2018 SmatchUp, “The Woman Next Door”
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"Abandonment" Starter: Nona Smith Finisher: Notty Bumbo
"All the World Is Crazy Except Thee and Me, and I have My Doubts About Thee"
Starter: Harriet Gleeson Finisher: Donald Shephard
"At Least for Tonight" Starter Kelly Daoust Finisher Nancy Nelson
"Curiosity Kills . . . Almost" Starter Cathy Hollenback Finisher Priscilla Comen
"New Neighbors" Starter Karin Uphoff Finisher Sharon Bowers
"Provincetown" Starter Thayer Walker Finisher Les Cizek
"The Ghosts and Ms. Muir" Starter Kymberly Bartlo Finisher Amie McGee
"The Unloosening Starter" Starter Liza Saenz and Finisher Norma Watkins
"Three Graces" Starter Doug Fortier Finisher Tansy Chapman
"Walls" Starter Jay Frankston Finisher windflower
"All the World Is Crazy Except Thee and Me, and I have My Doubts About Thee"
Starter: Harriet Gleeson Finisher: Donald Shephard
"At Least for Tonight" Starter Kelly Daoust Finisher Nancy Nelson
"Curiosity Kills . . . Almost" Starter Cathy Hollenback Finisher Priscilla Comen
"New Neighbors" Starter Karin Uphoff Finisher Sharon Bowers
"Provincetown" Starter Thayer Walker Finisher Les Cizek
"The Ghosts and Ms. Muir" Starter Kymberly Bartlo Finisher Amie McGee
"The Unloosening Starter" Starter Liza Saenz and Finisher Norma Watkins
"Three Graces" Starter Doug Fortier Finisher Tansy Chapman
"Walls" Starter Jay Frankston Finisher windflower
"Abandonment" Starter: Nona Smith Finisher: Notty Bumbo
It wasn’t there…and then it was. By the time we returned from grocery shopping, buff-looking men were loading our neighbors’ household possessions into a moving van. Dean and I exchanged questioning glances.
“Do you know anything about this?”
I shrugged. “No more than you do.”
In the five years the Grants lived next door to us, we may have exchanged two hundred words. I could be exaggerating; it might have been less. Same with the neighbors who lived on their other side. To say they were “private people” would be understating the situation. What little we knew about the couple, we gleaned from observation.
Mr. Grant tinkered on weekends. Believing his open garage door an invitation to drop in, the men in the neighborhood did. He greeted them––if a curt nod could be considered that––with oblique answers to their questions about what he was working on. “Just tinkering,” he said, in that nasal voice that made it sound like he had a perpetual cold. The men didn’t return.
Mrs. Grant, an avid gardener specializing in cabbage roses, was no more cordial. We often observed her in their front yard, trowel in hand, knees cushioned on a kneeling pad, whispering to her pink beauties. At first, we called out, “Lovely roses you’ve grown there.”
“Yes,” she answered, not looking up and never once offering us a clipping or even a whiff.
We stood at our living room window and watched the Grants’ household possessions disappear inside the van. We weren’t saddened by their leave-taking so much as surprised and idly curious. Where were they going? And why?
After a while, Dean left the window to unpack the groceries. But I stayed behind, continuing my lookout until the truck pulled away from the curb, followed by the Grants in their late model Honda.
Then a thought struck and I cried out. “Oh, dear!” I felt genuinely dismayed.
Dean came to check on me. “What’s wrong?”
“She left her roses behind.” I felt close to tears.
Dean made a tsking noise and shook his head. “Well, what was she supposed to do, dig them up and take them with her?”
“No,” I admitted. “But she seemed so…attached to them.”
“They’re flowers.” Dean said. “It’s not like she abandoned children.”
Standing at our window and looking across at Mrs. Grant’s beautiful roses, we didn’t yet know how prophetic our conversation would be.
*
Several months went by before the For Sale signs appeared, though we found it strange the realty folks weren’t doing anything about the now-overgrown lawn and bushes. The house looked quite lovely otherwise, and the insides must have appealed, as the ultimate buyer closed on the deal in less than a month. We were the first neighbors to greet them on the day they moved in.
Bill and Mary had two grown children, with three grandkids in tow. We offered to help them get their landscaping squared away as a welcome gift. They were pleased at the offer, and the next week, we jumped right to work.
Dean handled the lawn, and the shrub pruning, and I went to work on the roses. I was a bit shocked at first at the size of the flowers, I had never seen roses quite so – formidable. And their musty smell was not the usual rose smell my own produced. I had to approach their pruning with care – they seemed almost hungry for attention. Dean scoffed at this when I mentioned it to him, but I showed him how much water they took up, as though they were growing atop a cavern impossible to fill.
Dean attempted to cut a couple of stems, to take into the new owner’s house, he said. It was as though the roses were a living animal. An adjoining stem suddenly whipped down and sliced multiple deep scratches in Dean’s arm! He jumped back, grabbing at his wounds with a cry. And as he fell backwards to the lawn, I saw the entire bush as well as the immediately adjoin bushes begin to writhe in a sort of aggressive agitation.
