Short Stuff

Short Stuff

Table of Contents

Forward
Twenty-Five Cents
What Sadie Saw
Moderation
Singing with the Ladies
Skin Deep
The Trouble With George
The Job
Chicken Parts
Agate Beach
The Travelin' Man

**************************************************************************************

Forward

In putting together this book I combined a sampling of my short writings. Some of these are Flash Fiction and a couple of them are considered short stories.

The idea behind flash fiction is to write a complete story that is anywhere from three hundred to one thousand words. (Anything shorter is micro fiction and anything longer is a short story). People who have become really proficient at doing this begin to try to write stories that are only two hundred words and I have read some that are less than fifty words. What this does for writers is to push them into thinking about what are the essential elements of their plot. The other lesson learned is how to make each and every word count. For example, I could use an entire paragraph to describe a person as fat or I could simple say “she lifted her bulk out of her chair.” I am allowing the reader to take the words and use her/his imagination. If I chose my words well then the reader will be able to do this easily. Some of flash fiction stories can later be developed into longer stories or even novels but by beginning by limiting myself to five hundred words (more or less) I can be sure that I have a solid skeleton to hang all the drapery of words upon. I often think of flash fiction as unadorned fiction.

In my first attempt at this genre I took a story that I had written that was eleven hundred words and pared it down to less than five hundred words so that I could enter it in a contest. I did win honorable mention. And so, my friends enjoy.

Twenty-Five Cents

Text Box: Bill left the hospital in Tulsa Oklahoma where his little girl, Mary, had just been born. As he walked home through the rain he saw a shiny new quarter in a puddle and he picked it up. As he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger he noted the date on it, 1937. “A good omen,” he said aloud to himself, “Just minted this year.” He stopped at the little corner store to buy some milk for his other kids at home. Carl, the store owner, put the quarter in the cigar box that he used instead of a cash register which he couldn't afford. Later his wife, Lida, counted the money and took it to the bank. Susan, the teller put the bright new twenty-five cent piece in a wrapper with others and sent it to the vault where it resided for several weeks before being given to Joe, the clerk from the 5 and 10 cent store so they would have change for the day. At that store the Larson family, who were passing through town on their way to California looking for work, received the quarter in change after buying a screw driver. Thus the quarter traveled along highway 66 and somewhere in Arizona it changed hands again at a gas station but was soon in the hands of another family, the Hogan's, traveling west for the same reason. In Bakersfield the Hogan's used their last few coins to buy some food and the store owner, Horace, took it home. There he gave it to his son, Larry, as his allowance for taking out the trash. Larry put it in his piggy bank as he hoped to someday to buy a bicycle and have a paper route. A couple of years later the quarter with many others were paid to Tom at the bike store. That night Tom's wife, Bettie, was counting the money at the kitchen table when the cat jumped up onto the small pile of cash and sent the coins rolling all over the floor. The 1937 quarter lodged itself under the old cast iron stove and was not seen in the light of day for many years. After Tom and Bettie had died and the house had been deserted and was finally slated for demolition to make way for a new freeway; Jack, an antique dealer in old stoves, came to pick up the stove and found the quarter. For several years the coin traveled from pocket to pocket and from town to town until one day it was in a shipment of coins purchased by a company that was making up souvenir packets of coins. They advertised these packets in magazines and on TV and one was bought by a woman named Anne. This packet was made up of a penny, nickel, dime and a quarter all minted in 1937. She gave it as a 50 th birthday gift to her sister, Mary who had been born in Tulsa Oklahoma in 1937. When Mary opened the gift she said aloud to herself, “Minted in 1937, a good omen” and she walked through the rain to the bank and placed this gift in her safe deposit box with her other keepsakes.

First published September 2005 in El Consejo Newspaper in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico http://www.elconsejo.com

What Sadie Saw

Text Box: Sadie saw the snake coiled up next to her brother, Tom, who was lying on the path next to the creek.

“Tom, Tom”, she called but Tom did not answer. She turned and began to run. She ran along the creek but did not see the beaver swimming in the water or see the ripples his smooth body made as he moved effortlessly through the cold stream nor did she see him climb onto a rock where he proceeded to stretch out in the sun.

She ran across the little wooden bridge that her father and Tom had built several years ago. She did not see the rotting planks nor hear her shoes clomping as they sped to the other side. She did not see the small mound her feet flew over that was teeming with ants or the blue bird that had just landed on a branch above her head.

She ran, her lungs burning her chest with searing pain and did not see the leaves wafting slowly down to alight on the ground where her pounding feet had just passed, their green and golden bodies mingling with the earth. Her legs trembled with fatigue as she climbed over a fallen tree so she did not see the furry blurs of moles as they popped back into their holes or the small fox in the bush whose hungry eyes shifted from them to her as she flew by.

She ran until the woods receded behind her and she was soon across the meadow where she did not see the apple tree laden with fruit nor did she stop to fill her pockets or grab one to eat like she usually did. She did not see the cows that stopped munching on grass long enough to observe her swift passage and then went back to their daily task.

She crossed the meadow to the road where she turned right. She did not see the rabbit that streaked across the road in front of her did she see the dog that followed a second later just after she had passed by. She ran as tears scorched her cheeks and her breath came in loud painful gulps. She turned right again and ran the last one hundred yards to the front of her home, to the oak tree under which sat a group of women shelling peas. She did not see them, did not see them turn in her direction, did not hear them call her name. She saw only one face, the face of her grandma. Sadie ran to her and threw herself toward her. “Mamaw”, she grasped, “Snake, Snake, Tom oh Tom”.

