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The Rescue

Writing prompts: Action/Adventure / A river / A child safety seat

I never know when the fire station I volunteer at will be called into action. Every time I hear the call out come over the radio, my heart races.

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BEEP BEEP BEEP – – – STATION 28 – – – BEEP BEEP BEEP

“STATION 28 – RESPOND TO A SINGLE MOTOR VEHICLE ACCIDENT. SOUTH RIVER ROAD. MILE POST 146. THERE’S A CAR IN THE RIVER. DRIVER IS STILL IN THE VEHICLE.”

“STATION 28 COPIES.”

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When I hear the call come in, I sprint to my car and race to the station. By the time I arrive, Engine 2832 is ready to roll.

“Grab your gear and let’s go. We’re going to meet Keith at the sight. His bag is already in the truck.”

Captain Martin starts pulling out of the station as I climb the steps into the truck.

“What’s the story?”

“You know as much as I do.”

The ride out to the scene of an accident is always surreal. It is both slow and fast. Time creeps to a crawl and it seems to take forever to arrive, but it also speeds up.

As the truck rushes down the street, sirens blaring, sitting high above all the other vehicles, my heart continues to race. I never know what I am going to see when I arrive at the scene.

We arrive at the location and quickly jump out to assess the situation.

Keith points down a steep embankment and indicates where the vehicle is.

“I just got here but I haven’t seen any movement.” He quickly dons his gear and we formulate a plan of action.

The Captain tosses me a life jacket as Keith ties a rope to the bumper of the truck. I tie the other end of the rope around my waist and put on the vest..

The Captain hands me a Halligan bar, “you may need to break a window. I’m not sure if you can get the door open.”

I slip the bar through a loop on my pants and make my way to the weed choked bank. As I lower myself over the edge I think to myself it never pays to be the probie.

The embankment drops abruptly into the river. I gasp for breath as I drop into the river. Luckily, it’s late summer so the water isn’t freezing cold. It’s also running lower than normal.

As I approach the car I yell, “CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? HELLO!!”

Peeking through the windshield, I see the driver’s long blond hair and a form slumped over the steering wheel. The water is pushing against the door as I try in vain to yank it open. I pound on the windshield in an attempt to get a reaction.

The force of the water presses me into the car as I make my way around it, trying to see if anyone else is in the vehicle. I spot a child’s safety seat in the back. I radio up, “the driver is unconscious and I have a child seat in the back. I don’t see anyone else. I’m going to try to enter the car.”

“Do not enter the car,” my Captain instructs. “Try to reach the driver, but do not enter. We have more help on the way.”

Acknowledging his command, I make my way back to the driver’s door. I pull the Halligan bar out of the loop and try to pry open the door to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I climb on the hood and smash the end of the bar into the windshield. The windshield starts to crack where I hit it.

I raise my arms to take another swing when my legs slip out from underneath me. I slide off the hood and into the water. Before I can get my feet on the ground I feel the rope tighten around my waist as the Captain and Keith pull on it to keep me from floating away.

Smashed against the car and unable to get my feet grounded due to the pressure on the rope, I yell into my radio.

“Give me some slack.” I gasp, breathless, as the tension lessens.

I climb back on the hood and resume pounding on the windshield. I finally get it smashed enough that an opening appears.

I yell again. “HELLO. CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

A small groan escapes from the driver.

“I’m Troy. I’m here to help. Are you ok?”

Another small groan and then the the driver tries to move.

“Hold still. Help is on the way. Is there anyone else in the car?”

A mumbled and welcome no reaches my ears and I radio up. “There’s just the driver in the car.”

I hear sirens approaching as I work the prybar into the windshield and start pulling the glass apart. It splinters into small shards as I force a larger opening.

I reach into the hole and pull out on the glass, removing as much of the windshield as I can. I hear voices approaching as more help arrives.

An EMT from another station climbs in the car with the driver and quickly checks her vitals. She is stunned but uninjured. With the help of another station we get the passenger door open and extricate her.

A backboard is lowered down and she is strapped on so we can pull her up the embankment.

A tow truck shows up to remove the car from the river and we head back to the station for debriefing.

After stowing all the gear and cleaning up, Captain Martin and Keith congratulate me on a job well done.

“Good job, firefighter.” Keith slaps me on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

The Captain tosses me a towel. “After you get showered and warmed up, it’s your turn to clean the truck.”

I grin as they walk out the door. The promotion from probie to official firefighter comes in the strangest ways.

Double Standards

Writing prompts: Political Satire / An emergency room / A fake moustache

A high-ranking politician uses his rank and status to recover from surgery anonymously in a small hospital while the staff try to guess who he is.

The emergency room was quiet at three in the morning. Most of the drunks from the bar next door had been taken care of or were passed out. The rest of the patients were sleeping and the nurses were finalizing their chart notes for the next shift.

Emily sat quietly at her desk in the corner of the room and observed the coming and going of the armed guards. They had a high-profile patient recovering in the west wing and the hospital had been on strict lock down against news reporters and unnecessary visitors.

It was a little intimidating having armed and uniformed men and women in the hospital. Seeing guns being carried openly was out of the ordinary in her line of work but for the most part, the guards were pleasant. It was usually a quiet place. Generally, most of their business came from barroom brawls. The hospital was in a poorer section of town and didn’t see many wealthy patients.  Truth be told, Emily couldn’t think of anyone ever admitted there who wasn’t a local.

Emily decided to do a little digging to find out what the patient’s story was. She was the admittance clerk and didn’t have anything else to do. Nothing that she wanted to do anyway. Apparently “John Doe” was a well-known bigshot who had just had some plastic surgery done and was recovering in their little-known hospital so he could recuperate peacefully.

