tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58027618491500593332023-11-15T07:22:02.851-08:00Penny DreadfulJust drop everything and read a while!Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-4380288631471533692009-08-11T10:24:00.000-07:002008-08-18T15:51:59.618-07:00Everyone loves a quick read<strong><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">Fast, fun, clean, cozy, and even good sometimes, enjoy these quick reads by any of a number of authors who shall remain anonymous. Well, not entirely secret. They might lay claim to participation on their own websites. Just look for the label.</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">Welcome back Penny Dreadful!</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong> </div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"></div>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-38808831912241327892009-06-21T14:03:00.000-07:002009-06-22T09:24:24.759-07:00It's OddIt's odd.<br /><br />I know I shouldn't; but I do get it.<br />Just vaguely.<br />This feeling.<br />Not every time, but sometimes.<br />OK, mostly it's when it's thick and creamy.<br />Looks more like it, see.<br />More like it used to look.<br /><br />So I get this odd feeling.<br /><br />OK, I know, I've been told they don't need it any more.<br />Glad to be rid of it in fact.<br />In the summer.<br />But that doesn't change anything.<br />I still get it. <br />This feeling. <br /><br />It's like it's theft.<br />As if I've stolen it. <br />Which I have I suppose.<br />Stolen it.<br />Nobody asked.<br />Not even nicely.<br />Nobody said "Please"<br />Just "I'll have that".<br /><br />And now I've got it.<br />Makes me complicit, see.<br /> In a crime.<br /><br />Possessing stolen goods.<br />To wit one coat, woollen, natural colour.<br /><br />And I feel guilty as I knit.<br />But it does no good. <br />I'm not about to give it back to the sheep.<br />No matter how guilty I feel about it.<br /><br />Actually I don't feel that guilty.<br />It's just a little qualm.<br />A thought.<br />About sheep and wool and how they need their fleece and how they feel warm and cosy one minute and all of a sudden it's gone and no-one asked them for permission or anything and they shiver even though it's summer and they look all odd and uncomfortable and naked and silly without their coat and sheep aren't silly now are they?<br /><br />But sometimes they do lose bits.<br />Of fleece.<br />All by themselves.<br />Without help.<br /><br />You know, just tufts.<br /><br />You see a bit of wool snagged on a bramble or a <br />Piece of barbed wire.<br /><br />A little white flash in the field.<br />On the ground<br />They don't feel it.<br />Don't notice.<br />Perhaps.<br /><br />We don't do that.<br />Do we?<br />Leave little bits of ourselves all over the place?<br />Without noticing?<br /><br />Don't answer that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-87793956909890038562009-03-11T05:08:00.000-07:002009-03-11T05:09:52.732-07:00Another mini-saga<span style="font-weight:bold;">On the failure of the Domestic Science syllabus within the National Curriculum</span><br /><br /><br />On honeymoon they ate in fashionable bistros, classy restaurants.<br /><br />Back home, never liking breakfast, they ate at work; take aways in the evenings.<br /><br />When unemployment struck they found neither could cook, everything they made was inedible.<br /><br />They grew thinner, apart.<br /><br />Their marriage was annulled on the grounds of non consumption.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-47208402899020999922009-02-27T11:18:00.000-08:002009-02-27T11:27:50.089-08:00In the Early Part of Autumn<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Fall</strong><br /><br />Lindy came to with a start, staring around the room with a wild kind of hope that died almost immediately. He was still gone, and she was still alone. For the past three weeks she’d pushed the knowledge to the corners of her mind, trying to convince herself that he would come back. He’d come to his senses and come back to her.<br /><br />A song filtered through from the clock radio, the Fogelberg tune about Linda and her lost lover. Tears threatened and Lindy twisted the knob, hard. <em>Thanks a lot, Dan</em>, came the grim thought.<em> I bought all your albums and this is how you repay me.<br /></em><br />She went through the motions of breakfast; coffee, toast, eggs. The coffee brought a grimace to Lindy’s face. He had always been the one to make the coffee; her attempts wrought a bitter brew. When he gets back, maybe. She pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t coming back, and he wasn’t going to teach her anything about making coffee. The realization hit her like a series of slaps.<br /><br />He. Isn’t. Coming. Back.<br /><br />The tears that had threatened all morning made good on their promise. Dishes skittered across the tabletop as Lindy dropped her head on her folded arms and gave vent to the grief that had been her constant companion for three weeks. It was several minutes before she sat up, drained and red-eyed. A voice sounded in her head, calm and cold, yet oddly reasonable. <em>Do you really want him back?<br /></em><br />“Nooo…” A quavering, wistful sound. “No.” Firmer this time. “No, I don’t want him back. He can have his space, and his time to think, and his little Miss Blondie to help him find himself.” She took a savage bite of toast and washed it down with a gulp of the awful coffee.<br /><br /><strong>Winter</strong><br /><br />Lindy sat in her favorite fireside chair, squinting alternately at the knitting in her hands and the pattern on the coffee table. Satisfied that nothing was out of place, she let her thoughts stray while her fingers did their work. No more wool socks for him, I’ll bet. Little Miss Blondie doesn’t know disco from Crisco; she couldn’t knit if her life depended on it. Lindy laughed ruefully, still aware of the hurt and somehow minding it less. At least her coffee-making skills were improving.<br /><br /><strong>Spring</strong><br /><br />The wind carried the scent of green, and Lindy carried a mop and bucket from room to room. Spring cleaning. Sitting back on her heels, Lindy wiped a pine-smelling hand across her forehead. After this floor, she’d tackle the closets.<br /><br />Sorting through a box in the guest room, she found a memento that paused her heart. She knew that yarn, that deep gray tweed. Lindy pulled the pieces of an unfinished sweater from the box and arranged them on the floor. The sweater curse, she thought. I didn’t even finish the thing before he left. She ran a hand over the stitches. It’s good wool. Just because he was a jerk doesn’t mean I can’t put it to good use.<br /><br />The pieces were set aside.<br /><br /><strong>Summer</strong><br /><br />In the way of busy and healing people everywhere, Lindy left the sweater pieces to languish until August. Over two evenings, she picked out the bound-off rows and slowly wound the yarn into hanks. Another evening to soak and hang; a day to dry. By the end of the week, the reclaimed yarn was ready to be wound into flat little cakes.<br /><br />Pretty, she thought, but what does it want to be? Lindy considered some possibilities, then sighed and put the yarn away. Maybe another day.<br /><br /><strong>Fall</strong><br /><br />Late September, and Lindy was enjoying her second cup of coffee. The morning mail had included a letter from her mother, and Lindy smiled as she skimmed the pages of mom-news. One paragraph made her set the mug aside. “You’ll never guess who I ran into in the grocery store! Dale Martin, your old school friend! He asked ever so many questions about you, and asked me to give you his number.”<br /><br />Lindy pushed the letter aside and let her mind wander back over the past year. The pain had dimmed to a faint ache. Her coffee was better than what she could get at the local diner, and she’d managed to sell a few of her hand knit sweaters. She’d even been putting out feelers in the job market, looking for a fresh start.<br /><br />A fresh start. Lindy thought about the gray tweed yarn in the closet. Yes, she thought. Maybe a fresh start would be just the thing. With a gleam in her eye, Lindy stood up.<br /><br />She reached for the phone.<br /><br /><em>By Penny Dreadful<br /></em><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-52100287620604512672009-02-18T01:30:00.000-08:002009-02-18T01:43:28.960-08:00Mini SagasThe Mini Saga is a short story form, a very short story form. The rules are that it must be <span style="font-style:italic;">exactly</span> 50 words long and must, like a true story, have beginning, middle and end. The title may be 15 words long.<br /><br />They are a good exercise in making all those recalcitrant words pull their weight.<br /><br /><br />Here is an example:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Self-Build</span><br /><br /><br />Evicted at a tender age, he fulfilled his ambition to build his own house.<br /><br />"I'll not use this modern wood framed rubbish" he retorted when his brothers visited mocking his perfectionism, his bricklaying, his tiled roof instead of thatch.<br /><br />They were sorry when the wolf came huffing and puffing by.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-60995268480270353492009-02-05T11:12:00.000-08:002009-02-27T11:30:30.175-08:00The Bare - Finis<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">continued...</span><br /><br />She grasped my arm, and propelled me almost dragging me along, down the road, through an alley and out into the busy market square in a mad reverse parody of some sadistic fantasy where the slave is dragged naked through busy streets by a clothed owner. People turned to stare, shaking their heads in disbelief not at the absurdity of the scene, but at my foolishness.<br /><br />At the end of the square stood a bench and a stone horse trough left in the memory of some long dead citizen "...for the comfort of man and beast" in the sanctimonious words of the Victorian inscription. I'd often seen an old lady sitting there, feeding the pigeons with surreptitious glee in contravention of the pettifogging modern by-laws.<br /><br />The Bare sat down and dragged me, too dazed to resist across her knee, placing a heavy hand on my back, immobilising me. I heard a tearing sound, felt a chill finger of rain-washed air caress my legs and knew that dispensing with formality, she had ripped my trousers away such was her determination to punish my brazen stupidity.<br /><br />Any temporary relief I felt that I was wearing underwear which kept me decently covered was shattered as these too were ripped aside, baring my backside to the dampened air and the view of the whole town.<br />Shoppers gathered to watch the spectacle, laughing at my discomfort, enjoying the sight of my goose-pimpled bottom, secure in the knowledge of their own superiority, that they would never suffer my fate, that what I was receiving was my fair due.<br /><br />What followed was the most embarrassing experience of my life. I'd like to say that I bore up well, taking the stinging spanking she delivered with bravery and in silence, but I would be lying. Within a few minutes her hand had reached straight through my defences and had ripped first cries, then pleas, finally tears from me.