tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1130552229244937382024-03-11T09:42:39.624-04:00Jim's Fiction: Flash fiction and Short stories.flash fiction, short fiction, proseJim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.comBlogger318125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-80098545020477587462024-01-31T15:28:00.000-05:002024-01-31T15:28:09.045-05:00A Family Threesome<p><i>[After a longer-than-expected hiatus, below is a recent publication.]</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>“What do you mean you kinda shot Jolene?” </p><p>Franklin – he hated Frank or Frankie – stood leaning against a cracked kitchen counter, arms crossed over his stomach, waiting for a response from his half-brother, Red, short for Redford. A metal stepladder stood, legs spread, under a bulb-less fixture. A replacement bulb, still in its cardboard container, waited on the counter next to a well-used toaster. A cast-iron skillet sat on the gas stove. A center island separated him from Red.</p><p>“Well, you see, she surprised me when she came into the kitchen while I was cleaning my Glock.”</p><p>“You own a Glock?” Franklin said, pushing away from the counter. </p><p>“Bought it at a flea market.” Red puffed out his chest. “Best part was I didn’t have to do it on that internet thing,” Red said, bouncing on his toes. “Even got a discount on a silencer.”</p><p>“Why on Earth would you need a Glock?” </p><p>“We got a rabbit problem.” </p><p>“A rabbit problem,” Franklin said, and stared at Red with unblinking eyes.</p><p>“Yeah. They keep eating the vegetables in Jolene’s garden.” </p><p>“It’s winter time,” Franklin said. “There aren’t any vegetables in Jolene’s garden.” He began to wonder, not for the first time, if inviting Red to stay with him and Jolene while searching for a place to live was a good idea. Especially since he’d been mooching off of them for eight months and counting.</p><p>Sweat formed on Red’s forehead as his rehearsed story began to fall apart already.</p><p>Tired of waiting, Franklin continued. “Wouldn’t a shotgun be better for your needs?”</p><p>“Probably,” Red replied, “but a Glock is more fun.” Red took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway, she came into the kitchen and stood across the room looking out the window at a pair of blue jays bickering over something that was a mystery to me.” Red’s shoulders relaxed as he felt more confident in his tale. “When she turned around, I asked if she wanted to see my Glock. A big smile formed on her face, and she said sure. So, I opened the junk drawer, reached way in the back where I hid the gun, waved it around like I was shooting a bunch of bad guys, and . . .”</p><p>“And you shot Jolene,” Franklin said. </p><p> “Well, yeah,” Red said, “but it was an accident. Like what you see all the time on the TV news programs.” Red offered Franklin a weak smile. </p><p>“So, you bought a Glock to kill rabbits and instead shot my wife — your sister-in-law. Have I got that right?”</p><p>“Almost. You forgot the part where I said I didn’t mean to.” Red backed away toward the door to the dining room, one hand behind his back. </p><p>“But you did.” Franklin took a step forward, as Red raised the Glock and pointed it at Franklin’s chest.</p><p>“So, where’s Jolene?”</p><p>“In the garage, in the bed of your truck, wrapped in a painting tarp.” Red’s gun hand began to shake. “You know, she’s kinda heavy for a such a skinny thing.” Given the look on Franklin’s face, Red decided he shouldn’t say anymore. Instead, he straightened his arm, raising the barrel of the gun higher and slipped his forefinger over the trigger. “Sorry, Bro, but you know too much.”</p><p>Red hesitated pulling the trigger. That gave Franklin time to lift the cast-iron pan off the stove and hold it in front of him. The gun finally fired knocking Red back a step. The bullet struck the cast-iron pan, ricocheted off the ladder, and ended up diagonally in Red’s chest.</p><p>Franklin kneeled down on the opposite side of the blood pool forming near Red’s heart. It was then he saw the second blob of blood. Jolene’s blood, he assumed. “Well, Red, you’ve done it now, haven’t you. I’d tell you how sad I am at your impending passing, but I’m not.”</p><p>“Remember that internet thing you bragged about not using? Well, I used it after I saw the way you two ogled each other when you thought I wasn’t looking.” Franklin stood and flexed his knees. “I wondered if you two were doing the dirty, so I put little cameras all around the house to spy on you and Jolene every time I was out of town.” Franklin took his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed 911. “You were much more inventive in bed than I would have guessed, Red.” </p><p>“And, so you know, you made things easy for me. My plan was to come over while the two of you were in bed and kill you both—with that Glock you hid where any idiot could find it. But you did the job for me. Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could have pulled the trigger.” </p><p><br /></p><p>This piece first appeared at <a href="https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/a-family-threesome.html">https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/a-family-threesome.html</a>.</p><p><br /></p><p></p>Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-46665309406953493402018-11-11T12:17:00.000-05:002018-11-11T12:17:33.376-05:00Veterans Day, 2018<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12pt;">Karen blew warm air into her hands and looked up at the turret windows. According to survivor accounts, one of them was supposedly the hiding spot of the German sniper who had killed her great grandfather in the “war to end all wars.” She’d planned the trip for over a year, expected it to be overwhelming. It wasn’t. Instead, she felt pride. Her grandfather, in full military regalia, like the picture on her living room mantle, appeared before her. She smiled, put a hand over her heart, stood taller, and whispered, “I’ll never forget, grandpa. I’ll never forget.”</span></div>
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Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-73043736331495684692018-11-07T20:10:00.000-05:002018-11-07T20:10:40.021-05:00Mind GamesFirst appeared at <a href="http://fewerthan500.com/" target="_blank">Fewer Than 500</a>.<br />
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Eve wonders if she has a secondhand brain, one transplanted in her head while she slept. That’s the only explanation for her forgetfulness. Either that or the doorways of her house have rays of some kind that wipe pertinent information as she passes through them.<br />
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Like now. She’s in the master bath but has no idea why. She walks back to the kitchen and retraces her steps. Still nothing.<br />
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She enters the bedroom and stares at the bed—a queen size covered by a winter blanket with green and blue swirlies. She stares at the left side, the side George sleeps on, and wonders if her brain is playing tricks on her. Like George is still alive and simply on an extended trip.<br />
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“You silly fool,” she says, with a wave to her reflection in the matching bureau mirrors. Eve remembers the funeral—the honor guard, the rifle volleys, taps played on a fake bugle, the stoic faces. Her thoughts revert to the present. She exhales a sad laugh, returns to the kitchen, and dries the remaining dishes.<br />
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She stares out the window and relives certain times in their past—their elopement two days before George reported to the Army, something her mother never forgave her for. The day they planted a sapling in the backyard of their first, and current, home. The night they almost got caught being naughty in the last row of the movie theater to the soundtrack of the original Star Wars. She feels the tension evaporate from her shoulders and face as she replays other events, only for the tightness to return when she can’t remember what she ate for lunch yesterday.<br />
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Eve jumps at the sound of the doorbell. Puts a hand over her heart. She looks at her watch. 3:00. Her brain processes what’s happening. Her daughter. Evelyn. Their weekly together time.<br />
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Eve hangs the dish towel on the stove handle, spreads it to dry, smooths her dress, and totters to the door, the sciatica in her left hip slowing her progress. She opens it with a smile and a hug and stares at the face in front of her, hoping she’ll never forget who it belongs to.<br />
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Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-51703874697016491142018-10-05T13:50:00.000-04:002018-10-05T13:50:09.166-04:00She Must Be Crazy--a 100-word storyHe sat on the fence post every Sunday, preaching even when no one was nearby.<br />
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She watched him through a rear window. A grimace embraced her face followed by a somber head-shake.<br />
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He swiveled his head from side to side, stared at the window, thought he saw a face, tilted his head back, as if his words might carry farther with an upward arch.<br />
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She approached, her face menacing, vicious.<br />
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He wagged his finger, spewed more vitriol.<br />
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She offered her own finger, told him to not return or else.<br />
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He slithered off his perch never to be seen again.<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-28062601612818580422018-08-28T11:07:00.001-04:002024-01-31T22:14:56.370-05:00Stalemate<i>This first appeared in <a href="http://entropy2.com/blogs/100words/" target="_blank">A Story in 100 Words</a>.</i><br />
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Zach’s eyes followed the dirt path as it blended into the trees. Three couples, the latest newlyweds, disappeared in the last month while strolling the serpentine lane. The townspeople wanted something done, and they expected Zach to do it. He was the sheriff, after all.<br />
