Fiction: Yes Captain

         Nora watched him get ready for the day through a crack in the doorway. Everything he needed for the day was laid out on the glass top of his bureau—tie, glasses, watch, cufflinks, phone, wallet. He put each one to use, working left to right. He didn't hurry, but wasted no time. She had never known a man who took such care getting dressed. She stiffled a giggle and wondered if he put his accessories away right to left.

         When he was nearly finished, Nora hurried down to the kitchen. She had already set the table with his Wall Street Journal folded in thirds on top of his New York Times, which was folded in half. She placed an ironed linen napkin to the left of his bone china cup, ready to be filled with black French-pressed coffee when he sat down.

         One her first day, Nora let his egg cook for twenty seconds longer than necessary. He noticed and without raising his voice, made it clear that three minutes was his expectation and she would follow his instructions to the letter from then on. She did. His needs were no more than anyone else she had ever worked for, just more specific. Her pay, however, was the best it had ever been—well worth meeting his exacting standards.

         Nora brought out his breakfast tray with his (perfect three minute) egg and his one-cup serving of Capt'n Crunch in milk. It was the one glimmer of whimsy in his otherwise severe existence. He nodded in acknowledgement and opened the Times and Nora returned to the kitchen. Moments later she heard the china cup clatter in its saucer and the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor. When she looked, he was gone.

         The newspaper lay on the floor. A photo on the front page showed an shapely blond wearing a slinky dress and high black boots. The headline read, “Espionage Suspect Flees to Cuba”.

        I'm linking up this week with the Trifecta challenge which offered the word "crack" as our prompt and with Write at the Merge which gave us a wonderful photograph of men's accessories and the iconic Nancy Sinatra song, "These Boots were Made for Walkin'" for inspiration.

Ah, Bach

 

                   Karen heard music drifting up from the church basement. It wasn't Mrs. McCardle practicing today. The church organist played piano accurately and deliberately. There was no love in Mrs. McCardle's playing―music was just a job to her. Whoever was playing the Bach prelude, was playing with passion and devotion. The music sounded like praying.

                   Karen waited in the stairwell until it was quiet.  The piece was so lovely, she half expected to hear applause when it was over. Instead, it ended in an awkward, naked  silence.

                   She pushed the old metal fire door open. Danny was sitting at the battered spinet.

                   “That was you?” 

                   “Is it already 10:00?” he asked checking his watch to cover his discomfort. Karen had offered to help set up the hall for a CYO dance.

                   “I'm a little early. Sorry.  I had no idea you played.”

                   “My mother made me take lessons.”

                   “I don't remember that.”

                   Danny blushed slightly, “I used to carry a pair of boxing gloves with me when I went. I let the neighborhood kids believe I was training. I knew they'd give me a hard time.”

                   “Did you tell her you wanted to quit?”

                   “I didn't want to quit. I just didn't want to get beat up. I loved piano. It took me out of that neighborhood, you know?”

                   Karen nodded.

                   “Did you ever play professionally?”

                   “I don't like to play for other people. The only person I ever played for was Mum and she's gone.”

                   “When did she die Danny?”

                   “While I was away at seminary.”

                   “That's when my mother died too. Do you think it's easier to lose someone when you're religious?”

                   “No. Knowing that someone has gone someplace good doesn't make them any less gone.”

                   He put his hands on the keys.

                   “This was her favorite,” he said as he began to play. This time, the music sounded like a confession.

                   If you're interested in reading more about Karen, she has her own page on this blog. You can check it out here. The title of this story comes from an old episode of MASH. I'm linking up this week with Write on Edge and Trifecta. Trifecta gave us the word "deliberate" for inspiration. Write on Edge gave us the word "orphan" and this picture:

This image courtesy of F3D3.86 via Flickr Creative Commons

                  

Karen: Bad Blood

           Karen sat on the curb by the service entrance of the country club watching cherry blossom petals rain onto the pavement. She was the first to arrive every shift. Tony hinted at a promotion and a key of her own once she earned the owners' trust. She wondered when arriving early, staying late, and working her fingers raw would be rewarded. She pushed aside the thought and admired the sunlight breaking through the fog on the golf course.

