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.”

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.

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.

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?”

Mystery Solved

“It couldn’t have been Nancy,” Jason shouted. “She died six years ago.”

“I tell you it was her voice on the phone. No doubt.” Charles shifted to a lower gear in his racing green, 1979 MGB replica. He loved driving down back roads with the windows down and music playing in the wind. Today’s selections were from the movie “Mama Mia”. The mist hanging in the air provided extra intrigue for whatever it was the brothers were getting into.

“There is software that can learn how to have a conversation using a particular voice pattern,” Jason said. He wiggled in his seat trying to find a little more room. His body wasn’t meant for small places.

“I suppose you believe aliens landed in the New Mexico desert, too.”

They continued down the dirt road in silence, a tail of dust in their wake. Charles stared straight ahead. Jason, his right hand clutched to the window handle, counted the dead trees and wondered if he might join them soon. “Could you slow down a little, please?”

Charles ignored him. 

“So why do you think she told us to drive to the old Jamerson place,” Charles said. As he neared their destination, he realized his grip on the steering wheel had gotten tighter. He flexed his fingers to relax them. “I thought it was abandoned.”

“I heard some rich guy bought it and turned it into an event center.”

“Did Mom leave any other clues as to what’s going on?” 

Jason shifted in his seat. The bumpy ride provided by the ground hugging machine was doing a job on his spine. He’d need to see his chiropractor when he returned home. If he returned home.

“Just to bring you and the manilla envelope she’d left in the safe.” Jason said, as he continued to count trees. “This is getting creepy.”

“You got that right,” Charles said. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm his nerves. They didn’t help.

The brothers fell silent again, until Charles took a second corner too fast. The car felt like it was about to roll over, as the rear end slued to the right.

“Jesus, Charles, let’s at least get there before we crash and burn.

Charles eased up on the gas pedal.

Looking ahead, the brothers watched the Civil War mansion appear in the thinning mist. A large, white barn stood off to one side. The parking area next to the house was empty.

“You sure we have the right day?” Charles asked.

Jason removed a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and read from it. “Saturday, May 4, 6 PM, 13548 Overton Road. Don’t be late!” He put the paper back. “Maybe the caller dialed the wrong number.”

“I told you. It was Nancy.” 

Charles pulled into a parking spot and wondered if he should turn around and go home or see what awaited inside. The writing on the envelop said to not open until they were in the living room. He swatted an insect away and thought about opening the envelop. Being superstitious, he decided to follow the directions as given.

The brothers climbed the stairs to the front porch. “Open it,” Charles said, pointing at the door.

“You open it,” Jason replied. “We’re here because of you.”

Charles hesitated before slowly turning the door knob. They stepped inside and saw a large room to the right. He nodded to Jason. Jason nodded back. They entered the room together.

The blinds were closed leaving the room mostly in the dark. They could see a brown corner sofa and armchair to their right. A game table and four chairs waited on the opposite wall. There were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves straight ahead.

“Maybe it’s time you open the envelope,” Jason whispered.

“You think?” Charles asked.

Jason nodded his head several times.

Charles opened the envelope as if he was expecting it to contain a bomb. Jason offered a few more encouraging nods.

Charles finally reached into the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper with one word on it. He turned it so Jason could see. 

SURPRISE!

He was about to say something when the lights went on and the room filled with people yelling.

“Surprise!”

“Happy 50th birthday, Charles!”

“Fifty is nifty!”

“You made another one, you old goat.”

In front of him were thirty family and friends. Some had travelled a good distance to be here. He turned to Jason and cocked his arm as if he was going to slug his brother. Instead, he put a hand on his shoulder.

“You know how I hate parties.”

“And I know if I had told you in advance, you’d have found someplace else to drive that faux car of yours as an excuse for not showing up.”

“So, it wasn’t Nancy’s voice,” Charles said.

“No, that was the work of your nephew, Jacob. He’s the computer whiz in the family.”

Charles grabbed a glass of champagne off a tray, took a sip, and felt his body relax. He looked around at all the attendees laughing and seemingly enjoying themselves. He only wished his sister, Nancy, could be there.

***

Feel free to share this story with family and friends. Anyone wishing to be added to the mailing list should send an email to jpharrin@gmail.com.

