It Just Feels Write

If I slip into you
Can you take me away?
To heights I’ve never known
Don’t move. Don’t go. Please stay.

I ask for just one night
Two lovers playing a part
Help me blur the complicated lines
Of where I end and where you start

I will shut my eyes
Shout out your name
And think of nothing else
But the sweet, anticipated pain

Everything I protect
Is yours for the taking
I promise no regrets
If it’s love we’re making

I’ll relinquish all control
While your body tangles with mine
Allow you to feel every part of me
This night could be sublime

I don’t expect too much
Really, I just want it all
Please. Release all my convictions
As we simultaneously fall

If I keep my eyes locked on you one second more
The twist of my lips will tell on me
Of that I’m sure

If you press your face against my neck once again
This game of hard to get
I certainly won’t win

And if you smile too often in my direction
Be careful, Friend
I’m afraid I’ll misinterpret this for affection

And if you say that you miss me
Followed up with fervent kissing
No, I’m not to blame at all.
It’s your fault for making me fall.

What I’m about to tell you could not be more
entertaining if I had made it up myself. Those of you who know me will surely attest
that I’ve been known to exaggerate once or twice in my lifetime but I assure
you, these next few paragraphs are 100% factual.  I swear. Please bear with me as I’m not a
writer by any stretch of the imagination; I leave that talent to my wife. Hell,
I can’t even claim to be a decent story teller. But today, I’m certainly going
to try…

One night, my wife, Tara (I’m Benny by the way), and
oldest daughter were attending some sort of dance rehearsal crap for an
upcoming recital that I would eventually have to suffer through. This left me at
home with the remainder, and youngest of three children. In true Southern form,
I slowly (maybe not so slowly) sipped on a few ice cold pops while my eight
your old son sat next to me and my four year old daughter sat on my lap. The
living room was absent of light except that which spilled from the 55 inch flat
screen (I do love that TV). With the surround sound system working its magic, we
sat there, mesmerized by Indiana Jones and his unfailed attempt to save the day
and get the girl.

I was just about to ask my baby girl to grab another
beer from the fridge when I spotted a beam of light bouncing across our dark
surroundings. I moved her aside, rose from my permanent dent on the couch and
walked over to the window. I pulled back the shade and found myself greeted by
a uniformed officer of the law. Without hesitation, I disengaged all three locks
that decorate my front door (safety first) and was smacked with the reality
that my quiet evening at home had abruptly come to an unexpected end.

During my ignorant bliss, eight (count them, eight!)
police cruisers parked in front of my house, blocking anyone from coming in or
going out. Men were scattered across my yard, each of them with their guns drawn.
Dogs were barking at an ear piercing decibel. I felt a sudden urge to throw my
hands in the air and spread ‘em, but I didn’t.

“Uh.” I muttered like the village idiot. “What’s
going on?”

“Good evening, sir. It seems we have a situation
that unfortunately landed us at your front door.” he said politely and
professionally.

“What kind of situation?” I asked, all too aware
that my beer remained glued to my right hand.  My left brushed the hair of my daughter who now
had a death-like grip around my leg.

“Well sir, to make a long story short, it seems your
next door neighbor has stolen a registered weapon from your neighbor across the
street. On a run from the law the next door neighbor thought it best to hide
under your house which conveniently for him is lifted up on pillars.” The
officer pointed each direction as if I didn’t know where to find “across the
street” or “next door.”

I stepped backward, not needing to hear any more, and
instructed my children to run upstairs and stay put. It was all I could think
to keep them out of the line of possible fire. And I’m fully aware that bullets
travel but it was either that or the bathtub. What else was I to do?

I thought I should text my wife and let her know
what was going on. You know, to warn her somehow. Then I remembered that she
was without a cell phone after recently dropping it in the tank of a portable
toilet at a local festival. It’s the truth, I promise.

Back outside, the local police department was in
full effect everywhere that I looked. They seemed to be concentrating on the
back of the house where the sunroom is located so I stepped outside to serve as
a witness and nosey onlooker. In my defense, the scene of the crime was on my
property.

“Come out with your hands up!” someone yelled.

“Do it! Now!” another shouted.

Profanity was tossed around as though it were a
second language. The dogs were singing in unison, each stretching their
restraint to its fullest extent. I’d never seen a more intimidating snarl.

I kept post on the porch, pacing, drinking and
running my hands through my thick hair. I’ll admit, I was stressed to hell and

back. I can usually handle pressure under fire but this was different and
certainly not something I’d ever come across before. I was worried about the
safety of my children and anxious about the rest of my family coming home in the
middle of this madness.

Minutes later, the obvious person in charge made his
way back with an update.

“Sir, I do apologize for this whole ordeal. We are
trying to wrap it up as efficiently as we can.” I was beginning to really like
this guy.

“It’s okay.” I lied. Then, “How much longer do you
think it will take? I have two young kids upstairs.” I glanced at the second
floor of my home as though either of us could see through the sheetrock.

“I understand sir and I appreciate your patience.” He
hesitated for a bit, and continued. “However, it seems your neighbor has taken
to smoking crack under your home in addition to carrying a loaded weapon.”

“How…do you know that’s what he’s doing?” I fumbled.

“We can see the pipe light up with each hit, sir.”
He cleared his throat and rocked on the heels of his shoes.

Perfect. Just perfect. I grabbed another beer from
the kitchen.

The next fifteen minutes proved to be the most
intense that I‘d lived through so far. I paced as people around me yelled. I
blinked as bright lights spun in a circle and I chewed my fingernails as I silently
prayed for my children’s safety.

At this point, the neighbor across the street whose
gun was stolen strolled over to catch a glimpse of the action. He explained how
the gun was taken from him (too long to go into detail) and by the time he’d
finished talking I’d decided he was a cool enough dude. We shot the shit (excuse
the expletive) over a longneck and made plans for a future backyard BBQ.

Just then, everything came to end just as fast as it
had begun. Apparently the dumbass (oops, sorry again) surrendered. It seems he
put the pipe down, lay flat on the ground and allowed several hands of law enforcement
to pull him into custody.

The perp (that’s cop talk) was hand cuffed and
shoved behind the protective barrier of a squad car. This allowed me my first
sigh of relief. I gave him the evil eye from twenty feet away and checked on my
children. Between you and me, my son thought the whole thing was pretty cool.

