Talespinning

Word Count:  256

To live life is to experience as much as it offers. Its beauty, its wonder, its majesty, its pain.

I’ve seen meteor showers that crisscrossed the sky like celestial fireworks. I’ve seen Northern Lights with their Christmasy red and green glow. The moon hide the sun and the sun hide the moon in earth’s shadow. The wind reach down and pick giant oaks like bouquets. I’ve heard hail hit the roof like the hooves of a reindeer and the rain powerwash windows till it seemed they would crack under stress. And I’ve seen the glory of sunrise, the painted canvas of sunsets, each different in a spectacular way.

In my lifetime I’ve gone from mimeograph machines to lumbering copiers to home printers. Manual typewriters to Selectrics to keyboards to mice. I’ve seen presidents sworn in and drive by in black motorcades that slid like a snake down Main Street. I’ve seen royal weddings, men shot, the first steps on the moon on TV.

And the births, the first cries of new life, the last breaths of some loved ones, the ravages of time in the eyes of the old.

As time goes on, the less there is left to discover, and yet there are some things I’ve time yet to see.

I pack what I’ll need and dress warm, for the March wind is still touched with the winter. I feel the excitement of the new. I’ve never held a human heart in my hands, felt its warm beat in my palm. Tonight though, I will.

Word Count:  586

Elbows and bones grow sharper. Arms hang like water-wings drying on the rails of a sunny summer deck. This is age. This is comfort in one’s own skin at long last. Not taut like a diver’s suit, but like a soft cashmere shawl, loose, light and free.

She read the words again. Mumbled, “Shit.” Knew it for what it was: another feel-good string of pretty words that tried to change the reality. Dreamed up by the same “everybody’s beautiful” generation when they looked at each other one day and realized that that wasn’t true.

She tried creams and lotions. Exercise, diet. Found it all useless as she knew it would be. Age was the enemy and she had to seek a way to out-strategize.

A loofa in the shower was her first bright idea. Scrub off the tired peeling paint and let the new youthful skin shine its way through. Like furniture-stripping without the harsh chemicals. It seemed to help but too slowly, so she tried 00 fine steel wool. Moved from there through the grades of sandpaper, idly rubbing away as she watched her favorite shows on TV. Vacuuming the dead skin flakes off the couch and carpet each morning. After six months of sanding, she decided it was not quite working as well as she’d hoped.

She bought a 100-pack package of single-edge razor blades. Sliced herself like an onion each day. But the scabs that formed were itchy and just added weight. It was inside, she decided, inside the skin that was flabby and not aging well. So she drew a straight line underneath each arm, the backs of her thighs, six concentric circles around her belly and waist. Followed the lines with the light touch of a No. 11 Exacto and scooped out as much yellow fat as she could. Then she trimmed an inch off each side of the open slash of skin, pulled it tight, and neatly sewed it back up again.

She was much pleased with the results–once the wounds had healed and the thread was safely pulled out. Encouraged, she began to work on her face and neck. Snipping away excess skin from her eyelids. Removing soft globs of fat from her jowls. Stretching the skin after trimming away the excess no longer needed to hold it all in. Ah, the pleasure of that taut, tight, restricting youth!

Her doctor was not happy with her at all but said nothing. He’d discovered a benign tumor the size of a baseball tucked within the coils of her colon that had to come out. The operation was terribly expensive, she found, and her insurance only covered so much.

She asked for the x-ray, bought a copy of the ever-dependable Gray’s Anatomy, ordered a Ginsu knife from a catalog and a week later, took care of the tumor herself, extracting as well twelve feet of what she felt was excess small intestine and trimming the large down to two. It went well.

When they found her one day, dead in her bed, she looked beautiful, peacefully asleep, the essence of youth gone too quickly. They found white towels, Gray’s Anatomy, and the Ginsu knife on her bedstand but were puzzled for there were no traces of murder or blood. The medical examiner was let go shortly after he declared her dead of a heart attack at age a hundred and two. They told him he was getting too old and probably senile.