Three Strikes, You’re Out

“You sure had a good time staring down Pam’s dress,” Margaret said with a saber’s edge on the words. “Not that you had to. Her breasts were mostly hanging out.” She pointed the silver blade my way. “And this wasn’t the first time.” Her eyes shot daggers my way. I bowed my head in penance, keeping one eye on the butcher knife in her left hand.

“So were yours,” I said. “I looked at them a lot more than I did Pam’s.”

Margaret paced back and forth across the kitchen, mumbling. Leftover dishes from my surprise birthday party crowded the sink and counters.

I sat on a stool wearing only a pair of briefs. Margaret’s demand. It was that or live without a favorite body part. I reminded her it was a favorite of hers, too. She replied she could get a dozen at any nearby establishment that sold adult beverages.

“Did you try the peach pie?” I asked. “It was very good. Made it myself.” 

“Buffalo pucks, you did. You couldn’t cook your way out of a McDonald’s.” 

“Well. . .I added my special ingredient.” She stared at the pie, her head cocked to one side, an incredulous look on her face. “Did you notice how everyone who ate the pie loosened up. That was the uppers I put in each piece.” I smiled the smile that usually melted her when she got grumpy.

“You put what in the pie?”

Out of desperation, I smiled big enough to make my face hurt. No change.

Man part, pie, smile. All no. I’m screwed!

Julio and the Sloth

First published on SPANK the Carp and later in the SPANK the Carp 2024 Anthology

Julio stood on a wooden bridge and inhaled the aromas emitted by trees he couldn’t name. He’d been on every trail in the area except this one. It was new, and work had kept him inside for too long. As he turned to continue his walk, a shadow moved above him. Whatever it was, it reeked.

“Hey,” Julio yelled, “Did you just attempt to bite me?” He looked up, and all he saw was a sloth.

Sorry, Señor,” the sloth said, “but I had no choice. I was told if I bit someone I’d return to normal.”

“Huh?” Julio perched on a log, confused.

“You see, I was bitten by a werewolf,” the sloth said. “I don’t know why; I think maybe he was blind.”

“And he told you you’d revert back to your normal self if you bit someone.”

“That’s correct, Señor.” The sloth shifted to the left, moving closer to Julio.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Julio said, holding up a hand as if it were a shield. “You stay right there.” Julio moved down the log away from the sloth. “You know he was lying don’t you. You can’t change into a werewolf, or I guess weresloth in this case.” Julio chuckled.

“I don’t see anything funny about it at all, Señor.”

“You don’t? You live in a tree. What are the odds someone would climb up and bite you?”

“Oh, I wasn’t in the tree. I come down regularly to relieve myself.”

“Relieve yourself?”

“Well, of course. Did you think we just held it in forever?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“Well, now you have.”

“Do you have a name?” Julio asked.

“Flash,” the sloth said.

Julio laughed so hard he almost fell off the log.

“I know. I know. My mother was a hippy and a pot smoker,” the sloth said. “She gave all her kids odd names. My older sister’s name is Gazelle, and my younger brother’s is Bugs. Don’t ask. I have no idea why.” The sloth shook his head and sighed.

“You even shake your head slowly,” Julio said and snorted.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” The sloth looked around as if expecting someone.

“Do you come down from the tree for other reasons?”

“Nope. No need to. All the food I require is up here. Insects, carrion, and small lizards. Lots of them.”

“So how often do you come down to. . .you know?”

“Once a week. It takes a little time to get to the right spot, go, and cover everything up.” The sloth looked at the ground. “You’re standing on my spot right now.”

“Are you shitting me?” Julio stood and hopped to the side. 

“Interesting choice of words,” the sloth said. “But no, I’m not.”

Julio scuffed his shoes on a patch of grass in an attempt to clean them off. He raised his left foot and checked the bottom, like a blacksmith shoeing a horse. “Oh crap,” he said and pointed at the sloth. “You ruined a new pair of hiking shoes.” He scuffed them some more. “If I could sue you, I would."

“Of course, you would. Everyone sues somebody these days.” The sloth moved his head in small circles to relieve the tightness in his neck. “Since you’re going to sue me anyway, why not move a little closer so I can . . .”

“No way, Jose. In fact, I’m going to move back a little,” Julio said, taking a big step backwards. “Ouch,” he said. “What the. . .?”

“Oh, I forgot to introduce my wife, Miranda. She’s even slower than me.” 

