The Story

“Here, darlin’, hold my chardonnay.”

I took her still slightly-frosted glass without question. She reached into the drawer of the marble-topped side table, pulled out a silver barreled revolver, and shot her husband twice in the chest.

“There we are. Now darlin’, give me that back, thank ya. You were trying to tell me about this fancy new hotel job. When are you moving up there? And I know your momma’s gonna miss you, sweet pea, but you got to do your own life, so dontchu worry. I’ll check in on her when ya go!”

I stared blatantly at the warm corpse lying casually across the floor, blood seeping into the bright rug. I was unable to respond.

Aunt Anise had taught me what I saw as some of the most important lessons of my life: When I was five, she showed me how to pinch a person’s arm-fat just right so they let go of my ponytail. At twelve, she ushered me into her backyard so she could coach me on lowering my shoulders and pivoting so the big kids in the neighborhood would flip right over me between kickball bases. My seventeenth birthday saw her and I seated at her kitchen table with several filled shot glasses between us because, as she said, I was going to know what I could handle before I even dared thinking of walking out the door to college.

Eight years later she held class from her pink antique sofa, instructing me how a little bit of baking soda mixed with vodka would take a bastard’s blood right out of her new carpet before it stained.

“There baby, it’s all in the dab,” she toasted me with her glass. “The Russians got very little right- but when they took potatoes and put them in a jar, mhhhmmm they made something that would cleanse the mind and the furniture.”

“I, um. I’ve always been more of a gin girl, I think.” And apparently an accomplice to murder.

“Too flowery for me,” she took a sip of chardonnay, “but I respect that. Every woman should know one hard liquor they like for when it’s needed.”

I sat back against the wall, pretty uncomfortable with the fact I wasn’t uncomfortable or really all that surprised Aunt Anise just killed her husband in front of me. It must be shock. I’d heard shock can do crazy things, maybe one of them was calm you while you hid a crime scene? I threw the dirty rag into the old bucket I’d found in the closet, took a swig of the vodka. Gin was definitely better.

“Yes ma’am. So… what are we gonna do about Uncle Carl?”

Her gray eyes landed on the body as if she’d already forgotten about him. She pursed her lips at it, her sign of disapproval. “I suppose he can’t exactly go out with the garbage.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Hm.” She glared at him, as if it was his own fault for being such a hassle even after death.

“Maybe the recycling?”

“HA!” She bent over with her loud cackle, her silver curls bouncing along with the rest of her. “Maybe they can make something better out of him!” She hooted a minute longer, each of her large jewels clinking and clanging in the little symphony of laughter. I would have been concerned she was heading into a break down, but that just wasn’t like Aunt Anise.

“Oh baby, I needed that. Alright, get me the phone. We’re gonna have to call it in.”

“Auntie, you’re going to get arrested.”

“Nah, arresting an old lady like me is too much work. We’ll just tell ’em what happened. He came in screaming and hollering like a mad man. I was scared for my sweet grand niece’s safety, so I defended us.”

I was not entirely sure Uncle Carl’s shuffling approach and mumbled “I’m leaving you.” counted as hollering, but who was I to make that judgement call?

“Yes, ma’am.” I stood on surprisingly steady legs to pull the receiver and cord across to her side table.

Then, grabbing the bucket, I went to the kitchen. Squirting way too much soap into the bucket, I filled it with water until the suds covered the red hand towel. Lady MacBeth came to mind as I washed the combined smell of vodka and blood off my hands. Damned spot, indeed.

“Hiya! Yes this is Mrs. Tillum down on East Bolton. Oh Marcus! I thought it sounded like you!” Auntie’s voice, warm and rolling like marbles in molasses, floated in from the living room. “How are ya, hun? Mmhmm, and how’s the new grand-baby? Well, of course she is! With such a strong poppa how could she not be!”

I peered around the corner, gave her a head tilt to remind her this was not gossip hour. She shooed my worry away with one wrinkled, yet finely manicured, hand.

“Now hun we’ve had some trouble tonight. Mmhmm, you might need to send somebody out here. Yes yes, real trouble. Well it’s Carl, hun. He’s dead. Oh yeah I’m sure. Well hun I shot him. Mmhmm. Defense, of course. Came in yelling curses, and my baby niece is here, poor thing. Oh yeah she’s fine! Just got a fancy new hotel job up in New York! We’re so proud. Well thank ya, I’ll tell her! Mhmm yeah she’s okay. But ya know I couldn’t have him even think about hurting her. He was lookin’ crazy as a bobcat, Marcus, just crazy.”

Crazier than he did lying in the middle of the floor?

Dead bodies, it turns out, do not look the same in real life as they do on TV. There was no calm facial expression or gently closed eyes. In fact, Carl still had his eyes open in shock and his mouth stuck wide around an unspoken exclamation. His dusty comb-over had come unpinned, flapping to the side. While all the detective shows try to make bodies look realistic, Carl was starting to look very fake. He wasn’t stiff or blue yet, but his skin had this odd dullness that made him resemble unbaked clay. His weight was very real though, and as I dragged him onto a couple of trash bags, I cursed him for all the pork rinds I’d seen him eat over the years.

Now this may have been more tampering with a crime scene, but well, the carpet.

Marcus and his partner arrived about half an hour later. They did not seem bothered that I had dragged my dead great uncle out of the living room and into the foyer, destroying any and all logistical evidence along the way. The partner, who introduced himself as Dan Elmer, just stepped right on over poor Carl to get to Auntie and ask her a few questions.

I shut my agape mouth when Marcus put his strong hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, you doing alright with all this? Must have been a scary confrontation.”

His hazel eyes were so kind, so concerned as he searched mine for any pain or fear. I couldn’t lie to those eyes that had watched me grow up from next to my father at the grill. But I knew if I looked away, he’d suspect I was either upset or guilty, and I didn’t know which would be worse for him to see.

So instead I responded to his big brown mustache that I was fine, just a bit stunned. I focused on those silver streaks in his chestnut hair as I retold our story: I described Uncle Carl walking in, how his “raising hell” had frightened me, and how just as I had stood up to shield Auntie, he’d started at us and I heard the pop of a gun.

“Well, that’s a shame. A damn shame.” He squeezed my shoulder again.

“Yeah, who knew?” That Auntie could make such a clean shot. That I could handle this. That our lie was so easily accepted.

“Well ya know I heard that when he was younger, ol’ Carl here could cause quite a dirty commotion after a drink or two. And you can smell the vodka in here, gosh he must have been hammered.”

I nodded slowly, doing my best to not glance to where the blood stain was supposed to be.

Marcus continued, “And of course the gossip about him sneaking around on your poor aunt. Don’t know how she managed.”

“What?” This was news. “Where did you hear that?”

“She didn’t tell you?” He shook his head, “Good sweet Anise trying not to bother anybody.”

This made me snort, but I managed to turn it into a sniffle. “That’s Auntie for you.”

“Yeah it is. So you can imagine how mad we all were for her when the town gossips began to cluck. Some little young gal from the city was trying to get all of Carl’s money, telling him everything a man wants to hear, especially at his age.”

“Oh. Ew.”

“Ha ha,” he patted my back, “we old farts are still red-blooded, hun! And some dogs stay dogs, ya know?”

“Yeah, I do.” No, I did not.

“Well, it was sweet of you to move him out here so your auntie doesn’t have to think of a dead unfaithful man in her fancy living room.”

“Yep,” Sure that was it. Moved him out so the death-aura wouldn’t bother Auntie. Nothing to do with her worrying he’d stink up the place with his “dirty ol’ man dust,” no sir.

I dared to cross my arms, wondering if having them down by my sides this whole time made me look stiff and suspicious. Then I decided that crossing them was worse, let them swing down to my side again. But then that made me feel as if I looked just like Carl there on the foyer floor. I could not give away how terribly fine with this we were, and thankfully Marcus read my attempts at looking innocent as being mildly stricken. Really all I was thinking about was if we got sent to jail, Auntie was going to throw a fit about how clashing the jumpsuit looked on her.

However, at that moment she was cool as a cucumber. I could hear her laughing with Mr. Dan Elmer, having already charmed him to believe anything and everything the beautiful old woman said. Marcus told me that a young lady such as myself did not need to be around death like this, and encouraged me to head on home to my daddy. He even offered to drive me, but I knew I would be fine. Not only had the shakes stopped, they’d never really started.

I walked back to Aunt Anise, asked if she preferred I stay here with her.

“Nah hun, this handsome man has already called your momma and your nanna and they’re gonna come take care of little ol’ me.” She winked at the officer before turning back to me. “You go’an home, get some rest. I’m just glad you’re safe.” She reached up for me from her seat on the couch, and I fell into her hug like I’d done since I could walk.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she whispered in my ear, “all’s gonna be alright. One less dirty man in the world never hurt a thing.” She gave me a light squeeze, and I returned it. I kissed her cheek and let Marcus walk me to my car.

He leaned into my open passenger window, “You sure you’re alright, now?”

“Yes sir, thank you.”

“Alright then, you be good and safe, ya hear?” He patted the top of my car as if it confirmed I would.

“Yes, sir.” I started to put the car in reverse, but he leaned back down to my eye level.

“Oh, and Pepper?”

I stopped, ready to finally be handcuffed. What had given me away? Did I look too eager to leave? Too calm to be driving? Poor auntie was gonna be in that dreaded jumpsuit just because I couldn’t fake a few tears.

“Yes sir?”

“Good luck at the big New York job, don’tchu forget us little people when you’re big!” Marcus laughed.

I smiled and nodded, but he’d already turned back to the house. God I needed a drink. Not vodka, as I didn’t feel particularly dirty. But some gin would be good. Maybe something with bubbles, too. Just a glass, then I needed to get back to packing up my closet for the move.

After all, Auntie Anise always said “The keys to life are peach pie and moving forward!” Her lessons hadn’t been wrong yet, and I wasn’t about to start doubting them now.

