit job? Whereβs that lazy spic busboy?β Lou grumbled. He walked to the delivery entrance and shouted βHey, Manuel! Get in here!β Then he gave a shrill whistle.
Manuel didnβt answer Louβs command but Eddieβs dog Arlo did. He was still smarting from the swift kick in the ribs from Lou’s pointy patent leather shoe. Arlo growled and inched closer, baring his sharp canines.
Lou backed up as fast as he could but he wasn’t fast enough. Arlo sank his teeth into the bartenderβs calf and wouldnβt let go. He meant business and was out for revenge β for himself and for Eddie.
Spinning around like a whirling dervish, Lou smashed into the stacks of boxes. He fell to the floor as splintered wood and jagged glass rained down on him. As a final coup de grΓ’ce, Arlo lifted his hind leg, pissed on Lou’s patent leather shoes and trotted out the door.
Itβs all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! π https://rhythmsection.blog/
βItβs a nice house, donβt you think, Virginia? The property is a decent size. And the fresh air! Just what the doctor ordered.β
Finding the perfect house for his ailing wife was first and foremost on Edgarβs mind.
Encouragingly, he continued: βItβs quite affordable at $5 a month! Downstairs there’s one bedroom, the parlor and a nice kitchen which your mother will put to good use. And upstairs is another bedroom for us with my very own writing niche.β
From their carriage Virginia smiled at her husband, covering her mouth with a handkerchief as the deep cough began again. Edgar hurried to her side and she stared lovingly into his eyes. βYes, my dear. I think we will be very happy here.β
βThen itβs settled! Iβll finalize the rental while you rest here.β Before returning to the cottage Edgar covered Virginia with a blanket to protect her from the cool April breeze.
Sitting in the carriage with her mother, Virginia gazed at the cottage. βA lovely little home for the three of us, Mother.β Closing her eyes, Virginia pictured their caged songbirds on the porch, a rocking chair nearby where she could rest in the sun and work on her needlepoint.
“Virginia, Iβve been waiting for you“
Opening her eyes, Virginia asked her mother to repeat what she just said, but Maria assured her she had said nothing. Again Virginia closed her eyes and again she heard the gentle voice in her ear.
“Virginia, welcome home”
An unusual peace came over Virginia as she realized it was the cottage whispering to her. βMy lovely forever homeβ, she thought.
They moved in on a beautiful day in May of 1846 and they were happy there. In the evenings after eating a modest meal prepared by Maria, Edgar worked on his poem “Eulalie” while the family cat sprawled across his shoulders and Virginia dozed by the fireplace.
How Virginia glowed with happiness that gloriously sunny day as Edgar proudly displayed the etched wooden signpost which read “POE COTTAGE”.
But even with constant care, sunshine and fresh air, Virginiaβs consumption became worse, her waif-like body wracked with fits of coughing.
In January Virginiaβs health began to fail rapidly. Edgar stayed by her side day and night, reading to her, until at last on January 30, Virginia heard the whispering cottage beckoning her.
She died peacefully that night in Edgarβs warm embrace as he softly recited β
βThis maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.β
Author’s Note: TheΒ Poe Cottage is the former home of American writer Edgar Allan Poe. It is located on Kingsbridge Road and the Grand ConcourseΒ in the Fordham neighborhood of The Bronx, New York, a short distance from its original location and about 20 minutes from the house where I grew up. I was privileged to visit Poe’s house many times. The cottage is now located in the northern part of Poe Park and is part of the Historic House Trust, listed on the National Register Of Historic Places, administered by The Bronx County Historical SocietyΒ since 1975. It is believed to have been built in 1797.
Itβs all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! π https://rhythmsection.blog/
It was December 17, 1997 β one mere week after the birth of our first baby. This was to be a special time alone for Stephen and me; Christmas as a new little family.
Stephen set up the tree and brought down from the attic the decorations I collected over the years β heirloom pieces lovingly given to me by his mother. Inside the large box sat a smaller box; cradled inside was a treasured ornament belonging to Stephen’s great-grandmother, a delicate crystal snow globe passed from one generation to another.
The sudden, unexpected knock on the door quickly jarred our tranquil mood. On the threshold stood my parents, suitcases in hand. My heart sank. Perhaps it was wrong of me but I loved my husband’s mother more than my own.
Stephen showed my parents in and the dynamic in the room instantly changed.
My mother had the ineffable ability of showing up at the worst time β always unannounced, uninvited and unwelcome. I’ve often wondered if she knew how I felt about her surprise visits and didn’t care. Every event, momentous or ordinary, had to be about her.
Mother’s greetings were interwoven with recriminations about it being mid-morning and I was still in my nightgown. Then she swooped in, taking my sleeping son from my arms; disturbed, he wailed pathetically.
Turning abruptly to show my father his screaming grandson, the hem of mother’s coat swept against my cherished ornament, sending it flying.
It shattered; the jagged shards tore into my wintry heart.
She wakes and grabs a quick shower. The hair blower died weeks ago; no matter β it’s a luxury she canβt afford. She lets her hair dry naturally as she prepares a cup of instant coffee.
She rouses the kids by 5:00; theyβre sleepy and cranky. We got no choice, she says, reminding them to brush their teeth before getting dressed. They walk eight blocks to her motherβs place. Breakfast is already on the stove β oatmeal, something hearty for their bellies.
She walks to the diner where she works, stopping at the dollar store to by laundry detergent. At the diner, she stashes her things in a locker, checks herself in the mirror and goes out to face the breakfast crowd.
Itβs 6:00 AM.
She likes the breakfast people; theyβre regular folk on their way to work β¦ truckers, construction crews, nurses, bikers, plumbers, the gang from Home Depot. They stop in every morning and usually order the same things. They never talk about work. They pass around photos of their kids and grandkids, compare notes on last night’s game, talk about that new movie they hope to catch. Who got engaged, who’s graduating, who’s going on vacation … ordinary everyday stuff people talk about. They laugh heartily and it’s contagious. Sheβs on a first name basis with most of them. Theyβre creatures of habit and thereβs something very comforting to her about that. Breakfast is her busiest shift; she doesn’t mind. It’s fast, seamless and exciting. These people are the salt of the earth. The best tippers.
There are always a few stragglers between breakfast and lunch but itβs never busy and sheβs got some downtime. Thatβs when she writes β stories, poems, even some songs β wishful scribbles on a notepad. Maybe sheβll be famous someday. Possibly. Probably not. Pipe dreams. She remembers hearing someone say ‘youβll miss every shot you donβt take’. She liked that and scribbled it on her pad..