“How long have the two of you been up a tree?”

“About fifteen years. Right, Love?”

Miranda started to nod. Julio didn’t wait for her to finish. 

“And you haven’t bitten anyone before me?”

“Oh, there have been lots of opportunities. We see them coming up the trail, and Miranda moves to get into position. Most of the time she’s late, and we have to let the person go.” “It’s frustrating, but. . .” He smiles at Miranda. “You know.” 

“But you said once you bite someone, you revert back.”

“Well, that was a bit of a lie. Actually, a big fat whopper.” This time it was the sloth’s turn to chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re a weresloth for life now. Too bad. You look to be about twenty-five.”

“Thirty-one.”

“Same difference,” the sloth said, with a shrug.

“Well, Miranda and I need to get some sleep. And you, Señor, need to head along the path to get home before dark.”

“Home,” Julio said. “What home. I can’t go there. My parents. My girlfriend. What am I going to tell them?” Julio said, looking up as Miranda joined her husband hanging from a stout branch.

“Can’t help you there, Señor,” the sloth said, “but it’s a long walk back down the hill. I’m sure you’ll think of something. And now, it’s time to say good night.”

Julio pivoted and scuffed his way back the way he came.

Within seconds, he heard Flash snoring. He walked away wondering what his life was going to be like now. 

He heard snickering coming from above. “Okay, there is a cure. Give us $50.00, and we’ll tell you where it is.”

“I don’t have that much money on me.”

“How much do you have?”

 “$38.00 and 25, 30, 4 cents,” he said. He raised his hand as high as he could.

“I suppose that will have to do. On the back side of the tree there’s an opening. Reach in and you’ll feel something.”

Julio did as directed. “Ouch! You bit me again.”

“Not me. That was Junior. Oh, and there’s no such thing as a weresloth. Enjoy life and thanks for the money. We can use it to entice someone else to play our game.”

As Julio walked away, Miranda snuggled next to Flash. “You know we could get arrested if you keep this up.”

“What would they arrest us for? Forest Path Robbery?”

It was Miranda’s turn to chuckle. “You know, that was kind of exciting, and I’m not really sleepy.” Miranda nestled closer to Flash. “Maybe we could…”

“You are a naughty scamp, aren’t you?”

I'm Late

First published in CommuterLit.

I’m never late, not even coming out of my mother's womb. I ooze sweat, my fingertips tingle, and I feel like I have to pee when I even think I’m going to be late. Like now. Damn all those traffic lights.

My doctor’s office is on the second floor. Panting from running up the stairs — I don’t trust elevators —  I enter the waiting room at 9:46. That’s one minute late according to the instructions emailed to me three times in the past two weeks. Hopefully, the restroom isn’t in use.

I check in at the desk and am directed to have a seat. On my way, I make a pit stop. Damn. The door’s locked. I take a few slow, deep breaths to calm me. Before I’ve totally settled down, I hear my name called from the door leading to the examination rooms.

I follow the nurse to be weighed (another unsettling necessity) and then to the exam room. A second nurse takes my blood pressure, which is higher than normal, and verifies all my medications. The two leave together, one telling me the doctor will be right in. Sure, he will, I tell myself.

I pull out my phone to find something to read when I hear two knocks on the door and the doctor enters.

I’ve seen the same doctor for fifteen years. Based on the date on the diploma hanging on the wall, he’s in his fifties, with the body of a marathoner and voice of a cigar smoker. Streaks of grey have invaded his black hair. The doctor standing in front of me exhibits none of the same traits. She has on light blue pants and a white blouse with the requisite stethoscope draped around her neck. Her unruly, auburn hair matches her flair as she enters the room.

“Hello, Jason,” she says, brushing a shock of hair away from her face. “My name is Dr. Miller. Dr. Franklin is sick. I’m subbing in for him for a few days.” She sits and studies the computer screen while I attempt to speak.

“It says here that you’re having stomach issues, anxiety, and an uneven sex drive.” 

I cringe at that last one. I have no trouble speaking to Dr. Franklin — well — frankly, but it doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. “Yes,” I say.

“How long has this been going on?”

“A few of weeks.” She reads off a few more symptoms, and I reply accordingly.

“High, medium or low. How would you rate your level of stress?”

I hesitate answering, as she types some more, probably detailing what a loser I am. 

“I would say medium.”

