Never Too Old

First published in Spillwords.

Sara stepped off the front porch into the newly fallen snow. The flannel jammies, winter coat, and ankle-high boots provided some protection against the white deluge falling from the sky. It didn’t matter that five inches had fallen with another five predicted. What mattered was she couldn’t find her dad, Henry.

She’d checked every room in the house—twice. She called the neighbors. They hadn’t seen him. She dispatched the twins to run around the block, hoping they’d catch up to wherever he was.

He’d been there that morning when the presents were opened, his mind somewhere else, though. This was the first Christmas since his wife Emily passed. He perked up when he opened the big present from Frank, Sara’s husband. It was a set of four paintball guns. Henry roared his approval and challenged everyone to a war. Frank grinned, happy to see Henry perk up. Sara looked at Frank with a “What the f___ were you thinking?” expression. Frank’s face responded with a “He’s old, not dead” glimmer.

In desperation, Sara had raced through the house to the back yard. She scanned the trees in the woods behind her home, peered quickly from side to side like a periscope, and yelled Henry’s name over and over with no results. She’d hoped she would find him and not have to call the police requesting a Silver Alert in this weather.

She turned to go back inside and felt something hit her back. She pivoted to see what had happened and spotted her father holding his present with two hands, the barrel crossing his chest waist to shoulder, a gaping smile on his face. Still angry at him, but glad he was safe, she stared at Henry, pupils mere pin pricks, and said, “Frank. Get me my gun.”

 Morgan’s Dilemma

First appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review

I entered Eddie’s Neighborhood Bar and Grill and noticed my friend Morgan in a hand waving discussion with a red-faced man in a tuxedo and string tie. As I approached, the man huffed past me and out the door.

I took my usual stool at the bar and nodded to the bartender. Morgan picked up his beer and joined me.

He pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket. “Says here the guy that just left wants to declare war against the education system, limit fornication to Wednesdays and Fridays, and ban alcoholic beverages. Finally, to limit activities against his policies, he would require all residents to participate in a domestication orientation program.”

“Guy sounds like a whack-o,” I said.

“And his wife probably makes him sleep on the couch,” Morgan said with a smile and a wink.


“He didn’t appear to be too happy.”

“I told him to go jump in the swamp,” Morgan said and took a long swig of beer. “He might look pretty, but he ain’t no Boy Scout.” Morgan swiveled around to look at the guys playing pool. 

“Huh,” I replied.

 “I received this here letter a couple of days ago containing his plan and letting me know he’d be here today. I shoulda gone on vacation.”

“That bad?”

“He’s running for County Manager next year and wants me to campaign for him, him being some assistant-something-or-other-of-nothing-important and me being sheriff. Guess he thinks people might think better of him if he could throw a familiar name around.”

“You have lived here almost forever,” I said. “And since the sheriff is appointed by the County Manager. . . ”

Morgan raised his bottle, finished his beer, and oozed off his stool. 

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“It’s Friday,” Morgan replied with a big grin. “Martha’s waiting for me at home.”

The Proposal

I can’t believe it. It’s Saturday night. I’m in my favorite restaurant, wearing my little red dress, and my date, Blake, on one knee, proposes to me in front of a bazillion smiling faces.

Now Blake is a fun dinner companion and great in bed, but I’m not interested in a monogamous relationship. Not at twenty-two. As I stare at Blake, a tornado of thoughts swirl through my head. I stifle a smile and motion to an empty chair. He sits.

“Blake, you know I like you a lot, but …” I take a deep breath. “I don’t believe in same-sex marriage.”

One of a Kind

First published in short-story.me.

“Don’t run on the sidewalk, Nathan. You’ll fall and hurt yourself. Remember the last time?”

“Dad said it was okay, because I’m four and I heal quickly.” He turned a sad face to his mom. “Unlike Auntie Karen.”

Alice felt her knees buckle and almost lost her balance. Her right hand automatically rested over the pocket in her purse where she kept a fake ticket stub, a reminder of a horror no one should experience. Using a ticket as a token from Karen’s bachelorette party instead of a normal invitation was Alice’s idea, Karen being the manager of the local movie theater.

