Driving with Grandpa

Misha was surprised that she could remember when she first learned to drive. Typically, she could never remember details of any events that were traumatic. And in her mind learning to drive had always been traumatic.

Her mother never got a drivers license after she drove her parent’s Ford off the road into a muddy field when she was learning to drive. Misha’s sister never learn to drive either because she was afraid she would do the something similar and crash the car.   Misha’s dad loudly announced that he was tired of being the only person in the house to chauffeur everyone around and that Misha WOULD get a drivers license whether she liked it or not.

Misha’s initial training began in her drivers ed course which met at the hideous hour of 6:30 in the morning during the spring semester of her junior year in high school. To augment the training she spent Sundays mornings practicing her driving with her dad. That lasted until a severe breakdown of communication occurred when they were waiting at a red light.  Her intention was to drive through the intersection when the light turned green. Her dad, though, thought she was going to make a right turn.

“Why are you waiting? Go,” he urged.

“No, I can’t. It’s red.

“Yes you can. There’s no one coming.”

“No, I can’t,” Misha said with a little more emphasis

“Just drive, would you?!”

There was nothing Misha hated more than to get hollered at by her dad, so she floored it and plowed through the intersection on the red light. Her dad grip the dashboard and swore, “What the hell are you doing?!“

That was the last time she went practice driving with her dad. This task now fell upon her grandfather, another family chauffeur, who also wanted another driver to rely on.    Misha and her grandpa would go out on Saturday mornings. They avoided the highway and took roads through the countryside. Her grandpa would point out places that held memories for him and lamented those things that had changed. He would tell her stories of their family coming to the area. He told her funny stories of his days working for the movie studios. He even told her some ghost stories that he swore were true.

Misha eventually got her license and indeed became the chauffeur for her mom, sister, grandfather and dad (who got over his initial fright and consternation when he realized that he could sit back and relax on a Sunday drive).   She had many more excursions with her grandpa.

Misha, in retrospect, concluded that learning to drive was not as traumatic as she once thought.  In fact, it was downright enjoyable.

Day 71, I think: Singing the Blues in a Short Short Ghost Story

I actually wrote this bit of flash fiction last week, but it seems to fit today’s RagTag prompt.  Here is a short-short story (544 words) about a sad little girl ghost.   Also, I did want to show that I actually do write fiction from time-to-time.  🙂

---

The Girl with the Light Brown Hair

I shoved the front door shut with my foot and lugged my shopping bags into the kitchen.  Another day in lock down.  Is it day 62 or 63?  They are all starting to blur together.   As I started to unload my bags, I heard the sound of my television in the bedroom.  I knew I had turned it off before I left for the store, so this could only mean one thing.   I sighed, finished putting a quart of milk in the refrigerator and headed towards my bedroom. 

As I approached the door, I slowed and carefully peeked in.   She was there. 

A little girl, about five or six, I reckoned, sat on the edge of my bed.  She had light brown hair and was dressed in a summery blue tee-shirt and flower print shorts. Her pale legs dangled over the edge of the bed, and she was engaged with rapt attention to Dora and her friends on the screen.  

Not everyone has ghosts, but this house does, so I was not surprised at all.  

Not wanting to scare her, I softly said.  “Well hey there.”

She jumped nevertheless and started to slide off the bed. 

“No, no.  You can stay. It’s okay.”  I stepped into the room.

She relaxed and settled back down.  Her large, doleful brown eyes looked up at me.  I felt something crack in my chest. 

“I haven’t seen you for a long time. How are you?”

She did not reply.  She rarely spoke and has never told me her name.   I glanced at the tv.   “Do you like that show?”

“Yeah. It’s funny.”  

“Can I sit and watch with you?”

She did not reply but moved over to make room for me.   

“I’ve missed you,” I said as I sat down.  She continued to watch the screen.

“Where have you been for so long?” I asked. 

“I’ve been here. You just don’t notice me.”

“Well, yeah, about that… I’m sorry.  I just got really busy… That was wrong of me.”

That television snapped off on its own

“What’s wrong?”

“I miss you too. It’s scary being here all by myself.”

“I should be here for you.  I’m so sorry.   I know it’s really scary. And I know that you are really lonely.”

“They go away and leave me alone too.  And when they come back they yell at me.   I’m sorry– I don’t mean to make them mad.”

I was stunned.  She had never spoken this much before. 

“I don’t think they love me.”  She sniffed.

“Of course they do.”  

I did not know who “they” were but I could guess.  “They just didn’t know how to talk to you right.”

She lowered her head.    

“They should not have yelled at you.  And I should be here to tell them to stop.  In fact, I’m gonna tell you this:  They don’t get to yell at you anymore.  If you see them coming, you come and get me.”  

“And you’ll come?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Her little ghostly body leaned in to mine and I could see a faint smile on her face. 

I wrapped my arm around her.  I guess I’m a parent now, I thought, and my own eyes filled with tears.

LJGloyd (c) 2020

 

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/05/21/ragtag-daily-prompt-thursday-the-blues/

 

 

 

 

She’s Not Glinda and She’s Stalking Me

“Wake up. “

I rolled towards the wall and buried my face in a pillow. 

“Wake up!”

I flung the comforter off and sat up in bed.   

“What!?  Leave me alone!”

I switched on the lamp next to my bed.  There was no one in the room. The big blue numbers on my nightstand clock glowed 4:37 am.

I tried to go back to sleep, but after several minutes, I knew it was pointless so I reached for my phone and started thumbing through my social media feeds.  I must have dozed off because the next thing I felt was a vibration on my chest and heard the muffled sound of my cell phone’s alarm.

I  was certain that I had disabled the alarm before I went to bed last night. My plan had been to sleep in for once on a Saturday morning.  I was not surprised though.  This could only mean one thing. She was back.

“Stop messing with my electronics!”  I muttered.  “I hate it when she does that.” I sighed and rolled out of bed.  After making a quick pit stop in the bathroom, I stumbled into the kitchen.

She was standing there with her head inside my refrigerator.  “Don’t tell me you were planning on having cold pizza for breakfast.”  

“Arvilla, what do you want?” And shoved  a K cup into the machine and jabbed the button.  I could not deal with her without a big cup of Columbia first.

Arvilla shut the refrigerator and plopped down in a chair.  “I think you know. “

Her voice made me wince. Most of my creative friends had muses who were lovely ethereal beings who sprinkled inspiration like magic dust— someone like Glinda, the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz.  My muse, Arvilla, is a middle-aged brassy redhead with a nasally whine and the personality of the Wicked Witch of the West.  She also did double-duty as my inner critic.  And: my friends’ muses don’t stalk them.

She read my mind. Literally. “I am not into sprinkling fairy dust and I do not stalk. You have got to do the work,” she pronounced.  “You’ve read enough self-help books for creatives so you know what you need to do. “

I reached for a box of organic granola and shook it at her. She shrugged her shoulders. “You need to get out of the house,” she said, “and do some fieldwork. “

I perked up.  I thought she was going to nag me to sit down and write.

“I thought you might like that. You, my dear, are a little constipated.”  She nodded her head at the box of cereal. “And that isn’t going to help you get unblocked.”  

I glanced out the kitchen window at my yard and the two large magnolia trees in it.   “I’ve got so many chores to do. I need to rake leaves for one thing. “

“What leaves?”   I looked again. There were no leaves under the trees.   “And don’t even mention your laundry. You have enough underwear and towels for one more day. Good grief,  you sure do know how to procrastinate.“

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a box of almond milk. As I poured it over my cereal I said, “So what’s the plan? “

“Bring your camera, a notebook and pen, and your inventory list of colored pencils.”   I arched an eyebrow at her. 