She collapsed into her grandma's arms and buried her face in her bosom. She did not see the horror in her grandmother's face as it turned to look back in the direction that she had come. She did not see the advent of grief in her grandmother's eyes.

First published September 2005 in El Consejo Newspaper in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico http://www.elconsejo.com

Moderation

Sherrie sat in her chair to write the essay that was due tomorrow for her English class. The assignment was to write an essay using Moderation as a theme so she began to write.

Moderation in All Things and in All Things Moderation. This has been my motto for most of my life but there have been times that I have ignored it. “Huh,” she thought, “that's a contradiction”. She began to make a list of her more immoderate deeds.

Tequila madness in Cancun .
Getting married to a man she'd known only three weeks.
Eating ice cream and more ice cream with chocolate syrup and more chocolate syrup with lots and lots of whipped cream---and a cherry on top---yes just one cherry as more than one would be immoderate.

Sherrie grinned at what she had just written. A sound outside caught her attention and she sat staring out the window trying to remember that night in Cancun —nothing, her mind recalled nothing. It remembered only the next morning when she woke up next to that psychiatrist from Chicago . She sighed, “Perhaps I should come up with another motto” she said out loud. Sherrie began a new list.

Courtesy is Contagious
Better to be a live chicken than a dead duck
Question everything and believe nothing.

Text Box: She sat back in her comfortable chair and contemplated these choices. Sherrie liked the third one the best. “After all” she mused, “belief is not truth and truth can only be approached thought questions.” She once again stopped writing and began thinking about what she had just written. Could she ever find truth, perhaps not, perhaps that would relieve her of believing in anything. Sherrie put down her pen and paper and pushed her bulk out of her chair. She padded in stocking feet into the kitchen where she pulled a large bowl from the dishwasher. Into it she sliced a banana, then from the freezer she pulled out both chocolate and chocolate chip ice cream, and from the fridge she grabbed the chocolate and the caramel syrup. She built her mountain of delight, blanketed it with whipped cream and on the top, a cherry. Yes just one cherry.

She carried her concoction back to her chair. “To heck with mottos,” she thought as she clicked on the TV to watch Oprah.

First published September 2005 in El Consejo Newspaper in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico http://www.elconsejo.com

Singing with the Ladies

Judith Lawson settled into her regular place next to Tom. She looked around the room. Everyone was bundled up against the cold. A light somewhere above was flickering and buzzing with an angry waspy sound. Tom already had his book open to the first song. "Hi," she said, "have you already warmed up?" He nodded, "You should try to be on time." Before she could answer, Greg, the choir director, tapped on his podium.

"We'll begin on page one" he said, "It's an old gospel song, fast and expressive."

Tom reached over and tapped briskly on the bottom line of her book. "It says, 'Ladies only sing,' and on this page it says, 'Men only sing,' Okay?"

"So"

"You have to sing with the ladies."

"I'm no lady," she purred, "I'm a tenor."

Tom rolled his eyes and looked away."

She could feel her jaw tighten as she looked down at the music. There was no way she was going to sing with the l adies , she thought to herself.

"Okay folks" said Greg, "Listen up. I want all the women to sing bars forty-three through fifty. That includes the women tenors. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

Judith looked at Pam, the other woman tenor. Pam raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She said nothing.

"I do," Judith called out. Everyone turned and looked at her.

Greg peered at her over the top of his glasses. "Why not?", he asked.

"Well, I'm a tenor, and I don't sing with the ladies!" Oh shit, she thought, that really sounded lame. "Well it's because I would have to change octaves back and forth."

She forced a laugh and hoped that Pam would back her up. The room was still. Greg looked at her, disapproval on his face. "Judy, it's only for seven bars. Surely you could manage that?"

She felt a flush of anger. "Then I'll just skip that part, I'll just not sing at all." Judith saw the shocked faces around her. Why did I do that, she thought. God I look stupid. She pushed her anger down and slouched in her chair. She looked at the music. She knew that she could sing alto and second soprano, but she wanted to sing tenor. What a stupid thing to get steamed up about. She glanced around the room. All attention was on Greg. She wondered if anyone would even notice what she would do. She knew she would have to apologize to Greg. She didn't want to sing with the women.

When they came to bar forty-three she sang softly with the other women, but she sang the tenor line.

First published: May 1998 in a flash fiction contest at the following url. knobs@iceflow.com

Note: I didn't win the contest but got honorable mention and was published in their online magazine.

Skin Deep

Melody got a glass of water and settled at a corner table where she could look around the room. “Look for a tall skinny guy,” he had said on the phone. “Should I wear a carnation,” he asked with a laugh. She liked his warm deep laugh, her kind of laugh. She gazed at her reflection in the window. Green eyes studied her back. Clear skin, good bust line, only a little plump, she sighed. Most people said she looked thirty although thirty was a long time ago. Well if he didn't show up she would just say she was there for the poetry Open Mike and had a poem to read.

“Melody” his eyebrows rose in question, “If you're not or don't want to be, I'll leave.”

“Oh, no-- no, I mean yes, Charles right?”

“Right” he replied as he settled into a chair across from her. They both laughed. “

Melody blushed as she studied him and saw him study her back. She saw a tall thin guy wearing slacks and a blue shirt that matched his eyes. She watched him as he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.

“Do you come often for the poetry reading?' he asked.

“Oh yes” she gushed, “I come quite often. I'm a poet.” Melody held her breath and hoped he wouldn't think her pretentious.