She smiles and continues typing.

“Well.” I swallow. “It may be closer to the high end.”

“I’d agree to that.” She stands, takes the stethoscope from around her neck, and listens to my heart and carotids.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do medicine-wise. You just need to find a way to de-stress when things are going badly.” 

I nod like a bobble head doll. She’s right, of course.

“You could think about something else to do. Like closing your eyes and watching ocean waves roll onto a beach. That’s my favorite. Or going to a zoo, or taking me out to dinner.”

That last one got my attention. We held each other’s gaze, until I finally broke the silence. “Isn’t dating a patient against some rule?”

“Yes, but technically, you’re not my patient.”

“Well…”

“Marvin’s. Friday night. 7:30.” 

I sit stunned, not believing what I just heard. 

She opens the door, turns, and says, “And don’t be late.”

I gather myself and exit the room. I look at my watch and see I may be late for my next appointment. A nurse points the way to the exit, and I realize my tension is gone. No sweating. No tingling. No need for the restroom. Maybe this doctor is the medicine I need to conquer my stress.

A Family Threesome

[After a longer-than-expected hiatus, below is a recent publication.]

“What do you mean you kinda shot Jolene?” 

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.

“Well, you see, she surprised me when she came into the kitchen while I was cleaning my Glock.”

“You own a Glock?” Franklin said, pushing away from the counter. 

“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.”

“Why on Earth would you need a Glock?” 

“We got a rabbit problem.” 

“A rabbit problem,” Franklin said, and stared at Red with unblinking eyes.

“Yeah. They keep eating the vegetables in Jolene’s garden.” 

“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.

Sweat formed on Red’s forehead as his rehearsed story began to fall apart already.

Tired of waiting, Franklin continued. “Wouldn’t a shotgun be better for your needs?”

“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 . . .”

“And you shot Jolene,” Franklin said. 

 “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. 

“So, you bought a Glock to kill rabbits and instead shot my wife — your sister-in-law. Have I got that right?”

“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. 

“But you did.” Franklin took a step forward, as Red raised the Glock and pointed it at Franklin’s chest.

“So, where’s Jolene?”

“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.”

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.

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.”

“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.” 

“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.” 

This piece first appeared at https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/a-family-threesome.html.

Man's Best Friend

This week's 5 to 55 challenge from the Flash Factory. Prompt words below. 

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.

Prompt words: zero, dance, jury, lantern, salacious

Murder in a Small Town

Winner of the January 2017 Aphelion Flash Challenge.

“Oola looks at peace. Doesn’t she, Nate?”

“I guess.”

“You did a wonderful job picking out the coffin. The mahogany with the white overlay sets off her blue uniform nicely.”

“Least I could do.”

“It is, given the circumstances.”

“I’m surprised no one else is here. Everybody seemed to like Oola.”

“It’s early.”

“I’ve never been in a funeral home before. It’s like a dungeon in here, dark carpet, dark walls, dark mood. All it needs is shackles hanging on the walls. These chairs aren’t very comfortable, either, and the music reminds me of molasses. I hate the smell of molasses."

“Maybe those folks in New Orleans have the right idea, having a parade for the departed and making a party of it.”

“You know, she’s almost pretty lying there.”

“She never was a looker.”

“No, not really. The wig helped, but the long, oval face and small slit for a nose made her stand out.”

“That and the fact she oozed orange tears when she cried.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing her cry.”

“She did right after you stabbed her the first time.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, Nate. Remember when we found her rocket half submerged in the lake?”

“How could I forget? Strangest thing ever to happen in Cranberry Bay. That and the time Jack Burks fell into the water, pickup and all, while ice fishing. Idiot should have known it was too warm to drive out on the lake.”

“He was new to the village. Didn’t know the quirks of Lake Erie like the rest of us. Anyway, she was kinda woozy stepping out of that contraption. How would you describe it? Like a big old torpedo with four wings and a tail--certainly not the flying saucer you’d expect.”

“A torpedo with four wings sounds good to me. I was surprised how folks here took to her. Especially, Edna Farber. She never took to anyone.”

“When we told her Oonah was an alien, she wanted to deport her back to Mexico where she belonged. The rest took a liking to Oonah right off. Even kept her a secret to keep Nosy Rosies away.”

“You keep doing that. Her name’s Oola, not Oonah.”