Word Count:  430

You remember the man with no nose, Mr. Hegerson, a widower who lived on the block. You were little and he caught you staring, and your mother wasn’t around. He lifted up the rubber nose that he wore on a string tied around his head and showed you the hole in the middle of his face. He snapped the nose back in place and grinned around a deep throated laugh as you cowered in fright.

You held the scream in till your stomach swallowed it down. You found and clung to the side of your mother, gripping her hand as if she could keep you from falling into that void on Mr. Hegerson’s face. Never told her, even when you woke up in the black safety of your bedroom, when the hole where a nose should have been haunted your nightmares. Because staring is rude and seeing is what you deserved.

Some of the boys claimed that they’d seen it, but you knew they were making that up. It oozes blood! You can see his brains! It’s got teeth and a tongue like his mouth! No, no; they hadn’t seen it. It was more wretched than that.

Shot off in the war. Sliced clean from his face by a butcher betrayed by his wife. Leprosy. Playing with fireworks. Rotted off from picking his nose as a child. This last was your mother’s suggestion and warning. You took it seriously since you saw–no, still can see in your mind–the effects.

The memory faded a while when you went off to college, married, had two boys of your own. Then you shipped off to Afghanistan for two years of combat. You came back in a year and two months. Alive and missing an eye.

It seemed bitter irony. You brooded. You cried from your one eye. Your wife was as patient and loving as always. Tried to explain to the boys. Told them you were the same Daddy but they still seemed a little afraid.

Give them time, your wife said. They’ll come around. But they stiffened when you hugged them good night. Whispered their answers to the simplest of questions you asked.

The little one, Michael, loosened a little. James seemed defiantly stubborn. Then one day you looked up from your chair. He had snuck in and stood there quietly watching. Perfectly still, though you saw him twitch when you caught him. He stood his ground, daring you. And you did, you lifted the patch off your eye and snickered as he ran silently screaming out of the room.

Word Count:  590

She thought it’d be best to first try it out, see if she really could live without him. She locked him up in the pantry they used as a wine cellar down in the basement. By that evening she realized that had been a mistake when she needed a nice Burgundy to go with her steak.

It took three days before she could really get the feeling of being alone in the house. It took him that long to settle in and keep quiet. She’d brought down a sleeping bag and his pillow, some books and extra light bulbs to read them by. She left enough food and water if he rationed it out so there really was no reason to fuss. She’d even thought of a portable potty though of course, there was nowhere to empty it out. But she’d put some ammonia, a sponge and some large plastic bags on the shelf.

She cooked herself dinners she hadn’t had in a very long time. Things that he hated like kidneys and tacos and quiche. She fell asleep faster, slept through the night–once he quieted down. She noticed the house always looked clean though she wasn’t vacuuming and picking things up off the floor almost continually as she usually did. She slept with the windows wide open. Kept the back door to the garden open all day. Sat at the table facing the sun in the morning, in the chair he long ago claimed.

It was nice, she decided. Pleasant. No fighting over who wanted to watch what on TV. No cold water showers. The toilet seat always ready and down. She didn’t always answer the phone if she didn’t feel like it. Didn’t miss the “Are you going to get that?” more annoying than the intrusive ringing itself. And on Sunday, she read the paper from front page all the way through to the funnies.

But her alone time was fast running out and she had to make a decision because surely he’d run out of food since she knew he wouldn’t have properly planned it all out. Despite the baggies labeled clearly for each day of the week, he’d most likely have stuffed it all in by day number three.