<br /><br />The Bare spanked with the joyous certainty that it was the only thing which mattered in the whole world, and let me tell you for me, it was. My whole being was centred around the fire in my behind, lit and stoked by her powerful hand. I had nowhere else to go, only to exist within the pain she was pleased to inflict.<br /><br />Without warning, though to be fair, I was too occupied to have noticed had any been given she stopped, lifted me in her arms as easily as if I had been a baby, and deposited me with a splash in the horse trough. I fancied I could hear hissing as my red-hot backside boiled the water, sending clouds of steam swirling around me, though in truth it was probably just the misty rain.<br /><br />"There."<br /><br />It was the first word she had spoken.<br /><br />"Let that be a lesson to you."<br /><br />I must have looked nonplussed, and who wouldn't; spanked bare bottomed in public and dumped unceremoniously in the horse trough?<br /><br />She must have seen this for she felt the need to explain, as if to an imbecile.<br /><br />"Surely you know that if you stand on a crack in the pavement a bare will come and beat you?"<br /><br />Suddenly, and to this day I don't know where from, I found it in me to laugh, and through my growing hysteria at the situation managed to ask,<br /><br />"You're dyslexic aren't you?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><em>By Penny Dreadful</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-39994875878033034882009-02-01T05:48:00.000-08:002009-02-27T11:31:34.996-08:00The Bare - Part 1<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Cultural note:<br /><br />With diligence we teach our children the dangers present when walking the streets, though in each country these are somewhat different. In Britain for instance... but no, I shall let you see for yourselves...</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The Bare</span><br /><br />Looking back, I had always known that it was true, deep inside that dark unquestioned place in the mind where things reside unlearned, perhaps absorbed in childhood by some osmotic race memory.<br /><br />Of course, if you had asked me on that spring morning I would have denied it. Now I am a man I have put away childish things and all that, so I gave it no heed as I walked the street in my home town preoccupied with other utilitarian adult notions.<br /><br />The smooth tarmac of the pavement glistened with the diamonds of lately fallen rain, and a bicycle swished past, tyres slick with oily water, the rider glowing like some gaudy Christmas bauble; his fluorescent jacket stark against the drab dark day. A leaden sky promised more from clouds angrily jostling like louts on a street corner. All was normal, everything was as it had always been.<br /><br />I pulled my jacket tighter against the threat of an invading draught and turned the corner into a road I'd not walked since childhood, since those times when I would have known better.<br /><br />Replaying the scene now in my head, I'm sure the notion had flitted through my mind, but the way of memory is fickle. Perhaps I've merely imprinted that onto an ill remembered scene. Possibly not though, for I can see in my mind's eye the point at which the tarmac gave way to old fashioned paving with a shallow untidy ramp; a change in colour, in texture, and most of all, in pedestrian rubrics.<br /><br />My mind has that instant frozen in a kind of stop motion, my foot hovering in the air, the forces of caution and rationality tussling before the latter rose victorious and my foot plants down like a cartoon ten-ton weight on the crack.<br /><br />Through the settling dust which my febrile imagination provides she appears:<br /><br />The Bare.<br /><br />She was muscular and tall, six feet at least, and as I have said; completely bare. She was not grizzly, possibly only cross, but she was brown, her breasts had the soft smoothness of melted chocolate, with wide darker areolae around the nipples as if she were nursing. The hips swelled below a perfect navel adorned with a single silver ring which sparkled against her skin. Tight black braids fell in a cascade from her head.<br /><br />I was transfixed.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">To be continued...</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-70249550772312675912009-01-01T12:35:00.000-08:002009-01-01T12:39:01.757-08:00Shutterbug<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Okay, hold him up a little higher…”<br /><br />“Hurry up, he’s heavy!”<br /><br />“Got it!”<br /><br />It’s amazing how much a seven-month-old weighs when you’re holding him over your head. I swore I felt the beginnings of muscle fatigue as I settled Sam into the crook of my arm. The life-size cardboard cutout of Elvis, with Sam beside him, would make a fun addition to the ever-expanding cache of baby pictures.<br /><br />It was Christmas weekend, cold and bright, and the rest stop was full of happy tourists. Many of them toted cameras like Jim’s, and were snapping pictures of their kids in the play area. One man in particular caught my attention. “Hon? Look over there.”<br /><br />Jim paused to see where I was pointing. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a man on a bench. But there was something…<br /><br />His hair was blond, the sort of pale golden shade that rarely lasts past childhood, and his face was ageless. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. His clothing was simple, functional. Jeans, boots; a denim jacket with a sheepskin collar. His attention was on the children at play, and a benign smile softened his features.<br /><br />As I watched him, I came to realize that he was focused on one little boy. Son? Grandson? Had to be. Surely such a nice, ordinary-looking man couldn’t be one of… those kinds of people.<br /><br />Jim seemed to share my fascination with the stranger, and clicked off several shots with the camera. It’s our shared hobby, that camera. Jim takes endless pictures and I fill endless photo albums. Nine times out of ten, they’re just ordinary photographs. Every once in a while, though, magic happens. A single ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate a perfect rose. A diamond-bright drop of water preparing to fall from an icicle. A cherub-faced Sam, looking impossibly tiny as his two-week-old self is cradled in my hands. These are the moments that feed the shutterbug.<br /><br />Jim and I headed back towards the main building of the rest stop. I wanted to check the state map; Jim was probably looking for one more picture. We’d taken about ten steps when the scream froze us both in our tracks.<br /><br />It was like being underwater. That cliché about everything moving on slow motion? It’s true. Time slowed to a crawl as we watched, helpless to stop the scene that unfolded before us.<br /><br />The little boy who had been the object of interest for the blond stranger had tired of his play. Breaking loose from his mother’s hand, he bolted for the family car across the parking lot. He almost made it.<br /><br />The car that skidded toward him is permanently engraved on my mind. Lime green, with rust around the fender wells. A crack in the windshield. The obligatory fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. The worn tires that lost traction on a patch of ice and sent the car straight for the little boy.<br /><br />The boy’s mother was screaming as she ran, a look of horrified certainty on her face. Jim ran, too, stumbling over a clod of frozen dirt. Everyone in the area ran, but none of them had a hope of reaching the little boy. Except one.<br /><br />Out of absolutely nowhere, the blond stranger swept the frightened little boy into his arms and out of harm’s way. The car screeched to a halt, the driver’s eyes wide and terrified. His shocked and babbling apologies were lost amid the tears and cheering from everyone who had witnessed the event.<br /><br />We all took turns hugging the sobbing, elated mother and her boy. And the stranger? He faded into the background. The boy’s mother couldn’t even find him later to pour out her thanks.<br /><br />Jim and I talked about that moment for the rest of our trip. We couldn’t wait to print the pictures we’d taken. When they came back, I flipped through to the rest area shots. The temperature of the room dropped about ten degrees as I looked at the blond stranger.<br /><br />There was a flaw in the film. Well, not a flaw, but something none of us had seen at the time. Hovering above the blond stranger, as he watched the little boy he was soon to save, was a pair of large shadows.<br /><br />Wings.<br /><br /><em></em>By Penny Dreadful<em></em></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-68222083832931902652008-12-13T11:23:00.000-08:002009-01-01T12:43:02.059-08:00Off to work<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mary smiled ruefully to herself as as the sound of her husband's voice boomed out,<br /><br />"Do you know where my suit is? I can't find it in its usual place and I'll be late."<br /><br />She slipped the clothes brush back into the pocket of her apron.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />"I'm just brushing it now dear." Amusement glittered on each syllable.<br /><br />The sound of embarrassed masculine grumblings bounced around the upper storey before the stairs complained under the onslaught of stockinged feet.<br /><br />Men! She smiled. Nick claimed to have a 20/20 memory but the reality was so different. How he managed to get all his work done was a wonder in itself, though she supposed in fairness to him that he was a good manager and he certainly delegated work to his staff properly. She knew how stressful it was at this time of year, all those orders to process and everyone wanting their own one dispatched before Christmas as if they were the only clients.<br /><br />He snuggled behind her and circled her waist, giving her a quick squeeze - Mary was sure he'd put on a bit of weight and Christmas wasn't over yet; there was plenty of time to add to that tummy. She knew he'd over-indulge as usual, mince pies were just too tempting.<br /><br />"Thanks Mary. I don't know how I'd cope without you."<br /><br />"Poppycock. You managed perfectly well before we were married and you're just as good at your job now. They won't be putting you out to grass just yet."<br /><br />His lips squeezed in a tight line, tension darkening crow's feet around his eyes. It was always the same, but she knew he'd get by. He always did. She turned, lifted her head and kissed him, seeing when she opened her eyes his whole face bathed rosy in love-light.<br /><br />"Away with you now. Go on, off you go." She turned to the kitchen, fussing with something as much to hide an incipient tear at his vulnerability as to encourage him to get dressed and out to work. In due course she heard the door close and his footsteps crunching outside.<br /><br />She gave him a few minutes, then unable to resist she opened the door and felt the age-old rush of excitement as Nick flicked the reins making the reindeer explode into the night sky, Nick a scarlet blur on the sleigh behind them.