Category Archives: Fiction

Leave It

What a beautiful spring morning. The sun shines brightly through my home-office windows as it burns off the morning dew from the deck, the lawn and the trees. A dozen or more birds are taking turns at the birdfeeder just off the deck. The weather report says Detroit might hit seventy-degrees for the first time this year, so I open the office windows and let in some long overdue fresh air.

The smell of spring invites me outdoors, but I must get this work done. I turn my attention back to the computer with a new resolve; finish, then get outside and enjoy this day. Both dogs, Gracie and Joker, are resting upstairs, as is their custom after we get back from the park in the morning. The television and radio are silent and the only sound is the morning rush hour chirping at the birdfeeder, until even that seems to go quiet.

Fully engrossed in my work, I lose all track of time.

‘Leave it.’

Startled, I look up. What?

I look out the window, convinced I just heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice, say leave it. It is dead quiet. There is no one in my yard or either of the neighbors’ yards, that I can see, but the birdfeeder has been commandeered by one of largest crows I’ve ever seen. Easily twice the size of a normal crow, its shimmering, azure-blue on midnight-black wings envelop its unusually rotund body. It stands on the peak of the little roof that covers the birdfeeder and just stares at me, first with one big, brown eye and then the other. It does not eat the feed, just bobs its head up and down as it switches its focus from one eye to the other. I’ve never seen such a fat crow. I turn to get my cellphone to take a picture.

‘Leave it.’

I get a chill in my spine, and slowly turn back to the window. The voice sounds like it is coming from my deck. I stand, put my nose on the screen and look along the house half expecting to see someone. There is no one there. I look down under the windowsill, then question if it wasn’t all in my head.

The crow is staring at me. It hasn’t moved in over a minute.

I’m home alone. No one is going to hear me talking to a crow, so I say half-jokingly, ‘Leave what?’

The crow spreads its wings and bobs its head, then caws three times. And then flies off.

I watch it circle over my neighbor’s house before it lands on the peak of that roof. It caws again, three more shrills. Though more distant, these caws sound even louder. It sits there and stares at my window. Feeling a little creeped out, I go back to what I was working on and try to forget that I just asked a crow a question. And that it seemed to almost respond. I wonder what three shrills means in crow-talk?

I finish my work in time to make lunch for me and the dogs, who by now are awake and hungry. They anxiously watch me prepare their bowls with a mixture of last night’s leftovers with dry and canned dog food. Gracie stands by the deck door and starts one of her deep-throated growls, and I know there’s a squirrel in the yard. But I also know food-in-a-bowl takes precedence.

Squirrels are endless entertainment for my dogs, both here at home and at the park. At ages eight and nine, both dogs are now too old and too slow to catch the squirrels over a short distance. My mutts never were smart enough to hunt in a coordinated attack. The critters always hightail it as fast as they can for the trees then climb to an unreachable branch and wait out the dogs. Sometimes, they chastise the dogs with their squeaky, little chatter, and rattle their tails like sabers.

I take my lunch to the deck table, but the dogs’ bowls remain inside. I leave the screen door open so they can join me when they finish. There are squirrels in the yard, as usual, but they don’t pay me any mind, so long as the dogs don’t come out. They go back to foraging for their lunch and I go about forking mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that fat crow perched on top of my neighbor’s roof. It looks again to be staring right at me. I point my fork at it and say in an admonishing tone, ‘Have you been up there all this time?’ My dogs think I’m calling them and come running.

As soon as the dogs’ paws hit the porch, the two squirrels under the birdfeeder bolt. They take their usual escape route and beeline-it for the nearest tree, about forty feet away. Suddenly, the crow swoops off the roof and heads straight for the base of that same tree. It arrives before the squirrels with its wings spread as big as an umbrella. Shocked, the squirrels turn back, right into Joker’s and Gracie’s charge. The crow flies off, but the squirrels are left with only one alternative and that is to try and jump, springboard-style, over the dogs. The squirrels jump, Gracie jumps, too, and head-butts one of them out of midair. Before that squirrel can find its feet, Gracie has her teeth around its neck and starts shaking her head from side to side.

‘Gracie, no!’ I yelled from the deck. ‘Stop it!’

Gracie tosses it, and the now-limp critter thuds back to earth twenty feet away. Joker chases it down and bites into its belly, and gets blood all over her white snout.

My appetite is spoiled.

I get the dogs back in the house and scold them, not for killing a squirrel; they don’t understand my words, just my infliction — they thought they were killing it for me. I’m mad because now I must clean off Joker! And now I gotta pick up a dead critter! Yesterday was trash day, so that means I’ll have to bag it and drive out to the park to trash it. Otherwise, it’ll be growing maggots before my next trash day.

I aggressively wash off Joker with Dove soap and get myself sloppy wet in the process. Even more pissed off now, I fill a brown shopping bag half way with crumbled newspaper to absorb the dead critter’s blood, then get a plastic garbage bag to put it all in. I grab my garden gloves, a shovel and a bucket and step around the garage to the back yard.

I stop cold.

That big, fat crow is tearing apart the squirrel and has half of its innards already on the ground.

It looks up at me, first with one eye, then the other, back and forth. I don’t move. It goes back to ripping out entrails. It isn’t taking time to eat, just tearing it apart with its beak and claws.

Another crow flies in, but instead of attacking Fatso, it lands a few feet away and walks up, picks up one of the pieces that’s already been removed and flies off. Soon, another crow lands, takes a piece of squirrel and flies off. I back-step into the garage. When I get back in my office, Gracie and Joker are watching out the window as the crows descend in their yard. My dogs don’t growl or bark or even perk their ears. They just watch, and so do I. Sortie after sortie, this repeats for nearly an hour.