The Word

Fidelity (noun): 1. Faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief, demonstrated by continuing loyalty and support. 2. Sexual faithfulness to a spouse or partner. 3. The degree of exactness with which something is copied or reproduced.

Fidelity is an awesome word. Not only is a synonym for loyalty, which is one of my favorite characteristics in a creature, but also it has done a great job of entering the modern world while still have a medieval feeling to it. With all of the language updates and combinations happening these days, that’s pretty impressive!

As you can see, loyalty plays several parts in the story today. Carl’s failed fidelity, Pepper’s successful fidelity to her auntie, and a third way we’ll look further into later this year. That’s the great thing about words- not only can they have multiple definitions, but also several different weights to them. I love it.

And yes, we’re getting to see a little bit of sassy Pepper’s beginnings. I’m very excited to explore her lifeline, as I think she’s a fascinating gal and I hope you all agree.

I cannot think of a clever sign off tonight, so I’ll leave you with a lovely Hellen Keller quote with today’s word: “True happiness is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.”

The Story

I am just so excited that it is finally happening! I have been waiting literally decades for this, ever since I first made it out into the world.

Now, I have indeed already had some great adventures. The Pacific Ocean was a great place to pop up and float through, seeing all those strange creatures at the bottom and then all the wiggly ones near the top. Then I traveled a long way and ended up raining on the Congo. It really was an honor to be a part of the river basin there. Excellent animals, but oh the noise! It was just too loud there. I was glad to steam out of there at long last. After that I spent what felt like forever in a little lake somewhere cold. It was a joy to watch the big geese come and go through the seasons, but it seemed each winter that we were the ones with the least to do, having the least fun. I was very jealous, and so very pleased when I got to rise up again for a new experience.

And now, now I get to see what everyone has been talking about! I felt it early this morning. Our whole community was getting awfully heavy and cold, but I did not want to get too excited. I have seen that before and just ended up as rain again, slapping against blurry umbrellas over and over gets so boring. But this time it was different. Everyone started shaking and shimmering with anticipation, turning themselves into brilliant frozen diamonds. I followed suit.

Then the fall.

Oh the fall is so much better like this! It is diving through the air like those big birds who skim the ocean surface. It is slicing through wind like some elegant sword.

As instructed, I grab hold of as many of my friends as I can reach and down we tumble. They know this is my first time, so they let me be in the middle of our little formation. We branch continuously until we are a proper form, which slows us but the thrill is still there! And there is this musical silence to our descent. It is almost a rushing, but nothing like the fast breach I rode with the whales or the loud splatters on forest leaves. This is the sound of us alone, muffling the noise of the surrounding world into a quiet hum. I love it!

I try to enjoy this moment, heaven knows when I will see one like it again. But, cannot help anticipating the next. Will we be the dusting on a picturesque pine, crouched next to a cardinal’s nest? Or maybe one of those big creatures I have heard we can be rolled into? Or MAYBE we might be formed into one of the smaller balls and thrown again! Oh to fly like this once more!

We are zooming toward Earth and it is just so beautiful from up here. I see we have an audience! Lots of people have come out to watch us, and they are in all shapes and sizes just like us! Isn’t that adorable? I steer us until we are above one of the smaller ones because he just looks so cute, all bundled up in his purple scarf and yellow-tussled hat. I decide this would be a lovely place to land, and so as we melt to a slower cadence. We are now just enough big and bright for him to admire us, so we land on his curly black eyelashes. He looks up to our old cloud home, and I can see all of us falling through the same race I have just completed. We are truly breathtaking. A mittened hand wipes me away, and I begin to melt into the warm wool. I don’t even mind, a rest would be nice after such a wonderful occasion.

Ah, what a lovely ride. I hope to be a snowflake again soon.

The Word

Cumulate (verb): 1. To gather or pile in a heap. 2. To combine into one.

Yay snow! Our many inches have almost melted away here, but there are still many piles left. I had this thought driving by one today about how much a bummer it must be to be one of the snowflakes stuck in that pile instead of going back through the the cleansing experience of the water cycle (or… what I imagine is a cleansing experience, as I myself have actually never been a raindrop).

This story is very short for two equally important reasons:

1. I wanted to try my hand at a children’s-story level, and those tend to have short lengths. It’s actually difficult to make a character clear and multifaceted in a short amount of time, so you may see me work on this again in the future, as I have obviously not mastered it on my first go-around. If I had, you’d see this published in Times next week (if this is published in Times next week, I will update this section).
2. Today has been a very long day at work and I have a cold.

I have found many famous writers who create their best work for similar sets of reasons. Although, writers are also known for making up statistics about each other  to suit our needs… so who knows 😉

Stay warm, stay together, stay excited!

The Story

The doorbell sang the arrival of another customer. Preston looked up from the cupcake he was icing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Linton! In early today, come on over.”

“Morning dearie! Yes I am, lots to do today!” The middle aged woman strolled in wearing her neon-green t-shirt that read ‘Mommies of Vista Middle’ and Preston sighed inwardly. This outfit only meant one thing. She would need-

“I need two dozen vanilla and chocolate cupcakes with the raspberry icing, a lemon bread with white chocolate glaze, and as many Death-by-Chocolate cookies as you can spare.”

“Can do!” He smiled back at her, but she was already making eyes with the pastry display.

At the end of every month, Karen Linton came in the day of her PTA meeting for a large order to feed the other Mommies of Vista Middle. She never made the order beforehand, and though Preston had tried to prepare for her before, she always switched the order up just enough that he couldn’t guess it. Today it was the lemon cake. He thought she’d go for his new Orange Cream loaf. Luckily, he’d put a few lemons in the oven as well when he got in that morning. He rushed into the back kitchen.

“Maddie, man the front. I need to check these.”

Maddie, his sweet junior assistant, was elbow deep in a basin of cream cheese frosting. He noticed she had a little in her blond bangs. “The front? It’s barely 8am, no one’s coming in yet.”

“It’s PTA day.” He mumbled with his head halfway into the oven.

Maddie grimaced, “Linton. Alright fine, I’ll go make chit chat. And stop that. The oven has a window for a reason.”

Preston smiled at his lemon loafs as he heard Maddie’s voice jump a few pitches to greet Mrs. Linton. He pressed down slightly on the crusts, a slight bounce back and just the hint of crisp on the very top. Perfect, as usual.

With Mrs. Linton served and back out, Preston and Maddie could return to their biggest task of the day: Three wedding cakes sat waiting for icing and fondant and fruit-flowers and sugar sculptures and maybe some glitter if there was any left. He did not know how they could get them all done by the times they were to be picked up. And they absolutely had to be, not only so he wouldn’t have angry brides mobbing his shop, but also because they had to start on two more for the next day.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the business. When he’d first started Preston’s Pastries, there had not been very many orders at all. He survived on his local regulars, who upon discovering his red velvet crinkle cookies were to die for, had sworn allegiance to his bakery alone.

But then he’d applied to The Big Bad Bakeoff Show and made it. The show’s concept was a little unclear when he’d been flown out to California, so he was a bit surprised that he and the 12 other contestants had to be able to complete athletic challenges along with the baking. He’d raced through egg-covered mazes, dodged large beach balls colored like donut holes, and balanced on a beam shaped like a breadstick over a pool of “cannoli filling” that he was pretty sure had actually been shaving cream. But between his long legs and his fantastic buttercream, he’d made it to 6th place before a chocolate ganache didn’t set and he was sent home to Virginia.

When his wife Tammy met him at the airport, she kissed him and asked, “Should I tell you how proud I am first, or how many orders there are?”

And there had been many orders indeed. It seemed like all of the East Coast was driving into Fredericksburg to get a cake made by someone “famous”, and of course a dozen of the Death-by-Chocolate cookies, which had saved him from elimination during the show’s third week. He’d quickly hired Maddie, a recent college graduate who had a talent for icing, and begged Tammy to come in on the weekends. But as the weeks went on, and the orders didn’t slow, Tammy had graciously left her job at the high school and joined Preston in the kitchen permanently. Sometimes he felt terribly guilty about this, but when he saw her smiling at her improving sugary sculptures or planting a kiss of whipped cream on his cheek, he knew she couldn’t be too upset.

“Alright, so lime jam is ready for the margarita cake. What’s the chocolate cake need?”

Preston checked the order sheet and called back to Maddie, “Umm caramel cream on the bottom layer, raspberry on the second, caramel again on the top.”

“On it. The crumb coating is done on the black forest- I’m going to stick it in the fridge then it just needs piping.”

“And the roses.”

“Nope, lilies, they called this morning and changed.”

“Damn, alright, check that we have any lili-”

“Tammy’s picking some up on her way in.”

“Great, great, thank you.”

The doorbell sang again.

“Preston, we’ve gotta lock that thing until noon.”

He wiped uselessly at the colored-sugar stains on his fingers, “Not a bad idea.”

January’s especially cold temperatures were not slowing the customers even a bit. If anything, it drove them inside for seconds and thirds of his gingerbread macaroons and pomegranate short bread. There were so many customers today, Preston could have sworn someone had accidentally attached the doorbell to the second-hand of the clock. Tammy and her tray of dipped stroopwafels dodged him as he tried to escape back to the prep room to continue on the wedding cakes.

“Sorry love!” He called behind him.

“It’s alright, but you might have some ganache on your shirt now!” She called, then continued to refill the display case. Preston realized they’d been so busy, he had not seen when she’d come in. But there was evidence she had been there a while, as the Black Forrest cake Maddie had been working on stood completed with the fresh lilies speckled with gold sugar dust.

He made a mental note to treat his helpful wife to something special soon, and then returned to the quiet mind space required to ice a delicate lace across the waiting fondant.