“You remember Auntie Karen?” Alice asked, after taking a few deep breaths. She tried to forget the accident but couldn’t—even a year later. She knew she would never stop thinking about the two of them stumbling out of the hotel where the party was held, onto the sidewalk. Chattering and laughing. Karen pushing Alice out of the way just as the drunk driver’s car swerved and bounced over the curb, killing Karen. Alice tried substituting positive memories. Like when they went skinny dipping in a local pond at two o’clock in the morning. Or when they ate all the Girl Scout cookies, instead of delivering them. Boy, were Karen’s parents mad.

“Of course, I remember her.” Nathan said, startling Alice. “She was your best friend. We used to play Zingo against her every Saturday morning and always won.”

“You do remember.” She tickled him. “It’s important we do,” Alice said, “in a good way.” She tickled Nathan some more until he ran away.

“Still the cutest kid. You done good.” It was Karen’s voice Alice heard in her head. 

Alice reached into her purse, took out the stub, and wadded it in her fist. 

It was time to say goodbye—for now.

Thou Shalt Not Lie

Lauren had been in his apartment many times. It always started with lunch or dinner and a drink or two at either Luigi's or Le Petite Bistro--both within walking distance. She'd dress as he liked, in a short dress or skirt, sometimes without panties. After the meal, they'd stroll along the crowded street, his hand on her back, sometimes her ass. Today, she was alone, sitting on the bed, staring out the window as fluffy snow flakes floated past, her eyes watery. She hated being alone on Christmas day. 

She focused on the picture hanging over the bed. He'd told her it came with the apartment. She thought it looked a little like him, receding hairline, empty eyes. Missing was the mole on his right cheek and the blood. 

The place wasn't much--one room, two chairs, a table, and a twin bed. He'd told his wife it was for those nights when he had to work late.

He promised Lauren he'd leave his wife--four times. Lauren had learned from more than one man that the three strikes rule only applied to baseball and major crimes. Hearing him say he would be out of town at his wife's parents' house for Christmas and wanted to get together before the family left was too much for Lauren.

She closed her eyes and pictured him tied to the motel bed, a change of scenery she had said. Keeping her eyes closed, she watched him squirm against the scarves holding his wrists and ankles in place, heard his whimpers through the gag. She grunted as the shimmering blade pierced his naked body.

Opening her eyes, she stood to leave and blew a farewell kiss toward the picture. Robert, her assistant, had called. The motel manager had reported a dead body in room 126. The police found her business card in his wallet. They would be at the office in thirty minutes to begin their interrogation. The only question remaining for Lauren was whether she'd confess right away, or make the police work for it.

Mistaken Identity

I live in a quiet, four house cul de sac. At least it was until a rental company bought out all the original owners, except me. 

Doreen was the first tenant to move in. She’s a brunette with short, curly hair —kind of like mine. She wears the shortest skirts. They’re like a bandaid wrapped around her waist. Cars appear in her driveway most days starting around one o’clock in the afternoon. It took me a couple of months to figure out she’s a hooker. I keep thinking I should go introduce myself, but given she looks like she could be a bouncer in a strip club, I keep my distance.

Harold came next. He’s small in stature, always wears a suit and bowtie, and reminds me of Peewee Herman. I met him at the mailbox one day. He introduced himself and told me he’s an expeditor. I said, “A what?” He said, “I’m given special things to sell without anyone knowing.” I guess he does alright, given the Rolex on his left wrist and the diamond pinky ring the size of Gibraltar.

The renter of the third house is a mystery. He’s not around much; when he is, he stays to himself. Harold says he’s a hit man who goes by lots of names. I assume Harold is making this up.

Speaking of Harold, I watch him get in the back seat of a police car. “They think I deal drugs,” he yells, as an officer closes the door and the car drives off.
I guess it’s time for me to leave all this behind. I don’t want to. I like it here. But it shouldn’t take the police long to figure out Harold’s not the drug dealer on the street.

Karl and Karla

First published in Johnny America.

Karl saluted the picture of the original Karl and Karla hanging on the wall of his dressing room, then slumped into a tattered, leather chair. It was a ritual he acted out after every performance. He removed his top hat, laid it on the dressing table, and wondered how many times he would get to do this in the future. Circuses weren’t as popular as they used to be. His was no exception.

