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Today’s story idea comes from Mary Anderson. Now. I need to warn you. This is a very strange story. And parts might not make sense. And that’s okay. Mary will love it. 🙂 And, for this story, that’s all that matters.
Characters: Friends
Setting: College
Conflict: Smiley clock is missing
College is supposed to be a carefree time. Late nights, all the food that just seemed to appear on my tray in the cafeteria, the grades that I knew would never really matter. Gosh. There are days when I would go back to that time in my life.
But then I remember.
I remember that it wasn’t all great. That there were moments. They are choppy memories. Hard to think about and painful.
For some reason, this morning, I decided to go through some old boxes. Purge the old useless stuff. I looked at the wall. Cardboard stacked and labeled with permanent marker.
“For Garage Sale”
“Skinny Clothes”
“Books”
“College”
College. Until I read those black letters that were long ago formed by my own hand. And, for the very life of me, I couldn’t remember what was in that box.
What would I have kept from those days? Old papers covered in the professor’s red ink. Pictures of trips. Movie tickets from first dates. A jacket that an old boyfriend never took back.
Something compelled me to open the box. To trudge it all back from the murky bottom of my memory.
I bucked against the thoughts. Why did I even keep anything from those old days? And why couldn’t I remember anything I put in there?
I walked into the house. Went straight to the kitchen. Decided to scrub the sink.
But the memories nagged. No matter how hard I tried to brush them off, they continued.
My senior year. That’s what was flashing into my mind. I was twenty. My hair was long and hung in my face. I wore pajama pants nearly every day. I was dating Tommy Jorgens. We’d been talking about marriage. But I never got a ring or a proposal. But that year. That was the year that I lived on the third floor of the dorm. An all girl dorm.
My roommate that year was Maggie.
Maggie had a slight obsession with smiley faces. They were everywhere on her side of the room. Posters. Tshirts. A blanket. Even a clock.
A smiley face clock.
I hated that clock. It had the loudest “tick, tock” I’d ever heard. It kept me up most nights.
“Maggie,” I said one day. “I’m going to throw your stupid clock out the window.”
“What ever Lauren,” she said. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I have three exams tomorrow.”
“That’s dumb. Why would you do that?”
“It wasn’t really my choice.” I let my head bounce up and down on my pillow. “That’s just how it happened.”
“You want me to sing you to sleep?”
“Serioulsy, Mags, if you don’t take the batteries out of that clock, I’m going to break it.”
I heard her get out of her bed. Then I felt a closeness. Like something was hovering over my face. She flicked on a flashlight. Her face was inches from mine with the light shining up from her chin.
“Why do you make me hurt you, Lauren?” she asked in a creepy, scary movie voice.
That was first semester. We had fun. We fought. We weren’t a great match for roommates. So, we both requested new rooms.
I didn’t talk to her a whole lot the following semester. Just when we passed each other in the hall. It was nice to have a smiley face free room. My new roommate, Sydney, was never there. Always working or at the library.
So, I spent more time with Tommy. He wasn’t good for me. He ignored me a lot. Yell at me. Push me around.
Why did I stick with him?
Because I had no one else.
It’s a dangerous thing when a man, no a boy, knows that he’s all a girl has. And it’s even more dangerous when that’s exactly how he wants it.
When he cheated on me the first time, I was heartbroken. But I didn’t say a word.
The second, third, forth time. I started cutting myself.
The fifth time. I saw Maggie walking through the halls. She wore a smiley face tshirt. And a navy blue pea coat. With a patch from New Mexico stitched over the left chest.
I nearly fainted.
A year before, I’d sewn that patch on Tommy’s jacket after a trip we’d taken together.
That was it. I was undone.
“Why do you make me hurt you, Lauren?” Her voice echoed through my mind. Over and over and over.
Memory jostles now. How did I get back to the dorm? How did I get into my room? For some reason, though, I didn’t cut into myself. Instead, I cut up each thing I had that reminded me of Tommy.
—
Tommy. Old Tommy. I hadn’t thought of him in so long. From the kitchen, in my home, as an adult, I still resent him. I still hate Maggie.
They got married. Tommy and Maggie. Just a few weeks after I saw her wearing his coat.
When Maggie got back after they eloped, her smiley face clock was missing. She, of course, blamed me. She screamed at me, pounding her fists on the door of my room.
“How dare you?” she cried. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I wasn’t ashamed. Not even a little.
Back, out to the garage.
The stack of cardboard boxes.
I pull on the one that says “college”.
It falls on the cement floor. I kick it a little. Checking to see if it’s alive, I suppose.
The flaps pull apart.
An old, half burned candle. The tassel from my graduation. A navy blue pea coat with a New Mexico patch.
The coat I stole from the closet all those year ago. I rubbed my finger over the patch.
The clock. A stupid, yellow face smiled at me as I picked it up. I’d torn out the batteries so long ago when the ticking got to me. It was keeping me up at night. Hanging in my home, here, ten years later.
In the bottom of the box was a picture of Maggie and me.
“Why do you make me hurt you, Lauren?” Her voice comes back to haunt me still.
Somewhere, from deep inside, a laugh erupts as I tear apart the picture.
The winner from last week is!!!! The Riches of Babylon! Congratulations to…er…well…you know who you are! You are entered into the finals for the month of January!
Today’s story idea comes from Kelly Haven. Here’s to hoping this one is fun. 🙂 Here’s her idea…
Character: Sam. Like routine/does not deal well with unexpected interruptions
Setting: In a van with his spouse and four kids, traveling home from a holiday at the in-law’s through a snow storm.
Conflict: One of the children ate too many goodies and threw up.
All I wanted was for us to get home. In one piece. And to get all three hundred miles between me and my sister. We never got along all that great. And this Christmas was no exception.