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Zach glanced from side to side, saw faces—some showing fear, others glaring—waiting less patiently with every second that passed.<br />
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He rocked from side to side, his palms sweaty, hoping those standing with him would get bored or hungry and leave. The one thing he knew was he wouldn’t be the first to move.<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-54524419384472234322018-08-14T13:57:00.000-04:002018-08-14T13:57:29.394-04:00"You Never Know" at Yellow MamaMy crime story, “You Never Know,” is in the current issue of Yellow Mama. Thanks to editor Cindy Rosmus.<br />
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<a href="http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/id1880.html">http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/id1880.html</a><br />
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And here’s an interview I did with Cindy at Six Questions For. . . to find out what she looks for in a submission.<br />
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<a href="http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/2010/09/six-questions-for-cindy-rosmus-editor.html">http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/2010/09/six-questions-for-cindy-rosmus-editor.html</a>Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-78640604137559094732018-08-12T12:37:00.000-04:002018-08-12T12:37:11.815-04:00Life’s Challenges<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;"><i>First appeared at <a href="http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2018/08/lifes-challenges.html" target="_blank">Ariel’s Chart.</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Don’t worry, Hon. You’ll figure it out.” She wiped her hands on a towel and asked, “Would you like some help?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Nah, that’s okay. Don’t you remember the last time you tried to help?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“You’re right, Jamie.” She chuckled at the thought of the poor doll nearly headless. She’d managed to sew it back on good enough for Jamie to continue his project. “I’ll be doing laundry if you need me.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Caroline’s 7-year-old daughter, Amy, sat in the back seat on the way to a doctor’s appointment. The crash, the utility pole bent, wires hanging, the explosion. Mother and daughter gone before help could arrive. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Kate took a deep breath and wiped a tear from her eye. She never planned to have children, especially after the age of forty. She loved the ones she taught each day and that satisfied her maternal instincts. Then she inherited Jamie. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">She continued teaching until the end of the year but found it difficult to manage both. Kate applied for financial assistance, and between that, her savings, and money she earned tutoring, she and Jamie managed. It helped that the house was paid for.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">As she sorted the clothes, she remembered her first few weeks with Jamie. He couldn’t—or didn’t want to—understand what had happened. Kate never told him about the accident. Just that his mom and sis weren’t coming home.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">He was calm at first, playing with his soldiers. Then he began to yell and throw things. Being big for fourteen, like his dad, Kate found it difficult to control him physically. Instead, she stood in the doorway until he collapsed in tears, then cradled him in her arms. Eventually, he fell asleep. He remained silent for the next week, sitting in a corner of his bedroom, refusing to come out, and eating little.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">One morning, Kate asked Jamie if he’d like to come and check out his great great grandfather’s footlocker filled with souvenirs he’d brought back from the war. “No. I want Amy.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“There might be some things you can use when you play soldier.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Jamie’s head popped up. “Like guns?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Maybe,” Kate replied, even though she knew any guns and ammo had been disposed of years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">He led the way to the attic. She let Jamie open the container. They both sneezed as a combination of dust, mildew, and mold tickled their noses. He reached in and pulled something out.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“What’s this?” he asked.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s a gas mask. They had to wear them sometimes, especially when the enemy sprayed something called mustard gas.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Did the gas hurt them?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, it did.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Do you think it helped some people?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Maybe.” She wasn’t used to lying to Jamie, and now she’d done it twice.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Instead of responding, Jamie raced down the stairs and out to the shed, where he stayed the rest of the day working. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Later in the afternoon, she stuck her head in the shed and asked him what he was doing.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Fixing Amy, ” he replied, his voice filtered through the mask.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s dinner time. You should eat.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m not hungry,” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“One more hour, and then you eat.” Kate forced a smile onto her face. “You can’t fix Amy if you’re sick from lack of food.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay,” Jamie said, not looking at her.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">One hour later, Kate peeked through the shed’s plastic window and saw Jamie poking and pounding one of Amy’s dolls. He poured soapy water on its lips and then some 3in1 oil Kate kept in the kitchen. After each step, he’d put his hand over where the doll’s heart would be and then hold its nose to his ear. All the time wearing the gas mask.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">After dinner, Kate sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and listened to the sounds coming from the shed. Once in a while she’d hear a “damn,” or an expletive that made her cringe. She’d talked to Jamie a few times about using such words but decided they were minor annoyances compared to the other challenges they faced. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Kate didn’t know how long Jamie would keep at his project or what he would be like when he finally gave up. For now, she was happy and relieved he had a purpose in his life.</span></div>
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Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-52423929325860291122018-07-03T09:44:00.000-04:002018-07-03T09:44:03.241-04:00Family ReunionThis story first appeared in <a href="http://short-story.me/">Short-Story.me</a>.<br />
<br />
I’m going to a family reunion soon—kind of. You see, I’m dying. The doctor said six months. Right around my sixty-fifth birthday. Bad liver, just like my Pa. Same cause too. We’re both drunks, but I didn’t go around beating up on women and children.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I’m staying with my daughter, Cathy. The two grandkids are in college so there’s a bedroom available. I’m hoping to meet them before…well, you know. Cathy asked my doctor about a transplant. Doc said even if they found a donor match in time, my heart most likely couldn’t stand the stress.<br />
<br />
I spend a lot of my time on her back porch. The smell of the woods is therapeutic according to Cathy. At this moment, two blue jays are having a tussle near the tire swing. The squawking and flapping remind me of my family, at least the way it was before I ran away.<br />
<br />
I thought about going back a couple of times; but even after I’d sobered up, the drunk in my head convinced me it was a bad idea. No one would want me around after being gone for thirty-some years. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be back now if I were strong enough to take care of myself.<br />
<br />
Cathy is inside preparing me a cup of tea with something in it she found on the internet that will cure me. The odor and taste make me scrunch my nose. She’s always giving me some dang concoction that’s supposed to help. I gave up trying to tell her it wouldn’t. Now I just drink or eat whatever she says. Of course, that doesn’t include booze. I tried explaining it couldn’t make me any worse than it already has. She wouldn’t hear of it.<br />
<br />
Her mother left me. Couldn’t take the drinking, even though I didn’t yell at her, or threaten her, or nothing like that. I miss Martha the most and can’t wait to tell her so.<br />
<br />
After the diagnosis—and a period of denial when I drank myself numb every chance I got—I began making a list of people I’d meet in heaven and what I might say to them.<br />
<br />
Besides Martha, there’s Ma, of course. I hated her for a long time, blaming her for not keeping Pa from hurting us. Blamed her for the booze, too. Sometimes she took my beating for me. Other times she was too weak, or sore or, on Pa’s really bad days, afraid to say anything. I told her many times we needed to leave. She said it wouldn’t matter. He’d find us. I suggested she call the police. She said that would only make things worse. Years later, I learned these are common reasons why woman stay in such relationships. I wish I’d known this back then. Maybe I could of thought of something to do.<br />
<br />
At some point, Ma died on the inside, then her heart had had enough. Next Thursday is the twenty-fifth anniversary of her death. That would be a good day for me to join her. I want to hold her and tell her I love her and forgive her.<br />
