In Memoriam by Iris Rosewater

"...
Oh, this world has more
Of coming and of going
Than I can bear..."
-Time/Carol Lynn Pearson
______________________________________________________________________
It was late afternoon by the time Emily began the half-hour journey to meet her sister. The sun had already set, and snow began to fall, dusting yesterday’s six crusted inches. Her chained tires bit noisily into the icy road. Flakes sparkled as they fell, catching the glint of her headlights and then dissolving before her eyes on the warm glass of her windshield. Long ago she learned that no two snowflakes were ever the same, and she pondered the enormity of that concept as this tide of individuality and perfection blew gracefully in the wind. In a day or two, the sun would reclaim them, she knew. It always did… melting them into the softened earth.

Her sister was waiting when she arrived at the airport. They smiled and embraced, settling into their usual seats in the greeting area. Both Emily and Jessica sported matching back packs. Black ones. Each year, on the anniversary of their father’s death, they met at the last place both of them had seen him alive: the airport. It was an odd ritual, but a peaceful one. It was Christmas time, and so the terminal was packed with people rushing to get in and out. They watched and invented lives for the people they saw. The man in the green beanie kitty-corner from them held a bunch of flowers nervously, standing whenever a new gush of passengers filed out of the bottleneck, checking his watch, sitting down again, standing, shifting his weight… they imagined that he was waiting for his fiancé to come home from visiting her parents. They had never been apart for so long. They waited with baited breath to see what she looked like… and then laughed when an elderly woman who must have been his mother emerged. After some people-watching, the backpacks were opened.

Each sister carried a photo album with precious photos of her favorite memories, and they recounted each story, laughing and filling in each other’s details. They ate Little Debbie Star Crunch cookies from shiny plastic wrappers, and drank grape and orange shasta’s at room temperature. Jessica moved like he did. She had the same mannerisms when she talked. She winked the same way. She even had the same dimples. And Emily’s hair was jet black and wavy like his had been, and starting to go salt-and-pepper prematurely. Combined, they were a small monument to him. Proof that he lived. They talked about the last visit… the last words they said. How unexpected his death had been… how young was. How he would have loved their children. What he would think of them now.

Stillness settled over them and they sat watching again, wordlessly. They selected the airport as a meeting place, because they liked to remember their father alive. He felt close, like it had been yesterday that they had last hugged each other and said that it wouldn’t be long before another visit. Although, tonight would make it six years since they last heard his voice. They wondered reverently at the intensity all around them. The coming and going. So many separate lives converging. The groups hardly noticed each other, lost in the gravity of each one’s experience… the elation of reunion: a mother crying with happiness as she held her little ones after being away, lovers kissing, friends squealing with delight. The departures were always more discreet. A melancholy aura surrounded them, and Emily could never watch for long. She felt intrusive, sharing their last moments. No one seemed to notice. No one cared about being a spectacle, letting tears fall freely as a loved one disappeared around that corner… and the waiting began.

For Emily, the freshness of that first cut surfaced in her memory… falling asleep the night he died with wet cheeks… and waking that first morning to the bitterness of her new reality. The first day of waiting the rest of her life to see him again.

The sisters had their own small goodbye in the parking garage outside the airport. Emily held on a bit longer and tighter than usual, allowing a few tears to leak out. Long after Jessica left, she sat in her car and watched the snow. It reflected the pink hue of the clouds above it, and was strangely bright. Out of her bag, she pulled a small pouch of her father’s ashes. In the gray dust, tiny white shards glinted in the soft light. Halfway home, she pulled over with the pouch nestled securely in the palm of her bare hand. With cold digits, red from the chill and the pink light, she poured out the fine dust of her father’s remains and let the soft wind lift them from her fingertips and lose them in the glistening night.

Hands by Rebecca

can guess what kind of musician a new violin student will be just by watching her hands. They announce her style before she ever lifts a bow or presses the strings. Megan is a fidgeter. Her movements are jerky and constant. Her sound is disjointed and when I close my eyes, I feel anxious listening to her. Hannah is eight years old, with dainty little fingers that curiously wander over my nearby belongings. She tells too many stories, but is hard to discourage, because I like hearing her talk. She has a sweet, even tone when she plays that comes very naturally, and obedience that carries her through the difficulties. Rick is an eager kid who plays happily, but without much attention to the sound he makes. His thick fingertips move technically toward the end of a song like a prize. He hasn’t discovered the journey yet. And his sister, who shares the same violin, is used to her own excellence in every other facet of life. She wants this to be easy – like everything else. And when it isn’t, she doesn’t want it at all. Her hands are stubborn, refusing to progress – hoping I won’t notice that she is holding the bow incorrectly or has collapsed her wrist against the violin’s neck. Growing hurts. It takes time for the awkwardness of technique to become second nature to a musician’s hands… there is no instant gratification, because it takes so long to sound good. She wants to stay comfortable. She wants to stay a beginner if advancing means stretching and a period of discomfort. She is seven years old, and already her idea of perfection is an obstacle.

Hands reveal much about us. They give away secrets we think we are keeping… the way we move, the way we touch. Hands are the storytellers of our truest selves. I thought about this while I cooked dinner the other night. I looked at my own hands – too large in proportion to the rest of my body. Broad palms with meaty fingers that don’t taper and come to blunt round tips. They are perfect for the deep pressure my autistic son craves, as well as the massages my husband groans through as I release the knotted muscles deep beneath the skin on his broad back. They are scarred from old warts and mishaps – like the haircut I gave Leah, snipping deep into my flesh along with a curtain of her wet hair. They are the feminine version of my father’s. I used to sit by him in church and trace the faded line that ran jaggedly between his middle and ring finger from the motorcycle accident that tore it in half. He moved in a weighted way – as if her were always disappointing himself, sparking in anger when he fumbled. The ghost of someone else’s expectations and jeers, and his own conceived failures riding there always. He played the piano, but rarely in my recollection. Only to pass time waiting for his five children to get ready for a trip somewhere. Beatles’ songs. “Michelle”... “Yesterday”... He was good, too – they were complicated arrangements that filled the whole house, not simplified little ditties. A sadness passes through me when I wonder why he didn’t play more. I think he cheated himself.

My mother’s hands are the gentle and strong. They cradle the power to comfort and calm, soothing in illness or strain. When my children were infants and I was desperate for them to stay asleep when I laid them in bed, I tried to imagine how my mother would have done it, slowly and gently releasing them the way I thought she might.

My sister, Rachel and I look nothing alike, but our fingernails have the same funny flimsiness when they grow out at all, warping and curling at the ends. I keep mine stubby – she grows them out to varying lengths. They cover her mouth when we laugh together, and fashion silly gifts for each other to keep close despite the distance. We are different in the most complimentary ways. Both musicians who prefer the inner voices of an orchestra, opting for the bassoon or the viola over the clarinet or the violin (although we can play both). We prefer a duet over a solo any day. Even our singing voices blend perfectly. I would rather sing with her than anyone else.

Cooking, of course, reminded me of David. I used to watch him, enraptured, as he made a meal. His capable hands cut quick even slices, butting his knuckles against the blade. He seasoned carefully, later cupping the steam as it rose from a pot and pulling it to his face to catch the aroma. Anything he created was made with precision and a kind of tenderness and grace. We live the way we move.

Leah has gorgeous hands. They are able and feminine, with lovely slender digits. Her motions are reserved and comfortable. I can picture her scratching feverishly in a journal, putting her soul into her work. Her hands are like her heart – warm and fruitful.

Chadd’s are rough and thick, big enough that one of them spread out spans a keyboard when he types. He moves with confidence, never bothering to over-articulate with gestures. They have obvious power, kept controlled in a casual way that comes with years of knowing his own strength. When I hold them, my own feel swallowed up.

Hands are like eyes. They give away, they take in. They communicate. Connect. Express. Our hands carry out our true intentions and our desires. They give away who we are more authentically than our words… to anyone who bothers to see.

Dahlia Picks 3

Spread the words:

honey, patio, a tall man's shadow.

Old Wisdom by Tulah Dixie

I wish I lived in Alaska. Or Norway. Or anywhere but here. Why do I have to exist in this world apart from him? Every time I go to work at the bookstore, there he is, standing behind the counter, smiling at customers, happy in his existence, while I walk to the back of the store to unpack boxes.

It all started four months ago, when I first got the job. I walked to the Science Fiction section, pushing a cart of Star Trek books. I didn't realize they still wrote Star Trek books. As I began putting them on the shelf, he walked by, pausing to smile. I knew at that moment that my life would never be the same.

The first two weeks of our relationship were heaven. The way he looked at me, the feeling of his hand on my hair, everything was perfect. He kissed like an angel, and acted like the perfect gentleman when went out. But then I felt him drawing away, even though I didn't want to admit it. I clung, and clung, but he broke away despite it.

And now he is dating the girl who works at the cafe, gazing sweetly at her from behind he cash register. And I am lonely, watching in my mandatory apron, my heart breaking a little more every day.

During my lunch break one day I stopped at the deli a few stores down for a cookie and a soda. It was pretty packed, so I went outside and sat on a bench. After a few minutes an old man sat down at the other end of the bench, holding a newspaper in one hand, and a leash in the other. His dog was obviously a mutt; maybe on of his ancestors was a golden retriever, who knows.

I nibbled my cookie slowly, watching the shoppers pass by, when he walked by, hand in hand with Ms. Cafe. I didn't realize that I had paused with the cookie in my mouth until the old man spoke.

“I take it you have some feelings for that young man there.” I glanced at him, surprised. I didn't know what to say, was I that obvious? Finally I just nodded.

“I thought I would mourn my first love forever. But then I met my Mable, and we spent 53 wonderful years together. Just wait, you'll meet your real Prince Charming one of these days.”