“Must be nice,” she mumbled to herself as she closed the computer file.

Overhearing her comment, Ben, the night orderly, asked “What’s got you all worked up.”

“Oh, I was just looking at a patient’s file. He’s here to recover in privacy.”

“You must be talking about the guy in the west wing. They have him all the way at the end of the hallway and no one is allowed in the room adjacent to or across from him. Isn’t that the craziest thing! You’d think someone like that would be able to recover in a spa somewhere. The guards have a room set up that’s nicer than the diner down the street. You should see the food they have in there! And the guns! Sheesh!”

“Shhhh,” Emily whispered, “you know we’re not supposed to be talking about patients.” Looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was around, she continued, “but you know what I heard?”

Ben leaned in closer, “what?”

“I heard they even have undercover guards outside. Imagine that!”

“Who would need such a thing!” Ben sauntered off, shaking his head as he went.

Emily turned the TV on as soon as she got home. Working the graveyard shift was tough on her. She liked to watch a little news while she ate her breakfast, then go to bed.

The Early News on Channel 2 was her favorite. The main news anchor was a cutie and she liked his face to be the last thing she saw before she went to bed.

“And today, on Channel 2, we’ll discuss the absence of Senator Todd from the gun control hearings. He has been one of the most outspoken proponents of gun control. Staffers say a medical emergency has kept him away but that he is staying abreast of the situation and will be at the final hearing to cast his vote for the bill. Protesters have picketed his house since the beginning of the hearings and several arrests have been made due to threats against him.”

Emily finished her breakfast, shut off the TV, and climbed into bed.

It was another slow night at the hospital. The guards were becoming friendlier with the staff and seemed to be at the front desk a lot more, flirting with the nurses to pass time.

Emily watched from her corner desk, shaking her head at the outlandish display of fire power. Every guard had at least one revolver strapped to their belt.

“All this fuss over one man.”

Word was he was going to be released soon and security would be heightened even more. Emily was tempted to do a little more digging but decided she needed her job more than she needed to know who “John Doe” was. She wondered how much money it cost him to keep his name secret on his records. She hadn’t even known that was possible.

She looked up as a group came in. Heavily armed men swept through the lobby. The guards at the desk snapped to attention, pretending to be all business.

“You’re early, sir.”

“We’ve decided to move John to another location. His doctor says he can be released so we’re going to move him to a safe house for the rest of his recovery. He’s being prepped now.”

A few minutes later his entourage came down the hall, John Doe in the middle. She caught a glimpse of him as he passed through the lobby. He wore a large cowboy hat and a big mustache. He looked like a movie star. She wondered again who he was and pondered what movies he’d been in. Last she’d heard, plastic surgery was the norm so she didn’t quite understand all the secrecy, but who was she to judge.

Emily flipped the TV on just in time to catch the tail end of a scene showing a flurry of activity.

“And at 6 a.m. sources believe they saw Senator Todd being moved from Community Hospital on 79thStreet to an undisclosed location.”

Emily looked up just in time to see an image of a man quickly being ushered into a large limo.

“Hum, he looks familiar.”

A picture of Senator Todd was put up on the screen as the cute newscaster listed the Senator’s proposed actions to control gun ownership. Emily pondered the picture. Her eyes opened wide as she realized how good a disguise a fake mustache and a large cowboy hat made.

The Journey

Writing prompts: Action/Adventure / A rite of passage / An apprentice

I could have turned left instead of right. I could have jumped on the bus and rode off into the sunset, forgetting everything I’d learned, but no, I decided to stay the course. Call it crazy, but I like what I do. The excitement, the unpredictability, the danger; yes, it all gives me a reason to continue this crazy journey I started five years ago.

I met Mack, ironically, at the bank. I was a teller and he was a regular we saw every Friday. He came in, cashed a small check, and went his way. Never in my wildest dreams would I ever imagine how that first little visit was going to change my life.

Mack’s “nephew,” Junior, came in with him on one of those Fridays and asked me to lunch. Tall, dark, and handsome. I, of course, accepted.

We had lunch at a little deli across the street from the bank. I remember that day like it was yesterday. The tables lined up along the sidewalk had umbrellas to keep the sun off. We shared a plate of club sandwiches cut into triangles. We giggled like teenagers, and he asked if he could pick me up when I got off work. I said yes.

Junior came into the branch a few minutes before closing. He sat quietly in the corner until I clocked out. The head teller unlocked the door with a wink and told us to have a good night.

It took three months to figure out what was really going on.  Junior wasn’t interested in me at all. He was interested in the bank’s security features and cameras. Eventually he asked me point blank if I had ever considered robbing a bank.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Seriously, you know your way around the branch, you know where all the cameras are,” Junior prodded.

“It’s not worth it. I don’t want to go to jail!”

“Only if you get caught.”

He changed the subject, but the conversation kept running around in my head.

***

I met the rest of the “team” six months after that first lunch date. They were planning a heist at one of the smaller credit unions and they wanted me to go in and scope the place out.

“Go in and pretend you’re opening an account. Look around and note where the cameras are, what kind of security measures they have, stuff like that,” Mack instructed.

“Don’t forget to see if they have a security guard,” Andrew, the leader, added.

“I don’t know,” I replied. My heart pounded. “I’m just not sure.”

Junior took my face in his hands and stared into my eyes. “It’s too late to back out now. Besides, I know you love this.”

I realized he was right. My heart was racing with excitement, not fear.

And that was how it all started.

I scoped out that little credit union and the guys robbed it without a hitch. From that moment on, I started my apprenticeship.

The training never stopped. Our getaway driver, Sam, was starting to have problems with his eyesight so I was in line for his job.

“That’s right, tenderfoot, listen.”