“Trust me.  I’ll meet you at Blick’s in at 9. Don’t be late. “

*****

Right on time, I entered the art supply store.  I found her on the drawing aisle.  I consulted my list and reached for a pencil in the open stock bin.  “No, no. You don’t need any more burnt umber or yellow ocher. Ghastly colors.  How boring. Get the spring green. Oh, better yet, the lime green. “

“Lime green? When am I ever going to use a lime green pencil?’

“Trust me.”  Going shopping with Arvilla is always an interesting experience.

A few minutes later we were in my car.  “Home?”

“Not yet.  The art store was the appetizer.  We still have the main course coming.”

Arvilla directed me and soon we were speeding south on the freeway.

“Get off at the next exit. “   I immediately knew where we were going.

“The botanical gardens?”   Arvilla just smiled.

I have always liked the botanical gardens, a place where I could get away and unplugged for a few hours. I have never been there in May, but I knew the colors would be glorious.

The garden did not disappoint me. Every conceivable flower that could grow in this area was in full bloom.  The rose garden was particularly vibrant. Trees, leaves and other foliage were thick and lush from all the recent winter rain.  They displayed every possible shade of green, including, yes, lime green.

I toured the vegetable patch, the succulents and cacti, the herb garden and the indigenous plant section, enthusiastically snapping pictures and getting a feel for my new camera’s features.  I started down a path towards the large pond in the center of the park and the banyan grove.

“No, we’re done. Time to go.”  Arvilla was suddenly at my side. I jumped.

“Stop doing that!”  I glared at her.  “And why are we done?  We haven’t been here a full hour.”

“Because I know you.  You’ll hike all over this place and snap a few hundred pictures.  Then you’ll be too tired when you get home to download your pictures and they’ll just sit on your camera for three months which will make me have to come back and kick you in the butt again.”

She had me pegged.

“Fine.”  I started hiking up the hill towards the exit.

“We’re going to stop for a few minutes at the gift shop.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

A few minutes later I arrived at the garden’s gift shop.  Arvilla was already there, seated on a bench and filing her nails as she waited.  I settled down next to her.

Arvilla pointed her nail file towards a rack of succulents on sale.  Next to them was terracotta bust that looked just like Arvilla.    “I know the sculptor. That one turned out pretty good, if I do say so. She really captured my essence.”

“You know the sculptor?”

“Well, of course.  You don’t think you’re my only client, do you?”

“Um, I guess I never really thought about it…. um, well, now what?

Arvilla sighed and put down her file.  “Good grief, do I have to do everything?  Get out your notebook and start brainstorming.”

“But…”

“But what?  This is why I brought you here– so your pump can get primed.”   Arvilla stood up and looked into the distance.  “Uh-oh.  I gotta go.  There’s a poet having a meltdown in the Walmart parking lot.  I need to do some consoling.  See you later.”  Arvilla vanished.

“You never ‘console’ me,” I grumbled as I pulled out my notebook from my backpack.

As my pen started moving through the journal, ideas started pouring faster than I could write them down.  I considered the images.   I could use many of the photos I shot simply as they were— as photographic compositions. I definitely could use most of them for reference in creating drawings, watercolor paintings, and elements in digital compositions.  Then poetic phrases started forming in the back of my mind as well as themes for essays on creativity, spirituality and environmental activism. History, theology, philosophy, and ideas for funny short stories all presented themselves in momentary glimpses across my mind’s eye.  I scribbled notes in the book until I finally slowed down and stopped.  I felt light and refreshed.

I clicked my pen shut and shoved it and the notebook into my bag.

“Now…” Arvilla’s voice seemed to be coming from the terracotta bust. “…go home, take one of these ideas and create something”. I nodded.

“And if I find you screwing around on the internet, I will knock out your WiFi for a week.”

“You know I hate it when you do that!”

Arvilla chuckled.

ljg 2019   Today’s Ragtag prompt is “stalk“.

Tía Luna

Tía Luna

“I can’t stand this anymore!” Glenda flung open her front door, letting in a rush of cooler air to her stifling apartment. She stomped onto the porch and plopped down on the top step. She wiped her sweaty face with the hem of her tee-shirt.

The late afternoon sky had transitioned to a deep cobalt blue and the thin sliver of a waxing crescent moon reflected the light of the setting sun. The streetlights were beginning to glow.

A wave of anxiety overtook her and she glanced around. The street was quiet. This was odd for an August evening. There should be runners and walkers headed toward the beach and beach-goers coming back, but she was utterly alone. The restraining order that she had placed on Roger was working, it seemed, since she had not seen him for several days. Not wanting to take the chance of running into him, she had played it safe and spent the entire day inside her apartment. She kept the windows and door shut to suggest she was not home. That, and having no air conditioning as well, made her apartment feel like an oven.

She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t live like this,” she muttered. She felt so cold inside. Glenda snorted and shook her head at the irony of being so frozen on a hot summer night.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement. She looked up and saw an animal trotting down the sidewalk towards her. It was moving at a fast clip, with a smooth gait, and its head lowered as if it were trying not to be seen. As the creature came into the pool of the porch’s light, Glenda saw its big triangle-shaped ears, pointed muzzle, bushy tail, and gray-flecked tawny pelt. It stared ahead and gave her no notice. Its eyes did not have the knowing, engaged look of a dog. This animal was wild.

Glenda became completely immobile. She was no more than ten feet from it. She had never encountered a wild animal capable of injuring her at such a close distance, but it did not break stride and continued on as if it were on some urgent mission. It glided past her down the sidewalk and slipped around the corner.

It took Glenda a moment or two to realize that she had just encountered a coyote. She knew they often came into urban areas, but the closest wilderness habitat was it least twenty miles away. She had no idea that they could range so far. Glenda quickly stood, pulled shut her front door, and took off in the direction the coyote had trotted.

She carefully peered around the corner and could see the coyote halfway down the street. Glenda pulled out her cell phone and asked it to dial the front desk of the local police precinct. She felt that someone in authority should know that a potentially dangerous animal was roaming the streets of her neighborhood. Not wanting to lose sight of the coyote, Glenda broke into a jog while waiting for her call to connect.

A man with a flat, bored voice answered. When Glenda finished with her report, the man said, “Are you sure, ma’am, that you didn’t just see a dog?“

“I did not ‘just see a dog’. I saw a coyote,” she emphatically stated as she jogged. “I’m only reporting this because I figured you’d want to make sure that no one‘s pet or small child is attacked. I hope we’re on the same page here, officer.”

The man sighed and asked her for her name and phone number. “We’ll check it out, ma’am.”

“Thank you”. Glenda shoved her phone back into her pocket. She had reached the place where the street dead-ended into the neighborhood park. As she paused for a moment to catch her breath, she spotted the coyote running in and out of the shadows across the outfield of the park’s baseball field. Glenda entered the park and headed in the same direction. She had nearly caught up with the animal, but it slipped into some bushes at the edge of a grove of trees.

Glenda came to a stop, and with her hands on her hips, she bent over gasping for air. “You win, Wile E. I gotta rest.”

“Who you talkin’ to, Glenda?”

Glenda spun around.

“Tía Luna!”