“Thank you,” I said, at a loss for words. I expected the old man to keep talking, maybe tell me more about Mable, but I glanced at him and his eyes were closed. I studied his wrinkled face, imagining that each line was a trial, or a heartbreak, or maybe even a great joy. Suddenly my love trouble seemed so small, silly. I had the rest of my life, if it took that long, to find the man I would really love. And was that really the most important thing? I vowed then and there to just be happy, now matter where my life took me.

I waited half an hour to talk to the old man again, but he was still snoring softly, and I had to get back to work. So I settled for giving his dog a good scratch behind the ears, and also the last bit of my cookie, then stood up and walked back to work.

As I put stickers on the bargain books later that day, my old love walked by behind me. We hadn't spoken since he'd told me it just wasn't working. Remembering my old friend, I looked right at him and smiled. He looked confused, but I kept smiling and even said hi.

“Uh, hi.” He walked away, looking as wonderful as ever, but for the first time in three months, I didn't look back.

Autumn by Iris Rosewater

Linus Hopper was a creature of habit. It had been years since he had tried anything new… a new brand of toothpaste, a new outfit, a new food. When he turned 70, he decided to retire from change. He never much liked it, anyway. Now that Else had passed on, there was no one to bother him about it. So, he stayed safely and contentedly in his small life day in and day out, with every decision having been made years and years before. It was a gentle rhythm you could fall asleep to. Every morning, he woke without an alarm at exactly 7:05 a.m. He had one cup of Postum with his Newspaper. He put on his cap and grey wool sweater and headed out, walking just around the corner to the bakery, where he purchased one raspberry turnover. He held the pastry up to his nose, careful not to get any sweet on the grey bristles of his moustache, and smelled the warm fruit inside before taking a bite. Licking his fingers, he walked down the street to his place of business: an antique bookstore which he bought after retiring as a kind of hobby. It wasn’t terribly busy. Usually, he sat all day in his wingchair just next to the front counter and read. It smelled of old wood and tobacco smoke. It was quiet. It was predictable. It was perfect.

The autumn was an irritating season for Linus. It was a changing season. The weather was fickle. He did like the trees, though, despite himself – and he watched from his window as a surprisingly strong wind stripped the boughs naked, filling the air with fiery orange and red leaves. The skeletons seemed undignified to him. And cold. As the light faded in the late afternoon, he watched the last of the November harvest swirl in the street. Soon he would walk home in the dark to the serenade of their thin bones crunching beneath his penny loafers. Mortality played out. Linus drew a long breath and turned the page in his book.

The following morning, Linus woke up at 7:05. He retrieved his newspaper from the front steps. He drank his postum. He put on his cap and sweater. But, as he stepped out into borders of his small world, he was met by an anomaly. A small, brown, wiry-haired dog blocked his way and looked up at him through what looked like overgrown eyebrows. Linus stood for a moment and stared back. And then, wordlessly, sidestepped the animal and continued his way to the bakery. The leaves were a thick blanket over the sidewalk and had dried in the crisp night air. It was a noisy trudge around the corner. A little too noisy. He turned around. The dog stopped too, and wagged its little brown tail expectantly behind him. Irritated now, Linus marched on for his turnover. The dog watched through the window and sniffed at the air as Linus took a delighted whiff. Linus watched back. This was going to be a problem.

All the way down the street to the bookshop the dog followed Linus, never daring to walk at his side, but dutifully keeping the same pace. That first day was really unnerving. The mutt parked itself right outside his shop and stayed there the whole day. Linus pretended not to pay it any attention, for fear of encouraging the thing, but it stayed in his peripheral vision all day long – sometimes sleeping, sometimes licking its untidy fur, but usually staring through the window right at him. The best thing, he decided, was to pay it no mind and it would grow bored of trying and go away. But, it didn’t. It followed him home that night and greeted him with a kind of doggy smile the next morning as he opened the front door for his newspaper. Linus sighed as he heard the steady crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch of the four paws behind him on the way to work. He felt a pang of guilt, which he tried to swallow, as he took his first delicious bite of raspberry turnover and caught the longing gaze of the dog waiting for him outside. He used a napkin instead of licking his fingers as he walked to work.

Linus’ only customer remarked at what a loyal pet he must have as he stepped into the shop. Not much for conversation, Linus gave a polite chuckle and nod before returning to his book. The dog must have seen and took it the wrong way, he decided as they walked together through the early night back to his apartment. Before turning in, he put bowl of water on the front stoop.

By the third day, both he and the dog had become used to this new routine. It had even started walking next to Linus instead of behind him… and, against his better judgment, he gave the little thing the last bite of his pastry as he left the bakery. He pondered over his predicament all that day, without the pretense of any book in his lap. The two of them stared each other down, having an unspoken conversation with their faces. ‘I’m boring,’ Linus’ face warned. ‘I don’t care,’ countered the mutt. ‘I’m old and irritable!’ he frowned. ‘I’ll survive,’ it reasoned back. ‘I eat all the same food and wear all the same clothes and I never go anyplace new at all…’ he chewed on his lip. ‘I know,’ smiled the dog, letting its tongue loll out playfully. So, that afternoon, they made their decision.

Linus’ fingers were cold as he twisted the old key in its lock to open his apartment. He patted Mitzy, who looked back up at him with her warm black eyes before trotting for the first time into their nice warm home.

Alivia's Wish by Rebecca

My friend Pam’s daughter, Alivia, turns five today! Her party is tomorrow. I have traditionally written and illustrated stories for Alivia and her brother for their birthdays. When I asked her what adventure she would like to go on, she said she wanted to be a bride at the temple. I thought that was very sweet, but the storyteller in me grimaced a little… She’s usually very creative, and I wasn’t sure how to make a very interesting story for a five year old about that! Here’s what I came up with:

Alivia’s Wish

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful fairy named Alivia. She wore ballet slippers and a bright red tutu and carried a magical wand wherever she went. She had a very important job in the fairy world. She was the wishing fairy. Every night, she flitted her silvery wings in the darkness of a villager’s cottage. With her tiny feet, she tip-toed on a dreamer’s pillow just after they fell asleep… and, if she listened very carefully, she could hear their dearest wish as they sighed in slumber. Then, with her glass wand, she twirled and pirouetted lightly beside the dreamer’s head, and when they woke, their wish would come true.

Alivia the fairy loved her job. No one else had her special talent, so she had lots and lots to do every night. But, when all the work was done, and she flew back to her fairy home as the sun came up, she felt lonely. So many times she had granted a wish for companionship and love… and come home to an empty house. Only her tortoise greeted her as she walked in the door. Alivia’s heart was heavy, because no one could grant HER heart’s desire.

One night, as Alivia busily made her way from house to house, she came upon a young man named John. He was very handsome. She stood softly by his face as he slept and listened to his dreams. She was surprised as she heard how lonely he was, and how he wanted so much to find his true love. Surely he would have found her, she thought. She began her dream-granting dance with her wand, when suddenly he awoke! And, as the last flecks of sparkling dust fell from her wand, he turned instantly into a fairy himself! They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.

For months and months they took long walks in the morning when her work was done. They became very good friends.

One morning, as they sat beside the lake, John looked into her lovely blue eyes and asked her to marry him. They were wed in the temple for time and eternity, and Alivia the fairy was the happiest, most beautiful bride in the whole world – because both of their dreams had come true.

New IFI's

Hello All,

Sorry I have not been able to keep up, but the new subjects are:

a Dog, the Bookstore, and an Old Man.

Have Fun,
Daryl

Scared to Death by Tulah Dixie

Cecily had never believed any of the silly superstitions that passed through her small town year after year. Not that Old. Mrs.Cliffton was a witch, not that if you drove over the Snell Creek bridge after midnight that your dog would die, and especially not that the woods behind the Patterson house were haunted. These stories had been passed around for as long as she could remember, and Cecily found them all ridiculous.

Halloween afternoon Cecily and her boyfriend Jeremy sat in her living room, deciding what they would do that night. “I want to get scared,” Cecily said. “I've never been absolutely scared to death.”

“I think I can scare you,” Jeremy said with a smile.

After all the trick-or-treaters were tucked safely in bed, Cecily and Jeremy sneaked out of their houses and met at the Patterson house. No one had lived there for at least fifty years; the bricks were crumbling to dust.

“Are you ready to be sacred to death?” Jeremy asked, taking Cecily's hand as they started walking into the forest. Cecily laughed, skipping ahead of him, disappearing for a moment in to the darkness. “Boo!” She cried, jumping out from behind a tree. Jeremy laughed, and they once again they walked.

“What's the scardest you've ever been?” Cecily asked. Jeremy looked thoughtful for a moment. “I've never been scared, Cecily.”

“Oh, yes you have. Everyone gets scared, just a little at least.”Jeremy just shrugged and smiled at her.

After a few minutes walk they came to a clearing. The moon was almost full, and the light cast eerie shadows. Cecily walked to the middle of the clearing and spun around, her arms outstretched. It was a beautiful night, cool but not cold. Suddenly a bat swooped out of a tree, fluttering around Cecily's head, screeching. She waved her arms about, and finally it flew back into the trees.

“Is that the best you can do?” she asked, laughing. Jeremy just smiled.

After walking another few minutes, the couple came to a small stream. Cecily crouched down next to it and dipped her fingers in it. It was freezing, and she pulled her hand out and stuffed it in her pocket.

“It's sure peaceful here,” Cecily said. “It seems so silly that people think these woods are haunted.”

“They're not haunted,” Jeremy agreed.

All of a sudden a black cat jumped across the stream, landing on Cecily and clawing at her hair and face. Cecily brushed it off of herself, and it scurried away into the forest.

“You're getting better,” Cecily said, her laughter a bit shaky. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at the blood trickling from a scratch on her cheek. “But I'm still not that scared.”

Jeremy smiled at her and took her hand. “Let's keep going.”

