Darlene's Stories

“You’re not painting the guest room purple?!”

“No, Mother, I’m painting it lilac.”

“You’re a forty-year-old man! People will think you’re gay! What will I tell the people in my church?”

“Don’t tell them anything. They’re never invited here; they’ll never see the room. Besides, I painted the girls’ bedroom shell pink.”

“Well, of course, the twins are female. Where did they come from, anyway? Not that I’m complaining, I love being a grandma and they’re awfully cute.”

“I paid a pretty young woman to get pregnant. I paid a lot, and yes, I’m the real father.”

“Kids nowadays; not that I’m complaining, mind you, I love those girls. Lilac, argh! Well, maybe a guest room that ugly will keep another guy from moving in with you. What if the laws change? What if the government takes those kids away because you’re a single parent? I’ve heard talk about that. Fewer white kids are being born, and those girls would be prime babies for a childless Caucasian couple.”

“I would fight to the death for them. Have more blueberry cobbler, Mother, I know you love it.”

“Ah, all right. I’ll have more coffee, too.”

Dakota looked across the table at his munching mother. He hadn’t seen much of her since he was twelve. That was when she dropped him at his grandmother’s house and chased her old lover across the Midwest. She never succeeded in snaring the man.

Unlucky in love, she fled to the largest city in her home state; there she found a simple job to pay the bills and flung her meager talent and disposable income into a mega church which became her social life. The other parishioners were homophobic and intolerant and suited her just fine. She only came back to her home town and saw her son and widowed mother on holidays, which she spent delivering sharp criticisms. They were always happy to see her leave.

Dakota’s eyes half-closed in a daydream; he was sitting in Grandma’s big porch swing, it was late May, school was almost out, and the lilacs were bursting with beauty and perfume; there were the old-fashioned ones, the dark purple French ones, and even some white ones which matched the white, weathered siding on the old house. He shared cherry licorice with a friend, and they kissed with red, sweet lips.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I was thinking about Grandma’s lilacs, her timeless lilacs.”

“Ah, they were sort of pretty, do they still bloom?”

“They did this year, yes. I think I’ll have the guest room done by Sunday. Maybe instead of taking the girls to the assisted living center, I’ll bring Grandma here to see the paint job. She’ll like that, if she’s having a good day.”

“That old liberal; the other Alzheimer’s patients don’t like her, you know.”

“Funny, I’m old enough to remember those pious old biddies going into bars. They weren’t virgins then, either.”

“Don’t be a jerk. They’re facing death. My mother could take a lesson from them.”

“Maybe she has nothing to regret?”

“If you love her so much, why not bring her back here?”

“The nanny is willing to change Pampers but not Depends.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, snort.”

“However, I’m going to bring the girls up to be as much like Grandma as possible.”

If he saw one of them kissing a lovely lass in the porch swing, he would do just as Grandma had done when she accidently saw Dakota with Ty. “Those Michaelmas daisies need water!”

This is a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction challenge for paint colors. Yum!

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/feed/

Millions of years later, humans would call her Miss Castorocauda, Cassy affectionately. She didn’t know that, and wouldn’t have cared. She lurked among the tall weeds on the edge of a warm, shallow, landlocked sea. She ate fish and invertebrates from the water, but her favorite meal was a stolen egg from the crude debris covered clutches of small dinosaurs, guarded, but mostly unmanaged in the heat and humidity.

The humans that came later arrogantly felt intelligence was a modern development, but smarts of some sort were nearly as old as life itself, and Cassy was ahead of her tribe; evolution had favored her. When she wasn’t nursing her pups, she hunted and observed her surroundings.

She learned to toss a pebble into the water, causing the parent dinosaur to scramble toward the sound, hoping to catch an easy fish. Then she snuck an egg, but they never learned. They might not even have noticed the clutch mound getting smaller.

But the eggs were hard to crack, and sucking out the contents was a difficult endeavor for an early mammal like Cassy; she was no egg sucking dog. Her children were hungry, so she still needed to fish. She laid in her favorite wallow among the weeds and thought. She looked at the hundreds of dinosaur mounds near the sea’s edge, then back at the bright water in case a fish jumped in her direction. She left to nurse her pups, still thinking.