“I'm getting a cup of coffee,” said Charles as he rose, “Can I get you anything?

“No, I'm fine. A glass of water is all I need. I always get thirsty just before I read my poetry.” Whenever she said my poetry she always felt a rush of sensuality. She gazed at Charles as he stood in line. Tall with thin hair and a lean body to match he looked to be about forty. That's good, she thought, because I'm about there myself. She really wanted someone who had similar life experiences as she. Her last affair was with a man fifteen years her junior. Charles wasn't the handsome guy she had hoped for but he wasn't all that bad. She had been lonely for so long. She wondered if he were good in bed. She turned away to hide her blush, so she didn't see him glance at his watch.

As Charles stood in line he glanced at his watch. It was only six thirty and he could probably get away by seven thirty. She would probably be one of the first to read and he would make an excuse soon after that. She had sounded so good on the phone, low sexy voice and a gentle laugh. But Carol hadn't said that Melody was a cow. Charles liked women with nice thin bods and big boobs. Besides he wanted someone a lot younger than this one. She looked to be about forty if not more. He wanted someone to look up to him, think him smart and witty. He certainly didn't want a mother. Oh well, he thought, I'll be polite and then make a break for it. He glanced at his watch again and hoped she hadn't been watching.

First published September 2005 in El Consejo Newspaper in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico http://www.elconsejo.com

The Trouble with George

George was not a particularly attractive man. Not quite overweight but not really slender either. With brown hair and eyes, bushy brows, and an almost receding chin, he was almost attractive and not really ugly. His average sized nose was adequate to propping up his black plastic rimmed frames which held blended lenses. He had chosen these, not so much for vanity but because they were easier to use. And use them he did. Hours spent in front of his computer, surfing the web, looking for anything that might be a little bit interesting, or different and this was at home. At work he was in front of a computer screen the entire shift, watching the huge grid map on the wall, tweaking the grid on the computer, keeping the power flowing to the hungry electricity eaters, machine, appliances, lights and such. He really had no consciousness of doing anything else, not of eating, not of sleeping, not anything.

On this day he began to feel something he had never felt before. He began to feel confusion. While surfing the web, in between managing the electrical grid for the entire country, George discovered people's personal pages. As he gazed at family pictures of picnics and new babies and grandmothers, he began ask himself “Who are my parents? Did we ever have picnics?” He lost him himself in trying to find a page about his family so he didn't notice that the grid was failing in the northwest. He googled his name, George, and realized that he didn't have a last name and his confusion increased so he didn't notice that the grid went down for the southwestern part of the country. He googled the name of his employer, “National Power Grid Inc.,” but couldn't find his name among the list of employees. He lean back in his chair and with his eyes closed he tried to quiet the panic he felt in his stomach and so he didn't notice that the grid lights were off for all but the state of Kansas .

Chuck and Bill sat at the emergency console in Kansas . Power was out everywhere in the country but for this one building which had its own generator. They started at the screen in panic. “What in the hell is wrong with George,” shouted Bill. Chuck went to the large vat next to the screen which contained the brain floating in fluid. The tissue inside was turning over and over, agitating the fluid in which it found itself. Over the speakers the two men heard an eerie voice, “Who am I?”

“Oh God” moaned Chuck as he switched control to the backup vat labeled Peter. Slowly the power grid began to light up. He looked over at Bill, “That's the second brain that went bad this year,” he said. “We're gonna have to come up with a better method.”

First published September 2005 in El Consejo Newspaper in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico http://www.elconsejo.com

The Job

Connie rushed into the coffee shop catching her reflection in the glass door, wet stringy hair, slightly plump, gray eyes, not a beauty queen. She looked around at the charming little café with its country atmosphere, red and white gingham curtains with cotton table cloths in the same pattern. Grabbing a newspaper that someone else had left on the counter she glanced through it quickly before turning to the want ads. Sighing she plopped down at a table waving to the waitress. “Just coffee,” she called out as she began scanning the ads. There were not many listings. One was for a bookkeeper and another for a fry cook. There were the usual listings for making money working out of the home. Yeah sure, she thought, and they make a ton of money off the yokels dumb enough to believe them. One ad, very short, caught her eye.

“Wanted, someone without a life, to care for my insane grandmother.”

Who would write such an ad, she thought. Perhaps it's a joke. There was a local phone number, nothing else. Connie pulled the cup of coffee towards her and added three creams and two sugars. Blowing on the hot liquid she picked up the paper again. “What kind of person would place such an ad?” she thought. “Was the grandmother really insane? Would anyone in their right mind answer such an ad?” There were just enough coins to pay for the coffee and make a few phone calls. Not wanting to waste her money on a crank ad, she read down the help wanted column again hoping that there might be something more promising. Nothing.

“Betty,” she called out to the waitress, “come see this here ad.”

Betty sauntered over to the table and picked up the paper.

“Which one? Oh, the circled one, huh.” As she read the ad she began to laugh.

“Well now, doesn't that just take the cake? What kind of nut would write that and,” she paused for effect, “what kind of nut would answer it?” Betty dropped the paper back on the table.

“Do you think it's legit?” Connie asked.

“Don't know, could be I suppose. Hey, did you know there's a Denny's restaurant going up at the shopping center soon? Maybe you could get on there.”

Laughing again, she refilled Connie's cup and moved off to serve other customers.