They walked for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Cecily was starting to get tired. “Should we turn back? We've been walking a long time.”

“Let's just go a little bit further,” Jeremy said. They walked in silence, their hands clasped. The further they walked, the faster Cecily's heart beat. She was getting nervous, and she didn't know why. Jeremy was always quiet, and the dark had never scared her before.

“We're almost there,” Jeremy said suddenly. Cecily stopped. Almost where? Jeremy pulled her so she started walking again. Her heart hammered in her ears.

Then Cecily stopped. In front of her was a tree. Hanging from a branch was a rope, and hanging from the rope was a man, strangled and bloody. Cecily's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.

“Are you scared yet?” Jeremy whispered in her ear. She whipped around, and her breath stopped. He stood with a rope in one hand and an ax in the other. Just before her world ended, Cecily heard Jeremy ask,

“Did I scare you to death?”

The Dance By Iris Rosewater

The Dance
10/31/08
College life had been harder than Michelle expected it to be. She had moved into the dorms full of hope and excitement. But, change was too new to her. All her life had been spent in the same house with her parents in a small town, sheltered and easy. Everything had been utterly predictable until now. The university was unforgiving. Classes were difficult. People were strange. After one full year, she had yet to make a real friend. When her aunt and uncle asked her to house-sit for them over summer break, it seemed to Michelle the perfect vacation.

Doris and Gavin were the eccentrics in the family, loaded with money and plenty of time to spare for odd hobbies and travels. Just after they bought a two-centuries-old estate in the country for the sole purpose of spending the summer, they were invited on a cruise. The house was livable – renovations had just been completed – but, Doris was concerned about leaving it untended for a whole two months. That was where Michelle came into the picture. How perfect: a mousey college student to house-sit. Michelle welcomed the chance to get away from campus and relax without anyone to bother her – especially her parents, who always drilled her with questions she could only answer with disappointment.

The house was grand, who knew how many thousands of square feet… according to Gavin, it had been “a steal”. The first couple of days were relaxing. She made herself comfortable in the master’s suite, complete with a balcony overlooking the garden where she liked to eat her breakfast. They had a nice library and a satellite dish, so she had plenty of diversions.

On the third night of her stay, she was lounging on a sofa in front of a little fire, reading, when she thought she heard a voice. She sat up and looked around, seeing nothing. A few moments later, a man’s voice whispered something unintelligible, and she jumped. Another voice, pitched slightly higher, seemed to answer. Without bothering to look this time, Michelle stole out of the room and turned on the TV, wrapping herself in the throw blanket. She tried to tell herself she was just hearing things.

In her sleep that night, she was dressed strangely… hundreds of years out of date, and she was dancing with a man dressed as a soldier, who smiled pleasantly, but who’s face suddenly went blank and white, and then began to degrade before her. He held her in the lock of his arms while she watched his skin turn gray and decompose, until he was a skeleton, still wheeling her around in dizzying circles. She woke tangled in her sheets and sweating.

During the day, it wasn’t too bad, as long as she kept on a radio or a television in each room to block anything out. The daytime was filled with movements and creaks not made by Michelle. Footsteps up the stairs, doors opening and closing. At night, however, it was hard to tune them out, no matter what she did. Their conversations had begun quiet, but their volume seemed to increase each day. And there were lots of them – whoever they were - discussing something which she could never quite make out, despite catching the odd word here and there.

One night, as she passed the library (where they seemed to convene the most) she heard her name. Frozen by the door, she listened. The smell of cigars wafted out of the empty room, and the grumble of men’s voices suddenly became clear to her. They were planning something. It seemed to entertain them. Instinct told her to run. She did. She ran down the hallway to the front door, not bothering to step into her shoes, only wishing to be in the open air, free from the feeling that she was not safe. When she turned the knob, it stuck fast. Not as if it were locked, but as if it were held firmly, so that it didn’t jar from side to side at all. She spun around, heading for the back door, through the kitchen. It did not yield. She tried the side door – an old servant’s entrance – and heard them… boots. Footsteps, heading toward her. Panicked, she jerked the windows, preparing to tear through the screens, but they would not budge. The men were close now. She tore upstairs to the last door she could think of… in the master bedroom. The men were laughing now, still invisible, clopping up the spiral staircase behind her. Her legs felt like lead beneath her, too slow, too slow, too slow… she heard feminine squeals and cries, not realizing they were her own… And when she reached that door and it opened to her, she felt deliriously happy. She got out of that house, and turned to her unseen adversaries, still running backwards. As her legs swept out from under her, and she toppled over the balcony’s edge, time slowed… A dozen or so men leaned over the rail to watch her descent – and right in the center stood her dancing partner, who smiled crookedly down at her cursed body, and blew her a kiss.

Inching Through: Part II of II

By: D. Dahlia




Alex opened her eyes to a cerulean light; power-lines and old houses stacked side by side stood solid along the cobblestone roads. Miniature cars zoomed by, and one by one the lights in the passing homes switched on. Snores and muffled music from portable CD players cooed inside the bus. Alex stood and stretched from her awkward sleeping position, fetal on two seats with the narrow plastic armrest and her cardigan as a pillow.

She grabbed her purse and made her way to the back of the bus where the toilets were. Taking out her travel toothbrush, and toothpaste and with her bottled water, Alex brushed her teeth, washed her face with the bathroom soap and made herself somewhat presentable in the faux mirror. With a wet paper towel, she washed her neck and her underarms. Inside her purse she fished out a small bottle of lavender lotion and rubbed the smell of bus and sweat out of her skin.

Also in her purse was a red dress Alex had purposely saved to change into on the day to meet her host family, the Ledezmas. It was a bright reddish orange that she would wear with her black cardigan, the cardigan she wore on an almost daily basis, as well as her black doc martins, which came up to her knee. It was her favorite outfit, and mother’s least favorite.

Back to her seat, refreshed and craving coffee, Alex applied some makeup and pulled her hair into braided pigtails. The bus soon rolled to a stop and everyone began waking up. Alex pulled out her itinerary and started scanning the crowds for her soon-to-be teacher, Don Arturo who was to have a sign with her name on it. He was to drive her to her host family’s house and then to the school for orientation and a tour but he was nowhere to be seen.

After most of the crowd had gone and Alex had all her bags, a man walked up to her and tapped her shoulder. In his hand was a sign with her name on it; he was about 30, handsome, tall and thin with broad shoulders and a very big smile. After introductions, they walked to his car, it was red, small and like every other car she had seen on the way over. He had a coconut air freshener and was listening to Mahler.

The drive to the Ledezma’s was quick, so quick that Alex couldn’t really see the city passing before her. Don Arturo, who spoke English better than she did, talked about the school, the current students and the culture in a rather rehearsed manner. Out of habit, Alex blocked out his words as she took a mental tour of the city as it passed swiftly behind the class. He must have asked her a question because suddenly he placed his hand on her forearm to get her attention.

“I’m sorry, I am just so tired of being mobile, and I could really use some coffee.” Alex’ tone was so honest that Don Arturo laughed and made a sharp right turn, making Alex grab onto the door handle as tightly as the coconut-scented tree wound around the rearview mirror.

“We have a while until orientation, we’ll stop at my favorite café and I’ll call Señora Lolis to let her know not to expect us for a little while longer.”

Alex was more than happy to stop, the drive, being hungry and nerves had stirred a woozy feeling. A break from movement and a chance to see the city up-close was something she couldn’t resist. Café Azul was inside a small plaza, much like the plazas Alex had passed through in all the small towns on her way to Zacatecas. This plaza was much nicer however, and the archways and bricks gave the city a more European finish on top of the traditional Mexican architecture.

The café was decorated with masks and photographs of masks. Alex assumed it was just a theme but finding her curious observance made Arturo jump back into his tour guide mode. “You’ll find that masks are a big part of our culture. They not only represent what human truths we always hide but what truths we have always tried to achieve. You’ll learn all about this in classes, in fact we’ll be taking a trip to the Rafael Coronel museum of masks next Friday. You’ll see it then. These are the more modern ones; the museum has masks that are older than our city. My favorites are the death masks, they are more imaginative and often more colorful than the war masks and matrimonial masks.” Arturo’s eyes fogged over as he tried to make a mental picture of a mask to describe what he was talking about. Alex studied his face and how displaced his eyes suddenly looked in their sockets, she rubbed the goose bumps out of her arms wondering how morning coffee could leave her so creeped out.

In spite of her chill factor, the coffee hit the spot, and finally awake, Alex and Arturo engaged in real adult conversation. Come to find out, they had both started reading the same book, though for different reasons, which were the poems of Jaime Sabinas. The poems were rather topical and made for good translation exorcises for Alex, however Arturo found them to be “spiritually uplifting”. At any rate, it was a thing to talk about, and the conversation carried them for three hours.

They began walking to the Ledezmas from the Plaza, exerting physical energy was refreshing and Alex was pleased to find some sun after 17 hours in a bus and a foggy morning. For a second, the familiar was no-where to be found but in the sun and air, but a pair of black oxfords cradling two boney feet walked up to her. It was the same lady from the bus. Carrying the same mason jar, the older lady took Alex’ face in her hands and kissed both of her cheeks, and for no reason at all, hot tears streamed down her face.

Unable to translate this recent experience, and with no explanation from the older leaving as quickly as she appeared, Alex and Arturo walked in silence, utterly stupefied.

“I sat next to her on the bus the whole way here.” Alex interrupted the silence so suddenly that Arturo barely caught her words. “She will be hard to forget.”

They reached the Ladezma home. On crutches, Senora Lolis opened the door. To Alex’ surprise she was as fair skinned as herself, having blond curly hair that was barely graying at her temples and light green eyes. Her skin was almost a Grecian olive tone and her freckles complemented her high cheekbones.

