Tag Archives: Short story

I Look at You

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Every morning, I sit across from you, staring at the doughnut crumbs clinging to the corners of your lips. Or stuck to your chin. Or pasted to your blue tie (it’s always a blue tie!)

I wonder why your parents didn’t teach you proper use of a napkin. Or personal hygiene. For it’s not just the crumbs, but the shiny hair (what’s left of it), that stinks up the small meeting room. (I can smell you from here!)

And the moldy smell of damp clothes left to rot in the washing machine for days on end.

Fortunately, I can look out the window behind your back, something I do in order to avoid your moonstruck eyes as you stare at me, a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

There’s nothing appealing about you. Nothing that would entice me to spend time with you outside of the daily meeting. Nothing that would inspire me to sit next to you during lunch or walk down the hall with you as we return to our various cubicles.

I stare out the window, entranced by the clouds like matted white fur that race by. They remind me of the stray cat that wandered into my garage too many years ago to count. The poor thing looked like an alien: it’s luminescent green eyes summoned images of space invaders staring into human residences.

I’d scooped it up in a towel and carried it inside the house. Using a damp cloth I’d removed some of the filth- but then the cat wriggled away before the job was complete.

A trip to the vet helped. The technician sprayed the cat with something…not sure what…and then combed and combed and combed.

After an examination, I learned that it was female. Fluffy seemed like an appropriate name. Now that she was clean, she was a ball of white fur.

The boss says something that draws me back to the meeting. Something about reports and accounting mistakes that I care nothing about. You guffaw even though no one else does. I look, because it’s too compelling not to, to discover that you’ve got white fur clinging to your black suit jacket.

I know you’ve got a dog, because you’ve bored us all with too many photos of the thing. It’s a miniature something. One of those long-haired things with four-inch legs and eyes buried beneath layer upon layer of fur. Rover. That’s its name. Weird choice since there’s nothing roverish about it.

I tried to like you after seeing how much you cared about the dog. After all, a huge, burly man cuddling a tiny dog does something to the heart. But I can’t get past the daily crumbs and the filthy hair and the disgusting smell.

I sit here, across from you. day after day, assaulted by your stench.

What the Heck?

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            Suzanne Pelletier stomped into the classroom, smelling like cigarettes and violence. Her legs, encased in a blue pencil skirt, moved in short, choppy waves of anger. A matching blue blazer, all three buttons done up, strained against her bulging chest. A falling-apart bun dripped off the back of her head, and when combined with the smear of blood-red lipstick running across her cheeks, she presented herself more as a monster than a mother.

            At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Stevenson stood abruptly, her purple grading pen slowly rolling off the edge of her desk. It landed on the linoleum floor with a resounding plink.

Her calm confidence was strengthened by her attire: a pretty butterfly blouse with matching black slacks. Whereas Mrs. Pelletier towered over her, thanks to stiletto heels, the teacher’s feet were ensconced in a comfortable pair of Hoka tennis shoes.

            “Mrs. Pelletier,” Stevenson said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, a welcoming smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

            Pelletier marched up to the desk, slammed her bulky purse on top, sending student papers flying, intermixing with dust motes the angry woman had stirred up.

            “You. Should. Be. Ashamed,” Pelletier said. Spittle flew, splatting against the teacher’s face. Globs dripped down, creating a Halloween-like mask. “No, you should be fired and chased out of town.”

            Stevenson wiped her face with tissues she’d pulled from a box. She dropped them unceremoniously into a trash can. She indicated they sit at a student table. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Please, let’s talk.”

            Pelletier planted her hands on her ample hips. Her glower extended from eyebrows to hairline. “You should be fired! You should be chased out of town.”

            “Perhaps once you explain, I’ll be able to answer your concerns.” The teacher sat in one of the metal folding chairs that her student’s used. She pointed to the chair opposite her.