<br />
Uncle Billy made the list. He was Pa’s younger brother. He drank but wasn’t a drunk. I wish I’d inherited his genes instead of Pa’s. Uncle Billy took me in a few times and didn’t tell Pa where I was. He taught me two things: how to fix cars and how to swear like a disenfranchised Mormon. I never thanked Uncle Billy for helping me. I want to shake his hand and tell him how much I appreciated what he did.<br />
<br />
Cousin Rachel was the closest I had to a sister. She was the first girl I kissed, and the first girl I saw mostly naked. We were ten. I never told her how pretty she was. I don’t know if she cared or not, but I want to tell her anyway.<br />
<br />
There are others who probably should be on the list, maybe even a few who aren’t family. It’s funny how being sober—and dying—makes you more organized. So, I’ll make sure everyone gets on the list before I go.<br />
<br />
Of course, the one person I don’t want to see is Pa. That shouldn’t be a problem. He should’ve gone straight to Hell.<br />
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<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-76643164869133109242018-05-12T13:08:00.000-04:002018-05-12T13:08:37.746-04:00What Next?The doctor’s visit. The tests. The results. Shelly couldn’t stop smiling, until she stepped off the trolley and saw the look on Derick’s face. The smile—that love-of-his-life look—missing. The meager hug. The embryo snuggled between them briefly. His clumsy apology for falling for someone else. (50 words)<br />
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Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-505317064703297062018-04-15T12:49:00.000-04:002018-04-15T12:49:56.091-04:00Revenge Is a Dish Best Served with a BangKaren stared at the three women sitting in the booth by the window as she sipped her unsweetened iced tea. They didn’t notice her, even though she should have stood out wearing torn jeans, a T-shirt, dark glasses and a baseball cap.<br />
<br />
Janice, the one facing Karen, was the ring leader of the group—the group that teased and bullied Karen relentlessly as being “ugly,” and “shapeless,” and “dumber than dirt.” The other two—Donna and Valerie—laughed and sneered in support of Janice, but rarely spoke beyond an occasional “Yea,” or “That’s right, Janice,” while air-jabbing Karen with manicured fingers.<br />
<br />
When the other two left, Karen removed the cap and glasses, picked up her tea, and walked over to Janice’s table.<br />
<br />
“Mind if I join you?” Karen asked.<br />
<br />
“I was just getting ready to leave,” Janice said, putting her wallet back in her handbag.<br />
<br />
“This won’t take long,” Karen said, sliding into the booth and blocking Janice’s exit. “I have a proposition for you I think you’ll want to hear.”<br />
<br />
“Okay. I’m listening.” Janice turned slightly toward the intruder.<br />
<br />
“I paid a gentleman to do some research on you.”<br />
<br />
“You what?” Janice said loud enough for everyone to hear.<br />
<br />
“Let me finish. I promise you’ll be glad you did.”<br />
<br />
Karen waited for the tension on Janice’s face to ease before continuing.<br />
<br />
“Like I said. I had research done on you, and I know you’re hurting financially.”<br />
<br />
“Let me out of here right now, you...you...”<br />
<br />
“Bitch? Slut? Skank? Aren’t those the things you called me in high school? You and your besties?”<br />
<br />
Janice stared at the woman. Her brain searched for a memory.<br />
<br />
“Karen?” she said after a long pause. “I thought you died in that awful accident. How could anyone survive?”<br />
<br />
“The doctors said I should have died. They’re not sure how I made it, but I did.”<br />
<br />
“How come nobody said anything?”<br />
<br />
“I was airlifted to the University of Nebraska Hospital for treatment. The doctors there performed a miracle.” Karen sipped her tea, took her time. “When I was healthy enough, my parents arranged for me to be flown to Mexico for experimental plastic surgery not approved in the U.S. They did a marvelous job, don’t you think?”<br />
<br />
“I...I didn’t recognize you. Not even your voice.”<br />
<br />
“Well, you only ever heard me say things like ‘Please stop,’ and ‘Leave me alone,’ and ‘What have I ever done to you?’ That sound familiar?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Janice whispered. She turned toward the window, her shoulders limp.<br />
<br />
“Anyway, back to my pitch. The payout from Philip’s insurance should have lasted, but you spent it frivolously and it’s nearly gone. Am I right?”<br />
<br />
“How did you find this out?”<br />
<br />
“I told you. I hired someone. Between the insurance payout for the accident and the settlement with the car manufacturer of the other car, I’m well off myself.”<br />
<br />
“What happened to your parents?”<br />
<br />
“Not that I believe you care, but they fell in love with the Mexican coast and decided to stay. I was able to provide for them also.”<br />
<br />
“I do care.” Janice reached in her purse for a tissue and dabbed at her nose.<br />
<br />
“So much that you went to extreme measures to find out what happened to me? How about attempting to be honest for once, Jan.” Janice hated being called that, but this time she didn’t flinch at the name. “Let’s get to the point. You moved back into your parents’ home after Philip’s heart attack. Right?”<br />
<br />
Karen nodded.<br />
<br />
“And then your parents decided to retire to Florida and leave you the home.”<br />
<br />
Karen nodded again.<br />
<br />
“And you sold off many pieces of art and furniture to pay for your extravagant lifestyle.”<br />
<br />
This time Karen didn’t respond.<br />
<br />
Karen waited until Janice made eye contact. “I’ve always admired your home. It’s very stately looking, sitting at the end of that long front yard. It must be a money drain to maintain.”<br />
<br />
Karen sat frozen.<br />
<br />
“Here’s my proposal. I’ll buy the house from you for market value. Then you can find a place you can afford.”<br />
<br />
Karen finally spoke. “Maybe we could live there together. Be friends.”<br />
<br />
“Now you want to be friends? After all those taunts when we were younger.”<br />
<br />
“I’m different now. So are you.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, you mean I’m not ugly anymore? Maybe I look even better than you? I seem more physically fit. Isn’t that why you wear those loose fitting clothes? Or are you just looking for someone else to mooch off of?” Karen held up a hand to keep Janice from replying. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. For a moment, I sounded just like you.” Karen grinned. Janice didn’t. “Tell you what. Let’s go take a look at the house. I’ve never been inside. I bet it’s beautiful.<br />
<br />
Karen had insisted on going first. She pulled into the driveway and stopped, leaving enough room for Janice to follow. She got out of the car and waited for Janice to join her. “Boy, that yard must be longer than a football field.”<br />
<br />
“I wouldn’t know,” Janice replied. “Aren’t you going to drive to the house?”<br />
<br />
Karen put her left arm around Janice’s shoulders. “Just admiring the view,” she said.<br />
<br />
She’d lied about never having been in the house. She’d broken a basement window yesterday, dressed as a utility worker, while Janice was having a spa day and placed a small bomb next to the gas furnace. Now, she slipped her free hand into her pocket and pushed the button. The look of horror on Janice’s face as the explosion and subsequent fire devoured the house brought a smile to Karen’s.<br />
<br />
“Oh my,” Karen said, forcing the smile away. “I guess the deal’s off.” She turned to face Janice. “Whatever are you going to do for money now?”<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-20933694384878139502018-03-03T13:37:00.000-05:002018-03-03T13:37:38.929-05:00The YouthTube Experiment, as explained by Dr. J. FitchI told him it wasn't ready. That more experimentation was needed. That the procedure responded unreliably. He told me he didn't care. He'd put up ten million in front money and needed to be treated before he got any older and died. He said he had more to do. More money to make. His company would fail without him. I crossed my arms over my chest, unaffected by his desperation, and gave him a firm no. He handed me a check for five million dollars. I led him to the chamber and programmed the software per his wishes.<br />
<br />
I watched in awe as the transformation took place. It was so much different than with mice and rabbits. As I knew could happen, the experiment went too far.<br />
<br />
Here. Let me share a few of my notes with you so you can better understand how the experiment progressed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
###</div>
<br />
July 15, 2144, 9:15 AM<br />
<br />
The subject's vital signs are normal for an eighty-three year old man. After he dons a hospital gown, I place the subject in the YouthTube (Note: need a better, more scientific, name for it), seal him in the transparent chamber, and watch as the lime-green mist envelops him and puts him to sleep. From now until the end of the procedure, the subject will sense nothing but pleasure: the sound of waves caressing a beach, the smell of fresh mown grass, the touch of his newborn great grandson's tiny hand, the taste of his mother's lasagna, the sight of crowds storming stores to purchase his latest product.<br />
<br />
<br />
July 15, 2144, 9:15 PM<br />
<br />
The subject's skin has tightened, giving him a youthful appearance. His grey hair is now dark brown. His bald spot is gone. His body has shrunk approximately ten percent. His skin is pale, almost white. This worries me.<br />
<br />
The process is going faster than expected. I try adjusting the settings to slow the change, but the originals are locked in. (Note: reprogram software to allow adjustments during procedure.)<br />
<br />
<br />
July 16, 2144, 9:15 PM<br />
<br />
I must admit I'm a bit panicky. The subject requested a reversal into his mid 30s. He looks to be in his teens. This is exciting, yet disturbing. The YouthTube is adjusting the subject's age; but I have no idea how far the change will go, especially since I have lost control of the process. On a positive side, his skin coloring is near normal.<br />
