It's over

 

It's over...

Thirty days of receiving a prompt that will trigger a piece of flash fiction.

What is flash fiction you may ask?

In a flash fiction workshop I attended once, the leader described it this way: think of a house as a novel, a short story as a room and flash fiction as a closet. 

Over the years flash fiction has been described as a complete story under 1000 (and sometimes 750) words. 

Many are shorter with the classic being, "Baby shoes for sale. Never worn."

For the past 30 days, I eagerly awaited the new prompt. Ideas, words, swirled in my head until I could get to the computer. Unlike when I'm working on my novel, I cut and pare from the beginning rather than in many later revisions over time.

Nancy Stohlman was the driving force behind what I called a marathon, because that's how I felt. I was running word laps every day with pauses to read what others were writing. 

She used Facebook as her production medium and has 404 followers. Not everyone posted every day. Some wrote and never posted. Others just read the postings. Reading was fun, fascinating and often inspiring. The different stories from the same prompt is an example of human creativity.

I wanted to know more about this woman, who created this writing whirlwind in me. She was kind enough to respond to my questions.

As a military brat she moved every two years living in several states and two countries. In 1995 she settled down in Denver where she still lives.

Like so many things in life that happen by lucky accident, she says, 'I discovered flash fiction in graduate school--took a random class (this would have been 2007?) on flash fiction...It took me that whole semester to "get" it. But then it clicked and I was hooked, started a flash fiction press (Fast Forward Press) with fellow grad students in 2008 and never looked back.' https://fastforwardpress.wordpress.com/

What a change from writing novels in traditional formal. "I had always been writing long form--novel. Once I realized I didn't have to say all that other boring stuff (!!) I never looked back."

I'll miss the daily workout, and hopefully if Nancy did this 10 times before, next November will be an 11th. 

There is nothing stopping me from doing my own prompts from a line in a book or something I see, but the energy of knowing how many other people all over the world were at their computers were pounding out a few sentences that became a full story in the same time frame I was doing it was immeasurable. 

Looking forward to 2022. 

Impossible

 Day 30 Flash Fiction Marathon: Write a story where the impossible is possible

The nurses, interns and doctors lined up and clapped as Alex was rolled down the corridor by his parents. They applauded. One nurse, Phoebe, his favorite nurse for the past 18 months hit a cymbal. Some of the staff had tears as the family reached the entrance.

No one thought he'd survive the car crash never mind walk or talk.

Alex stood up. His mother handed him his crutches. Six months ago he wouldn't have been able to use them.

The revolving door caused him to pause, but then Alex swung in and out of it. On the other side, he waved.

Everyone on both sides of the door held up two fingers in a V.

John Irving and me

 

John Irving doesn't know me, but I feel I know him. It isn't because we were born the same year and it isn't because we have both lived in Exeter, NH.

It's his books. 

I fell in love with his book, World According to Garp and then read all his earlier ones. 

It took me a little while to get into A Prayer for Owen Meany, and I was afraid it would be like James Joyce's Ulysses, where I never got beyond page 42 (the year of Irving's and my birth) and I'd have to have written on my tombstone, "She never finished Ulysses and A Prayer for Owen Meany."

Then one weekend in Môtiers Switzerland, I was curled up in bed with the book. Outside it was snowing. I fell asleep reading it, picked it up as soon as I woke. Read it through meals, read it before walking the dogs and after walking them, read it as I washed dishes by stacking it on the windowsill over the sink.

When he tied it altogether at the end, I knew I had read something better than Ulysses, a brilliant work.

Other Irving books followed.

When I was getting my masters in creative writing at Glamorgan University in Pontypridd, Wales, not only did I have to produce a novel, but a masters thesis. I decided to do it on repeated symbolism in John Irving. I scoured his novels, line by line for examples of wrestling, bears, hotels, Vienna, etc.

I argued with my reader (that's what they call the thesis advisors) that Irving uses biographical details beyond Exeter where he grew up. He refused to accept it, but after I had my degree I came across a quote in a newspaper, which I can't find now, where Irving says he takes a bit of biographical details and adds a little bit hit and there until it is on its way of becoming a lie. My reader apologized. It is something I incorporated into my own writing.

On Facebook the other day I saw Irving said, he might be working on his last novel. Since we share an age, I feel the same about the novel I just started to write. I also felt that way I just finished. We are both facing natural timelines.

I'm not comparing my success to his. The fact that I've been able to write and publish so many novels www.dlnelsonwriter.com is more than many writers do. Many of those writers might be more talented than either Irving or myself, but we had the luck of finding publishers. 

We also had the opportunity to live the life of writers and if it took me longer to become full time so be it.

Irving added much to my life by his work.

 

The Gazelle

Day 29 Flash Fiction Marathon: Write a story where a human character has a physical characteristic of an animal.

Miriam warmed up at the bar finishing up with her pliees, her feet flat on the floor. Then she was ready for the rehearsal. Everyone waited.