That last night that she stretched it out into, that night that she thought would have so easily made up her mind, she sat in the living room thinking, thinking hard. It had been wonderful, the peace and the freedom. She poured out another glass of white wine. Nibbled at a cracker spread with her favorite brie. In another few days it’d all be decided. All she had to do was nothing at all. She felt so relaxed. No stress, no jumping up to get something he suddenly needed. No questions about where were his car keys or socks. At midnight she went to sleep of one mind. In the morning she woke and knew, with a soft sinking feeling, that it was a good thing she’d tried this out. Despite all the trouble he was, she missed him.

She waited until after breakfast. Lingered over her second cup of coffee, savoring the bitter blackness of it that he’d’ve spit out. With a sigh that turned to a coy smile, she got up from the table and went down the stairs to the cellar.

“Good Morning, darling,” she said. He looked up at her from where he sat on the floor. “I’m sorry, but I needed to know if…”

But that’s all she managed to say.

Word count: 444

She loved hummingbirds. Cried when they left her at the first chill of September. This summer she felt closer to them than ever before. They didn’t zip away when she spoke out her kitchen window to a bird perched at the feeder. They buzzed her, hovered when she sat on the deck. This gave her a brilliant idea.

She would catch one, keep it inside for the winter. She selected a male–though the females were more friendly–and tricked his trust with a bright red blossom she held in her hand. By late August, when the troop fought each other for claim to the feeder, he would circle her head, still a bit wary as she patiently waited, speaking softly and low. He would land on her finger, take off in a flash, then came back to land again. By the end of the month he would directly fly in, though aggressively keeping away all other hummingbirds who tried the same thing.

And on a sunny September morning, when the females had already departed and she knew he would soon be off too, she nabbed him.

The poor thing wore himself out beating at the small space of his cage. He’d drop to the bottom, heaving as if his heart would burst with exertion in his attempts to escape. But as the autumn turned frosty and the first snowfall whitened the world that he’d never known, he relented and accepted his prison.

She was thrilled to see him healthy and strong. Excited to hear the hum of his wings every morning. One sunny early winter day she decided to let him fly free in the safe confines of the house.

He slammed into windows, slid down exhausted to the floor as she chased him upstairs and down. Her heart sank when she realized she just couldn’t find him and sweetened his feeder inside the cage, hoping he’d find his way back. Cautiously slipping outside when she had eventually to leave. She never found him though she searched, heartbroken, through every inch of the house until spring.

They returned with the April warm weather. She was happy to see there were at least two males so she didn’t feel terribly guilty. She wondered if she could try it again. She spoke softly, encouraging those brave enough to hover close by. She held out her hand with a finger outstretched. A beautiful male seemed more willing.

“Hey there,” she crooned, “don’t be afraid.” She smiled as if to invite him. He buzzed several times, hovered, flew off, came back to hover again. Then in a whirring flurry of wings, he viciously stabbed out her eye.

Word Count:  385

Very few who’d enjoyed his liver and onions would have guessed it was human. They noticed the delicate flavor, the perfect texture, not mushy nor tough as liver is often delivered from kitchen to plate in the mid-scale restaurant or unfortunately at your own mother’s table.

He made the most fantastic pot roast and only a few friends knew the pleasure of his filet mignon. Wrapped in bacon, with a truffle topping, served with cheese-roasted potatoes and fresh spinach souffle.

Many tried to find where he purchased such exquisite cuts of meat but he remained vague. Odd, because he would give explicit instructions on ingredients, even wrote down recipes and handed them out freely to those who asked. It never came out quite as good as his, no matter how strictly one stuck to the recipe, so they guessed that the secret had surely to be prime meat from a butcher. And of course, we know why he was reluctant to share.

One of his close friends was insistent on finding out the secret despite being a frequent participant at these feasts. He went so far as to inquire at the local butcher shops if his friend was indeed a regular customer there. He thought he had found the answer when one did claim to be the supplier but it turned out that he made a false claim for he too had heard of the fabulous dinners served.

This friend begged, he whined, he cajoled and he flattered the chef in his attempts to discover the secret, whether it be the source of the meat or the way it was prepared. He suspected there perhaps was a marinade, a tenderization process of sorts that the man refused to reveal.