After introductions and a cup of hot chocolate, Arturo left Lolis and Alex to their dinner and to become acquainted. They settled in her kitchen, which was over-decorated with cows and sunflowers, which she explained slowly in very simple Spanish were gifts from all over the world that her guests had sent over a period of nine year. Alex would never forget the conversations she would have in that room, especially the nightcaps which usually involved Mezcal and Marlboro Reds. Those nights Lolis would talk about her husband, who remained nameless since "one isn’t to mention the dead after they have passed", he was called “mi amor” most times, and other times just “él” which squeezed out of Lolis’ mouth in an almost angry whisper.

After setting up her room and surviving a cold shower, Alex left the house eager to explore this new city, to find her way on her own to the school. Her walk was a maze of staircases, and bridges that lead pedestrians above heavily trafficked streets and through ancient aqueducts. The sky dipped and curved over the tops of gothic style roofs and heat hovered like a cloud. You wouldn’t know it was nearing fall, even here, where even youthful men and women’s eyes lacked luster, and sat heavy in their sockets.

Regardless of how romantic this new city was to Alex, the stars weren’t as bright as they were back home, and the men and women made any idea of romance seem entirely impossible and foreign. Alex took it all to be a great façade, a city with intricacies from here to there, and bougainvillea threading it all together; an odd position to be in on her first day. To be in an entirely new place and existence, watching fall stroll in and take over with great thunderstorms, somehow unable to be a foreigner, and unable to recognize those that were.

Home (Random poem by Iris)

Home 10/28/08

I think I understand
why my Father ended up
in New Mexico again

after the broken childhood,
the battered memories…

military stints
in Germany, Oklahoma,
Virginia, Korea…

I think I can finally
relate
to the decision he made
to live out the rest of his days
in the sun

Having been raised
in the heat and the wind,
nowhere else seems home enough
unless the sun burns my skin
my favorite color red
and pierces through
my closed eyelids

Having seen that sun
make its grand exit
bleeding vivid color into the dust
on the horizon
thousands of times
in glory that whispers
the existence of a God

and watched the stars hang
innumerable
in the cloudless night
so cold
the heat is almost
forgotten

How can anywhere else
compare to that

when I decide
what earth to leave
my bones?

This Week's Story

This week we thought it would be fun to write spooky stories, in honor of Halloween! No IFI's, just write something scary. If possible, let's get our stories posted by Friday. Happy Haunting!!!!!!!!

Becky by Rachel Fishburn

My memories of you

fill my whole life remembered.

The chubby baby

rocking in my lap.

Strapped onto the maid's back,

when not acting as baby doll for me.

Running through the park,

stopping for a moment at each apparatus.

Sleep-eyed eating eggs,

while I rushed off to school.

Copying my every move,

unaware of my awkwardness.

Running in two casts,

crutches left forgotten against the wall.

Tending your bedroom zoo,

while family crumbled around you.

Watching the stars

with your scared, scared sister.

Moving far away,

your teenage years fuzzy from distance.

Suddenly woman,

marrying and giving birth.

Best friend,

across the miles and miles and miles.....

How I wish we were neighbors,

sharing hot chocolate and eggs.

So thankful for your voice,

making new memories

no matter how far away.

The Quilt By Iris Rosewater

Steenie rubbed her eyes and neck, inhaling deeply. The sewing machine hummed with energy, even as she faded. She glanced at the clock. 1 a.m. What was the point in going to bed anyway? Every night, she lay awake for hours, tired but sleepless, twisting herself in the sheets. She could not find a comfortable place in that bed. Always, she woke up contorted around his empty space, as if he were still in her spoon. Always, the cold blankets on his side of the bed were a surprise for a split second, and she could pretend in her half-sleep that he had gotten up early and was sitting in the kitchen with a newspaper and two glasses of orange juice. Always, the trance broke and she remembered all over again.

Yes, she would stay awake tonight until the blanket was finished.

When Julie, their only daughter, announced that she and her husband were going to have a baby, Bobby went to the hardware store that very day and got to work. The poor kids were lucky to have any say in the nursery’s paint color. They could choose between 3 swatches of blue Bobby brought to them. ‘What if it’s a girl?’ they asked. To which he replied, ‘Oh, it’s a boy, all right’ and winked. He pinstriped the bottom half of the walls with white and painted the top solid blue. Then, he ripped up the room’s ugly green carpet, revealing oak floors, and carefully sanded and refinished the boards until they gleamed in the sunlight. He left the frilly things, like curtains and bedding, to Steenie and Julie – who waited until AFTER the ultrasound to pick any theme for the room. Bobby was right. It was a boy.

The pregnancy seemed both to drag and fly by for everyone. Steenie and Bobby had trouble restraining themselves from buying too many toys and layette clothes for the baby. Embarrassed that they were already spoilers, they hid a stockpile of gifts in their hall closet and tried to leave them nonchalantly at Julie’s house when they visited. She always caught them and half-smiled as they glossed over their own generosity. The truth was they were as excited as they were when Steenie was carrying their own baby. At night, they talked about it in bed while she ran her fingers lightly over Bobby’s bare back. They reminisced about their early years as parents… how little they knew about what they were doing. How scared they were at first… how amazed they were at how much they loved that little girl the moment they laid eyes on her.

Weeks before the birth, Steenie came home to find Bobby unconscious in the hallway with the phone in his hand. That picture was burned into her memory – but the events that took place afterward were a blur. She could barely remember doing CPR, or the paramedics arriving, but she knew it happened. She heard people talk about it. And there must have been a ride in the ambulance, because she ended up at the hospital, but that was gone from her recollection, too. Just Bobby’s face was left for her, in the end… white as the pillow behind it. His hazel eyes never opened for her again.

When Julie made her go through his clothes, she ended up sitting in their closet, leaned against an old set of crutches, pressing his shirts against her face and breathing his lingering scent in the lining. She cried. He never even got to meet his grandson. In that moment, she knew what to do with her pain. She would make it useful.

Steenie went through all of Bobby’s clothes and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening sorting through colors and textures. By nightfall, she had pieced a quilt. Each square was made by a different one of his shirts, filled with a design of ties – some laughably outdated, but all familiar. Every day she worked, as Julie’s belly grew bigger and bigger, tenderly stitching with arthritic fingers the connection between Bobby and his grandbaby.

On the eve of little Bobby’s birth, at 4 a.m., Steenie cut the last string. With puffy eyes, magnified by thick glasses, she inspected her work. Pride filled her, because she knew it was her best yet. Too gratified to sleep now, she lay next to the blanket across her bed and looked at it for a long time, playing out every memory she had of Bobby in each shirt, running her hands over the fabric like it was warm skin. She made herself some hot chocolate and sat on the balcony, letting the heat of the mug soothe her aching fingers. The stars glistened in the heavens above her… points of light scattered across the darkness.

She wondered if Bobby was watching her from one of them.

Items For Inspiration

From Rebecca:
Crutches
Hot Chocolate
a star

Country Life by Tulah Dixie

Margie sat in her seat by the window, daydreaming as usual. It was finally truly spring, even though it had officially been spring for a whole month. An orange and black butterfly fluttered by, pausing on some Queen Anne's Lace growing over the window sill. Margie longed to be outside, chasing butterflies and laying by the river and doing nothing at all.

“Margaret Lewis, please pay attention! You should be halfway through your arithmetic by now.” Ms. Gillroy was standing in the front on the classroom, hands on her skinny hips, glaring at her. Margie picked up her piece of chalk and slate and began to write her arithmetic facts. Oh, how math bored her. She would much rather spend the day reading, or hearing about some king from a far away land. But Ms. Gillroy's favorite subject was mathematics. She believed that everyone should know how to read and write, but use of those skills should be saved for after school hours. Math was practical, there was always an answer. Margie felt sorry for her, really. She was so unromantic. The poor spinster school teacher, she must have lived an awfully dull life.

“Margaret, stop your daydreaming or you'll have to stay after school and clean all the blackboards and beat the rugs!” Margie's eyes snapped back to her slate, and she once again began writing problems. She would never end up like stodgy old Ms. Gillroy! After she finished school she was going to get a job in the city and never come back to this backwoods town! She was going to get rich and wear fancy red dresses that were so scandelous like she'd seen in Katherine's aunt's fashion magazine. She would never milk another cow, sew another sampler, or sleep in a bed with three other sisters again! There was a man waiting for her in the city, and he would work in a bank and buy her beautiful things, like that red dress. He would never have even heard of farming or pigs or anything uncivilized.

“Margie,” William Talbert hissed, kicking her chair from his own behind her. She turned back to him, and realized he was trying to help her get back to her work. Ms. Gilroy was finishing writing sums on the board for the smaller children, and if Will hadn't warned her, she would have turned around and caught Margie staring out the window again. She smiled at him, then got back to work, determined this time to get it finished.

After school Will carried Margie's books for her as they walked home. He was thirteen, two years older than herself. Margie liked the way his hair turned gold in the afternoon sunlight, and how strong his hands were from all the hard work he did on his family's farm. When they reached her home, Margie took her books and thanked him shyly, then ran inside. Her mother stood at the table, peeling potatoes. Margie put her books down and began helping her. She peeled faster than her mother, a fact that she was quite proud of. When her father came in from working in the fields, she hugged him tightly, inhaling the scent of straw and cows and dirt.

That night, laying in bed with her sisters, Margie thought about Will Talbert, imagining him hugging their children after a long day in the fields, smiling tiredly at her, kissing her cheek. She snuggled under the covers, an arm draped across a sister, all thoughts of city-life erased from her head. At least until tomorrow.