If I heard those words one time I’ve heard them a hundred times.

“Pull the emergency brake and turn the steering wheel and you’ll drift right around the corner.”

“Drift, huh? Tell that to the car.”

We practiced in an abandoned parking lot at an old shopping center. It was set up to simulate the city blocks around our next job.

“Faster……now, BRAKE!!!”

I must have hit the cement pillar in the corner of the parking lot a dozen times. This was no exception.

BANG!! The car screeched to an abrupt halt. It took Sam and I a second or two to regain our senses.

“Umph,” I let out a grunt. “That hurts.”

Sam yelled at me again, “FASTER, you need to be faster!”

We practiced until I could perform the maneuvers with my eyes shut. I loved every minute of it. The excitement was like a drug. I kept wanting more. The feeling of control as I conquered the track was exhilarating. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, anything with wheels. I mastered them all.

Our next job was going to be big, life changing, and we were covering all the bases. The cop shop was next door to our target, so we needed to create a diversion. The training was as complete as it could be. The homework had been done. Now it was time for action.

This was five years in the making and it was time for a big payday.

The car was fueled and ready to go. The bank opened at 10 a.m.

“Are you ready, grasshopper?” Sam asked.

“As ready as I’m going to be.”

Our target was one block in from the end of the financial district. My first job was to draw the coppers away and keep them busy while the guys entered the bank. The financial district was flanked by the shipyards and shopping district. The ritzy neighborhood and the ocean were to the east. Our escape route led west through the residential area.

Parking was hard to find in the financial district, so Sam would position the getaway car early in the morning. He then had to set up a moving van in a predetermined location where I was to meet him. Timing was critical.

I jumped on a motorcycle we had stolen the night before and took off. I was about to create as much havoc as I could. The shipyards, shopping, and business districts would be teeming with commuter traffic coming into the city for the day. I meandered through traffic at a normal pace, watching the time for the precise moment.

On a good day it took twenty minutes to get from the far end of the shopping and business districts to the financial district. Sam and I needed to be back to the bank by 10:05. The guys were going to be out in ten minutes or less.

***

8:30     I enter the neighborhoods where all the fanciest houses are. The snobs are the quickest to call the cops when their peace is disturbed. I zoom up and down suburbia hell, revving the engine and zipping across yards. Spinning out on a nice, freshly watered yard is so rewarding. The finishing touch is a shortcut out of the ‘hood through their precious golf course. Nothing raises the ire of the rich like the destruction of their country club. I spin cookies in the greens, the rear tire flinging dirt in spectacular patterns. I leave muddy tracks through the fairway. Sirens grow closer as I make my exit.

8:45     From suburbia hell I make my way to the shopping district. Soccer-moms on phones never pay attention while they are driving. Prime targets for an accident. I zigzag crazily through the mall parking lot, pulling out in front of cars and riding the wrong way down the surrounding streets. They are zoned in now! Lots of pissed off moms on cell phones have more cops racing to the mall.

9:00     Time for the finale. Business men and women on their way to work, in a hurry, making high power deals on their way in, eyes flicking from their cellphones to the clock on the dashboard to the road. I run a red light, hear squealing brakes, and then hear the glorious sound of crunching metal. Two blocks up I stop in the middle of the intersection and start spinning doughnuts, front brake locked while the rear tire spins around in a circle, leaving a nice orb of burnt rubber, smoke filling the air. Releasing the brake, I shoot off down the street. Irate commuters coming every which way punch their gas pedals at the same time, crashing into each other from all directions.

Cop cars rush in. I take off down the sidewalk, rising up onto the rear tire and scattering pedestrians along the way. Dashing into the street to avoid me they cause more havoc. The sirens are getting closer so I wheelie off the sidewalk, back onto the street and make my way toward the shipyards where Sam is waiting.

9:20     Running more red lights and taking shortcuts across sidewalks help create the gridlock I am aiming for. By the time I reach the docks only two cop cars are pursuing me. I slalom around shipping containers waiting to be loaded, looking for pier 27.

9:25     I speed past several moving vans lined up along the pier, making sure the cop cars are still behind me. Reaching the end of the dock I spin around, facing the oncoming cars. I speed back toward them, rising up onto the rear tire and zipping between them before they can block me in.

9:30     Speeding back to where the vans are, I spot Sam with our truck, doors open and ramp in place. Not slowing down, I zoom up the ramp. I hit the wall at the end of the box at the same time Sam slams the doors shut. He quickly slides the ramp back into place, jumps into the van, and lays across the seat. After the blaring sirens race by, Sam sits up and opens the window looking into the cargo area. The crash into the wall knocked the breath out of me. It comes back in time to yell at Sam, “go, go, go.”

9:35      Assured I am okay, Sam speeds off. We have a route mapped along the piers that will take us to the financial district, avoiding the chaos further south. I rip off my helmet just in time for my breakfast to come back up. “Adrenalin rush be damned,” I mutter under my breath. After composing myself, I crawl through the window and plop into the passenger seat.

“Wow, what a rush!”

Sam shook his head, “I didn’t THINK you’d get stopped before you hit that wall.”

“You should have got a longer van,” I snap.

We look at each other and crack up into hysterical laughter, relieved to have gotten out in one piece.

Sam’s hands are shaking.

“Take a breath, old man,” I tell him. “We can’t afford to screw up now!”

Sam sucks in a lung full of air, holds it for a few seconds, and exhales.

9:45      We pull into an empty alley to dump the bike. Sam grabs a gas can and douses the bike with fuel. I flip a lit match into the puddle and as we reach the end of the alley we hear the tank explode.

We maintain a steady speed, timing it perfectly to arrive at the bank at exactly 10:05. As we near the bank, cop cars speed the opposite direction.

