Fiction Friday - Meat for the Winter

There was a gentle splash as Mrs. Phillips ladled stew into her and her husband's bowls. She set the pot on the ceramic trivet between them and pulled her chair in to join him. They weren't a praying couple, but she always took a moment to look around thankfully before eating. 

Audrey Phillips kept her kitchen as neat as a pin and she was grateful for Allan's help in years past, painting and tiling it in pretty sage green, with a floral purple trim and accent tiles on the splashboard. If a man was king of his castle, she thought, I am queen of this realm. 

Allan dunked a chunk of bread into his bowl of stew. "Think we'll get any kids this year?"

"Oh, trick-or-treaters? Maybe just the Sampsons from down the road. They're the only ones within a mile."

"They had quite a crew with them last year, as I recall." 

"At least we didn't get egged! Don't worry, there's plenty of candy for any surprise hordes... as long as you keep your hands off!" She watched him for a moment, checking. He cringed as he readjusted in his chair. "Everything okay? Drink some more of that tea."

"It's not as bad now. I think your tea is helping!" He took another sip. 

"Thorn root and emberbark oil with a pinch of ginger," she said. "That mix should help numb the pain until your leg heals more completely." 

"I'm so glad you know about these things." 

"If we hadn't decided to move out to the country and get away from the madness, I wouldn't have bothered to learn," she said as she took another bite. "I mean, I'm glad we did!" She quickly added. "This self-sufficiency is perfect for us and you know what? The rest of the world can figure it out on their own." 

She put down her spoon. "Like the kids today! You know, when I went into the bank last week, I heard that there's a big Halloween party happening at some teenagers' house. The kids are apparently trying to keep it secret, but the parents know, but aren't addressing it. I mean, I guess it's good the parents know about it, but the secrecy! Ugh, this world."

"At least if there's a big party, there might not be any pranks."

"True. Teenagers today have different priorities. I should be glad of it." She saw another cringe. "What's up? How's that pillow?" Before he could answer, Audrey was up and moving to the stool his leg was resting on. She adjusted the pillow and checked that no blood was seeping through the bandage wrapping the new stump that ended halfway down his calf. "Is that better?"

"I think time is the only thing that will make it better. That and more of this tea." He smiled and touched her face. "You saved me." 

She twisted to kiss the palm of his hand. "You're the one who thought to cauterize it."

"But I couldn't have done that without your help."

She scoffed. "Tcha. Well, we're a team. Your leg is my leg."

"A perfect team." He looked tired.

Audrey rose, checked his teacup and poured a bit more in. "I have to go into town tomorrow or the next day anyway. It's getting colder, so we'll need to stock up on things. I'll get more medical supplies, too."

"Can you hit the hardware store? I'll give you a list. I'd better not go in there like this. Wish I could. We'll need a new axe, and it'll have to be one you can handle. At least until I figure out how to keep my balance with just one foot."

"Of course I can do that. I still can't believe after all these years you missed a log so completely." She started clearing the dishes. 

"I know. Pride got in my way. It was a big one, so I braced my left foot on a rock. Not my usual stance. And then that bear surprised me!" He sighed. "Wish I'd had my gun, and not my axe. We'd have meat to last the winter."

"You mean instead of just lopping yourself off mid-calf?" Audrey laughed. "That would've been great! Plus, you'd still have your full left leg! By the way, how was the stew tonight? And that new cottage bread I tried?"

"Delicious! I'd never have guessed I was eating a piece of me. You're a genius in the kitchen."

If she'd been younger, she'd have blushed. "You're sweet. It's a wonder what can be done with the right herbs. I'm just glad you liked it because we've got a bunch of leftovers! You have a mighty meaty calf, my dear." A burst of laughter exploded when they realized the pun. 

"I always was curious what human flesh would taste like," Allan quipped, wiping his mouth on his napkin. "Never thought to try my own before!"

I had a different story in mind for today, but then we got into a discussion about what human flesh would taste like and I just couldn't resist! 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: And Then I'll Shut Up

Indulge me once more, with some Shakespeare. You might be familiar with this little snippet from Macbeth: 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. 