All the other crows look just like crows, not bulbous like this first one. They all seem to come and go in the same direction and I wonder if there is a colony of them, or a flock, or whatever a bunch of crows are called, living in the patch of woods behind my neighbor’s house. I want to go exploring. I suddenly want to know everything I can find out about crows. Fatso flies off last with the remains of the squirrel clutched in its talons. It caws three times.

I never did take a picture. Caught up in watching that brilliant bird, it was easy to forget. What I cannot forget is how it cut off the squirrels’ only escape, how it got my dogs to kill its dinner, how Fatso played chef for an entire family of crows, and how it got me to leave it.

End, Part One.

Bingo

2 Replies

“B-13!” Mercy Mia sounded off at the head of the room. Ellie looked up at her friend, Mercury Martin. His lips were a dark red tonight with an edge of gloss with liner to bring out the shape. He had shadowed eyes that added sultry to the girl next door, and his cheeks brushed with enough color for the added drama. He had on his favorite sequenced form fitting dress. Also red. And she knew underneath the table he had on a pair of five-inch heeled shoes by one of his favorite designers, Manolo Blahnik. His breasts were hiked up and sitting proud. She wished she had that much cleavage. Add the bigger than Everest hair, and you had the perfect drag queen. Ellie couldn’t help but smile.

Ellie snickered as Merc told another dick joke in between number calling and Merc’s boyfriend, sitting next to her, snorted every time Merc looked over. They’d recently moved in together. They were adorable.

“Unlucky,” Ellie shouted at her friend and frowned. She blotted the letter/number on her bingo sheet.

“Suck it up, sister!” Merc yelled back.

Ellie smiled at her friend again. She stuck her tongue out at him. Mercury was one of her best friends and forced her to come out to drag queen bingo. She’d been hiding too long for his taste he’d told her.

She sighed. Her apartment was like a living dirge swallowing her up like a grave, and she was starting to resemble a vampire.

“G-7,” Mercy Mia called out.

Ellie slammed the blotter on the empty space on her card. She’d sat an hour already, and she was no closer to getting bingo.

“Honey,” Merc’s significant other Jackson said, “I don’t think your game board can take any more.”

She looked over at him. “Serves it right for not giving me any winning squares.” She looked at her board. Empty. Like her life.

Jackson was the total opposite of Merc. He was short and fit, muscular in all the right places. Though five foot ten wasn’t considered short to her, it just was short compared to Merc’s six foot four. Jackson wore a tailored suit of dark blue and a pair of trousers that fit and held him just right as they tapered down to his ankles. He’d just taken off his jacket, and the light azure shirt hugged his chest like it was a breast plate. How did he get it to look like that she wondered? He looked scrumptious.

Too bad he was of the man-loving-honey-bunches-of-oats-kind and wasn’t single. She would totally try for some of him. Though lately, she wasn’t of the man-loving-honey-bunches-of-oats-kind either. With each relationship tried, she felt something missing. There were orgasms, but they lacked that wow factor that all her other friends talked about. At 25 she’d think she’d have had an earth-shattering sex partner. A little voice seemed to be knocking at her subconscious more and more, letting her know she had to stop denying the truth about her sexuality. It was getting harder and harder to ignore.

She set down her blotter when the next letter-number was called out. She didn’t want to play anymore. Ellie wanted to go straight back to bed and bury herself under the covers like she’d done all week and enjoy some mint chocolate chip ice cream and then enjoy even more her B.O.B. battery operated boyfriend. If she couldn’t find someone to interest her tonight, she would do just that.

Ellie got up. “I’m going to get a drink.” And it would be a hard one, not the soft ones served on the bingo side of the building.

The venue for drag queen bingo was a renovated church, from saints to sinners. Its space was adjacent to the main part of the church, or the nave, and could fit enough tables to hold a banquet. There was a bar in the back that served only juice concoctions. But what was great about the place, it was lit up like a dance club. There was a disco ball that flashed different lights, sections that had high tables along with a glammed up wait staff that rivaled Mercy Mia’s in the bling department. The bar did up the drinks like guests were on a tropical island, and held several contests throughout the night.

The best part, though, the nave next door was an actual nightclub that catered to all kinds. Gay, straight, lesbian, transgender; name it, it was here. No judging anyone’s preference. It just was. Ellie loved the place and had often come until her last break up. Hidden under all the sheen that was Justin, was a prick in a suit, who, once she peeled away his outer layer had been the biggest judging asshole she’d ever met. She’d brought her to an event that Merc and Jackson were hosting and all he’d contributed was disdain for her friends.

She crossed over the threshold into Club One and got blasted with base and the image of gyrating bodies. She easily picked up the beat with her hips as she walked into the space, the sound hitting her body, and rippling over her skin. Ellie loved to dance and decided she would stay awhile and see if she couldn’t find someone to rub up against. Merc was right, she needed to stop moping around her apartment and join the living again.

Sidling up to the bar leaning her elbows on the smooth mahogany surface she waited for the bartender’s attention to turn her way. She relaxed into the sultry techno number that had just transitioned from the heavy base and let the beat take her as she waited, knowing that the bartender would come over as soon as she could.

Not realizing she had closed her eyes and was swaying, Ellie was startled by the bright and cheerful voice that greeted her. “What can I get you?”

Ellie stared at the girl in front of her, the drink she wanted to order on the edge of her tongue.

The woman smiled, and Ellie stumbled over her drink order. “A cos-cosmopolitan,” she said. Stunning was not a word she would use when describing a woman, but this one had made something light up inside Ellie tingling across her sex like a sparkler anxiously waiting for its lighting. Flashing a smile, the woman walked away backward to make her drink, and Ellie’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the woman’s hips. Tight fitting, low-rise jeans hugged the bartender’s ass as the curves of her waist moved gracefully up to just under her breasts, her shirt short enough to allow a peek of pale freckled skin. And then she turned away. Ellie licked her lips and then sucked in a breath that sent an unsure quiver up her spine.