It was an original ballet where all the dancers were cast as animals, a strange story, about their revolt to save the earth.

She was cast as Gazelle, the animal that would lead the destructive humans into a trap.

It was her first major role with the company. Her costume was soft beige like the animal and the designer had given her a horned headdress. Black lined her eyes and was drawn to her mouth in parallel with the black line from the top of her head to her mouth.

It was only a rehearsal. 

She shouldn't be this scared. 

The orchestra gave her her cue. 

She was ready.

No real gazelle had been so beautiful, so graceful as she moved across the stage.

Memorial

 Day  28 of the Flash Fiction Marathon: Photo Prompt

Until Princess Diana died and she saw the endless sea of flowers left at the palace gates, she'd never thought of doing such a thing.

She wasn't a fan of cut flowers, thinking it cut off their lives too early and were a complete waste of money.

Her car stopped by the tree and she made sure it was far enough off the road that no passing and out of control vehicle would hit her as she wired the bouquet to the bark. Maybe they would live longer if she didn't remove the wet plastic at the roots.

This was the fifth time she'd made this pilgrimage on this date. Unlike her, her Mom had loved cut flowers especially in bright colors. 

Maybe this was the last year she'd do this. Her Mom was gone. The flowers would be gone. Or maybe not.

 

 

Day 27 Flash Fiction Marathon: Quickie--a story that occurs within a single minute. 

     She wasn't sure it was him. It had been at least ten years since they broke up, not because they wanted to, but the parental pressure had been too great. "You don't mix religions," they said. 

    His hair was shorter, her hair was longer. 

    She couldn't be sure. Normally she never made sudden decisions, weighing the what ifs for ever.

    He was looking in a store window and was alone. 

    The traffic was heavy, but she rushed between cars. "Ted?"

    The man turned around, not recognizing her. Maybe she made a mistake, but he had turned to the name Ted. But then he cocked his head. "Jennifer?"

    They had coffee, caught up on old times, and were together the rest of their lives.

 

Difference of opinon

 Decolonization and Rittenhouse two examples that  show the wide diversion of people in the U.S.

 

A Fox news commentator was ranting against the decolonization of Thanksgiving. They basically put forth that children in school should not be exposed to the negative information about the first settlers. 

In school I was taught the pretty version. We colored pictures of pilgrims and Indians. Only as an adult did I read the stories about smallpox blankets being given to Indians, appropriation of land, etc. I have a several-inch book by Caleb Johnson containing every document of the founding fathers.

Hiding truth produces mindless citizens. 

The men and women who settled Massachusetts Bay colony were on one hand religious bigots who would punish or destroy anyone who went against their rigid believes. On the other hand they were extremely brave to face unknown hardships to follow their beliefs. They also stole or settled depending what verb you want to use from those already occupying their land. 

Most societies have some sort of harvest festival. The early settlers did just that.

What does that mean to kids today? Grown ups today? Should we not eat turkey, have time off with friends and relatives because of what the early Americans did? Can we recognize the sins, while admiring the accomplishments? Does it have to be all bad or good?

The speaker on Fox was saying how the liberals wanted to ruin Thanksgiving for everyone. The claim is over the top just as the war on Christmas is a phony issue. 

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday for the family gatherings, good food, a remembrance of what is good in my life. When I found out the truth of the good and bad of the early settlers, I was angry I was lied to. It made me wonder what else I was lied to about American history, and the more I read, the more I learned of the lies. It doesn't make me hate America for its past, but it does make worry about the lies being told currently and the price the Americans pay for their ignorance.

Rittenhouse is another case. The kid has been called a hero, who rushed to the aid of people in another state. He just happened to be carrying an assault weapon that he used to defend himself while killing a couple of people. He merits a visit to the 45th president of the United States, a possible congressional internship and a gold medal, according to some.

The opposite point of view: he is a white supremacist based on videos of what he said, had an illegal weapon carried across state lines, allegedly was helping others medically which was never proven and defending property that wasn't his. In most cases self defense can't be an argument if the person who claims it instigated the attack. Some how, if Kyle Rittenhouse was in his own bed in another state no one would have "threatened" him. 

When one reads different points of view, it is hard to understand how they came to such wildly divergent opinions. But hiding what really happened and why is no way to reach the truth and without truth, nothing is real.

 

 

Nov. Tech month from hell

 

Compared to people being sick and dying, technology problems should be minor. 

Should be. And I won't deny gratitude for being alive and healthy.

However, we must have spent half of our waking time in November trying to solve technology glitches. Not a day went by that something major didn't go wrong where hours of our lives were lost trying to work through the problem.

Things like standing orders in two banks that stopped for no reason, causing hours of trying to catch up on payments. The money wasn't the problem. Getting the money to the people that weren't paid was. Even using recommended solutions, didn't work.

Over and under payment of taxes because of bad information.

Trying to get a boarding pass on airline. We won't discuss the fact that the amount of information required should be mentioned before starting the procedure, the screens that went blank, etc.

