Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to get creative in 250 words or less using this photo as inspiration. Here is my story. If you would like to read previous adventures of George and Martha, you may click here and here.
“Take a look around, George. Do you see any sign of fine dining?”
“Perhaps it’s the shabby chic part of town. The French are famous for that look.”
“You know, George, for a man who prides himself on having the navigation skills of a homing pigeon, you’ve achieved the impossible and gotten us lost …. again.”
“Objection! May I remind you, Madam, that you’re the one who wrote down the name and address of this place.”
“Overruled! What’s your point, George?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Is it my fault that your chicken scratch is indecipherable?”
“It’s called cursive writing, you plebian, and it’s perfectly legible.”
“Ha! That’s highly questionable, Martha! Looks like hieroglyphics to me.”
“Bottom line, George …. we are lost.”
“Speaking of lost, Martha, I do believe we just passed a bar. I’m going to lose myself in a nice dry martini.”
“Don’t even think about it, George! We came all this way for a decadent dessert at ‘Le Sugar Factory’, the most exclusive pâtisseriein Saint-Tropez. I’m not leaving until I have it.”
“Settle down, Martha. I’ve heard hippopotami pass a kidney stone quieter than you!”
“Look, George! What’s the name on that building?”
“Mon dieu! That’s the same name you wrote down, Martha. See …. we’re not lost!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, George! That says, ‘serrurerie’, locksmith; I wrote ‘sucrerie’, Sugar Factory! We’re still lost!”
“Chicken scratch, Martha. And I still need a martini!”
Written in response to The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to be creative in 250 words or less by using the photo you see below. This is my story.
NB. My story is another perspective prompted by C.E. Ayr’s intriguing response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge. Please check out C.E.’s story here and/or here. I hope you enjoy my version and his.
Contrary to popular opinion, sometimes these things really do just happen – at least that’s how it was for me.
My husband was out for the day … the monthly visit with his son from his first marriage. I never fault him this time alone; it’s good for him and it gives me the chance to spend a day in my favorite book store.
One day while on my way home, I paused to watch the swans; from the bridge I saw a man emerge from his boat. As if drawn by my presence, he glanced up at me and waved. I waved back. Then the most unexpected thing happened: he beckoned me. I went down to greet him and that was the beginning of our affair.
Now I live for my husband’s monthly visits with his son.
This month my husband’s son is backpacking with friends and there is no visit. He busies himself with tennis and darts at the pub. Desperate to meet my lover, I bailed on our tennis game, pretending to be sick, and my husband went off alone to find a partner.
The afternoon with my lover was heavenly; half-way home I turned around and returned to the boat.
How could I know my husband had paused on the bridge to watch the swans and saw me leave the boat?
How could my husband know that while he was plotting his jealous revenge, I had returned to the boat and was inside when he torched it?
Melissa at dVerse poets has asked us to write a poem for the prompt “If You Don’t Like Cats, I’m Sorry”, based on one of Louis Wain’s drawings. I have written a Dectina Refrain for “Cat’s Nightmare”. Oh, but there’s a catch: we can’t use the word “cat” in our poems!
A Dectina Refrain is written as follows: 1st line is 1 syllable, 2nd line is 2 syllables, 3rd line is 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone sentence.
“Cat’s Nightmare” by Louis Wain
WHO do you think you are, trying to hide from the likes of us? We have our eyes on you watching every move you make; foolish kitties, there’s no escape. A tasty whisker pie we will bake! Who do you think you are, trying to hide?
When little Summer was just a few days old, her mother Laura started the tradition of sitting with her in the nursery to read stories before bed; in the corner of the nursery was an old floor lamp that used to belong to Laura’s grandparents, Momma and Poppy, and it filled the nursery with a soft, soothing glow.
As a little girl, Laura spent a lot of time with Momma and Poppy and the three of them developed a deep and loving bond so when Momma and Poppy passed away, the one thing Laura asked for was the floor lamp which was in the bedroom of their house where little Laura napped; now, each night Laura would tell baby Summer all about her beloved Momma and Poppy.
This one particular night as Laura and Summer were sitting in the nursery, the glow from the floor lamp caught the baby’s attention and she was captivated by it, something Laura thought was a sweet connection, especially since the lamp originally belonged to Momma and Poppy, Summer’s great-grandparents, but then Laura noticed a pattern developing, a pattern that would repeat two or three times most nights at Summer’s bedtime where the baby would gaze calmly and quietly at the lamp, then slowly begin to coo, gurgle and giggle for a few minutes before becoming animated – smiling, eyes glowing, arms waving, laughing and babbling loudly – then back again to quietness but still very much attracted to and aware of the lamp …. even when the floor lamp was off, Summer was attracted to it.
One afternoon when Summer was around 3 years old, Laura heard her talking and laughing, just like she did when playing with her stuffed animals, and when Laura peeked into Summer’s room expecting to find her little girl on the bed, she was surprised to see her in the big over-stuffed chair where Laura read bedtime stories; the floor lamp was lit and Summer appeared to be having a happy and lively conversation – not with her stuffed animals but with the lamp.
When Laura asked Summer who she was so happily talking to, the little girl was quick to reply “Momma and Poppy, of course; can’t you see them, Mommy?”
Laura caught her breath for a moment but she was not completely shocked for she knew Momma and Poppy’s lamp was special – the very reason Laura wanted it in her own home, but she didn’t realize how special it was; Laura never tried to stop Summer from talking to the lamp for she truly believed the spirits of Momma and Poppy were presentand Summer’s conversations with them were real …. and who are we to say they weren’t. 🪽
In the fall of 2017, Kevin Spacey’s life and his astronomical career in acting, writing, directing and production (and more) came crashing down with devastating swiftness and near Shakespearean consequences. The reason: sexual assault allegations from 30 years ago.
On October 29, 2017, actor Anthony Rapp alleged that Spacey, while appearing intoxicated, made a sexual advance toward him at a party in 1986, when Rapp was 14 and Spacey was 26. Spacey stated on Twitter that he did not remember the encounter, but that he owed Rapp “the sincerest apology for what would have been deeply inappropriate drunken behavior” if he had behaved as asserted.
Almost three years later, on September 9, 2020, Rapp sued Spacey for sexual assault, sexual battery and intentional infliction of emotional distress under the Child Victims Act. In the subsequent federal civil court proceeding, a jury found that Spacey did not molest Rapp and was found not liable on all counts, with Rapp subsequently ordered by the court to pay Spacey $39,089 in damages.
Fifteen other accusers emerged from the woodwork and jumped on the bandwagon alleging similar abuse. The Guardian was contacted by “a number of people” who alleged that Spacey “groped and behaved in an inappropriate way with young men” while he was artistic director of The Old Vic theatre.
