fiction

The Gun

Sally24 Comments

“Is not!”

“Is, too!”

“No way your grandfather is an alien hunter!” Johnny hissed, his face close to Kevin’s.

“IS, TOO!” Kevin shouted.

The boys stared at each other, then Kevin said, “”I can prove it.”

“How?” scoffed Johnny. “You gonna show me a dead alien.”

“No, even better,” said Kevin, “I can show you his chuffleuffle gun.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” said Johnny. “There’s no such thing as a scuffleumple gun.”

“Yeah — because it’s a chuffle–uffle gun,” Kevin replied. “You don’t even know the right name for it.”

“Fine,” said Johnny. “Show me the gun.” He wasn’t going to attempt that ridiculous name again.

The two boys went to Kevin’s grandfather’s room. They could hear grandfather singing in the kitchen, so they knew it was safe to go in his room. Kevin pointed at the short bell-nosed gun leaning in the corner.

“See?!” He whispered triumphantly.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “It’s just an old gun.”

“No! It’s a chuffleuffle gun. That’s the noise it makes when he shoots it. AND, he only uses it to shoot chuffles.”

Johnny snorted. “What’s a chuffle? An alien?”

“YES!” said Kevin. “From the planet Chuff!”

Grandfather was still singing away, so Kevin took a step closer. “See, here’s grandfather’s hunting hat and glasses. The chuffleuffle gun can hurt your eyes, but it wouldn’t hurt you if I shot you with it. It only hurts chuffles.”

Johnny looked skeptical.

“I’ll show you,” said Kevin, and he reached for the gun.

This partial story brought to you by The Unicorn Challenge.

That darn 250 word is going to be the death of me.

Not a chuffleuffle gun, though, because I’m not a chuffle.

About My Dad · Blather

A Ramble about Ice Cream and Little League

Sally10 Comments

About 15 miles from where we used to live was a seasonal ice cream shop called Humdinger. In March, when we would see the “Opening Soon” sign go up, we waited with eager anticipation.

I suppose every area has their own hidden gem ice cream store. Humdinger was Binghamton’s.

Blue Cow in Roanoke, Virginia is another such treasure.

Honestly, I don’t know if Cooperstown has one anymore. I would have said Pop’s Place but they closed. When I was a kid, Cooper Cabin had the best ice cream. They are long since closed.

My father would take his Little League team there after a winning game. The Cooperstown Dry Cleaners — the name of his team because they were sponsored by, well, I’ll let you guess — was not the winningest team, so it was quite a treat to go there. My father believed in every player playing, regardless of skill level and whether we were winning or losing the game.

I say “we” because I was a part of the team. I begged to play but there were two issues. One — I threw like a girl, a fact I was reminded of regularly when I tried to play catch. Two — girls had NOT broken into Cooperstown Little League at that point.

I remember reading about a girl my age in Pennsylvania who was allowed to play, but when she took the position of catcher, other coaches insisted that she wear a “cup” because it was in the rules that catchers had to wear cups to protect themselves. She pinned a toy teacup onto her uniform. I bet she didn’t throw like a girl. Catchers have to have a pretty good arm.

But I digress. I was part of the team because I learned to keep score and my father had me be his official scorekeeper. I learned the numbers for the positions. I tallied the strikes and balls in the little boxes. I knew to write 6-3 if the shortstop threw the ball to the first baseman to get the batter out. I checked with my dad on errors, because, God forbid I should make that all-important determination. At the Little League level.

The occasional ice cream at Cooper Cabin was my reward. That, and spending time with my father.

Yesterday was the anniversary of his passing.

I should have had an ice cream in his honor. His favorite was vanilla, same as mine.

The ramble is brought to you by Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt was “hum” – Find a word that starts with “hum” or use the word “hum” itself. 

All I could think about was Humdinger Ice Cream — but I meandered.

fiction

The Race

Sally23 Comments

Oh, you take the high road
And I’ll take the low road…

They both studied the map. Iain watched Josh trace a route that looked longer than long. It took him north first, then southeast along the railroad tracks — tracks that took him so far south so that he had to ride north again. Why he didn’t follow the trail that seemed direct?