He got nowhere. His host was gracious but firm. And, extremely upset when he found his friend inspecting the inside of his refrigerator and freezer.

I’m disappointed, he said. I can’t imagine why you simply don’t enjoy the fine dining I offer and leave it at that.

The man apologized profusely, sincerely ashamed but more, fearful that he would never be invited back.

Oh no, said the chef, do not be concerned. You will be back for dinner very soon. He eyed the man closely and smiled. Perhaps a nice chateaubriand, I would think.

Word Count:  370

As soon as he walked in the door he turned on the news. The Channel 5 pretty blonde news anchor greeted her audience with a big smile and a wink.

“Today marked the first day under new airport security regulations and reports are that for the first time in years there were minimal flight delays and flights in and out of most major airports went smoothly thanks to streamlined security that enabled passengers to move more quickly through security checkpoints.”

He sat down and waited. They said little at work, just that a flight to Indianapolis International had crashed as it was circling to land. It was Flight #535, the one he had checked passengers through at Kennedy. That’s all they knew, they said at the time.

He tried to remember what the man looked like. Young, dark hair, trim, blue puffy jacket and dark pants. He’d pointed him out to another security worker. “What do you think of that guy?” he’d asked.

“What about him?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. He’s been walking around the whole time.”

“Suspicious?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then just keep an eye on him. Where’s he going?”

“Indianapolis.”

“Don’t worry about it,” his buddy said. “It’s not like it’s Dulles or LAX. Or here. You’re just asking for trouble if you pull him aside and put him through inspection.”

That was true. He’d be accused of profiling. The briefing they’d had on the new regulations made that clear. And while nobody said it yet, he knew they’d be laying off a good part of the staff. Didn’t need so many agents with the machines no longer in use for every passenger. Don’t give trouble to kids nor little old ladies, they said. Just keep a sharp eye for suspicious behavior. If you question somebody, you’d better have damn good cause.

He waited through the commercial. Turned the volume up two steps higher. The news lady came back on with a serious expression.

“In other news, Flight #535 from New York to Indianapolis crashed just short of landing. All 140 passengers and crew aboard are believed dead. They cite pilot error as the probable cause or a bird striking an engine. Update at eleven.”

Word Count:  430

The data, the charts with their colored towers, the numbers, especially the numbers, were driving him crazy. How could they offer this crap as proof?

He’d stopped the newspapers. He now read them all online. The Times, The Post, the pundit blogs. So much to read. So much to verify. The easy but time-consuming access to resources to prove them wrong. The multi-stop-shopping of information that started to consume his time. Despite his wife’s fearful cries, he quit his job and spent his days and keyboard-lit nights checking stats and firing off angry commentary on the errors. It did him no good. They kept coming.

He set up a website, crowd-source funding to pay for their mortgage and utilities and food. He woke every morning at seven a.m. and checked the newsfeed for articles, marked some as unread to read closer. By nine he had read all the news to be read and by ten had fired off statistical proof to the contrary. He worked through the day into evening. Factcheck and Snopes were checked first; no sense wasting time if it was already covered. But he dug so much deeper. People started taking his figures as facts. He spent his spare time correcting entries in Wikipedia. He became known as the ultimate purveyor of truth. He had millions of followers on Facebook and twitter, and thousands of comments each day on his blog.

He saw very few people–his wife and the kids as they poked their heads in to say hi or goodbye –and rarely went outside his house. Everything that stimulated, excited him was right there on his monitor screen. He gloried in each rebuttal he backed up with facts. He sank into despair over each new day’s lies and distortions. He was not apolitical but truly neutral, fighting both sides from the middle. Which resulted in constant conflict and stress.

His wife took the kids, left him a week before he noticed them gone. He tripped over his beard on his way to a once-a-week shower. He ate the last stick of butter Tuesday sometime around noon. He knew he was edgy and angry with an intensity that tightened its grip on his dreams and turned them to nightmares.