On the same day as Rapp’s allegations against him, Kevin Spacey came out as gay when apologizing to Rapp. His decision to come out via his statement was criticized by gay celebrities as an attempt to change the subject and shift focus from Rapp’s accusation, for using his own drunkenness as an excuse for making a sexual advance on a minor and for implying a connection between homosexuality and child sexual abuse. Spacey expressed regret over the way he came out and said that it was “never his intention” to deflect from the allegations against him or conflate them with his sexual orientation.
Amid the allegations, filming was suspended on the sixth and final season of House of Cards starring Kevin Spacey. His livelihood, public acceptance, reputation, peace of mind and very existence was hanging by an excruciatingly slender thread.
As Rapp’s trial lawsuit against Spacey commenced in October 2022, it was revealed Rapp had given an inaccurate description of the apartment where he alleged the abuse took place. The judge dismissed the emotional-distress charges as a “duplicate” of the battery charges and a jury found Spacey not liable of all charges.
On May 26, 2022, Spacey was charged by the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) in the UK with four counts of sexual assault against three complainants which were said to have taken place between 2005 and 2013 in Gloucestershire and London. According to the CPS, it would be possible to formally charge Spacey only if he entered England or Wales either voluntarily or through an extradition request. In a statement to Good Morning America on May 31, 2022, Spacey said he would “voluntarily appear in the UK”.
In his first British court appearance, on June 16, Spacey denied the allegations against him. On July 14, he pleaded not guilty to the charges in London. During the hearings, the complainant gave conflicting reports, false information regarding deleted text messages on his phone and eventually refused to answer any other questions, invoking the Fifth Amendment. On November 16, the CPS authorized an additional seven charges against Spacey, all related to a single complainant arising from incidents alleged to have occurred between 2001 and 2004. Three charges were dismissed before or during the trial, which began on June 28, 2023, and, on July 26, 2023, a jury found Kevin Spacey not guilty of the remaining nine charges.
Kevin Spacey has received countless accolades, including two Academy Awards, a BAFTA Award, a Golden Globe Award, a Tony Award and two Laurence Olivier Awards. He was named an honorary Commander and Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in 2010 and 2015, respectively.
Kevin Spacey’s brother, Randy Fowler, has stated that their father was sexually, physically and emotionally abusive and that young Kevin shut down emotionally and became “very sly and smart” to avoid beatings. Spacey addressed the matter in October 2022, saying that his father was a white supremacist and a neo-Nazi who beat him regularly and called him derogatory names, including ‘faggot‘. Spacey stated that the abuse at the hands of his father caused him to become extremely private about his personal life which, in turn, resulted in him choosing not to come out as gay earlier in his life.
The following video aired prior to Kevin Spacey’s hearings in the UK where he was found not guilty of all charges. There are other videos available for viewing on YouTube if you so desire. I went with this one, choosing to avoid the sleazy and salacious nature of “entertainment news”.
This next video is a clip from the movie “Beyond The Sea” with Kevin Spacey portraying Bobby Darin. Spacey did all his own singing which is rather impressive. I could have gone with songs like “Mack The Knife” or “Beyond The Sea” but the name of this video tickled my funny bone.
Here is Kevin Spacey as Bobby Darin singing “Dream Lover”.
It all came about one day in April, the 1st, to be exact. Newly divorced, I had recently moved into a house in the country and was enjoying my morning coffee on the patio. Birds of many different varieties flitted about the bushes and fruit trees in the yard next door. Even a couple of deer and a few rabbits were contentedly munching on the grass. I felt like I was in the middle of a Disney movie and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the animals started talking and singing!
Looking around my property I couldn’t help but compare my landscaping to that of my neighbor, Marjorie. Hers was overflowing with every sort of plant imaginable while mine had a paltry number of pitiful-looking bushes on the verge of death. I began to envision my very own Garden of Eden. There would be shrubs and fruit trees and flowers everywhere, graceful statues and a tranquil water feature. My yard was going to be much better than Marjorie’s!
Perhaps her ears were burning or it was just a coincidence but at that very moment Marjorie turned her head in my direction. Even from forty feet away I could see her beady eyes squinting at me. A rather obese woman, she was sweating profusely as she labored in her garden, her ridiculously small bonnet providing little shade to her balloon-like face. I waved to her but she didn’t wave back; either she didn’t see me or she chose to ignore me. Marjorie wasn’t all shits and giggles. Her husband left her for another woman (no big surprise there!) and her grown children lived far away. It seemed like her only joy in life was tending to her expansive garden.
Being a city boy, I knew nothing about gardening so I called the local nursery where one could get anything from a hose nozzle to a majestic pine tree. One of the landscapers came by a few hours later and walked through the property with me, making suggestions as we went along. I told him money was no object and gave him free reign to plant whatever he thought best – the more impressive the better.
A few days later the nursery’s trucks arrived at my house. I caught a glimpse of Marjorie peeking through her curtains as my many purchases were unloaded and wheeled into my yard. The landscapers got to work planting everything from small flowering shrubs to walls of bamboo. They put in an arbor, birdbaths, several angelic statues as well as a Japanese-inspired water feature. Before my eyes the once barren wasteland was now a flourishing oasis. Take that, Marjorie!
My new bountiful yard only spurred her on to do even more work in her yard; every time one of us added something new, so would the other. It became a petty, childish game of tit for tat; who could create the most majestic personal Nirvana?
The next morning while brewing a cup of coffee, I was shocked to see a police car and ambulance outside Marjorie’s house; she had suffered a fatal heart attack while working in her garden. Well, there certainly was no love lost between us but I never wished her any harm. She was a rotund woman; laboring day after day in her garden the way she did obviously put too much strain on her heart. I hoped whoever moved in next door would treat Marjorie’s yard with the same tender loving care.
A few weeks later I woke up to the screeching sounds of power tools and heavy machinery. Unable to see through my dense bamboo hedge, I walked around the front to Marjorie’s place; all her marvelous landscaping was being leveled! After everything was hauled away, a bulldozer began digging a huge hole. Week after week the work continued. The noise was enervating and I found myself spending more and more time working inside from my home office and away from my backyard utopia.
Finally one day in early August all was quiet; the work next door was complete. I decided it was time to fling wide the portals leading outside and enjoy an afternoon in the sun with the birds splashing in my water feature. My good friend Charlie stopped by and as we sat there enjoying a few ice cold Michelob Ultras, the pristine silence was broken by the shrieks, yelps and laughter of little children.
“Damnation! What now?” I grumbled, rolling my eyes and craning my neck for a peek.
Charlie nearly choked on his beer. “Don’t tell me you don’t know!”