“Yes thank you! Next week we’re rolling out the new season’s cookie flavor so be sure to stop by!” He heard Tammy call out and firmly lock the front door behind their last customer.

They had passed another daily test. With cookies and cannoli marching out the door constantly, they’d also managed to get the three wedding cakes handed off to event planners and Mother of the Brides without complaint. Preston had sent Maddie home just a minute ago to rest up and was finishing a crumb coat on a what would be a carrot cake covered in coconut snowflakes.

“Prezzi?” Tammy leaned against the door separating the front of house from the prep room and freezers.

“Mmm?” He wanted this layer perfect; it was the governor’s daughter getting married tomorrow and so a lot of eyes would be on this cake.

“Almost finished up? I locked the front, did the finance stuff.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

Tammy laughed, “Not really, love. We’ve been closed an hour.”

Preston lifted his gaze from the cake, “What? It’s been like 5 minutes…” but his watch said Tammy was right. He’d lost himself in the sugars again.

“Tammy, I’m so sorry. I was just thinking today that I need to do something big to make this all up to you.”

She wrapped her arms around him, nuzzled her face into his flour-covered apron, “Make what up to me?

“All this,” he gestured around the room, “it wasn’t your idea to open a bakery, to be covered in egg whites for the foreseeable future.”

“No,” she tilted her head and a sweep of her auburn hair fell across her face, “but it was my idea to marry you. And that was a good idea. So this must be too.”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“Probs gave one of your marble loafs to either Cupid or Aphrodite in disguise.”

“Probably. And I know you love the store but something for just you, and I-”

“Preston.” She pulled away to look into his face. “You’ve already given me something.”

“…what?”

“Come on, Preston.” He saw her eyes shimmering with something unfamiliar, a little glow he hadn’t noticed running back and forth all day.

He stepped back, held her at arms length, “Don’t tease me, love. Are you? Are we?!”

She winked at him, “Looks like one more bun in the oven, Mr. Baker.”

“We’re PREGNANT?!” He picked her up, squeezed her, put her down, checked it was okay to squeeze her with a baby, picked her up, and squeezed her again.

“We have to celebrate!” He rubbed the back of his head, getting more icing in his hair, “I’ll make an angel food cake. No, a tiramisu! Wait, no more coffee for you- a sachertorte!”

Tammy laughed and tried to contain the whirlwind that was her husband, “No Prezzi, no, we don’t need any of that.” She turned him around and pressed her forehead against his. “Nothing special, just us.”

“I think we’re pretty special.”

“Yes, so we don’t need you to slave away at something fancy.”

He kissed her forehead, “Then what can I make you? This is amazing. I need to make something. Just tell me what I can make for you.”

She untied his apron, hung it on its hook. “How about we stop at the grocery on the way home, pick up some break-and-bake chocolate chip cookies, and some sparkling grape juice?”

“That… that sounds perfect.”

 

The Word

Simplicity (noun): 1. The quality or condition of being easy to understand or do. 2. The quality or condition of being plain or natural. 3. A thing that is plain, natural, or easy to understand.

Simple is sometimes best, don’t you think? I had this thought this morning. I was sitting on a couch, eating an egg and sausage burrito with my boyfriend, while we watched David In The Kitchen on QVC (which started out as a joke but now we love him and watch him every Sunday we’re together). We had been worried that we’d be bored all weekend because it was simply too cold to do anything, but we’d had a really good couple of days cooking and catching up on our movie list. He and I are always talking about the next adventure we’ll take- but a quiet weekend was absolutely lovely.

Simple is something I’m trying to focus on more in life. It’s so easy to let everything become complicated, whether it’s tasks at work or DIY projects at home, or even Preston’s 7 layer caramel chai Opera cake. And complicated is certainly good in some cases! Complications make things interesting and challenging. But simple is where the calm lies, and so I’m trying to seek out more spaces of that. Tammy wants to seek that space out for her and Preston, because although the beautiful complication that is now their very popular bakery is a success, all they really need for themselves is something simple to celebrate. I mean, don’t get me wrong- I like tiramisu as much as the next person (perhaps more. mmmmm espresso cream) but break-and-bakes will always have a special place in my heart.

Anyway, happy Sunday! I hope you all have an easy, simple week ahead of you!

__________

If you aren’t obsessed with The Great British Bake Off, here are some bakery definitions from the story:

Sachertorte – A specific type of chocolate cake, or torte, invented by Austrian Franz Sacher in 1832 for Prince Wenzel von Metternich in Vienna, Austria. It is a chocolate sponge cake, with apricot jam, and dark chocolate icing. It is one of the most famous Viennese culinary specialties.

Stroopwafel – A waffle made from two thin layers of baked dough with a caramel syrup filling in the middle. Stroopwafels are popular in the Netherlands, and were first made in the city of Gouda.

The Story

All that’s left of the guy is a smoldering pile of ashes.

“Damn,” Captain Collins sighs, “just damn ridiculous.”

I can only stare at the pile in shock. I hadn’t really liked the kid that much, but I did think he was the One. He had the right skill set, a nice bloodline. He even had that charming-savior look to him.

I wasn’t taking it as hard as Private Jones though…

“Son of a BITCH. I can’t believe this! We come all the way out here again just for THIS? Just one more motherfu-”

“Private!” Captain reels on Jones. He freezes.

“Yes. Yes, Captain.”

She sighs again, pushes back her armored hood to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “Thank you for volunteering to collect the remains.”

“Yes, will do Captain.” Still red with fury, Jones lumbers his big body to the tiny ash pile. He pulls a small canteen from his belt and begins to fill it with what had once been Leonard Smalls.

Leonard Smalls. We should have known. What kind of name is Smalls for a Prophesied Champion?

“Sergeant Teak.”

I look up from the disappointing ashes to see Captain coming towards me.

“Yes Captain?”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her back is straight and her grip is tight, but her eyes betray how tired she is. I can see the lines at her temples deepen each time we lose One.

“Gather the Called. We’ll camp here, take off in the morning.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She pats my back, takes a step away and pauses. “I really thought he was gonna do it.”

“Me too, Captain.”

She nods. I hate seeing her so defeated. We’ve been at this for centuries, and the weight of leading our rudderless legion is starting to drown her.

She offers me a fake smile, “We’ll find ’em. One of these times.”

“Captain, I’m just thinking- maybe we should get one that’s lightening proof.”

This brings a real smile out of her. “Yes, Sergeant, I think maybe so.”

A raspy voice behind us scoffs, “The Prophecy is nothing to chortle about, Sergeant!”

God I hate this guy.

“Shut up, Fendoialin.”

“I shan’t!” He raises his wrinkly fist to the sky, “Keeper of the Prophecy shall never fall silent! For it is foretold! The Lost Champion shall be found born under the Second Star, know him by the mark upon his cheek! And when he stands to the Door of the City-”

“-the City shall open to her people. We know.” Captain rubs her temples. “We know, Fen. Let it go. He got struck. It wasn’t him.”

Fendoialin launches into another of his long, withering speeches, so I decide it is indeed time to go collect the Called. Or anything else that takes me out of hearing range of the Keeper.

The Called are not pleased to be brought in from their posts. They all know it means another dead human, another lost chance to get home. As we set camp, we begin to discuss the corners of the earth we haven’t searched yet, where everyone can split up to cover next.

I ask Darluth to join McKoi on watch. Jones is still too hyped up, grumbling furiously at the fire and taking angry bites of his stew. It makes sense. He’s the youngest of us so I don’t think he feels as resigned as we do to never getting home. I’m pretty sure I lost hope at the 8th One. She was strong and witty, trained well and got along with Captain. She didn’t fall in love with anyone like the first guy or the sixth, which I was personally glad for because it always wrecks priorities. The girl even helped us get past the damn Thunder Kishi without getting dramatically hurt like the 3rd one or mortally impaled like clumsy 11. I liked the idea of having her as a leader. But then we got to the Door and the earth opened up to swallow her whole. It was damn shame.

“What about the eastern islands? We haven’t been there in 300 years, maybe they have a couple kids we can check.”

“You just want to sit on a beach, Yoland. I say we go farther south. The people of the volcanic lands have to have some good warriors. Maybe one of them was born under a second star.”

“Nah, remember- that short dude was from the south. Had the right scar and everything and just burst into flames at the Door.”

“Oh right… He was hot though.”

“Yes, very hot. Especially during the flames bit.”

Fendoialin scoffs again, “The PROPHECY is nothing to JOKE ABO-”

My spoon hits him right between the eyes.

Those around the fire laugh. At least we’ve still got our good spirits, and each other. All sixteen Called are still intact. Well, Clint got split into a couple pieces when we encountered some weird witch-sisters in the marshes once, but we got him back together. Other than that it’s just a couple scars here, a broken leg there. Those can mend, and I’m very proud we’re still alive at all. Now if we could just find the freaking chosen One.

Private Genile turns to me, a sadness resting in her violet eyes.

“Where do you think we should look, Sergeant?”

“Maybe…” Maybe nowhere. Maybe we give up. We’ve survived fine out here for the past thousand years or so. Perhaps those stuck inside the City are doing fine too without their divinely-choosen warriors. They’re locked away from the world, so there’s not much they need protecting from anyway.

Well, I guess the evil conquerers and angry beasts and vengeful gods and stuff. But it’s been so long, will there be anyone left to save?

Looking at Genile, I know that’s not the answer she needs right now. She found this last kid, and so took on the role of Companion. The strike on her collar bone from where she took an arrow for him is still healing. I know what it feels like to lose One you’ve been bound to.

I offer her a smirk, “Let’s go north. Find us a polar bear.”

She smiles, lifting the shadow under her eyes a bit.

The Captain stands, “Alright, alright, enough for the night. Watch has been scheduled, we’ll take off back to the mountains in the morning.” She puts her hands on her hips, a sign she’s about to deliver some heavy words. “We lost today. We lost this One. He was right, but not worthy, I suppose. But we’ll keep going. We will continue the search, the fight, and the oath for our people. And to do that, we’ll need some rest. You’ve all served well and deserve a good night’s sleep, I hope you have one.”