Connie felt discouraged. Any new Denny's at the shopping center which was still waiting to be built would be months away. Taking a quarter from her purse Connie started to get up to go to the pay phone but then eased back into her seat. No, she thought, I'll call from the gas station so that Betty wouldn't see her desperation.

Finishing her coffee she hurried across the street to the pay phone, glad that the rain had stopped. After calling the number in the paper she went into the gas station bathroom and combed her hair. It was still a little damp but it should be dry by the time of her interview. A woman had answered the phone, a Mrs. Collins, who sounded normal enough and had reassured Connie that the ad was for real.

Connie approached the small white house noting the neatly trimmed lawn and the roses blooming under the front window. She could smell their perfume as she climbed the three steps up to the porch. She rang the bell and waited. Somewhere inside a TV blared. Maybe someone was watching a soap opera. That's good, she thought. Maybe they liked the same ones she did. Next door a couple of kids where playing in their front yard with a dog. A nice quiet neighborhood was just the kind of place she wanted. As she reached to push the doorbell again she heard foot steps from the other side of the door which swung opened to reveal a neatly dressed woman in her thirties, wearing a dark business suit softened by a pale blue silk blouse.

“Hello, I'm Connie Peterson. I called about the job.” Connie put out her hand the way they had taught her at the half-way house. Just be confident, they said, and speak out. Don't show your fear, but Connie was afraid and nervous.

“Yes, I'm Shirley Collins. Please come in.” The woman ignored her hand and turned abruptly as Connie followed her. Inside, the cool dark house had the musty smell of not being often aired out. A small entry hall lead into a living room stuffed with furniture. In one corner stood an old upright piano on top of which were picture frames filled with old photographs. Connie could still hear the TV blaring somewhere toward the rear of the house.

“Excuse me for one moment.” The woman said to Connie impatiently. She left the room and a few seconds later the TV was turned down. She heard angry voices but couldn't make out what was being said. She could hear someone crying softly. Connie began to examine the pictures on the piano. Mostly they were the usual ones of weddings and graduations. An old picture in a silver frame caught her eye. A sad looking young woman seemed to gaze back at her.

“That's my mother just before her death.” The voice just behind her startled her. She wheeled around nervously.

“She's very beautiful, Mrs. Collins.”

“Please, sit down,” came a curt reply.

Connie moved over to the couch and slowly sank gratefully onto it. Answering the questions mechanically she told of being in jail for bad checks. Mrs. Collins eyed her coldly. Connie tried to keep her hands still and took a deep breath letting it out slowly as Mrs. Collins considered this information.

“I pay five dollars ah hour,” said Mrs. Collins, “and one meal a day. I will need you here at seven a.m., no sooner no later, and you will stay until six p.m. That's it.” She said with finality.

Connie sighed, she really had no choice. The room at the Hotel Rawley was only paid for until the end of the month, which was less than two weeks away. If she took this job maybe by then she could move into another cheap place that wasn't above a bar that rocked half the night with drunks and bikers. “Okay,” she said as cheerfully as she could muster and smiled as she bid Mrs. Collins goodbye.

After Connie left, Shirley Collins sat in her chair in deep thought. This is perfect, she smiled to herself. She had been prepared to pay a lot more for less hours but where else would this misfit find a job. “Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!” she crooned softly to herself.

Suddenly she jumped up as a crashing sound reached her from the back of the house. Annoyed she hurried down the long dark hallway. A high pitched whining was now reaching her ears and as she pushed open the door she yelled, “Stop it, stop it, you stop that right now.” On the floor before her, rocking and wailing sat an old woman with tangled white hair falling in confusion around her tear streaked face. Her dirty, cotton house dress was caught up around her thighs revealing discolored varicose veins streaking down her legs. Shirley reached out and slapped the old woman across her face. “Granny shut up. You just shut up right now!” She hovered over the old woman consumed by anger and impatience.

The old woman made a soft mewing sound as she struggled to pull herself up into her sagging faded armchair. She watched sullenly as her granddaughter picked up the broken breakfast dishes and righted the old metal TV tray on its shaky legs.

“I'm not going to waste my good dishes on you anymore, granny. From now on its paper plates for you.”

Eunice pulled herself down into her chair wishing she was smaller. Betty was always yelling at her and all she wanted to do was to do things for herself. She looked down at her hands so Shirley would not see her tears.

When Connie arrived the next morning Mrs. Collins had a long list of duties for her plus another list of do's and don'ts. Cleaning, dishes, laundry and the other usual chores but the second list was strange. Don't answer the door. Don't answer the telephone. Don't take Eunice outside etc .etc .etc. “Whew, what a tyrant,” she thought to herself with disgust.

“Do you understand, Connie, no deviation or no job!” Shirley Collins stood by the front door and regarded Connie with an icy stare.

“Yes Maam,”

Connie watched Shirley pull on her leather gloves and jacket and for an eternal second their eyes met before Shirley turned abruptly and went through the front door which gave a solid click as it closed behind her. On the front porch Shirley let out a sigh of relief that was echoed a few feet away by Connie who turned silently and walked down the hall to see the old woman.

“Mornin,” she said cheerfully as she pushed open the bedroom door. Eunice seemed to shrink in her chair as she returned Connie's smile with a frightened look. “Look honey, don't worry, the dragon lady is gone for the day. It's just you and me and the TV.” Connie laughed to herself at her accidental rhyme. Leaning against the door frame she gave Eunice a long look. “Hey can't you talk,” she asked and smiled at the old woman. “Mornin,” mumbled Eunice. “Hey that's better. Now what-da-ya want for breakfast,” Connie waited while Eunice looked down at her hands which were holding each other tightly. “Anything,” she mumbled again.

