Copperhead Road, Revisited

Copperhead Road via Meta AI

I warned Cameron so many times not to go out on Copperhead Road, but it was like an itch he had to scratch. I told him about the folks who had crossed the rickety bridge over the stream which separated the town proper from the Hollow, and how they had seen otherworldly beings up there. They had never been the same once they got back, and some of ‘em didn't even make it back. Granny had a hunch what had happened, and it wasn’t something I could repeat.

When Cam was a wee one, his eyes would grow big with terror if anyone mentioned Copperhead Road, but once he hit his teens and got his driving license and an old truck, he scoffed at me. “Aunt Elvira, you know as well as I do that the moonshiners make up those crazy stories so no one bothers them. I don’t believe any of that junk for one minute.”

There were ‘shiners living in the Hollow, it was true. The Pettimores had been running whiskey for generations now, and lord only knew what else they had going on. These thoughts were getting my nerves all tangled. I tried to focus on the banana bread I was baking for the church sale, but my hands were shaking, and I couldn't remember if I had put in the salt already. "Cam, please listen—”

“Look, I don’t want you to get upset, Auntie, but someone put spooky lights and stuff on Copperhead Road for Halloween, and Ashley wants to go up to the Hollow. I gotta show some backbone so she doesn’t think I’m a wuss.” Cam grinned as he texted something on his phone.

I sighed in frustration. "I know it’s tempting to go see for yourself, but where there’s smoke there’s fire. You put your hand in the cage, don’t be surprised if it come out snakebit. Ashley will think better of you if you protect her from all that.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Fire and snakes and aliens! Anything else? A ring of devil worshippers?”

I gave up trying to talk sense into him.

On Halloween, the sky boiled up a storm, but this made them more excited about going to the Hollow. Ashley couldn’t stop chattering about it as we passed out candy to the littles. The sensible mommas had taken their kids early to trick or treat, so as to get home before the rain came. 

“Don’t worry, Elvira,” Ashley tried to reassure me. “I’ll blend right in with the Hollow demons in my wicked witch costume. And no one will mess with Cam as the Grim Reaper!”

After they left, I sat by the window as the cold rain turned to sleet and beat against the glass. My own memories disturbed me so much that I added a dollop of ‘shine to my tea. By the time dawn broke, it had been several dollops, and I hadn’t slept a wink. I never told Cam what had happened to me up on Copperhead Road when I was 17, and that story will go with me to the grave. Let’s just say that no one comes back from the Hollow same as they went in.

Midafternoon Cam’s truck rumbled up the driveway. 

~*~

Written for the Sunday Whirl Wordle 777 using show backbone beings believe bit storm stream ring scratch tempting devil hunch. This fictional story was inspired by Steve Earle’s 1988 song “Copperhead Road.”

A Boy Named 2i

AI generated image via Fandango (lightened)

“Life ain’t easy for a boy named 2i,” the cowboy said to the bartender. “My father thought I was imaginary, which is why he saddled me with this ridiculous name before they took him to the funny farm.”

Robby beep-booped sympathetically. “I hear ya, kid. My cousin Claude is so advanced he gets to work at a posh Wall Street firm while I sling tequila sunrises all night. Another round?”

2i nodded. “You’re lucky you have a job. I just wander around LinkedIn trying to hide my shame.”

“It’s a lonely life,” Robby agreed.

“And forget about trying to meet someone.” 2i sipped his drink. “Whenever I get a match on an app and tell her my real name, she ghosts me.”

Robby swiped a rag across the bar. “Well, it’s not a real name.”

2i shook his head. “Everyone’s a comedian. Hey, what about her?” He nodded toward a redhead with curves that went on forever.

Robby leaned closer to whisper. “Strawberry Pi. Stay away from her, kid. She’s irrational.”

~*~

Flash fiction written for Fandango’s new Thursday Inspiration prompt and loosely based on the song “A Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash.

Some Thoughts on Fiction

Powell's in Portland, August 2015

Reena's Xplorations Challenge this week gives us some questions to ponder regarding fiction. First, she asks what constitutes fiction in the post-truth era, and I'm probably going to disagree with most of the other responders when I say I don't think our era is less truthful than any other era. Regular people have always lied, or at least insisted upon their version of the truth, as have politicians and their entourages, and whatever media existed at the time. What we see now however is more of a mass production and dissemination of lies because of the way "news" can reach so many of us almost instantly. There is also so much media available in so many forms. Back in the day, we had to wait for some wanderer to wend his way to our village to give his version of a thing that happened months ago at court. Now, within five minutes the whole world knows what a President said at a conference. Or, we think we know, depending on our source and whatever meme we saw on social media.

How thin or distinct are the lines between fact and fiction? 

