Revenge of the Candy [FICTION]

Night after night after night, life remains uneventful. Then the one night of the year comes that breaks the humdrum of our lives. We deck out our houses with cobwebs and pumpkins and hide ourselves behind wigs, makeup, latex, and nightmares. Children and adults share in the awe and wonder that culminates in Halloween night. A night when parents get the chance to share the glorious night with younger versions of ourselves, our children. Sadly, their interest wanes as they outgrow their need for our protection from the terrifying.

With a few weeks left before Halloween, I greeted my son Cal at the door with pictures of the final candidates for our costumes. I had tried to catch him numerous times, but he was always rushing somewhere. This time, I timed it perfectly and met him at the door. We would have a few minutes before dinner. He glanced at my idea sheets as he dropped his bag at my feet before focusing on his scuffed sneakers.

“Sorry, mom. I promised the guys we’d go as the ninja turtles this year.”

I choked back my feelings and flashed him a smile. “Well, that sounds like fun.”

“And we wanted to go trick-or-treating by ourselves,” he mumbled as his eyes moved up to his hands.

“Oh.” I couldn’t find words, so I turned toward the kitchen. “I should finish dinner.”

Silence reigned between us through the intervening days. We broke it only for required greetings or polite requests. When Halloween finally arrived, my husband helped Cal into his costume and walked him to the door for a few final words of caution. I hid in the kitchen, pretending that the fun size candies needed more work than simply opening a bag and dumping it into my oversized cauldron. With no partner in costuming, I had pulled out an old witch costume from before my precious boy entered my life. The itchy wig and slightly tight black dress accentuated my misery.

I sighed as the door closed behind Leonardo with his blue mask and foam katana. I focused more intently on my mix of candy, stirring it aimlessly as I watched the colorful packages swirl.

My husband joined me in the kitchen. “That looks just right, honey.” He reached around me to grab a peanut butter cup from the top of the stash.

“Thank you.” I mumbled.

“Cheer up, babe. You still have me.” As he leaned down to kiss the top of my head, the doorbell rang. “And your annual visitors. Better treat them. We don’t need toilet paper.”

I thanked him with a peck on the cheek and headed to the door. Throughout the evening, he offered me his winning grin whenever I glanced his way. The doorbell rang and rang. I tossed out candy to ghosts and goblins, superheroes and villains, and creatures I wouldn’t even try to figure out. I even doled out some treats to a couple of teenagers who were wearing far too little clothing for the gusts of chill wind that swept down our street. Even the sweetest smiles and expressions of gratitude made no dent in the shadow on my mood.

Halfway through the evening, my son returned home. The banging of the back door sent me racing to intercept an interloper. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, Cal’s back was disappearing up the stairs, one katana hanging dejectedly from his back without its partner.

My husband followed close at my heels. We exchanged that silent look so familiar to parents. He waved his hand up the stairs. I nodded and followed my son. I stopped at his door, pausing to catch my breath and sort my thoughts.

“Mom?” His muffled voice called out to me.

“Yes.” I almost whispered back, afraid to presume too much.

“You can come in.” His voice echoed louder.

As I entered the room, he rolled over to face the wall. My motherly eyes detected redness around his eyes in those few seconds.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Some big kids stole my candy,” he mumbled.

Stunned, I just stared at the back of his head. My mind raced.

“Mom?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.” Preprogrammed maternal words fell from my lips before I could formulate a plan.

“Thank you.” He whispered as I slipped out of the room.

Without more thought, I stepped into my own room and glanced into my overstuffed box of costumes. On top was a candy cane outfit from a Christmas pageant. I pulled it out and quickly switched from cackling witch to sweet treat. A few sprays of glitter and some white face paint made me feel appropriately incognito. I stuffed a dark cloak in against my skin before I zipped up. I slipped out the back door as my husband opened the front door to greet and treat a new batch of children.

Realizing that I hadn’t asked enough questions, I began speed walking from one street to the next. My eyes roved from child to child, hoping I could pick out the one who looked evil enough to steal from my baby. Despite the chill in the air, sweat began to pour down my lower back. My legs grew weary. I turned toward home to confess my failings as a mother.