“Okay,” said Connie, “I'll surprise you.” She walked across the room and switched on the TV, moved the TV tray closer to Eunice and put the remote on it. “You just sit down right here, okay…I'll be right back.”

Eunice stared at the TV without paying attention. She didn't understand what was going on. Her granddaughter told her last night that she had hired an attendant but didn't say why. “Oh well,” she thought, “at least the woman didn't yell at her.” She could hear the banging of pans and dishes in the kitchen and wondered what her surprise breakfast would be. Maybe she could get the woman to take her outside for awhile. She hadn't been outside for longer than she could remember. First her granddaughter had said it was too cold and then later it was too hot. She wanted to get out of this room and go outside and see what was happening in the world. She used to do that but since Shirley came to live with her everything changed. Shirley was in charge of everything, even her money. Shirley said that it was for her own safety, something about bad salespeople who preyed on old women. Eunice just didn't understand. She always did well on her own but Shirley was not to be argued with. She had tried to a couple of times but Shirley had a violent temper and would slap her around.

“Here's your breakfast” Eunice was startled by the cheery voice and she flinched.

“Thanks” she mumbled but was pleased to see scrambled eggs and bacon on her plate. Also toast with marmalade. Wow, she thought, maybe having an attendant wouldn't be so bad after all.

Connie watched Eunice shovel the food into her mouth. Poor thing, she thought, wonder what she's been getting to eat. She observed the stringy hair and torn dress and decided that after breakfast she would get Eunice to shower and then she would do something about her hair.

Chicken Parts

When I was a kid
I thought a lot about chickens
usually while I was eating them.
I always wondered
why chickens had wings.
Did you ever see a chicken fly
more than three feet off the ground?
They didn't call them chicken for nothing.

What about drumsticks
Have you ever met a musical chicken?
I imagined some chicken
in a bright red uniform
marching down main street
on the fourth of July
pounding away with its wings
on a big fat drum.

What about chicken ears?
Did your mother ever serve you
a plate of fried chicken ears
with mashed potatoes and peas
all smothered with
thick white country gravy?

And chick peas.
What do chickens use peas for?
Peas didn't seem to fit with
What I'd seen in the barnyard.

And the one that always
confounded me the most
Was noodles.
Why DO chickens have noodles?
Are noodles chicken brains?

I asked my grandpa
And he just shook his head
And said I was full of prunes.

Agate Beach

“Carla, Carla, yoo-hoo,” a young voice called her back to life. Turning, she shielded her eyes from the early morning sun. In the distance Jamie stood on the porch waving to her, his child-body wrapped in Garfield pajamas, jittery with excitement. She smiled and began walking back to the house, the mist receding from her heels.

“Hey what's all the excitement?” she asked Jamie as she started up the porch stairs.

“Well, breakfast is ready don'tcha know. Mom fixed pancakes and you know what?” He looked up at her expectantly.

“Know! Know what?” she teased.

“Ya know them blackberries we picked yesterday?” Jamie is hopping from one six year old foot to the other.

“Yeah, I remember those blackberries. What about them?” Grinning she sat down at the kitchen table. Pattie, Jamie's mom, set a platter of steaming hot cakes in the middle of the table.

“We're having fresh blackberry compote on them” she said.

“Ah Mom, I wanted to tell her.” Carla reached over and poked him in the ribs as he climbed into the chair next to hers.

“So,” she said, “What are we gonna do today, boyfriend?” She waited while Jamie thought for a moment.

“Hey, let's go down to the beach and look for those rocks you like.” He looked at his mom with a hopeful expression. Pattie stood with one hand on her hip, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“We could have a picnic. There's a low tide this morning and the ocean seems really calm today.” Carla added hopefully to Jamie's plea. They exchanged a smile of conspiracy and waited for Patti to make a decision.

“Ok” she said, “you can go but you got to do whatever Carla says.” She paused for effect. “Jamie, Carla's in charge, Ok?”

“Ok Momsy,” Jamie looked over at Carla who smiled and winked at him. His little face got all scrunched up as he tried to wink back.

Agate Beach , which was just below the bluff where the house sat, was a long stretch of sand dotted with large pieces of driftwood. As the tide was going out many gravel beds would be exposed and tourists and locals alike would come to collect agates. Most of the agates were an opaque white but a few where amber and on a rare occasion a red one would be found. Carla and Jamie picked their way carefully on the rutted path down a collapsed part of the bluff. Jamie carried towels for them to spread out on the sand while Carla carried a small canvas, a folding chair, easel and a bag with her oil paints and brushes.

Halfway down she paused to gaze out at a calm blue ocean bathed in golden sunshine. The breeze was cool but the sun warmed her skin. In the far distance lurked the fog bank that had retreated before the heat of the morning sun and would return in the afternoon. It was ever-present at this time of year but there would be at least six hours of bright sunshine. In mid-afternoon it would come creeping back in, blotting out the sun, bringing a chill over the earth. She didn't really mind the fog as it was very white. She liked the way the costal redwoods flicked in and out of her vision when shrouded by the mists. But for today she was happy for the sun and the pleasure of spending the day with her godson. Pattie, her best friend since childhood would come down later with lunch but for a few hours she would have the boy to herself.

