favoritebean_writes

When I was just a little boy, everything came to an end. It was a warm summer night, the sky was clear. Papa and I were camped out in the backyard, watching the sky for shooting stars.

It was our tradition, in the late summer, to watch the meteors fly across the sky, like bright stars, arcing in hues of yellow, orange, and white. Mama would occasionally join us, but she didn’t this time. Papa said she had to work late at the lab, and I thought nothing of it, because Mama stayed at the lab several nights a week.

This night, as we watched the sky, we sat with our tv dinners, and cans of pop. The crickets chirped, and we even had a little tent up, we had our backyard camping set up ready. Papa was about to take our tv dinner trays into the house, when a red light screamed across the sky. Like a firework, except July had long passed. I looked to Papa, whose face shone something I’d never seen before, when he yelled, and dropped to the ground. He grabbed my arm, and I fell out of the lawn chair.

Everything seemed bright as daylight. I went to look up, and Papa yelped to stay down.

“Don’t you dare look up, Kit! We’re under attack!” Papa shouted. He reached to my head and held it against the ground firm. We stayed like that for a long while.

In the stories I read, the authors always narrated how loud the sounds of bombs were, how they would shake buildings, and rattle the trees. Documentaries from the archives would focus on war torn veterans recounting the horrors of blasts from artillery fire, or shrapnel flying from buildings torn apart by missiles and bombs.

This was different. First the glimpse of bright light. Then nothing but quiet for a long time. Perhaps I’d become deaf from the explosion above, for no crickets chirped. Papa said naught a word. Our neighbor Daphne’s house alarm nearly always blared on the 4^th of July, or during the Lunar New Year when fireworks decorated the skyline. Or even whenever the garbage truck rumbled by, but it remained quiet this night.

After what seemed like a half hour, Papa rose, and extended his hand to help me up. He didn’t say a word, but he waved me toward the house. I struggled to my feet, my legs had fallen asleep, and I couldn’t see much, save for the porch light of our house. It twinkled from across the yard.

I followed Papa to the house, my feet all pins and needles. Still unsure what was happening, I tried to ask. Papa shooshed me with a wag of his finger, and I caught my breath.

Inside the house, Papa opened the door to our basement, and with a flick of a light switch, we made our way down the steps into the musty room beneath our house. The hum of the fluorescent bulbs broke the silence. A droning sound, accompanied by an occasional flicker of light. Papa gestured me to sit in one of the dusty armchairs. I sat. Papa went to the far side of the room, then returned with a box.

“Son, I know your birthday’s not for another week,” he said, “but I think after tonight, it’s best to give this to you now.”

He offered the box to me. It was large enough to hold a puppy, and when I opened the box, that’s just what I found. I stared into big brown glassy eyes, which suddenly sparkled.

“Arf!” it barked.

“Kit,” Papa began, “you know your Mama is allergic to real dogs, and we know you’ve wanted one your whole life. This,” he gestured to the box, “is what Mama’s been working on.”

“A real live puppy?” I asked, astonished. “In our basement?”

“Son,” Papa squatted next to me. “This is the next best thing. Meet Boston. Boston is-“

“A puppy! You’ve got to be kidding me! I love him, Pops!”

“Erm, Kit. Boston is a cybernetic k9 unit who will guard you til the very end.”

Boston wiggled his ears in response to his name. They were long, with curly red hair, like a cocker spaniel.

I didn’t hear a word Papa said, I was in heaven with the best companion a boy could ask for.

“Hiya Boston, hiya pup!” I said, and Boston wagged his tail, as if I’d offered him a steak. I tilted my head toward Boston, and his cold wet nose bonked mine. Boston sneezed with excitement, then licked my face.

“Oh Papa, I’m so happy! Thank you!” I said. I looked to Papa, only he wasn’t there.

“Pops?” I scanned the room, but I was alone, save for little Boston. I shrugged, stood up, and set the box down so Boston could follow me upstairs. Maybe Papa had gone up already, who knew how long I’d been admiring my new puppy.

I made my way to the top of the basement stairs, Boston behind on my heels. Yet the rest of the house was dark. I didn’t think much of it, maybe Papa went to bed, he looked very tired. I made my way to the bedroom, feeling tired myself, plopped down on the bed, and fell asleep.

When I woke, Boston was by my side, curled up against me. It seemed that it was almost too bright out, when I realized my room had no walls.

A man in a bright green firefighter suit, reached out to me.

“I’m going to carry you now, son. It may hurt a bit. Your legs are broken.”

“Where’s Papa? Wait, don’t leave Boston!”

“Don’t worry, that dog is how we found you. Never thought in a million years a meteor would strike our town. Yet this morning, we’re on the national news, and everyone wants a scoop. Makes finding residents like you more difficult. Thank the government for robots.”

“Robots?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

Boston nuzzled my hand as the firefighter lifted me from a bed of bricks and lumber.

Funny how the mind can play tricks on you. Years down, I still believe that I made it to the basement with Papa, received a cute cocker spaniel puppy in a box, then made my way to my bed. The mind plays tricks on you when you are in shock. The reality of what happened that night was not full of puppies and soft landings on cushioned chairs or beds.

We didn’t have a basement. It would take years of therapy to remember that our house was on a slab foundation, in the heart of suburbia, Los Angeles. There was a meteor shower that night, but a meteor slammed into the back half of our house. Most meteors burn up in the atmosphere. This chunk of space metal, about the size of a golf ball, leveled our house, and half the back yard. The giant costal oak tree next door caught fire when the power line snapped, and my brain responded by creating this wild scenario. The seismic counters registered a tiny earthquake upon the impact of the debris.

Boston was real though, a robotic dog dispatched by LAFD and LAPD to find survivors in dire situations. Not a cocker spaniel, but a moving bot made to look like a real dog, Boston dug through rubble to find me and Papa. Papa was on top of me, the doctors said he saved my life by acting as a shield when the house fell.

Mama was relieved to see me, broken as I was. But her heart never seemed to recover from the loss of Papa. And while she did work in a robotics lab, she did not create Boston. Still, my mind was content in her imaginary role in the story. After Papa’s memorial, Mama helped program companion robot k9 units for people recovering from PTSD. I have the second prototype, named after the robot that saved my life.

A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across an urgent post on social media asking for prayers for my aunt’s eldest brother. He was in the hospital, she said, and very ill. Never mind that she left him to the state of Idaho, claiming him invalid, unable to care for himself. He was made a ward of the state as a result. Never mind that his other siblings, once afraid of the terror he drove into their hearts, decided to have nothing to do with him. His children all absolved themselves of responsibility for the man who deigned to shun and threaten and not pay a cent for support.

My reaction to my aunt was not particularly kind. “I’m his eldest child, and no one ever tells me anything!” Only one other responded, another aunt, who claimed that she was praying, and oh poor old man. I refrained from saying we were all fine without him, and they all knew it, but I felt firm in my private thoughts.

My mom offered to bake a cake for a celebration once he finally kicked the bucket, assuming my relatives weren’t being dramatic to the tune of hyperbole again. I said that a cake sounded lovely.

Nothing was said of my biological father on social again after that, but I can assume that he recovered, and continued his status as a typical deadbeat dad, ignoring all his children. Aunts and uncles have remained quiet, so perhaps this was a false alarm. Disconnecting from that is difficult, however. It’s very easy to let the brain weasels in when one of your parents turns out to be a bad human being. It’s easy to let the traditions of being deferential to your elders prevail at the expense of your own wellness.

My response to the possibility of my father’s demise was to take a gig in Hollywood that was up for grabs. Distraction can be the best medicine, and distraction through work is even better. I had a little over a week to learn the music and would get to rehearse it with fifteen other amazing musicians once, before we performed it in public. Learning music on short notice for a gig is normal in my line of work. It’s great for repertoire building, focus, and it can be thrilling, if not distracting from the brain weasels. This music performance was avant-garde classical, the music of choice for LA classical in the 2020’s. Classical meets esoteric. Nearly always a cappella and requires a whole lot of self-confidence and practice to hold your own.

I have learned to hold my own in my job, even when I’m sure I’ll fail. Every time, it’s like going sky diving and wondering if I packed the parachute correctly. Yes, it’s packed correctly, but self-doubt is always there. Despite years of honing my abilities in my craft, it’s moments when my biological father’s presence is invoked that I find my confidence crumbles. My sense of self-worth is always on the precipice of dissolving to nothing, because if my father couldn’t bother to send a letter or provide court mandated support, then obviously I am not worth anything. When I reached my twenties, my aunts and uncles came to peek at my work as if I were a curiosity. Suddenly, the hours and years of study and staying home on weekends were on display, because I was talented, by golly, and wow, your father really is lucky to have a daughter like you! I’m sure he doesn’t care though.

It’s OUR NIECE the pianist! OUR NIECE, who is kind, and talented. Our niece, who seems kind of aloof for some reason, I wonder why?

By the time I walk into rehearsal Friday night, I’m receiving hugs from musicians I’ve not seen for a few months. “It’s great to see you! I’m glad we get to work together again,” we said to each other. And by the end of rehearsal, and again Saturday after our performance, I believed their words. It’s a lot of work psyching myself up to believe people when they tell me they’re glad I’m here.

At home, I’m constantly needing reassurance that it’s okay that I’m a spouse and a parent, and that I’m not terrible at either. My mother and step-father tell me that I’m the model child, viewing my adolescence with a rosier perspective than my first year of life before my mother and father divorced.

Yet the actions of those early months of life have a lasting effect on who I am. That need for reassurance is one thing. I probably need a therapist, but right now isn’t the time as I’m getting ready for another set of rehearsals next week. There’s a lot of music to learn, and learning new music on a time crunch is therapeutic.

Even if I have a fear of committing to therapy (I’ve been mistreated by therapists before), and a once major fear of becoming a spouse and parent (what if I’m like him), I know that he will never touch me in my field of expertise. Our paths diverged decades ago, and for better or for worse, musicianship is my refuge. I can’t trust him to do a good job as a parent, or be a decent human, and I will always doubt myself too. I can’t always trust that my work will be perfect, or that I’ll be the best person, but I can trust the metronome to give the beat where it needs to be, and I can trust that the downbeat will be where it needs to be. I just need to show up.

For my own peers this performance cycle, everyone was gracious and kind to each other throughout rehearsals and the performance. As a result, our audience was genuinely happy to experience the joy we brought to the event. The brain weasels stayed home, and I was relieved for the respite.