Trying to get medical appointments on line with their systems not working.

Time outs on anything on line we tried to fill out.

Codes required and not sent until after the time outs.

Leaving messages via email to get a reply that the answer would be forth coming in 10 days. We needed the information then.

Forms that disappeared.

 

I never thought I'd become a Luddite. I fell in love with things like e-mail, word processing, Excel, Power Point, FB, Skype, YouTube, graphics programs, games, etc. However, there are time you need humans not software. In one of our bank problems where we couldn't get the form to work after a morning trying, we went to the bank. The teller solved the problem in ten minutes. Amazing what humans can do.

However, the lack of any help from the airline may mean my husband can't take his needed flight because he can't deal with a human. He's technically competent or he was until the last few layers of complications have been added by those who develop the software.

Even something similar like a charity I give to regularly instead of one click now involved multiple screens and directions. My solution? Give to another charity.

As a child, I watched my mother would pickup the telephone and the operator would put through the call. Sometimes they would chat. I don't want to go back that far, but I would like to reach a human, like our friendly bank teller, when things go wrong they get fixed fast. I wish the software developers would make things user friendly, instead of user hostile. 

It is not possible to withdraw from technology but I do wish for a time when things were simple or simpler. When I think of looking for a cave with heat and hot and cold running water to avoid the complications, I realize I would miss the internet. 

I shudder to think that these may the good old days as life gets more and more complicated to do what should be simple.

The Price of a Smile

 

Day 23 of the Flash Fiction Marathon: A man walks into a bank wearing nothing but a smile…

Walter's willie waggled as he dashed from his car in front of the bank, through the revolving door  and headed for the teller. He kept smiling, hoping whoever had been assigned to film him was catching everything.

A security guard approached him. "Sir, we have a rule that customers must be clothed."

"Oh, I'm not a customer," Walter smiled.

"I have to ask you to leave," the guard said.

"Do you have any idea how cold it is out there? And its raining." He wasn't worried now about being filmed. Most of the people had their phones out. He wondered if he would make the nightly news.

"That's no my problem." The guard took him by the arm and pushed him out the door. Some people on the street noticed. Others were rushing along, their heads bent.

Back in the car, Peter was laughing. "I don't believe you did that."

"I won the bet that I could stay naked in the bank for three minutes, wearing only my smile. The $50,000 is mine."

Poutine and Lobster Rolls

 

I was a new bride in Stuttgart when I stumbled across my first Christmas market (Weihnachtsmarkt). I had gone into the city. Breuniger's parking lot was filled with tiny chalets selling Christmas decorations, hand made gifts, bratwurst and Glugwin. 

 From then on I was hooked. Over the years the markets have gotten bigger and better. One year I traveled to Frankfurt to meet up with my cousins. He was photographing the markets around Europe. I snapped the colored licorice shown above.

In Switzerland the best market tended to be in Montreux, home of the famous jazz festival. It's huge and Father Christmas flies across the sky several times a day. We went almost every other year.

Geneva's Christmas Marchés have always been tiny affairs. Not this year. Ferris wheels and fairy lights were everywhere.

The English Garden had been turned into a magical piece of real estate.

Original fireplaces provided warmth near the benches where people not only ate the traditional raclette and fondue, they could choose from an international variety of booths.

I ordered a lobster roll. The girl joked that it wasn't a Bostonian lobster but a Canadian one. I didn't care. It was delicious. Rick, who lived and worked in Montreal a few years back, headed for the poutine chalet. Add in a few hot roasted chestnuts to nibble and some vin chaud it was a perfect night.

Marché Message

 Day 22 Flash Fiction Marathon: Something unexpected is found at a Farmer's Market

Every Saturday, the small French village's center was taken over by the marché. It was possible to buy almost everything from local vegetables, fruits, meat, sausages, olives, pastries and cheeses. Watches, clothes, shoes and toys were for sale. Amelie had found a beautiful leather jacket for her husband there last year for only 10 Euros, but since it was the only time she ever saw that vendor, she suspected as the Brits say, it fell off a lorry.

This Saturday Amelie took her old straw basked and headed out to buy the seasonal squash, Grenoble walnuts and figs. The smell of fresh roasted chicken drew her to the stand across from 14th century church.

A new vendor had laid out colored baskets on the church steps. She looked at her basket, which was at least ten years old. It was patched. She was prudent with her money, but buying a new basket did not turn her into a spendthrift, she thought.

Rather than buy a boring beige, she found a vibrant pink one and transferred her purchases. When she passed a garbage can, she tossed her old basket away, feeling almost like it deserved a better end for so many years of service.

Her husband Yves took the basket from her at the door. It was their tradition that she shopped and he washed the veggies and fruits and put things away.

"Amelie, come here," he called from the kitchen. "I found this in the basket. It was a note.

"Help me. I'm being trafficked. There's ten of us at the Ducette farm outside Ceret."

"What should we do. It could be a joke,"she said. "But if it isn't..."