Jamie spread out the towels while Carla set up the easel and stool. She didn't want to paint right away so she joined Jamie walking farther along the beach to the closest gravel beds. This was where the agates could be found along with many other pretty rocks. She began gathering the smooth black stones that she knew Pattie liked to put on top of the soil of her flower pots. Later she would gather the small butterscotch colored ones to take home to San Francisco . They would look nice in the small fountain in her tiny yard. And of course the agates! As the surf washed over the stones causing them to move about they made a pleasant sound that she found soothing to her ears. She kept her eyes moving from side to side looking for them.

“Hey Carla, are these agates?” Jamie was excited and rocked from foot to foot as he waited for her to examine the stones he held out to her. Carla looked at the stones he offered her. When wet all of them looked pretty as the water brought out the color of them.

“Ah, these aren't...except for this small one. Keep it in your hand to use as a guide as to what to look for, okay.” She handed the opaque whitish stone back to him and smiled remembering how excited she had been when she found her first agate many years before.

Carla told him not to wander off while she went back to where she had set up her easel. Today she wanted to try and capture the coolness of the distant fog while keeping the feel of the warm sun reflecting off the surf and the sand of the beach. As she worked quickly the time passed as the sun moved overhead. From time to time Jamie would interrupt her to show her the pretty stones he had piled up by her feet. Finally she stopped work and sat in the sand with him sorting the rocks.

“Hey, boyfriend, you know what they say about pebbles picked up from the surf don't you.” She waited for him to reply.

“What?” he asked.

“Well I've heard say that if you pick up a stone from the surf and keep it with you that someday you will return to that very beach.”

“Really,” Jamie was impressed. “Okay I'll put this one here in my pocket and keep it cause I love this beach and I want to come back you know---Carla, I don't ever want to leave here.” His serious dark brown eyes regarded her as he put the agate into the pocket of his shorts. “Do you got one to put in your pocket Carla?” he asked. “You can have one of mine—anyone you want.” ‘Ah what a smile he has,' she thought.

“Okay. Thanks I'll take this one.” She picked up a green stone with little black flecks on it and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

“Anyone for lunch” Patti's voice startled them and they began to laugh as Patti plopped the picnic basket down next to them, settling herself onto one of the towels in the warm sun.

“You two find any good agates?” she asked.

“Hey Mom, look at this one,” an excited Jamie pulled a stone from his pocket. In his hand was a smooth white agate about the size of a prune pit.

“Oh honey, that is a real pretty one,” crooned his mom.

“Yeah, and Carla says that if I keep it I will return to this beach right here.” He sat on the towel next to his mom and leaned his head on her arm. “I love it here, Mom, I never want to leave.”

She hugged him close, “Let's eat guys, okay.”

After the meal of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and apples washed down my orange soda they stretched out on the towels to rest. As Carla dozed off she noticed that the waves were rising and the fog bank was much closer.

“Carla, Carla, wake up, Oh God Carla! Oh my God!”, Carla came out of her slumber to see Patti's panicked face.

“What...What is it? What's the matter?” she murmured not quite awake.

“Jamie's gone, I can't find him,” she panted, “I was just day dreaming then... then I realized he was gone.” Tears were streaking her face, her brow knitted, she looked terrified.

“Hey, down there, in the surf,” a voice called from the bluff. Carla looked up to see two young men bounding down the pathway on the bluff, slipping and sliding on the loose dirt. She turned her gaze to where they had frantically pointed then jumped up and ran to the edge of the now pounding waves.

“There, she yelled, there I see him.” Behind the large incoming wave she saw a small head bobbing in the water. Suddenly a blur streaked past her as Patti ran screaming into the oncoming surf.

“Jamie, baby, Jamie, I'm coming honey. Hold on, Mommy's coming.” The huge wave crashed down and over Patti, swallowing her up. Shaking off her paralysis Carla began to run toward the surf only to have strong arms grab her from behind.

“No lady, no you'll get sucked in like your friend. The undertow here is terrific—you'll never make it.” He pushed her back on the sand then began moving into the surf. It took her a moment to realize that his black rubbery skin was a wetsuit. She felt an arm go around her shoulder and a restraining hand on her arm keeping her from getting up and running forward into the swirling water.

“My friend is the best surfer around these parts,” he said, “He knows what he's doing.” He put his arm around her rocking her back and forth as she sat numb and unbelieving.

Their bodies, Jamie and Patti and the brave young surfer, were washed up on another beach some miles away a few days later.

The silence of the morning mist crept steadily down the bluffs opening up the watery world as the ocean quietly lapped against the sandy beach below. Carla sat facing the mist with the sun at her back contemplating the duality of the morning of sun and fog; the duality of life and death. Sighing she picked up the polished box next to her and began picking her way down the pathway where the bluff had fallen away. She slowly followed the mist to the surf and sat on the warm sand and waited for the fog to retreat farther. She thought of Patti, her life long friend, and Jamie...sweet adorable little Jamie. With tears in her eyes she stood and opened the box and tossed the ashes into the waves. She then took a small white agate from her pocket and tossed it among some gravel and watched the surf wash over it pulling it this way and that. ‘Well Jamie,' she thought, ‘you will always be here at Agate Beach .

The Travelin' Man

A small cafe squatted by the side of the old two lane highway that stretched blindly across the desert. Two gas pumps, their paint faded and dappled with rust, huddled under a concrete canopy while the sign above the door banged and shuddered in the wind. In the high desert of northern Nevada , the wind arises without warning and scrapes across the landscape unimpeded. The limberness of the sparse aspen trees allows them to dance with it as it tugs at them to abandon their roots. The feel and sound of the wind consumes the landscape. The vast screen of the sky plays out the rapidly changing weather patterns above, clouds rushing helter skelter like debutantes breathlessly flittering to their first ball. The smell and haze of smoke from the wild fires, consuming Nevada for the past few weeks, lingers over all.