It’s 11:00 AM.
Time for the lunch crowd. Sheβs not a fan of many of the people who come for lunch except for the folks in “The Big Apple for the first time all the way from Des Moines and would you mind taking our picture?” The kids all grin displaying goofy toothless smiles and press their noses up against the window to wave at passers-by. The parents ask if she knows how to get to the museum β the one with the dinosaur bones β and “that coffee shop from Seinfeld” and they laugh self-consciously at their naΓ―ve questions. She overhears them talking excitedly about going to the wax museum after lunch and next time they’ll have to come at Christmas “to see the tree”.
Lunchtime brings in the slick salesmen too cheap to go to a real restaurant; they talk nonstop, their prospective clients pretending to be interested but they know BS when they hear it. Over at the corner table in the rear section of the diner is the businessman having a luncheon liaison with his secretary. The man is much too suave and the woman much too impressionable. She wants to scream at that hopeful, hapless woman to “open your eyes and run like hell; he’s only going to use you and hurt you!” but keeps her mouth shut. She canβt afford to lose this job.
Then thereβs a different breed of men all together, the ones who drink martinis before, during and after lunch, the ones who think it’s perfectly acceptable to call her “Brown Sugar”. She cringes. They are flabby and pasty and unattractive with Brylcreemed hair, fat lips and sweaty hands. Theyβre the ones who cop a cheap feel, slide their fingers up her skirt, try to stick a tongue in her ear. She manages to tap dance around the slithering slugs but they are determined and will be back again tomorrow. Sheβs perpetually afraid some day one of them will corner her in the bathroom. Thatβs when sheβll scream, job or not.
In the center of the dining room are the loud, orange-haired twin sisters from Kmart who chain smoke and order black coffee, wipe their teeth with a napkin and constantly re-apply bright red lipstick, grinning into a beat up old compact found on the bottom of a cheap purse. One always has a grease stain on her blouse and they laugh raucously. They head back to work after leaving cigarette butts in the coffee cups, a pile of greasy, lipstick-stained napkins and a shitty tip.
Slowly the place empties; time to clean up the messes left behind.
It’s 6:00 PM.
Sheβs been at the diner for 12 hours, a regular day for her. The usuals start arriving for dinner, many of them returnees from breakfast. Itβs quitting time for her. Sometimes, if sheβs lucky, she can pack up a doggie bag; Bart, the day manager, is good about letting her take home leftovers. Her babies can have real hamburgers with tasty fries for dinner. She retrieves her stuff from the locker and starts the walk back to her motherβs place.
The kids devour the burgers and fries, giggling and chattering like little chipmunks. She hugs her mother, scoops up the kids and walks the eight blocks home. Itβs bath night, all three kiddos together in the tub. Can’t waste water or time. She reminds them to brush their teeth before getting into bed. She reads one story, then tucks them in and kisses their foreheads.
She gets the laundry together, grabs some quarters from the jar in the kitchen, locks her apartment door behind her and goes down to the shared laundry room in the basement of her building. She prays the kids donβt wake up; she canβt leave the laundry unsupervised β someone would steal her clothes for sure. She makes a mental note to look for a baby intercom at the dollar store. While the clothes dry she jots down wishful scribbles on her notepad. Ninety minutes later the laundryβs done and she heads back up to her babies.
It’s 11:00 PM.
She folds the clean clothes, piles them neatly in the laundry basket, gets undressed and stares at her body in the mirror. She thinks again about becoming an exotic dancer. She has a friend named Crystal who makes good money stripping. Crystal gets to spend time with her kids; she even bought a nice Christmas tree last year and presents to put under it. Maybe she should give Crystal a call.
She slips a cotton nightgown over her head and climbs into bed, exhausted.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Tomorrow she gets to do it all over again.
Did you ever experience weather so dry that the ground and air crackled and all you could think about was bones β¦ the ones you found buried in Vern Wilsonβs barn that drought summer seventeen years ago?
Thatβs how it was for me and my friends Bucky Berringer and Grady McCallister.
They was human bones, alright, and we covered βem up right quick before ol’ Vern caught us.
Weatherman said rain’s a-cominβ. Pappyβs fields are shrivelin’ up awful. We need us some good rain, days upon days of rain, but all weβre seein’ is damn fire bolts makin’ us twitch.
This is a work of fiction. In no way is it meant to be derogatory or insensitive to any peoples’ ethnicity. I do not share any of the disparaging words or sentiments within this story. NAR
It was a blazing hot day in August of 1971. Sweaty air conditioners were working overtime, filling the streets of Manhattan with an unrelenting drone. I was in the elevator of my apartment building having just returned from physical therapy. There were four other people in the elevator β a plumber, a mid-twenties hippie chick I knew only as βRainβ, elderly and bitter Abe Morris and a very pregnant Asian woman I didnβt know.
Abe made a big show of moving away from the Asian woman, spitting out the words βsavage gooks!β Abe was angry and grieving the recent death of his son in Vietnam. Someone had to pay; why not the only Asian in the elevator? Abe always had some wise-ass comment about the fact that I’m black and relished every opportunity to say something hurtful about my missing arm. Today his vitriol was directed elsewhere. Ignorant, bigoted man.
The doors closed and we began our slow ascent. Old buildings, temperamental elevators and a heatwave β a bad combination. Somewhere between floors 3 and 4 the elevator jolted to a stop. Before Abe could utter a curse word, the elevator churned back to life, coughed and stopped again with an ominous screech. Except for a few groans no one said anything. I pushed the alarm button and reached for the elevatorβs emergency phone. Halfway through my call the electricity went out, the AC shut off and my phone connection died. Blackness engulfed us and it started getting uncomfortably warm.
Abe started cursing and banging the walls, all the while ranting βgoddamn fucking dinks β I hate them!β The plumber was praying in what sounded like Russian while Rain softly hummed βLet It Beβ. I tried unsuccessfully to pry open the doors and reminded everyone that at least part of our emergency call went through so help had to be on its way. It was then that I became aware of low guttural moans coming from the Asian woman; in a language I recognized as Vietnamese, she gasped that the baby was coming.
I asked the plumber if he had a flashlight, which he did. Turning it on, he handed it to me and everyone calmed down just a bit. Amazing what a little ray of light can do. With her back to the wall, the pregnant woman slid down and eased herself onto the floor. I told her I understood Vietnamese from my days as a medic in Nam. I said my name was Jim; her name was Thanh. We talked softly as Abe carried on about his son who died in the war β βAnd for what?? This slant??β he screamed. The plumber became more agitated and Rain sat by him holding his hand.
