This story is one I submitted to one of NYC Midnight’s writing contests. I don’t remember the prompts, but they had to be something amusing to result in the following tale.
The Cook in the Kitchen
Betty Norman held the dusty cookbook angled toward the sunlight spilling through the thrift shop’s window. Her husband Eustace tromped up behind her, his arms filled with a dozen mildewed copies of Popular Mechanics magazines and five dull-brass cabinet knobs. He propped his chin on her shoulder as she traced the spidery handwriting in the margins of the cookbook. Betty flipped through the yellowed pages. She tapped a brown stain on the cover, shaped like the state of West Virginia. “I bet there’s good recipes here.”
Smiling, Eustace agreed. “This one might do the trick.”
At home, she stashed her purchase between a worn Fanny Farmer cookbook and a hardcover copy of The Joy of Cooking. The shelves on the bookcase sagged beneath the weight of thousands of recipes. Despite all this instruction, Betty had never grilled a steak she couldn’t burn to bitter charcoal, had never baked a cake that rose above the batter. If she put eggs on to boil, the water would simmer away until the pan ran dry, without so much as firming up a single yolk. When it came to cooking, she was cursed.
Her mother hadn’t meant to put a hex on her. Betty’s mother had never let her help in the kitchen. Two cooks would spoil the broth.
Later that night Betty woke to the clink of silverware, and the hushed whisper of drawers sliding open. In the dark kitchen she discovered the new cookbook on the counter, surrounded by a dusting of flour. A stove burner blazed blue flame. Betty rushed to turn it off. A pale woman wearing an apron stood reaching for the refrigerator door.
“Hey!” called Betty.
Just then, Eustace stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light. The woman disappeared. “You fixing a late-night snack?” He pointed to the open cookbook.
“Not me.” Betty shook her head. She picked up the cookbook and shook the flour from the pages. “We brought home a ghost.”
Sighing, Betty pulled a thin, cloth-bound volume from the shelf. She opened it and ran her finger across the bold, block letters scrawled across the margins as she said, “Mom. I need your help again.”
Betty stacked her mother’s cookbook atop their latest purchase. She and Eustace went off to bed, certain the ghost would be gone. Betty’s mother never allowed anyone else in the kitchen.
I’m sharing another piece from a Writing Battle contest. This one had a limit of 250 words. The question I struggle with when writing very short, micro fiction is this: “How do you produce a complete story with characterization, rising and falling action, plot, and resolution when you only have X number of words?” Sometimes I feel like I hit the sweet spot on all those things that make a story a story, and sometimes I just have to be happy writing a vignette.
Vignette: a brief evocative description, account, or episode.
The story below made it to the top 16 in my category, but didn’t win any prizes. My genre was “Summer Fling”, I had to have a character “Bumbling Adventurer” and I had to include the word “Prudent.”
After the contest, I tried to expand the piece and I submitted it to a couple of other contests, only to get it back with the feedback that it wasn’t a complete story. Anyway I like it, so here it is. What do you think? Short story or vignette?
Lantana
Alina rolled through life like a tumbleweed — reckless, never prudent. She wore odd combinations—crimson flowers on an orange shirt and blue striped shorts, as though she dressed in the dark. One summer morning, she braided her sun-gold hair and set off to meet her latest boyfriend, Jay, at the pier.
She strolled across the sand toward a Ferris wheel outlined against a periwinkle sky. After she lost a shoe in the surf, Alina stopped at the gift shop and bought a pair of rubber sandals.
When she found Jay, he held a paper container of fries. His kiss tasted of salt. Holding hands, they weaved past carnival games and their clanging, ringing, flashing lights. A summer season of popcorn bits and peanut shells crunched underfoot. Alina purchased a souvenir cup topped with a plastic dolphin’s head. They shared a pink puff of cotton candy, the hot-sugar stickiness clinging to their fingers. So sweet, before dissolving to nothing.
They paused at a giant wooden track. Overhead, cars filled with screaming passengers rattled past. “Last chance, ride it with me?” Alina asked.
“I don’t do roller coasters.”
She thrust the dolphin cup at him and joined the queue for the ride. At the second hill, the coaster froze at the summit. In the moments before the cars resumed their plunge, Alina stretched her arms overhead. The wind carried a hint of coolness, heralding summer’s end. She searched the ground for Jay. Below, he lifted the cup in salute, or farewell.
The story I’m sharing tonight is from a Writing Battle contest. I like this contest because it is peer judged and each writer gets feedback from other contestants. To make it fair, you read and judge stories that aren’t in the same category as yours. The prompts and genres are always a surprise, and include some crazy combinations. For the story below, my genre was “Military Lampoon” and I had to include the subject of “Justice” and the word “Zealous.” Also, it had to be less than 500 words.
The feedback I received mentioned that the tale didn’t quite meet the justice theme, but I had fun with it.
The War of Roses
Lee Hammond had no quarrel with his neighbor until the crape myrtle incident. He kept silent over the neon dandelions dotting the yard next door, figuring someone who had spent his life at sea wouldn’t understand the complexities of lawn maintenance. Lee’s grass was an immaculate spread of green, like a soft blanket thrown across the ground. Saturdays, at exactly 0800, he zealously attacked the shrubbery, chopping it into uniform rectangles.
He ignored the Navy flag flapping from the man’s porch and ordered a larger version of his own banner—a sparkling white Army flag with gold fringe.
The morning of the crape myrtle massacre, a landscaping truck parked in front of Lee’s driveway. Workers spilled onto the ten-foot-wide strip of grass separating the two homes. Music throbbed from a boom box, accompanied by the buzz of a chainsaw.
“Hmph.” Lee dropped the blind he’d been peering behind.
Lee’s wife folded her newspaper. “You should go over. Introduce yourself.”
He stooped to pet Ike, their English bulldog. “And say what? Why are you cutting down that tree? The one shading my drive?”
“You two have much in common, being retired military.”
Lee grunted and parted the blinds again. “In common? The man has a cat, Helen. I see it over there, in the window.” An orange tabby pressed against the glass, staring at him.
At the end of the day, the lawn between the two homes had been transformed. A squat rosebush sported crimson buds, and pink and yellow zinnias were sprinkled throughout the bed. That evening, while he took the dog out, Lee paced off the distance from his drive to the flowers. He smiled when Ike raised a leg to relieve himself against the rosebush.