“What the hell was that”, Dean squawked?
“I have no idea! What, why…”? Suddenly, I recalled our conversation about the roses just after the Grant’s had driven away. “You don’t think…” I began.
“You mean that comparison to … children?
“Of course. But these roses must be some type of hybrid, I don’t remember seeing this variety in any of the books.”
“Well, I can tell you there is no type of rose anywhere that actually attacks someone!”
Then, we both felt the vibration at the same time, seeming to come from directly beneath our feet. It caused us to jump backwards, both fear and amazement mingling on our faces.
“Now what” Dean shouted?
“Look,” I yelled, pointing at the earth directly in front of the roses.
The ground began to fissure and open. One of the rose bushes began writhing again, and while we watched, began to slip into the ground! Within minutes, the entire area encompassing the roses had collapsed inward, forcing us to move further back. The collapse continued for several minutes, until there was a wide hole about six or seven feet deep and nearly fifteen feet across. All of the roses and several other bushes were tangled in the bottom, water swirling the muddy soil. At their center, thrown atop one another in a tumble, lay six medium wood boxes, all cracking open and rotting. One had broken fully open, and we stepped forward to peer into the hole, trying to see what lay within. Dean let out a gasp.
“Are those…?” He choked, unable to continue his question.
But I saw them, too, and I began to laugh. The laugh became a roar, and soon, we were both on the ground, unable to contain the screams of hilarity. The new owners came out to learn what the commotion was, and after we pointed out the boxes lying in the hole, they were laughing as hard as we were.
Mary finally calmed down enough to make the pronouncement. “Who would be crazy enough to bury boxes of Cabbage Patch Kids under their roses?”
Not one of us had an answer.
“Do you know anything about this?”
I shrugged. “No more than you do.”
In the five years the Grants lived next door to us, we may have exchanged two hundred words. I could be exaggerating; it might have been less. Same with the neighbors who lived on their other side. To say they were “private people” would be understating the situation. What little we knew about the couple, we gleaned from observation.
Mr. Grant tinkered on weekends. Believing his open garage door an invitation to drop in, the men in the neighborhood did. He greeted them––if a curt nod could be considered that––with oblique answers to their questions about what he was working on. “Just tinkering,” he said, in that nasal voice that made it sound like he had a perpetual cold. The men didn’t return.
Mrs. Grant, an avid gardener specializing in cabbage roses, was no more cordial. We often observed her in their front yard, trowel in hand, knees cushioned on a kneeling pad, whispering to her pink beauties. At first, we called out, “Lovely roses you’ve grown there.”
“Yes,” she answered, not looking up and never once offering us a clipping or even a whiff.
We stood at our living room window and watched the Grants’ household possessions disappear inside the van. We weren’t saddened by their leave-taking so much as surprised and idly curious. Where were they going? And why?
After a while, Dean left the window to unpack the groceries. But I stayed behind, continuing my lookout until the truck pulled away from the curb, followed by the Grants in their late model Honda.
Then a thought struck and I cried out. “Oh, dear!” I felt genuinely dismayed.
Dean came to check on me. “What’s wrong?”
“She left her roses behind.” I felt close to tears.
Dean made a tsking noise and shook his head. “Well, what was she supposed to do, dig them up and take them with her?”
“No,” I admitted. “But she seemed so…attached to them.”
“They’re flowers.” Dean said. “It’s not like she abandoned children.”
Standing at our window and looking across at Mrs. Grant’s beautiful roses, we didn’t yet know how prophetic our conversation would be.
*
Several months went by before the For Sale signs appeared, though we found it strange the realty folks weren’t doing anything about the now-overgrown lawn and bushes. The house looked quite lovely otherwise, and the insides must have appealed, as the ultimate buyer closed on the deal in less than a month. We were the first neighbors to greet them on the day they moved in.
Bill and Mary had two grown children, with three grandkids in tow. We offered to help them get their landscaping squared away as a welcome gift. They were pleased at the offer, and the next week, we jumped right to work.
Dean handled the lawn, and the shrub pruning, and I went to work on the roses. I was a bit shocked at first at the size of the flowers, I had never seen roses quite so – formidable. And their musty smell was not the usual rose smell my own produced. I had to approach their pruning with care – they seemed almost hungry for attention. Dean scoffed at this when I mentioned it to him, but I showed him how much water they took up, as though they were growing atop a cavern impossible to fill.
Dean attempted to cut a couple of stems, to take into the new owner’s house, he said. It was as though the roses were a living animal. An adjoining stem suddenly whipped down and sliced multiple deep scratches in Dean’s arm! He jumped back, grabbing at his wounds with a cry. And as he fell backwards to the lawn, I saw the entire bush as well as the immediately adjoin bushes begin to writhe in a sort of aggressive agitation.
“What the hell was that”, Dean squawked?
“I have no idea! What, why…”? Suddenly, I recalled our conversation about the roses just after the Grant’s had driven away. “You don’t think…” I began.
