Senior Spies [FICTION]

“Uh-oh,” my cubicle mate says as I grab my mug and head for the break room.

“It’s nine in the morning and already a two cocoa day.”

“That’s Monday for ya.”

“Amen to that,” she grins at me and waves me on my way, “go before you become unpleasant.”

I giggle because she’s not wrong. My giggle tapers off as I approach the picture window overlooking the sidewalk outside. Someone paid to have a bench placed there. In the summer, I like to curl up on one end with a book during my breaks, but summer hasn’t arrived yet. A gust of wind blows droplets of spring rain across the two older gentlemen sharing the bench.

Neither reacts to the rain. In fact, I’d assume they were two strangers sharing a bench albeit in non-bench-worthy weather. But they keep talking to each other. They never glance at each other, but they take turns speaking. Had this phenomenon not caught my attention, I might have moved on to my cocoa infusion.  

As I vainly attempt to determine what words they are exchanging, I realize that the man on my left looks familiar despite the oversized hat valiantly keeping his face dry. I crouch down to peer up under the brim.

“Granpap!” I exclaim.

I don’t need to read lips to guess what they are up to. I storm back to my desk to claim my umbrella. My cubicle mate takes one look at me and suddenly becomes immersed in her work.

I hear her mutter, “Someone’s in trouble,” as I make my way to the exit.

Moments later I stand before my grandfather and his best friend Larry who happens to be the best baker in town. They look up at me in surprise, blinking as my umbrella diverts rivulets of rain to the space between them.

“Aren’t you a little old for spy games, boys?”

“I told you she’d make a fabulous nun just like Sister Mary What’s Her Name back in school.” Larry grins at me.

“Neither of you went to Catholic school. Now spill.”

“Better watch out. Librarians don’t use rulers, they use atlases. So much more surface area.” My grandfather feigns whacking someone with an oversized book.

I shake my head, “why are you comedians staking out my workplace?”

“This is a nice bench,” Larry offers.

“For sitting on,” Granpap adds with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Not in the rain,” I point out.

“Well, we didn’t think of that when we…”

“Made plans for sitting,” my grandpa interrupts.

“If you two fools get sick, I am not making you chicken noodle soup,” I turn on my heel and stalk back to the library entrance.

Speedy shuffling steps trail behind me. “Don’t be like that. You make the best chicken noodle soup.” My grandpa pleads.

“Yeah. Now that you mention it, I’d love some, but I don’t want to get sick to enjoy that soup. Mmm.” Larry adds.

“I’ll consider making a pot after work, but I want to know what you’re up to.” I lower my umbrella and shake it at them as we step inside. 

They exclaim in surprise and jump away from each other. I snicker and head into warmth and dryness. When they catch up to me, I wait with folded arms for answers. 

“Well, your birthday is coming up,” grandpa starts.

“And I wanted to bake you the perfect cake. Your grandfather suggested…”

“That we make it look like your favorite place,” he throws his arms out wide to indicate the library.

“That still doesn’t explain this,” I wave my own hands up and down in front of their dripping outfits.

“I wanted a good look at the outside and today was my only free day. Lots of cake tastings, you know.”

 

“It might be better not to try to surprise me,” I suggest as I lead them to the main desk and grab a pamphlet, “Because I could have saved you some effort. Look this over and I’ll see you both for dinner.”

They stare down at the library brochure which features color photos of our beloved building.

“She’s good.”

“Yeah. My granddaughter really is more of a librarian than a nun.”

—

A friend of mine mentioned that she might just stay engaged forever because it is easier than being married. Of course, now I wonder if my hubby will divorce me so we can be perpetually engaged and have a million cake tastings. That probably means I shouldn’t do a million dress fittings since they would become necessary.

Small Town, Strange Problem [FICTION]

When the weather turns hot and humid, my picturesque small town smells like it has a monopoly on baking cow pies. For those who might assume this is some backwoods specialty involving a pie crust and ground beef, that dish goes by the name cheeseburger pie or even shepherd’s pie. (Both delicious. Give them a try.) Cows make cow pies themselves after ruminating on their cud until every bit of nutrition has been absorbed. They are very resourceful that way. I could say much more about cows, but most people are lucky to make it this far without their eyelids slamming down like shutters against a storm of boredom. 