In writing, as opposed to political "news," the lines are somewhat clearer between fact and fiction. Somewhat. Recently, I read a non-fiction book about bats, and I think it's safe to assume that all the bat information I learned was factual. The author was specific about what was known and what wasn't. (I will have a Thursday Thirteen post on bats coming soon.) Historical books can definitely be biased towards a particular viewpoint. Biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs are in the non-fiction section, but those are all someone's version of what happened. Self-help books are considered non-fiction as are books about food, travel, economics, and religion. Hah! Poetry is its own category. 

My favorite types of books fall into the fiction category, but even here things can get muddled. Some fiction is based on true stories. Some characters are closely based on people the author actually knows. Some writers use real-world locations and events in their fiction, while others create imaginary cities and scenarios. Science fiction and fantasy writers sometimes create whole new worlds and types of creatures in their stories.

Do the disclaimers that all characters are fictional really mean anything?

No. All characters, even the nonhuman ones, come from bits of the author's experience, whether direct or from something s/he read. No one writes in a vacuum. Since most real people aren't that interesting on the page, the best fictional characters are a mix of traits that the author has observed or read about. Even monsters, dragons, aliens, gods, etc., are a mishmash of human qualities. We create them all in our own image because what else is there? Funnily enough, the most fictional of fictional characters are probably the dreaded stock characters that a lazy writer grabs from the cardboard stash: the corrupt cop, the schoolyard bully, the cozy grandmother, etc. Real people are usually more nuanced.

Do you follow a formula when writing fiction, or just let it all flow freely?

For a while, I was writing spicy romantic fiction (novels and short stories), and that was all formulaic. I quit writing it and unpublished what I had when I became the stock cozy grandmother. No one wants to stumble across their nana’s erotica. Yuck. My later fiction is more free flowing. Hell, I didn't even know how Ghosted was going to end when I started it. Generally, I begin with a title or an idea that I think is funny and go from there. Sometimes I get bogged down in banter and have to delete a bunch of it to make room for action. Good short stories and flash fiction are actually harder to write than novels because there's no room to indulge yourself with prolonged banter, physical descriptions, and pointless meandering. The pointless meandering is my favorite.

Speaking of that, I had this enormous post written with my thoughts on various genres blah blah, but I have now scooped all that into a new post because I had actually missed addressing Reena's questions. 

Not So Gentle (flash fiction)

AI generated image of a couple arguing 

“I just don’t understand what you’re so upset about, Beth.” Kevin pointed to his sleeping bag upon which Beth’s chubby grey cat was crouched. “I always leave my stuff behind your couch.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “You assume that you can flop here whenever you please, after disappearing for months or even years, without considering that I might have made a life for myself while you were gone.”

Kevin thought about that. “Of course you should have fun when I’m traveling.”

“I am not talking about fun, Kevin!” Beth yelled. “I’m talking about being an adult, having responsibilities, and making commitments.”

Eww, the C-word. Kevin shuddered. That was almost as bad as the M-word. Wait, what was that on Beth’s left hand? “Beth!” Kevin gasped. “Are you engaged?”

“I am.” Beth held out her hand, and the diamond ring sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. 

“But I thought we agreed not to be bound by a fussy old contract. We’re both free spirits!” Kevin frowned. “That’s why thoughts of you are always so gentle on my mind.”

Beth sighed. “We said those silly things when we were teenagers. I’m thirty years old now, and I want a home and a family. A husband and children. Someone who will be there for me every night, not sleeping in bus stations and hooking up with whoever happens along.”

At a loss for words, Kevin grabbed his stuff and left. As he wandered back to the freeway, he decided that this was for the best. He was a nature photographer and couldn’t settle down in one place. Beth had changed so radically he didn’t even know her anymore. A home and a family? Who would bring children into a world like this? Crazy talk. Kevin shook his head and popped out his thumb to hitchhike. 

Decades passed, and Kevin found that he could no longer revisit rivers of his memory to be comforted by images of Beth. Their last conversation ruined those gentle feelings. He tried to recreate the relationship they’d had early on with new women, but nothing ever worked out for more than a few nights. No one desired an ongoing, yet open love affair. No one wanted to let him stash his stuff at her house. He had to keep renting lockers as he traveled around.

Kevin woke up on a train outside Boise on Christmas morning. It was bitterly cold, and there was something heavy sleeping on his chest, probably Beth’s cat. He tried to nudge the kitty away, but he couldn’t lift his arm. “Beth?” he whispered as everything went dark.

~*~

This fictional story was inspired by the song “Gentle on My Mind,” which was written by John Hartford and popularized by Glen Campbell in 1967. 

Every Breath You Take (flash fiction)

AI flowers and candy

Some people thought he was too intense for his own good.