With ragged breaths and dry lips, Thanh told me she married an American soldier in early November 1970 and he brought her back to live in the U.S. with his parents. After two weeks he returned to Vietnam; he was killed November 21st in Operation Ivory Coast. Thanh soon learned she was pregnant. Relations with her in-laws became strained and she moved into my apartment building with her cousin.
As we sat waiting, I thought of that November day. I remembered a soldier who flung himself on me as I worked in the MASH unit. He was blown to bits while I only lost my arm. That young hero was someone’s son, a friend, perhaps a brother; he could have even been Thanhβs husband.
Suddenly Abe lost it; he stood and yelled racial slurs at both me Thanh. The plumber sobbed while Rain tried to calm him. I yelled for everyone to βshut up!β And thatβs when we heard faint voices.
βAnyone in there?β
βRoger that! Weβre down here! Five people, one woman in labor!β I shouted and was rewarded with a resounding βHUA!β
Haltingly the doors were pried open and a rescue ladder was lowered into the elevator. Abe headed straight for the ladder; I stopped the selfish bastard in his tracks.
βThe pregnant lady goes first.β
Abe called me “a no good spook” and blindly took a swing at me; even with my disability I was able to easily block him. I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor where he sat, head in hands, repeating what must have been his son’s name. I pitied the man but he was not the only person in pain.
With my assistance, Thanh gingerly made her way up the ladder; she was pulled out of the elevator and the EMTs rushed her to the hospital. The rest of us slowly climbed to safety.
When I emerged into the lobby of my building, I found one of Thanh’s shoes. Call it whatever you want but in that moment I knew I had to get to her.
Sirens tore through the silence of the crisp fall night as police responded to a robbery on Corsa Avenue, a quiet street of middle class two story homes in The Bronx, NY.
Police officers Ralph Taylor and Mario DeMarco were the first to arrive at the scene. Jasper Gardner, an eye witness, told the officers he was out walking his dog when two guys came running down the front steps of the house in such a hurry, they practically knocked him over.When asked for a description, Mr. Gardener said it happened so fast, he didn’t get a good look at them, just that they were wearing dark hooded sweatshirts.
The homeowners, Drew and Chloe Bennett, apparently arrived home from work while the intruders were still inside their house. Tenant Albert Farrell who occupies the first floor of the Bennetts’ house was home at the time. When questioned, Mr. Farrell stated that he was playing video games all evening with his headphones on and didnβt hear anything. The police speculated that the rumbling noise of the Bennetts’ electric garage door scared off the intruders.
The police determined that the perps didn’t have much time; only the bedroom had been ransacked. They probably knew the Bennetts’ regular work schedule and got spooked when the couple came home early. There were also muddy footprints in the backyard and on the fire escape leading to the second floor. No doubt the intruders gained access through a bedroom window.
When police asked the Bennetts what was missing, Chloe Bennett pointed to her suede coat on the floor. βLook at thisβ she told the police. βThey left my expensive suede coat behind but ripped off the faux fur collar and took it with them, probably thinking it was real fur.β
When asked if any valuables were missing, Drew Bennett said that other than the jewelry his wife was wearing, everything was in an armoire in their bedroom. βThese guy are idiots and have no idea of the value of things!β he exclaimed. βMy wife’s collection of Lenox and Lladro figurines hasnβt been touched. And my original John Lennon drawing is hanging right there. Iβll bet this was all done by those no good, lousy punks Chucky Green and Bobo Bulfamente! What a couple of losers!β
The police were well acquainted with Charles βChuckyβ Green and Roberto “Bobo” Bulfamente, small time thieves who grew up in the neighborhood. Bobo was currently staying with his sister and brother-in-law; Chucky lived with his mother, Althea. Both had been picked up several times for petty thefts but were always released. Police never found anything on them; they couldnβt even charge them with breaking and entering.
Chucky and Bobo worked as a team, entering houses and apartments when the homeowners were out; they scored a few items which Bobo stashed in the trunk of a rusted-out car in his brother-in-law’s garage. When they collected enough stuff to hawk, Chucky and Bobo were going to take off for Miami to try their luck in new turf. The one thing Bobo never told Chucky about was the pair of diamond earrings he pocketed one night. Bobo figured if Chucky ever got nabbed, those earrings would be his ticket out of The Bronx, even if it meant turning his back on Chucky.
By now a crowd of people had gathered near The Bennetts’ house. One man quickly walked over to the cops to report seeing Bobo racing down Given Avenue. Officers Taylor and DeMarco jumped into their car and sped to Given where they came upon an accident. Getting out to investigate, they spotted Bobo craning his neck for a better look. Bobo wasn’t even aware of Officer DeMarco until he was right on top of him. DeMarco nabbed Bobo, handcuffed him, tossed him into the back of the police car and locked the doors. It was only a matter of time before the cops would discover Bobo’s stash in the rusted-out car, including the diamond earrings. His string of breaking and entering would be over and he’d be shipped off to the slammer … if only temporarily.
Meanwhile Officer Taylor approached the accident scene. A bus and a truck had collided; pinned between the two vehicles was a very unfortunate Chucky Green. His run of small time thefts had come to an end … permanently. On the ground lay a pillowcase containing a few items, including Chloe Bennett’s faux fur collar. Charles βChuckyβ Green got pinned last night but not the way the police expected and certainly not the way they hoped.
βAlright folks. The excitement is over. Go on home nowβ announced Officer Taylor. βOk, Mario, letβs bring Bozo Bobo down to the station. And get a squad car over to Chuckyβs house; someone’s gotta break the news to his mother. No matter what a screw up Chucky was, he’s still her son. Poor woman.β
Reposting from 2020 for this week’s #WRITEPHOTOchallenge.
After much hard work and determination, Anthony was in a good place in life. He loved his job and enjoyed the people he interacted with every day. He had to make some sacrifices along the way but he managed to find the time to mix business with pleasure. Anthony knew if he played his cards right he’d be next in line for a promotion. Having that new title would open many doors for him.
During a routine meeting, Anthony was surprised by a bit of news. He was informed that the Rome office needed some help for a few months; since he had worked in Rome previously and spoke fluent Italian, he was specifically requested for the temporary position. At first Anthony wasn’t thrilled about the move and disruption in his life but when his boss told him it would be “a feather in his cap”, he accepted the assignment.