“Know what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You dumb son of a bitch!” Charlie howled. “Dear old Marjorie left a will stating that her house and property were to be leveled and converted into a daycare facility, complete with playground, carousel and swimming pool.”
“You can’t be serious! What about zoning laws?” I sputtered in disbelief. Visions of my plummeting property value made me groan. And Charlie laughed, clearly enjoying my distress a bit too much.
Was this some sort of twisted karma? I just wouldn’t let old Marjorie best me and now, what she couldn’t achieve in life she had accomplished in death. The ultimate victory was hers. I felt sick to my stomach.
“Almost paradise.” I sighed, a defeated man. Maybe everything that happened really was my fault after all.
The smell of old cooking oil reheated too many times stuck in his throat and clung to every inch of the Chinese food takeout joint. He hated being here, his uncomfortable demeanor only making him feel ridiculously out of place. And why were there only two tables in the whole shop when there was clearly room for more. He felt naked, center stage, all eyes on him yet no one paid him any attention.
How the hell did he let himself get roped into this? His granddaughter, a 15 year old package of rebellion and maladjustment, talked him into a dinner out. He didn’t like eating anywhere but at home but he realized in the fourteen years since she was in his care, he’d never taken his granddaughter out to eat, not even for an ice cream.
He wondered if he resented her. In truth it was his daughter, the girl’s mother, he resented for running off like she did and leaving her year old tot with him. What kind of mother does that? One just a kid herself, stuck with an unwanted baby and a desperate need to be a teenager. Well, she took off one night and never came back.
Now, here he sat, waiting for this willful girl who was too much like her mother for her own good to return from the toilet. She’d been in there far too long and he sat staring at his past knowing she’d run off, leaving him alone again.
There was never a time when my father didn’t sport a mustache. A thin, elegant line when he was a young man, a bit more pronounced as he grew older but always neat, always refined.
Dressed in his army uniform, he was every bit the matinee idol and it was obvious why Mom fell for him.
When we visited him in Albany Medical Center the morning of his surgery for multiple aneurisms – both abdominal and aortic – his grey hair was neatly combed, mustache trimmed. He was 82 years old and the doctors gave him a bleak 6% chance of surviving the operation. Yet, survive he did.
My sister’s daughter – my father’s eldest grandchild – gave serious thought to postponing her wedding until my father was stronger. He insisted she “do nothing of the kind”. He told us all, in no uncertain terms, that he would never miss his first grandchild’s wedding …. and he didn’t. Dressed to the nines in his tux and bow tie, perfectly groomed silver mustache, we all held our breath as they walked hand in hand onto the dance floor for what would be their last spin together.
When my dad died, we provided the undertaker with a photo for reference. The inexperienced mortician did a lovely job tending Dad but, looking back and forth from the photo to my father at peace his coffin, the undertaker knew something was amiss.
It was the first time any of us had ever seen Dad without his dashing mustache.
Our gracious host Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers is encouraging us to get creative in 100 words or less using this photo as our inspiration. This is my story.
In the 7th grade, ballroom dance class was a rite of passage – a Friday night event that lasted six months, culminating in a semiformal dinner-dance. The boys wore ties and jackets, the girls in party dresses and white gloves. It was not mandatory but if you didn’t sign up, you were snubbed. It was the highlight of the year …. not for the 12-year-old students but rather for their moms.
My son balked but signed up.
“You’ll never regret knowing how to dance”, I told him.
Since then, I’ve seen him dance on two occasions – his wedding and his brother’s.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is once again challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “ace”. This is my story.
The other night as I was getting undressed and ready for bed, I pulled off my sock and saw something on the sole that looked like a bit of fuzz or a piece of string but upon closer inspection I realized it was something imprinted on the bottom of the sock itself; since I can’t see a thing without my glasses, I thought it was the letter A for the company name which is Ace USA but I soon found out it was the letter L, obviously for LEFT.
“What are the odds!” I declared to myself, rather tickled by the fact that I put the LEFT sock on my left foot without even checking the bottom of the sock, but when I took off the other sock, fully expecting to see the letter R indicating the RIGHT sock, I was confounded when I saw another L!
“Just my luck” I again proclaimed to myself, somewhat annoyed that I would be the one to get a defective pair of socks, with two LEFT socks and no RIGHT sock!
I promised myself that in the morning I would call Ace USA and encourage them to correct their oversight by sending me two RIGHT socks, one as a mate for one of the LEFT socks and the other as a mate for the other LEFT sock, leaving me with two perfectly functioning pairs of socks.
The next morning I called Ace USA, explained my problem to Eleanor in customer services and requested two RIGHT socks to match my two LEFT socks; well, I’m sure you can imagine what a good laugh I had when Eleanor sweetly explained that the L on the bottom of my socks did not stand for LEFT but rather for LARGE.
Now I find myself rethinking that box in the front closet full of defective mittens.
When I die, I’m going to donate my body to science. Don’t mistake me, I’m not being altruistic. I’m being realistic. Maybe one of those brilliant doctors or scientists can finally figure out what the fuck was wrong with me; I sure as hell haven’t had any luck so far. This long sought-after info won’t be worth a pile of beans to me cos I’ll be dead …. just saying.
There are 168 hours in one week. Just for fun, let’s divide that in half to represent day and night – awake hours vs asleep hours (not very accurate, I know, but you get the picture). Half of 168 is 84. Of those 84 hours, I experience a tingling sensation for about 70 hours per week, maybe more. And it’s not the good kind of tingling. You know what I mean, wink wink.
When the tingling first started, perhaps two years ago, it was fleeting – much like the feeling you get when your foot is about to fall asleep. It was located in the left side of my lower back and traveled down the back of my left thigh to my knee. It was annoying but not horrible. Over time, the tingling spread down to my toes; now it has also begun to travel up into my back, shoulder and neck …. all on the left side. And it is insatiable …. kinda like that feeling I get when I see Colin Farrell. There are few and far between times when I’ll notice the tingling is gone; it’s sheer bliss and feels absolutely magnificent to be at rest. Then it comes back just a couple of hours later. It’s back right now but this time in both legs! Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
I really enjoy walking but haven’t been getting out as much as I’d like. Walking saved me the last time I had a major flare up. Everything just sort of healed itself. I got my strength and stamina back and I was feeling the best I’d felt in quite a while. I need to get back into walking. I know it sounds like a lame excuse but I really don’t enjoy walking when it’s freezing outside and there are no malls nearby to walk in.
Today was like Spring so I went for a short walk; I took it easy and was out for only about 15 minutes. I do not subscribe to the ”no pain, no gain’‘ school of thought; 15 minutes today was quite enough, thank you. After walking, I relaxed in my recliner for a while with an ice pack, just to be on the safe side. I love my recliner. It’s where I make pit stops during the day, when I need a break from housecleaning, cooking, babysitting. I’ll put my feet up and ice my back and neck and it helps.
