Parts

[Bmichael]

This thread is for those parts of tales we’ve written –  inspired  beginnings (or middles and endings)  and flashes of brilliance that came out of nowhere – only to  mysteriously disappear as quickly as they came-  leaving us stranded at our keyboards.

Good writing, but orphaned without a “rest of the story”.

Check your files…show off some of that stuff. Who knows? Maybe now is the right time to complete it.

[Westerly_2]

You don't say how the dream ends. Maybe I don't want to know.Vivid.

My dreams never end either. I'm always racing around strange rooms full of strangers, searching for something lost.

[Carol T]

Yeah, Bmichael -- vivid indeed.

Years ago I read a dream interpretation book that said dreams, although following universal themes, are very personal and given to word play.  For instance, the street you describe probably has some personal meaning for you -- it reminds you of the street your grandparents lived on, maybe. 

And the baby stroller in your dream could be a representation of "oh baby, oh baby."  Or not.

[Bmichael]

Ok…so I’m at the grocery store - 6:00 am.

I’m a very busy man with no time to waste…and even less to squander. I’m in a hurry – always.  I make snap decisions with little regard for consequences and never look back. I know what I want…and right now I want bananas.

I like bananas. I also like the way the store hides them occasionally – moving them to a different location in order to get me to see the other stuff they sell that I’ll never buy.

What the hell’s a cherimoya, anyway? Screw daikon – it’s a stupid vegetable and nobody likes it. A personal watermelon? WTF. I like the impersonal ones.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of yellow – I’m on it.

There’s a problem, though. A woman.

She’s small, no  bigger than a grocery sack, with a full cart, overflowing with TV dinners and canned spaghetti. Problem is,  she’s parked the damned thing lengthwise in front of the banana display – unassumingly impacting negatively the personal space of everyone else on the planet in the market for bananas.

She stands trancelike, eyelids half closed – staring at the numerous rows of professionally displayed, identically sized, identically colored bunches of bananas and blocking all access to them.

I’ve seen this before – and it ain’t pretty. Fairly normal people, going about their daily business, suddenly transformed in mindless zombie-like shells of their former selves – staring at bananas.

What does she see, I wonder? What is she looking for?

My face flushes - a voice inside me silently screams “ Yo! Lady! WTF! They’re all exactly the freakin’ same! Whattaya…stoopid?”

Of course she doesn’t respond – she can’t. She’s not here anymore…not with us.

I can’t take it.

I charge the display, hip check her cart and send it packing. Reaching across her field of vision, I grab a bunch of bananas. She snaps out of it – eyeing me warily, but at same time there’s a look of grudging admiration as she checks me out.  

“Take me. Take me now!” she whispers.

“Not on your best day, tramp.” I smile and vault over the fruit display – the banana stalk clenched tightly between my teeth.

As I come down on the other side I notice the fat pastry chef is watching me and quickly looks away. Chef, indeed…the pork loin spends his days opening and then baking par-baked muffins, Danish, and pies before finally over saturating ersatz “artisan” bread with flour for that old world experience.

I stop at the pie table. There’s a stack of apple pies in plain white boxes that somehow don’t appear to contain  Little Debbie pie filling, in that the crusts are bumpy – not flat. Intrigued, I take a closer look.

A sign on the table announces “Delicious” apple pies.

“Hey Chef!”

From behind the cake display case, he  ignores me, probably still pissed off about the apple fritter incident last summer.

“Hey Chef!” I repeat.

He looks over.

“These apple pies…the sign says they’re delicious. That true?”

“I dunno.” He starts to walk away.

“Whattya mean? Didn’t you make these pies?”

(continued...maybe)

 

 

[Carol T]

Bananas and I have a complicated relationship.

I am one of those people for whom ripe bananas taste bitter.  It's one of the proteins in bananas -- the same one used in aspartame, which means anything sweetened with that also tastes bitter to me.  Green bananas are the only way I can tolerate 'em.  The problem is, there is a certain point at which a green banana is inedible.  And bananas ripen quickly, so I can only buy three or four at a time and they have to be a certain color.  I spend a lot of time examining bananas.  I do not trust my husband to buy them for me.

I eat them because they're nutritious and portable and require no preparation, but I really don't like them much.  When I was pregnant, the slightest whiff of bananas would send me retching towards the nearest toilet.  That antipathy lingers.

Perhaps your 6 am lady was looking for that just right green color.

[Bmichael]

Hello? Anonymous tip line?

I know where she is...

Carol T, that's who...

She's over in the "Parts" discussion - right now. Hurry!

Is there a reward?

[Bmichael]

And that, he realized was that.