“We will get out of your way now.” Top Cop said as I
returned outside. “One more thing though…” He trailed off. “We didn’t find the
gun and the douche bag claims to have traded it for the crack. I don’t know; he
could be lying but you may want to take a look around tomorrow in the light of
day just to be sure.”

He finished and held out his hand for me to shake. I
reciprocated, thanked him and retreated to the safety of my home. As I closed
and locked the front door behind me, a wave of… hell, something, came over me. Yep,
I was hammered.

Not more than ten minutes after the chaos ended, my
wife and daughter returned home, completely oblivious to recent events.

“You missed the party.” I told my wife as she set
down her purse.

“What?” she spat. Apparently the four hours she’d
spent at rehearsal did not go so well.

I summarized the story from beginning to end, my
arms flailing, as if she wouldn’t understand the intensity without the visual.
When I finished she said, “You went outside looking like that?”

Are you kidding me? This was my wife’s response to
the revelation of a gun carrying, dirty crack head hiding out under our
house???

“Seriously, Benny, did your hair look like that
while you were out there?” She seemed really concerned about this.

I glanced at my reflection in the window above the
kitchen sink. I turned back to her and shrugged my shoulders. I continued with
forgotten details, threw in some exaggeration (I’m bad about that) and stressed
how intense the whole situation really was. Tara stood there, hands on her hips
and thought for a minute. She seemed to be soaking it all in.

“Baby, you look like of those levee rats they put on
the news to represent the entire state of Louisiana while the rest of us at
home say ‘Good Lord, that’s the guy they put on TV.’ I need a beer.” She
finished.

That night I lie in bed, exhaustion taking the place
of my buzz. I thought about the danger we escaped and the prick that lived next
door. Then, as much as I tried to push it out of my mind, I thought about how
country I must have looked standing on my front porch with a beer in my hand,
my hair standing on end, and I realized that I was barefoot the whole time. Ugh,
she was right. Damn my wife.

Bobby sat in his tattered recliner and stared at a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. He snuffed at the idea that all problems were solved within a thirty minute timeframe. Who actually fell for this shit anyway, he wondered. The old television set was covered in snow but the skewed vision could have been a residual effect from the amount of alcohol still coursing through his veins. Why can’t I have a flat screen like everyone else, Bobby thought. He answered out loud, “Because of the cheap slut I married.” He looked in the direction of the bathroom where she was soaking and lifted his middle finger in the air. Bobby grabbed the whiskey from his lap and took one long pull. Tonight, he was drinking straight from the bottle.

The automatic laughter from the sitcom was doing nothing to soften his mood. Bobby laid back and closed his eyes. He rubbed at his temples in an attempt to fight the headache that was left over from yesterday’s binge. Alcohol seemed to be the only thing that numbed the pain inflicted at the hands of his significant other, Nadine. He gave her the bird again and swallowed another shot.

He detested sleeping next to her and the thought of having to do so for the rest of his life made him crazy. Most nights, he would pretend to fall asleep in his chair just to avoid it. On the rare occasions he was horny and desperate enough to be intimate with Nadine, he’d regret it immediately. He swore that in the throws of passion he could feel the venom transferring from her body to his. Bobby shook his head; he had to get his thoughts under control.

Divorce seemed impossible. He knew Nadine would take him for all that he had in alimony payments, which really wasn’t much. Bobby considered removing himself from the equation, just pack up and travel the country until he found a warm place that suited him. Screw that, he thought. This trailer full of junk was his and he was damned if he would give it all to her. Hell, she’d probably track him down anyway. She had the senses of a bloodhound. No, he needed to do something drastic…something permanent.

Truth is, Bobby has hated Nadine since the day they were married. He remembered the flash of clarity like it was yesterday. Shortly after their honeymoon to Graceland, she was blistering him with all of the town’s gossip while they munched on chicken pot pie. He could see her painted lips moving but couldn’t hear words coming out, only noise. Her bright blue eye shadow was brushed all the way to her eyebrows and her cheeks seemed to be burnt by the sun. She went on and on with mindless chatter. The woman never shut up. This combination of annoyances sparked his first fantasy about killing her. He could take his fork and jam it in her throat right where she sat, then go on with his dinner in peace while she gurgled beside him. Or he could smash her face with the cast iron pot that resided permanently on the stove but the clean up afterward would amount to an even bigger pain in the ass. Back then, fantasies were always just that.

Nadine’s CD player was cranked loud and wringing out the same old tired tunes that she loved so much. Her painful attempt at karaoke put the preverbal nail in the coffin. Making up his mind, Bobby pulled himself from the La-Z-Boy and charged down the narrow hallway in the direction of the bathroom. He slowly turned the knob and crept inside. The overhead lights were darkened but the burning candles provided enough of a glow for him to see. The shower curtain was pulled shut, enclosing Nadine in the tub so he had the element of surprise on his side. Slowly, he opened the curtain and stood there. Her eyes were closed and cucumber slices rested over the shallow sockets. She was always trying beauty tips found in those stupid feminist magazines. Sadly, nothing ever helped.

Bobby dropped to one knee and thrust his hands around her throat. He squeezed tightly and dunked Nadine’s head under water. Her eyes opened, dropping the vegetables onto her breasts. She displayed a look of terror when she realized who was responsible for the attack. Nadine attempted to fight him off, kicking and clawing to save her own life. Bobby yelled at her, “This is for the run down double-wide you never clean! This is for the back-breaking, low paying job I work day after day! This is for the truck I drive with a busted air conditioner!”

In that instant he could feel all the years of anger leave his body just as the life was being squeezed out of hers. Bobby picked up her head a few inches and violently slammed her skull on the porcelain tub then dipped her once again. Blood became her bathwater, so much so that Bobby could no longer see his own hands. Nadine’s fingers fell from the side of the tub into the liquid abyss, creating a shrill like nails on a chalkboard, and her resistance subsided. Bobby squeezed until he was sure that life had finally escaped her. He let go of her neck, stood up and dried his arms on the towel meant for her body.