“Right. I keep mixing her up with that poet lady. Anyway, it’s too bad you had to kill Oola.”

“I didn’t have any choice, according to you. She knew.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe? Maybe she knew or maybe I had no choice.”

“Maybe she knew.”

“You’re the one who said she positively did and that I had to do something about it.”

“Well, you should know better than to trust me. Aren’t I the one who told you to shoot out Mr. Tundrell’s bedroom window because he was sleeping with his daughter.”

“Uh huh, and it turned out she was living in Seattle with her mother. A shoulder shrug? That’s all you got? I could have seriously injured the man. I heard the fights on the TV through the open living room window. You know he refuses to wear his hearing aids. I didn’t expect him to be in the bedroom.”

“And how about the time I told you to run over Mrs. Gilbert’s dog because he tried to bite me.”

“You mean the Rottweiler with no teeth?”

“Yea, that one.”

“You should have told me about the no teeth thing before I hit him.”

“That’s not how I work, Nate. You know that.”

“I should, but you constantly bug me until I can’t seem to help myself. So, did Oola know or not?”

“Does it really matter now? She’s dead.”

“Yea, she’s dead, and it’s your fault!"

“Hey, I’m not the one who found her sneaking out of our house. I’m not the one who turned angry and red and told her to not tell anyone about the money she found, and that she could have some if she kept silent. I’m not the one who called her a liar when she denied knowing anything about the money. I’m not the one who forgot to move the bag of money you found on River Road to a safer place—like I told you to. And I’m not the one who stuck the blade in her, then dropped her in the creek behind the Miller’s place. The creek was a good idea, though, since everybody likes that spot for fishing. Lots of footprints to confuse the cops. So, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“You bastard. You did it to me, again. Imposed your will on me, even though I tried to ignore you. You’re always whispering in my ear, egging me on to do bad things. And I keep listening to you, buckling under. Why can’t my angel side ever win? Why is it always your voice that prevails? Dr. Jensen is right. I need to get you out of my head. Stop listening to you. Be my own man.”

“She does say that a lot. Maybe Doc Jensen needs to be the next one. What do you think about that, Nate?”

How to Stop a Thief

First published at CommuterLit.com.

“I don’t want to scare you, sir,” Frank said as he continued to clip his customer’s hair, “but we’re about to be robbed.”

“Say what?” The man leaned forward and put his feet on the floor.

“Wait. It’s okay,” Frank said putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and nudging him back into the chair. “Nothing’s going happen to you.” Frank continued with the haircut. “It’s just Billy Jacobsen. He’s got a little circuit of small businesses he robs once every two to three months, sometimes more often around Christmas.”

“Why don’t you turn him into the police?”

“Oh, he’s harmless. Not quite all there, if you know what I mean.” Frank picked up the clippers and began cleaning up the back of the man’s neck. “We all know his schedule, so we make sure we have some extra money on hand. That way, he and his dog don’t starve.”

“What about his parents?” the customer asked.

“They passed in a car accident. Another stupid drunk driver.”

“Ouch.” The man flinched, wondering if the clipper had drawn blood.

“Sorry about that,” Frank said. “I get kind of riled up on that topic.”

“Yeah, well let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Hey, let’s have some fun with Billy,” Frank said, winking into the mirror. “I’ll be right back.”

***

Billy lowered the ski mask over his face and patted his pants pocket. Satisfied the knife was still there, he opened the door, stood tall, and said, “This is a stick…Jesus, man, what are you doin’?”

“What are you talking about?” Frank said.

“You ain’t got no pants on,” Billy said.

“Oh, that,” Frank replied, “It’s No Pants Day.”

“It’s what?” Billy said.

“No Pants Day.” Frank stepped away from the chair and turned to give Billy a full frontal view. “People go to work without pants.”

“But. . .I mean…you ain’t wearin’ no underwear.” Billy reached back for the door. This guy was obviously crazy. He hadn’t noticed that the previous times he’d been in.

“Hey, no pants means no pants. I don’t make the rules.”

“I think you’re still supposed to wear underwear,” the customer said under his breath.

Frank gently cuffed the man in the back of the head.

“What he said,” Billy replied, pointing at the customer.

“All right. I’ll put them back on. Boy, you guys sure are party poopers.” Frank took a step forward, and Billy retreated closer to the door.

“Hey, what’re you doin’?” Billy said.