Lately my head has developed a tendency to tilt to the left; it happens when I’m watching TV or sleeping or checking out the new house being built across the way or sitting at my Mac, as I am right now. When I get really tired or I’ve pushed myself too far, my lower back will start screaming while my left side becomes an angry buzz of tingles. My head will tilt dramatically to the left and I imagine I must look like Marty Feldman, the actor who played Igor in Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”. (If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know that’s Eyegor and Fränkenstēēn). I adore Mel Brooks, the last of the real comedic geniuses. At least I have managed to keep my sense of humor through all this physical bullshit.
Now I’m noticing a lovely new development: it’s all but impossible for me to tilt my head to the right! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? It’s either sitting perfectly straight on my shoulders (which is good!) or tilting to the left. There’s a tendon, I think, that is stretched to the max like a big fat fully extended rubber band and it’s tight as a drum. I’m pretty damn sure that’s what’s keeping me from tilting my head to the right. I saw my orthopedist the other day; she felt around my shoulders and said “Jeez, you’re really tight!” Ya think!?!
I’ve had multiple trigger point injections, nerve blocks, epidurals and cortisone shots, all resulting in extremely short term relief. X-Rays, scans and MRIs show a lot of arthritis, spinal stenosis and some funkiness going on with my discs but nothing “remarkable”. How can that be? Ain’t that a freakin’ kick in the head!? Hey! Maybe that’ll set everything straight …. a good kick in the head!
So, here’s the plan: next week I’m going to have another bilateral shot in my lower back in the hope it will “alleviate my discomfort”. If it doesn’t, I’ll have another series of MRIs to see if anything has changed over the 12 months since my last set of MRIs. It will be fantastic if the shot helps but I’m not betting the house on it. One thing is certain: after this upcoming shot, I’m done with injections. I’ve had it so wish me luck! Well, you might be interested in knowing that besides the arthritis/stenosis, there’s not another single thing wrong with me. I’m in perfect health, totally aware of what’s happening to this “vessel” in which I exist. Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
My mister is one of the funniest people I know and we make each other laugh. It’s not always easy keeping a good sense of humor but it helps me get through everything. And to be perfectly honest …. I’m getting really tired of walking around like Igor!
From Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”, the first meeting of Igor and Dr. Frankenstein:
This is Dean Martin with “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”
Rachel and Paul had been together for six years. They assumed one day they would marry, have kids – the whole nine yards – but life has a funny way of taking twists and turns. Their romance and dreams just fizzled out but they remained very close and relied on each other for guidance – from the job scene to the dating game.
One night Rachel texted Paul: “Hey, babe. Ella & Sam set us up with blind dates for Fri. U in?”
Paul: “Y not? No plans anyway!”
Rachel: “Great! Emilio’s @ 7. Glad U R my back-up!”
Paul: “Ditto, babe! C U there.”
Both kicked themselves for calling the other “babe”. Old habits.
Friday night the foursome met at Emilio’s. While checking-out their prospective dates, Paul and Rachel exchanged alarmed glances; her eyes were screaming “WTF!” It was the fastest dinner in the history of Emilio’s restaurant.
As soon as Paul got home, he called Rachel: “What was that?!“
Rachel howled: “A TOTAL FREAK SHOW!! Your date was downright scary! She looked like Vampira and I swear her eyes were red! And what was up with that black cape – with a hood, for Christ’s sake? Did you notice her steak? It wasn’t rare; it was raw and practically throbbing!”
“And what about YOUR date?!” Paul exclaimed. “Wrist-to-neck tattoos, eyebrow, nose and lip piercings, boots with spikes and a “Carcass” t-shirt! He downed a bottle of beer in two gulps and belched like a bloody Viking!”
“I’ll never let Sam and Ella play matchmakers again. I’m sure they thought it was hysterical” Rachel quipped. “Anyway, my mother set me up with her friend’s cousin’s son, “The Doctor”, for next Saturday …. on Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake! If you get a date maybe we can try this again.”
“Sure. Nothing could be as bad as tonight” Paul replied. “I’ll call ya.”
A few days later Paul called to say he had a date for Saturday – a friend of a friend. “But she said “drinks only” and she’ll take a taxi.”
“Ok, fine, with me, but if it turns into another debacle like that last date, we all go our separate ways.”
Arrangements were made to meet at The Aviary in Central Park. Rachel’s date was Wesley, an OB/GYN. He was handsome, tan and suave. Paul’s date was Ginger, a salesgirl at Victoria’s Secret with modeling/acting ambitions. She was a vivacious redhead with mischievous green eyes.
The hostess seated them at a semi-circular booth; Ginger smoothly slid in between Wesley and Paul. With each sip of her martini Ginger inched closer to Wesley, asking risqué questions about his practice which he was more than happy to answer. Before long they were blatantly flirting, leaving Paul and Rachel dumbfounded. Giggling, Ginger excused herself to use “the little girl’s room”. The trio sat in awkward silence until Wesley’s pager beeped. He announced he had an emergency at the hospital, apologized and left.
“Well, there’s no point in me hanging around” Rachel said glumly. “Ginger should be back any second and three’s a crowd.”
As Rachel got up to leave she glanced out the window and saw Wesley and Ginger getting into his car. “What the hell? Paul! We’ve been dumped …. on Valentine’s Day!”
Paul and Rachel started the slow walk of rejection through Central Park. He jokingly bumped her shoulder with his.
“There’s a hockey game on tonight. Any chance you wanna watch?” Paul asked.
She bumped him back.
“Why not? I don’t have any plans now, anyway” Rachel sighed.
It’s time for The Unicorn Challenge! Jenne has provided the photo below and asks that we respond with a story not to exceed 250 words. Here is my 250-word response.
Russell was tired of my excuses, my insecurities, my hang-ups and what he called “That Sicilian thing that’s 2000 years old”, which would have had more gravitas if I didn’t know it came straight from “Godfather 2″. He was breaking up with me and I was laughing in his face.
He was right, of course. I was a lousy girlfriend and I certainly wouldn’t make him a good wife. I didn’t like sex with him; some of the things he tried to do went on forever and brought me no satisfaction. I was disgusted by what he wanted me to do.
Russell stormed out. Good riddance. That’s when I decided to follow my dream and move to Sicily. Travel arrangements went smoothly and, having spoken previously with the people where I’d be staying, I knew getting accommodations would not be a problem.