“You mean that comparison to … children?
“Of course. But these roses must be some type of hybrid, I don’t remember seeing this variety in any of the books.”
“Well, I can tell you there is no type of rose anywhere that actually attacks someone!”
Then, we both felt the vibration at the same time, seeming to come from directly beneath our feet. It caused us to jump backwards, both fear and amazement mingling on our faces.
“Now what” Dean shouted?
“Look,” I yelled, pointing at the earth directly in front of the roses.
The ground began to fissure and open. One of the rose bushes began writhing again, and while we watched, began to slip into the ground! Within minutes, the entire area encompassing the roses had collapsed inward, forcing us to move further back. The collapse continued for several minutes, until there was a wide hole about six or seven feet deep and nearly fifteen feet across. All of the roses and several other bushes were tangled in the bottom, water swirling the muddy soil. At their center, thrown atop one another in a tumble, lay six medium wood boxes, all cracking open and rotting. One had broken fully open, and we stepped forward to peer into the hole, trying to see what lay within. Dean let out a gasp.
“Are those…?” He choked, unable to continue his question.
But I saw them, too, and I began to laugh. The laugh became a roar, and soon, we were both on the ground, unable to contain the screams of hilarity. The new owners came out to learn what the commotion was, and after we pointed out the boxes lying in the hole, they were laughing as hard as we were.
Mary finally calmed down enough to make the pronouncement. “Who would be crazy enough to bury boxes of Cabbage Patch Kids under their roses?”
Not one of us had an answer.
"All the World Is Crazy Except Thee and Me, and I have My Doubts About Thee"
Starter: Harriet Gleeson Finisher: Donald Shephard
Starter: Harriet Gleeson Finisher: Donald Shephard
The woman next door and I
were neighbor-friendly our
over-the-back-fence talk
peaceful I could listen
polite but non-committal
to concerns about threatening aliens
government conspiracies deadly contrails
then a community wireless network
was installed and announced
nearby
and the woman next door
developed symptoms
related she said
to the network
thinking to ease her fears
I told her
we have had a home network
for two years
right next door to you
I should not have said that
to the woman next door
*
she raised the fence and
bolted the gate on her side
no more neighborly chats
to listen to her rants
liberals taking over our country
flooding it with immigrants
I am one and suffer from
invisible rays penetrating my head
my network therapist tells me
my symptoms are real issues
real to me so really real
and have been for two years
ever since the woman next door
moved in gossiped and
disturbed my peace of mind
the last piece of my mind
to go I should have told her
not to get me started on
tourists flashing knobby knees
invading our space from outer space
or conspiracy theories about coffee
shade grown, fair traded gluten free
picked by cat-loving left handed
redheads oh sure that’s real
my network Swami asked yesterday
why I live so
far off the grid off
the beaten track with
no neighbors or
woman next door for
at least five miles
were neighbor-friendly our
over-the-back-fence talk
peaceful I could listen
polite but non-committal
to concerns about threatening aliens
government conspiracies deadly contrails
then a community wireless network
was installed and announced
nearby
and the woman next door
developed symptoms
related she said
to the network
thinking to ease her fears
I told her
we have had a home network
for two years
right next door to you
I should not have said that
to the woman next door
*
she raised the fence and
bolted the gate on her side
no more neighborly chats
to listen to her rants
liberals taking over our country
flooding it with immigrants
I am one and suffer from
invisible rays penetrating my head
my network therapist tells me
my symptoms are real issues
real to me so really real
and have been for two years
ever since the woman next door
moved in gossiped and
disturbed my peace of mind
the last piece of my mind
to go I should have told her
not to get me started on
tourists flashing knobby knees
invading our space from outer space
or conspiracy theories about coffee
shade grown, fair traded gluten free
picked by cat-loving left handed
redheads oh sure that’s real
my network Swami asked yesterday
why I live so
far off the grid off
the beaten track with
no neighbors or
woman next door for
at least five miles
"At Least for Tonight" Starter Kelly Daoust Finisher Nancy Nelson
I’m a couple beers into this decision as I walk up to the neighbor’s front door. My lightly coiled fist pauses, as if it has a mind of its own, but I force it the rest of the way and lightly rap on the leaded glass of the door.
“Hi,” Her brow creased for a second and she turned to silence the dogs, “Tyrian, Daenerys, Floki, quiet please.”
I commented over the din, “I think you got your shows mixed up,” I winked at her with a sly grin.
The stumpy corgi dogs didn’t give her request a second thought. She gave me a frustrated expression, “Sorry, just a second, I gotta enforce some discipline.” She began shushing them with a butt spank to enforce. Her back was to me, and I could tell she was trying for levity, “Yeah, Floki is mine, but I love their names.” She scurried after one of them, and called over her shoulder, “This one is officially named, Daenerys Storm born Queen of Corgans,” and her infectious laugh rang out from around the corner. She returned with a frustrated huff, but they’d all finally stopped. All three peered at me from behind her legs. One of them gave a pretend bark.