Things went on quietly until the morning Ike slipped under the backyard fence. Lee woke to a clamor of shouts, barks, and howls. He raced outside to spot Ike panting in the yard next door. Muddy flower petals littered the driveway and the rose bush tilted half out of the dirt. The orange tabby peered from atop the neighbor’s garage.
“I’m sorry.” Lee grasped the dog’s collar. “Ike never does this.”
“Ike? As in Eisenhower? Commander-in-chief?” When Lee nodded, the neighbor waved at the cat. “Meet Admiral Chester Nimitz.” The neighbor held out his hand. “I’m Jack.”
After securing Ike inside, Lee offered the ladder from his garage. He held it as Jack climbed.
Once they’d rescued Chester, Lee gestured to the ruined landscaping. “Since my dog did this damage, I’ll pay for replacements. And help you replant.”
“I suspect it was a joint operation, Army and Navy,” Jack said. “Half is fair. Why don’t you come with me to the nursery?”
Lee accepted the man’s offer, glad to offer advice on drought and pet tolerant plants. Later, their work finished, he had to admit they made a pleasant view, though he missed the crape myrtle’s shade. Red roses, blue lobelia and white gardenias—a perfectly patriotic compromise.
Tonight I’m sharing a short story I wrote for Writing Battle, one of my favorite writing contests. This piece didn’t advance very far, but I like it enough that I’ll share it here. I don’t remember all of the prompts for this one, but I do remember that the story had to include a ladder.
The Emerald Forest
Neena Dasari called me three days after Katy’s funeral. “Reid,” she said, “Jack’s in trouble.”
“Why isn’t he calling?” I was surprised to hear from her. As senior programmer, she was one level below the CEO. Hell, they had given her my office.
“We were developing an AI with true consciousness.” Neena took a breath and when she spoke, her voice trembled. “He used Katy as a template and placed her inside the new program, the Emerald Forest. Now Jack’s trapped there, playing the game.”
Neena buzzed me into the EIG office and we crossed the empty lobby, our footsteps echoing. Emergent Intelligent Games, EIG, had been founded by me, Katy, and Jack. The first massive multiplayer online game we created launched EIG and made us billionaires before forty. I used to play that game, but I stopped after Jack bought my share of the company, forcing me out. I’d worked with Katy on the coding for Emerald Forest, and played one of the first levels, but I was gone before we completed it.
We took the private elevator up to the top floor suite. Inside, Jack hung suspended in a haptic rig. Webbing cradled him in an upright hammock. He wore a helmet with earphones and a faceplate. A second rig stood next to him.
“He’s been online 48 hours,” Neena said. “He doesn’t respond and I can’t log onto the game. They’ve restricted access.”
I stared at the man who had been my best friend. We hadn’t spoken in almost a year, since before Katy’s diagnosis. The day of her funeral, I hid in the crowd at the back of the chapel.
I strapped into the second rig, then logged onto Emerald Forest using my old password. No one had gotten around to deleting it. The screen displayed a choice of three characters. I selected the third, the Exiled Knight.
Emerald Forest, as we had imagined it, took players through an adventure in an ancient woodland. The opening shot was an overhead view of the land. Now, instead of that green landscape, my character stood in a crush of high school students as they flowed past, down a white-tiled hallway.
The scene dissolved and reassembled as a menu of game levels. Instead of the storyline I remembered, the options were Jessom High, Truman Hall, Mother Dell’s, and Kauai. The last block was just labeled “Final.” I recognized the names. Jessom was where we had gone to school. Truman Hall was our college dorm. The three of us had first imagined and planned EIG over pizza at Mother Dell’s. Jack and Katy had honeymooned in Kauai. Jack had recreated scenes from our past.
I held my hand over each level, ignoring the temptation to replay those memories. What would it be like to linger here before everything went bad? I needed to find Jack and figure out how to end the game. Looking over the menu choices again, I decided to skip to the final one.
The scene for that level was an open field of wheat. At the far end, a rusted water tower rose against the horizon. I strode through waist high plants, toward the tower. In the game, it looked just as it had all those years ago, when the three of us had climbed it on a dare, back when we were college freshmen. When I reached it, I met Jack at the base of the ladder that led to the top.
“She’s up there, waiting, but I can’t climb,” Jack said. He glanced at me, but his character showed no reaction. “Every time I reach for it, it disappears.”
“What is this place, Jack? Why did you create it?”
“I only did the first one. She coded the rest.”
“The AI?” If this was true, it was an amazing breakthrough—artificial intelligence that could change the rules of a digital world.
“It’s Katy. I put everything in—her thoughts, memories, personality fragments.”
If Katy’s consciousness had been responsible for this level, I wanted to see how it would end. In the real world, this place had been the turning point for the three of us. Friends before, but after we climbed this tower, Katy chose Jack. Would she choose differently inside the game? I stepped onto the first rung and shook the ladder. “It’s okay. Let’s go up together.” I was willing to bet the reason the ladder didn’t work for Jack alone was that it needed all three of us. Katy waited at the top.
Like the past, I was second up the ladder. Clothed in the haptic rig, I felt the wind rush past as we climbed, and heard the squeal of metal with each step on the rungs. At last, we reached the end.
“You can see the football stadium.” Katy sat gripping the railing, her legs dangling over the side. She was exactly as I remembered her from that day on the tower. Her green eyes looked up into mine. Hair the russet brown of oak leaves in autumn fell in curls across her shoulders.
Jack settled beside her and I stood on her left. I tightened my hold on the railing, the haptic gloves transferring the feel of cold metal to my hands. Looking down, a wave of dizzying nausea passed over me. The ground below seemed both impossibly far and close enough that if I stepped off the walk way, I would land unharmed.
“I’m going.” The temptation to linger, to try to change this alternative history, was strong. I had taken the first step on the ladder when Jack spoke up.
“Wait,” Jack turned to Katy. “Did you love Reid more?”
She held out her hand. “We can’t change the real past, but we can fix the future.”
This wasn’t Katy. This was a machine system programmed with data and built to respond like her. I couldn’t alter the past, but I could give us a way forward. “She loved you, Jack. Always. She never loved me.”