I stepped into the shadow of a large oak tree as I rounded a corner and almost tripped over my sparkly red shoes. Turning the same corner were two awkward boys toting multiple bags of candy.

One bag of the bags stood out and stopped my feet. My heart melted as I gazed at the old pillowcase with a crude outline of a bat embroidered on it. Cal couldn’t have completely rejected me if he chose that sad carrier for his treats. I stepped out of the shadows into the path of the hoodlum and his partner.

“What the **** are you?” His voice changed pitch twice during his question, settling on a puberty-driven squeak.

“Can’t you tell?” I leaned forward, spraying a gentle mist of peppermint oil as I focused my best mom gaze on the little thief.

“What the…?”

As his eyes watered from the overpowering aroma of the holidays, I grabbed the bat bag. He resisted, but the other bags weakened his grip.

“You better return the rest of those treats or you won’t be getting anything for Christmas.” I said as I pulled the bag free and stepped away.

“Hey…” Another spritz of peppermint turned his squeaky protest into an irritated cough.

Before he or his friend could recover, I disappeared into a neighboring yard and made a beeline for the next street. I pulled out my cloak and threw it over my shoulders. I could hear them calling back and forth to each other as they searched for me. I kept cutting through dark yards until I reached my own backyard and disappeared back into my house. My husband looked up from the couch as I closed the door and locked it.

I nodded and headed for the stairs. He stood up to follow, but the doorbell rang again, so he grabbed the candy cauldron. I climbed the stairs alone. I rapped on Cal’s door, entering before he could invite me. As the door opened, his eyes took in my attire questioningly but lit up as he saw the bag in my hand.

“Thank you.” He exclaimed, leaping from the bed to hug me.

“You’re welcome.” I replied as I enfolded him in my arms.

“You can come with us next year.” He whispered in my ear as his hands reached for the bag.

“Thank you.” I said, letting go of the bag and sitting back to watch my boy sort through his treats.

(I couldn’t resist mixing my holidays like the retail stores do. Hope you can forgive me.)

Twanged and Apple Bars [REVIEW] [RECIPE]

 

I got invited to participate in Cookie Bookie month again this October. We decided to expand the recipe repertoire to include all sorts of harvest-worthy delights from sides to mains to my specialty, desserts. I decided to steer clear of the pumpkin fixation for this first recipe, but I promise nothing from subsequent posts. 

I finished Twanged by Carol Higgins Clark just in time. She wove multiple storylines in such a way that she could keep your attention focused on the outliers so you wouldn't quite notice when she showed the main antagonist's suspicious behavior on more than one occasion.

The story revolves around a young lady named Brigid O'Neill who is rapidly climbing the country charts. Her success brings attention and danger her way. An obsessed fan tries to find his way into her circle of friends and her heart. Another character wishes to steal Brigid's luck by way of stealing a fiddle that a dear friend gave her. And a third party or parties showers her with threatening gifts and letters.

Luckily, Regan Reilly, a private detective, gets invited along for the summer of excitement in the Hamptons. Feel free to pick up the book to fill in all those gaping holes I just left in my description. It is a quick and entertaining read.

APPLE BARS WITH STREUSEL TOPPING

Note: This makes a lot of bars. You could try to cut the recipe in half, but I made the full size and had extra streusel topping, which I sprinkled on this morning's French toast. (Does that count as a second recipe?)

For Streusel Topping:
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup oatmeal or oat flour
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 cup cold butter, cut into small pieces

For Applesauce Bars:
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
4 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 3/4 cups applesauce
1 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cups apples (about 3 small), peeled and finely diced

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 15 X 12 pan.
2. Combine brown sugar, oats, flour, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
3. Blend butter into dry ingredients using pastry blender or a fork until crumbly. Set aside. (I placed mine in the fridge while I waited, but I was wrangling a cute baby while trying to cook, which seems to take longer.)
4. Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, and cloves. Set aside.
5. Beat eggs lightly.
6. Add rest of moist ingredients (sugar through oil) and mix.
7. Add flour mixture and stir until combined.
8. Fold in diced apples.
9. Pour into prepared pan and spread to the edges.
10. Sprinkle with streusel topping.
11. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes.
12. Let cool.
13. Cut into bars.
14. Enjoy and enjoy and enjoy because this makes a lot of bars.