“I guess he’s getting in the last word,” I joked.
She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, that’s Floki. He’s all Viking for sure. Stubborn little boy.” She wrinkled her nose, “I’m so sorry. What can I help you with? I am just the pet-sitter, which you must know,” and she again apologized.
“Um,” my words caught in my throat, and she patiently blinked, “Yeah, party on Friday. My place. Inviting the entire neighborhood,” I internally cringed at my staccato delivery.
She shrugged, “That’s nice of you to include me. I will be here through the weekend. Which house is yours?”
I pointed to the one directly north, and next door. Hopefully she didn’t notice me dry my palm on my jeans.
She shrugged again, but I thought it was cute, “Yeah sure, I might pop over. Can I bring something? BYOB? What time?”
“No, everything will be provided. Even live music. Gonna Barbeque some burgers. Plenty of beer. Smoke and edibles if you wanna partake.”
She cracked a half smile, “That sounds awesome. I rarely say no to free food and um,” Her cheeks tinted, “Yeah, I will partake, sounds really fun.” She fluttered her lashes and added, “Especially since I won’t have to drive.” She changed the weight on her feet and stretched out her hand, “I’m Kimberly by the way.”
“I’ll make sure you can make it home, even if it’s sketchy.” I met her outstretched hand with mine, and a shiver ran through me at first contact, “Joe.”
She smiled again, “Well Joe from next door, nice to meet you! See you in a couple days.”
I nodded, still at a loss for words. Clearing my throat, “It all starts at six by the way.”
“Barring an apocalyptic event, I’ll be there. Thanks again.” She gently closed the door and I could hear her thanking the dogs for being so good.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I strolled home. I was giddy with anticipation. After all this time, I finally met her. The mysterious red-headed, pet-sitter next door. My neighbors had traveled more-often since hiring her, which delighted me. I’d watched her whenever I could. She intrigued me to no end, and I’d grown desperate to meet her. When I’d seen her pull in this morning, my heart had thumped, and my entire body tingled.
I’d tempted myself a million times before, just go meet her, be neighborly, but I’d never grown the legs to make the journey.
*
Visualizing Kimberly at my party, the distance home was short and sweet. When I walked up into my sun porch, I saw things through HER eyes, and made notes for improvement. Move the rattan furniture to more relaxed angles, brighten the pillows, and definitely get some new leafy plants. As I stood on the porch hidden from the street, I heard a car door, and looked out to see Kimberly in yoga clothes getting into her car. “Damn, do all women in their 50’s do yoga these days?” I muttered. Yoga is what Alicia got into as she left me for younger, yoga dude Bill, and then divorced me a year and a half ago. I know I’ve regressed to the bookish geek I was when Alicia was my student nine years ago, and we rescued each other – from my sexless isolation and her abusive first marriage. I’ve had only two disastrous “dates” since the divorce, but now I have hopes for sweet, dog-loving Kimberley, with her cute behind.
The next two days passed in a happy blur, as I shopped and cleaned and decided what jeans looked best. True to his word, my neighbor and golfing buddy Sam arrived first to help me with nerves and last-minute prep. “I still say not to get your hopes up, Joe. We don’t know much about good ol’ Kim yet.”
Wise words, but I was soaring with juicy anticipation when she finally came to the door. “I know you said not to bring anything, but I love to cook, so I made a lemon bundt cake in case anyone needs sweets after the, you know, ‘edibles.’”
“Thanks, Kimberley,” I said, “let’s put it over here,” as I ushered her back to the food table. “And tell me what I can get you to drink.”
Just as she was starting to say “Vodka and….” I heard my ex.
“Kimberley, my fabulous yoga teacher. What on earth brings you here?”
“Oh, Ali, I could ask the same of you. I’m dog sitting for the Davidsons next door, and Joe invited me over.”
“Well, I’m Joe’s ex. I know he thought I’d be coming with Bill, but you know he’s moved on to a younger yoga model. Third time was NOT the charm, and I’m done with men.”
Oh, God, I thought, what in the hell do I respond to that. I’d only invited Ali, because I thought by now I’d get to see troubles with Bill, but I’d had no idea the troubles were that bad. “Well, Alicia, I’m sure the neighbors would love to talk to you,” I said, and I almost shoved her toward the MacDonalds out on the lawn. I turned to finish Kimberley’s drink.
“It seems you still have lots of hostility toward Ali,” she said. “Maybe it would be more peaceful if I just went home.” DAMN I wanted to scream.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m just surprised. When I invited them, she didn’t tell me she wasn’t with Bill anymore. Please let’s forget them. I’d enjoy it if you would stay longer, eat something, and maybe dance and partake. I can walk you home anytime you’re ready.” So Kimberley agreed to a plate of food, and several drinks, and then a few puffs.
But before I could get into a cozy dance, damn it if Alicia didn’t reappear. “So, Kimberley, I want you to know I acted on your suggestion to take Jennifer’s women’s studies class over at the JC. You’re right, it’s fantastic, especially on the heels of this break-up with Bill. My eyes are opening, as they say.”
