Art Speaks [FICTION]

Being the designated driver has its perks. No hangover will turn your head into a boom box the following morning. Beer goggles don’t inhibit good choices when strangers try to win you over. And with my friends, I am guaranteed an amusing night. Their silliness and the amount of alcohol are directly proportional. 

Tonight, they choose to remind me of the downside of being the designated driver. The drunker they get, the longer they want to stay out. Their silliness also reaches its peak and an angry girlfriend confronts Betty over flirting she doesn’t consider harmless. I step between them before Betty can respond with drunken logic. The girlfriend rewards me with a slap to the face.

“Get your own boyfriend, tramps.” She fires over her shoulder before returning to her man.

He shrugs his enormous shoulders in our direction and leans down. Presumably, he whispers sweet apologies because she stands on her tiptoes to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips.

Betty snickers, “That might be the only way he can get that cold fish to kiss him.”

Before she can elaborate on the thoughts chasing through her foggy mind, I play the one card left to a designated driver when her friends reach the point of no return.

“Okay, ladies, my car is leaving in five minutes. Be in it or pay for a ride home.” 

I ignore the onslaught of pleading that ensues. Ten minutes later, we finally pull out of the bar’s parking lot. Despite their reluctance, all three of my friends sigh with relief as they slip off their heels to air out their feet. I roll down my window so I can breath.

I leave it down as I escort the last friend to her door. She showers me with drunken kisses and gratitude before stumbling through her door. I try the knob to satisfy myself that she is safely inside before returning to my car. 

I decide that letting the cool breeze continue to blow over me will keep me awake, so the window stays down. By the time I get home, the smell of sweaty dancing feet no longer assails my nostrils.

I roll up the window and head for the door. Drowsiness and high heels cause me to stumble almost as much as my friends. My balance returns when I close my door and slip off my shoes. I turn to face my living room, pondering whether I have the energy to make it up the short flight of stairs to my loft bedroom. The couch almost seems to beckon me into its overstuffed embrace.

As I take a few lazy steps toward it, voices come at me from the wall next to my head. I turn to look at the three small flower prints my mother bought to brighten up that wall. A purple pansy blinks at me before looking down and to the right where a white carnation tilts its petals upward expectantly.

A faux British accent comments, “She’s stumbling an awful lot for a designated driver now idn’t she?”

The soft voice one would expect from an aging patroness of the arts replies, “Maybe she finally gained an appreciation for the fermented grain and gave up that duty.”

The yellow rose lets out an unexpected guffaw and adds his thoughts in a rough voice. “Naw. Then she might be fun.”

As the flowers laugh, I begin to wonder if someone slipped something into my water. Unable to recall a moment when I wasn’t watching my glass vigilantly, my only solution is lack of sleep. I retreat from the giggling flowers into my bedroom.

I close the door behind but still hear them talking and laughing. I sigh and lean against the door bolstering my energy for one final plunge toward my bed. In the soft glow of the nightlight in my tiny bathroom, my eyes light on the unicorn painting over my bed. Bright blue eyes regard me sympathetically as I struggle to free myself from my bar attire.

“Why do humans insist on wearing those things?” The unicorn asks as I finally disengage the hooks in the back of my bra.

“Not you, too,” I groan, sliding into bed with alacrity as a sudden wave of modesty hits me.

“Seriously, do you see us covering our lovely fur and hair in fabric and dye and metal just to find a mate?” He asks gently, but I still feel compelled to defend my whole species.

“Don’t you knock each other around to find a mate?”

“Yes. That shows how worthy our genetics are to be passed on. What did your clothes show?”

I look in the direction of my pile of discarded coverings. I can’t see the light, long-sleeved sweater or black jeans, but I know they kept most guys from showing me interest all night. I grin but don’t respond.

“So glad you concede my point,” the unicorn whinnies happily.

“Sure. If it means I can sleep.”

“Ah, yes. You were out a bit late, weren’t you?”

“Really? I let you live on my walls and you all judge me.”

“Please don’t lump me in with those silly flowers. I just meant you need your sleep.” He began softly singing a lullaby in a language unknown yet somehow familiar.

The soft song and my long night ushered me swiftly into sleep.

—

Morning brought a headache as my alarm went off earlier than my body felt was necessary. I rolled over to hit the snooze button and landed on my bottom. I squealed as my bare skin connected with cold wood. Memories of conversations with my art flooded back to my mind. I looked up at the unicorn who looked down at me as he always had. 

“What a trippy dream. I have to set a curfew on my designated driver duties,” I declare to the empty room.

Then I glance up at the unicorn and he winks.

A Muse’s Feet [FICTION]

Feet make me giggle. They always have. They probably always will. Baby feet inspire a sweet giggle. Twisted feet that have seen many years make me giggle sympathetically. Feet with long, yellowed toenails twisting every which way elicit frightened giggles that keep bubbling up even as fear grips my heart and twists it.