“Sam,” she nagged at me. “I can’t believe you still wear a pocket protector.”
“Well,” I said back. “If you weren’t so immature and image conscious, maybe you’d realize that it’s a great an efficient way to keep pens from leaking all over your shirt.”
“Sam,” she nagged again. “Why are you so upset?”
“Because we’re fourteen and a half minutes late to eat dinner,” I said. “That’s beyond unreasonable.”
“I think you might be OCD,” she said. “You should think about getting tested.”
“You should get tested,” I said to her. And then I got distracted by the veggie tray. Somebody just tossed all the celery on there without considering organization. Ugh. So not cool.
Listen, I just like things a certain way. The toilet paper should ALWAYS be put on the roll so that it rolls clock-wise. Not counter clock-wise. I expect that when I put on a clean dress shirt (as if I would ever put on a dirty one) that it is perfectly pressed and starched. Yes, there are still people who use starch. Oh. And don’t forget the organization of the house. Everything has a place. And nothing should be out of that place. If it in use, the user has exactly one minute from the ending of the use to return it to its place. Otherwise, everything is out of order. And that simply cannot be.
I’ve been called fussy. Picky. Strange. Overbearing. But I prefer to think of it as being organized and ordered.
Well, as soon as I washed, rinsed and bleached all of the dishes as my mother’s house (which she insisted I shouldn’t do), I packed our mini-van in an orderly fashion (which took a mere 2 hours) and herded my four children into their seats. Tallest two in the back, shortest two in the front. Mark, Mary, Matt, Mike.
All “M” names, all with four letters.
My wife’s name is Martha. But, in order for things to be right, I call her Mart.
“M” name. Four letters.
So, I got everything packed, the kids in and buckled, my wife strapped into her seat. Then I went over the travel rules.
“No chewing gum. No bodily functions. No passing gas. No touching one another. No unnecessary talk. No singing. No sleeping. No stops that were not predetermined before the trip began. Got it?”
“Whatever,” Mark, my fourteen year old said.
“Daddy, I think I ate too many cookies,” Â Mike, my four year old said. “My tummy hurts.”
“Live and learn, son,” I said.
—
I drove a steady 65 miles per hour on the highway. Just because the posted limit is 70 doesn’t mean you have to go that fast. It only means that you can’t go faster. Well, anyway, we were driving along, in relative silence when I heard a funny burping sound from the middle seat.
“No passing gas. That applies to burps as well as…um..tooting,” I said.
Then the smell began to waft up to me. It. Was. Primal.
“What is that odor?” I asked, stifling a panic.
“Mike barfed!” Mary screamed.
“No he couldn’t have! The rule specifically states that there are absolutely no bodily fluids in the van! That isn’t too much to ask!”
“Sam, I think we should pull over,” Mart said. “Honey, I think I’m going to throw up, too.”
“That is impossible!”
Suddenly, as if the heavens decided to revolt against me just as furiously as Mike’s stomach, it began to snow. Not pretty, delicate, dainty snow. No. This was blinding, blowing, horror movie snow.
“Pull over, Sam,” my wife cried. “Please!”
“I can’t see where over is!”
Then the unthinkable happened. Mart got sick, too. All over my arm. Oh. The humanity.
I couldn’t see to drive my preferred 65 mpg. Not only was my van floor covered in regurgitation, but my arm was as well.
This was less than ideal.
It became utter and complete carnage when the other three children began to spew.
“It’s a good thing this van is insured,” I yelled through the gagging and heaving sounds of my family. “Because I’m burning it as soon as we get home!”
An eternity passed before I was able to pull into a rest area. Not even close to my first pick for a pit stop. However, I always had my emergency bottle of disinfectant packed in the center console.
“Everyone out!” I instructed. “Go directly to the bathrooms. I will bring antibacterial soap and clean clothes to you.”
“What should we do with our dirty stuff?” Mart asked.
“Throw it all away.”
They all five went, rushing, into the rest area. Knowing I had some dirty work to do, I pulled the latex gloves from my back pocket. As I slowly opened the sliding door, I was confronted with the worst stuff of humanity. Vomit was everywhere.
“These are the times that try men’s souls,” I whispered.
Never again would I feel a sense of order in that van. Never again would I be able to feel in charge of the vehicle.
This was the end of the van as I knew it. And I most certainly did not feel fine.
A small note was floating in a pool or up-chuck. My name was written on it. I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it.
“How did you all like the fudge that I made? It was laced with Ipecac. You know. The medicine that induces vomiting. Whoops. Must have slipped in. With much love, Your Sister.”
My head spun and swirled. That crazy woman poisoned my family!
“P.S. I know you didn’t eat the fudge. Because you never eat anything that I make. So, I slipped a laxative into your mashed potatoes while you were rearranging the cheese platter. Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”
Suddenly, my guts started to cramp. I knew that this was the moment that I’d always dreaded. And I realized that I wasn’t going to make it to the restroom.
And
Then
I felt a hand on shoulder.
“Sam?” It was my mother’s voice. I was certain that I’d begun to hallucinate. “Sam, are you alright?”
“Mom?” I asked. “Am I dying?”
“Don’t be silly, Sammy. You’re not dying. You just fell asleep.”
I opened my eyes. I was in the recliner at my mother’s house. My children were sitting together on the couch, staring at me.
“Dad, you were screaming,” Mark said. “Something about barf.”
“Oh, kids. Are you all feeling okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Mary said, just about to put a big piece of fudge into her mouth.
“No! No, Mary! No fudge for you!” I jumped from the chair and knocked the fudge from her hand. It landed on my sister’s lap.
“What’s wrong, Sam? Afraid of a little fudge?” she asked with a devilishly mocking tone. “You don’t think it would make her sick, do you?”