           “Good morning Karen,” called Charles, the co-owner and banquet manager of the club. “Early as usual!”

           She stowed her purse and began setting up the coffee urns. Tony strolled in a few minutes later and began setting up chairs.

           “Karen, can you grab the bin of white tablecloths when you're done with that?” Tony asked.

           “No problem Tony.”

           Karen finished her task and headed for the storeroom. She heard Charles arguing with John, the other owner and slowed down when she heard her name mentioned.

           “I'm not giving Karen a key,” John said.

           “Why not? She works harder than anyone else. She's always early. She's willing to stay late. The members lover her. Why not let her move up?”

           “She's a good worker. But I knew Edmond O'Brien for years. He was a weasel from the moment he took a breath.”

           “John, Karen wasn't raised by Eddie. He walked out on her and her mom years ago.”

           “Then Peggy drank herself to death! Blood will out. Karen's blood is tainted by liars, cheats, and drunks. I won't have her holding a key to my club.”
           “Our club.”

           “Fine. Our club. I gave in when Tony wanted to hire her. But I draw the line at giving an O'Brien a key to my livelihood.”

           Karen picked up the bin of tablecloths and returned to the dining room.

           “You alright Karen? Tony asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

           “Something like that.”

I'm linking up this week with Trifecta, who gave us the word “blood” for inspiration and Write at the Merge who gave us a photograph of a flowering tree and a quote from REM. You can read more of Karen's story here.

Trifecta Challenge: Charlotte's Ghosts

This piece furthers a story I wrote last week. You can read about it here.

           Charlotte moved up the staircase towards the sound of music. Her attorney thought the talk of ghosts was nonsense, but it didn't take a medium to feel the energy in the old place. She sat down on the top step, closed her eyes, and focused. The saxophone music grew clearer and was joined by a bass, piano, and drums. The smells of mildew and decay were replaced with smells of lilies, gin, and cigarette smoke. Charlotte could feel the past becoming present.

She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a bride in white satin walking toward her. Her face was flushed with anger.

           “Clara wait!” called a man in a dinner jacket.

           “How could you? It's our wedding day. You couldn't even be faithful for the first day.”

           “It isn't what you think Sweetheart. I swear.”

           “I know what I saw Freddie. You kissed her.”

           “She's an old friend.”

          “It was more than I friendly kiss Freddie. There's lipstick on your face and it isn't my shade.”

           She turned to go and he grabbed her arm.

           “Clara I love you.”

          “Let me go Freddie. This was a mistake. I should have listened to Daddy.”

           “You don't mean that,” he said, still holding on to her arm.

           “Freddie you kissed another woman on our wedding night. Now let me go!”

           Clara pulled her arm out of his grip and lost her balance. She teetered on the edge of the top step and Freddie tried to catch her. Together they tumbled down the marble staircase. At the bottom, their necks were bent at the same unnatural angle. The angry color gone from her face.

           Charlotte sensed another presence. At the top of the stairs stood a woman Charlotte had only seen in aging photographs. The owner of the hotel, Charlotte's great, great, aunt surveyed the grisly scene, heartbreak etched on her face.

           I'm linking up with the Trifecta Challenge. Our task is to write a piece 33-333 words long inspired by the third definition of the word color.
3: complexion tint:

  a : the tint characteristic of good health

  b : blush

Whirly-Gig

  

                   I settle myself onto the brick wall for my coffee break. It's hard and a little too tall for me to get comfortable, but it feels good to be off my feet. I've been selling coffee and bagels since 6am. There are comfy chairs in the lobby and little cafe tables as well. But I don't feel right taking them up. There are people here with sick babies. They shouldn't have to hunt around for a good spot to rest. Besides, I like it here where I can see the whirly-gig. Someone told me it's really a kinetic sculpture or something like that, but I just call it the whirly-gig.

                   I don't watch the machine so much anymore. I've seen it so many times I have it memorized. I watch the kids who watch it. Some of them are real sick―their hair is falling out and they look too skinny. Some of them have big casts or bandages. But there is something about that whirly-gig. It makes them forget for a little while. They forget to be scared. They forget they're sick or injured. They forget they're in a hospital. They're just kids with their eyes wide open to watch the pool balls go up the little elevators and race down the ramps. They listen to the chimes clang and they giggle and cheer. Sometimes they pick their favorite color ball and follow its journey around the whirly-gig.