This morning, the smell of cow pies hung over the town. By the time I strolled down Main Street to the grocery store, I no longer noticed how my nose burned. I did buy a pie to heft home with my other purchases though, so maybe a part of me still acknowledged the prevailing message carried on the wind.

By the time I stepped back out into natural light, the desire to finish my brisk walk and then sink into my comfy chair for a good read while sampling my pie dominated every thought. With such complicated ideas already filling my head, one would hope nothing could distract me from my goal. On any other day, that would be true. Today proved different.

Honk! Honk!

“Moo!”

My jaw dropped to the ground and my groceries almost followed. Bicycles clustered along the normally calm roadways. That alone would cause confusion. But each bike bore a bovine rider. That’s cows, people! No bulls, just cows. One even squirted milk wildly as she struggled to keep pedaling with her little hooves. I swear her moo sounded more like a laugh as milk squirted in my eye causing me to almost drop my bags. Again. 

As the automatic door whirred to life behind me, I turned to see my former principal exiting the grocery store. He greeted me with a friendly wave before heading toward the high school like bizarre events weren’t on display all around him. In fact, he offered friendly waves to the unusual bicyclists he passed.

That moved my attention from the cows to my fellow humans. Foot traffic doesn’t plague our streets but generally a few people are out and about, exercising or gossiping or running quick errands. I looked for them and scanned their faces. None of them seemed to notice the bovine bikers. The few who recognized that bicycles passed by them acted as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Finally, I moved from my spot just outside the doors. I approached the nearest human and smiled in as friendly manner as I could muster with my growing anxiety. 

“Do you notice anything odd?”

She stared at me blankly for a moment and then opened her mouth to release a slow and discerning, “moo.”

This time my bags did fall from my grasp. Groceries spilled out on the ground around me. I joined them, fainting in a heap. My last thought expressed gratitude that my head landed on a comforting pillow of freshly baked pie.

—

When I came to, the doctor was rubbing my hand. “There you are. Thank goodness.”

Relieved to be addressed in English instead of moo, I grinned back her.

“You feeling okay? You bumped your head. Thank goodness for the pie. I think it saved you from a concussion but your hair might need a few washes before the blueberry comes out.” She continued to examine me as she talked, shining a light in my eyes and checking my pulse.

“So what exactly happened?” I asked tentatively.

“What do think happened?” She countered with an amused grin.

I looked down at my hands and shrugged my shoulders. She laughed softly and patted my hand.

“With the heat, the methane levels reached near toxic levels. If anything unusual happened, it was your mind coping with a lack of oxygen. You stay here and relax. We aren’t releasing any of our patients until the fire department helps get the methane levels down.”

“Oh?”

The doctor heard the implied question. “They have masks to help them breath so they are helping the farmers scoop poop.”