A round of “Yes ma’am”s and “yes Captain”s rises from around the fire. Captain walks to her tent, but before she goes in she turns back to us.

Her voice is soft but strong “We have been Called.”

As one, we solemnly respond “And we will answer.”

She nods, “There it is. Alright, goodnight my beloved little maggots.”

I turn in too, lying with my head outside my tent and staring at the sky. I stretch out each sore muscle, and fall asleep watching for a second star.

The Word

Yawn (verb): Involuntarily open one’s mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom. (noun): a reflex act of opening one’s mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom.

I’m tired. I told y’all I’m just not a Winter gal and it just keeps being January. So this word and I have been very close all day.

This story’s basic premise has been circling in my head for years now. In every fantasy story out there with a fancy shmancy chosen savior, there are the sidekicks. I’ve always wondered what the sidekicks were up to before they found their champion, especially when the companions are super trained or blessed with cool ninja skills and then it turns out the kid they’re looking for is some orphan who knits (although… a knitting warrior would be kinda cool… alright putting a pin in that). Sometimes these armies are frozen or made of stone, but a lot of the times they’re busy fighting bad guys and trying to survive until Mister Main Character finally saunters in.

So here we’ve met a band of sidekicks, the chosen warriors the prophesied kid will lead to glory. But they can’t find the guy and thus have to continue training and searching until they do. That has to be at least as tiring as walking through snow and then driving to work and then getting to work right as the car heats up. Maybe. I don’t know, we’ll call it a draw.

This makes me think of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. The poor Grail Knight has been sitting there for hundreds of years and then this handsome stranger just comes in and wrecks everything. Sir Dude was all excited that his replacement had finally shown up and bam- Indy and his buds destroy the whole place. His little wave in the last scene seems to be so resigned. “Alright ya know what? Fine. I guarded the place for a millennia, you ruin it in under an hour. I’m so freaking tired. I’m going to go lie down.” I think the Called in our above story would really connect with him.

Thanks for indulging me these past couple of posts while I dipped my toes into the Fantasy genre. I’ll be steering back into my niche of interesting-regular-people, but I like these characters too so we’ll probably check back in on them from time to time.

It is late, and it is still cold. May you all have a good rest!

__________

PS: Kishi are cannibalistic demons, half-human half-hyena from African lore. In my head they’re kinda like evil rabid centaurs. Honestly I needed a weird creature that were hard to fight and just like most writers, I prefer to steal creatures from other culture’s folklore instead of thinking them up myself. I also kinda enjoy the idea that these guys have to deal with whatever creatures are the lore of the places they’re visiting. We’ll see where that goes.

…also if anyone caught the tiny Star Trek character reference I’ll send you a cookie.

New to the blog? Welcome! Before you read this post, you will probably want to check out Today I am Effervescent first!

The Story

I rest my chin on folded hands atop the marbled bar, eye level with the curved crystal glass. I follow a particularly large bubble from its creation at the bottom of the drink, all the way to its joining with the sweet foam crest. Again my gaze drops to the bottom and follows a new floated journey.

“So she never drinks it?”

Yes, I know they’re talking about me. Neal either doesn’t realize his voice carries across the room, or doesn’t care. I certainly don’t care. They can talk all they’d like, I’ll still be here.

Caroline’s hushed voice responds, and I know she’s trying to quiet them per usual. I don’t really need her protection, but I enjoy the kindness of it, so I always align my visits with her work hours.

Most people have a favorite bartender because of good conversation, but luckily Caroline doesn’t push for that kind of connection. She simply creates the drink when I sit down, offers a smile, and then attempts to guard me from the onslaught of curious humanity until I finally slip away.

My first night, a few months back now I suppose, I hadn’t really meant to show up here at all. I was wandering aimlessly, hoping to find a little light in the dark world of mine, wrapped up in myself as much as one can be. But through the door there was a little bit of soft music, a shimmer from the chandeliers, and the occasionally burst of laughter that warms a room. So I made my way in, chose a seat at the end of the bar, and waited.

I love the bar here. It’s made of white marble. Sometimes while I’m waiting for Caroline to see I’ve arrived, I’ll trace my fingers across the veins of stone. Grays and blacks and almost-blues seeping through the white. It makes sense to me these days.

She was quite chatty when we first met, which almost drove me away. But after a few brief small-talk questions, she asked what I’d like. Sweet or strong?

What an excellent question. Can’t you be both? I’d seen both many a time. But I wasn’t feeling very strong, so I answered sweet.

“How about something with bubbles? You seem like you need a few to lift you up!”

I nodded, bubbles did sound good.

“How about a pomegranate fizz? With a little lime?”

“No. No pomegranate, please.”

“Allergic? Or don’t like it?”

“Both.”

This caused the tall brunette to giggle. I didn’t mean to make a joke, but it was lovely to see a young girl laugh.

“Alright, none of that then. Anything else you don’t like, to rule it out?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alrighty… Oh! I know just the thing, it’ll put a spring in your step!” She winked, and turned to her bottles and gadgets.

A spring was indeed what I needed.

When she presented me with the glass, I was enthralled. Tall crystal held golden bubbles, with a deep wave of red. She had crowned it with a bright peel from an orange. It was gorgeous.

“Prosecco with Chambord, a little fancy with out the fluff. What do you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Great! The names Caroline if you need anything- I’ll check in on you in a bit and see how it’s treating you.”

I held my breath as from within the fuchsia current, a small pocket burst forth, rushing through the gleaming liquid and escaping to the surface. It was… relieving. I found another bubble and watched it race to freedom. A soft light bloomed within me, a little rare ray of joy.

So the next time I found myself dark and alone, I ran to Caroline and her little goblet of miracles. Sitting at this bar, watching my glass, became my safe place. I do the expected smiles and gratuitous tipping that will keep it that way.

I never need to drink it, no. I get all I need just watching those bubbles rise.

Though the people here are indeed fascinating. I’ve seen a million faces so I don’t watch, but I’m always listening.

There’s Neal, Caroline’s loud coworker, who’s charm makes him more handsome than his rectangle face and chop of black hair.

Every Saturday, and most Tuesdays, a middle-aged woman I’ve heard called Jeanie will settle into the rounded edge of the bar, almost opposite me. She tells bad jokes about people no one knows and does not tip very well.

John has a new date every time he comes in, but I like him. His voice is deep and melodic. Even when his jokes are about me, I enjoy them. He usually aims them at Neal anyway.

Usually a group of older women will come in early on a Friday. They drink Brandy Alexanders with their pinkies extended. From the way they talk, they think they’re quite brilliant.

Then there’s Pepper. Oh to be like Pepper, wearing her age proudly and still seeming to take the world by delighted storm. Everyone adores when she comes in, diamonds around her neck and mink coat on her shoulders. Patrons and waiters alike crowd around her to listen to her sage advice and raunchy tales. For such a noble woman, she’s got a dirty laugh. She’s my favorite.

I think she’s probably everyone’s favorite, even Caroline’s. I’ll admit that makes me a little jealous, but I know that’s a silly feeling. She’s just doing her job.

Tonight the bar is crowded. When I first started my little dates here, the noise bothered me- all these people packed inside. However, as I allowed myself to relax into this world, I found it makes a nice buzz, like a hive of bumble bees thrilled to communicate a new found patch of lavenders. It’s lovely, really.

There’s a bachelor party going on in the front corner. They seem to be having a little too much fun, but what business is that of mine? John has brought in a little redhead with a high voice. I’m curious to see if this one sticks around longer than the others. And Pepper is shedding her large coat onto a chair, a sure sign she’s in for a long night. I am thrilled.

I need a long evening with my glass tonight. I need to lose myself in it. Winter gets longer every year and my body is exhausted. I hate the cold. That seems a mutual feeling with the way the icy wind pulls at my skin and the cold breaths freeze my heart. Ugh. To be young again and willing to fight back.

With this thought I almost fall back into my sorrow, but I’m brought to the surface by the ascending golden spheres again and again. Time passes, but I don’t know how much. I used to meticulously watch the time. But others would lengthen it and shorten it, twist it around, so now I just let it move on its own.

Pepper has stood, far too early to leave. She’s breaking away from her little audience and coming towards me. I can feel Caroline’s apprehension on the air. Sweet darling girl, still looking after me. I wish she was able to stop Pepper’s approach. I am in no mood for company.

The chair next to me scrapes out, then scrapes back in, now with the decorated woman upon it. She sets her glass beside mine. I do not know if she expects any sort of conversation, but she says nothing. I study her out of the corner of my eye. Tonight she’s wearing a black velvet dress, with long bell sleeves reaching each dainty wrist. Her diamond necklace is in place, this time joined by a set of pearl earrings. The one I can see appears to be gleaming slightly, almost moonlike. Even in her silence there’s a little warmth radiating from her, and I am actually quite calm to sit there, watching my glass as she watches hers. Her drink is tall like mine but smells of lemon. It reminds me of harvest, and I am almost homesick in a comforting way.

Finally, I realize my own peace in her presence. Of course. I have been so determined to be among strangers, I did not feel the recognition in the slightest. I lean in close to her, our shoulders grazing.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

She nods, her soft cocoa eyes meeting mine. There’s a smile in them, a mischievous glimmer of our little secret.

It’s a rare creature that knows me these days. I used to be notorious the world over, but most have forgotten. I’m like the Mona Lisa now: a figure to study or a discussion to have, but my reality and identity have been lost somewhere along the age.

Really, I shouldn’t be so surprised Pepper has seen me. She has spring in her eyes and summer in her soul, I can feel it. As creatures age, they have a choice to make- either become a shell displaced from the world, or allow the barrier between themselves and the world to blur. Pepper has chosen the latter, and it looks marvelous on her.