He slumped down in the old club chair and reached for the diluted remains of his scotch while signaling for another.

There was no going back now, for to do so would have to include an apology and forgiveness – something he rarely offered. In any case, this would not be one of those times.

He wondered what it would be like – to be an orphan. Not an orphan in the true sense of the word, for there was still family nearby, but with all relations now permanently severed he might as well be.

Staring straight ahead, he studied his feelings for awhile and decided that most of all there was a bittersweet sense of relief. It reminded him of someone being fired from a job they hated and had tolerated for a long time. The bad news was unemployment – the good news was the relief that an unhappy situation was over, followed by the realization that they probably should have quit a long time ago.

Well then…what was that old saying? Ah yes…damn the torpedoes – full speed ahead!

He pulled on his coat, left some money on the side table, and headed home.

[Bmichael]

He reached into the cooler and fished out another Old Milwaukee – the third in the last 15 minutes.

“Is this all what’s left?”

I nodded.

He leaned back, stuck his hair back behind his ears, and tugged the old felt hat low over his eyes. For a minute he just sat there – staring into the trees.

“If there is a god, I’ve probably pissed him off pretty good by now, I expect.

Like that time during my ‘troubled youth’ when I scared the hell out of that woman.

I was cuttin’ across the school grounds ‘bout  midnight when I heard footsteps coming from between the buildings. Sounded like high heels – loud and fast. I ducked into a shadow, wondering what was goin’ on at that hour, when she popped out into the light – wearin’ a dress and a purse and headin’ across the field towards the subdivision, clickin’ and clackin’ down the sidewalk in a big damn hurry.

I was between the Shop and Maintenance buildings and don’t know what came over me, but I started stompin’ my shoes. That sound musta echoed pretty loud ‘cause she stopped. I waited a few seconds and started  stompin’ again like I was runnin’ and then quick stopped sudden-like.

There was another pause with both of us just listening. Me – hidin’ in the dark, her - frozen on the sidewalk out in the open under a dim streetlight, tryin’ to see into dark halfway between the school and some houses with a ways to go either way.

Finally, I coughed and that broke up the spell and she took off.

Damn…that woman could run in them heels.

Didn’t think nothin’ of it until some years later. I went through a time when I started rememberin’ things for no reason. Bad stuff, mostly…things that happened to me, and stuff that I did to other people. It was pretty bothersome – still comes back once in a while.

That night at the school, well, I was pretty young then – maybe ‘bout sixteen, or so. It wasn’t in me to hurt her or anything like that. I was just havin’ some fun and had no ideal what she musta went through.

I get it now, and feel bad some, even though it was a long time ago. And I wonder if she ever thinks ‘bout it.  Musta been like somethin’ outta that old TV show…can’t remember the name…damn. The guy was …uh…fat and bald…and had a show with scary stories…”

“Alfred Hitchcock?”

“That’s him. Anyway, I wish I could take that one back.”

“Really. How come?”

He finished the beer and tossed the empty can back into the cooler.

“Come on, Brick…let’s go pee.”

Brick, his oversized American bulldog was laying flat a few feet away – his massive white head on his front paws – intently watching a young mother and her two toddlers as they kicked a ball around by the fountain.

Hearing his name, Brick was up in an instant and the two of them headed towards a hedgerow and disappeared behind it.

I was never sure if he was coming back. Sometimes they’d walk off for water for Brick at the fountain or to the ice cream man that played a creepy version of ‘It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll’ on a xylophone through distorted speakers, and then disappear until the next time.

“Be careful of what you let get in your memories. Some things you can’t help it, and that’s a fact, but there’s a whole lot of others…”

JD reached into the cooler.

“When I was in the Navy, we pulled into one of the few big ass third world ports that wasn’t pissed off at us at the moment – crap,  can’t even remember which cesspool it was right now-for some R&R. 

Word was there was going to be a public execution the next day – a hanging.”

“Did you go?”

“Ain’t sayin’. But that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Some of the guys, they was all excited and actin’ like a bunch of kids goin’ to Disneyland over it. That night it was kinda quiet – not the usual after a shore leave. The chaplains came ‘round and went off with a few of ‘em who never did come back.

Like I said, there’s enough bad stuff out there that’s gonna happen away, that’s gonna jump right out at ya, let alone go out and look for it. You can’t forget that stuff, man - it stays forever – all of it. Best you can hope for, I reckon, is that someday you get to the point where you at least get used to it. I dunno.

Guess I’m not sure which was worse – the scare that I put into her…or the wonder that I put in myself, that I could even be that way.”

I watched as he shoved another can in his fatigue pocket and stood up.

“C’mon Brick…let’s go find us some women.”