After the show, it was nice to hear, “See you at rehearsal in a few weeks. I’m excited, are you?” from everyone, including those I’d just met the night before. It was thrilling to be on stage with friends I hadn’t seen since 2019, and to know that strangers and friends alike, we could trust each other to make amazing music.

Dear Father, while you’re living with regrets in Idaho, I am doing fine without you. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m setting the record straight. You may have cracked my edges a little, but my core is still there. You didn’t believe in me, but luckily, I don’t need your faith anymore.

Look, I can explain. I was just trying to convey my heartfelt gratitude. After all, you saved me from the brink of death. I’m not even exaggerating, honest!

Of course I am beyond grateful. I adore you, and I just want to express that.

I’m sorry if my tone sounded angry. I’m sorry for causing you to scream when I went in for a kiss.

I’m truly sorry for biting your leg, that was me just trying to keep from falling through the cracks. I wasn’t sure how to stop everything from moving, and your leg seemed the best bet for me to sink my hooks into you.

At least I didn’t sting you. That would have spelled the end for me, and at that moment, I was still running on adrenaline for that second chance at life.

Oh, won’t you love me? Please?

Please, don’t hit me, I can taste the warm air. Come leap with me. My wings, they still work, shall carry us. I love you, let us live forever!

Wait!

WAIT! Please, you saved my life in scorching temps, please don’t squash me! I’ll go. I thought you would love me; you gave me a second life.

You don’t have to scream. I’ll go into that bright sky. Goodbye.

* * * * * * * * * *

As the engine revved to a small roar, air rushed from the vents, the computer programmed to cool the scorching interior. Out flies a very angry thing, buzzing, charging across the windshield.

Was it inside?

I have to pick up my daughter from camp, and admittedly, I only had fifteen minutes to get across town. The thermostat showed a temperature of 101, and I am certain that whatever buzzed across the dashboard must be dead in this heat.

Six thick legs attached to spindly wings, the creature emerges again from the air vents. Quite alive.

Probably furious.

I don’t have time to pull over, so I open the windows and sunroof. I see a striped body. Was it a damsel fly? A paper wasp? It has a hooked tail, and a sucker. I shudder, and drivers turn to stare at me as I pass, mouths agape.

Is that the biggest mosquito I’ve ever seen?

No.

This was clearly an abomination, and it was angry. The wings buzzed angrily as it tried to find footing on the windshield. Clearly, it had no interest in flying peacefully out the window. This creature was declaring war.

I pull up to a red light, and the bug advances toward me. I watch in horror as it cleans first the antennae, then its barbed tail. I still cannot figure out what sort of monstrosity it is, but if I could guess, I knew it had plans to murder me for waking it from its heat induced slumber.

“Don’t come near me!” I shout. No one hears me, the cars next to me have their windows up, a/c units blasting. They sit smug in their seats unaware of the attempt on my life while waiting for the light to change on Colorado Boulevard.

I scan the front seat for something to encourage the bug away from me, and out into the warm California air. There is nothing, save for a flimsy parking paper.

I’m doomed.

As I make it to the parking structure at camp, the angry bug with noisy wings, large proboscis, and a stinger decides to attack. I pass a parked LA County Sheriff’s car screaming in terror as that evil beast lands on my leg and slides down.

“NO! NO! NO! GET OFF! AAAUUUUGGGHHHHH!!!”

I careen around the corner, cursing my folly that I didn’t notice the steering wheel was adjusted for my husband’s height, not mine. My legs are pinned beneath, and I can’t dodge the miniature demon bug.

I park the car in record time, and well, I might add. I readjust the steering wheel and raise the windows a touch. Freed, the Bug of Doom perches on the window. I glance below into the door drink holder and spy a package of Windex window wipes. I grab the bright blue plastic package and raise it slowly toward the evil monster perched upon my driver’s side window.

“You need to leave! NOW!” I say sternly and use the package to gently push the winged demon off of the window into the great beyond.

The bug does not budge.

“I don’t have time for this!” I sigh with exasperation.

“Please GO!” I give another push, and the critter bumbles along to the edge of the concrete structure.

I promptly close the windows and sunroof, shut off the car, and leave as fast as I can to get my daughter from camp.

Hi,

I am your favorite bean, I write stories sometimes. I write essays other times. I am honestly out of practice with writing, because my job has taken up a lot of time.

I'm lucky there's a writing opportunity, because LJ Idol is back! So without further ado, here I am. Ready to write!

“Not everything is worth salvaging,” I say flatly. The customer across from me stares at me, mouth agape.

“How can you say that?” he cried, “I thought he was my soulmate, and my heart hurts at his betrayal.”

I pour a pint of stout and pass the glass over to the customer.

“On the house,” I say softly. “Your heart hurts now, but beer and time heal many wounds. Besides, was this gentleman truly your soulmate? You caught him in the arms of another, did you not? No soulmate worth their salt would treat you so poorly.”

The customer downs the pint. As he slams the glass down on the table, he sighs.

“S’pose you’re right.”

“Damn right, I am! Now. I say this as one who has walked this Earth for many moons. There are other fish to catch.” I wink, point to my right, and turn away. The customer follows my finger, and within seconds, he has crossed the room to meet his destiny for the night.

“Smooth matchmaking there, bartender!” A silky alto voice cuts through the chatter like a hot knife to butter. A tall woman takes a seat at the stool previously occupied by the broken-hearted gentleman from before.

I nod. “Evening, Maize,” I say. I grab highball glass and proceed to fill it with ice.

“Good evening,” she says with a nod. “Mending broken hearts with a side of Guinness?”

“I try,” I say, just loud enough for my voice to carry over the clinking of the ice against glass. “Usual for you, Madame Maize?”

Maize nods, and I set to work making a highball.

“You’re in luck. My shipment of Japanese whisky came in this afternoon.”

“Excellent,” Maize smiles. Her smile is charming, and that charm never ceases to lure unsuspecting drunkards to their demise after my bar closes. I must remind her from time to time not to drink all my customers dry, lest I lose profits. Yet somehow, new customers show the next night.

My bar is not in a touristy part of town, yet it’s never empty, save when I close. I don’t know how it manages to remain profitable, only that it does, and I keep serving the drinks.

“Have you ever considered how your life would have turned out had you said, ‘No?’” Maize asked me softly.

I casually slide the highball over to Maize, and bus the pint glass from the bar.

“I do,” I finally answered after placing the glass in the dish pan. “For starters, I would be quite dead by now. I’m approaching my 143^rd birthday, you know? Even had I lived a life of virtue, I reckon the best I could do was about 90.”

“You reckon how?” Maize asked with a smile. “Nice highball, by the way. I’ve missed that whisky so much.”

“Well, my daughter and son both lived to be 90 and 93 respectively, their children lived to be 92, 96, and 84. Their children-“

“You kept in touch with your progeny? Why Dorothea, I had no idea you were the sentimental type!” Maize raised an eyebrow to me.

“I didn’t keep in touch with them. When our Mistress Marie turned me, I returned home after a few months. I waited until I knew I could trust myself not to murder my own children for a good drink, and I showed up one evening. Turns out, they thought I had died already, and had a fit. Clarence, dear sap, saw my baby fangs, and knew what had happened. He tried to stake me. That Stoker novel was rather popular again, and Clarence had a penchant for horror. One look at me, and what he thought was simply a good story was now a reality, and he took it poorly.”

“Did Marie not tell you the basic rules?” Maize appeared scandalized.

“Are we playin’ a game?” a student from the nearby university sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, yes we are! What can I getcha?” I ask, smiling broadly.

“Uh, can I get a Flat Tire?” the student asked.

“Fat Tire?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, that,” the student smiled sheepishly. “A bazooka sized, at that!”

“Sure thing! One Fat Tire. First, let me see some ID,” I level a gaze at the student.

Eyes wide, the student produced an ID. “Today’s my birthday!” the student proclaimed. Sure enough, the college kid in front of me had just turned 21. I felt ancient.

“Happy birthday! I’ll give you a pint on the house to celebrate. If you want a bazooka after, order food first. Bar rules,” I point to a sign behind me that read:

All alcohol drinks larger than a pint must be accompanied by a main menu food item. No exceptions.

“Oh,” the student said, looking crestfallen, “I don’t have enough money for food.”

Maize touched the student’s arm, and said in that silky alto voice, “You can live fast and die young, but not at my friend Dot’s bar, hmm? Some rules are meant to be obeyed.”

Visibly shaken by what Maize said, the student took their beer, and disappeared into the crowd behind.

“Even I have standards. I mean, yes, this place brings the best dinner, but that kid’s asking for trouble. Trying to get smashed on their 21^st?” Maize shook her head. “So as I was saying, those basic rules?”

“Yeah, Marie never told me a thing. Maybe she wanted me to fail, I don’t know. The night she turned me, I remember clearly. Someone barged in, and I heard her say in a low voice, ‘Some things aren’t worth salvaging.’ I remember hearing a bowl breaking, and the next thing I knew, it was a Tuesday, and I felt like death. I figured Marie left me for dead, because I didn’t see her again until the night I met you.”

“Marie was a horrible Mistress. How about I teach you the rules then?”

“Now, Sister Maize! You know that we’ve both been vampires for well over a century. I’m sure you are at least my age, if not slightly younger.”

“Older,” Maize corrected.

“Still, what rules are left to learn?”

“Perhaps that you were worth salvaging? Perhaps many others are worth it too?”

“I’ll give you the ‘Others’ part. Plenty of humans are worth saving, even if they’ve doomed the Earth in recent years.”

“You’re worth it too, dear Sis. You weren’t cast aside, Marie wasn’t raised by a nurturing family, so she never learned to nurture us. Still, your progeny. You still look in on them?”

“I stopped after generation four. I never quite got over the fact that Clarence tried to kill me. That’s why I won’t turn anyone. My Earthly progeny are enough, and I would hate for my Vampire progeny to meet some horrible demise early on. What about you though? Have you ever considered how your life would have turned out had you resisted Mistress Marie?”

“Well,” Maize huffed. “I’m positive I would have missed out on having the best ‘lil Sister Dot to spend my evenings with. I’m sure the flu would have killed me, or consumption. I had a nagging cough, and my Ma died from consumption, I’m told. So I would have had a few miserable years maybe? Marie was a terrible second mother, but I thank her for that chance at life.” Maize lifted her highball to salute our dead Vampire Mom.