She leans back into me. “Are you missing her?”

It sounds like a question, but she knows the answer.

“Very much.” I whisper.

“Cheers to her health, Demeter. May she return to you soon.”

She lifts her glass, clinks it gently against mine. I see her time has come, so I lift my glass also to toast a life well lived. For the first time, I sip. The delicious amber nectar coats my tongue as each of those heavenly bubbles tickles my throat. It makes me smile, and Pepper smiles with me. We sit there for a few sips more, sharing a full silence that is sacred to women who have seen the world over.

When our glasses are empty, I offer my hand to her. “May I walk you out?”

“Yes dear,” she puts her hand in mine, “I’d like that very much.”

The Word

Alveolate (Adjective): 1. Hollow and large. 2. Cavernous. 3. Pretaining to honey, as in honeycomb.

Demeter, goddess of the harvest, watcher over the cycle of life and death! (Sometimes checks in on the law, good gal.) I had not fully planned for this girl and her glass to be an earth mother mourning Persephone’s yearly jaunt with Hades, but as I said on Sunday, I’ve been thinking on the nature goddesses a lot.

I’ve also been thinking of cycles, of growth and renewal. It’s hard not to in this season with the turn of the new year, planning New Year resolutions, starting all those new habits and cycles we do with each spin around the sun. It is so interesting to me that we start these new little lives in the dead of winter*. You’d think we would wait until Spring and burst open with the flower buds, turn a new leaf with the new leaves, ya know? I think that’s why this word spoke to me so much. Its first meaning is hollow and large, then cavernous. I just see this big, empty space that light has a hard time filling. But then we get to its last definition- pertaining to honey …What? Of course, smarties that you are, you know this really means in the idea of the honeycomb structure, which has lots of little caverns. But still- honeycomb is not empty for long! It’s quickly filled with honey, or a little baby bee** which are both sweet signs of joy and a successful, continuous life.

I’m not a good Winter-er. I am a Spring baby, and I like it that way. There’s a jar of Vitamin D supplements in my cabinet that prove I just was not built for snowy clouds and gray days. Demeter, of course, is not a huge fan of Winter either (whether you think this is her own fault or not will determine if you have Greek or Roman ancestors). But I wanted to give her some little happy place she can hide from the cold while she waits to bring forth the fruit of life again. Then Pepper’s warmth reminds her that it can actually be an honor to watch over the cycle of life and death.

And that’s really what Winter is, isn’t it? The other side to the cycle? It’s like a cleanse, a wipe of what life brought before, leaving behind space again to grow in the sunshine.

Cheers to fresh beginnings, and the endings that bring them!

__________

*Well, except you, Australia. But in the middle of such a hot summer I imagine you feel a tiny bit “dead of” too. 

**Yes brothers and other nerds, I know these are called larva but that word is gross. This is not a gross-word post. I’ll make one some other time.

The Story

A pale chin rested on folded hands atop the marbled bar, making her eye level with the curved crystal glass. Happy hazel eyes followed a particularly large bubble from its creation at the bottom of the drink, all the way to its joining with the sweet foam crest. Again the gaze dropped to the bottom to follow a new floated journey.

“So she never drinks it?”

“Nope,” Caroline’s laugh lines crinkled as she poured a drop of rosemary syrup into two highballs, “once every few weeks, I think it’s some sort of treat for herself.”

Neal narrowed his eyes back at her, “A treat? To order an expensive drink just to watch it go to waste? That’s not how I’d treat myself.”

“We all know how you’d treat yourself, Neal.”

Caroline passed the finished cocktails to the young couple on a date night, and made her way back over to her quietest patron.

“Doing alright over here?”

The young woman sat up slowly, appearing to have a hard time tearing her eyes from the glass to answer Caroline. “Yes ma’am, thank you.” She offered a bright smile, then relaxed back into her chair and continued her muted observations.

“And it’s always the same thing?” Jeanie, a regular who pretended she wasn’t, asked across her Moscow Mule.

“Yep,” Caroline answered, “a Prosecco with a splash of Chambord and an orange peel.”

Jeanie cut her eyes towards the conversation’s subject, “How specific to not even take a sip.”

Caroline was a little defensive over her guest, “Yes well, she knows what she likes. I think that’s alright.”

Tonight the girl wore simple gray heels with her tight jeans under a large black sweater. Her auburn waves were pulled back into a loose bun, with her glasses pushed back on her head as usual. For the first few of these visits to the high-end bar, Caroline had attempted to make conversation. She started with the usual casual bartender questions: How’s your day going? Meeting anyone here? Work near by? Sweet or strong, a bit of both? But she finally realized the young woman did not want to partake in chit chat. There had been no rudeness in her simple answers, (Fine. No. Yes. Sweet.) just a polite air of wanting to be on her own, and so Caroline left her that way. She couldn’t resist occasionally checking in, as the smile was kind and the tip left was always generous, but she did her best to leave the girl alone.

Caroline had become quite protective of her, really. Other bartenders or patrons, those regular and not, had been fascinated with the lovely scene at first. Men would try to flirt with her, women would try to shepherd her into their girls’-night-out. Caroline had begun to block these attempts before their inevitable failures interrupted her guest’s evening, but eventually that effort became unnecessary. The shimmer of the unusual lost its shine and the stares became less admiring and more concerned.

“What is she doing here again?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd? I think it’s very odd.”

“A gal like that is trouble with a capital T, mhmm. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Maybe she’s a little… special.”

“So what if she is?” Caroline set down the bottle of cognac a little harder than she meant.

It startled the flock of gray-haired book clubbers. Their leader clutched her large string of pearls before they all settled again, not a feather askew.

“Oh, nothing’s wrong with it, dear. It’s just a bit curious, don’t you think?”

It had indeed been a bit curious to Caroline. The girl was always well dressed, but not flamboyantly so like some who wondered in from Newbury Street. Her only jewels were two small silver circles in each ear, and an impressive opal ring she wore on the middle finger of her left hand. Caroline had tried to guess what a girl like that must do. Perhaps a well-kept housewife grabbing a moment to herself? Or a young lawyer? But there was no tan line where a wedding ring would sit, and she never carried any study materials. In fact, she never carried anything with her, save a small seasonal purse. There were very few clues for Caroline to work with.

“Maybe it’s the anniversary of a death,” Neal whispered one night.

“A death every couple of weeks? That’s ridiculous.” Caroline rolled her eyes.

“Well maybe she’s a hitman… hit-woman. And she celebrates her most recent target, but can’t drink because it could effect her aim.”

Caroline watched the young woman peering into the glass as if it was sharing secrets. “No, I don’t think she’s a hitman.”

“A spy then, and there’s someone here she’s watching!” One of a young couple in front of them offered, comically glancing to the groups around them.

“John that’s ridiculous.” His partner nudged him, “she’s way too obvious out in the open like that to be a spy.”

“Best place to hide is right under the nose!” John laughed into his mojito.

Caroline did not think this was the case either. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the girl seemed too innocent to be up to anything scandalous or mischievous, and Caroline had seen plenty of both. She’d served Cabernet Sauvignon to politicians whose dates were not their wives. She’d shaken martinis for a gentleman with no name who left foreign coins as a tip. She’d poured a round of shots for both bachelor and bachelorette parties busy breaking the vows they intended to make the following morning. So Caroline felt quite apt at telling the reputable from the unseemly, and the girl was certainly the former.

“Oh, she’s just in love. I know that look.”

Caroline refilled Pepper’s French 75 with a grin. Pepper was the most spritely and charming 80-year-old that had ever walked through the door, and was therefore beloved by all who worked there. Of course, the lavish tips helped too. Pepper would say she didn’t want to carry around her small bills anymore- and set down a $50. Caroline knew Pepper inherited several successful businesses from a late husband, but Caroline never asked which ones, and Pepper never offered.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Just look at those big eyes, doll. I could swim in them! Wear my little polka-dot-bikini and nose dive right into ’em.” Pepper gave a little shimmy as if it proved her point.

“She’s not in love, Pepper. She just likes to watch the bubbles.”

“Mmmhmm, no that girl is in love. And hard for it.” Pepper shrugged her mink coat onto the chair back, a sure sign she was settling in for a long night. Caroline was thrilled.

“And with who? She always comes alone.” Caroline felt like a mother and grandmother gossiping over their baby girl.

“That girl’s not alone!” Pepper threw her head back with a saucy laugh. “Look at her, does she look alone to you?”

Caroline considered the small woman, and realized that no, she did not look alone. Those who came to bars alone had certain goals, and they made them evident very quickly. A young man who came in to kill some time before a date smiled big, leaned on the bar, ordered whatever was on tap. The older men on their own hunched the shoulders low into their seats, as if they could shelter their Old Fashioneds from whatever the world had hurled at them. The single ladies showed up for eligible bachelors, or to appear like a damsel from a novel, sitting crosslegged in a short dress, waiting for a director to yell ACTION. Well, and Pepper. Pepper came alone, but she was never stayed alone. She made friends with whoever sat next to her, friends with the hostess, the bartender. By the time she would leave she’d be everyone’s favorite playmate and number one confidant.

So maybe Pepper would know.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.”

Caroline was whipped out of her thoughts, “What? No, no don’t, she likes to be on her own.”

Pepper was already gathering her drink and napkin, “I told you, she’s not alone. She’s just by herself.”

“I just don’t think she’ll want to-”

But Pepper shot Caroline a stare that told her to hush. It made Caroline feel young and loud. She quickly busied herself wiping down already pristine glasses as she quietly watched the encounter.

Pepper slowly situated herself in the tall chair next to the girl, setting her drink down close to the un-touched glass of expensive bubbles. Caroline watched the two of them just sit, saying nothing to one another. It was oddly beautiful.