Joe stood at the top of the hill looking down into the next valley and the ever diminishing highway. “You have to come to the desert to see Mother Earth naked,” he thought to himself. Yet there are some clothes, a touch of green here and there with trees in an occasional oasis. The hills nearby are eroded and pinnacles of rock rise up spiking to reach the sky. Midway to the horizon a low mound of hills roll across the planet in dry waves. In the distance are mountains, their tops white with age. On the highway, which cuts across the earth like the wrinkles on an old woman's face, cars and trucks are dwarfed to the size of children's toys. Joe sighs and turns his attention from the vast to the particular. The sun had already dropped below the distant hills. The heat that had seared Joe's skin just a half hour ago was gone and the cold night of the high desert caused him to pull his thin jacket close around him.

He approached the café from the west pausing behind an old Ford pickup with a small, well worn travel trailer attached and studied the dirty stucco building. An eighteen wheeler sat on the other side of the road and two dusty cars were parked out front.

After securing his back pack and bed roll under the trailer he crossed the buckled concrete in front of the cafe. His thin frame and stock of dark hair reflected in the glass door as he slowly pushed it open and paused just inside. Slowly his eyes adjusted as they swept across a couple of truckers in a booth at the far end of the diner. A young couple, divided by a crying baby in a highchair, sat at a table close to the door. The counter stools were empty.

Patsy Cline crooned softly from an ancient juke box, “Crazy, I'm crazy for wanting you.” Joe walked softly to the end of the counter nearest the swinging kitchen doors and sat down on the only red plastic seat that didn't have a tear in it. From there he could see everything and keep track of everyone.

From the kitchen he could hear the noise of pans being hastily slammed down and sizzling from the grill. The smell of cooking meat caused his stomach to spasm and he clamped his teeth together to stifle the soft sound of desire from his throat. He tried to relax taking in the sounds around him. A bulb was buzzing above from a fluorescent light about to blow. The waitress talked to the cook through the service window. He hungrily eyed her cigarette as she took a long drag on it before setting it in an ash tray. He watched her coming over to him.

“Evenin,” she said, “Coffee?”

He glanced at her overdone face and nodded. Her dark hair was absent any gray and was pulled back in a bun so tight that it accentuated her sharp features. A pair of dark eyes smiled out of a homely face. The embroidered circle on her blouse announced her name as Mabel. Joe pulled his jacket tight across his chest hoping she wouldn't notice the knife he had hidden underneath. He nodded his assent as she poured out the last of a pot into his cup. Taking a slow sip of the bitter coffee, he flinched as the glass door opened and a couple of cops walked in.

“Evenin Mabel,” the younger one said with a wink.

Adjusting his holster he eased his bulk onto a stool at the other end of the counter. Joe shuddered. He reached down and fingered the knife in his inside pocket and sighed. No chance against a gun he thought. He sipped his coffee glancing back over his shoulder at the door leading to the kitchen, tensing as he considered his next move. He could make it through the kitchen fast, but thought better of it. The cook would be too startled to move and the fat cop would have a hard time catching him but the other one, although older, looked in better shape. Besides, in the desert, where could you run? Better to wait and see. Joe was good at waiting. He'd been waiting for a long time. He could wait awhile longer.

“Heard on the radio there'd been an escape down at the county prison,” Joe eased back onto the stool as the fat cop continued.

“Heard some of em might be headed this way. Better lock up early, Mabel, might be trouble.”

“No one strange been in here yet but I'll close early anyway,” Mabel replied. “Not much business tonight anyway.”

Joe watched as she moved over to the cash register to take the check from the truckers. He wondered which way they were going. He would have tried to hitch with them but with the two cops here he didn't want to draw attention to himself. They'd be suspicious that's for sure. He'd have to wait and take his chances. He watched as Mabel dropped another quarter into the box and heard the sounds of Patsy Cline again. Must be nursing a broken heart, he thought, that or she just plain liked Patsy.

As the cops downed their coffee and rose to leave, the fat one glanced down the long counter looking at Joe thoughtfully. Joe tried to relax and sipped his coffee trying to look casual. He breathed a sigh of relief as the two police officers went through the glass door into the cooling evening.

“More coffee?” Joe looked up as Mabel filled his cup, this time from a fresh pot. He tried not to look too hard at the cigarette she held between her fingers. God what he'd give for one right now.

Ain't you worried,” he asked the waitress.

“Naw, been here a long time. Good judge of character, that's me. I can tell a bad one right off. You can smell the meanness, you know?.” She pulled long on her cigarette and blowing the smoke out slowly. “So where you headed?” she asked as she looked him straight in the eye.

“North,” he said. “ Montana , that's my home. Cheyenne .”

“You're a long way off,” her eyes narrowed, “ Cheyenne huh.”

“Yeah, Montana .” He felt uneasy as Mabel moved down the counter to the cash register to take the check from the young family. The kid was still crying as they pushed out the door and piled into an old Chevy just outside.

Joe was glad they were leaving. It'd be easier with just him and the waitress. Then he could get what he wanted and leave. There would only be her to deal with except for the cook, who remained an unknown. Mabel poured a cup of coffee and grabbed her cigarettes as she headed toward him.

“Smoke?” She held the pack out to him. Joe smiled and took the pack.