10:05     Sam parks the van in the street far enough from the getaway car that we can pull out, forcing traffic to go around.

10:07     Sam jumps out and throws the hood open on the van, pretending to have engine issues. I start the car and open the doors nearest the sidewalk. Sam is going to stay with the van and hold up traffic as long as he can.

10:10     Mack, Junior, and Anthony run out of the bank carrying backpacks. They jump into the car, yelling, “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE.”

I stomp on the gas and roar into traffic. We have ten long blocks to a parking garage where we have another car waiting for us. Sam will meet us later.

10:11     I spin around the corner and enter a side street. Seeing nothing in the rearview mirror I ease off the gas.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Mack yells at me.

“There’s no one following. I’m trying not to draw attention,” I snap back.

Just as I finish my last word a gunshot rings out, the bullet hitting the rear fender. I see a lone officer running down the street after us.

Another flurry of “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE”’ hits my ears.

Tires squeal as I take off. Shooting down an alley, I gun it. Reaching the end of the alley, I hope for the best and shoot into the street. Clipping the tail end of a car, I’m able to keep going. I zoom into the next alley. At the end of the alley I spin the wheel hard and slide into the street. Facing oncoming traffic, I quickly change lanes and gun it.

Racing across the intersection we pick up a cop car. He follows closely, trying to hit us with his bumper. I slam on the brakes and let him rear end us, then zoom off. His bumper guard takes the brunt of the crash, but steam is already spewing from under his hood.

“He won’t last long,” I mutter.

“DRIVE,” Andrew yells.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M DOING?” I yell back.

10:15     The next intersection brings us two more cop cars. I dash over a block and go down a one-way street the wrong direction. Cars honk and drivers cuss, but best of all, some swerve to avoid us while others slam on their brakes. I squeeze through a narrow opening, clipping the passenger side on the way through.

Spinning the wheel again, I slide sideways and launch up a side street. Halfway up the street is another alley. I shoot down that and pull into a small driveway between two buildings. We all hold our breath as we hear the sirens scream past.

10:20     I slowly creep down the driveway, easing back into traffic and heading out of town. Two more blocks and I pull into the parking garage. Dropping the guys off on the first level I roar up the ramp to the top floor. Five long ramps later I am at the top.

10:25     I leave the car running and tie the steering wheel so that the tires are at a full lock position. Grabbing a fuel can from the trunk I splash gas inside the car and throw in a match. By the time I reach the stairs the flame is spreading.

10:30     Running and sliding down the stairs I reach the first floor. Taking a few seconds to catch my breath, I ease the stairwell door open and peek out. I dash to the waiting car and jump in.

Noon – the next day – we all meet up at the bus station. Andrew divvies up the money and we all go our separate ways. Mack and Junior are headed to the Bahamas, where they hear the rum flows free. Andrew won’t tell us where he is going. He just says, “life is good” and saunters off, backpack slung across one shoulder. Sam is going to visit his children in Canada.

I’m just going to jump on my bike and travel. My journey from innocent bank teller to accomplished thief seems like a dream.

13 February 2018

Smoke and Mirrors

Writing prompts: Ghost Story / A beauty salon / A box of cigars

The day started out great. I drove myself to work just like I had every single day for the last twenty years. Upon opening the door of my beauty salon, the smell of smoke greeted me.  I wasn’t alone. It was odd, this smell. I didn’t know anyone who smoked cigars. And a cigar box. What was a cigar box doing sitting on the counter?

I walked through the salon and everything seemed okay until I got to the small breakroom in the back. The smell was strong. Smoke filled the air in a thick haze. The next thing I knew, his hands were around my neck. I didn’t even have a chance to struggle as life drained from my body.

I felt my soul drift away. I looked down upon myself laying there, lifeless and broken. I don’t know how long I floated in limbo, lost and afraid. Nowhere to go, no one to talk to. Just existing – but not really.

A plan slowly took shape, forming in my mind like mist. First it was thin and wispy, then grew thicker and more solid. Revenge, sweet revenge. A reason to exist.

At first it was the simple things. Shadows and flashes of movement. It took a while for me to learn how to move solid objects and make noises. I was like a baby learning first how to roll over, then crawl. But soon I was walking.

Everyone was different. Some people were more open minded than others. A simple shadow crossing their path would spook them. A dark movement in the corner of their eye. They would look to see what was moving and see nothing. After repeating this a few times they would be good and thoroughly spooked. They would first start to wonder if it was their imagination or if it was real. The more they questioned, the more I did it. By the time they left the salon, they knew.

The more skeptical they were, the harder it was. If the moving shadows didn’t work, I had to move objects. Sometimes I would slowly rotate the chair they were sitting in. If I was feeling especially spiteful I would raise or lower it. This really freaked them out.

Then I started turning lights on and off. Or setting the alarms off. Or opening windows. Then I was able to break windows. This took a little longer to accomplish. Destruction required anger. A lot of anger. And a lot of strength. But I was getting stronger every day.

Eventually the man noticed. He was the hardest to convince. He was skeptical and he was mean. It wasn’t as easy to get through his barriers. He was too arrogant, too superior, to know what was going on. Word got around though. Gossip spread. He started to lose business. Sure, the adrenalin junkies came to see me, but they weren’t there for haircuts. They weren’t there to spend money. I simply hung out on those days and watched. And waited. I wasn’t there for them.

Word kept spreading and now he was a laughing stock. He was accused of trying to sensationalize the mysterious death of the former owner in order to make money.

Eventually he became a joke. They accused him of making it all up. Of trying to get business by getting people to claim to have seen me. He lost clients. He was ridiculed. He was made a fool of. But I wasn’t finished.