“That is true.” When she spoke, the screen dissolved to black.
The game ended. Jack had his answer, but I wondered which one of us had told the truth.
“In the end, we’ll all become stories.” Margaret Atwood
Photo by the author
The neon sign on my office wall is a gift from a friend and a subtle reminder that my “to be read” pile is waiting patiently. They don’t really have a choice, unless those books suddenly become sentient. But that’s a whole other story. For now, I’m trying to settle in with a novel instead of doom scrolling through social media. One practice will improve my writing skills, while the other just results in a rise in my blood pressure.
Once I started studying the craft of writing and actually trying to turn out stories of my own, I noticed that my approach to reading shifted. I do read for enjoyment, but it’s hard to turn off that inner editor. Here’s a few of the books I’ve read so far this month and a bit of a review for each, along with what I learned about writing along the way.
In November I read this novel written by my friend, Heather J. Bennett. She has a way of bringing her characters to life and giving the reader an intimate look at their challenges. Her books capture the 1970s – an era I grew up in – so well that I always feel like I’m settling in with an friend to reminisce about those times. The plots of her novels involve characters in the music industry, most often California rock and roll. Heather brings an authenticity to that setting that brings the reader right along with the characters. Writing wise, it’s good to read and learn from someone with such a good grasp of character development, plot, and setting detail. Plus her books are always a good story!
I bought this book at Dollar Tree and it was a $1.25 well spent. The first sentence hooked me in – “I was seventeen years old when I saw my first dead body.” From the title and that sentence, I was expecting something a bit darker from this novel, but I wasn’t disappointed with the story. The main characters are teenagers, so I suppose this would qualify as a “YA” book. There’s a disappearance and dual timelines that eventually converge in an unexpected but satisfying way. I like how the author, John Corey Whaley, tied everything together at the end. There’s a subplot with the town’s reaction to a possible sighting of an extinct woodpecker, and this explains the bird on the cover and also the double meaning of the title. I love it when the writer has a clear picture of how the plot will resolve and doesn’t resort to throwing everything at the conflict in hopes that something will stick. (Riley Sager, stop tossing tropes in the final chapter.)
I’ll confess to an occasional binge of romance. I picked up this one based on the cover alone. Plus the author has a whole series set in this town. I loved the Virgin River series, so I thought I’d like these. Going in, I knew there were spicy scenes but I’m an adult, right? How bad could it be? Pretty bad it turns out. I’m not going to smut shame anyone, but if you picked up these books for the sexy parts, be aware the first get together doesn’t happen until about 200 pages in. And then, Kira and Bennett take up almost four pages with dialogue. Enough that I was urging them on to just finish things for heaven’s sake. As for plot, the main character, Kira, buys a Christmas tree farm and meets handsome Bennett. That’s about all that happens, over and over, until they finally hook up during a snowstorm. What I learned from this book – I don’t mind a spicy scene, but I’ve got to care enough about the characters to want them to get busy. I also realized I’ll never write a sex scene. Just coming up with euphemisms for body parts gives me a headache. Unless those parts are being loped off by the grim reaper/slasher who’s been stalking the characters.
Me and Carl
The last book is also my favorite of the month and possibly the entire year. I binged the first few chapters, staying up later than usual with no regrets. This book is a master class on pacing, conflict, hooks, and characterization. The unlikely plot – aliens have destroyed the Earth and the survivors must compete in an intergalactic game show that takes place in a dungeon – makes perfect sense once you get into the story. There’s magic, violence, fantasy, and a talking cat. The cat, Princess Donut the Queen Anne Chonk, is one of my favorite all time characters. By the end of the first chapter, I was rooting for her and Carl and hoping they didn’t get killed by the drug-dealing llamas or exploding goblins. Writing lesson – once the reader loves the main characters they’ll follow them through the story. Another lesson – give a satisfying ending with each conflict but also introduce a new conflict as a result of that ending. I LOVE these books – I bought the rest of the series (what has been published so far, that is) before I made it halfway through the first book. I’ll be reading the second book over the Christmas holiday next week, which will be much better for my blood pressure than doom scrolling Facebook.
The Grand Opera House in Galveston – photo by the author
Tonight I’m sharing another NYC Midnight contest entry. This one made it through the first round of the Flash Fiction challenge this year. I had to write a 1,000 word or less story in 48 hours in the thriller genre with the setting in an auditorium. And I had to include a ladder in the piece.
Here’s my summary of the story: Magician Mark Ruska and his wife Gigi are involuntary accomplices to a pair of armed assassins during a live show. Working together, the Ruskas perform a dangerous illusion that will be their only escape.
And here is the story, complete in 999 words. (Not counting the title)
The Final Illusion
Every illusion depends on misdirection. The magician, Mark Ruska, paced the stage of the Grand Palace, noting where the set pieces would be during the performance. Everything had to be perfect. On the other side of the velvet curtain, murmurs and shuffling footsteps sounded as the audience filed into the auditorium.
“You done?” The man at the side of the stage motioned with his chin. His hands were busy holding a matte black gun. A red, ridged scar traced across his brow, above eyes the watery gray of a shark’s.
Mark’s wife Gigi stood beside the scarred man. She wore a black tuxedo coat and pants—the outfit matching Mark’s. She nodded to Mark, then wiped her face.
“We’re ready.” Mark scanned the fly space overhead. Heavy sandbags and counterweights hung suspended over a metal catwalk. At the top, accessed by a thin metal ladder, was the wide concrete hallway leading to the rooftop doorway and to an entrance to the theater’s third level.
“We’ll do our job and you guys can go,” the man said.
Mark doubted that. Neither the scarred guy nor the assassin perched on the catwalk had bothered to cover their faces. They would not leave anyone to identify them. Hopefully, their sound and lighting guy, Jim, would stay in his booth, isolated and unknowing of the drama.
At last, the house lights dimmed, the curtains opened, and the show began. The scarred man slid hidden at the side of the stage. Mark wheeled out the large steamer trunk, big as a coffin, that held their equipment.
As they worked their way through the first set—levitation, a transformation illusion, and Gigi’s disappearing rabbit trick, Mark wondered who was the intended victim? The Grand held two hundred seats among three tiers, including six balcony boxes with another twenty-four places. The boxes were positioned directly next to each stage side. Whoever sat in those seats would be at the perfect angle for the catwalk sniper.