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><em>By Penny Dreadful</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-1439443251732836502008-12-02T14:42:00.000-08:002008-12-02T14:47:34.688-08:00Never Too Old<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The air was crisp to the point of freezing, the kind of day when the atmosphere was so still and cold that it seemed as if the smallest noise would bring the whole edifice of the day tumbling down like so much shattered glass. Streaks of pale cloud flitted high across a water-blue sky, seemingly afraid to venture closer to the ground whose coldness crept insidiously through the soles of the man's shoes. He stood immobile, incapable of anything save the essential task of being there.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />A thrush sang on the winter-weeping branch of a birch tree, and the man felt a despair bordering on anger well within him that this creature could be so free, so happy, when the world had ended. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He looked to the sky through tear-glazed eyes and sniffed not so much as a result of the cold, but in a desperate battle not to utterly humiliate himself by breaking down in public.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The minister’s words and the quiet rattle of soil on a coffin lid caused a thickening in his throat so complete that he felt as if he would never breathe again, a situation which appealed to him just at that moment.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Walking away from the grave, the leaves crackling in their frosty coats under his feet the last thing he needed, wanted, was comfort, but he accepted his mother's arm more for the form of the thing, her embrace and her shoulder (offered as unconditionally as a mother's always are) for his tears.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />You are never too old. </span><br /><br /><em>By Penny Dreadful</em>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-85021953925047102802008-11-15T11:18:00.000-08:002008-11-15T11:26:20.914-08:00The Eyes Have It<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Didn’t matter none how big a man you were, or thought you were, when she give you That Look you’d feel two inches high and green as grass.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I seen it once. Them eyes of hers would go from summer-sky blue to ice, so cold they’d freeze right to your soul. Yeah, I seen it once, aimed my way. Don’t much care to see it again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">About six months after her man died, it was. Jim Highson was what you’d call a regular feller. A good word for everybody and a good day’s work for his pay. He was crazy for Molly from the day he fetched his cart up against hers at the market. Any other man would’ve gotten That Look, but any other man wasn’t Jim Highson.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They got hitched close on a year later. It worked for ‘em. The usual ups and downs, the house, crops, the cars, dinner with the neighbors. No kids, but it happens that way sometimes. Fifteen years into it, the big C takes Jim and leaves Molly with a hunnerd-sixty acres and one hired man to tend it. That’s me, and that’s the job I been doin'. One of ‘em, anyhow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So Jim was gone and Molly was alone. Folks is practical around here; they figured she’d grieve a proper length of time, then see about findin' a new man to mind the land, the accounts, all that. A rich, good-lookin' widow is a popular lady, but not all widows’re like Molly. I’d be workin' on whatever, tractor maybe, and here comes this one or that one, duded up with flowers in hand. Wouldn’t take but a few minutes of him yappin' before That Look showed up on Molly’s face and he’d slink out of there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After a few weeks of this, word started goin' around that Molly was gettin' above herself. I was on my third cup of coffee at the café when I caught a drift of conversation.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“…needs to be taken down a peg…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was a little more to that effect, and some more I didn’t hear, but the meanin' was plain. Thing of it was, Molly wasn’t the type you could just tell somethin' like this to. I never got the chance to, anyhow. By the time I’d finished my business in town, it was goin' on dark. By the time I got out to Molly’s to check on her, it was full dark.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was a car in the drive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I knew that car, and I knew who’d be in the house. The Dempsay brothers could be called the rotten limbs on their family tree. After so many years of Juvie and real jail and who knows what-all, their folks had given up and written ‘em off. Now they was here to, as they said, take Molly down a peg. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I looked in the window, figurin' to check the lay of the land. Even without the tumped-over chairs and such, it was plain there’d been trouble. Molly was backed up against the china hutch Jim’d given her on their fifth anniversary. Her sleeve was tore, and the corner of her mouth was bleedin'. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I could hear what was bein' said, but I won’t go into that. Let’s just say that the Dempsays was statin' their case and decidin' who’d go first. They mighta been too drunk to try, but not too drunk to put Molly in a hurt.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />They was also too drunk, and too busy arguin', to notice that Molly had slipped into the drawer of the hutch and pulled out Jim’s tenth anniversary present. Those ice-chip eyes of hers blinked twice, once for each shot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I made sure to announce myself on the way in the door, I can tell you. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />We stood there some minutes, the clock ticking, us thinkin' and the Dempsays very dead. Finally, I cleared my throat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You, uh, want me to call somebody…?” </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Molly leveled That Look at me. Two inches tall and green as grass.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Just get the shovel, Frank. Put ‘em out with the others.” </span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>By Penny Dreadful</em> </span></p>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-52855251404742378992008-09-20T08:45:00.000-07:002008-09-20T08:48:39.415-07:00The Mulberry Bush<span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“Hello. This is Nicola Paddock and I’m calling from Manfield Engineering.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Very well thank you, and yourself?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Good. Yes, it’s been quite a long time.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m just phoning to check the progress of one of our orders.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Two months ago; we placed it on 21st July.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes, I’d expected to receive it by now.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Ah, our order number is 26549. That’s Manfield Instrumentation. ”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Thanks.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes it was a special. You were going to make it for us, said it might take six to eight weeks.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Oh, right, you’ll check. Thanks. No, I’ll hold on.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“It should be ready for despatch tomorrow?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Good. Thanks.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’ve just had an idea, we did move premises recently and you might have the old address.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes, we’ve been using up old order forms. We might not have written in the new address. Yes, bit of a money saving binge at the moment.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Right then. Our new address is: 15 Victory industrial estate, Manfield, postcode Mama Alpha 34, 6 Papa Oscar.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Oh, you can’t accept a change of address over the phone. No, that’s OK, we’ve got exactly that policy too, can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry phoning up to change addresses can you?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“So if I drop you a note on company letterhead with the new address on it then that’ll be OK? No, that’s fine, no trouble.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“So do I post it for your attention to 57-59 Long Road, Low Wiccombe?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“No?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“So you’ve changed address too? That’s a co-incidence.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Bigger premises then?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“So if you just drop me a note on your company letterhead with your new address on it…” </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">By Penny Dreadful</span></em>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-32162421423080130532008-09-07T20:50:00.000-07:002008-09-07T21:00:58.536-07:00Best Served Cold<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The books always make it seem surreal, I think. I mean really, how often do wronged wives behead the lovers – or cut the brake line of the family car? Honestly. No, in real life that’s not the case. Prison cells would be full of women who had grounds for hysteric actions, lawyers making a fortune and citing moon cycles and hormone studies as defense suits. In real life, revenge has to be something…. subtle. Spiteful, pointed… poking a stick in the eye without anyone else really seeing it; know what I mean? </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Not that I ever consider anything I would do would really constitute a vengeful act. I just don’t have the stomach for it. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’ll just another sip of my tea while I calm a bit more. Really, I must be quite rational here. 10 years of marriage is not to be taken lightly, and I do have to think of my social standing. 10 years with this miserable stinking bastard who thinks its fine to dilly dally with his floozies… but I digress. Sorry. I should be thinking calm thoughts. Yoga was good for that – all that standing on my head and chi and blood flow and stuff. It was just terrible when our yogi slipped down the stairs after class that day – and just steps in front of us all, too! I wasn’t able to run down and help her as fast as the others, even though I was the closest – it must have been that extra 15 pounds she said I was carrying. Slowed me down a bit I guess. I hear the neck brace comes off in a few weeks and they expect she’ll be walking again come November.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There, that’s better. I feel much calmer now – thanks. