Talk

“Can we just talk about this,” Danielle cried, running after Peter.  “Please?”

“There is nothing to talk about.  You gave me your side of it.  I have nothing to add.”

“Peter!”  She reached for his arm, but he pulled it away.  With a burst of speed, she moved in front of him.  He stopped.  “Talk to me,” she said.

He glared at her and tried to turn, but she grabbed his wrists and refused to let go.  He growled.  “I don’t want to talk about it.  I am angry and have nothing to say.”

“You always have lots to say.”

His cheeks burned and his lip curled in anger.  “You’re right.  I have lots to say.  A few choice names for you, my dear.  Nothing you want to hear.  But then do you ever?”

It was her turn to take the blow.  She released his wrists and scowled into his blue eyes.  “I listen.”

“You just don’t follow.  Or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.  I told you she couldn’t be trusted.  Now the whole world knows.”

“Peter, they were going to find out eventually.  I mean, look at you.”

“But not like this.  I wanted to be the one to tell them.  They deserve to hear it from me.”

“Maybe they won’t believe her.  She is notorious for spreading rumors.”

“But they will.  It is too obvious to deny once someone has pointed it out.”

“Peter, I am so sorry.” 

He waved away her apology.  His face was sad, his shoulders stooped.  He was broken.  “I guess the best thing to do is just come clean,” he sighed.

Danielle nodded.

“But you are coming with me.  We will tell them together.”

Danielle bit her lower lip, but she didn’t dare say no.  Instead, she slipped her arm through Peter’s and steered him back toward the house.

“I can’t believe I am going to tell my parents I like Justin Bieber,” he whispered as they walked.  

Tired

“Hello,” Dante mumbled into the cell phone.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Jenny chirped.

“Sleeping.”

“It’s like noon! Get up!”

“Did you need something?”

“Come to the mall with me. I got a job interview. I need something business casual,” Jenny said.

“Do you even know what business casual means?”

“No, that’s why I need you.”

“You might already have something, though.”

“Dante, get up. I will be at your door in thirty minutes.”

“I’m tired,” Dante said, trying not to sound too whiny.

“You are always tired,” Jenny said drawing out the words accusingly.

“This is real tired,” Dante said.

Dead air.

“Look, there are several types of tired. Like fatigue. That is just a little tired and can be fixed with coffee or something. Exhaustion is like extreme fatigue and means you need a nap or something. Then there is the type of tired you get when you’re sick.”

“You’re sick?”

“No. I’m a different tired, but it’s similar. It’s the tired where you’ve slept enough and are healthy, but you still can’t seem to find the energy to get out of bed.”

“Maybe you’ve slept too much. Get up. Going to the mall with me will wake you right up.”

“Maybe I was wrong; maybe it’s the kind of tired where I just don’t want to go to the mall with you.”

“Dante…”

“Business casual is like slacks or nice skirt and a blouse. Think Mad Men. Bye, Jenny.”

Beep. With a sign, Dante put the phone back on his dresser and rolled over. Just a few more hours. 

Throwing a Party

Jill touched up the cheese platter where Matt had stolen a piece of smoked gouda and thrown off the symmetry.  She rearranged the pieces, trying to create an attractive design with yellow, beige, and cream.  It wasn’t working.  Frustrated, she abandoned the table and went to wash her hands.

The cheese was starting to sweat.  The apples were turning bronze even though she had tossed them in the appropriate amount of pineapple juice.  If the guests didn’t get here soon, the whole party would be ruined. 

She could feel the tears welling in the corners of her eyes.  Delicately she wiped them away with the tip of her manicured nail.  There wasn’t time to touch up her makeup, everyone was already late.

The clock on the oven glared – 7:30.  The invitations had said 7.

There was movement in the dining room.  Matt was at the cheese again.

“Get away from there.  You’ll ruin it,” she shrieked.

“But I’m hungry,” Matt said.

“There is more in the kitchen.  Just cut it up.”

“Isn’t that what this is for though?”

“That’s for the part.  It has to look perfect for when everyone gets here.”  She was choking back tears.  They found a way past and slid down her cheeks.

Matt returned the cheese to the plate and wrapped her in a hug. 

“No one’s coming,” she sobbed.

“They’re just late.”

“Everything is ruined.  The food looks disgusting and no one is coming.”

“Stop,” Matt said, taking her chin in his hand and wiping away tears.  “They’ll come.  And the food looks great.  Here, try some cheese.”

She tried to protest, but he ignored her.  He picked a big piece of sharp cheddar from the center of the plate and a club cracker.  Smiling, he fed them to her.