Before they went to the police, they drove to the farm. She saw people picking apples. In another field, orange-colored netting was spread under olive trees as other workers were shaking the fruit from the tree.

"It looks normal," Yves said.

"How did the message get into the basket from a farm?" Amelie asked.

The farm had a store where their produce was sold. "Let's check it out." As soon as they entered not only did they see all kinds of veggies for sale, but a table had colored baskets.

Their next stop was the regional police, fearing that the local police might not act. 

In the newspaper one week later, Yves and Amelie read about a raid on the farm. Immigrants being treated as slaves were found.

 

 

Marmite happiness

 

In 1602 the French attacked Geneva by scaling the wall. The story goes that Mère Royaume who was making vegetable soup heard them and poured the entire vat of hot soup on the soldiers giving the city enough time to raise the troops and defeat the attackers.

Every year, except for Covid times, the city celebrates the Escalade.  People in 17th century costumes, soldiers in armor and on horse back roam the old town. Vegetable soup and vin chaud are sold from stands.

Although it is a December celebration, the marzipan-filled chocolate marmites are already for sale.

Last week it was desert after a lovely meal with friends. We upheld the tradition of the oldest and youngest present joining hands and smashing the marmite then everyone eating the chocolate and candy veggies.

Fog Gifts

 

Day 21 Flash Fiction Marathon prompt: The beach was shrouded in fog

 

Most people love going to the beach on beautiful days. They spread towels on the sand, slather themselves in sun tan lotion and bake. Periodically they go into the water, come out and repeat the process.

Not Marina. She never went to the beach on a good day. Rain, snow, sleet, she would bundle up and walk across the sand then sit on the dock. She would stare at the waves crashing on the shore. The roar to her was a symphony.

Most of all she loved the beach in the fog, preferably not so dense that she couldn't see where she was going, but dense enough that her cheeks would feel moist.

Today, was a foggy beach day. It was a five-minute walk to the beach and another two to the dock, a perfect spot to stand or even sit and stare across the water and think. Only half the lake was visible and the Jura on the other side were invisible as if they had packed up and gone to Italy. She had decisions to make. 

What should do about her thesis?

Her research was into single mother's who remarried and whose new husbands resented their kids and what they did about it. She could see it as a book and giving a Ted Talk or being interviewed by talk shows. Or at least she had until she tuned on the television and heard that Leslie, her fifth interviewee had killed her second husband because he had threatened her and her child.

Looking out into the fog she saw a small boat, the only boat on the lake. 

Then she heard a whimper. Going under the dock, she saw a puppy probably no more than a couple of months chained to a pillar. She picked up the cocoa-colored ball of fluff and put the shivering creature in her jacket.

Whoever did this, should be shot, she thought as she headed for home. There was no doubt in her mind that he? her? was going to be hers. 

"I'll name you Cocoa," she told the pup trying to think what she was going to feed her new friend, her fog gift.

Note: This piece was with two prompts. The one from the group and the photo my husband took walking the dog in the early morning fog.

I hate my mobile/cell

 

 

If it wouldn't be a waste of my time I could talk for hours on how much I hate my mobile/cell phone.*

When I'm out and it rings, I have this visceral reaction where I want to stomp it into smithereens. How dare someone interrupt my free time away from everything, my gazing at a cloud or a flower, talking to friends, eating at a restaurant, buying roast chestnuts, etc.

If I think of it as a camera or as holder of my vax code, I can feel good about it, which it is why it is still in one piece. Although I don't have GPS on mine, Rick does and I will get it on mine eventually. I have What's Ap because people urged me to, but I refuse to use it. 

There's a certain security that if I'm walking in the woods with the dog, I fall, then I can call for help.

We are in the process of replacing my Swiss dumb phone with a 2nd smart phone (I have a French). I can no longer get a pay as you go. Considering the cost and the fact that I may make one or two calls on it a year if that many, it is more expensive than international calls were in the 60s, 80s, 90s. The only people that have the number are medical in case they need to change an appointment. If I am meeting someone, I MIGHT give them the number in case there's a meet-up problem but make them promise to delete it.

At home we have a landline, FB, Skype and two emails. I don't want to take my at home chores such as emails with me outside. I want to keep those two worlds separate. 

Plenty of ways to contact me. When I am out I do not want to be bothered. I am a multi tasker. But my outside time is MINE not the universe's. And try and take my laptop or Kindle away from me and you're in big trouble, Buddy.

I want to bring peace and tranquility into my daily life. I want to concentrate on the moment. My mobile/cell is a hindrance.

*I am usually not a hater although I plead guilty to hating cruelty to animals, people, war, poverty, and other bad things humans do to other living creatures.

Seasons

 Day 20 Flash Fiction Marathon Prompt: Smoke

 Ellen kicked the fallen leaves on her walk from school to home, a mere three blocks. Autumn was her favorite season with its vibrant red, yellow and orange leaves. Gone were the summer's  heat and humidity that left her lethargic and unmotivated. 