A silver-haired man wearing a dark suit sat in the middle box at stage left. Two younger men, both with thick necks and arms that strained the sleeves of their polo shirts, sat behind him. Mark, holding up a chain of clinking triangles, risked a glance at the scarred man. The gunman leaned forward, weapon lowered, his gaze fixed on the man in the box seat.
With a flourish, Mark held the metal triangles up. The chain magically separated into two parts. When the applause faded, he spoke. “For our next trick, we will need a special assistant.” Their usual routine would be to call on a pre-screened audience member. Mark turned to Gigi, hoping their decade of performing this illusion in this theater would allow her to understand his desperate plan. Mentally counting off his steps, Mark rolled the trunk to the position he had noted earlier. Gigi met his gaze, smiled and turned to bring out the folding screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our backstage assistant, John.” Mark waved to the scarred man, motioning him forward. Several beats of awkward silence followed as the man scowled and shook his head.
The next few moments would determine whether they would walk out or perish in the gunfire. Mark assumed they planned to kill their target at the show’s end, hoping the distraction of everyone exiting would cover their escape. Now, some in the audience began to mutter and confused laughter sounded. The silver-haired man half-rose from his seat and looked around. Would the sniper take this as his chance? Mark held his breath, waiting.
Finally, the scarred man strode onstage. “There you are!’ Mark led the man to the steamer trunk. Gigi spun the wooden box, showing the audience the lid and locks. As she helped him into the trunk, Gigi whispered escape instructions to the gunman—instructions he wouldn’t be able to follow. Mark rattled the lock and spoke to cover her voice. “One person goes in, but who will come out?”
Mark leaned to whisper to the man inside. “Listen to the music and wait for the drumroll.” He slipped the lock from its fake, unsecured position and threaded it through the clasp holding the lid closed, then spun the box to show the audience. After he helped Gigi move the screen into place, they walked behind it. The lights dimmed and music played.
In normal times, the audience member would open the fake unlocked panel on the steamer and Gigi would climb inside. Mark would escape the stage by climbing the ladder up to the top and take the door to the third level, reappearing in the audience at the end of the drum roll. It all came down to timing. If they got this right, they might have a chance.
“Go out the back, get security, and call the police.” Mark kissed her. “Don’t look back.”
Gigi squeezed his arm. “I love you.”
The music rose in a crescendo, covering the squeak of the metal rungs as Mark climbed. The lighting changed to dark blue with silvery flashes that looked like stars. All distraction to keep the audience on edge.
When he reached the catwalk, Mark slipped off his shoes and crept toward the sniper. The man remained focused on his target, not noticing as Mark neared.
Four feet away, Mark swung the nearest sandbag in an arc at the gunman. The bag, with its thick rope, knocked the man to the edge of the metal ledge. He grabbed the rope, wrapping his hand around it to steady himself. Mark rushed forward. He pushed the man off the catwalk, then released the counterweight to the bag. The sniper, still grasping the bag, plummeted onto the stage. At the end of its line, the bag jerked to a stop. The sniper fell the last twenty feet—onto the steamer trunk.
The police arrived. An ambulance carted off the handcuffed and injured criminals. Mark looked for the silver-haired man, but he had vanished into the crowd.
Tonight’s story is one of the first that I wrote for the NYC Midnight writing contest. I don’t remember the prompts, but I think the genre must have been mystery or crime. And I do remember that one of the words that had to be used was “surrogate.” Anyway, here it is copied below. I spent more time selecting the photo to accompany it than I did posting the story, so please forgive any editing that might need to be done.
Speaking of photos – I always try to use something either my husband or I have captured. This is harder when it’s a fiction piece. For this story I wanted something mysterious, but most of my landscape shots tend toward picturesque and not eerie. I almost used the one below as the top picture, but decided on one with “water” as the theme. After you read the story, let me know which photo best captures the mood of the tale.
Photo by the author
Blood Over Water
I picked up the hitchhiker a quarter-mile past where our Main Street became TX-86. A rusty pickup blew past where she stood with her thumb out. When his brake lights flashed, I hit my light bar and beeped the siren. The truck kept going. Hitchhiking is legal in Texas, and I wouldn’t have pulled over for just any traveler, but this one looked nine months pregnant.
“Hot for a hike, isn’t it?” I leaned toward the open passenger side window, smiling and hoping the girl wouldn’t bolt. Skittish as a deer, she wavered at the edge of the asphalt. Dark sweat stains circled the neck and armholes of her gray t-shirt, stretched tight across her belly. A black leather purse rested at her feet. She shrugged and tucked a lank strand of brown hair behind her ear.
I pushed open the car door. “Hop in. We can talk about it in the air conditioning.”
“You arresting me?”
“That depends. You committed any crimes?” This earned me a smile. To my relief, the girl eased into the seat beside me.
“Thank you, officer.” She glanced at me, then away. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”
“Good to hear.” I held out my hand. “Chief John Lawson, at your service.”
“Cindy Brinkman.” Her hand was hot and slick with sweat.
“When’s your baby due, Cindy?”
“It’s not my baby.” Her bottom lip quivered, and she turned to stare at the flat West Texas landscape.
I wondered about that, but figured it was best not to push her. “I tell you what, there’s a Dairy Queen in town, has a cold soda waiting.” She nodded, and I put the cruiser in gear and drove off.
Over a pair of cherry Cokes, I learned Cindy was twenty-three, five years younger than my daughter Alice. Cindy lived in town with her boyfriend, Jamie, when he wasn’t working. He stayed in Midland during the week, in a trailer with other oil field workers.
“We had a fight, and I left.” She spread her hand protectively across her stomach.
“He hurt you?”
“Oh, no! Jamie would never do that!” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “It’s just hard, you know.”
“You have someone you can call?”
She rummaged in her purse and brought out a pink phone. “My sister. But my battery is dead.”
“You can use mine.” I went to the counter to order food while she made the call.
Cindy polished off a double cheeseburger and two refills of cola before her sister arrived. I recognized the woman that pushed through the door of the Dairy Queen—she’d made an unsuccessful run for school board last year. Brenda York. Her husband did something in tech.