“I’m glad, Ali, and I have several books I can lend you. In fact, I may have two of them with me here at the Davidsons’, replied Kimberly.”
“Great, replied Alicia, “I could walk home with you and get them tonight.” And damn, if within minutes, both women had not started out the door.
“Thank you, Joe,” said Kimberley. “I’m sure I’ll see you before I leave.” I couldn’t help it, I stood transfixed and numb on the sun porch, as they walked next door, and Kimberley put her arm around Alicia as they neared the front door.
Sam moved toward me, and said, “Sorry, dude, I know you had hopes for sweet Ms. Kimberly, but it just doesn’t seem women need us much anymore.”
“Well, at least you still have Janet,“ I said.
“For tonight anyway, though probably not for much action,” Sam muttered. “I just learned she’s also enrolled in that women’s studies class. And last Monday she signed up for Kimberley’s yoga class.”
“Hi,” Her brow creased for a second and she turned to silence the dogs, “Tyrian, Daenerys, Floki, quiet please.”
I commented over the din, “I think you got your shows mixed up,” I winked at her with a sly grin.
The stumpy corgi dogs didn’t give her request a second thought. She gave me a frustrated expression, “Sorry, just a second, I gotta enforce some discipline.” She began shushing them with a butt spank to enforce. Her back was to me, and I could tell she was trying for levity, “Yeah, Floki is mine, but I love their names.” She scurried after one of them, and called over her shoulder, “This one is officially named, Daenerys Storm born Queen of Corgans,” and her infectious laugh rang out from around the corner. She returned with a frustrated huff, but they’d all finally stopped. All three peered at me from behind her legs. One of them gave a pretend bark.
“I guess he’s getting in the last word,” I joked.
She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, that’s Floki. He’s all Viking for sure. Stubborn little boy.” She wrinkled her nose, “I’m so sorry. What can I help you with? I am just the pet-sitter, which you must know,” and she again apologized.
“Um,” my words caught in my throat, and she patiently blinked, “Yeah, party on Friday. My place. Inviting the entire neighborhood,” I internally cringed at my staccato delivery.
She shrugged, “That’s nice of you to include me. I will be here through the weekend. Which house is yours?”
I pointed to the one directly north, and next door. Hopefully she didn’t notice me dry my palm on my jeans.
She shrugged again, but I thought it was cute, “Yeah sure, I might pop over. Can I bring something? BYOB? What time?”
“No, everything will be provided. Even live music. Gonna Barbeque some burgers. Plenty of beer. Smoke and edibles if you wanna partake.”
She cracked a half smile, “That sounds awesome. I rarely say no to free food and um,” Her cheeks tinted, “Yeah, I will partake, sounds really fun.” She fluttered her lashes and added, “Especially since I won’t have to drive.” She changed the weight on her feet and stretched out her hand, “I’m Kimberly by the way.”
“I’ll make sure you can make it home, even if it’s sketchy.” I met her outstretched hand with mine, and a shiver ran through me at first contact, “Joe.”
She smiled again, “Well Joe from next door, nice to meet you! See you in a couple days.”
I nodded, still at a loss for words. Clearing my throat, “It all starts at six by the way.”
“Barring an apocalyptic event, I’ll be there. Thanks again.” She gently closed the door and I could hear her thanking the dogs for being so good.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I strolled home. I was giddy with anticipation. After all this time, I finally met her. The mysterious red-headed, pet-sitter next door. My neighbors had traveled more-often since hiring her, which delighted me. I’d watched her whenever I could. She intrigued me to no end, and I’d grown desperate to meet her. When I’d seen her pull in this morning, my heart had thumped, and my entire body tingled.
I’d tempted myself a million times before, just go meet her, be neighborly, but I’d never grown the legs to make the journey.
*
Visualizing Kimberly at my party, the distance home was short and sweet. When I walked up into my sun porch, I saw things through HER eyes, and made notes for improvement. Move the rattan furniture to more relaxed angles, brighten the pillows, and definitely get some new leafy plants. As I stood on the porch hidden from the street, I heard a car door, and looked out to see Kimberly in yoga clothes getting into her car. “Damn, do all women in their 50’s do yoga these days?” I muttered. Yoga is what Alicia got into as she left me for younger, yoga dude Bill, and then divorced me a year and a half ago. I know I’ve regressed to the bookish geek I was when Alicia was my student nine years ago, and we rescued each other – from my sexless isolation and her abusive first marriage. I’ve had only two disastrous “dates” since the divorce, but now I have hopes for sweet, dog-loving Kimberley, with her cute behind.
The next two days passed in a happy blur, as I shopped and cleaned and decided what jeans looked best. True to his word, my neighbor and golfing buddy Sam arrived first to help me with nerves and last-minute prep. “I still say not to get your hopes up, Joe. We don’t know much about good ol’ Kim yet.”
