Car

“Do I need to start the car,” Jessica yelled into the bathroom.

“What’s the temperature,” Dylan yelled back over the roar of the shower.

“Seven.”

“Yeah, you should probably let it warm up for a little bit.”

Jessica grumbled as she piled on coat, gloves, scarf, and hat.  She hated starting the car.  It meant she got snow on her shoes and then had to pace around the house in all her cold weather gear while the machine got it’s oil flowing.  Getting bundled up was not an easy chore when you were as big as a house so she didn’t want to do it more than she had to.  Hopefully the baby would come soon and her body could get back to normal.

Only her eyes were showing when she finally pulled the back door closed behind her.  The morning was already blindingly bright.  And cold.  Even through the scarf, it hurt her lung to inhale.  She moved quickly toward the garage.

The old Honda growled and groaned as she turned the key.  It took a moment, but the engine caught.

Her toes were already icy and her teeth chattered as she rushed back toward the house.  She was almost there when she slipped on a sheet of ice hidden under a thin layer of snow.  Her legs flew out from under her and she fell backward, screaming.

Dylan rushed from the house.  His hair was dripping and steam rose from his naked chest.  He was only dressed in boxers.  He rushed toward her.

Her left wrist hurt badly and her tailbone was probably broken, but she didn’t dare move.  What about the baby?  No, no, she kept repeating in her head.  No.  

Facing a Phobia

Anna took a breath and stepped toward the overturned cup. 

Then she squeaked and jumped back.   Her chest tightened, forcing the air out.  She gasped, but couldn’t hold it in.  As her gasps increased, so did her heart rate.  Then the tears came, hot and large.  She slunk back against the wall, sinking to a squat on the floor, her eyes never leaving the cup.

She couldn’t do it. 

She melted into a panic stricken, hyperventilating mess in the corner, unable to move, to think, to help herself.  Her whole body was shaking.

She knew it was irrational.  She knew the spider under the cup couldn’t/wouldn’t hurt her.  But she was paralyzed with fear.  Her fear mingled with frustration at herself and soon the tears became sobs of bewilderment and anger.

“Anna,” Kate called from the backyard.  “Anna?”

She tried to answer, but the words couldn’t get over her dry tongue. 

“Anna?”

Kate’s face went white as opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.  “Anna!”  Kate rushed toward her, almost kicking the cup.  Anna jumped up and hid her face in the corner.  Then Kate’s arms were around her.  Kate cooed in her ear and forced open her clenched fists.

“What is it?” Kate asked.  “What is wrong?”

It took Anna several minutes to calm down enough to stutter, “spider.”

Kate turned and saw the overturned cup.  “Shh,” she said, wiping the tears away.  “Did you trap it under the cup?”

Anna nodded. 

“I am so proud of you!  Anna, that’s fantastic.”

“But…”

“Anna, you trapped it.  You kept your head.  You got close enough to put a cup over it!  I am so proud.”

Suddenly, the tension drained from Anna’s shoulders.  Not all of it, the spider was still under the cup and she could feel its presence, but enough.  Kate was right. 

“I will just take it outside,” Kate said, pulling away.

“No,” Anna cried.  “Kill it!  If you put it outside it will just come back in.”

Kate smiled kindly.  “Okay, but I will kill it outside.”

Kate used a piece of junk mail from the kitchen table to trap the spider in the cup.  Anna fretted and shook in the corner, but managed to keep herself mostly together.

Once she was outside, Kate tipped the cup right-side up and thumped the piece of mail to make sure the spider fell to the bottom.  She took away the mail and smiled into the cup.  “I will pardon you this once,” she said to the small brown spider gently feeling its way back up the side of the cup toward freedom.  “After all, it was me that let you in.  Good work.” 

She dumped the spider into the grass on the far side of the yard then went back inside to comfort Anna.    The girl really had come a long way. 

Samantha

“I really don’t understand why we’re doing this.”

Samantha just rolled her eyes, hoisting the coil of rope higher on her shoulder.  “We’re doing this because we were told to.”

“I know, but why,” Adrian whispered.  “Why is it so important?”

Samantha was used to these questions.  She often wondered why her cousin had followed her into the service.  It was not a place to ask questions.  But always, when they were alone, Adrian would start up on “why.”  But tonight really was not the time.  In the darkness before them Samantha could make out the walls of the compound.  Reaching back she squeezed Adrian’s arm.  There was a sharp intake of breath and Samantha knew there would be no more questions.  For now at least.

Slowing her breathing, Samantha watched the walls, searching for sentries.  No torches, no movement, no guards.  Could they really be that lucky?  Samantha did not believe in luck.  It was dangerous, made you lazy.

They approached the compound, clinging to the deep shadows of the forest.  Someone had let the trees creep almost up to the walls.  For Samantha and Adrian it was a boon, for the people behind the walls it meant death.  No, not tonight, but with war on the horizon, soon.  Samantha wished she could warn them.  She had joined the service to save the innocents.  Regardless of their allegiance, they were still women and children, men who would never fight, but who would suffer.  Samantha pushed the thoughts from her head.  The war had not come yet, may never come to this secluded stronghold.  Especially if their mission was successful.

They were within feet of the rear wall of the compound.  Samantha slipped the rope from her shoulder.  Her palms warmed through her gloves as she ran the rope through her hands, feeling for the hook and keeping her eyes on the top of the wall.

A silent prayer floated up into the darkness as Samantha swung the hook.  She did not know what they would find over the wall.  Hopefully a sleeping village, but the gods only knew.