Of course I do.
Now, new family rule. No fudge eating.
Never. Ever.
Hi, Friends!
So, we’re having our vote from right now until Monday night at 11:45 pm. Go ahead and vote by commenting on this post. Cool? Here were the stories from last week.
The Element of Surprise–Inspired by Annette Deaton
Sasha and Bill–Inspired by Jessica Wilson
The Riches of Babylon–Inspired by a Mysterious Person
Enjoy voting! Also, make sure you “follow” this blog so that you don’t miss out on any of the stories! They can go right to your email in box. Now…how much more convenient can that be?
Be sure to vote for the stories from the 1st week of January. You can do that by clicking here.
Today’s story idea comes from…a mysterious person… 🙂
Well, not so mysterious to me. Because I know who came up with the idea. But my friend asked to remain anonymous.  Here is the mystery person’s idea…
Character: Christian
Setting: Modern Day USA
Conflict: Invested in the Iraqi Dinar (which inflated greatly by the war). Slated to have millions. Conflicted by Biblical prophecies he sees fulfilled in modern day Iraq.
Christian walked down the hallway with purpose. The hard heals of his shoes clicked on the marble floor. The sound made him feel important. Because he felt important, he walked faster. The cell phone in the inside pocket of his suit buzzed.
He fumbled to get the phone into his hand. The clumsy movement made his walk slow, his face contort into an awkward frown.
The screen of the phone read “Restricted”.
“Hello? This is Chris,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“I believe that I can help you,” the female voice said on the other line. Â She had a British accent. “You’re the gentleman who invested in the Dinar?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“You’ll know soon enough.” The phone clicked off.
That was strange, he thought.
As he returned the phone to his pocket, he resumed his purposeful walk. When he got to the office, he paused. Smoothed his suit. Checked the knot on his tie. Took a few breaths.
He opened the door.
“Chris,” Michael said. He stood, looking over a document by the receptionist’s desk. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Do you have a few minutes?” Christian walked to him, hand extended. The men shook hands. “I have some questions about investments.”
“By all means, I’m your man.” Michael winked at the receptionist. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Okay, Mikey,” the young woman said, blushing.
As Michael lead Christian to his office he put an arm around him. “You know, there are very few benefits of having a wife that travels 4 out of 7 days a week. But Stacie out there is one of the best parts.”
“You’re an idiot, Mike,” Christian said, pushing the arm off.
“I’m not so sure about that. You should see her when…”
Christian cut him off. “Not another word, Mike. Seriously, you say anything else about it and I’m out of here.”
“Since when did you have a moral compass, Chris? You just aren’t any fun anymore.” Mike stopped in the hallway, leaned against the wall. “What happened to funny, different girl every night Chris? Man, we had so much fun in college.”
“But then we graduated. That means we were supposed to grow up.”
“So, you’re still going to that church, huh?” Mike started walking again. “Good for you. Good for you.”
“You know, when somebody says something twice like that, I always question their honesty.” Christian followed him. “And, yeah. Still going to church.”
“I mean, that’s fine, man. Just don’t try to recruit me.”
“We don’t recruit.”
“Really? You could have fooled me.” He opened the door to his office. “All religious people try to get new recruits.”
“Converts. That’s the word for it. And it’s not about numbers.” Christian dumped himself into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Just never mind, okay. I promise, I’m not going to try and recruit  you. Or convert you. Or whatever.”
Michael sat behind his desk. “Alright. So why are you here? You said something about investments.”
“Well, I was given some money.”
“And where should we put it. You know I’ll have to take a percentage, right?”
“It’s already invested.”
“How much?”
“$50,000.”
“Geez, Mike. Why didn’t you go through me. You know I’m trying to pay off my Mercedes.”
“Terribly sorry that I can’t help fund your luxury car.”
“It’s alright.” Mike waved it away. “So, what did you invest in?”
“The Dinar.”
Mike’s mouth fell open. He didn’t blink his eyes for a moment. “Do you know how much you’re going to get? That is, if it pays out?”
“Somewhere around 21 million.” Chris thought about it. “No. 21 and a half.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“You’ll hate me if I tell you.”
“I already hate you.” Mike rested his head in his hands. “Do you know how many girls you could get?”
“Listen to yourself. How do you not make yourself sick?” Chris leaned forward. “You really want to know how I’m going to spend the money?”
“Of course. And how do I get in on the action?”
“So, there’s this mineral mine in Africa. You know, the components for smart phones. That’s where they’re mined.”
“Yes, yes. I’m with you there.” Mike leaned closer. “That’s got to be worth a fortune.”
“And, here’s the thing, they don’t have to pay the miners.”
“Who does the mining?”
“Slave labor.”
“Well, I guess it’s better than them just sitting around.”
“Well, the money from the mine funds war lords. You ever heard of the Lord’s Resistance Army?”
“Yeah. Rush Limbagh said they were Christians.”
“He was wrong. Listen, they’re this group of really tough guys who make kids be soldiers. And their war is funded by the sale of these minerals.”
“So, you want to buy the mine? I’m confused.”
“No. I want to fund the opposition to the LRA.”
“So, we wouldn’t profit from the minerals?”
“Nope. In fact, we’d give all the money away. All $21 million.”
Mike leaned back in his chair. “Is it April Fool’s Day?”
“Not even close. I’m serious.”
“So, no girls?”
“Sure. But we’ll be building schools for them.”
“Those aren’t the kind of girls I was talking about.”
“Will you help me out? I need an accountant to help put the money where it needs to go.”
“How much do I get paid?”
“Not much, my friend.”
“Can I just ask one question?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you giving all the money away?”
Christian looked at the man across the table. Michael had always had loose morals. He’d never understood the effect his actions could have on other people. How would he understand Chris’ conflict with the money?