He paid ghost hunters to find me. They brought in infrared cameras, EMF meters, thermographic cameras, motion sensors, and sound monitoring equipment. He sought out the best psychics, mediums, and exorcists. He even brought in the clergy. Nothing worked. I wasn’t playing with them.

It was time to move on to the next phase. Time to progress from walking to running. Time to pay this man a more personal visit.

It wasn’t easy for me to move from the beauty salon to his home. I had to attach to him. I had to be intimate with him, to invade his very being. It made me shiver in disgust, but it had to be done.

His house smelt like cigar smoke. The same smoke I smelled the day I died. The memory of it came rushing back and I was more determined than ever to make him pay.

He was getting ready for bed, puffing away on his cigar, smug in his perfect world. Things were bad but he knew he was going to overcome. He knew he was going to succeed.

He leaned into the bathroom mirror to smile his ugly smile, to wink at himself, congratulating his reflection on a job well done.

I stared back.

At first I held the image of myself as I had been on that day. On the day he put his hands around my throat. On the day he violated me. On the day he broke me.

Then I changed. My perfectly square white teeth slowly darkened and became pointed. My innocent blue eyes became black empty sockets. I growled at him. I snarled at him. My beautiful blond hair became a white wiry halo around my thin boney face. My clear pale skin melted off and parts of my skull peaked through.

He was frozen. He couldn’t move. Terror paralyzed him. The cigar in his hand slowly burned away, smoke wafting up, as he stared in horror at the image glaringback.

Slowly, my snarl turned into a laugh. A hysterical laugh. A laugh full of mockery and scorn.

Cigar smoke filled the room as he clutched at his chest. His throat constricted. He gasped for air. His hands came up and reached for me. Reached toward the mirror as if to grab me. To grab at smoke.

The cleaning lady found his body. There was an unexplained box of cigars sitting on the counter and the smell of smoke hung in the air as if he had just exhaled.

12 September 2018

Preventive Maintenance

Writing prompt: personal essay

Being the typical Irish-American, I sunburn. I am as pale at the end of summer as I am at the beginning. My own Mom once asked me if I was wearing white nylons under my shorts, that’s how pale I am. Not only do I burn easily, but I’m also allergic to sunscreen. This combination creates some unique challenges. Big hats and shade trees are my friends.

I make regular visits to a dermatology clinic for preventive maintenance. We live in a small town in a rural area, so the nearest dermatologist is over an hour away. During a routine checkup the doctor found a suspicious spot on my forehead and scheduled an appointment to have it removed. He told me it would be a topical numbing agent, so I wouldn’t need to bring a driver.

Unbeknownst to me, this routine procedure was going to be performed by his physician’s assistant-in-training. The first thing they did was numb my forehead. Shortly after the physician’s assistant started, a heavy unexpected pressure pinned my head to the chair and something wet trickled down my neck and into my ear. The PA whispered to the nurse to get the doctor. I could tell something was wrong and started to feel a tingle of apprehension. The nurse ran out of the room and rushed back with the doctor.

I realized the wetness running down my neck was blood and the pressure I had felt was the PA trying to get my head to stop bleeding. She had nicked a major vein and as we’ve all learned from TV shows, head wounds bleed, a lot. It took them awhile to get the bleeding stopped. By the time they were finished, I needed eight internal stitches and six external stitches.

A bandage had to be taped on and then wrapped in gauze to keep it from falling off or getting wet. By the time the doctor was done I was sure he had used an entire roll of fabric. Everything but my face and the back of my head was fully covered. I was three loops short of being a mummy. He then told me he called in a prescription and that I needed to leave for home immediately because in about an hour, I would have the worst headache I had ever had. He also gave me a note excusing me from work for the rest of the week.

The look on the other patient’s faces in the waiting room was priceless. When I entered the room, all eyes were on me. As I hobbled out to my car I could see their heads turning to watch me as I made my way across the parking lot.

The drive home was even more interesting. I received the classic double-take numerous times. I drove home as fast as I dared and when I passed cars, the drivers would glance over, then stare at me slack jawed, eyes wide open when they realized that the person who was overtaking them had her head wrapped in gauze like an escaped hospital patient.

In my imagination I heard the 911 calls to dispatch. “There’s an escaped hospital patient driving down Interstate 84. Her head is wrapped up like a mummy and she’s speeding.” Luckily, I made it home without incident. My husband picked up my prescription and met me when I got into town, so I wouldn’t have to go into the pharmacy.

The doctor was right. I had the worst headache ever. Blood had soaked into my hair and dried. It was stiff and crackly, and my scalp itched like crazy.  I had dried blood in one ear and down my back.  I wasn’t supposed to shower because I had to leave the wrap on for three days and I couldn’t risk getting the bandage wet. I knew I was going to stink. This was not a welcome development.

To add insult to injury, two weekends prior to this, I had been in a horseback riding accident. I had road rash all over one shoulder, a bruised face, and had to use crutches to walk due to a severely sprained ankle.

My boss was not pleased when I stopped by to show him the results of the day’s activity.  I knew he wasn’t going to believe it unless he saw it first-hand. He had the same look as the drivers I had passed on the way home.  I had already missed work the week prior because of the horse wreck, and now this. He mumbled something about how one person could be so unlucky. I worked at a mortgage company at the time and we had a big file review coming up. The timing was not optimal, but what’s a girl to do. These things cannot be planned.

When I got home, our landlord was walking by as I was getting out of the car. I received the now familiar double take from him and he asked what happened. He shook his head in disbelief when I told him my story.

I still go to my yearly dermatology appointments. I go to a different doctor. I consider myself fortunate that I made it thirty-eight years before ever needing stitches.

