Free To Write Entry

These little pieces are drawn from Rhyssa's Free To Write forum, a place where a three or four word start is given and you are asked to write for five minutes. Rhyssa has posted a new prompt almost every week.

#1

This idea came from Pam's misadventure with her cell phone company, which collected her charge twice one month.

When he was finally alone, Ricky fired up the computer and opened his financial program. There he kept a running balance not only of his checkbook, but of all his credit card accounts. He stared at the numbers, posted the ATM receipt he drew out of his wallet, and then continued to stare at the balance shown on the bottom of the receipt.

There was a $420 difference between the bank and his balance. The bank had less money. He checked his postings again and again, dragging out manila folders where he kept his receipts. He could not find the error. He tried to connect to his bank but the servers were busy and he couldn't get through.

It couldn't be that missing check he had forgotten to post. He would remember a check for that much money, and would certainly have a receipt. He was almost sure the missing amount paid his New York Times deliveryman, and that was only $37, not $420. Yet, a vision kept coming back to him of the man coming to his door and being paid in cash.

As he tried to answer emails, the discrepancy continued to eat at him. His stomach began to rumble; Marisa loved Mexican food, but it always left him with gas within three hours.

'Marisa', he thought to himself. 'I added her name as an authorized signature on the account a couple of months ago, just in case something happened to me.' It seemed like a good idea at the time; she'd be able to pay the bills in an emergency. She wasn't the most responsible person with money, having had to borrow from him to pay her rent several times, but he was new to north New Jersey and knew no one else.

He read her email thanking him for the lovely dinner. At the end was another hint of her inability to budget. "If we want to spend some time at the beach next week, I'm afraid Dear Ricky that you will have to pay the way. I'm tapped out. I will repay you sometime."

'Right, my dear," he thought. "I've yet to get any of the other monies back." A thought flitted through his mind and escaped as fast as it entered. For one fleeting second, light shone on the problem. What was it now?

'A missing check, the power to sign my checks, over $400 difference, no, it could not be. But she somehow paid her rent this month without me.'

"Dear Marisa:
I don't think we will go to the beach next week, and on giving the matter a lot of consideration, I think we should stop seeing each other. While we have good times together, I am finding myself in over my head financially. I don't expect you to repay the money I lent you. I mean both the checks I gave you for your rent, and the moneys you borrowed without telling me. You could have asked me, Marisa, and I would have gladly written you a check. I think you know what I mean. Tomorrow I will have the bank take your name off my account as an authorized signer. I guess I don't feel like throwing more good money after bad. Good luck to you. I hope you find someone who can afford you.'

He punched the send button and was about to log off when a blue box at the lower right of his screen notified him of an email from his cell phone company.

Dear Mr. Jaster:
We regret to inform you that due to an error in billing, not only did we debit your checking account #________ $105 for your monthly bill, but in error we charged your account three more times for a total of $420. You may use this credit to against your next three bills, or you may request a refund check be sent directly to you. We apologize for any inconvenience this error may have caused.

Ricky logged off, picked his cell phone off the top of the file cabinet, took it to the kitchen and dropped it in the garbage. Though it was only 10:45, he decided to call it an early evening.

#2

I am not from South Philadelphia, but everyone from Philadelphia has a little South Philly in them. To residents, double-parking is a God-given right.

It doesn't hurt to know someone with some pull uptown when you get a ticket in South Philly. Maybe you double park outside Aunt Rose's house on Bigler near 11th. You just want to run in for a few minutes and pick up the gravy she's set aside for you 'cause Phyllis has never gotten the hang of making the sauce like they do downtown. Aunt Rose is all hugs for you, Vinny Boy, but you tell her you gotta run; that you're double parked. She's wrapping you some homemade cannoli; you are itching to go when up out of the cellar comes Uncle Phil and he wants to have a drink. You tell him you gotta go, but what can you do.

By now the bleating sound of a horn outside has been beating on your ears. You swallow the drink, take the bag with the sauce and cannoli and head out. You wave to this little brick shithouse driving this old Lincoln and sitting behind your Country Squire from the '70s. Then you see him, this cop. He has to be from the Northeast. He don't know that it is your constitutional right to double park on the streets of South Philly, as long as you move it when the horn sounds. He's writing you up. What a prick.

So you take the ticket to Ralph Natalini, your committeeman. "Get that bastard off this beat," you suggest. "The ticket I can take care of; you want revenge, Vinny, you gotta go higher." So you give him the ticket and hear no more about it.

Two months later Ralph runs into you at the diner. "Hey, Vinny, you gonna take two tickets to the Appreciation Night for Councilman Squadrito.?" "When's it?" "Tuesday, the 19th. Uptown, at the Bellevue. $150 a pop. Think it's the least you can do to thank me, ya know?"

You go home with a lighter wallet. Phyllis is trying rice balls. The goddamn kernels are all over the kitchen. She is swearing up a storm muttering under her breath about the sainted Aunt Rose. You gonna have a fit but then it hits you. Rose, gravy, Phil, you shoulda paid the frigging ticket.

#3

Based on an actual episode one night at Pam's house.

She looked down at the walk and saw the slug, no more than five feet from the door to her enclosed porch. She asked him, "Is that a slug?" He saw it too and confirmed her fear.

"They're disgusting, Ugh."

He teased her a little as he knocked it off the walk with his sandal. "Maybe one will get inside, and into your bedroom. Will we have to sleep with the light on all night?" He remembered her telling him she that she had done so recently for fear of a bug in her bedroom.

"Oh don't say that. I hate bugs."

They stepped into the porch, then she unlocked the front door to the apartment and closed it tightly to keep the monsters out. It was time for the dessert he brought with him. She filled two bowls with blackberries, put heavy cream and sugar on the table, and began to sprinkle her berries with the latter. She poured cream over the top while he picked up one of his, popped it in his mouth and pronounced it just right without adding anything.

She had told him that blackberries were her favorite, prepared the same way she ate them in childhood. He'd seen them at the farm stand that morning and bought them. He wanted to be part of her celebration, but remembered his mother smothering any berry in sugar, so that the taste of an unsweetened blueberry one day in his twenties sent him into swearing off the use of the granules. He went half-way and added the cream.

Sated, they sat down at her computer to copy a song to a blank CD. Her mind was in two places. "Are you sure slugs can't get into the house?"

"Slugs are not indoor bugs; they like the grass."

She believed him, but they slept under the glow of a gentle night light. When she left for her job and he for his home at 5 a.m., a slug greeted them on the walk. Courageously she skirted it. As he drove home, he wondered how she would face the little ugly creature tonight.

#4

Writing and real life....this is a dream.

He thought it was a great idea for a story. As he drove the words dripped on the paper in his mind like the butter off the corn he had eaten the night before. He pulled into his driveway, got out of the car, took the dog into the house and sat down at his computer and opened his word processing program.

He saw the two green files on his table; they were tax returns that had to be finished and mailed today. The filing deadline was August 15th. 'I have plenty of time to write and still get them to the Fedex box,' he thought.

The phone rang. He slipped on his headset and answered.

"It's Will Braun. Didja get my fax. I sent you all the information to do my return."

He hadn't looked at the machine in the basement. His enthusiasm began to leak as his mind went to Braun's return. 'Probably sold a lot of stock, lot of typing to do. Oh shit, why do I even try to write.' This is what he thought; what he said in reply was different.

"A bit last minute, aren't you Will?"
"You'll get it done; I know you. Fedex it to me and bill me for it."

He started to get up to get the fax. The phone rang again. As he walked he talked. MaryLou Williams was telling him she had overnight mailed her information. Could he possibly get it finished today. Her son's college was screaming for it.

By now he had reached the fax; he counted 48 pages of material. MaryLou was prattling on.

"I'll see what I can do."

She thanked him and hung up. He went to the file room to pull the Braun and Williams files, and then returned to the fax to pick up Braun's papers. Another phone call.

"It's Donna; I can't come in today. I ate too many grapes and can't get off the toilet. Sorry, oh gotta go again. Call ya later."

"Jesus frickin Christ. Now I have to copy all the goddamn returns too. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" The dog came near to beg for a rawhide strip he kept on the shelf above the shredder. He started to yell at her but then said, "it's not your fault, here have one.'

He looked at the shredder. He looked at the fax. The machine would take eighteen sheets at a time.

He reached up, pulled down the phone book, looked up a number and dialed.

"Days Inn? Do you still allow dogs to accompany guests?"