Just minutes before, this corpse was his living, breathing wife. Nadine’s face floated above the top of the crimson water with her hair surrounding her. It was almost angelic had it not been for the fact that she was the devil’s spawn. Funny, he felt no remorse. More to the point, he felt nothing. And to prove it, he spit into the water.

It didn’t occur to Bobby until then that there would be consequences. He would be sent to prison to rot because he murdered his useless wife, when in reality he was doing the world a favor. In fact, he felt more alive in that moment than he had in years. Prison would be a welcome change. Where else can you get three square meals a day for free?

He walked over to the sink and took a long look at himself in the mirror. Bobby’s hair was soaked and there was a nasty scratch on his cheek that he didn’t remember feeling. He searched his breast pocket for a smoke but they must have fallen out in the struggle. Knowing there would be a pack in his chair, Bobby walked over, leaving Nadine to marinate.

Searching the side pocket Bobby found what he was looking for. With steady hands, he lit the cigarette and sucked from it until there was nothing left. After lighting a second, Bobby picked up the cordless phone and dialed 911. He figured there was nothing left to do but get this whole thing over with. He confessed his sins to the operator and pressed “end” on the handset. With his third cigarette, Bobby waited for the Calvary to arrive.
………………………………………………………………

Bobby clicked the ink pen closed and shoved his journal into the back of his pants. No one, especially Nadine, knew he had an interest in writing and he intended to keep it that way. If anyone ever found the thoughts he put on paper he’d probably be hauled off to the closest looney bin simply for thinking. He never intended to act on anything but he knew how those big city lawyers had a way of turning things around.

Rising from the chair Bobby peddled to the bathroom. He opened the door, approached his naked wife, and declared, “I’m leaving.” She woke with a start, leaned over the side of the tub and said, “What, baby? What did you say?” It was too late. Bobby was already gone.

He grabbed the keys from the Elvis hook next to the door and jumped into his old Chevy. Bobby aimed the truck toward the nearest bar where he intended to drown in his unending misery.

Submitted to Warren Adler short story contest July 2009. Did not place.

To say it was a dream would be inaccurate because it was as real as anything I’ve ever known. I have no idea how it happened but last night I closed my eyes to sleep and when I opened them again I was there, standing in the doorway of Lorenda’s hospital room.

I noticed immediately that the date on the dry erase board above her was circled in red so that anyone who entered was sure to notice. The numbers proved that this was only a few short weeks before her death.

“Lorenda?” I asked. She is a shell of the woman that I love, I thought.

Most of her hair was gone save for a few stubborn strands. She weighed no more than 90 pounds and her face seemed hallow, her eyes dark.

“It’s me.” She confirmed. “Come. Sit.” She patted the bed beside where she lay.

“Is this okay?” I asked, feeling as though I would break her. I glanced at the monitors surrounding her, concentrated on the tubes running through her nose and the IV laced atop her arm. It was unsettling to see her in that condition. Cancer is a vicious beast. It eats away at those you love and without remorse.

“It’s perfect.” Lorenda said. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Okay.” I replied, but I was afraid. I was afraid for her.

“How do you want to do this?” She asked with a sense of control.

“Do what?” I still wasn’t sure why I was there.

“How do you want to say goodbye?”

She surprised me with her question. “Is that what I’m here to do?” I’m not sure how I would define my relationship with Lorenda. She has been a staple in my life since the day I was born, thirty-two years ago. And while my childhood memories of her are weak, the love in my heart for her has forever stayed strong. How am I going to get through this?

“I’m afraid it is.”

As the tears spilled down my cheek I talked of my children and how proud I was of all three, each in their own right. I highlighted the “ups” and confessed to the “downs” of my twelve year marriage but assured her I was connected to the only person I ever wanted. I complained about my job, the never ending housework and the demands put on a working mother. I told her of dreams I had yet to aspire, dreams I had not shared with anyone but my diary. I told her I was scared of death, hers and my own and of my non-belief in anything thereafter. I cursed at the unseen for not putting an end to her pain. And I reluctantly admitted that memories of us had long ago faded, chalking it up to the adolescent mind. I talked until my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, moisture dripping off every word, like the solution seeping into her veins.

Lorenda reminded me of the things I’d since forgotten: standing by her side during cheerleading competitions and driving with me in the backseat with her brother riding alongside. She recalled bumping into me at a festival with a beer in my hand once I had reached legal age. How odd that must have looked to her? She spoke of her daughters and her sister and the strength she hoped they could maintain throughout this unfortunate situation as well as the unbelievable will power they’d already shown. She believed in life after death and let it slip that she was not as scared as she first imagined. She was content with her life’s accomplishments and above all, proud of the two girls she had raised. And most of all, she laughed out loud; a song I made her sing more than once.

All too soon an alarm sounded and somehow I knew. “It’s time for me to go, isn’t it?” I asked, tearfully.

“It’s time for me, as well.” She said, taking my hand.

I hugged her frail body and kissed her cheek. “I love you.” I whispered, fighting the lump in my throat.

“I love you too.” Lorenda promised. “Have a good life.”

I pulled away and found myself looking at the woman I’d always known. The one that was vibrant, and alive, and beautiful. I walked away knowing I would lose my friend but my gift, one that I will always hold dear, was a second chance to say goodbye.

Story had to be about a women who goes back in time and changes something about her life. Max of 750 words. Did not place.

Blue lights reflected on spectators’ faces, courtesy of the police units surrounding the crime scene. Barricades were functioning as intended, keeping the Bourbon Street audience at a safe distance. Mitch Primeaux, a lead Detective with the New Orleans Police Department, lit a cigarette and stared at the crowd. He never understood why people hung around and watched.

Tonight, he was called to a Krispy Kreme donut shop where a raging fire turned the majority of the structure to dust. Since arson investigation was not the responsibility of the police department, he was confused as to why dispatch woke him with an order from the Chief to get his ass to this address. He tried the Chief on his cell but all attempts were left unanswered.

“Mitch?” An unfamiliar voice asked.

“Arson Investigator Jason here with the New Orleans Arson Investigation Unit.” He extended his hand for a shake then pointed to the badge he obviously wore with pride.

“Wow, that’s a mouth full; bet you can’t say it three times fast.” Mitch joked, throwing his stub to the street. Crickets echoed in the absence of a response. Clearly humor was lost on this guy but Mitch smiled anyway.