Wise words, but I was soaring with juicy anticipation when she finally came to the door. “I know you said not to bring anything, but I love to cook, so I made a lemon bundt cake in case anyone needs sweets after the, you know, ‘edibles.’”
“Thanks, Kimberley,” I said, “let’s put it over here,” as I ushered her back to the food table. “And tell me what I can get you to drink.”
Just as she was starting to say “Vodka and….” I heard my ex.
“Kimberley, my fabulous yoga teacher. What on earth brings you here?”
“Oh, Ali, I could ask the same of you. I’m dog sitting for the Davidsons next door, and Joe invited me over.”
“Well, I’m Joe’s ex. I know he thought I’d be coming with Bill, but you know he’s moved on to a younger yoga model. Third time was NOT the charm, and I’m done with men.”
Oh, God, I thought, what in the hell do I respond to that. I’d only invited Ali, because I thought by now I’d get to see troubles with Bill, but I’d had no idea the troubles were that bad. “Well, Alicia, I’m sure the neighbors would love to talk to you,” I said, and I almost shoved her toward the MacDonalds out on the lawn. I turned to finish Kimberley’s drink.
“It seems you still have lots of hostility toward Ali,” she said. “Maybe it would be more peaceful if I just went home.” DAMN I wanted to scream.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m just surprised. When I invited them, she didn’t tell me she wasn’t with Bill anymore. Please let’s forget them. I’d enjoy it if you would stay longer, eat something, and maybe dance and partake. I can walk you home anytime you’re ready.” So Kimberley agreed to a plate of food, and several drinks, and then a few puffs.
But before I could get into a cozy dance, damn it if Alicia didn’t reappear. “So, Kimberley, I want you to know I acted on your suggestion to take Jennifer’s women’s studies class over at the JC. You’re right, it’s fantastic, especially on the heels of this break-up with Bill. My eyes are opening, as they say.”
“I’m glad, Ali, and I have several books I can lend you. In fact, I may have two of them with me here at the Davidsons’, replied Kimberly.”
“Great, replied Alicia, “I could walk home with you and get them tonight.” And damn, if within minutes, both women had not started out the door.
“Thank you, Joe,” said Kimberley. “I’m sure I’ll see you before I leave.” I couldn’t help it, I stood transfixed and numb on the sun porch, as they walked next door, and Kimberley put her arm around Alicia as they neared the front door.
Sam moved toward me, and said, “Sorry, dude, I know you had hopes for sweet Ms. Kimberly, but it just doesn’t seem women need us much anymore.”
“Well, at least you still have Janet,“ I said.
“For tonight anyway, though probably not for much action,” Sam muttered. “I just learned she’s also enrolled in that women’s studies class. And last Monday she signed up for Kimberley’s yoga class.”
"Curiosity Kills . . . Almost" Starter Cathy Hollenback Finisher Priscilla Comen
Curiosity Kills . . . Almost
Starter Cathy Hollenback
Finisher Priscilla Comen
Jessie stood on the wooden bridge over the small babbling creek and listened to the hiss of water traveling over the rocks. She looked up at the two story narrow wood and stone house at the end of the long driveway. As always, it filled her with pleasure and childhood memories of growing up with her grandmother. The cows mooing in the pasture was her wake-up call in early mornings, the fragrant smell of roses, peony, lavender, and hyacinth that filled the house from the crystal vase on the Wedgewood table.
True, the place needed work and tender loving care: the porch boards needed replacing, the roof was a big problem, and not to mention the cleaning and restoration demanding attention. The house was nestled comfortably by rolling hills, thick woods, and the Blue Mountains. It was hers--all of it--with the passing of her grandmother.
Jessie walked towards the house; the morning sun cast shafts of light through the trees with hints of red and gold in the green leaves. She was home in Cedarville. It had been over five years. She left for the big city of New York to teach inner city kids but it hadn’t turned out the way she had wanted. There were too many rules, regulations, in addition to becoming the parent and counselor.
The next morning she drove into town and parked in front of the Sunbeam Country Store to pick up a few necessities. She burst through the door with bells jingling behind her.
“Hi!” The woman behind the counter grinned with recognition.
“Hi, Cassie, how are you?”
“I own the store now.” She swept her hand. “Do you like the changes?”
“Yes, I was just admiring the rustic decorations, and you have an expresso machine?”
“I’ll fix you one. It’s on the house.” She gestured at a seat. “Sit and we can catch up.”
Jessie sat down on the wooden bar stool next to the counter and waited. Cassie placed the latte in front of her in a mug and took the seat next to her.
“Are you back for good?”
“I am. There’s a lot of work to be done. I was thinking of redoing one of the barns and turning it into an antique shop and starting my own business.”
“How’s the latte?”
Jessie took a sip. “It’s good.”
“Well, speaking of antiques and money, do you remember the woman next door to your grandmother’s property?”
“Yes. Charlotte. Wealthy and travels a lot. I always loved her Colonial.”