One day, as she laid in her wallow, a hatching clutch of baby dinosaurs seized her attention. The top of the mound pushed up from the little, lifting, squeaking heads, and Cassy licked her lips thinking of how they would taste. She couldn’t go near them, because the mother was a carnivore, but she could certainly watch them from her hidey-hole in the weeds. The babies were cracking their own eggs and appearing as a group. An idea started to form.

Cassy pushed together wet plant material by the side of her burrow. Her four pups watched this unusual activity, stopping to maul each other occasionally. Cassy nipped them sternly, her way of telling them not to destroy what she was creating. Then she stole an entire clutch of eggs from a dizzy mother dinosaur that went nearly crazy from chasing so many invisible fish. The eggs were pushed under the moist plant material. Cassy continued to fish daily, but she and the growing pups also observed the steamy mound.

One day the eggs hatched, and Cassy and her pups watched joyfully. The mother dinosaur was quite a distance away, and wouldn’t have recognized her offspring anyway. When the last baby wiggled out of its shell, the Castorocauda family feasted. The new behavior was repeated several times, with the assistance of the pups.

Cassy’s many children became big and sleek, prime mating material, and they knew how to access a varied diet no other Castorocauda had stumbled upon; they and their descendants moved up in the world.

Miss Castorocauda is a little short, but I hope you like her. She’s the result of a Chuck Wendig command to write about dinosaurs, and a chance to win a book, yeah!

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/feed/

He’d needed to get away from the greenhouse for a while; it was late July, and not much was happening there. The Easter Lilies had come and gone, Mother’s Day bouquets and potted plants were gone, Memorial Day had passed, prom corsages were scattered in shady nooks along with virginal blood, and all the townspeople grabbing bedding plants were done grabbing. When his slightly hysterical sister-in-law arrived to talk with his wife, he had seized the phone.

Stopping by a small farm to pick up one sister on the way to see another sister, he’d been pleased when a young niece came along. This was not a child who interrupted and complained of being bored; she seemed happy in her own head. Her lips often moved as she talked to herself. He identified, because he did the same thing. He made a mental note to have a conversation with the child, since his two sisters would be commiserating over something or another and neither one wanted to hear about the war. He saw them because they were relatives.

Melvin got the balance of cream, sugar and coffee just right. He smiled at his little plate with two cake donuts. In the far end of the kitchen, his sisters were whispering something not meant for the ears of men, shaking their heads and clucking. He looked across the table at his niece with her donut and Kool-Aid. “I was in the war.”

“I know. Mom and Dad mentioned it.” She looked into the depths of the cherry Kool-Aid like the French had looked into their wine.

“I married Myrtle when I got back.”

“I saw your wedding picture. Myrtle was very pretty.”

“But I wasn’t pretty,” he smiled.

His niece looked at him quickly, not wanting to offend, but since he was grinning, she continued. “You were very thin. You were very black under the eyes.” She’d never seen anyone look that bad unless they were dying, but didn’t mention it.

“Yes,” he continued to smile, happy for an opportunity to speak of his experiences; most people got upset and looked for an excuse to change the subject, but this girl was regarding him with interest and understanding.

“I was an American serviceman, and the Nazis had already captured me three times. When I escaped again, I knew they wouldn’t mess around, they’d kill me for sure.”

The girl nodded; it didn’t surprise her. To have escaped three times, he must be very smart, but she’d guessed that long ago. “Did anyone help you?”

“Not in my escapes; I always did those alone, less chance of someone slipping up. I was desperate to get back to America and Myrtle.”

“What part of Europe were you in?”

“France, I was always in France. The French people had very little because of the German occupation, but they helped me as best they could. They hid me in chicken coops, they gave me bread if they could spare it, and I foraged like a bear. I ate berries and roots, but I didn’t get any meat, that’s why I was so black under the eyes, I was anemic.”

The girl nodded again, there were many elderly people in the family sharing health woes; she’d heard of anemia. “Then what happened?”

“I had to hide constantly, but one day a German soldier found me. He was holding his gun on me when a French peasant came up from behind and hit him over the head with a shovel. I was told to “run” in French. The funny thing is; that peasant looked just like the paintings of Jesus, except for his clothes and his attitude.”

“Attitude?”