“You decent Karl?” 

“Decent and broke.” He responded the same way every time his Karla knocked.

She entered the room wearing her favorite black overalls. From experience, Karl knew she was naked underneath. She was accompanied by a hulk of a man Karl didn’t know.

“This is Bruce and his pit bull, Angel,” Karla said, holding onto Bruce’s sculpted bicep with both hands, her fingertips unable to touch.

Karl stared at the big galoot wearing jeans and a sweat-stained, sleeveless tee; then widened his focus to Bruce and Angel. *They could be twins*. 

“I hired him to handle security.”

“Security?” Karl said. He stared out the window at the remnants of the audience they’d just performed for. They reminded him of smiling congregants hanging around after a rousing church service.

“You never know these days,” Karla said. “There are a lot of lunatics out there.”

“We’ve been at this for twelve years and haven’t had a problem yet.”

“Like I said, you never know. Besides, I have a plan to save us from closing down; and Bruce and Angel might prove useful.”

“Oh?”

Karla proceeded to explain her idea.

***

The following Friday at midnight Karl stood in the single circus ring. His hands shaking, he was unsure if they were doing the right thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our first ever adult-only performance. And without further ado, here’s Karla and friends,” he said with a broad sweep of his arm. He figured this show would either save the circus or send them to jail.

As Karl walked backstage, Karla gave him a wink and pranced to the center of the circle wearing a red and white sequined see-thru top and a blue miniskirt. Music started and Karla began to dance in a way she thought enticing. The cheers got louder when she removed her top and skirt exposing matching pasties and G-string. The crowd clapped like they never had for the circus. As Karla left the circle, one of the pasties fell off drawing a louder response. She didn’t bother picking it up. A second dancer appeared and then a third bringing the male members of the crowd to their feet.

At the show’s end, Karl appeared from behind the curtain to a round of boos and thanked everyone for attending their inaugural performance. 

The next night’s attendance was triple the opening crowd. Even the mayor showed up with his wife to see what all the excitement was about.

***

Karl looked at his new bride sunning herself on a nude beach in Greece. He’d sold the circus after a profitable run, married Karla—*finally*, she said when he proposed— and, unlike those fake fairy tales, they did live happily ever after.

It’s An Annual Thing

First published in The Yard.

“Idaho. My office. Now!” Chief Radford yelled.

“It’s Montana, Sir,” I said, as I stepped into the cramped room he called an office. On the walls were pictures of the chief with local and state politicians, all of them holding fish of various sizes. 

“What?”

“My name is Montana, not Idaho.”

“Whatever.” He swiped a set of keys off the desk, grabbed his jacket from the rack, and headed toward the front door. “I got a call from Sheriff Anderson. He needs some assistance. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“But the hot air balloon festival starts tomorrow.” I leaned against his desk, my legs weak. “And it’s my first one.”

“If you need assistance with crowd control, feel free to deputize someone.”

“I thought you couldn’t hire anyone else.”

“I have confidence in you, Idaho. You’ll figure it out,” he said and left. I heard the rumble of his V8 Ford pickup fade away as he headed out of town.

“Where’s he going?” Mayor Josephs said, entering the office and hooking his thumb like a hitchhiker.

“He said Sheriff Anderson needs help.”

The mayor shook his head. “He’s probably going fishing,” he said as he wiggled two fingers on each hand around fishing. “He pulls this stunt every year at festival time. He and I will have to have a chat when he returns.”

The first day went surprisingly well. I assumed it wouldn’t last. It didn’t.

Wandering through the crowd the next morning, I heard a scream and looked up in time to see someone fall from the lowest balloon. Two men peeked over the edge of the gondola, then disappeared.

“Coming through. Make way.” I approached a group of volunteers with their red baseball caps and blue vests. “What we got?” I said to Ed Jacobs, head of the organizing committee. “Pilot here says he jumped out of the balloon after one of the men aimed a gun at him.” Ed pointed toward the pilot’s leg. “It might be broken.”

I told Ed to assist the paramedics through the crowd when they arrived. “Help should be here shortly,” I said to the pilot. I had no idea how long it might be. The EMTs were assisting a woman who fell off the top of a camper. Hopefully, it wasn’t going to be a busy day for flying people.

