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 β 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 didnβt sign up, you were snubbed. It was the highlight of the year β¦. not for the 12-year-old students but rather for their moms.
My son balked but signed up.
βYouβll never regret knowing how to danceβ, I told him.
Since then, Iβve seen him dance on two occasions β his wedding and his brotherβs.
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.
βWhat are the odds!β 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!
βJust my luckβ 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.Β
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, Iβm 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, Iβm going to donate my body to science. Donβt mistake me, Iβm not being altruistic. Iβm 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 havenβt had any luck so far. This long sought-after info wonβt be worth a pile of beans to me cos Iβll be dead β¦. just saying.
There are 168 hours in one week. Just for fun, letβs divide that in half to represent day and night β 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 β 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 β¦. 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 Iβll notice the tingling is gone; itβs sheer bliss and feels absolutely magnificent to be at rest. Then it comes back just a couple of hours later. Itβs back right now but this time in both legs! Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
I really enjoy walking but havenβt been getting out as much as Iβd 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. Itβs where I make pit stops during the day, when I need a break from housecleaning, cooking, babysitting. Iβll 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 Iβm 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 Iβve 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 Brooksβ βYoung Frankensteinβ. (If youβve seen the movie, you’ll know thatβs Eyegor and FrΓ€nkenstΔΔn). 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 Iβm 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!? Itβs either sitting perfectly straight on my shoulders (which is good!) or tilting to the left. Thereβs a tendon, I think, that is stretched to the max like a big fat fully extended rubber band and itβs tight as a drum. Iβm pretty damn sure thatβs whatβs keeping me from tilting my head to the right. I saw my orthopedist the other day; she felt around my shoulders and said βJeez, youβre really tight!β Ya think!?!
Iβve 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 βremarkableβ. How can that be? Ain’t that a freakinβ kick in the head!? Hey! Maybe thatβll set everything straight β¦. a good kick in the head!
So, hereβs the plan: next week Iβm going to have another bilateral shot in my lower back in the hope it will βalleviate my discomfortβ. If it doesnβt, Iβll 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 Iβm not betting the house on it. One thing is certain: after this upcoming shot, Iβm done with injections. Iβve 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 …. Iβm getting really tired of walking around like Igor!
From Mel Brooksβ βYoung Frankensteinβ, 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 β the whole nine yards β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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.
“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 βThat Sicilian thing thatβs 2000 years oldβ, which would have had more gravitas if I didnβt 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 wouldnβt make him a good wife. I didnβt 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. Thatβs when I decided to follow my dream and move to Sicily. Travel arrangements went smoothly and, having spoken previously with the people where Iβd 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 wouldnβt 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.
My quadrille for dVerse using the word βimagineβ
As a former childrenβs 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 βlacking imaginationβ 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 donβt want to appear too anxious; after all, we’ve never actually dated β 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 βrich peopleβ.
You can imagine my unbearable glee when it was decided in the summer of β59 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 βperfectβ 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 β¦. where it poured and poured for days.
βWhat does it look like Iβm doing, Morris? Iβm going to go sing with that band.β
βYou canβt do that. Youβre almost 73 years old!β her son replied. He was becoming impatient.
βWhat the hell does my age have to do with anything? Tony Bennett, Tina Turner, David Crosby were all in their 80s and still going strong.β
βMother, youβre not exactly in the same league as Tina Turner!β
βThank you for pointing that out to me and the family, Morris. Youβve turned into a self-righteous little prig β¦. certainly not how I raised you.β
βWell, one of us had to grow up, Mother. Youβre not going to sing with that band. I wonβt allow it. This isnβt Woodstock!β
βGrammy? Whatβs Dad talking about? You were at Woodstock?β Dina asked her grandmother in disbelief.
βAs a matter of fact, I was! You know, I wasnβt always your grandmother! I lived a whole other life before your father was born.β
βGrammy, why am I just hearing about this now? Iβm 22 years old and never knew this! How is that possible? Dad, how come you never said anything?β
βYouβre fatherβs embarrassed by me, Dina. I was always a very free spirit; I met a lot of incredible people before and after Woodstock.β
βGrammy, were you a groupie?β Dina asked conspiratorially.
βOh, Dina! Lets just say I had great fun.β
βMother, this conversation ends now!β
βOh, shut up, Morrison!β
βMorrison?β Dina whispered knowingly, eyes wide.
Itβs been dreadfully cold lately; I seem to get a chill much easier now that Iβm older. Maybe my βSenile 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.