12 August 2018

A Night at the Quarry

Writing prompts: Ghost Story / A quarry / A propeller

If anyone would have bothered to look up on the evening of August 31, 1969, they would have seen the ball of fire shooting into the dark sky. There were no witnesses of the horrific plane crash that night, so it remained a mystery until Powers Rock and Gravel decided to build a quarry in the mountains of northern Arkansas.

Imagine their surprise when they found the burnt shell of an airplane tottering on the edge of the mountainside, the propeller dangling precariously over an outcropping of boulders.

After a bit of investigative work, an employee named Alex found enough information to solve the mystery.

The plane had departed Kansas City, MO, at 11:45 p.m. with two passengers – the pilot, Mr. Henry Blake, infamous for his ability to make money no matter what he touched, and a woman simply notated on the flight manifest as “unknown female.”

Alex found headlines: MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF HENRY BLAKE; BLAKE DISAPPEARANCE STILL A MYSTERY ONE YEAR LATER; BLAKE OFFICIALLY DECLARED DEAD. There was never any mention of the unknown female.

The headline on September 1, 1981 read: BLAKE MYSTERY FINALLY SOLVED.

The quarry was in full operation by then and was a success during the building boom. Eventually, it was abandoned and left to fill with water. It soon became the favorite hangout for the local kids.

***

Sally and Bill ran hand in hand across the bluff and dropped into open air, screaming as loud as they could as they plummeted to the water below. With a splash, the liquid swallowed them, and they plunged deep down into black coolness. They emerged, laughing and yelling as their heads broke free of the cold grip. Exhilarated by the freefall into the cold depths, they quickly climbed out of the reservoir and made their way up the hill to do it again. Later, exhausted after an afternoon of swimming and climbing, the two sat by a small campfire and watched the crackling flames.

Bill’s older brother, Bart, and some of his buddies strolled by.

Bart leered at his buddies, “Bill’s here with his little girlfriend.”

“Come on, Bart. Go somewhere else,” Bill pleaded.

“No way,” Steve replied. Steve was Bart’s best buddy. “Haven’t you heard about the Lady of the Lake?”

“Yeah,” Jeff added, “there ain’t no way I’m going out there in the dark. She might get me.”

“That’s just a bunch of silliness,” Bill frowned. “A stupid ghost story our parents tell us to keep us away.”

“Oh no,” Bart shook his head. “I’ve seen her.”

“Yeah, right. You’re just being a jerk.”

“Nope. On a clear night like tonight, if you go for a swim, you can see her floating in the water.”

“Dad says she’s the ghost from the plane wreck.”

“What plane wreck?” Sally asked.

“A long time ago a plane crashed here, and no one knew about it. The bodies were eaten by the bears, but their ghosts still float around, waiting for someone to bury them, but they can’t bury them because they were eaten, so they’ll be ghosts forever!” Jeff rambled on, getting excited. “The man was cheating on his wife and then they crashed and died, and the woman is still trying to find him.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense,” Bill scoffed. “Now, go away.”

“What woman?” Sally asked, “and if no one knew about it, how do you know the man was cheating on his wife?”

“My Grandpa Alex told me all about it.”

“Yeah, to scare you,” Bill teased. “He did a good job!”

“Shut up, you little piss ant!” Jeff slugged Bill on the arm, hard enough to make Bill wince and rub his shoulder.

“Aw, let’s get out of here,” Bart drawled. “Leave the love birds alone.”

Bill scowled at the older boys as they shuffled off, laughing amongst themselves.

“Don’t worry about them,” Sally comforted him, “They’re just trying to show off.”

After falling asleep, Sally dreamt of a floating woman, her long blond hair drifting around her, spread out like a fan. She slowly sank in the water, her arms fanning back and forth as the water tugged at her lifeless body. Before she disappeared into the inky blackness she looked up at Sally who saw sunken holes instead of eyes and shredded bits of skin hanging off her ruined skull.

Sally woke with a start, disoriented, her heart beating fast. She lay still for a long time, listening to the quietness around her. Reaching out and discovering Bill gone, she dressed and went looking for him.

She spotted him standing at the edge of the cliff they had jumped off earlier. As she approached she heard him pleading with a shadow, “No, no, I’m not him. It wasn’t me, please, leave me alone.”

Hearing the desperation in his voice, Sally rushed to him. “Bill, Bill, what’s wrong?”

He spun toward her, his face as white as a sheet. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a mist disappear into the trees.

“I saw her! I saw her!”

“WHO?”

“The woman from the plane Jeff was talking about. I came out to take a leak and she was standing right there!” Bill pointed at an outcropping a few feet away.

“There’s no one there. Look. Do you see anyone now?”

They both looked in the direction Bill had indicated and saw nothing.

“It’s ok. Jeff just freaked you out. Come back to bed.” Sally took Bill by the hand and led him back to their campsite. They crawled back into the tent and gradually drifted back to an uneasy slumber. At daybreak they packed the tent in an awkward silence.

“About last night…” Bill started.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sally laughed, “it was just because we had a couple beers and Jeff told us that stupid ghost story.”

“Yeah, right,” Bill rolled his eyes and continued packing.

Sally never told him about the long blond hair she found on his pillow that morning.

14 July 2018

The Return

Writing prompts: death mask/rocket

I’d worked at The Museum of Unnatural Curiosities for a little more than three years when the mask came in. It arrived in a wooden box stamped HANDLE WITH CARE and was cushioned with wadded-up newspaper.

“Place it near the moon rocks. I’ll work on a plaque for it later this week.” The owner of the shop continued, “it’s an alien death mask.”

I inspected the plaster mask after gently removing it from the box that had been delivered a few days earlier. The features were stereotypically alien; a small and pointed chin, high cheekbones, and large eyes. After placing it in the display indicated by the curator, I continued dusting the assembly of odd treasures the shop owner had collected in her various travels.

