Six Word Stories

Doves gorge on seed; hawk satisfied.

Rabbit eats my garden. Hasenpfeffer dinner.

Wanted: Children with taste for gingerbread.

Secondhand coffin for sale. Barely used.

Exercise club: Pay now. Ignore later.

Man In the Green Suit

 Maggie arrived late for work, her purse and laptop bag dangling from her right arm. The elevator was empty as it dinged its way past the third, fourth and fifth floors where it paused to admit a small man wearing a sea green checked suit jacket with a green carnation in the button hole and solid sea green bell bottom pants. He nodded cordially as he entered the lift and stood facing her during the remainder of the ride to the 12th floor. When the door slid open he turned smartly and marched past Rita the receptionist's desk.

"Good morning Maggie," Rita chirped. "How was your weekend?"

"It was alright," Maggie replied. "Hey Rita, did you see the man who got off the elevator with me?"

"No honey. I thought it was just you."

Maggie took her messages from Rita's outstretched hand as she passed, curious where the green-clad man had gone. She peeked into each office as she strolled down the hallway but didn't see him.

She turned down the corridor to the left and there he was. He stood below the window at  the end of the hallway tapping a familiar rhythm on the wall. Her mouth fell open in surprise when a door opened and the man stepped in, winking at her over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. Maggie rushed to the end of the hallway and repeated the rhythm. The door opened and inside she could see a series of cubicles and further back a bank of busy machines. Faint whirs and buzzes wafted toward the door.

The buzzing grew louder and Maggie's eyes opened wide. The alarm clock beside her bed sounded to wake her for work. Another Monday. And another strange dream. Maggie sat up and swung her legs over the side of her bed.

She shuffled to the bathroom, never noticing the green carnation on the floor in the hall. 

From the Well

 We tried again. Lowered 

the bucket down the well. 

This time, he climbed atop. 

Grasped the rope and held 

on, feet occasionally

 bouncing off the continuous 

rough rock wall around him. 

 

But this time, this time 

his toes didn't wedge 

between the rocks to hold 

him against our straining 

up top, pulling with all 

our might. The higher 

 

he rose toward our voices 

and the pale sky, the lighter 

he became. Maybe this time 

he would cast off the bricks 

and boulders he'd been carrying 

that kept him at the bottom 

of the well. Maybe this time 

he would make it to the light. 

Poignancy Wafflebottom

The saloon doors slammed open to reveal a buxom woman silhouetted against the fading sun. In truth, this woman was well padded not just above the waist, but also below, such that an hourglass would pale by comparison.

She squinted into the smoky room, lifting one corner of her upper lip and revealing a ragged set of brownish teeth. She snorted and spit a wad of tobacco and phlegm with perfect trajectory into the spittoon situated next to Wide Burp with such force that it jangled his spurs.

Burp tipped his hat back to get a better look at the newcomer, unveiling an enormous proboscis and a lazy eye. His good eye locked upon the figure in the doorway and an involuntary intake of air nearly sucked the flame from the candle on his table.

Burp quickly stood, shoulders back, chest out, and belly sucked in as much as was humanly possible.

“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat flirtatiously. “Won’t you join me?”

She paused for a moment, looking into his good eye (his lazy eye wandered up and down her form), before sashaying over and placing her enormous gloved hand onto his extended palm.

“Wide Burp, at your service.” A slight bow accompanied his words.

“Poigancy Wafflebottom,” she replied in a sultry baritone, giving his hand a bone-crunching squeeze. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Burp knew his life would never be the same. But he was instantly head over heels in love (or was it lust) with Poignancy Wafflebottom, and there was no going back. She was his destiny.

Emergency Room Slide

I stand outside his room

my back to the wall.

 

Hospital staff walk by.

Some push equipment

others chat in strolling pairs

None of them look at me.

 

Their eyes slide past.

I am not a person here.

Just a figment attached

to a room number

and its patient in distress.

Eavesdropping

From where I sit in my office 

door closed

trying to write, 

the dishwasher sounds like 

a hushed conversation. 

I try to discern the discourse. 

Maybe it could become dialogue 

in my latest story. 

But it remains vague. 

As frustrating as eavesdropping 

on my grandparents, 

trying to gain inside information regarding 

gifts and other secrets, 

but their low voices 

coupled with the German they spoke, 

kept me properly completely mystified.

Secret

She knew a secret.
It was not heavy.
It was not difficult.
It was neither gray sky
nor thunder loud.

 

Instead, it was light
as an autumn leaf twirling
on an easy breeze.
It was a brilliant sunrise
quiet as a whisper.

 

Her secret was kindness
in the face of indifference.
It was the promise of a rainbow
after the raging storm.
It was love in a time of anger.

Late August

 In late August, the honey in my little plastic bear

has turned to near solid amber,

zinnias still stand tall but now with

yellowed leaves,

gayfeather have lost their luster,

white cone flowers show black bug bites,

and autumn creeps ever closer.