“I’m told we have another suspected arson on our hands?” Jason asked, anxious to get down to business.

“Yes. Preliminary investigations point in that direction. I’ve got the report with all the details.” Mitch handed the paperwork over to Jason. “Did you say another arson?”

“Yes. It’s the third Krispy Kreme in Louisiana this month.” Jason said. He then pulled a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket and started for the building, or what was left of it. Mitch followed, still unsure why he was called to the scene. Together, they stepped over the threshold.

“What a disaster.” Jason stated.

“Guess this guy likes a little blaze with his glaze huh?” Mitch snorted. A blank stare confirmed the arson investigator didn’t know how to laugh.

Jason stepped over the debris and began his inspection. Mitch dialed the Chief’s number, expecting voicemail to answer. It rang once and echoed behind him. It rang twice and echoed yet again. He spun around to face Jason.

“This could be why you were called.” Jason had his gun drawn and aimed at a target behind what was left of the counter. Mitch walked over, expecting to find a corpse.

“Chief?” Mitch blurted, rounding his way to his boss.

A disheveled man covered in soot looked up at Mitch. He had his knees pulled up to his chest and was hugging himself as though he would fall apart.

“Chief? What in the hell is going on here?”

Jason withdrew his weapon and took a step back.

“I can’t hide anymore.” The Chief whispered.

“Hide from what?” Mitch knelt in front of the man he’d worked for and respected over the last twelve years.

“My obsession started small. I’d cook in the outdoor grill just to watch it dance. Then it progressed; I wouldn’t even bother throwing meat on the pit to cover the fixation.” The Chief was wringing his hands. Mitch stared at him in disbelief, not really sure where the confession was going.

“Over the next few months, I researched fires online and eventually took to making my own in the yard. I just couldn’t get enough. Nancy caught me and felt such discomfort that she took the kids and moved in with her mother. With time on my hands I kept my ears glued to what was coming across the scanner so that I could witness the beauty of it all; like I did today.” The Chief was crying now. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“It took everything I had not to jump on a plane when the rash of fires started on the west coast. Can you believe that?” He was laughing now.

“Chief, are you saying that you started these Krispy Kreme fires?” Mitch asked, scared to hear the answer.

“I wish I had, but no. I just came to watch.” He wept. “I just came to watch.”

Mitch looked at Jason. He was dumbfounded.

“Why don’t you get the Chief out of here, grab a beer and get his head out of Crazy Town.” Jason chuckled, then patted Mitch on the back. “I’ve got work to do.”

Mitch pulled the Chief to his feet and led him to the exit. Turns out, Arson Investigator Jason did have a sense of humor.

Submitted to a contest for Writer’s Digest-had to be about a detectective who investigates suspected arson at Krispy Kreme-top 5 possible winners were posted 5/18/09 for voting and mine was not included-Damn it!

“That was awesome!” Riley squealed as he balanced his ten year old feet on the RipStick.

“I can’t believe we just did that.” Ethan replied, pumping his shoes on the pavement to power the scooter.

“Guys, we just lied to our parents about where we are going. What if we get caught?” Thomas asked with worry, pedaling to stay even with the others.

“Chill out, Tom Cat.” Riley shot him a look that told Thomas to keep his mouth shut. He hated when kids called him that but he guessed it was better than being called Scaredy Cat, even if there was some truth to it.

“So, where is this place?” Ethan inquired.

“It’s just past Old Man Jim’s farm.” Riley answered.

“But I don’t even have my bathing suit.” Thomas stated.

Riley gave up. He only allowed Thomas to tag along because he was Ethan’s cousin. This was exactly the sort of kid that he beat up on a daily basis. He made a mental note to talk to Ethan about who he could bring along on their secret adventures.

As they approached the swimming hole, all three boys stopped short in awe. They exchanged glances then abandoned their modes of transportation. Shedding their bodies of t-shirts and tennis shoes Riley, Thomas and Ethan plunged into the water, completely ignoring the algae and minnows that surrounded them.

After twenty minutes of playing Marco-Polo and the like the sky turned a dull gray. The boys were having so much fun that they were oblivious to the change in their surroundings. Only when the temperature took a sudden drop did they take a moment’s pause.

“Are you guys’ cold?” Ethan asked through chattered teeth.

“I’m freezing.” Thomas said, his lips turning a deep shade of blue. “What’s going on?”

“It’s only the sun setting, Tom Cat. You really are a baby.” Riley spat.

As the clouds rolled overhead the temperature continued to decrease, causing the boys breath to reflect in front of them in a puff of smoke.

“Maybe we should go home.” Thomas shuddered.

“I think he’s right!” Ethan yelled above the now racing wind.

Riley opened his mouth to protest but discovered that no sound could come from his lips. He grabbed at his throat to indicate that he’d lost his voice but his fingers locked in a position as though choking himself. He turned to face his companions but the only body part that he was able to move were his eyelids, and they were blinking in terror. The thoughts that were circling in his head held the same alarm.

Having rested on a landing created by Mother Nature, Thomas sprang into position for a nose dive, ready to swim away from the madness he had just witnessed. He, too, suddenly found himself frozen in action. His body hovered above the water, hanging upside down like a bat from a tree and his breath held for the plummet he had intended to take. Panicked, Thomas rotated his arms only managing to create a windmill, slapping the water with each downward movement.

Ethan touched one foot on dry land before becoming a mannequin like the others. He started to sprint, planning to get help but was only able to spin his legs like the Road Runner. Unable to move forward he created a spray of sand beneath him. Ethan tried with as much energy as he could muster to will himself to move, but it didn’t work. He was trapped inside of his own body.

Separately and all at once, the boys tried to understand the bizarre events of the last five minutes. Each of them immobile, they…

Tara pushed the tip of her middle finger along the key pad, moving the cursor atop the “save” icon. She tapped it once and waited for the symbol to blink, confirming that her document was saved. Satisfied, she moved to the kitchen sink to pour out the backwash lining the bottom of her beer bottle, then walked to the fridge to grab another. As she reached for it, Tara wondered if taking her first dip into the world of science fiction was really a good idea. She returned to her desk, pushed the laptop aside and put pen to paper. While brainstorming for an ending she silently vowed to finish before the day was over. After all, she had a deadline to meet.