The Red Dress By Iris Rosewater

It began a whole week ago, when Alice’s mother made the whole family go through their closets for donations. Alice had already finished her weeding, and was entertaining herself by wandering around the house and watching her older siblings go through theirs. Her mother was helping Jake, who was a notorious expert at lollygagging and was currently sidetracked by the discovery of a long-lost remote-control car found under a pile of winter clothes. Alice meandered down the hall, brushing her fingers along the lumpy texture of the walls as she went. She risked snooping at what Helen was throwing out. Six years her elder, Helen had reached her adolescence. Alice gazed at Helen’s freshly-pierced ears longingly. She sighed, fairly certain that she would die having to wait until she was 12.

“What do you want, Alice?” Helen huffed without looking at her.

“I’m done with my closet. Do you want any help with yours?” She asked innocently.

“No, thanks. I’m almost done, too.”

Alice stayed in the doorway for a few moments, just to see if she would be shooed away. When she wasn’t, she slinked in and made herself comfortable on Helen’s bed. A boy band was playing on the stereo. Helen was busily stuffing piles of clothes into bags. Alice watched, knowing that most of those clothes (the ones without any visible stains or defects) would be saved for her future wardrobe… when they would be woefully out-of-date. Not yet a slave to fashion, Alice wasn’t bothered by the prospect. She fiddled with the ties on Helen’s quilt and took in the culture of her domain. On the ceiling above the bed was a boy-band poster – as well as on the door and by the window. On a bulletin board by her closet was stuck a hundred clippings of photos and magazine articles from Teen Beat and Bop. Just next to it, hanging in the newly-cleared closet, something caught Alice’s eye. A dress… a true-red, spaghetti-strapped dancing dress with embroidery along the top of the bodice. The fabric was gathered perfectly along the waist, promising gorgeous twirls and pirouettes. And it looked just her size. Why in the world did Helen have it? Why wasn’t it passed down with all the other bundles of outgrown clothes?

“Whose dress is that?” asked Alice, prodding.

“Oh, that’s from my ballet recital in first grade.” Helen’s eyes suddenly recognized the delight and greed on Alice’s face. “It’s a keepsake now, Alice. It’s not to be worn again.”

Alice’s heart sank- but, only momentarily, because very quickly she began devising a plan.

The following Saturday, Helen would be spending the night at a friend’s house. Their parents would be going on a date. Alice would be “watched” by Jake, who would also have a friend over and was currently obsessed with building ramps and rigs for his remote-controlled car. She spent the day as invisible as possible. One of the perks and the tortures of being the youngest was that she was either in the center of attention or completely ignored. She decided to use it to her advantage and blend into the background. Since she had compliantly done her chores and anything else that was asked of her that day, no one noticed when she slipped into her dad’s office and tucked his bendy desk lamp into a box and stashed it in her room. No one saw her take a few CD’s from the shelf, either.

When dinnertime rolled around, she happily gulped down some hot-and-ready pizza left for them by their parents and waited for Helen’s friend to pick her up. Just in case her face showed any signs of naughtiness, she watched TV as camouflage. The doorbell rang. Jake’s friend came in and they erupted into a loud conversation about their plans to strap G.I. Joes onto the back of the RC car and disappeared into his bedroom. Someone knocked and Helen yelled a goodbye as she slammed the front door shut. Alice clicked off the TV.

The light was fading as well as the heat of the summer day. She turned on the porch light and pulled a cardboard box out from under the bench. From it, she pulled out the lamp and plugged it in with an extension cord, adjusting the head so that it lit the center of the deck. In the other outlet, she powered her Minnie Mouse CD player, arranging the snatched CD’s. A unicorn water bottle was placed on the bench. When the stage was set just right, she made her way to Helen’s closet for the crown jewel of the night: The red dress.

Just as she had suspected, it fit like a glove. She gave it a trial spin. the skirt swirled gracefully around her with heavy crushed velvet. Afraid of discovery, she darted back to the deck. She took a breath and pulled her straight auburn hair into a bun, securing it tightly with a sparkly butterfly scrunchy. She slipped her little feet into a pair of white bedroom dearfoams which most resembled ballet slippers, and pushed the play button.

In the spotlight of the desk lamp, she sat herself down, and splayed the perfect skirt around her in a circle. The first notes of Swan Lake’s delicate melody swelled as dusk fell and the stars began their shining. Alice gracefully lifted her arms in a frame around her head and bent from side to side before slowly rising to her feet. She pointed her toes, twirling and leaping to the dynamics of the music. When her favorite movement was finished, she pushed stop and curtsied to an imagined audience, who cheered and applauded their thunderous approval. “Encore!” they shouted, rising from their seats. What could she do but grant them another dance? Alice took a long drink from her water bottle. She replaced the CD with Sleeping Beauty and flounced to the center of her little stage. For two whole glorious hours, Alice danced in the red dress. She danced until her white slippers were covered in the pink and blue dust of sidewalk chalk from the concrete path where she preferred to do her jumps. She danced until tiny beads of sweat covered her pointed nose and clung to the wild hairs above her forehead. She danced around the garden, tucking a daisy behind her ear and throwing handfuls of white petals into the air, spinning as they fell like rain onto her bare shoulders. She danced into the night, under the spotlight of the full moon, in that forbidden dress.

Tiptoeing into Helen’s room, Alice stood in front of the closet with the red dress in hand. She traced her fingers over the embroidered swirls… she touched the velvety skirt and brushed it against her cheek before hanging it carefully in its place.

Secretly, Alice knew it was her keepsake, too.

22 Minutes

by Daryl Crass Water (a few days late....again)


He looked at his watch for the hundredth time in the last 22 minutes. It looked back at him confirming what he already knew. It was one minute later than the last time he had looked at his watch….8:52. The bus was now 22 minutes late, and by matter of default, so was he.

He pulled out his cell-phone to call a co-worker for a ride. The whole thing was an act, like going through the motions. Like looking at your watch actually helping the bus to arrive. His cell phone never had reception in this area. One of those oxy morons of life. Like a car that can’t take you anywhere or an umbrella that doesn’t keep the rain off. He even did the obligatory robot dance of holding his phone in six different places around his body, searching for a signal that he knew wasn’t there.

Prichard Park was 3 blocks away, and it has great cell phone reception. Two more looks at the watch confirming it was 8:53. He stood up and loosened his tie, glancing at the three other people waiting for the bus. He gave a little nod and started walking. Crossing the street and moving casually in the direction of the park. All three people took a break from alternately looking at the road and looking at their watches. They were stunned to see one of their own throwing in the towel. Surely the bus was right around the corner… maybe one of them should save him?

It was hot this morning. The kind of hot that flashed warning signs of a blistering afternoon yet to come. The heat was already radiating off the asphalt as he came to the next corner. Looking left then right, never forgetting that second look to the left, he crossed Mitchell Street on his way to Prichard Park.

At the next corner he pulled out his cell phone. He had two phone calls to make. One to a friend, asking him for a lift to work, and the second to work announcing his tardiness. Life’s little grind. The day in and day out procedures that had to be followed. The time-clocks and people who all had to be greeted appropriately. The cell phone in his hand became heavier and heavier as he got closer and closer to the park. He had a desk full of work waiting for him (at least he thought there was a desk under all those papers). No matter how much he got done, the piles never seemed to diminish? When he got to the park the phone became lead. He couldn’t even find the strength to lift it. He just stood there staring at the jungle-gym. The monkey bars, the slides, all the bright colors of youthful play!

He was frozen at the edge of the park, so full of laughter and possibilities. He heard a noise behind him on the street. The air hydraulics of a breaking system that belonged only to busses. It passed behind him in a loud rumbling mess of discontented passengers, graffiti scarred walls and bubble-gum laden seats. The bus was just enough noise to mask the sound of a single cell phone hitting the asphalt by his feet. Shattering like a mason jar Molotov Cocktail full of his daily grind and paperwork. An explosion of all his duties and monotony. Battery cases flying left paperwork flying right and a little ACME cartoon cloud of dust where he was standing, as our hero took off, at a dead run, for the swings!

Hello All. I guess it is my turn (Rachel). The three items are:
-A red dress
-a butterfly
-a piece of chalk
Have fun! Hope to hear from you all soon!