The hook bit into the hardened clay bricks of the compound wall.  Samantha tugged to set them.  Whatever awaited, it was time to find out.

Forgot Something Important

Alan touched the naked spot at the base of his ring finger with the tip of his thumb for the millionth time that evening.  No warm, hard metal. 

For twenty years he had never left the house without his wedding band.  He felt so incomplete without it now.  Like he was undressed or exposed somehow.  His thumb rubbed over the area again.

Kathy smiled across the table at him.  “How is your steak?”

“Oh, just great.  Perfect.”

“Is something wrong with your hand?  You keep rubbing your finger.”

“Oh, no.  Just an itch.”

He felt wretched for lying to Kathy.  But how could he tell her the truth.  And what about Sarah?  She would understand, he knew.  She was always so understanding.  But it was still a betrayal.  And now he was lying! 

This had all been a huge mistake.  He wasn’t ready.  He would never be ready.  He just couldn’t do this.  He had been a fool to listen to Mark!

Slowly he pushed his plate away.  “Listen, Kathy, I have had a great time but…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I am not very good at this.  It’s been a while since I was on a date.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

“To be honest, I almost didn’t come out tonight.  I mean, you are lovely.  I think you are a great guy, but I… I just can’t do it yet.  It’s just too soon. Mark insisted…  He said you were so wonderful.  Just my type…”

Alan stared across the table at her.  Why was she saying the exact same things he was thinking? 

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes avoiding his.   “But I am not ready for another relationship.  I shouldn’t tell you this, but my husband died.  Just a year ago.  I thought it was time to get back out there, but I am not ready.”

Alan dropped his silverware.  The sharp sound made her look up startled.

“Sarah died a year, seven months, and five days ago.  I’m not ready either.”

The Secret of Smell

I have often wondered how do dogs smell? Not the physical act of smelling, but how the brain registers and categorizes smell. A rose for example.  To me, roses smell old and bitter.  Of course they elicit thoughts of romance and love, but that is purely conditioning.  How would a rose smell to Harrison, though?  I guess this could be applied to any animal and any sense.  How does chocolate taste to a hippopotamus or silk feel to a bird?  Without reference it is difficult to comprehend. 

Does my best friend experience the same flood of memory at a whiff of Stetson as I do?  Impossible.  Perhaps similar images and memories rush through her brain, but she cannot remember hugging Popsie as we met him at the airport or snuggling up on his mattress while watching a movie with the family on Sioux Trail.  Popsie wore Stetson.  And washed with Irish Spring. 

That is the trick to being a writer.  You must take this completely individual idea of smell or taste and present it to your reader while keeping your fingers crossed that they will go with you.  You must make them taste with your character or at least believe that she is having an honest reaction.  A woman born and bred on cayenne laced crawfish in Louisiana is probably not going to balk at a tandoori chicken or fragrant curry.  Although an argument could be made for spices from other regions affecting her differently, more poignantly, than those she is used to, her palate is used to some heat and she would therefore not be knocking over glasses desperate for a gulp of mango lassi to cool her inflamed tongue.  The same goes for smell and touch. 

Each person has their own way of experiencing – a certain chain of thought linked to individual memories and emotions.  A writer must find a way to convince the reader who hates veggies that perhaps, just for a moment, they are the most wonderful food on the planet.  Even if they are brussel sprouts.  

Gods

Disgusted, Hera threw the magazine into the fire.  The glossy pages bubbled as they caught.

“Stupid, arrogant...  How could he write such lies!”

“Are they lies,” Zeus asked.  He stared innocently into his Metaxa, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.  “After all, our daughter is younger.  You cannot blame Paris for finding her youth more alluring.”

Hera clenched her jaw in furry.  If looks were daggers her beloved husband would be a pincushion.  She reached for her own glass on the marble mantle and finished it off in one gulp.

“Had you read the article,” she hissed, “You would know that insolent gossip monger was not comparing Aphrodite and me as we are today.  No, no, he says she is more beautiful than I ever was!”

Zeus sighed.  “My dear, you are reading too much into this.  It is just a ploy.  Sensational stories sell.”

Despite the heat of the room and fire of her anger, Hera felt cold.  She crossed her arms across her chest.  Goosebumps rose as the gold bangles on her wrists chilled her skin through the silk of her gown. 

He was seeing someone else.  But she didn’t want to tell the marriage counselor that.  She had started this process in good faith.  Actually thinking they could save their marriage.  The signs were all there, though, just like last time.  

Silence

I wasn’t concerned, at first, when the voices stopped.  Well, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice.  There were too many things to do – too many night of reckless abandon getting drunk at the bar just sitting around a patio table chain smoking and talking about politics, religion, the state of the country today; modern day philosophers on an American Legion porch in the middle of Nowhere, USA.  But one day they were just gone. 

How long had it been?  Weeks?  Months?  Looking back, I couldn’t pinpoint when the silence would have started.  No life altering moments in my recent history.  But, perhaps that was the problem.  I shrugged it off.  They had gone quiet before.  It happens from time to time.  We just run out of things to say to each other.  They come back, though, when they’re ready – when I’m ready.

After a few more months, I began to worry.  They had never been gone this long.  At first I had been relieved.  I enjoyed the silence, my mind not constantly spinning, the voices not shouting over one another to be heard.  But now the silence frightened me. 

I have never been good at being alone.  Maybe that’s why the voices started.  Now they were quiet and I was lost.  I struggled to fill the day with more voices – real voices.  It worked most of the time.  But every night, as I lay staring at the ceiling, their absence was a sharp needle slipping through my ribs and into my heart.  I could feel the silence sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.  What if they never came back?