Flying into Leonardo da Vinci Airport always gave Anthony a rush. He loved Italy and had many friends there. One person in particular had been on his mind the entire flight: Gabriella. It had been more than two years since he had seen her; they texted frequently after his last trip to Italy but hadn’t communicated in quite a while. He longed to see her and hoped she felt the same.
Anthony quickly assessed the situation in the office: the staff’s computer skills were practically nonexistent. Time, patience, new MacBooks and a good teacher were desperately needed. He was given approval to order whatever was necessary to get the office functioning properly. Once that was done Anthony was free to contact Gabriella.
He sent her a text:
“Ciao, bella! I’m in Rome and would love to see you. Can we meet?”
“Antonio! I’ve missed you! Come to my place tonight. I will cook dinner. You remember my address?”
“Si, si!Everything about you is carved in my memory! I’ll be there at 7:00. Ciao, cara!”
Done with his first day on the job, Anthony hurried to the pensione where he was staying. He showered, changed his clothes and stopped on the way to Gabriella’s to buy a bottle of wine. He knew seeing her was terribly wrong; he was already in a committed relationship but he couldn’t stay away.
Pushing aside the gate to Gabriella’s house, Anthony raced down the narrow passageway to her red door. She stood there waiting for him. His heart skipped a beat as it did every time he saw her. She pulled him inside, closing the door behind her. “Mi amore” she whispered, seductively nibbling at his ear. He scooped her up in his arms, whisking her off to the bedroom.
Life for Anthony was a dynamic mixture of business and pleasure – wrapped up with work every day and making love to Gabriella every night. The days became weeks then months. The staff learned well and was now up to speed. Anthony’s time in Italy drew to an end and he would leave Gabriella once again. Their last night together would remain with him forever. He had many lovers but none as captivating as Gabriella.
Anthony’s superiors gave him permission to visit his parents in Westchester County before returning to his job in Manhattan. He had much to think about during his flight and knew he had one serious matter to resolve: he needed to clear his conscience. He hailed a taxi at Kennedy Airport and told the driver his destination. When they arrived Anthony gave the cabbie $20.00 and suggested he get some breakfast, then come back in an hour to pick him up.
Alone in the early morning, Anthony stood outside for a few moments gathering his thoughts. He walked up to the dimly lit house and rang the doorbell. As he waited Anthony gazed at the beautiful old church next door. His reverie was abruptly broken when the porch light came on. In the doorway stood his mentor and confidant, Monsignor Valenti.
“Anthony! This is a surprise! I didn’t know you were in town. Come in, come, in! I’ll make some coffee.”
“It’s good to see you, Monsignor, but this is not a social call.”
“What then? Official church business?” asked the monsignor curiously.
“No” Anthony replied softly. “It’s personal. I’ve come for the Sacrament of Reconciliation. I have broken my vows and must confess my sins.”
The monsignor sighed heavily. “Come. Let’s go to the chapel, Father Anthony.”
In a hushed tone, the errant priest began “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned” as the monsignor quietly closed the door behind him.
It had been quite a long while since Celia had taken a vacation. Now here she was, hiking the Appalachian Trail; it was the perfect get-away. The day was gorgeous and Celia was surprised to find she had the trail to herself. After about 90 minutes she came upon a split in the path. Placing her backpack on the ground, she pulled out a map and leaned against a tree. Suddenly there was a startling crack as the tree snapped in half. The ground beneath her gave out and she plummeted off the edge.
Celia had no idea how far sheβd fallen or where she was. She called out but all she heard were her echoes. Celia was pretty badly bruised but she didnβt think anything was broken. It was a struggle but she made it to her feet; it was then she realized she didnβt have her backpack which meant no food, no water, no bandages and no phone. Her only choice was to keep going.
She must have walked for miles. Exhausted, lost, Celia fell to her knees, sobbing. She squinted through her tears and could barely make out the shape of a cabin. Was it real? Was she hallucinating? Slowly she pulled herself up and trudged toward the building, praying it was not an illusion.
There were no lights, no signs of life. Raising her arm to bang on the door, it suddenly flew open and Celia was pulled into blackness. Thatβs the last thing she remembered.
The mysterious figure emerged from the shadows of the dimly lit alley and started walking toward her, sending chills up anddown her spine. Christine turned and quickened her pace as the figure drew closer. Just then she heard the sound of an approaching trolley and ran out into the street. Without looking behind her, she jumped on board and found a seat. Catching her breath, she settled down for the ride to her job at the hospital. Whatever it was, Christine was safe now. Being in a new and strange city could be disconcerting; it was probably just her imagination playing tricks on her in the pre-dawn hours.
The south side of Chicago is a dangerous place. Every other street throughout the city is dotted with dingy bars, seedy hotels, strip joints and dark alleys where unspeakable things happen. Gordon Peters had a taste for all of them β along with bourbon, brunettes and black silk stockings.
Most nights Gordon would slither into his favorite bar, The Death Trap, jacket collar turned up and hat low on his forehead. He’d sit in the shadows on the end barstool, order a bourbon and case the joint; just the usual losers. But Gordon had patience. He’d nurse his bourbon, smoke his Marlboro’s and sooner or later she’d walk in, maybe a secretary working overtime or a bored and lonely housewife.
About 45 minutes later, she ran in from the rain, shook her damp dark brown hair, headed to the bar and ordered a martini. Glancing around the room, her eyes landed on Gordon, then quickly looked away. She rummaged through her purse searching for her cigarette lighter. He walked over as stealthily as a cat and offered her a light. Removing his hat, he asked if he could join her. she nodded in assent, surprised to see how handsome he was.
Careful to retain his gentlemanly demeanor, Gordon made himself comfortable. He motioned for another round. They talked for a while; her name was Christine and she had recently taken a job as a pathologist at Chicago General. He was immediately intrigued, wondering how such a beautiful and feminine woman could be comfortable being around the dead all day. Breaking from the norm, he asked if she’d like to get a bite to eat; she agreed.
Dinner was pleasant and afterwards Gordon was ready to make his move. “Look, it’s stopped raining. Let’s take a walk” he suggested. Strolling the dimly-lit streets, he suddenly pulled her into a dark alley and pinned her against the wall. Christine could feel his hardness against her belly. She was unable to move and forced herself to remain calm as she thought “please don’t have a knife”. He pulled a black silk stocking from his pocket and, slowly wrapping it around her neck, began strangling her. The wetness in his pants and bourbon on his breath repulsed her. Gagging, suffocating, Christine’s eyes rolled upward and she slipped to the ground. Removing the stocking from around her neck, he draped it across her face and whispered “Courtesy of Gordon Peters“. And then he was gone.