Autumn had always seemed like a new year, a new start in life. She guessed it was from a lifetime of starting school, university, getting her kids ready for the new school year. As a teacher she faced 30-odd fresh-faced third graders each September.

As she walked, she smelled the smoke of a neighbor's wood fire and planned to build one in their stove. Maybe, she'd start a pot of chili and let it bubble on its top. Mentally, she was already in her PJs, fuzzy slippers. After preparing tomorrow's lessons, she knew which book she'd start as she curled up on the couch under the afghan her grandmother had made a lifetime ago.

Jerry, her husband, hated autumn because not only did it mean he no longer could play golf after work, it was prelude to winter with its slippery roads and the need to shovel "that damned white stuff." Their marriage had fallen into an empty canyon, separate friends, separate activities. They didn't fight but most of their conversations were who would call the plumber to fix the leaky faucet type.

Ensconced on the couch with her book and cocoa, she looked up to see Jerry standing with two glasses of red wine. She hadn't heard him come in.

He hemmed and hawed before saying, "I've been offered a promotion."

"Wonderful."

"In Florida."

They had visited his sister every February School holiday in Sarasota. He played golf every day. Ellen didn't hate those trips, but found the endless trips to the mall and trying to sidestep any talk of politics fine for a week. 

The words fell from her mouth before she could stop them. "I think you should go alone."

It took three hours before he could see the wisdom of separating. Their love had turned to like. Parting as friends made more sense than building resentment at leading lives one of them didn't want over whatever decades they had left. 

After Jerry went to bed, Ellen looked at the stove with its smoky smell and dying embers. This autumn was really the start of the new year like never before. 

396 words

 

Hair

 

Day 19 Flash Fiction Marathon: Write a life story in three separate scenes involving hair.

1975

Mommy, I don't want a hair cut. I want my hair to be long. 

1995

I really need to get a hair cut. It takes forever to dry. Like the French writer Collette, I can sit on it. Maybe just to the bottom of my shoulders.

2021

Please be quick to shave my head. Yes, I'm donating my hair to the company that makes wigs for people with chemo. I've a label for where you can send it. I'm starting chemo next week myself, and I have a certificate for a wig. Most of my life, I've had long, long hair. Maybe a pixie style. Wait. What about that wig over there? No, I am serious. It's perfect.

 

The Big Blow

 

Day 18 of the flash fiction marathon, prompt: Why is my nose bloody?

"One, two, three blow."

Tissues were raised in the 20 Zoom boxes. This time there would be no blood.

I was having an on-line nose celebration.

Four months ago, I'd fainted. My face hit the floor breaking my cheek. Surgery had left me with a metal plate in said cheek and instructions not to sneeze or blow my nose for three months. I was told if I wanted to sneeze, I should rub my tongue on the top of my palette. That worked.

Until this limitation, I never thought of a good nose blow as a luxury. 

Today, the three months are up. I contacted friends and invited them to a BLOW ALONG WITH ME celebration. 

We blew together followed by a chat. 

Someone thanked me as having had a good excuse to see each other when we couldn't get together in person. 

When the computer screen went black, I reached for another tissue and blew again.

Turkey? Not Today?

 Day 17 of the Flash Fiction Marathon. Write about a cancellation

As a kid, Julie loved Thanksgiving. There were the high school football game where kids from previous years came back. Then there was the wonderful smells of roasting turkey and baking pies when she came home from the game in time to catch the end of the Macy's Day Parade.

Her cheeks would be red from the cold and her aunts, uncles and cousins would already be nibbling on cheese and crackers, marinated mushrooms and sweet and sour meatballs. Through out the day the women would be gathered in the kitchen and the men would be huddled around the TV watching football. 

No more.

The last few years the day had broken down into political battles. Last year, one aunt and two uncles were dead from Covid.

This year, she dreaded the three-hour drive to Maine for the meal. She had already told her mother she couldn't stay over because she had to work Friday--a lie.

Ralph, her boyfriend, asked why she was torturing herself by going. She had told him of how the family squabbles had left her on the outside emotionally.

The alarm went off at 5:30. She rolled over in bed and she found herself crying for what had been and was no more.

He took her in his arms. "You don't have to do this. Call them and tell them you aren't coming."

Two hours later, when she knew her mom would be in the kitchen cooking, she called. "My car won't start. I won't be able to come."

Ugly vs. beautiful

 

Day 16 of the Flash Fiction Marathon. The photo is the prompt

Each day on her way to work and back, Megan had to walk by the empty lot with dead grass, leaves and litter. She loved beautiful things The lot definitely wasn't beautiful. 

She tried imaging how it could be. Some days she pictured an English garden. Another time, it was a grassy play park with swings, jungle gyms and slides. She pictured children laughing. 

When she saw trash she picked it up: it could be bottles, McDo bags, cans. Once someone had thrown Hershey Kiss wrappers. She pretended they were silver flowers.