β¦ Authors Note: “Senile Under-Skin Bleeding”, also known as βSenileΒ Purpuraβ, occurs when the skin and blood vessels become more fragile as people age, making it easier for the skin to bruise from minor trauma.Β 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’.
βYou 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 thereβs 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 β a toilet, FFS!
I persevere and consider the walk to the ‘Guest Restroom’ part of my daily exercise but rest assured β 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 canβt smoke anywhere these days and thatβs a perfect example of discrimination.
Anyway, Iβm looking out the car window, and thatβs 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!
Whatβs wrong with people? Youβd 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, thereβs only one thing to do β¦. 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, Iβll be damned! It wasnβt 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 Makerβs 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.
βIs anyone there?β he heard her say and roused him out of his fantasy.
βYes, sorry. Iβm here. I was distracted for a moment. Thereβs something about your voice; itβs very …. familiarβ he replied trying to sound nonchalant.
βI get that a lotβ she answered, her throaty laugh arousing him again. He could see this woman easily becoming an addiction.
βAre you calling about the apartment or the car?β Please let it be the apartment β¦. let it be the apartment .β¦ he pleaded silently, picturing her sprawled on his bed.
βThe Corvette, of course. No sexy car list would be complete without it, donβt you agree?β She chuckled softly.
There was that laugh again. He had to meet this woman. Today.
βOf course. The ‘Vette’s’ an incredible machineβ he said, a bit disappointed that she wasnβt interested in renting his apartment. He had to get her there.
βIncredible sounds about right” she agreed. “And thrilling, too, judging by the photo in your ad. With her open top, sheβs as sleek and beautiful as a Corvette was meant to be β a car to melt some hearts and explode others.β
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 couldnβt think straight. Snap out of it, dummy!
βSo, when would you like to see the car?β he asked. Today, today, today raced repeatedly in his brain.
βToday, if that works for youβ came the response he hoped for.
Careful not to appear anxious, he hesitated before answering.
βHmm, today. My scheduleβs kind of tight” he lied “but I might be able fit you in around 4:00. Would that work for you?β
βYes. I can come anytime.β
Oh God, did she really just say that? Sweet Jesus …. this woman was driving him insane!
βHold on one sec” she purred. “I just need to check something.β
He waited impatiently for her return. He went over his plan: theyβd meet at 4:00, take the Corvette out for a leisurely drive and get back to his place just in time for a βspontaneousβ dinner and whatever might follow.
βSorry to keep you waiting” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to make sure my wife would be available at 4:00.β
Wait. What? Wife? Did she say wife? She was married? To a WOMAN! His passion vanished instantly along with his rapidly sagging manhood.
βHey, sorry …. Iβm getting another call” he lied again. “Hold on.β
“Lie to me one more time, boy, and Iβll toss that mutt of yours right off the cliffβ Sidney Granger threatened his stepson, Harry. βNow, Iβm gonna ask you again; whereβs my compass?β His upper lip quivered into a sinister smirk.
Harry glanced up at Sidney with an indifferent look on his face. βI donβt know where your stupid compass is, Sidney. Have you tried looking up your ass?β Harry quipped, knowing the comment would only make matters worse. He didnβt care; watching his stepfather get apoplectic was worth it.
Harry immediately regretted what heβd said, not for himself but for his dog. Sidney reacted in his usual way β one swift kick of his hobnail boot directed at Harryβs 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 wonβt missβ Sidney snarled. βAnd, boy, you keep calling me by my name and thereβll be hell to pay. Youβre to address me as βSirβ, is that clear?β Sidney turned and angrily walked away. Harry gave him the finger behind his back.
βSir!β Harry muttered under his breath. βYou’re not in the navy anymore, you bastard! Now youβre just an angry impotent nobody who abuses animals and women.β Harryβs eyes turned dark as he thought of the fresh bruises on his motherβs arms and legs. The man had no conscience.
Barbara Granger fell under Sidneyβs 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 Sidneyβs 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. Barbaraβs disappointment paled in comparison to Sidneyβs humiliation and indignation.
Now Sidney vented his frustration and disillusionment on Barbara and Charlemagne. He tried several times to dominate Harry but the boyβs resilience and stubborn dismissiveness caused Sidney to feel weak and powerless β a role he was not familiar with. He wanted nothing more than to wring Harryβs 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. HarryΒ 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 heβd carved in a tree, crouched down and snapped open the knife.
