The Last Hoorah

Thought for the day:  There's a great power in words, if you don't hitch too many of them together.   [Josh Billings]

Here we are at the last... special edition Thursday... posting for False Start Fridays. Thanks, Suze for coming up with this super idea. It's been fun.

Well, I didn't hitch too many words together for this piece, because the editor only wanted 800 of them. like the story I posted last month, this sad little rejected and dejected short story was submitted to Woman's World along with another short story that DID get published.

Its title? Raining Cats and Dogs.

****

   The crowded waiting room reeked of wet dogs, Lysol, flea spray, and fear. Jason checked his watch again. Doc Woods was usually an in-and-out kind of vet. So, what was the big hold-up?

     “Sorry for the long wait, girl,” he told his English mastiff. Dixie stared at him with big sad eyes, gave a slobbery snort, and then rested her massive head on his knee.

    Jason looked around him at all the agitated dogs. So this was what his first free Wednesday in twenty years looked like, huh? Where was the cascading confetti, the marching mariachi band? He chuckled and stroked Dixie’s head. So far, the only thing raining down around here was rain, and none of these mutts looked like they felt like doing the mamba.

     Oh well, no biggie. Now that he’d hired another dentist to help with his practice, he was going to be free every Wednesday, so there’d be plenty of time for confetti and fun later. Get the annual vet visit over with today, and then, starting next week, there’d be nothing but fun, fun, fun.

    When they finally made it into the treatment room, a petite brunette, clad in snug-fitting jeans and a pale blue tee shirt that claimed Animals Are People, Too, was waiting for them. She had amazing copper-colored eyes, a light dusting of freckles across her nose, and a 100-watt smile.

     She was definitely worth the wait.

    “Oh!” Jason said, fervently wishing he’d shaved and worn clothes that weren’t old enough to vote. “You’re not Doc Woods.” Brilliant, Sherlock, he thought. Just brilliant.

     She smiled. “Not the Doc Woods you were expecting, anyway,” she said. “I’m his granddaughter. What a beautiful dog!”

     “Thanks. And you’re a vet?” he asked. No, she’s an architect, you moron.

     “Yes, my grandfather wants to retire and turn his practice over to me. So I’m trying it on for size.” She checked Dixie over, administered her shots, and then petted her. “Good girl.”

     “Must be your lucky day,” he said. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”  He winced. Man, that was lame.

      She laughed politely. “Cute,” she said.

      She certainly was, he thought. But now he had to wait a whole year to see her again? Probably. Dixie didn’t just look like a horse; she was as healthy as one, too.

     Unless …

     The following Wednesday, Jason returned to the clinic, toting his elderly neighbor’s tomcat, an overweight beast with anger issues and razor-sharp claws. Jason’s arms were shredded and streaked with blood, but at least he was clean-shaven and well-dressed this time. Doc Meredith looked even more beautiful than he remembered. And she remembered him! “Hello, again,” she said, then frowned. “You need to see a doctor. Those scratches look pretty bad.”  Not exactly the reaction he was hoping for.

     The week after that, he carried in a litter of boxer puppies for his sister. One of them piddled all over the front of his shirt, putting a certain je ne sais pas crimp in his style, but Meredith still graced him with a smile. Definitely making progress.

     Before he brought a stray kitten in the following week, he sprayed himself with some cologne guaranteed to make any man irresistible. It made Meredith sneeze. She did smile at him again, though, and between sneezes, asked about Dixie.

     It was almost time to ask her out.

     When he took his buddy’s poodle into the treatment room the following Wednesday, she laughed and said, “I appreciate all the business, Jason, but enough of this junior high stuff. Ask me out already!”

     So they finally had their first date. After dinner, they went back to his place, but before he could pull into the driveway, Jason had to toot his horn to shoo a cat. Several more were lounging in the yard, and three dogs came running from next door to woof a friendly hello. Dixie greeted them when they went inside, and close behind her were two cats and a border collie. 

    Meredith laughed. “I see Dixie isn't an only child anymore. Know what I think?” she asked.

    “I’m nuts?”

    “Maybe a little, but also very very sweet,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I was going to say that it’s obviously been raining cats and dogs again.”

     “Cute. Very... very cute,” he said, leaning in closer to claim a proper kiss.

      

****

                           Yeah, I know, pretty groan-worthy, huh? No wonder it got the boot.

 Again, thanks to Suze of Subliminal Coffee (the thinking person's cafe) for initiating this whole false start thing. It's been a blast. And now... alas, it is done.

                                   Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.   

                                Always proof read carefully to see if you any words out.

    

                              Oops, almost forgot! HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!!