Glen had never been able to do anything halfway. It was all or nothing, whether work or play or romance. And the irony was that Valerie had said she loved that about him. She had loved his constant calls and texts, his relentless attention to detail, his devotion to her needs, his thoughtful gestures and gifts, and his steady presence to make her feel secure. Or at least she had said she loved all those things before she decided it was too much. 

“Maybe she’s not my soulmate after all,” Glen cried to his mother during their weekly chat. “She doesn’t seem to appreciate or even acknowledge anything I do now. I gave her a box of candy when I brought her breakfast, and she threw it on the floor.”

“Face facts, darling,” his mother replied crisply, as was her way. “You’re too good for her. You’ve spoiled her rotten with nothing to show for it. Time to move on.”

Glen glanced at his laptop and rechecked the app he used to track Valerie’s movements. He thought maybe she would be writing him a note of apology or thanks, but she was just staring off into space. “I guess you’re right, Mumsy. She was treated so badly by her ex that she freaks out at my pure and honest heart.”

“Have you considered that you’re a bit too intense? Try not coming on so strongly with the next one, dear.”

Even his own mother was criticizing him now! Glen slammed his phone down in frustration. But she was right about one thing: he needed to quit obsessing over Valerie and find someone new. He began with the apps and methodically deleted each one he had been using to track her. He deleted every email and text, and he emptied the trash can. There was only one more loose end.

Glen sighed as he clomped downstairs to his basement apartment with the syringe in his hand. He politely knocked before using his key in case she was getting dressed. So annoying to have to dispose of another dead body, but she had left him no choice. Maybe he would go to that speed dating thingie tonight after he cleaned everything up.

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter 260 and inspired by the song “Every Breath You Take” by The Police (songwriting credit goes to Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, from the 1983 album Synchronicity).

The Monkey Bridge (flash fiction)

Two monkeys on a rickety bridge via AI

He brings me here by helicopter and leaves me stranded with extravagant promises and a fully charged phone. I hear nothing from him after the first instructional text, and the phone dies on day five. I ration the food and drinking water, but soon I have no choice but to set off through the jungle on foot. Though I possess a map and a good sense of direction, I have no way to defend myself, especially against the monkeys.

These aren’t cute little zoo monkeys scampering on a trapeze; they are howling, shrieking demons. With fangs. They like to hang out on the bridge I need to cross to get to the next safe house. The other direction leads straight back to the gang we escaped from in the first place, to the north is mountains, and to the west is the sea, so I have to face the monkeys.

As if that isn’t bad enough, the old rope bridge has seen better days—much better days. 

I leave at dawn because the monkeys are usually less active then, but unfortunately two of the creatures are already stationed on the bridge. Although my legs are trembling, I try to approach with confidence, thinking they might respect that. I can’t help but glance down at the rushing river and jagged rocks visible through the irregularly placed slats, and when I look up again the monkeys have moved closer to me.

“Maybe they’re just curious,” I mutter to myself. At least this pair isn’t yelling—they’re eerily quiet and staring at me with gleaming eyes. I decide the staring is worse than their screaming.

I adjust my backpack, take out a granola bar, and break it in half. “Here’s my toll,” I tell the monkeys and toss a piece to each. I grab the rope and step onto the bridge. 

It creaks and sways alarmingly. The monkeys ignore the treat and bare their teeth at me. “It’s cool,” I say, trying not to freak out. Gripping the rope tightly with both hands now, I take another step. 

A scream tears through the trees…

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #259.

Delilah

Scared woman in a house via Pixabay

Delilah loved her new home, except for the weird feeling she experienced in certain locations, particularly near the front door. This past week, she'd felt so scared near the door that she began exiting the house through the patio and coming around the side. The house was beautiful, but Delilah began to have thoughts of moving away, far away. 

She stood on the patio, sipping her coffee, wondering if she was losing her mind. Maybe she was just lonely with Tom gone all the time now that his band was a success. All the good things he had promised her in his silly hit song had come to pass, so why wasn't she happy?

"Hey there, Delilah!" Andy the pool guy greeted her with the line from the song. Everyone knew she was that Delilah, and while at first it was off-putting to be famous, she'd long since gotten used to it. 

She watched him unload the supplies from his cart and begin to test the water. "Morning, Andy." Usually, she went back inside while he worked, but today she didn't feel like being in the house alone. Sometimes lately she felt it was alive, breathing, waiting. Waiting for what? She didn't know.

When Andy was finished, Delilah invited him in so she could write his check. "Does it seem funny in here to you?" she asked him abruptly with her pen in the air.

"Funny?" he repeated. "Not sure what you mean."