“Well, here it is.” Cassie leaned in closer. “She disappeared a few years back, and no one knows what happened to her. It’s the talk of the town.” She studied Jessie’s face. “Aren’t you curious? You always did love a good mystery.”
*
“Of course I’m curious,” Jessie said. “And so are you, I know. Come on, let’s go check out that house and see if we can find any clues. I’ve been practicing my magic, and am anxious to try it.”
She didn’t have to say it twice. Cassie locked the store and put a note on the door. “back in ten minutes.” The two women grabbed hands and dashed across the field that separated the building from the mansion, as gleeful as when they were children. When they got to the house, they tip-toed around the outside, and found a window that was partially open, pushed it all the way, and climbed in. Jessie’s eyes widened. “Look at all the antiques,” she said. “This could be my shop.” Her fingers brushed away cobwebs and piles of beetle dust. The smell was awful. But possibilities were there.
A door opened in front of them. A man stood in the dining room. He was fuzzy around the edges and his features were unclear. He shimmered in the dark. “Come with me, my lovelies,” he said in a whisper. “I will fix you a delicious meal that will fill your stomachs and thrill your taste buds. First, you must rest.”
“Er, I’m not hungry, thank you.” Jessie was polite, not wanting to upset this proper man. He wore a black tuxedo, a bow tie, and stood straight as a statue. His eyes did not blink; one was glass, Jessie thought. Maybe both.
Cassie whispered to her friend. “He’s not real; he’s made of cloth, or something artificial.” As she spoke, the figure reached out his strong hands and dragged them into a bedroom filled with a dozen beds—or more—with women lying on each. The recognized Charlotte, the house’s owner, and others who had disappeared over the years. Jessie screamed. “It’s not our time yet.” She grabbed Cassie’s hand, muttered a few magic words, and floated with her out the open window. At the store again, Jessie said, “Curiosity almost killed us, but levitation brought us back.”
Starter Cathy Hollenback
Finisher Priscilla Comen
Jessie stood on the wooden bridge over the small babbling creek and listened to the hiss of water traveling over the rocks. She looked up at the two story narrow wood and stone house at the end of the long driveway. As always, it filled her with pleasure and childhood memories of growing up with her grandmother. The cows mooing in the pasture was her wake-up call in early mornings, the fragrant smell of roses, peony, lavender, and hyacinth that filled the house from the crystal vase on the Wedgewood table.
True, the place needed work and tender loving care: the porch boards needed replacing, the roof was a big problem, and not to mention the cleaning and restoration demanding attention. The house was nestled comfortably by rolling hills, thick woods, and the Blue Mountains. It was hers--all of it--with the passing of her grandmother.
Jessie walked towards the house; the morning sun cast shafts of light through the trees with hints of red and gold in the green leaves. She was home in Cedarville. It had been over five years. She left for the big city of New York to teach inner city kids but it hadn’t turned out the way she had wanted. There were too many rules, regulations, in addition to becoming the parent and counselor.
The next morning she drove into town and parked in front of the Sunbeam Country Store to pick up a few necessities. She burst through the door with bells jingling behind her.
“Hi!” The woman behind the counter grinned with recognition.
“Hi, Cassie, how are you?”
“I own the store now.” She swept her hand. “Do you like the changes?”
“Yes, I was just admiring the rustic decorations, and you have an expresso machine?”
“I’ll fix you one. It’s on the house.” She gestured at a seat. “Sit and we can catch up.”
Jessie sat down on the wooden bar stool next to the counter and waited. Cassie placed the latte in front of her in a mug and took the seat next to her.
“Are you back for good?”
“I am. There’s a lot of work to be done. I was thinking of redoing one of the barns and turning it into an antique shop and starting my own business.”
“How’s the latte?”
Jessie took a sip. “It’s good.”
“Well, speaking of antiques and money, do you remember the woman next door to your grandmother’s property?”
“Yes. Charlotte. Wealthy and travels a lot. I always loved her Colonial.”
“Well, here it is.” Cassie leaned in closer. “She disappeared a few years back, and no one knows what happened to her. It’s the talk of the town.” She studied Jessie’s face. “Aren’t you curious? You always did love a good mystery.”
*
“Of course I’m curious,” Jessie said. “And so are you, I know. Come on, let’s go check out that house and see if we can find any clues. I’ve been practicing my magic, and am anxious to try it.”
She didn’t have to say it twice. Cassie locked the store and put a note on the door. “back in ten minutes.” The two women grabbed hands and dashed across the field that separated the building from the mansion, as gleeful as when they were children. When they got to the house, they tip-toed around the outside, and found a window that was partially open, pushed it all the way, and climbed in. Jessie’s eyes widened. “Look at all the antiques,” she said. “This could be my shop.” Her fingers brushed away cobwebs and piles of beetle dust. The smell was awful. But possibilities were there.
A door opened in front of them. A man stood in the dining room. He was fuzzy around the edges and his features were unclear. He shimmered in the dark. “Come with me, my lovelies,” he said in a whisper. “I will fix you a delicious meal that will fill your stomachs and thrill your taste buds. First, you must rest.”