He hung up smiling. The post office could not deliver what he could not sign. He edged the forty-eight pages nearer the slot in the shredder.

"OOOPS" The machine gave a sound of satisfaction.

Before he went upstairs, he pulled the fax phone from its jack in the wall. He sat again at the computer, emailed Will Braun that the fax hadn't come and grabbed his laptop. With the dog on her leash, he pulled shut the front door and opened the car, putting his portable on the passenger seat and the dog in the back.

Hank was moaning "Weary Blues" as the car turned right and headed down the road. As the car drove around the bend, the postman pulled up with two packages that needed signature. MaryLou's was the larger; the other was a brown envelope from ________ containing a check for $1,000 for "Satisfied Mind" and a proposed contract for a weekly column.

#5

A pure fantasy based on peoples' reactions to getting a letter from Uncle Sam.


She opened the letter carefully. The Internal Revenue Service return address on the envelope frightened her. As she flattened it out, her eyes fell on the body of the notice, but she could not will them to focus on the message. She read the gibberish at the top that indicated the date, the notice number, her name, the tax year and her Social Security. Below she saw cold type and columns of figures. She gave herself a pep talk, willed her courage and settled on the bottom line.

$947.00

Could she have made an error? Did she owe that much? Where would she ever get the money? Maybe she could pay it off over time? Her stomach growled; her bowels churned. She snapped her head slightly to the left and took in the words next to the number.

Amount To Be Refunded

She stared at the words and thought back. Ten years old, playing monopoly: Bank error in your favor, collect $200.

For one more year the powers that be would not know that her child Willa, listed as her dependent, looked awfully like a fluffy Maine Coon Cat.

#6

I did buy a shredder, but the rest is pure daydream.

The bell rang; he could hear the scraping of the dog's toenails trying to gain traction on the parquet floor. She was barking already. By the time he reached the door, she was standing up against it, letting the UPS man have full volume. He grabbed her collar and pulled her away. Pushing the door open a crack, he slid out and signed for the large box.

The driver walked back to his truck and drove off to the Rawf Rawf chorus. He walked to the back of the house and opened the garage, taking out the hand truck. He pushed it around front, put the box on it and wheeled it into his cellar.

With his pocket knife, he slit open the sides of the box, revealing his new shredder. The instructions for assembly were simple. He plugged it in and fed it a piece of paper. In seconds it was string confetti. A gleam came into his eye. He ran upstairs to his desktop computer, reached into the desk and pulled out four manila folders. Whistling, and with the dog following him, he returned to the new toy. It took him less than ten minutes to shred the contents of the folders. He was no longer Charles Dickens. Tomorrow he would be Herman Melville.

#7

Real life, its downs and ups.

         I look forward to visiting my wife and daughter tomorrow, in the glade in the north woods near the golden birch tree where I have painted their names on the bark. It will be chilly, only sixty after two days of ninety here, and it will be windy. The dog will run about while I apply fresh black paint and stand a while, and then retreat down the hill to the cabin and eat lunch on the porch.

         Lixie has lived there thirteen years, as long as she lived with us. Morgan just moved in last September 5th. It's nice they should be together. Morgan is with her family who are scattered under other trees and in other glades.

         Yesterday I visited Morgan's mother. She is happy that I am traveling to the cabin to see them. After my visit to the retirement village, I stopped to see Pamela, my best friend, and stayed with her. Like the north woods, she gives me peace. I look forward to visiting her again, and again.

#8

From somewhere, Cornell Woolrich spoke to me.

         The clock stopped; and then started to go backward. Brad began to breathe again. The blood on his shirt slowly disappeared and his moaning stopped. His hand grabbed the papers on the floor, and he began to sit up. I moved back from the center of the room to my desk and put the gun back in the open drawer. I shut the drawer. Brad was now standing in front of me, my manuscript in his hand. The blood was gone from its pages. I was in my chair, smoothing down my skirt. His expression was changing from one of surprise to that of a gentle smile. It was 12:15 again and the second hand on the large clock in the corner started to move clockwise. Brad was speaking, "Babcock and Stark are going to publish Writer Rejected with a first printing of one hundred thou, and HBO wants first option on movie rights."

         And I thought he was such a doofus as an agent! When he walked in here, I was ready to fire him, or worse.

#9

The participants will not comment on this.

         It was a nice wine, but not a great wine, not that he would ever know. He rarely drank anything stronger than fruit juice, but tonight they'd opened the bottle his client had given him back in the early Spring, and which had sat in his refrigerator until that morning. He had driven to her house with the bottle in the same bag as the plums he had picked up at the fruit stand.

         The stew in the slow cooker smelled heavenly when he arrived for lunch. She swore there was too much celery in it, but now that it was on their plates and the sun was getting low, it seemed just right, and the biscuits were to die for. As she was mopping up her plate, he took a fourth one, buttered it and contentedly put it in his mouth.

         "We ate too much, we have to walk it off," he said to her as they finished loading the dishwasher. Her soft brown eyes glowed, and a grin came across her face. "Are you sure we have to walk, couldn't we find some other excercise?" He smiled, looked to his right and saw the white comforter on her double bed. She rolled the Levelors closed, locked the door and took his hand. She said quietly, "I know just what you're thinking. Sounds like a wonderful dessert." They walked toward the bedroom, each with a hand on the other's backside.

#10

Loosely based on my late wife's many attempts to quit.

She sat back from her plate that rested on the little white parson's table on the deck and looked out at the blue October sky. A red tail was circling in the distance, while the neighbor's horse grazed in its paddock. Rita really felt good about herself. The egg salad tasted so much better and there was a tingle in her mouth as the ice tea went down. Six, no seven meals now without what used to be the finishing touch. Life was going to be so much better, and Mark would be so proud of her. What a perfect day!

Well, not all perfect. She heard the toot of a horn; it was UPS. Farley had the driver trapped in the truck. "I'm coming," she shouted as loud as she could. She ran out the front door and to the driver's side, signed for an envelope and started to walk back to the house, ignoring the growls and barks of the dog, secure on his chain. Her agent had sent her something; she started to pull the tab when she heard the phone ringing.

Naturally, because she was in a hurry the screen door would not open. "Oh shit, when am I ever going to get that fixed?" Did she turn the machine off? This must have been the fifth ring. "Hello!"

"Can I speak to the person responsible for choosing your long distance service?" Third one today, but this time on the speaker phone that she had used before lunch. Were they running a sale? She slammed the phone down and took a breath and as she exhaled, it rang again.

"Oh Billie, I just got your package. I'm opening it now. It's the contract? They don't want to go

KAWHUMP-WUMP-WUMP-WUMP-WUMP

'What the hell is that? The quilts in the washer; it's off center. Hold on, Billie, gotta fix the washer and then we'll fix those bastards.'

She tore down the stairs. Halfway the cat popped up from its resting place on a step. She lost her balance, and bounced down the remaining three steps on her butt, screaming "You god-damned gray rat" at the startled cat.

Rita lifted the lid and the gyrating washer stopped. She rearranged the load and started it again, and then, rubbing her sore bottom, started up the steps to finish her talk with her agent. She was just reaching for the receiver when she heard her cell phone. It was sitting on her table. "Hold on, Billie, I'll be right there."

The display panel showed her sister-in-law's number. "Debbie,why you calling, I coming over there tonight with Mark so he can meet Vince and Mom."

"WHAT! You've changed your mind; you don't think Vinny is ready to see his thirty-year old sister with some guy from downtown. I'm sorry Mark doesn't hunt, Debbie. Oh I know I shouldn't take it out on you. I should tell Vinnie to his face. You're sure Mom won't like him either. Vinnie been talking against Mark to her? My brother, wants me to be the Virgin Queen, well I got news for him, no I better not tell him THAT, he'll come after Mark with one of his guns. Christ on a crutch, this is frigging incredible. I'll talk to you later; my agent is on the phone."

The little beep rang out; the cell phone was put back on the table. Rita picked up the other phone. "I have to call you back, Billie. Not in the mood right now to deal with those cheap suckers."

She walked into the kitchen, opened a door and reached up to the top shelf of a cupboard. She did not bother to shut the cabinet, but walked to the sliding door to the deck, opening it. 'God my ass really feels that fall,' she thought to herself as she sat, withdrew a cigarette from a pack, put it in her mouth and struck a match. "Seven meals and counting, oh well. Thanks Vinnie, Tinkerbell and Mr. Jerk from MCI. God that tastes good." The smoke rose lazily into the perfect October sky.