A Home of My Own [FICTION]

Something brushed my big toe. I screamed. Emboldened by my fear, another cockroach skittered across my foot. The whirlwind activity of my big move had energized the winged creatures. They flaunted their courage even when lights blazed in every room. Their temerity reminded me why I decided to move.

My cousin Leda’s voice echoed from the empty living room. “That’s the third time you’ve screamed in five minutes. You should be used to your roaches by now.”

“I’ll never get used to them. That is why I’m moving.”

“I thought it was because you basically stole that gorgeous house.”

“The realtor said it’s a buyer’s market.” My defensive words brought back my own misgivings, but my mind’s image of the Victorian mansion with its turret and brown shutters erased them.

I held back most of my screams as I finished packing and toting the items I didn’t trust to the movers. I breathed a sigh of relief when Leda and I carried the last of the smaller boxes into the hallway. I closed the door with an aching tongue and a relieved mind.

By the time, we reached the new house, my tongue stopped hurting, but my heart raced with excitement. My cousin and I lingered outside as the movers finished the heavy lifting. I claimed a corner of the living room to survey my new surroundings and point movers in the right direction when they looked confused. Leda kept me company when she wasn’t walking from room to room with anime eyes. When the workmen finally cleared out, we hefted boxes of treasures too precious to trust with into the spacious living room.

“This hideous picture is still here?” Leda paused in front of the large canvas on the wall facing the window.

I gently placed my box of knickknacks on the floor. Turning to face the painting, I surveyed it slowly, hoping that another viewing would change my opinion. A human figure outlined in purple leapt off of a green and orange swirled background. Swirls of gold popped out at the corners, causing me to blink as they caught the light.

“As the new owner, I declare this monstrosity retired.” I announced elegantly and stepped forward to lift the painting from the wall.

Surprised by the weight of the antique frame, I stumbled. The painting fell from my hands and slammed into the floor. I reached out to catch myself and found my hands resting against the bare studs inside the wall. The painting hid a ragged hole big enough for me to hide inside. As I leaned against the studs, I realized I may not have been the first to make that observation.

A desiccated corpse grinned gruesomely up at me. My eyes locked on empty eye sockets. A gargle escaped my throat. Leda stepped forward and grabbed my elbow.

“Did you bring a cockroach with you?” Her soft giggle subsided as she peered over my shoulder.

“No.” I whispered through clenched teeth.

She leaned back, and I pushed myself away from the wall. We turned slowly, each waiting for the other to speak.

“I think I know why I got such a great deal.” I said.

Leda nodded. “So what should we do?”

“Call the cops?”

“And move back into your old apartment?”

I paused to consider her words. “Oh no…”

“Oh yes. If this place becomes a crime scene…”

We gazed at each other in silence. I stepped forward to peer into the hole again. As I leaned over to admit light, I noticed a folded sheet of paper between two fingers of the right hand. Without thinking, I snatched it. The yellowed paper rustled in my hand as I opened it. Then it dissolved into dust.

“That won’t help us much.” Leda said.

“I guess not.” I frowned.

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. The person I bought the house from was about our age, so I don’t think they killed…” I paused to survey the remnants of lace around the body’s neck. “Her.”

“Probably inherited the problem.” Leda offered a shadowy attempt at a smile.

“Maybe they didn’t know?”

Leda laughed.

“Okay. For the price I paid, they had to know.”

“We could do research?”

“Or we could just cover up the hole and forget we saw anything.”

Leda shook her head.

I sighed. “I guess we’ll let the cops figure it out?”

Leda shook her head again. “I just think we shouldn’t live with someone else’s mistake.”