They found him dead, slouched on the couch with his laptop, after someone noticed his postings had ceased. Some said he’d suffered a heart attack, some said an aneurism exploded inside of his brain. I think he just had forgotten about eating when he ran out of food and starved.

Word Count:  445

He watched the birds circling, circling high up in the sky out back over the fields. She’d’ve liked that he thought, and spat on the ground.

She claimed she was one with nature. Was happy as a lark out here in the backwoods of upstate New York. He hated it with all of his heart. They left the city because without a job, they could no longer afford to live there and her father just happened to die and leave them the small farm.

He went in and poured out a third cup of coffee. Decided he’d call the constable once again to check in. See if they knew something since he’d reported her missing. Told them at the time that they’d had a big fight. Was afraid she might’ve gone up to her sister’s in Canada though her sister said, no.

It was a long morning, just like the morning before and they spread like oil into long afternoons, and nights when the tree frogs made sleep impossible without a good couple glasses of whiskey. Which she complained about constantly too.

They had little to talk about, little left to say to each other except grumbling and sarcastic remarks. But she talked to her birds, the damn birds, all the time. And worse, she tried to tell him that they talked back to her too. She insisted it was going to be an early, cold winter. Said the hummingbirds told her so. And those pitiful mourning doves gave her notice hours before any storms came in.

He hated the way that she did that, told her it made her look nuts. She didn’t care, she went through her days contented, didn’t seem to notice how much he hated it here. Even the gardens she planted by watching insect behavior, proudly serving the harvest at every meal. Peas and lettuce that tasted like grass. He was sick to death of zucchini. Though he had to admit the tomatoes were good.

He looked again at the sky. The birds were still circling. Spiraling in slow lazy loops closer to earth. Big birds. She’d’ve been thrilled and excited. Likely have told him they came to bid her goodbye.

When they came out they wanted to dig up the back fields and he shivered a bit in response. He was hoping he’d wait just long enough then sell off the place and go back to the city, where he felt he belonged.

When he asked them how they had known, they told him. Turkey vultures, they said, them vultures always know where to look. If you watch them. If you listen, they’ll tell you just where to look.

Word Count:  352

An elderly woman prepares for her death by doing everything she wanted to do, not leaving loose ends, or adventures only imagined.

She’s cleaned the house as if for a holiday dinner. The floors have been waxed, the baseboards and door trims all dusted. She’s gone through the pile of magazines on her side of the sofa, stops herself from tearing out recipes she’d surely have saved if not actually tried. She’s cleaned out the refrigerator, scrubbed the ice cube trays and refilled them. Down the basement the shelves once stocked with cans from supermarket sales are low in supply but the labels all neatly face front.

Over the weekend she weeded and deadheaded the garden, pushed Ned to trim hedges and mow the lawn. Over the past months she bought a pink jacket, spent an afternoon at a matinee movie, ordered whole-belly clams at the diner they went to on Friday nights. She was hesitant but opened a bottle of wine her niece gave them last Christmas and served it for two Sunday dinners with prime rib.

She looks around, assuring herself that everything’s in proper order. Dust-free and sparkling clean. She smiles in a sad, crooked way, as if satisfaction and anticipation are warring. Past years collide with the loss of the future.

She hears him asleep in his chair, full and tired after a good meal and the last of the wine. She makes a half pot of coffee, cuts two slices from the freshly baked apple pie. Wonders if she’ll have time to clean up the dishes. Hates the thought of someone finding them left on the table.

She sighs, prepares for the one last thing she needs yet to do. A promise they made to each other when they were first married. When he said he couldn’t imagine living without her and she, being stronger, must promise not to leave him alone.

She puts extra sugar and real cream in their coffee. Hopes he won’t notice the slight bitter taste. She takes a deep breath, kisses his forehead, and gently wakes him up for dessert.