#11

Pure situation comedy

"And how are you going to explain the fact that you varnished yourself into that corner? Where were your brains? Howard is going to have a fit when he gets home and finds you haven't started dinner because you've stymied yourself.

"The can says it dries to touch in six hours, so you should be able to get out in time for bed. By the way, I don't think you have to stay on your hands and knees; if you are careful you can probably pivot around and sit on your butt. I wonder if the fire department deals with cases like this, like cats stuck in a tree. Oh this is so funny, Steffi. I wish I had a camera. Well, as the old joke goes, 'Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back.

"Oh my, you've never said that before, Steff. See you tomorrow. Maybe you can do my dining room; there are two exits. Bye bye."

#12

By far my favorite. The first three words, the prompt, are grammatically impossible and it just built from there, to complete anarchy. It is reminiscent of my 11th Grade Spanish class, taught by a German woman.

"The silence broke' is wrong; it should be 'the silence is or was broken." Ms. Danish looked around her Tenth Grade classroom. "Silence is a passive noun; it cannot act on anything." She paused again; the room was quiet. She directed her glance at Flossie, the girl who had turned in the essay. From the other side of the room came a loud belch. Her head swiveled toward the offender.

"Eddie Regan, was that you?"
"Why no, Ms. Danish, I would never the silence break."

The students near Eddie's desk tittered, their hands over their mouths suppressing their giggles.

"You are making fun of me, Eddie. The correct form is that you would never break the silence."
"You're right, Ms. Danish, I would never do that either."

Now the whole class was laughing. Ms. Danish turned back toward the blackboard. Another belch rang out. A deep male voice commanded, "Stop that silence breaking."

Before any other calamity could occur, the bell rang. Ms. Danish sat in her chair, putting her elbows on her desk, and her head in her hands. She could hear a mixed chorus singing, "Silence has broken, like the first morning" as they walked down the hall.

#13

Here is the R rated one....it is such a common device, getting the reader to expect something else that I am almost embarrassed.

         She held it loosely in her left hand. She was lying flat on her bed with her knees pulled up slightly, her left forearm resting on her naked stomach, the hand extending downward. The flickering of the two candles on her bureau provided the only light in the room, just like the last time Roddy was there. How long ago was that now? Tonight was Tuesday. He hadn't been here last week; she had been babysitting for her sister three of those nights. He couldn't come until Sunday, and then they would be having her parents to dinner. He wouldn't be able to stay the night. Oh damn!

         It seemed so long since he'd held her and made her feel so good inside. Just thinking of his body and the pleasures he gave made her fell warm; no, not warm, hot! She rubbed the cool plastic in her left hand against her thigh. 'It'll make me feel so much better, but are the batteries run down? They can't be; I charged them last night.' It was nearly midnight; she had to be up early in the morning, but she knew she would never sleep now. 'Do it, Lisa, it'll make you feel so good.' She spread her legs a little more and with her thumb pressed the button. She felt a vibration and pulled her left hand to her face.

         The ringing stopped.
         "Roddy, Roddy, talk to me."

#14

Can you believe this came from watching Pam make vegetable soup?

"Do you remember what I told you would happen if you asked her that question? Well, here's another fine mess you've gotten us into. I don't like being in this soup pot one bit. You and your big mouth. 'Eh, what use could she ever have for a big Hubbard squash like you?' Well, Zookie, now you know. Hey, you look cute all sliced down into a hundred little slivers. Oh, and look, here comes our old buddy, Mickey Macaroni. Ask Mr. Onion to pass the soap, will you?"

#15

The last story told from another point of view.

She whistled as she ran her thumb along the knife blade. "Wow, that is sharp. That could do some damage." She turned her head slightly and winked.

The assembled chorus of Hubbard Squash burst into

"Oh the shark has,
pearly teeth dear,
and she shows them."

"STOP STOP STOP. This isn't going to work. Hubbards, I want to see more fear in your faces. This woman is going to cut you from head to toe, or whatever you legumes call it." He turned to his assistant sitting next to him, "Are they legumes, Harris? And what happened to the pumpkins? I wanted pumpkins. Now take it from there!"

"MUSIC"

"Just a jack knife
has old Mack Heath babe,
and he keeps"

"STOP STOP STOP AGAIN! THAT IS NOT A 'HE.' Who wrote these lyrics, Harris?" The director shook his head, lowered it and began to cry. "Four Hundred Million grosses, but make one little flop, and it's shooting a ginsu knife commercial. What do you mean, Harris, it won't cut the squash?"

#16

I recalled a story of General Schlieffen on maneuvers making some sort of remark on war and beauty, and then thought of Burnside's attack at Antietam.

The countryside lay below him, spread like green butter as far as the rising sun. A ribbon twinkled horizontally through his canvas, cross-hatched in two places by what he know were bands of iron and wood. Dark lines on the far side of the ribbon were upward folds in the land; behind each rise were enemy troops. He could see his men far below, massing and moving toward the bridges. He knew that both crossings were death traps, that emplacements in those small ridges held machine guns ready to harvest those foolish enough to try to cross, but cross they would.

Far in the distance was another hill, with artillery just on the other side, ready to hurl its cannonade onto the maelstrom. He noticed the puffs of smoke as they fired their shells, and watched the result below.

His own artillery was behind him, lobbing shells into the positions on the other side of the river. Each round of fire caused him to flinch at the noise, and then note the effect on the defenders.

Had he air support, he would have called in a strike, but seventy years would have to pass before this became a reality. For now, he only wanted to say, like Grant, that he was on the same side of the river as his enemy.

#17

This exercise led to an article for my newsletter about our wonderful Murder Mystery weekend at a bed and breakfast.

"It was only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea." No, that isn't right, that song is in the present tense. "It's only a paper moon." Cardboard sea? Is that right? Do I have to go to Google just to post in Rhyssa's forum? What is the world coming to? Try again.

It was only twelve degrees here this morning. Wait a minute! Who wants to hear about the weather in this godforsaken place? Give it another try.

It was only the wind beating on the old Victorian mansion that caused the inside shutters that covered the windows to rattle, but in the dark of the huge bedroom with the fourteen foot ceiling, the noise frightened Pam. She grabbed my arm and pulled it over her so that I held her tight. I suggested I get up and put on a soft light, or turn up the dimmer switch on the chandelier in the sitting room on the other side of the doorway. "Don't leave me, I'm frightened. It was so romantic in here last night and so scary tonight." Under the covers her skin felt warm. The feeling relaxed me. I kept my arm around her, my body nestled up against her, and then I heard her deep breathing, indicating sleep. I dozed off only to wake in a little while, my arm aching from its position. I gently jostled it loose from her grip. She continued to sleep. I lay and thought that it was only a little over a year ago that we met and it was only yesterday we came to this wonderful place, and it would only be tomorrow when we would have to return to our workaday world, to wait another week before we saw each other again.

There! It was only finding the right subject to write about!

#18

You can see I am straining here. Never let them see you sweat.

I'm feeling completely at a loss about what to say here, but I have five more minutes left on my clock. Make that four minutes, forty seconds. I mean I wrote something for the "Bad to the Bone" worst short story contest. My piece was so offensive I am surprised I am still allowed to log in to Stories.com and now I still have three minutes, twenty seconds.... ten seconds to fill. Know any good jokes?

I'm like the guy whose TV show ends early and I have to wing it. Maybe I should sing a song, a secular holiday song so that I don't insult any more people, maybe something about the weather outside being frightful and the fire is so delightful. Wait a minute; that reminds me that it is 58 degrees in here and I can almost see my breath and there is a woodstove in the basement that needs to be fired up. Maybe the cold is why my right hand is numb; I was beginning to worry that it was the Big One coming on and I would die with thirty seconds still remaining on the clock and this story would just peter out to an insignif......................

#19

Cabin fever sets in.

A puzzled expression came to his face as he looked down at the snow piled around the half-dead cherry tree. Where was the dog's water bowl? It had been there last week before the latest deluge had dropped another 17 inches on the ground. It was plastic, so he could not use a magnet or coin finder to locate it; all he could do was begin shoveling, expanding the path he had made with the snowblower.

That piece of magnificent machinery had allowed him to cut a swath along the side and right front of his house next to the flower bed. When he reached his front stoop, he turned left toward the tree. Had he gone straight, he would have bogged down in a drift of over thirty inches. This would have taxed the John Deere to its utmost.