If you haven't already read it, I highly recommend Jennifer Shirk's newest book. It's as sweet as a box of chocolates, but completely calorie-free. Believe me, once you read it, you'll never think of Cupid quite the same again. And hurry up! In honor of Valentine's day, you can get the e-version from both Amazon and Nook for the paltry sum of ninety-nine cents. So, go... buy! Enjoy.

    

    

    

    

    

    

Love's Old Story

Thought for the day:  Asking a writer what he thinks about criticism is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs.   [John Osborne]

It's a pleasure to participate in this year's reincarnation of False Start Fridays. The idea? Pull a bit of your old neglected writing out of moth balls, dust it off, and show it some love. (i.e. Stick it on your blog, and let everybody make fun of it.)

Rather than run consecutive weeks for an entire month like last year, there are only two dates slotted this time around: today, and the last Friday in February. If you missed out on signing up for today's fun, but would like to play next month, hop on over to let the lovely Suze  know. It's her brainchild, ya know.

WAIT! Hey, not NOW! Read my post first... sheesh.

Since Valentine's Day is only a couple weeks away, I've selected a short story romance that holds a sweet spot in my heart. At least, I consider it a romance. Evidently, the magazine editor didn't agree. Care to enjoy a little background music while you read? The story's title? The Real Thing.

                                               

     When the doorbell chimed, Mildred looked over at her husband Bennie, but he was still reared back in his recliner, eyes closed, and mouth hanging open. With a sigh, she quieted the blaring TV and dumped her slumbering cat onto the sofa.

      It’s probably that sweet Jennifer from Meals on Wheels, she thought, as she grabbed her cane and hobbled to the door.

     Jennifer grinned when Mildred opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” she said. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

     Mildred squinted past her to regard the sun-kissed day. “Why, yes,” she agreed with a smile. “I do believe it is.” Then she considered the pretty blonde’s glowing face. “And you, my dear, look especially lovely today.”

     Jennifer placed the meals in the usual spot, glanced at the still sleeping Mr. Johnson, and then stuck out her left hand. “That’s because I’m especially happy today!”

     Genuine delight illuminated Mildred’s face. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed, as she examined the shiny new engagement ring. “So, when’s the big day?”    

    “Oh, I can't set a date yet.”

     “No?" Mildred said, setting her cane aside and easing herself back onto the sofa. The cat immediately reclaimed her lap, and she automatically stroked his head. “Do you have time to visit, dear?”

     Jennifer sat beside her. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I do. This is my last stop.” She grinned. “I always save the best for last.”

     Dimples danced in Mildred’s cheeks. “Thank you, dear.” Then her face rearranged itself into a more serious expression. “So, why aren’t you ready to set a date, young lady? Cold feet?”

     “Not exactly. I just want to be absolutely certain that he’s the one and only true love of my life. You know … the real thing.”

     Mildred nodded slowly. Bennie scratched his Buddha belly, burped, and muttered something in his sleep. She looked his way, but his eyes were still closed, so she turned back to Jennifer. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “That one and only true love feeling is exciting, dear, but it takes more than a feeling to make a marriage work. It takes commitment and hard work to build the real thing.” She paused to smile. “I’ve been married for more than fifty years. Mind you, it hasn’t always been easy, but if I had it to do all over again, I’d marry that man again in a heartbeat.”

     “But did you ever have a one and only true love of your life, Mrs. Johnson?” Jennifer persisted.  

      Mildred glanced at her husband again before answering. “Absolutely,” she said in a stage whisper. “I met him at the USO in March of 1952.” With a touch of nostalgia in her voice, she added, “I was sure he was my one and only. I certainly wanted him to be.”

     Intrigued, Jennifer asked, “Would you mind telling me about him?”

     “He was a Marine,” Mildred said, with another quick peek at her husband. “A beautiful man. Tall, with the broadest shoulders I ever saw. Big strong hands, but they were gentle, too. Black wavy hair.” She closed her eyes briefly, picturing the handsome Marine. “And so very kind.”  She opened her eyes and smiled. “We danced every dance together.”

     “Did you ever see him again?” Jennifer asked.

     “Oh, yes. We were together every day after that for the next two weeks. It was a magical time for both of us. He called me Tink.” She smiled, remembering. "Short for Tinkerbell." Then she shook her head. “And then he went to Korea.”

     “I’m sorry,” Jennifer said. “That must’ve been hard.”

     Mildred nodded. “It was. I wrote him every day, and he wrote me whenever he could.” She sighed. With another quick check on her husband, she whispered, “And I saved every last one of his letters, too. They’re still in a box at the back of my closet.”

     “Wow,” Jennifer said. “See? That’s the kind of love I want.”

     Bennie opened his eyes and yawned. “What’s all that yammering about?” he asked. “A man can’t hardly catch a nap around this place.”