“My pants are on the chair behind you.”

Billy glanced to his right and saw a pair of khakis draped over the back of the chair. “You wait ‘til I’m outta here. You hear me? Then you can get your pants.” Billy backed out the door. “Crazy old coot,” he muttered.

“Wait,” Frank said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled two twenties out. “Don’t you want your money?”

Billy paused. Thought about what to do. Finally, stepped onto the sidewalk. “No way man. I don’t know where that money’s been. You keep it.” He let go of the door and jogged down the street.

“He’s right, you know,” the customer said. “You are crazy.”

Some Things Are Hard to Talk About

First published at Commuter Lit (May 2016).

Someone pounded Josh’s head against the wall. He yelled for the person to stop, wondered why he hadn’t passed out. Finally, the knocking on the door awoke him.

“Just a sec,” he yelled. Alexa lay next to him in the bed.

“Huh?” she said, a naked breast exposed.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. There’s someone at the door.”

“What time is it?”

“7:42. Way too early to get up on a Saturday morning, especially after the night we had.” He kissed her on the shoulder, pulled up the sheet, and tucked her in.

He put on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed a robe, and padded to the front door.

“Mom? What are you doing here this early?”

“It’s not early,” she said storming through the door. “Your father and I get up every morning at 5:30.” She strode to the kitchen and grabbed a K-cup. “I tried to talk your father into getting one of these fancy coffee thingies, even bought him one for Christmas. He took it back. Said it was a waste of money. Heaven forbid we waste money.” She looked to the ceiling and crossed herself. “Certainly not like that table saw he bought after he retired that’s gathering dust in the garage.” She grabbed a mug and filled it.

Josh rolled his eyes. Before he could speak, Alexa came out of the bedroom wearing a sundress, her hair combed, her perfect white teeth on display.

“Oh,” his mom said, in a gentler voice than Josh remembered. “Who’s this?”

“Mom,” Josh said, taking Alexa’s hand in his. “This is Alexa.”

“Nice to meet you, Alexa,” his mother said, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s cute, Josh. How come I haven’t met her before?”

Josh blushed.

“We’ve only been dating for a few months,” he said.

When Josh looked away, his mother gave Alexa an exaggerated wink. Alexa returned a thumbs up, as if some secret communication had taken place.

“A few months?” Mon said. “And I haven’t heard anything about her? Is she any good in bed?”

Alexa blushed and put a hand over her mouth to hold in the laugh attempting to escape.

“Mom!” Josh said. His mother retained her straight-forward Brooklyn attitude, even though the family had moved to Miami twenty years ago after Josh’s dad said he was sick of snow.

“Well, it’s been a few months. Certainly you’ve—

“M-o-o-m!” Josh plopped into a kitchen chair with a moan.

“Oh all right.” She winked Alexa’s way again. Alexa winked back. “You know your father and I did it like bunnies before he finally proposed. I guess he wanted to make sure I wasn’t so oversexed I would kill him.”

“Well, I haven’t killed him yet,” Alexa said with a laugh, “but I’ve tried.”

“Alexa!” Josh yelled.

“I like her, Joshie. She sounds like a keeper.”

“Joshie?” Alexa sat on his lap. “You didn’t tell me your mom had a pet name for you.”

Josh didn’t know how his face could get any warmer, but it did.

“Do you have a pet name for him, Alexa?”

“No, but I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Yeah, maybe something like Thumper, or Humper,” Mom said.

“Oh, God.” Josh put an elbow on the table and rested his forehead in the palm. He knew better than to respond further.

“I’m not sure I have enough data to know if either of those names works,” Alexa said.

“So, Mom,” Josh said changing the subject. “Why are you here?”

“For some good coffee,” she said, raising her cup.

“Come on, Mom. I know you better than that. You wouldn’t show up this early on a Saturday unless something was wrong.”

“Oh crap,” his mother said, looking at her watch. “I’m going to be late meeting Margie at the mall.” She put her mug on the kitchen counter and hurried to the front door. “Damn it. Margie will be grumpy all morning.”

She opened the door, paused, stared up, as if waiting for a traffic light to change, said, “I’m divorcing your father.” She turned her back to them. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Josh stepped toward the closing door. Alexa grabbed his arm.

“Give her time, Josh. It’s new for her, too.”