Charlemagne sat quietly in the shade as HarryΒ carefully cut a circle in the moss-covered ground, thenΒ painstakingly began to dig until theΒ blade of his knife made contact with a rockΒ 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.Β Reaching into the hole Harry retrieved a dirty burlap pouch and gently loosened theΒ drawstring to reveal SidneyβsΒ 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.
βYou thieving little liar!β Sidney spat out furiously. Harry reached for the rock but Sidney kicked it out of Harryβs 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 Sidneyβs 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. βGood boyβ 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 wasnβt the first time. Every week sheβd get into a tizzy, start throwing things around the place, threatening to leave. But she never did.
Sheβd get as far as the front door, then stop, turn around and run back into his open arms. Theyβd 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 otherβs 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 timeβs different. She actually left him.
On the third morning, alone in their tiny apartment, he lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Thatβs when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. So, she couldnβt stay away after all. He didnβt even bother turning around when the door opened. He knew one look at her face, heβd want to bash it in.
Just as well. He never saw the gun as she ended his life.
βPolice. Thereβs been a shooting. Send someone round. Yes, the phone booth by Millerβs Road.β
Rochelle at βFriday Fictioneersβ 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 otherβs clothes.
What great luck for the teens with sex drives in hyper-mode; Devinβs 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 β¦. 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.
βWeβre out of gas, Pepper.β
βLook, Brad! There’s a light! Letβs walk to it.β
βGood idea! Maybe someone can help.β
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.
βMay I help you?β
Brad explained their situation; the woman said there were full gasoline cans in the garage and invited them in.
The interior was breathtaking.
βYour house is gorgeous!β exclaimed Pepper.
βOh, itβs not mine; Iβm the selling agent. You interested?β
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! πΆπΆπΆ
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 β our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance β standing there in her perpetually stained housecoat, carrying a thin, flat brown paper bag, hair in curlers, and declaring βOh, Nancy, Iβm soglad youβre home from school because I have something for you and Iβd like to come in to show you.β
Well, it wasnβt 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 βI 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 βDo you like it? Do you like it?β 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 β 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 βOh, Iβm so pleased you like the album but I just noticed the time and the “Edge Of Night” is coming on in 15 minutes so Iβm going to take the record back now and be on my wayβ; 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 β¦. after all, the album was supposed to be a gift β¦. and my mother questioned Dottie in no uncertain terms βJust what the hell do you mean youβll take Nancy’s gift back, Dottie?β
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 βOh, this isnβt a gift for Nancy;I bought this for my friendβs daughter whoβs the same age as Nancy, but since I donβt 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 disappointedβ, 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 kidβs 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 βCould something this bizarre really be true and how could that woman screw with a little girl’s feelings like that?β and I will tell you that it most certainly is true β 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!” π
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 β just wall-to-wall music. Stop by for some cake and sympathy! π https://rhythmsection.blog/
It was Devinia Diamond, Doctor of Pharmacology and loathed next door neighbor. Iβm sure sheβs the one who poisoned the seed in my bird feeders. And I know why she did it, too. Itβs 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 β only my lawn mower β 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.
Weβve had arguments for years now, mostly because she refuses to honor our property boundary lines. She constantly complains about my dog, Roscoe β a lazy old bloodhound who barely barks and never wanders off β but Devinia calls him a βvile creatureβ. If anyone on this earth is vile itβs her!
But this β the poisoning of my beautiful birds β was senseless and Iβm not going to let her get away with it! She thinks sheβs so slick. Well, weβll 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 Deviniaβs 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 wasnβt 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 β never sick a day in his life and now heβs dead β or should I say murdered? And by that lunatic Devinia, Iβm sure of it. She hated Roscoe just like she hates everyone and everything. This has gone too far and sheβs 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 whatβs 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 itβs just me and my wife, Ellen. Deviniaβs presence is unwanted. Her very existence sickens me.Β
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 β no obvious marks, no detectable poison. But I knew. Only a maniac like Devinia was capable of this. She killed my wife and Iβm going to get my revenge if itβs the last thing I do.Β
Now I ask you, dear readers β who says revenge isnβt sweet? I watched the whole thing unfold from behind my bedroom curtain. Devinia getting into her car, turning the key and thenΒ BAM! BAM!!Β BAM!!!Β 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.Β Β
This calls for a celebration, a toast to my deeply despised and not-so-dearly departed nemesis, the demented Doctor DeviniaΒ Diamond. I think that $700 bottle of Opus One Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon will fit the bill nicely.Β
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. Whatβs 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.