“It’s just the right thing to do,” Christian said.
“Let me think about it, man. I don’t know. I’ve got so much else going on right now.” Michael checked his planner. “I’ve got somebody coming in here for a meeting in an hour. I’ve gotta get working on some stuff for that guy. You know how it is.”
“Yup. Well,” Christian stood. “Thanks anyway.”
—
Christian walked through the ally toward his car. A man stood next to the dumpster.
“Hey, you got any cash I can have?” the man asked.
Chris felt his pockets. “All I have is one dollar.”
“Come on, man. You don’t got another buck? I gotta catch the bus back to Kalamazoo.”
“That’s all I have. Sorry.” Christian handed him the dollar.
The man grabbed his arm. “You know, man, the end of the world is coming.”
“Okay, let go.” Chris struggled with the man.
“All that stuff about Babylon in the Bible. Dude. It’s comin’ true. You know that, don’t ya?” The man’s breath was laced with decay, cigarette stink. But no alcohol. “It ain’t nothin’ to joke about. You know? That stuff’s for real. Babylon’s going through the final stages of prophesy. Then the world’s gonna fall to a lake of fire.”
“Right.”
“And the riches of Babylon gonna take everybody down with it. Everybody that touches them riches of Babylon’s gonna be cursed. Don’t be a partaker of Babylon’s sin!”
Christian broke free. He left the man, still standing by the dumpster. He walked backwards, not wanting the man to sneak up behind him.
“Take heed, young man. The riches of Babylon is bloody. The riches of Babylon is murder and greed and anti-christ. The riches of Babylon is bringin’ about the Apocalypse. “
By the time Christian pulled his car out of the parking lot, his heart was racing, his breathing unsteady.
—
 That night, Christian slept terribly. Dreams of fireballs crashing down from the skies. Piles and piles of money trapping him inside. He was powerless to escape. The cash fell on top of him. Crushing him.
The man from the ally yelling “Just another buck, man. Don’t you just have one more buck?”
Michael, stuffing bits of cash into his pockets with one hand, his other holding onto the receptionist “I gotta get more girls. More girls.”
One last fireball flew from above, catching Christian ablaze. His screams were muffled with the bills.
He woke, sat straight up.
I can’t cash in on that money, Â he thought. It’s going to destroy me.
He got out of bed. Went to the kitchen. Poured himself a bowl of cereal. His phone was on the counter. It buzzed.
The call received was ‘restricted’.
“Hello?” he asked into the telephone. “This is Christian.”
“Yes. Hello.” The woman’s voice. British accent. “I called earlier today. I apologize for hanging up on you.”
“Who is this?”
“Well, I had to end the call earlier because someone came into my office. It would have been a risk for him to hear me speak of your intentions.”
“What intentions?”
“For the school. Here in Congo.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I’m sorry. I think I assumed you knew about me. My name is Martha. I’m a missionary here in Congo. I’ll be working with you to build the school. And to shut down the mine.”
“Oh, yes. Okay. I wasn’t sure if I’d get a phone number.”
“I just wanted to thank you. Even for wanting to help. Being here, it’s easy to forget that anyone cares. These kids need to know that they have an advocate.”
“Well, I’m just hoping to do the right thing for them.”
“Can I tell you a quick story? I know it’s probably dreadfully late for you right now.”
“No, I’m up.” Christian pushed away his bowl of cereal. “Go ahead.”
“We had a boy come to us, to the mission. His father had been working in the mines when the LRA came to their village. This little boy was forced to rape his mother.”
“No.” Christian’s stomach turned. “Why?”
“To show control. Then they took the boy and trained him to be a soldier. He’s killed so many. He is twelve years old.”
Christian tried to control the rage that was rising from his gut.
“Christian, he needs you. And you are willing to help him.” Even from thousands of miles away, Christian thought he could hear her smiling. “You’re going to change lives.”
“I have to tell you,” he said. “The money is from an investment in the Iraqi Dinar. Do you feel at all conflicted about that?”
“What’s conflicting about a redemption story ?” She sighed. “Listen, I need to go. I’ll contact you in a few days to finalize plans. But, until then, thank you.”
Chris held the phone to his ear even minutes after the conversation was ended.
He went back to bed. He slept deeply. Soundly. Knowing that the Lord would bring redemption to the riches of Babylon.
The winner of December is….
Milton’s Quest–Inspired by Kristi West!
(hey…that rhymes!)
Kristi is the winner of a lovely journal that will be sent directly to her home!
Stay tuned! More stories will be coming next week and for the whole month of January!
Here it is…the best of December, 2011. And I need you to vote on which story was the BEST! The person who had the best story idea in the month of December gets a Love Calcutta Arts Journal (made by women who were at high risk for entry into the sex trade…but LCA gives them a job and a hopeful future!).
Here are the winners from December.
Scourge–Inspired by Kristi West
Milton’s Quest–Inspired by Kristi West
Mama Love–Inspired by Holly Becker
Just for fun…let’s switch things up a bit. If you comment on this post, you can have one vote. However, if you post it on your Facebook or to Twitter, you can have one more vote. Sound good?
I’ll announce the December winner on Friday, January 6!
Giddy-Up!
AAAANNNNDDDD the winner of last week’s story ideas is….Mama Love Inspired by Holly Becker!
Check back in just a little bit to start voting on ALL the January winners!
Today’s story idea comes from Jessica Wilson. Here’s her idea…
Character: Sasha, Russian immigrant
Setting: Present day, USA
Conflict: Sasha’s child has just been diagnosed with a major disability. She has to decide between her career and staying home with her child.
Sasha smoothed her skirt as she sat, waiting, at the restaurant. The waiter kept coming over, asking if she needed anything. She would shake her head and he would go away.