            The angry woman plopped into the chair, sending it’s neighbor skittering to the left. She wrapped her arms around what the teacher realized was a Louis Vuitton bag. The handles folded in on themselves, now looking more like a wet noodle than an expensive hunk of whatever.

            “Uh, why don’t we talk about your concerns?”

            Mrs. Pelletier clutched her bag even tighter to her chest, flattening it so nearly that it appeared to be empty. “You are a heathen, plain and simple. You are corrupting my son with your liberal thinking.” She sat back so forcefully that the front legs of the chair lifted, just a tad, off the floor.

            “Please don’t lean back like that,” Ms. Stevens said. “Many students have found out that these chairs tip quite easily.”

            “Don’t distract me!” Pelletier’s face crimsoned, her eyes narrowed and her lips turned into harsh lines.

            Ms. Stevens drew in a slow breath, then fought off the cigarette-induced coughs that threatened to burst forth. The son, Christopher, had said that his mother chained-smoked despite it triggering repeated asthma attacks.

            “I’m interested in specifics, Mrs. Pelletier. Can you give me a concrete example so I can understand your concerns?”

            Pelletier pulled a tattered copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men from her purse. Held it aloft. Waved it as if a wind was ripping through the classroom. “Heresy. Murder. Racial mixing. Denigrating stereotypes of white men.” She ruffled the pages. “It’s all in here. And you expect my son to read this.” She slammed the book down on the table.

            Ms. Stevens gave a little twitch to her shoulders to release the tension developing there. Plus to buy time to think. It didn’t work. The tightness spread down her spine, all the way to her now-curling toes.

            “The novel is required reading for all ninth graders in the state.” She nodded to reinforce the truth of her statement. When the woman’s face didn’t lose its vibrant red coloration, she said, “but if you don’t want Chrostopher to read it, he can choose an alternate novel.”

            This was true, and if the parent had read the Student Handbook that the district gave to every family, or bothered to read the course syllabus that Ms. Stevens handed out on the first day of school, Mrs. Pelletier would have known this.

            Shock registered in the parent’s eyes: the widening pupils was a dead giveaway. Stevens allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. She’d outwitted the woman. She’d crushed her anger into smithereens.

            “Mrs. Pelletier, did you have an alternate in mind?”

            The woman shook her head slightly. Her cheeks puffed out, her lips pursed and her breathing became ragged. “Well, no. That’s your job.”

            Ms. Stevens walked over to a bookcase at the back of the classroom. She pulled out two hard-bound novels and placed them in front of Mrs. Pelletier before returning to her seat. “Are either of these okay?”

            “I…I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t know.”

            Stevens held out her hand, smiled when the parent placed both in her open palm. “This one, Mikey, covers a trial in which a young boy is accused of assisting in the murder of a storeowner. My students enjoy the novel.” She opened the book, turned it around so the parent could see. “Parts are written in screenplay format. While most of my students aren’t familiar with this style, once they understand, they can’t stop reading.”

            Pelletier shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s till murder, right? How is that different from this book?” She pointed to the Steinbeck novel.

            “There’s a big difference.” The teacher sat back in her chair as her face lit up with satisfaction. “The time period, for one. The book I assigned took place in the 1930s, while this one,” she touched Mikey, is contemporary. The first one is set on a ranch in the Salinas Valley, while the other happens in Manhattan.”

            “How about the other one?” Mrs. Pelletier was visibly deflating as time passed. Her shoulders slumped, causing her head to dip toward her chin.

            “Dragon Fire” is set in a fantasy world. My students seem to watch a lot of movies in the genre, so find it quite fascinating.”

            Pelletier sighed. Shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’s a murder in this one as well?”

            “It’s fantasy, as I said.” Mrs. Stevens forced a smile on her face. A flimsy attempt, to be sure, but with any luck, the parent might not notice. “You’ve seen fantasy movies?”

            “Oh, of course. Our family loved the Generations series.” A light of amusement seemed to fill her eyes.

            Stevens shrugged. Tilted her head slightly. “Then you know what they’re about. Domination. Subjugation. Fight over mineral elements. Rallying the troops.”