“What are you thinking?” I looked at her intently.

“We could easily fit our friend into one of your larger moving boxes.”

“And have the movers come and get it?” I started to laugh nervously.

“Of course not. The two of us should be able to heft it. We can just take it to the dump.”

“But…” All my moral concerns failed to flood from my lips.

Thus, I found myself at the dump with my cousin, pushing a heavy box down into a gaping hole in the ground. We brushed our hands against our chests with a shiver as the box tumbled away from us into the trash chasm. We turned slowly toward the car, maintaining our silence until the gates of the dump completely disappeared in my rearview mirror.

I tried to forget what I had done, but the wizened corpse haunted me in my dreams. I settled into my house, but I felt the woman watching me from every corner. She held more sway in the living room. Leda helped me replace the battered wall with fresh drywall and cover the whole room in a bright golden hue, but darkness seemed to creep out of the corners. When Leda visited, she insisted we spend time in the kitchen at the back of the house or poking around in the drafty attic.

Our efforts to transform that space into a cozy game room finally brought me peace. As we poked through the last pile of crumbling papers and dusty books, my hand rested on a leather-bound volume with half the pages ripped out. Spidery, antiquated handwriting covered the first couple of remaining pages. I tossed it into the top of the rubbish bin. Leda scooped it up with a laugh.

“Don’t be rude. It looks like the house left you its journal. You should at least see what she had to tell you.”

I shivered, rolled my eyes, and went back to scanning the last few pages on the nearest shelf. Assured that they didn’t hold vital information, I threw them away. As I opened my mouth to proudly declare the job done, Leda gasped.

I looked up at her. “What is it?”

“Listen to this,” she held the book up and began reading.

“I have torn out most of my dark thoughts. You can’t have them any more than you can have my house. I will be here forever. No one will make a home here. I shall take my poison and hide myself within its heart. If they don’t find me, my spirit shall linger on and haunt this place. If they do find me, they will never be able to live in a place with such a horrific past.”

I stared at her and a burden seemed to rise from me, taking the darkness with it.

***

In honor of the season, I thought this needed to see the light of day.

Did you love it?

Fall In Silence [FICTION]

I roll out of bed like any other day. My body follows my normal routine with no assistance from my mind. Free to travel wherever it desires, it continues the dream of the previous night. I hum softly, reliving the thrill of a million fans screaming to hear more lyrics from my stellar voice. I chuckle softly as the glow of morning sunlight reminds me that my voice has been compared to nails on a chalkboard. Thus I work as an administrative assistant for minimum wage and still sleep down the hall from my mother.

I shove a pile of her medicines to the back of the sink and reach for the toothpaste. I close my eyes and cleanse my teeth, trying to step back into my dream for just a few more seconds. Loud snores from beyond my mother’s open door dash those hopes. I sigh and resolve to find escape from the rut that is my life as soon as I can afford it.

To that end, I find myself stepping off of the elevator on the tenth floor. A stark hallway greets me. At the end of the hallway, I open one of the double doors and step into my daytime home. The receptionist looks up at me with her warmest welcoming smile. It quickly slips as her dark eyes rest on me. She nods her head and bends back over her keyboard.

I open my mouth to squeak out a good morning, but no sound crosses my lips. I clear my throat and try again. Still nothing. Puzzled, I reach my hand up to my face, swiping it across my mouth as if to wipe away some obstruction. I part my lips again and only manage a guttural grunt.

The receptionist frowns and opens her mouth. For a moment, I think and hope that she lost the power to speak as well.

“Are you drunk or something?” She snarls.

I shake my head and hurry toward my desk outside Mr. Mark’s office. I lower myself slowly to my chair as the phone begins to ring. On reflex, I raise it to my ear. My mouth opens but remains empty of words.

“Hello?” A tentative voice asks.

I grunt.

“Is this Mr. Mark’s office?” The voice tries again.

I force air through my throat, but my tongue doesn’t form it into words. An exasperated sigh and a click follow from the other end.