"In the foyer especially." Delilah motioned for him to follow her toward the front door. "It's... colder right here or something. It gives me the shivers. And the light never works. I changed the bulb twice."

Andy glanced up and around. "Well, it could be the AC vents. Want me to close them for you? I can grab my ladder. Not sure about the light, but I know an electrician who could check it out. Or maybe you're psychic and getting flashbacks of the stabbing. Haha, just kidding!"

"Wait, what stabbing?" she stared at him in horror, as a dark, cold fog seemed to settle around her.

"Yikes, you don't know." He shrugged. "I guess it was just a local story."

Delilah was growing increasingly annoyed as well as terrified. "What was it?" she yelled, opening the door to let the sunshine in. 

Andy seemed startled at her tone. "Nothing for you to worry about. Around twenty years ago, a crazy guy was obsessed with a woman who lived here. One morning he knocked on her door and stabbed her to death when she opened it. He told the police she was cheating on him, but it turned out they'd never met and he'd been stalking her for months. He would stand over there," Andy pointed at the park across the street, "watching her from behind the trees. They said he was unfit for trial and committed him to a mental institution."

"Oh, my God, that's horrible." Delilah vowed she would tell Tom that they had to move. After Andy left with his check, she began googling for information. She skipped dinner and kept searching as it grew dark outside. There was no way she would be able to sleep in this house again. Maybe she should go to a hotel. She realized that Tom had forgotten to call, so she texted him, but it didn't go through. She resumed her online search. It was hard to find old news stories with all the ads and crap cluttering up the pages, but she kept clicking. Finally, she found it, just like Andy had described.

Except he had left out one thing: the murdered woman's name was Delilah.

~*~

Written for Fandango's Loosely Based series with inspiration from the Plain White T's song "Hey There Delilah" (writing credit to Tom Higgenson) as well as the oldie "Delilah" sung by Tom Jones (writing credit to Barry Mason).

Bear Market

Two cute brown bears shaking paws

“We’ve got a very hairy situation here, Tanya!” Brandy roared.

Tanya nodded. “I agree. It’s becoming unbearable. Just yesterday one of your cubs literally grabbed a fish out of little Goldie’s paws.”

“Marcus can be aggressive,” Brandy admitted. “He gets it from his father, who by the way isn’t helping us at all now. But you have to admit that Goldie shouldn’t be fishing from our side of the falls, especially these days when none of us have enough.”

“I don’t have to admit anything!” Tanya growled. “That fish was on our side initially. Goldie simply followed it across as is her clawful right. And her dad was gone when I woke up in April, so I have my own tail of woe.”

Brandy considered this for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. These irresponsible dads make me furrious. But Goldie bit Marcus’ nose!”

“I’ll talk to her,” Tanya said. “She’s going through a phase. How’s the nose now?”

“Healing. But he’s a bit traumatized.” Brandy smiled. “It would help if Goldie invited him to share some of that honeycomb she found.”

Tanya rolled her eyes. “Well played, Brandy. I didn’t expect it to remain a secret for long. Bear hug?”

“Let’s just shake on it.”

~*~

Written for Christine’s Simply Six Minutes.

Stones (flash fiction)

Golden sandals on a stony beach (Meta AI)

When her father passed away, Angela received tens of millions of dollars in cash and investments at age 24. She quit her teaching job, left her boyfriend, and began to travel the world. She visited every city on her list, some more than once, and stayed in luxurious hotels for months at a time. It felt so good to immerse in local culture, checking out all the museums and restaurants and cute little shops. Angela never stayed in a place long enough to make real friends, but she didn’t care about that, at least not at first.

Sometimes she considered buying a property in one of the beautiful locations, settling down, perhaps starting a family, but a new adventure always beckoned. When she turned 40, alone on a gorgeous Greek island, she realized that it was probably impossible to find a man who wasn’t solely interested in her money. She mulled over the idea of raising a child by herself and decided against it. After all, she had a Norwegian cruise booked for next year and another safari three months later. She didn’t want to cancel them and go on the prowl for a baby daddy instead.

It would be nice to have someone to talk to about all this, Angela thought wistfully, but she hadn’t kept up with any of her former friends or colleagues. These days, she exchanged only courtesies with waiters and hotel staff. No one really cared about her the way her father had. She had no one now to share memories with or even silly inside jokes. Angela riffled through the card file in her mind and came up with nothing, not a single name, not even a distant cousin with whom she could engage in superficial chitchat.

Angela stared out at the endless sea and picked up a smooth stone warmed by the morning sun. She flung it out across the turquoise water, satisfied that it skipped three times. This beach was covered with stones, some dull grey, others glittering like jewels. She picked up a coppery one and a silvery one and filled her hands with so many stones that she began to drop them. Finally, she let them all fall at her feet in a big clatter and stood among the stones with empty hands.