What was she doing ogling the woman? She liked men. But as soon as the thought entered her mind she knew it was time to stop denying what she’d known a long time. Her head fell back, and she focused on the cathedral ceiling, blew out a slow controlled breath trying to sort out her thoughts.

In college, she had sometimes looked at some of the girls in her classes wondering, what if, but nothing ever made her body react giving her a nice buzz like this bartender. But neither had the guys she’d met or dated for that matter. What was it about this woman?

Ellie watched her work. Her delicate fingers, polished in a black glaze, plucked the bottles she needed off the back bar as her hips swayed to the rhythm that was shaking the walls of the old church. She twirled, poured, and flipped the liter bottles with aplomb to the delight of the crowd, the stream of liquor entering the shot glasses. The ice was next in the shaker and then she put the lid on, did her thing, next pouring the alcohol mixture into a martini glass. Her head turned, and the woman’s eyes flashed over at Ellie and Ellie’s nipples got hard. Ellie leaned forward trying to get closer, waiting, her breasts aching as they pressed against the bar.

The bartender didn’t take her locked gaze off Ellie as she came closer and set the drink down in front of her. She waited. Ellie didn’t dare move. She didn’t want to break the connection, but the woman moved her hand toward the drink and traced a bead of moisture down the stem of the glass and slid it closer to Ellie, and said one word. “Drink.”

With an unsteady hand, Ellie reached for the drink, her fingers brushing the bartenders. Time seemed to slow and then stop as skin met skin. Her breaths roared in her ears, and her chest hurt with each short puff like she’d just run a marathon. She was so turned on by this woman, never experiencing anything like the energy that their contact caused. And it went straight to all her delicate places. And then things started to move again, the woman smiling and walking away to make another drink.

Ellie sat and watched the bartender, nervous and confused, her knee tapping irregular rhythms as it bounced. She would catch the woman glance at her, making sure Ellie was still there. At least that’s what Ellie imagined. Or hoped. Would she come back over and talk to her? What would Ellie say?

She was looking down at her now empty glass when her eyes snapped up at being addressed. “What’s your name?” The bartender asked.

Suddenly her mouth went dry, and it was hard to speak. She picked up her glass and put it back down realizing again that she’d drank it all. She licked her dry lips.

“Ellie,” she said. But it was so soft the bartender had to lean in to hear, which brought her even closer, so close that their lips were almost touching.

“My names Sabrina.”

Ellie blinked and nodded, the woman’s minty breath dancing across her lips making Ellie’s insides quiver and her need grow even more. Did she have the courage to ask this woman to spend time with her after her shift?

As she was contemplating what she would say, Sabrina came back and set another drink in front of her. “This one is on the house.” Before she moved away, Sabrina reached out and touched her fingers that had the stem of the glass in a death grip. Ellie opened her mouth to say something, anything to keep her close but Sabrina moved away before she could.

The night grew later, and Ellie kept herself seated. She saw Merc and Jackson come in. They waved and went straight to the dance floor. Merc had changed and was now in a nice pair of denim and a t-shirt, always more casual than Jackson. She turned to watch them for a while. She was happy for Mercury, and desperately wanted to find what he had with Jackson.

Ellie turned back around and saw Sabrina talking to another woman at the end of the bar, leaning in, reaching out to touch the woman’s hand, and Ellie frowned. Did Sabrina do this to every woman that came to the bar? Was Sabrina even interested in Ellie? And then she saw Sabrina kiss the woman’s cheek. Ellie’s shoulders slumped, and she pushed her empty drink away.

Maybe it was just Ellie that nobody was interested in. Her mint chocolate chip ice cream was looking a whole lot better. She pulled out some money from her pocket and threw it on the bar. Before Sabrina looked this way, Ellie made her way over to her friends and said goodbye. She was tired of trying so hard trying to find what the universe was putting out there for her.

“I’m going to go home,” she yelled in Merc’s ear.

“Okay,” he said, his eyes narrowing and his lips pinching. She could tell he was worrying, but there was nothing Ellie could do to ease his concern. Ellie just needed more time to come to terms with her unlucky life.

“Don’t forget, Jackson and I will be at your house tomorrow at eleven.” He gave her a hug and kissed her on the lips.

Jackson turned to her and caressed her cheek in an unexpected gesture. He got close enough that she could feel his lips on her cheek and whispered right in her ear, “Everything will be okay.”

Will it? She wondered, waved, and walked away. She looked one more time over to the bar and unexpectedly caught Sabrina’s eyes. She turned away from the woman’s look of confusion toward the door and decided she would just ride out the storm that was brewing inside her. Things were going to have to change if she was going to find her happy. But she would think about that tomorrow.

When she woke up to the banging on her front door, she curled her head under her pillow and yelled, “Go away!” Of course, she knew it was Merc at the door, and he wouldn’t wait for her to get up. And sure, enough he didn’t.

“Rise and shine sleepy head,” he said from the front room after he used the key she’d given him.

She grumbled and started moving when the bed bounced up and down with Mercury’s weight.

“Give me a minute asshole.”

He laughed.

“I’ll make coffee, pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me pumpkin, jerk!”

He laughed some more, and she heard him talking to Jackson.

She moved sloth-like toward the bathroom and finally felt human again after a quick clean up in the bathroom. She put on a pair of her favorite skinny jeans that were so soft they felt like leggings, rolled them up a little at the bottom and then got out a bohemian flowy top to go with it. It was a bluish red color that highlighted her brown wavy hair. The keyhole at the collar showed off what cleavage she, which she knew could be more, but she wasn’t willing to go under the knife to get it. She grabbed her most comfortable wedges because she didn’t feel like looking like she’d woken up from a binge on mint chocolate chip ice cream, which she had, or the marathon of Game of Thrones she watched because she needed the violence to get her mind off romance. To finish off her look, she grabbed some bangle bracelets and lip gloss and called it done.