            The parent sat back in the chair. Her chest seemed to cave inward. “I can’t win this argument, can I.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of defeat.

            “Oh, yes you can.” Stevens’ eyes lit up. “You have the right to an alternate curriculum if you so demand. All you have to do is put your concerns in writing which you submit to the district office.”

            Pelletier’s hands trembled. “You want me to write a letter?”

            The teacher nodded. Leaned forward. Smiled. “Of course. The procedures are outlined in the Student Handbook.”

            Mrs. Pelletier checked her shiny gold watch. “I have an appointment across town.” She pushed back her chair, stood, smiled. “For now, Christopher can read that book.” She tucked it inside her purse.

            She spun around and slinked to the door.

            Mrs. Stevens returned to her desk and resumed correcting student papers.

Walk in the Park

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            Earlier in the day, a gentle rain had fallen, leaving the air fresh and the sky a beautiful blue. Jessie and her friend Bethany had met in the parking lot of a nearby park, their favorite due to its rolling hills and tree-covered trails.

            A great number of pine needles had fallen when the winds blew through overnight. With each step, that sweet smell greeted the friends’ noses. They’d set off, as before, by first climbing a rather steep hill, one deeply rutted from previous rains.

            Talking was virtually impossible on the narrow trail, so it wasn’t until they’d reached the place where the ground leveled out that the two could share thoughts.

“How are your classes going?” Bethany asked as she avoided a pile of doggie doo.

“Pretty good. I love my Botany class.” Jessie popped open the top of her water bottle and took a small sip. “I knew nothing about plants, but the professor had a good reputation.”

“So, are the rumors correct?”

Jessie nodded. “Dr. Anderson explains everything so clearly that it makes sense.”

“That’s interesting.” Bethany stopped to look up when the trill of a blue jay sounded overhead. “It’s right there,” she said as she pointed to a high branch. The friends smiled when the jay titled its head, seeming to be looking at them.

“I’m learning lots about plants, like how to take care of them,” Jessie said, “but I’m not sure I’d take more Botany classes.”

“If I recall correctly, you’ve got a brown thumb.”

“Exactly.” The two resumed walking, the trail leading up one of the ten hills for which the walk was named. “I wish I could grow the kinds of plants that the Monarch butterflies like. I’d plants several on my patio.”

“My friend Peter has a huge backyard,” Bethany said. She pointed toward a meadow that had appeared on the right side of the trail. “It has lots of green grass, like over there, but he keeps it trimmed. The best part, however, are his gardens.”

Jessie spotted a doe and fawn grazing under a tree. “Look how cute they are!”

“Deer come into Peter’s yard and eat his plants. He’s built fences around some, but the deer, so far, have been able to jump right over.”

“Do you help him garden?”

Bethany laughed. “Not me. Too much work. I tried once, but my back killed me for days.”

Jessie stopped to examine a small green shoot poking up through the pine-needle covered trail. “What kind of plant is that?”

Bethany snickered. “Shouldn’t you know? You’re the one taking Botany.”

“Not this one. It’s so tiny. And brave. Imagine popping up here, where a bicyclist is likely to smash you to bits.”

Jessie touched a leaf. “It’s fuzzy. And soft.”

Bethany smiled after she did the same. “Just like a baby’s butt.”

By the time Bethany stood up, Jessie had stepped off the trail, and seemed to be searching for something. “What are you doing?”

“There should be more. My professor said plants grow in clusters. To enhance reproduction. Plus to not overload a particular area.”

Bethany took out her phone and snapped a few pictures. “When I get back home, I’ll upload the photos and do a search. Within seconds I’ll know what this is.”

The two resumed walking when their search proved fruitless.

“I just can’t get that plant out of my mind,” Jessie said. “So tiny, so alone. It makes me think of stories I’ve read about homeless kids. Imagine living on the street, no adult to shelter you.”