     “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” Jennifer said, standing. “Let me just set up your trays before I go.”

     “Oh, don’t mind him,” Mildred said with a crinkly smile. “He’s teasing.”

     He pushed himself into an upright position, and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You still mooning over that Marine, woman?”

     “You were listening!” she scolded.  Then, “No more than you moon over that pretty young thing who danced with you all night.”

     “Oh, wow,” Jennifer breathed, eyes wide.

     “I’ll tell you a secret,” Mildred said.  “If you work at it, that one true love of your life can also be the love of your lifetime.”

     “HOO-rah!” said her husband. “Semper fi, Tink.”

                                        Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

False Start Fridays: Week Three

Thought for the day:  I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter.  [James Michener]

A whole lotta butts...

Writers can generate a lot of buts. Not in their writing...  in their attitudes.

I would write today but...
I was going to submit that story but...
I meant to send out a query today but...
I have a great idea for a new book but...

Et cetera, et cetera.

No more buts, I tell ya! Put that butt into your chair, and write... submit... and repeat. Sorry, but there's no shortcut. If there were, I would have taken it a long time ago.

Okay, this is the last week of False Start Fridays, and I'd like to thank Suze for coming up with such a kewl idea. (Thanks, Suze!) This time, instead of dragging a forgotten writing exercise out of my desk drawer, I'm gonna post an excised portion from an earlier draft of my WIP Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade. It made me laugh when I was writing it, but alas, it didn't do a thing to advance the story. Plus, it made my main character Pearl look moronic, and was way too much tell and too little show. So, it had to go. But just for you, it's back for a smelly little visit today.

***
   Pearl didn’t notice the man at first. She didn’t see him, huffing and puffing, as he stomped toward her, and she didn’t even see him when he stopped beside her car. Truth is, she didn’t notice him at all. Not until he demanded her attention by pounding on the window beside her head.

   Then, two things happened at once. A startled little poot bubbled out of her at one end, and she sucked in her breath so sharply at the other, she almost choked on her own spit . Which, of course, made her cough. And every time she coughed, she broke wind again. Cough, cough. (pffftt) Cough, cough. (pffftt) Cough, cough. (pffftt) For good measure, when she turned to the man glaring at her through the window, she felt a damp spot warm the crotch of her underwear. Crap-a-doodle-damn-doo.

   He was enormous, both in height and circumference. His face was flushed, and he was wearing a white short-sleeved dress shirt with huge perspiration blotches under each arm. The top button was open, his necktie loosened. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but she could practically feel his laser-like glare burning into her flesh. He was bent over, glaring at her through the window, glaring right at her, staring right into her eyes, with his face only inches away from hers. Oh yeah, there was no doubt about it. He was ticked. What’s more, he was ticked at her.

   Wide-eyed, Pearl stared back at him, swallowed hard, and hiccoughed. Now that the coughing fit was over, she concentrated on controlling her breathing. Easy does it, slow it down, in and out, in and out. And she squeezed her crotch muscles together. Lord, please don’t let me tinkle on my car seat. Hiccough. 

   Slowly, deliberately, Pearl blinked at the man. He was no longer pounding on the window, but his hands, now hanging at his sides, were still balled into fists, and he continued to glare at her. “WHAT THE HELL’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, LADY?” he demanded.

   I don’t know.

   Against her better judgement, Pearl rolled the window down a teensy bit, and he immediately jammed his face next to the opening. “Excuse me…?” she squeaked. Still breathing, easy does it, in and out, in and out. Still squeezing, no more pee, no more pee. Hiccough.

   “You DEAF?” he yelled through the narrow opening at the top of the window. “I’ve been laying on my horn for five minutes! You waiting for the damned stop sign to turn green?”

   Then the purple cloud hit his nostrils. He abruptly stood up, gave his head a slight shake, coughed, and took a step back from the window.

   Take that! Pearl thought, while desperately fighting the urge to giggle. 

***

                                  There ya have it. Again, thanks, Suze. It's been fun.

How do you like THEM apples? (source)

                                  Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

                    A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.  [Richard Back]

False Start Fridays: Week Two

Thought for the day:  I'm all for keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.  [Solomon Short]

Okay, so some of the stuff we've written may be a little cringe-worthy when we look back at it, and maybe some of us are fools who should be denied access to typewriters and computers.

Tough. I say, we've gotta keep on keeping on.

I survived last week's posting, so let's (gulp) do it again. This week's piece was written circa 1990, or so... maybe a little sooner. (Why didn't I think to write a date on these things?)