When she walked into the kitchen, she caught Merc and Jackson in the most romantic clutch and couldn’t help her envious thoughts. She shook her head to remind herself she’d decided the previous night, while downing more ice cream, she’d leave her lot up to destiny and asked, “So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?”

“We’re heading up the coast to check out a wine tour at a converted Monastery.”

“Well, that sounds fun. Wine, sun, monks.” She laughed.

“No monks, but definitely wine. We’re determined to get you out of your funk.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” She was unsure another outing would get her out of her funk, but she would let Merc and Jackson try.

When they got to the monastery, now called The Monk Monastery Winery, the beauty of the place floored her. The campus the monastery sat on was huge, the grounds were lush with flowers, and it was so peaceful she wanted to stay forever.

They walked into the main entrance, and the man at the front desk nodded and said for them to proceed to the right.

“Gorgeous.” She couldn’t stop looking around.

The architecture was right out of something you’d find in Spain. High ceilings like Club One, stone walls, gorgeous wood carvings and a stone floor that made her feel like she’d just stepped into another world. She took another step, and her foot landed wrong in her wedge. She heard Jackson call out and try to grab her hand, but it was too late. Ellie took a header right done a set of stairs grabbing the rail causing her ankle to twist in the wrong direction. Her last thought before her head hit the floor was at least in was only a set of three stairs.

Groaning filled her ears and then she figured out it was her pained voice she was hearing. She lifted her hand to feel her head and winced with the pain. Ellie noticed she wasn’t on the floor anymore and there was a floral scent that surrounded her. They must be near one of the pretty gardens. Christ her head hurt.

She shifted to sit up.

“Go slow, baby girl,” Merc said. Hands helped her sit up, but they weren’t Mercury’s or Jackson’s. And they weren’t the man’s she saw at the entrance.

“Ellie, are you okay?”

She turned slowly afraid she heard things that weren’t real because she hit her head so hard. The hands that had helped her sit up didn’t let go. They held her firm but gentle all at the same time.

“Sabrina.”

The woman from the bar.

Ellie blinked. Was she in a dream?

She looked at her friends. They didn’t say much, but watched her as she couldn’t form words. Ellie looked back at Sabrina.

“Hi, Ellie. Are you okay? You hit your head pretty hard.” Sabrina moved her hand off Ellie’s arm and gently touched the side of Ellie’s head. Her delicate fingers Ellie watched make drinks the night before made her skin tingle again as they danced across her temple.

“I’m, I’m fine,” she said with a nervous but giddy feeling in her stomach as she smiled so big it made her wince again. Ellie didn’t know what the universe was trying to tell her, but she sure as hell liked what had landed in her lap. Or should she say who’s lap she landed in.

Mercury and Jackson kept glancing over while they whispered to each other and smiled like the devil’s she knew they could be.

“What are you doing here?” Ellie asked.

“Second job,” Sabrina said and shrugged. “Why’d you disappear last night,” she said but too quickly closed her mouth and looked away. Where was the confident seductress she’d seen at the bar last night?

Ellie didn’t know what to say since she’d never been interested in a woman before, so she kept quiet.

Sabrina turned back to her, and that heat that Ellie had experienced at the club came rushing back. She could see the same flare go up in Sabrina too, but neither of them responded to the other. They both jumped as if guilty of something when Merc and Jackson came back over.

“You okay to still do the tour?” Merc asked her. Ellie nodded noting there wasn’t as much pain gripping her head anymore. “You hit your head, but you didn’t black out, so I don’t think we need to cart you off to the emergency room or anything.”

Jackson frowned at Merc, but Ellie reaffirmed she was okay.

“Okay then,” Sabrina said. “Come with me.” As she stood up, she took hold of Ellie’s arms and helped her up. They were so close front to front that if she leaned in just enough their lips would touch and she’d get the first taste of a woman she’d ever had. Her mind went to all kinds of places with the image and as their chests bumped they nearly fell onto the small settee that she’d evidently been laid out on after she fell. As they stumbled and then righted themselves, Ellie took a step back and smiled.

“Lead the way,” she said and motioned with her arm to Sabrina. Sabrina smiled at her and Ellie returned it with one of her own. Ellie was looking forward to the tour, and she had a feeling she was really, really going to like it.

You Are the Shadow

4 Replies

The invitation arrived only a week ago: ‘The Presence of your company is graciously requested,’ it began. Arriving by registered mail, it included three, one-hundred-dollar bills for ancillary expenses and one round trip airfare. Now, with the Sun about to rise, you are walking through a metal detector, about to board a bus with dozens of other people from your flight, complete strangers who, like you, are dressed for this special occasion. The bus is almost full. A woman wearing a too-large, fluffy blue gown has her dress spread across the two seats on either side of her. She looks at you with a discouraging frown as you approach. Her high heels are blue, too, and so tight they look like they are frowning as well. A man in a turban looks at you stone-faced as you walk to the back. You take a seat next to a pregnant woman. She wishes you good morning as the bus starts to leave. You reply the same, but, like everyone else, you and she ride in otherwise silence through the dim, quiet streets of Washington D.C. The bus is joined by other buses as you pass through the gates to the White House. Cellphones come out, and a few hasty pictures of the Sun rising over this iconic building are taken, by others. The buses drive around to the back of the White House.

Clutching a claim ticket for your cellphone, you and the others are escorted past sniffing dogs and through still more metal detectors, then into a theater. There must be two thousand people or more. Different ages, different skins, and very different ideas on how to dress for a meeting with the President. Two rows in front of you sit a young man in a hoodie next to a woman in a hijab. Off to the left is a lady with a flowery derby hat, and not far away is a short man in a ten-gallon hat. There are women wearing scarves and men wearing skullcaps. Hair styles are a mishmash of everything from ponytails to buzzcuts, and just as colorful as the hats. In the din, you hear Yiddish, Spanish, Southern drawls, New England twangs and other tongues you do not recognize. All, with light laughter and calm expressions. A virtual vegetable soup of people sits anxiously in this theater with you, awaiting the President. Your invitation did not say what the occasion was, did not say you would be meeting with so many others. You ask around you, but no one knows why they are here.