I don’t tell people this anymore. I told a roommate in college and she used the information to amuse herself at my expense. She frequently woke me up by diving into my bed so her toes were wiggling under my nose. She visited a podiatrist solely to pick up some brochures that kept reappearing no matter how many times I threw them out. She invited her friends over to model strappy shoes. She even hosted numerous Hobbit parties where bare feet were required and hairy ones encouraged. I never told another living soul after that. And, of course, I didn’t renew a lease with her as my roommate.

I almost ask my boss if he knows her when he gives me my next assignment—lead reporter for the New Orleans Foot festival whose final day coincides with the Thursday before Mardi Gras. Every activity involves bare, naked feet where anyone can see them.

“Now, Emily, you don’t have to join the foot fetishists when they drink champagne out of a glass slipper, but you need to write about it in such a way that even the foot phobia-ists wish they were there.”

I don’t bat an eyelash at his made up words. In the moment, I couldn’t say if my lack of surprise stems from the horror of this assignment or the fact that my editor invents words regularly because he thinks it makes him sound smarter. When I realize his eyes haven’t left mine, I smile at him and make a desperate gamble for sanity.

“Which event did you want me to attend, sir?”

He grins at me. “All of them. And Daniel will be with you to snap photos of you enjoying the footivities.”

I blink rapidly to quell urges to roll my eyes at his liberties with the language and giggle because Daniel wears Birkenstock sandals even when snow threatens to bring our city to a standstill. On the rare occasions we work together, I practice extreme focus on everything waist high and above. He has never commented, so maybe he hasn’t noticed.

-

I don’t know how he does it, Daniel takes pictures that may just save my job for me. If I can stop giggling long enough to eke out one last article that is. His pictures show me having a wonderful time. Somehow he captures disturbed giggles and transforms them to fun-loving smiles. On top of that, he captures a photogenic side of me that no photographer had ever seen before.

Thanks to those flattering photos, the final day of the festival finds me in a yellow-sequined gown between two female podiatrists about to board the Krewe of Muses float. My companions wear matching dresses in purple and green as we approach the float with reverence and awe that seem necessary from such an elaborate creation. A tall woman with blond curls and a silver mask, looks us over before her eyes rest on Daniel, who stands behind us with his camera ready. Her blue eyes narrow behind the slits in her mask as she looks him up and down.

“Sorry. Only Muses can ride on this float. That means daughters of Zeus not his sons.”

He bows before her, smiling. “Of course, I just want to get a few pictures for the newspaper.”

“Ah. You’re the reporter who lucked into an invite.” She beams at me.

I beam back. You can’t helps smiling back at a Muse, after all. “That’s me.”

“Welcome. We know you’ll have so many wonderful things to write about, but don’t forget to mention our philanthropic work.”

I nod at her as three more Muses step forward to welcome us to the float and helps us complete our costumes as part of the prize package the podiatrists won at auction.

The Muse who greets me has shoulder length red hair, dark-framed glasses over her mask by some magic, and a wonderful smile accented by dimples. She extends her hands to show me a glittery, purple calf boot.

“I knew I made a spare for a reason.” She says. “Your new friends told me that you didn’t have time to make a shoe.” 

My mouth drops open in awe. Having done my research, I know that the parade goers covet these one of a kind masterpieces. 

“For me?”

She grins and giggles. “Until you pass it on to some lucky member of the crowd.”

As I marvel at the decorations gracing the boot, another Muse steps forward and offers me and my companions masks that perfectly match our dresses.

“Mask up,” I say as I slip mine over my face.

“I knew you’d be fun,” the podiatrist to my left grabs my arm and hugs it close before donning her own mask.

“Me, too,” her friend bumps my elbow affectionately, “If Dr. Drew had to be sick, I’m glad we found a feisty back-up.”

Then we follow a regal procession to find a spot on the float from which to wave and eventually select a lucky person to receive the gift of a glittery shoe. As we slowly make our way down the street, I keep an eye out for the right person. Then I see her. Tiny little toes wave at me from the crowd. A little girl bedecked in enough beads that she could have been naked beneath them without anyone noticing sat high atop her daddy’s shoulders with her bare feet waving in the cool evening air. I stared at those wiggling toes on those tiny perfect feet. I didn’t giggle. Not even a hint of one crossed my lips. 