I nodded understanding and rested my head on my pillow. Soon I slept and dreamt of moo.

~~~

The thought of cow pies always makes me giggle. My chemistry class in high school performed a lab experiment that should have resulted in fudge. A classmate who comes from a long line of farmers and is now a vet declared that most of us actually made cow pies. Kind of makes you wonder what kind of grass was going through that chemistry class, am I right?

Also, I am not a doctor. Please don’t diagnose yourself based on my stories. That is so many steps lower than diagnosing yourself via webmd.

Wishes for Gold [FICTION]

I knew this year would be my lucky year. COVID restrictions lifted enough for me to travel to France. Sadly, Notre Dame won’t open again until next year, but the view from the Eiffel Tower took my breath away. If luck holds and my plans come to fruition, I will be able to step into Quasimodo’s sanctuary in 2024. Maybe I’ll even witness the Olympics in person. The second I saw a rainbow in the sky on my way to work this morning, a plan to change my future presented itself.

I rushed back to my house, calling in sick even as I fumbled quietly for my keys. I traded my sensible pumps for even more sensible sneakers. Then I rushed back out into the morning air to seek the end of the rainbow. As I weaved in and out of familiar streets, I kept my eyes on the sky. In retrospect, I never should have found the end of the rainbow that day, but I felt lucky so I questioned nothing.

The end of the rainbow surprised me though. It exceeded my expectations. At first the sparkle of the gold sent my heart plummeting. It gave off iridescent sparkles like glitter. Had I been duped? As I stepped closer, the ethereal glitter seemed to creep up onto my skin, giving me the appearance of a magical creature. 

The otherworldly sparkles couldn’t do anything for the actual magical being who stood staring up at me with his arms crossed.

“Ye foolish mortals canna help yerselves, kin ye?” He asked in a heady Irish brogue as we surveyed each other. 

I didn’t dare speak, afraid my voice would shatter the illusion.

He grumbled to himself and stepped forward to poke me angrily in my kneecap. “I s’pose ye’ll be wanting me gold now?”

I nodded my head, finally loosening my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “That’s the rule, isn’t it? I find the end of the rainbow and get a pot of gold.”

“Harumph. That is the rule, isn’t it…” a flicker of a smile crossed his face and then disappeared again as he uncrossed his arms.

A black pot filled with gilded coins appeared in his hands and his face fell as he looked at me, “Of course, if ye take me gold, I canna grant ye three wishes…”

I cocked my head to the side, contemplating this revelation, “Three wishes?”

“Indeed. Ye could have so much more than this measly pot of me gold…” 

My hand dropped to my side as I contemplated this. “So…”

“Ye don’t want me pot of gold then?”

“I guess not,” I said, “But I have a few questions about my wishes.”

“What wishes?” He asked with an impish grin. “I just needed ye to say ye gave up claims to me gold.”

His laughter swirled in the air around me even as he dissolved in a magical glimmer.

I laughed and cried at the same time as I stared at the edges of the rainbow that seemed untethered without the tiny magic Irishman to root them to the spot. As the hysterical laughter finally released its hold on me, I breathlessly chided myself. “I can’t believe I let him trick me. I was so close.”

~~~

I hope all your wishes come true of St. Patrick’s Day, particularly if they involve corned beef and cabbage and Irish soda bread. Yum!

Hoping for Home [FICTION]

Some workdays end with a deep desire to drape across my couch with some munchies. Today definitely ranks as one of those days. I tap my foot impatiently as a coworker struggles to swipe her badge over the time clock. Having participated in the same orientation session as her, I can’t feign surprise, but the last of my patience whittles away as I resist the urge to grab her card and forcefully help her out.

The drive home continues to prove the adage that common sense isn’t that common. One driver inches out in front of me at the last second and proceeds to creep along at half the speed limit. The person in a lifted truck behind me gets so close to my bumper that his engine makes my car rumble. Luckily, the speed racer in front of me doesn’t slam on their brakes. Not that they need to even when they decide to come to a complete stop and look both ways to turn into a neighborhood I swear connects to the one they popped out of. Then the guy in front of me at the light to turn onto my street sleeps through one and a half green lights despite my anxious honking. I barely make it through the second only to end up behind him as he pauses to inspect every house in the neighborhood. 

 

I gratefully pull into the garage, closing the door against the world. I slip my key into the interior door and pull it open. Instead of my inviting couch, a dozen Minotaurs writhing to soft chanting around a bonfire greet me. As I stare in bewilderment, one Minotaur turns, sees me, and charges toward me. 

“Sacrifice!” He roars.

I slam the door and lean on my car a minute. Then I venture in again. This time snow swirls out at me. Climbers in so many layers that I wouldn’t recognize a familiar face slowly make their way up a sheer rock face before me. One waves and invites me to join them. I ponder for a second, look down into the unending fall where my tan carpet should be, and close the door again.

Before slipping the key in the lock again, I summon some old school magic. I click the heels of my shoes together three times. With each click, I repeat, “there’s no place like home.”

Then I turn the key and slowly open the door. Disappointment strikes immediately as my living room doesn’t await my lounging needs. Then what does await registers and I grin. Sand sparkles just inside the doorway. Further out, salty water crashes against the beach. Between here and there, two low chairs rest in the sand. A man stands up from one of them and turns toward me. He smiles and two dimples blossom in his cheeks. I can’t help but smile back. Then he steps toward me.

“Haven’t seen you here before.”

“Because I haven’t been here before.”

“I can tell.”

I offer a quizzical look.

“You aren’t dressed for the beach.”