I nod and proceed to make two more highballs. One for my undead sister, and one for me. As I add the twist of lemon, another bartender grabs a towel, claps me on my back, and wishes me a good dinner break. I smile at the bartender, eye my customers to make sure they’re happy, and shuffle off arm in arm with Maize, drink in hand.

Beginning when she was just nine, Lizzy would knit. Day in and day out, Liz would knit on her commute to the factory. She would board the streetcar before sunup, and make her way back home at sundown. Knitting to take her mind off the monotony of working in the mills, she thought of the needles could create something.

When Lizzy came home with her sister, there was just enough pay for an evening of mushy peas and toast. Lizzy didn’t question her mother when she was instructed to go work at the mill across town. School was for the wealthy, and no one in Wigan was wealthy.

By the time she reached her early teens, she noticed that when the door to her and Nancy’s room closed, the shouting would begin. It was on a Thursday, and while Nancy fell asleep immediately, Lizzy could only think of what life would be like outside of Wigan. The shouting began, and it was obvious that Papa was drunk. Papa was always drunk, but Mum was clearly tired.

“You can spend the rest of your days at the pub, if you cannot get it together for us!” Lizzy heard Mum’s ultimatum through the floorboards.

“Oh piss off, you foul wretch!” the words seeped up to Lizzy’s ears, followed by the sound of breaking glass. It was at that moment, she realized that she hated everything in this life.

Lizzy could run away, but there was Nancy to care for, and Mum, of course. She thought about mentioning it to Nancy the next morning on the streetcar. They could run away together. Perhaps the Wilkinson’s down the street could offer them lodging. But when the sisters boarded the streetcar that Friday morning, Nancy spoke first.

“I’m leaving, Lizzy! Johnnie asked for my hand in marriage! I think Mum and Da will accept, as it’s one less mouth to feed. I’m absolutely thrilled!” Nancy continued to gush.

Lizzy lowered her head, and resumed knitting a sock, while Nancy shared details about this would-be wedding. While she couldn’t blame her sister for wanting to start a family of her own, she could blame her sister for leaving her behind with these broken parents.

“Nancy,” Lizzy said softly, interrupting Nancy’s reverie of chapels and flowers. “Nancy, Mum and Da were fighting last night. I heard it all. Da hates Mum, and he drinks too much. You know they call him ‘Wigan’s Own Drunkard,’ don’t you? You’re leaving us to our own demise.”

“Oh come now,” Nancy scolded. “Don’t be jealous, you’ll get your own someday! And as for Mum and Da, this is old news. Our daily wages cover his, since he drinks on the job. But what can we do, eh? Not much. Now, don’t cry, little sister. Here.”

Nancy offered a handkerchief to Lizzy, and Lizzy used it to dab her tears away. She offered the cloth back, but Nancy shook her head. Lizzy pocketed the handkerchief, picked up the knitting needles, and resumed knitting her sock.

“After Jamey and I are hitched, you can come live with us. You and Mum both. Da’s fine on his own. Jamey’s Mum makes divine Eccles too. You’ll enjoy Sunday Dinner.”

Lizzie sniffled a little. Perhaps everything would work out.

After Nancy and Jamey wed, Nancy kept her promise for a short while. Lizzy and their mother were offered a place to stay at Jamey and Nancy’s new home. Lizzy went to stay with Nancy and Jamey for a while, but their mother did not join. After three months, Nancy and Jamey moved to Farnworth, Nancy already pregnant. Lizzy wanted to join, but her mother injured herself at the mill, and could no longer work.

Lizzy’s parents moved to nearby Kearsley, with hope that the luck would change. Her father remained sober for a while, and was able to secure work for a few months, and her mother recovered slowly. Lizzy took a job at another textile factory, carding wool. The pay was better, but the work hours were still from dawn until dusk. After three years, Lizzy was weary.

Knitting helped keep Lizzy distracted, but she hated home life so much, picking up the needles became more difficult with each commute home. A young man took to conversing with Lizzie on the ride home, and they became friends. James, it seemed, worked at the same factory, and lived three blocks over from Lizzy. As their friendship continued to grow, James came to call upon her on Sundays, and they would walk to the nearby park to feed the geese.

It was on such a Sunday that James asked Lizzy for her hand in marriage. He had already received blessings from Lizzy’s parents, although it wasn’t certain that her father was sober at the time. Still, Lizzy accepted James’ proposal, and for a moment, she felt a flutter of happiness. She thought of her sister Nancy that morning years before on the streetcar.

“Is this good?” she thought to herself. She was very fond of James, but she worried their marriage would decay as her mother and father’s marriage did. Still, for the first time in many months, Lizzy picked up her knitting needles that evening, and began to knit a veil. Her fingers worked swiftly, remembering each step as if she had knitted that morning.

James and Lizzy were married at the beginning of summer, and they welcomed a daughter in February of the following year. After a particularly cold winter, the factory where James and Lizzy worked, burned to the ground due to an unguarded candle that had been too close to the card stocks full of unprocessed wool. Now jobless, the new family was forced to begin again. With a newborn, the thought of starting at yet another textile mill seemed depressing.

Soon after, Lizzy’s mother fell particularly ill, and it appeared that only James would be able to work. The new family took in Lizzy’s mother, her father had disappeared into the night a couple of months before turning up at Nancy and Jamey’s house very drunk. Nancy and Jamey took in the old patriarch with the promise that he would sober up, and stay that way, so Lizzy and James nursed the frail matriarch.

In April, James took Lizzy aside after dinner with a different kind of proposal.

“I’ve decided that our life would be better in America, and I think we should move there.” James began. “I think your mother has not long a life here before the Lord takes her to heaven. I can book passage to New York, a land that is supposed to present many opportunities for those like us.”

Lizzy dissolved into tears, for this meant that they would be completely on their own. Disowned by their families and forced to embark on a very long voyage. Lizzie promised to think on it, and in the time it took to knit a new nappy for the baby, she had decided that sailing west would be for the best.

It was a year before Mum finally joined the Lord above, and by then, the baby now toddled along. Bidding farewell for the last time, Lizzy boarded a steamship with a young girl, and sailed for America, where she would live out her days. Once reunited with her beloved James, the set out for Missouri, then Colorado. More children, then grandchildren followed, and they reiterated that there were no regrets in leaving the old world behind. When they both died, the new family with grandchildren and great grandchildren, had no idea that such a life of textile mills and drunken fathers had made their beginnings so hard. All that was left behind were smiles, pictures, a genetic love for peas, and some delicately knitted booties.

“Trio Furioso For Hire!”

The words danced across the marquee in dazzling red. I watched the ad scroll by, silently wondering if I made the right decision. The receptionist at the desk tilted his head to the side.

“Soooo, can I – uh help you?” he asked with concern as a line had begun to form behind me.

“I’m here for the interview with Smatt.”

“One second,” he said, glancing down at a ledger on the counter. “Are you- Krush?”

I winced. “I guess I technically am Krush, but I don’t use that name anymore. I’m actually-“

“Got it,” the receptionist said with a sigh. “Everyone who interviews with Smatt suddenly needs a new persona. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

“I mean,” I began, “I haven’t been Krush for a while, I should be in your book as Katt?”

( Continue reading about Katt the Bard and their audition behind the cut. )

Author Note: Sumer is a Cumin In is a 13th century folk song likely from Wessex. It's performed by many early music ensembles, but this version is cool.

Thank you for reading

When I was sixteen, I was hit by a car on the way home from school. The driver was an off-duty cop, and he crossed over double yellow lines to pass a bus, taking me out in the process. I was sent to the hospital via ambulance, and eventually discharged with a heavily sprained ankle, scrapes, bruises, and enough emotional and mental baggage to follow my days. I don’t remember if I lost consciousness. I don’t think I did.

( Teenaged themes behind this cut. )

Author note: Based on actual events. Names and some details were changed as a courtesy. Except for Montel "Mountain! Get OUT OF MY WAY!" Williams, who remains a legend among my former classmates.

My first time was when I was fifteen. We had an open campus at school, which meant we could leave for lunch. My friends Steve, Crys, Randy and I set off for a lunchtime adventure. I had forgotten my lunch, and the cafeteria food was unappealing. I figured I’d just skip lunch completely, and go for a walk.

Crys tried to convince us to go to the park across the street. Unsuccessfully, I might add. Last time she tried, some sophomore pantsed me and tried to throw me into the irrigation ditch. I knew better than to go to the park. It was October, and hazing rituals of the freshmen were still going strong.

Steve suggested we walk to Crys’ house, hoping that maybe the two of them would hit it off, and he could spy her bedroom in the process. Crys played coy though.

“Dad’s home,” she said. “He’ll know you’re up to no good. But you can walk me home, and I’ll meet up with ya at sixth hour.”

Steve seemed okay with this, Randy was simply waiting by the gate, and I rolled my eyes. I didn’t understand romance, and I thought they didn’t make a good couple, although they were fine as friends to me. Randy told me that there was a shop on South Gaylord street, about a half a mile away that he wanted to get some candy from.

“You ever been to Soda Rock?” he asked me, as we walked away from the campus.

“What’s a Soda Rock? Is it landmark of some sort?”

“Nah, it’s a candy shop,” Randy said. “They have pop too, but I just go for the sweets.”

I shrugged. “I’ll go with you, but I’m not allowed to spend my money on candy. A pop sounds kind of good though.”

Steve and Crys trailed behind, holding hands. Randy picked up the pace, and I had to jog to keep up. About two blocks from school, Steve and Crys stopped in front of a bungalow.

“I’ll uh-“ Steve looked down shyly, “I’ll catch up to you in a few.” Crys smiled, and waved at us, hinting that we really should go.

As Randy and I walked, I focused on the time. It was only my second time leaving the campus, and I was afraid I’d be late for class. Our teacher had a strict attendance policy, and three tardies meant one unexcused absence. I didn’t want to make her mad. It was easier if I didn’t talk, so I listened. Talking slowed me down, and then I thought about how hungry I was. Randy didn’t mind talking. Randy talked a little about everything, and I listened.

He told me more about Soda Rock, and how it had just opened two weeks before. As he extolled the finer points of their Super Colossal JawBreakers, we reached the entrance to the shop.