<br />
<br />
July 18, 2144, 10:15 AM<br />
<br />
The YouthTube stopped an hour ago. I couldn't add my findings at that time. I was shocked and confused. Still am. The subject reverted back to age two based on my observations and his vital statistics. This is unacceptable.<br />
<br />
<br />
July 18, 2144, 9:15 PM<br />
<br />
After much consideration, I decide to attempt reversing the aging process to advance the subject to his desired age. Since I'm unable to change settings during the process, my plan is to age him in five-year intervals, with breaks in between.<br />
<br />
<br />
July 20, 2144 9:15 AM<br />
<br />
The subject's condition is improving. He has the voice and thinking abilities of a typical male in his mid-thirties. Unfortunately, his body remains that of a toddler. His skin tone is normal.<br />
<br />
It does make me smile to hear such coarse language coming from an adorable-looking child. I find that earplugs help.<br />
<br />
I'm going to give the process one more try. If nothing else, perhaps I will be able to stop changing diapers.<br />
<br />
<br />
July 21, 2144, 9:15 PM<br />
The subject's body remains that of an infant. He is potty trained, thank God. His mental capacity has returned to where it was before he entered the chamber. So have many of his mannerisms. This morning he asked for a cigar.<br />
<br />
<br />
August 30, 2144, 9:00 PM<br />
<br />
After further tests, I have declared the experiment a failure. The YouthTube is not a viable solution at this time and will be disposed of in a manner so as not to be found.<br />
<br />
<br />
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###</div>
<br />
<br />
What about the subject, you ask? I have a second cousin twice removed who lives on an outlying planet. He will take the subject, his name to remain unknown, and raise him for the rest of this life. It shouldn't be too many years. It's regrettable that his family will never learn what happened to him.<br />
<br />
As for me, I plan to move elsewhere, also, and continue my quest for a machine to reverse the aging process. I, too, have much work left to do and cannot allow my life to expire without providing others with the chance to live an eternal life.<br />
<br />
By the way, I have never published my findings, so no one will be able to verify anything you tell them. Neither is Fitch my real name, simply one to attach to this document. Don't bother attempting to discern my given name. It will be futile. I am an unknown, originally from another planet.<br />
<br />
You may publish this discourse if you wish, including my full set of notes. Others may find them interesting and possibly helpful in their own work. Or my results may convince them that their efforts to date are as futile as mine.<br />
<br />
That's it. I have nothing more for you and will not answer any questions. Thank you for your time. Let me show you to the door.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-45716764891498549312018-01-14T12:51:00.000-05:002018-01-14T12:51:06.055-05:00It’s Never Too LateI returned to my hometown to attend my 50th class reunion. It was my first visit since leaving for college. I know that sounds strange, but the reason is simple. Dad received a job offer to work at NASA in Alabama six months after I left for Purdue University to study engineering, like Dad. With my parents gone, there was no reason to come back to where I grew up. I wasn’t 100 percent certain why I had now.<br />
<br />
I parked my car on a side street and walked from one end of town to the other. It took less than five minutes. I never understood why Dad preferred living in such a small place. The college where he worked was twenty miles away in a city not that much bigger. He said Mom felt safer here. At least traffic wasn’t an issue.<br />
<br />
Not much had changed in fifty years. Most of the buildings wore the same tired outsides. A new bank sat across from what used to be a soda shop, now a restaurant and bar. The post office was no longer on its usual corner. The gas station/garage on the corner of Main and Church had doubled in sized. I’d noticed the new wing on the high school as I drove into town and decided to walk the three long blocks there to find out what else had changed.<br />
<br />
I saw the statue as I neared the school and froze when I realized who it was. Ms. Fontaine started teaching English my senior year. I enjoyed reading, so I signed up for an Advanced Placement course. It was love at first sight—at least for me—when I walked in the room the first day of classes and saw the new teacher with her shoulder length auburn hair, red lipstick, and perfect teeth peeking through a perfect smile. She wore a gray sweater and maroon skirt, the school colors.<br />
<br />
My cheeks warmed when she called my name while taking attendance. I spent that first class avoiding eye contact by writing in my notebook, or staring at the back of Jake Davis’ head.<br />
<br />
The only time she spoke to me outside of the classroom was to congratulate me at my graduation ceremony and to tell me how much she enjoyed having me in her class. My cheeks warmed once again, as a thank you stumbled out of my mouth.<br />
<br />
I never forgot Ms. Fontaine. I considered reconnecting with her after college. She was only four or five years older than I. I never did. Instead, I married Emmi Lou, and she and I raised three wonderful children. Emmi died eight months ago of pancreatic cancer. I miss her a lot.<br />
<br />
I stopped at the memorial park where the statue of Ms. Fontaine now resided and read the plaque. According to the inscription, after twenty years of teaching, she became the school superintendent, and after retiring from that job was elected mayor, a job she retained until she passed away. No cause was given.<br />
<br />
I returned to the old soda shop, sat on a stool with a cracked leather top, and ordered the turkey platter. Two men sat a couple of stools away. One of them looked kind of familiar. I waited for a break in their conversation before asking about the statue at the school. The one who looked familiar asked if I knew Ms. Fontaine. I said not really.<br />
<br />
“Well, she was quite the woman. No one expected her to stay here for any length of time. She sure surprised us. And she was a wonderful human being to boot. Most of the town folk believe she’s still with us.” The man paused to sneeze into a faded, flannel shirt sleeve. “Thomas here saw her walking around last Halloween watching out for the little ones.”<br />
<br />
“That’s right,” Thomas said.<br />
<br />
“Others have seen her at the football games. Some think she was responsible for us winning a state championship last fall by keeping everyone’s spirits high, even when we were behind.”<br />
<br />
The familiar-looking man went on, about how much Ms. Fontaine meant to the town, while Thomas grunted approval. After finishing my dinner, I decided to return to the statue.<br />
<br />
I sat on a metal bench and took in the marigolds surrounding the base. Emmi loved marigolds. Medium sized stones provided a border. School was out for the summer, so it was quiet. I found that relaxing. I closed my eyes and pictured Ms. Fontaine as she appeared that first day of class. I took a few deep breaths and felt my shoulders relax. They tightened again when I heard a familiar voice say my name.<br />
<br />
“Royce, is that you?”<br />
<br />
I opened my eyes and saw Ms. Fontaine standing next to her statue. She looked older but had retained that youthful smile. She wore a skirt and sweater, the color matching the statue, as did her skin and hair.<br />
<br />
“Ms. . . . Ms. Fontaine?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. I’m glad you finally returned home.” She sat on the bench, our legs nearly touching. “I missed you.”<br />
<br />
“I missed you, too.” I looked around to see if anyone was watching.<br />
<br />
“Don’t worry. No one can see me. Not really.” She reached for my hand. “Only you.”<br />
<br />
I couldn’t believe it when my cheeks warmed once more. “Did you know. . .?”<br />
<br />
“Know how you felt about me? Almost from the beginning.” She squeezed my hand. “By the end of the semester, I felt something for you, too.”<br />
<br />
We sat silently and enjoyed each other’s company until darkness fell.<br />
<br />
I rose to leave, and she stood with me.<br />
<br />
“It’s time for me to go,” I said.<br />
<br />
“I know,”she replied. “Would you like me to come with you?”<br />
<br />
“Won’t the town folks miss you?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll always be in their heads and hearts. That’s my legacy.”<br />
<br />
“And a fine legacy it is,” I said, as I took her hand and we walked toward the horizon.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-65750657908013871102017-11-11T10:01:00.000-05:002017-11-11T10:02:06.222-05:00The WatcherThe old man sensed the young boy approaching the weathered wooden bench.<br />
<br />
“What are you doing?” the boy asked.<br />
<br />
“Watching that man shovel rocks into the tram.”<br />
<br />
“Why’s he doing that?”<br />
<br />
“Because the Master ordered it.”<br />
<br />
“Why did the Master do that?”<br />
<br />
“Because the man dared challenge the Master’s ideas.”<br />
<br />
“Oh.” The boy stood at the opposite end of the bench, leaving space between him and the old man. The boy knew the man was old because of his gray hair, hunched shoulders, and long beard, like his grandpa Haro. And he smelled, also like his grandpa Haro. The man’s shoes were scuffed, his clothes covered with a black dust. “Was he right?”<br />
<br />
“Many thought so, but they didn’t dare say anything.” The old man continued to stare through the glass window, his eyes unblinking.<br />
<br />
“How come you keep looking at him?”<br />
<br />
“Because the master said I had to?”<br />
<br />
“How come?”<br />
<br />
“Because he can, I guess.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t know what you did?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, out of frustration I may have called the Master a bad name in front of a friend of mine. At least, I thought he was a friend. But this seems a harsh punishment if that's the real reason.”<br />