‘Thank you,’ President Trump says as he walks on stage. There is no applause. He is dressed in dark pants, white polo shirt, and his traditional red golf cap. He looks older and heavier in person. There is no podium. He stands on stage with the microphone in his hand and begins, ‘I want to thank all of you for being here today on such short, and vague, notice. For those of you who called, I’m sorry we could not give you any more information until now. It’s important, as you’ll see. But first, I want you to look around and see who else is here today. And as you do, let me explain why you are here.

‘Look around, and you’ll see some others who look like you, but you’ll see a lot more people you don’t have much in common with. In fact, as far as I know, you all have only three things in common, and it’s got nothing to do with politics or religion or what neighborhood you live in. First, you are all American citizens who have not had their voting privileges revoked. Second, you have all been living in your community for at least one year, and third, you all own smartphones.’

As the President speaks, ushers walk the aisles and distribute small, white boxes about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Embossed on the cover is an outline of the White House, the only color is the tiny American flag on top of it. ‘I’ve asked you here at this ungodly hour of seven a.m. because it’s the only way to avoid the press these days. They think I’m playing an early round of golf. I’ll tell them after I’ve told you.’

‘Here it is.

‘I am asking each of you to volunteer for one year of public service to your country, to your President. I’m calling it, “Volunteers of America.” Great name. Perfect name for this program.

‘Specifically, I am asking you to use the app that is being distributed now to shadow your congressmen and senators. On this app, you will be able to see what bills are coming up, and with it, you will be able to vote on those bills just like your representatives do. They won’t be able to escape their shadow now!

‘There are thirty-three people here from each state and territory of the United States. Each one of you represents three percent of your state’s population. At the end of each vote, the way you cast your vote will be compared to how your congressmen voted, and those results we will give to the media and everyone on Capitol Hill. Now, I know you have a hundred questions, but I already know what they are. Believe me, I thought this through. I thought it through more than any other program I thought through so far. Volunteers of America. Great name, isn’t it?’

The person next to you raises her hand and asks, ‘Isn’t that name already taken? The VoA has…’

‘We’re talking to them,’ Trump interrupts. ‘We’re talking to them. They may change their name to the Original Volunteers, or the Old Volunteers. You know, they’ve been around for over a hundred years. Great organization, does great things.’

But in your mind, you’re hearing Jefferson Airplane’s song Volunteers. The lyrics, their meaning, Woodstock, the trembling times of fifty years ago. You look around and see much apprehension on others, too. You open your box. In it is a flash drive and you are almost afraid to touch it. There is also a business card-size note signed by the President that reads, Thanks for volunteering to make America great again! Grace Slick wails in your mind, Look what’s happening out in the street.

The P.O.T.U.S. continues, ‘Your votes will not count towards the passing of any bills. That’s not legal. Your votes are not binding, but your lawmakers are going to see where they are out of sync with your votes, and you, and the world, are going to see where they are not in step with how they should be behaving on your behalf. You, the Volunteers, will have the results of both Volunteers’ vote and your representatives’ – in-real-time! As it happens, folks, so the media cannot fake the results. Not to you, anyway. If they report something different, you’re gonna report that. This is so beautiful, because not only are we going to hold Congress accountable, but the press, too!

‘You know, I once had an accountant tell me he could add up a column of numbers to say whatever I wanted it to say. I fired him, folks. I told him I don’t need a cook in the accounting office and fired him on the spot. That’s what they do! They add the column of numbers to say what they want! We gotta stop that. You, the Volunteers of America, are gonna stop that.’

Trump continues, but your mind drifted back to those bold headlines fifty years ago; Johnson, Nixon, party didn’t matter. You think, Slick had it right; This generation got no destination to hold.

Trump says, ‘This is so beautiful. Isn’t this beautiful? Actually, I didn’t think it up on my own, I had a little help from Ivanka and Jared. Isn’t she great? What a great daughter. Have you seen her Summer Collection? Great son-in-law, too. But back on script. Actually, as you can see, I’m not using a script. No teleprompter needed for this one. I’ve been ready for this one for a long, long time.

‘Remember, I promised to drain the swamp? Well, you are going to help me. With your help, we can force Congress to listen to your voices over the lobbyists. And then they are going to have to decide if they want to keep their jobs or continue to fill their pockets with…. Do you know; every single senator and congressman is a millionaire? Every single one! That’s why they want to keep their jobs – they want to be the Sous Chef of the accounting office!’

He shifts the mic to his other hand and continues in a calmer voice, ‘Now, this is strictly voluntary. You can leave here today and never download the app. That’s fine, too. You know why? Because there are millions of Americans just like you who don’t vote. And just as their silence goes without representation, so will three percent of your neighbors’ if you don’t. And that’s fine. That’s the American way, too.

‘Here’s what you won’t get, that your representatives do get. You will not get paid-in-full health insurance for you and your family for life. You will not get a $175,000 salary. In fact, you are not getting paid a dime. You don’t get an office with a dozen staff members, or a car or any travel reimbursement. You are not going to be invited to lavish dinner parties, or receive box seat tickets anonymously in the mail. But, like your senators and congressmen, you will only have to work 22 weeks a year. I guess that’s a perk. I’ve never taken that much time off from work. Ever. Hard to imagine any company staying in business if every employee took off six and half months a year. At $175,000 each. Just imagine. But that’s another story. Another problem I gotta fix. But not now.’

A man on the other side of the room asks, ‘Is this legal?’