                   Sometimes I watch the parents too. They have too much on their minds to watch the whirly-gig. They have doctor's appointments to keep and prescriptions to fill and bills to pay. They stop in my shop  and buy a coffee for themselves and a treat for their kid. The lucky ones stop for a while and sit in those comfy chairs and cafe tables and watch their kids. For a while they forget about what brought them to Children's. They smile and watch their children watching the whirly-gig.

                   This is in response to two prompts this week. The folks at Trifecta gave us the word “lucky” to write about this week. Write on Edge gave us the word “wonder” and a video of a kinetic sculpture from Boston's Musem of Science called Archimedean Excogitation, by George Rhoads. We're fortunate enough to visit that museum pretty regularly and that exhibit is one of my sons' favorite things at the museum. When they watch it, I cannot help but think of another Rhoads piece that is in the center of Boston Children's Hospital. My son James had hand surgery a couple of summers ago and the sculpture provided a very welcome distraction for us.

Trifecta: Paging Doctor Mom

 

            I knew it wasn’t right. But I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what was wrong, so I called in an expert.

            “Well? What do you think Mom?” I asked.

            “It’s a little bland,” she said being polite. “What did you put in it?”

            “MacKenzie’s seasoning—just like you always did. I followed the directions. I don’t understand why it tastes like wallpaper paste.”

            “Oh Honey, I don’t follow the directions!”

            “You don’t?”

            “That little seasoning packet is just how you start out. This chili needs a doctor.”

            “A what?”

            “You know. Something to add some pizzazz. Let me see what you have here.”

            She rummaged through my meager pantry.

            “Here we go,” she said. “Oregano, chili powder... you don’t have any chipotle do you?”

            “No,” I said sitting on the step stool feeling like I was five-years-old. I wanted to surprise Nick with his favorite meal of chili, but the results weren’t what I was hoping for.

            “Don’t worry Sweetie. This may not win any chili cook-offs, but we’ll still make it tasty.”

“You always made this look easy,” I said.

“What looked easy?” she said looking astonished.

“Cooking! You just waved your magic spoon and there was this fabulous dinner on the table.”

“Sweetie, by the time you came along I had years of practice. I was a lousy cook when I was a newlywed. In the beginning, your poor father choked down more burnt dinners than I care to remember! Now,” she said as she stirred more spices into the pot. “I know you’ll have some good dark beer in the house. Pour in a bottle.”

“Won’t it thin it down to much.”

“Just turn the heat up, leave the cover off, and keep stirring. It will cook down. The flavor will be great.”

She began to put her coat on.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?”

“Of course Dear. Your young marriage will survive a bland meal or two, but a hovering mother-in-law is a different story!”

I’m linking up this week with the Trifecta Challenge. This week’s word was: DOCTOR (noun)

1

a : an eminent theologian declared a sound expounder of doctrine by the Roman Catholic Church —called also doctor of the church

b : a learned or authoritative teacher

c : a person who has earned one of the highest academic degrees (as a PhD) conferred by a university

d : a person awarded an honorary doctorate (as an LLD or Litt D) by a college or university

2

a : a person skilled or specializing in healing arts; especially :one (as a physician, dentist, or veterinarian) who holds an advanced degree and is licensed to practice

b : medicine man

3

a : material added (as to food) to produce a desired effect

b : a blade (as of metal) for spreading a coating or scraping a surface

The challenge calls for us to use the third definition of the word. My own mother used to use “doctor” as a verb as in “This sauce is bland. I’ll doctor it up with a half cup of red wine.” But I had never heard it used as a noun. 

Trifextra: Panic Hidden

            He left the rifle and his umbrage and found his parked car. The mother’s gentle traits had slowed his clanking mind. Relief wrapped him like a blanket. The urgent needles of panic hidden.