“Yeah, he was grumpy and huffy. I suppose he was having a bad day, and bludgeoning a German to save an American wasn’t high on his priorities. Still, he did it, and I finally made it back to the American line. That glass you have? My stomach had shrunk so much; I could only drink a glass of milk.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled, “Huffy Jesus,” she whispered.

“Operation Huffy Jesus,” he whispered back.

The room was suddenly frigid. Two pairs of round eyes stared at them. “Oh, Melvin, you weren’t blaspheming?!” One sister cried.

The niece stepped right in; she knew her mother. “No, Mom, a tough French peasant who looked like Jesus saved him. ‘Toughie Jesus,’ I said it first.”

“Oh, well, I suppose that’s OK then; just don’t tell blasphemies about Jesus. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about the war to that child; it makes her say things.”

Melvin sighed, both of his sisters worked hard, and both had lost children horribly, but to his war hardened sensibilities, they often seemed self-righteous and shallow. “I won’t blasphemy.”

“That was still Operation Huffy Jesus.” His niece lifted her Kool-Aid. He could read her grinning lips.

“That was Operation Huffy Jesus.” Melvin glanced sideways at his sisters, but they were again examining some grave prejudice committed by a man.

This is loosely based on a conversation with my uncle Melvin when I was about ten, and it’s also a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction piece for Operation Huffy Jesus.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/04/27/flash-fiction-challenge-random-title-generation/#comments

My husband and I owned an RV for awhile because of the dog; it made travel much easier for the three of us. We no longer had to face the accusing “He’ll shed, won’t he?” from motel clerks. Of course he shed, he was an American Eskimo, and even with brushing, that breed will shed like ten white cats!

Sometimes we had to leave him in the room when we went out to dinner. We got tired of fast food, after all. He was good about being left in a strange room with the TV for company. He never barked nor caused a problem because he trusted we’d be back, but it caused us great unease, so his presence limited our travel choices. With the RV, we could park in the back of a restaurant lot, leave on the air conditioning, post a sign saying Don’t Disturb Grandma, Ralph to discourage potential thieves, and the dog was happy lying in his favorite spot, protecting his wheeled home.

Getting to those destinations presented a problem. At the time, GPS software was novel to regular consumers, but my husband was the ultimate techie, so he loaded it on our laptop, stuck the laptop on my lap, and away we went, me surrounded by cables.

Yes, watching those maps was kind of fun. Traveling through dense forests with the chain of green arrows turning yellow, and even red, was entertaining. As soaring treetops blocked the satellites, I felt like I had a power over the seasons, but it wasn’t good for navigation. Sometimes we got off course. The enraged techie would pull over where space allowed, and a stream of cars would pass, acknowledging us. I figure thankful waves and one-finger salutes ran about fifty-fifty.

“When do I turn next?!” jolted me from many a reverie. Now I couldn’t muse on why some black cows had white bands around their tummies instead of looking like regular Holsteins. “How many miles until we get to so-and-so?” he persisted. Hmmm, I had text on the left, but was it the figure on the line above, was it the figure on the highlighted line, or did I add them? What the heck did I do last trip? My husband was getting angry; he hated to overshoot a turn. Could I throw the blasted contraption out a window? Would our marriage survive it? Why was the dog climbing on top of the computer? Oh, he saw another dog in the back of a pickup, and it was a pit bull, but in the RV our dog was taller and tougher, he thought. Much barking ensued.

I hated cities. “Zoom in! Zoom out!” If I was “out” the arrows ran together and blocked street names. If I was “in” the arrows were large and well-spaced, but we shot past turns; I simply couldn’t see them coming.

“Please, let me memorize a map,” I pleaded, “I’ve done it lots of times before.”

“No!” responded the agitated techie. “I need to know about these things.”

And that early laptop cooked my left leg. When I whimpered that it wasn’t healthy, I got a foam pad. That was better, but nothing could be done about all the cables. We would stop for gas and I would disentangle myself as the dog whimpered and bobbled, needing a potty break.

Life is better now. The last time we traveled, I held a little GPS navigation device in my hand and it told me where we needed to go. The device talked to me, and it talked to the techie; it gave him accurate information. He liked that. If we whipped into a Fry’s on impulse, it rerouted us simply and sweetly.

And no body part was cooked.

This is a Chuck Wendig Friday Flash Fiction about travel.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/feed/

“His mother was such a tramp. I don’t know who his father was, but the girl was running the streets when she was twelve; a real heifer, that one.”