After several long moments, and to Caroline’s shock, the girl leaned over to speak softly to Pepper. Pepper nodded back, and they continued to watch their glasses together. Oh how Caroline wished she knew what had been said.

Another moment passed, and Caroline was glad for the muscle memory that created two Pisco Sours for the set of gentlemen that joined the bar. She was entranced by the women sitting together. Was the girl too polite to ask Pepper to leave? Should she intercede?

They seemed alright on their own, and although she wanted to simply stand and watch, the after-dinner rush was making its usual demands. Between the Sidecars and Sazeracs, Caroline was only able to spare an occasional glance to Pepper and her companion. Every time they seemed to be fine, each fascinated with her own cocktail, and so Caroline continued the stirring and shaking and pouring and smiling.

When orders finally began to slow, Caroline quickly gathered restock from the back room, intent on just walking over and doing a full recon on Pepper and the girl. She set the bottles in front of Neal for organizing and then turned- but they were gone. Two empty seats were all that was left of the rare little exchange. Caroline was a bit jealous. All this time she’d spent thinking the girl was kind of hers to protect, yet Pepper somehow got through the young woman’s carefully constructed shell. She sighed, admonishing herself for the silly feeling, and wiped down the bar where the ladies had been.  Carrying their glasses to the sink, she froze, stunned by what she held: two beautiful, crystal, empty glasses.

The Word

Effervescent (Adjective): 1. (of a liquid) Giving off bubbles; fizzy. 2. Vivacious and enthusiastic.

People-watching is probably my favorite sport. I love finding a good place to practice it, and these are often cozy old coffee shops or brand new bookstores, the occasional hip downtown bar. Despite what Lifestyle movies will tell you, it’s not parks or county fairs because people are there for a reason. The best places to see interesting people and wonder about their story are the places people are drawn to, without a full reason, to just be whatever kind of fascinating specimen they are.

I think effervescent is an extremely underused adjective. It’s usually reserved for drinks, but I think we’ve all had a few bubbly, fizzy feelings in our time. How better to describe when a cute date first takes your hand? Or the anticipation when you’ve completed something worthy of pride, but have yet to present it? Or even walking the streets of a vacation town? It’s so often seen for its first soda-describing definition that we forget how much better life is when it’s a little more vivacious and enthusiastic.

Bubbles usually make me think of spring, and today we got eight inches of snow. But as I was thinking on the nature goddesses (stay tuned for them and their word), I realized there was that floaty feeling in the snowflakes too. It was in the way they danced back and forth, how they covered over the scars of roads and sidewalks on the earth, and how they really do fall on your nose and eyelashes*.

Just as the girl watched her bubbles, and Caroline watched the girl, today I watched my curious kitten watch the snow today, and it was beautiful.

Cheers to more effervescence in our lives! Which I guess is cheers to… more cheers!

*If you don’t get this reference, go watch Sound of Music and get back to me.

New to the blog? Welcome! You might enjoying checking out Today I am Carry first!

The Story

He loved to visit the library on sunny days. There wasn’t a single living soul there besides him and the cliché grandmother of a librarian. Everyone else on the small campus would be out enjoying the beautiful day of clear skies that rarely visited these Northern mountains. But not Pete.

He’d join the lads for a game of pick-up soccer when it was gray, and he was always happy to buy a round of drinks at the bar on a snow day. But between his rambunctious group of friends, the 23 hours of credits he carried that semester, and his mother calling every hour to see if he’d found her a daughter-in-law yet, there were very few quiet moments in Pete’s life. So he took them when he could get them.

The librarian, Mrs. Greensworth, smiled genuinely at him. She was used to his visits.

“A day in the shade, dear?” She called.

“Yes ma’am, just a bit of light reading per usual.”

“Alright love, just be safe in the horror section!” She laughed at her own joke and it did cause Pete a small chuckle.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Without looking at the caller he turned the switch to silent,  and headed towards the second floor. This floor held the more “boring” books. Rather than the fantasy, non-fiction, and new biographies that covered the first floor, the shelves up here were filled with history books and the out-of-date science books the library refused to trash. It was rare for anyone to pass up the first floor for the second. He always headed towards the back of the large room as well, just in case there was someone who came in to talk to Mrs. Greensworth, or a student with a paper due that evening who needed the computers. The packed shelves allowed him to avoid even those small sounds of conversation and panicked printing from floating towards him.

The history books were the easiest to get lost in anyway. They themselves came from different ages. There were cloth-covered books that he imagined the grandfathers of his gray-haired professors had once studied. Right next to these were brand new books in slick plastic sleeves, written when something new was discovered, or if someone felt differently about Napoleon than anyone else ever had before… again. There were middle-aged books wearing covers crinkled from years of being thrown into bookbags and slammed onto desks. Pete loved to run his fingers down a row to feel how the bindings changed as he went back and forth through time.

He plucked one at random, decided he didn’t like the angry warrior on the front, and replaced it again. He found one with no picture on the front at all. Alexander and the Ages, the title read. Conquerors were always good reads. They were half legend in their own minds already, so the features written on them were rarely disappointing. It was interesting to Pete that the mythical births and battles of these men could capture even the most realistic historians. True, it was their job to also mention the folk lore surrounding their subject, but when discussing Alexander the Great or Gengis Kahn, Sargon or Caesar, the writers always seemed to get caught up in what could not possibly be true of these mortal men. Right next to exact dates of archeological finds or references to proven archival texts, they would describe inhuman strength or divine premonitions. Pete figured there were just some people too powerful to explain.

Libraries never really had those big comfy chairs like they did in movies about attractive, tastefully-artistic people. So Pete choose to sit right on the floor with his back against shelf Aa-Br instead of any of the creaking wooden seats scattered around. He opened the large book at random, found himself partway through a chapter on the battle of Granicus. Settling into his spot between the shelves, he turned a page, and closed his eyes.

This was the most perfect sound in the world: This not-silence of crisp pages turning in an empty room. The soft scrape of finger across fine edge led to the delicate breath of the page resting upon the next. He found it enraptured him like a Monk at prayer, and he always felt Enlightenment was not so far off in those moments.

He turned another page. As the quiet deepened, it was as if all around him blurred out of time and reality. He felt the book begin to hum, a swollen rustling, through the muted space of it all.

…it was the first of three great battles, and each was deemed the world’s worst and last of its kind.

Another page.

He bowed low, as was the custom in this new realm…

Soon, as they always did, the surrounding books joined in the muffled hymn. The words came deep out of time and across the vast world to whisper to him.

There is legend that the great Pirate Queen was never defeated, but that she escaped to…

…and then they discovered the pressure on a keystone would serve to hold the weight.

Another page.

…with the king’s death, the kingdom was left with no heir. This was met with…

It would take the next 120 years for the road to be completed.

She had low social status by birth, yet being chosen by the emperor made her…

Both a warrior and artist, he wanted his army to continue at his side even after death.

Another page.

…and so they built a city between the two mountains.

This style was to protect them from the sun, but it also served as a symbol of…

…sadly its location is lost to history…

A loud THUMP and short gasp shocked Pete into the present.

“OW! Damn damn shit damn!”

He peeked around the shelf to see the exclaimer was a young woman on the floor holding her foot.

Mrs. Greensworth was shuffling quickly up the stairs,”Oh, love, are you alright?” She leaned down to the crumpled girl, “I saw you headed up with an armful and was worried they’d be too much! Come now, lets see it. Oh you got it good there.”

Pete watched the ladies gather the scattered books for a moment. He shook the last of his serene enchantment in the shelves from his mind and stood to go help them.

“Hey, you alright? These are some heavy tomes to drop on a toe.”

“Yeah,” she looked up at him with eyes bright and sweet as cinnamon sugar, “I didn’t know anyone was up here, sorry for the noise.”

“Not, not a problem,” he stuttered. He’d come back, he always came back to the whispered worlds. “Studying for an exam?”

“No, she’s my new assistant!” Mrs. Greensworth beamed. She patted Pete’s arm and gave him a quick wink, “Help Liza get these ones where they belong, will you?”

She turned to Liza, “Pete knows this floor better than me, dear. You’ll be alright up here with him.”

Pete continued to rearrange the stack of books to hide the blush rising up his cheeks as Mrs. Greensworth sauntered away.

“Oof, I think I’ve given myself a good little bruise there.”

“Yeah,” he glanced down at her floral sandals. A blueberry bruise was forming at the base of one pink-painted pinky toe. “These guys up here don’t always like to behave, gotta watch out for them.”

Liza laughed, and he liked the sound.

The Word

Susurrus (adjective): Full of whispering sounds. (noun): a whisper or rustling sound.

To get this out of the way: Yes, this is indeed Pete from our first story. I loved writing his romantic personality so much that I wanted to give a little background to how he became that way, and today’s word/story seemed appropriate for that. And then I just couldn’t help but have Liza show up! Note: How do we feel about “bright and sweet as cinnamon sugar” to say that her eyes are a pretty brown? I always wondered why authors never gave girls brown eyes, but now I get it! I’m determined though, so expect several brown-eyed-beauties to show up this year.

I think we all have those little sounds that impress a deep, almost unexplainable feeling upon us. For me, it’s the melody of a gold-edged Bible I had when I was younger. Almost every Sunday, a few moments after the pastor would start his sermon, there was a lovely shade of quiet. Everyone would be settled in- the choir had sat back down, Mr. Ashworth had finished retrieving a peppermint from his pocket, and no one’s leg had fallen asleep yet to make them jiggle against the pew. With just the pastor’s voice echoing in the large room, I would turn one of those thin gold pages. I thought it was the most beautiful, fascinating sound in the world.

Susurrus. I love this word. How is something FULL of whispers? A whisper can’t fill anything, can it? Its whole purpose is to not be a full voice, just a quiet imitation of one. And if a whisper is quiet enough, and we cannot make out the words, is it then just rustled breath? Or does it still count as a whisper?