The snow between the stoop and the tree was not as deep; the dog's chain hung in the branches for future use. On reaching the tree, he made a right turn and proceeded to where he thought his driveway was. He hung a left again and cleared the sixty feet to the road. He repeated the driveway cleaning five times, freeing the car for use. This had been done on Saturday. Now it was Sunday, and the dog wanted water.

A green minivan passed on the road. A little girl waved to him as he shoveled. He took his right hand off the tool and returned the greeting. The little girl turned to her mother and said,
"Mommy, why is that man shoveling his lawn?"
"I don't know, Felicia."
"Do you think there is buried treasure there, Mommy?"
"No, I don't think so, honey. I think he is a bit teched."

After forty minutes of unsuccessful search, the man walked through the snow to the back of the house, out of view from onlookers. Within minutes he returned and walked out the driveway to the road, carrying on his head a large piece of wood that was attached to a post. He drove the post into the snowdrift the town's snowplows had made in front of his lawn. A passing motorist could see he had made a sign. It read very simply:

HOUSE FOR SALE, CHEAP

#20

And sometimes you just can't think of anything. You'd like to blame it on the 'drip, drip, drip' prompt, but no one wants to hear that. So what does 'drip, drip' sound like? How about 'beat, beat' or 'meep, meep?' Best to add some culture to our lives and go with Cole Porter.

Drip, drip, drip. Creeps in this petty pace from day to day. I think that's what it must sound like anyway, all the way to that last syllable of recorded time. And all those crummy yesterdays have lighted stupid fools their way to dusty death.

Out, out, out-a-here with your brief candles; let's get rid of this gloom and doom and not be poor players that strut and fret our time on the stage. What else does drip, drip sound like? Like the beat, beat, beat of a tom-tom, when the jungle shadows fall. I can see Fred now, that huge forehead of his, singing it and dancing it. The lyric came to me immediately when I read the prompt, so therefore I can say:

IT IS A TALE TOLD BY AN IDIOT, FULL OF SOUND AND FURY, SIGNIFYING NOTHING.

#21

Nothing out of something. I'm lucky to be permitted to retain my membership after this effort. What do you want for a day when Rhyssa found two more of my entries. Their quality may be demonstrated by the fact they are not being posted.

The following writing contains words, words that might be spelled right and used in the correct context and chosen because of their beauty. That is the hope of all scriveners who set their pen to paper, or fingers to the keyboard, but sometimes things don't work out that way. Sometimes those words reach out AND GRAB THE MOTLEY HACK BY THE THROAT AND TAKE OVER.

THIS IS AN ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE KEYBOARD. TELL NICKY NEANDERTHAL HERE TO LIGHTEN UP ON HIS FINGERS AND STOP SWEARING AT ME. I AM DOING THE BEST THAT I CAN.

Are you finished?

YES I'M FINISHED BUT HOW IS ANY KEYBOARD SUPPOSED TO FUNCTION WHEN THE SPONSORED ITEM TO THE LEFT SAYS 'CHECKING MY ARMPITS FOR B.O.?' TELL ME THAT, HUH!

You really are getting worked up. I should have known better than to write this on the laptop. And, dear keyboard, I will have you know that I miss my mouse, but thankfully the Touchpad does not complain.

THAT IS BECAUSE HE DOESN'T HAVE HIS GREEN CARD.

You're funny today, but it is time to close this case and post this. Say Good Night Gracie.

GOOD NIGHT GRACIE.

Real funny.

WANNA HEAR ME RIFF 'WALK THIS WAY?'

Not particularly. Good Night Rhyssa, Joy and all the other serious writers.

-22-

"Wistfully she watched" just seemed so ripe for something anti-romantic, but I could never get it going. My first thought was Slowly I turned. It would not let go to the detriment of literature.


Wistfully she watched to see if anyone was paying attention. She wanted so badly to type "Slowly, I turned," which had the same rhythm and meter as "Wistfully she watched." She knew people would get a big laugh out of it, but if no one read it, how would anyone know? That was always the way it was with her. She could write the Great American novel or poems to rival Dickinson and no one would notice.

WISTFULLY SHE WATCHED
By Alison Payne

Slowly he turned,
Step by step

"Oh, it's no good," she thought. "I can't fit 'Niagara Falls' into it. I am a total failure. I hate me, I hate me, I hate me."

There was a tapping on the door. A woman in white entered her room. "Drusilla, time for your medicine." Wistfully she watched the girl take her pills and then looked around. "Oh, I see you've been writing on the walls with your crayons again. Dr. Finch is not going to like this."

-23-

Stream of conscious meanderings

Well, I'm back in the saddle again. Why is it that when I read a prompt nothing original comes to mind.

Well, I'm back to let you know that I can really shake it down, and now that I can dance, you should watch me now. Maybe you better not. You might catch it, my disease. It must be this attack of shingles that has rendered me helpless to think an original thought. My good nurse Pam guessed my problem when she saw the first red mark Tuesday evening, and sure enough, that's what the doctor said yesterday.....no wait a minute, I went to the doctor, and the doctor said....there's some song there trying to come out....is it "True Love" or some hit from about 1959? God I could write a whole novel in stream of conscious, like that fancy Frenchman who loved Madelines, which are something I have never eaten. But if I keep writing here I will use up too much bandwidth and be consigned to Gorki's Lower Depths. Good old Maxim. He didn't have to stop and put ointment on all the little buggers like I am going to have to do right now. Bye. Happy trails to you, until we meet again.

-24-

A tax season rant. This is about the only writing I can do in this busy time.

Green reminds me of the 'filthy lucre' I earn at this time of year, so that I might spend the rest of my days occupied by my puny writing efforts that few read and none buy. Tethered to my chair, desktop to the right of me, laptop in front of me, I pound the keys and produce numbers and paper that make all I come in contact with happy. A wireless phone sits in my shirt pocket, headphones around my neck, waiting for the calls of idiots and assholes disguised as clients. To my left the world outside is brown and white, not green. I ignore the haven it promises unless my sheepdog beckons me to heed the call of the Federal Express truck bringing more work my way.

The canine has given up sitting next to me for the duration. I haven't the time to give her the constant affection she craves. She settles for rawhide strips and trips in the back of the car to the post office. And of my friend and companion Pamela, two hundred miles away, I've coerced her into helping me, so that her evenings are spent on the telephone with her Svengali, asking him how to handle Mr. Arbutnot's auto expenses. We've promised ourselves many treats after this crazy time is over. I'll settle for a quiet day, rolling in her arms in her king-sized bed, the television showing old movies that we ignore while we pleasure each other.

Green? Don't ask me about green. At this time of year I can only think of liver-bile green. Twenty-five more days and counting.

-25-

Another busy season musing, this one not quite ranting. The first above was written March 21st, this one March 28th when the end seems nearer. Reading it over, some of the sentences are backward, like the one about the cat knocking the photos off the table, but I like them that way.

When the dust settles, my dining room table will reappear out of the detritus of the past six weeks. Even now I can see a patch of dark blue, the table cloth that Morgan cross-stitched, or was it embroidered, that represents the spot where I take my lunch and dinner. I have given up using a place mat because when I spill chili, or pizza sauce or anything else red, I always miss the mat and hit either the cloth or my shirt. "Eat your dinner, don't wear it!" I hear some voice from the past saying.

As I sit I view magazines to the left of me, papers to the right of me and in the center, envelopes both opened and not, held standing up between the scotch tape dispenser and the flashlight. At lunch the pile on the right also includes Fedex, UPS and USPS Priority Mail packages waiting to be opened. By dinner these are gone, put in files to be worked on.

Even the cat has given up sitting on the table. The last time she tried, she knocked to the floor a folder of photographs of little meaning and no value, but the resulting tirade from the man she considers her servant convinced her she was on alien territory.

Daylight now accompanies both meals. The snow is gone and the crazy cardinal has returned to sit in the Manderly-sized rhododendron to the left of the deck. Her job in life is to bash her head continually into the picture window a crazy architect built into my cellar. Don't ask why. Five years she has been doing it. When she stops I will know it is time to move on.

I now must take some time each day to practice prestidigitation. I want to learn the trick of removing a table cloth without disturbing the settings. I feel this is a win-win task. If I succeed, I will put a clean piece of linen atop the mess and leave it until next winter. If I fail, the mess will fall to the floor where it can be swept up. If I can't dispose of everything with a yank, I will have to bring out the snow shovel. Presto Change-o, allakazaam!