βPapa, you said we were going fly fishing today. Iβve been waiting hours! Whatβs taking you so long?β
Lorian stood at the entrance to her grandfatherβs 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 grandfatherβs 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.
βIβve got to keep one step ahead of that damn Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He says I donβt know the $10 words. I know them, alright. But there are older and simpler and better words and those are the ones I use.β
He paused but Lorian knew not to answer. She also knew not to tell Papa that her mother was reading Faulknerβs newest book.
βBesides, heβs an alcoholic. Good thing he’s Republican!β
βPapa, can we go fishing now? The fish ainβt gonna wait all day!β and Ernest laughed at that remark. Then he spotted his gun leaning against the wall.
You know how it is when you see a person or hear a name and it sort of rings a bell but itβs not in its usual context so you don’t make the connection?
Yeah, thatβs what happened to me when I discovered Carltonβs Candy Coop β my favorite place for all my sweet-tooth cravings.
Chocolates, nougats, peanuts, caramels β¦ all those mouth-watering, sugar-rushing, delectable tummy treats that stick to your teeth but you donβt care because theyβre just too damn yummy!
Then it hit me. Carlton. Carlton? Carlton! But of course! Carl Carlton was my dentist!
Cara Sophia β I send you warmest greetings from Sicily and hope that you are well. Unfortunately, I have very bad news to share with you. There was a terrible fire in the guest cottage in Agrigento and all was lost. I know the idea of permanently relocating to Sicily and moving into the guest cottage has been your dream for many years; an undertaking of such magnitude is a huge change in one’s life and you were understandably hesitant to make a final decision. Sadly, now the house is destroyed and the decision has been made for you. Fortunately you still have your lovely home in New York. I hope sometime you will visit us for a few weeks at our home in Palermo. Ciao, cara β Paolo
AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT CONVOLUTED DAY
January 1, 2015
10:00 AM NY Time
To: Paolo
From: Sophia
My dearest Paolo β After much thought and soul-searching, I have decided to accept your gracious offer to move into the beautiful guest cottage in Agrigento. The New York winters are getting progressively worse and I cannot stand another day here. I desperately need a change of scenery and a new life. Iβm ready to become a permanent resident of Sicily! Luckily, I was able to sell my house quickly. The buyers would like to move into my house in two weeks which will give me enough time to pack my clothes, a few personal belongings and get everything in order for relocating. In anticipation of my move, I have already booked a flight to Palermo; my arrival date is two weeks from today. I will send you all the pertinent information in a separate email. Thank you again, my dear cousin, for the use of your guest cottage. I look forward to seeing you very soon in sunny Sicily. Ciao, caro β Sophia
AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT VERY CONVOLUTED DAY
January 1, 2015
10:00 AM NY Time
To: Sophia
From: Angie
Hi Soph – How’s my favorite sister? I’ve got exciting news! I landed that great job I was angling for β the one at the music school near you. I know it’s been a while since you offered your guest room to me if I ever returned to New York so I’m hoping the offer still stands. You haven’t turned the room into a shrine to George Harrison, have you? LOL! Anyway, I sold my condo here in Boston and all I need to do is pack my stuff and buy a one way ticket to NY. I’ll be there in two weeks. Can’t wait to see you! It’ll be like old times hanging out together when we were teenagers. Talk to you soon, roomie! Love, your favorite sister, Angie
PS: Brad moved to Seattle; singing at Starbucks and hoping to be discovered. He’s such a jerk! Oh well β his loss.
AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT INCREDIBLY CONVOLUTED DAY
January 1, 2015
10:00 AM NY Time
To: Angie
From: Brad
Babe, I’m a total jackass! Forgive me, please!! Moving to Seattle was a really stupid idea. You tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen. I miss you so much and this long distance relationship is never gonna work. What the hell was I thinking?? I’m coming home, Babe. I can’t wait to be back in Boston with you where I belong! I miss you and our life together. See you in two weeks. I love you, Babe! Brad xoxoxo β€οΈππ₯°π
Don’t get your wires crossed! Meet me today for another new segment in The Rhythm Section! There will be music and maybe even cake! https://rhythmsection.blog/
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.
My son David is a librarian by vocation. Then there are the times he moonlights as lead tenor with the Taconic Opera Company and as a church singer for special holy days. He has a God-given talent and is quite brilliant. I like to think he inherited some of my musical skills as well. His brother Bill was there that night some 20+ years ago when David blew the roof off a karaoke bar singing an Iron Maiden song; at that point in time no one in the family knew David could sing. He also plays the bass trombone. Did I mention he has perfect pitch?