 

 

[Westerly_2]

Nice/ I feel like a fly on the wall listening to a real thing.

[Bmichael]

“Well did you at least thaw them?”

That did it. He turned around.

“Hey Chef!”

He didn’t say anything.

“I was just wondering…the box says that the apples in these pies are “orchard grown”. Is that right?”

I held the box up.

He stared at me.

“Just wondering…aren’t all apples orchard grown? I mean, it’s not like you go around picking apples in people’s back yards for these pies, do ya? “

A few shoppers had heard the discussion and  gathered around the pie table.

One guy interrupted. “That’s right! I heard somewhere that orchard grown apples are the best. I think it was on 60 Minutes. These apples are orchard grown – it says so right here! And he put two pies in his cart.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen – another unsolicited testimonial from a…hey chef! Where’d ya go?”

I saw him in the back of the bakery, speaking on a phone while occasionally looking back at me.

“Hi there! Can I help you?” said an amazingly cheery voice from behind me.

I turned to find a middle-aged woman in an ill-fitting black suit smiling at me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Miss Quinn, the shift supervisor. Did you need some help, sir?”

“Oh, well…not really. I was just asking the Chef about these delicious, orchard grown apple pies – you know,  the ones next to the “scrumptious” peach pies over here.”

“Scrumptious?” said the apple pie man as he walked around the table. “Well, I’ll be darned – they are scrumptious – says so right here on the box” as he put one in the cart.

I turned back to Miss Quinn, who was staring at me – a frozen smile on her face.

“But, yes…I do have a question for you, ma’am.”

“Ok…how can I help you?”

“It’s about your eggs. “

“Sure…what about them?”

“Can we go over to the egg department please?”

“Yes sir – follow me.”

I did and so did Pie Man, two young women with small children, and a night stocker who had been there the whole time.

Arriving at the refrigerated case, I pulled out a carton of eggs.

“Just wondering ma’am – where do these eggs come from?”

“Well sir, I’m not sure exactly, but this company prides itself in providing food products from local producers and growers as much as poss…”

“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is, where do they come from? From ducks? Cats? Turtles? What?”

The smile faded and she eyed me suspiciously. “Sir, those are chicken eggs, of course.”

“Of course? Really! How do you know?”

I handed her the carton and very officially asked “Would you mind showing me where, on this packaging does it indicate that the contents are “chicken” eggs, please?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two cops enter the store…

(to be continued, possibly)

 

 

[Westerly_2]

It didn’t look like much, but it was unique – shaped like an ear of corn with a feathery flower where the tassel would be. I didn’t know why it was so important to those other people; I knew only that I had to have and hold this plant and keep it well forever.

 

            They argued with me – my roly-poly borders – the plump middle-aged man and woman, so steamed up and fiery in their speech. They lived in my house and figured the plant was theirs.

 

            “That baby girl belongs to us,” the quivery woman cried.

 

            “How can you say that? It was I who planted her from seed, fed and watered and nurtured her all this long time. That precious lamb is mine

 

            “Now, I’m not going to hear another word about it.” And with that, I grabbed my gardening shovel and dug into the loose sandy soil all around her, and I poured her, soil and all into an empty Cheerios box. In from the yard, down the hall with my floral prize, my tender nursling I ran, toward the door.

 

            He jumped me in the hallway from behind, the fat old man, grabbed for my boxed-up little girl. I wrapped it in a hug to my chest, and that was when the old lady hurled herself at me from the bathroom. I struggled.

 

            “Help!” I cried out, and yet my voice was a croak, without volume. “Gaak!”

 

            Help was there, at hand. “Mom,” my daughter was saying. “Are you okay? “You were struggling and gasping in your sleep.”

 

 

[Bmichael]

Tales Of The Waning Gibbeous - part 2

“Damn it!”

The old man let out a breath and shook his head.

“Jenny! Come back here, girl… right now. Y’hear?” he shouted in the direction of the path.

No answer.

Now what? Jenny surprised him the way she took off like that – the child usually minded pretty well. He decided to wait a few minutes…she was probably waiting for him a little ways in and would come back if he didn’t follow.

“Jenny!”

But what if she didn’t? What if…? Nah – not everybody got stuck in there, he told himself. Lots of folks said they’d gone in. Probably lying, though – most of them, or maybe they just took a few steps and never did  pass the bend.

There was the time when a group of liquored up high school football players initiated the team’s new kicker –  a young man nicknamed Bilky. Bilky’s family had recently come down from upstate after his dad inherited some valuable property by the river.

His folks were a bit snotty but the kid seemed ok and was readily accepted by the team. Being a newcomer, Bilky had no knowledge of the right path in the woods and listened intently to the strange stories about it.