My plans came together quickly. I packed a carry-on; more than that I wouldn’t need. In the morning I called for a taxi. Four hours later I was flying across the Atlantic on my way to the town of Erice. The place where I was staying was ancient, located on the top of Mount Erice, far from the useless worries of life. No cares, no distractions.
The bus dropped me off at Sorelle Povere*. My knock on the door was answered by a smiling older woman.
As a former children’s choir director, I often rewrote the lyrics to favorite songs.
My days as a lyricist ended after being chastised by a pastor who accused me of ‘lacking imagination’ by using the same melody and ‘simplychanging the words‘.
7:30 AM Friday, Drew texting: “Hey, sorry! I know it’s early. Got any plans this weekend?”
[OMG! My heart starts racing. My biggest crush in forever is asking me if I have plans this weekend. OK, get a grip. I don’t want to appear too anxious; after all, we’ve never actually dated – just the occasional coffee and walks in the park with our dogs, Arlo and Dexter.]
[Alright. A sufficient amount of time has passed.]
7:40 AM, me texting: “This weekend? Um …. I don’t think so. What’s up?”
[Just the right tone. Cool and calm …. which I’m neither at the moment. Gotta love texting. It’s so impassive when necessary.]
7:42 AM, Drew texting: “I scored two ticketsto Springsteen for Saturday night in …. are you ready for this? Vegas!”
[Vegas! I love Vegas! I love Springsteen! I’m practically hyperventilating. Settle down and take a deep breath. Remember …. cool and calm.]
7:44 AM, me texting: “Wow! That’s fabulous! Let me just check my calendar.BRB“
[Exit text, count to 30.]
7:46 AM, me texting: “Hey Drew, my weekend’s open.”
7:47 AM, Drew texting: “Excellent! Even Arlo’s excited!And Amy, listen …. it’s an overnight trip; we’ll begetting back late Sunday. I don’t want to push you. Are you cool with this?”
[Am I cool with this?? It IS a bit sudden but I have to admit it’s what I want. Go for it.]
7:50 AM, me texting: “I won’t lie, Drew …. it is kinda sudden but I’m ready; it’ll be fun.“
7:52 AM, Drew texting:“This is gonna be an amazing weekend, Amy. I’m so happy you said ‘yes’.See you at yourplace tomorrow morning at 8:00.The flight’s at 11:00.”
7:54 AM, me texting: “Perfect!See you then.”
My head’s spinning. This is really happening! So much to do before tomorrow! Skip lunch today and go to Victoria’s Secret. Get a bikini wax on the way home from work. Pack tonight.
I couldn’t concentrate at work and excitement kept me awake most of the night; I finally gave up at 5:30. Time for coffee and a shower.
A quick glance at the clock …. ten minutes before Drew gets here. I place my carry-on bag on the bed, toss in my toothbrush and zip it up.
The sudden shrill ring of the doorbell startles me. Forcing myself not to lunge for the door, I pace myself, smile and casually open it to see Drew smiling back at me, one arm cradling Arlo, his other arm around the shoulder of a stunning brunette in tight jeans and a Springsteen tank top. My smile freezes in place.
“Hi, Amy! This is Charlotte. I’m so glad you can take careof Arlo this weekend; we’re really looking forward to this trip. Anyway, the routine is the same as the last time you watched Arlo. We’ll pick him up Sunday night.Thanks, Amy. Sorry about the short notice. You’re a real pal!”
Taking the pup, I manage a “Have a great time” and watch Drew and Charlotte walk down the hall and head for the elevator. They are laughing in that carefree way. Slowly I close the door, my stupid grin gone as I snuggle Arlo.
We never went on vacation when I was a kid; that was for “rich people”.
You can imagine my unbearable glee when it was decided in the summer of ’59 that we would leave The Bronx for five glorious days in a place called Sunny Hill Farm.
Looking at the brochure we declared it to be “perfect” with lush rolling hills, horses, swimming, picnics, barbecues, fresh air and sunshine everywhere.
We loaded up the car, singing all the way to our vacation nirvana …. where it poured and poured for days.
It’s been dreadfully cold lately; I seem to get a chill much easier now that I’m older. Maybe my “Senile Under-Skin Bleeding” is a direct result.
I spoke to my dermatologist about the thinning, drying and bruising skin on my lower legs; she suggested sauna bathing. The benefits include detoxification, increased metabolism, weight loss, increased blood circulation, pain reduction, anti-aging, skin rejuvenation, improved cardiovascular function, improved sleep, stress management and relaxation.
What could possibly go wrong?
I located a spa with a sauna. My glasses steamed up, I tripped and bumped into the frozen water bucket.
✦ Authors Note: “Senile Under-Skin Bleeding”, also known as “Senile Purpura”, occurs when the skin and blood vessels become more fragile as people age, making it easier for the skin to bruise from minor trauma. While it is mostly associated with older people, it is a common problem among those in their 30s and 40s. This frustrating and painful skin issue with a very ugly name can be improved slowly following a dedicated regimen of gentle exfoliation, daily Vitamin D and a skin lotion rich in Vitamin C. Staying out of the sun and wearing sunscreen, keeping hydrated and eating fruits and leafy greens are also extremely important and helpful.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write a piece of exactly 87 words, making sure to include the prompt “appointment”. This is my response to that challenge.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “kick”. I threw in 8 other prompts I had in my back pocket; this is my response.
Last week I had my bi-weekly (every two weeks) session with my pain management doctor; I always get a perverse kick out of the term ‘pain management’ and feel like I need to say something witty and clever (sarcastic) about it to the insentient people who work there, hereafter referred to as ‘the staff’.
“You know, the term ‘pain management‘ is all well and good however I’m really here in search of ‘pain termination‘”, I mention to the front desk receptionist who is characteristically unresponsive; my darling, unceasingly patient husband stands to the side with a sheepish yet accepting half-smile on his face (sometimes accompanied by a masterful eye-roll) knowing all to well there are times I cannot or simply will not control my Sicilian forked tongue, being the perspicacious and savvy sort that I am.
My doctor’s office is in a building with other doctors so there’s always a soft parade of wheelchairs and people with canes, crutches, walkers or other means of physical assistance going into the various offices; many have spouses/friends/caregivers accompanying them with dogeared paperbacks, sudoku puzzles or endlessly-beeping cell phones except for my husband and me who both have appointments with the same doctor for ‘management’ of our pain, he at 11:00 and me at 11:20, and so we accompany and entertain each other.
Akey is needed to unlock the door to the ‘Guest Restrooms’ which are located near the elevators; this is a majorinconvenience and I have issues with this arrangement since there’s not one but two ‘Staff Only’ restrooms in the doctor’s office which screams HYPOCRISY considering the patients are the ones who would benefit from having a restroom nearby and because the ‘staff’ sometimes uses the ‘guest’ restroom when they have their own damn restrooms (but we can’t use theirs), and since no one is actually resting in the ‘restroom’, let’s drop the euphemism and call it what it is – a toilet, FFS!