“What were you thinking? It’s hot as hell and the baby is due any day. Why didn’t you call?” Angry red blotches dotted her face. She swept her arm toward the window, almost clocking her husband, a tall, whip-thin man hovering behind her.
Brenda’s husband leaned across the table. “Carl York,” he said, shaking my hand. “Thank you for picking her up.” Carl had close-cropped black hair—like a military cut.
“Part of the job. I’m glad some good Samaritan called in when they saw her on the side of the road.”
Before Cindy left, I pulled her aside. “You folks go ahead.” When Brenda and her husband were out of earshot, I asked Cindy, “You sure you want to go with them?”
She nodded.
“When things calm down, call Jamie. I’m a father myself, and I know he’ll be worried about you and the baby.”
Cindy gave me a startled look, her eyes wide. “Oh,” she said, “it’s Brenda’s baby.” She pointed outside, where her sister waited, one hand on their SUV. “I’m her surrogate.”
Later that night, while we loaded dishes into the dishwasher, I asked my wife about the surrogacy thing. Barb, my wife, worked as a nurse. I could have looked it up on the internet, but I’d rather someone explain the medical terms in words I could understand.
“There are several ways they can go about it,” Barb said. “The surrogate carries the baby because Mom can’t. Sometimes they use a donor egg.”
“Who’s the father?” I rinsed a plate and handed it to Barb.
“They can use the husband’s sperm, or a donor. Either they fertilize the surrogate’s egg, or if they use the mom’s egg, they’ll fertilize it and transfer the embryo to the surrogate.”
“After that, it’s business as usual? Nine months later, you have a baby?”
Barb laughed. “We hope everything goes as usual. If the implantation is successful, yes—the embryo clings to the uterus and nine months later you have a baby.” She closed the dishwasher and punched the button to start a load. “Now tell me, John Lawson, why the sudden interest in where babies come from?”
I explained about picking up Cindy and meeting her sister and her brother-in-law. “She told me twice it wasn’t her baby.”
“There’s sure to be a contract. She would have to sign away any rights to the child.”
“Why would someone agree to that? Have a baby and give it up?”
“Why does anyone do anything? It’s always for love or money.”
Two months passed before I thought of my pregnant hitchhiker. Labor Day, we had a record of four calls for drunk and disorderly at the RV park. The next week, a grass fire swept up to the edge of town, almost igniting the First Baptist Church.
The night of the grass fire, after our volunteer fire department had it under control, I stopped at the Allsup’s convenience store for a cup of coffee and a fried burrito. A haze of smoke hung in the air, blurring the stars. The heat had broken, ushering in the promise of cool nights in the fall. I leaned against the cruiser, careful to keep burrito crumbs off my uniform shirt. A baby’s wail erupted from the black Lincoln SUV parked at the pump. I recognized the man pumping gas—Carl York. I wandered over.
“That’s a healthy set of lungs. Congratulations.”
Carl grimaced. “Do babies ever stop crying?”
“In my experience, hardly ever.” I peered into the back seat, nodding with approval at the fancy carrier turned backwards to face the seat. I tapped on the window. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.” Carl hung the hose back in its holder. “I better get going. Only time he stops crying is when the car’s moving.”
“Colic?”
“Yeah. Brenda is exhausted, and I barely get any work done. I’d give anything for a quiet night.” He collapsed into the driver’s seat. I held onto the car door.
“What about Cindy? Can she help?”
“We don’t think that’s a good idea.” Carl tugged at the car door and I stepped back. He snorted a half-laugh. “We gave her the money, and she gave us the baby. Over and done.”
Under the fluorescent lights of the station, his skin looked sallow, like he’d aged ten years in the past month. Lack of sleep would do that. I thought I’d ask Barb if she’d pick up a gift for the baby. Give me an excuse to stop by, check on them. I didn’t follow through, though, and the next time I spoke to them, their baby was missing.
The call came in early on a Sunday morning. Sunrise was a yellow line of promise across the horizon when the police scanner in my den crackled to life. Donna, our night shift dispatcher, called out the code for a missing child. By the time I made it to the York’s house, two of our cruisers sat parked in their drive, lights spinning.
The York’s lived in a sprawling, ranch style home. I met them in their living room. Brenda was wrapped in a pale blue robe. Her brown hair was flattened on one side. Carl had pulled on a pair of loose sweat pants and a t-shirt. He held a heavy-duty flashlight in one hand. As we talked, he tapped the light against his palm.
“Tell me what happened,” I asked them. They’d have to repeat the story later for the FBI field team. I’d called my contact there, and they’d be on the way from Dallas. I wouldn’t wait for them. Time is the biggest enemy in a child abduction.
“I thought he slept through the night. Then when I got to the room…” Brenda broke down in sobs. She took deep, hiccupping breaths.
Carl put a hand on her shoulder. “We heard nothing. Not a sound,” he said.
A uniformed officer stood guard outside the baby’s room. She stepped aside to let me enter, but I stopped at the threshold. I scanned the room. Bright red letters hung on the wall, spelling out the boy’s name, Colton. A framed picture of the baby hung below the letters. He had the flat, formless features of a newborn, topped with a thatch of strawberry blonde hair.
The window curtains over the crib had balloons and rainbows printed on the fabric. The rails on the side of the crib were raised and something white and square lay on the floor. I used a pencil to flip on the light switch. The white thing was a baby monitor.
“Anyone else been in here?” I asked the officer.
“No sir.” She straightened her shoulders and adjusted her belt. “Not since we got here.”
Carl met me in the hallway. I asked him, “Was that window closed last night?”
“Closed and locked.”
“What about the doors? You folks have an alarm?”
Carl shook his head. “I let the dog out the back door last night before I went to bed. I don’t think I locked it after.”
“Was this before or after you put the baby to bed?”
“After,” Carl answered. “Last night, he was fussy. I had to take him out in the car to get him to sleep. It was past midnight when we got back. Brenda was asleep.”
“You see anything on that monitor?” I motioned behind me into the baby’s room.
“Nothing. Not until this morning, when Brenda…” His voice trailed off, and he cupped both hands over his face. “What do we do?”
“The FBI folks will be here later. Right now, we’ll keep things secure, talk to your neighbors and see if anyone noticed anything. We’ll send out an Amber Alert.”
I walked with Carl back to the living room. “Have either of you talked to Cindy?”