****

    Welcome home, honey. I know... technically, it's been more than twenty years since you got back from Vietnam, but I think we both know the man I sent away has only recently gotten here. I'm not sure who that stranger was who's been walking around in your skin all these years, but it wasn't you.
    Lord, we were young back then, weren't we? So terribly idealistic and full of dreams. A part of me raged at the unfairness of it all when you were snatched away from me so soon after we got married. But there was no question in our minds. Not really. We knew that once chosen, you would go. You would fulfill your patriotic duty, just as your father and so many others in your family had done before you.
    But ideals and patriotism and notions of what war would be like did nothing to prepare you for its reality. What twenty-one year old can face what you had to face and emerge unscathed? You were only in country for two days when you inherited the machine gun. You joked in a letter home about that's what you got for being the biggest of the survivors from that awful firefight. Well, you never said it was awful. But from that moment on, your letters home were different. You were different.
    It broke my heart when you wrote home that you didn't know what you were doing there and didn't think your being there made any difference. It frightened me. I was so afraid that loss of conviction would cost you your life. But thank God, it was a fleeting feeling, and by the next letter, your sense of purpose was strong again.
    When your Purple Heart was delivered to me without any kind of explanation from the Army about the extent of your injuries, or even if you were dead or alive, I thought my world was coming to an end. But exactly one year after you left, you returned to me. I'll never forget the way your father drove to the airport to pick you up. He had your '61 Chevy just a-flying! Remember the little American flag he'd attached to the antenna? That thing was laid flat back! Oh, God, how good it was to see you--- to touch you--- to hold you. I couldn't get enough of you. I even watched you while you slept.
    Oh, but honey, you were so different than when you'd left. There was a far-away look of emptiness in your eyes, and it seemed like you looked right through people. Like you looked right through me. I can tell you now that there were times I was afraid of you. It was like you had ice in your soul, and could freeze the blood of anyone who got in your way, all with a single look. And the anger, the rage. Gone was the idealistic class clown with a heart of gold, and in his place was an angry cynic lashing out at the world.
    I can't tell you how happy I am that we've finally put the past to rest. So again, I say, from the bottom of my heart--- welcome home, honey. Welcome home.

*****

Ready to post one of your oldie but goodies next week? Pop over to Suze's blog and let her know. Subliminal Coffee (the thinking person's cafe)

                           Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

False Start Friday: Week One

Thought for the day:  Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose--- not the one you began with perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember.  [Annie Sullivan]

Having oodles and oodles of money under your mattress doesn't do much good if you never get to spend any of it, and squirreling away all your old writing in a drawer doesn't do much good, either. So why not pull some of it out?

First off, thanks to Suze for hosting this False Start Friday challenge to nudge some of us to do just that. For this first week, I'm pulling out something I wrote in the late eighties or so, when I was even more of a bleeding heart than I am now. Hope ya like it. If not, be kind. Poor thing's been shoved in the back of a drawer for a long time...
****

    They shuffle along in single file, these people that society tries to forget. When herded together into one faceless crowd and labeled the homeless, it is surely easier for society to forget them. It's not so easy for me, for I've seen their faces and touched their hands. It's painfully hard to remember and impossibly hard to forget the individual faces.
    One by one, they pass, their hands reaching out for a plate of hot food. Some hands tremble and shake perceptibly; others, roughened by years of hard work, remain comparatively steady. Many hands have thick yellow nails, stained by years of nicotine addiction. Some of the people shamble along slowly, shoulders stooped and eyes downcast. It's as though they've swallowed the poisonous propaganda that deems them less than human. Others manage to maintain their dignity, and walk with shoulders back and a ready smile upon their lips. And still others exude such hostility and anger, it's almost palpable.
    Many of them are regular visitors to the soup kitchen. They remember me, and shout a greeting my way. I stop and chat and laugh with them as I go among the tables, pouring coffee. I see men, women, and children of all races and ages. Some are very ill, either physically or mentally. One man grabs me each time I pass and begs me to pray for him. He babbles on almost incoherently about countless unseen assailants who are out to get him, but he always says very clearly, "Pray for me." Some of these people reek of alcohol and vomit, or are strung out on some kind of drug. Several men have told me that they have AIDS.
    Some complain about the food; others are humbly grateful, and bow their heads for a moment before they eat. Some are openly belligerent, and throw angry curses often, and a fist or chair occasionally; others laugh and flirt with me, and gather around the piano to sing.
    Most of them are dirty, and their smells are offensive. Their teeth may be rotted, their hair may be tangled, and their clothes may be ragged. But above all else, they are all people. They all deserve to be treated with respect and human dignity. The homeless are not a faceless mass of humanity. They have very real, very individual faces. And that face, but for the grace of God, could be yours. Or mine.

*****

Interested in rescuing one of your long-lost gems and posting it next Friday? Let Suze know on her blog, and you'll be good to go. Subliminal Coffee (the thinking person's cafe)

                       Until next time, take care of yourself. And each other.