Samantha stared at Christopher’s grandfather, horrified. She’d just met him, and those were about the first words out of his mouth. “Sit down, here’s a cup of coffee, my daughter was a whore.”

The old man continued, “Her mother was just the same; took off as soon as the baby was weaned; my daughter did that, too. At least they got the kids on solid food before they left. I was still stuck changing diapers and scrounging for babysitters. I hope you don’t treat Chris that way.”

“Oh God, no, I would never act like that!” Sam glanced at Chris, to see if he would try to defend his mother and grandmother, but he just looked at a cigarette burn in the worn carpet. Well, hell, he was used to his grandfather’s rants; it made sense that he wouldn’t do anything anymore.

“My health will fail, and I may have to live with you guys after you marry. I don’t want to be a burden, of course…”

“We’d be glad to have you,” but she caught the slight shake of Chris’s head. “We’ll talk about it if there’s ever a need, but you seem in perfect health.” She smiled at the patriarch.

“I’m OK for now,” his eyes shifted to her bare legs, then back to the same spot Chris was watching.

Sam felt very uneasy. She moved her gaze to the black cats sunbathing. The male was making sure his butt was nearly against the female’s nose; the disrespect was obvious.  “What are their names?”

“Ike and Tina.”

“Do they fight?”

The joke caught Chris off-guard, and he chuckled. “She grooms him like a kitten, trying to kiss up to him so he won’t hurt her, but he still attacks for the hell of it when he’s bored. I’ve seen her get mad, though, and go after him, he runs, he doesn’t expect that. She’s a peacemaker and he’s an asshole.”

“Kind of like people,” Sam thought, throwing a furtive glance at the grandfather.

Back in the car, Samantha turned to stare at Christopher intently. “Do you ever defend your mother and grandmother?”

“Not around him, you have no idea of the drama he creates, but I don’t want him living with us even though he was my only parent. He’s duplicitous and mean to women. He’d be lying about you in a heartbeat.” Chris looked down the street. “Keep your eyes open for a Burger King. I need something in my stomach besides that black coffee. Since it’s not rush hour; we can get a back table and talk.”

Seated with their burgers, fries and colas, Sam cleared her throat, “Start talking.”

Chris looked unhappy, but he shifted his weight for comfort. “Here’s the biggest lie; my mother wasn’t some heifer. She was a young teen impregnated by her own father. Grandma ran away, and Grandpa happily got a divorce. He had a young woman with the same features he’d liked in his wife. Grandma didn’t dare do anything; Grandpa was tight with the police.” Chris took a bite of his hamburger, chewed, swallowed and continued. “In the course of snooping one rainy day, when I was about thirteen, I found hidden family photos. The ones of my grandfather at my age looked exactly like me; like there was no other blood.”

“That can happen, Chris, it’s not proof of incest.” Sam pulled on her soda, never taking her eyes off his face. “You could have DNA done.”

“What’s the point? I’m here now, and that picture explained a lot. Also, there was a picture of my mother holding me when I was about three; she didn’t run away at nine months. Grandpa had his arm around her in a very possessive manner, and she was scared. She looked about eighteen. I think she found her way back to Grandma after that picture was taken.” The couple ate silently for a few minutes.

“Grandpa never changed a diaper. His police buddies sent their kids over for babysitting. He didn’t dare touch any of those girls; although I’m sure he considered it. But that’s not the only lie.”

“Give it to me,” Sam bit deeply, and then chewed, waiting.

“Grandma found my Facebook page and got in touch. She said nothing about the inbreeding; she clearly intended to spare me, even if it meant protecting Grandpa. Instead, she warned of a tendency toward melt-downs in the family, and that I should take care not to stress myself. She’s a very nice woman, and that’s how we left things. I didn’t let on that I knew the truth. I’m a freak. You can break off the engagement if you like.” Chris poked at his fries sadly. “I’ve been wondering how to tell you this.”

Samantha took both of Chris’s hands warmly. “I don’t want Grandpa in the house with me or our daughters, but let the old fool think he’s won. You may be three quarters Grandpa, but you’re one quarter Grandma, and that makes all the difference.” She leaned over the table to kiss him. “In one hundred years, none of this will matter. I love you.”