I persevere and consider the walk to the ‘Guest Restroom’ part of my daily exercise but rest assured – I am seething inside and secretly hope there’s a member of the ‘staff’ in the ‘Guest Restroom’ who might accidentally trip over someone’s cane; there are a lot of canes at ‘pain management’.
Speaking of canes, I bring along my boldnew walking stick; I don’t always need it but I think it makes me look erudite, sophisticated and elegant in a nonchalant sort of way, even though my knees are barking like angry junkyard dogs; looking good is half the battle.
There I was, sitting in my car taking a smoke break. Damn shame! We can’t smoke anywhere these days and that’s a perfect example of discrimination.
Anyway, I’m looking out the car window, and that’s when I spotted it …. a rubber glove on the ground. Disgusting!
Since I was parked just across from a nursing home, I figured that glove belonged to one of the employees there and that made me even angrier than I was. Imagine, a health facility employee tossing a glove away like that! I bet they throw their masks on the ground, too. Pigs!
What’s wrong with people? You’d think after 3+ years of Covid, they’d finally get it right and stop ditching their used gloves or masks on public property. I could never understand how someone, especially a health-care worker, could show such disrespect for other people. If I had seen whoever tossed that glove so indiscriminately, I would have said something.
Well, there’s only one thing to do …. I donned a glove, picked up the offensive litter and deposited it in the trash. Puffing on my smoke, I walked back to my car feeling very proud of myself.
Just then a pigeon landed on the trash can, picked out the glove and flew off only to drop the glove on the road. Well, I’ll be damned! It wasn’t a deliberate act of human negligence after all! I chuckled, my faith in mankind restored.
Flicking my cigarette butt out the window, I drove off.
Her voice was soft and sultry, as smooth and silky as his finest Maker’s Mark bourbon. The image of a voluptuous goddess with long wavy caramel-colored hair, tanned skin and moist red lips immediately appeared before him. He could see her pearly teeth as she smiled, tantalizingly nibbling her bottom lip. He felt himself getting excited.
“Is anyone there?” he heard her say and roused him out of his fantasy.
“Yes, sorry. I’m here. I was distracted for a moment. There’s something about your voice; it’s very …. familiar” he replied trying to sound nonchalant.
“I get that a lot” she answered, her throaty laugh arousing him again. He could see this woman easily becoming an addiction.
“Are you calling about the apartment or the car?” Please let it be the apartment …. let it be the apartment .… he pleaded silently, picturing her sprawled on his bed.
“The Corvette, of course. No sexy car list would be complete without it, don’t you agree?” She chuckled softly.
There was that laugh again. He had to meet this woman. Today.
“Of course. The ‘Vette’s’ an incredible machine” he said, a bit disappointed that she wasn’t interested in renting his apartment. He had to get her there.
“Incredible sounds about right” she agreed. “And thrilling, too, judging by the photo in your ad. With her open top, she’s as sleek and beautiful as a Corvette was meant to be – a car to melt some hearts and explode others.”
As she spoke, he had a vision of her in the ‘Vette’, top down, driving along the Santa Barbara coastline, her hair loose and wild like crimson flames. She was laughing as she drove faster and faster, her hand teasing the head of the gear shift. She was wearing a short black leather skirt and a low-neck sweater, her perfect breasts heaving with excitement. She smelled of lilacs. His heart was racing, his erection pounding.
Who is this woman? He couldn’t think straight. Snap out of it, dummy!
“So, when would you like to see the car?” he asked. Today, today, today raced repeatedly in his brain.
“Today, if that works for you” came the response he hoped for.
Careful not to appear anxious, he hesitated before answering.
“Hmm, today. My schedule’s kind of tight” he lied “but I might be able fit you in around 4:00. Would that work for you?”
“Yes. I can come anytime.”
Oh God, did she really just say that? Sweet Jesus …. this woman was driving him insane!
“Hold on one sec” she purred. “I just need to check something.”
He waited impatiently for her return. He went over his plan: they’d meet at 4:00, take the Corvette out for a leisurely drive and get back to his place just in time for a “spontaneous” dinner and whatever might follow.
“Sorry to keep you waiting” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to make sure my wife would be available at 4:00.”
Wait. What? Wife? Did she say wife? She was married? To a WOMAN! His passion vanished instantly along with his rapidly sagging manhood.
“Hey, sorry …. I’m getting another call” he lied again. “Hold on.”
“Lie to me one more time, boy, and I’ll toss that mutt of yours right off the cliff” Sidney Granger threatened his stepson, Harry. “Now, I’m gonna ask you again; where’s my compass?” His upper lip quivered into a sinister smirk.
Harry glanced up at Sidney with an indifferent look on his face. “I don’t know where your stupid compass is, Sidney. Have you tried looking up your ass?” Harry quipped, knowing the comment would only make matters worse. He didn’t care; watching his stepfather get apoplectic was worth it.
Harry immediately regretted what he’d said, not for himself but for his dog. Sidney reacted in his usual way – one swift kick of his hobnail boot directed at Harry’s springer spaniel, Charlemagne. The dog sensed what was coming and quickly darted away, baring his teeth and growling at Sidney. Charlemagne remembered the pain of that boot all too well.
“You got lucky, mongrel. Next time I won’t miss” Sidney snarled. “And, boy, you keep calling me by my name and there’ll be hell to pay. You’re to address me as ’Sir’, is that clear?” Sidney turned and angrily walked away. Harry gave him the finger behind his back.
“Sir!” Harry muttered under his breath. “You’re not in the navy anymore, you bastard! Now you’re just an angry impotent nobody who abuses animals and women.” Harry’s eyes turned dark as he thought of the fresh bruises on his mother’s arms and legs. The man had no conscience.
Barbara Granger fell under Sidney’s spell the first time they met. She always had a weakness for a man in uniform and longed for the life as the wife of a highly regarded military man. Widowed for several years, Barbara happily accepted Sidney’s proposal but her joy was short lived when he was forced to retire due to his age before reaching the coveted position of Rear Admiral. Barbara’s disappointment paled in comparison to Sidney’s humiliation and indignation.
Now Sidney vented his frustration and disillusionment on Barbara and Charlemagne. He tried several times to dominate Harry but the boy’s resilience and stubborn dismissiveness caused Sidney to feel weak and powerless – a role he was not familiar with. He wanted nothing more than to wring Harry’s neck. He knew there was more to the boy than met the eye. Harry would not succumb easily, if at all, and that concept enraged Sidney.