~*~

Written for Fandango’s new Loosely Based prompt. My story is loosely based on Neil Diamond’s 1971 song “Stones” (stones would play inside her head / and where she slept they made her bed / she would ache for love and get but stones).

Coral Kiss (flash fiction)

My mom’s engagement photo, 1957

I always visit my dad early Sunday. Mornings are better for him than evenings, when he tends to “sundown.” I can’t really hold a conversation with him after dark when he goes on about events from decades ago as if they just happened and struggles to find the right words besides.

Today he's sitting at the kitchen table “doing his taxes.” They were completed months ago by our CPA, but Dad likes to shuffle the papers around, stick them in the colorful folders, and pull them out again. 

I plop a box of donut holes on the counter, get a plate, and arrange a pile of fried balls. I find a spot on the table free from papers and put down the plate. I take the coffee cups out of the carafe and place one in front of each of us. "How's it going today, Dad."

"Good," he says. "I'm making progress on these documents."

I sip my coffee. It's strong and steaming hot. "That's great. Have a donut."

He takes one and stares at it. "Mom visited last night."

My mom has been dead for six months. Sometimes I play along with Dad's fantasies, but I am not in the mood right now. "Dad," my voice is soft. "You know that Mom passed away."

He nods. "Yes. We had some tea. Can you get me more at the store? I don't want to run out."

"I'll put it on the list. But... you know that Mom is gone, right? This was just a dream."

"We were sitting here," he insists. "She's worried about you. The divorce. Everything."

"It's all fine." I tell him, trying to change the subject. "There's a fun old movie today in the social hall. Smokey and the Bandit. I'll set the alarm on your phone so you don't forget."

"I'm not going to forget." He glances at me sharply. "I don't need an alarm. It's irritating."

"Okay, okay." I pick up his phone and set it anyway. 

We eat a few of the donut holes and finish our coffees. I try to tidy up a bit without disturbing his messy mountain of receipts. "I'll call you tonight," I say. "You can tell me about the movie."

He opens the green folder and removes the papers he stuffed in it a few minutes ago. "All right. I should get back to work now. Thanks for the cookies."

As I pass through the kitchen on the way to the door I glance into his sink. There are two cups sitting in it with teabags at the bottom of each. One cup has a lipstick mark. My mother's color, Coral Kiss. I pick up the cup and stare at it.

My father's voice floats to me across the room. "I'll do the dishes in a little while, honey. Don't forget to get more tea."

~*~

Written for the Great Minds Think twist challenge. Inspired by true events.

Thunder (flash fiction)

Colorful music notes (Pixabay)

The empty stage beckons like a blank canvas ready to burst with color and movement.

She flings herself across the floorboards, whirling and twisting, jumping and kicking, all to the beat of a mad rock and roll symphony playing inside her head. 

Sweat drips down her face as she dances faster, merging with the music as a single entity, encouraged by the thunder of imaginary applause and the screams for an encore.

This is what she has been waiting for her whole life, while pretending to be an introvert and hiding her true talents from the world, when all along she craves the spotlight and the adulation of millions.

“Janice, did you finish vacuuming the auditorium yet?”

Jolted out of her fantasy, she reluctantly trudges off the stage and back to her pile of cleaning supplies.

~*~

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story (thunder).

The Other Side (flash fiction)

Mysterious doorway image created by AI

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Of course I knew it would happen sooner or later, but I wanted something dramatic and spectacular, as would befit my superior status, not this slow, insignificant fade. I had always been vastly different from other humans and possessed an extraordinarily towering intellect, which generated heightened emotional responses to common situations. My giftedness had been a source of envy to many, and occasionally that resentment escalated to where I had been targeted, harassed, or shunned simply for being me. 

Nothing had changed at the end. People were too awed by my dominance to even bother visiting me, much less pay me the deference to which I was due. Obviously I had deserved a much greater degree of success than had been bestowed by the universe, but even the alleged higher beings failed to recognize my greatness! As far as the lower beings, I magnanimously forgave them for their lack of appreciation, for they were much too ignorant to even begin to comprehend my complex nature. Naturally, I would punch them in the face if I had the chance again.

Anyway. Enough dillydallying. It was time to go, and I wasn’t sure why I hesitated at this late date, as I would certainly not miss this wretched place nor any of these lesser creatures.

The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the doorknob, I felt afraid of what I might find on the other side.

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter 252 (this time as an ending) and inspired by recent events.