This is a Chuck Wendig Friday Flash Fiction, and he has commanded us to tell lies or we will be ejected from the airlock.

Hence, we tell lies.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/03/30/flash-fiction-challenge-a-terrible-lie/#comments

The lynx, the bobcat, the wolf and the black bear were her secret friends, but she didn’t trust the bear enough to share her food with him. He had to settle for back scratches and tick removal, and seemed content with that. The others got half a sandwich; whoever happened upon her first, each noontime, after her morning chores were done.

Her German grandmother had a dog so educated he was almost human. Her Ojibwa grandfather had a raven so educated he was almost human. Katie decided to teach her animal friends until they were almost human. Then they would have proper souls and could go to heaven. The idea delighted her, and she skipped into the forest for another adventure and gentle counseling session with her friends.

Katie’s father stood in the clearing and watched her go. He worried, but the nine-year-old was safer among the tall boreal trees than she would be in a city. Katie was the most adventurous of the children, and he saw her independence as a sign of high intelligence. With her dark gold skin, dark brown hair, and green eyes, she was her father’s model for what he wanted Second Nation to become.

The man had been quickly wounded in Afghanistan, moved to Germany for treatment, and then returned to America with his German nurse wife. A sense of unease came over him, so he’d started a small community at the visual demarcation between slough land with wild rice and ducks, and the boreal forest with mushrooms, berries and wild game. His wife gave birth, provided health care, and ran the greenhouses.

When volcanologists determined that the super volcano in Yellowstone would blow within the year, the country went crazy. Just as in the movies, Mexico closed its borders. Canada quickly followed. The American prevailing winds blow west to east, and soon most of the inhabitants were crammed like kippers along the west coast. Marie’s community was an exception.

Her father ran ads. “If you can handle darkness, cold and wet, consider joining us. If you’re on some kind of entitlement, a violent criminal, a sociopath, bipolar, or afflicted with Seasonal Disorder, don’t bother; we won’t hold your hand.” It was harsh and he felt bad; he’d received medical care on America’s dime, but there was no fat in his organization, and he was God now.

The response was great. There were hearty black people from the Chicago and Detroit areas. There were New York Chinese. The Minneapolis Hmongs were overjoyed; they had a legend of descending from kidnapped white mothers, and saw a chance to revisit that legend. Most of the respondents were white, or white and First Nation mixed. Katie’s father discouraged the terms “Indian” and “Native American” since that was incorrect. American Aboriginal was accepted, but First Nation was preferred. He was an American Ojibwa with Canadian sensibilities.

Yellowstone blew, and gritty darkness smothered the land. Katie’s community burned the abundant peat moss blocks they’d cut for steam power. There was heat, low illumination, and grow lights in the greenhouses for fresh produce. There was dried wild rice, dried mushrooms, canned berries, frozen berries, canned meat, frozen meat, and one day, fresh meat. The wild animals delivered a partial moose.

Katie’s father called a meeting. “Why did they do that?” He looked at his daughter, of course.

“I’ve been educating them, Daddy. The first lessons were kindness and sharing. I wanted them to have good enough souls so they could go to heaven. Grandma’s priest said animals don’t get to be in heaven, and I had to fix that.”

The room was silent for a long time. Then the second-in-command, a black community organizer from Chicago, stood. “These certainly aren’t normal wild animals.”

“No, they’re not,” Katie agreed, “they’re educated wild animals. When the sun comes back, I’m going into the forest to teach them other things. In the meantime, though, the vegetarians might need any plant scraps we can spare. The grass might not return right away.”

The group was silent again. Finally a Hmong elder stood. “I see no reason to oppose what this girl is doing. Since we’re starting a new world anyway, why not a better one?” Agreement washed through the room.

“It seems my idea for Second Nation is going to be a little different,” Katie’s father smiled. “The wild animals will be considered a tribe unto themselves. Just as your mother is in charge of growing vegetables, Katie, you will be in charge of socializing the wild animals. There will be sharing of food and no unnecessary harm. It will be a lot like the old days of my people. Can you add anything, my dear?”

“Just one thing,” Katie tented her fingertips together shyly, “you really can’t trust a bear.”