I turned back to the pilot. “My name is Sergeant O’Connell. If it’s not too much, I’d like you to tell me what happened.”

“Well, this guy came up to me yesterday and asked if he and his buddy could ride with me today. He even offered to pay double. Since my normal copilot — a.k.a. my wife — was home with the flu, I said sure.” The pilot tried to sit up, let out a long groan, and settled back down.

“They were late arriving and out of breath from running. Once they were settled in, we left the ground, and the big guy told me to hurry up and head west. I told him we were rising as fast as science allowed, and that there wasn’t anything like a steering wheel on board. We could only go where the wind pushed us. ‘I don’t want excuses. I want results,’ the big one said. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. I looked at his partner, who was holding what looked like a money bag, and he shrugged his shoulders. That’s when I turned off the gas and jumped out.”

“Do you know what kind of gun it was?”

“A big silver one,” he said.

I heard a noise behind me and figured it was the paramedics. It wasn’t. It was my younger brother,  Michael, who I’d deputized until the end of the festival. He crouched next to me holding a rifle and pointed at the balloon. “Bank manager said something about them running toward the field where their getaway balloon waited.” Then he rose to his feet, cocked the gun, and shot straight up. It surprised the hell out of me when he actually put a hole in the sucker. The sound started a stampede, as the folks who had gathered around ran away yelling and screaming.

Michael and I watched the balloon deflate. The gondola’s speed increased as it came closer. Just before it hit the ground a gun came flying out and two sets of hands appeared.

***

The festival finished with one last flight that night. Afterwards, the visitors and participants started packing up to leave the next morning. Everyone was gone by noon.

Chief Radford showed up for work on Monday, an hour late, as usual, and found me sitting at his desk.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Montana. I hope you’re not getting too comfortable there.”

“Just keeping the seat warm for you. Oh, and the mayor wants to see you ASAP.” He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders. 

After he left, I, as instructed by the mayor, took the sheriff’s “god-awful” pictures off the wall and put them in a large box. I’d have to choose some of my own now that the town council, at the request of the mayor, had approved me as the new chief. “Excellent work handling that incident at the festival,” the mayor said. 

I wasn’t sure what the photos might be. I did know they would’t have anything to do with fishing. Perhaps a series of family shots would be appropriate, starting with one of Michael standing next to his trophy balloon.

A Neighborly Competition

It started four years ago as an un-declared competition between my new neighbor Fred and me. I was never the competitive type, but seeing his Halloween decorations lit a spark in me. The fact I didn’t much like Fred and his “I’m better than you are attitude” provided another reason.

The first year my display was small, just a few plastic tombstones with funny sayings. A single strand of orange lights outlined the tops of the shrubs. The next year Fred and I doubled the number of items and drew the attention of our neighbors and their friends. Of course, the kids still liked the candy best. 

Last year the event turned into a community competition, with the addition of orange and purple lights outlining every available surface on most of the houses along Trippet Street. Yards crammed full of spooky characters completed the displays. Robotic witches that cackled when someone walked by were especially entertaining.

Fred had a final addition he said would make his display the best ever. What was his grand surprise? Fireworks, which explains the three firetrucks, two cop cars, and ambulance blocking the street. It’a also why my roof is on fire. 

Fred spent the night in jail. He, along with the rest of us, didn’t know rocket-style fireworks were illegal in populated areas. It didn’t help his cause that he drank more than his share of beer and bloodied a policeman’s nose. The saddest part for me was Fred missing my display winning the prize for Best in Neighborhood. I guess I wasn’t the only one who didn’t much like Fred.

Francisco’s Last Party

First published in Suddenly and Without Warning

Two Years Ago


Rachel heard the noise from the party as she stepped off the elevator. She’d forgotten the bi-monthly event had been switched from Saturday to Friday, due to Saturday being Christmas Eve. This party was special, not because of the holiday, but because Francisco—his real name Frank—had sold three paintings for a six-figure payday. She opened the door to their condo and felt her shoulders relax. A smile traversed her face. She hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree and began unbuttoning her blouse. She would soon forget her crappy day at work.