I actually memorized this one in high school. Junior year, I took a Shakespeare course, and the night before each test our teacher would name a passage for extra credit. You earned one E.C. point for each line memorized. I got every single E.C. point that semester because I'm good at memorizing lines. 

Although I had memorized this speech, I didn't remember which play it was from until I reread Macbeth years later. (I have a lot of these memorized parcels cluttering up my memory banks.) 

If you haven't read Macbeth before, beware: 

SPOILERS! 

The above passage is spoken by Macbeth when he hears of Lady Macbeth's death. After high school, having forgotten the context, I would recite it to note the futility of life or the pointlessness of a given situation. But really it's a tearful commentary on how short his beloved's life was! Macbeth is on the brink of war, yet he takes a moment to unconsciously speed-walk through grief. 

And now I'll leave Shakespeare out of it for a while. 

Who is your favorite poet? Do you have one? Or a favorite poem? 

Coffee Klatch: Dark Times

Woo-woo!👻

That's right. It's the spooky season. 

Dark times call for dark entertainment. Many people watch scary movies or shows during October, or at least that's what all the streaming services want us to think! 

My annual nod to the season is a re-reading of Macbeth.

I've already talked about why I started reading a Shakespeare play each month. It just seems fitting to read the play that includes ghosts AND witches in October. (There are plenty of plays to choose from with dark deeds or murder-y scenes, and even others with ghosts.) Maybe next year I'll do a Hamlet re-read - it has a ghost, after all.

Probably not, though. Besides the standard creepy tropes, Macbeth includes the slow descent into insanity of one of the main characters. It just offers so much to click in with the trending cycle of the year! Hamlet has a descent into insanity of one minor character but it's... sadder somehow. Both are tragedies, but Hamlet is a sad tragedy where Macbeth is a sort of manic-depressive, hyperactive romp through the hell of politics and war.

I'm no Shakespeare scholar, by any means, so I am open to any criticism of that assessment. 

This year, I have two versions in my laptop. One is a PDF with a layout that's easier to read. The other one has more easily accessible footnotes and includes a brief summary before each scene. I can quickly pop over to the footnotes for clarification without losing my place in the script. 

Anyway, since my geeking out over the Bard takes place on my laptop, I'm simply drinking plain, black coffee brewed at home. (Ha! Black coffee + dark literature = Dark Times.) 

At home, I use a coffee phin to make my morning cup. That's a Vietnamese drip filter device, sort of like a pour-over, I guess? I buy Vietnamese Weasel coffee at my local shop, add the cinnamon and clove (as I explained here), and let the phin do the work. 

image credit: tamingofthespoon.com

 

I do not use sweetened condensed milk at home, as they do in the shops, but the above picture shows the process of using the phin. If you're curious, you can click the link in the caption to learn how to make traditional Vietnamese coffee.

A lot of us have Big Holiday Traditions for the end of the year, be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Solstice... Do you acknowledge Halloween as a season in any way? What books, beverages, or decor fit the season for you? 

Fiction Friday - Ten Meters of Concrete

Casey pressed his back against the curved sides of the tunnel and caught his breath. From his left, a cool night breeze assaulted him with the scent of decaying leaves out of the ditch he was in. The sky on that side was dark night, but when he looked to the right he could still see the fading pink-orange glow of the sunset.

It would have been peaceful if not for the oppressive thwupa-thwupa-thwupa coming from above. He had some ten meters of protection. Was it enough? For now at least, it would do. Even the "eye in the sky" couldn't see through concrete.

In the fading light, he pulled his backpack close and checked the contents. He'd been too rushed, totally unprepared! As he passed through the kitchen, he'd grabbed a couple knives, the flashlight from the drawer, and whatever he could fit from the pantry. He was too agitated to eat tonight, but what were his options for the next days?

• 4 jello-cups (with fruit)
• 3 cans of tuna (the pull-tab kind, thankfully)
• 1 box of Cheez-its
• a half-full bag of single-serve of potato chip packets that his Mom usually added to his lunches.