Instead I calmly leaned out from the float as far as I could, meeting the eye of her father and gesturing for him to step forward. His face lit up as the float came to a gentle halt. Then I offered the shoe to his little princess. She squealed in delight, taking the shoe and holding it up like the true trophy such a gift is. The crowd cheered. I cheered with them, smiling sweetly at her before taking one last peek at those feet. I took a deep breath. I still didn’t giggle. Not even a hint of a snicker escaped me as the float started moving again.

~~~

Truth be told, I have a former boss who is a member of the Krewe of Muses. No idea how I know so many awesome people, but I am grateful to be inspired by them. Sadly, I have not yet made it to NOLA though many people have told me I should and real Cajun food and beignets sound like culinary delights my tongue must experience someday. Though my first attempt at shrimp etouffee was approved by a Cajun friend passing through, so maybe I do have an idea of how delicious a trip to New Orleans could be. Sorry this post is late late late, but we all know I am secretly the White Rabbit when I try so hard to be the Cheshire Cat.

Emoji Love [FICTION]

“They’ll cost a little bit more. But they speak to the young romantics of today.” I finish, holding my breath as the board contemplates my presentation. 

On the screen behind me, pastel squares feature images of heart emojis, the American Sign Language “I Love You”, and people hugging. Some have little acronym greetings like LMK (Let Me Know), FTW (For The Win), JW (Just Wondering), ISO U (In Search Of You), HMU (Hit Me Up), WDYT (What Do You Think), AMA (Ask Me Anything), ILY (I Love You), and OTP (One True Pairing).

The members of the board ponder the images a moment longer and exchange looks. My lip slides between my teeth as the chairperson looks up with unreadable eyes and softly speaks.

“Let us have a moment to discuss this. You’ll find some fresh donuts in the break room.”

“Thank you,” I force myself to speak clearly and confidently before exiting in search of sugary courage.

I have nervously nibbled through half a donut when the stenographer comes to invite me back to the meeting. She smiles reassuringly but deflects my shallow attempts to get a hint at my idea’s fate. She quickly takes her seat without glancing at anyone. My eyes, however, rove with questioning hopefulness over every face. They all look back at me impassively, so my eyes return to the chairman.

“We love that you want to appeal to a younger demographic, but we feel like they won’t go for the chalky candy even if we shape it like a tiny cellphone. We also fear making it too much like another product that has been on the market a long long time might leave us open to a lawsuit.” He pauses to look at me kindly and let me process.

I nod my head, preparing to face rejection of yet another seasonal idea.

“But we like the idea enough that we would like to do some research and see how younger people react to your Love-texts if they are molded into chocolate or maybe a hard candy. Would you be willing to help with that research and development?”

I stand numbly taking this in until he clears his throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

—

A year later, I am head of the Textual Love division. Our products may cost a little more than our competitors, but they taste better and say more.

~~~

Oops. Another later entry. Sorry, dear readers. 

Of Dishes and Spoons [FICTION]

Why did that dish run away with that spoon

Was it because they feared the cow and moon

Would be married faster, love more

Or because they needed someone to adore?

In a fairy tale kingdom where nursery rhymes come to life, the utensils decided to have a grand ball. The evening should have been perfect with spoons dancing with spoons and dishes canoodling under the moon. However, an odd number of dishes and spoons showed up. Dolly Dish and Salvatore Spoon stood alone at the side of the dance floor, watching their friends dancing happily in neat rows.

“He is quite handsome,” Dolly whispered to herself as she looked at Salvatore out of the corner of her eye, “For a dish.”

He didn’t hear her, but he smiled back, thinking how lovely and shiny she was compared to the dishes he normally went out with. When she didn’t look away, he rolled over to her. 

“Care to dance?”

“Sure. Why not?”

As they danced together, the other dishes and spoons on the dance floor slowly took notice. Soon the unusual couple stood at the center of a crowd of onlookers. Instead of admiring the graceful way they moved as one, the crowd seemed more focused on something else.

“How could she? A spoon?”

“Dishes belong with dishes.”

“Spoons should spoon with spoons.

“What do they think could come from this?”

“She’d never fit in a drawer.”

“He’d just get lost in a cabinet.”

As the voices rose, the dishes and spoons began fighting with each other. The clank of metal on ceramic drew Dolly and Salvatore from their dance. 

“What’s going on?” Dolly whispered.

“I think they’re fighting over us.”

“That’s silly.”

“Silly or not. It might be wise to get out of here.”

Weaving between the dueling dishes and squabbling spoons, the newly minted couple headed for the door. As they reached it, the shadow of a bovine passed over the moon.

‘What an odd night.” Dolly declared.

“Yes, but one I wouldn’t have wanted to miss. Run away with me?”

“Of course, but where to?”

“A better storybook land. One where a spoon can live happily ever after with the dish of his dreams?”

“We might have to build it, but I’m in.”

~~

Luckily, my husband and I are both clearly hobbits, so people don’t question our love, but I have heard comments about friends of mine that hurt. If you don’t see people in their day to day lives, showing love and respect for each other despite differences that honestly don’t matter, then you don’t have a right to judge them.