Bedlam

Conflicting statements

rescinded truths

screams and rants and shouts

and wails.

Faces tense with rage

insincere smiles 

and pouting mouths

spilling lies and bile.

And then there's 

raucous bird song

drumming rain

sighing winds and

deep exhales.

Exit the bedlam.

Save yourself.

Gerald's Picnic

 

“Hey Gerald. I came as quickly as I could. What’s so important?”

“Sherry, I have put together an amazing surprise for you. It was a lot of hard work to get it all here, but you’re worth it baby. Nothing’s too good for my lady.”

Sherry turned her attention from Gerald to take in the sumptuous and romantic meal spread before her. Fried chicken, biscuits, fruit, a beautiful cake, and glasses of wine, already poured, covered the entire picnic table.

“Oh Gerald! It’s stupendous! Did you really do all of this just for me?”

“Of course my love,” he replied, anticipating the passionate appreciation Sherry would demonstrate later. “Let’s start with desert, shall we?”

Gerald leaned in for a kiss, but Sherry went to sample the rich cake. She would have liked to have dived into it, but she restrained herself.

“I still can’t believe you carried all of this out here by yourself. It must have taken you a long time.”

“Don’t give it another thought my dear,” he crooned. Just as he leaned in to try and steal a kiss, another couple arrived at the table. Gerald’s face turned red and he quickly suggested that they leave.

“But Gerald, we haven’t had our lovely dinner yet. You went through all this work and…”

The other woman at the table looked at her and Gerald, disgusted. The man swatted at them, but not before Gerald grabbed a juicy grape and made a hasty retreat.

“I can’t believe how fast those pesky ants moved in on our picnic,” the man said to the woman. “I was only gone for a few minutes to meet you in the parking lot.”

Gerald now knew that his plans for a romantic evening with Sherry were ruined. She had left with such speed that she had all but left skid marks from her fast moving feet. But hey, there were plenty more lady ants – and picnic tables in the world.

Summer

Remember the way they rattled,

the coins on the dash as we

drove over washboard roads,

in perpetual pursuit of something to do?

 

We were nonstop restless

drowning in summer heat and itching

to wrap ourselves in some sort of

mischief or mayhem or both.

 

She will respect this, we said,

as we dove from the cliff above the quarry

splashing into breath-taking water

desperate to impress.

Writing so much there's no time to write

I know. The title doesn't seem to make sense, but in my reality, it does.

I have been so consumed by writing things for my clients that I have had no time, or maybe it's no energy, to write for myself. I normally enjoy writing poetry, flash fiction and the odd essay. But lately, none of this.

This isn't unusual for business writers. It is, however, still frustrating. 

I'm going to change this lack of balance. I have stories that are pushing to be told, and I will comply.

I Love A Parade

 

The last marching band turned the corner and the drum beat echoed against the city’s buildings before gradually fading away. I looked around. Parents began to gather their belongings – chairs, blankets, coolers, tired and sweaty children clutching handfuls of candy thrown from floats and snatched from the street. Soon traffic would resume and the litter left by spectators would be ground under tires or lifted in the breeze to be deposited randomly around.

I thought back to parades I attended with as a child with my family. We lived just up the hill from our school district football field, so we’d nestle into the grass and watch the parade before the annual homecoming game. When I was in upper grade school I belonged to a city-wide drum and bugle corps. I loved the discipline of the practices and routines, but, being a deeply shy child, I quit before I had to perform. This unfortunate choice came on the heels of being ‘promoted’ to the front line. I was fine if I could blend into the background, but no way did I want to be front and center. The horror! 

When I was in high school I played in the marching band first with my flute an piccolo, and later in the flag corps. I didn’t have the option of quitting because participation was a mandatory component of being in band, and I loved being in band and playing music. 

Later, I would take my own children and foster children to parades. They too liked to scrabble in the road for candy, but the drum’s first downbeat, followed by cadence, sent chills up my spine – in a good way.

Canadian wildfires

Smoke from Canadian wildfires

tints the sunset and my eyes red.

My longs rebel and my heart

aches for the displaced,

the people and animals who've 

lost their homes and habitats.

I think about our U.S. president

and what it takes to make us

want to leave here, possibly move

there, among the raging fires

and winter ice, but without

a despot for a ruler.

Emptying Shelves

 

Unused domestic items, relegated to the garage 

clutter shelves, collecting dust 

and spider webs, purpose misplaced.

Sticky wok. Pinwheel remains. A feral 

Barbie with ratty hair. Bits of sidewalk 

chalk, now just powdery remnants of our 

lives as foster parents.

Old flowerpots and tattered cloth grocery bags. 

Awards from a growing career. 

Metal footlocker sheltering a Korean War era 

Marine uniform and medals.

Bits and pieces of our lives. Our family  

history. Us.

Focus

 Focus is the locus

but mainly on the plain.

The plane in the sky

flies by with nary a glance

at the wide expanse below.

 

The pilot is focused on

instruments and altitude while

flight attendants are focused on

passengers with attitudes

and snacks, scarce as smiles.