Your Story #16- three boys decide to go have some fun at a local swimming hole. Shortly after they arrive, something terrible happens. 750 word max. Due 1/10/09

The morning sun penetrated Bernard Hill’s balding scalp as he bent over, stretching the waist band of his forty inch slacks. The pigeons at his feet stepped over one another, fighting to grab a morsel of the seed mixture he was offering. He shifted his weight on the park bench as his cell phone rang in his coat pocket.

“Hello, Evelyn.” Bernard said with a dry tone.

“Sir, I have several messages for you. Are you coming in to the office?” Bernard continued to feed the birds from the palm of his free hand.

“Yes, I’ll be there before lunch. I’m…meeting with clients.” He moved to disconnect the conversation before she caught him in a lie.

“Sir, one more thing.” Bernard put the phone back to his ear.

“A package has arrived for you.”

“Thank you, Evelyn.” Bernard sighed, not understanding the pressing need for the call.

“But sir, it’s rather peculiar.”

“How’s that?” He asked, now intrigued.

“It’s wrapped in paper and contains no return addresses. Your name is scribbled across the top in a child’s handwriting and I’m not quite sure how it landed on my desk. It looks as though it were simply dropped off because it’s not marked with postage.”

Bernard tossed the feed to the ground.

“I’ll be right there.” He blurted, flipping the phone closed.

Ten minutes later, Bernard snatched the box from Evelyn’s desk and locked his office door behind him. Sitting in a leather chair he tore at the paper to find what he had been waiting seven months for: a mechanical head piece in the shape of a pirate’s eye patch and a handwritten note. It specified two strict instructions: keep the virtual game piece no more than twenty-four hours and speak of it to no one.

Breathlessly, Bernard placed the patch over his left eye and waited for the game to begin.

…Bernard yanked his sword from its sheath and found himself face to face with someone he assumed to be the enemy. After hours of travel by sea his ship was being invaded and the sound of metal clanked all around him. Bernard pushed forward, knocking a threatening scrub to the ground. He spun around to fight off the next attacker but instead discovered a woman in the violent clutch of a rival pirate.

Hand in hand they trudged through the battle on deck, stopping when Bernard came to a dead end. He surveyed their surroundings, his eyes ultimately landing on the only escape. He looked to Elizabeth for permission and she nodded as if reading his thoughts. Hand in hand they rushed to the edge of the plank, drew a deep breath and jumped to the icy water below…

“Mr. Hill?” Evelyn’s voice echoed through the phone’s intercom system.

Interrupted, Bernard removed the patch from his eye, finding himself in a stance to indicate he was ready to leap.

“What is it?” He barked, removing his index finger from the speaker button.

“It’s 5:00. Is there anything you need before I go?”

Had he really be in virtual land all day?

“Mr. Hill?”

“No Evelyn, I will see you tomorrow.”

“Good evening, Sir.” And she was gone.

Bernard copied the game’s rules on personal stationary and reluctantly surrendered the eye patch back into the box. He knew that he had more time with the game piece but the anticipation of its return was part of the fun. After delivering the package to the courier Bernard headed to the only place he could think of.

Sitting on the same park bench, Bernard conveyed a magical story to his friends with every ounce of excitement he felt a few hours prior. Even before he was finished he looked forward to telling it again tomorrow morning to the same feathered audience.

Your story contest. Due October 10th. Had to be about a man who receives a package with no return address and it contains a pirate-style eye patch and a note.

“Absolutely not.” Darrel replied when his wife suggested that they go to counseling.

“Please. This could save our marriage.” Jennifer was begging now, hoping he could sense the desperation in her eyes.

“Baby, there has to be another way, something a little less humiliating.”

“How about divorce? Is that humiliating enough for you?” Jennifer was ready to strangle him. This argument had been going on for close to an hour.

Darrel’s shoulders fell in surrender.

”Okay, if you really think it will help” He said, pulling Jennifer to him. Darrel regretted his words the second they fell from his lips.

Enthusiastically, Jennifer pulled away and explained the details of a university study examining why marriages fail within the first year. The program lasted three days and took place on a private resort with plush amenities. The only requirement for the accepted volunteers was to sign a contract promising active participation; otherwise all fees incurred would have to be satisfied.

Two weeks later Darrel found himself driving along the Interstate at minimum speed, if for nothing else than to delay the inevitable. What had he been thinking when he agreed to this nonsense? The answer was simple. He’d been working really long hours and the pressure was more than taking its toll. At the end of each exhausting day Jennifer had become an emotional punching bag in which he was able to release his frustrations. It had to stop.

Jennifer sat beside her husband and tried to settle the butterflies that were floating around in her stomach. She’d never admit to Darrel that she was terrified but what other options did they have than to seek help? It seemed as if they were constantly at each other’s throats. Silently, she recounted the shouting matches that occurred over the last few months and pegged this weekend as their only chance for survival. She placed her left hand over Darrel’s right, allowing the weekend’s expectations to seep through her skin.

Whoever said ignorance was bliss knew exactly what they were talking about. The weekend was filled with accusations and insults; throw in a wannabee therapist and far-from-plush amenities, and they were left with a complete disaster.

“Look at it this way; we are no worse off now than we were before.” Darrel said, trying to sound reassuring as he unpacked his bag.

“That’s debatable.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. Now home she couldn’t wait to wash the weekend’s filth from her skin.

Later that night Darrel flipped through the channels aimlessly while Jennifer thumbed through a magazine.

“Look.” Darrel said, pointing at the television. “That’s our resort.”

“It sure is.” Jennifer said, surprised to see it. “Only those people seem to be having more fun than us.”

“Jennifer!” Darrel said with alarm.

“Oh my God, Darrel! That’s us!” Jennifer yelled, recognizing her own face on the forty-two inch screen.

“What in the hell is going on?” Darrel asked, now scooting to the edge of the recliner.

Without hesitation Jennifer was dialing the number of the program coordinator, demanding to know why their faces were on TV without their consent. It seemed that the contract, the one neither of them bothered to read, stated that if the hidden cameras captured valuable footage there was a chance the weekend would be made into a reality show, each week depicting a different couple. This first week was their turn, apparently. It was titled, “For Better or Worse.”