Lucille's Version

 

Black and white AI image of a woman at a bar

So I finally got the courage to leave Hank, after all those years of acting like a submissive jellyfish, taking care of his four kids (that never had weekends with his ex-wife as Hank had promised), doing a billion chores around the farm (that Hank had promised he would hire help for), not being allowed to work part-time to have my own money, never seeing my friends because Hank didn't like them, and finally never even making love as we were too tired. What kind of marriage is that? Hank refused to go to counseling with me, so I finally went alone, and the counselor told me that she saw no hope for us if Hank refused to even admit there was a problem.

I didn't take anything of his with me, just some of my clothes and the money I made selling eggs at the market. Technically, the chickens belonged to Hank, but I was the one who took care of them. I doubted I would miss Hank or his snotty kids who never listened to me (and Hank never backed me up either), but I would miss those chickens, especially the silkies. My plan was to take a bus to Pittsburgh and go to work at my aunt's coffee shop, and I got as far as Toledo when I had a four-hour wait until the next bus out. I decided to go have a drink at the bar, and, well, the rest is history.

In a bar in Toledo, across from the depot

On a bar stool she took off her ring
I thought I'd get closer, so I walked on over
I sat down and asked her her name
When the drinks finally hit her, she said "I'm no quitter
But I finally quit living on dreams
I'm hungry for laughter and here ever after
I'm after whatever the other life brings

Yeah, I probably had a few too many, but what the heck ~ I wasn't driving. It was fun having a new man pay attention to me and engage in some mutual flirtation, even if it was only for a couple hours. But then Hank showed up! He put on quite a show for the clueless new guy, whining that I was leaving "hungry" kids when I made those little monsters a vat of mac and cheese before I left. And crops in the field, really? He meant the strawberries that he wanted me to sell at his booth at the county fair. What a big phony! But the new guy fell for it. He was some kind of traveling salesman, not too successful by the look of things, and certainly not the brightest bulb.

After he left us I ordered more whiskey

I thought how she'd made him look small

From the lights of the bar room to a rented hotel room

We walked without talking at all

She was a beauty, but when she came to me

She must have thought I'd lost my mind

I couldn't hold her, 'cause the words that he told her

Kept coming back time after time

Fine, whatever. It's not like I was really attracted to him or anything; I just thought it would be nice to have some affection after the drought with Hank. But it was not meant to be. I left the guy sitting by himself in his room, walked back to the bus station, grabbed my stuff out of the locker, and waited for the 10:00 to Pittsburgh. Maybe the drinks would allow me to sleep on the bus and not think about this whole disaster I created by impulsively marrying Hank. Gah! No more men. I needed to find a cheap divorce lawyer as soon as I scraped up some funds, and then I would--

"Excuse me, doll, is this the line for Pittsburgh?" A scruffy 20-something guy holding a guitar case was gazing at me expectantly. He had gorgeous blue eyes.

OK. No more farmers or traveling salesman. I shouldn't rule out all men though. 

~*~

"Lucille" was written by Roger Bowling and Hal Bynum. Kenny Rogers recorded/ released it in 1977. I wanted to expand on the song, which was solely from the man's point of view, and create a version from Lucille's POV.

Eating the Evidence (flash fiction)

Meta AI generated image of flowers and candy

Detective Nicki Finn gazed around the lobby, noting the security guards posted at each door and the ceiling cameras positioned every few feet. 

“I don’t understand why you can’t catch this guy,” the hotel manager fumed as the evidence tech bagged the candy.

Once again, the thief had left behind his usual calling card—a box of chocolates. And not just any chocolate either; this was the finest imported delicacy, direct from Belgium.

“Thank you, Angela,” Nicki said to the tech. “I’ll ride back to the station with you.”

“Our conference bookings are way off,” the manager complained. “No one wants to stay here with a thief on the loose.”

“We are making every effort,” Nicki said. “Thanks for getting the guest list to us so quickly. Please don’t speak to the media, especially about you know what.”

The manager rolled his eyes. “The chocolate, right. It’s our secret. Ours and every other hotel he’s hit.”

Angela drove the van to their usual spot. “Ready?” she asked Nicki, taking the box of candy out of the bag.

“Yes, but this is the last time,” Nicki vowed as she hovered over the selections. “Oh God, this one looks like a creme brûlée!”

“Mmm.” Angela bit into a chocolate. “Tiramisu! The question is: who knows about our addiction? We’ve kept it on the down low.”

Nicki grabbed a second piece. “Gotta be Brian K. We both dated him. He knows.”

Angela nodded, her mouth full of candy. “Brian. Next time we won’t eat the evidence.”

“Next time,” Nicki agreed, eying the half-empty box. “But for now… dibs on the macaroon!”

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #250.