Everything was baby powder pink, and it had an old timey general store feel to it. The shop was empty, and cardboard boxes lined the walls.

“Is this place even open?” I asked softly.

“Welcome!” came a voice from the back of the shop. “Be right there!” An elder woman with gray curly hair approached the counter from the back wearing a clean white apron, and a big smile.

“Welcome! How can I help ya?”

Randy’s eyes were like saucers. “Can I get some gummies and a Super Colossal JawBreaker? Oh, and a Coke.”

The woman’s eyes seemed to smile at Randy, who was beaming. “Of course,” she said. She rounded up some sweets, and pulled a bottle of Coke out of the fridge. It was an older looking bottle, with the type of cap you have to remove with an opener. She did so, offered it to him, and gave him the total.

“$3.50 please?”

Oh no way was I going to be able to spend that on candy and drinks. I had five singles to my name, and I was hoping to grab some chips from the vending machine back at school.

“How about you? What can I getcha?” The woman smiled at me.

“Um, I’m just keeping him company, I don’t need anything sweet,” I said.

At that moment, Steve burst through the door, looking very sweaty.

“I ran all the way here. You get stuff, Randy?” Steve said in between gasps for air.

“Young lady, we sell food too. All made to order. Want to try?” the woman asked, hoping to coax a ‘yes’ from me.

I glanced at the time. We were already twenty minutes into lunch. ‘Oof,’ I thought, ‘not much time.’

“Um, do you have any chips?” I asked shyly.

“We do. Today, we also have a special. Frito pie, $1.25.”

“What’s a Frito pie?” I asked. I liked Fritos okay, but had no idea what a pie with Fritos would involve.

“Frito pie is a bowl of Fritos topped with chile and shredded cheese. It’s our specialty.”

“Um, will it take long to make? We have class in 25 minutes.”

“No time at all, Dear,” the woman smiled at me.

“Sure, I’ll try it. Oh, and wait. You have Green River soda?”

“I sure do,” the woman smiled. “Seventy-five cents for a cup.”

“I LOVE Green River. I’ll take some!”

“Hey Jilly, what’s a Green River?” Steve asked, having fully caught his breath.

“It- it’s a lime soda. It’s green. I assume it’s named after Green River in Wyoming. It’s seriously old school.”

“Huh, maybe I’ll get one too,” Steve shrugged.

“Here’s your Frito pie and Green River. That’ll be two dollars,” the woman said. I gave her two ones, and she thanked me. “We’re just take out right now, but next month, we’ll have tables you can sit at. Do come again. Enjoy the Frito pie.”

I went outside and sat down at the curb. I set my soda on the sidewalk, and with a plastic fork, I set out to try this new dish. True to the woman’s word, it was chile on a bed of Fritos topped with some shredded cheddar and chopped onions.

It was heaven. I think I devoured the dish in two minutes flat. By the time Steve and Randy emerged from Soda Rock, I had thrown my paper plate into the nearest trash bin, and was casually sipping my green soda.

“Mmmm, that hit the spot! Hey, where’s Crys?”

Steve pouted. “Her dad saw us outside, and called her in. She’ll meet up with me later. Want to hang out after school?”

“I have marching band,” I said, “Some other time.”

We set off for school, sipping at our Cokes and Green Rivers.

“Hey Ran, why the old fashioned bottle?” Steve asked.

“It’s Mexican Coke,” Randy shrugged. “It tastes better, it’s got sugar instead of corn. Want a taste?”

I shook my head. In doing so, I spied that a very large German Shepherd had been following us.

“Uh, guys?” I squeaked. The dog barked.

Suddenly, Steve, Randy and I were running as fast as we could, shepherd in pursuit. The dog was barking as we ran. We cut through an alley, and I chucked my empty cup into the nearest dumpster, hoping that having free hands would help me outrun the dog.

“Over here!” Steve yelled. He pointed to the right, and suddenly, we were running through random backyards. One homeowner, still home, opened the back door, and raised a cane at us.

“Hey!” He shouted, “Get outta here!”

“We’re trying!” Randy yelled back, I didn’t dare look behind me. One giant dog and an angry man, I really did not need to see we were leading a procession. I just needed to get to safety.

“Jump!” Steve yelled, as a white picket fence loomed ahead. Randy, Steve and I hurdled the fence without difficulty, but Randy’s Coke spilled in the process. To our relief, the fence acted as a deterrent to the German Shepherd, who stood there, barking. His tail wagged in the air like a flag declaring victory.

Dog- 1. Three teenagers- 1. Bottle of Mexican Coke- 0. Well, you can’t win them all.

We made it back to school with five minutes to spare. It would be weeks before I left campus for lunch again. By that time, Steve and Crys broke up. Crys found new love, and Steve joined the wrestling team. Marching band season ended. Randy still pined for Super JawBreakers and gummies. Soda Rock became THE spot for students.

The Green River came from a tap and continued to do so for decades. The candy sold quickly. The Frito Pie? That was a once a month special.

It was four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon when she stopped by my office. I was finishing up some paperwork from a previous case when I heard a gentle knock on my door.

“Door’s open!” I called out from behind my desk. I didn’t raise my head, but I continued typing.

“Um, hello?” came a timid voice. She stood in the door frame, about five foot six, shaggy auburn hair, blue eyes that were hidden behind glasses with purple frames. Burdened with an armful of books and tightly clutching a pen with her right hand, the woman hesitated before taking a step into my office.

“Grab a seat,” I said casually, “I’ll be with you momentarily.” I finished typing, swiveled my mouse around my desk, clicked twice, and snapped the lid shut on my laptop. I sat up and surveyed the person across from me.

I nodded my head, and asked, “Shall I put on my mask?” I began to reach for the top drawer on my right.

“It’s fine,” the woman replied, “I won’t take up much of your time. May I keep mine on?”

I nodded, and she took a seat in the wooden chair in front of me. The stack of books remained clutched to her torso, so I offered a space on my desk for my visitor to unload her burden. She thanked me, set down the books, but held onto the pen, trying not to fidget as she did so.

“I heard you can find people,” she said at last. Her voice was low, almost like a whisper, but not muffled. Despite the thick mask over her face, her words were quite clear.

“Yes, I can. Within reason,” I shrugged. “Have you gone to the-“

“I uh-“ she shook her head, “I don’t wish to consult the police. I hope you understand, but they’re not exactly a force I can trust with this.”

“I see…” was all I said. I opened my laptop once more and opened a blank template on Microsoft Word. “Let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “Who are you looking for?”

“It’s an aunt of mine. Her name is Florence. She lives across town, with her dog, Spots. We see each other once or twice a month. I host her for lunch or dinner, and Spots chases the squirrels away from my bird feeder, although I don’t really mind, Spots is harmless.”

I transcribe as the woman narrates.

“You live here in the burbs?” I ask casually.

“I uh-“ she begins, looks over her shoulder, then back to me. “I live two towns over in Collins. Florence lives near Loveland, but it’s farm country in her area. I know it’s supposed to be lovely there, but lately, Florence has been complaining about how some corporation wanting to buy her farm to convert the area into condos.”

I nod, tapping away at my laptop. Developers have been actively driving up real-estate prices for months now, causing small towns like Loveland to be completely unaffordable. Hounding homeowners to sell for lucrative amounts of cash was not new. The trend began in California and had finally made its way to Podunk-ville, where I eeked out a living as a private detective. It wasn’t uncommon for these companies to team up with the local and state governments to bully homeowners into selling, or threatening them with the phrase, “Eminent domain,” on a property.

“So you think some developers are after your aunt?” I said blithely, clacking the words ‘eminent domain’ into my notes.

“Yes, I do,” she said with a sniffle. “Aunt Florence never came over last weekend, and while she occasionally goes on a cruise, she would never leave Spots.” The woman sniffed again.

I looked up. The woman’s glasses were foggy, and I could see tears flowing to the edge of her mask. I sighed, and stood up. I reached over to the filing cabinet behind me, and moved a box of tissues, which sat on top. I crossed the room to offer the poor woman one. She nodded in thanks, and took the whole box, setting the box carefully on her lap. The woman never removed her mask, which was visibly damp, but she dabbed at her eyes, and removed her glasses to dry her tears.

I returned to my desk.

“I take it something happened to the dog?” I asked when the woman seemed able to speak again.

“Spots arrived on our agreed upon date. Looking terrible, as if she had run away from home. I’m not particularly attached to this dog, but seeing her without Florence, well,” the woman sniffed again, “I felt deep down that something was amiss.

“Spots spent the night with me. She wasn’t at all interested in chasing the squirrels out back, which is unlike her at all. I called Florence the next morning, but there was no answer, and her voicemail box was full. I was worried about Spots, since she wasn’t her normal peppy puppy self. I decided I’d take her to the vet, but she was gone by the time I went to move the poor girl to the car.”

I raised an eyebrow and paused my transcription. This story was getting stranger by the moment.

“Did you call the SPCA? Animal Control? Anyone?”

The woman burst into tears. “

“You don’t understand at all!” she wailed.

I stood up, crossed the room, and closed the door to my office immediately. Something I should have done minutes before.

“Suddenly, I get the feeling that this isn’t a dog you’re talking about, is it?” I said, my voice above a whisper.

“You’re a woman, I figured you’d understand!” the woman wailed loudly.

I shook my head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my gender. I’m nonbinary, for starters.”

“But you have a –“

“I’m afraid not? Not that it’s anyone’s business but my own, but I had a hysterectomy about a decade ago,” I said with a shrug. “OH! Wait, are you speaking figuratively? About the dog and the aunt?”

The woman looked up sadly. After a long pause, she nodded slightly.

“I see…” I said slowly. “Have you consulted a doctor?”

“I tried? Offices are booked until July. I have an appointment for one then.”

“And have you taken a test?”

“Several!” the woman cried. “I’ve taken several pregnancy tests. I’m not though. I’m just… old I guess.”

I sighed. Once again, I thought about how the system failed to teach anything. I took another moment to study the woman across from me. She was plump, but not old in the face. Still, I’d gauge her as being old enough, maybe 37? 40?

“You spoke to me of your aunt Florence and her dog, Spots. Now, I shall ask you if you are acquainted with someone named Perrie. Perrie has an older sibling named Mehna.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Perrie and Mehna. They are two makeover specialists that have a shop on the next block. ‘Pause for Effect,” is the name. I think that perhaps they can answer the questions you have.”