 

I used to look forward to a flight

my belly tight with nerves at ascent

the pleasant drowsiness of the climbs.

But now, the chimes of seat belts on

creates a rock at my center.

 

An hour or more in the air and

careless folks cough into no mask;

the task of preventing illness

a willingness no one shares.

I feel a sniffle coming on.

 

The focus of the locus

is mainly on the plain

and that’s where I wish to be.

Transformation

I use the plastic edged razor

meant to slice Christmas wrap

and envelope paper

to cut your beautiful hair.

 

No quick snip of the barber shears

but an urgent hack and hew

leaving you with a ragged fray

about your face.

 

Head liberated and light

eyes clear and bright under the rising sun

you stand transformed and ready

to do battle in a new world.

dawn

dawn stretches across the horizon

languid, banishing the dark cloud bank

confused by the infusion of light

forgotten again

 

the past rattles my windows

and rain whispers in morse code

begging me to remember

 

my subconscious reluctantly exhumes

memories long buried

 

with dawn’s weak light,

decaying and dirt covered,

they are forgotten again

 

Fight for Grateful

I am grateful that I have

my work, funded by federal grants

for now.

I am grateful that my uncle

has Medicaid, funded by the federal government through the state

for now.

I am grateful that elders

get meals on wheels

for now.

Tomorrow I will fight for

these things that make me grateful

Disappearing Letters

Letters are disappearing
from my keyboard.

Gone are my a, s, d, n, c, i, o.

Fading fast are good old r, k, w, t, and h.

The rest are crisp and clear

but they can't take up the slack.

Soon I will be typing blind. 

May as well close my eyes and

imagine -  hoping the right words appear

pulled straight from imagination.

How I Became A Writer

 In elementary school, I received a shiny 50 cent piece as first price for a poetry contest. I don't recall whether it was for my grade only, but I do remember the pride I felt when my writing was chosen.

In high school, I recall a meeting with my career counselor. I was placed in higher level English classes, told I would be tutoring in the writing lab (terrifying for a shy introvert - I was able to decline) and being steered toward college. My parents didn't go to college, though I had uncles and aunts who did, and I respected them and their education. But I was scared.

My career counselor asked what I wanted to do. I said I'd like a career where I could write. She said, "Well, in Wisconsin, you could either write for an agricultural magazine or teach English." Since I didn't want to do either of those things, I underwent a series of interest and ability inventories. I met with my career counselor to get the results. "It looks like you should go into social work." Well, my mom did that, and it seemed like a tough road, so I enrolled at our local two-year community college. I tested out of the required English 101 and English 102, and jumped write into an advanced English course. In addition, I signed up for Sociology, Geography, Psychology, and Anthropology. The man who was supposed to provide guidance for me in signing up for classes did not clue me in that it is a bad idea for most freshmen to take more than one 'ology course in their first semester. I tanked.

After a year of struggling through these classes in an atmosphere that felt like high school (lockers, living at home, seeing many of the same people I went to high school with...) I left university life with a very low and ragged grade point average.

My younger sister had just graduated and enrolled in the local technical college to pursue accounting. I had nothing better to do, so I followed suit, even though I had never even balanced a checkbook. Still living at home (now at the ripe old age of 19), I took the required accounting intro courses as well as a required communication class. Halfway through the semester, my communication class teacher, Mrs. Kemp, asked me to stay after. I couldn't imagine what I had done to get in trouble, but that could be the only reason for being asked to stay after class.

Well, she wanted to kindly suggest that I might be bored with accounting. (I honestly don't think I would have made it through a second semester.) Had I considered public relations as a course of study. The University of Oshkosh (UW-O) had a good program. 

The angels sang and the orchestra music swelled and that's what I decided to do. I attended UW-O for two years majoring in Journalism and Public Relations before finishing at UW-Stevens Point where I graduated with honors. While there, I took several writing courses with Professor Karlene Ferrante who has remained a mentor and friend. I also got my MA there, with Karlene heading my thesis committee.

Oh, life got so much better once I had a clear direction. I owe a great deal to Mrs. Kemp for her insight. 

Beautiful Life

He stood behind her in the mirror and whispered, “You are beautiful.” She smiled and closed her eyes, remembering all the times he had said this to her before.

On their first date, forty years ago, when he arrived at her door holding a dazzling bouquet of spring flowers.

Before he slid the simple gold band on her finger and said, “I do.”

When they welcomed their son into the world, even though she was tear-stained, exhausted and flecked with remnants of her own vomit.

As they began the long drive home after delivering their only child to his new, adult life halfway across the country.

Before they went to sleep each night and first thing each morning, his words, steady presence and love were with her, always.

He had said he loved her, that he would always love her, as he lay in the hospital bed, morphine drip and cancer dulling the usual sparkle in his eyes and slurring his words, but he didn’t really need to say them anymore. She knew.

She opened her eyes, and he was gone, a hint of his cologne and memories all that remained.