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You know me, actually. I am the smooth, sleek haired Real Estate agent that everyone waves at on the way through the arcade. Or maybe I am the woman who wears the white jacket and holds the orange flag as she stands in the centre of the road, ensuring the school children cross safely. I am reliable, mildly invisible, and solidly dependable. I smile, I nod, I wave and I know everyone’s name. So while terrible things seem to happen to people around me, I remain untouched. Charmed, some say. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Perhaps so. I just like to think I am nice. Noble, you know. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I would never do anything nasty. Even when Sylvia from work stole my submission for the council application and put it into the manager in her own name. Of course I was peeved, but really, it wasn’t worth getting my knickers in a twist about. Funny, though, how she became so ill with the runs for days afterwards and was not able to attend the interview for the position. Imagine 3 days of stomach cramps out of the blue, just like that! Right about the time the syrup of Ipecac went missing from the first aid supplies too. Certainly made me chuckle! I do hope she liked the lamb stew I sent over to help her recover and gather some nutrients again.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Oh, and then poor Lydia. Remember her? At the Christmas party, too! In her pretty red dress and sparkly earrings, she was the centre of attention, and my, didn’t I make sure that told her how gorgeous she looked in those oh-so-high heels! Why, I even offered to hold her purse and fur coat while she went to the ladies room. Well, it wasn’t really a room, was it? One of those portable toilet rooms they had installed on the green especially for our outdoor party. Of course, when the cubicle tipped over, everyone came rushing to help – and wasn’t I the one who took her home, paid the cab fare and all? Leaving a party through the middle of the fancy white gazebo covered in excrement in front of 200 people is bad enough – paying the cab fare was the least I could do. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am nice like that. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And of course, there was Jackson. He never did find out who poured milk through the open sunroof of his sport scar while he was on his overseas trip, did he? Mind you, it was helpful to me because I did not have to listen to those damn wheels spinning at 4AM every goddamned day as he sped off to his job at the bakery. Apparently they could not remove the smell at all. Bugger that his insurance had lapsed, he didn’t even notice it never arrived in his mailbox, yet the company says they posted the renewal at the same time they do every year. He does not seem to mind catching the bus too much… and I even offered to feed his cat every afternoon for him. I mean, a 2 hour commute twice a day does make the working day long. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nice cat, and now I can lock her inside between feeds I don’t even have to worry about those nasty little gifts she would leave on the front mat from time to time. See? Nice person. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But husbands… husbands who cheat. Maybe they do deserve a little taste of their own medicine. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What do you think? After this nice cup of tea is downed, I am thinking I may have to indulge in a little revenge, just this once… </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><em>By Penny Dreadful</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-82653663906782018382008-09-06T19:24:00.000-07:002008-09-06T19:31:35.700-07:00Jam - Part 2<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Well?” There was a hint of impatience in the voice.<br /><br />“Errr.”<br /><br />“Yes?”<br /><br />“It seems weird but either everyone’s playing a trick on me or I’ve lost a day somewhere.”<br /><br />The older woman’s brow furrowed. “Sorry?”<br /><br />“Well, everyone says it’s Tuesday, even the newspaper, but I‘m sure it‘s Monday. I seem to have missed yesterday completely. I didn’t come to work yesterday, I‘m sure. It‘s ridiculous but...” Alice petered out, but was amazed when the nurse seemed to take her complaint seriously and didn’t dismiss it as hysteria.<br /><br />“Hmmm. This might just be a more mild case of a lost weekend. Were you drinking at the weekend?<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Did you take anything? It’s all right, it is confidential, it won’t go on your record.”Alice was confused, and showed it.<br /><br />“Drugs, dear.”<br /><br />“Oh, no, I’ve never done drugs.”<br /><br />“That’s odd. And you’re sure it’s Monday?”<br /><br />“Completely. But everyone else says it’s tomorrow, well, it’s tomorrow now for me, but today for…” She dried up in the grammatical tense-tangle which time travel induces.<br /><br />“So you think it’s today, but everyone else says it’s tomorrow?”<br /><br />”Yes.” Alice found her voice retreating into itself in the face of this questioning.<br /><br />“You don’t think it’s yesterday once more? Because that would be Carpenter’s syndrome, and that’s much more serious.”<br /><br />“No, it‘s today, today.” Alice wasn’t sure whether she’d have preferred just to be laughed out of the room. Mrs White’s understanding was unnerving. Her confusion mangled her grammar further. The next question caught her completely unawares though.<br /><br />“What did you have for breakfast?” There was a quizzical, thoughtful expression on the nurse’s face.<br /><br />“Sorry?”<br /><br />“What did you have for breakfast?” The beginnings of exaggerated patience this time.<br /><br />“Err, tea, and two slices of toast and jam.”<br /><br />A ghost of something flitted across the older woman’s face.<br /><br />“A new jar?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Difficult to open?<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />If you asked her, in later life, about that moment Alice would have said that it really did appear as if a light bulb switched on in Mrs White’s face. She’d always thought the metaphor overworked, but here, for the first time, she saw it in real life. The nurse nodded knowingly, confidence shining through her papery skin, and inhaled a deep satisfying draught.<br /><br />“Thought so; that would do it.”<br /><br />“What do you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?”<br /><br />“Well, you can have jam yesterday, or jam tomorrow, but never jam today. Because you were so determined to have jam it can’t be today for you, so you’ve skipped straight to tomorrow.”<br /><br />“But that’s absurd.”<br /><br />“Really?” Whilst the logic was sound its application to the everyday world left Alice even more confused. There was a pause whilst she tried to ally herself with this bizarre notion.<br /><br />“I recommend that you don’t worry about it, and in the morning it will have sorted itself out.” How could the nurse be so casual about it? She’d lost a whole day, and goodness knew what the wages office would do if they found out.<br /><br />“As long as you don’t have any more jam of course.”<br /><br /><br />By Penny Dreadful</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-31198108525449575982008-09-05T21:28:00.000-07:002008-09-05T21:42:46.535-07:00Jam - Part 1<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Congratulations! You, Miss A. Lyddell have been specially selected to receive this unique and once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity! A small investment now will yield you £ 000’s in the future! Imagine sitting on a warm beach somewhere, sipping champagne! That could be you in a few years time, Miss A Lyddell. Act today!</em></span><br /><br />Alice snorted and dropped the junk mail into the recycling box, wondering as she always did what the postmen thought of all their efforts transporting, sorting and delivering this stuff which no-one wants to read.<br /><br />“Once in a lifetime“? Huh. Well I hope I live longer than next week when I’ll get yet another “unique and once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity,” she thought. They only want my money, and what are they offering?<br /><br />Nothing now, just jam tomorrow. And they can’t even spell my name right.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She filled the kettle and set it to boil whilst she went upstairs for a quick shower before returning to the kitchen, making tea and toast on autopilot, fetching the margarine settling down to breakfast, scratching a smooth yellow layer onto her toast and twisting the sticky lid of a nearly empty marmalade jar.<br /><br />A pungent alcoholic fug assaulted her nostrils as the cap lifted from the marmalade. Yuk! "Perhaps I should have kept it in the fridge," she mused, fetching a new pot from the cupboard, this time strawberry jam, and giving the lid a twist.<br /><br />It didn’t budge.<br /><br />She tried harder, concentrating this time, squeezing her soft hands as hard as possible against the unyielding lid. A cloth didn’t help, so she let it sit unawares on the table relaxing in its own smug superiority before she mounted a swift attack, trying to catch it by surprise.<br /><br />That didn’t work either.<br /><br />She began to wish that she’d got one of those things her mother had for opening jars, but quickly dismissed it; the modern house seemed doomed to fill itself with tools which have a single use, and she wasn’t about to get another.<br /><br />A glance at the clock spurred her to cunning and Alice poured the dregs of hot water from the kettle onto the lid, hoping to use brain where brawn had failed, though granted, she wasn‘t particularly well blessed with the latter. She took a firm grip on the pot and twisted with all her strength. She held her breath and struggled, and just as a slight darkness began to appear on the edges of her vision and she thought that she might faint with the effort it surrendered with a satisfying pop.<br /><br />"There. I don’t need one of those things Mum’s got after all. What was it called again? A man?"<br /><br />Two slices later and she was on her way to work, struggling with the crowds on the tube, arriving at work on time but not without the perpetual worry of lateness.<br /><br />There was a dictaphone tape on her desk, reports from the surveyor which needed typing up before he came in later in the morning, so she set to with less than her usual vigour. It wasn’t raining, but she agreed with the Boomtown Rats if not quite Karen Carpenter about Mondays.<br /><br />Reports finished and she carried on with the rest of her myriad duties, slowly warming into the day. It was nearly lunchtime when Bill the surveyor appeared at her desk with the reports in his hand.<br /><br />“You want them posted out now you’ve signed them?” she asked by routine.<br /><br />“Ah, no, there’s a mistake, the date’s wrong. Look, you’ve put yesterday’s date on it.”<br /><br />“Sorry. I’ll just fix it.” she said, taking the sheaf, checking over her mistake.<br /><br />“But that is today’s date.” Alice was suddenly confused, Bill wasn’t normally wrong about things like that.