Forlorn

Thursday, nine a.m.: snow, snow--everywhere! There must have been five (fifteen?) inches, and it was still coming down, pretty hard. He squinted. Perhaps his ten-year-old eyes were deceiving him--or it could be the fever--but wasn't that William at the end of the road? Evan opened the window and stuck his head out, just a little (but enough to make his mother very unhappy, should she pick this moment to slink into his room with a bowl of steaming oatmeal atop a bed tray). 

Ah, yes--it was, in fact, his rotund nemesis who was plodding his way down their street, dragging his expensive, bragged-about sled behind him. The tracks he made looked like those of some giant, inelegant slug-like creature. His puffer jacket and thrice-wrapped scarf only added to the bulbous effect. Evan briefly pondered shouting some pre-adolescent insult, then reconsidered (again, Mom). Anyway, he needed to shut the window. Brrrrr!

Evan made his way back to bed and flopped under the covers. He thought of his own sled, that marvelous old hunk of an heirloom presented to him with grave pomp by his father, around this time last year ("Son, I think you're old enough to appreciate this now.") It must be waiting, forlorn, in a corner of the mudroom; surely it itched to get out and skim across the snow just as much as its young owner.

Ah, well. After breakfast and maybe a cup of hot chocolate, he'd nap and make himself dream of a monster powder-coated hill and an easy race victory over a certain evil slug. No fair being sick on a snow day, no fair at all. That was all there was to it. 

This is my latest bit of microfiction for Willow's Magpie Tales. 

Taken

His father had always called him impulsive, and without knowing it, the old man would be proven right yet again. Dan knew this necklace should belong to his mother; it was rightfully hers just like all those other symbols of his father's misplaced affection for Stepmother One, Stepmother Two, and now, Stepmother Three. 

So many dollars, euro, and yen had been wasted on conniving women half his father's age. Much had been taken, but the discarded wives hadn't left with all their jewels; Dan had quietly seen to that. It was almost a shame that he'd become so good at theft, since he certainly didn't need the money.

Three had called Dan to brag drunkenly about the honeymoon in Venice, and it was likely she'd forget that she'd made the call. Well, Dan should have known his father would choose the villa. After Three had dropped her phone and the connection, Dan had made his own call, for a First Class ticket the following afternoon. 

Impulsive, yes, but Dan could be patient as well. He'd waited until he'd seen them tuck themselves into the silver convertible and back out of the garage. Then, worming his way into the villa had been too easy--not much of challenge at all. 

Now Dan stood in the sun by the bureau, briefly considering his fate as the second son of a wealthy but stereotypically cruel financier. Views of the Grand Canal were all well and good, but at what price? What had been taken from Dan and his mother was great, and his frequent thefts were really only a small way to take something back. Things were suspected but never proven; stepmothers fretted and complained.

Dan worked the seed pearls with his fingers, rubbed with his thumb the form of a monkey wrought in gold. Then he let the necklace dangle, almost drop from his grasp, but he wouldn't let go. Gripped tightly again, the necklace was shoved into Dan's pocket as he turned toward the door.

I wrote this for Willow's Magpie 40.

Mr. Bangs

She'd never liked the nameless resident female poultry in Gran's back yard. But there was something about Mr. Bangs, the rooster, the Big Daddy, that really made her crazy. Sure, the crowing at dawn (roosters have no concept of Summer Vacation) was enough to make any eighth-grade city girl despair, but it wasn't just that. 

It was the way he'd look at her when she entered his domain, that dry, cooped corner, literally crawling with perfect food for a demanding rooster--and the ladies, when Mr. Bangs deemed them worthy. Oh, he'd stand stock-still, his head cocked slightly to one side, in a silent face-off, that beady left eye catching the light. It was an unspoken but quite apparent dare: "Go ahead, Sweetheart, just try taking one more step toward My Brood!"

She'd try reasoning with him, alerting him to the fact that the people, those beings living in that big coop over there, were the ones ultimately in charge. There were weapons, stew pots, and coyotes in neighboring states. But no, Mr. Bangs cared nothing for logic. Well, forget it; too much stood--again, literally--between her and those eggs. She'd go get Gran one more time and resign herself to trying another day. A second summer of admitting defeat just wouldn't do, but for now, Mr. Bangs and his reign of terror would continue.

This is for Magpie 39. As always, thanks, Willow!

Another Day, Another Abbey

She knew what he was thinking. The gravel was a temptation, for sure. 

"If you throw one of those and it hits that window, that nun is going to get you!"

"How did you know...? No, she won't! She'd have to catch me first!" His heels scooted back and forth in the pebbles, making a pleasing grinding sound. It was something to do; after all, there was nothing else. These abbey visits were dead boring.