“Wait, you really think I’m that old?” the woman looked shocked. “I was carded two days ago when I went to buy wine at a bar!”

“Ma’am, I have no idea what age you are, but if you seek answers to the question of your missing Aunt Flo and her dog Spots traveling alone, Perrie and Mehna most certainly will help you. They will stymie that sense of dread and panic you’re oozing, and help you seek the answers your health ed teacher forgot to tell you about that are on the exam. More, they can help you in ways I cannot.

“Simply put, your Aunt Florence has retired for an extended vacation in Costa Rica. That’s my guess. So Spots is in your care for a while, and eventually, Flo will come for Spots too. There’s really nothing to worry about unless you wish to keep the developers from seizing your aunt’s property in Loveland. In that case, talk to your doctor when you see them in July. In the mean time, thank whatever powers that be that you don’t have unexpected guests for dinner for a while, and break out the party hats. It’s all downhill from here, so enjoy the ride.”

“What? That’s it?” the woman gasped.

“Well, Flo might come back, and she might bring souvenirs. Cross that bridge when you get to it. Or if you prefer, host a funeral, and give a eulogy for your departed uterus. Matters not to me. Still, I recommend visiting Perrie and Mehna up the street. They give the best advice on self-care and love for the next stage of your life.”

I snapped my laptop shut.

“I can’t help you, but they can. Now,” I scooped up the books on my desk, handing them to the woman who was now standing. I gave the books to her.

“Best be on your way before ‘Pause for Effect’ closes for the day. You don’t want to be out when night falls here. It’s not the best part of town. You can keep the tissues.”

I escorted the woman out of the office, locking the door behind me. I made my way to the nearest pub down the street. There was a Manhattan with my name on it, and it was now five o’clock.

The first thing you should know is that I love bikes. I love everything about them. The chewiness of the tires, the grease of the bike chain. I even love the expressions of the people on these bikes. Especially when I chase them.

The fact that bicycles are about three times my size does not deter me. Unlike cars, which roar when they come to life, bicycles make little clicky noises, and people pant as they ride up the hill near my house. I simply cannot get enough of those little people carriers.

I’ve ridden on a bicycle, of course. When I was a wee pup, I was placed in a front basket. It was on Easter Sunday. Beatriz took me for a ride, but she and the bike did not get along. After riding for about a block, a squirrel popped its head down from the branch, and I yelped with excitement. Beatriz lost control, and next thing, we were on the pavement. I meant to comfort Beatriz, whose tears betrayed a scraped knee. But the bicycle came back into focus, and putting two and two together, I decided it was the bicycle’s fault that we were in this mess. So I did what any good girl would do. I howled, and barked at the thing, until I heard, “Mija, stop your barking!” Mama had come, scooped up Beatriz, and it was time to go back home.

Unfortunately, I did not see any bicycles for a while, and I moved away from Beatriz and Mama. I stayed in a shelter for a while, but in a few short weeks, a new family adopted me. I was given a new name, Lily.

They had a grassy yard, and a kitten to play with. But best of all, they had bikes! Three huge bicycles! This family went for rides when the sun shone, and the roads were clear of ice and snow.

Sometimes, I would ride in a backpack, but I was a little big for that. Eventually, the youngest, a girl named Sunny, took me with my leash, and I ran alongside as she rode her bright red bike. I searched and searched for squirrels, but this new neighborhood did not provide. Bored, I tried to cross to the other side of the street, dragging Sunny and the bicycle with me.

That was the last time I got to run along with the bicycles.

I never stopped daydreaming about them though. In the summer, many bicycles would coast past our house, and I would always bark, “Hello!” when I saw one. Yet the bicyclists never seemed to want to stop and humor me. How I longed to chew on those skinny tires and spiky pedals. So I would sigh from my yard, and daydream.

One day, luck was on my side. Sunny and I went for a walk. Sunny and I could walk for hours, and I didn’t mind, because the further we got from home, the more there was to see. Squirrels, trees, and of course, bicycles. This time, one of the bicycles that coasted past the house daily crossed our path only a half block from home!

I was delighted. I gave a quick bark, ‘hello,’ as surely the person would recognize me. The bicycle came and went, gliding past the STOP sign without even a glance. I took this personally. I greeted this person daily for weeks all summer, and not even a nod, or a “Hey, doggy, what’s up?”

I was pretty upset about this obvious snub, and I really needed to know why that person wouldn’t give me the time of day.

So I tugged on my leash.

I broke free from Sunny.

I began to run after the bicycle, with the speed of a cheetah. I really needed to – sniff the tires, or bark at the person. I needed some sort of validation.

“Lily, wait!” Sunny called after me. Sorry, kid, I need answers. Not even Mama could calm this puppy down. I ran.

And ran.

The roar to my right didn’t faze me.

“LILY!” I heard Sunny yell, but at that point, a very large machine was above me, and I suddenly felt like I should run much faster. I bounced off of a wheel, and came out to the curb. Sunny had caught up with me, and she grabbed me, her face full of worry.

The bicycle was long gone. As I felt hands gently caress the fur along my back, I watched as the largest car paused, then continued down the road after the bicycle. It made a very loud noise as it roared down the street. My back stung a little, and I realized that perhaps my pursuit of the bicycle wasn’t worth it.

“Lily bounced off of the bus wheel!” Sunny said a few moments later. I looked at Sunny and my human parents. My ears perked up.

What’s a bus? Actually, I didn’t want to know. Their wheels weren’t at all chewy like bicycle wheels. I would be careful going forward, but not before enduring six months of obedience school training.

Now, I know how to ‘heel’ on walks with Sunny and the others. I am not allowed to be distracted by the bicycles or squirrels when I’m on leash. But I do still think about that bicycle that never bothered to stop and say hi to me. I think about the bus too. I never want to go near one of those again.

Not even once.

*** *** ***
Author note: This is fiction, but based upon an actual event from my childhood.

Thank you for reading.

The pandemic claimed my hometown favorite coffee shop in 2020, The Market. The Market was a place of kosher delights, savory and sweet. Classical music from the local NPR station greeted fellow travelers upon entry. At the main entrance, violins swirled with the warming aroma of espresso, and cinnamon from various pastries, wrapped and ready for purchase.

If you entered from the north, you were subjected to the smells of seafood from the restaurant below before the dulcet tones greeted your ears. Up the stairs, you opened a door, and the black and white chessboard floor tile of the café below gives way to well-worn oak floors. The wood creaked, and welcomed your weary feet, the door swooshed shut behind you, leaving the smell of clams and crab behind. It was replaced at first by chocolate, an artisan chocolate counter was to your left, but as you ventured further, warm savory dishes with a unique Colorado flare tantalized your nostrils at the deli counter.

Did you want that freshly baked noodle casserole with cheese, or a piping hot relleno? No matter the choice, the serving is enough for two. I hope you brought a friend with you.

The back entrance is through a battered alleyway just off 14th Avenue. No one notices as you slip up the metal stairs out back, the prongs sharp enough to get the last of the ice and snow off your shoes before you gingerly sneak in out of the cold. A simple wooden French door sits slightly ajar, as this is the delivery entrance.

Ten-foot-tall shelves line the way filled with goodies from across the globe. I discovered Nutella when a friend pointed out jars of the spread on these shelves way back in 1993. Later, rather eager to impress the person I eventually married, I found and purchased Monin syrups which were for sale in 2001.

When headed to the other side to find a seat at a vacant oaken bistro table, a long deli display and ice cream freezer may have beckoned you to grab a sandwich with freshly sliced cold cuts and cheese, or an ice cream cone to cool down on a hot summer’s day. Yet always in the mood for chai, I would venture toward the front instead, as symphonic music swelled louder.

The Market made their chai from scratch, and it tasted authentic. Or- if you needed something sweeter and less spicy, nothing could beat their Black Forest Latte. The baristas were all very outspoken and somehow knew just how to make your drink without you even needing to be specific. One barista would swear at the surlier customers in Gaelic, which always piqued the interest of at least a couple of people behind you in line.

My very first love introduced me to The Market, and while we were never more than platonic, my romance with this particular café lasted for decades. As I head to Denver later this year, my heart laments that loss of flavor. There will be no Market chai or Black Forest lattes, no zucchini bread (theirs was hands down THE BEST), or hot rellenos. Most travelers mourn the loss of the Market Spring Fling cake, which was always available at the dessert counter up the stairs. Three bakers have since opened a cottage bakery called, “Lala’s Bakery,” and the thought of something from that part of the past tempts me.

I hesitate to order though, because it wasn’t just my mouth that sought comfort in The Market for many years and trips to my hometown. It was the ambiance, the feel of those oak floors, the smells of the many parts of the café, the sounds of the music and scooting chairs and espresso machines whirring around. I miss the feel of the large cups, always filled to the top, or the music making of the shakers filled with cocoa, cinnamon, or nutmeg. I miss the feelings of heartache or happiness that accompanied me when I stepped through those doors, day after day.

Sometimes one needs more than a taste to remember what the heart feels.

The mind can be funny sometimes. Angry words directed at you when you were six suddenly burn hot as if stabbed into your heart five minutes ago. A careless phrase uttered by someone feeling snarky because you don’t fit into their box forever stabs at your psyche to the point that
you feel worthless, defeated.
( Read more... )

Crooked, jagged, not pearly white. Some or all are missing or broken. Hands cover a crooked smile.

Generation upon generation upon generation. Doctors can decipher identities through dental records, even long after the body has returned to the soil.

My grandmother had only five left when she died. My mother, well, let’s say that she was grateful I got my father’s teeth. ( Read more... )

Thank you for reading.

Georg,

I’m trying to recall when we were first introduced. Sometime very early on. Was it with Princess Diana’s wedding? That sounds about right.

The wedding was televised across the globe, and viewers watched in awe, while dulcet tones played through the speakers. It was then that we became acquainted. After, teachers insisted on including your works during class through primary, and even the most nonmusical among us could recite sixteen measures from at least one of your choruses.

During studies at the university, professors made certain that you were much more than a footnote in our course of studies. Your works were dissected and reconstructed in theory and history classes; your virtues were illustrated in pedagogy classes. And of course, we were required to perform your repertoire with much regularity.

