Friday, October 31, 2014

Hope in a Dark Place

After she fell, Hope crawled across the rough floor, bumping into unseen objects and getting splinters in her hands and knees. Pain mingled with fear. She stopped, sat up, and began to sob.
It was dark, extremely dark. Shaking her head, she thought, “I have to hold myself together and not panic.” She held back her tears. Her breathing sounded loud in her ears. A soft whistling sound, barely audible, came from the direction she was headed.
She pushed herself to a standing position and with hands extended, she took a few shuffling steps toward the sound, paused, and adjusted her path. Step by faltering step, she inched across the room. “Oomph,” she cried. Hope rubbed her thigh when she struck her leg against a hard corner. “I’ll have a bruise there tomorrow.”
Using her hands, she felt her way around the object, then stood quietly until she heard the sighing whistle again. She eased forward. It seemed like an eternity until she felt a solid wall before her.
The surface was irregular. By sliding her hands over the surface, she ascertained that it was a door, a double door, portals of escape, a way out of this darkness. She felt the crack where the two doors met. The faint whistle emanated there. A faint breeze and a thin shaft of diffused light squeezed through the crevice. A vestige of hope flickered in her soul.
She allowed her hands to slide downward, seeking the doors’ knobs. A cold, metal protuberance greeted her searching fingers. “It’s a handle. All I need to do is to pull it open and I’ll be free.”
Sliding her hand farther down, she felt more cold metal. She palpated it to determine what it was that she was feeling. There were thick, cold metal, interlinking ovals.
The doors were chained tightly shut. sliding to the floor, she began to sob. Hope was dashed.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Another of my short stories. I am rewriting for my editor, another story for my second Tommy Two Shoes mysteries. I will share this instead of writing an entry for my blog.

Matchless Grace

Grace decided to create a matchmaking business for the sole purpose of finding men for herself. The interviews for women were short and much less intense than the questions for the men. The men answered an impressively long list of probing and intimate details. Most of what she gathered was for her own use.
She created a profile for each applicant as well as one of her own. Her intuitive skills worked quite well. Many of her subscribers were dating exclusively or already wed. It wasn’t the best of the applicants she kept, but men who were desperately lonely and alone. She sought men who were small cogs, men who would be scarcely missed when they disappeared. Not overly impressed with their looks or prestige; she was decidedly not finicky. She took her time and chose her men with extreme care.
Grace could have created a thriving business with her intuitive matchmaking, but she ignored it, concentrating on her own desires.
She found new applications in her site’s email and began to rifle through them. One application caught her attention. She was attracted by the stats of Alex Walters. He was 34, a writer, his parents deceased, and no close relatives. Few other items mattered. After running a background check and finding no arrests and no outstanding bills, she was satisfied with her selection. His address was located in a moderately high scale building.
Immediately she began to memorize his likes and dislikes before sending him a “like” message. He accepted and soon began to date. At their first meeting, something was vaguely familiar, but she thrust it aside. Three dates later, she enticed him to visit her home. She slowly enticed him to come into her bedroom. He was shy and reluctant, but she finally convinced him.
Inside her boudoir, things changed and he became aggressive. She was willing to follow his lead, as long as it allowed her to gain access to his assets.
After she was firmly bound, hands and feet, Alex said, “I had a twin brother, Alan.”

It clicked. She remembered Alan. He was her first victim.

“We were separated at birth and had just found each other when he disappeared. I decided to find out what happened to him.” After removing a Tazer from his jacket pocket, he leaned over Grace and smiled.