<br />
“Do you know his name?”<br />
<br />
“The man in there?” the old man asked, pointing at the glass.<br />
<br />
The boy nodded.<br />
<br />
“Not his real name. I call him Sissy Puss.”<br />
<br />
“That’s a funny name,” the boy said with a giggle. “Why do you call him that?”<br />
<br />
“Well, he’s wearing that pink onesie - - by order of the Master - - which makes him look like a sissy, and he for sure has an ugly puss.”<br />
<br />
“You’re funny.” The boy giggled again, then stared through the window and watched Sissy Puss shovel some more. “He looks tired.”<br />
<br />
“He should be. He’s been shoveling for a long time.”<br />
<br />
“How long does he have to keep working?”<br />
<br />
“Until the pile is gone.”<br />
<br />
The boy watched again, tilting his head from side to side.<br />
<br />
“Every time he picks up some rocks, more fill in. How’s he going to finish?”<br />
<br />
The old man leaned forward and put his arms on his legs. “Probably won’t,” he said.<br />
<br />
The boy picked up a stone off the ground and held it in his hand. “It’s hard.”<br />
<br />
“It’s some special metal only found on this planet. Explorers discovered it around eighty years ago. It’s harder than anything known before then. The Master ordered it be used by the military for everything from bombs to bullets.”<br />
<br />
“Only bombs and bullets?”<br />
<br />
“Airplanes and ships too. His enemies don’t have anything to stop an invasion. That keeps them in line. And besides, the Master likes bullying them into going along with what he wants.<br />
<br />
“Bullying is wrong. Our teacher told us to report anyone who bullied a classmate.” The boy moved closer to the window. “You should tell on him.”<br />
<br />
The old man attempted to smile, but his dried, cracked skin wouldn't allow it.<br />
<br />
“Does the Master live here?”<br />
<br />
“No. He lives on Earth.”<br />
<br />
“Does he rule Earth?”<br />
<br />
“He’d like to." The old man sat up and stretched his arms over his head. "You sure do ask a lot of questions.”<br />
<br />
“I’m seven,” the boy said with a shrug.<br />
<br />
“Why don’t you come and sit next to me?” the old man said, patting the bench.<br />
<br />
The boy stared at the old man, a puzzled look on his face. “I shouldn’t. My parents told me to beware of strangers.”<br />
<br />
“Are we still strangers?”<br />
<br />
The boy stood quiet for a few seconds. “I guess not,” he replied and slid on the bench, his feet dangling above the ground.<br />
<br />
“Why don’t you leave?” the boy asked.<br />
<br />
“Can’t. Not until I find a replacement.”<br />
<br />
“How long have you been watching?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, since I was about your age.”<br />
<br />
“That’s a l-o-o-ng time.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, it is,” the old man said, standing for the first time in he didn’t know how long. His knees ached. His back was stiff. He took a step and grabbed the back of the bench to keep him from falling. He waited until he felt stable and then walked away.<br />
<br />
“Where are you going?” the boy asked.<br />
<br />
“To get a drink.”<br />
<br />
“Who’s going to watch the man?”<br />
<br />
“You are. Sorry kid, but I’ve done my time. Now it’s your turn,” the man mumbled.<br />
<br />
"What did you say?" When the man didn't answer, the boy turned to the window. The man on the other side of the glass kept shoveling, oblivious to the change beyond the window.<br />
<br />
"Hey, mister? How do I. . ." The boy stopped as the old man disappeared into a mist. He tried to stand but couldn't. It was like someone had put glue on the bench. He attempted to unsnap his pants to get out of them, but couldn't do that either. He turned toward the mist, which was gone, and then back to the man behind the window. The boy put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and began to count each shovelful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-82931204914140595662017-10-06T15:06:00.000-04:002017-10-06T15:06:12.507-04:00A Duel in Dodge City<i>First appeared at <a href="http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/sections/editorial.html" target="_blank">Aphelion</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The challenge was to write a story with a twist ending in fantasy, sci-fi, or horror genre.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Maddie dismounted, tied the palomino's reins to the hitching post, and ambled through the swinging doors into the noname saloon, the chaps slowing her progress. She sauntered to the bar, her spurs providing a musical accompaniment to each step, and perched on a stool with her feet dangling above the floor.<br />
<br />
"Barkeep, gimme a beer," she said and placed her Stetson on the bar.<br />
<br />
"You wanna keep that hat I suggest you put it someplace else," the bartender said with a stare like her father used to give her.<br />
<br />
"Didn't mean no harm," Maddie said and put the dusty hat back on her matted, black hair. "Jason been in today?" she said taking a sip of warm beer.<br />
<br />
"Should be here anytime now." The bartender casually wiped the bar without looking at Maddie "You know Jason?"<br />
<br />
"We've met," Maddie replied, while attempting to act like it didn't matter if Jason showed or not.<br />
<br />
She saw Jason's reflection in the mirror behind the bar when he entered the saloon. Lowering her eyes, she pulled the brim of her hat down so he couldn't see her face.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Paco. How's it going today?"<br />
<br />
"Goin' fine" the bartender said. "Got somebody here wants to see you," he continued with a nod toward Maddie.<br />
<br />
Maddie slowly slid off the stool and flexed her fingers. "Hello, Jason. Long time."<br />
<br />
Jason stopped and smiled. "It has been a while, Maddie. How's Susan?"<br />
<br />
"None o' yer business how my sister is. Not since you left her at the altar. She about died of heartache 'cause of you." Maddie spread her feet a little wider and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension.<br />
<br />
Jason matched her pose.<br />
<br />
"Hey, you need to take this outside," the bartender said.<br />
<br />
"Shut up, Paco. This isn't any of your business." He stared at Maddie. "Anytime, Maddie, but we know how this is going to end."<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah?" Maddie drew her gun, but Jason was faster. The bullet seared through her shoulder causing Maddie to lurch backwards. When she looked up, Jason was gone.<br />
<br />
Maggie staggered toward the door and into the street. She removed her headset and spied Jason waiting with a teeth-baring grin on his face, his arms crossed on his chest.<br />
<br />
"Let's see. That's me three and you zero," he said.<br />
<br />
"I'm still new to these virtual reality games," she said punching Jason in the arm. "I'll beat you yet."<br />
<br />
"We'll see little lady," Jason said with a bow, his arm pointing to the parking lot. "We'll see."<br />
<br />
"You're damn right we will. Next time I get to pick the scenario," she said with a wry smile, "and it will be a joust. We both know how much you hate horses." Maddie winked and strode toward her car, confident she would win the next time.<br />
<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-75115738620078399602017-09-30T10:42:00.001-04:002017-09-30T10:43:21.716-04:00Oh, What the HellFirst appeared at <a href="http://commuterlit.com/" target="_blank">CommuterLit.com</a>.<br />
<br />
My memory's not what it used to be. The doctor says I might have early onset dementia, but I remember the night my Aunt Janine stormed into the house all livid--that's the word Mom used--and collapsed on the couch next to Rex, our Labradoodle. Her face was as red as the clay in our yard. Mom nodded at me, a signal I knew meant it was time to go upstairs.<br />
<br />
Instead, I went into the dining room far enough so they couldn't see me and sat on the floor with my back to the wall. I could tell by her voice that Aunt Janine was really upset. Every time she said Uncle Bill's name, her voice elevated to a higher pitch. She talked and sobbed at the same time, which made it hard to understand what she was saying. That was okay, because a few words, especially those that surrounded Uncle Bill's name, weren't suitable for a ten-year-old's ears.<br />
<br />
She told Mom how whenever she and Uncle Bill argued, which was a lot, Uncle Bill would rant and rave about being underappreciated, and then he'd storm out of the house saying he was going to see his friend James. Aunt Janine followed him tonight and saw Uncle Bill standing in front of an apartment building kissing someone who definitely was not a James, unless James was a cross dresser with long, black hair, wearing a short dress that showed off a pair of athletic calves. Aunt Janine stopped talking and cried so hard she choked.<br />
<br />
After a long silence, she said she didn't have any other family nearby and asked if she could spend the night. "I don't know what else to do." Then in a softer voice, she said, "You won't even know I'm here." I edged along the wall and saw Mom get up and bring her sister-n-law a glass of water, then hold Aunt Janine in her arms and rock her like she did me when I had a fever.<br />
<br />
My mother said, "Of course, you can stay." Neither of them spoke after that, so I went to my bedroom and played with my Power Rangers until Mom hollered it was time to go to bed.<br />
<br />
Now, forty years later, I'm sitting alone in my own home, on my own sofa, rubbing my Schnauzer Gus' belly with my right hand, and holding an empty Miller Lite in the left. I don't need to find a place to stay, not like Aunt Janine. My Karen and her 'James' ran off someplace. Her note didn't say where. I suspect Las Vegas. She's always wanted to go there.<br />
<br />
I never understood what was going on in Aunt Janine's head that night long ago. I do now. And it sucks. Marriage is supposed to be forever. I keep making mental lists of what went wrong, what I did to make her leave. None of them make any sense to me. Maybe that's the real problem.<br />
<br />