"Let's run, then!" Movement was often on his mind, especially as he spent far too much time sitting stock still on these holiday trips. 

"You know Mum and Dad said to sit quietly and wait for them here. I'm not letting you get me in trouble again today!" Ah, the joys of being an older sister.

"But my bum hurts! And they've been in that gift shop for a hundred years! I think Mum has enough herb tea already, don't you? Why does she always want to buy what the nuns make?"

"Because nuns are good at that stuff. Hey! You better come back here! Stop running or I'll tackle you! Or I'll get that nun. Don't make me get that nun after you! Don't make me, James!"

This is for Willow's Magpie Tales 31.

That Egg and I

"I see you made it to the flea market, after all."

"What? Oh, the egg--yes. I found just the one I wanted," Ella called from the kitchen.

"Did you get anything else?"

"No, that's all I bought. I got a bit sidetracked, Amy. That egg and I, we kind of had an adventure." Ella set the tea tray down on the antique chest that she'd put to use recently as a coffee table.

"An adventure? Tell me more!" Amy reached for a cookie and bit into it, while Ella poured the tea.

"Well, just after I paid the woman at the booth for my egg, I kept on walking. It was getting a bit late, and many of the vendors were beginning to pack up. I stopped at one more table to drool over some French enamel things, but then I saw why most of them hadn't sold--they were asking way too much."

"Where does the adventure part come in?"

"Patience, Amy. I was about to leave the market when this guy came up to me--just stepped in front of me, out of the blue. He had this goofy smile on his face. He said, 'I know this will sound weird, but you look really familiar. Were you on an overnight train a few years ago going from Prague to Amsterdam?'

I just said,'Um, yeah, I was. Why?'

'I think we were in the same sleeping car. You were talking to your friend about this Russian egg you'd found in Prague, laughing about how you'd pretended to be French so the guy you bought it from wouldn't think you were a gullible American who would pay whatever he asked. I offered you a cigarette. You took it but didn't smoke it. Am I right?'

'I'm sure he could already tell by the look on my face that I was that girl. I recognized him then, remembered taking that cigarette from him but not wanting to smoke it in front of him, because I didn't smoke and didn't want to look stupid trying."

"Are you serious, Ella? You really pretended to be French so you could get a good deal on an egg?"

Ella laughed. "Sorry, but it's true. And to add to it, I even tried out being French again later in our Amsterdam hotel. I pretended to be a French girl visiting her two American friends at the hotel so I wouldn't have to pay to stay the night. But hey, I was out of money from buying that egg--and a few other things!"

"Wow. So back to the present--what happened with this guy?"

"He asked if I wanted to go somewhere for coffee. I did, and we ended up spending hours together, mostly walking. Somehow we managed to stop by his apartment, where he said he'd like to show me something. Yeah, I know! But guess what that 'something' was? An assortment of about twenty Russian eggs, similar to my two. He said he'd started collecting them after our encounter on the train. Before I found my egg this morning, he'd seen it and wanted it, but something told him not to buy it. You know, this may sound crazy, but I'm thinking our eggs could be very happy together."

This post is for Week 8 of Willow's Magpie Tales. A tiny portion of this brief tale is true.

Daffodil Disaster

Welcome to Magpie Tales #7--I can't believe it's Tuesday already!

"I'm afraid there's been some kind of mix-up, Madam."

"How on earth could there be a "mix-up" in an entire field, Jasper?"

"I'm afraid I may have shopped in the bulk bins, Madam, in order to keep expenses down--what with the recent Financial Unpleasantness at the Manor, Madam."

"I thought you were told not to speak of the Unpleasantness, Jasper.  Anyway, what gardener can't tell the difference between hyacinth and daffodil bulbs? That's what I'd like to know."

"It was an unfortunate, large-scale error on my part. But if I might say so, it should be remembered that I was trained as an accountant and financial analyst, Madam."

"You were aware, were you not, that the mere sight of yellow flowers of any type gives me migraine?"

"Yes, Madam. The daffodils must be most offensive to your sensibilities."

"I'll say! Well, don't just stand there! For heaven's sake, pull them all up! I tell you, you'd be out on your ear this minute if you weren't my brother!"

Nails in a Shed

It's time for Magpie Tales again!  I'm sorry I didn't get around to reading anyone's Tales last week, other than Willow's--I'll do better this time!  Here is mine for this week:

Dry leaves crunch underfoot as he approaches the shed in the back yard. The old padlock on the door rebels against its key, but a bit of determined jiggling by the man does the trick after a minute or so.  It's a good thing, because he doesn't have much time. He enters, stepping over a threshold beginning to rot, and hears the familiar creak of the plank floor.  There are weathered shelves along the back wall, and the rest of the space holds things too numerous to mention, the detritus of forty years of living and gardening in suburbia. 