<br /><br />“No it’s not,” he rebuffed her kindly. “It’s Tuesday 10th. Look, you’ve not turned your calendar over today.” He reached down and tore off today’s’ date revealing the new, and erroneous Tuesday 10th.<br /><br />How far do you go in correcting your boss’s errors? Alice opted for ‘not very far’ and with some bemusement made her lips stutter something in agreement with him despite her brain telling her otherwise. Bill moved away allowing Alice to check the date at the bottom of her computer screen. There it was, Tuesday 10th. What was going on? Was it some kind of practical joke?<br /><br />She called with affected casualness to Sue on the next desk, “What’s the date today,” hoping, hoping that the answer would be otherwise than that which she knew with a kind of depressing certainty, it would be.<br /><br />Alice took herself off to the coffee room in some distress. What was happening? Was it really Tuesday? What had happened to yesterday? Her troubles were certainly not far away now. She couldn’t remember Monday at all. The weekend had been a pleasant one and she’s gone to bed last night as normal. A newspaper was lying on the coffee room table confirming her fears and she almost ran to the Ladies, trying to hide the rising panic within her. She splashed some water on her face regardless of the damage it might do to her make-up and tried to catch her breath, calm herself down. Was she going slightly mad? They often joked that you’d have to be mad to work in this place, but this was serious. Perhaps she needed a second opinion. The company nurse? Surely she couldn’t help, but who else was there?<br /><br />Alice dragged her feet to the sick room and opened the door to see the nurse sitting writing something. There was a small unfinished knitted garment on the side of the desk, impaled by a tarantula of wicked looking needles. It gave the impression of having been put down suddenly.<br /><br />The nurse was an imposing white haired woman on the wrong side of sixty who could be rather stern. Everyone called her “Mrs White” even the boss, and never, never was she addressed by her Christian name which Alice didn’t even know. She looked as if she had seen everything. Not this though, thought Alice.<br /><br />“What’s up Alice? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Mrs White asked not unkindly, waving Alice in and to a chair. Alice sat down and found herself unable to speak. It seemed so foolish.<br /><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;">... to be continued.<br /></span><br />By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-33310663663524683762008-08-12T11:20:00.000-07:002008-08-12T11:33:34.965-07:00Poor Little Rich Girl<em></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>… never been good enough for you, has it? Everything I gave up, everything I did….</em> Oh that voice. It just goes on and on. I can try to tune it out, sure. But it’s at a pitch that penetrates, like a mosquito lodged in your ear.<strong> </strong><em>Bzzzzzzz…</em><br /><br />I can’t believe I married her, really. I look at her back, broad – well, broad is an understatement, let’s be honest, here – and white in the hot sun, shoulders bobbing in time with her words as she keeps on talking. Doesn’t matter that she’s not facing me. Doesn’t matter that she’s head first in the rhododendrons, she just keeps on talking, shoulders keep on bobbing. <em>Yabber yabber yabber.</em> What’s left of dark red hair, now all frizzed up in that ridiculous style and under that equally ridiculous hat she wears. She looks like a toadstool.<br /><br />Where did she go, the slim-hipped, white-skinned girl that I first saw in the bank window all those years ago? Daddy’s little girl, for sure, a family of high stature. It didn’t matter then that I was the lowly son of a farmer. That my riches were earth, soil and sun. She loved me, she said, and of course, I lusted in return. Who could not be smitten by the dark hair, the fine cut of clothes showing that slender body, luscious breasts, ready for picking…<br /><br />Her father was against us from the start. He did what he could to stop the marriage. Right down to removing her dowry. Completely. “You’ll not get a penny from me, son”, he said. Who needed his pennies when we had love? We knew he would come around eventually. Until then, well, my family made us a home in the loft on our family farm. It was only temporary, we knew that. It wasn’t long before she started complaining. The bed was too lumpy. The cows smelled. There were tics in the straw. Her hands were dry. Her clothes were old. Those cows and tics and clothes were good enough for my daddy and ma, they were good enough for then, surely? Love would get us through.<br /><br />But now, forty years later…. I wonder what it will take, to get peace. Without that incessant yapping, the garden would be so peaceful. <em>Yabber yabber yabber. </em><br /><br />Never mind. I push the shovel into the soft earth, turning over new, fresh soil, the heady smell warm, welcoming, ready for new plants to nurture and grow in the soil.<br /><br />This is my land now, or what I have of it. She made me sell the farm, once my parents died. All that work, generations of land living, gone. She had to have better things, she said. She was used to better things, she said. She complained all the time – living off the land, the house, old as it was, was always too hot, too cold, too drafty. She was used to servants, not cooking. She was used to housekeepers, not dusting. After 10 years, and the death of my parents, she made sure that she did not have to spend one more day on the farm.<br /><br />The shoulders continue to bob. <em>Yabber yabber yabber. </em><br /><br />How easy would it be, I wonder, to just keep digging until the hole is wide enough – say – for a body? My mind wanders to a life of quiet, no voice nagging, no relentless yapping, just me, the garden… the earth, the soil… I make the hole just a little wider.<br /><br />Bob, bob, bob… <em>yabber, yabber, yabber</em>…<br /><br />How funny, now that her family was gone, just as my retirement looms. Daddy’s little girl, remembered in the will. We stand to receive thousands of pounds – well she does. I am sure she will make short work of most of it, with her frippery and dreams, but some of that is going to go to buy my farm back. I am certain of that – you’ll see. I am the man. I am the head of the house – and I want my land back. Besides, I can work the fields again, somewhere to hide from that never ending whiney wheeze, and she can flap about ordering staff around until the cows come home. Literally!<br /><br />God, she’s still going. Bloody woman. She thinks she gave up her life. Her! Gave up! She gave up nothing other than a spoiled little rich girl’s life. She gave nothing to me, of that you can be sure. Even that luscious body, with its secrets and promises of things to come was a letdown. Barren, too. Although how something so stiff and unyielding would even manage to think about producing a child is ridiculous. Not like the earth… the earth so rich and sweet and fertile, asks nothing more than love and a tender touch… now there is a promise I should have stayed with.<br /><br /><em>Yabber, yabber, yabber</em>. I make the hole just a little longer. It looks like a gravesite. Big enough for a new rhododendron bush. Or maybe… maybe…<br /><br />All of a sudden, my head feels like it is exploding. Hundreds, millions of stars swim before my eyes. I can’t grab my breath, what the hell… ?<br /><br />As I fall into the hole, I can smell the sweet scent of that mother earth, welcoming me. Light fades to dark; I put together the snatches of words behind those bobbing shoulders. I strain to look up through fading light and feel the soft splatter of warm dirt begin to fall on my face. <em>“You never listen to me, do you, Harold?” She said. </em><br /><br />By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-75662921322884397772008-08-06T11:32:00.000-07:002008-08-06T11:42:32.521-07:00Now and Forever<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m going to go on home, Carly,” said her boss to the young woman.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mrs. Saxman had owned the Gamble’s store in town since the space in the theater building had been vacated by the newspaper. Her husband had died of a heart attack the year before, and the kids had long married and moved to various cities across the country. She wasn’t ready, by any stretch of the imagination, to throw the towel in on her life. So she’d opened a department store and everyone including her had benefited from it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“I’ll close everything up,” replied her sales clerk absent-mindedly.<br /><br />She’d been worrying about the girl for the past few weeks. Usually so sharp and ready for any chore, she’d been a little foggy and distracted. No doubt daydreaming about that fly-by boyfriend of hers. There was trouble with a capital “T”…. or H as the case would be. Young love. It could be such a wretched thing. Betty Saxman felt sorry for the girl. (Reminds me a bit of myself, poor lass.)<br /><br />“So you have to walk home, dear?” asked the older woman.<br /><br />“No, Harley is picking me up when he’s through with work.”<br /><br />Betty turned and hid a frown from the young girl. No need to show disapproval. No doubt everyone else in the girl’s life had already tried plenty of that and to no avail. The inexperienced heart never heard the voice of wisdom. Only experience, which never came cheap.<br /><br />“Well, be sure the lights are out and I’ll see you in the morning.”<br /><br />She turned to walk out the door just as Harley Lutenberg walked up. He’d left his motorcycle parked on the sidewalk, a typical swipe at town authority. She couldn’t help but think that being drafted into the Army might do that boy a world of good. Knock some of the rebel out of him at boot camp, and maybe he would amount to something. He was certainly a good-looking kid. Small wonder sweet little Carly had fallen so hard for him. It couldn’t’ have happened to a nicer girl, sad to say. She was an angel straight through to the core of her being.<br /><br />“Hola, Mrs. S.,”grinned the biker. “Done for the day?” As though it were any of his business.<br /><br />“Try to get Carly home at a decent hour, Harley,” she responded intentionally ignoring the question. “She has an early day tomorrow, here at the store.” She left it at that.<br /><br />“What a witch,” complained the boy.<br /><br />“Harley! That’s a dreadful thing to say about her and it isn’t true,” replied the shocked girl.<br /><br />She rather like her boss and was grateful to have a regular income. Especially now that she and Harley were getting married. No one knew yet, but he had asked her just a few days ago. They’d tie the knot when he got back from Vietnam.<br /><br />She could hardly stand the thought of him going there. What a dreadful war. All war was dreadful, even if men thought they could justify it. But this one was really bad and tearing the whole country apart. She didn’t say much about it, but she’d go to Canada with Harley in a minute if he’d consider it.