Inching Through: Part I of II

By: D. Dahlia



The blue sky dipped and curved over the end of the black asphalt and morning heat hovered like a cloud. You wouldn’t know it was nearing fall, not even the clouds cast enough shadow to make the colors change, the air crisp, and birds would not leave until she returned.
The Juarez Greyhound station had a certain romance about it. Though the smells of the street vendors selling various foods and random items was busy and like any other market place in the morning except for the crowd which seemed generally calm, aloof and moved at a slower pace than those just across the bridge in El Paso. Sitting in the plastic blue chairs, Alex took it all in.
At 8:00 a.m. on the dot her bus sighed to a stop. It looked and sounded heavy though it contained not a single passenger. Alex slid her arms into her 60 lbs. backpack and steadied herself with a hand on the wall, and with the other she rummaged though her purse for her boarding pass and I.D. Goosebumps climbed up her arms and down her legs, and eventually back up her arms to her head. Her heart pumped and vibrated as made her way to the boarding line. The cargo was an interesting collection of suitcases, bed-in-a-bags, and large cardboard boxes that had been duct taped shut. In front of her was an older woman in her 80’s. She was a widower, wearing a black net veil, a black dress and a long gold chain with an unusual locket a little larger than a communion wafer. Her stockings were too large for her infant sized ankles, and sagged over the tops of what appeared to be men’s dress shoes, oxfords to be exact. She carried with her a small paten leather black purse and a mason jar of tea.
Alex walked to the middle of the narrow aisle and settled into 13A, a window seat. From there she had a direct view of the TV monitor and was far away enough from the engine and the bathroom. The widower sat down beside her. After thirty minutes of boarding and loading cargo, the bus pulled away for its’ 19 hour journey to Zacatecas.
The oversized ship navigated through the busy streets of Juarez, they were the standard street size but the people roaming between idling cars washing windows, selling rosaries, broken umbrellas and bottled waters made the streets seem smaller. Cars and motorcycles competed for space and bumpers served their purpose. The pace was an utter contrast to the foot traffic at the bus station. The widower looked over Alex’ shoulder whenever Alex turned to watch the crowd. Her breath smelled sweet like fennel, and her hands lay clasped in her lap. On her wedding finger, an antique gold and ruby ring, matte from wear, loosely cradled her arthritic finger; it was a man’s ring.
After an hour of Juarez traffic, the bus glided into a border check station. Her fellow passengers stirred and started speaking quickly yet softly. The bus was asked to park out of the way of traffic and upon doing so a tall, thin federally with dark sunglasses and a perfectly ironed and polished uniform stormed onboard. Alex’ heart began pounding as she heard him ask for everyone to have their passports ready. Alex didn’t have a passport; the study abroad office said they weren’t necessary so Alex didn’t bother getting one. What she did have was a birth certificate and her student traveler I.D. card as well as a driver license. But everyone else had passports.
The federally asked Alex to step off the bus as they processed her paperwork; at this point, the blood in her flustered face had handicapped her ability to comprehend the little Spanish she could normally understand and she wasn’t sure if the bus would wait for her, and she didn’t know the words to convey this fear to Officer Diaz. Aware of her nervousness Officer Diaz used a rather soft, slow and cordial tone in his interrogation, even though he had spoken in English and Spanish on the bus. Perhaps the study abroad office had coordinated prior to her departure, wanting to ensure the entire experience were authentic and fully served her language credit needs.
The walk from the small glass office in the middle of four lanes of traffic to the heavy bus was longer than it should have been, but the bus was still there. When she climbed onboard her fellow passengers cheered and applauded her entrance. The widower who was looking sideways out the window and was ringing her hands with what appeared to be empathy was startled when she heard the cheers. Her hands unclenched and her palms rose palm-up to the sky as she said a prayer beneath her sweet breath.
Hours passed and the city slowly melted away in the afternoon heat to the Chiahuahuan Desert. Hills and patches of grass and cattle rolled as far as Alex’ eye could take her and the sky was as blue as the sky she had left behind. Every 100 miles the bus would roll into a small town, the architecture was similar in each, a Cathedral in the North, a well-kept fountain and plaza in the center, a fire station or jail or police station in the south and shops in between. Houses would surround the square but were connected by a series of internal walls and short doorways. The walkways were a clay red dirt that dusted everyone’s shoes and pants, but the children were always perfectly clean and poised as they walked home from school in their navy blue pants and shorts and white dress shirts, the girls in skirts and white socks. The bus had to pass through eight of these tiny towns since the highway ran right through them, and often the bus would travel no more than 20 mph as the streets were narrower than Juarez’ city streets.
That evening the bus pulled into a larger town called Jimenez. Eager to stretch and to eat, the passengers filed out one by one, some to go to their homes in Jimenez, and others to catch a transfer bus to Laredo. Like any other desert, summer night, the air was cool and the sky was a heavy black on the small restaurant all were like moths to.
Alex sat next to a group of older women at a green picnic table under a Coca-Cola umbrella, even though it was night all the umbrellas were out and full. The photograph she would take would capture the honesty of its simple beauty. The bright red against the black night, the large stadium lights towering over the customers and passengers, and the 15 women working an assembly line of their famous quesadillas. Alex purchased two quesadillas and a bottle of coke, as well as half a dozen fresh homemade tortillas and some queso fresco for the road.
Back on the stuffy bus, now a little quieter with a few less people, the widower moved to the newly empty seats directly across the aisle. She had stayed on the bus as everyone else ate, drank beer and stretched, sipping her the tea that made her breath so sweet. Alex was stuffed and exhausted and pleased to have the seat to herself. As the bus found the highway again, passengers nodded off as the view from their windows had been stolen by night’s dark drapes. The TV screens switched on and suddenly Will Smith was fighting aliens and telling jokes in Spanish. Alex leaned against the cool window and drifted into a solid, dreamless sleep, eager to meet her destination town.

Peaches by Tulah Dixie

Molly was soaking wet, thanks to the stupid umbrella with the broken spokes that she held over her head awkwardly. As she reached her front door, she opened and closed it rapidly a few times, shaking the rain off of it, then set it against the wall. She had spent the day gathering job applications, walking around town because she couldn't afford bus fare. Not if she wanted to eat dinner the next day. Her feet ached in her thin-soled shoes, and after letting herself inside, she kicked them across the small room. A decent pair of shoes would be the first thing she bought when she came into some money. Not the $1.00 specials at Goodwill.

Azriel, Molly's cat, jumped down from the one windowsill in the room and ran over to her, rubbing against her leg and purring loudly. Molly reached down and scooped the cat up, snuggling her face into her soft brown fur. She knew she shouldn't have a cat, couldn't afford it, but she also knew she would go crazy if Azriel wasn't around. Living in a one room apartment was hard enough, and not having family around made it even harder.

Sitting down at the rickety table by the window, Molly stared out of the rain-washed panes. It had started raining in the middle of the night, and showed no signs of stopping. The rain and oil mixed together on the asphalt, making beautiful rainbows that clashed with the grime.

Azriel jumped onto Molly's lap, carrying a limp toy mouse in her mouth. Molly threw it across the room, knowing she had started something that was going to be hard to stop. Azriel was a hard cat to distract once she started something.

As Molly threw the mouse behind a wilting plant, there came a knock at the door. Her eyes widened and head snapped up at the sound. Who would be coming to see her? She'd paid her rent last week, and besides the old lady in the park who shared her bread to throw to the birds, she didn't have any friends. She peaked out the window and saw a vaguely familiar woman standing on the step. She opened the door a little and peeked her head out.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her fingernails scratching into the soft wooden door.

The woman smiled at Molly. “Hi, I'm Natalie. I live just down the street.” She pointed in the direction of a small apartment complex a half a block away. “I just came home from my mom's house, and we canned a bunch of peaches, and I wondered if you'd like a couple of jars?” Natalie held up to mason jars filled with slimy golden peaches, each adorned with a red bow. “Do you like peaches?”

Molly looked from Natalie to the jars and back. She felt tears collecting behind her eyes and hurriedly pressed her hands over them.

“I'm sorry, have I upset you?”

Molly lowered her hands and looked at Natalie, whose expression had changed from happy to worried. “Do you hate peaches?” Natalie asked.

Molly laughed, and the tears began to fall down her cheeks. She laughed and cried until her stomach hurt and her eyes stung. Natalie was looking at her strangely, so she quickly explained. “I love peaches. You don't know how much I need these peaches right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She took the jars from Natalie, put them on the table, and gave her a tentative hug. Natalie hugged her back.

“I was driving home, and I saw you running in the rain, and I felt like you needed some sunshine on this gloomy day. Peaches always remind me of sunshine.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, putting each hand on a mason jar, feeling the warmth from her sunshine peaches, warmer than the fairest summer day.

Monsoon Season by Iris Rosewater

After circling the block three times, Brenna finally pulled over and sat in her rental car, staring at the eyesore of a house across the street. It had been ten years since she’d last seen it, and she was shocked by the level of neglect the poor home had endured. The red brick face clashed sadly with old lime-painted trim and shutters. The rose bushes under the front window drooped in a row, wild heads flopping from long thorny tendrils in all directions. They plead to be put out of their misery.

Her eyes wandered to the front sidewalk, lumpy from old roots, and saw that the elm trees that once lined the street were cut down, leaving gaudy stump corpses behind. She pictured herself on the thick limb of the tree nearest the driveway (her favorite one) reading books, and plucking the deep green leaves in the summertime, bending them in half to make whistles. In the spring, the lawn had been carpeted by their offspring, which looked like caterpillars and swirled in the April wind. On the curb, she could see herself dancing (as much like Gene Kelley as possible) with a large, pink umbrella in a desert cloudburst. She clung to the broken handle and swung it around her as she twirled in the gutter and sloshed in its current. Lost in memory, she found herself opening the door and getting out of the economy car. The asphalt baked in the hot sun, cracked open like dry skin. The crevasses were packed with tar, gooey in the July heat. She laughed and found a stick in a neighboring yard, picturing Scott Booth pressing sharp sticks into the yielding black and leaving them upright in the road to irritate passing drivers. It was just as satisfying as she had remembered to churn the thick substance. Brenna sighed and stood, still carrying the stick, returning her attention to the old house.

As it was the corner lot, she walked up the sidewalk and peeped over the cinderblock wall into the back yard. The wood shed her father had made into a playhouse for her was gone. Only the concrete slab was left, like a tombstone, in its place. Where the pecan tree once stood sat a rusted-out truck. The grass had been parched to the point of extinction, and the desert seemed to have slowly reclaimed the space over the years. Brenna could remember the feel of fresh-cut lawn. She used to sprawl out in it with a cat beside her, feeling the sun pull the freckles out of the white skin on her nose and cheeks. And then, there was the day she discovered aphids. She had been searching for lady bugs and noticed the grass twitching. Straining her eyes, she caught them – tiny bugs, the same color as the house’s current trim, she now noted, bounding from blade to blade. The remainder of that day she had spent capturing them in a Mason jar. Her minuscule prizes jumped and clung to the glinting edges of their glass prison. Squinting in the sun, Brenna shielded her eyes with her hand as she glimpsed the old plumb tree in the far corner of the yard. She tried to recall how many hamsters were buried beneath its burgundy leaves.

The sun had begun to set, painting the dust in the sky with orange and pink. She realized the reunion would be starting soon and pulled herself from the reaches of her distant memories. A fervent desire to see inside the old house throbbed in her chest… The piano room with heavy curtains that matched the red sofa… the wood stove that warmed her after a bath and was used to toast pumpkin seeds in the fall, the laundry room where she watched her sister carefully apply make-up every morning…her tiny bedroom… ‘Why not?’ she asked herself, ‘When will I ever be here again?’