            I’m linking up with the Trifextra Challenge. We were shown page 33 of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge and were asked to take thirty-three words to create something. I thought it would be fun to follow the mysterious man on the train from this week’s piece Exhausting Kindness. 

Trifecta: Exhausting Kindness

                    “May I?” Mandy asked, startling a man sitting on the aisle next to a vacant window seat.

                   He gripped his duffel bag close to his chest and shifted his legs so she could get by without saying anything. Relieved to get off her feet, Mandy ignored the way he made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

                   She began re-reading about the second trimester in What to Expect When You're Expecting. At fourteen weeks, Mandy was still waiting for the reduction in fatigue the book promised. Finding no comfort in the book, she gazed out the window. In the reflection, she noticed her seatmate looked like he was about to cry.

                   “Are you okay?” she asked.

                   He turned his head and stared through her. She cursed her budding maternal instincts, wishing she hadn't asked.

                   “I'm sorry. You just looked... I don't know. Sad? I didn't mean to be nosey.”

                   “Don’t be sorry. I am sad. You're the first person to ask—a total stranger. No one at work asked. None of my family. I feel invisible.”

                   “That's terrible,” she said.

                   “Yes.” he faced forward again. “You're very kind.”

                   “Thank you,” she said and opened up her book and pretended to read.

                   “You're going to be a great mom.”

                   “Thank you.”

                   “My mother would exhaust all options before asking me about my feelings. She'd buy me books or send me to a doctor. I think she was scared of feelings.”

                   Mandy didn’t know what to say.

                   “It's my turn to be sorry,” he said. “You were kind to me and now I've made you uncomfortable.”

                   “It's okay. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to I guess.”

                   “Yes. Thank you for listening. You've helped me more than you know,” he stood up, holding tightly to his duffel bag. “I'm getting off at the next stop. Enjoy your book.”

                   As the train pulled out of the station, she watched him walk down the platform and throw his bag into a trashcan.

I'm linking up with this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week's word is:

EXHAUST (transitive verb)
1a : to consume entirely : use up <exhausted our funds in a week>
  b : to tire extremely or completely <exhausted by overwork>
  c : to deprive of a valuable quality or constituent <exhaust a photographic developer>
2a : to draw off or let out completely
  b : to empty by drawing off the contents; specifically : to create a vacuum in
3a : to consider or discuss (a subject) thoroughly or completely  
  b : to try out the whole number of <exhausted all the possibilities>
 

Trifecta Weekend Challenge: Rhoda

 

            I’m linking up with the Trifecta Weekend Challenge. This week’s Challenge is more of a reading assignment, than a writing assignment. Instead of writing 33 words, we are to post 33 favorite words from a work of literature. I chose a quote from one of the first “grown up” authors I read as a teenager, Ellen Gilchrist. Ms. Gilchrist has written a number of stories and novels about a fiery redheaded writer named Rhoda. This is something  Rhoda says about herself when she finds herself surprisingly proud that her grandson has driven off one of his mother’s suitors.

            I’m a Celt. I pile up stones and keep a loaded pistol in my underwear drawer. My ancestors painted themselves blue and impaled each other on oak staves. I can’t stand tyranny.

The rest of the quote is great. But sadly, I’m only allowed 33 words. If you want to read more, check out A Wedding in Jackson from Rhoda: A Life in Stories. 

Places Everyone

 

The actors are cast

Movements blocked

Lines memorized

A thousand details to be forgotten (or not).

Flats to paint

Nerves to soothe

Take-out dinners and too much coffee

Three week until opening night

 
            I’m linking up with the Trifextra prompt. We were asked to write 33 words about a new beginning. I’m in the midst of directing a play that opens three weeks from tonight. One of the best things about being involved in theatre is that many of our new beginnings start with a round of applause. One of the worst is how little time I have left for writing!

Another Auld Lang Syne

            “Time to move up in the world,” Tony had said. “Come work with me.”

            So Karen left the diner for the country club. Her feet still hurt, she still had burns on her fingers and old men still pinched her ass. Money didn’t mean class. She held her head high and did her job. She would survive.

            “They’re about to announce the new couple,” Tony said.

            She opened the door enough to watch them enter the ballroom. Her knees buckled when she saw the groom’s whiskey colored eyes.