-26-

I rather like this posting of April 22. The longer I thought, the more names I remembered, and I avoided bringing in the worst of all, "Chico" who had many other names that were even worse.

He was thin, and his hair had a tinge of red to it. When combined with a naturally red Irish face, it was easy to see why the boys on the corner called him "Thermometer," or "Therm" for short. Few knew his real name was Jim Gallagher.

That's the way it went down on the corner back in 1961. Noel Mangia always wore a sweatshirt with "Charley's Cougars" emblazoned on the front, and so he was christened "Charley Noll." I could never figure out what the bumble bee on that same sweatshirt meant, but it meant something. I suspect that is why the shirt was on sale at The Big Store in Darby. It was a place that sold rejects, like my gray top with a collar and the inscription "Momouth County National Bank" on the back in raised letters. The Big Store was 100 miles from Monmouth County, so I guess no one would realize the faux pas.

Some of the perjoratives were obvious: Walt O'Brien would always be "Obie" and Dick Kelly, "Kell" but others were hard to fathom without meeting the person. "Moto" wore Coke-bottle thick glasses; "Bobo" was simply better than Francis for the loudmouth whose last name was Beck, while Tommy Silvano preferred "Spic" to "Nicky Neanderthal." Kate, his intended, preferred that nickname also; as she pointed out, he looked more Cro-Magnon than Neanderthal.

And so my friends grew into adulthood and made that long trip down the aisle. It was only then that many onlookers at the Mass at Holy Cross, St. Eugene's, or St. Philomena's realized that "Hoody," "Tony and Ray Ghoul" and "Honsybaby" were really Johnny McGrath, Tony and Ray Juliano, who were not related, and Johnny Milano respectively. In some quarters "Hoody" was known as "Machine Gun," but the former sounds more affectionate, and mysterious.

As for me, it was 1966 before a permanent moniker was bestowed. They tried "Fuzzy" for a while, in honor of the Packer's great guard, Fuzzy Thurston, but it never stuck except with Mike the Snake. Only when I was to be invested into Uncle Sam's legions did Crazy Frank, once Moto, find the appellation that fit.

We went out partying on a last fling and ended at the Shamrock Club in Upper Darby. It was an all night watering hole where the band would play Beatles standards followed by "The Wild Colonial Boy" or "When the Cows Come Home to Killarney." Frank walked up to the band leader and whispered something in his ear. To my horror, the next piece was dedicated to "Mad Dog" Lidle, who was going to Vietnam in the morning. So to this day, I am "Mad Dog" or "Doggie" in that part of the world. That is why I live 250 miles away!

*******

Thanks to Pam for keeping me sane the past two months, and to Rhyssa for this wonderful forum.

-27-

Seven A.M. inspiration; memories of games with my sister and brother, and games with my daughter at our cabin in the Adirondacks. Lixie was not allowed to lose. Every game we had to arrange for her to have hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk. Here I use Pam and her sister Debbie as my opponents.

         This is the fourth time I've passed "GO" and landed on Income Tax. It's getting frustrating. I roll the dice, miss Debbie's hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk, and then have to fork over 10% of my horde to Uncle Sam. Come to think of it, that is better than the 27% bracket I am in now, but why can't I land on the Reading. I could buy it and then have a Monopoly on the railroads to go with my hotels on Atlantic, Ventnor and Starvin Marvin Gardens, hotels I might add that no one lands on.

         Well I am here now. I'd like to spin a seven and end up 'Just Visiting' the jail, and then two good rolls might put me past Pam's orange and RED corner powerhouse. I shouldn't have traded her Illinois and St James for the Short Line, Oriental and Ventnor. I should have my head examined. She has six hotels there already. I think she borrowed the money from Debbie. They are sisters and they are ganging up on me, I swear.

         Oh shit, she went right past my yellows and is buying North Carolina. That takes away any chance I might have for a corner conglomerate.

         And look at that, will you. Debbie landed on Mediterranean and has to pay Pam all of $250. She probably will go right past my light blues, but maybe if I put hotels on them, I can profit. I don't quite have the cash, so I'll mortgage the three railroads and buy hotels and then pay it off when Debbie lands on Connecticut. She only needs to spin an eight.

         My turn? C'mon God, something low to put me on my own properties, or Just Visiting or even the Electric Company. I can afford that. Here goes. THREE. CHANCE. Chance is riskier than Community Chest, but I have to pick a card.

ADVANCE TO ILLINOIS AVENUE

I HATE THIS GAME!

-28-

This one was pretty obvious from the get-go but was lots of fun to write. I was surprised no one else used 'every name in the book' as a follow to the phrase.

He called me every name in the book: Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Moses, Tom Joad, Nick Carraway, Jay Gatsby, Gully Jimson, Hannibal Lecter, Elmer Ga

"STOP, STOP IT WILLYA! Can't you write anything without assuming a wise guy pose?"

"No, as a matter of fact I can't. Every time I pick up the pen, or keyboard, I say to myself, 'what will piss off the reader most?' and I start typing."

"Well, if you don't stop it, you will be taken out and shot, and without a blindfold or a last cigarette."

"Without a cigarette? Good God, man, you are cruel. Let me try again."

He called me at ten o'clock and told me to meet him at Hunter's Tavern in an hour. I walked out the door to my car. As I started the car, I felt cold steel on the back of my neck. A deep male voice told me where to drive. It was an old fortress. I nosed the car through an arched gate into a courtyard. He told me to get out and put my hands behind my back. He clasped handcuffs on me and I was led over to a wall and told to face the courtyard.

A squad of militiamen marched out and formed a line. Their commander ordered them to raise their rifles. What a pretty sight; if I were on their other side it would have been pure Manet and the execution of Maximillian of Mexico, but I was looking into their faces. The sun was coming up and the birds were singing. My only regret was that I did not have a last cigarette, but I will go the way I came: Bob Cratchit, Michael Henchard, the Thane of Cawdor,

the rest is darkness

-29-

Not one of the best. The lyrics to "Thunder Road" hit me immediately but I also thought I had done too many riffs on songs.

The screen door banged, sending him back into the recesses of his mind. Was it 'banged' or 'slammed?' He tapped the search key on his keyboard and Google opened. He phrased his query carefully:

"Thunder Road" lyrics

The evidence was clear. Mary's screen door slammed; it didn't bang. Damn, he wouldn't be able to use that as a hook for a rambling.

He consulted the character cards he did not maintain, and checked his non-exitent writer's notebook. There was nothing; he would have to wing it.

The screen door banged and out of his life she walked. He heaved a sigh of relief and began to jump up and down for joy. He thought to himself, 'What did I ever see in her? All she has wanted to do lately was eat and sunbathe.' He opened the door in the telephone stand, took out a phone book and looked up a number. Picking up the phone, he dialed it. He listened to the greeting and then made his request, "Has anyone brought in a good adult mouser, preferably an older cat that would appreciate a good home?"

-30-

Suggested by watching the horses up the road, and by memories of my dog playing in the horses' paddock in Pennsylvania with another dog and cries of "Uggggh."

"I can be very ornery when you get my goat."

"What did I do now?"

"Look at this yard. You dumb horses drop turds all over the place; you don't care where we poor ovines tred."

"That wasn't me, that was Felicity."

"What does it matter; there were some great cat food cans near there I could have eaten for lunch, but no, old Miss Felicity just plops it down on top of them."

"Never knew a little crap bothered you?"

"Well it does, and it is so inconsiderate."

"BAAAAAAA. Silly Silly Billy Goat. It's has a lot of chlorophyll mixed in it; it's good for you, it will make that ratty coat shiny."

"Stop making fun of me."

"Billy Goat Gruff, Billy Goat Gruff, Billy Goat Gruff. Yea team!"

"Just because you have about a ton on me, doesn't mean I couldn't do some real damage with these horns. You've got me mad now, you dumb feline."

"FELINE??? Hear that Felicity? Old Billy Goat Gruff thinks we're cats."

"NEIGGGGGGH."
"You keep out of this, Felicity. You and your big EQUINE butt started this, but this is between Hortense and me."

"Better not start anything; here comes Miss Larkin and, looky here, she has two bunches of carrots for us and something in that bucket. Bet that's for you, Billy Boy."

"Good Horsies, good horsies. Here's a few carrots for each of you, and guess what's in this bucket, William?

"William? So you're William now?"

"The strawberry rhubarb pie that did not come off because I forgot the graham crackers for the crust. I'll just dump it on the ground right here."