How can a man be so late? she wondered. Always late.Â
The waiter approached her again. She looked up at him.
“Are you still waiting?” the waiter asked. “I mean, for  your friend.”
“My husband,” Sasha answered. “Yes. I am waiting for him.”
“Wow.” The waiter relaxed his posture. More casual. “I’m likin’ the accent. Where you from? Germany?”
Sasha smiled. It was a snide, annoyed kind of smile. “How about you just bring me a cup of tea.”
“Right. Sorry.” He resumed his formal pose. “Do you take milk?”
“No. Thank you.” She looked at him. He was young. Probably still in high school. “I grew up in Russia, by the way. I moved here when I was twenty.”
“Why’d you move here?”
“How about that tea?”
“Okay. Sorry.” He rushed off.
Poor boy probably thinks I was a mail order bride. She shook her head.
Bill slipped into the seat across the table from her.
“Sorry I’m late, Babe,” he said. “You know how work gets.”
“Well, I called last minute,” she said. “How’s work been?”
“Oh, killer. Just killer. You know how hard Ross rides my butt.”
“He is a strict boss.”
“Anyway, I didn’t want to talk about work. How about we talk about us.” He looked up at her. His eyes soft. “I miss you. Man, I hate living in that apartment. I want to come home. Be with you.”
“And the kids? What about the kids?”
His face changed. He sat up straight. The waiter came with the cup of tea. Bill ordered a beer.
“Isn’t it a bad idea to drink beer on your lunch break?” she asked.
“I took the rest of the day off.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought I’d be going home with you today.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You asked me to meet you for lunch. What was I supposed to think?”
The waiter returned with a mug of frothy beer. “Are you two ordering lunch?”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “Double cheese burger and potato wedges.”
“I’m fine,” Sasha said.
“No, get something,” Bill said, patronizing. “Don’t worry, Honey, I’ll get the tab. You know I always do.”
“Really, I don’t want to eat anything.”
“Just order something. Don’t be so stubborn.” He looked up at the waiter. “She wants a salad. Dressing on the side.”
“What kind of salad?” the waiter asked. “Club, chef, house…”
“Something with chicken,” Bill said. “Anything with chicken.”
Sasha pressed her lips together tightly. The waiter looked at the couple.
“Okay,” the waiter said. “Anything else?”
“No,” Bill answered.
The waiter walked away.
“So, why did you want me to come here so badly?” Bill leaned in, put his elbows on the table. “You need money?”
“No. Business is going fairly well.” Sasha turned and looked out the window. “It’s about Lizzie.”
“What? She getting into trouble at school again? That kid.” He shook his head in frustration. “It’s your fault, you know. You let her get away with everything.”
“It’s not about school.” Sasha sipped her tea. “I’ve had her tested for a few things. Her teacher thought it was a good idea.”
“Tested for what?”
“Developmental issues. You know, to explain her difficulty talking and sitting still and learning.”
“She’s fine.”
“She isn’t.”
They sat for several minutes, not talking. Bill finished off his beer, ordered another. Sasha stared at the table.
“So, what’s wrong with her?” Bill asked after the food was delivered. “She retarded?”
“No one uses that word anymore, Bill.”
“What? You going all politically correct on me?”
“This is our daughter.” Sasha’s voice was sharp edged with controlled anger. “She is not just some kid at the school. This is the child that we brought into this world together. And you will treat this situation with respect and you will behave with dignity. Otherwise, I will not include you in the plan to treat her. Do you understand?”
“You know, Sasha, this is one of the reasons we never worked out. I can’t believe you’d talk to me like that. And in public. You just don’t think I’m much of a man, do you?”
“This isn’t about you, Bill. This is about Lizzie.”
The waiter stopped over to warm up Sasha’s tea.
“Everything okay here?” he asked, looking at Sasha. “Can I get you anything?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” she answered.
After the waiter left, Bill pushed his empty plate away from him. “So, what’s going on with Lizzie?”
“It’s a genetic disorder. Or so they think. They don’t have it completely figured out. But she will probably struggle for the rest of her life.”
Bill’s face changed. From hard and cocky to vulnerable and scared. “Is this why she had a hard time in kindergarten?”
“Yes.”
“And why she doesn’t talk much?”
“Probably.”
“Will she live…you know…to be an adult?” He swallowed. “Because I knew this kid growing up who died really early because he was re…um…special. He had some kind of heart condition.”
“I don’t know, Bill. They don’t know all that yet.”
“And her kidneys have never been good. Didn’t she have all those infections when she was little?”
“She’s always got some kind of infection.”
“Did you tell the doctor about that? About her breathing problems?”
“He knew. It was in her chart.”
“But did you remind him?”
Sasha nodded. Emotion overtook her. She leaned her head on her hands. Her tears fell into her untouched salad.
“I’m trying so hard. I want to be strong for her,” Sasha said, still crying. “But she requires so much.”
“Will we have to put her in a home?”
“No. But I’m going to have to quit my job.” Sasha wiped her face with the napkin.
The waiter came to take the plates.
“Did you want to take the salad with you?” he asked, then noticing Sasha’s face. “Oh. I’m sorry. I…uh…”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just take the plate, please.”
He picked up the plate and walked away slowly.
“Lizzie is going to need near constant care,” Sasha said. “Special schooling. A special nurse to come check on her. Things just are not going to be easy.”
Bill looked at his wife. He felt the place on his left hand ring finger where his wedding band had once been. There was still a line in his flesh.
“Let me come home,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We wouldn’t have the extra rent at my apartment. I’d help with the kids. You could quit your job. Or just do it part time.”
“Don’t make me give you an answer right now, Bill.” Sasha stood up. “I need to get the kids from school.”