One Year Ago


Rachel stepped off the elevator, forgetting the day of the bi-monthly party had been switched, due to the regular date conflicting with Christmas Eve. The sounds of the revelers in her condo were more than she could handle tonight. Work had been a bitch, and no amount of partying would change that. She slipped quietly into the foyer, hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree, and tiptoed to the master bedroom, almost knocking Francisco’s bowling trophy—from high school—off the fireplace mantel. She put on her noise-cancelling headphones and queued up Ravel’s “Pavane pour une infante défunte.” She closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep, wondering when Francisco-—his real name Frank—would finally realize there wasn’t enough money for the rent, food, his expensive taste in cars, and these juvenile parties. If only he’d start painting again.

Today


Rachel hovered over Francisco—his real name Frank—his head resting on the carpet. He’d promised to cease his garish lifestyle after they married. She’d arrived home a day early from her business trip to Los Angeles—before Francisco had finished cleaning up from last night’s party. Now the blood puddle, his head, and the Merlot stain on the plush, grey carpet formed a perfect Venn Diagram. Rachel continued to stare at what might have made a perfect painting for Francisco. Finally, she dropped the trophy on the floor, skipped the eulogy, and walked out of their condo for the last time.

Alone Time

Jacob knew better than to rock climb alone. His usual partner, Martha, was out of town attending a business meeting with their boss. Jacob couldn’t help but wonder if Martha was banging the boss. He tried to push the thought out of his mind. He didn’t need the distraction, especially since this particular cliff was tricky. Falling was a possibility, even for a climber of his ability.

He found a toe hold sufficient to allow him to continue his ascent when his boss’s image invaded Jacob’s thoughts. He handed Joseph a bundle of papers in an accordion folder. “I’d like you to prepare and deliver a presentation for the senior staff.” Jacob wondered if this was a way for the boss to justify taking Martha with him to Vegas.  He decided one decision had nothing to do with the other. Just as he felt more secure, he lost his toehold and began to fall.

He regained his balance and continued his ascent. His mind perked up when he heard a voice. A female. One he thought he knew. Martha? Wishing him luck? Laughing at him?

He looked up for his next perch when the wall groaned and opened a schism in the mountain side. He pushed off to get around the opening, but it moved with him. The gap increased and so did the number of voices, some speaking in languages other than English.

Jacob looked down hoping for a miracle as the wall continued to open so that only his toes were touching the moss-covered rock. He flexed his knees preparing for one last lunge but was sucked inside the wall and held in place until the gap closed. 

The interior made Jacob think of a womb, warm, non-threatening. He also saw the source of the voice he’d heard. “Mom?”

“Welcome home.”

My Friend

First published in Flash Phantoms.

Binky’s Bar was full of grown, yet still adolescent, men. The smells of sweat and garlic pizza permeated the darkness. A jukebox struggled to be heard. Once acclimated, I turned my attention to the young woman sitting at the bar. Auburn hair capped a gentle face. The voice in my head named her Queen Bee for the way the nearby drones swarmed around her. I wanted to ask her out, but I couldn’t. I had to bury the twins first. I’d planned to do that right away, while they were still warm. My friend wouldn’t let me. Damn my friend.

OOPS!

 A post went out earlier today stating this site is no longer being updated. This not the case. This site is, and will remain, active. You can expect new stories over the next few days.

Thanks for you patience.

Jim

Highway Robbery

A rusty blue Cadillac rolled around the blind corner spitting and wheezing. It stopped a few feet from where a bearded sprite sat on his haunches holding a Stop sign. The red of the sign matched the color of the sprite’s blazer and tam combo.

“Good afternoon…um…whatever you are,” the heavyset driver said, cranking down the window. He looked around at the fall trees dressed in various shades of red and yellow and green, took a hankie out, and wiped his brow. “Gets pretty humid here.”

“Yes, sir,” the sprite replied. “It’ll be better once spring arrives.”

“Do you have a name?” the driver asked.

“Flash.”

“Flash? But aren’t you a…um…?”

“Sprite. And proud of it,” Flash said.

“Well, I better be going. I’m already late for a business retreat.”

“Nice meeting you,” Flash replied. “That’ll be $98.38.”

“Say what?” 