Seated on a park bench was a matronly woman. Her legs were too short to reach the ground so she swung them, clad with black sneakers and white socks, like a child on a swing set. She wore purple spandex yoga pants and a blood red tee-shirt with faded lettering that said, “Stay Calm and Yell Bingo.” Her silver hair was drawn up and tucked under a blue Dodger baseball cap that crowned her head. In one hand she held a barbecued sparerib bone while the other balanced an open takeout container on her lap. Next to her on the seat of the bench were two open Corona bottles. Her round smooth face beamed with a toothy grin.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Tía Luna, but no one really knew anything about her. Some said she lived in a flat above a son’s auto body shop. Some said she lived in a fancy townhouse purchased by a doctor daughter. And some quipped that she lived on Mars. She dispensed wisdom to everyone in the neighborhood, regardless of age, gender, language, or color. From how to raise children to how to untangle complicated relationships to how to cure arthritis, Tía had the answer.

“I saw a coyote.”

“And you decided to chase it?”

Glenda shifted on her feet, “Well, I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to do.” She honestly didn’t know why she had done that. Changing the subject, she asked, ”Tía, what are you doing here so late?” She typically saw Tía Luna only in the early morning power-walking with her posse of elderly friends while sipping their cups of senior discount McDonald’s coffee.  

“I’m on a date,” she giggled.

“You’re on a date?”

“Why not? You’re never too old to… “ Tía Luna shimmied her ample bosom and gyrated her hips on the seat of the bench.

“Tía!”

The old woman laughed and then ripped off a piece of flesh from the sparerib bone. With her other hand she held the container forward to Glenda. “You want some? Johnnie’s makes the best,” she said between chews.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Tía shrugged. “Arturo went back to get some more sauce.”

“Arturo? What happened to Hector? I used to see you and Hector hang together all the time.”

Tía made a dismissive wave with the bone. “Pthhph! Hector is old news. I’m keeping my options open.” Tía narrowed her eyes and pointed the bone at Glenda. “And you— talkin’ about guys— Where’s that no-good piece of—”

“Tía—“

“—caca!”

“His name is Roger. And I don’t know where he’s at. I haven’t seen him for days.”

“It’s good you took out those papers on him.”

Glenda stared at her. How could she know about the restraining order? She had not even mentioned it to her own family. She was too ashamed to admit what he had done to her.

“But hiding out in your apartment? What are you thinking? That’s no way to live.”

Glenda lowered her face and said, “I know, I know.”

Tía dropped the bare bone into the container and tossed it on the bench beside her. She wiped her fingers with a paper napkin. She sighed and said, “So what are you going to do about this?”

“I don’t know.” She felt tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

“Well, I’m gonna tell you what to do. First of all, get out of that apartment. You can’t live like that.”

Glenda nodded.

“And do not run and hide somewhere else. You being scared is just where he wants you. Being scared is what gives him his power over you. Do. Not. Be. Afraid,” she sternly stated, punctuating each word with a finger.

“But you don’t know what he can do to me,” Glenda pleaded. “I can’t fight him.”

“I’m not saying to fight him. I am telling you to resist him. Bullies run away when they meet a strong woman. You understand?”

Glenda sniffed and nodded.

“Stand strong. And don’t feel sorry for yourself. You are better than that. Right?”

“Yes— I AM better than that.”

“And I have eyes and ears everywhere in this neighborhood and if he shows up around here, I’m gonna know it and I’m gonna send my people after him. I have ‘people’, you know, and we’re looking out for you.” Tía chuckled.

Glenda was about to respond when she heard a rustle. She turned toward the sound. Standing a few yards away in front of the bushes at the edge of the tree line was the coyote. Its yellow green eyes looked directly into hers.

“Tía! Do you see it? It’s back.” Glenda turned her gaze to the bench. Tía Luna was gone. The bench was completely empty. “Tía? Tía, where are you?”

She spun around, looking in all directions. Then she noticed that the coyote had vanished as well. Glenda sighed “Well, that’s Tía Luna for you.“

It was completely dark now, and Glenda slowly walked to the bike path that wound through the park. As she approached a curve in the path that headed alongside the baseball field and towards the park’s exit, she saw a silhouette of a person.

The figure was back lit by the intense white field lights. The figure’s height, build, and gait told her this was a man. Glenda noted that he held a thick object in his hand.

Oh God. Roger.

Glenda abruptly stopped and her muscles tensed to run. Then she remembered something that she had seen in a nature documentary about how when prey runs then the predator will pursue. No, she was not going to run. She was going to stand her ground. She was going to tell Roger to his face to get out of her life forever. She would not be intimidated. She began walking towards the man, picking up speed. She felt her body begin to shake. Even though a feeling of power came over her, a feeling that she was invincible, she nevertheless pulled her cell phone out of the pocket and was poised to dial 911 if necessary.

When she was just a few yards from the man, she opened her mouth to speak. Before she could say anything she heard a squawky, fuzzy voice coming from the man. He reached a hand up to his shoulder and lowered his mouth to it.

“Copy that. I think I see her now. Excuse me, ma’am, did you call about a coyote?”

Glenda stopped. She could barely stifle a laugh of relief. Her legs felt like gelatin. “Yes, officer, I did. I saw it over there.” She pointed back towards the bushes behind her. The police officer pointed the flashlight in his hand in that direction.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll check it out. You know, ma’am, the park closed at dusk. It’s not safe for you to be here right now.”

Glenda smiled at him. “I’ll be fine.”

The officer gave her a bewildered look. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked off towards the bushes.

Glenda continued on her way, the anxiety, fear, and anger sliding off her shoulders and melting into the darkness. She looked up at the crescent moon sailing across the night sky and trembled with delight.

LJGloyd 2018

Image courtesy of Morguefile

Dusk

A Close Encounter with My Inner Critic

The first short story I ever posted for public consumption came about when I took a turn down a rabbit hole at the Soul Food Cafe.  The story was the response to a prompt about overcoming writing blocks.  In my story I have a close encounter with my vexing inner critic (long-since  banished) in a virtual and fantastical writer’s retreat called Riversleigh Manor. Here is a repost of that story.

——————– 

The Visitor

My room in Riversleigh Manor is comfortable. It has hardwood floors and a bright berber carpet, recessed bookshelves filled with all my favorite history and art books, fine literature, and religious and philosophical treatises of all sorts. A map of Riversleigh hangs on wall, and I am delighted to discover all the cozy places I could hole up and work. Though the room is furnished with only the most basic pieces—bed, writing table, reading chair, and chest of drawers—there is one item that seems out of place. On the wall over the chest of drawers, hangs a large silver framed mirror with inlaid amber around the glass. Its luxury contrasts the utility of the rest of the room.

I unpacked my sparse belongings—a change of clothes, a few special books, some toiletries, my writing and art supplies. I slid open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. I gazed at the valley below and saw the River ribbon its way towards the sea. In the distance I could see the mouth of the River, a vast delta spreading out like a large green lotus, spilling into the Bay.

As I leaned on the railing and tried to compose a poem in my head about the River, I heard a banging sound from my room. I rushed back in and saw the mirror over the chest rising and falling against the wall. As I grabbed the mirror to keep it from shattering, a glow emanated from it, filling the room with a orange-yellow light. I had been warned that Riversleigh was a place of unusual happenings so I wasn’t afraid or even surprised.

Holding the mirror firmly in place, I looked into it and saw it filling with a wall of fire. The flames writhed and shimmered but cast no heat. In the depths of the flames, I could see a dark speck grow larger and rush towards me. It grew into the figure of a woman. Just as the figure filled the entire mirror, a large pop sounded and I released the mirror and fell back on my bed, covering my eyes against a bright blast of light.