When she told her boyfriend about it, he sneered. "You are the most unrealistic person, I've ever met," he said. "The world is an ugly place."

Megan thought about what he'd said. So many times when she pointed out something nice, he saw something negative. She commented on the red carnations in the flower boxes on the white Northeastern Student Union. He pointed out the ugly air conditioners. When a movie they wanted to see wasn't being shown, she found another one. He ranted about how stupid the theater was not to have the right publicity. When she dropped an egg, he chided her for clumsiness. She saw how happy her dog was to lick it up.

Megan knew there was ugliness in the world: famine, war, fires, climate disasters, illness. She also knew that flowers were beautiful, people did kind things but they didn't make the news, that when the leaves changed color in the fall they created a riot of colors even if the weather was colder.

She started keeping a spread sheet of what she thought was good and what he saw was bad. When it reached 100 negatives in five weeks, she told him that it would be better if they each found someone else. He ranted for about an hour than accepted it.

The next morning when she walked by the ugly lot, it was snow-covered. A child had made a snow angel. She thanked the lot for being the catalyst to make her see that she needed to end her relationship with her boyfriend.

352 words

Mark Meadows

 "New information from a forthcoming book by ABC News chief Washington correspondent Jonathan Karl reveals that Trump’s chief of staff Mark Meadows was deeply involved. Heather Cox Richardson is referring to Jan. 6 planning.

It's 7:29 and I'm still in bed. The sun has yet to show its face and I read the latest article by HCR and shuddered.

I'd met Mark Meadows. I was with several Republicans and we were part of a group fighting to overturn FATCA https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foreign_Account_Tax_Compliance_Act that was hurting hundreds of thousands of American ex-pats. There had been a hearing where this was played https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4N9aW5NdE4&t=10s  After the hearing we had meetings with several congressmen to explain our problems.

Meadows' office and Meadows himself all could have been part of a movie. He is tall, good looking, well dressed with a pleasant, politiciany-type voice. He asked the right questions and acted as if he cared.

I was the token Democrat, a person who renounced her nationality because it was a choice between being an American and having a bank account in Switzerland where I was planning to live the rest of my life.

As we stood to leave, Meadows put his arm around my shoulders. "You're my favorite Democrat," he said. 

Meadows went on to become Trump's Chief of Staff. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Meadows where he did much damage to my birth country over the epidemic and the attempted coup. When I think that he touched me I want to wash and wash and wash my shoulders. 

And of course he did nothing to help the plight of the expats.

 

MIchael Smith Club

 

Day 14 of the Flash Fiction Marathon

The prompt: My first year as a member of the Michael Smith Club

I've been a member of the Michael Smith Club for exactly one year. We are a small group, Madison, Sarah and me, Judith.

Michael was a junior. We were Freshman. He was the most beautiful boy in our school and a top football, basketball and baseball player. He already had a girlfriend, the beautiful Cornelia Whitten, Neil as she was called. She was a cheerleader.

We formed the club to see if anyone of us could get Michael as our boyfriend. First we had to take an oath if any of us succeeded, the others would not be jealous. Well maybe a little jealous, but in turn, we'd help them get a great boyfriend, one of Michael's gorgeous friends.

There were assignments:

• Madison was to find out Michael's schedule, including what he did after school and football practice.
• Sarah was to find out Neil's schedule.
• I was to check out the places he hung out and when so we could all arrange to be there.

We met in my bedroom every Saturday morning and strategize. That afternoon during the fall, we went to the school football game, always dressed in the school colors. 

We wore identical clothes, combed our hair the same way so we looked like triplets. We hoped he notice us and be curious enough to ask. He never did.

Our first mission was to put a note in Neil's locker supposedly from Michael, saying he couldn't make it to their weekly Monday coffee at Starbuck's. It was the only afternoon they both had free. Then we showed up looking as cute as we could.

We could see him looking at his watch and tapping the table. We sat at the table next to him. Rather than sound like silly girls, we talked about the Boston Pats loud enough so he could hear, but not so loud to be obnoxious. Maybe he would want to join us to talk about the team.

After a half hour, he took the extra coffee he had bought for Neil and asked if any of us wanted it. Sarah took it asked him if anything were wrong.

"A misunderstanding," he said.

We never knew what happened between him and her about the missed date, but he and Neil went to the victory dance after our school won their game. They danced really close on slow numbers and held hands.

Neil was also on the school newspaper so I joined. While we were writing our stories, I talked about an article I'd read on how to know if your boyfriend is cheating. One of the ways was he never took you to his house. We knew Michael never invited anyone home. Neil said that she wasn't worried about Michael.

"I got him to talk to me," I told the girls. I had managed to stand behind him in the cafeteria line and complained about the food. He'd agreed. I wish the line had been longer. 

None of our schemes worked, although Michael smiled at us and said hello when we passed in the corridor.

The members of the Michael Smith Club are now Sophomores. Michael is Football Captain and Neil is head cheerleader.

Sarah has started dating Phil Burns.