While she was chewing, the doorbell rang.  

Sitting under a tree

The rain fell softly. An early spring drizzle slightly stronger than mist, but only just.

From beneath the branches of the pine tree near the coy pond, Kana was dry. Years of pruning and training had turned the needles into a carpet so thick the cat could walk on it. She sat with her back against the dark, scratchy trunk. The smell of rain and wet earth swirled around her like the most expensive incense.

In the pond, the coy bobbed and sucked at the drops of rain disturbing the surface. Their shining sides coiled and rolled together like a knot of orange, black, white, and gold dragons.

Kana closed her eyes, collecting each detail of the scene in her mind. Soon she would have to leave her father’s house for her husband’s. She would have to leave these familiar gardens. The buildings. The faces.

She couldn’t deny that part of her was excited for the adventure. Still, she wondered if she would ever be able to sit under the pine tree in the early morning rain like this again.

Sit

“Please sit down, Emily,” Bryan said, motioning to the black chair in front of his glass and steel desk.  “We have much to discuss.”

Emily did as she was told, folding her hands in her lap to hide their tremors.

“You’ve only been with us a few months,” Bryan said, fixing her with his dark blue eyes.  “But we’ve been watching you carefully.”

Emily tried not to fidget.  Bryan’s face gave away nothing.  She started to think back over the week.  What had she done wrong?  The reports had been on time.  She had even washed all the dishes in the break room sink.

“We want to offer you the job as manager,” Bryan said, derailing her mental checklist of possible offenses.

“What,” she stammered.

“You’d make a great manager.  You’re kind, approachable, and people could learn a lot from that work ethic you’ve got.”

“But I didn’t know Pete was retiring.”

“Well, you see Emily, Pete’s performance has been a little off recently.  We’re firing him.  Or rather you are.  As the new manager.”

The Book Collector

A bell tinkled as he opened the door.

Weird, this wasn’t a shop. More like a warehouse. Or a museum

But as he scanned the piles of books – mountains of books, whole cities with skyscrapers made of leather bound volumes – perhaps the bell was necessary.

“Collector,” he called. “Are you here?”

There was a rustling sound, like an avalanche of dry, brittle paper, and half of a spectacled face peeked out from behind one of the geological formations. 

“What do you want?” the Collector snapped, his voice as dry and brittle as the paper, cracking like the spine of an ancient book.

“I’m looking for a book,” he called back.

There was some grumbling and then the whole face appeared, followed by the shoulders, the arms. The Collector pushed himself up from somewhere (a desk perhaps? Or a throne of books?) and shuffled toward him.

Everything about the collector seemed old. His hands were thin, wrinkled, and covered with dark spots and paper cuts. His hair was stringy grey, though that could have been from the dust. His cheeks were hollow and his nose sharp as a hawk’s beak. The only thing about his that wasn’t old, dry, or dusty, were his eyes. His eyes were the green of fresh spring grass, the kind that calls to you to take off your shoes and run about on it.

“Yes, lad, what can I do for you?” the Collector asked.

“I’m looking for a book,” he repeated.

“What kind of book?”

“Something about pirates.”

“I have lots of books about pirates,” the Collector said.

“May I look at one?”

“Of course.”

But the Collector didn’t move, only watched the lad with his spring green eyes.

They stood awkwardly.

The lad nudged at the closest tower of books with his toe. It wobbled, threatening to topple.

The Collector reached out to steady it.

“Um, where are the books on pirates then?” he asked.

The Collector shrugged. “Somewhere in here.”

“You mean, you don’t have a system?”

“Not really.”

“Well, can you tell me about pirates then? You’ve read the books, right?”

“No. I’m just the Collector. You’re the reader.”

“But I only want a book on pirates.”

“And there are plenty. History, stories, fact and fiction. Why, you could be a real pirate expert with all the information I have here.”

“Where is here?” the lad demanded, his voice rising.

The Collector smiled, spreading his skeletal arms out in an arc that took in the whole room. “Why, right here lad.”

“You should have a system! How can I find the information I want if you don’t have a system?”

“Like I said, I’m just the Collector. I’ve collected everything you’ve ever thought. Anything you’ve ever learned. All your experiences. Every moment of your existence. It’s all in the pages of these books. But using it is up to you.”

“You need a system!”

“Well, when can you start?”

“No, I…” the lad stuttered. “I just need a book on pirates.”

“You’re free to have a look around,” the Collector said, disappearing back into the jungle of volumes. “They’re your books after all.”

The lad sat down heavily on a pile of books. He pulled the first one to him and opened it.