Harry waited until Sidney was far enough away before he whistled for Charlemagne. The two friends walked to a secluded bower on the other side of the large garden. Harry reached into his pocket for his treasured penknife, one of the few possessions he had from his late father. He looked for the small marker he’d carved in a tree, crouched down and snapped open the knife.
Charlemagne sat quietly in the shade as Harry carefully cut a circle in the moss-covered ground, then painstakingly began to dig until the blade of his knife made contact with a rock he had buried. Harry wiped the knife clean and folded it closed, slipping it back into his pocket. He removed the rock and placed it to his side. Reaching into the hole Harry retrieved a dirty burlap pouch and gently loosened the drawstring to reveal Sidney’s precious compass. Even in the shade of the willow tree the compass gleamed.
Just then Charlemagne began growling and barking; instinctively Harry knew Sidney was standing behind him.
“You thieving little liar!” Sidney spat out furiously. Harry reached for the rock but Sidney kicked it out of Harry’s hand, causing him to cry out in pain. Harry managed to whistle and Charlemagne lunged at Sidney with a force so powerful he fell backwards. The spaniel sank his teeth into Sidney’s neck. Writhing on the ground, Sidney managed to break away from Charlemagne who relentlessly attacked again in an effort to protect Harry.
With arms flailing Sidney edged closer to the side of the cliff but once again freed himself from the clutches of the dog. Harry grabbed the rock from the ground and with a mighty force flung it at Sidney, hitting him squarely on his forehead. Stunned and bleeding, Sidney reeled and careened off the edge, bouncing off the boulders on his way down and disappearing into the choppy sea.
Charlemagne ran to Harry who scooped him up in his arms. “Good boy” Harry said soothingly as they walked to the cliff’s edge. The only sign of Sidney was one hobnail boot sticking out of a crevice. Harry realized he was still clutching Sidney’s compass. Glancing at it, he smiled slightly. How fitting that Sidney had gone south.
So that was it, then. She finally left him. After all those threats and tearful rants, she packed a bag and left.
Oh, this wasn’t the first time. Every week she’d get into a tizzy, start throwing things around the place, threatening to leave. But she never did.
She’d get as far as the front door, then stop, turn around and run back into his open arms. They’d fall on the bed and passionately make up, each one promising never to fight again, each one swearing their unending love. Always feeding off each other’s desperation.
It never ceased to amuse him, the look of shock on her face when he beat her each time after having sex. What a stupid, insipid cow. She never learned her lesson. The one thing he hated more than her rants was the fact that she was such a slow learner.
But this time’s different. She actually left him.
On the third morning, alone in their tiny apartment, he lit a cigarette and stared out the window. That’s when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. So, she couldn’t stay away after all. He didn’t even bother turning around when the door opened. He knew one look at her face, he’d want to bash it in.
Just as well. He never saw the gun as she ended his life.
“Police. There’s been a shooting. Send someone round. Yes, the phone booth by Miller’s Road.”
Rochelle at “Friday Fictioneers” has challenged us to write a 100 word piece about how the image below inspired us. This is my original response to her challenge.
Devin and Charlie jumped out of her car, fiercely kissing and tearing at each other’s clothes.
What great luck for the teens with sex drives in hyper-mode; Devin’s cabin all to themselves while both sets of parents were far off on weekend vacations.
The teens planned to spend every minute in bed.
Devin retrieved the key from her pocket and unlocked the door.
The first shock was the romantic glow in the fireplace. The second? Finding all four parents getting it on …. and not with their own spouses.
And there stood Devin and Charlie letting it all hang out.
Rochelle at “Friday Fictioneers” has challenged us to write a 100 word piece about how the image below inspired us. This is my response to her challenge.
“We’re out of gas, Pepper.”
“Look, Brad! There’s a light! Let’s walk to it.”
“Good idea! Maybe someone can help.”
Arriving at a house, the couple was struck by its serene beauty. They dreamed of owning a home like this.
They knocked and a woman answered.
“May I help you?”
Brad explained their situation; the woman said there were full gasoline cans in the garage and invited them in.
The interior was breathtaking.
“Your house is gorgeous!” exclaimed Pepper.
“Oh, it’s not mine; I’m the selling agent. You interested?”
Brad and Pepper exchanged surprised and delighted glances.
Fandango gave us a Story Starter prompt and Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story, being as creative with punctuation as we dare. This is my answer to Fan’s prompt and Girlie’s challenge. Enjoy! 🎶🎶🎶
One day when I was about nine years old, I was home with my mother when there was a knock on our door and when I answered it, I was very surprised to see Dottie Pessin – our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance – standing there in her perpetually stained housecoat, carrying a thin, flat brown paper bag, hair in curlers, and declaring “Oh, Nancy, I’m soglad you’re home from school because I have something for you and I’d like to come in to show you.”
Well, it wasn’t every day that someone came to our door unannounced bearing gifts for me for no reason under the sun, so I was not about to turn Dottie away (I was no fool, even back then), but my mother had now joined us and was somewhat suspicious about this strange, unexpected visit and asked Dottie to explain herself, to which Dottie replied “I was out shopping when I came across this album of kid’s songs and I immediately thought of Nancy, so I bought it hoping she would like it” and clapping her pudgy hands added “I’m very anxious for her reaction so let’s give it a listen.”
Now, I don’t mind telling you this surprised the hell out of me and pleased me no end because I was already madly in love with everything about music and could barely contain my excitement as I reached for my little record player with the image of Brenda Lee on the lid; Dottie apparently shared my enthusiasm and as the music played she kept asking me “Do you like it? Do you like it?” to which I had to admit I did indeed like it very much (seeing as how I was a kid listening to an album of kid’s songs – what’s not to like?).
We listened to one side of the album and, as I was flipping it over to listen to the other side, Dottie exclaimed “Oh, I’m so pleased you like the album but I just noticed the time and the “Edge Of Night” is coming on in 15 minutes so I’m going to take the record back now and be on my way”; my mother, ever in She-Wolf mode, saw the confused and let-down look on my face and was damn well taken aback herself by that strange and sudden announcement by Dottie …. after all, the album was supposed to be a gift …. and my mother questioned Dottie in no uncertain terms “Just what the hell do you mean you’ll take Nancy’s gift back, Dottie?”