The shop was located in Nevada on the Extraterrestrial Highway, so it was full of extraterrestrial findings. It was basically a tourist trap full of kitschy junk. A bus stopped by almost every day with tourists coming from Las Vegas trying to catch a peek of Area 51 and aliens. All they would see was a gate, but what the heck, as long as the tourists came, I had a job.

*****

A week after the mask went on display I started having odd dreams. I had visions of flying shapes and flashing stars. After a few nights of these strange occurrences I heard the voice.

“Return it!”

I sat straight up in bed and looked around. I couldn’t find the source of the voice, nor was there any indication that anyone was in my small studio apartment. I went back to sleep, but it was a restless sleep.

The next day I questioned the curator about the origins of the box.

“I received a call from a man with a gruff voice who said he had the death mask of an alien and asked if I wanted it. He didn’t want anything in return. He just said it ‘gave him the heebie-jeebies’ and he wanted to be rid of it. Apparently, he received it anonymously after spending the night with a group of UFO chasers. That’s all I know.”

I didn’t mention the dreams, or the voice. I was questioning my own sanity. I didn’t want her to as well.

The dreams continued, as did the voices. They became more insistent.

“Send it back. It’s ours!”

It was to the point that I didn’t want to sleep at night. Dreams of rocket ships and shooting stars seemed to fill every minute of my slumber.

During a quiet moment in the store I took the mask out of the case and held it. The solution finally came to me. To this day, I’m not sure if it was my idea or the mask speaking to me.

I needed to send the mask back to where it came from.

After that, the dreams seemed to guide me. I needed to go to an empty field outside of Area 51. After doing some research I discovered that this was the location of numerous unexplained sightings of dancing lights. The entire area was a source of mysterious phenomena, so I wasn’t surprised my dreams guided me there.

All I needed to do was place the mask in an empty area and “they” would take care of the rest.

Getting the mask out of the museum wouldn’t be an issue. My boss was going to be gone on vacation and left me in charge. The only problem was, she was leaving on the Fourth of July weekend and there would be more tourists than usual.

I decided that this might actually work to my advantage. I could blame the disappearance on the extra tourist activity. My boss was easily distracted and somewhat of an airhead, so she would understand if I told her I simply didn’t know where it went. She would assume a tourist wanted it more than she did.

****

The Fourth of July was on a Sunday, which worked well with my plan. The shop was always closed on Monday, so I had a little wiggle room in case things didn’t go smoothly.

I packed my car with essentials. The mask was well wrapped in towels. I also took with me an assortment of fireworks and a lighter, a tarp, and some food and water.

The drive out of the small town where the shop was located was uneventful. Traffic was light. Most of the tourists were headed back to Vegas for the amazing fireworks displays they would see there. I shared the road with an occasional car, but when I turned off on a small unmarked side road they all disappeared.

After driving down a wash boarded and dusty gravel road for what seemed like an eternity I found a place that felt “right.” It was in a slight dip between two hills, so it gave the impression of seclusion. I drove off the road a slight way and set up camp. If anyone came along my story was going to be that I came out to get away from the holiday festivities and to look for the UFOs people claimed were out there.

I cleared a space and spread the tarp out. As darkness approached, I unwrapped the mask and placed it in the center. I pulled the fireworks out of their wrappers. I was waiting for the right time. I needed to send up a signal so “they” would know where I was. As darkness fully engulfed me I launched the first of the fireworks. The shower of sparks lit up the sky as well as any beacon.

After I took my eyes off the amazing show of falling glitter I was relieved to find the mask had returned to its rightful home. An amazing sense of peace engulfed me as I lit the remaining fireworks as a show of thankfulness.

15 April 2018

 

 

The Book is Not ALWAYS Better

Writing prompt: Persuasive essay

Is the book always better than the movie?

Action comes across better on the big screen and character development comes across better in a book, so the book is not ALWAYS better than the movie.

As a child with an overactive imagination, books opened an entirely new world for me. The fantasy felt like reality and I lived in that new life. When a particularly good book ended I was SO disappointed! At night when I couldn’t sleep I would pretend I was the main character and play scenes in my head. I ate, drank, and breathed books. At every meal I sat with a book propped in front of me because I couldn’t put it down. When it was bedtime, the nightly ritual consisted of “just three more pages, pleeeeeease……” until I reached the end of the chapter. If Mom wasn’t paying attention, I would continue into the next chapter.

As I got older I didn’t have as much time to read so I turned to movies to fill that void. What might take days to read could be watched in a few hours. As time management became an issue, trying to balance adult responsibilities with “me” time, movies became a new way of escape where books had provided that release in the past.

I remember reading The Hobbitby J.R.R. Tolkien as a child and watching the cartoon version of the movie. The newer movie trilogy The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, and The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armiesare much better than the book. The book was originally written in 1937 as a children’s fantasy novel whereas the three-part movie is an adult action adventure with scenes that would give a child nightmares. The action and the scenery that are in the movies would be impossible to pass on to a child.

Imagine trying to describe the scenes in written word that the movie makers were able to achieve through visual effects. At times there was so much action going on, an author would be hard-pressed to convey it all succinctly on the written page. After re-watching the movie there is still more going on than would be easily described in book form.

When a movie is adapted from a book it tells a story in a different way. It needs to be told in a way that is going to appeal to more audiences, such as the love story in the Hobbit movies but not in the book. In the book there are no strong female characters, but in the movie, there is. This gets a better response from more people.

If a book has lots of action in it, a movie may be able to show that action better than the book does. It takes a lot of detail to describe action scenes and if a reader has a short attention span the movie will suit the viewer better than the book.