With a pang, he thought of his parents. Where were they now? The house was empty, but they should have been home. What was happening?

He'd skipped out on gym class that afternoon and watched from the nearby park as military vehicles pulled up into the school turnaround. After a few minutes, he saw a long line of people - enough teachers, staff, and even students to fill a couple busses - ushered out the big double doors and forced into the waiting transports. 

He was too far away to hear, but he could tell they were yelling and fighting against the soldiers. If they even were soldiers! Casey knew all too well that wearing camo didn't automatically come with a rank.

A crowd had run out the back gym door and raced around to the front, protesting whatever was going on. They'd been pushed back easily, but it looked like Mr. Small had a new limp as they retreated.

The scene haunted him. The military didn't just raid schools at random.

Casey shook it off and dug back into the bag. He found his dad's can of mixed nuts. He lined it up with the rest of his supplies. That was all of the food. His school water bottle was still pretty full, but he hadn't topped it up at home. 

Okay. It was enough to start with. He'd get water and more food in the morning.

By now the sky was dark on both sides, but he could track the copters' progress by the beams of searchlights. Who were they looking for? For the first time, Casey wished he'd paid attention when his parents watched the news. Or maybe even in Social Studies class! 

He considered his friends. How were they? Had any of them been corralled into the trucks? His cell phone battery died hours ago, so he couldn't even check on anyone.

When his brain finally gave up worrying, he tried to arrange his backpack into a kind of pillow so he might catch some Zzz's. It was lumpy as pillows go and the noise of the aerial patrols didn't help, but eventually he drifted off.

He woke a few hours later, curled around something warm and fuzzy. He jerked alert, banging his head on the hard surface behind him. It was still dark night, but his eyes had adjusted enough to see that a scruffy grey dog had crawled into the culvert and curled up next to him during the night. 

Or maybe just a very dirty dog.

The dog opened its eyes and looked at him. 

A swishing sound told Casey it was wagging its tail against the floor.

He scratched the dog on the back of the neck. It was wearing a collar. "Poor guy," he whispered in the dark, "Did your people not come home either?" The dog whined, but whether in answer to Casey or fear of the chopper that chose that moment to pass overhead was unclear. Casey leaned down to nuzzle the dog's warm neck. "We'll be okay." 

*****

This story was initially inspired by the concrete drainage pipes lined up in a construction staging area across from my favorite bar. The bit about the stray dog curling up with the sleeping boy is an adaptation from something that happened to a kid in my English Club.

If you enjoy my stories, considering dropping your own inspirational word or or idea in a comment! 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: It's Not About the Rain

One of my favorites has been on my mind lately. Or rather, for most of my life, really: 

There Will Come Soft Rains
by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

I first read this poem in junior high, and memorized it quickly. I've never forgotten it. For this post's purposes, I found the text online at poets.org .

Coffee Klatch: Children's Books!

One of my regular coffee shops has a book wall. 

It's just peeking in at the bottom of the picture, which I took for a friend who is requesting Vietnamese coffee. Many are children's books, most appear to have been donated. "Leave one, take one" book walls are not uncommon in restaurants catering to the international crowd here. People in transit don't often carry a lot of books, so savvy business owners offer a place to trade. 

This got me thinking about books I've donated. At one point I had started putting bookplates in my books, especially the ones that I loved and thought, "This will always be in my library". 

In fact, I was so paranoid about book theft that I actually added my initials to the bottom corner of a specific page in all my books as evidence of ownership in case any clever book thief tore out the inscribed title page! 

But the books in this shop are children's books. When I was little, I'd just write my name inside the front cover... until I started adding my phone number underneath it. Then, when we lived overseas, it was name and address. 

I've donated hundreds of books to lighten the load of my luggage. Suddenly, sitting in that coffee shop, I wondered: What do my books' new owners think? 

Have they wondered? 
Crossed out the old name? 
Added a new one? 