It is the shelves that most interest him now.  He searches each one, scanning the cobwebbed machine parts, Mason jars full of marbles he'd loved as a kid, and other things he can't quite make out in the growing darkness.  The light fixture has been out of commission for quite some time, so he steps carefully as he moves closer.

His hand gently explores one end of the top shelf and soon pulls down the box of nails. He recalls why some of the nails are missing: the treehouse he'd helped build for his ten-year-old self and a stack of Hardy Boys.  He holds the box, pours out a few nails in his hand, considers producing a few nostalgic tears, but returns to his task. The red velvet bag stuck in the bottom of the box is what he is after; he's sure his grandfather would want him to have it--he'd said as much.  

He opens the bottom end of the box and lifts the treasure from the spot where it has lain compacted and hidden for so long. It occurs to him that he should have asked his grandfather why he would stash a diamond ring in a shed.  He can feel the ring through the aged fabric, and he smiles.  He knows it's the very essence of cliché, but there is a girl headed to the airport--a girl who will fly away and start a new life if he doesn't intervene, quickly. If he makes it in time, he hopes his great-grandmother's ring will begin a new life of its own. 

Another Perplexing Clue

Magpie Tales, number 5--here's my contribution:

It arrived on Thursday afternoon.  The third clue--another piece of a very strange puzzle--lay on a rectangle of black velvet inside a hinged green silk box, which sat inside the cardboard box used to mail it halfway around the world.  Like the cracked jade pendant and the bronze incense burner, it came with no note, no accompanying information or explanation.  

These bizarre but intriguing gifts were sent by her uncle, that much she knew.  What she didn't know was what on earth he was doing.  He'd left abruptly, as he usually did when he went away, leaving his long-suffering girlfriend a small silver pitcher, and his niece a weathered lacquer tray.  Generous but enigmatic, this man.

Now, a wooden hand?   Corinne loved a good mystery as much as the next girl--no, definitely more than most, and Uncle Simon knew it.  So he had sent her this hand, and it was supposed to reveal something.  She'd tucked away the other gifts, or clues, in her bedroom inside her great-grandfather's steamer trunk, under a tattered quilt and a stack of embroidered pillowcases.  Now she went to the trunk and retrieved these items.  She looked carefully at all three clues together, lined up on the floor in front of her.  Well, Uncle Simon must be in Asia.  Right, but what did all of this mean?   And why was the wooden hand contorted in this way, as if it felt pain or somehow yearned for help?  Flummoxed, Corinne could only hope that  another clue would be forthcoming, and soon. 

Competition

It's time for Willow's Magpie Tales, week four!

"Score!  This baby's mine!"  She pushed him aside, gave him the best her left elbow had to offer, as she spied her prey on the top shelf, almost--but not quite--out of reach.  "E, for elephant."

He crossed his arms and glared.  "Okay, I think you may have injured my spleen.  You really are insane.  Sometimes I'm not exactly sure what I see in you."

She smiled and clutched the small wooden elephant that much more tightly.  "You couldn't do without me, and you know it.  Besides, you're just mad I'm beating you.  And your spleen will be fine."

"I guess I should have known better than to engage you in an alphabetic thrifting competition.  Remind me to bring along a white flag should I ever happen to challenge you to a game hunt on the savanna."

She turned from their shopping basket to face him.  "I keep telling you, Sweetie: never attempt to out-shop a woman.  Speaking of white flags, since we're only going to "H" today, you really should surrender now and get it over with.  How about some coffee and a pastry back at home?"

He spotted a white cotton pillowcase in the linens bin, pulled it out with a flourish, and waved it overhead.

The Weight

This is my third time to have fun with Willow's Magpie Tales:

It had happened two hours and seventeen minutes ago.  Just another step, maybe two--that's all it would have taken.  Forty more centimeters and he'd have been out the door, in the clear.  The security guard, all six-feet-three-inches of him (let's see, that's over 185 centimeters), had grabbed the back of his windbreaker and yanked it--too roughly, he thought.  The five-centimeter hole that man had left would need repairing; his mother could do that.  

He calculated how long it would take her to get to the jail from work: twenty-six minutes, if she made half the lights.  Of course, this was assuming she'd show up at all.  One hundred fourteen pounds of sass and attitude but seemingly double that in patience, she might have finally reached her limit.  His father had reached his long ago; he'd been gone for six years, three months, and fourteen days.

The boy sat and assessed the female officer who'd shown him the phone to make his one call: size seven shoes, size five pants, quite pretty--he'd give her a "9."  It had taken him years to realize how much numbers comforted him in times of stress.  He'd read a book that told him his numbers were either a brain malfunction or a defense mechanism of sorts, a way of dealing--or not--with a world that tilted so sharply it constantly threatened to tip him into an immeasurable abyss.  He could imagine nothing worse than immeasurability.