Georg, there is a running joke about you. We musicians frequently tire of having to schlep out your work over and over. But come December, at least one of your pieces pays the bills. Since we classical musicians make so little, we fervently sing, “Alleluia” when we get a Benjamin or two for that holiday service.

It seems that while you’ve been dead for hundreds of years, your melodies never die. I’ve shed many a tear over having to play your manuals, realize your basslines, and sing your melismatic lines repeatedly. Well, until last year. Then everything came to a screeching halt.

On May 25, 2020, George Floyd was murdered by police in Minneapolis, Minnesota. While murder is not uncommon, Floyd’s was different, and for a moment, citizens of the world stopped to consider how we’d gotten here. Somehow, your name came up in discussions. Repeatedly. You, Georg Friedrich Handel, who died in 1759, across the Atlantic Ocean some 4000 miles away, have a history that most of us had no knowledge about. While you were penning The Messiah, one of your most famous oratorios, you were also making a profit from slave trading investments, and you did so for decades. Biographers have tried to leave this major detail out of texts for years, but evidence of your investments began to resurface in 2015. By June 2020, we were trying to figure out how to decolonize the musical experience, and historians spoke up saying, “By the way, Handel did this…” to the astonishment of all.

Unfortunately, the honeymoon doesn’t seem to be over with general audiences. So come December, many orchestras will churn out another rendition of The Messiah, just as many opera companies have revived noted anti-Semite Richard Wagner’s operas in their return to live performances. But while Wagner’s blatant anti-Semitism did not directly destroy people, your legacy did. While Wagner focused on opera, you wrote for every instrument and voice. Fortunately, for every Georg Friedrich Handel, there is a Joseph Bologne, a worthy composer and amazing violinist. Or perhaps if music from your contemporaries isn’t your style, Edward “Duke” Ellington, was a prolific and gifted composer. Perhaps audiences would discover his works and abandon yours at the altar.
I wonder if you ever regretted the fact that you profited from the trade of humans, or if you gave it any thought whatsoever. I wonder if classroom teachers and musicology professors realize the error in singing your praises, and if orchestra boards worldwide are trying to figure out how to state Black Lives Matter in practice by removing your works from upcoming concert seasons. I hope they do, but then I remember Wagner’s tremendous comeback tour of 2021, and I worry that the dialogue that happened following George Floyd’s death will be for nothing.

As a teacher, I no longer use your repertoire in my studio. I have opted to no longer perform your works as well. I no longer feel obligated to support concerts where your repertoire is performed, and instead am investing my time, talent, and money into new works by composers like Reena Esmail and Nilo Alcala.

I never loved you, Georg. Sorry, that ship never left the harbor. Yet, the disappointment I have for your past deeds is palpable. May you fade at long last.

Immer,

Favorite Bean

***
Author note: Thank you for reading. For more on Handel and his involvement with the slave trade, please visit the following links below.

1)https://musicologynow.org/handel-and-the-royal-african-company/

2) https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/even-handel-profited-from-the-slave-trade-wqz7l6m7f

3) https://www.thespco.org/blog/artists-respond-to-handels-investment-in-the-transatlantic-slave-trade/

4) https://www.classicfm.com/composers/handel/royal-academy-of-music-decolonise-collection-slave-trade/

At the 1912 Detroit Auto Show

“Good afternoon. We are here to unveil our latest prototype, which will expedite convenience and comfort to the masses. If I may, please direct your attention to the large covered object on the stage to my left.”

There is movement from the audience as they divert their attention stage left.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we here at Smerd Enterprises have worked day and night to bring to you, the latest in automobile pleasure. I will now ask Gladys and Ethel to remove the covers. Ahh, yes! Our ladies do look quite lovely in their sparkling dresses. Perfect for the foxtrot at the nightclub on a Saturday night. You may pick up this lovely number at the Smerd Enterprises Gift Shop on your way out. Now, back to the main star of the show…”

The covers are removed to reveal a shiny red large car. The audience gasps, then they applaud.

“Yes, yes! This, folks, is Smerd’s latest and greatest, ‘The Xenith!’ The first of its kind, actually. It holds six passengers, and there’s even a boot large enough to hold your mother in law’s twelve suitcases!”

The men in the audience laugh.

“Better, this luxury automobile can travel to speeds of twenty five miles per hour, which is the fastest an automobile can travel! It can travel three miles to one gallon of leaded petrol, and there is even a spare tire in the back in the event of an accident. The Xenith, everyone!”

The audience erupts with applause.

“Now, I will allow for just a few questions. First, this lovely lady in the front row.”

“Yes, I see that it’s not Smerd Enterprises’ trademark black color. It’s a lovely shade of red, I must say. Does it come in black?”

“Ah, a wonderful question! How could I forget to discuss car color? No, this particular model comes in Delicious Red, like this one on stage, Gallant Green, and Brilliant Blue. As this is our luxury people mover, we want to flaunt our colors. Thank you, next question from the gentleman in tweed, please!”

“Yes, thank you. Does this Xenith also feature the black smoke that billows out of its exhaust like your Omega and Secondo models?”

Some women gasp at this question.

“Sorry? What black smoke? You mean the automotive exhaust? I believe that it is technically gray.”

“And what have you to say about the reports from biologists who state that this ‘exhaust’ is killing off wildlife across the Midwestern United States?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, but I’d like to direct you toward the two men in gray suits just behind you.”

“Your monstrosities are choking our environs!”

“With all due respect, Mister Tweed, our automobiles are a symbol of progress and human ingenuity. We have no record of environmental distress. Now, if you will excuse me, that’s all the time we have for questions. Thank you for coming today, ladies and gentlemen. Please don’t forget your complimentary cigarette cases as you exit the auditorium.”

The audience begins to exit. The Xenith is an instant hit, appealing to upper class families wishing to travel in style. Smerd Enterprises sold the car until 1929 when the company suffered significant losses with the stock market crash. Smerd folded in 1931.

***

A board meeting at Goose Chemical Company, 1934

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” the board members said in unison.

“Please sit. As you know, our Agri-accelerator department has worked very hard to create a chemical additive to combat the boll weevil. Farmers across the nation that have not been displaced by the terrible effects of the dust bowl are fighting an epidemic of weevils and boll weevils. They are destroying crops. Our nation is starving, and naked. It is no longer enough to accelerate the growth of crops. Now, we must fight the bugs. I have invited Agri-accelerator chief, Mr. Orange, this morning to discuss his new miracle additive, Bio-Cease. Mr. Orange?”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I have toured many farms along the Carolinas and in Tennessee. They are faring quite poorly. These weevils, along with locusts and ants are destroying crops year after year. With Oklahoma, Kansas and much of the plains region no longer able to produce crops, it is up to us at Goose Chemical to help save agriculture from those despicable insects. Otherwise, we will starve. Nor will we have cotton for clothing. We currently have a prototype, Bio-Cease. I guarantee that it works effectively against the toughest of weevils, and other insects. We need proper funding to create more. In order to mass produce this agent for distribution to farmers, we require $600,000 in budgetary funds.”

“Mr. Orange,” said a younger board member, “My children love to play outside, but my son Biff reacts terribly to red ants when they bite. Will this be available to regular people like us who wish to destroy those pesky ant colonies?”

“If our agent is successful with farmers, it is our hope that we can sell a diluted product for non farmer consumers. As is, however, it does cause severe blisters when in contact with skin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Orange. I look forward to your demonstration of the prototype this afternoon.”

“Thank you. We at the Agri-accelerator department will await your visit.”

***

A podcast posted, January 6, 2019

“Happy New Year! Welcome to our first podcast for 2019. I’m Alyce Carter.”

“And I’m Jim Raintree. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we have devastating news for you podcasters. Let’s talk about it. What do we want, Alyce?”

“I can’t speak for you, but I want my butterflies back, Jim!”

“Look, I’m scared of butterflies. Eight year old me would say, they’re all moths, and a good moth is a dead moth. But I take back what I said when I was eight, okay?!?”

“Jim, save your mottephobia stories for your other podcast. This is important! Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock-“

The sound of moving rocks interrupts Alyce.

“You’ve probably read the latest articles coming out of the news. Believe me, it’s not good,” Jim continued.

“Monarch butterflies are dying off, people!”

The camera pans out and back in repeatedly as screeching violins sampled from the movie ‘Psycho’ play. Alyce and Jim stare with alarm at the camera.

“Even America Today is discussing the great die off of our gorgeous and delicate monarch population. Which by the way, has dwindled by a whopping 86%. Remember the bees?”

“Those poor honey bees. Well now it’s the monarchs, and at this rate, they’ll be extinct by next year. According to journals, the species has declined in size by an astonishing 97% over the last thirty years. It really makes me feel bad for hating moths and butterflies when I was eight. This is bad news, people!”

“I can’t help but wonder whether this was premeditated by the pharma companies when they came up with their recipes for Agent Orange and DDT, or whether it’s all the smog from cars, trucks, planes, coal factories- you get the picture.”

The sound of a jet zooms from left to right.

“Funny thing, Alyce. You’ve hit it on the nose.”

Alyce covers her nose. “Do tell,” she says with a look of mock surprise.

“Well, in addition to pesticides and herbicides, scientists have linked milkweed declination with smog which comes from-“

“Car exhaust? Are you kidding me?”

“Car exhaust. I would never kid about this. Oh, and for you listeners out there? Milkweed is what monarch butterflies depend on for that annual migration. So stop spraying those milkweed plants, and maybe drive a little less?”

“Maybe it will help. I’ll legit cry if the monarch goes extinct. Please, people! We need to do something. 2019 is already off to a shaky start, and don’t even get me started on current political events. For that, you can tune in next week. Thanks for listening!”

“Want to discuss butterflies, leave us a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe!”

Author Notes: 1) Names and company names are fictitious.

2) While this story is a work of fiction, the monarch die off is not.

Thank you for reading.

Retired centurion Gaius Cassius surveyed the landscape before him. It was a lush vista, surrounded by rolling hills. The town was significantly smaller and quieter than Roma. A mere hop, skip and jump away, vineyards produced some of the finest nectars known throughout the Empire. Near the ports, lovely lidos beckoned, or so Gaius Cassius reckoned, during the height of holidays, while at the other end, a modern colosseum provided daily entertainment for tourists like him and his wife Vipsania.