I picture a book of fairy tales with my name written in childish handwriting, crossed out or turned into a doodle, with a different name printed underneath it.  

Do you love it or hate it when you get a second-hand book with notations in it? 

I don't often write in my books, but I always thought they'd be "my" books. Some passages definitely got marked up as I prepared for a speech class, or a book report, or a drama audition. What about you? 

Have I defiled my books, or given them seasoning with my name and occasional notes? 

Fiction Friday - The Doorman

The Doorman pulled open the heavy glass door.

"Welcome, Mrs. Whitmore." He gave a knowing smile to the well-dressed matron who entered. She scowled at him. 

"Wipe that smirk off your face. Do you know who I am?"

With one hand on his heart, smile still intact, he bowed very slightly. "Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, widow of Douglas Whitmore, mother to Patty and Doug Jr., grandmother to Michael, Stacy, Karina, and by adoption, Chase..."

"Beg your pardon - who's that?"

He ignored her interruption. "...current Chairwoman of DexCo Industries,..."

"...Chase who? I don't know any Chase."  

"... running highly profitable sweatshops in Pakistan, China, and ...Myanmar." He paused. "Although that last one is strictly off the books." Now that his recitation was complete he addressed her question. "And I did not mean to suggest that you knew Chase. Nevertheless, he is your legal grandson, the adopted son of your estranged son Douglas and his partner Eric."

Mrs. Whitmore's jaw dropped. In the silence the doorman gave her a wink. "Nice profit margin last quarter, though."

Her small eyes narrowed at him. Then, as if making a decision, she stepped past him and looked around at the vast lobby. Obsidian floors gleamed in the firelight coming from fire-pots near the ceiling, and glowing through the windows. "Where am I? What sort of place is this?"

"Welcome to Hell, ma'am. If you'll step over to the concierge, you will be given further information." 

She turned back to him, about to speak, but the Doorman made a sweeping gesture toward the reception desk at the far end of the lobby. His part of the conversation was over.

He turned back just in time to greet - "Jamal Okafia, welcome!" He gave the young man in the red T-shirt a complicated handshake while gently removing the gun from Jamal's waistband. "That fight was never going to go your way."

"Psh. Fuck you, too, Bolo-tie! You don't know nothin'. I gotta get back to my crew..." he turned toward the door, but the Doorman redirected him by the elbow. 

"There is no going back, Mr. Okafia. Your past has finally caught up with you. Now, if you would..."

"The fuck do you mean? Where the hell am I anyway?"

"That's right, sir. Welcome to Hell. Please check in at the front desk." He directed Jamal toward the concierge. Another soul was approaching the door.

Once more he pulled open the glass door. "Ahh, Miss Sofia Petrov. You've been a busy girl, haven't you?" he said with a smile. 

A surly twelve-year-old with short, dishwater-blond hair scowled at him. He received a lot of scowls. Smiling at people, here of all places, seemed to make them angrier. No one liked it when a stranger knew their secrets.

"Who are you? Where are my parents?" The questions came rapid fire from the girl's angry face.

"Ah, well, after you locked them in their bedroom and lit the fire, your whole house burned down. No one survived."

She looked down at her singed cuffs, then out the door the way she'd come in. Somehow, she still looked defiant.

He followed her gaze. "They won't be joining you, I'm afraid. Their souls have a different destiny."

At that, Sofia's face cleared. "Good." The scowl evaporated and her curious eyes finally looked around the lobby in fascination. "So, this is Hell?"

Every now and then, someone caught on without being told. 

"Cool. What do I do now?" But she had spotted the concierge. "Over there?" With a brief glance back to see the Doorman's nod, she was off.

The Doorman turned back to guard the door. Sometimes it was good to get them young. 

This story was inspired by the character of The Porter in Macbeth, which I'm currently reading. He is rousted from drunken sleep by the sound of knocking at the gates and considers what if he was answering the gates of Hell. It's comic relief in a dark play and I wanted to play with the "what if?" Hope you enjoyed it! 

Don't forget to leave your inspiring writing prompts in a comment.