Silence enveloped the room and after a moment, I opened my eyes.  “Oh, no, not YOU!”

“Well, hey there, Sugar!”

“What are YOU doing here?”

“What? Can’t a friend drop by and say hello?”

“Yeah, right, like WE’RE friends,” I said as I pulled myself off the bed. Standing in front of the mirror was Arvilla. Tall, platinum blonde and gorgeous, she was dressed in a pin-striped business suit, pearls, and stiletto heels.

“That’s a different look. And what’s with the flaming entrance? That’s over-the-top, even for you!”

“What can I say, Sugar, it’s the twenty-first century and I’ve got to keep with the program.”

“Like I care. You didn’t answer my question—what are you doing here?”

“I heard you were taking a little vacation and I just wanted to stop by to see if I could be of some assistance.” Arvilla strolled across the room, grimacing at the furniture. She plopped herself on the chair and put her feet on my writing desk. She picked up my journal and began thumbing through it.

“I most certainly do NOT need anything from you.” I started picking up my clothes that had fallen to the floor.

“You only brought one set of clothes and no underwear—now that’s rustic, darlin’.”

She was right. How could I have forgotten underwear? “Um, I’ll pick some up at the Gypsy Camp. They have everything anyone would want.”

“Oh, yes, Gypsy underwear. How Bohemian of you. Dressing the part of a writer? You might as well, honey, because that’s as close to being a writer as you’ll ever be.”

“Just who do you think—!”

She opened my journal.  “Oh, looky here…..’I strive to transform reality through my words and images.’” Now, ain’t that a hoot and a holler.”

I rushed over to the table and grabbed the journal out of her hands. “Arvilla, get out! I came ten thousand miles to get away from you. You are NOT going to spoil this for me.”

There was a knock on the door. Glaring at Arvilla, I stomped to the door and yanked it open. Standing there was the Riversleigh Manor concierge backed by two beefy security officers, unsmiling in their black shades.

“Madam, I understand that you have a visitor. As you know, Inner Critics are not welcome on the premises.”

I’m not here a day and she’s gotten me in trouble already. “Yes, sir, you’re quite right, I understand. My ‘guest’ was just leaving.” I turned to Arvilla.

With a sigh, Arvilla dropped her feet to the floor and stood up. “Oh, alright! Don’t have a hissy fit. You’re just not much fun anymore, are ya, Sugar.”

I pointed toward the mirror. “Go!”

“I can’t get out that way. Where do you think we are? In a Harry Potter movie?”

The room began to vibrate and Arvilla spread her arms out to her sides. “Just wait until you have forty-three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing that you need me to edit.  You’ll come a-runnin’.”

The room filled with intense yellow light and I could see Arvilla’s arms morph into enormous bird’s wings. With a harpy’s shriek, Arvilla began flapping them. She bounded through the French doors and off the balcony. I rushed to the railing and saw Arvilla gliding up the river valley towards the mountains. Looking over her shoulder, she yelled “I’ll be baaaaack……”

“And I’ll be ready for you,” I muttered as I slammed the doors shut.

——–

ljgloyd, originally published 2006

Lgloyd, “The Adversary, original digital montage, 2006

The Gift

The Gift

“No, no, no…..” Celena muttered as she guided her stalled car over to the shoulder of the road.

When she came to a stop, she tried starting it again.. The engine would not turn over. She banged her fists on the top the steering wheel. Not again.

In spite of all the trips to various mechanics, not one had been able to determine the reason why her car frequently–and at the worst times and most unfortunate locations– would die. The dealership even had a team of people trying to solve the mystery.

Celena knew the reason, though, and it was no mystery. It was “the gift.”

It started with her grandfather, though everyone suspected it went back many more generations. Grandpa could never wear mechanical wristwatches because they would cease to function in spite of his diligence in winding them each day. He would often quip “It’s my magnetic personality.” .

Other family members had similar circumstances with mechanical devices and when the electronic-digital era dawned, younger family members discovered they too had “the gift”.

“You mean ‘the curse’”, her cousin Mimi would often say. She had the particular ability to make any computer she sat at freeze up or crash whenever she was stressed over a deadline.

The speculation was that a peculiar energy flowed through the veins of everyone in the family– or so it was said since no one could figure it out. Uncle Ernie once declared, “Face it. We’re just a weird family.”

Celena sighed and reached into her purse for her phone. As she figured, there were no bars on her device even though she knew she was well within her provider’s service area. Celena got out of the car and began waving her phone around trying to grab a signal. “C’mon, c’mon….”

She crunched down the gravel shoulder of the road. Of course, the car had died at night on the one stretch of the road with no buildings, a mile in both directions from any sort of assistance. There were streetlights but Celena knew they would be of no use.

As she approached the closest pole, the light on the top switched off. Celena continued on down the road. The next light too went dark as she passed it.

Celena was not surprised. This frequently happened whenever she walked under a light. Not every time, but so frequently that it had to be more than coincidence. It happened most often when she was anxious or angry. There was even a name for it, Celena discovered: SLI, or “Street Light Interference Phenomenon”. She found an article on Wikipedia that explained it all.

Celena was considered by the family to be the most “gifted” — or the most “cursed” if you were to ask Cousin Mimi.

Celena sighed with relief when her phone beeped and three bars appeared on the display. She quickly dialed Road Service and arranged for a tow truck. A few seconds later a text came through showing the picture and name of the mechanic on the way.

“Thank you, ‘Brian’” she said and kissed the face of her phone.

With the streetlights slowly glowing back to life, Celena looked around. Along the shoulder were shadowy hedges of Tecate cypress and oleander. They were thick and dense enough to hide a person.

Celena was not afraid. She fully believed that she could use whatever energy flowed through her veins to handle any threat that came her way.

Her mother always cautioned her not to be so foolish since “the gift” was random and manifested when it willed. Her grandmother had several times given her a stern warning that it was never to be used as a weapon and that she was acting prideful with it— a serious sin in her book. Celena had tried to explain to them that she could pull up the energy at will and push back anyone who tried to harm her.   She cited examples from her youth of schoolyard bullies that she had diverted with her “energy”. Mimi was annoyingly quick to point out that it had less to do with any alleged power and more to do with the bullies’ belief that she could knock the snot out of them with one swing.

Celena slowly strolled back to her car since the text had said Brian would be there in about fifteen minutes or so. She settled back into the driver’s seat and pulled out her e-reader to pass the time.

She got lost in the novel and did not notice that fifteen minutes had come and gone. At twenty-five minutes, she became aware of the time and pulled out her phone again to call Road Service to complain and ask for an updated ETA. The phone was non-functional as before.

“Great.” Celena considered hiking the mile down the road to the nearest convenience store and have them call her mom to pick her up.

As she was gathering her purse and preparing to get out of the car, lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. She turned in her seat to see a truck pull up behind her and stop.  She shielded her eyes against the glare of the two headlights that flooded the interior of her car.

“Finally.”

The door of the truck squeaked open and a figure slid out.

She turned the key in the ignition and rolled down the window.

The figure crunched along the gravel and came up beside her.

She frowned.  It was not the man in the picture she had been texted.

It was not Brian.  Her stomach knotted and her throat tightened.

And then she knew she had been wrong about everything.