“Let me go with you.”
“They’d like to see you.” Sasha put a few bills on the table. “It’s been months.”
“I know.” Bill looked at Sasha. “And I’m really sorry about that.”
“You should be.” She turned toward the door. “Just meet us at the house.”
Bill followed behind her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wedding ring. He slipped it back onto his finger.
Make sure you cast your vote for last week’s stories. You can do that by clicking here, reading the stories and voting in the comment section. Thanks!
Once again, we have a story idea from Annette Deaton. Annette also came up with the ideas for The Farewell (which has inspired a few characters for my current novel in progress) and Silence. Here’s her latest idea…
Kate is in her late 30’s and extremely witty.
Setting: The docks
Conflict: Kate and her husband, Sam, are both in the CIA. They seem to be walking into a trap by the ones they are about to arrest. She is completely confident, though the new recruit is completely overwhelmed.
“Sam, can you hear us?” Kate asked into the microphone hidden in her button hole. “Check.”
“I gotcha,” Sam said, his voice coming through the small pod in Kate’s ear.
“You hear him, Brian?” she asked the young man next to her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brian answered.
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’. That’ll blow our cover for sure. Just call me Kate.”
“Yes, ma…Kate.”
“Sam, what’s the intel on these thugs?” Kate asked.
“They should be considered extremely dangerous,” Sam said. “They’re arms dealers who are transitioning into drugs. They won’t be all to happy to see the two of you in there. They’re expecting to get millions for the load that’s coming into their warehouse tonight.”
“They think we’re buyers,” Kate said. “We have to look the part, Brian. Or they will kill us.”
“How are we supposed to look the part?” Brian asked, his nerves were making his voice shaky.
“Just be calm,” Sam said. “They’ll know your a fake if you’re sweating and stuttering.”
“Oh, geez.” Brian wiped his forehead. “Seriously. I don’t think I can do this.”
Brian sat on a bench. He was glad to be on a dock by a lake. He lost his lunch over the side of the dock.
“Did the kid just barf?” Sam asked.
“Yup,” Kate said.
“I’m just nervous,” Brian said, slipping a stick of gum into his mouth. “It’s my first CIA job.”
“Job?” Sam asked. “Ha. You’ve got a lot to learn, Buddy. We usually call them missions.”
“Brian, you better wipe the up-chuck off your shirt.” Kate stood and walked to the edge of the dock. She looked at the black van parked 100 feet away. “Sam, you got eyes on us?”
“Sure do. And you are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen on a dock,” Sam said. “I’d rather have you in this van, though. I should be the one doing to hard missions.”
“Nah. I can handle it.” Kate blew a kiss toward the van. “Before you know it, we’ll be at home, ordering take-out.”
“Wait, you two live together?” Brian asked.
“Most married people do, Kid,” Kate said, turning. “Here’s our contact. Be cool.”
A shadowy figure emerged from inside the warehouse.
“The arrow flies straight into the bull’s eye,” Kate said. “And the contest is won by the rookie.”
“And the rookie gets a big pile of cake,” the shadowy figure said in return.
“It’s a woman,” Brian whispered.
“Very well done, Brian. Your academy training is certainly paying off,” Kate whispered back. “Now shut up and let me do the talking.”
“Hey, Kid,” Sam said. “You gonna ask her out?”
“Well, no,” Brian answered with a very serious tone. “That would cause a conflict of interest. I’d get fired, right?”
“I wouldn’t tell on ya,” Sam said.
“So, you showed up,” the shadowy woman said. “We weren’t sure you were in earnest.”
“Of course we are,” Kate said. “Now, let’s talk money.”
“Not out here,” the woman said. She approached Brian and Kate. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, this guy?” Kate asked, indicating Brian. “This is my associate. His name’s Thomas.”
“He doesn’t go in.”
“If he doesn’t go in, neither do I.” Kate lifted up her chin. “You ready to compromise your biggest buyer? We’d be more than happy to go over to Studio Fire for our…uh…necessities.”
“You’d risk going to Studio Fire?” The woman looked at Kate sideways. “You are aware of what they do if you are unable to pay.”
“Payment will not be an issue for us. Will it, Thomas?”
Brian didn’t respond.
“Idiot,” Sam yelled into the rookie’s ear. “That’s you.”
Brian remained mute.
“He doesn’t speak English.” Kate looked at Brian. “He doesn’t even understand a word of it.”
“Alright. Here’s the deal.” The woman moved even closer to Kate and spoke in hushed tones. “We’ve got millions of dollars worth of product. But we can’t move it all without being detected. You get as much as you like. But we require payment. Upfront. No less than $500,000.”
“Done,” Kate said. “I want to see it.”
“Not so fast.” The woman pushed Kate’s shoulder. “First, you need to assure me that you aren’t wired. You aren’t cops, right?”
“Of course we aren’t cops.”
“Good. Because if we find a wire on you, we will kill you. Slowly. And brutally. Have you ever heard of Simon the Psycho?”
“Yes, I have.”
“He works with us now.”
“Oh, man, guys,” Sam said in their ears. “You better turn back. Simon the Psycho is brutal. We don’t need to mess with him.”
Brian swallowed loudly, making himself cough.
“We’re fine. All set,” Kate said. “Take us inside.”
The woman turned around, started walking toward the warehouse. “My name’s Tilda. I’ll be negotiating on your behalf.”
“Uh oh,” Sam said. “You both better get outta there. Tilda’s no good. We have a file on her. She’s a viper.”
“We’re more than happy to be working with you, Tilda,” Kate said.
“The last person she ‘negotiated’ for ended up half eaten by a crocodile in the Florida Keys.”
Brian held back another wave of nausea.