I've been fighting off the tears and the sobs and the angry words for three Millers. It's not a manly thing to do, but I wonder if it might help. Aunt Janine seemed better the next morning.<br />
<br />
I look at Gus and he burps, as if to tell me to get on with it. I pet his stomach. He rolls on his back to give me better access. "Oh, what the hell, boy. It's only me and you."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-80451924426666580812017-09-03T12:43:00.001-04:002017-09-03T12:43:36.086-04:00Man's Best Friend<div><div><i>This week's 5 to 55 challenge from the Flash Factory. Prompt words below. </i></div><div><br></div><div>We shared a salacious look. She on the jury. Me a hopeful. Her eyes flickered and danced, like a lantern on a windy night. I smiled. Leaned down. Gave TJ an enthusiastic pet. "Let's show these folks a winning routine." TJ raised a leg. Peed on a plant. I hoped for a rating above zero.</div><div><br></div><div>Prompt words: zero, dance, jury, lantern, salacious</div></div><div><br></div>Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-59587347177074880342017-09-01T15:16:00.000-04:002017-09-01T15:16:03.301-04:00Dinner Time<i>First published at <a href="https://palmsizedprompts.wordpress.com/2017/08/02/august-2017/" target="_blank">Palm-Sized Press</a>. </i><br />
<br />
Margaret toddled down the hall on her way to dinner. She didn't normally wear pajamas when she went out, but there wasn't enough time to change.<br />
<br />
She stopped to look at a painting she didn't recognize. The sign on one building had the words Cafe Bourgeois. Aliz's Pub was on another. The streets were narrow and cobblestoned, the buildings small and old, like her. She moved on. A wheel on her walker wobbled with each step.<br />
<br />
Margaret reached the dining hall and noticed the man sitting at a table in the corner. His gray hair was cut short--military style. His eyes were closed. He wore slippers. She frowned and looked away.<br />
<br />
It bothered her that no one else was seated. People needed to be on time. It was a rule.<br />
<br />
Leaving her walker along the wall, the one with a large calendar listing activities for July, she made her way to her chair. The menu perched in the middle of the table had two pages—one for lunch and one for dinner. She read the dinner side, crinkled her nose when she got to broiled fish and nodded at the chicken pot pie.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Margaret."<br />
<br />
"Hello," Margaret parroted and added a wave, like she saw the Queen do on TV.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing here?" the woman dressed in an orange blouse and pants set with Karen on her nametag said. "You should be in bed."<br />
<br />
"I'm hungry. I came down for dinner."<br />
<br />
"It's 2:00 in the morning."<br />
<br />
"But I'm hungry." Frustration spread across Margaret's face. "Didn't you hear me?"<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, Margaret." Karen smiled and put a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "It's been a long night. How about a package of cookies and some juice? Will that hold you until breakfast?"<br />
<br />
"I guess it'll have to," Margaret mumbled.<br />
<br />
"Well, I can always sneak you another package of cookies if one isn't enough." Karen bent down so her lips were near Margaret's ear. "Our little secret. Okay?"<br />
<br />
"How about him?" Margaret nodded toward the man in the corner. "Will he tell on us?"<br />
<br />
"Nah," Karen said with a wave, like she was shooing a fly. "He's probably asleep."<br />
<br />
Margaret went back to reading the menu. When Karen returned with a glass of apple juice and a package of peanut butter cookies, Margaret looked up and, pointing at the menu, said, "I'll have the chicken pot pie and fruit cup."<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-67196839293961469032017-08-25T11:20:00.001-04:002017-08-25T11:20:28.557-04:00Frustration<div><i>This week's 5 to 55 challenge from the Flash Factory. Prompt words below. </i></div><div><br></div><div>The mustard stain barely showed on his yellow shirt, the result of eating too quickly at the wake. He would soon hasten the cleansing of the ephemeral gnawing at his brain with a shot of bourbon. He'd emailed the wicked witch sixteen times about a process he felt would improve productivity. She should have responded.</div><div><br></div><div>Prompt words: sixteen, mustard, bourbon, ephemeral, wicked</div><div><br></div>Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-61887526198524370582017-08-14T16:58:00.000-04:002017-08-14T16:59:48.197-04:00Again<i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This week’s 5 to 50/55 challenge. Prompt words below.</i><br />
<br />
Emma traced the edge of a puffy cloud with a lavender tipped finger. The cloud had a peculiar shape. Like her love life. Her most recent attempt had ended in an expected climax. Her. Alone. Frustrated. Again. At a hotel. On a beach that most people appeared to avoid. Maybe they'd been dumped there, too. (55 words)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Prompt words: trace, lavender, peculiar, climax, hotel</div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-4600899276172473622017-08-12T15:52:00.000-04:002017-08-12T15:52:25.963-04:00A Family AffairJabari gazed down from the balcony of his mountaintop lab into the Valley of Death, so named because of the infestation of mutated zoysia grass that had choked out all the other vegetation in its path. Experts assumed the invader had hitched a ride on a supply ship carrying refugees from the Hektor agri-colony. The President had attempted to stop the migration to Earth, but the courts determined it was inhumane to keep the residents adrift in space for an indefinite time. Jabari had been assigned the task of stopping the intrusive growth before it choked the life out of Earth.<br />
<br />
"Is it working this time?"<br />
<br />
Jabari responded to his sister Cara's question without turning around. "I'm afraid not. In fact, it appears to be spreading faster." After a deep breath he faced her, concern and confusion on his face. He shook his head and walked to his glass topped desk. "All of the lab results were positive. The spraying should have stifled the continuing encroachment."<br />
<br />
"You'll figure it out," Cara said.<br />
<br />
"I better, or else. . ." He put his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in his hands. "People are losing faith in my ability to do the job."<br />
<br />
Cara moved closer and gave her brother a hug. "It's okay. Everyone is scared and frustrated and has a need to take their frustrations out on someone." She stepped back, holding his hands. "Hey, you knew what you were facing when you accepted the job. You love a challenge." She smiled and hugged him again.<br />
<br />
"You're right," Jabari replied. He pointed toward the folder in her hand. "Have you walked through the plant yet today?"<br />
<br />
Cara, besides being Jabari's sister, was the Chief Operating Officer for the company and a damn fine one as far as Jabari was concerned. She walked the plant at least one day a week on a random schedule she only shared with her brother to see how things were going. Sometimes Jabari accompanied her.<br />
<br />
"I just finished." She opened the notebook. "Security broke up a fight between two low level lab assistants and found a small packet of drugs on one. The fight was a disagreement over the price of the dope, according to another employee. I had security escort both gentleman out of the building and told them we'd send them their personal things in a few days." Cara looked at Jabari. "I hate letting people go, but this work is too important."<br />
<br />
"The stress is getting to everyone. Still, you did the right thing. We can't allow rampant drug use. We all need clear minds." He reached for a pack of cigarettes perched on one corner of his desk. Cara frowned.<br />
<br />
"I know. I know. I said I'd quit," Jabari said. "I'm working on it." Instead of retrieving a cigarette, he pushed the pack away. "Anything else?"<br />
<br />
"No. How about you? Something is bothering you that you're not sharing. I can tell."<br />
<br />
Jabari moved to a chair next to the fireplace and pointed Cara to another.<br />
<br />
"I have this feeling I can't shake that someone else is controlling things here. I have no proof, nor any idea who or why. It's just a thought that keeps niggling at me." He stared at his sister. "Am I going crazy?"<br />
<br />
"No. No." Cara shifted in her chair and leaned back. "You're under so much pressure, I wouldn't be surprised if you told me you were seeing ghosts." Cara laughed. "Or aliens even." She laughed again.<br />
<br />
"It's funny you should mention aliens. That thought has crossed my mind. In fact, I think you may be right."<br />
<br />
"O come on, Jabari. You know there's no such thing."<br />
<br />
"There aren't?" Jabari leaned forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, his hands crossed between his legs. "You didn't think I'd notice, but you changed a few months ago, Sis, or whoever you are. At first, I thought it was like you said--stress--but ever since our first successful attempt at slowing the intruder, things changed. You disappear for long periods. Business lunches, you say. But with whom?" Jabari paused, waiting for Cara to reply. When she didn't, he continued.<br />
<br />
"Then there were certain looks that seemed odd to me. Looks of confusion about things you knew as well as I. One day you came into my office and your sweater was buttoned crooked. You would never make a mistake like that. You always double and triple checked your appearance before going anywhere. Still, I couldn't be certain until I followed you to one of your 'lunches.'" Jabari sat up. "Was it plain water you put into the crop duster's tanks?"<br />
<br />
Cara shifted in her chair and put both feet on the floor. Her eyes appeared to glow.<br />
<br />
"I don't know if I can kill the alien who has taken you over," Jabari continued, "or if you'll survive, but I have to try."<br />
<br />