 

Ljgloyd (c) 2017

Magnet

 

At the Oracle

A creative person often has a muse — that person who inspires the creative.   The muse can be a person known to creative or can be an inspirational figure from history.  The Greeks personified the muse in their mythology by creating nine characters, goddesses who inspired them in various areas — music, poetry, literature, and science.   I have followed the Greeks’ example and created a fictional muse.  My muse is a psychological construct who gets my creative stream moving.  Similarly, I personified my Inner Critic as well.  I have written a number of stories over the years where I do battle with my Inner Critic (and almost always squash her).  Writing these short stories has helped me overcome the occasional creative block in my writer’s journey.    A number of years ago, I finally wrote a story where my Muse comes face-to-face with my Inner Critic.  Here is a re-post of that epic encounter.

——

At The Oracle

I rushed down the rain-slick street towards The Oracle. A break in the storm allowed fingers of light from the setting sun make the rain-laden clouds darkly ominous. I picked up my pace, hoping to get to the bookstore before the clouds unleashed a new round of rain.

I was supposed to meet an old friend at the bookstore, a writing buddy from back in the day when I actually wrote things. Sherlyn was passing through town on a promotional tour of her new novel. She had promised me that we would meet and catch up on old times.

When we were young, we would meet at the Oracle, write in our respective journals for a few minutes, and then read to each other what we had written. Of course these writing sessions were fueled by cups of Oracle coffee, the strongest brew known to humankind. Those had been great experiences, and we often come away from our writing sessions with the seeds of new stories to revise and expand. Sherlyn had taken those writings and produced a novel that made her famous. I was still making time at a dead-end desk job.

I glanced at my watch. I was fifteen minutes late. Picking this time of day to get through the daily commuter nightmare mess was a bad idea, but this was the only time Sherlyn could meet. It was my mistake not to give myself more time to arrive and find a place to park. I hope my friend had not been waiting too long. I hope I had not missed her altogether.

I rounded a corner and saw the warm interior of the bookstore shining through its huge plate glass window set into the facade of an ancient brick building. A faded sign hanging next to the entrance read “The Oracle, est. 1851”. A bell jangled as I pushed through the door, the same bell that Mrs. Delphinia Ravenhill, the original owner, had installed a hundred and sixty years ago.

I hurried by a table of slick, glossy art books and wove through the stacks of Self-Help and Sustainable Living towards the backroom cafe’. With pastries to die for and coffee that would keep you awake while you did, the Oracle café was a place where writers and other creatives gathered to drink, eat, write first drafts, sketch drawings, read books, or just day-dream. The cafe’ was always busy, but at certain times, like November when the regional Nano-wrimo groups convened, one was lucky to get a table at all. Tonight though, most likely because of the afternoon storm, the cafe was only moderately active.

Mostly there were men and women occupying single tables, the faces intent on their laptops or the books they were reading. Some frantically scribbled in journals. At a few tables there were pairs or trios quietly conversing. I scanned the room:  Sherlyn was not there. This concerned me. If she were running late, she would have texted me. I had a sinking feeling that I had been stood up.

I took a seat at the long marble counter situated in front of a row of antique brass expresso machines. A woman stood in front one of the machines drawing a cup. On the back of her shirt was the Oracle’s ravens-head logo and the name Corvida.

Where’s Bennie, I wondered. I slid onto a stool at the counter and pulled out my cell phone. There was no message from Sherlyn. I sighed.

A steaming cup slid across the counter and into my view.

“I thought you might like this. It’s on the house,” said Corvida.

I glanced up at her.  She had thick waves of black hair tied back and was dressed in the t-shirt and jeans requisite for twenty-somethings, but her eyes seemed to belong to a much older person. She reminded me of my great-aunt Millicent, a mischievous old lady with a twinkle in her eye and wisdom on her tongue. Corvida, quite frankly, had a disconcerting aura about her — like she might have belonged behind this expresso bar, but not quite.

“Uh, thanks.” I looked down at the cappuccino and noted that the Oracle’s raven-head logo had been drawn into the foam of the drink. “Nice work.”

“Thanks,” said Corvida.

“How did you know this was my favorite drink here?”

“Bennie told me.”

“Where is Bennie?”

“Off celebrating. He just got accepted into the writing program at State.”

“He did?. That’s great news. I know he was on pins and needles waiting to hear. I’m so happy for him.”

“Me too.” Corvida smiled as she pulled a damp rag from under the counter and began wiping it down.

I picked up the cup and inhaled the earthy aroma of the coffee. This was a little ritual I always performed before I took a sip.

“Wow, Bennie made into a graduate program. He’s going places.” I set the cup down. “Not like me.”

“You don’t need any more schooling, “ said Corvida, eyeing me from the other end of the counter.

“What?”

She walked back down to me. “School is right for Bennie and he’ll learn from that experience. You’ve had your own experiences – unique to you – you just need to write them down.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. I leaned an elbow on the counter and hoisted my feet on the stool next to me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You just need an idea, that’s all.”

“Sure. No problem. No problem at all.”

Corvida shoved the towel back under the counter. “So what brings you here on a weekday afternoon? Bennie said you were part of the Saturday morning crowd.”

“I’m meeting my friend, Sherlyn Queensman.”

“THE Sherlyn Queensman? “

“Yep, she’s the one.”

“Her novels take up a whole shelf over in 2-D.” Corvida motioned towards the front of the store. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she got a Pulitzer in the next year or so. And what a life she’s lived: her novels, her social activism, her five deadbeat husbands and, what did I just hear? She’s learning to be a pilot? Amazing woman. How do you know her?”

“She and I used to sit in this café and write together. Right over there.” I pointed to a table in the corner underneath the poster of Mary Shelley.

“No kidding? Sherlyn Queensman wrote here? I bet you have a story or two to tell about that.”

“Yeah, I would.”

“I bet you know all about her formative years.”

“That I would…” Suddenly, something in the back of my mind sparked. I shook my head. Naw, that’s a dumb idea…. still…..

I took a deep breath and the smell of cinnamon and carmelized butter overwhelmed me. “Are those fresh cinnamon buns I smell?”

“Yep, last batch of the day. Want one?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Comin’ right up.” Corvida pushed through the double doors into the kitchen.

Suddenly, a twangy voice cut through the air from the other end of the counter. “Those buns are making you fat.”

I knew that voice. I knew it well. Arvilla.

She sat on a stool, her back leaning against a brick pillar. In her short tight dress, chunky jewelry, and her usual spiky heels, Arvilla was a walking ad for the Rodeo Drive Chamber of Commerce. She casually sipped from a white and green venti-sized paper cup from the franchise down the street.

I already encountered my Inner Critic twice before, each time letting her mess with my head before kicking her out on her own. I was not going to let her work on me again. I pointed my index finger at her.

“Do not start with me, Arvilla. Do not say another word.”

Arvilla sniffed and set her cup on the counter. “Sugar, you seem to be under the presumption that I have come to see YOU. Rest assured, that is not the case at all.”

I lowered my finger and looked at her.

“See,” she said as she flourished a wave across the café, “these are the people I came to see. That one over there, in the corner – her plot stinks to high heaven and I’m going to have a little chat with her about that. And that gentlemen over there? He spends way too much time writing. He needs to have some distraction. I’m just the person for that.” Arvilla chuckled.

“Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that you didn’t come to see me, to rake me over the coals a bit.”

“No, darlin’, I did not.” Arvilla plopped her feet on the floor and leaned forward on her stool. She stared straight back at me and continued, “You are not even on my radar any more. You are not worth my time and effort. The truth is, sweetie, I have come to the conclusion that you are never going to write anything worthwhile in your whole life ever. In fact, that conclusion can apply to most anything about your life.”