But Christine was not dead; the only way she knew how to save herself was to let Peters believe that he had killed her. As a medical examiner, she knew a thing or two about the art of dying and how to feign death. She stayed perfectly still for a very long time, her head flopped to the side and her unblinking eyes focused on a rock a few feet from her face. Finally, when she felt certain she was safe, she carefully made her way to the street, looking in every direction in case Gordon Peters was lurking about. There were no people anywhere.
Across the street Christine noticed an idling taxi. She scurried to the cab and hurriedly told the driver “Chicago General. And hurry, please.” When she arrived at the hospital, Christine called the police to report the attack. She was told a team of detectives had been looking for this guy since four women were found murdered β all in alleys, all strangled. Now, thanks to her, they had his name, the name of the bar and a weapon. Gordon Peters had been sloppy that night, an oft-made mistakeΒ of the arrogant.
The next night as Gordon left The Death Trap, he was unceremoniously picked up by the police. The brunette on his arm had no idea what she was missing.
With exactly 67Β’ in his pocket, Dr. George Powers made his daily trek to McDonald’s for a morning cup of coffee. He would walk from his rent-controlled Greenwich Village apartment, buy his coffee and sip it while flipping though his dogeared copy of βThe Complete Organ Methodβ.
On this particular morning, George trudged through the slush in his beat up boots, 67Β’ jingling in his pocket. Placing the coins on the counter, he ordered his usual.
βSorryβ said the girl taking orders. βThe price is now 69Β’.β
Befuddled, George exclaimed βIβve been a patron here for years. The price is always 67Β’!β
Apologizing, the girl explained that she didnβt set the prices. George scooped up his 67Β’ muttering βoughta be a lawβ and trudged back home.
George was, to put it nicely, frugal. He saw how difficult the Great Depression had been on his parentβs life and livelihood. His father was always saying βNever trust banks!β Fortunately George was an excellent student, earning a scholarship to college and a grant to continue his studies for a Doctorate in Music.
Upon graduating high school, George was drafted to serve during WWII; he was never deployed and spent every day of his four years in the army at Fort Benning, Georgia. One day he noticed a baby grand piano in the corner of a lounge area and asked if it would be okay for him to practice. He was granted permission and in exchange would sometimes play for officer’s dinners. George’s self-imposed rigorous study habits in school carried over to his time in the army, waking at 3AM every day and practicing the piano for almost two hours before 5AM wake up call.
After the army, George enrolled in college, working weekends as assistant organist at Trinity Church in Greenwich Village. He was lucky; the church was close enough to his apartment and school so he didn’t have to pay for public transportation. The following year the organist retired; George replaced him and began teaching organ lessons. At the same time he attended graduate school, earning his Doctorate in Music. He made a decent salary yet continued his frugal lifestyle of eating cheese sandwiches, wearing the same clothes and drinking water from the tap. His only splurge was a morning cup of McDonald’s coffee.Β
George’s favorite student was Brad Ridgeway; he reminded George of a young version of himself. Brad worked in the mailroom at Dun & Bradstreet; his salary was so meager he could only afford to live at the YMCA. He was determined to become a great organist one day but music school was not in his budget. Brad’s parents worked for Walmart in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio and he wouldn’t dream of asking them for money. Times were tough but he just kept on pushing through one day at a time.
Despite their considerable age difference, Brad thought of George as his best friend; he didn’t realize it at the time but George felt the same way about him. When a very affordable furnished apartment not far from George became available, Brad was able to move out of the Y and settle into a place of his own. He wasn’t crazy about the furnishings but beggars can’t be choosers.
Occasionally on lesson days Brad would walk to George’s apartment building straight from work and the two of them would continue to Trinity Church. They looked like the cartoon characters Mutt and Jeff. At 6’3, Brad towered over the 5’8″ George. The duo was oblivious to the stares of people on the street and sometimes got so caught up in talking about music, they’d walk right by the church and have to backtrack half a city block or more.
One day at his lesson, Brad noticed that George had really let himself go. The soles of his shoes were falling apart, his sweater was threadbare in places, his eyeglasses were taped together in the center and he needed a haircut. In addition, his coat wasn’t warm enough and Brad was concerned about George’s deep persistent cough; he really did not look well at all. Brad asked George if everything was alright, if there was anything he could do. George just shrugged it off, mumbling something about “this damn weather” and the long-term effects of a case of childhood tuberculosis.
At the end of the lesson George handed Brad a tiny sealed manila envelope and earnestly said βSon, hold on to this. Open it only if something should happen to me. Keep it safe and don’t tell anyone. It’s for your eyes only.β Brad slipped the mysterious enveloped into his pocket; that was the first time George ever called him “son” and that made him think of his parents, now gone. Brad knew better than to ask any questions; if George wanted him to know more, he’d tell him.
About a month later, George uncharacteristically missed one of Bradβs lessons. Brad waited at the church for about twenty minutes, then went to George’s apartment to check on him. The landlord informed him that βthe old guyβΒ had passed away in his sleep three days earlier.Β Shattered, Brad slowly walked home; hours later he remembered the envelope. Grabbing the plant in his kitchen where he had hidden the envelope, Brad stuck his fingers in the dirt and pulled out a small plastic bag containing the envelope. He opened it and found a scrap of paper and a key; written on the paper was βG.C.T. 520β.
Brad was stumped by the initials G.C.T. For days he tried to decipher the note, with no luck. One morning while reading the newspaper, Brad’s eyes landed on a short article on the bottom of the page. As he read the headline, Brad couldn’t believe what he saw: “Construction Work to Begin at G.C.T.” As he read on, Brad discovered the three letters stood for Grand Central Terminal β the largest commuter train terminal in New York.
Brad raced to the bus stop and boarded a bus for Grand Central. On the way there he figured out “520” could only be a locker number. Running through the terminal, he finally came upon row after row of lockers. He located #520 and with trembling fingers unlocked it to discover it was crammed with small brown paper bags.
Loosening the tape and peeking inside one bag, Brad’s eyes nearly popped out when he saw it was stuffed with money! Scrawled on the bags in George’s handwriting was βNEVER TRUST BANKS!β Shocked, Brad slammed the locker door and locked it. He scrambled around the area hoping to find a discarded shopping bag or cardboard box. He eyed a big bag tossed on top of a garbage can, swiped it and went back to the locker. Methodically he filled the large bag with all the small bags, tossed his sweater on top to conceal the contents of the bag and returned home as quickly as possible.