With that, Cara launched herself and grabbed Jabari's neck, her long fingernails piercing the skin. Jabari grabbed her wrists but was unable to dislodge them. He felt blood oozing down his neck. The alien's thumbs pressed on Jabari's windpipe causing Jabari to gasp for air. In desperation, Jabari let go of Cara's left wrist and jammed a finger into the attacker's eye. Cara emitted a low, hollow roar and fell to the floor. Jabari sensed another movement in the room and thought he saw a cloud-like figure escape through the glass as he reached down for his sister.<br />
<br />
Cara opened her eyes, a muddled look on her face. She tried to speak, but Jabari placed a finger on her lips. "You rest," he said. "I'll explain everything later. In the meantime, I need to schedule an additional spraying and then figure out how to prepare for another alien attack."<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-41864660448185063352017-06-04T14:52:00.000-04:002017-06-04T14:52:02.875-04:00His Last Visit Marcus stood behind the large oak tree in his parents' backyard wearing his usual black jacket, dark jeans, and brown work boots. A knit New York Giants cap protected his head from the cold drizzle. Light from the living room window of the single-story home sparkled on the damp lawn.<br />
<br />
His mother sat in her chair rocking back and forth to some unheard music. Perhaps a Strauss waltz, he mused. They were her favorites. The glass fireplace cover reflected Jeopardy playing on the TV. Marcus remembered watching the game show with her. When he was younger, he would often sit on her lap. Later, he played games on his iPad or read the newest book in the AltLit Zombie Series. Her hands were out of view; but Marcus knew she was knitting something for the church bizarre, a duty she performed every year for as long as Marcus could remember. He missed sitting with her. He missed her laugh. He missed her fist pump paired with a hissing "yesss" when she got the answer to Final Jeopardy. He wanted to tell her what had happened, how he'd become one of them. He couldn't though. It was dangerous to be near her--dangerous for her, not him.<br />
<br />
He thought back to his twenty-first birthday party. Zane challenged him to a drinking contest. Marcus agreed. He'd never heard of a drink called a Zombie, had no idea what was in it, nor what effect it would have on him. He felt wobbly after the first drink. Yet, when Zane offered a second, Marcus drank it down. The next thing he remembered was waking in Zane's apartment with a killer headache and no recollection of how he got there. Marcus didn't learn until later that Zane had spiked his drink and stolen his soul. Now, he would spend the rest of his natural life, and beyond, complying with Zane's orders.<br />
<br />
Marcus' eyes focused back on his mother. He couldn't imagine how hard the last eight months had been on her. First, her only child disappeared. Then, unable to deal with losing his son, her husband drank himself into a stupor and drove off the road at Crist's Pass plunging to his death. Marcus wanted to hold her, to tell her how much he loved her, to sit with her again and watch Jeopardy. Most of all, he wanted her to be happy.<br />
<br />
Marcus glanced up and saw the moon peek through a break in the clouds. It was time to leave. His visits had become shorter and shorter, as he found it harder and harder to resist the draw of a mother's love. Marcus stepped away from the tree toward the woods that provided a barrier along the back of the house. He needed to return before Zane came looking for him. He hadn't told Zane about his fortnightly visits to see his mom. Marcus knew how jealous his master was and feared what might happen to her if Zane found out. Marcus hunched his shoulders against the rain and bowed his head. He swallowed hard and struggled to keep his composure. He repeated Zanes' admonition, as he disappeared into the pines and spruces and oaks. Zombies don't cry.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-4132834116972500922017-05-12T13:06:00.000-04:002017-05-12T13:06:16.353-04:00Lost<i>First appeared at <a href="http://commuterlit.com/" target="_blank">CommuterLit</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The shadow of your smile when you are gone. </i>Janelle continued singing the song. Her audience--a few sitting at tables, heads down, perhaps asleep; others walking the halls talking to themselves--appeared bored. One gentleman dressed in pajama bottoms and a Yankees t-shirt read from the bible and yelled "Amen" in random outbursts. Janelle ignored them all and strummed her fingers up and down, her left hand playing the chords on a make-believe guitar.<br />
<br />
For years, she sang the song a second time to the rhythm of a tango, making the context more hopeful, as if the absence was temporary. She didn't today. It wasn't appropriate. She paused and tried to remember why.<br />
<br />
A chair alarm chimed when a member of her audience stood, bringing Janelle back to the present. She sang louder, felt her stomach tense up. She wanted to scream for everybody to hush and let her finish. Imbeciles.<br />
<br />
After the song ended, she looked around. This wasn't the type of place where she usually performed, she mused, not with the beige walls and bright lights on all the time. She was used to darker rooms with couples in various stages of intimacy snuggled in booths kissing and fondling each other, or sitting at cozy tables holding hands, or perched on barstools simply getting to know one another.<br />
<br />
She'd lost track of how many sets she'd performed and how many times she'd played this song. By the reaction of her audience, most likely too many.<br />
<br />
Janelle watched a tall black woman with short, blonde hair split on one side by a purple streak and dressed in a navy blue pantsuit come toward her, maybe to tell her she was singing too loud. Janelle lowered her head, willing the woman to walk past.<br />
<br />
"Hi, Miss Janelle. That sure is a pretty song you're singing for us. Just like always."<br />
<br />
"Thank you," Janelle said. She stared at the white rectangle pinned to the woman's blouse. The top line read "Allen Mental Health Spa." The woman's last name was Wilson. Janelle couldn't pronounce the first name. Underneath that was CNA. She gazed into the woman's eyes. "Do you think the others liked it?"<br />
<br />
"I'm sure they did." The woman helped Janelle stand. "It's time to go to your room and check to see if you need a bathroom break. Shall we put your guitar on the piano?"<br />
<br />
Janelle pulled her hands away."No. Someone will steal it. I can't leave it here by itself."<br />
<br />
"Okay, Hon. How about if I carry it for you?"<br />
<br />
After a pause, Janelle said, "I guess that is okay."<br />
<br />
"Can you walk for me today, Sweetie?"<br />
<br />
"Sure," Janelle said and shuffled down the hall. She stopped and turned her head. "Do you think Carol will come see me today?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, Honey. You still don't remember the plane crash."<br />
<br />
"Plane crash?" Concern etched itself on Janelle's face. "Is everyone okay?"<br />
<br />
"I'm afraid not," the woman replied. "But like the doctor said, it wasn't your fault."<br />
<br />
"Not my fault."<br />
<br />
"That's right. You got snowed in on your vacation."<br />
<br />
"I remember. Too much snow." Janelle stared out the window as a robin landed on a grassy part of the enclosed courtyard. "I hope they found another flight attendant to help Carol out."<br />
<br />
"Yes, they did," the aide said.<br />
<br />
"Good. It's too much work for one person." Janelle watched the robin strut around and peck at the grass. He snatched a worm and held it in his beak. "She's my best friend, you know. We've been roommates forever." Janelle resumed walking and didn't say any more. She closed her eyes, looked for a face, Carol's face. The screams made it hard for her to concentrate. Just as Janelle was about to join in, the voices stopped. An eerie silence followed and then that song again. <i>The shadow of your smile when you are gone.</i><br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-81189116223584642412017-05-07T13:21:00.000-04:002017-05-12T13:06:37.040-04:00If At First. . .<i>First published at <a href="http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/sections/editorial.html" target="_blank">Aphelion</a>.</i><br />
<br />
Evelyn saw him enter the restaurant from the table where she sat and somehow knew it was her next first date. There had been six since she started dating again after a five year hiatus following college to concentrate on her career as a market analyst. None had led to a second. She hoped number seven might be different but hadn't been able to dispel her fear he wouldn't.<br />
<br />
He wore tan Dockers, a pastel green shirt, brown loafers, and brown socks with yellow stripes. She wondered if this was the way he normally dressed, or if he was showing off for her. She imagined him in a gym wearing shorts and a muscle shirt and felt a twinge deep within her. She inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. Her initial trepidation lingered.<br />
<br />
He smiled and spoke to the hostess. The young woman in a short dress and cowboy boots pointed in Evelyn's direction and led him to the table for two.<br />
<br />
Evelyn smoothed her skirt, mostly to wipe her sweaty palms. After first date number three led nowhere, she took another break from dating to lose thirty pounds and have plastic surgery to tighten loose skin on her face, throat, and belly. She also started a three-times-a-week workout regimen.<br />
<br />
She stared at her iPhone, acting like she hadn't seen him yet. When he arrived at the table, she smiled and leaned forward to shake his hand--and provide him a better view of her breasts.<br />
<br />
He introduced himself as Franklin. She looked him over and decided the name was an alias, just like in those crime novels she liked. Not that that bothered her, since her name wasn't Evelyn. The local paper classifieds weren't picky about names.<br />
<br />
Besides having been overweight and plain-looking, Evelyn wasn't much of a conversationalist. She spent time at home practicing with her cat, but it wasn't the same. She stumbled along, letting Franklin do most of the talking, until she'd finished her second glass of Riesling. Then she relaxed and let herself go a little. She felt the rest of the date went well and hoped Franklin did, too. He appeared to be enjoying himself.<br />