I look down at my sweater dress and calf boots. “Point taken.”

“Maybe you could find something at the gift shop?” He looks hopefully off to his left.

“Maybe.” I bite my lip and step over the threshold.

My heels sink into the sand and I start to fall.

“Let’s take those off,” he lifts me off my feet and sits me on one of the chairs to do just that.

Soon, I find myself clad in a modest one piece suit, sipping a frozen hot chocolate, and getting to know Louie. The warmth of the sun lulls me to sleep. When I wake, I expect to find myself sprawled across my couch, surrounded by empty snack bags and crumbs, but I wake up on the sand with a large umbrella shading my fair skin from the sun.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” Louie grins at me as he refreshes my lemonade. “You woke up just in time for me to invite you to dinner.”

I glance toward the open door into my garage. None of the other scantily-clad sun seekers seems to notice it, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off of it as I answer.

“I’m not sure. I should probably get home.”

“Home? Where’s that?”

I try to remember the name of my town, but all sensible thought escapes me as I look back to him and his smile creates those two perfect dimples.

“Maybe it can wait,” I mumble.

He offers his elbow and I accept it, falling into step with him as we walk barefoot across the warm sand. Soon we reach a restaurant with a friendly sign declaring, “No shoes. No problem. Eat on our sun-drenched deck.”

A tiny woman with unreal red hair smiles up at us as we approach. “Welcome to The Break Room, would you like a seat on our deck?” She directs her eyes pointedly at our feet.

“Yes, please,” Louie flashes his 100 watt smile at her, “One with an umbrella, if you could.”

“Of course,” she nods her head and leads us to a table, where a taller woman with tight, dark curls meets us with menus and a wide smile.

~

Halfway through my club sandwich, I realize that I left the door to my garage wide open on the beach. What if someone steps through it? Or someone picks this moment to rob me and closes it on the other side?

Louie smiles at me, but even those dimples can’t completely squash my concerns. I try to be subtle, but his eyebrows raise in concern as I start noshing with determination.

“Still anxious about getting home?”

“A little.”

“Then let me drive you?”

“That might be a little difficult.”

“Huh?”

My tongue refuses to confess something so ridiculous as not knowing where I was let alone where home was from here. He continues to peer into my eyes with concern and curiosity until I finally break the silence.

“Let’s just go back where we met.”

“That is a memory I don’t mind reliving, but surely you don’t live on a sandy patch of beach.”

“Of course not,” I laugh softly and finish my water.

He shakes his head and stands to offer his hand, “Back to my new favorite spot on the beach.”

We fall into comfortable silence. As we near the spot, Louie stops suddenly. Now, I look at him with confused eyes. 

“Here we are,” he smiles down at me but it begins to fall as his eyes met mine, “or not?”

“A little further that way,” I tip my head toward the open doorway.

As he turns his head, a woman in a vivid pink bikini walks straight through the doorway. Instead of bumping into my car, she reappears on the other side of the doorway. She shakes her blond curls and glances around in confusion. Then she rubs her shoulders firmly and shivers before shaking it off and continuing her head-turning stroll across the glittering sand.

I frown and walk toward the doorway, bringing Louie with me as I am not quite ready to let him go. I look from the doorway to his concerned face.

“Can I see your phone?”

He looks confused for a moment, but pulls it from his pocket and hands it to me with hopeful eyes. “Need to call someone to make sure you can stay longer?”

“I just want to make sure you have my number.” I concentrate on entering it correctly though his wide grin distracts me. 

As I hand the phone back, I take his hand again and plead. “If this doesn’t work, call me. Please.” Then I step into the doorway. He steps through after me, but I find myself alone in my garage.

I take a deep breath and wait.