Monday, October 27, 2014

Her Mother’s Child   

There are certain traits that I am glad that my children inherited from their mother and not from me. They are more adventurous than I was and that is good in many ways. I can be intimidated with many aps and programs on a computer. I am always concerned that I will do something that will cause the system to crash. My wife always was good with finances and my children have gotten the good part of that.
            The one thing that I am not happy that my one daughter has inherited is that she can use five pots and six utensils to boil water. A simple recipe can involve so many dishes to make it and the kitchen sink is filled afterwards.
I, on the other hand is proud that I can make a six course meal and dirty a pot, a serving dish, and one spoon to create a relatively tasty meal. If you use the measuring cup to measure the dry ingredients first then the wet, there is no need for two cups. Sometimes I actually use measuring spoons to follow a recipe instead of the pour on the palm of the hand for measuring.
There are times that I allow the creative juices to flow and start tossing things into a pot. Usually, it comes out edible if not tasty. I wipe off the spoon that I used to stir and mix to use as the serving spoon. Why not? It has all of the ingredients already on it.
One pot meals are my favorites and if I serve them on a paper or Styrofoam plate, fantastic. I do still like actual metal utensils with which to eat. Plastic just doesn’t cut it unless it is absolutely necessary. We have a dishwasher, but I think my daughter only uses it when the kitchen sink gets full. She can carry a dirty plate and place it on the counter above the dishwasher, when it takes about another three seconds to open the door and place it on the rack. That drives me insane and maybe that is her plan. She wants me locked away where I can’t share family secrets.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Only Yesterday         

It seems like only yesterday that I removed the flannel sheets from my bed and put on the summer garb of percale. In reality, it has been about two months ago. The summer wasn’t warm enough to shed the flannel snake skins. The nights have been cool enough to warrant a warmer covering.
This summer has been another wet and cool one. My lawn has enjoyed it, stretching heavenward and needing mowed twice a week, but I resisted, only completing that chore once each week. The only good thing about the cool autumn weather has been the beauty found in the multihued leaves and for some reason, the wonderful cloud formations. Many of the clouds have seen wispy, in a feather or fern frond way. They have been remarkable.
The coolness of the October weather has compelled me to pull of the short-lived percale sheets and replace them with the flannels. I did have only one set of flannels, but I found a set of barely used ones at our school’s yard sale and I bought them. Now, I don’t have to pull the flannels off when they get dirty, wash, dry and put them back on the same day. I can just replace them with another set and wash the others at my leisure.
I like the feel of flannels when I crawl into bed at night. The percale sheets would greet me with icy fingers while the flannels welcome me with warm and wide open arms. It is almost as though they know what kind of day that I’ve had and want to cuddle and make me feel as though they care.

I like my bedroom to be cool. It helps me sleep through the night, but the flannels keep me toasty and I like that, too. I have on my bed one of two knotted quilts that my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison, helped me to make. The top is made with various colors of double knit squares that are place onto a fleece backing, then knotted with yarn at the alternating corners of the squares. The fleece backing may wear out, but anyone who has used double-knit knows that it wears like iron. The fleece can be replaced and the quilt lives on, reincarnated like the Phoenix.
Retha started to make these quilts on a small scale. I mean that she would make baby quilts for people that she knew who were having a baby. She would use pale colors and white double-knit and knot it to a large bath towel. It made a personal gift for the parents and the newborn child.
Retha passed away, nearly eleven years ago, but I carry on the tradition and make baby quilts for relatives.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


In the past, I have been invited to an annual masquerade party and my intense imagination has been released. For the most part, I have devised my own costumes. The most formidable was a crow. I made the beak and feet out of thin sheets of foam plastic/ rubber. I attached the beak to a plain mask that I spray painted black. I bought a black derby to which I glued a black feather boa in loops to cover my neck and hair. Black slacks, shoes and a sweater. I glued some black feathers on the cuffs of a pair of black gloves. I was magically transformed into a crow. I stapled some plastic bubble wrap onto a broom handle and painted it to look like an ear of corn, with brown yarn “silk” and green crepe paper leaves. It was hot inside.

Almost as hot was the time that I dressed as a Steeler, Troy Polamalu. I wore white knit pants, and a Polamalu jersey. In one hand was a football and in the other a bottle of dandruff shampoo. What made the outfit hot was that I had to wear three wigs to get the volume that neared his. I almost smothered in that.
I wised up to the point that I knew less was better, if I was to be cooler. Last year, I used my natural attributes as the center of my outfit. I wear dark rimmed glasses and have white chin whiskers and hair. I bought a white Fedora. I already had white pants, while lab coat, and shirt. I made a string bow tie to wear. All that I needed were a few other things. I stopped at a local KFC restaurant and asked for help. I needed something with the KFC logo on it to convert into a name tag. I already had a chicken bucket. They gave me a disposable cup.