Bethany laid an arm across her friend’s shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, my friend. You relate everything you see to something happening in the world.”

They continued along the trail, and after reaching the top of a particularly steep hill, they stopped under the huge tree to enjoy the shade.

“I have to,” Jessie said. “If I don’t think about others, if I don’t worry about that tiny plant, then who will?’

Poor Little Boy

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(Based on a writing prompt)

            Miles loved to jump. Every day he practiced running as fast as he could, then leaping over whatever barriers he had managed to construct.

            He didn’t jump because he dreamt of being an Olympic track star, but because he loved being set free in the great outdoors. He loved nature, but mostly Miles loved escaping his overly critical stepfather’s eye.

            The year he turned ten, the summer Olympics were held. His stepfather controlled the television, and since he wasn’t interested, Miles never got to see any events taking place in the evening. But whenever his stepfather was gone, Miles watched as much as he could, paying special attention to any event that involved jumping.

            He watched in fascination as runners took off mid-jump, flew through the air, then landed in a pit of sand. Mile then decided to practice the long jump in his backyard. He was afraid of taking that leap, but with practice, he soon felt pretty confident in his abilities.

            He was pretty sure he’d never do the high jump: he couldn’t imagine himself running with a long pole, planting it in the ground, then using it to spring himself high into the air and over a pole.

            What intrigued Miles the most were the hurdles. He counted the steps athletes took in between each hurdle, then practiced in his backyard.

            As he ran, he pictured himself winning a big award, becoming the Greatest of all Time. He’d step up on the podium like those Olympic athletes had done, with a huge smile on his face.

            With great humility, he’d lower his head so that the official could place the ribbon around his neck.

            One day at church, an announcement was made that CYO, or the Catholic Youth Organization, was forming a team from his parish. Miles begged his parents to let him join.

            He had to mow neighbor’s lawns to earn enough to pay the fee, and as soon as he had the money, his mom signed him up.

            After picking him up form school in the afternoons, his mom drove him to the church so he could practice.

            Mile tried everything, but the hurdles and long jump were his favorites.

            Meets were held on Sundays at the nearby community college.

            For the first few meets, Miles came in close to last, but as time passed, and he learned the proper methods, Miles standing improved. He came in seventh. Then second.

            When the final meet arrived, Miles told himself that his time had come, that he would win.

            And so he did, then went on to win the Diocesan finals. From there he went to Sacramento, and won at the state level.

            Several years later when Miles enrolled in high school, he was pretty darn good. As a freshman, he came in first at every meet. Soon he was moved to Varsity, where he kept winning one red ribbon after another.

            Until a runner in the lane next to him reached out and punched Miles in the shoulder. Miles fell to the ground, fracturing his thigh in three places.

            Physical therapy helped regain his ability to walk at a good pace, but he’d never run again.

            The high school coach found a place for Miles on the team: as a mentor for up-and-coming hurdlers.

            While he couldn’t compete, he had the satisfaction of watching his teammates win.

            As an adult, Miles coached a youth track team, instilling in the little kids the love of the sport.

            He was saddened, but not distraught. He had accomplished his dream, then despite injury, was able to inspire others.

            Out of sadness can come joy, if one keeps their eyes open.

Genuine

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            Andrea loved walking the streets of New York City. The colors, the lights, the excited milling crowds enthralled her.

            She’d planned on a short, three-day stay, long enough to see some of the sights, but not too long to tax her budget. For months, Andrea researched things to do in the city, narrowing her list down to what she hoped was doable.

            A friend had told Andrea to get up early in the morning, join the line at the Thx booth in order to score reduced price tickets for Broadway plays. While she stood there, the air brisk and fog spewing out of everyone’s mouths, a light rain began to fall.

            Venders appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, lost-cost umbrellas being hawked.

            At first Andrea refused, but the longer she stood in the slow-moving line, the harder it rained. She chose a pink one, not her favorite color, but one that would stand out in the crowd.