"Ummmm, that looks so good. DON'T BACK UP Felicity. No, don't raise that tail. NOOOOOOOO!"

SPLAT

"I can be very ornery."

-31-

Suggested by an actual phone call I had yesterday from a client's estranged wife about his sexual preferences. My late wife's father died by falling out a window in a similar way.

         Leaning back against the French door, he took a sip from his Scotch and soda. It was stronger than he thought it would be after the wine. He coughed, gagged and threw his head back. This movement shifted his weight to his shoulders, the door sprung open and he found himself floating in the twelve-story air.

         Like a cartoon character he spun his legs ineffectively before the law of gravity pronounced sentence. He grabbed for his cellphone to bid farewell to Dianne, but it had flown out of his pocket. He tried to bring back her face to his mind, but all he could see was a vision of Marsha, on her knees looking up at him an hour ago, in the copier room with the door locked.

         His pants and shorts were around his ankles. She was smiling at him, and running her tongue over her lips. "Do you want me to go on?" He nodded. Her hands reached out to his private place; she ran her thumb through a patch of hair and spoke, "Yes, Kevin, it's not a tick. I think you have crabs."

         A second later he met the ground. He leaned back against the cement. Ticks, crabs, schmabs, what did it matter now?

-32-

Some days the bear eats you. This is not very inspired.

"We’ve only got one banana for the three of us, so if you eat it Maryanne, we can literally sing, 'Yes, We Have No Bananas, We Have No Bananas Today.'

"I don't think this is funny, Ginger. You and your 'let's make a raft and sail for help' really puts us behind the eight-ball on this new deserted island. God knows how many miles we are from the Professor and the rest of the men and there is no food to eat. You wouldn't listen to the professor, would you? No, 'we women can do anything we put our minds to', like find our own deserted island! You dumb bimbo, why did I ever listen to you?"

"Shut up, Maryanne. You're just missing your trysts with the Professor out there in the jungle. I heard the two of you getting it on the other night. Didn't now you had it in you, Miss GoodyTwoShoes."

"Ginger, of all the..."

"I miss my Thurston; I should have stayed with my honey. And we don't have any food or water."

"Don't you start, Mrs. H. I had to build the raft, steer it, paddle the oars, do everything, while the two of you did diddly. Who could have known a storm would blow us here?"

"Mrs. Howell is right, Ginger. What ARE we going to do for food and water? And, by the way, the Professor and I were observing the Transit of Venus."

"I can think of another word that rhymes with that last, little Miss Perfect."

"Well, the Professor told me about you and your interrupting his late night experiments in his hut, Ginger Slut. He said you walked in and dropped your towel you had wrapped around you. He wasn't impressed one bit. He saw your cellulite."

"Mrs. Howell, Maryanne, this island is too small for the three of us. One of us has to go."

Thus ends our story. Rescue came the next week for all of them, MaryAnn from the small island near the one with Mrs. Howell and Ginger. The Skipper went before a Board of Inquiry and lost his Captain's license. Gilligan was elected to the United States Senate. The Howell's divorced and Thurston took up with Ginger. Mrs. Howell used her settlement to buy a string of tropical hotels.

As for MaryAnn and the Professor, they wrote a television series called "Venus Transiting" and many years later came up with a silly program idea about seven strangers stranded on an island. What made it so popular was that each week the cast would vote to eliminate one of its members. That person was taken to sea in a dinghy, their leg sliced, and they thrown into the azure blue sea just teeming with sharks. "Slaughter In The South Pacific" became the Number One attraction on television.

-33-

An old Bob Newhart riff updated. I did not realize it was not original until after I wrote it.

"Why are you so sure that you are the way and the life?"

"Ta-Ta"

"Very impressive, but Chauncey Gardner does the same thing at the end of that movie. Spice it up, do a moonwalk on water, and maybe play a little air guitar."

"Great idea. I'll do a 'Sweet Little Sixteen' riff; everyone else does Johnny B. Goode."

"Don't do that, you've got a voice like helium coming out of a balloon. Singing distracts from the visual of you walking on water. If you don't sing, I can probably get you on both local and national news. If you warble, the blow-dried heads can't say their self-important blather."

"You mean you think this is good enough for Tom Brokaw? Wow. That's better than buying time for an informercial on PAX at three in the morning."

"Maybe you can sing. Maybe we give you a ukelele, grow your hair a little longer and put you in pants that baely reach your ankles and a sport coat three sizes too small. That voice of yours would be perfect for 'I'm forever blowing bubbles' or "Tiptoe through the tulips."

"I'll look ridiculous. How can I be a messiah or whatever that way?"

"Walk on water and you'll get to be a garden variety bore. Strum a ukelele and sing some old song in that Melanie Griffith voice of yours and they'll be fighting to get you on the late evening shows, to say nothing of Entertainment Tonight."

"But that's not what I'm trying to do."

"Stop worrying. Think of it. People will get tired of the water gimmick. Next we put you on a tightrope over Niagara Falls."

"But I never tightroped in my life."

"Piece of cake for you! Like falling off a log, hmmmm, a bad analogy I admit, but visualize it, the mist, the roar of the water and you up there on a slender rope, strumming that ukelele:

'Tiptoe to the window, by the window, that is where I'll be'

and at the same time, every so often the '800' number flashes on the screen. You'll be rolling in it."

'Sigh, I was so sure I knew the answers and then you media consultants came into my life. Let me talk to my father about it and I'll get back to you."

"Sure, but hurry. If you don't want to do it, it might be perfect for another one of my clients. God! I'm brilliant."

-34-

As Dave Barry would say, "I'm not making this up," this really happened the day Rhyssa posted her prompt. Subtitled "Man making spectacle of himself."

The trouble was that Stanley and Livingstone and their porters had gotten lost in the tall grass, and one had been eaten by a lion. No, that's not it. The trouble was we'd had too much rain and the grass had grown too tall. No, that's not it either. The trouble was I'd treated the lawn with Weed and Feed, causing grass to grow amidst the weeds that normally spring up each May. Nope. The trouble was that the jerk who lives 'next door' to me, a quarter mile back from the road on his own estate, constantly cuts his grass with his tractor, making my place look like Tobacco Road. Oh, come on, man, face it! The trouble was I had another manic moment and decided that forty-five minutes of daylight was enough time to finish mowing the tall grass.

Round and round I went, until I came to the magnificent double-trunk white birch, with its branches spread not wide, but within three feet of the ground. Under the limbs I pushed the mower once, successfully, and then came around for a second pass. The tree, which is as near to God to me as anything on this earth, decided to give a lesson in humility.

The branches embraced my neck. Help me, Engelbert, please release me. I let go of the mower, which shut itself off, and pulled myself loose, rubbing the abrasions on my skin. The mower beckoned; I turned the key and started it again. There was still one small patch under the birch that cried out to be cut.

I made my circumference and approached. This time I moved to the side and held only my arms under the branches. I heard the crunching sound even over the noise of the mower. I thought I saw something shiny in the clippings. Was it my dogtags I wear as jewelry and to identify me in case of death? I put the matter aside and finished the job.

Back in the house, I took off my shirt and reached for my glasses to examine my neck. Surely I must have rested them atop the dresser. The trouble was they were not there, nor were they on the dining room table. The trouble was that two and two began to equal four. That glinting object, it couldn't have been? Digging out an old pair of bi-focals, I went outside again and began to crawl on my knees around my sainted birch. I found one lens, and part of a bent frame.

I thought I saw the tree smirk, and then I heard faintly, over the cacaphony of cows lowing, birds singing, and neighbors disproving of my shoddy mowing job, the word from on high. "The trouble was you messed with God."

-35-

Not much you can do with the prompt, it is so short. My mind took me to Pete Dexter's book, Deadwood, and the most famous hand of cards in history. The inversion of Aces and Eights was used in a Bob Seger song, "Fire Lake."

The hand was eights and aces, aces and eights to some, but he read from left to right as they fell in his hand. Was that really an eight? The lights were flickering and he knew he had to get his eyes checked, but it sure looked like the Eight of Clubs. Maybe he'd better lay off the rot gut in the bottle in front of him; maybe that would help his eyesight?

Down over two hundred dollars, he could hear bitchy Jane now. 'You threw all our money away sitting in that goddamn saloon, and where's the bread, Billy Boy?" Nag, nag, that's all that woman does. No wonder they call her 'Calamity;' and he thought, 'she can't even frigging cook.'

"It's to me? I'll see you, Black Bart, and take one."