We have been through a very LOUD season in an extremely LOUD world. Don’t get me wrong, I love the noise of family in the holidays (the best naps are in the middle of a warm room of laughing people, aren’t they?) but there is certainly something to be said for quiet. Though I don’t think it’s really silence we’re looking for when we want time to ourselves. Silence is lonely and cold. I think we’re looking for time to listen to those whispers, whether it’s of the world around us trying to say something or the words inside us we can’t often hear. Our hearts and souls and heads are constantly susurrus. The trees outside on a sunny day are susurrus, the little bonsai and aloes hiding in my apartment through winter, are all susurrus too. And I’ve yet to meet someone who has stood on a mountain who would claim it had nothing to say.

So today I was quiet (shocker, for anyone who has even briefly met me) and tried to listen to the whispers outside and within. It was nice. The small sounds seemed to echo to me and I liked it. They are indeed filling. It was a small reprieve from the noise always outside, sometimes inside. I hope you too find somewhere quiet, but never silent, to listen.

 

The Story

“Aren’t they just so gorgeous?”

“I don’t know if a cupcake can qualify as ‘gorgeous,’ Annie.”

“Of course they can! Especially that one.” She bent down to get a closer look at the Bavarian Creme’ Frosted Chocolate. “Helloooooo, beautiful!”

“I thought you weren’t eating sweets this month.”

“I’m not,” she sighed, straightening again, “but I like to window shop.” She smiled back at him, then turned to continue her intimate gaze with the Strawberry Champagne With Rainbow Sprinkles on the top row.

“Won’t that just make it worse? To know you can’t have it?” He watched her watch the pastries. She kind of looked like one her self today- what with sparkling silver joggers and a puffy orange jacket zipped up right to her freckled face. He imagined she’d be in the row of Tangerine Buttercream On Spice Cake.

“Nope. They’re pretty. I like looking at pretty things.”

He raised his eyebrow at her in response.

“Okay Danny, fine yes I’d like to stuff them all in my mouth BUT I’d want to do that either way and admiring them is more fun!” She laughed as they continued their walk downtown.

Now that he agreed with. Looking and not having was certainly more fun than not looking at all.

“Whyyyy did they have to schedule a meeting on the coldest night of the year?” She whined, pausing again. This time she was peering into the window of the Chocolatier de’ Paris.

“It’s monthly, it’s not like they picked it on purpose. And if someone had been on time, we could’ve gotten a parking spot on the street instead of back in the lot.”

“I couldn’t find my shoes!” She said to the truffles.

He tugged her arm, “Come on, we’re already late. Jack’s gonna have one of his hissy fits.”

She pulled him back towards her and the chocolates instead, “Well he can throw a fit all he wants. The festival isn’t for five more months, we have plenty of time. Oh look at THAT sexy thing!” She was pointing to a white bonbon with a syrupy swirl drawn on its dome. “Think it’s caramel?”

“Nope. Looks more like tar. Maybe soy sauce.”

“Ewww, Danny. You’re ruining it!”

He chuckled, “What? I’m helping! I’m making them less tempting for you.”

She shot him an exasperated look but started again to walk with him.

“I can’t believe he’s making us meet in this vegan deli. I bet they don’t even have a dessert bar. Probably just like… a kale smoothie bar.”

“The deli was your idea, genius. You said with everyone on a New Years diet, it was the safest place.”

“Well someone should have stopped me. It was a terrible idea.”

“Becky seemed to like it. I think she’s crazier than you though, going without meat for a whole year.”

Annie tucked a stray blond lock back into her beanie, “Pfft, I saw her sneaking beef jerky the other day. ‘New year, new me’ my ass.”

“Says the no sweets girl hypnotized by the Go Do-Nuts sign.” Although he had to admit, the pink neon light washing over her was quite appealing. It seemed to turn her into something unworldly, as if she was radiating a strange light on her own. He wanted to bathe in that light of hers. It was so warm, so lovely.

“Oh shut up,” she smirked. “Did you even make a resolution for the year?”

“Hm?” he rattled his thoughts back to reality, “ahhh, nope. Nope, no resolution. Don’t need one if you’re already perfect.” He started walking again so she wouldn’t notice he was also radiating a bit pink.

“Dan!” She caught up to him, “come on, Danny. You need one, it’s good to start the year trying something new.”

“Like torturing myself as you are?”

“It’s not torture!” She huffed, “It’s growth. And when the month is over, I’ll pick a new one for February. Preferably I’ll be picking it while digging into a pile of java-chip waffles.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Alright, if you don’t make one up for yourself, I’ll make one for you.”

“Oh?” His heart rate picked up. Having her in charge of anything for him was probably not safe. Eyes forward, he pulled his scarf a little tighter as if it could shield against more than the wind. “And what should I give up for the year?”

“Or month.”

“Or month, sure.”

“Hmmm…” She stopped to think in front of the Galaxy Diner. There was no window display here, but he knew she was imagining the vanilla shake with Reese Pieces mixed in. It’s what she’d order every time their DnD club had met there, whether it was 11am for brunch or 11pm for drinks.

“What if instead of giving something up, Mr. Perfect, you add something on.”

“Like what?” he asked. Like you? 

“Like your ukulele. I’ve never seen you play it. It just there on your bookshelf.”

“I’ve played it! It’s just… been a while.”

“How long?” She quirked a mocking eyebrow towards him.

“A bit.”

“Can you play anything?”

“I’ll have you know that my performance of Row Row Row Your Boat brought my old roommates to tears.”

“Most likely those tears were when you finally stopped.”

They glared at each other for a moment. He loved it.

“Fine.”

“YES!” She jumped a bit and he laughed at her exuberance, “by the end of the year, you have to be able to play a song with at least 5 notes in it.”

“Alright well that sounds doable, a whole year to-”

“You’re right, too doable.”

“Wait, no-”

“By my birthday.”

“By your birthday? That’s in like three months!”

“Your problem, not mine,” she winked before taking off across the street.

“Annie!” He dodged a biker and a Hyundai to get to her, “Annie, there are crosswalks for a reason!”

“Yes but if I’d waited until the crosswalk, I wouldn’t be able to smell the coffee shop from the other side, and it’s hot chocolate season.”

As they passed Who Let the Beans Out, she took in a huge breath and let it out with a satisfied smile.

It sent a bolt of lightening down his throat, that smile. He took a deep breath as well, noting the slight spice of her perfume riding the sweet scent of hot chocolate.

“Um, well, why don’t we just stop in for a cup then?”

She pursed her lips at him, “No sweets! Don’t tease me! And you just said we’re going to be late.”

He suddenly didn’t mind if they were late. She was right, the Beer & Taco Fest wouldn’t be held for several more months, so what was missing one planning meeting? By the time the festival finally got started there will have been lots more time for preparations. The world will have shaken off the chill of winter and he’d still be organizing vendors, regretting not sitting with her to drink a warm cup of hot chocolate.

“Maybe a little temptation is okay.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them he was speaking to.

The Word

Yearn (verb): 1. To have an intense feeling of longing for something, typically something that one has lost or been separated from. 2. To be filled with compassion or warm feeling.

It’s January, which means it is a fresh year to start over, to grow, to become something new. It also means there are a lot of people in my gym who I have never seen before. I’m mildly concerned about one guy in particular that is using the rowing machine backwards. But these newbies are working on a resolution. They’re trying to create a new healthy habit or rid themselves of a bad one. I try to remember this when I find a stranger already using my favorite treadmill.

I made a resolution of my own. My boyfriend, coworkers, and I are all participating in Dry January. This means no alcohol of any sort until February the 1st. We have all discovered it’s a little harder than it sounded originally. It’s not like any of us have a problem, but it turns out that glass of red wine at the end of a tiring day really made a big difference. So we’re trying to make big differences in other ways: yoga, running, meditation, occasionally buying too much at Sephora to avoid eating an entire chocolate cake. You know, normal healthy things.

There are all kinds of statistics out there that say most New Years resolutions fail. Then there are the articles and self-help books that encourage you to keep going with your goals, how to still have your resolution in April and all that. Of course they all mention that one of the problems with resolutions is the feeling of denying yourself something you want. We’re human, we like us, we like to give us things we like. It makes sense. But it making sense doesn’t stop the yearning.

The little non-couple in today’s story is full of yearning; she for sweets, him for her. They are both denying themselves something that would make them happy. She’s probably doing it for health, but we don’t get to know why he is. I left this ambiguous, because the why isn’t really what’s important here. It’s the pain and conflict of self-denial that I wanted to think on.

This year, I want our resolution to be to give ourselves more. Maybe instead of saying we’re not eating any bread ever again, we give ourselves the chance to try new things so that BOOM we find out roasted Brussel sprouts are pretty good! Instead of denying ourselves of downtime, lets give our selves patience to learn the ukulele. Lets run the extra mile, and give our bodies strength. Lets give ourselves kindness. Lets stop denying ourselves these things for the New Year.

And lets eat the damn cupcake.

The Story

The Christmas bonus she received was small, shorter than the gossamer email that accompanied it from the company’s CEO. She knew that a young professional, such as herself, should proudly deposit it into her shiny new savings account rather than on one of the shiny things sparkling in the downtown windows. But then again, ’twas the Christmas season and she always liked to treat herself when all the present-buying for others was done. The season of giving should include one’s self, right?

Her first thought had been a new computer keyboard. If she was going to be a full-time research analyst now, she was going to need to occasionally type the letter “u”. Her current keyboard was ironically unreliable about that. Then she considered a new coffee pot which sounded way more fun to shop for, especially in the fancy kitchen store downtown. She was only a block and a half away from it and three solid reasons listed to justify the purchase when the Joyful Interiors shop sign caught her eye. Noting that she had time enough on the parking meter for a short detour, she stepped inside.