“This is a toll road. You have to pay to use it. Plus, all the monies collected go to a fund to save the forest,” Flash said, his fingers crossed behind his back.

“That’s highway robbery, and besides, I don’t give a damn about the forest.” 

“More like country road robbery.” the sprite said, straight-faced. “And you should care. The trees are beneficial in many ways.

“Well, I’m not paying,” the man said, reaching for the gear shift.

“Before you go, there’s something you need to know.” Flash lowered the sign and pointed to the front of the vehicle. “While you and I were chatting, Miranda, my wife, cuddled up against a front tire for a nap. My son Junior did the same in the back.” Flash held out his hands, palms up and hunched his shoulders. “You wouldn’t want to deprive a son of his mother, or a mother her only child.”

“I don’t have that much cash on me,” the man said, revving the engine in warning.

“We also take credit and bank transfers.”

“Oh, all right,” the man said, a scowl outlining his face. He took out his wallet and handed over five twenties. “Keep the change,” the man said, giving Flash the finger.

Flash smiled in return and waved goodbye.

Later, Miranda rested her head against Flash's shoulder. “You know how I get horny when you score like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you could send Junior on an errand,” she said, a finger meandering lazily down his torso.

“Junior,” Flash yelled. “I need you to run an errand.”

“Again?” Junior replied.

The Accidental Suicide

First published at Short-Story.me.

Whack!

Jessica swings the axe and curses Wendy, her thirteen year old daughter. She’s in her room sulking, as usual. An annoying noise she calls music escapes to the backyard where Jessica continues her therapy.

Whack!

She takes another swing, this one for ten-year-old Albert, who continues to whine about not getting the right baseball mitt for his birthday. He’s not a catcher. What do I know about baseball? His dad goes to the games. He’s the one who bought the glove. “A guy thing,” he said.

Whack!

Speaking of . . . Jack's no angel, moping around the house all weekend complaining he’s bored. Jessica offered him a to do list to help fill in his time. 1. Rake the leaves. 2. Mow the lawn. 3. Plug the hole in the fence so our terrier Frankie doesn’t sneak out and bring home a new friend, or worse friends. 

“I just remembered,” Jack says and trots out the door to meet up with Max, his high school buddy, for a beer. So much for his husband of the year trophy.

Whack!

Jessica's never swung an axe before. She didn’t know they owned one until she went to get a rake. It is a great way to rid one’s mind of negativity. Much better than raking leaves.

“Mom, ” Wendy yells from her bedroom window. “Mr. Roberts called. He said he’s coming over to help and that you shouldn’t do anymore chopping until he gets here. He said you’re doing it wrong.”

Whack!

What could that old buttinsky want? 

Whack!

Jessica takes one more swing, moves a few paces away, and hears a loud prolonged groan as the tree falls in the opposite direction she thought it would.

The Wedding’s Off

First published in Bright Flash Fiction Literary Review

Spring was Ella’s favorite time. The birds returned from their winter vacation, filling the air with music, while colorful foliage blossomed in barren trees. But this year was different. This year her wedding occupied every minute of free time. Sometimes more, depending on what crusade her mother was on to make everything perfect. Today was the caterer’s turn for last minute instructions.

“Hey, Mom,” Ella said, looking at her watch. “I’m going to the church to make sure everything’s set for tonight’s rehearsal.”

“Okay, Hon, I’ll be over shortly.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” Please.

Ella arrived early for her appointment with the minister. She smelled it first, then saw the smoke coming from behind the church.

She parked along the street, so as not to block the fire truck. Sirens announced their impending arrival. She raced down the driveway and saw someone in a dark hoodie and jeans run into the woods.

Ella followed not thinking about what might happen next.

Ahead she saw the person look back and trip on an exposed root. Ella reached the arsonist, pulled off the hoodie, and was surprised to see someone she thought she knew.

“Andrea?” Ella said to her Maid of Honor. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping your wedding. I hope.” Andrea tried to get up. Ella pushed her down, anger spreading through her limbs like an unattended wildfire.

“I…I thought we were friends. Why would you want to stop it?”

“Because I saw Tom first. I’m the one who introduced you two. Remember? I should be the one getting married.”