However, Bilky knew crap when he heard it and said so – much to the delight of his teammates who feigned hurt feelings and immediately began to plan a trip to the woods on the order of a snipe hunt for Bilky who, quickly took the bait and even offered to buy the beer.

The following Saturday, after picking up Bilky and stopping at Deeb’s for a couple of cases of Budweiser, they made camp at the fork and began to party. It didn’t take long for the talk to turn to the path.

Ricky Powell, the quarterback, began telling more tales to get everybody in the spirit which wasn’t difficult as most of the boys were already pretty silly from the Buds.

Eventually, Bilky interrupted, jumped up, and demanded to see the path. “Let’s get this party started, slackers!” he howled, to cheers, hoots and hollers from the group.

Ricky led the way, single file as the team followed. When they reached the clearing, he stopped and ceremoniously faced the crowd with a solemn expression, his hand raised. In the moment of silence, nothing could be heard except the sound of Paulie Sweda in the back of the line who had fallen off the trail and was puking his guts out in the bushes.

“Where?”

Ricky nodded towards the path and Bilky headed for it.

Ricky reached out and grabbed him by the belt.

“Whoa! Hold on, junior! Can’t let you just walk in there – too dangerous, my man!” to muffled snickers, popped beer cans, and phone cams recording this momentous occasion.

”We gotta get you ready.”

“Ready for  what, Q?”

“Don’t know, but we got your back – put this on.”

Clarence, the huge center ambled forward with a long length of rope. He made a loop, passed it through the belt loops and tied it around Bilky’s waist.

“Now listen. You go in there and go around the bend – that proves you did it…but don’t go too far. You gotta stay at least five minutes and then get out.”

“What’s the rope for?”

“Just in case. If anything happens, we’re gonna pull you out.”

Bilky stared at Ricky, looked around at the rest of the guys, and broke into a grin.

“Shheeeit! You guys have done lost your minds! See ya in five!”

He turned, entered the path, and disappeared around the bend, the unraveling rope following behind.

After a minute Ricky called out.

“Bilkie…you ok?”

“Yeah man…fine.”

“What do you see?”

“What do I see? Holy shit!”

“What?”

“It’s…it’s…trees! Omigod! Trees! And bushes!”

“Hope it stays that way, funny guy. Four minutes!”

Clarence loosened his grip on the rope as he felt it draw away again.

“Hey Bilk! Don’t go too far, remember?”

“Yeah…you’re right…especially with all these trees and bushes all over the place – never know what might happen!”

Laughing and catcalls.

“Uh, hey Q?’

Bilkie’s  voice sounded different.

“What’s up?”

“I’m comin’ out now, man.”

“You still got three minutes. You ok?”

Pause. “Time to go.”

The rope jerked out of Clarence’s hand and slid across the ground. Ricky, Clarence and two others dove for it.

Standing up, they pulled as it went taught and wouldn’t budge.

“Q! C’mon.  Get me out of here, man.”

 

Ricky called to the others. “Little help! Everybody!

The four of them were suddenly jerked forward,  dragging down the path. The rest of the guys piled on and were able to back it out again.

“Bilkie!”

No answer.

“Pull, damn it!”

It wouldn’t move.

PULL!

Suddenly, it freed up,  sending everyone flying. At the end, where Bilkie should have been was instead, only a pair of jeans threaded through the belt loops by the rope.

Terrified and drunk, the boys ran back to the parking lot and without a word – or even a backwards glance- they left.

Five minutes later there was a rustling of some bushes near the path entrance as Bilky and three other footballers spilled out into the clearing – laughing hysterically.  Bilky was laughing so hard he could hardly get his pants on.

The boys recovered a few beers, hastily discarded during the mass exodus by Ricky and the others, and recounted their prank. Walter, Sammie, Bruiser, and Chick had arrived early and waited just inside the path. When Bilky came in they removed his pants and tied off the end of the rope to a tree …and at the right time, cut it.

They all agreed that Bilky should lay low for the rest of the weekend and would stay at Chick’s house. After a few more beers, and darkness closing in, they gathered up to leave.

“Ready Chick?” asked Bilky.

No response.

Bilky looked around. No Chick. That’s when he and the others realized that Chick had not followed them out a few minutes ago.

“Hey Chick! Dude! C’mon man, let’s go.”

Still no answer.

The boys looked at each other.

“He was right behind me. He…”

Sammie muttered “You don’t think…”

“Naw…that’s bullshit, man. C’mon, let’s go back and get him.”

They walked back to the path, still giggling about the joke, when they stopped.

The path was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Marilyn]

Yikes. Love it!