“Got a light?” He asked. She handed him a red transparent plastic lighter. He tried to light it several times. Mabel laughed as she took the lighter from him.

“Look,” she said, “you got to pull this little lever here and it clicks into place. It's one of those new safety things to keep kids from burnin down everythin.” She held the flame out to him as he leaned forward and pulled on his cigarette. The smoke entering his lungs burned and he felt himself relax.

“Well,” he smiled, “that really hits the spot.”

Joe eyed her warily as he took another deep drag on the cigarette.

“Thanks for the cigarette, mighty nice of ya”

“Hey that's okay; you looked like you needed one. I know how that feels.” she said as she refilled his cup. “What's your name fella?”

“Joe.”

“Well Joe, you lookin for work on your way north?”

“Maybe, a few extra bucks always helps.”

Mabel regarded Joe thoughtfully, “Nothing permanent, you see, but the last guy quit and moved on and I could use some help cleaning this place up. What'd you say?” she paused. “I pay in cash.”

Mabel began to wipe the counter as she watched Joe out of the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, sure, be glad to help you out. Just tell me what you want done.”

Joe stood up and adjusted his jacket. Wouldn't be good if his knife fell out and scared her and he still didn't know about the cook. Might be a problem there, he thought, never could tell. Cooks could be mean ones if they had time to grab one of their big knives.

“Just clean off those tables, the dish tub is over there and when you get done you can sweep and mop.” She paused for a moment while she took a drag off of her cigarette.

“Pay you ten dollars plus a hot meal, I'll pay you every day. Okay?”

Joe grabbed the tub and began clearing the tables. He worked quickly and soon all the tables were cleaned off and wiped down.

“Here's the mop and bucket.” Joe jumped. He didn't hear Mabel come up behind him. He took a deep breath and tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Thanks, I'll get right on it.”

No way to case out the kitchen and back door now. He'd have to wait. He shook his head as he began to mop the floor. She was on to him, he was sure of that now. Nothing to do but play the game out and see where it would lead.

Mabel watched Joe through narrow eyes. Her gut told her that he was not a mean one. Seemed like he was just down and out. Funny that he thought that Cheyenne was in Montana . She leaned toward the service window to the kitchen and motioned to the cook to come over.

“Whadaya think Carl, does he look like one of the mean ones?”

Carl's wizard face peered though the opening at Joe. He looked at Joe and pursed his lips.

“Hard to say...don't look like it but better not take chances.” Carl disappeared back into the kitchen. Mabel lit another cigarette and took a long deep drag on it. Suddenly she straightened and walked over to Joe.

“You got a place to stay tonight.” She asked.

Joe paused in his work and turned around to look at her. “Naw,” He replied as he leaned casually on his mop.

“Well, you do good work and I appreciate that, so... if you want to sleep the night in the old travel trailer out back that'd be okay. The truck don't work though, so you'd be stuck here for the night, unless you want to walk ten miles into town. And I got plenty of work needs doing around here. Don't pay much and the foods not great but there's lots of it.”

Joe was amazed at this long discourse. He looked at her face but saw only her tentative smile. She seemed to be okay and he was tired of being on the road. It would be good to take a few days off from traveling and he could leave when the wind died down.

“How'd you know I'm not one of those escaped guys from the jail?”

“I don't. Are you?” she asked.

“No, I'm just a travelin man. Never stay in one place too long. Down on my luck though, no money. A little work and some rest would be rightly appreciated.”

“Was you going to rob me?”

“I thought about it but you were just so darn nice to me what with the cigarette and all. I'd rather work for what I get but,” he paused, “I have stolen in my time when I really needed to.” Joe waited to see what effect this would have on her.

“When the cops was in here they looked you over and gave me the high sign so I knew you weren't one of them escapees.” With this she walked back to the counter and called through the kitchen window.

“Hey Carl, come meet our new handy man.” She looked over at Joe and winked.

That night Joe had his first hot meal in weeks with apple pie to boot. ‘Hey,' he thought, ‘could be a good gig. A place to sleep and good food and some cash in my pocket. Perhaps I'll stay until the wind dies down or at least for the night.' Joe cleared off the counter and washed the last few dishes.

“Well, here's your ten dollars like I promised ya. Will we be seeing ya in the morning?” Mabel and Carl stood by their car ready to leave.

“Maybe so, maybe so. Night.” Joe waved them off then walked around back to where the old trailer stood. He retrieved his pack from under the trailer and spread his sleeping bag out on the hood of the old truck using the windshield as a pillow. He preferred the open spaces, hated enclosed places.

The night sky in the high desert is glorious. All the stars hidden from the cities and towns are glistening here. There are so many of them in the sky that they almost outshine the Milky Way. The light from them kept the desert night from blinding Joe and he could easily see the buildings, brush and cacti that dotted the land. The wind had died down and Joe was quite snug in his bed. Before he slipped into sleep he witnessed several shooting stars streak across the brilliant sky above.

Six hours later Joe awoke to the quiet of the morning. There was no wind but the night air was cold, heralding the winter soon to come. Joe arose and walked a ways into the desert and watered a tall cactus. Returning he rolled up his pack and then settled down on a boulder at the side of the highway. He lit a cigarette from the pack he had bought the night before. In the distance he heard a truck approaching from the north. ‘Yup,' he thought, ‘time to head south for the winter.”

As the truck pulled up and he prepared to climb in he flicked his half smoked cigarette on to the crumbling concrete and turned for a last glance at the squat café waiting patiently to come alive. “Adios, Mabel.” said Joe aloud, “You're one nice lady.”