Then my phone rings.

~~~

This post is so belated, that you should eat it with some pie. I feel like this story had more to say, but I just couldn't get it together to add to it. Anyone want to be my maid and dishwasher, so I can write a little longer each day? I can't wait for all the volunteers to show up ;)

Fated Journey [FICTION]

1491 shall be the year that I sail around the world. My family begged me not to go. They believe I will sail right off the world into nothingness. I know I shall find something wondrous and world changing that prevents that from happening. Luckily, my profits from trading goods between my country and those near and far have finally provided enough funds to pay for my grand exploration.

My regular crew has sworn to follow me anywhere. Their assertions prove false. After loading the hold and preparing their bunks, one of them asks about our destination.

“We’re going to sail around de world and back again.” I declare proudly.

“Around the world?” My first mate asks, unrolling the map of the world to gaze at it. “By what route?”

He traces his finger over to the west, up to the top of the world to the far east, and then back home.

“No. No. I want to go straight through.” I push my finger further west, pick it up and bring it back around from the far east.

“But the world ends here, Captain.” He points at a triangle etched gently in red on the far western edge of the map.

“I don’t believe it does and I aim to prove it.”

“But no one ever comes back who takes that route.”

“Perhaps because they found something better than they had here,” I offer with a look which challenges any to contradict me.

The first mate glances at the other members of the crew and does just that. “Captain, please don’t make us do this.”

“Are you loyal men or mutineers?”

“Loyal men, sir.” 

“Then hold your heads up high and prepare to make history.”

They all stand a little taller, but I see the fear in their eyes. I should have found a more adventurous crew, but I wanted one that was tried and true. To the man, they had saved me from danger and kept me going when the situation seemed dire. I wanted to bring them with me, but now I am not sure. It is too late to change course or crew now.

“Shove off, men.” I call out and we are underway.

~~

Smooth sailing graces the first leg of our journey. Anxiety mounts as we draw closer to the triangle on the first mate’s crudely drawn map. One evening, he joins me in my cabin. He pours me a hearty glass of scotch, pushing it toward me in silence. I raise an eyebrow and belt it back, knowing he won’t speak his mind until I accept this offering.

“What’s on your mind?”

“We still have time to divert our course around the triangle, sir.”

“That we do, but we will sail through the heart of it and come out the other side. You’ll see.”

He sighs but inclines his head in defeat. “Aye. Aye, Captain.”

I pour him a glass of scotch and push it over to him After her takes a healthy slug, I hold out my hand. “I’m glad to have you with me on this journey.”

“Thank you, sir.” We shake hands, holding on as tightly as we’d hold the bowline if need be.

Our eyes lock and though I see his fear, he meets my eyes. Then we release our grip. He finishes his scotch and heads out into the night. I hear another crewman hail him as the door closes behind his back. I return to examining the course I have been plotting, willing the morning to bring proof of my hypothesis. 

Instead, the morning brought a storm unlike any I have ever experienced. It wakes me up by dumping me roughly from my bunk. I crawl across the floor to open the door. A deluge of water washes over me. Moments later, my first mate washes in.

“Morning, Captain,” he greets me with green-faced joviality. “Ready to turn back yet?”

“No.” I declare as I slam the door on another wave.

“I had hoped you’d have a different answer, sir.”

“But I am the Captain, so you’ll support me.” I tell him.

His face becomes greener. “Well, you see, sir. Then I’d be in the same boat with ye.”

“You already are.”

He looks sadly at his hands as the door slams open again. Instead of another watery horde, the two largest members of my crew barge into the room. They grab me by the shoulders and lift me out the door into the pouring rain.

“I’m sorry about this, Captain. I am.” My first mate leans in to whisper in my ear. 

Looking in his moist eyes, I believe him. “You’ve decided to mutiny against yer Captain. Are ye a bunch of landlubbers?” I roar over the wind.

“Sorry, Captain. We don’t plan to die for anyone else’s fairy tales.” One of the burly men responds in a deep voice. “Whether he be the captain or no.”

The second chimes in as they lead me toward one of the small boats used to go ashore in low waters, “But we wish you well and hope to see you back at home.”

A scrawny crewman who joined us at the last minute and always regarded me with wide eyes reserved for gold doubloons or unreachable idols steps forward and hands me a sack. “Good luck, sir.” I swear tears moisten his eyes more than the storm.