“What are we going to do!?” Jennifer shrieked. “Our problems are being broadcast all over cable television! Do you realize your sisters could see this? All six of them! And your mother. Oh God, my mother! Elaine will have a stroke! Her death will be my fault!”

“No one really watches this channel.” Darrel said with little conviction. As he spoke, a marquee ran at the bottom of the screen, letting viewers know that the program was also being transmitted on several other networks.

Jennifer paced the floor, wondering how she would face her family and co-workers the following week. Then the phone rang, caller ID revealing Jennifer’s mother’s number.

“No one watches this channel, huh, Dar-rel?” Jennifer shouted, shoving the phone in his face.

“Okay, maybe one person.”

“Hello, Mother.” Jennifer uttered, holding the phone away from her ear, hoping to avoid the wrath.

“Is this hell, Jennifer? It must be because I just saw your dirty laundry hanging all over my television set!”

“Oh, Mom.” Jennifer sighed. “Just wait until they air day two.”

Writer’s Digest contest-story had to be about “A man and wife suddenly find themselves in reality television hell”

Rain splashed against the window with such a force that Kera jumped at the unexpected sound. She blinked out of a daydream and removed her gloved hands from the stagnant dishwater that had grown cold to the touch. Kera wondered how long she’d been standing there. It had been happening a lot lately, her mind wandering to far off places. Sometimes, she would reach a destination that she didn’t even know she was intended for.

A single tear made its way to her lips while staring out into the storm’s violent activity. Those that followed held as much rage as the downpour outside. Wiping them away with the back of her wrist, Kera placed both hands on the counter and rocked her heels on the kitchen tile. She allowed her head to drop between the parallel that her arms created, leaving her eyes to focus on the floor. It was stained and cracked by the impressions of her bare feet and those before her. She hated that floor. Frustrated, Kera removed the gloves, leaving the task of the dishes behind.

She knotted her long summer dress at mid-thigh and dropped to all fours. Kera tugged at the broken ceramic and with very little effort, set one free. Then another. To her astonishment Kera’s fingers proved to be enough of a tool to resurrect the ancient material from their years of imprisonment. Each tile that came unglued exposed the scuffed underbelly that had been buried for so long. She piled the discarded remnants as if they were building blocks.

“I bought this place for you Kera, at your insistent request. Or have you already forgotten?”

This is the response she got when asking her husband, Elliot to help with the remodel of the two acre ranch they recently purchased on the outskirts of town.

“You wanted this old house Kera…this fixer-upper. You said that it would be no problem for you to handle the contractors and the painters. You said that you could do this without any help from me.” Elliot took a breath before starting again. “Don’t you know how busy I am? I don’t have time for this. Why do you continue to nag me about it?”

“I just thought we could do something together so that one piece of this house could be ours,” Kera whispered.

“If I were looking for something for us to do together,” Elliot explained, “I would have bought matching BMW’s.” He stormed out, leaving nothing more to say. Kera fell into the rattan chaise and buried her face in her hands. And there, she cried.

Finding herself back on the kitchen floor Kera’s thoughts continued to race through her mind. At the forefront was her absent career combined with lost ambition. It was not that long ago Kera contributed to the family’s income but since Elliot’s salary more than covered her own, she decided to trade in her laptop for dish pan hands. Scratch that, he decided for her. Society now referred to her as a Domestic Goddess. Who was she kidding? She drove a mini van for crying out loud.

She had once been so radiant, so naturally beautiful. Because of her defined cheekbones and flawless skin, Elliot would describe her as the kind of woman that turned heads when she walked into a room. She had a mind of her own once but still craved the sense of security only a male counterpart could provide.

She once tried telling Elliot how miserable she was in her new role as a housewife.

His reply to her confession was, “I’m a little confused Kera. Which part is it that you hate the most? Is it the $200 hair cut or the all access club membership?” Elliot’s tone was above normal range.

“It’s not the material things that I’m referring to Elliot. It’s the emotional side of things that I’m talking about. I feel empty inside. I mean, what is my function here?” Kera pleaded.

“To be a mother to our children. That is your function!” He was yelling now as he yanked off his neck tie. “I no longer wish to continue this conversation,” he declared and left their bedroom.

Alone in her bed Kera succumbed to the melancholy and cried herself to sleep.

Kera pushed on, rocking back and forth so that her bangs rested just above her lashes, bouncing with each forward movement. Even though the crumbled grout quickly chipped away at her finely manicured nails, Kera didn’t care. It forced her to examine how she had become so involved with herself on the outside and forgot about caring for the woman on the inside.

She had grown to hate the person she allowed herself become. Her days were filled with grocery lists and dinner menus while her weekends were spent organizing the upcoming gala to save the endangered animal of the hour and making a run to soccer practice. What about her own needs? Kera had no job to throw herself into, no passion to get lost in. She had nothing to call her own. Where did she fit into her own life?

Making progress Kera stiffened and sat with her legs folded beneath her. Sweating, she assessed the damage she created. Elliot would be furious. She pulled another tile in spite of him.

Thunder continued to pound on the rooftop like sticks to a drum. Kera thought back to the nights spent alone, sitting motionless, unaffected by the silence. Somehow while Elliot burned the midnight oil and her children dreamed of MP3 players, Kera had grown accustomed to the void.

Her mind circled back to the children. She worried that her daughter would mistake her parent’s relationship for the way that love should be. She feared her son would grow up to be exactly like his father, emotionless and blank as a sheet of paper.

In Elliot’s defense he wasn’t always that way. In his youth he was playful, ambitious and even affectionate. Ambition was a large part, in fact, of what initially attracted her to him. Years later with an added six figure mortgage, two SUV payments and private tuition for both kids, everything Kera once loved about him had somehow disappeared.

A wave of panic swept over Kera. Tossing the tile aside, Kera stood up, sprinted through the house and burst through the screen door of the sunroom. Standing in the falling rain Kera cried out to no one in particular. Her cries were such that she did not recognize them as her own. She pulled at her clothes in agony, the soft fabric irritating her skin. She ripped the dress apart, reveling in the sound of torn seams. Kera pounded at her chest and clawed at her arms, disgusted with the body and soul she now possessed. Hair clung to her forehead in thick clumps and her toes were covered in mud, like icing on a cake.