“Unless you’re unsure,” Tilda said, suddenly stopping and turning toward them. “Or if you’re hiding something. We will find out, you know. And then, Simon will introduce you to our reptile friends.”
Brian dabbed his forehead again.
“Abort, abort!” Sam yelled.
“I have nothing to hide,” Kate said, straight faced. “Let’s get in there.”
“No, Kate,” Sam said into their ears. “This isn’t a suicide mission. Turn back.”
Brian grabbed Kate’s hand. She looked at him. Shook her head.
They walked into the warehouse. Inside were several black cars, a few boats on trailers and many large men holding guns. On a pallet was a stack of packages. All full of white powder.
“All of that is ready for you to purchase,” Tilda said, pointing at the packages. “We just have a few formalities to get through first.”
“Of course,” Kate said.
“Brutus,” Tilda called to a man across the room. “Check them for wires.”
Brian looked around for an escape. There was no open door. No window to jump through. They were stuck.
“Radio silence commencing,” Sam said quietly into their ears.
Brutus was less than gentle when he frisked them both. He pulled wires out of Kate’s jacket first. Then Brian’s.
“That was too easy,” Tilda said. “Pity, it seems you would have been a little smarter than that. Brutus, take them to Simon the Psycho.”
—
Brian and Kate sat in straight back chairs, tied together around their waists. Brian struggled against the ropes.
“You’re just going to give yourself rope burn,” Kate said calmly. “Just relax.”
“What does it matter? We’re dead. Nobody cares if I have a little rope burn too.” Brian kept struggling.
“That’s true. In the casket they’ll just put us in long sleeves anyway.”
“What were you thinking?” Brian asked. “You went against all of the CIA training. It’s like you knew what you were doing. Like you were setting us up.”
“Listen, Kid, this is your first mission. How about you shut up and watch me get us out of this.”
The two of them sat in silence for several minutes before a man walked into the room. He wore an executioner’s mask and pushed a cart. On the cart were horrors of tools. Chainsaw. Pliers. Nail gun. Torch.
“Hi, there,” the man said, his voice a bit higher than Brian had expected. “Listen, I’m so glad to meet both of you. I’m Simon. You may have heard me referred to as the ‘Psycho’. But that isn’t really accurate. I’m really just neurotic. That’s what my psychologist says, at least.”
“I’m Kate. This here’s Brian. How about you take it easy on him. This is all my fault, you know.”
“Oh, sorry, dear. I can’t take it easy on either of you today. If you’d come in here a week ago I could have been harder on one of you over the other. But, Â you know how it is, every job has its politics. The big boss lady, Tilda, she said we have to be an equal opportunity torturing group.”
“I understand.” Kate looked at him. “So, what are you going to do to us.”
“Oh, you know, I’ve been hoping to do a little work on your fingernails. You know, pulling them out one by one with my pliers. And I just got this new torch for Christmas from my mother. She’s been asking if it works. You know how it is, she just wants to make sure her gift is being used.”
Simon put all of his tools on a table. He cracked his knuckles. He cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said. “I’d just love to sit and chat it up with you two all day. You both seem very nice. But I’m meeting the missus at a restaurant in a couple hours and I’ll probably need a shower after this.”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to get started on Brian first. Usually my policy is ladies first. But I think this guy might get too scared if he watched me take you out first. Is that okay with you, Kate?”
“Of course. Do it however you need to.”
“No, please,” Brian cried. “Please don’t do this. I had nothing to do with anything. It’s not my fault. I never wanted to come here in the first place. I’m supposed to just be an office guy. You know. I’m the guy who fixes the computers for the CIA. I’m not meant to be on missions. Please, let me call my mother.”
“Oh, little guy,” Simon said. “You’re a good kid.”
Something in Simon’s voice was familiar.
“Wait,” Brian said. “Do I know you?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Simon said, grabbing his hand. “Let’s see what we can do about those fingernails.”
Suddenly Kate laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” Brian asked. “What is wrong with you?”
He looked at the man holding his hand. The mask was gone. Sam stood, smiling at him.
“Hey, Kiddo,” Sam said. “We gotcha!”
Tilda and all the big, gun toting men came in wearing CIA tshirts.
“Welcome to the CIA, Buddy,” Sam said. “This is just a little initiation for ya.”
“You guys are sick,” Brian said. “Untie me.”
—
Later that night, after they got home, Sam and Kate were on their couch, eating bowls of cereal.
“So, how do you think the new kid’s gonna do?” Sam asked.
“Awful,” Kate answered. “He’s going to be a great decoy, though.”
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t do that to him.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“He might be a great van driver.”
“Well, I was thinking he might do best working in the computer department.”
“Yeah. That might be best.”
“Can you believe he actually thought the CIA would let a husband and wife work together?”
“That’s what watching movies will do to ya.”
They flipped on the television.
“Hey, look, ‘CSI’,” Sam said. “Man, I sure do wish they’d let you wear low cut shirts like that to work.”
Kate smacked him.
“You know you love me,” he said.
“I sure do,” she answered.
Whoopsie Daisy! Last week I got off the rails of the crazy train. I thought I could get everything done. Regrettably, I’m a little off schedule. Forgive me?
Here’s the vote for this week! Then, in a few days, you’ll have the chance to vote for all the December winners! You’ll crown one lucky idea giver “Supreme December Idea Maker”. Ah, the pathos. The pomp and circumstance.
But first, you need to pick a winner from last week’s stories.
Mama Love–Inspired by Holly BeckerÂ
The Man Upstairs–Inspired by Joe Shadduck
Alone, Together–Inspired by Karen Fallot
You’ll have until Tuesday night at 11:59 to place your vote (bonus days for those of you sleeping in today). Then we’ll have the BIG December vote Wednesday through Friday.
Ready…Set…VOTE!!!