Eddy Boucher has started walking me home from school. I suspect he will ask me to the Sophomore Hop.

As for Madison--she's now in the drama club and has a leading role in their next play. She's really had to be good to win the part because they usually go to seniors. 

We still meet on Saturday morning, but we talk about other things than Michael Smith and Neil like clothes, studies, Madison's play, who is going out with who, good teachers, teachers we hate.

Maybe we should change the name of the club. 

653 words

 

 

Resuscitation

 Day 12: Write a story on the theme of Resuscitation

 

Every Saturday morning, Jon and Mallory stayed in bed drinking tea, reading, planning the weekend and discussing friends, books, news.

"I wonder if it is worth it to even get up," Jon said. He'd been looking at the headlines on different news sites on his laptop.

She rolled over, touched his arm. "Why?"

"The state of the world. Think about it. Climate change, BLM, violence, refugees, China, shortages, masks, Covid, inflation..." His list went on as he added details of where and how these problems seemed to be escalating around the world.

Mal had seen the same headlines and agreed. She thought about how they had to straighten out the bank problem not of their making, the boiler with the leak, the wifi cable that took regular work breaks. 

What she wanted was a weekend with the man she loved, raking leaves to music, a nice lunch at their favorite brasserie and to see friends for a nice game of bridge that night. She had thought about baking two pies, apple and pumpkin -- well maybe one. She wanted the smell of their cooking to fill the small house where she felt a sense of peace.

She got out of bed and opened the curtains. Their bedroom window overlooked their garden. The maple tree had outdone itself with its red leaves, redder even than last year. Unlike the other nearby trees it held onto its leaves longer making its color stand out even more. 

Yes, the world was a mess. The country was a mess. Their town with the school board fights and raising Covid numbers was a mess. The tree knew none of this. It went on sharing its beauty. It resuscitated a tiny glimmer of hope.

No Cancer

 

Amazon women were said to cut off their right breast to make shooting arrows easier. I removed my right breast to save my life. It didn't improve my bow and arrow abilities.

"It's the same nodule from three years ago," The doctor who was running a sonar thingie over where my right breast had once been, said. She didn't see any change.

A tsunami of relief swamped my body. "I've been terrified since the other doctor three months ag, said there was something she wanted to check in three months. Than she disappeared before I could find out what.

As a writer, my imagination is always in overdrive and I thought the worse.

I've survived breast cancer twice and thought I'd done a pretty good job of facing each glitch helped by a friend and then my new husband. 

There were times, I even found chemo fun with the camaraderie between the nurses and other patients. The after effect was less so, but again my husband and I made the time as meaningful as possible. 

As for the radiation, it was an opportunity to visit Bern five times and meet the doctor who developed a heat/zap treatment. He spoke seven languages fluently, and each session included great conversation.

Just because I made the cancer something positive twice, I did not want to go through it again. I worried that it would mean I would not be able to spend three weeks at Christmas with my daughter after not seeing her in person for two years. As good as FB live messaging is, you can't hug a laptop like you can your kid.

And I didn't want to put my husband through another care taking role.

Nights when I couldn't sleep, I picture nasty little cancer cells moving from my right breast into other parts of my body and setting up a home.  

I told the doctor how scared I had been. She was another international, Swiss and Cameroon and beautiful enough to grace any magazine cover or runway. We shared how it was a blessing to wade in and out of other cultures. 

Time was up. As I dressed, she apologized for my fear. "We don't want to do that," she said.

 

Acceptance

 Day 11 of the Flash Fiction Marathon--Prompt: Give an acceptance speech

 Lady and Gentlemen of the board and CEO Dowell. You have no idea how much it means to me to be made Employee of the Year. I started 22 years ago with this company working  on the line. After going to night school I worked my way up through Admin until I have my current position in the Finance Department.

I see the photographer is waiting for the publicity shots that will be used in the anti-union campaign.

After that I know you will be voting on CEO Dowell's bonus and raise and your own bonuses. I know that you are also planning a major employee cut to improve your bottom line.

I suggest you forgo those shots. The police are waiting outside.

You see, I'm also Whistleblower of the Year. For the past nine months, I've been working with various agencies. In the Finance Department I was able to see how you fiddled the books. I also saw how you saved costs by eliminating safety measures both on the line and in our products.

So, again, thank you. It's been an interesting 22 years, three months, one week and two days.

Adoption

 

Day 10 of the Flash Fiction Marathon:

Write a story using 10 sentences of 10 words each

 "Remember we're just looking," Jason said at the animal shelter.

"We're thinking of an older female," Lisa said. "Fairly small."

"We have several Jack Russells available. Three years old, female."

Jason shook his head. "I think they are much too active." 

From under the counter an attendant retrieved a fluff ball. 

The three-month old pup was put in Lisa's arms.

"A little boy." the attendant watched the pup kiss Lisa.

Lisa couldn't give the pup back. Jason nodded, giving up. 

They were surprised at how much paper work there was. 