I felt like I had been slugged in the gut.

Suddenly, the door from the kitchen banged open and there stood Cordiva, her eyes trained on Arvilla. “What are you doing here?” she spoke with a scary calmness.

Arvilla slid off her stool and turned to face Corvida. “Doing my job,” she replied.

“Your job is simply to tell people where to stick in their commas and semi-colons.”

I would swear that Arvilla’s tacky red hair was becoming even brassier.

Arvilla placed her hands on her hips. “I’ll tell you where to stick it, honey. You must have paid a visit to Mount O. because you’ve got a real goddess-complex happening here thinkin’ you can order me around.”

Corvida slowly walked around the end of the counter and faced Arvilla. I slid my stool out of the way, trying to make myself as unnoticeable as possible.

Cordiva slowly said, “You’re right. I don’t need to tell you what to do. You already know what has been handed down to us to do. In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you, dear sister, that you are supposed to HELP, not hinder.”

“Well, I do help. If it weren’t for me, SHE,” Arvilla pointed toward me, “would be embarrassing herself by writing all kinds of dribble. She should be thanking me.”

Cordiva said, “Why don’t you try a little positive critiquing for a change. “

“What?” Arvilla and I replied in unison. We both stared at Cordiva in bewilderment.

“You heard me. Arvilla give Elle a compliment. I know you can do it,” Cordiva coaxed with a sugary smile.

“Fine. I will.” Arvilla gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s see…. This will take a minute.”

I gave Cordiva a “why-are-you-putting-me-through-this” look.

“Alrighty, I got it.” Arvilla turned to me and said, “Your ability to write dialogue is fairly decent….and… well, you don’t totally suck at writing place descriptions…”

“And….” Said Cordiva.

Arvilla had a pained look on her face and after a long pause burst out, “Aw, heck, Cordiva, that’s all I got. She’s hopeless. She can’t write a sustainable plot for more than a couple thousand words and her writing, at best, is full of clichés.” Arvilla glanced at me. “She’s boring and unremarkable.” She turned back to Arvilla. “Face it, sugar, you are not doing her any favors by babying her.”

Cordiva said nothing for a moment. I thought I felt a tremor run through the counter top and heard the faint tinkle of cups and saucers on the shelf behind it. The lights flickered and momentarily dimmed.

“What’s the real problem here, Arvilla?” Cordiva took a step towards her.

“What do you mean?” Arvilla stepped back.

“Why don’t you want her to succeed? Is the fact that I might be correct in my estimation of her talent and potential and that sticks in your craw?

“You are full of it!”

Cordiva’s face lightened as if a profound bit of insight came to her. “Or is it, dear sister, you’re just a Critic because YOU do not possess any sort of creative power of your own. You’re angry because she has that power – and I have that power – and you don’t. You’re jealous of her, Arvilla.”

Arvilla’s eyes turned yellow and she hissed back, “I am not jealous of something like HER. She’s pathetic. I think the Universe was wrong to have wasted the molecules to create HER. She should not even exist!” She aimed these last horrible words directly at me.

I cringed and pulled into myself even more so. She must be right. Yes, she was absolutely correct.

Suddenly, I heard a loud pop and the sound of falling glass, followed by another pop and then another. I looked to the back of the counter. The bottles of Torani syrup on the shelf behind the counter were exploding, one after another. The cups and saucers on the shelf underneath were propelling themselves over the counter. I threw up an arm to protect myself from the flying glass and ceramic shrapnel, but it was all flying in the direction of Arvilla.

“I’ve had about all I can stand of you,” rumbled Cordiva. She began to grow in front of me, her t-shirt and jeans transforming into a cloak of black feathers. Her eyes were coal-black and filled with anger. She advanced towards Arvilla.

“From this point forward, you will no longer have any influence on anyone in this café.”

There was a loud bang and the café and bookstore began to sway. The overheads went off, leaving only the eerie blue glow of the building’s emergency lights. I heard a patron from the front of the bookstore scream “Earthquake!”

The tables were too far away for me to take cover, so I got down on the floor and crouched as closely as I could to the front of the counter. I could hear Arvilla shrieking and cursing Corvida and through the dim blue light I could see her covering the face and head. The shaking got steadily worse.

Then, the roof fell in on Arvilla.

—

“Miss Elle?”

“Huh?” I looked up at Bennie’s concerned face.

“Miss Elle, are you okay? You dropped your bag on the floor and then, well you sorta zoned out for a minute.”

Indeed I was on the floor. I picked up my bag and climbed back on the stool. I looked around the café. The patrons who had been there when I entered were still engaged in writing and conversation. Nothing was out of place. Everything was as it should be. I should have known from my past experiences with Arvilla that everything would be.

I turned towards the front windows of the bookstore. The sky had finally opened up and it was pouring rain.

“Some lightning show, huh? I thought for sure we’d lose power with that last strike.”

I turned back to the young man. “Where’s Corvida?”

“Who?”

“Corvida. Why are you here? She said you were off.”

“No….” said Bennie with some hesitation. “I’ve been here all afternoon. Um, are you going to answer your purse?”

“My purse?” I looked over at my hand bag that I had placed back on the counter. I could hear my cell phone’s ring tone coming from it. “Oh, yeah.” I scrambled to get it out and looked at the caller ID. I quickly flipped it open.

“Sherlyn? … Yes, I’m still here at the store.. Where are you?… Yeah, traffic sucks and its pouring outside… Yeah, I have time to wait for you. What’s up? …. Uh-huh, uh-huh… That’s fantastic! …. What? You’re kidding me? …. Well, heck-yeah, I’ll do it… Sure, I’ll get an agent right away. … They will?… That much?…. Okay… Okay… We can get a rough outline laid out this evening if you have the time. I’ve got some ideas already for this. Oh, Sherlyn, this will be just like old times…. Yeah, okay…. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I punched off the phone.

“Well?, said Bennie. “Looks like you just got good news.”

“Oh, Bennie, this is amazing. My friend, Sherlyn Queensman, just heard from her publisher that they’ve authorized an official biography of her life. They said she could pick the biographer.”

“And she picked you?”

“Yes, I can’t believe it! And her publisher is even going to give me an advance. This is incredible! Absolutely unbelievable!”

“That’s not so unbelievable,” Bennie smiled as he slid a cup of cappuccino in front of me. “You’d better drink this before it gets cold.” I looked down into the cup and saw the Oracle’s ravens head logo drawn into the foam.

And then I saw the raven wink at me.

LJGloyd © 2010, revised 2016

Image:  LJGloyd 2016

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Here is my first story featuring Arvilla which is also one of the very first stories I wrote for the Soul Food Cafe.

Inspired by Letter M at the Soul Food Cafe

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/a-journey/

 

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The City of the Queen of the Angels

There is a plaque on Olvera Street that names the city wherein I grew up as El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de Los Angeles — The Village of our Lady, Queen of the Angels.

Look at any map and you will see it criss-crossed with streets named after saints: Santa Monica, San Vicente, San Pedro — to name just a few. The names seem to reflect — at least to me– a mystical and transcendent quality of this city.

With Angels Watching

Would it be that all the saints, all the angels, even the Queen of Heaven herself looks down upon this city?

What would they see? What would they do?

Yes, they would weep over the poverty and crime, over the homeless seeking to make a living.

And of course they would tremble with us when the ground shakes or the canyons burn.