Despite her own reassurance, she felt nervous and embarrassed as she walked to the front door and knocked on the carved wood. Muffled music penetrated the walls and the windows and hit her almost as hard as the potent cloud of smoke when a college-age boy/man answered. He looked trendily ill-kempt with floppy ‘One Tree Hill’ hair and a rough beard.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Um… I used to live here when I was little. I’m in town for a high school reunion and I wondered if I could look around… for sentimental reasons.” Her voice lilted.

“Yeah, right. You’re probably going to case our house and then come back to steal our Xbox when we’re in class. Forget it, Lady.” She heard him laugh behind the door as he shut it.

Deflated, Brenna walked back to her car. The wind picked up and she breathed in the clean scent of rain on its heels. Thick indigo clouds sprawled out across the sky, and she watched the glow of the sidewalk dim as the sun disappeared behind them. Fat drops of water plunged to the ground in an instant. Typical adults with any experience in the New Mexico monsoon season would have ducked into the dry safety of their cars and homes. An old man, shielding himself with a newspaper, went outside to turn off his sprinklers and then shuffled back indoors. Disgruntled and whiny, a tabby-cat took shelter on someone’s front porch, yowling and clawing at the mesh of the screen door. Brenna smiled, turning her face to the heavenly onslaught. Her curled hair whipped her cheeks, melting into lank, heavy tendrils in the desert storm. Water soaked the shoulders and bust of her black blouse (which was dry-clean only). She kicked off her leather shoes and bounded toward the flash-flood in the gutter, kicking and splashing and dancing muddled excerpts from her old “singing in the rain” routine. She laughed until her stomach hurt and she could hardly catch her breath… grateful that no one could ever deny her access to the joy that shivered through her rain-soaked body, courtesy of the desert and her memories.

This week's IFIs (Items For Inspiration)

A broken umbrella, a mason jar, asphalt. Enjoy!

~Geococcyx Velox

Untitled by Protea

Unfinished, but as much as I'm going to be able to do by the end of today.

The platform hosted more pigeons than people. One, splashed gray on white, humped erratically past the busker’s heavy boots to peck ineffectually at a shard of brown glass. It spun around on one reptilian leg, using the toeless stump of the other for balance. How it could have its toes severed by the wheels of the train, no nub even to mark their passing, without suffering any other disfigurement held the busker’s imagination for the few minutes before the Blue Hills arrived.

The stretch from Lake to Sawyer was just about perfect, seven minutes until the doors opened again. Two songs and some change. Some lines warranted a little longer. Some he stayed away from completely. Even on the Blue Hills, a captive audience could get restless. If he could catch a couple of lazy smiles, some wiggling back from the edges of seats, crossing of arms and shutting of eyes, he might stay a little longer. Once or twice on Sundays, he had ridden the Blue Hills from end to end. A girl, college aged he’d guessed, had clasped his hand as he got off and said, “Right on.” She was through the turnstile before it registered. He had shouted a thank you and she spun around, devil’s horns on one hand and thumbs-up in the other. On the return he’d decided not to play.

Like crossing the street, he looked both ways as he boarded. No immediate alarms. Three times as many seats as people, though a couple remained standing. The door closed with the hiss of released pressure. He reached into his bag with one last glance and saw one of the standers, a lanky kid with Asiatic features and light tattooing on his arm, lifting a ukulele off his back. The busker pulled his empty hand out of his bag. He sat in an empty seat near the doors. Two on one train did not work. He’d have to get off next stop and catch a different one. He couldn’t really complement a ukulele anyway.

The ukulele kid tried a couple of strings with his thumb. There’d been more of those on the trains in the last couple of years than the busker had seen before in his life. Another trend, but style was the important thing. The dialogue between the player and the instrument. Some people just let the instrument talk, never getting in a word of their own. Or they talked over the instrument with the same awkwardness and discomfort of trying to have dinner with an old and gradually discontinuous couple. The kid hit the first few chords of a lazy island riff, and it was good enough. His timing was his own, stretching the edges of each measure to the brink of disaster, and then plunging skillfully into the next. It put an unnatural curve on the bouncing lightness of the instrument. Once he dropped the chords entirely and picked deftly with his fingertips.

The train was slowing. The busker watched the doors open and close without moving. He’d stay until the end of the song, which was still developing despite its length. His tastes did not run to the upbeat, but the timing, the tension, was addictive. Like holding a deep breath. The ecstasy of the release dependent on how long it was delayed, how desperate it became. He let it out at last, a little light-headed. A pigeon, emboldened by the sparsely populated train and a dropped donut hole, had snuck in the door and made its way down the aisle. It had all of its toes, but stumbled back and forth with the lurch of the train. It flapped its wings once as if to take flight, but kept its feet on the floor.

The Eighth Wonder by Tulah Dixie

A work of complete fiction

He asked me to marry him last night. Last night. Marry him! What am I supposed to think? I recall several conversations at once. He hates to read, he can't eat ice cream, he had an ulcer when he was nine. All things of unimportance, and yet they flood into my mind in an engulfing gush. He hates to read.....

One thing I remember he said, he likes to do jigsaw puzzles. The kind with 1000 pieces. I can see us now. It is our wedding night. We are assembling our wedding picture that he had made into a puzzle. And on our 50^th wedding anniversary, our arthritic hands will shake and quake as we put that last piece into the puzzle of our lives.

What ridiculous thoughts! Or are they?

He asked me to marry him last night! Me, of all people. Me, with my unruly hair and freckled face. Me, who loves to eat ice cream and read a classic novel. I love Charlotte Bronte. He would say “Charlotte who?” HE ASKED ME TO MARRY HIM!

Last night a yes was on my tongue. This morning I feel as though I haven't a tongue. All I can think of are his blue eyes. Do I want blue-eyed children? Do I want blond-haired children? I think I could stare into his eyes forever. Probably longer.

He asked me to marry him last night. Does he really love me? Me? ME? I want to ask him when he first knew, when the pain in his stomach became too much to bear, and he had to blurt out the news. Be he didn't do that. He didn't even kiss me. I doubt he has ever blurted anything in his life. Well, I've blurted it many times. I LOVE HIM! I LOVE HIM!

He asked me to marry him last night. Will wonders never cease?

Marla's First Kiss by Iris Rosewater

Warren leaned down, his eyes starting to close and his lips advancing… Marla felt her heart beat wildly as she realized that this was it. Her first kiss happening right now…

Marla wanted to be kissed. Really kissed. She was a hopeless romantic and finally 16 years old. She studied kisses in movies. Old movies had the harsh kisses – planted by heroic men on the painted lips of helpless women like Ingrid Bergman and Eva Gardner. They never looked all that enjoyable. Marla always wondered if the actresses got sore necks after shooting those scenes for too long. And then there were the modern versions of those pushy kissing scenes, where it seemed almost frenzied and pretty sloppy. Her favorites, she decided long ago, were the slow ones. You could see it in their eyes long before their lips met, and the kiss was a perfect prelude to some epiphany they had simultaneously. Yes, those tentative, sweet kisses were just her style. And, now that she could legally date, she was on a mission in pursuit of her first.

For her birthday, Marla had asked for a transforming make over. Haircut, new clothes, nails done… the whole nine yards. Up to now, it hadn’t really mattered if anyone thought she was “hot,” because she couldn’t do anything about it. Now, however, it was of the utmost import that she look her absolute best. She felt pretty realistic about her appearance. She didn’t pretend to think she was ugly so her friends would goosh reassurances at her. But, she also knew she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. She considered herself “cute”. Borderline pretty. And, with new highlights in her dirty-blonde hair, eyelashes curled, and push-up bra applied, she started looking around for perspective kissers.

Homecoming was fast approaching, and Marla had narrowed her list of decent boys down to two – Warren Gentry and Kyle Spencer. Neither were attached. They fell into a similar category with Marla – they were borderline cute and had decent personalities. If she wasted her time oogling over the boys every sophomore oogled over –like Mike Draper, for instance- she would never get asked out. Boys like that could have any girl they wanted.

Strategy was everything. She bribed her friend in American History to switch seats with her, so she could take the chair next to Warren. When the next project came up, she sweetly asked him if he’d be her partner. It was kind of a sacrifice in the name of the kiss to ask him… he wasn’t the best student. But, it would be worth it! He had good lips… not the thin kind that didn’t stick out at all, or thick kind… they were a nice complement to her own bee-stung set.

In Biology, she already sat at the same lab table with Kyle. He was very shy and had a rather sad case of acne, which covered most of his nose and chin. As she watched him read the questions at the end of chapter 6 aloud, she studied the pustule at the end of his nose and abruptly changed her mind about him. She couldn’t take any chances that her first kiss would be oily in any way.

After a couple of weeks of sitting next to Warren and carefully playing her cards, he had started to show some interest in Marla. He walked her to her next class, and then started waiting outside the portable to walk her to lunch after that. On the Monday before Homecoming, Warren acted nervous as they sat at the table with a group of friends. He concentrated on dipping his French fries with extra care, and avoided eye contact with Marla. She smiled wryly to herself as the girls beside her laughed and chatted. Finally, they left the lunch room. Staring at his feet and mumbling, he asked her and she pretended surprise, covering her mouth as she let out a little gasp. She bounced to biology, where she hadn’t so much as glanced at Kyle Spencer for days.

Lots of preparation went into Homecoming. Marla’s best friend, Dawn came over in the late afternoon to help primp. They had selected a dark blue dress with swirling sequins along the neckline and the cut of the empire waist, and layers of thin gauzy fabric trailing to her pedicured toes. Dawn had her first real kiss a whole year earlier and tried to impart any helpful knowledge she could, demonstrating her expertise on her own hand for the full effect. They decided when she should blot her lip gloss, so it wouldn’t be too sticky or leave any residue on his lips.