Without an apparent thought for others nor the slightest bit of remorse or worry …. not about my mother’s sizzling Sicilian volcano temper nor the sadness building in my eyes …. Dottie replied “Oh, this isn’t a gift for Nancy;I bought this for my friend’s daughter who’s the same age as Nancy, but since I don’t know anything about little girls (never having had any myself) and the things they like, I wanted to run it by Nancy first to get her opinion, just to make sure it was a good gift and my friend’s daughter wouldn’t be disappointed”, and with that, Dottie Pessin …. our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance …. patted the curlers in her hair, took her thin, flat brown paper bag with the album of kid’s songs inside, held it tightly against her perpetually stained housecoat and bounced out our house like the giant green Grinchhelium balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade without so much as a pudgy-handed wave or a glance over her shoulder to spy a regret-filled teardrop fall onto my purple Daisy Duck sweater (because all the other girls wore Minnie Mouse sweaters and I was never like all the other girls).
Now, you may be asking yourself “Could something this bizarre really be true and how could that woman screw with a little girl’s feelings like that?” and I will tell you that it most certainly is true – every pitiful word; I have no idea how someone could be so unaware and insensitive (unless they have their head so far up their ass they can smell Brylcreem) but, after 60-plus years, I still remember that surreal afternoon with Dottie Pessin like it was yesterday and, being a smart cookie for a 9 year old, I had the same thought about Dottie back then as I have this very moment: “What a stupid bitch!” 🌋
This is the Rolling Stones performing “Bitch” …. as if anything else would do!
It’s time to celebrate Birthday Thursdays over at The Rhythm Section. No fuss, no muss – just wall-to-wall music. Stop by for some cake and sympathy! 🎂 https://rhythmsection.blog/
It was Devinia Diamond, Doctor of Pharmacology and loathed next door neighbor. I’m sure she’s the one who poisoned the seed in my bird feeders. And I know why she did it, too. It’s because I mowed over her damn ivy vines that constantly spread into my yard, strangling the life out of my trees and latching themselves onto my lawn. I had every right to do so and I personally never stepped foot onto her property – only my lawn mower – yet she sought her revenge by killing the beautiful birds who visit my numerous feeders. All because Devinia Diamond is just plain evil, consumed with revenge and more than a bit demented.
We’ve had arguments for years now, mostly because she refuses to honor our property boundary lines. She constantly complains about my dog, Roscoe – a lazy old bloodhound who barely barks and never wanders off – but Devinia calls him a “vile creature”. If anyone on this earth is vile it’s her!
But this – the poisoning of my beautiful birds – was senseless and I’m not going to let her get away with it! She thinks she’s so slick. Well, we’ll see about that, Devinia! Yes we will!
Now, dear readers, put yourselves in my shoes as I stood inside the post office collecting my mail and I overheard the news that Devinia’s garage had all but burned down during the night! What’s that they’re saying? Spontaneous combustion! Of course, I had to act surprised; I bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Earlier this morning I had heard the long-anticipated sirens of the firetrucks arriving at Devinia’s and I was as giddy as a schoolgirl!
The next morning I called for Roscoe. “Here, boy! Breakfast!” He didn’t come lumbering to the kitchen door which is unusual; Roscoe never misses a meal. He was probably snoozing under his favorite weeping willow tree. He loves his naps even more than food. I went out to look for Roscoe and did indeed find him under the tree, but he wasn’t sleeping; the poor old guy was dead. Not a single noticeable mark on his body. One would think he died of old age but I knew better. My buddy Roscoe – never sick a day in his life and now he’s dead – or should I say murdered? And by that lunatic Devinia, I’m sure of it. She hated Roscoe just like she hates everyone and everything. This has gone too far and she’s got to be stopped. That week I didn’t sleep well thinking about poor Roscoe and that she-devil, Devinia.
My goodness! What’s this I see? It’s none other than Devinia walking up her front path and she’s using a cane. “Why, Devinia! What happened to you?” I ask, my voice dripping with syrupy insincerity. “A loose step in the staircase leading to your basement, you say? You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck!” Too bad the cut made by my saw wasn’t deep enough. Next time I’ll make sure the job is done right!
If she knows what’s good for her, Devinia will stay away from me and keep off my property. She’s killed off all the birds and my sweet boy, Roscoe; now it’s just me and my wife, Ellen. Devinia’s presence is unwanted. Her very existence sickens me.
When Ellen announced she was going to be busy over the weekend with the church yard sale, I decided to drive to our lake house to do some fishing and get away from Devinia for a couple of days. My first night at the lake, I got a call …. the most horrible news imaginable. Ellen was dead! Apparently, she never showed up at the yard sale and wasn’t answering her phone. Ellen’s friends went to our house to check on her; they found her slumped over her desk, dead from an apparent heart attack. Ellen took great care of herself; she was the picture of health. Just like poor old Roscoe, there wasn’t a trace of foul play – no obvious marks, no detectable poison. But I knew. Only a maniac like Devinia was capable of this. She killed my wife and I’m going to get my revenge if it’s the last thing I do.
Now I ask you, dear readers – who says revenge isn’t sweet? I watched the whole thing unfold from behind my bedroom curtain. Devinia getting into her car, turning the key and then BAM! BAM!!BAM!!!Devinia blown to kingdom come! She had no idea I was a demolitions expert in my army days. This was by far my greatest detonation death dance! No one could prove it was me who did this, just like no one could prove Devinia killed Ellen.
This calls for a celebration, a toast to my deeply despised and not-so-dearly departed nemesis, the demented Doctor Devinia Diamond. I think that $700 bottle of Opus One Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon will fit the bill nicely.
I remove the cork and take a whiff. Ah, so savory! Now for a sip. So smooth and easy going down. Exquisite as the most delicious taste of revenge! Finally I can relax.
But wait. What’s happening to me? My throat and chest are burning!I claw frantically at my shirt collar, ripping off my tie. No! This is not possible!! Always one step ahead, Devinia must have poisoned my wine collection!! I made a foolish mistake and underestimated just how diabolical she could be.
“Papa, you said we were going fly fishing today. I’ve been waiting hours! What’s taking you so long?”
Lorian stood at the entrance to her grandfather’s study, an adorable 8 year old tomboy in hip waders, boots, a plaid shirt and golden-brown hair in pigtails, tied with a bow the exact shade of red as in her shirt. Arms folded significantly across her chest, she stared at her grandfather’s typewriter as if wiling it to spontaneously combust.
Ernest turned to face his granddaughter. He spoke to her as though she was one of his cigar-smoking buddies, not like a child, and she loved him for that.
“I’ve got to keep one step ahead of that damn Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He says I don’t know the $10 words. I know them, alright. But there are older and simpler and better words and those are the ones I use.”
He paused but Lorian knew not to answer. She also knew not to tell Papa that her mother was reading Faulkner’s newest book.
“Besides, he’s an alcoholic. Good thing he’s Republican!”
“Papa, can we go fishing now? The fish ain’t gonna wait all day!” and Ernest laughed at that remark. Then he spotted his gun leaning against the wall.
The Elephant's Trunk 