He looked at the card. A four, no full house; he'd have to play them as dealt. His focus began to blur again. His mind was on the ad in the "Gunfighter News." They needed a lawman in Dodge City; Ringo was tearing up the place again. Didn't pay a lot, but it would get him out of this godforsaken place. 'Deadwood!' What a perverse name for this cesspool.

His mind wandered to the Personal he'd seen just below the lawman posting.

Couple in Dodge City looking for well-hung men to fulfill fantasies.

Living with plug-ugly Jane sure gave a man reason to dream. Wonder if they'd mind a bit of the clap?

Damn, light's getting dimmer; what the hell's causing that shadow? God, what a loud noise.

-36-

Now the prompt here simply is too limiting and it took some time to think of something not obvious. After reading it I realized I watch too many movies.

Today, I’m going to walk on water. The writing business has been slow and I thought I could use the publicity. It was two weeks ago or so when I came up with the idea. I'd been watching "Being There." The sight of Chance the gardener ending that fantasy by walking across the Tidal Pool at the cemetery gave me goose bumps. I always had the inkling to go out in a spectacular way, perhaps sailing off in a balloon. Water walking, why not?

Well, if I just walked up to the east bank of the Hudson and started to stroll across, no one would notice, even if I could be seen from the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. I needed to make sure the press and televison news crews were there, so I called my PR man Sidney Falco.

"Walking on water? That's passe today. You need to do something really outrageous, like raping a sheep in public. That will get you real hype. You know, do it to represent your support of the North American Man/Sheep Lovers association, demanding that their rights be recognized."

I had to stop him. Sheep are not my thing. To work with an animal you must be smarter than the animal and, well, I think you understand. You certainly can if you have read my portfolio. Sidney was nice enough to send out his assistant, Marlene Dietrichson, who looked a little like a young Jack Lemmon. She brought a photographer, who took some headshots. Then we adjourned to the back yard where I filled the child's wading pool I use to wash the dog.

It is less than five feet across, but both Marlene and her companion, who could not keep his hands off her, wanted me to do a trial run. I obliged them, but the photo-op was ruined by three thirsty Holsteins from next door who clambered into the little man-made pond. I wondered if I should add one of them to the act. If a man walking across the Hudson would cause a sensation, what about a man leading a large black and white cow?

Marlene sent out press releases to the local papers, the television stations, ESPN and the Times. She refused to give details or permit anyone to interview me. I am the "Mystery Man of Columbia County." Last night Sidney tried to horn his way back into the act; I told him to be there at 1 p.m. today. I gave him three cartons of my books to hawk to the crowds. He gets 30%. He will meet me with the cash when I reach the West Bank.

It's 11:20 now; local television is reporting that the bridge is packed with people. Cars cannot drive across it. The hills on the east bank are also black with onlookers. Despite the fact that it is sunny and hot, I've decided to wear a dark suit, blue shirt and maroon tie and carry an umbrella and wear a homburg. My only concession to the water will be the duck shoes on my feet.

I should reach the opposite shore by 2 p.m. Lindbergh was given a ticker-tape parade; I wonder what my reward will be.

-37-

The introduction of a new superhero, and who better to play that part than the author, using the nickname given to him by Pam's oldest son.

The avalanche came, which was a bit ridiculous since it was summer in the Northern Hemisphere and almost 90 degrees, but to the woman stirring the macaroni and mayo while the pot of potatoes boiled on the stove, the order by Sir Richard and the Sheriff of Little Ferry to make her famous salads for the company picnic seemed to be the snowball from hell that drove her around the bend. Could no one rescue her from the clutches of those who held her captive in their low-slung castle behind the bagel shop off the four lane highway?

The bowl of macaroni salad was huge. Four men would have to carry it out to the picnic area when the time came, but for now everything was left to her. Perspiration broke out on her brow. She wanted to finish so she could play fairy godmother to her grandchildren, but every time she slowed down, the lash of the Sheriff fell on her back.

Was that a hair in the salad? She reached over the edge and grabbed for it, but lost her balance and tumbled into the salad. The bowl was deeper than her heighth. She hit bottom and pushed up. Her head bobbed above the noodles; she screamed for help. In the next room the Sheriff and Sir Richard cackled. The latter shouted, "Hurry, woman, get that salad ready!"

As she started to go down again, she thrust an arm up and pushed a middle finger in the air. Her eyes caught the pot of potatoes boiling over, and then her head was covered again. Down she sank. Summoning all her strength, she pushed off again to the top. Her head broke the surface. She wanted to cry 'help' but knew her heartless bosses would not listen.

She tried to kick her legs out to float but the weight of the pasta and dressing, plus the tuna fish that she had added, would not permit this. Visions of her children and grandchildren began to dance in front of her eyes. She was crying. She could feel herself sliding down for the third time. What a way to die!

She thought she heard a shout and turned her head in its direction. On the top of the goo, near her shoulder, was a rope, and at the edge of the bowl, dressed in a cape and large brimmed black hat was that greatest of heroes, Captain Mustache. She grasped the rope and he began to pull. She kicked her legs in the direction he was tugging her. The dressing weighed her down but she held on with all her might. Slowly she edged to the side of the giant bowl. She could hear him muttering something about her cutting down on Italian ices.

With her right hand she reached for the edge of the bowl, took it in hand and dropped her left hand off the rope. The slackening sent him hurtling backward toward the bowl. He fell in on top of her, but her grip on the side of the bowl was strong. He grabbed too and pulled himself out again, then took her hands and pulled her slowly out.

Just as they emerged, Sir Richard and the Sheriff came into the room. "Get back to work, woman!" Captain Mustache drew his trusty seltzer bottle and sprayed them, clearing a path for the two to escape. They jumped into the Mustachemobile, his high-powered car.

As he started the car he shouted, "Now to deliver you to your family; they are waiting for you."

She looked at him, glanced at both of their garments covered with the macaroni salad dressing, and smiled. "But first hadn't we better clean off, and by the way, Captain Mustache, I haven't properly thanked you. Drive me home." In her mind she thought that she had to find out if superheroes did more than just rescue damsels in distress, but truth to tell, she already knew the answer.

-38-

The summer weather is no better than the spring, and not much of an improvement on winter. Tornadoes two weeks ago and lately every day is graced with thunderstorms. This entry reveals my contrariness. My professional writing friend emailed that she was about to criticize the passive voice and use of past tense when she came to the last line.

In the morning our world up here seems so hopeful. A hazy sun is breaking through the clouds to dry the rains of the night before. It's almost eight; by noon the hot sun and the moisture in the air will give us atmosphere that must be cut with a knife. Come late afternoon, thunder will be rumbling around us.

Yesterday, about six it could be heard up the hill in Austerlitz, making its way northeast to Canaan, Lebanon and Pittsfield. The noise, and electricity in the air, startled the dog. Her reaction, as always, was to hyperventilate in the face of the human closest to her.

Thirty minutes later those clouds had passed, and hopes of a day without the daily storm were building. Plastic bags full of paper from the shredder were piled in the back of the car. The recycling station was open late. After that chore, there was a trip to a country intersection in the shape of a 'tee.'

A cornfield, apple orchard and unplanted expanse join hands there. Deer were cavorting in the open field. The dog could not see them. The Catskills could be seen twenty plus miles away on the other side of the river. That was good news. Bad weather would not arrive from that direction.

The Wednesday night running club members were pounding toward us. We jumped back into the car and headed deeper into the country. The road climbed and dipped. The fields were so green. Black and white cows stood next to a fence, and over their heads new dark cumulus clouds were forming. We reached a crossing and turned for home, fifteen miles away.

At eight o'clock thunder was crashing again, and rain was driving through any open crack in any window. A curtain protecting a screen from Nasty Cat's claws was wet. That window had to be closed and was. The telephone rang; dared we answer on a non-wireless phone? Would this be the time lightning hit the wire? The ring was friendly; it was Pam, calling with words of wisdom from her son's house. "Storms don't last long in summer." She couldn't talk long, but she brightened the night.

Her words were remembered ninety minutes later as the rain and thunder continued to shake the little house. The power held out and when the dog settled down into a corner, it told us that the sound we heard was not the storm, which had moved on, but the fans that kept the air moving. We thought to ourselves, 'tomorrow will be another day. In the morning a passive voice entry in the first person plural will be fashioned, just to piss off the writing police.'

-39-

This is a stretch; I used Rhyssa's phrase as a bridge to a memory of long long ago.