She envied what she assumed everyone else had, the families that actually spoke to each other instead of communicating via text message and the mommy and daddy that slept in the same room together, night after night. Kera felt so trapped. How had she arrived to this point? She wanted a life do over, a symbolic second chance.

The emotional outburst lasted only minutes but seemed to release years of frustration. Exhausted Kera collapsed to the soaked Earth in a heap. She lay there pressing her cheek into the slush and blinking against the mascara that threatened to cloud her vision. Laying in a fetal position Kera rocked back and forth, exposing her half-naked flesh. She shivered as though the temperature had dropped thirty degrees.

Sometime later, looking worse for the wear, Kera pulled herself together and returned to the kitchen, leaving wet prints in her path. The kids would be home soon and Elliot would expect dinner to be ready and on the table.

As Kera grabbed the handle of the refrigerator door intending to pick up the pork chops she had previously planned for the evening, she changed her mind and instead wrapped her fingers around the body of a long neck bottle, twisting off the top and consumed half the beer with one drink. A smile spread across her face. With one gulp, she felt liberated.

“I am a beautiful woman living in the twenty-first century with my whole life ahead of me. I do not deserve to be treated like the suppressed women of the 1950’s. My children deserve to have a mother who is independent, one that can stand her ground.” The dialogue swirled around in Kera’s head. This was to be her mantra going forward.

Suddenly on a mission, Kera changed into a pair of jeans and a tank top. She waited for the children to arrive and once they did, sent them to the neighbor’s house explaining that she and their father had a few matters to discuss. Legal separation was on the top of that list.

Elliot walked through the door about an hour later and announced his presence. His footsteps echoed from the combination of the hardwood floor and the resonant hallway. He took note of three duffle bags on the inside of the foyer.

Kera’s heart throbbed. She feared she would lose her nerve for what she was about to do.

“Kera!” He shouted.

“In here.” She called back, standing in the middle of the chaos.

“Where are the children? Are you going on a trip?” He asked as he rounded the corner to the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw instead what looked like a construction zone.

“What the hell happened here?”

“One question at a time.” Kera said. “The children are next door because you and I have some things to discuss.”

“Things? What things? And what’s with the bags?” Elliot demanded.

“Don’t interrupt me Elliot. For once, just let me speak.”

“Please Kera, enlighten me. Tell me what’s on your mind.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the counter. She could tell by his stance that he was already not listening.

“For ten years now…” Kera started.

“Here we go again.” Elliot interrupted. Kera threw darts at him with her eyes. He held up his hands as if in surrender.

“For ten years now,” Kera repeated, “I have cleaned up your mess, cooked your meals and practically done everything you have asked of me. My career took a backseat while I watched yours soar up the corporate ladder because that’s what you wanted.”

She felt good. She was on a roll. Elliot on the other hand seemed bored. He unfolded his arms and crossed his legs, placing one tasseled shoe over the other.

“I watched as you held your head up high with me on your arm, passing me off as some kind of trophy wife. You let everyone think that what we have is gold when the truth is that we are two parts of a loveless marriage.”

Elliot opened his mouth to speak but Kera stopped him before he could. She felt a resistance in her throat to effectively communicate.

“I had a breakthrough today, Elliot. I realized that I was living for you, carrying out your dreams and desires and completely forgetting about my own. Through the years our love for each other has faded. I can no longer be whoever it is that you need me to be. I need to be someone that I am proud of, someone that my children can respect. Someone that I can respect.” She paused, choking back the tears.

“I need to be the woman that you fell in love with so many years ago so that I can learn to love her again too.”

Kera couldn’t hold it in any longer. Her bottom lip quivered as she stood there, helpless. Elliot moved from his statuesque pose, shocked by everything his wife had just revealed. He knew they had their problems but ignored the signs that led them to this point. How in the hell had he let things get this bad? He pulled Kera to him and his eyes welled up with tears.

Unsure of what to do next, Kera allowed herself to get lost in Elliot’s embrace. She missed his touch. More than anything she didn’t want to lose him. She just wanted to be able to find herself somewhere along the way.

They swayed together in the middle of the war zone. Kera focused her gaze on the bags at the front entrance. Elliot’s stare landed in the same direction. Neither of them spoke, both feeling defeated.

For the last time that day, Kera cried.

Submitted to Writer’s Digest June 2008-top prize is $3,000.

God, Tommy needed a drink. He was kissing the end of his second month with a new architectural firm in an unfamiliar city and still calling an executive suite home. The stress of it all was beginning to take its toll.

Stepping off the subway, Tommy dragged one foot in front of the other as if he were headed to his own execution. He dreaded the emptiness that patiently waited for him.

As he rounded the block to the hotel Tommy spotted Joe’s Bar and suddenly remembered passing it each day on his way to and from work. The marquee out front even promised him a two-for-one deal on week nights.

Pulling open the large wooden doors Tommy expected to be greeted by the damp air that usually welcomed you when entering such an establishment but instead he found himself surrounded by bright fluorescent lights and dozens of clothing racks.

“What the hell?” Tommy whispered to himself as he ran his fingers through his dirty blond hair.

“Welcome to Joe’s Bargain Bin!” shouted a curly haired man with the aid of a megaphone.

“What?” stuttered Tommy, confused.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” said the unidentified greeter. He tucked the instrument under his arm, mimicking the movements of a high school football coach. “My name is Joe Bargain. But everyone just calls me Joe. And you, my friend, have stepped into paradise.” He said while fanning his arms across the store.

“I…I thought this was a bar. The sign outside says…”

“Oh yeah, that.” Joe interrupted while he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. The remainder of the sign was destroyed during a rain storm. No worries. You’re not the first person to make that mistake.” His expression seemed genuinely apologetic.

“And the two-for-one special you’re advertising?” Tommy asked.

“Buy one shirt, get one free!” Joe shouted without the assistance of the loud speaker. He pulled items off the rack and laid them across his own chest.

Dumbfounded, Tommy stared at Joe. Joe stared right back at Tommy, oblivious to the awkward silence.

Joe said with the clap of his hands, “Well, since you’re here let me show you what I’ve got.”

Feeling as though he didn’t have a choice, Tommy obliged and allowed Joe of Joe’s Bargain Bin to guide him through the chaos of fabric.