I place the phone in its cradle and reach to my mouth once more. My lips crackle dryly under my fingers. I try to lick my lips but my tongue doesn’t move. I breathe deeply, open my mouth and poke my limp tongue. It moves with my finger and falls back into my lower jaw as I withdraw my hand.

“Michaela?” Mr. Mark’s lip curls with disgust as he looks down at me. “Is something wrong?”

I shrug my shoulders.

Mr. Mark sets his briefcase on the edge of my desk and leans toward me. “Are you feeling okay?”

I shake my head.

Clearly annoyed, he leans closer. “Use your words.”

I scrawl words on the memo pad. ‘I can’t talk.’

“What?” As his annoyance builds, his voice rises and a flush creeps from his neck to the roots of his blond hair.

The phone rings before I can write a response. Reaching one long arm across the desk, Mr. Mark snatches up the phone before I can reach it.

“Hello?”

An excited voice lays out a litany of words, giving him no futher chance to speak. As the flow of words ebbs, he hands the phone to me.

“Your mother.” He shakes his head as if to release some of my mother’s commentary from his mind. “She is apologizing, so I assume she’s the cat who has your tongue.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead, he takes his briefcase and heads into his office. He pauses on the threshold.

“When you’re done with that call, you better take the day off.” He closes the door behind him.

I lift the phone to my ear.

My mother’s breathless voice greets me. “Michaela? Did you hear me? Are you there?”

I make a soft whistling sound.

“Do that again if you heard what I said.” She says.

I maintain my silence.

“Okay. You need to go to Dr. Stanley’s office. You brushed your teeth with one of my medicines this morning. He says you should be fine, but he wants to see you.”

My eyes widen and I groan.

“I’m sorry, honey. I saw that it looked like your toothpaste. I thought I put it away, but you know…” As her words roll on, I slowly lower the receiver and prepare to go.

What I Would Say? Should I Say? [RANT]

Lately, my mind is filled with words I would say. My brain chases these words up and down its halls, wanting to free them. I keep them to myself for fear of inadvertently insulting someone or being misunderstand. So I thought I would post them here. I hope they offer some nugget of hope or clarity. Maybe the person who inspired each of these thoughts will actually get a chance to read them and be uplifted.

For those I love who no longer see themselves when they look in the mirror:

I love you. I know you look in a mirror and see your imperfections, but I see the person I love. You may have aged since we first met, but I see your youth, vibrance, and inner beauty. I don't care if your hair is out of place or your makeup is smeared. I just want to spend time with you. I gather people have the same feelings about my house, despite the transients who apparently live in my living room and love board books.

Please don't try to keep me away when I say I want to see you. Accept my request to visit for what it is and let me see the person I see. Maybe, you'll be able to see that beautiful soul too.

For the good husbands/wives of my friends:

Even though we have never met, I adore you. When your spouse speaks of you, it is with great respect and love. You help raise their children as if they truly were your own flesh and blood. The effect you have on my friend, bringing hope and inspiration, encouraging them to be better every day,  and standing by them even in the most difficult circumstances, makes me so glad you found each other.

Furthermore, when I see other people insulting or attacking you, I want to leap to your defense. Don't let them make you question what your marriage brings to the world. Dump those "friends". Find more friends who see the incredible person I see. Spend time with people who are inspired by your strong marriage and obvious love, respect, and affection for each other. To me, you are part of the good in the world.

For people who think I am ignoring them:

I'm not ignoring you. Life sometimes sends me running to keep up with what I absolutely must do. If my daughter needs me in the middle of my bustling, I stop. She doesn't understand that mommy needs to teach a class, wash the dishes, fold the laundry, or run to the bathroom. I assume adults have the emotional maturity to understand that sometimes I can't stop to chat. Try setting up a "play date" with me instead of trying to stop me when I am racing to the church class that I teach, trying to grab the week's groceries between my daughter's feedings, or weaving through the throng to find my seat and prepare for sacrament meeting.