But it was a race.

Iain zoomed down the trail until he got to the livestock chute with the curved fencing. He was so bent on beating Josh that he hadn’t really paid attention until his ATV got stuck in that metal curve.

“STOP. LOOK. LISTEN.” He read angrily. “NOW you tell me!”

Then, he heard it. The train. Josh was on those tracks. He was a goner.

Iain heard the train blow an urgent whistle.

Suddenly his stuck ATV meant nothing. “Please, God,” he whispered, “let Josh be safe.”

His heart pounded as he heard the speeding train approach. Its whistle grew louder and more insistent. He squeezed the cold metal rail of the livestock chute.

He didn’t want to look.

In fact, he averted his eyes as the train roared past. He rested his head on the fence, holding back the tears.

Then he heard the low buzz of an ATV engine. He looked up to see Iain riding by on the tracks, AFTER the train, laughing and waving.

My response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge: write a story based on the photograph, no more than 250 words.

Life

Bookmark Appreciation

Sally16 Comments

I will not dog-ear a page.

Instead, I use one of these:

* A random scrap of paper

* A love note from one of my
children that says, “I
love you, Mom” or “I know that
I can always go to you.”

* A piece of pretty cardstock

* Bookstore ad — “Book No Further”

* Used envelope sans the mail

* Cross-stitched cats on hardanger

* Index card scribbled with notes
And quotes from the book it’s in

* A tucked-in book jacket flap

* A grocery store receipt

* Slip from an online bookstore
that says “Thank you for your order!”

* A printed prayer, * a ribbon

* A postcard, * an old letter

* Class handout folded in half

* Tattered newspaper clippings

* Business card from an artist
That I met at a craft show

* Page from a day calendar –
2002 Far Side cows

* An unused tissue because
A used one would be quite gross

* A decades old photograph
of my kids in a leaf pile

* A Reeses candy wrapper

You have to admit there is
always something close at hand
to neatly keep your place for
when you return to reading

Many apologies. I’m not feeling terribly creative :/

However, the W3 prompt this week was to write an ode to an everyday object. This may not be an ode, but I do appreciate all the little items that rise to the challenge of holding my place in a book.

Blather · Grief · Leaning In · Life · poetry

Mom’s Wedding Dress

Sally18 Comments

Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.

Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.

The W3 prompt this week was a quote:

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.

I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.

On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.

I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.

The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.

“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.

But I couldn’t.

Kudos to those of you who can or could.

It’s just beyond me.

I closed the box.

But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.

That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.

She always loved a garden.

Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.

But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.

My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom

My mother gave her wedding dress
To me so I
Could use the lace for my gown.
I frown, I sigh

As I find the remains of that
Dress so many
Years later. A wreck of a thing –
Fitting, any

Joy I might have had now replaced
With a heartache.
The box holds scraps of what once was –
I pause – head-shake —

What do I do? “Throw it away,”
Says one voice in
My mind. “It’s just garbage now.”
Somehow the bin

Is not the proper place for it.
It is a wreck –
Like my life – but I simply will
Not kill that speck

Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection?
It is a dress!
Nothing more and yet so much more –
But for my yes

My own promise — oh, how I grieve!
I will bury
The scraps. My heart is still not free
To be merry


fiction

Quarry Road

Sally28 Comments

“Come see me,” he said. “It’ll be easy,” he said. “Throw a pebble at the window,” he said.

Those words irked me. He thought it was easy, but it wasn’t.

“It’s the big stone building on Quarry Road,” he said.

Quarry Road, sheesh. That should have been my first clue that every building on that road was built from stone.

I ruled out the cottage right away, then the houses, even though some were pretty big.

The stone barn was impressive, stone silos and everything, but he would have called it a barn.

But after the barn, there were fields. And cows.

Off in the distance I saw the big stone building, sitting on top of the hill at the end of the road. Why didn’t he say, “It’s the last building,” or, “Go past the farm,” or “Top of the hill.” Sheesh.

Found it. Went around to the back. Yep, windows.