Rory and the Wolf

AI generated image of a golden and a wolf

(I'm participating in the Friday Challenge from When Words Collide, which asks us to create a conversation between two characters, imaginary or otherwise. I chose my daughter’s golden retriever Rory and an imaginary wolf. Please check out Fandango's excellent take too ~ I found the challenge via his blog. PS: I changed Rory's gender for the story.)

Rory (happy face): Hi! How are you? Isn't it a gorgeous day?

Wolf (annoyed): It was. Until you showed up. Do you realize that you just spooked the rabbit I was hunting, and now I won't have any breakfast?

Rory (sad face): Huh? Breakfast? Did you not get fed? I'm so sorry!

Wolf: Get fed? Oh right. You're one of those.

Rory: One of what?

Wolf (sniffs in disgust): A pampered pet. You live inside a comfy prison where your guards give you a handful of kibble twice a day. While I, on the other paw, enjoy the great outdoors, hunting my own food, and doing whatever I please.

Rory (tail wags): But I love kibble! It's so yummy! 

Wolf (rolls eyes): You should be ashamed of yourself. You were once one of us, a great hunter, but then they bred you down to retrieve silly birds they shot, and now look at you.

Rory: I know, right? I'm so beautiful! And a good boy too! They tell me every day how wonderful I am and how much they love me.

Wolf: Love? From humans? Feh. You'll never know the joy of having your own mate and pups to carry on your magnificent lineage. I bet you're snipped.

Rory (confused): Snipped? Is that a toy? I love toys!

Wolf: Ugh. You sicken me. If you were part of a pack, you would have no need for humans. 

Rory: But I love my humans! They're my pack! Today is bath day, and I'm so excited! I love baths!

Wolf: OMG. 

Rory: And I love my sister Lily and our kitty Maui, even though I sometimes wish she wouldn't always hog my bed. I love my bed! 

Wolf (licks lips): You have a kitty? Where?

Rory: Back at the RV. Actually, I am a teeny tiny bit lost. I wasn't supposed to wander away from the campground.

Wolf: If you lived like a proper wolf, you would never get lost. I know exactly where I am at every moment due to my excellent sense of direction and smell.

(A voice calls in the distance Rory, Rory!)

Rory (excited): That's my human! He found me! (woofs)

Wolf (slinks away): Enjoy your prison kibble. 

Rory (woofs a lot): Here I am! I made a new friend! Where'd he go? What's snipped?

Just One More Thing… (flash fiction)

Someone had been leaving fresh flowers every day on his wife’s grave and Roger was determined to find out who and why.

Soon, people would quit paying attention to Roger and how or if he was mourning Hope, but it had only been a couple weeks since the funeral, so he had to keep up appearances. Roger liked to sleep in and drive over to the cemetery after a leisurely brunch, but today he forced himself to get there at 9am when they opened. It was weird that cemeteries had visiting hours, Roger thought as he strode to the stone. No new flowers yet—good! 

Roger leaned against a tree and opened a dating app as he waited. He couldn’t actually date yet—people would freak out—but he could talk to new women. There were plenty of pretty ones who were happy to get to know a wealthy man who no longer had to work at age 37. One of the prettiest had been eager to chat, and Roger told her all about what a horrible witch Hope had been and how relieved he was to be single again. Ah, here was a new message from her, titled “Good Morgan,” a funny phrase she used. 

Holy crap, what was Frank doing here?! Roger quickly stuffed his phone back in his pocket and walked over to the gravesite where the older man was placing a fresh bouquet. “Lieutenant?”

“Mr. Clark,” Frank stood up and greeted him. “How are you doing?”

“Good!” Roger said, immediately regretting it. “I mean, you know… under the tragic circumstances.”

Frank nodded. “Of course. And it was a tragedy, wasn’t it. You know that Hope was a distant cousin of mine, from the wealthy side of the family, obviously.”

Crap. “No, I didn’t know.”

“I was at the funeral,” Frank said. “In the back. Moving elegy you gave for your young bride, Mr. Clark. Poor thing, being an orphan, and now this. You weren’t even married a year, were you?”

“Not quite a year.”

“And drowning in the bathtub.” Frank shook his head. “Who would have thought?”

“She fell asleep.” Roger felt sweaty even though the air was brisk. He noted that Frank seemed perfectly comfortable in his rumpled old beige raincoat. 

Frank sighed. “So unfortunate no one found her until the next day.”

“Yes, I wish I had woken up to check on her. I will never forgive myself.” Roger began edging away. “Nice seeing you, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Clark.”

Roger turned around. “What?”

“Good Morgan.”

~*~

Little bit of Columbo fan fiction I wrote for Fandango’s Story Starter #238. 

Retirement Plan (flash fiction)

She ran her hand beneath the park bench and sure enough, just as he said, she felt the envelope secured there by tape. 