During their three days on vacation, Vipsania pleaded with Gaius Cassius to consider this as the place to settle down. Having received a substantial pension for years of serving the Empire along with a wealthy inheritance following Cassius the Elder’s death, Gaius and Vipsania had decided to tour the lands that belonged to the Empire, and find a place worthy enough to sire their own family.

On the morning they arrived at Herculaneum, the ground began to rumble and shake. Vipsania had just departed from the temple of Juno after receiving blessings for her pregnancy. While townsfolk carried on as normal, the tremor caught Vipsania by surprise. When not one citizen seemed perturbed by the Earth’s movement, Vipsania took this as a sign from the Gods that this little town of Herculaneum is where they should stay. At this realization, the baby inside Vipsania’s belly kicked, and Vipsania smiled.

“Yes, my son, we shall live here then.”

“Are you quite certain that you wish to stay here, beloved?” Gaius Cassius asked.

“I do,” Vipsania smiled. “I cannot think of a lovelier place than here. Even little Gaius the younger seems to agree.” Vipsania patted her belly, which bounced in response.

Gaius Cassius smiled. He had been certain that Vipsania would prefer the city of Pompeii to Herculaneum, so he had only planned to break the morning fast here before setting sail for Pompeii three days prior. Many of Gaius Cassius’ neighbors had spoken about moving to Pompeii someday, it was well known for its beauty and wines.

Gaius Cassius even went so far as to take Vipsania to Pompeii that afternoon as scheduled. While the town was even lovelier to the eye, and her citizens seemed to exude vibrance, Gaius Cassius could not see any sort of flicker of excitement for the resort town. The Earth trembled just as Vipsania and Gaius Cassius set foot on the ship to take them back to Herculaneum. Tourists and natives alike looked to the skies in curiosity, but Vipsania was not swayed.

“No, I think it is best that we return. The Gods even tell us now as the Earth quakes beneath our feet. You can tell, can’t you, beloved?” Vispania said. Her brown eyes pleaded that Gaius Cassius would acquiesce and that the family could lay roots down.

“Yes, I see,” Gaius Cassius said. He couldn’t, but he loved Vipsania, and did not wish to disappoint her. So back to Herculaneum they sailed. Days later, Gaius Cassius had a plot of land with a small villa. The gulf framed the landscape from the west, and Mount Vesuvius to the east. Vineyards were nearly ready for harvest, and a servant tended to Vipsania’s needs.

On the fourth day, Gaius Cassius bid farewell to his wife, for he had business to finish in Roma. He would set sale for Neapolis, then travel north. He promised to return in a fortnight’s time. Vipsania kissed him good-bye, and Gaius Cassius realized that he too, loved the land which Herculaneum stood, and that he was eager to return to this new paradise that was not hectic or overcrowded like Roma, nor overrated like Pompeii.

Sadly, business in Roma took longer than anticipated. Gaius Cassius did not return in a fortnight, but rather two months later. As his ship departed from the Neapolis, he wondered of many things. Had little Gaius had been born yet? Were the harvests plentiful? Did Vipsania cultivate friendships with the residents of Herculaneum? Did she attend the autumn festivals and learn the noble art of wine making? Would Vipsania have grown homesick for Roma instead?

As they sailed for Herculaneum, there was a loud ruckus above, which caused several seamen to head up to the deck. Curious as to what was happening, Gaius Cassius followed the crewman. When he came about, he noticed the sky was bright red and black, and a giant arrow of a cloud seemed to float up from Mount Vesuvius in the distance.

“Sir,” the centurion said, “Vesuvius seems to have risen to the heavens!” Gaius Cassius frowned. It had to be more than that, for the heavens were red with fury. Clouds expanded across land and sea.

“What should we do, Sir?”

Gaius Cassius wanted to answer, “Not my job anymore, Centurion,” but that would show dereliction of duty. Instead, he answered, “We should sail closer to land and assist citizens that need help. I don’t think that Vesuvius is reaching heaven, I think it is raining hell upon the Earth. Steady the course for Herculaneum, and we shall ferry her citizens back to Neapolis for safety.”

As the ship neared the docks of Herculaneum, Gaius Cassius and others on board saw many citizens waiting at the boathouse. In the throng of villagers, he spied Vipsania, who appeared to clutch a bundle to her bosom tightly. “Little Gaius,” Gaius Cassius thought.

The ship docked, and the throng pushed forward to board. Flakes of ash fell from above, coating everything like a blanket of snow.

“Board quickly, please!” The young centurion called to the crowd. Dozens of men, women and children boarded. At last, Vipsania stepped onto the ship.

“Beloved!” Gaius Cassius called. He embraced her quickly before whispering, “I must help the others. Go below to safety.” Then he turned to assist a few more residents of Herculaneum onto the boat before the young centurion called out. “We shall return for the rest of you as soon as we can. About a hundred residents surged toward the ship.

“Don’t leave us! Vesuvius is angry!”

“We will return, I promise!” the centurion shouted before issuing orders to the crew to secure the refugees and set sail for Neapolis.

“Sir,” the centurion said to Gaius Cassius, “I know you are retired. I am sorry, we require your service still.” Gaius Cassius nodded curtly, and went below to help the refugees.

It wasn’t until they reached Neapolis that Gaius Cassius was able to speak to his wife. She appeared exhausted as they stood on the docks, the last to disembark the ship.

“The mountain grew and reached for the sky,” she said, “there was a loud bang, and up it rose. It was terrible. Then the sky rained ash. Trees caught fire. The priests and priestesses said that we should flee. Caelia has been coughing since.”

“Caelia?”

“Our daughter.” Vipsania presented the swaddled bundle, whose big brown eyes stared in awe of her father.

“Caelia,” Gaius Cassius sighed. “Beautiful girl.” He smiled. After all this talk about a son, he had a daughter. After all this talk about the loveliness of Herculaneum, it was on the verge of ruins. But Pompeii had fared far worse.

News at the docks was that Pompeii was completely destroyed, and citizens could see the cryogenic blast all the way from the port of Neapolis. Gaius Cassius felt the weariness set in. He was certain that if Pompeii was destroyed, then so was Herculaneum. His land, gone. His son, a figment of a dream. At least he had a beautiful wife and daughter. The centurion from the ship had just informed him that the remaining residents of Herculaneum could not be rescued. Gaius Cassius felt his heart sink further. What would happen next? Certainly, the Empire would provide for them, and he could take his job back. But he was tired, and wanted nothing more than to harvest grapes, love his wife, and play with his daughter.

***
Notes: While Pompeii is the the city best known for incurring the wrath of the Plinian eruption of Mount Vesuvius, several other Roman towns were also destroyed. Herculaneum was one of those towns, although many citizens successfully fled. You can visit some of the remains today.

Since Herculaneum was not directly in the path of Vesuvius, but to the west, many residents were able to flee from the town. Unfortunately, not all residents made it. Fifty-five skeletal remains were discovered at the boathouse in Herculaneum during an excavation in the early 1980s.

Thank you for reading.

It was a nice afternoon. The sun had hidden itself for weeks. It began the night that all of the little monsters came out. It was cold, the wind had picked up, and they came in what could only be described as unruly mobs. They would pound on the barrier that separated us from the outside world, and my companion, an aging woman, would shuffle to the door.

“RICOOREE!!” they would roar. My companion would show her teeth to the monsters, and toss little rattling things at them. Pacified, they would scamper away into the night, and my mistress would seal the barrier again before shuffling back to our comfy perch to watch the moving picture box.

When the mobs were placated, the rains came. So I watched dismally from the comfort of my cushion. None of my favorite birds would come out to entertain me. I blamed the monsters for the rain.

Today, the sun had returned, and the sky was a clear deep blue. Determined to make the best of it, I went outside when Mistress opened the door. Who knew when the sun would return next? I certainly had no idea, and the rains were not pleasant. They matted my coat, and made me shiver.

I surveyed my territory. A long stretch of grass that was lush, still damp from weeks of rain, stretched out for quite a distance. Shrubs and small trees created a border, but my territory ventured further. Just beyond a particularly bushy tree with flowers, sat a wall. I sauntered to the wall, and leapt to the top. It was the perfect view for me. I could see the lands beyond, more green lawns with shrubs. Lizards and mice darted in and out, and from above, the occasional noisy bird in bright green plumage squawked from a giant string that crossed the sky.

In the distance, I spotted my rival, Taylor. His coat was grey and white, and he knew better than to trifle with me. However, he still did. He and I locked eyes, before he stomped toward me.

“I see they let you out of your cage!” He chirped in greeting.

I raised my right paw, and began to groom myself. I wasn’t going to bother with this bozo.

“I do not live in a cage, I live in a posh house, as the humans call it. Don’t tell me your humans left you out in the rain to fight the monsters! I mean, your coat looks disheveled, so I guess it’s likely,” I sniffed.

“Puh-lease!” howled Taylor. “I hid from those evil creatures under the bed. They were a fright.” He sat, and raised his own paw to groom. “I was just hunting a lizard, and that’s why my fur is wet.”

I sneezed. I opened my mouth to smell. “Yeuch! Go groom yourself elsewhere, Taylor!” I hissed. He smelled like dung. I couldn’t linger here any longer, and Taylor hadn’t bothered to look up from his grooming.

“You know what? Never mind. I’ll leave. Smell you later, Taylor!” With that, I jumped down into the next stretch of green. It smelled better over here anyway.

In this region of my territory, there lived a family of humans. They remained inside their house mostly; leaving only when inside the moving monstrosity they called a ‘caw.’ When the ‘caw’ was off, it made for a great place to nap. This afternoon was no exception. I leapt onto the tall white monstrosity, its hull warm in the sun. Then I settled in for a nap.

After, I woke, and figured I should continue my territorial survey before the sun disappeared. After a quick bath, I jumped down, and made my way through tall metal gates, and through prickly shrubs.

I wandered into a clearing, and spied the human girl whom I tolerate. My mistress calls her ‘Adia.’ She’s nice enough, fairly gentle for a human child. Adia paced back and forth between a tree house and a waterspout. Near the tree sat a shiny object. It caught my eye, so I ventured over to the thing. To my surprise, it was a large bowl type of thing, filled with water. Suddenly, I felt thirsty.

The water glistened in the afternoon sun, and I simply couldn't resist. I decided that this human kid was okay, leaving me such a generous gift. So I took a drink. The water was not cold, but it certainly tasted nice.