And now he'd risked so much for a book that must have weighed, what?  A kilogram or so?  About two pounds--yes, that sounded right.  It had felt perfect as he'd slipped it inside his jacket--there had been a leveling, settling effect from his head to his feet.   But it wasn't meant to be, not this time.  He looked down at his watch; another eight minutes had passed.

Hotel Forum

Here, my second post for Willow's Magpie Tales:

"Pardon, do you have a light?"

Margaret looked up from her half-finished café au lait and croissant at a young, curly-haired man leaning forward in his seat at an adjacent outdoor table.  His linen jacket and striped button-down, paired with fashionably ripped dark-wash jeans, looked expensive but rumpled, giving him the air of a slightly down-at-the-heels aristocrat or slumming rock star.

Before responding, Margaret briefly considered a curt reply.  What was it with these French guys, always expecting women to carry lighters?  Maybe it was "code," something French women knew that American women didn't.  Maybe all French women carried lighters whether or not they smoked, in the hopes of making a café connection like this with an eligible Parisian.  As always, it seemed to Margaret that she had a lot to learn about men, and about French men, in particular.  Frankly, it could all be a little overwhelming, these games people played.

But perhaps he actually had misplaced his lighter or matches.  Who was she to say?  A polite response,  coupled with a question, formed on her lips: "No, sorry, I don't have a light.  But how did you know that I speak English?"

"Ah, well, the book you have there on the table, it is in English, yes?  The Elegance of the Hedgehog--I know it was first a French novel."

Margaret felt her face starting to burn, and she just hoped the blush wasn't spreading downward into those unattractive splotches that freakishly appeared on her chest at the most inopportune of moments.  Already, this stranger was getting to her.  After all, he'd heard of this book: not bad, not bad at all.  She cast a darting glance down at the handmade bird pendant hanging from a silk cord around her neck.  No splotches yet, apparently.

The stranger saw the bird, too.  "Where did you get that necklace?  It is very interesting."

"It came from--oh!  Wait a second!"  Margaret reached across the table to the other bentwood chair, empty save the flowered oilcloth bag her sister had given her before the trip.  She rummaged briefly but intently in the bag until her right hand emerged with its intended plunder: a box of matches she'd picked up in Bratislava because she'd liked the graphics.

"Here you go--I forgot that I had these.  I don't smoke, but I do like matchboxes."

He smiled and took the offered matches, lightly brushing her hand as he did so.

"Hotel Forum, Bratislava.  What a coincidence, my uncle owns this hotel!"  He struck a match and finally lit his waiting Gauloise.

"Really?  I stayed there when I went to visit my brother.  He's working in Slovakia!"

He gave a hesitant laugh and looked a bit sheepish.  "Non, I am just joking.  I thought it would be fun to say, like something a person might say in a silly romance novel.  But I do not think you read novels like that.  Now about the necklace.  May I take a closer look?"

Margaret leaned forward and felt his hand slide under the pendant, as smoke curled upward and coffees sat forgotten.

The Silver Pitcher

I've joined in Willow's first Magpie Tales creative writing prompt today.  Willow will be hosting these muse-feeding opportunities weekly, and each one will be based on one of her own photos.  Feel free to play along next time!  Here's the first photo; my creative interpretation follows.

She sat staring, mesmerized by drifting motes of dust, as the late-afternoon sun filtered in through the lace-curtained window.  When would he return?  She could guess--a month, perhaps, possibly two--but she never really knew, and this time was no different. He assured her repeatedly that his heart was hers, but uncertainty plagued her mind, as it always did when he left.  

Was it enough that today he'd warily handed her a prized antique, a "large token" of his affection, as he liked to call his gifts?  Usually he brought her these tokens from his travels, but this morning, he'd knocked at the door early in his pea coat and tweed hat to tell her he'd be leaving right away, and he'd like for her to have his grandmother's pitcher.

He'd stayed only a few minutes, not even removing his coat and hat, but taking a moment to place the pitcher in "just the right spot"on a shelf opposite her old farm table.  Since he'd kissed her goodbye and walked out the door into the chilly drizzle, she'd tried to eat, work on her sewing, and go about her other regular activities.  But she kept returning throughout the day, insulated by the adjacent window from the vast changes in the weather, to sit at the table and gaze at the pitcher.  Its etched design and gentle curves pleased her immensely, and there was inherent sentiment that touched her on some level.  

But the weathered pitcher also brought to mind the tarnish in her world: a long-time wearing away of hope for a normal, civilized life built around a steady relationship.  Clearly the pitcher had aged well, though, and as she sat it occurred to her that perhaps her heart might do the same, that a few spots of tarnish might even provide the character and freedom from certain expectations that could make a life quite extraordinary.