<br /><br />But, it had all happened so fast and now he was leaving in a few days. He just laughed it off. Like he laughed about everything in that irreverent way. Nothing could touch him he said. Well, not in a bad way. <em><strong>She</strong></em> could, he said, in the best way…. And then he’d get that wicked sparkle in his eyes and he’d look at her in that way that would make her burn from the inside out. She blushed just thinking about it.<br /><br />“I can tell what you’re thinking just by the pink in your cheeks, Babe,” teased her beau. "You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?"<br /><br />“Go on, you conceited thing. You think I don’t have anything better to think about?” She dashed up the stairs, her bell bottomed jeans brushing the carpet. “I have to put these clothes away first, and then I’ll be finished.”<br /><br />He followed her upstairs, taking advantage of the view. She might be short, but she was proportioned just right as far as he was concerned. Not the best looking girl he’d ever known, but different in another way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was just her innocence that turned him on. Completely unblemished. He grinned to himself. (At least for now.) She was like a Madonna, he thought to himself. Like the Virgin Mary in a Christmas card.<br /><br />Carly swung the door open in the room upstairs, and piled the armload of clothes onto the back of a chair. In the corner stood the steamer and the clothes rack. She had several boxes of new ladies clothes to steam out tomorrow in between customers. Some cool things, too. Mrs. S. was good about staying up on the latest fashions, and she was always really conscious of buying things for the younger girls. She had even bought some really cute mini-skirts. That would get the gossips going in town. Especially if someone showed up at church in one of those leather hip hugger skirts.<br /><br />Harley picked up the corner of one and whistled.<br /><br />“Now that’s something more your style, Babe. I’ll bet you look hot in this number.”<br /><br />Carly felt the heat rising up her neck to the roots of her hair. Her heart began to pound. And she didn’t have a clue what to say, even if she could have found her voice. She turned to hang the skirt on the clothes rack, not really paying attention to what she was doing. Who could concentrate with that man in the room?<br /><br />His strong arms slid around her waist lifting her off the ground against his hard chest. He whispered into her hair, “I want you so bad, Carly. I can’t leave without having you. Please just once before I go.”<br /><br />They’d had this conversation before. More than once. A hundred times. And each time Carly felt herself weaken. Each time she begged for the strength to say no and then cursed herself afterwards for not having the courage to say yes to him. What would it matter anyway? He was leaving for a whole year. Then they would marry and then it wouldn’t matter. Oh, please heaven, let him come back unharmed. The thought of losing him in a godforsaken war was too much. They were too young for that entire nightmare. They should be thinking of work and a home and raising kids, not praying for mercy against an enemy half way around the world.<br /><br />She pulled herself away from him and walked around the table and sat down on the little couch where she ate her lunch. It was nice to have a quiet and private place to get away from customers especially during the holidays. She liked working here. It felt safe and secure. Usually. Having Harley here in the room with her hardly felt safe. It felt downright dangerous in an exciting sort of way. He slid down next to her and draped his long arm over her shoulder. She crossed her arms over her breasts, protecting her heart, herself. From him, from his pull, his strength, his heady magic that left her weak. She swallowed. Not one word came to mind.<br /><br />He pulled her toward him and kissed her lips. First softly, then with a hunger that she couldn’t resist. His hands slid down her back and he leaned his weight against her, against the couch. She shouldn’t do this, but she couldn’t say no. His entire life held her down, the whole of what he was that was also hers and nothing inside of her could turn him down again. She gave in to him. The room tilted as she closed her eyes and blocked out any thought of anything except now. Now and Harley. Now and forever.<br /><br />By Penny Dreadful<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-19061752094181611902008-08-03T08:47:00.000-07:002008-08-03T08:53:43.178-07:00P is for Refrigerator<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Oh, thank God! We’re finally stopping. I should have known better than to let Mike drive. Before we left home, he assured me that we could stop and see the sights at any time. “Just let me know if you see anything that looks interesting!” Yeah, right.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We’d gone about two hundred miles before I thought a stretch of the legs would be in order. “Hey, there’s a wildlife park up ahead; why don’t we get a few pictures?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Mmm, no. I want to get there before dark.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sigh. Fine. We kept going.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Some time later, my twenty-ounce coffee caught up with me. “Uh, Hon? Any chance we could find a gas station?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’ll look, but I want to get there before dark.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“There’s one!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Too far off the road.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Twenty yards is NOT too far off the road!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I want to get there before dark.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I gritted my teeth. “My kidneys just blew up. Could we at least stop for some paper towels?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Very funny. I want to—“</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Get there before dark, I know, I know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He smiled, knowing I would forgive him anything. “We’ll stop on the way back and look at everything then.” Hah! As if. The last time he pulled that line, we ended up driving south for two states and coming back via a completely different route.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I alternated window-gazing sulks with rounds of sock knitting. I’ve heard of people who can finish entire sweaters on road trips, but I’m not one of them. For one thing, I tend to get carsick if I spend too much time staring into my lap. For another, the roads we always end up on are atrocious. I’m just as likely to get a swift poke in the eye from a needle as manage a few respectable stitches.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">By the time we fetched up in front of the hotel, the only sight I wanted to see was a shower. I was in the middle of a nice neck stretch when I chanced to spy the sign advertising the various hotel amenities. Along with free “Wi-Fi”, there was a Jacuzzi and in-room refrigepator. Wait, what?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Mike, look at the sign. They have refrigepators here!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“RefrigePATORS?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yeah. Must be for keeping your head cool.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That did it. In a flash, Mike had jumped up on the low retaining wall that ran along the length of the parking lot and was letting loose in best medicine-show fashion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Step right up, folks, and witness the amazing refrigepator! Keep your cool and please your pate in the privacy of your own room! Yes, friends, you can toss in your toupees, wad up your wigs, and heave in your hairpieces. The super handy-dandy refrigepator will dress your tresses with the cool, cool breezes of Old Man Winter. Soothe your scalp in the sultry summertime with the one and only refrigepator!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A couple on their way to the check-in office paused. After a brief but heated discussion, they decided to rent a room anyway.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“Come down, nut job. I want a shower before dark.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mike grinned, then hopped down and reached for our bags.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">By Penny Dreadful<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-52901704244069421182008-08-02T14:52:00.000-07:002008-08-02T14:57:14.232-07:00A Change of Focus<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The pile of papers from the desk was now spread out across the table, leaving only a small window of workspace. Sheila sighed as she surveyed the mess. Summer was supposed to be a time of fun, of memory making. But all those spontaneous camping trips and meals out, long bike rides and road trips made it quite difficult - no, make that impossible - to keep up with the daily running of a home.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Thanks to her husband's playful scheduling, the mortgage payment was late, the bank statement was unreconciled, and the bill drawer was full. Laundry was threatening to take over the basement, dust bunnies were staging a coup on the kitchen floor and the hamster cage smelled like a neglected barn. So much to do - and now the kids were hovering around her, hungry little nestlings begging for food.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Sheila got the kids a snack, fixed herself a cup of tea, then sighed again and tried to focus on the bills. Focus. That's what she needed to do. Outside birds sang and the sweet breeze drifted through the windows. A hummingbird zipped up to the feeder on the porch. Then another male bird appeared and the two engaged in fast paced battle for territory. Suddenly, the pleasant scents from outside were clouded by the hamster cage "aroma". Sheila wrinkled her nose and pattered over the stove to reheat the kettle. She'd downed a whole cup of tea and had only managed to write two checks!<br /><br />She plopped down in front of the computer while the water heated. After she checked her email she could design the invitations for her inlaws' 50th wedding anniversary. She steeled her will to stay focused. Focus. No social networks or blogging or forums. Just the necessities. Be productive. Catch up!<br /><br />The phone rang. Sheila was toying with fonts for the invites, so she let the answering machine take the call.<br /><br />"Hi Sheila, did you miss my message earlier this week? I hadn't heard back from you about the tea party today. It's at noon in the garden gazebo. I'm really hoping you and your girls can come. It'll be really sparse without you!"<br /><br />Tea Party? No, Sheila told herself. Today you are staying home and focusing. Today you are getting things done.<br /><br />But, the garden gazebo...It was so beautiful there. Breezy, fresh, cool and green. And the weather was so lovely, it did seem a shame to be all cooped up in the house.