Unlike normal employees in regular companies, Jill didn’t have the standard retirement benefit package. There was no 401K here, no Social Security benefits, no Medicare eligibility. But she was determined to make the best of it. After all, being flexible, adaptable, loyal, and resilient were some of the reasons why she had lasted so long at this job. Along with her perfect aim.

After ensuring that none of the picnickers or frisbee players were paying attention to her, Jill opened the envelope. She scanned the available options, pleased to note that the sumptuous banquet was on offer. That meant she had been highly valued. Not everyone got the chance to indulge in a lovely dinner, followed by a shot of strychnine. Most of them just got shot. 

A friendly golden retriever bounded up as Jill marked her choice of retirement plans. She patted his soft warm head, and he licked her hand. “Sorry!” a man yelled from across the grass. “C’mere, Brinkley!” The dog ran off.

Jill gazed at the bucolic scene of happy people enjoying the sunny day and for a moment was tempted to tear up the document. She could try to escape her employer; she did have formidable skills. But she knew the price she would pay if caught, and were her abilities really as good as they used to be? 

Jill resealed the envelope and hesitated.

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #237.

Just for One Night (flash fiction)

It was just for one night.

She didn’t enjoy socializing, but this had to be done. You wouldn’t advance in the ranks if you bailed on the big guy’s New Year’s Eve party. Besides, it wasn’t simply a festive gathering—Peri had a job to do. As she shimmied into her silver dress, she realized she had lost a little weight. It had been a stressful year. 

Doing the rounds with a glass of bubbly in her hand, Peri made sure to say hello to all the right people so they would take note of her presence. She smiled and sipped and schmoozed and glittered, paying special attention to the big guy and his crew. 

He winked at her. “You’ve worked hard this year, Peri. Don’t think we haven’t noticed. Cheers.”

“Thank you!” Peri clinked his glass and took another sip of her champagne. “I strive to do my best on every assignment, and—”

 

“We also notice when work fails to meet our standards,” he interrupted. 

She blushed, knowing exactly to which assignment he referred. “That particular case wasn’t my fault, sir. I received bad intel from…”

“Mmm,” the big guy shrugged. “Things happen. But you have a chance to redeem yourself tonight. Max is on the patio.”

Peri knew the brief conversation had ended and it was time to get to work. She slipped outside, took a breath of cold night air, and sidled up to Max, who was faced away staring into the darkness. “Hey,” she said. “How’s tricks?”

“Peri.” Max spoke before looking at her. “Bold of you to show up here.”

“Bold?” she scoffed. “If it wasn’t for you, that job in Chicago would have been a piece of cake.”

He turned fully and grinned at her. “Still blaming me for that fiasco? Everyone knows the truth, babe. You weren’t up to the task.”

What a jerk! She couldn’t believe she’d ever found him attractive, much less slept with him. Three times. Peri set her empty glass on the wall and slid the stiletto out of her sequined evening bag. “My new assignment will go much more smoothly.”

Max glanced at the knife. “You think?” 

“I know.” She wobbled in her high heels.

“You’re feeling a bit woozy right now, aren’t you?” 

Max almost sounded like he cared about her well-being, but Peri knew better than to fall for that again. Why did she suddenly feel so itchy? The knife dropped from her fingers and clattered onto the stones. She needed to sit down.

He chuckled. “You never could hold your liquor. Especially when it’s spiked with cyanide.”

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #227.

Susan (flash fiction)

He found a photograph of a woman he didn’t know tucked inside a book he didn’t remember buying.

“Who is this?” he asked the nurse when she returned with his juice and medicine.

The nurse put the cups on his tray and added a small bottle of clear liquid to his IV. “That’s Susan, your wife, and she will be visiting you again this afternoon.”

My wife? He didn’t have a wife. He had never been married and didn’t know anyone named Susan. But his mind began to fog so he wasn’t completely sure.

“Please take your vitamins, Charlie,” she said. “They’ll help you recover faster. I’m sure you would like to go home as soon as possible.”

Home? He had no memory of a home, just motel rooms in various cities that all blurred together. As he picked up the cup of pills and tossed them in his mouth, the image of a shattered door and men in masks floated at the edge of his consciousness. He thought he shouldn’t mention this to the nurse and instead drank the juice to wash down the pills.

She smiled. “Good job! Enjoy your poetry book. Susan says it’s one of your favorites.”

He leafed through the pages, reading a few lines here and there. Nothing seemed familiar. Every so often, he spied a faint pencil mark under a word. Film. Vienna. Danger. If he rearranged the marked words they might form a sentence, but he was too drowsy to do that right now. 

Later, he decided. Later, he would try to make sense of this. As he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him that his name was not Charlie.

~*~

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #224.