Safely back in his apartment, Brad emptied the shopping bag onto his bed and began counting the money bags; there were 75 bags and each one contained 50 $100 bills. George, in his frugality had stashed away $375,000 and put it all aside for Brad. Dumbstruck, Brad slowly sat on the edge of his bed, disbelief washing over him.
Little did Brad know that was just the beginning of his shocking news.
A couple of days after finding the money at Grand Central, Brad received a call from a man who identified himself as a lawyer and the executor of George’s will. “George’s will? What more could Georgepossibly have toleave anyone?” Brad wondered. The lawyer asked Brad to come by his office which he did the following day. When Brad arrived at the office, he was handed an old battered suitcase; the lawyer told Brad the suitcase was left to him by George and its contents were now his. Brad was given the key for the suitcase and left the lawyer’s office.
Once back in his apartment, Brad placed the suitcase on the kitchen table and unlocked it. There was a note resting atop a layer of newspapers. The note read:
“Dear Brad. For all the years as my student, you were the only personI felt I could count on. I know you struggled financially and life was roughfor you so it seemed only fitting that I leave you what I could.In this suitcase are my cherishedorgan books; I want you to have them. Whatever else is in thiscase I can no longer use. It is yours. Bless you and don’t forget β NEVER TRUST BANKS! Fondly, George”
I’m asking myself at this point, dear readers, if you have figured out that in addition to his beloved organ books, George had placed the remainder of his money in the suitcase and had given it to the lawyer for safekeeping?
If you are wondering if this story is fact or fiction, I can tell you without a shred of doubt that it is true; I have not changed the facts, only embellished them for your reading pleasure. You see, in early 2000 I began organ lessons with Dr. George Powers at Trinity Church. Eighteen months later, 911 happened and all lower Manhattan was closed off: I wasn’t able to get down to Greenwich Village for lessons. Shortly after that, knee surgery sidelined me and I was forced to give up the organ all together.
During those 18 months I got to know Brad and a couple of George’s other students casually in passing. On Easter Sunday 2010, I received a call from the secretary at Trinity Church; she was informing all George’s students of his death. Brad had been George’s student for quite a few years and I believe George did the right thing leaving his money to Brad; neither one had any relatives, only each other.
By the time all the money had been counted, Brad had inherited an astonishing $2.5 million in cold cash! This information was revealed to me by another of George’s students while we were attending a memorial service for George at Trinity Church. As it turns out, the student I was talking to was the wife of George’s lawyer.
After the memorial service, I never spoke to any of George’s students again and I never found out what became of Brad Ridgeway. Despite George’s opinion of banks, I hope Brad made some wise investments and is enjoying a very comfortable life!
This organ is almost identical to the one at Trinity Church. The pipes are located at the front of the church while the organ is in the rear. Due to this type of setup, there is always a momentary sound delay.
I hope you enjoyed that incredible story of Dr. George Powers and Brad Ridgeway. Please join me today for a new edition of At The Movies. I look forward to sharing another great video with you. https://rhythmsection.blog/
Pamela sat huddled in the corner of the school office, her hands tightly clutching the sweater of her school uniform around her. A few buttons on her blouse were missing and the sleeve was torn at the shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes swollen from crying and she chewed her bottom lip nervously. No one paid any attention except to toss an occasional accusatory glance her way.
She ran her fingers through her dark hair, realizing her pony tail had come undone. She sniffled and wiped her nose on a tissue in the pocket of her sweater. Staring down at her penny loafers, she was startled by the sudden shrill ringing of the phone on the secretaryβs desk.
βYes, sir. Right away, sirβ the secretary said into the phone receiver, then hung up and called out βPamela, Principal Hoffman will see you now.β
Pamela rose slowly and gathered her school books, still clutching her sweater. βQuickly, Pamela! You mustnβt keep Principal Hoffman waiting!β the secretary snapped at her.
Pamela entered the principalβs office and was shocked to see the drama coach Mr. Booker there. She quickly looked away, her face turning crimson. She felt naked standing there before them, their lecherous eyes staring at her.
βWell, Pamela, do you know why youβre here?β asked Principal Hoffman.
Pamela looked down at the floor shaking her head βnoβ.
βLook at me and answer the question, you insolent little slut!β yelled the principal, aroused by the feelings he was experiencing for yet another woman-child standing trembling before him.
Tears ran down Pamela’s cheeks as she looked at both men, the smug, loathsome expression on Mr. Bookerβs face filling her with dread.
He slowly walked up to Pamela until he was close enough for her to feel his breath on her face. βYou filthy liar. You know exactly why youβre here” Booker spat out. “You came to me backstage after play rehearsal, rubbed up against me and ripped open your blouse.β He reached out and grabbed her chin. βAdmit it now before you get in more trouble!β and obscene thoughts of all the things heβd like to do to Pamela raced through his mind. He was repulsive.
Pushing his hand off her face, Pamela cried out βNo! I didnβt do anything! You did!Youβre the liar, not me!β
Mr. Booker caught hold of her wrist in his large hand. “Then explain why some of your buttons are missing?” The teacher dared her to speak.
Pamela said nothing at first, then looked into Mr. Booker’s dark eyes and yelled “Because you’re the one who tore my blouse, you pervert!”
Booker raised his hand to slap her but Principal Hoffman banged his fist on the desk. βPamela, this is a Christian school and we do not tell lies nor do we act in promiscuous ways. Now admit what Mr. Booker said is true.β
She remained silent and shook her head in defiance.
βFine, Pamela. Youβre dismissed. We will be calling your parents this evening to inform them of your disgusting behavior. How disappointed they will be to hear you are following in your sister’s salacious habits. Now, get out!β
Pamela left the office and ran home. She knew her parents wouldnβt return from work for another few hours. She threw herself onto her bed and called her older sister. βMiaβ she cried into the phone.
βPammy, whatβs wrong?β Mia asked.
