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.

Wednesday Poetry Corner: King of Storms

Thor is not amused.
He has declared war on us.
Heavy is the storm. 

(Haiku written by me, Oct. 6, 2026)

View during the evening storm 06.10.26

 I read a lot of Shakespeare, and although I can't tell you which play has the line "heavy is the head that wears the crown" (maybe one of the Richards?) I think my Shakespeare reading habit is leaking into my haiku habit. 

Coffee Klatch: Spicy Coffee

It's pumpkin spice season in the U.S., and I do love me some pumpkin spice. (Not available where I live.) I love all the fall spices. In fact, I add cinnamon to the coffee I make at home everyday. 

Fall spices are more than that, though, pumpkin spice, mulled coffee, mulled wine... I enjoy making a big pot of mulled wine so much that, when I couldn't find mulling spices here, Brett ordered the individual spices to be delivered so that I could make it. 

I still have a lot of cloves left over, so when a video about adding cloves to coffee crossed my YouTube feed, I clicked on it. Apparently, adding one to three crushed cloves to a cup of coffee can act as an antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, and a bunch of other good stuff. 

So I tried it. 
I enjoy a little spice in my coffee. 
It works. 

 

I'm not such a fan of spicy books, though. Not in the traditional sense of spicy = racy = sexy. There's other spice, though, wouldn't you say? 

Take Agatha Christie, for instance. Her books often include a romantic element, but that's not the spicy part. Murder, secrets, betrayal, fighting over inheritance - that's the sharper spice in an Agatha Christie.

That's the kind of spice I like in a book: whatever stirs things up. I've tried reading spicy romance. I have. Just can't get through it. I struggle enough with regular romance!

And when I'm writing, the romantic part often goes sideways. The protagonist ends up better off on her own or in a different relationship, or just more self-aware. If the romantic element survives, it's a sidebar.

So I'm curious - What makes a book spicy for you?

Is it romance? If so, what makes romance relatable or interesting?

Is it a dramatic situation or plot twist? 

Is it secrets, betrayal, or murder? 

Fiction Friday - The Best Time of the Year

For eleven months of the year, I live in the dark.

Not perpetual blackness. No. Every month or so someone lifts the attic trap door to come up and search for something. While they dig around in some other box not mine, light follows through the door and casts shadows all around. 

But it never lasts. Usually it's just me and the other seasonal decorations, piled into a couple of white tubs near the ladder. 

It's crowded in here. That's the worst part. 

One year, the plastic cauldron had been packed away without a proper cleaning. Maybe that was the worst. We had ants that year. It's a mistake the family hasn't made since! 

But eleven months hidden in the dark when all you want to do is make people smile, laugh, maybe scream with joyful surprise is a long time.

October is different. 

When the attic door opens, I know. They come right over to my side of the attic. My storage tub plus two more are carried down the attic ladder.

The hands that reach into my tub are big and strong. They lift me carefully, "Got him."

I know that voice so well.💗The one they call "Dad".

He pulls me out and holds me up. "There you are, old boy." He fluffs up my fur, flat from being pressed in a box all year.

I don't know why he calls me boy. I don't know why they call me him. I've never been particularly curious about it. I'm a wolf. Maybe that settles it.

Dad carries me downstairs. Actually, he wears me. With my head over his own, he descends growling. 

"Oh, for God's sake," Mom says from somewhere below. The humor in her voice makes me happy.

The boy comes running. He's getting big enough now that Dad doesn't have to squat for him to scratch between my ears. "Wolfie! Who's a good boy?" Dad laughs, and lifts me off to take me outside.

The sun is warm on my fur. I can feel the breeze moving through the porch, and I smell the leaves, mown grass, and some fresh hay. 

Much better than being packed in a crowded tub in the attic.

Three bales of hay form a low pyramid at the back of the porch. Dad looks at it, then steps up to move one of the bales a little. "How's that?" He sets me on the top.

Not quite. 
He takes me down again.
A little higher. A little to the left. Then back to the right.

Finally, he gets me exactly where he wants me. I always have a front-row seat for the best month of the year. Gardening gloves are propped on either side, making it look like I'm gripping the bale from behind.

Dad pulls a handful of hay loose and sprinkles some on top of my head. 

He steps back, nods. "Our Halloween mascot. Perfect."

The rest of the family has been busy. There are decorations all around us now. At the other corner of the porch, the skeleton is rocking in his chair. Fake spiders have spun cottony webs across the windows, helped by Mom. A whole circle of bats hangs above the front door.

And me. Dad's favorite. Their mascot.

Mom takes out her phone and snaps a million pictures from the yard.

A neighbor walking past stops and stares. A man coming up the sidewalk slows to scan the skeleton, then the bats, then me. He stops, points. Everyone talks. Everyone smiles.

Later, a few people come into the yard to look more closely.

One woman jumps when she notices me. Then she laughs. I love that.

The family laughs too. The son tells her, "That's our Wolfie."

Yep, that's me!

As the afternoon fades, the family goes inside and the lights come on. They blink orange and green around the yard and in the windows, making the webs glow and bat shadows dance against the siding. 

The sky turns a beautiful pink and purple before fading to full night. 

Finally when Dad locks the front door, he comes out and stands beside me, leaning on the hay bale to look over everything. Then he reaches over and drapes his arm around me. "Gonna be a good season."

He goes inside and the house goes dark.

I'm back. It is going to be a good season. It always is.

This story was inspired by my dad's favorite Halloween decoration when I was a kid: a giant wolf head that he wore, along with wolf paws, to give the older neighborhood kids a friendly fright from our darkened porch (after trick-or-treating hours). That wolf was just a footnote to our Halloween, so it was fun making this guy Main Stage! 

Don't forget I'm always open to writing prompts. Have an idea? Drop me a comment!