Trump assures him it is. ‘Absolutely legal. One hundred percent legal. One hundred and ten percent!’

The man wearing the ten-gallon hat raises his hand and asks if their names and addresses will be published.

‘That’s nevva-gonna-happen, amigo,’ Trump shakes his head. ‘The only way anyone is going to know that you are a Volunteer of America is if you tell them. Which you are entitled to do. But WE are not going to reveal to the press or anyone else who you are. Even if you were to swear on a stack of bibles that you are part of this program, we will never admit it, or deny it. And one year from now, when your service is up, the app will be removed and someone else will have taken your place. The one thing you absolutely cannot do, the one thing that will get you booted out of the Volunteers in a heartbeat, is if you have any contact with any lobbyists while serving your country.’

The pregnant woman who sat next to you on the bus asks, ‘Are we going to be able to vote on what you do, too?’

The President hesitates. ‘That’s a good question.’ He covers the mic and consults with someone offstage. ‘No,’ the President says. ‘But that’s a good idea.’ He turns back to stage-left and says into the microphone, ‘Jared, make a note to include that in version-two.’

Someone in the audience shouts, ‘Supreme Court, too.’ A few applaud.

‘That’s good. That’s great, but no applause, please. There are no news cameras rolling. But this is great, folks. This is just what we want. Anybody else got any other good ideas?’

The woman whose gown took up two additional seats on the bus gets up and says very loudly, ‘I’m not gonna sit here and listen to any more of this man’s bull crap!’ She looks from the President to the others in the room. ‘Who’s with me?’ She takes a step to leave as others rise and choirs their agreement. The President says, ‘That’s fine. Walk out. But you’ll take millions of voters out with you.’

‘I never voted for you! I was one of the millions who protested against you!’ she shouts. ‘Get someone else to be your crony.’

‘No one in here asked to be here. No one! No one asks to be on jury duty, either, but if you’re called you must appear. It’s your constitutional duty. Think of this as jury duty. Now, all of you, sit down and hear me out. If not for yourself, then for the millions of protestors you will be abandoning! Or, don’t they deserve your vote?’

She stares long and hard at Trump, then sits back down and crosses her arms. Mumbled conversations creep throughout the theater until someone asks, ‘Why can’t we talk to lobbyists? Congressmen and Senators do all the time.’

‘Because that’s the swamp, my friend. Because that’s the swamp. If the Volunteers of America are going to have any value in the end, then you need to abide by that one rule. Just one rule. That’s all. If you choose to bring in other people, other voices, to help you decide, that’s up to you. Or not. It’s your call all the way.’ Trump asks stage-left for a chair so he can sit down.

After Jared brings it and he sits down, Trump continues in what sounds strangely like your father’s voice.

‘You see, you and me, we’re cut from the same cloth. We’re both above reproach because I love this country as much as you do. No lobbyist is going to bribe me! With what? A million dollars? Free golf for life? I’m untouchable. And so are you, as long as they don’t know who you are. What you are going to do – and what this program is going to do for years after you’ve helped pioneer it, with me – what this is going to do is make congress great again. If only because they are under a glaring spotlight.’

Someone calls out, ‘Are you going to listen, too, Mr. President? Are you going to let that glaring spotlight shine on you?’

He doesn’t say anything at first, but his face turns as red as his hat. He says flatly, ‘I already answered that. Like I said; version two. But I’m not the problem. I’m above reproach, and everybody knows that. This program is run by you and run by you only. Vote, don’t vote; it all counts. And you want to know why this is so good? Why this is so great, actually? It’s great because everyone thinks the Electoral College is a bad idea. Maybe someday this will replace it. Think about this…. Just take a minute and think about this.’ He draws imaginary quotes over his head and says, ‘Volunteers of America Replaces Electoral College -Whadda headline that would make! Wouldn’t that make a great headline?’

Mumbled conversations fill the theater again. The person sitting next to you leans over and says, ‘Wow. This is a lot of responsibility. A lot of responsibility to walk away from, too. What are you going to do?’

You look at the embossed house on the box, the flag on top. Jefferson Airplane plays in your head, and you say…

What would you do?

Would you believe the President? Or, would you be afraid of what’s really on the app?
Would you walk away, knowing no one will ever know it was you who took away their voice?
Would you volunteer? And if so, would you consult with your neighbors before voting, or would you just vote your conscience? Again, knowing no one will know who you are. It’s only for one year.

LMK, pls

-P

Dancin’ at Shades

2 Replies

Conrad Bastian pulled up and parked at Shade’s, the local gathering place and all he could think about was poppin’ a cap on a cold one. The engine clicked and pinged when he shut it off. He sat takin’ just a second to breathe and relax. Getting out his truck, a layer of dust clung to his skin. Worn and dirtied boots hit the gravel, and he pulled off his straw Stetson wiping his brow, the heat bordering on the doorstep of the devil’s den. Smacking the hat on his knee, he watched the dust of the day scatter on the wind taking with it some of the stress that lingered. A cold one sounded damn good to Conrad.

Blinking neon of Shades Bar greeted him, the closest thing the town of Mariette had for country dancing. If a ten-foot by ten-foot space could be considered a dance floor. Most everyone came for a beer and food, except for days like today, when folks came to mingle, catch-up or hook-up. To let off a little steam.

The menu was decent. Listed were great burgers made from homegrown cattle. Crowded as usual on a Friday night. The taps flowed with the best brews his small town had to offer and all the regular domestic beers that were American staples. He was partial to his friend’s stout. Con sat on a wooden stool, that was just vacated, at the bar and took his first breath of peace.

“Johnny,” he called over the din of Keith Urban and stomping feet. He lifted his hand to get the owner’s attention. Con smiled when Johnny, the owner and his best friend, bumbled a glass almost droppin’ it. “Can I get the Cast Iron Burger and a pint of the stout?”