For the parent who thinks they are failing at parenting:

Are you giving your child love? Do you provide them food, clothing, and shelter? Do they smile when they see you and reach out to you? Do they call for you when bad dreams or hunger disrupt their day? Are you offering support (moral, physical, financial) to your parenting partner?
If you are caring for your child's basic needs, you are a good parent. If you are making sacrifices for your child, you are a great parent.

Remember to take care of yourself while you are caring for your little ones. They need you here for them much more than they need you to buy them expensive toys and Disney vacations. Be kind to yourself. Don't put yourself down or let yourself belief that your all isn't enough. If you didn't love your babies, you wouldn't care or feel guilty for "not doing enough". Just keep being the best parent you can be and don't compare yourself to anyone else.

To my readers:

I hope you are enjoying these tidbits from my mind. Like most people, I appreciate a little feedback and this blog has a comment section for that reason. Which types of posts do you like best? What will bring you back time after time to see what words have flowed from week to week?

Commence Clowning [FICTION]

My reflection gazes back at me nervously from the glass. I force a wide grin and trace my lips with red grease paint, accentuating pulling the corners up my smile toward my ears. As I finish, I flash another toothy grin. Then my eyes wander across the rest of my features. Beads of sweat dot my pale forehead. I blot them away and generously apply white grease paint. I move downward, gently tracing around my rouged smile. When I finish, my own face disappears, replaced by Daisy, the sweet clown with the bright orange, Gerber daisy encircling her left eye.

“You’re ready for this,” I pause for emphasis, “Valedictorian.”

I gently push the red foam circle of my chosen profession over my nose. The year 2016 sprawls across its surface in thin, glittery script. I step out of my private dressing room.

A tiny red car, the child of a Smart car and a Volkswagen Beetle, greets me. I plop down behind the oversized steering wheel, squeezing my humongous shoes into place to push on the gas pedal. As I lean forward, I bump the horn. A blast of excited beeps, wails, and whistles erupts around me. Fueled by the clamor, I drive wildly toward the center ring where our graduating class awaits my wise words.

I release a lever and shoot out of the top of the car, landing on a trampoline covered in pillows. When I finally manage to gain control of my bouncing, I bounce to the edge of the trampoline and jump gracefully to the ground. I step behind the neon green podium, kicking away more than a few errant banana peels.

Dozens of ghostly faces gaze back at me. Most wear exaggerated smiles, some weep cheerfully, while a few in the back freeze the blood in my veins. Someday, they might channel their clown genius toward a more attainable goal like heavy metal music, inspiring horror writers, and keeping little kids on the straight and narrow path.

“Sorry, I couldn’t slip in sooner,” I begin with a pointed look at another slimy banana peel that sails through the air to land on the podium, “But I didn’t reach the top of the class by falling prey to substandard pranks.

“Top of the class. Top of the totem pole. Driver of the tiniest car in existence. This is what I aspired for. This what I attained.”

A chorus of honks echoes across the assembled crowd.

“Thank you for that. I know we all learned the same jokes, slipped on the same banana peels, and covered our faces with the same grease paint, but the future holds more than that for each of us. You may not be valedictorian, but you are something better…”

A silent hush falls as smiling faces focus on me, anticipating the promise I am about to offer.

“You are the hope of tomorrow. You are the reason children will laugh through their tears or cry in their beds. You are the smiling faces that keep the bulls from goring unwanted riders and sell circus peanuts though they aren’t real nuts like us.

“You are the next generation of clowns. When children mourn their lost chance to see elephants on parade, you will cheer them up. When tiny cars need dozens of passengers, you will fill them. When tiny pools beg to be dived into from hundreds of feet up, you will take that dive…”

I pause, clasping my hands together and stretching my body as if I am about to make that fabulous leap.

“And the world will laugh with you. Go forth and bring hysterics to the world.”

Exaggerated laughter fills the air. Foam noses fill the air. Water sprays from dozens of brightly colored flowers. I step back from the podium.

“Ack.” I squeal as I slide backwards to land on my backside to an even louder, unfeigned round of laughter.

I owed someone some fiction and I had some writing prompts begging for attention. I hope you enjoy.