Chuck Wendig gave us a choice of five settings. I chose Fairy Tale Forest.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/03/23/flash-fiction-challenge-choose-your-own-setting/#comments

When Dad was about twelve, he plowed his family fields walking behind draft horses; tractors were around, but the lazy older brothers grabbed them first. They didn’t care that their younger sibling had to walk and wrestle a one-bottom plow all day. In fairness, he was probably stronger.

One day, far from home (the family was well-off at that point, with considerable land); Dad saw the western sky turn black. He dropped the plow and headed the team back to the barn at a trot, running behind them and holding the reins; the pair was still hitched together.

They needed no encouraging; the big horses knew danger when they saw it, and the barn promised safety and food. But the storm was moving fast, coming out of nowhere, it seemed, and lighting crackled, zigzagged and boomed across the faces of the towering black clouds. Dad and the horses wouldn’t make it to the barn.

Heavy winter runoff necessitated ditching; there was a shallow ditch about fifty yards to the right, with a sparse grove of thin poplars, growing only since the ditch was dug. Dad reined the horses in that direction; it was flimsy protection, but all they had.

Before they reached the grove, lightning reached them. Dad was never sure if the God Fire came from the heavens, came out of the ground, or just materialized, but it caused the horses to rear together, their ears outlined in blue light.

Dad was thrown to the ground. He lay, shocked but conscious, looking up at the huge horses looming over him, and hoping they didn’t fall backward, crushing him.

The moment passed, and the horses returned to all four feet, unhappy but alive. Dad stood as well. Then the wind and rain hit. Dad squinted into the maelstrom and saw a tornado funnel hurling toward them. He urged the horses into the grove.

A tornado could certainly lift a horse, but the pair got lucky. They were big, they were hitched together, and they had enough sense to seek the woodiest protection, turning their rumps toward the storm and dropping their heads; they made themselves as rounded as possible.

Dad dove into the ditch, which was rapidly filling with water. He grabbed grass and weeds with both hands as the tornado lifted him slightly, and then dropped him, lifted him slightly, and then dropped him. He felt like he was in a washing machine; he got very clean.

The storm moved east, and a brilliant sun came out, complete with rainbow. Dad collected the horses and went back to the barn; it was too wet to plow anyway.

This was a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction for The Fire of the Gods. Some people have doubted the veracity of the old home stories I tell, but my folks were very old fashioned (think a Scandinavian version of the Amish), and I was born when they were well into middle age. Enjoy.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/03/16/flash-fiction-challenge-the-fire-of-the-gods/

They yelled for attention when I went outside. They were the first to recognize shunned dog biscuits as a food opportunity. They measured out their own brand of justice to the dove, sparrow, lizard and moth. They regarded my modest, dry, Western garden as a paradise. They sat on the gate and flung an insult at God herself. They would have given her the finger… if they had a finger.

When I performed an autumn cleaning on the bluebird house, they strutted on the fence near my cheek, yelling demands. If there were unhatched eggs or dead babies, they wanted them, regardless of condition.

As I sat watching the other birds get water, a marginally friendly lizard crept near my feet and looked at me. He disregarded most of the birds, but when THEY arrived, he flattened himself and froze. “Oh ho, they kill you guys, don’t they?” The lizard did nothing. “But they don’t see you if you don’t move? Kind of like an old dinosaur, yeah? They find the food I leave out because they’re always watching, and see me place it? They do tap on the slider sometimes. They stripped a turkey carcass once, and then sat on the deck rail with tabs of meat hanging from their beaks; I think it was praise for my good behavior.” The lizard slipped away when the coast was clear.

I walked back from getting the mail, and passed the retired doctor raking gravel in his driveway. “They make a lot of noise, don’t they?” He seemed to dislike them.

“They’re noisy, but I kind of like them; they’re related to crows and really smart. Research has proven that kind of bird can create and use tools.”

The retired doctor stared at me for a moment. “You’re lying.” He went back to his task.

I should have been offended, but I’d had ample experience with him and his spouse. She was a doctor’s daughter, married to a doctor. When I failed to recognize an unusual doorbell that buzzed when it was wound, she’d accused me of lying about growing up on a farm; seems she’d seen such a doorbell in a farmhouse once, and assumed every farmhouse in the world had that exact doorbell. What stupid sheltered people; I’d walked away. Watch dogs were much better.