The chin lift then a nod he got allowed Con to lean on the bar with his elbows and settle in for a while. With his hands on the back of his head and the much-needed time apart from his father, he was finally able to relax since the rooster sounded off that morning. Even with all the noise, the music blaring and the voices laughing or singing to the song on the jukebox he zoned out.

“How’s it going, man?”

Con sat up with a start. He took the beer from his friend taking his first swallow. “It’s going.”

“Bad day?”

“You could say that if every machine thinking it was time to take a break did so by breaking down. Yeah.” He took another swallow. “Of course, Dad thinking each was my fault added to a spectacular time.”

Johnny wiped the bar and then pulled a couple beers.

“Hey, Lydia,” Con said to the waitress when she brushed her hip against him.

“Hey, Con.” She smiled and her gaze ran over him.

He’d taken her to bed a few times. It was good. It scratched an itch as the saying went, but didn’t do much more.

“You dancing later, honey?” she asked.

“I might be.” He didn’t think he’d stay long enough for her to get off her shift. He was tired as hell, but he might consider it.

She smiled, and took the beers from Johnny and quickly delivered the drinks as Con looked on over his shoulder.

Johnny shook his head and smiled at the backside of his waitress with a more familiar glint in his eyes.

“You know that can’t end well. You haven’t seen her crazy like I have,” Johnny said.

Johnny had dated her for a while, but it hadn’t worked out. He didn’t talk about it much and never said what happened, but she was still at Shade’s waiting tables so it couldn’t have ended all that bad for him. He’d never been proprietary over a woman before and that included Lydia. It was the only reason Con had been with her. Otherwise, loyalty trumped having sex with your best friend’s girl.

“Were you able to fix any of them?”

“Huh?” Con said. “Oh yeah. Some. A couple others, I gotta order parts for. I don’t expect to see anything until next week, which brought on a shit storm once again from my dad.”

Johnny shook his head. Con had shared with Johnny most of what had been going on, so he’d heard just about everything when it came to Conrad’s dad.

“Not much I can do about him being an asshole these days.”

“That is a true statement.” Johnny tapped the bar and moved off to help a customer.

Conrad couldn’t blame his Dad. Ever since Con’s Ma died last year, his Dad had been swallowed up by grief. He blamed everything under the sun for his foul mood except the one thing that he clung to like it was his only source to keep living. He wouldn’t let the grief go. It was chewing him up and taking everyone around him with him.

The other bartender dropped off Con’s burger, and he practically ate it whole. The beer went down good too. He ordered another one and then left enough to cover the bill waving to Johnny. He got another chin lift and went in search of a corner booth where he could watch what progressed to be a very sexually charged night at Shades. Dancing wasn’t on his agenda, just watching. He didn’t have time for a woman. There was enough to do on the farm that kept him busy. His dad needed all the help he could get. As it was now the damn man had alienated almost every one of the hands and half the people in the county. But even though commitment wasn’t on the horizon, he sure as hell could do for a quick how-you-do with a beautiful, willing woman.

Searching Con saw a couple get up that seemed glued to one another, and Con sat down as they exited the bar. They looked like they would have a fine time that night as the man’s hand went to the woman’s ass, his finger’s gliding down close to something indecent as they skimmed just under the edge of her dress. Con smiled and tipped his hat a bit lower so he could watch what was happening on the dance floor without too much attention. Just watching the couple leave had him adjusting himself under the table. Skin to warm skin, making the woman shiver.

Con blew out a slow breath. Maybe he did need to find a willing woman. One for only tonight, though.

Lydia came over and gave him another beer, and he settled in. He saw a couple sweet little innocents go by, but neither captured his attention. He tried not to laugh when they smiled and thrust out their breasts, preening what God gave them for a man to consider.

A slow song came on, and the heat on the dance floor jumped another ten degrees as bodies got closer, hotter, and the liquor started unlocking doors to inhibitions. The scent of sweet feminine musk filled his nostrils as things began to get crazier and more wanton. Writhing hips, swaying arms joined the fray as women and men got closer, their bodies aligning to reach the full potential of what the public dance floor allowed. No line dancin’ at Shades. There wasn’t enough room. They pushed the limits of what was acceptable, and he enjoyed every minute of the show.

Another fast song came on, more women took to struttin’ by his table, but Con kept to himself.

When the front door opened a gust of hot, thick air brushed up against him all the way in back where he sat. When the door slammed shut something shifted inside him. He could feel it, the atmosphere growing more intense like he could feel this invisible wall up against his skin making him come alive, but he was the only one to notice. Searching for the disturbance, he kept his eyes shaded. It wasn’t like he had any super powers, he was an ordinary man. It was something he’d never felt before, and that was why his eyes zeroed in on that direction. He nearly choked on his beer.

Just standing inside the door was what he’d call the closest thing to ethereal. The lights were hitting the small woman in all the right places. And she had a lot of right places. She wasn’t the typical Mariette resident either. The sun had lightened up most people’s hair, the farming community one that was outdoors most days. Not this girl’s hair. It was black as onyx straight as woven silk with what seemed to be a magical sheen that reflected the light that flashed in the room. It was smooth looking and long brushing the cherry brown skin of her breasts, the thin shirt she wore not giving him much use for his imagination. Her bra was a dark silhouette holding her ample breasts in such a way they invited a man to lean in and lick, making her skin tingle until she trembled with need, before going any deeper to pleasin’ her. The skirt that hugged her hips showed off her long legs, or they seemed long since most of them were exposed. And the heels? He wanted to see her in those, and only those. He watched as her head swiveled to take in the room and she found what she was lookin’ for, and then she smiled.

“Sweet Lord,” he whispered. If the package God shaped her into weren’t enough for one man, her smile would kill a man with his eyes closed it was so bright. In awe of this woman the heat crawling up his neck, more to do with wantin’ her than the heat stirring from the dance floor, Con took a deep sip of his beer and shifted in his seat, the pressure behind his zipper gettin’ mighty uncomfortable.