All Pamela said was βMr. Booker.β
Mia’s heart sank and she felt sick to her stomach. βThat bastard! Listen, Pammyβ Mia said. βMom and Dad didnβt believe me and they wonβt believe you either. There’ll be hell to pay when Principal Hoffman and Mr. Booker spew their lies to Mom and Dad. Listen, Pammy. Change out of your uniform and toss it in your backpack with some clothes. Don’t take too much. We want it to look like you were never home. Walk as calmly as you can to the bus stop on the corner and use your school pass to get on the bus to Journal Square. From there, switch to a PATH train to the end of the line in Hoboken. Iβll be at the terminal waiting to pick you up; you remember my car is a blue CRV? Someone might be able to ID you getting on the bus to Journal Square but they’re likely to lose track of you after you switch to the train to Hoboken. Youβll be safe with me and Ronnie, Pammy. Don’t worry; we’ve got big plans to get out of this hell hole. where we can be safe.β
Pamela did exactly as her sister said. She left her house and got on the bus to Journal Square. She didn’t see anyone and she never looked back. When she finally arrived in Hoboken, she spotted her sister’s car across the street. She ran to it and jumped into the passenger seat in front.
Without even a glance in her sister’s direction, Pamela buckled her seat belt and breathlessly exclaimed “Oh, Mia. I’m so glad to be here.” When the doors locked automatically, Pamela looked up. To her horror her sister Mia wasn’t in the driver’s seat; it was her boyfriend, Ronnie, and he was waving a very sharp knife dangerously close to Pamela’s face. Pamela always had a bad feeling about Ronnie when her sister first hooked up with him but Mia wouldn’t listen to anything people had to say.
“Why, hello Pammy. I’m so glad you’re here, too.Look at you, all grown up now.” Very slowly Ronnie traced the outline of Pam’s neck with his knife and popped off the top button of her blouse, then the second and the third. He stared at her exposed bra as he rubbed his hard crotch. “Oh yeah, sweetness. You’re getting me all excited. Yes sir. We’re leaving here and driving down south where no one will find us. We’re all gonnahave us a whole lotta fun.” He reached over and ran his rough hands across her breasts. “I bet you taste like sweet Georgia peaches.”
It was then that Pamela heard moaning coming from the back seat and turned to see Mia on the floor; she was bound and gagged and wearing only her underwear. Just as the sister’s terrified eyes locked, Ronnie tossed a blanket over Mia and drove off.
Ronnie flipped on the radio and started singing along to a country song as Pamela looked straight ahead and wept silently.
Francesco glanced down from his perch 60 stories above the streets of New York City; that translated into roughly 900 feet in the air. As he ate lunch, he talked casually to his companion, Giuseppe, who sat across from him on a ledge about four feet away. Francesco lit a Camel cigarette, tossed the box of matches to Giuseppe and both men lounged on their beds of steel. Francesco took a long drag on his cigarette, keeping his eyes open to maintain his balance on the 18-inch-wide metal plank. A whistle blew, its shrill notes informing the men that lunchtime was over.
Giuseppe pitched the matches back to Francesco. They rose to their feet, now old pros at this daily death-defying ballet they performed. When they first arrived in America, they learned very quickly that the jobs of police officers, firemen or train engineers were not meant for them; those positions were reserved for the Irish and English immigrants. The Italians and others who didn’t speak English were forced into manual labor β jobs in construction or sanitation where grunting and nodding were the main forms of communication. They took pride in their work, the resulting cathedrals and skyscrapers testaments to their skill and determination.
An errant gust of wind made its presence known; it swirled around the men’s feet and scooped up the wrappings from lunch, tossing the papers about before they slowly drifted out of sight. Both men held on to a nearby vertical beam, silently waiting until the wind stilled.
Looking below at the large wind flag, the men saw that it was white; it was safe to continue working. A yellow flag meant to exercise extreme caution while red indicated dangerous weather conditions. The crew worked through many different elements, but if a red flag was up, no one climbed the beams.
There were no harnesses to prevent a catastrophic fall, no safety nets should someone slip … nothing to protect the men, to save them. All they had to help them scale the beams were ropes dangling from above, good balance and guts.
Calmness restored, the men strapped on their tool belts containing welderβs gloves, hammers and tongs. A pulley system was used to hoist beams and buckets filled with iron rivets in white hot coals. Using their tongs, the men removed the rivets one by one from the coals, inserted them into holes in the beams and hammered them into place. After every hole was filled, the men climbed up to the next level and repeated the process.
When the end-of-work whistle blew, Giuseppe reached for the rope to begin the long, slow descent to solid ground. A slight misjudgment caused him to lose his footing and he slid off the beam like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Francesco yelled out in horror βNo, Giuseppe, no!!β as he tried in vain to grab his friendβs arm. The crew watched in stunned disbelief as Giuseppe fell headlong to the sidewalk far below, his screams echoing throughout the canyon of steel.
Francesco slumped over, his head in his hands, silently weeping as a single mournful thought invaded his mind: he didnβt even know Giuseppeβs last name.
Promenaders strolled down the sun-streaked boardwalk of Atlantic City, New Jersey; ladies twirled their parasols while gents tipped their straw hats and stroked their handlebar mustaches as they passed each other for it was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, a perfect day with sunshine, blue skies and laughing children!
Margaret Wilson and her boy Sam came from Philadelphia for the fresh sea air, to gaze in awe at the hotels built like fairytale palaces along the seafront and to admire the piers dripping with neon lights, the most famous of which was the Steel Pier, known for its dance bands, water circus and other such attractions; in fact, it was revealed that the renowned composer John Philip Sousa and his band would be performing that very afternoon.
There were barkers selling salt water taffy and cotton candy, minstrel shows, fairgrounds and the famous Diving Horse, specially trained to charge up a 60 foot ramp to a platform atop the Steel Pier where a woman clad in a smattering of sequins leapt onto its back just before it plunged off the pier; horse and rider flew through the air, hitting the water to the applause of delighted throngs waiting below.
However today was a holiday and the children laughed gleefully as they rode the giant carousel on horses painted pink, yellow, white and green, even the smallest tyke straining to reach the brass ring while their parents strolled in their most fashionable clothes and made small talk; with the start of school the furthest thing from their minds, nothing could spoil a day like today.Β
Suddenly the cacophony of gun shots rang out and people screamed and scattered as gun-wielding robbers ran from a pawn shop, jumped into a waiting car and took off, bullets flying wildly; a momentary silence overtook the Boardwalk only to be shattered by a piercing wail that rose to the heavens and everyone turned to see Margaret Wilson cradling the body of little Sam, shot in the heart by a stray bullet (in his jacket pocket a folded essay, now stained with innocent blood, entitled βHow I Spent My Summer Vacationβ); the police arrived, removed mother and child and the band played on.Β
Written in response to GirlieOnTheEdge and Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt. The rules: six sentences β no more, no less. Punctuation be damned! The magic word this week is CAROUSEL. π
Misky whispered in my ear, “Uber story”. Here’s one from three years ago. π
Finding himself suddenly unemployed, Omar anguished over supporting his family β not just his wife and kids but his parents back in Somalia. One would think having a biomedical engineering degree would open many doors for him but the job search proved more difficult than Omar imagined. His wife Waris was trained as a midwife and she was willing to go back to work but Omar was too proud to allow her to be the only breadwinner in the family. He would find work if it was the last thing he did. Waris encouraged him to look outside his comfort zone; it was then that he saw the ad in Craig’s List:
Drive With Uber β Be Your Own Boss. For information call 888-555-BOSS
Omar called the number; a man with a strange accent anwered. “UberBoss” was all he said.