Brenda looked from me to Carl before she answered. “You mean this morning? No. Not yet. I should do that.”
After the FBI team arrived, I met with the agent in charge, a tall, square-jawed woman named Twyla Carson, and gave her a recap of all I knew. Agent Carson had steel-gray eyes and a firm handshake. Her suit, despite the five-hour drive from Dallas, looked fresh off the rack. I left the feds at their work and I drove over to check on Cindy.
Her address belonged to a small, wood-framed house close to the Allsup’s where I’d seen Carl and the baby. An apple red Honda Civic with paper dealer tags sat in the drive. Cindy opened the door before I could knock. She stood in the half-open doorway, blocking my view into the house.
“Hello, Cindy. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
The young woman in front of me looked a world different from the pregnant hitchhiker I’d met three months ago. Instead of a sweat-stained t-shirt, she wore a floral print blouse and dark jeans. I studied her face for signs of tears.
“Is your boyfriend home? If not, it would be a good idea for you to be with family right now.”
“I was gonna go over there, but Brenda said to wait until later.”
“Mind if I come in? I wanted to go over a couple of things. You never know what might help us find Colton.”
Cindy bit her lip and hesitated, but she backed away and opened the door. We walked down a short hallway and into the living room. Empty food containers—pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers and Styrofoam plates—covered the coffee table. A breast pump sat atop one of the pizza boxes. Cindy hustled over and started clearing the trash.
“When’s the last time you saw the baby?” I asked.
“I was over there last night.” She picked up the breast pump. “I’ve been dropping off breast milk. They tried formula, but he does better with this.”
“You’ve done that from the start?”
“I don’t mind it.” She carried the pump into the kitchen and called, “You want a glass of water or something?”
“No thank you,” I answered. “But I’d like to borrow your bathroom.”
“Sure.” Cindy came back into the living room. “It’s right down the hall.”
I didn’t need the bathroom, but it was the best excuse to get a look at the rest of the house. The door to the master bedroom hung open, and I glimpsed an open suitcase laid out on the bed. When I left the bathroom, I stopped in the hall opposite the second bedroom. They’d set this room up as a sort of den. A pair of gaming chairs sat in front of a television.
Back in the living room, I picked up a framed photo of Cindy and her boyfriend, Jamie. The picture showed them standing at the base of a red, sand-stone cliff. Sunshine gave the photo a golden tint, lighting up Jamie’s reddish-blond hair. I handed the photo to Cindy.
“Where are they, Cindy?” I thought at first she wouldn’t answer, but then her face crumpled.
“I thought it would all work out, but after he was born…” She collapsed on the couch. “We’re going to be in so much trouble, aren’t we?”
I called Agent Carson and gave her the address of the hotel where they’d find Jamie and Colton. For the second time, I gave Cindy a ride in my police car. At the station, she told the whole story.
“We already had the money when I lost the baby,” she said. “It was right after the first round. I didn’t go to the doctor. I thought they’d be able to tell at the next checkup and I could pretend I didn’t know.”
But by the time Cindy had her next check-up, she was pregnant. This time, the baby was hers and Jamie’s. They decided not to tell. They had the money—fifty thousand dollars, and Cindy had signed away all rights to the baby. That was the first baby, though. The one that didn’t take. As her due date approached, Jamie pressured her to keep the baby. That was what the fight had been about. That day I’d picked her up.
It would be a mess to sort out. Why did they do it? For love or for money, my wife had said. I figured that was true.
Tonight I cancelled my membership to Medium, the home for much of my very short fiction, short stories, and essays. Most are still posted there, but I don’t write there often enough now to justify the cost of membership. Many of the short stories I wrote over the years I compiled in my first book of short stories and I will need to comb through the rest to see if I want to put them in a second book.
For now I’ll share a selection of my micro-fiction. I love the challenge of micro-fiction, taking a story and condensing it down to just enough words to carry the scene. They’re satisfying to write and I hope you like them also.
Escape Velocity
She left behind what held her down
Freed from the tyranny of Earth’s gravity, she floated past the cryo-pods where crewmates rested in dreamless slumber. Machinery hummed like human breath. How far they’ll travel, pioneers.
She remembered another traveler, sent from a dying planet. A child, falling from the sky. Saved, he grew into secret powers. How odd the only things that hurt him were fragments from his lost home.
She wiped frost from the viewport and bid goodbye to Earth before her own cold rest. A beginning, without prejudices and limitations. She wonders — when they reach that distant place, will she be able to fly?
Photo by the author
Frog Looks Back
He had lived there so long, in his forest of grass, that he only remembered flashes of his former life. Like the pop of the paparazzi’s cameras — quick frames of hangover mornings, thin false smiles, fake friends who would run at the drop of a dollar.
What had he done to earn the reward of solitude? Jilted a witch? Spurned a wizard? His royal world brought down to a muddy pond littered with flies.
Even so, when she stooped to offer a kiss, he turned from the lipstick smear of her lips. Regretting nothing, he’d choose to stay a frog.
Remote Recollections
The eve of her sixty-ninth birthday Vera Holloway clicked the remote control and turned on her television to a scene from her sixth birthday.
“That’s odd,” she said. Vera the child huffed at blazing candles.
Tapping through channels she discovered every program starred her, Vera from Uncertain, Texas. Channel eight featured a high school football game, marching band all brass and drums while she kissed David Keller goodbye to Vietnam.
Memories hazy and half-forgotten-crunch of autumn leaves, sweet bite of strawberry snow-cone, skip and scratch of vinyl records. Last click. Who was that old woman, staring from the blank screen?
Photo by the author
The Lighthouse
Byrne Macleod lived alone at the lighthouse for forty years. Every night he lit the torch and watched the dark ocean for ships that never passed the rocky shore.
“Why stay, Grand Da?” His great-grandson, fisherman’s heir to seas stripped bare, asked each time he rowed over to the island.
“Someone must wait for them.”
Great waters rose and receded, wars raged and cities burned with plague while Byrne kept vigil. Through eyes dimmed by salt spray he searched the waves.
At last they came, the voyagers. The celestial ships hovered overhead, their journey not by sea but by stars.
Photo by the author – edited with the Waterlogue app
The Secrets the Moon Holds
She ran along the path, a shortcut through the park near her home. The blue-white glow from the full moon the only illumination as she dodged through trees as familiar to her as the furniture in her living room.