Another instance of the movie being better is if the reader has never been to a location. They may not know what the waters around the Maldives look like so either the author has to describe them with great detail where a picture, or movie shot, is worth a thousand words.

A movie has the ability to show good action, great scenery, and beautiful people, but it can’t convey as well what the characters are thinking and feeling. With a book, the reader gets to know them intimately and has more time to relate to them.

If a reader has the ability to hear the book’s characters in her head, the book becomes like a movie. When I am reading a good book, I can close my eyes and see the scene unfolding before me. I can hear the character’s voices. The reader can read the thoughts whereas in a movie, the creator has to find a way to show what is going on in the actor’s minds.

One book that comes to mind in this instance is P.S. I Love Youby Cecelia Ahern. With the exception of being able to look at Gerard Butler in the movie, the book is much better.

For one thing, the book takes place in Ireland and the movie takes place in Manhattan. The entire setting changes the way the characters act and behave. The family dynamic of the main character, Holly, is completely different between the two deliveries. In the book, the reader gets to experience the emotions of all the characters and how the death of their friend impacts all of them individually whereas in the movie the main focus is on Holly. We miss the additional sensations the rest of her family and friends experience. Some changes are necessary to make subjects flow better from a book to a movie, but changing the main characters and locations makes for a different feel altogether.

A good book gives the reader a vision into someone’s else’s life. This may be a person the reader would never be friends with or know, but they get the chance to live their life through this character and encounter things they would never otherwise experience. Some of these feelings can’t be effectively translated into a movie.

As a reader, our opinion of the character develops as the character develops. We get to change our feelings about them as we are allowed into their minds and can read what they are thinking. A good character grows and develops as the book progresses and the reader can see and explore those changes along with them.

A book with a lot of action and scenery will come across better as a movie whereas a book with a lot of character details will be better left as a book.

29 July 2018

Cocoa and Biscuits

Writing prompt: personal essay

Saturday mornings were special occasions at our house when we were growing up. My friends would beg to spend the night, so they could be part of the Saturday morning ritual.

Mom would take out her green plastic bowl and splash in a little water, a little cocoa powder, some flour and sugar, stir it all up, put it in a pan on the stove, then she added a little milk and stirred some more.

While the cocoa was heating up, the soft dough biscuits were cooking in the oven. She made them from scratch – no boxes or mixes.

When the cocoa was taken off the stove and the biscuits removed from the oven, we would eagerly grab a biscuit and begin tearing it into bite size pieces. In our hurry to devour the world’s best breakfast we would burn our fingers. Mom would laugh and tell us to wait.

We smothered the torn-up bits of biscuit with cocoa and topped it all off with a pat of butter. The butter would melt into the cocoa, leaving a yellow smear on top. If there was any cocoa left on the plate we would grab another biscuit and mop up the remaining cocoa with it.

Afterwards my friends would go home and tell their Moms about the wonderful breakfast we had eaten and beg them to make it. They would call my Mom for the recipe, but there wasn’t one. Mom learned to make it from my Dad’s Mom, and she didn’t have a recipe either. Mom would try to explain how to make it to the other Moms, but it was never quite right.

Dad shared a similar story when he was growing up. His friends all thought he was rich because Grandma made cocoa and biscuits every Saturday morning. In the Arkansas Ozarks, in the thirties, this was a Christmas morning treat, or a birthday tradition, not an every weekend occasion.

The cocoa and biscuit mornings slowly disappeared as I grew older. Sometimes they were used as bribery if I lounged in bed too long on a Saturday morning. Mom would pop her head in my room and ask if I wanted them and I would eagerly jump up to help, or else the smell of warm cocoa would lure me out.

Many a tear was shed over these breakfasts. It was our time to sit down together and share stories, heartaches, and triumphs.

Pretty soon the “made from scratch” biscuits transitioned into biscuits stirred up from a box. Then the whole treat disappeared from the Saturday morning menu and was replaced with cereal. They occasionally made an appearance when Mom didn’t feel like cooking a “real” meal. It faded away altogether when Dad couldn’t eat them any longer.

One day Mom bought a cookbook from a church having a fund-raiser and the magic recipe was in it. It was called “Chocolate Gravy.” The recipe didn’t turn out quite the same, but it gave us a starting point for perfecting it. We worked on the perfect combination for several weeks. Each week we tried something different.

We didn’t use two tablespoons of flour like the recipe indicated, but instead two heaping tablespoons. The cocoa was also two tablespoons, but not quite heaping. The recipe called for a cup of sugar, but half a cup was plenty. Milk took the place of water, and it had to be watched carefully or it would get too thick, but finally, we had a decent plate of cocoa and biscuits.

I posted a picture on Facebook and my close friends immediately knew what it was. They started posting memories about staying at my house on Friday nights and being treated to cocoa and biscuits for breakfast on Saturday mornings. They still raved about it.

One morning on Facebook one of my cousins posted a picture of her family sitting around the table with her Mom, their plates in front of them. They had the same ritual growing up, and she had finally conquered the recipe and had made it for them. We reminisced about the Saturday morning memories and eating at little Grandma’s house in the small town of Yellville, Arkansas. We called her little Grandma because she was under five foot tall.

I started making it for my husband and myself on Saturday mornings. We seldom sit down together for meals, but the Saturday morning cocoa and biscuits became something we looked forward to before the days busyness began.

When Mom got sick and couldn’t cook any longer I made the 600-mile round trip every weekend to help take care of her. Now it was my turn to make her breakfast. Once in a while she asked for cocoa and biscuits and we laughed at how I was cooking for her now. Sometimes it was even used as bribery to get her out of bed.

Now I make cocoa and biscuits in Mom’s green bowl and can see her comforting smile in my mind’s eye.

28 July 2018