            She was elated to get a ticket to one of the many shows she’d hoped to see, a spin-off of a romantic comedy she’d read years ago.

            That done, she spent the morning shopping for little gifts to bring home to her family and friends. A couple of keychains for Danny and Michelle, partners at work. Friendship bracelets for her cousin’s twin girls. A holographic image of the city’s skyline for her boss, to add the her collection displayed in the bookcase behind her desk.

            Laden with a variety of small, colorful bags, Andrea stepped into a pop-up Taco restaurant that smelled so delicious that she couldn’t pass it up.

            They sold only three varieties: shredded beef, diced grilled chicken, and a veggie combination that Andrea should have chosen, but didn’t. Not knowing how large the taco would be, she bought two: beef and chicken. Both were delicious.

            A glance at her watch told her she had enough time to get to her hotel, drop off her purchases, and get in line at the theater. Hurrying through the crowded streets, she was jostled repeatedly, but because she’d been warned, Andrea clutched everything close to her chest.

            One rid of her bags, she headed north on Broadway, mesmerized by the flashing, colorful, larger-than-life displays.

Just as she found the theater and got in line, a well-dressed man appeared on her right side.

“Are you interested in jewelry, mam?”

Andrea stared ahead, hoping to discourage him.

The line moved forward, just enough to leave a gap between her and the couple in front. The man filled that gap, a gap-toothed grin lighting up his face.

Andrea’s eyes looked him up and down, even though she tried not to. He was well-built, clean-shaven, dressed in clean jeans and a button-down collar shirt. His skin had a pleasant tan that was enhanced by bright yellow hair.

If she’d met him under different circumstances, she would have been interested in a first date. Maybe a second or third. Heck, she thought, perhaps even marriage!

Andrea knew he was a hustler, but was so intrigued by him that she actually looked at the bracelets he pulled out of a jacket pocket.

“Which do you like best?” he asked as he moved his arm back and forth, allowing them to glitter in the sun.

Andrea pinched her lips and shook her head. She knew better than to buy purloined goods, so when the line moved forward, she turned her eyes away.

“Do you like turquoise and silver?” He leaned forward, placing his head very close to hers.

Andrea smiled. Yes, she did, she wanted to say, but there’s no way it could be made of real stones and actual silver.

The man slid the bracelet off his arm and brought it closer to Andrea’s eyes. “I’ll sell it to you at a good price.” He beamed. “And, just for the heck of it,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket, “I’ll throw in the matching necklace for just five dollars more.”

She’d always wanted a turquoise and silver necklace and bracelet, but found them too expensive for her teacher’s salary. But, this pair was incredibly beautiful. The craftsmanship seemed refined, as if done by a silversmith working in a home studio.

Her heart pounded, telling her to touch it, just to see.

The line moved forward, much quicker this time. She was close to the door. The time to decide had arisen.

“Are the stones real?”

The man beamed.

Despite knowing better, Andrea bought them both. As she slid the bracelet onto her arm and placed the necklace inside her purse, she felt quite pleased with herself.

Over and over she told herself they were genuine materials. That she’d scored a bargain. That she’d never tell her friends that she’d fallen for a scam.

There was, after all, the possibility that they were real.

The Lost Girl

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            Serena hated reading aloud or being asked to write on the board. She shrunk inside and out if a classmate got to close, or heaven forbid, the teacher should lean over her shoulder to see what she hadn’t written.

            She’d learned these things at home, where a wrong look, a too loud sound, a spoken word could get her smacked around. Or maybe just shaken up a bit.

            Her father insisted she keep her eyes down, at all times, because he said he hated the golden outlines around her pupils. They sickened him. Made him think of devils. Caused him to beat the shit out of her.

            So at school, Serena kept her eyes focused on the top of her desk, all day long, not wanting to call attention to herself. The teacher might hate her eyes, too.

            The only time she raised her eyes was when the teacher had written something on the board. Or when her name was called.