            “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the bandleader announced. “Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Henry Petersen.”

             This latest installment of Karen’s story comes in response to two prompts. The inspiration for this week’s 100 Word Song is Dan Fogelberg’s "Auld Lang Syne"—one of my favorites from way back.  In fact, my very first Karen story was entitled "Auld Lang Syne". I’ve been singing it non stop over the past couple of days (apologies to my family). It’s also in response to this week’s Trifecta prompt:

 survive

1: to remain alive after the death of <he is survived by his wife>

2: to continue to exist or live after <survived the earthquake>

3: to continue to function or prosper despite : withstand <they survived many hardships>

           

Trifecta: Heart of Gold

                   Smith studied the call girl.  She was perfect for the job. Her wavy bronze hair flirted with her bare shoulders. Her emerald eyes glowed in contrast to her perfect olive skin.

                   “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

                   “Why do men usually bring you to hotel rooms Angelica,” he answered holding back a sneer.

                   “Most men just want someone who doesn't ask for anything more complicated than money. Tell me why I'm here tonight.  It's still early. I can find a John that who won't play games. A girl has to make a living.”

                   He tossed her heavy bundle of twenty dollar bills.

                   “Something tells me you aren't here for a straight lay.”

                   “Smart and sexy.” He handed her a photograph. “Do you know who this is?”

                   She shook her head.

                   “That's Judge Lawrence Steele. A rising star in the judicial sky. My associates want to make sure he doesn't rise any higher. We want you to seduce His Honor.”

                   She raised her eyebrows and handed him back the picture.

                   “I think you have the wrong girl Mr. Smith.”

                   “You're perfect for this Angelica. Judge Larry was head over heels for a girl who looked like you back in college. It didn't work out and he ended up marrying a blond homecoming queen from Oklahoma.”

                   “If you think he'd be that easily seduced, he's probably cheated already. Why fake it?”

                   “We've looked. He's as faithful as a dog, loves his kids, pays his taxes. The bastard doesn't even cheat at golf. So I'm offering you fifty thousand up front and fifty thousand after.”

                   She was silent for a moment as she let the idea of one hundred thousand dollars roll around her brain.

                   “No.”

                   “No? What kind of a whore turns down a hundred grand?”

                   “Mr. Smith, you're the only whore in this room. I'm an honest hooker.”

I'm linking up this week with Trifecta. Here's this week's challenge:

WHORE
1: a woman who engages in sexual acts for money: prostitute; also: a promiscuous or immoral woman
2: a male who engages in sexual acts for money
3: a venal or unscrupulous person

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

• The word itself needs to be included in your response.

• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. 

• Only one entry per writer.

Trifecta Challenge: Death Takes a Nap

  

            This may have been one of the most fun I’ve ever had writing a story.  This week’s Trifecta challenge was to write in 33-333 words about the personification of Death. The idea came to me while lying on the chiropractor's table staring at a model of a human spine. It is the first story I’ve ever written that casts my real self in a fictional situation at my real life job selling mattresses. Everyone needs a comfy place to sleep. Everyone.

Death Takes a Nap

            Gooseflesh rippled across my skin at the sight of the tall black figure

            “Oh God. Not yet,” I whispered.

            “Don’t worry Victoria. It isn’t your time,” he said. “I’m here for a new mattress.”

            I expected his voice to be a raspy baritone like Clint Eastwood. Instead, Death sounded a little like Elton John.

            “A what?” I asked stupidly.

            “A mattress. I’m not sleeping well lately.”

            “Work stress?”

            “No my dear. I am content with my occupation. I would sleep, ‘the sleep of the just’ as they say if only I had a decent mattress. I’ve been sleeping on a pallet of straw. It’s probably a hundred years old.”

            “You’re probably the first customer to tell me that and mean it literally.”

            “I always speak literally. Occupational hazard.”

There was an awkward silence and I forced myself to think of him as just another customer.

            “Do you sleep on your back or your side?’

            “Side.”
            “Do you get hot or cold at night?”

            “I’m always cold,” he said sounding weary.

            “Give this a try. It’s a plush memory foam pillowtop.”