A white haired head passed the collection basket to Mike, who threw in a dollar. Actually that's not true; the basket was attached to end of a long stick and was held by the usher, in this case Tommy Sereno, one of my buds. All functions but the Service were done by volunteers at the 2:45 a.m. Mass at St. Johns on 13th Street in Center City.

We Boys on the Corner were regulars; no one wanted to get up early for Sunday Mass in those days before the Church began scheduling Services on late Saturday afternoon, after the weddings and other events. Joining us in partaking of the wisdom of God were delivery drivers for the morning paper, partygoers capping off their nights, and in late November, Cadets and Midshipman from the Academies, in town for the big game.

Of course, I wasn't Catholic, but I liked going. The service was in the mumbo-jumbo of Latin I had studied in ninth grade. The priest was not required to give a sermon, and there was no music. He would offer up prayers for the sick, especially Lyndon Johnson, Winston Churchill and Frank Brennan. Lyndon recovered, Winston died and lord knows what happened to Frank, but hearing his name each week became an expected event.

My friends urged me to volunteer to be altar boy. That duty required someone to ring a bell at certain points in the Service, and I think I could have performed the task adequately, but I was afraid that if I goofed, I would end up in purgatory. I certainly could have done Tommy's job, but perhaps without his zeal. Holding the basket-on-a-stick in front of me, he began to shake it, rattling the change until I dug deep to support Mother Church. I emptied my pockets; I forgot Tommy would be returning later with a second collection, for which I only had paper.

Then one Sunday early in 1965, our humble Priest began to speak English. The words and phrases that haunted me the weeks before turned out to lose their mystery and their hold over me. The repetition that in Latin sounded so musical became boring in English, to the extent I wanted to shout. "Say that ten times as fast as you can!" Mike wasn't there that night; I was seated next to the old man with a head of white hair. I turned to him.

"Is that all there is?"
"Yep, that's it."

I wanted to ask him other questions, but Tommy was rattling the plate in front of me again.

-40-

Not much to say about this one detailing something that happened while I was getting ready to move.

I was covered in sackcloth and ashes, as in 'ashes, ashes, we all fall down.' Now where did that come from? I never skipped rope in my life, though I used to play a mean game of Duck, Duck, Goose. If I think real hard, 'ashes, ashes' is not from jump rope but some other game of childhood. As for sackcloth, none of the old curtains I dug out of the chest to send to my sister was made of that material.

Like the lawyer who never asks a question to which he does not know the answer, I should learn never to open chests that contain things I did not put in them. I'd noticed the curtains on top, but under them were leavings from a nether world. Magic marker drawings, linoleum engravings once inked, a spiral ring sketch notebook all done by the late artist, all piled gently in layers waiting for the maker to return.

Farther down is a single sheet, the only work in the chest by the artist's daughter. The medium is Crayola depicting the letters L-I-D-L-E in a thick aquamarine block script, and in the corner of the El, in red, the words "I Love George Mills." She and her best friend Angie fought over his attentions, and on that last night she refused to invite her friend to her birthday celebration at the restaurant. She tumbled off the bridge, strking her head on the edge, and into the water and was swept away unconscious.

This artifact dug out of the lacquered wicker chest must be one of her last thoughts recorded on this earth. She had turned thirteen the day before the bridge. She was past Duck, Duck, Goose, and Ashes, ashes.

'cover her briefness in singing,
close her with intricate faint birds'

I closed the chest, took the curtains to the washing machine, and returned to the sunny Saturday afternoon, a small void filled and a large hunger sated.

-41-

This was a little trifle written in a busy time.

I never thought I'd see the day when I did not have time to pen a few lines in this space, but when 'the carpet too is moving under you,' being original is so difficult. So I will mail this in.

Funny that is the title of my newsletter essay this month, 'mailing it in.' So many editors do it, so I should be permitted to follow suit too. I could do a whole column on packing for moving and selling the farm, but that is not of interest to the readers. Or I could write on the transfer of the cat to new environs, a loving family and such a change from the cranky man who spews profanities if the feline disturbs him, but that would have the cat lovers of Writing.com down my back. Can I bitch about my employee, who apparently thinks she will throw the contents of my office in a big box the day before the movers come? Don't think so; she is the subject for another book. How about my battles getting a mortgage? Or getting the Salvation Army to take years of junk? B-O-R-I-N-G!

No, the only thing to do if write a few more words and call it a day in my fast emptying house. I will leave you with this temporary obituary:

HE DIED AND WENT TO NEW JERSEY

-42-

Four days before moving day, and the first cloudy day after a string of brilliant Fall happenings. Obviously these words really hit home.

I lean back and think, "What a phrase for Rhyssa to choose?" She always seems to have some connection to my head. I recall her comment that music dances through her brain too, but this one is eerie.

I lean back last night in bed; the television is glowing but the sound is low. Gladiators are beating each other up in Madison, Wisconsin in the rain and win. A click of the button brings UGA routing the Vols and another click sends Sidney Potier and Rod Steiger into my room. A final click somewhere in my brain sends me to dreamland, where I am talking to Pam, and from which I return a few minutes later. Wisconsin is running out the clock; they make a first down but I doze off for thirty second or so and it is third down again.

The final gun goes off, I stumble to my feet and the bathroom across the hall, narrowly missing the sleeping dog, turn off the televison on the way back and think about leaning back again.

Harold Hanley leaned back in his chair in occupied Japan in 1946. He was a young doctor with the Occupation forces. He liked to drink. Perhaps he had one too many. He pushed the front legs of the chair off the floor and put his shoulders against the French window. He was a tall man, not heavy, but the window did not support him. I don't know how many floors he fell, but he did not survive.

His wife, Elizabeth, lived stateside in Hightstown, New Jersey with her one-year-old daughter, Morgan. It was there she received the news. She is still on this earth, living in her mid-80s in a retirement village with her second husband and painting watercolors. We talk on the phone every few months. I married her daughter.

Last week my phone message to 'Betty' was about a stranger, a woman about Morgan's age, seeing Morgan's paintings. She loved them, taking a dozen to put in her store and telling me that she thought the gallery on her street might give her a show. Betty was so happy to hear this; her faith and opinion had been vindicated. She only wished Morgan were still alive to hear the kind words.

I lean back in my chair now, as I type this, and look at the gray day outside. The reds and yellows look brighter on these days. Morgan taught me to appreciate that. I think of her, Betty, and Harold Hanley, who, of course, I never knew. He is buried in Nyack, on my way south to New Jersey where my new life will begin.

I picture evenings there, leaning back in my chair and smiling as Pamela says, "Would you like a cup of tea?" Essays are supposed to run in a full circle; the end point should answer the beginning question. I lean back and smile at the gods and say, 'so what are you going to do about it?'

-43-

You just never know when D. B. Cooper will pop into your brain. He invaded mine when I was trying to come up with something to write about for the Newsletter.

It was that time the hogs ate my little brother that I realized this world was more absurd than any God-fearing soul could imagine. Think about it! There I was, walking down the exit ramp of the 727 into the darkness of that November night, the wind howling, the snow and rain spitting and the noise of the engines deafening my hearing. The satchel of money, tied around my waist, felt like it weighed more than I did. I dared not take my one hand off the ripcord, but with the other I grabbed the rail.

I looked back into the cabin. I wondered if the attendant could wheel the drink cart out here so I could have one more whiskey and soda before my take-off into the atmosphere, but then I remembered I had banished her to the cockpit. Damned if I was going to walk back up those steps and mix my own.

What possessed me to wear loafers was beyond me. My ankles have always been weak since I broke the one roller skating when I was twelve. Loafers, wingtips, what does it matter? I'll be able to buy anything I want once I am on the ground, and I see it's almost eight o'clock. I've been dawdling long enough. Hope all of you have a Happy Thanksgiving. Geronimo!!!!!

-44-

I had a hard time thinking of what it was I lost.

It's the last place I would have looked for it. I'd been through the closets, the storage chests, the drawers in the kitchen and I checked every cubbyhole in the breakfront desk without finding it. I was at wit's end. You surely heard me muttering and cursing, and you must have felt the walls rattle when I slammed my hand against one in disgust. You don't really want to be around me when I can't find something, and of all the things to lose! How stupid can a man be? Don't answer that, and don't ask me why I thought of searching behind the couch, but now that I have, I can conclusively say, 'I must have thrown out the fruitcake I was going to give my sister-in-law last year but forgot. I guess I'll have to buy her another gift. Damn!'