            Serena jumped one Friday afternoon when the teacher tapped her desk with a ruler.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Ms. Brown barked.

Serena raised her eyes, just far enough that she hoped would satisfy Ms. Brown. She blinked a dozen times, trying to keep tears from dripping down her cheeks.

“Good,” the teacher said. “Now, answer the question: who built the pyramids in Giza?”

Serena shook her head. “I…I don’t know.”

The classroom filled with laughter, as it did every time Serena spoke up.

“Shush,” the teacher said as she waved her hand at the rest of the class. “Get to work. Right now.”

Serena read the next question on the quiz. “What’s the lion-shaped pyramid called?” She brought her pencil to her chin and tapped, once, twice, three times, but nothing came to her.

School had always been incredibly difficult for her. When her classmates began reading chapter books, Serena tried to pick out the few words she did recognize. When it came time to answer questions about the passages, she remembered nothing. And when the teacher called on her to answer aloud, her classmates always, always laughed until they were bent over from the effort.

Serena sighed. If she wrote nothing, she’d earn a red check mark. If she wrote the wrong answer, she’d get the same mark. She shrugged, started writing The King, when a shadow fell across her desk and the tiniest movement of air caressed the back of her neck.

“Are you okay?” Ms. Brown whispered. “Do you feel safe at home?”

Excellent questions, Serena thought, ones she’d been asked a million times. “Yes,” she squeezed out.

Ms. Brown leaned over and rested her elbows on the top of the desk. “I want you to tell me the truth, not some made-up answer you give to send everyone away.” She bent her head over until her chin nearly touched the wood. “I promise that you won’t get in trouble.”

Serena had heard all this before and knew that Ms. Brown was lying. No one could protect her from her father. Her Aunt Marg had tried to remove her from the home, but her father had punched her Aunt in the stomach so hard that the air whooshed out in a painful-sounding grunt.

“Serena, blink twice if you are scared to go home or if you don’t feel safe there.”

The girl thought about it. Nodded once, then blinked twice, just in case this time it might make a difference.

Ms. Brown nodded, sighed, then slowly raised her head. “Don’t go home when school ends. Someone will be here to take you to a safe place.”

Serena raised her head, and for the first time all year, joy lit her face.

I Just Had to Try

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If colors are magic, then fireflies would transport messages. Why not, I thought? But how to measure when it’s so darned hard to catch enough bugs to test my theory.

I decided to experiment with flashing colors into tanks of fireflies I’d paid little kids to catch. They had a wonderful time running around with the jars I’d given them, and the only cost to me was a few rainbow lollipops.

I must have a hundred: no, maybe only seventy. Fifty? Never mind. It was enough because it was all I had.

I set up photography reflectors, one on each side of the rectangular tank. Turned off the annoying overhead lights, then with a color wheel attached to my flashlight, began the experiment.

Red, no matter how dark or how faded, caused great agitation. The “flies” dashed and dated about, bouncing off the glass walls of the tank, careening into each other, even tearing off the wings of some. So I turned off the light.

Waited a good ten minutes.

Blue kept them calm lethargic almost. They’d fly about in slow zigzags, eyes half-open.

Yellow sent them to the top of the tank, clinging to the mesh lid and swaying their heads back and forth, back and forth as if drugged.

Green sent them off, looking up and down, up and down. I couldn’t decipher why until it came to me they were looking for food.

After that I played with color combinations. I shot bursts of light into the tank, using the Morse code. Imagine my surprise when the fireflies clustered close to the light source and began rhythmically blinking their eyes.

I wrote down the letters, or what I thought were letters. It wasn’t a language I knew, so I called in the School of Languages. Five professors showed up, looked at my recordings, watched the bugs, and argued. Was it Spanish? No. French? No. A form of ancient Egyptian? Still no.

Oh, the argument that ensued! All those experts yammering at each other, determined to prove the others wrong!

I shooed them away, filled out a grant request to create a language lab that only I would run. It was quickly approved: this was a novel idea! Something no one had ever explored before.