They were waiting for me in their little paradise. I can’t say they liked me; I’m not sure they were capable of liking anything, although they seemed to make adequate mates and parents. Their ancestors long predated man, but they’d realized I was a primate to watch; sometimes I did nice things, like placing meat scraps on a rock. I decided to get them a couple dog biscuits.

I’m glad Steller’s jays aren’t six feet tall.

This is a Chuck Wendig Friday Flash Fiction. He gave us twenty words, instructing us to use ten of them. A little short, but adequate perhaps.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/03/09/flash-fiction-challenge-ive-chosen-your-words/

The shock was terrible.

Anna Marie had swung by the house after work to get some unused books from Marie Beth’s library. Their mothers attended the same church, were best buds, and a parking lot “Garage Sale” would happen next Saturday at the church to raise funds for something or other.

The young women joked pleasantly as the books changed hands; they’d known each other all their lives, but didn’t hang together like their mothers. Anna Marie put the books into her back seat. Then the neighbor’s dogs arrived, since they claimed the dead-end acreage as their domain. Marie Beth stepped forward, protecting Anna Marie, but the other woman amazed her by walking up to the large male dog and rolling back his upper lip. “Look at the teeth on this boy!”

“How did she know that?” Marie Beth watched Anna Marie drive away. She looked down at the dogs, who liked her for her pig ear snacks, but generally despised strangers. “You know her, don’t you?” They wagged their stubs and panted, hoping for a treat.

During dinner, she quietly remarked to her husband, “It was nice of Anna Marie to come out of her way to get those books.”

“That was no problem; she goes this way to work.” He took more fajita filling, obviously working a computer solution out in his head.

Marie Beth quietly cleaned the kitchen by herself. Puzzle pieces were falling into place, taking her breath away.

“Honey, could you get me a peanut butter and something sandwich? Those fajitas just didn’t do it.” Her husband was obviously back at work in his office.

Marie Beth had to be at work by six. Anna Marie had until nine. Marie Beth pulled out a loaf of frozen whole-wheat bread.

Anna Marie had freeway all the way to work; why was she detouring into a dead-end dirt road? Marie Beth put two slices into the toaster.

The bedspread in the guest room had indentations sometimes; her husband blamed the dog. Marie Beth got out a plate.

One day she’d come home early when work was cancelled. Her husband had RUN into his office, sending an e-mail and heading someone off. Marie Beth put the bread away.

A long, brown hair had been stuck in a used dryer sheet; it matched no one in the house. Some person must have needed to wash and dry pants or a shirt. Marie Beth found the peanut butter.

After a light dusting of snow, there were additional tire tracks. Her husband remarked that the neighbor got lots of visitors, but why did they turn into HER driveway? Marie Beth went looking for jelly or jam.

The toast was done, and Marie Beth opened a partial jar of Blackberry preserves from the refrigerator. She stopped and looked closer. There was black mold in there with the preserves. Odd; chilled sugary things didn’t usually get moldy, but there it was. Marie Beth sucked in her breath; her husband was allergic to molds and fungi; she could never give him mushrooms, he turned red and his throat closed.

Did she dare? She walked around the kitchen looking at the toast on the plate, with the peanut butter and preserves to the side. She got out a knife.

He probably wouldn’t die; he had an eppy pen to reduce swelling in case of accidental mushroom ingestion. But the whore had been in Marie Beth’s space so often; she’d made friends with the neighbor’s watchdogs!

Marie Beth started to make the toxic sandwich, and then thought better of it. She pitched the moldy preserves into the trash. She looked in the cupboard for fresh apple jelly. Her husband had cheated before, but when push came to shove, he always chose to remain with her. Marie Beth opened the apple jelly. She carefully, and with some affection, spread the peanut butter on the toast. Then she lavished a layer of apple jelly on top of that. She positioned the top toast carefully, and cut on the diagonal. She brought it up to her husband.

This challenge couldn’t go unanswered; hell, her husband might even make the slut pregnant. Marie Beth’s brain was burning energy like a furnace, and her face was hot, so she pulled out the frozen bread for another sandwich. She got herself a plate. Eating more might calm her.

She could simply tell her husband she’d figured the whole thing out, and let him deny it. If she threatened to give up her job, he’d really pay attention; she made more than him.