Would they rejoice with the whales as they peek from the sea or sing with the coyotes in dark sycamore forests?

Did they watch over the mammoths in ancient days? Apparently not, it would seem.

Would they be in awe of the edifices we puny humans have built?

Would they curse the traffic like I do?

Or would they bless the faithful in prayer?

Would they hold back the rain but let the snowfall?

Perhaps they would.

I don’t know what angels think, but I know they are here,

and they watch.

 

Images and poem by ljgloyd (2016)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/city/

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After Work One Night….

Dolores had fallen asleep that evening in the same way she had all week long: face down into her sofa the moment she got home from work. She had been on her feet all day at her uncle’s antique store. He was traveling again to secure more inventory and had left her to manage the store and deal with a steady stream of customers. Today none of their part-time clerks were available so Dolores was left on her own to open and close and handle everything else in between. She was completely spent.

Dolores dropped her bag on the living room floor when she walked through the door.   She immediately flopped onto the sofa “for just a couple of minutes” she told herself before she would make supper. Her little chihuahua mix, Rat-Dog, greeted her with a couple of yaps, jumped on the sofa next to her and nestled down. He seemed to sense her exhaustion and did not whine for his supper. Fortunately, her apartment had a doggie-door to  a  small patio off her bedroom so she did not have to worry about taking Rat-Dog on a potty-walk. She just wanted to get off her feet for a few minutes.

Dolores emerged from her sleep when she felt Rat-Dog jump off the sofa. “Hmmmm, I bet you’re hungry,” she mumbled as she swung her feet to the floor. “Time to get us both fed.” She glanced at the time display on her tv’s cable box. “11:30! Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. You really must be starving.” She quickly rose to her feet.

As she started towards the kitchen, she saw the tiny dog come to alert, his face trained on her apartment’s front door. His hackles were raised, and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

“What is it?” Usually when Rat-Dog heard a visitor come to the door, he would yip, yap and bark until Dolores scolded him into being quiet. This time was different.

“Is there someone there?” No one would come to visit this late, she thought. Dolores stepped to the window and tipped a slat in the blinds to peek out. She could see no one on her front porch.

“Silly dog.” She let the slat fall back into place. ” I bet you really want your supper now.” Rat-Dog did not respond. He continued to stare at the door.

“Suit yourself.”

Dolores shuffled into the kitchen, pulled a can of dog food out of a cupboard and got out a can opener. As she was scraping the can’s contents into Rat-Dog’s bowl, she heard him whimper. She walked out of the kitchen and found the dog shivering and backing away from the door. Then she heard it: a soft scraping noise on the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?” she called at the door. The noise stopped. Dolores stomped to the front window and yanked the blinds up.

No one. She strained to see the threshold, but the shadows cast by foliage prevented her from detecting any animal or object brushing against the door. She let the blinds fall down. “It’s probably a raccoon…. I just hope it’s not a skunk.” Her mind immediately went to the doggie-door leading out to her bedroom patio. That’s all she needed:  one of the wretched little beasts getting into her apartment. She rushed into her bedroom and snapped the latch on the doggie-door. She could see the quivering little lump that was Rat-Dog hiding under her bedspread.

“My hero….” Dolores shook her head. “C’mon, let’s go eat dinner. I’ll keep you safe from the big bad racc–”

A loud bang on the front door made Dolores jump back against her bedroom wall. Rat-Dog began to bark and thrash his way from under the tangle of the bedspread. Dolores pulled herself together and rushed back into the living room. Keeping her eyes on the door, she grabbed her handbag. She rummaged through it until she found her cell phone. She pressed the side button and saw a tiny sliver of red pop up on the display and the words “Battery Empty. Please recharge.”

“No, no, no….” She punched the face of the phone. The display momentarily flashed and then went black.

Another loud bang rattled the front window and shook the door on its frame. Dolores tossed away the phone and crouched on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. Rat-Dog went berserk. Foam and saliva flew from his mouth as he barked.

There was no point in yelling for help: Dolores knew that the couple upstairs were on vacation and the old man in the adjacent unit never heard anything at night when he turned off his hearing aid.

Her eyes darted to the top of her curio cabinet in the corner of the living room. Atop it was a katana, a pre-World War II Japanese sword that she had acquired from her uncle. The cold curve of its steel blade and its elegant black-lacquered sheath glinted under the display lights above the cabinet.

Another bang startled Dolores and she glanced back to the door. Then she saw the deadbolt latch. It was vertical. She had forgotten to turn it to locked position when she came home. Dolores started towards the door to turn the latch but jumped back when the door knob jiggled.

Dolores raced to the curio cabinet and pulled the katana off the display holder. She gripped the sword and held it out in front of her.

Truth be told, the real reason she had acquired the sword was not for its aesthetic qualities or historical significance. Rather, she got it to silence her gun-toting friends who insisted that she needed protection if she chose to live alone. Dolores hated guns and would not have one in her home. Her concession, laughable as it was, was to get the sword and buy a dog.

Dolores shifted her grip on the sword. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and sweat beaded on her forehead and face. Rat-Dog had stopped barking and stood whimpering behind the coffee table.

Could she defend herself? She had been taught all her life to “turn the other cheek”, “do unto others,” and “love your enemy.”

Dolores sighed and gently laid down the weapon on the coffee table. She had envisioned in her mind when she got the sword that IF she ever found herself in this situation, she only had to wave the sword around and frighten off her intruders. Here she was now– living out her own fantasy. Or was she? She knew that if someone came through the door, no amount of blade-wielding bravado would help her. Could she actually hurt someone?  Could she draw blood to save herself?  Would she?

Everything had gone silent except for the ticking clock on the dining room wall. Dolores counted the seconds and after a couple of minutes, she let out a huge breath of relief. She would not need to be tested after all.

Then, the door knob turned. The door swung open and hit the wall, leaving a crack in the plaster.

Dolores’ gaze returned to the sword resting on the coffee table.

The End.

 

ljgloyd (c) 2016

 

 

Repost: Green

This is a repost of a very short story I wrote last year.

GREEN

Old Tilly sat on a rusted lawn chair outside her trailer. A lead-gray sky pressed down on her, and she listened to thunder rumble in the distance. She stared at the heap of dried watermelon seeds she had spat out the day before on the ground next to the chair. She sniffed the wind that had whipped up and wondered what trouble would visit her home today. Tilly turned her attention to the small curved knife she held in one hand and resumed scraping it against the whetstone she held in the other. Her plan had been to stalk the field behind the trailer park for wild herbs to harvest, but with the sky darkening and going green, Tilly knew she would not have time before the storm hit. Her customers would just have to wait.

Tilly glanced up from her work and noticed a figure down the gravel driveway. Her tired eyes could not make out the person, but she knew. She could always feel Arabelle coming towards her. The child had an energy that announced her coming from a mile away, quite literally. Tilly frowned. She could tell that Arabelle was sad and angry.
Tilly sighed and put her knife and whetstone on the ground. As Arabelle approached, Tilly grabbed the edge of the lawn chair to keep from being pushed back by the child’s presence. She noted Arabelle’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes and the wrinkled brown shopping bag she clutched to her chest. Tilly assumed that she must have gone home already after school. She had changed out of her school uniform into jeans and a black T-shirt. This child wears far too much black, Tilly thought. Arabelle dropped the bag in front of Tilly.

“What’s this?”

“Valerian root. I know you needed some, and I saw some growing in the ditch along the edge of the wheat field on the Masonville Road.”