            “Wouldn’t firm be better for my back?”

            “Not necessarily. A heavier person who sleeps on his back would need something firm. But since you sleep on your side and you’re...” I paused to think of the right word. “Slim. A softer mattress will offer you better support.”

            “Fascinating. Would you mind?” he asked, handing me his scythe and climbing onto the bed.

I looked around and realized the mattress department was deserted

            “There is an energy keeping everyone out of this area while I’m here.”

            “Will I remember this happening?”

            “I’m sure you’ll never forget it. You know, I’ve never laid on something so comfortable. You have done me a great service Victoria.”

            “Maybe you’ll return the favor some day,” I said handing him back his scythe.

            “I do believe it will be quite some time before I see you again,” he said with what might have been a smile.

Trifecta: Uneasy

            “It’s only an hour,” she told the reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You can do anything for an hour.”

            She made a mental checklist of everything she’d need and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. But nothing could loosen the tightness in her chest and stop her shaking hands. She knew that stepping outside her comfort zone was supposed to be good for her, but she still felt  uneasy.

            “Are you almost ready to go?” he asked, tapping on the bathroom door.

            “Yeah. I guess,” she said opening the door.

            “You look terrified.”

            “Just a little. You promise me there will be a nice glass of bourbon waiting for me when I get home.”

            “No problem. Why did you volunteer for this when it scares you so much?"

            She shrugged, thinking back to the meeting where they called for volunteers.

            “Nobody else came forward.”

            “Honey, you’re going to be great. Besides, it’s just a handful of Cub Scouts. How bad could it be?”

           

            I’m linking up with Trifecta this week. This is a piece of highly realistic fiction. This week’s word is “uneasy".

UNEASY

1: causing physical or mental discomfort

2: not easy : difficult

3: marked by lack of ease : awkward, embarrassed <gave an uneasy laugh>

Please remember:

    Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

    You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

    The word itself needs to be included in your response.

    You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.

Charlotte: Looking for Answers

            Charlotte pulled up in front of a 1960’s ranch that looked like all the other houses in the neighborhood. The only difference was a lack of toys in the driveway and a slightly overgrown lawn.

            “You must be Charlotte,” the psychic said opening the door. “I’m Georgia. Come in.” 

            Georgia’s hair was dyed an artificially vivid red and she wore a loose fitting sweatsuit over her ample curves. She led Charlotte into the sun-filled kitchen and gestured for her to sit.

“Can I get you some tea?”

            “No thanks. May I record our conversation?”

            “Certainly. Many of my clients record their readings. Sometimes a great deal of information comes through.”

            “I’m not here for a reading. As I explained on the phone, I want to interview you. I’m happy to pay your fee of course.”

 “You may find I can tell you much more interesting things about yourself than I can about me.”

            “Do your predictions just come to you? Or do you have to work at it?”

            “A little of both. When my talents first emerged, I had no control over them. Over time I learned to direct them.”

            “How old were you?”

            “Seventeen. I was terrified about some of the things I saw and felt. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

            “Me?”

            “That’s why your here. A journalism student would never pay for an interview. You’ve been having feelings you can’t explain and you hope our conversation will help you figure things out.”

            “So, you’ve made in inference from my willingness to pay and come to a conclusion. That doesn’t sound like psychic ability to me.”

            “It isn’t. The only thing I’ve proven is that I’m observant. I can demonstrate my psychic ability if you like.”

            “You aren’t insulted?”

            “Honey, I have plenty of clients who believe. Why should I care if you do?”

            Charlotte sat quietly, not knowing what to do next.

            “Give me your hand,” Georgia said. “Maybe I can tell you something you don’t know.”

 

           I’m linking up with the Trifecta challenge again this week. The challenge is to write a piece between 33 and 333 words long using the third definition of the word “ample”. This piece picks up with my character Charlotte as she begins her search for answers about her burgeoning psychic abilities. You can read more about Charlotte here.

AMPLE (adj.)

1: generous or more than adequate in size, scope, or capacity (there was room for an ample garden)
2: generously sufficient to satisfy a requirement or need (they had ample money for the trip)

3: buxom, portly (an ample figure)