“Fritz, no!” Adia yelled. She was running toward me. She appeared angry. Perhaps this water was not for me? I raised my head, feeling insulted that this puny human would raise her voice at me, after allowing her to live on my land. I had finished my drink anyway, so I gave her a withering stare before sauntering across the yard.

A bird was fluttering about in a clump of trees at the border, and this absolutely required my attention. I stalked the bird, a blue jay. My mistress loved blue jays, and she loved me. Perhaps I would bring her this tasty gift, and we could enjoy the meal together.

I settled into a crouch, waiting for the perfect time to pounce into the bushes. The bird, sat on a branch, its back to me. It smelled delectable. Mistress would be so pleased with my catch.

I readied myself to pounce, my tail out in a way that I could keep my balance. My hind legs shifted, and I danced a little in my spot, anticipating my fine, feathery prize. Just as I pushed off the ground, a dreadful green squawky bird soared above me, making an awful racket.

BUMP

An acorn bounced off my head, and it made everything worse. I turned midair, ready to fight that awful parrot, and I landed on my bottom. Hard. The prey flew into the air, and kept going until I could no longer trace it.

The green squawker dove down, retrieved its lost acorn, and then returned to the skies. I was left with nothing, and I was angry for this. I hissed at the parrot, but it was long gone.

I shook my coat, and stood. This afternoon was shaping up to be not so nice. First, Taylor shows, then the human yells at me, then that awful bird makes me lose my prey. My stomach rumbled. Perhaps I would call it a day, and head back for dinner. I only hoped my mistress would not be disappointed.

I made my way across the yard, and I saw that the girl had a friend. They were making silly faces, while sitting at the vessel of water.

“This doesn’t taste very good,” the visiting boy said. Adia looked somewhat disappointed.

“May I then?” I mewed. The children looked at me, and I approached the shiny vessel. I was suddenly rather thirsty again. So I decided to take a drink. The water inside was rather murky, but I didn’t care. I drank out of mud puddles, why should this be different?

I lapped at the water, and this was no tasty mud puddle. This was just gross. Whatever Adia and her friend did to this vessel of water it should be considered desecration. After three laps, I stopped. I looked from one child to the other, confused.

“This doesn’t taste good,” I meowed.

“Fritz, do you like the sucker punch?” Adia asked. I heard my name, and at this point, I really needed pets. I raised my tail, and approached the child. If I purred loud enough, perhaps it would compel her to bring me an offering. It was the least she could do for ruining perfectly good water.

“Good kitty,” Adia cooed, “don’t drink this, okay? I’ll bring you a treat. I’ll be back, Bobby. Can you get rid of the evidence?”

Adia rose and retreated to the confines of her domicile. Bobby looked at me.

“Guess I’ll just dump this punch? You don’t want it, right?” he said.

I meowed in affirmation. This serum should be dumped, most definitely. The kid named Bobby picked up the vessel, and threw the water across the yard. Little sticks and balls flew with the water, the likely source of contamination. He sat the vessel upside down on the grass, and then I spied another cat from nowhere.

It had black and white fur, and its eyes widened at my approach. How did this cat get there? Obviously, I needed to liberate this cat before I chased it off my territory.

I swiped at the vessel with my right paw. The vessel was hard, and I could see another paw rise to meet mine. I struck again and again. One final hit knocked the vessel onto its side, and it rolled across the yard.

I could hear the other child laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Adia asked.

“I think that cat’s gone silly from our punch. He tried to hit the pot across the yard!”

“Come here, Fritz,” Adia called. She shook a bag that contained my favorite treats. Crunchy chicken flavored morsels. Yes, this would do. I trotted over to the girl, ready to forgive her for that pan of ruined water.

Adia gave me three crunchy morsels, and I ate them with gusto. I really was beginning to hunger. Bird stalking takes energy, and the sun was setting. I was going to have to check on that black and white cat trapped in the vessel first, but then supper would be so very welcome.

After a few more pets, I rose, and turned to find the cat. The once shiny vessel was nowhere to be seen, however.

“I took your pot inside and gave it to your mom,” the child named Bobby said. “I’ll help you gather the lollipops, then I have to go. Mom said that dinner’s at 5.”

No trapped cat to liberate, I decided to make my way back to my castle. Perhaps the cat had saved itself. On my way back, I scaled the wall, then saw Taylor napping on the lawn. I pounced on him, feeling the need to scrap with my rival just once today, but Taylor didn’t take the bait.

“Geez, I was just napping! I’m going home. Bye, Fritz. We can fight tomorrow if you really want.” Taylor ran off.

Well, it was a lovely afternoon at first, but this was turning out to be a bit of a disappointment. The barrier opened, and my mistress stepped across.

“There you are, Fritz!” she smiled. I stood, a tuft of Taylor’s fur fell from my mouth to the ground. My favorite human!

“I’m coming,” I mewed, and trotted towards her.

“You’re just in time for supper,” she said, “Come inside now, Fritz.”

Note:This piece is an intersection piece with the talented zedmanauk. Fritz is based on an actual cat who lives next door to me. Taylor, is based on another cat who lives two doors down. All other characters are a work of fiction, created by zedmanauk. Thank you for reading.

Savannah had a voice that was small. Sometimes, you had to lean in to listen to her. The notes that emanated from her being were pure and clear, and that kept the listener at attention. Yet, she was not a showy singer at all. Even when she over sang, she didn’t stick out in a group.

Directors liked to work her into their performing groups, because she was a good reader, and she helped other singers in given groups blend well. Need vocal jazz and want to sound like Manhattan Transfer? Put Savannah in, and you’d get your blend. Need an extra soprano for your opera chorus by next week? Ask Savannah, she could memorize music in three days. She did it with Carmen, and she didn’t speak a lick of French.

Ask her to sing a solo? Nah. Savannah was never assigned solos. She was always a mortar singer. Soloists are brick singers. Brick singers are loud, bombastic, and over the top in ways you need them to be. They sometimes sacrifice accuracy for flair, but Mortar singers are subtle, and keep everyone together. They can turn eleven voices to one singular sound, and it’s amazing. But subtlety and blend doesn’t pack the concert halls or the clubs. Yeah, she was disappointed in the lack of spotlight from time to time, but she did enjoy her job. Plus, you really needed Savannah if you want to keep your group together.

Oh, did I mention she played the piano too? What do you need? Classical, jazz, musical theater, folk, reggae, industrial? You could just stick her in the corner with a decent instrument, and she’ll pull through for you. She was a concert pianist in a past life, you know. She was always up for the job, and she loved a good challenge.

What else can I say about her? They thought she was deaf as a child. Can you believe that? She had little to say, so she didn’t bother talking. It was only after the doctors told teachers and her parents that she wasn’t deaf that she finally decided to say something.

“Oh, I knew she wasn’t deaf,” her mother would later say to reporters after a concert. “I mean, she could match any pitch her best friend screamed during temper tantrums. She thought it was a game back then!”

I’ll never forget the night I saw her perform Ginastera and Queen at the same concert. That was something. Ginastera, the Argentinian classical composer who loved minor seconds and cluster sounds, and could make the piano sing like a guitar. And the range of those early Queen songs were huge. I mean it takes about twenty people to fill the range that Freddie Mercury had in the 70s.

It’s really too bad they are all dead. I mean, how do I plan Savannah’s funeral? I think she would utterly do somersaults in her urn if I played live recordings from her performances over the years. Then again, maybe she would enjoy that. I mean, there’s a whole generation who never got to hear her Freddie. Or her Mozart, which was her specialty. Or her Ginastera for that matter.

You know what, I’ll put together some of her recordings, and play them after the eulogy. She may have been a mortar singer, and never a brick in that spotlight, but damn, she was good. You really should have heard her sing. Even on the day she died, she sat at her piano and was learning a synth pop piece. She played gently, then she sang in dulcet tones about never giving up. I pretended to be working at my computer on the other side, and I recorded her on my phone. I wish I had done that more often.

It really hurts losing your wife this way. A senseless accident with a goddamned drunk driver hit her going 65 miles per hour on the 110 freeway. She was on her way home from a gig, and well, it’s funny how I’m burying myself in her music just to keep it together. One love never wavered in Savannah- music. I wish she were still here, that small voice that kept everything together. Especially now that my life is falling apart without her.

Dear Yamyam_kat,

I run out of minutes in the day, so I can never fully express my thoughts. Some days, I don’t even get home from work events until after you have already fallen asleep. Others, I find that we need to rush hither and thither, and put out this or that fire. So I only manage to tell you that I love you, wish you good dreams, and that you should get to sleep for the next big day tomorrow.

When you were born, I was terrified that I would lose you. The doctor made a major mistake in haste to bring you into the world. I still get sad whenever I pass the hospital you were born in. I think about how the doctor had not slept in 48 hours, and that in her haste to make enough money to retire early, she almost took you from me for good. Lucky me, she didn’t.

Because of my fear, I have raised you perhaps a little more strict fashion than what your friends have experienced. I still ask you to hold my hand in parking lots, or when crossing the street. Not just for your safety, but for fear that one little twist or crack will cause you to be lost forever.

I realize that you will not be young forever, and that I need to let you learn to fly on your own. However, I also realize that I will inevitably make mistakes along your path. For that, I will try to be the best parent I can be, but I will not be perfect. No one is. I hope that you will understand both now and later.

I don’t say this often enough, but I am so incredibly grateful that the doctor’s mistake did not take you from me. I am grateful that I can watch you grow into the unique and gifted individual you are. I know that I sometimes grow impatient with having to recite the same lesson over and over. But I still love you, even on my saddest days.

I thank you for your creativity. I thank you for your kindness. I thank you for your eagerness to learn, and for your patience for dealing with things you may not like. Even if I am not there, I always think of you, and how thankful I am to have had the chance to meet you. I am thankful that I was able to keep you company for this part of your life. I hope my gratitude shows, and that you are aware that it is genuine.

Love Always,

Mommy

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Puppy Powered

July 2024

Stinger and Stunger

Blows dust from the pad of paper

Highball

Knit, knit, knit

The Bard Goes to an Audition

Stuck on Crutches- contains some profanity and adult issues

Soda Rock

Missing Persons Case

When You Don't Stop to Say Hello

The Market

Fractured: CW- depression

Embroidery

Another Breakup Song

Enginuity or Endangerment?

Herculaneum's Demise

An Afternoon With Fritz

Opus

Letter

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July 2024

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