At home, I cut out the logo with room to write, Col. Harlan Sanders. I ironed it flat and attached it to a safety pin. Carrying the KFC bucket in one hand and a rubber chicken in the other, I was the founder of KFC, Col. Sanders.

This year, I might be even more minimal. No, I am not going to streak. That would be wrong on so many levels. My body hasn’t been seen naked by anyone but myself, there will be children at the party, and it would be too cold. The most extravagant and warm will be the wig and the black moustache.

Monday, October 20, 2014

State of Undress

“I want to break out of my shell. I am tired of my life as a secretary. It’s so boring. I want to be free, even if it’s only for a week. I want to do something completely out of line for me. Do something unusual. For years, it’s been on my mind.”
As I sat in my gynecologist’s office, a travel advertisement for a cruise caught my attention. It read, “Feel free again. Shed your inhibitions. Join our cruise to a remote island paradise.”
More information followed in smaller lettering. “This cruise is for the young at heart. Clothing is optional.” I glanced around the waiting area. No one was paying any attention to me. I quietly tore the page from the magazine and tucked it into my pocket. “I’ll do it,” I vowed.
I jumped when the nurse called my name.
As soon I got home, I called to make reservations. I got my passport, made sure my inoculations were to date, and selected the clothing I wanted, just in case I couldn’t bare it all. By the day of departure, I had my toiletries and sun screen in a small bag and a slightly larger one for my clothing, “Just the bare essentials,” I thought smiling at my own pun.
I was growing more excited as the day drew near. Normally shy, I decided to pay for a single occupancy cabin.
“The cabin is beautiful,” I glanced out the porthole before unpacking, then changed into a pair of shorts and a halter top. A slight vibration in the ship and the creaking of the metal told her that the boat was underway.
“I’ll walk on deck. I’ll get to learn where things are and get some sun at the same time.”
Just having left the dock, the passengers on deck were still fully clothed and they were older. As the cruise progressed, most walked the promenade deck, nude and bare skins turned rosy. I became comfortable seeing the others sky clad and finally decided, “Tonight for the evening meal, I’m going to do it. I’m going to set myself free from the burden of my clothing.”
I felt a bit embarrassed as I slid my clothing off and tossed them onto the bed. I took a deep breath and thought, “This is it,” and boldly stepped into the passageway. I strode quickly and purposefully toward the dining rooms before I could change my mind.
I sauntered into the dining salon with my head held high. My chest was thrust out. My nipples were perky and erect.
Diners turned as I entered. Everyone was wearing formal attire. It was the Captain’s dinner.



Friday, October 17, 2014


“It’s almost midnight and my parents are still not home. Where can they be?”
“I can’t understand why I’m so nervous. I’ve been home alone before, but never for this long or so late. I jumped at noise in the kitchen. Spinning around at the sound, wide eyed I stared into the room. “It’s only the refrigerator,” I thought,” but in the quiet of the house it sounded ominous.
Moving from room to room, I turned on every light in the house. “My dad will throw a fit when about the cost of electricity when he gets home, but at this point, “I don’t care.” I picked up and loaded my dad’s 12 gauge and locked myself in my bedroom. I sat down on the bottom of my bed. I was afraid. My nerves were on edge.
The lights flickered once. Then they went out. The house plunged into darkness. I spun toward the loud tapping on the window. Pale moonlight eased through the glass. Seeing the silhouette of a moving hand, I lifted the gun and fired.
The loud blast in the small room nearly deafened me. I barely heard the crash of shattering glass.
My ears were still ringing when my parents came home. My dad reset the thrown breakers and lights came back on.
I was sitting and sobbing on my bed when my dad forced the door open. Thankfully the gun was empty. My mom gasped and my dad shook his head as he strode across the room to survey the damage.
He said, “You took care of the maple branch that I was planning to trim.” He turned to see my mom cradling me. He took two steps toward us and gently pried his shotgun from my hands. 

Several hours later, a man reported to a nearby hospital to seek treatment for wounds from a gun cleaning accident to his hand and forearm.