Applications came in. I hired two, a young man with knowledge of six Latin-based languages, and a teen from Illinois who was fluent in four Middle-Eastern tongues.

The students divided the fireflies into separate tanks. (This was a fresh supply as the durned bugs don’t live that long!)

Each student flashed in alphabets from a language. Waited. The bugs responded with the blinking of eyes and the flapping of wings.

Within a week, both students and bugs had mastered a form of communication that was part of this language and part of that.

Newly hatched fireflies knew the language so well, that we decided to release the more advanced ones into the university’s forest.  We set up observation stations, night-vision cameras, sent up drones and attached homing boxes high up in the trees, on the tops of buildings.

Imagine how pleased I was when more and more of the bugs seemed to be communicating! Not just with each other, but with us!

I saw myself winning a Nobel Prize, writing an award-winning scientific study, jumping to professor status seemingly overnight!

Not content to stick with the whiteish light from our flashlights, we experiment with colors. Yellow made them land on branches. Purple seemed to put them to sleep (we had to stop right away when bats swept in and began eating our students!)

Red. I didn’t want to use red, but the boy, he disobeyed just to see what would happen.

An all-out war began. Bug eating bug, tearing off wings and legs. Biting off heads.

The boy thought it was great fun and wouldn’t stop until I tore the light from his hand.

By that time, not one bug was alive.

All that research wasted. My Prize and tenure gone.

Oh, well, I thought.

What would happen if I worked with cougars instead?

Gratitude Comes in Small Packages

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            One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To school.” Mom lit a cigarette, threw the used match into the dirt.

“What’s school?”

She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. “You’ll find out in a few years.” I coughed as her smoke filled my throat and nose.

Two more happy kids walked by, carrying those strange boxes.

“Why are all those kids carrying metal boxes?”

“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time, thankfully, turning her head to the side before blowing out the smoke.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch.”

“No, I mean,” as I nodded in the direction the kids had gone. “Can I have a box, too?”

“Not until you go to school.” Using her scuffed tennis shoe Mom ground the cigarette into a mashed-up blob.

“Can I go to school now?” I asked.

“Not until you’re five.”

I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”

“Yes. Your brother will go to school next year, then you the year after that.” My mother lit a new cigarette. She inhaled and then once again, her smoke drifted my way.

“What do you do at school?”

“Learn things.” This time she leaned her head back before sending her smoke into the sky. With her cigarette dangling from her fingers, she stood, brushed off her skirt, turned and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now? Why do I have to wait two years?”

“There’s no money and you don’t need one.” My mother bent over and removed two pans from the cabinet. She opened doors and drawers, taking something from each. Lastly, she dug around in the refrigerator, emerging with something in each hand.

“I want a lunchbox now.”

She flung a hand toward the front room. “Go away and quit bothering me.”

I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed so I could see out the window. A few more smiling kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox. I placed my right hand on the window glass, as if I was reaching out, wishing I could walk with them. I watched for a while longer, but saw no more kids.

When my dad came home, before he could hang his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried one. His was old and dented, not new like the ones the kids had, but he had one.

“Can I have a lunchbox?”

He looked over at my mom who was doing something in the kitchen.  “Why does she want a lunchbox? Did you put that foolishness in her head?”

Mom shook her head, but didn’t turn around. “She saw kids carrying boxes like they do every morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother scooped food into bowls and carried them the table. “Dinner’s ready.”

My brother was already seated in his chair.

I slid into mine and began swinging my legs. “I to be like those kids.”

“Let it go.” My mom glowered at me.

I knew that was the signal to shut up, but I didn’t want to shut up.

“Daddy, do I have to wait until I go to school? Can’t I have one now?”

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes and dripping down my throat. It took me a long time to finish, long after Mom had washed the dishes and put them away.

I was still seated at the table when I heard Mom tell my brother than it was time for bed,

Knowing my dad was alone, I tiptoed into the front room. “Please, Daddy, can I have a lunchbox?”