Davidβs wife Jessica is a doctor specializing in making chemo for cancer patients – an intense and demanding job. Somehow she also manages to be a super mom β part Wonder Woman, part Energizer Bunny. She is a beautiful woman, a stunning mezzo soprano with a wondrous soul and a remarkable mind. She has performed alongside David and is also a church singer often called on for weddings and funerals. Jessica plays the piano and cello and was chosen for All County Choir and All County Orchestra while in school. Iβm not sure if she has perfect pitch; if not, then damn close.
(I’d like to take a second to mention a bit of serendipity: When Jessica was with the All County Orchestra, David was, too, though they did not know each other at that time. They did not officially meet until 15 years later. Funny how that works. Now, back to the story.)
David and Jessica have a 3 Β½ year old daughter named Colette β my granddaughter whom I mention frequently when writing personal posts. Sheβs a joy, an absolutely glorious child. Colette loves music and is taking ballet lessons. She can also dig her heels in like nobodyβs business. Colette is a spitfire who obviously inherited equal amounts of her parentβs Sicilian-Irish-Italian genes. Add a splash of a Mt Etna temper when pushed beyond the breaking point, courtesy of yours truly, and you have the total package. A real βtesta duraβ or as we say in slang βgabadostβ.
As you can see, this little family of mine is extremely musical. David and Jessica sing around the house and now Colette has begun singing along β¦ and sheβs not shy about it. Recently, while singing βPuff the Magic Dragonβ, David and Jessica exchanged looks, bit their lips and tried not to laugh. With eyes rolling heavenward, they wondered βIs there any chance on Godβs green earth that we created a child who canβt sing in tune?β
Weβre old school β¦. well, at least my husband is. There are some things he simply insists on doing the old-fashioned way. One of those things is paying bills. Most people I know use online banking; itβs quick, easy and from what Iβve heard, safe. My husband Bill (how appropriate) is extremely reluctant to put his faith in online financial transactions. Oh, heβll place orders online but thatβs different, he says.
So how do we pay our bills? By writing checks by hand and maintaining a record in the checkbook register. That was always Billβs job until a few years ago when he underwent emergency surgery after falling off a ladder. While he was in the hospital and rehab, I took over the task of paying the bills and I still do it.
I donβt mind, really, but sometimes the bills all seem to come at the same time and it turns into a project. One thing that saves time is all bills now come with a return payment envelope; no more hunting through the rolltop desk in search of my own envelopes. But everyone once in a while weβll get that one rogue bill with no return envelope. There I am, ensconced at my desk, pen and a fresh cup of coffee at the ready and I have to stop what Iβm doing to dig around for an envelope. That really burns my cookies.
The biggest offenders are the dentist and the gardener. Why? Human error. Both are small businesses set up in the same fashion: thereβs one person who manually prepares the invoices for mailing. Sometimes they remember to include a return envelope, sometimes they donβt. And when they do remember, it’s alway one of those smaller envelopes, not the letter size. Funny, they never forget to bill me; I wonder if it would be ok if sometimes I remember to pay them and sometimes I don’t. I’m only human, after all. No, I doubt that would fly.
Is it a coincidence that both the dentist and the gardener mail out a typed invoice on a standard 8 Β½ β x 11β sheet of paper which has no perforated line at the top or the bottom? Thatβs the line that easily allows me to separate the portion of the invoice that gets returned with my check from the portion that I keep for our records. No perforated line means I have to use scissors to separate the two parts of the invoice or, if I don’t feel like getting up, repeatedly fold one section of the invoice in the same place until thereβs a sufficient crease to neatly tear the the invoice into two sections. Mostly neatly; sometimes it looks like I used my teeth, which seems quite fitting for the dentistβs invoice.
And another thing. I think all return envelopes should be prepaid with no postage required on my part. I mean, letβs get real. Isnβt it enough that Iβm sending these businesses my money? Now I have to affix a postage stamp. I have been given the privilege of paying to send them my money. Let that sink in. Not only am I giving them my money β Iβm paying to do so.
And then we still have to take all our envelopes to the post office!
That, my friends, is “The Old B.O.H.I.C.A.” β Bend Over; Here It Comes Again.
You know, I really need to have another serious conversation with Bill about online banking.
The Elephant's Trunk 