She could hide her car, puncture Anna Marie’s tires, and go to work late, but she didn’t want to do something so drastic she attracted bad Karma. Marie Beth decided to use lunch meat.

When the toast popped, she made another careful sandwich, this one with lunch meat, mayonnaise and greens. The punishment had to fit the crime.

The mothers! Marie Beth smiled widely. Those old Boomer girls knew sex, and they had a million dirty tricks they could pull out of their pushup bras. Marie Beth would turn the mothers loose on those lovebirds. This was going to be good!

She finished her sandwich, put the plate into the dishwasher, returned the other ingredients to the refrigerator, and dug in a bottom cupboard for pig ears. Those adorable snitches deserved a treat.

Chuck Wendig wanted us to write a sandwich story for this week’s Flash Fiction, but every scene needed drama and conflict.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/02/17/flash-fiction-challenge-making-a-sandwich/

“Why isn’t this work ever done correctly?!” Dave threw the printouts on Meghan’s desk and towered over her, glaring. He didn’t look at Brittany.

“Um, Dave, I didn’t do these. I always put my initials and date in the right bottom corner. These aren’t mine.”

“Then who did them?” He stared harder at Meghan, willing her to take the blame. Brittany looked out a window. Dave snorted, turned abruptly, and stormed out of the clerical office.

Meghan sighed, resuming her data entries. To her left, Brittany tapped away as well. There was no need to speak of the incident.

One woman was blonde and the other brunette, but they resembled each other; pretty faces, then thick in the hips and thighs. They sat all day at their computers, drinking coffee while eating donuts, Napoleons and baklava. Neither woman exercised, unless one counted the sexual rolling Brittany enjoyed with Dave.

Dave was a church-going man from a good family. But ten years before, on his birthday, his lovely wife had finally received the correct diagnosis of her mystery ailment; Multiple Sclerosis. Her health dipped, then recovered slightly, then dipped again, always taking her somewhat lower. Their sex life disappeared.

As Dave stormed down a corridor, showcasing his faux rage against Meghan, the Executive Secretary looked up from her tasks. She knew what was happening, everyone knew it, and the situation made her angry. No one was going to fire Meghan, of course, since the bumbler was the sheltered Brittany, but it was unfair. For her part, Meghan took the unjust criticism in stride. She liked her job, got decent raises, and Dave didn’t dare actually touch her, but she sure wouldn’t screw him! The other executives, all men, thought the whole thing hilarious.

Dave drove home through the thickening dusk. It was October, and the days were shorter and colder. He didn’t know how his wife would be this evening; he never knew. The searing pains came out of nowhere and could even throw her to the floor like a phantom wrestler.

Dave was a bad man in a bunch of ways. But he was healthy and not ready to give up sex. He strung Brittany along with vague promises. If she was dumb enough to think he would divorce his wife, it was her own damn fault. She was thirty, after all, and he was positive Meghan had given her a few clues.

He turned into his dirt driveway, and all four rescue dogs came leaping over each other to give “Daddy” his first kiss of the evening.

“I’ve got to get out of the house,” his wife informed him when he came in the door. “I haven’t been out in a week and I’m going stir-crazy.”

“Sure, did you have any place in mind?”

“Take me to the mall. I need to walk in a place where the roof isn’t two and a half feet above my head!”

“Where would you like to eat dinner?”

“An Italian restaurant opened in the spot that used to be Marie Callender. It’s in the east wing of the mall; I read about it in the paper. Let’s go there.”

“Can you manage with your crutches, or should I bring the wheelchair?”

“Bring the wheelchair, just in case.” His wife had summoned the energy for a shower, styled her hair and applied makeup. She looked quite fetching. Dave felt a surge of affection for this tormented person.

After his wife and her equipment were safely stowed in the car, Dave lowered his window and addressed the four dogs. “If you guys guard the place, I’ll swing by Burger King and get plain cheeseburgers; no ketchup, no lettuce and no pickles.”

As he drove away from the house, he could still hear their barks and howls of joy. They were answered by a group of not so fortunate coyotes.

Chuck Wendig wanted us to write about an unlikeable, but still sympathetic protagonist. Boy, have I known those! See also, The Sociopath of Carson City via www.VermillionRoadPress.com

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/02/10/flash-fiction-challenge-the-unlikable-protagonist/