She emerged from the woods onto the concrete sidewalk, a thirty-three year old woman still able, she felt, to pass as one much younger. Still happy for the inconvenience of being carded when she ordered wine, her mock indignation hiding her false pleasure.
The moon her only observer, she fussed with the zipper on her jacket and reached up to pull loose a strand from her ponytail. Messy enough to give the patina of truth to her exercise, the flushed cheeks and high color on her chest.
Home at last, she paused before she turned the knob and pushed open the door. If he greets her with a kiss, she wonders, will he taste him on her lips?
En Passant
She sets the board as they always have. The black is hers, to match the color of her hair — once dark as coal, now grey as ash.
Brew the tea, light the candles, draw the curtains, pull out the chair on his side of the table.
Fifteen years she’s waited for the match, her opponent forfeited much too soon. The hard pain in her chest, sharper than fear, tells her this may be the night she joins the game.
She would sacrifice her pawn but she plays by the rules. As any good player knows, white always goes first.
The Serving Girl’s Legacy
A drabble in 50 words
The barista, the rumor, the hundred-dollar tip. Co-workers congratulated her, her manager promoted her, her boyfriend doubted her.
“How did you earn that?” He frowns, cold as cream on a Frappuccino.
“It was really just a ten,” she says, but he’s gone.
Two lies and one truth — She’ll miss him.
Photo by the author
The Children’s Garden
“Go ahead. I’ll rest.” Rose Watson’s grandmother sank onto the park bench. “They’ll keep me company.” The grandmother waved at a circle of sculptures — children, bronze figures cavorting in the grass.
“Okay. You sure you don’t need…”
“I’m old, not incontinent.” The grandmother laughed. “Better scoot, the garden’s closing.”
Rose hurried to the restroom, casting a glance at her grandmother. Had she ever played like those statues? She’d worked years in a factory, supporting her family.
Rose returned to an empty bench. “Grandmother?” Childish laugher answered her. In the dusk she searched, never noticing the extra figure in the circle.
Photo by the author
A Closed Path has no End
She followed the ghost girl past the warning sign, along the sun dappled path into the dark woods. The trees parted, branches bowing to lead her through the forest until at last the girl turned.
“Here.” She pointed, her spectral arm sweeping across a mulch of sweet pine needles.
The hiker knelt — her knees pressed into soft soil. With trembling fingers, she brushed the dirt from the white, rounded dome, so like a bulb planted in shallow earth.
“Your grave?” she asked. How sad to spend eternal rest not blessed in consecrated ground.
Before we went on our vacation to Kauai this September, my husband Andrew and I watched dozens of travel videos on YouTube. We rounded out our research with movies set on the garden isle. One of these, The Perfect Getaway starring Steve Zahn, Milla Jovovich, Timothy Oliphant, and Kiele Sanchez, was a murder mystery thriller where the main characters were hiking part of the Kalalau Trail. The movie was entertaining, although I kept getting distracted by the beautiful scenery. There was enough mayhem, however, to convince me to pass on attempting that trek. Anytime there is a steep cliff in a movie, or in real life, there is potentially someone waiting to toss you off of it.
Wailua Falls – Photo by the author
If you looked at the photo above and recited “The plane! The plane!” congratulations, you are old. Saturday nights in the 1970s found me stationed in front of the television, waiting for that opening shot of Fantasy Island. The waterfall is more impressive in person, even if we did have to stand in line at the overlook in order to snap a photo.
Curious goats – Photo by the author
Our first full day on the island we hiked parts of the Heritage Trail. Meandering along the coastline, we saw few people and almost the same amount of goats. Neither group looked like they might be planning someone’s murder.
I ventured into the ocean – Photo by Andrew
Andrew did complete the hike on the Kalalau trail all the way to Hanakapiai Falls. I passed on that exercise, but joined him on the Kuilau Ridge Trail on a later day.
Photo by the authorPhoto by the authorPhoto by the author
Kauai is steeped in history – many of the buildings in the towns were constructed during the sugar cane and pineapple plantation era in the 1800s. We spent our last two nights on Kauai at Waimea Plantation Cottages. Their cottages were built in the late 1880s to 1930s and moved to the resort site and lovingly restored.
Waimea Plantation Cottages – Photo by the authorSunset on the black sand beach at Waimea – photo by the author
I thought I would do some writing while on vacation, but that didn’t happen. My days were spent enjoying the setting and abandoning the plot.
This week’s story comes from an NYC Midnight contest. I had the questionable luck of drawing romantic comedy as my assigned genre, and I had to include a gymnast and the action of being “tech-savvy.” This was part of the short story challenge, and I wrote this one for the third round of the competition. I’ll give myself kudos for making it through the first two rounds, even though I didn’t advance past this one. I did have fun though, and that counts for something.
By the way, the photo I’m using to illustrate this week’s story is from our visit to Kauai this year. We stayed at a condo with an ocean view. It was a lovely trip with family and I will share more about that trip soon. For now, please enjoy my venture into the romance genre.
An Unexpected View
Kate Aldridge finally departed (for Florida, not heaven) from her two-bedroom condo in the Park Haven retirement community. Lena Stafford had long coveted Kate’s balcony. The second-floor view of the neighboring nature preserve was perfect for capturing images of migrating birds she could post to her Facebook group.
Lena’s apartment faced the parking lot. From her balcony she watched ambulances ferrying residents off to the hospital or to another permanent destination.
When the condo sale was posted, Lena would be ready. She had her real estate agent on speed dial, her earnest money in hand, and her moving boxes ordered. There were few interested in the condo, as most Park Haven residents were satisfied with smaller places. She could out bid every buyer except one—Arthur McCay.
The week after Kate moved out, Lena met her best friend, Miriam, in the community common room. They sipped wine from matching mugs and worked on a puzzle. Lena wore her usual outfit of neutral colors, blending into the background. A tan canvas fanny pack held her iPhone.
Miriam wore a Hawaiian shirt with pink and orange flowers and a matching headband.
“Here he comes,” Lena said. They had been discussing Lena’s upcoming bid on the condo. She had instructed her realtor to send it over the minute the home listed. One mention of Arthur’s name and the man himself appeared as though summoned.