Ella sat for a long time, watching the branches waltz in the treetops. Finally, she opened the top buttons of her blouse, turned so her back faced Andrea, and exposed the belt lashes inflicted when Tom arrived home early last night and dinner wasn’t ready.

Pulling off her engagement ring and handing it to Andrea, Ella said “You can have him.” 

Ella walked back to her car with a purpose. She took a few deep breaths, allowing her body to release the tension that had built up over the past weeks. Her suitcase was in the trunk ready for the honeymoon trip. She’d heard Portland was nice this time of year.

---

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in The Yard, Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, Spank The Carp, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com.

The One

First published in Free Flash Fiction.

I watch the two of you stroll hand-in-hand around the man-made lake in the center of the park, smiling, laughing, ignoring me. Perfect.

The water in the lake is murky due to last night’s heavy rain. The family of mallards swimming military style don’t appear to care. They make lousy witnesses, anyway.

Thanks to a friendly neighbor in your apartment building, I know your name is Carol. His name doesn’t matter. Does it.

You approach a bench with a seat-back advertisement for Siegfried’s Amusement Park. I wonder if you’ve ever been there. I close my eyes and watch what’s-his-face fall from the top of the Ferris wheel. You look over the edge and scream with him, as do the others watching on. Well, except me.

You point a manicured finger across the lake in my direction. I know it’s manicured. I watched the sandy-haired blonde in the mall kiosk do it. Do you know they closed the mall? It’s going to be a roller skating rink. I wonder if you know how to skate. You do? Perfect.

I wave and smile, binoculars covering my face. You tap who’s it on the shoulder and say something. He holds a hand over his brow and looks my way. He removes his phone and pokes at it. Is he calling 911? I’ll be long gone before the cavalry arrives.

But I’ll be back.

‘Cause you’re Perfect.

In Pursuit

First published in Suddenly and Without Warning (12/2/24)

Robert looked up as the doors closed on the northbound commuter train. He gasped when he recognized a familiar face. Vivian, his wife of twelve years, stood on the platform wearing her favorite red coat. *It can’t be,* he thought. *She disappeared eight months ago*.

He pounded on a window to get her attention, but she kept moving farther away. He reached for the emergency stop cable, missed, and fell. By the time he recovered his balance, it was too late. Too late to stop the train. Too late for him to confront his wife. 

Still shaking, Robert exited the train at the next stop. He looked around like a man lost in the desert. He sped toward the escalator and saw a flash of red near the top. Pushing his way up the crowded stairway to a chorus of jeers, he reached the apex just as Vivian rounded another corner and out of view.

He maneuvered the intersection at top speed, looked ahead, and realized where she was going, St. Patrick’s Presbyterian Church, where they were married. He bolted toward the front steps and saw the wind-blown hem of her coat leading him to the cemetery in back. She stood over a stone, her head bowed.

As Robert neared, he stuck out his hand and grabbed air. There was no one there. 

Exhausted, he sat on a stone bench and looked down at the inscription on the grave facing him.

Robert Lewis Stevens — 1962-1994

Vivian Agustus Stevens — 1964-

Our Song

I was supposed to be home talking things over with Rosie, her idea, not mine. 

I reminded her the band had a last-minute practice for the wedding reception on Saturday. We needed to learn two songs the bride requested at the last minute. Rosie sighed and said we’d talk when I got home. The stern look on her face told me she was serious.

The other three were already setup when I arrived for rehearsal. I lifted my guitar out of its case, plugged it in, strummed a few chords, and nodded. I was ready to go. 

We played a song we knew to get in the mood. We did this at the beginning of every practice. Still, I couldn’t shake the angst I felt about the conversation with my wife. She hadn’t said what she wanted to discuss, but I had a good idea. She told me often enough I was out of the house too much, and when I was there, I spent more time with the TV than her. She was lonely and felt abandoned.

She was right. I worked fifty hours most weeks and spent weekends providing music for a variety of events.

“Charlie, you with us?” Brian, the band’s leader and drummer said. 

I nodded. “Sorry, Rosie and I are . . .Never mind. I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile.

The first new song was “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder. We all knew the song, but had never played it as a group. We picked it up with ease and moved on. I switched to the second song and found “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Simon and Garfunkel. I felt a tightness in my shoulders and the fingers of my left hand went numb. It was the song Rosie and I danced to at our wedding thirty-two years ago. 