<br /><br />No!! FOCUS! Sheila spun her chair toward the table and started a check writing frenzy. She just slapped the last stamp on the last envelope when both her girls slumped into the room. They were bored. They were hungry. They were whiny. Sheila looked from her precious little ones to the paperwork and back again.<br /><br />To heck with bills, she thought, let's make some memories!<br /><br />"Girls," she smiled, "Go put on some fancy dresses and hats. We're going to a tea party!"<br /><br />By Penny Dreadful</span><br /><br /></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-43513769428777080762008-08-01T08:54:00.000-07:002008-08-01T09:00:30.698-07:00Retribution<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Brenda Roper sits alone in her family pew, her silver predator’s eyes focused on me. I feel their rage searing my heart. Each pierce, bangs in my ears as I ignore her vindictiveness. A church must give no sanctuary to a Jezebel who preys on the innocence of men.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Damn. I am condemned. As we rise to do our final duty for Alvin Bishop I respond to her sinful allure, to the Magdalene who dared to tempt our lord. I hide my shame behind the casket as we carry it to its final resting place.<br />She stands as we pass. The grey gauze of her sleeve darts across the coffin. A flash of steel as she snips a bud from the family spray and sticks it in my buttonhole with the familiarity of my wife. She knows my torment and smiles her acknowledgment of my disgrace. She places Bishop’s death at my door like her own in an accident I don’t remember.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’m without blame. They brought it on themselves by their actions, not mine. He died of a heart attack, not by my hand. His wife requested I be a pallbearer when we stood by his bedside as Bishop passed. I forgave him for his presumption to tell me how to conduct my business. The old goat sought to alter my course when I was chosen by my peers to oversee the finances of the church.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">People are packed around the walls; the vestibule is so crowded it is difficult for the procession to pass. Outside the sun dances off the spectacles of old fools, like Bishop, blinding me as they stand with uncovered heads while we proceed down the walk to the burial yard.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I stagger to my car when the interminable internment ceases and the crowd opens before me. She has the audacity to hide her wicked self in the backseat of my car. I can see her sitting there when I pull away as if I am her chauffeur. Her slate-colored eyes on my neck send streams of icy sweat down my back, soaking my fresh shirt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I must get home where I’ll be protected from her provocative glare. I look straight ahead. I will not recognize this interloper from my youth who refuses to know she is not tolerated. She doesn’t blink when the damn teenager blows his horn as we cross the intersection.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My steering wheel jumps as a tire bounces in a chuckhole in my driveway. The city should make the repairs. My car could be damaged from their negligence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I leave her sitting in the car and rush to the backdoor. The phone is ringing, but the lock will not remain in one place for me to insert the key. Mary should be here to open the door for me. I told her to oil the lock before I left to do my duty.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Her gloved hand covers mine and I shrink in disgust, but she sets the key in the cylinder. Her touch is like lifting a block of ice making my fingers tingle. I slam the door in her face and shoot the dead bolt. The phone shrills in my ear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Who are you?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"I didn’t run over your dog. Don’t be a fool."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I bang down the receiver. The phone begins to ring again. To silence it I pull the cord from the wall and seek the medicine cabinet. The woman’s vulgarity has given me indigestion. I must find Mary’s Tums.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She is standing outside the window, but she can’t get to me with her evil ways. I cannot open the Tums. I need a hammer. Where does Mary keep her tools?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What am I doing on the floor? It’s dark outside. Why hasn’t Mary come home?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I get my hand on the leg of the chair to pull myself up, but my arm is numb. A vise is crimping my chest. The pain is squeezing the breath from me while my knees wobble, refusing to support my weight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The harlot is standing by the sink. She is smiling when she hands me the phone. The dirge from Bishop’s funeral pounds in my ear as I dial 9…1… </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-27757218223594749242008-07-30T13:19:00.000-07:002008-07-30T13:23:25.304-07:00Feet<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She was sitting, legs crossed, her bare right foot swinging with hypnotic grace, waiting expectant, knowing that I would come near, and so I approached and knelt in front, taking the one milky white foot in my hands, so light, so delicate that I thought it would break with one careless move.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I stroked a finger along the instep, and was rewarded when a frisson shuddered its way through her, wriggling from the waist to the shoulders with a suggestion of mingled delight and that half-welcome distress which is the companion of the sole.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I grasped the foot more firmly and bent my head in a helpless attitude of worship,nearly, oh so nearly kissing her toes one by one; Market, Home, Roast Beef, None, Wee, squared nails dressed proudly in their shiny red coats, trying to suggest something other than what they were. Up close I was distracted by a tiny chip off one, a small imperfection born of the summer and the wear of the street, marring their otherwise unnatural smoothness.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />My breath rebounded soft and damp against my cheek, tainted, no, fragranced with the intimate fragrance of her, mixed with the countless other tired scents of the day; a musty organic smell from her shoes, the ghosts of flowers from her morning wash, faint oiliness from the car and over all, above all, the sweaty essence of her, loved to the point of distraction.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I'd do far more for her than what I was about to do, and I ran my finger gently along the top of her foot, from toes to ankle, watching her flesh submit in peristaltic obedience to mine. I saw anew its fragility, the delicate bones scarce robed in a skin so transparent that the tiny blue rivers veiled within throbbed in my mind as well as in my sight.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I took out my tape and measured, round the ankle, heel to toe, round the foot, and sat down to work out how many stitches I'd need for the first ever pair of socks I'd make for her.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-72382622375175537362008-07-30T09:34:00.000-07:002008-07-30T09:41:42.559-07:00A Tale to Be "Toed"<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As I launched into the home stretch, I scanned the rapt faces before me. I always fine-tune my stories to my audience, and I always have a “victim”, someone on whom to focus. The person whose reaction I most want to see.<br /><br />“In the distance, he could see the flags fluttering from the Big Top.” Ah, Shari’s eyes got wider. My victim, then.<br /><br />I pitched the story like an infomercial host, mustering as much vivid detail as I could cram into the telling of what should have been a three-minute tale, but had now lasted seventeen minutes and counting. Shari’s expression invited comparison to an owl receiving an ice-cube enema: huge-eyed and slightly horrified. With the tension mounting, I offered the punch line. “The young man looked that old clown in the face and said…”<br /><br />I dropped the last few words into silence and waited. One person laughed outright, one gave a shocked giggle, six stared blankly, and one stomped off muttering in disgust. “That’s it? I sat through twenty minutes for that?” This is the beauty of The Clown Story. The fun belongs solely to the teller of the tale: crafting the details, building the anticipation, and watching the rather crestfallen faces when the final zinger fails to zing.<br /><br />As the last of the crowd moved away, I turned back to my ever-present knitting. Socks again. Why not? The sock provides endless possibility for detail and experimentation. Much like The Clown Story. This pair was gonna be a doozy. Bubble-gum pink and lime green. For a friend. As I pulled a double-pointed needle from behind my ear, a shadow fell across my work-in-progress. Shari, owner of the shocked giggle, had decided to stick around. “I’m probably risking my life, hanging around you after that story!”<br /><br />I waggled my eyebrows at her. “I keep telling you, take up knitting. Pointy sticks keep sore listeners at bay.” A snicker, followed by silence. It was several minutes before she spoke again.<br /><br />“So… Which do you like best? Knitting or storytelling? Every time I see you, you’re doing one or the other.”<br /><br />I regarded the gaudy bit of ribbing in my hands. “Well, they’re both kind of the same thing, actually.”<br /><br />“How do you figure?”<br /><br />“Look here: a story needs a setup, that’s your cast-on round. Then comes the leg, that’s the buildup. As much or as little detail as you want, for as long as you want. Then comes the heel, that’s your unexpected twist. The gussets, that’s where plotlines get drawn together and focused, then comes the foot. The home stretch. Finally you get to the toe, the punch line. You can’t leave an audience hanging, or a sock, so you cut the… ahem, “yarn”, and weave in the ends. Socks, stories; they’re the same thing.”<br /><br />Shari laughed again and shook her head. “I’ll never be that good at either one; you can own those hobbies!” She started to head on toward her camper, then turned back. “Hey, maybe you can make some clown socks!” Off she went.<br /><br />Hm. Clown socks. A new opening line? “Once, there was a boy in hand-knitted socks who loved clowns…” Yeah, that might work!<br /><br />By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-25755135064251286782008-07-29T11:14:00.000-07:002008-07-29T11:22:00.415-07:00The New Movie Theater<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"The whole damned lot of them can go straight to Hell!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His son looked up from the kitchen table where he sat with newspaper and a cup of coffee. His heart stopped at the sight of his father’s red face the veins bulging at his neck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Calm down, Pop, you’ll give yourself a heart attack! What’s wrong anyway?"<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The man loosened the top button of his shirt, then took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the wooden chair. As he rolled up his sleeves, he answered his son.