Then the burly crewmen heave me over the side. I grip the sack and the side of the rowboat boat with both hands. I may not survive the storm with them, but I am certain I won’t without them. I barely feel the splash as my tiny boat connects with the water. I hunker down and hope for the best as the waves toss me about. In the dark, with no way of determining my heading, rowing against the raging waters would only serve to wear me out.

At some point, the storm dissipates and the gentle rocking of the waves puts me to sleep. Sunlight pulls me out of a nightmare of mutiny to the realization the mutiny wasn’t a nightmare. I slowly rise to peer over the edge of the boat. Clear seas greet me from every direction. With the sun to shed light on the contents, I open the sack.

“Bless him. I wish I remembered his name.” 

I pull out a compass and some rations and a few water skins. Carefully nested in a change of clothes and a sturdy box, I find my spare sextant  and a compass giving shape to the bottom of the bag. As I check my direction, I am pleased to find myself still headed west toward the triangle.

~~

As the sun rises to its full height in the sky, a thick fog slowly settles around me. I marvel at this as fog usually melts in the rays of the sun. I glance down at my compass to assure myself that my prow still cuts through the waters to the west. Instead of being reassured, my confusion deepens. The needle bounces from side to side as if inspired to dance by a steady drumbeat. I look up again to behold shadows floating in the fog. 

A roar sounds over my head and I look up to see a manta ray soaring across the sky at unbelievable speed. My jaw drops to my chest. Then the force of a collision forces it back into position. Emerging out of the fog, an immense ship blocks my way forward. Men in matching uniforms of starched white peer down at me over the railing. Their faces mirror the mystification clouding my mind.

Before I can call out, the mist seems to rise and takes the mirage with it. I marvel at the brilliance of clear skies above and calm seas below. A glance at my instruments reveals that I am still heading west. I fashion a crude hat from my bag to keep the sun out of my eyes and look at the meager food left for my consumption. I nibble a bit of jerky and look out toward the horizon, hoping to see land.

The next three days pass in much the same way, except that the third day finds me nibbling on the last bit of jerky from my rations and sipping sadly at the last drips from my water skin. As the last bit of water wets my tongue, I shield my eyes as I peer out to the horizon. A large shape bobs in the distance. I stare at it, wondering if my mind is already slipping away from me. But if I let it disappear from view, I would not have time to forgive myself, so I applied myself to the oars as if I believed in this vision before me to be reality.

“Bless me. It’s the captain!” A familiar voice echoed over the water as I drew closer to the apparition, which now revealed itself to be my own ship.

I stopped rowing and stared up at my first mate as other crew members joined him to peer down at me. 

“I guess the world didn’t end at the triangle after all,” a rough voice declared, “Bring him aboard.”

As they worked to reclaim me, no one deigned to meet my eye. With my feet finally firmly on my deck, I eyed them all wearily. 

“So what do we do now?” Someone asked as they surrounded me.

“Good to see you, captain,” the first mate said though he hadn’t looked me directly in the eyes.

“I wish it were mutual,” I said as I tapped my sextant against my leg and surveyed my men, searching for the boy.

When my eyes rested on him, he held my gaze for a second before looking to the deck in shame.

“Step forward, boy.”

He did so, haltingly.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Earl Withers,” he mumbled.

“Looks like I am the Captain of this ship again. Want to try your hand at first mate?”

My former first made hung his head, but no one argued my statement. The rest of the route home found a very quiet ship except for waves slapping against the hull and birds crying over our heads whenever we approached land. Though Earl did warm up to me by the end of the journey, offering me the occasional joke to liven up the day. Upon reaching our home shore, the men set the ship to rights and disappeared onto the docks. I wasn’t sorry to see the backs of them. Earl and I stood alone on the deck, surveying the owner of the ship as he came aboard to hear about our journey. He seemed satisfied with the goods we had acquired, but I could tell by the hesitancy with which he paid me the agreed fee that rumors had already spread about the mutiny against my command.

 

~~

One year from our fateful voyage and I seek out my former crew. I don’t blame them for not wanting to see me. I wouldn’t want to see the disappointment etched on my face either, but today they shall see it. They shall not turn away because today they must admit that I spoke true when I said we could safely circle the world. I wish they had seen what I saw, so someone could help me make sense of it, but no man nor beast will let me sail a ship now. Once the aura of a curse falls upon you, the whole world avoids being in your wake.

~~

I was torn between having them speak with terrible grammar and mispronunciation, which can be annoying to read, and my normal narrative style. What say ye? Did I choose wisely?