“Um, yes” replied Omar haltingly. “I’m calling about the ad.”
“Email your phone number and driver’s license to uberboss@hotmail.com. We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it? Don’t I need to take a test or something?” Omar asked.
“Look, buddy. You want the job or do you want to play 20 questions?” the man replied sarcastically.
“Yes, I’m interested, but what is the pay, please?” inquired Omar.
The man sighed impatiently. “$25 an hour; UberBoss gets 20% commission.”
Omar was stunned. “That seems a bit exorbitant!”
“That’s the going rate, buddy. Take it or leave it” was the gruff response.
Considering he currently had no income, Omar accepted.
“Ok, buddy. Someone will call you.” Click. Within the hour Omar received his first assignment.
β β β β β β
A woman was waiting for Omar; she wore a burka and only her eyes were visible. She signaled Omar to roll down the window, handed him a thick envelope and quickly walked away without saying a word. Taped to the envelope was a key and instructions which read: “100 Hester Street, Locker #57. Unlock padlock, remove backpack, leave envelope and key, snap padlock shut.”
The destination was a YMCA. Upon entering the building, Omar spotted a hallway with a row of lockers. He found #57, opened the padlock, removed the backpack, placed the envelope and key inside the locker and snapped the lock shut.
The backpack had a tag with an address, locker number and key attached; this had to be his next destination. It turned out to be a bus depot and the locker contained a thick envelope just like the one the woman had given him earlier. Omar determined he had to remove the envelope and replace it with the backpack from the previous locker. He tossed in the key and secured the lock.
This routine continued for six hours at which point Omar received a text from UberBoss requesting his PayPal address. He was advised that his work was finished for the day and he would get a new assignment in the morning. Omar complied and shortly after he received another text, this time from PayPal informing him of a new deposit in his account.
The days were tiring and monotonous. Omar’s ass was sore from driving all around town and he didn’t speak to a single person all day. Being an Uber driver was not what he thought it would be; he was just some tool in a game of hide and seek. But he’d been at it for three weeks and had accumulated more money in his PayPal account than he had in a long time.
Omar was getting very curious about the contents of the envelopes and backpacks but they were tightly sealed β except for today. Noticing a small tear in the envelope, Omar used his pocket knife to finesse the opening just a bit. Peeking inside he saw stacks of neatly bound $100 bills and the hooded eyes of Benjamin Franklin staring back at him.
Omar considered his next move for about five seconds. He drove to the address on the envelope, ripped off the key and shoved the envelope under the front seat of his car. Driving to his destination he located the locker, grabbed the backpack and snapped the lock. Whatever was in these packs had to be very valuable.
As he sped home Omar knew he was taking a huge risk but it was worth it for Waris and his family. He laughed excitedly at the prospect of financial freedom and the more he laughed the faster he drove. The sound of screaming sirens brought Omar back to reality; a police car was chasing him. He was forced off the road and commanded to step out of the car. While looking through the car the police found the envelope full of money. They also found a backpack crammed with bricks of cocaine.
Omar’s world came crashing down around him and he desperately proclaimed his innocence, to no avail. He was handcuffed and hauled away on the spot. Omar never saw the video text that came from UberBoss: “Big mistake, Buddy! Say bye bye.”
At the same moment back at Omar’s house a frantic Waris was tearfully staring down the barrel of the UberBoss’s gun.
Resuscitated and reworked for DA; We both needed something edgy.
βWelcome, friends. Youβre listening to Dr. Grey, βThe Night Owlβ.Letβs talk about whatβs keeping you up at night. Caller, are you there?β
βYes, Iβm here and I feel a little foolish calling you about my problem. It happened so long ago.β
βLet me assure you, caller, thereβs no reason to feel foolish. Obviously whatever happened is still haunting you. Maybe itβs time to let it go. Whenever you feel comfortable, Iβm here to listen.β
βOk, here goes nothing. You see, I was born deformed. Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, I was teased mercilessly, especially by the other boys.β
βI can see how painful that must have been for you. Please continue.β
βHigh school was a living hell. There was a group of guys who beat me up every day. The only friend I had was a sweet girl who wasnβt disgusted by my deformity. It was real easy to fall in love with her. But she had a boyfriend β the guy who treated me the worst. How I hated him! I started thinking of ways I could hurt him like he was hurting me.β
βCaller, I can only imagine your pain. May I ask, have you called in before? Thereβs something familiar about your voice. Please, go on.β
βNope, Iβve never called before, Chief.β
βWhat did you just call me?β
βOh, did that nickname ring a bell, Chief? Yeah, big man on campus back in Madison, Indiana. It was you, Chief, who made my life a living hell, you who tormented me every chance you had and eventually turned my only friend against me .. my sweet Maggie. Do you have any idea how much I hate you? β
βOh my God! Fred Waldron! Fred, Iβm unbelievably sorry for all the pain I caused you. I was an idiot with a big mouth. But now we have a chance toβ¦.β
βTo what? Talk it out? Forgive and forget? I donβt think so. Too late, Chief. See, Iβm dying. Thatβs right. My deformed body is riddled with cancer. I had one last thing to do before I die and believe me, it wasnβt to hear you apologize. It was to hurt you in the worst possible way.β
βFred, what do you mean?β
βYouβll see. I paid a little visit to your house tonight, Chief. That’s right. And I saw your sweet little Maggie. Boy, she was surprised to see me. The way I made her scream and beg for mercy was exquisite. I’m never gonna forget the pleasure I got from her agony. I’m telling you Chief β it was some of my best work. By the way, you’re outta duct tape. Well, I’m gonna hang up now, Chief, and put a bullet in my brain. It’s been great talking old times and I’ll die happy knowing you’ll be in hell for as long as you live. You really should go home now, Chief, and check on your sweet little Maggie. There may still be something left.β
The Elephant's Trunk 