In the car going home they named him Sherlock Holmes.

100 words

 

 

Advertising Hype

 

My first realization that what was promised in advertising wasn't always right. I was eight.  Ovaltine ads were on Saturday morning cartoons. The drink looked wonderful. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOoF1fOQME4. Even if I wasn't a baseball fan, I was impressed with the famous player's advice and talk of vitamins.

I hated milk but was forced to drink three glasses a day. Thank goodness my mother let me flavor it with BOSCO. Even with the chocolate added, it was still milk.

My eight-year-old brain thought maybe Ovaltine would make the milk better. I begged my mother to buy it citing the health benefits. I don't remember how many shopping trips it took to convince her.

The next morning, I spooned the Ovaltine into my milk and took a big swallow.

YUCK!

I don't know what I expected. There are very few foods I don't like such as pickled beets and a certain red cabbage I was served in Damascus. Another is malted anything and Ovaltine was certainly malted flavor. They never said that in the advert.

Bless my mother. She didn't make me use it all. I don't know what happened to it.

Over the years I watched toy adverts which claimed they were fun, fun, fun. They weren't

As an adult the amount of adverts on television seem to have increased in number to where the programming offers a break from the advert.

Since it is approaching Christmas we getting the very strange perfume ads such as the one by Vanessa Paradis as a bird in the cage. I can't remember which perfume showed what looked like an airplane raping a woman at a swimming pool. If an advert seems weird, I usually watch and discover, I'm right -- it's for perfume.

I can't figure out how some ad execs' mind works. I've noticed on many expensive brand watch adverts, the faces of the wearer looks either angry or unhappy. I guess after spending all that money, the watch didn't change their life like they thought it would. Maybe that would be a truer ad.

Of course some adverts are clever and fun. However, the products they promote don't often live up to expectations.

 I love watching the Mercat adverts although I never remember the product. 

And over the years there have been some great lines such as:

• Marshmallow meatballs
• Where's the beef
• It's not nice to fool Mother Nature

When I first moved to France, I was amazed at the almost nudity in adverts, although it seems to have diminished a bit.

I find myself watching less TV and going to advert-free Netflix. Or even better, pick up a book and avoid the whole hype.

 

The Body Builder

 

Day 9 of the Flash Fiction Marathon: The prompt-- Your character--a body builder--goes on a blind date. During the course of your story, a warning is ignored.

 

Paul arrived at Grendel’s Den minutes before the deluge. Lucky timing. He’d walked from his gym just outside Harvard Square. It was still before the dinner rush.

 

Only one other person was in the restaurant, and it wasn’t Jennifer. It was his brother Ray. How long had it been since they’d spoken? Two, three years?

 

Paul had not wanted a baby brother. He wanted this brother even less. If he had any hope of having someone to roughhouse with, Ray wasn’t it. When he still believed in the stock delivering babies, he was sure Ray had been dropped at the wrong house.

 

His brother signaled him to join him. Paul went over. He could leave when Jennifer appeared.

“I’m Jennifer,” Ray said. “I figured this was the only way you’d meet with me.”

 

“Probably. Why bother?”

 

“Because I’m leaving Cambridge, Boston. I’ll be interning at John Hopkins starting next month and we are brothers. Brothers should at least talk from time to time.”

 

Paul wondered what they might talk about. He now owned the family gym, which had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. It wasn’t one of those sissy gyms where women prance around in designer sweats. This was for boxing and martial arts. It was a center for body builders like himself.

Both parents had been body builders. His mother even had won some contests, before working full time at the gym behind the scenes.

 

Despite his disappointment about his now non-existent blind date found on-line, he sat down.

 

“I know I was the white sheep of the family,” Ray said after they had both ordered beers. “I was in the wrong family. Any other and I’d be golden by graduating from Harvard Med.”

 

Paul hadn’t known his brother had finished his degree. He never had understood Ray, who always wanted to read or was off somewhere in his own head. He got top grades where Paul’s were average. 

 

Their parents weren’t that interested in how the kids did in school as long as they didn’t get in trouble.

 

Their father tried to get Ray interested in sports. He harangued him about being too girly. Their mother would defend Ray, but just a little. She would beg him to go outside and throw a ball.

 

When Ray was 13, he suggested he work at the gym, not workout.

 

“Nah,” their father said. “You are too skinny. It would look like we failed.”

 

The brothers hadn’t really fought as they got older. They just didn’t talk. Ray left home when he started Harvard. He would check in every few months, show up for holidays, but was either put down or ignored until he stopped contacting them.

 

The beers arrived. Paul couldn’t think of anything to say. He looked at his watch. He could go back to the gym and do some paperwork and maybe get in another workout. Or he could go get a steak somewhere. Or he could suggest they eat here.

 

“Well?” Ray asked.

 

Paul stood up and put the money for the beers on the table. “I guess you choose your friends, not your family.” It wasn’t that he hated his brother. It was that he was a stranger, a stranger he had no interest in.

 

As he left the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

551 words