Today’s story idea comes from Karen Fallot.
Sally is 10 and fun-loving.
She lives in an orphanage.
Conflict: A 4 year old girl just came to live there and they share a room. Sally wants the little girl to warm up to her, but is so exuberant she scares her…at first…
The girls sat at long tables in rows. They sipped soup and nibbled on rolls. Quiet, quiet, quiet. The religious sisters that ran the orphanage were strict about the silent meals. Mother Mary-Anna insisted upon it. She demanded highest discipline. Expected self-control and responsibility from the girls. All forty-two of them.
And so, the silence at meals. The girls to bed before sundown and before sunup. Prayers and memory verses and classes.
“There should never be a girl who leaves this home who is unable to sit quietly and read the Scriptures and understand them for herself,” Mother Mary-Anna was known for saying. “I shall teach them self-control. If I must take the reigns of control, first, in order for them to learn, then so be it.”
Her plan of ruling with an iron will worked for nearly twenty years. Until Sally came to them.
“We can’t keep her no more,” Sally’s mother had said the day she dropped her daughter off at the orphanage. “She eats too much and she’s too much trouble.”
Sally had just stood in the corner, meekly. Afraid. Mother Mary-Anna had compassion for the girl.
“Come here, child,” she’d said, beckoning with her hand. “I may very well look strange to you, but I am kind.”
Sally had shuffled over to the nun.
“What is the matter, child?” Mother Mary-Anna put an arm around the girl. “Are you sad to be leaving your family?”
“No, they aren’t very good,” Sally had said. “I’m worried about living here, though.”
“Why, my dear?”
“Because I don’t want to turn into a penguin!” Sally kissed Mother Mary-Anna on the cheek. “Where’s my room?”
Sally hadn’t stopped bouncing and laughing and dancing since that day, three years before. She didn’t seem to notice or care that her family had given up on her. Or that the country was bankrupt. She also didn’t seem to mind punishment.
“For talking during mealtime, staying up after bedtime, sleeping in class and dancing during vespers,” Mother Mary-Anna had said. “You must mop the kitchen floor everyday for a month.”
“Great,” Sally had said. “How nice!”
“And you must work with the newborns for two weeks.”
“So sweet.”
“Changing diapers.”
“That would be fine with me.”
“And copy the book of Leviticus.”
“I can work on my penmanship.”
Mother Mary-Anna was beyond exasperated by the ten year old. “She’s so full of life,” she’d said. “I only pray that she doesn’t have aspirations for the sisterhood. That would be my undoing.”
One early morning, a young child came to live in the orphanage. She was only four years old. She had out of control, curly black hair. Her skin was a creamy brown color. Her eyes were the calmest color of green. And her toes pointed in as she walked. She was beautiful. And she was angry.
She spit in the face of Mother Mary-Anna on her first day.
She smacked the faces of other children who asked her to play.
She wet herself at the slightest provocation.
“I cannot very well keep her in a room with other young girls,” Mother Mary-Anna said. “I have but one option.”
The little girl was moved into a room with Sally.
On the first day, Sally tried to learn the little girls’ name. The little girl kicked Sally in the shin.
The next day, Sally tried to share a cookie with the girl.
“I got it from Sister Agnes,” Sally said. “She’s the baker. And she’s very nice. If I sing a song with a naughty word in it, she gives me a cookie.”
The little girl crawled to the corner of her bed, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“Leave me ‘lone,” she said to Sally.
“Well, I wanted to share this cookie with you.”
“Okay. Bring it here.”
Sally took the cookie, broke it in two and handed half to the little girl. The girl bit Sally on the arm.
Sally decided that the only thing to do was to talk to Mother Mary-Anna.
“Young lady,” the mother said. “You needn’t cry so.”
“I know,” Sally said. “I just want her to like me. And she won’t even tell me her name.”
“Louise. Her name is Louise. And she’s had a very bad life.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her parents died in a fire. She’s very angry and very sad. Do you think that you might best be gentle with her?”
Sally went to lunch. She ate in silence. Thoughts went racing through her mind.
Just before bed, Sally was in her bed. It was chilly. The winter wind seemed to seep through every crack and gap in the window.
Louise was curled up on her small cot, shaking the bed with her crying.
“Are you cold?” Sally asked, standing and taking an extra blanket to the small girl. “It gets so cold here.”
Louise swung her arm out to hit Sally.
“Hey,” Sally said, sitting on the edge of the cot. “You wanna hear what happened to me? Well, a couple years ago, my Ma told me she didn’t want me anymore.”
Louise rolled over and glared at Sally.
“It’s true,” Sally said. “She had a whole bunch of other kids. And I was the worst one. She’s hit me a lot. She didn’t always give me food because she said I ate too much.”
“Did you eat too much?” Louise asked.
“No. Not anymore than anybody else.” Sally reached out her hand slowly, smoothed Louise’s hair. “But I was so scared. And I didn’t want to be here. You wanna know what I was afraid of?”
Louise nodded her head.
“I was afraid they’d make me be a nun.”
“I don’t wanna be a nun.”
“Me either. But they don’t make us be nuns.”
“Good. Cause I like being bad too much.” Louise giggled.
“Me, too,” Sally said. “And they like being really quiet.”
“I miss my Mama,” Louise said. “She was pretty.”
“I know, Louise.”
“Is everything gonna be alright?”
“I sure hope so.”
Louise moved herself and fit her head on Sally’s shoulder. “I want my Mama.”
“Me, too. It’s hard being here without a mother.”
“I wanna sing naughty songs to Sister Agnes tomorrow,” Louise said. “You think she’ll give me a cookie?”
“Yeah. I do.”
The two girls sat on Louise’s cot, warm with an extra blanket and the hope of a fresh cookie.
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