Tilly picked up the bag and opened it. “Would you look at these. Nice ones. It took a good eye to find these. Thank you much.” Tilly crumpled the mouth of the bag shut. “So how was school today?”

Arabella said nothing. With the toe of her ragged slipper, Tilly pushed an upended bucket towards Arabelle. “Sit. Talk to me.” Arabelle plunked herself down on the bucket. The muffled sound of distant thunder rolled over them. She began to fidget with the end of her long brown braid. “Mr. Hendrix, my teacher in science class, was telling us about Saturn. He was talking about the rings and what they were made up and stuff. But he was wrong. I know because I read all about it in one of my dad’s magazines…”

“So you told ‘im, huh?”

Arabelle nodded.

“Bet he didn’t like that much, did he?” Tilly cackled. She did not think much of Dan Hendrix, a wet-behind-the- ears college boy whose only pleasure in life seemed to be in making the locals look and feel like idiots.

“He told me not to be such a-know-it-all. Then everybody in the class laughed. Then at the lunch kids started saying I was stupid.”

Tilly leaned forward in her chair and began to shake leathery finger at Arabelle. “Now you just listen here, girl. You are NOT stupid. In fact, you’re one of the sharpest people I know. Don’t you listen to them. You shine and people living in the dark sometimes just don’t like it.”

The fact of the matter was that Arabelle wasn’t just sharp– she was stunningly brilliant. Arabelle had the uncanny ability to observe and learn from every aspect of her world, particularly the natural world. She had an intuitive sense of how animals moved through the forest, where the best herbs and plants grew, and how the weather would turn. All of nature seemed to converge in her heart, and she expressed it back to the world in beautiful drawings, paintings, and carvings of wood and clay. She was an artist of extraordinary ability.

This did not surprise Tilly. Lenny Gardner, Arabelle’s father, a jack-of-all-trades and a local who had never graduated from high school, was an artist himself. Between doing odd jobs for his neighbors and the sale of a few of his sculptures to tourists driving through town, he made a modest living for himself and his daughter. Arabelle’s mother, a party girl with the short attention span, had abandoned them both when Arabelle was a baby. Lenny had done well to keep his brilliant daughter engaged through books, music, and art. He even got her a microscope. Arabelle responded by drawing, painting and carving the things she saw in the world and through the gifts her father had given her. There were times, thought Tilly, that the energy of the natural world came forth not only in her artwork but through her own life force.

Arabelle’s gifts, though, made her an outcast, a misfit, a person, as Tilly had just reminded her, who scared the bejeezus out of everyone. Tilly’s calling, she believed, was to guide the girl in continuing to manifest beauty and light and not to reflect the darkness and ugliness thrown at her.

“And don’t you think on what Dan Hendrix says. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is.” Tilly giggled. “You know those letters that come after college people’s names? Ph.D.? All that means are the words ‘piled high and deep’!”

A faint smile came to Arabelle’s face. “Mr. Hendrix doesn’t have a PhD. He has an M.A.”

“M.A.? You don’t wanna know what that means.” Tilly threw her head back and began to laugh. Arabelle’s shook her head and chuckled.

They both turned towards the sound of crunching gravel. A dusty black pick-up bounced along the trailer park driveway and came to a stop in front of Tilly’s trailer. The driver’s door squeaked open and a middle-aged man with a beer belly slid out and slammed the door. He hitched up his pants and belched as he sauntered over to Tilly.

“‘Afternoon, Pete.”

“I’m here for my order. ”

“And what order would that be, Pete? ”

Pete shuffled back-and-forth on his feet. “You know good and well… For the wife…for her, um, lady-troubles.”

“I seem to recollect that now. Coming right up.” She grunted as she hoisted herself off the lawn chair, clutching closed the front of her ragged house-dress. “Be just a minute”. She waddled to the steps of the trailer door and slowly climbed the steps. She disappeared into the darkness of the trailer.

Pete leaned up against the power pole next to the trailer, crossing his arms. His gaze swung around and leveled on Arabelle. She stared back at him.

“What are you looking at?”, he snarled.

Arabelle lowered her eyes.

“You’re Gardner’s kid, aren’t you? You tell your lazy good-for-nothing old man that he better finish mending the fences around my paddock or he can give back the advance I gave him. He should spend more time working and less time in — what does he call it?– his ‘stoo-dee-oh’.”

Arabelle got to her feet. Pete shook his head in disgust. “Calls himself an artist. Only city people would be fool enough to buy his crap. And I hear you’re no better — scratchin’ in your pad of fancy paper, think in’ you’re better ‘n us.”

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of white light enveloped them followed immediately by a shattering crash of thunder. The metal in the trailer vibrated, and the air seemed to buzz with electricity. Pete flattened himself against the side of the trailer.

“Whoa! That was close. Hey! Hurry up in there. I need to get home before this storm breaks.”

Tilly was already emerging from the trailer, breathing heavily as she navigated down the steps. She tossed a white plastic shopping bag to Pete. Then she reached over and cupped Arabelle’s chin in her hand. She looked hard at her.

“Don’t, Arabelle.  You are better than that.”

Arabelle’s eyes filled with tears and she nodded. Tilly patted her on the shoulder as she turned to Pete. She snapped her fingers and spread open her hand towards him. “Forget something?”

Pete scowled as he reached into the breast pocket of his denim jacket. He pulled out a twenty and handed it towards Tilly.

“The deal was for forty.”

“Forty? Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I am not paying $40 for a bag of lawn clippings.”

Tilly stepped up to Pete and whispered. “If you don’t pay me what you owe me I will let everyone know that my herbs are really for YOUR little problem.”

Pete reached up and shoved Tilly in the chest, sending her backward against the side of the trailer. “You say a word about that and I will have the county come out and condemn this thing you call a home. You’ll be out on the street you crazy old bat. ”

Tilly simply stared at Pete, her watery blue eyes filled with rage.

Arabelle screamed, “Stop it! “.

Pete glanced at Arabelle, then back to Tilly. Finally, he stepped back from Tilly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an additional bill. He tossed the money at Tilly’s feet.

“Crazy old bat” he muttered.

As he turned towards the pickup, he looked up at the sky and gasped. The clouds had grown darker, overlaid with a sickly green cast. About a half mile away, he could see a funnel cloud whipping its tail back-and-forth as it sought to find a place to touchdown. Pete cursed and yanked open the door. In a matter of seconds, the pickup was rocketing down the gravel road.

“Arabelle! Don’t do it!” The wind nearly drowned out her words.

“It’s too late! I can’t stop it! It’s too big!”

“Then come inside! Quick!”

“No! I can lead it away!” She spun around and started running.

“Wait!,” shouted Tilly, but he words blew away with the wind.

All that evening and into the next morning, Tilly huddled in her trailer and prayed that Arabelle would be safe and that no one would die in the storm. In the middle of the next afternoon, when her electricity was finally restored, she switched on the television. She heaved a sigh of relief as the newscasters reported that in spite of the severity of the storms, no one had been killed and very few buildings had been lost.

As the newscast was wrapping up, one more story was reported: “As we close this evening’s telecast, we want to show you this odd phenomenon in a wheat field near Masonville.” Tilly smiled as she viewed the aerial footage of an intricate pattern of circles pressed into the golden field.

“Meteorologists are mystified at how these crop circles formed. Was it an odd quirk of the weather? Or the hand of an artistic prankster? Either way, the result is beautiful.”

Ljgloyd Feb. 2015

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/green/