Miriam tried forcing a puzzle piece into the wrong place. “You’re obsessed with him.”
Arthur, an ex-Olympic gymnast, was a hot catch in the community. Six feet tall, he had silver hair and blue eyes a shade darker than his locks. Lena told herself her interest extended solely to how much money he had on hand. Arthur McCay had founded a lucrative nutritional supplement company, and rumor had it that he had sold it for millions. Lena, a retired software engineer, had considerably less than that in the bank.
“Afternoon, ladies.” Arthur stopped at their table. “Have you seen the cork board?” He held up a hand printed yellow flyer. “I need to post the sign-up sheet for my yoga class.”
“They moved it by the restrooms,” Lena said. “We use a digital bulletin board now. I added it to the Parkview Haven website.”
“I don’t get online much,” Arthur said.
Lena held out her hand. “I can post a sign-up link. What’s your email address?”
“Thanks, but I don’t check it often. You can use my phone number. It’s on the flyer.” He gave Lena the paper and winked at Miriam. “I’ll tack a copy to the cork board, in case there are old-timers like me around.”
“I teach a free internet class—Surfing for Seniors.” Lena tucked the flyer into her fanny pack.
“Oh!” Miriam tugged Lena’s arm. “You could trade – internet for yoga.”
“Sure thing.” Arthur smiled. “There’s a chair yoga class, too. If you want to start with something easier.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Lena stuck out her tongue at his departing back. “Start easier. Ha! He should learn something himself.” Why was she so angry? She supposed it was the competition for the condo. It wasn’t fair. Arthur lived in a top floor apartment that already had a view of the woods next door. He didn’t need another place. Lena gulped the last of her wine, then slammed the mug onto the table. “He probably still has the first computer he bought at Radio Shack.”
Miriam leaned forward and cupped a hand next to her mouth to whisper, “I heard he owns a flip phone.”
That Friday, Lena agreed to go with Miriam to the yoga class. She dug from her closet the foam mat she purchased when she signed up for an exercise class on Zoom. That effort failed during the first session, when Lena turned off her camera and took a nap on the mat.
When they arrived at yoga, Arthur was setting up a large boom box. He was dressed exactly like Lena in loose gray sweats and a white t-shirt. Good lord, they could be one of those couples who wore matching outfits.
“I didn’t know there was a uniform,” Miriam said as she rolled out her mat. Miriam wore fluorescent green tights, pink leg warmers and a sweatshirt with the words “Let’s Get Physical” emblazoned across the front.
Arthur popped a cassette tape into the player, and a wave of soft notes and chimes filled the room. “Good morning and welcome.” He turned his blue-eyed gaze to Lena. “We will start with stretching.”
As they worked their way through the poses, Lena relaxed. This wasn’t so hard, and Arthur demonstrated variations of the forms for those who had physical limitations. Toward the end of class, she wobbled getting into Warrior I.
“Try to keep your hips square with the front of the mat.” Arthur padded over to her.
Frustrated, Lena glanced around the room. At least no one was watching her performance.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” Arthur held his hands out, palms up.
Lena nodded yes. His fingers brushed her waist, moving her hips forward. “Drop your shoulders and relax.” With the lightest touch, he started at her neck, and ran his hands to rest lightly on her shoulders.
She exhaled and lifted her hands higher, ignoring the blush heating up her face.
Three days later, Lena rose early, before the heat set in, packed a bottle of cold water in her fanny pack, and headed to the nature preserve. At the entrance, she downloaded a trail map onto her phone. The yoga workout had made Lena realize she spent too much time sitting at her laptop, waiting to hear from her agent. She’d sent over her offer the day before.
Hearing an unfamiliar bird call, she weaved through the brush trying to find the source. Instead, she located a path that wasn’t marked. This track led to a ridge above the creek winding through the park. Where was that bird? She lifted her phone to at least capture the sound on video. Two steps closer to the edge of the drop off, her foot slid in loose dirt and she tumbled, ass over teakettle, down the ridge and into the shallow creek.
“Oh!” Lena cried out, managing a weak “Help.” Her hip ached and her foot was bent underneath her. Whimpering, she untangled her limbs. Ten feet away, her phone buzzed. Moments later, she realized her watch, registering her fall, had called 911. “Oh no.” Lena tried and failed to reach the phone and cancel the call, more humiliated than injured. She crawled out of the creek right before the ambulance arrived and the EMTs insisted on taking her to the hospital.
Four hours of prodding and two x-rays later, Lena was cleared to leave the emergency room. They had rescued her phone also, and Lena tried calling Miriam for a ride. No answer. She could call an Uber, but hated to add the expense. Then she remembered the flyer with Arthur’s phone number. It was still in her fanny pack, where she’d stashed it after posting the sign-up info. She took it out and called him.
Once they arrive back at Park Haven, he insisted on helping her get settled in her apartment. “Is there anything else you need?” he asked.
“I’m okay. No broken bones, but I have a bruise shaped like Texas on my hip.”
“I bet that’s a sight.” Arthur stuttered, “I mean…”
“No offense, it really is something. At least now I know my watch and phone will look out for me if I have another hard fall.”
Arthur gave her a confused look, so Lena explained about the automatic call for help. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Something to think about.”
The next morning, Lena was propped up in bed, resting her hip, when she got the call from her realtor, telling her the condo had sold to someone else. Right after that, her Ring camera alerted her to a visitor. Arthur.
Why was he here? He held a shopping bag. Had he brought her a consolation present? She considered ignoring him, but finally pushed herself out of bed and answered the door.
“Congratulations,” she said. “The condo. You were the winning bid, right?”
“I didn’t buy it. I’m happy where I am.” He shook his head. “Were you bidding on it?”
“I wanted that park view.”
“Oh.” Arthur held up the shopping bag. “I need some help if you have time.”
“Sure. I owe you for the ride home. What do you need?”
He opened the bag and pulled out a new iPhone and an Apple watch. “It’s time to join the twentieth century.”
“It’s the twenty-first, Arthur.”
“Let’s take it one century at a time. I’ve got a good view of the park. Come over and help set up this stuff. We can have coffee on my balcony. Watch the birds.”
Lena nodded. “That’s a good trade.” And maybe a good start for something more.
Let's Get Out of Here 