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"That blasted Baptist Church wants to stop movies on Sunday night. The theater renters caught wind of the griping and will back out of the lease if they can’t play the movies on Sunday." </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The man shook his head as he poured a cup of coffee for himself. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"They’re going to ruin this whole building deal and cost us a lot of money if we can’t run that movie house. Dan, I don’t know what we’ll do if they pull the rug out from under us on this one."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His son frowned and thought of the thousands of dollars they had invested in the projectors, the maple floor, and the artist from nearby Arlington who would paint the murals on the theater walls. That was just the tip of the iceberg. The town newspaper planned to lease the adjacent business space, special engineering had been required for the floor underneath their huge presses, and people were waiting for the upstairs apartments to be finished. His Dad was right. It would cost them a fortune, maybe all their fortune, if the theater deal fell through.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Just then his mother walked in the back door, packages tumbling from her arms. She was a tall and shapely woman, dressed to the details in feathers and the finest in fashion courant. The well-tailored suit skimmed over her shapely hips and her shapely stockinged legs ended firmly on the ground in fine blue leather pumps. She dropped the remaining boxes on the kitchen table.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Speaking of rugs," she quipped, "I found a nice blue Persian in Denver, but it was priced a bit too high even for my pocketbook. In the mood you’re in, it’s a good thing I didn’t buy it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"It’s a good thing you didn’t for other reasons," replied her husband, running a hand through his graying hair. "We might have to sell the rugs we already have to survive if this deal falls through."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Whatever do you mean, dear?" she asked. "You don’t’ mean the new building, do you? What could possibly go wrong? I thought you were on schedule and we planned to open with the first screening the week of Christmas."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She sat down with a worried frown. Life could be so tiresome. Just when things seemed to be rolling along fine and dandy. It had been such a grand trip to Denver, too. It was so nice to be able to shop and actually have some choices. Not like New York mind you, but certainly better than the little town of Banner here on the high country plains. She wished there was just one good department store nearby. Not that she minded driving to the city, especially now that she had her new car. A beauty it was, complete with whitewall tires that flashed in the bright Colorado sun. It had cost a pretty penny or two. She was a head turner before, but now eyes did a double-take when she passed. The idea quite pleased her. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Her husband’s stern voice cut through her musings.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Leona, for heaven’s sake, pay attention. This is important to you, too. If this deal falls through, we’ll be out on the street and not in that fancy car of yours. Blast it all, woman! How much money did you spend on your finery today?" </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His glance had just slid to the pile of store boxes piled on the table. All the major Denver stores were well-represented judging by the labels. The thought of the subsequent bills made his heart pound. The room was getting warmer by the second.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Charley, sit down for mercy’s sake, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. You know the doctor told you not to get upset for every little thing," Leona calmly replied.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Every little thing," he thought to himself. "The woman could drive a man to drink." </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Still he bit his tongue. She was a beauty. His pride and joy. No man in this county didn’t wish her for himself and she was all his. Not won easily either, he’d had to work for her hand. She wanted everything good in life and felt she deserved it and then some. It was the "then some" part that was wearing him out. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Only the thought of losing her to someone else kept him going.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">By Penny Dreadful</span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-53713402903695661982008-07-27T15:51:00.000-07:002008-10-28T13:13:06.235-07:00Hands<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hands, that's what Ernest saw all day long at the library returns counter. Hands pushing, sliding, dropping, tossing books towards him over the granite-topped surface. He rarely looked up at the person, just noticed the hands propelling the books. Scarred knuckles, gnarled joints, achingly smooth skin to leathery weather-worn, night-black to albino-gleam, hairless to furry, manicured secretary's nails to dirt-encrusted gardener's, and then—a slim, tanned hand missing a wedding ring.<br /><br />That was what led Ernest to look up from his work to behold a lithe young woman, in a sleek azure dress, silk scarf casually thrown over her shoulders, hair the color of wheat, green eyes of deep ocean. She kept her slim-fingered hand on her book a slight moment too long, but long enough for Ernest to see the thin, untanned line where a wedding ring once was.<br /><br />Time stood still while he looked into her eyes, as if he'd been struck by lightning, electricity buzzing through him, between them.<br /><br />Then, the woman withdrew her hand; the murmuring sounds of the library returned to Ernest's consciousness. The woman abruptly turned and left the library. Ernest could see her through the window boarding a bus that was just about to leave the stop. In a flash, she was gone.<br /><br />If it had been a movie, Ernest would have leapt over the returns counter—job be damned—rushed out the door, given chase to the bus until it pulled over, found the woman—who'd be ready and willing when he dropped down onto one knee in the aisle, took her slim hand in his strong book-slinger's hands, and proposed to her in front of forty-some strangers.<br /><br />Unfortunately, life was not a movie.<br /><br />Another book was plopped on the counter and shoved towards Ernest, this time by a puffy, sunburned, bug-bitten hand graced with a well-worn gold wedding band.<br /><br />Ernest didn't look up.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">By Penny Dreadful</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;color:#996633;"><em>Actually written by By Barbara DaCosta<br />Visit her <a href="http://resorttomurder.blogspot.com/">Blog</a></em></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802761849150059333.post-84267548975816147882008-07-25T15:21:00.000-07:002008-07-27T20:58:08.665-07:00My Neighbor, The Vampire<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When they said they were from “Cluj”, you know, I didn’t think a thing about it. I mean, who thinks “Cluj…Transylvania,” right? I mean, I thought “Cluj…rhymes with ‘rouge.’” Like I did when I was in college, you know, I just thought of something that rhymed with the word, so I wouldn’t forget it in case anyone asked, “So, where are the new neighbors from?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I mean, I didn’t want to look <em>stupid or rude</em>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, I wouldn’t have found all that creepy stuff if I’d minded my own beeswax. What on earth made me think it was a good idea to go poking around someone’s house while they were away for the weekend? Good grief. I’m such an idiot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, actually, it started out innocently enough. I mean, I was really just looking for some cat food. Man, their cat can eat. Have you seen that thing? Loads and loads of Meow Mix or whatever it is they give him. But I didn’t think that I was going to go from kibble to coffin so fast, you know?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I mean, if you’re going to keep a coffin in the first floor guest room, put a lock on the door will ya? That kinda sight can give a gal a real fright. Yeah, I know there are those new eco-friendly caskets that they make into furniture you can use until you croak, but c’mon. Isn’t that a bit much?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Of course, <em>now I know</em> that the environmental thing is just a cover for the coffins-turned-coffee tables biz. The truth is that vampirism is on the rise. Heck, it’s practically an epidemic in some cities. You can find a bunch of them on Twitter and MySpace, if you know the right keywords. There are even Meet Ups. Oh, and as for the coffin furniture scheme…all it took was for a couple of clever, artsy Danish vampires to start marketing coffins-in-waiting as eco-chic and…voila!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I still think it’s creepy to keep a coffin visible like that. But, hey, that’s just me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And gosh, I have to say that they seemed like such a nice older couple…<em>I just had no idea how old they really were</em>. They always stacked their recycling by the curb so neatly. Now that I think about it though, he was a little too excited about dressing up as Varney the Vampyre for the neighborhood Halloween-in-the-Park-after-Dark party. And she knew an awful lot about European history. No wonder. She lived it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Good grief. How could I have been so clueless?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Funny but even as a kid I was fascinated with bats and vampires and stories about Vlad the Impaler. I used to wad up the electric blanket around my neck, just in case one snuck into my room and wanted a nibble. I thought he’d get a shock, which would buy me a little time. The way kids think…funny, huh?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Oh, yeah…so, there are a couple of myths about vampires. First, they can in fact go out in daylight. I mean, they have to make a living somehow. They’re really pretty normal seeming, you know. Second, they don’t really drink all of your blood…just enough to make, well, a conversion of sorts. Third—and most importantly, they don’t really bite you on the neck. It’s really closer to the clavicle. Kinda looks like two moles…come closer…see?...<em>they look just like these right here.</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>By</em></span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Penny Dreadful<br /><br /></em></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span>Danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471919576687777886noreply@blogger.com0