Center of Attention

Center of Attention

Arnold, the guest of honor, arrived late. His uniformed attendant, soft-soled shoes squeaking against the spotless floor, guided him down the dimly-lit, anonymous hallway. A whiff of floor polish and antiseptic greeted them as they rounded the corner to their destination.

The door before them opened automatically with an efficient mechanical whisper revealing a large room that was, quite simply, dazzling. The white walls and spartan furnishings gleamed; it was certainly cleaner – and neater - than anywhere he’d ever been invited before, and blessedly cool on this mid July day. Blessedly because Arnold had developed a rather unpleasant odor of late. But it wasn’t his fault. Just one of those things that happens as a body ages.

The two proceeded into the room, and there they were, his audience, all formally dressed for the occasion, even sporting gloves and white jackets.

Arnold was not the least bit self-conscious about what he wore, which was nothing.

Two men rushed forward to usher him further into the room. Bright lights suddenly flooded his eyes. This was by far the most attention Arnold had gotten in his whole life.

The crowd paused expectantly.

“Is everyone ready?” asked the master of ceremony.

 Instruments were raised.

“Today’s lesson is autopsy. Let’s begin.”

Of Life and Laundery (originally published at Fiction 365 summer of 2011)

Stepping forward, barefoot in the grass, she dips lightly, catching a wet shirt by the collar and hoisting it up to the line. Deftly she plucks two clips from the bag, fixing the shirt in place and immediately forgetting it as she picks up the next item. Soon the entire line is dancing in the wind, a disembodied conga of our week’s wear.

She raises a freckled hand to her forehead, absently brushing at a persistent mosquito. It dodges and circles back for another try, hardly visible in the early summer sun. My mother scarcely notices. She has other things on her mind.

The laundry reclaims her attention. She grabs a bed sheet by the corners, snaps it straight, and hangs it to dry. I like to watch the sheets blow in the wind and pretend they are sails on a great whaling ship, with me as the fearless captain. The fitted sheet is the last to join the line, a big puffy cloud on the horizon.

Suddenly a shark fin appears, cutting through the waves of unmowed grass. It sinks but resurfaces, closer this time, moving toward my mother bit by bit. I can’t let it get her. I dive into the wake and chase the beast, catching it by the tail just in time.

My mother spins around, shocked. “Eleanor, what in the world are you doing?”

Our dog’s surprised yelp still rings in my ears. He looks at me, reproachful of the undignified treatment he’s received. I scratch his ears and am on the road to being forgiven. He rolls on the ground, exposing his belly so that I may better apologize.

“Eleanor, you know you’re not supposed to exert yourself,” she says. “The doctor said you are supposed to stay still. Now go back on the porch and play with your dolls.”

“But mom, I’m bored.” I know I am whining because mom’s mouth turns down at the corners and her eyebrows bunch closer together.

She looks into my eyes and softens, reaching toward me, gently tugging a piece of grass from my messy hair. She drops the grass and lays first the back of her hand, then her lips, lightly on my forehead, her version of a thermometer. I call it the “mom-ometer.”

“Well, at least you don’t feel warm,” she reports. “And your color does look a little better. Maybe we can play a game. How about Scrabble?”

She knows it’s my favorite.

Mom hauls the Scrabble board and a pitcher of limeade out onto the porch. I can still see the laundry and the ship sails as we sit sipping and spelling away the afternoon.

TRAPPED

Lucie beat against the wall, distressed.  “I don’t understand.”     

The world seemed to tilt below their feet.

“What is it you don’t understand?” Aaron looked at her closely.

 “That.” She pointed to the world outside.  “Why we’re here. Everything. Nothing. What does it mean?!”

“Calm down now. You’re getting hysterical.”

“Hysterical!?! You think this is hysterical?!!!!”

“Yes. I kind of do.” 

“Great. That is soooo helpful. NOT.”

Shadows shifted around them as they pause to watch the world.

Aaron rested his head against the wall. “Well, what would you like me to do? It’s not like I can change anything. Right? Can I? Change anything?” 

“No. Of course not. But how did we get to this point in the first place?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course. You don’t know.” Lucie was ready to explode. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. It’s all some big friggin’ mystery.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“I just feel trapped. And I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating.”

“Me too.”

“What if we slow down? What if we just stop?”

Aaron paused. “Stop?”

“Yes. Stop moving. Stop fighting. Just stop.”

“Good idea. Let’s close our eyes and imagine we’re in a different place and everything is alright. That’s right. We are still. We are still.”

Their eyes whipped open and they both jumped at the sound of a loud rumbling right above them. Their whole world shook and they found themselves on the ground. In the grass. In the beautiful damp grass.

Their prison lay discarded. Their captor carried away, yawning, by the rumbling one.

Lucie and Aaron looked at each other in disbelief. 

“We’re free. We’re FREE. WE’RE FREE!”

They leaped into the air, and headed for the woods, leaving a soft intermittent glow in their wake.

Under the Bridge

Under the Bridge

Story by Susan Reetz

Photo by Irene MacFarland

That fish jumped, straight up through the air, out of its element, turned, and dove back down to what it knew best. It was then that I realized just how hungry I was. Fish doesn’t normally appeal to me, but extreme times call for extreme measures.

Gone are the days of regular foot traffic in this part of town. Now everyone is in such a hurry they drive. Gas-swilling exhaust-belching vehicles swarm at top speeds, engines roaring, ruining my piece of heaven.

Once upon a time I was respected. Some feared me. Many tried to match wits with me and most faced  failure. Only a few crossed my path and lived to tell about it. They and their blasted descendants went on to create this false environment and push me into obscurity.

So here I sit. Under the bridge. Waiting for a weary traveler to cross the bridge above me. I have questions three and a growling emptiness waiting to be filled.

Treasure Hunt

What fun is a treasure hunt if the treasure is not hidden? I’m not afraid to work for my rewards. I’m actually good with delayed gratification, so long as it’s not delayed too long. That’s why I always give them a head start. It’s so much more, interesting.

And I never know where the next one will be.

Today, for example, I spotted her at the local swimming pool. I’d had no intention of finding anyone again so soon, but as she swam by her hand brushed my chest. Instant heat followed, charcoal, long soaked in lighter fluid, kissed by the flame of her touch. I caught sight of her heels as she flicked her strong legs behind her. I have always liked a well shaped foot, and hers were bewitching.

So I waited for down the street. My lucky day; she’d forgotten her shoes and the pebble strewn blacktop was painfully hot to her naked feet. I offered her a ride. She got in.

I locked the doors and leaned over to help her with the seatbelt. She didn’t even see the cloth in my hand or smell its sweetness until it was already at her face.

We drove a while in companionable silence, past homes and fields. The trees were thick on the old logging road where I parked. I left the doors open and walked away. I knew she’d wake up soon, and I wanted to give her time. 

I had all night to find my treasure.