“You won’t find any one item over $5.00. My middle name is Affordable. I take pride in that.” Joe leaned in closer than Tommy would have liked. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t really have a middle name, that’s just something I like to tell customers.” Joe sported a smile from ear to ear, as if he’d just broken wind.

“Try one on.” Joe urged, extending the merchandise. “I promise you’ll feel like a brand new man.”

Tommy grinned, not sure how to respond. He stood there, motionless.

“So, Mr. Suit and Tie, what will it be?”

Tommy stared at his polished shoes and thought of the endless hours sitting in front of a drafting table. Subordination forced his hand to give all brilliant designs over to his supervisor on a silver platter. Tommy had had enough. Maybe this Joe character had the right idea.

In an ocean of tropical flowers, Tommy traded his coat for a short sleeve shirt decorated with red hibiscus and yellow surf boards. He closed his eyes and allowed his hands to molest the soft material. He was so hypnotized that he could almost feel the sun on his face.

“Nothing better than the smell of a tiki torch, eh friend?”

Tommy lifted his heavy lids to find Joe standing in front of him, a fire perched in his right hand and a drink filled coconut in the other. Tommy wondered how Joe collected those items so quickly.

Overcome with a sudden urge to embrace his new found comrade, Tommy pulled Joe in and slapped his back with such a force that it oozed masculinity. He sipped from the hollowed fruit with a pineapple charmed straw. Immediately, Tommy felt better. Perhaps all his life needed was a little cup of Joe.

May 22nd-just checked online and I didn’t make the top five. But I’m gonna keep on keeping on!

April 25-Writer’s Digest writing prompt-Story had to be about a man that walks into a bar but it isn’t a bar-750 words max

Lucas finished the last of the evening’s entrees and drew a sigh of relief.  He extinguished the heat on the griddle and a hovering cloud of smoke disappeared into the overhead vent. Upon sending his kitchen staff home to salvage what was left of their evening Lucas decided to first indulge in a glass of wine before succumbing to his empty apartment. He sure could use the moment’s release.
Thanks to the newly married couple on the other side of the double doors, Lucas had been prepared to offer wedding guests full range of the menu.  This meant that pretentious socialites had their choice of blackened chicken spanning all the way to fresh lobster.  “Money talks,” Lucas thought.
 

Silently, he congratulated himself on successfully completing his first night back as head chef since the accident that almost cost him his career, not to mention his sanity. He thought back to the night when he was working late preparing for a rather large upcoming event.  Carelessly he slipped mid-stride, bringing the meat cleaver down hard on his wrist. He collapsed and woke up in a hospital sixteen hours later with one irreparable limb, or so his whacked out surgeon claimed.

Combining a pending malpractice lawsuit with months of unsuccessful therapy on the prosthetic hand, Lucas decided to temporarily replace the missing extremity with a hook.  He knew it was unorthodox but he never cared much about what other people thought. Besides, tonight the hook proved useful when the meat needed turning.
 

Lucas grabbed a bottle of wine from the restaurant’s inventory, careful of his selection.  It was best to choose from the overstocked house wine than to pull from the vintage shelves. He pulled a glass from the dishwasher and shuffled over to the butcher block, stopping short when he noticed a gift box adorned with a red ribbon.
 

Lucas spun around in a circle as if someone had just called his name. Where had it come from? Was the box there a minute ago and he didn’t notice?  Perhaps it was a parting gift from the bride and groom but why on Earth would they leave one for him?
 

Tossing the ribbon aside, Lucas lifted the lid and peeked inside.  Instinctively he jumped back and gasped.  There, perched on a satin pillow, was his own severed hand.  It appeared to have been preserved somehow. Lucas broke out into a cold sweat, threw it back onto the block and knocking it to its side. How in the hell did it end up here?  Doesn’t the hospital dispose of things like that?
 

He paused and thought for a moment.  Surely his tired mind was playing tricks on him. Lucas approached the box once more, cautiously this time, as if it would pounce. 
 

Was this some kind of sick joke?  Should he call 911?  What would he say?  “Yes operator, I was about to sit down to a nice glass of red wine when I noticed my own bloody stump fell from thin air.” Who would believe that?
 

Positive that he was alone in the kitchen, Lucas peeked through the twin square foot panes leading to the reception area. He scanned the crowd but could only see a blur of faces.
 

Still clad in a chef’s ensemble, Lucas pushed through the doors and tried to blend. He helped himself to the champagne being offered by the passing waiters the bride and groom insisted on bringing in.  They claimed the venue’s staff did not posses enough experience.  Who were these people anyway, heirs to a throne?
 

Lucas tipped the glass to his lips, never taking his eyes off the crowd.  He studied each man, woman and child, softening only when his gaze fell on the bridal party.  There was no way Ken and Barbie look-a-likes could pull off such an elaborate hoax.
 

Laughing at himself, Lucas turned to leave just before the music stopped. A familiar voice echoed through the room.
 

“Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to my attention that tonight’s chef is among us.” Everyone looked around aimlessly. Lucas stood dumbfounded, realizing that the speaker was his surgeon.
 

Pointing in Lucas’ direction he continued, “This guy worked very hard for you fine people tonight. Let’s all give him a hand!” The crowd cheered as though he invented the over priced alcohol they were guzzling. 
 

The surgeon left his post, approached Lucas and offered him a forceful pat on the back.
 

“Did you like my gift?”
 

“That was you?” Lucas muttered, confused.
 

Leaning in closer, the surgeon said, “Consider it friendly retaliation against your unwarranted accusations regarding my surgical skills.”
 

Lucas watched as the surgeon circled around him as if stalking his prey. Carefully thinking through his response, Lucas looked the surgeon in the eye and spoke with ease, “I wonder what body part you’ll deliver when you learn that your new wife and I…well, never mind.  Some things are better left to the imagination.”
 

The surgeon yelled obscenities as Lucas strutted through the crowd of onlookers.  He was sure to wink at the bride on his way out, knowing her only because she was the one dressed in white.
Lucas grabbed his hand, tucked it under his hook and walked home. The glass of wine would be just as satisfying there.

Story was originally created for a contest with Writer’s Digest. When the story didn’t place I changed it up a little and submitted to a contest for Writer’s Form, a magazine in England.