Though the cool marble of kitchen islands and glass-topped side tables were enticing, she habitually searched for a “Sale” or “Clearance” section when entering a new store. A small yellow sign told her these items were in the back left corner, so there she went. Situated among the returned-items carts were bookshelves with a few scratches, an armoire with a bent drawer pull, and a couple wilting silk plants. And that chair. What a find! Crossing quickly to the beautiful lounge seat, she ran through its possible inequities which had landed it in the back corner. Perhaps a leg was short? Or a large scratch through the back fabric? She circled the object like a hawk on pray. Surely the missing silver upholstery tacks along only about four inches of the skirt was not the sin sending it 75% off? Tenderly, she risked taking a seat, bracing for a spring or frame to give out. Instead, she released a quiet hum of joy when she sat on the fully plumped cushion and remained aloft. This side of the tag stated it had once been a floor sample, though she hardly considered that a defect. Did most people?  From her little throne, she admired the diamond pattern faded through just the right shades of navy and gray to remind her of ocean storm waves. She curled into the tall back, only vaguely aware how strange she looked making herself at home in the back of a furniture store. With a sigh, she decided this chair was supposed to be in her life.

She ran her hands down the curved arms and she was grasping them tightly as she laughed along with the book club about an obscure author’s attempt at metaphor. There were plates of hummus and vegetables across the coffee table, but only crumbs were left of her famous chive biscuits. The ladies were enjoying themselves in her lovely home and she noted that after they chose the book for next month, it would be time to bring out dessert.

Her head rested back against the etched fabric and she was cradling her firstborn. So sturdy and fragile at the same time, the small bundle murmured in his sleep. She hummed slow versions of rock anthems as her father had to her when she was a baby. A warmth filled her, and she wondered if the tired young father had known he’d start a tradition when he got sick of lullabies.

Freckled fingers found the smooth silver studs outlining the edge of the chair frame, and she was talking to her partner about the deal she got on it as they chose a pattern for its reupholstering after years of wear. They laughed over the impulsive buy of a young lady, which started a long discussion on the joyful mistakes made by the ignorance of youth. She enjoyed these talks, which ebbed and flowed, dipping into deeper realms before coming back to the surface with bubbles of casual fondness.

She crisscrossed her legs like a child into the wide seat cushion. Now she was reading aloud, perhaps from a book of her own making, to a rapt audience in her small library. They cheered for the righteous, booed the villain, and echoed her joy back to her when good won over evil. Someone dear came and leaned on the chair’s arm, telling her how lovely the evening had been.

Her eyes followed the falling lines of pattern and she was heartbroken from some small tragedy, holed up in a safe place with a blanket clutched tightly to her chest. A familiar voice asked to be let into the room but she wanted to be left alone in her chair, where she could weep in peace. She needed to crumble in on herself there before standing back up against the reality of what had happened. Whatever it was that would happen.

Even with the sale markdown, the chair was a stretch against that treasured bonus. Surely though, this was an investment piece. It would be foolish not to purchase, really. This chair had been hers all along, had it not? Built for her alone. It had just taken them some time to find one another, like a set of imminent lovers who must mature and grow in preparation of their fated meeting. Choice made, fate sealed, she did not register the older couple admiring the mahogany table a mere foot away, or hear the cash register ding through a set of jade bookends. She was cuddled somewhere in a sunroom, in a house not yet built, listening to someone shuffle around in a kitchen years away.

The Word

Foretaste (noun): A sample or suggestion of something that lies ahead.

So I have this chair. Well actually, I have two of them. They didn’t come from a small boutique downtown, but a large furniture warehouse in a city pretty much made of large furniture warehouses. But I did close my eyes when I first sat in it and knew that this chair and I were destined for one another. After fixing up that wobbly right leg and enjoying my comfy throne for a full year, I found its match and they now happily sit together in my small living room.

When I first sat down in this chair several years ago, I made a few notes about what a lovely story that magical feeling would make. I found those notes today while searching for inspiration, and decided to find a word to match it. Is this cheating my own system, going backwards? After discovering foretaste, the rest of the tale simply fell into place. It got me thinking about cause and effect, and of course the butterfly wing that can create a storm. There are little choices we make that echo back to us in ways we can’t imagine quite as vividly as our little shopper did in today’s story. but certainly in a way that imprints upon us. My memories of these chairs don’t match the ones above, but I can tell you I sat and read my favorite stories in them. I cried through a tough breakup curled up in one. I had my first solo conversation with the lovely lady that would become my sister-in-law as she sat in one, with my cat sitting on the back cushion batting at her hair. My boyfriend and helpful coworker fought over who would lift these heavy things up to my new third floor apartment while my father quietly took one and went up the stairs on the kind of long tiring day only loved ones will tolerate. Each one of these moments help to charter my experience, and therefore who I am. These things we collect and thrust value upon can give us glimpses of who we’ll be, and where we are going- like a little sample of our futures, an appetizer for the next era.

I don’t think when I first sat in my coveted blue chair on a shopping trip with my parents in a country town that I knew I’d set it down in a matching blue apartment of  my own in a busy city. But I did know I was going places, and that I’d want a comfy place to sit and admire all the work I’d done to get to wherever those places would be, are still going to be.

I’m a little self-concious about how short this word’s story is. However, I already have plans for revisiting this chair and it’s owner in other stories to come, so we’re all going to have to consider this an introduction. Almost like a… suggestion of something that lies ahead (see what I did there?).

So with that said, on this quiet Sunday evening following a lovely sunny day, I think I will make a cup of tea, and go sit in my chair.

Here’s to a lovely, word-filled week 🙂

The Story

He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. But looks can only get you so far in a place like this. And really, the fact that I can’t see a scar or even a blemish means he’s never been in a real fight.

Yet here he is, on my turf. The fool.

I’ve seen lots just like him step up to the challenge. Men with arms thick as oaks, who threw their big bodies around as if it would impress. But I am quick and the saying is true- the harder they fall, indeed.

It’s the small ones I find more interesting. They try to read me, feel me out. An impossible, but respectable, approach. Those ones keep their distance, dancing the grapevine of pre-engagement, shifting their weight from foot to foot. They’re fun to tease, and I’m not the only one that thinks it. So I lean right, I lean left. They’re always watching- but never close enough. These light-weights stick around a bit longer than the big boys, yet still each and every one of them has been dropped eventually.

This guy can’t be more than 210, 215. He’s toned but not that tall. A real shame that I’ll have to knock that smooth smirk off his face.

My handler is speaking with him. He’s a good guy, my handler. Always warms them up so there’s at least a little entertainment before the throw down. Each time he welcomes them in, shows them the ring. Sometimes if it’s late he’ll make sure they’re fresh- feed and water them so they have at least half a chance. But then it’s time, and they turn to me. I never disappoint and then they go. We are an excellent, unbeatable team. My handler says they’re starting to say my name far and wide, in the bigger cities. He says we’re going there soon. Maybe in the big cities there will be some better competition.

However my handler seems a little off tonight. He’s speaking less, listening more. I don’t like it. Routine is the key to victory.

He sets his hand on the new comer’s arm and speaks low. Hmm. This guy must be nervous to face me, gotta be warmed up. Pathetic.

Finally, they turn to me. It’s time.

The challenger advances, steady with a confidence I can tell is faked. Slowly, clearly unseen, I tense my powerful legs. They are my favorite weapons.

He bends a knee to the ground, as if to lift off and pounce, but loses his balance and has to reach out his arm to steady himself. The waltz has barely started and he’s already faltered. That’s boring. I consider playing with him, but it is late and I am tired of the weaklings.

With his hand mere inches from my faces I THUMP. Again, HARD and LOUD. He pulls back, the coward, and I advance on him. I thrive on the fear I see in his eyes. It’s a quick flash through his baby blues but I catch it and it is delicious. He forces a chuckle to pretend he’s unafraid, but it’s too late- it is done.

My handler pulls the guy back by the shoulder, extracting him to what they pretend is safe distance from me. No distance is safe from me. Then like a good handler, he calms the poor contestant before sending him on his way.

It was a short bout. I thought this one might actually last longer than the others. A disappointment he didn’t, really.

It’s time for my reward though. My handler presents me with several delicious treats while messaging my right thigh. I’ll admit I’m no young buck, so although it’s a little embarrassing, I appreciate the warm rubs loosening the tight muscle.

“Oh Sir Fluffington, think we’ll ever find the one?”

Not here. I need a warrior with more experience. One that’s more agile, more confident.

“He was pretty cute. Not too smart though. But of course you noticed that part.”

Of course.

“Ah well. He’s out there. Until then, I think it’s bed time for both of us, yes?”

He picks me up, rubbing the sweet spot from the tip of my nose to between my long ears. This always makes me a bit sleepy, but when he sets me down in my nest of hay and a pillow I have expertly torn to comfier pieces, I send him a stare to let him know I’m still aware, still paying attention like always. He scratches my chin and places one more piece of butter lettuce close by in case I get hungry in the night.

“Goodnight sweet bun, sleep tight.”

Another contender taken care of. Time to rest.

The Word

Contender (noun): One that contends. A competitor for a championship or high honor.

One of my brothers owns a Flemish Giant, which is a breed of rabbit that has the ability to grow to an average of 15 pounds. They’re kinda like to bunnies what the Maine Coon is to regular house cats, and they have the attitude to back it up.

Like most people who call themselves Writers, I like to dabble in playing opposites. From today’s word, you might thing we were going to meet a young athlete or perhaps a fiery mercenary. Well, to Mr. Snippy (the inspiration for Sir Fluffington), we did. He’s just a little shorter than Alexander the Great, but the heart and determination is the same, and I imagine he takes weeding out his human’s dates as seriously as one would conquering the Persian Empire. That’s my internal lesson for the day: I may be short and fluffy, but I am strong and those who challenge me should do so with caution.

That, and sometimes a little attitude is a good thing.