“Throw a pebble at my window,” he had said. “It’ll be the only one with the shade pulled all the way down.”

Right.

Actually, wrong.

There were two with the shade pulled: one on the third floor and one on the first.

I kept thinking, This. Makes. No. Sense.

If I throw at the 3rd floor, I’ll miss. My throwing is imprecise at best. The first floor window? I could just go tap on that one!

“Whatever you do,” he had said, “don’t hit the wrong window. Something terrible will happen.”

He didn’t tell me what.

Finally, I —

hit my 250 word limit! So sorry!

The Unicorn Challenge is very strict about their 250 word limit.

And we’ll probably never know what happened, unless, of course, YOU know —

poetry

Variations on a Teapot

Sally13 Comments

I’m a little teapot in the air
As you might guess I’m exceedingly rare
How it is I do this I can’t share
I’m just a teapot in the air

I’m a special teapot
You’ll agree
There’s magic all around us for those who can see
Maybe you can fly too! Count to three —
Click your heels and follow me

~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~

I’m a little teapot
Watch me fly
I hover, I pour, then zoom on by
Signal that you need me and I’ll try
To zip on over and resupply

~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~

I’m a special teapot
Yes, it’s true
Here, let me show you what I can do
I can pour hot tea all over you
Be nice to me or get your due

~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~

Maybe it’s a secret teapots keep
More than holding water and letting tea steep
Oh, the things that happen while you sleep!
Or do you think a broom just sweep-sweep-sweeps

This is my response to the “What Do You See?” photo prompt.

Now I’ve got that song running through my head. [sigh]

Blather

Blather about Running

Sally8 Comments

Spring, Summer, and Autumn I keep my windows open at night. In the morning, I sit in an easy chair at the front of the house near the open windows and read-journal-read before I start my day.

That’s when I’ve heard the owl.

And, during the day, the crows, who fight over whatever I’ve put in the compost.

The other day in the early morning, I heard a bird that I didn’t recognize so I recorded it with my phone on the window sill, and then asked a birder I know at work to listen and identify it for me. It was a red-bellied woodpecker — which, may I point out, does NOT have a terribly red belly.

One of my co-workers suggested I get the Merlin app which would have done the identifying for me.

“I’d rather ask a person,” I said, in part because of the delightful bird conversation that followed the identification.

We’re fighting a battle, don’t you think, where people are being replaced by technology. Self-checkout at the grocery store. Robo-calls and now robo-texts. Apps for everything.

Meh- this isn’t where I wanted to go with this.

The Stream-of-Consciousness prompt this week is “run” and when I started to write, I wanted to tell you about the sound a runner makes when he runs past the house. I heard it this morning.

pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat.

It’s like a metronome, constant and rhythmic. I can hear him come up the hill, getting louder and louder. Once he passes, the sound fades until he’s over the crest.

Newer runners slow as they come up the hill. It’s a steady grade and exhausting.

When there are runners, cars slow down (usually).

If I hear a car slow down and don’t hear a runner, I peek out my window to see what’s happening. Usually it’s a cyclist or a deer.

The ones that drive me crazy are the cars that don’t slow down for anything.

I’m pretty sure they are all from New Jersey.

One of my co-workers was lacing up her shoes for a “little run” the other morning. “How far do you usually run?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Since the Boilermaker [a local 15K race that happens every July], I only run three to five miles a day,” she said, and shrugged.

Mind you, I haven’t run anything even close to a mile since high school. If I did it then, it was because we had to.

I’ve tried running every now and then, but it hurts, so I quickly give up. Something about running is so pounding and jarring that makes it not feel good at all. Maybe I’m not doing it right.

Plus, I’m a fast walker. I have overtaken runners while I walk. I walk nearly every day.

Mostly I consider myself a swimmer, even though I don’t get in the water as much as I would like. Swimming feels natural and at home. I get lost in thoughts. I stretch and rotate and breathe.

As I go up and down the lane, I think, think, think — about things I’ve read, or heard said, or the sounds I heard as I sat in my chair earlier in the morning.

Like an owl or a red-bellied woodpecker or a runner’s footfalls.