A Child is Born

I came out of the Quick Stop and found her in the back seat of my ten-year-old Camry. I don’t know who she is, or why she chose my car. I do know she’s having a baby any minute now based on the size of her belly and the sounds emanating from her. Note to self: in the future, remember to lock car doors, or give up cigarettes, or both.

I ask her name. She says it, I think. It’s buried in one long scream and a lot of huffing.

She’s pretty and has a slim body—or will have once the baby comes out—and nice legs. Blonds interest me. For that matter, so do redheads and brunettes. I’m not so excited by the lavender lipstick or neon, multicolored fingernails. Still, in other circumstances, if I wasn’t so afraid of talking to girls and making a fool of myself, I might ask her out.

I agree to drive her to the hospital. She thought she had time to walk there. Obviously, that didn’t work out so well. 

Traffic comes to a halt when we’re three blocks away. The honking of stopped cars due to an accident at the intersection tells me it might as well be three miles ahead. 

“This isn’t good,” I say.

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

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

I consider driving down the sidewalk, but there are too many Christmas shoppers. And it’s dark. I might hit someone paying more attention to their phone screen than where they’re walking. Maybe that’s what happened up ahead. Texting is just as dangerous when walking as when driving.

A scream from the back seat engulfs all the other sounds. I peek over my shoulder. She’s lying on the seat, knees up, legs spread, skirt bunched near her waist. “It’s coming,” she says.

“NO,” I respond. I want to run, but my legs won’t let me. They seem to have other ideas as to how I should spend my next few minutes. Another note to self: when finally at home, chop off legs for insubordination. 

I jump out of the car and look around. “Somebody help. She’s having a baby!” Everyone stares straight ahead. “She’s your wife,” a nearby cabbie yells through the window. “Man up.”

“She isn’t. I don’t —“

A second scream interrupts me. 

“It’s coming now. Get in here.”

I look around for help once more. A young woman walks by. I open my mouth, hands waving over my head. She gives me the finger.

“Aaaagh.” I open the back door. Look inside. Notice she’s not a natural blond. Avert my eyes.

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen a pussy before,” she says.

Actually, this is my first. 

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

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

I put my hands between her legs and close my eyes. Two more grunts and I feel something wet in my hands. I think it’s a head. I still can’t look. Then there’s more. A body. I sense the mother slumping into the seat. I look down and see a healthy baby boy in my hands. His chest rising and falling with each breath. The umbilical cord keeps him tethered to his mother. I try my best to not throw up.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Joseph. What’s yours?”

“Mary,” she replies. Laughing and holding her stomach with both hands, she says, “What do you think we should name the baby?”

Mistaken Identity

I nursed a beer waiting for The Rapture to arrive when she sauntered in. She removed her sunglasses, surveyed the nothingness known as Mickey’s. I took a sip and made a wish. It worked. She approached.

“Hi, I’m Hillary. I hope I can count on your vote.”

Obviously, she couldn’t tell I was a Republican.

**Prompt words: rapture, beer, sunglasses, wish, nothingness

Family

First published at Postcard Poems and Prose.

Daddy wore latex under his robe while delivering his rhapsodic sermons to unsuspecting congregants. He preferred Spandex when he and Momma participated in the local circus’ coed mud wrestling league. They were both daft, tromping to their own piper, but we loved them anyway. Wasn’t that how God wanted it?

Two Stories Inspired by One Prompt

This week's prompt words inspired two pieces. One is 55 words, the other isn't. :)

***

Miscellaneous cuss words escaped Mary’s mouth as we drove by Chick’s Roadhouse, with its neon girly sign. She took a bite of cucumber, said they were all going to Hell. Sweaty hands on the steering wheel, I watched her take another bite, got excited, briefly, wondered when she’d find out I was a sinner, too. (55 words)

***

Mary’s face lit up like the neon sign over at Chick’s Roadhouse, the one with the pasties flashing in red, white and blue.

“You remembered!”

I waited, hands sweaty.

“It’s shaped like a cucumber but . . .” Mary stared at me, eyes wide. “My sister put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“If you turn the end, it vibrates.”

A mixture of miscellaneous cuss words and giggles spewed from Mary’s mouth. “You know, Frank, I may not need you anymore,” she said, smiling and waving the pink toy in a circle.

Prompt words: roadhouse, cucumber, sweaty, miscellaneous, neon.