<br />
She declined dessert, but said he should feel free to have something. "I'll pass, too. Gotta watch the old waistline," he said and asked the waitress for the check.<br />
<br />
Outside, Evelyn felt uncomfortable, not sure what to do next. She clutched the strap of her purse, cleared her throat, and asked if he would like to have dinner again. He lowered his eyes for a few seconds, as if in prayer, and said he didn't think so. "You're nice, and all, but not what I'm looking for."<br />
<br />
Evelyn felt her heart sink and her stomach knot, just like every other date. He asked if he could walk her to her car. She thanked him for offering, and the two headed toward the garage on the corner of 8th and Grand.<br />
<br />
As they approached her car, Evelyn listened for the sounds of other people. Not hearing anything, she bent over, lifted the hand holding her purse to her stomach, and groaned. Franklin didn't see her reach into her purse, nor did he see the utility knife in her hand when she rose. He barely felt the blade slash his carotid after she spun him so his blood wouldn't spatter her dress. He didn't feel his blood flow onto the concrete floor, nor smell the odor when his bowels emptied.<br />
<br />
Evelyn watched first date number seven die, rage covering her face. She knelt next to his body, hiked up her dress, and rubbed the three scars on her right inner thigh she thought of as notches. "All you had to do was say yes to a second date, you slimeball."<br />
<br />
She wiped the knife on a cloth napkin she'd put in her purse at the restaurant and tossed the bloody material under the car to her right. She placed the point of the blade on her thigh next to the scar closest to her knee and sliced a fourth, shallow two-inch gash. Blood pooled on her skin and dripped to the floor mixing with date number seven's. She pulled an ace bandage from her purse and wrapped it around her leg.<br />
<br />
Evelyn crossed herself before standing, then headed toward the entrance at the opposite end of the building. She wasn't concerned about video surveillance. According to a recent article in the online version of the local newspaper, this place was the oldest parking facility in the city and had yet to be retrofitted with cameras. She dropped the knife in a trash barrel and headed north to the lot where her rental car was parked. She didn't care about leaving prints or DNA. She wasn't in any police database. She only cared about finding first date number eight--and catching her 9:30 flight.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-49994496594421638832017-04-10T10:00:00.000-04:002017-04-10T10:00:16.517-04:00Life, Act IVHe awoke to a cheerful voice he didn't recognize asking him if he knew where he was. The question sounded familiar; but after the old man looked around the sterile room with its off-white walls, double-wide window, and beige carpet, he shook his head.<br />
<br />
When asked if he knew what day of the week it was, he attempted to get out of bed. When he couldn't, he mumbled a no.<br />
<br />
When asked if he needed help, he grumbled, "I'm not an invalid."<br />
<br />
When asked if he knew who the President of the United States was, he said no a little louder, his face reddening with frustration.<br />
<br />
He didn't respond when asked if he knew his own name.<br />
<br />
When asked if he was hungry, he said he wanted to go for a walk and once again tried to sit up.<br />
<br />
After bingo, they lifted him from the wheelchair to his bed. He grunted, as if he was doing all the work.<br />
<br />
When his son showed up for a visit, the old man's eyes widened and he shouted, "Frankie!" When asked ten minutes after Frankie left, the old man didn't remember having a visitor.<br />
<br />
When asked if he needed his pull-up changed, he regurgitated a small, pale orange glob. When the aide tried to wipe the blob up, he slapped her hand away.<br />
<br />
When asked if he knew how old he was, he shook his head, his eyes half closed. When told he was ninety-three, he smiled for the first time. When asked how old he wanted to be, he said "a hundred, of course."<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113055222924493738.post-35050301724708057172017-04-06T12:44:00.001-04:002017-04-10T10:01:10.186-04:00Double PlayDate: 2216<br />
Location: Xerion, fourth planet from the sun in the Abdula Galaxy<br />
<br />
Danjaki noticed Yerkof enter from the haze and amble toward the bar. "Nasty out there today," Danjaki said.<br />
<br />
"Gets worse everyday," Yerkof replied, using his fingers to brush ash and grit from his government cyber security worker's uniform. He removed his hat, slapped it against his knees a couple of times, and placed it on the bar. "Makes you wonder if those in charge ever go outside."<br />
<br />
"Conditions have worsened since the President ordered an increase in mining production." Danjaki replied. "I hear the air quality on the other side of the planet is so bad people have to wear masks any time they're outside."<br />
<br />
"I eVideoed a couple of friends from there last night. They said the air quality wasn't much better indoors. Asked if my office had any openings." Yerkof put his elbows on the bar and cupped his chin in his hands.<br />
<br />
"The government keeps it up, we'll need to find another planet to live on soon. The usual?" Danjaki knew the answer but asked anyway.<br />
<br />
"Make it a double."<br />
<br />
Danjaki poured a long shot of dark whiskey, put a napkin on the bar, and placed the drink in front of Yerkof. "I heard about Phrya leaving you. Sorry, man."<br />
<br />
"My own stupid mistake to cheat on her at that postal convention." Yerkof downed his drink and nodded for another. "I sure wasn't thinking with my brain."<br />
<br />
"How'd she find out?" Danjaki asked.<br />
<br />
"From a stupid idiot -- me." Yerkof shrugged his shoulders. "I couldn't stand deceiving her."<br />
<br />
"You two've been together for a long time."<br />
<br />
"Started dating in high school. Married ten years next month." Yerkof took a small sip, wiped a dusty sleeve across his face, and swiveled on the stool as a woman walked into the room grabbing everyone's attention.<br />
<br />
"Wow, haven't seen her in here before." He stared at the Eusterian as she strode to the opposite end of the bar. Two men approached her immediately and began a conversation. She smiled and accepted a drink. When Danjaki delivered it, Yerkof thought she might have whispered something in Danjaki's ear.<br />
<br />
The low light in the bar didn't provide Yerkof with a clear view, but he could tell she was about five feet nine inches tall, with Eusterian blue skin and a single braid of hair hanging to her waist that divided her otherwise bald head in two perfect sections. She wore a singlet that had to have been painted on. Her smallish breasts peeked out of the top. When she smiled, Yerkof felt a twitch in his crotch that made him pinch his legs together. He spent a few more minutes ogling her slim body and appealing curves.<br />
<br />
"Need another?"<br />
<br />
Yerkof jumped at the sound of Danjaki's voice.<br />
<br />
"Geez, you sneaked up on me," Yerkov said, holding a hand over his heart.<br />
<br />
"Or maybe your mind was busy elsewhere." When Yerkof, his head down as if in prayer, didn't respond, Danjaki moved a towel in circles over the bar a few times before continuing. "Think Phrya will take you back?"<br />
<br />
"I hope so. I tried eTexting and eMessaging her, but she didn't respond. I called and it went to vMail. She's staying with her brother. I don't dare go there. Not yet, anyway."<br />
<br />
"He's a big SOB," Danjaki said.<br />
<br />
Yerkof nodded and finished his drink. He pulled a wad of money out of his pocket, laid it on the bar, and headed toward the door.<br />
<br />
"Where you going?" Danjaki asked. "It's still early."<br />
<br />
"Home to take a cold shower." Yerkof glanced again at the woman before wobbling outside on weak knees.<br />
<br />
"Better make it a double," Danjaki yelled through a laugh.<br />
<br />
The Eusterian woman slithered onto the stool Yerkof had vacated and put a half full glass of Third Galaxy wine on the bar.<br />
<br />
"That's quite the disguise," Danjaki said.<br />
<br />
"It's so unlike me, all tight and sexy," Phrya replied. "Maybe that's partially why he…" She stared straight ahead, her fingers wrapped around her glass. "Anyway, my cousin's a makeup artist in CineTown. I asked if she could help me out and voilà," she said with a swipe of a delicate hand. "Did he notice me?"<br />
<br />
"Every man and many of the woman in here noticed you," he said. He offered to fill her glass. She covered the top with her hand and shook her head. "There's going to be a lot of drool to clean up tonight."<br />
<br />
"Funny," she replied, crossing her legs. She saw Danjaki's eyes follow the movement and was pleased she could still attract attention from the opposite sex. "As long as Yerkof was one of the droolers." She winked, lifted the glass in salute, and took a sip of her wine. "Do you think he knew it was me?"<br />
<br />
"Naw. It's too dark and smoky in here to see anyone clearly at that distance." Danjaki wiped the bar some more, uncertain what to do. "You gonna take him back?"<br />
<br />
She paused before answering. "Probably, but he needs to suffer more first. Will he be back tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
"Should be."<br />
<br />
"I'll be here, too." She finished her wine and handed Danjaki the glass, lightly touching his wrist. "He really likes my butt, you know. Maybe I'll make sure he gets a good long look at it tomorrow." She stood up, turned her back to the bar, and wiggled from side to side. "Oh, God," she said, her cheeks warm. "I can't believe I did that."<br />
<br />
"He'll need three cold showers," Danjaki said, stepping closer to the bar to hide his excitement.<br />
<br />
"Let's hope," she said with a wink as she sauntered out the door, leaving many of the patrons open-mouthed.<br />
<br />Jim Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15467182228068339233noreply@blogger.com0