There was no doubt there was something special about this woman. He wasn’t the only one watching her. With hooded eyes, he observed her move with a fluidity somehow more panther-like than human and continued in the direction of a female friend. Thank the stars it wasn’t a guy, or he’d have to kill him. Just the idea of bein’ with her, Con was close to embarrassing himself.

When she reached her friend, she brightened the room with another smile. Whoever she granted one must be someone special because it was so genuine and pleased, that there was no question that she would pay that person the attention they deserved. He needed something like that in his life.

Con needed to fill the ache that sat deep in his chest, the memory of his mother haunting him everywhere on the farm. He missed her. This woman would be a good distraction. Or was she the type to settle in for the long haul? No one-nighters?

He wanted to be near her, so he abandoned his table and made his way over trying to make it look like he was going to order a drink. Con took in every detail he could of the woman. He’d wait to make his move. Let her settle in before he took a turn at lady luck.

As Conrad watched her with her friends, she touched as often as she could, laughed with an exuberance that made him smile into his beer. She swayed with the music when it was a song she seemed to like.

A few guys approached, but she shook her head and focused back on her girls, while he tried to keep in a snarl.

He picked at his beer label confused by his possessiveness and steered his thoughts toward his mom and dad and what they had with each other. There were always smiles and small touches they shared. The heated looks that his father would give his mother were uncomfortable for him, but something special to both of his parents, he knew, because his mother shared little things with him about her relationship. Con could see it in his parent’s eyes when they didn’t know he was looking. He just wished his dad could get past his grief and hold onto the good memories. They would always be special.

She could be his something special, he thought. Now what made him think that? He looked down at the scarred bar confused by his thoughts. Was he ready to settle down? Make a home? Have children? He shivered. Those kinds of thoughts were a little too deep for a Friday night. Tonight, was supposed to be a good time, maybe a dance, and some kissin’. And if he was lucky a good time, that ended in a quick kiss and a quicker exit the next morning.

His eyes took him back up to her face to get some semblance of control. He sucked in a breath when her eyes glanced over and held locked onto his own. He stopped breathing. Lydia forgotten, this woman was indescribable up close and he wanted her. Con had to have her.

Not taking his eyes off her—which she didn’t do either—the song changed to Heatwave by Florida Georgia Line.

“Perfect.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She said a little louder since someone chose that instant to laugh so loud it covered up his words. Her friends giggled which it made even worse. Conrad chuckled himself. She lowered her eyes to his lips, and he tried not to groan. He didn’t want to scare her away since she turned down all the men that had already approached her.

Con didn’t repeat himself just said, “Dance with me,” without givin’ her time to think about it, he took her hand, from her other hand he took her drink and set it down, and moved onto the crowded dance floor. It forced their bodies together, closer than a first dance would allow. Conrad was good with that. He slid his hand to her lower back, her shirt riding up, so he was lucky enough to touch skin. It was soft against his rough, worn hands. Con took her small hand in his own, hugging her until the absence of space made him lean in more. Her eyes flared with heat, and he took that as a good sign. When his nose brushed her ear, he inhaled the scent of jasmine that lingered in her hair. He couldn’t hold back a groan. God, what was happening to him? Why was his reaction to her so thrilling? He felt desperate to keep her close.

Looking down at the petite woman in his arms, her brown eyes dilated and the flecks of amber caught by the light flared. He blinked and pinched his lips together worrying what she thought of him. Did the dirty layers of farming on his skin bother her? Her fingers went up and gently rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. Then she smiled again, and his heart fell into her eyes. The song ended, and there was a slight lull between songs.

“My name’s Conrad.” His arms tightened around her.

Her lashes flickered down and then back up as Conrad’s heart started racing double time. Would she pull away and leave him? If so, he would have to follow.

When she looked back up at him with another brilliant smile and licked her lips, he almost whimpered, his need for this woman was so great. But then she spoke, and it was like magic had come down to touch his soul.

“I’m, Willow,” She said, and then took his hand and pulled him along toward her friends gripping him so, their fingers entwined, making certain that they wouldn’t be separated.

Conrad wanted to laugh, and was glad he came in for a beer.

This Is Us

3 Replies

“Do the one thing they always tell writers not to do. Watch T.V.” From 99 Ways to Get Inspired to Write by Smart Blogger

You may discover interesting plot ideas in television shows; however, some programs may teach you about good quality writing.

Watching the television show, “This Is Us,” may help you learn to use flashbacks as well as flash-forwards effectively in your writing. If you’re not familiar with this show, please view it starting from the first episode. There was a jaw-dropping revelation in the last scene that set the pace for future episodes. When I viewed that episode and others a second time several weeks later, I picked up on the foreshadowing I missed the first time around.

This drama weaves the past and present seamlessly in every hour-long episode while portraying humor, diversity, obesity, career crises, abandonment, family dynamics, panic attacks, and death with an abundance of love, emotion, and passion.

Writers for this program are superb. They create surprising moments in every episode. A clue to the heart of the series is found on a lamp table in a seemingly insignificant photo of three apparent friends. This well-placed clue reminds me of a child’s shoe tossed aside and ignored in Mary Higgins Clark’s novel, Where Are the Children?

Without giving away the plot of “This Is Us,” I ask you to take notice of what a fireman did, now illegal, while standing in a hospital waiting room. I later realized that scene was a flashback. The superb writers returned later to that character, revealed his backstory and his significant connection to the main characters.

The appearance of a family friend in a different role, surprised me and generated extensive, detailed discussions the next day with avid fans of the show.

When you view the show, take note of the way the writers interweave the past with the present. You can learn good writing from them.

Deadwood Writers Voices

Exploring writing with & for writers and readers.