The dance went fine. Not fabulously. He was a poor dancer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while awkwardly encompassing her in his gangly arms during slow dances, and moving his arms around strangely and bobbing during the fast ones. She felt a little embarrassed of him and tried really hard not to show it on her face. The dance was inconsequential, anyway. It was AFTER the dance that was important. Marla stuck it out like a trooper, imagining meeting her lofty goal within hours.

Warren hadn’t had the best time, either. He felt awkward about the whole thing, really. In a gentlemanly fashion, he went around his parents’ Volvo wagon to open Marla’s door. She took his hand as he helped her out, and then held on to it while they walked to the front door. It was only 11:30 (1/2 hour pre-curfew) so she was confident that her dad wouldn’t be peeking through the blinds every thirty seconds, watching for her. They stood on the front porch for a couple of minutes, still holding hands. Warren kept his gaze on his scuffed borrowed shoes, while Marla quietly said her thanks for a lovely evening. She had practiced her doe eyed-inviting look in the mirror that very day, and conjured it up right when she caught his glance. Tentatively, he leaned forward (just like she had hoped) and then proceeded to press his medium-sized lips against hers. Very quickly, Marla realized her plan had been flawed. His mouth opened, exceeding the feminine circumference of her own in a horrible way. And then came his tongue. He must have been breathing with his mouth open, she thought to herself, because it was strangely cold and reminded her of a big slug slopping itself around hers. He seemed not to notice her disgust and kept kissing her for a good 15 seconds before she found a way to tie it off and go into a quick hug, so she could wipe some excess saliva on his jacket (thank goodness she’d blotted the lip-goo off, or it would have given her away). He stepped back dreamily, looking into her face and saying he had fun and they should do it again sometime. Or, never… she thought to herself, pasting a temporary smile on her sullied mouth. She said goodnight and swept inside, running up the stairs before anyone could catch her and ask how it went.

In the bathroom, she spent 15 minutes scrubbing every centimeter of the inside of her mouth and tongue with a new toothbrush and baking soda toothpaste. One minute for every second of the wretched invasion. And then she went to her bedroom and flopped onto her bed, ripping off her strappy high heels, jerking at the zipper on her dress and throwing it on the floor. Lying in her slip, she went over the last few weeks in her mind. All that work. She cried. She cried for wasting her energy. She cried for her first kiss being terrible. But, in the end, she cried for what she’d done to Warren and knew she would have to undo it. And the very last tear Marla shed before falling asleep that night was in the moment she realized that she was not a hopeless romantic after all.

Unamed by RF

4am

Village Inn

Chocolate milkshakes

Good company

The perfect moment for

Suspension in time

The Order of Topic Selection

The order of persons selecting 3 items for us to write around for the week are as follows:

Brien
Dave
Gabe ?
Helen ?
Kaleina
Leah
Marc
Rachel
Rebecca
Tiffy

Stories for the week are due Sunday.

Monday, the next person in line will post on this blog the new 3 things.

In the event that you don't post 3 things by Tuesday, it will be wildcard week and we write about whatever. (You have relinquished your turn and the next person in line will pick for the following week).

If you can't participate some weeks, no worries!

Feel free to post anything else (poetry, etc.) that you just want to share.

Pen names are optional. We just did them for kicks the first week this started.

email Ray with any questions: nicerayray@yahoo.com

The Decision

by: Daryl Crass Water

Driving was his release. The most peaceful times he found were in the car, alone, driving with the top down. There was a lot on his mind today, and he needed to make a decision.

It had been 7 years since the beginning. An amazing, deep, heartfelt, troubled, hated, tear-filled, laughter-filled 7 years. This drive was his salute. It was to be his farewell to old things gone, and new things yet to come. He often used his car as a buffer, and his drives were the transitions of his life.

He drove past his elementary school, his little-league baseball field, and the park near his house. He drove past the zoo, so full of worldly animals and life, yet always so quiet. As if the mysteries of the world weren’t really that mysterious. He drove past Mickey’s Ice Cream shop, and Old Lady Hendersons house. She used to tend her garden every day, but now only tended to her chair and her memories (Old Age is Mean).

He bought a dozen purple tulips from Jimmy’s Dad. Purple Tulips were always her favorite flower. He was visiting the special places of their lives and leaving tulips to celebrate their moments. Flower #4: Downtown Movie Theatre. Flower #7: The River.

Flower #10: The Park near his house. This was a special one…. He sat on one of the many benches in the park and lost himself in the past. He must have sat there for over an hour. Rolling the pros and cons over in his head. It was one of those silent moments in a persons’ life. The type of moment that sparkles with clarity and content. It was beautiful…

The moment ended with a canary-like bird chirping. He raised his head and saw this singular bird looking down at him and he smiled. He had made his decision. He got back in his car as the sun began it’s descent from the sky. Looking over at the passenger seat he saw the remaining two purple tulips and smiled again. He knew where the last two were going, and he couldn’t wait to take them there.

Florence by Tulah Dixie

It was the summer of 1985, a sweltering June afternoon, and Mallory was hot and tired. She and her best friend Janna had ridden their bikes all over the neighborhood, somehow managing to ride by BJ Roddmer’s house four times. This had become a routine for the two girls, meeting at 10:00 and pedaling their bikes down Latmer Street, turning onto Grear, then Monclair, and slowing down to a snail’s pace when passing number 8774. They followed this route at least four times, usually more, in the hopes that BJ would be outside watering the rosebushes or something. They had been out of luck that day. The only person they’d seen was BJ’s grandpa, walking his decrepit grey poodle down the sidewalk. The old man was getting a bit senile, which was fine with Mallory. Otherwise he might have told BJ about the two girls he’d passed several times on his walk.

After saying goodbye to Janna, Mallory parked her bike under the carport and ran inside to the kitchen. She filled a cup with water and gulped it down, then refilled it and sipped it as she walked through the house towards her bedroom. She said hello to her mom who sat sewing in the spare room, and tiptoed past her little sister’s bedroom so she wouldn’t get hassled into playing dolls. As she passed her brother Bruce’s room she listened for the friendly chirping of his canary, Florence. She reached her room before she realized she hadn’t heard her sweet song. Putting her water down on her desk, she walked back across the hall, into Bruce’s room, and up to Florence’s cage. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. Poor Florence was lying on her back on the bottom of the cage, her little feet curled up, eyes closed, very still.

“Mom,” Mallory called, “Mom, Mom, Florence is dead!” She ran to the sewing room where her mom was already standing up and rushing to the door. Together they ran back to Bruce’s room, and Mallory’s mom opened the cage and gently picked up the lifeless bird.

“What happened to her?” Mallory whispered.

“I don’t know,” her mom answered. “She wasn’t that old, was she?”

“Where’s Bruce? We need to have a funeral.”

Mallory’s mom found a small empty box and placed Florence in it. “He’s down at the Junior High playing baseball. Do you want to ride down there and get him?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Mallory went outside, hopped on her bike and raced down Latmer Street. She turned onto Grear, then Montclair, but she didn’t even slow down while passing 8774. If she had, she would have seen BJ on the porch fixing his bike. When she reached the school she went straight to the baseball field where her brother was playing around with a group of boys. Dropping her bike she ran to the fence and called to him.

“Bruce, Bruce, come quick!” He didn’t seem to hear her, so she called again, louder.

Finally Bruce jogged over to her. “What do you want?” he whispered harshly. “I’m busy playing baseball with the guys.”

“Oh Bruce, I was riding my bike with Janna, and when I got home I went to my room, and I noticed that Florence wasn’t singing, so I went into your room-“

“Hurry up, Mallory. I’m busy.”

“Bruce, Florence is dead! You need to come home right now so we can have a funeral for him!”

“Hey Bruce,” one of the baseball players called, “You’re up next to bat. Come on!”

“Gotta go, Mal,” Bruce said, turning away.

“Bruce, Florence is dead! You need to come home!” Mallory watched hr brother walk back to home plate, tears filling her eyes. She couldn’t believe her brother was so insensitive. Picking up her bike, she climbed on and slowly pedaled home. This time she did notice BJ on his porch, but she was too embarrassed to do anything but hurry by. He was too involved in decorating the spokes of his bike to notice her anyway.

When she reached home her little sister Kim was waiting on the porch, holding the little box on her lap, tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. She looked up when Mallory stepped onto the porch.

“Where’s Bruce?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Mom showed me a good spot in the backyard where we can bury Florence.”

“Bruce was too busy playing baseball,” Mallory answered, pulling her sister up. “We’ll just have to have our own burial.”

The two sisters went to the backyard, and Kim pointed out a spot by the fence that had been cleared. A shovel leaned against the fence, and Mallory went to work digging a hole. She wanted it deep so the neighbor’s dog wouldn’t dig Florence up the next time he jumped the fence. It was hard work, and it took a long time, but finally the hole was ready. Kim placed the box gently onto the bottom, and Mallory pushed the dirt back into the hole.

“We need a marker,” Mallory said, looking around. She went to the shed and dug around until she found a small piece of wood. She took a rusty nail and scratched “Florence. Died 1985. Rip” into it, then stuck it into the dirt.

“I think we should sing a song,” Kim suggested.

“How about “God Be With You ‘til We Meet Again?” They sang it quietly, and then Mallory picked two of her mom’s purple tulips and laid them on the grave.

“Too bad Bruce couldn’t be here. He missed a lovely service.”

When Bruce came home a few hours later, he was mad at his sisters for burying Florence without him. “How could you do it? Florence was my pet?”

Mallory was about to give a snotty remark, but then noticed tears in Bruce’s eyes. She realized he was just trying to look cool in front of his friends, but inside he was hurting badly. She walked to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I should have waited.”

“We’ll do it again, Bruce,” Kim said, putting her arms around his waist. “It will be better with you there, too.” The trio walked reverently back outside, and had the sweetest second farewell to the beautiful canary, Florence.