Brian gave a count off, and the band began the intro. All of them except me. I stood, stiff, like a wax figurine at Madame Tussauds’. “Charlie, you sure you’re okay?” Brian asked.

I put the guitar in its case and waved as I walked toward the door. Perhaps it was time to have that talk with Rosie. “I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.

***

I smelled the popcorn before stepping into a short hallway leading to the living room on one side and dining room on the other. It was her comfort food, she told me. She ate it when she was upset, mostly with me.

Rosie sat on a worn sofa watching a comedy on the TV. She wasn’t laughing. “You’re home early,” she said, without looking my way. “Did they kick you out?”

“No, they didn’t kick me out,” I said, bile rising in my throat. She had that effect on my too often lately. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t have a clue.” I waited for her to munch on another handful of popcorn while attempting to keep my heart rate at a reasonable level.

“You want a clue?” She said, looking at me for the first time. “I’ll give you a clue.” She stood and marched over near where I stood, her face as red as a sunset on a hot summer evening. “How many times have you banged her?”

“What are you talking about?” I lost the battle to keep calm and stepped closer. “Banged who?”

“That new singer. Melody.”

“Her name is Melanie, and I’ve never touched her.”

“Lying won’t help you. Ever since she joined the band, you’ve been out later and later.”

“She had to learn our entire repertoire. You forgot her predecessor left with little notice when her husband was transferred to somewhere in New Mexico.” I took a deep breath and wished I had a beer, even though Rosie and I gave up drinking and smoking years ago. “Between work and practicing three nights a week, I’ve been too tired to have an affair with someone half my age.”

Rosie sat on the back of the couch, looked down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I guess that’s why you haven’t had much time for me either.”

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.

A Child is Born

I exited the Quick Stop sipping an orange Slurpee and found her in the back seat of my ten-year-old Camry. I didn’t know who she was, or why she chose my car. I did know she was about to have a baby, based on the size of her belly and the sounds emanating from her gaped mouth.

I called Mom to let her know I’d be late for Christmas Eve dinner. She thought I was pranking her when I explained why.

I agreed to drive the intruder to the hospital. It wasn’t far.

Traffic came to a halt when we were three blocks away. The honking due to an accident at the intersection ahead told me the hospital might as well be three miles away. 

“At least my water broke before I got in the car.”

“Your what what?” I felt light-headed.

I considered driving down the sidewalk, but there were too many holiday shoppers. I might hit someone paying more attention to their phone than where they were walking.

A scream from inside the car obliterated all the other sounds. I peeked over my shoulder. She was lying on the seat, knees up, legs spread, skirt bunched against her waist. “It’s coming,” she said.

“N-O-O-O,” I responded. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t let me.

I looked around. “Help. She’s having a baby!” Everyone stared straight ahead. “She’s your wife,” a cabbie missing a front tooth yelled. “Man up.”

“She isn’t. I don’t — “

A second scream interrupted me. 

“It’s coming now. Get in here.”

A young woman walked by with peacock strides. My fingers formed a church steeple. She gave me the finger.

I opened the car door. Noticed she was not a natural blond. Averted my eyes.

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen a — um — you know before.”

Actually, this was my first. 

“Okay,” I said,” just breathe. . .or relax. . .or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

“I am, you idiot. Now get your hands in there and get ready.”

I put my hands between her legs and closed my eyes. After two more grunts and three screams, I felt something wet in my hands. I looked down and saw a baby boy curled up in my fingers. 

“I thought it took longer to have a baby.” I said.

”This is my fourth trip to the hospital. Don’t ask.” 

“In the movies, they spank a newborn to get its motor started. Right?” 

She nodded. I slapped the boy lightly, afraid I might hurt him.

“Harder,” she yelled. 

I did as I was told, and the kid started crying. The sound reminded me of an opera my mother dragged me to once. Just as I thought I might throw up, a team of paramedics arrived having run from the hospital. I wondered if Peacock Lady was responsible for their timely arrival.

“What’s your name, Cowboy?” the new mother asked.

“Joseph. What’s yours?”

“Mary, 

Laughing, I asked. “What do you think we should name the baby?”