“Go to bed,” he said without looking my way.

The next morning, I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching kids go by. “Mother, I’d take really good care of a lunchbox.”

“Shut up about it.” Her face looked angry, so I was quiet while my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.

I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.

When my dad came home, I asked him again. He didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes, either. I listened when he went into the kitchen where my mom was working on dinner. I tried to pick out words, but not even one came clear. We ate dinner and then my brother and I went to bed.

In the morning, I discovered a blue metal box sitting on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”

“Something your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others. “Who’s this for?”

“Open it up.”

Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this for Bill?”

“No. It’s yours.”

My eyes grew huge with surprise. And when my mom nodded, I picked it up by the handle. I walked all over the house swinging it just like those kids. “Does this mean I’m going to school?”

She shook her head.

“Did Bill get a lunchbox?”

“He doesn’t want one.”

“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school first. “I get to keep it?”

“Yes. It’s for you.”

I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and then put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”

 “Find something to keep you busy,” my mother called from the kitchen.

I went into my room and retrieved a coloring book and crayons from under my bed. Sat on the floor with my lunchbox at my side. I colored several pictures, taking time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.

My mother called from the front room, “Lunch time.”

I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich.

“Is this what kids do at school?”

“Yes. They sit at tables to eat.” My mother opened the door and stepped outside. She lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the air.

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why do I have this if I can’t go to school?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful.”

I was grateful.

That blue metal box was my most precious possession until it got lost during one of our many moves.

Revelation

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Little Emily’s nose crunched as she bent down to examine the deep red rose petals creating a carpet leading to the wedding arch. With her right hand, the toddler carefully arranged one petal after another until they were perfectly aligned. The gathered celebrants smiled as the wedding photographer knelt, then lay on the grass, snapping one shot after another, capturing that moment, when she should have been following the bride and groom.

Monkey Tale

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This was generated in a writing workshop. Each participant contributed a noun, verb and adjective, for a total of twelve words. The object was to use all twelve in a story. What follows is what I created.

            Once upon a time a pet monkey escaped from its cage when the zookeeper left the key dangling in the lock. The monkey realized that this was its one chance to get away forever. It ran through the streets of the village, ducking behind garbage cans, climbing gutter pipes and leaping from roof to roof.

            When it came to the town square, the monkey discovered a marble statue of an old man. Because of the slitted eyes that seemed to pinpoint on the monkey, he decided that the man was the evil one who had captured it many years ago. The monkey spat on the statue then leaped up on first one arm, then the other. As it swung back and forth, it punched the cold, hard face over and over.

            When the monkey heard the noise of a crowd that had gathered around the statue, the monkey slid down and ran away down one street after another. Eventually the village was left far behind as towering mountains arose all around.

            The monkey found a well-worn path that disappeared into the forest. At first the path was flat and smooth, but soon it began to rise, higher and higher, getting steeper as the monkey walked along. It soon became quite rocky and rutted, but it didn’t bother the monkey because it started swinging from branch to branch, from tree to tree.

            Up and up the monkey went, higher than it had ever gone before.

            Then  a terrible thing happened; an earthquake shook the ground and made the trees sway back and forth. Right before the monkey a huge crevice appeared, so wide that it feared that it wouldn’t be able to swing across.

            Fortunately a woman walked out of the forest right when the monkey needed help the most. She was scantily clad, wearing nothing more than a fur-lined cape over her shoulders. The monkey thought little about clothes as it had never worn anything at all.

            The woman offered to help the monkey cross the crevice. She cradled the monkey in her arms, then with a few whispered words in a language the monkey didn’t know, the two of them rose into the air, a misty cloud under the woman’s feet.

             Up and up they went, floating like a cloud. Soon they were on the other side of the crevice. The woman asked it the monkey wanted to keep flying, and when it said yes, they headed uphill.

            With the village far behind and no villagers able to capture the monkey, it screeched and called with joy.