“Er, I’m not hungry, thank you.” Jessie was polite, not wanting to upset this proper man. He wore a black tuxedo, a bow tie, and stood straight as a statue. His eyes did not blink; one was glass, Jessie thought. Maybe both.
Cassie whispered to her friend. “He’s not real; he’s made of cloth, or something artificial.” As she spoke, the figure reached out his strong hands and dragged them into a bedroom filled with a dozen beds—or more—with women lying on each. The recognized Charlotte, the house’s owner, and others who had disappeared over the years. Jessie screamed. “It’s not our time yet.” She grabbed Cassie’s hand, muttered a few magic words, and floated with her out the open window. At the store again, Jessie said, “Curiosity almost killed us, but levitation brought us back.”
"New Neighbors" Starter Karin Uphoff Finisher Sharon Bowers
My black and white fur is still winter-long, but sports a Calvin Klein look. Being named Domino is a bit of an insult, but hey, most cats have to put up with mismatched labeling. It could be worse. I make my rounds in the morning, escape through the damaged-by-raccoons pet door only pulling my tail up just as the flap hisses shut -- a simple thrill. I’ve gotten comfortable in my new routine since old man McGregor and his vicious terrier finally left next door. I heard he snuffed it -- the old man, that is -- and I was relieved to find out the rabid canine who was part of that package got hauled off. Hadn’t been over there for years – no cat in the neighborhood had, couldn’t even walk the damn fence without the threat of bared teeth lunging at me and nearly shaking me off. This so irked me that on mornings when the two of them drove off in a beat-up Buick to get groceries, I would slink over the wood planks to leave generous deposits of my cologne along the Otherside. When they returned, I’d sit on the throne of our water tank, which has a prime view of their yard, and watch hyper-dog run up and down the fence madly sniffing, barking and throwing himself against it while I took the time to groom and fuss over my paws.
Now that I’ve reclaimed the turf next door (after fighting off two other Toms, mind you), I walk my beat each morning, sniffing at who has and hasn’t been visiting while I’ve been locked (against my will) in the house all night. One early morning in spring, I paused to raise my sniffer and was surprised by a smell unexpectedly pleasing. Not pleasing if you are like my human who goes for the sickly stench of fragrant blooms, but something far more compelling. This smell moved my four paws, transporting me through the dew-wet grass to the front side of the house next door and right up the concrete steps. What the hell? A complete break from my habitual route! The scent clung thickly there, all the way up to the threshold, a kind of fishy O’du musk that had me salivating and lifting my tail at the same time. However, once in front of the door, I found myself shaking, all the rush of past trauma with that terrier took over. As I turned (casually) to leave, I heard a voice inside. New people?
It sounded like woman’s voice, a high, gliding singsong, shaping vowels to leave puffs in the air, like she was talking to something small – a baby? A kitten? Lions save me from another yapping canine. Curiosity wasn’t gonna kill me this time (I keep score), so I stopped myself and inched closer, my left ear nearly brushing the doorframe. Amazed that I could hear anything over my pounding my heart, I detected a deep purr followed by short mew – a femme de feline - next door! Leaping off the steps and landing in the bushes, I slipped off to my lookout on the water tank. A new cat in the hood can be tricky, especially as I’m not ready to back off on my claim to their sun-drenched back deck.
*
Though it is a cliche, curiosity got the best of me. I sauntered back to the neighbors and hopped up onto the window ledge to get a better look. Inside I saw a big woman admiring herself in a mirror and holding a squirming golden cat.
“Don’t we look gorgeous, Sasha?” the woman exclaimed. “Janet at the beauty shop said she’s never had a client bring in their pet cat for a color match. But she had to admit it’s a fabulous idea. One look at your luxurious, blonde fur had everyone in the shop jealous. Janet did a phenomenal job and she said if you ever had kittens that she wanted one. Couldn’t believe it, she even refused a tip.”
“Well, I told her that you’re too young for that. And besides, I need to find the right Persian male. No ratty alley cat for my little princess.”
“Ouch! What’s got in to you, Sasha?” The cat wiggled more frantically. “Ever since we moved here, you haven’t liked your cat box. Funny, I need to use the little girls’ room myself. I’ll let you outside just this once, but don’t go far.”
The golden cat hightailed it out the front door and, to my utter amazement, made a mad dash to me. No preliminary introductions were necessary. This was uninhibited animal magnetism. My heart pounded with lust and bliss, as our whirlwind love-making tore up the petunia bed.
“Sasha, where are you?” called the woman.
I couldn’t help myself, I let out a cry of pleasure and pumped one more time.
The big-boned woman with the golden locks came careening around the corner. “NO, NO, NO! This can’t be happening! Sasha get away from that emaciated skunk!”
This insult was too much to bear. Just because my fur happens to resemble that noxious night animal, doesn’t mean we’re the same species. I made a mental note to spray her porch every day. Thankfully Sasha ignored the woman and we completed our affair. Though the broom bashing my head did diminish my enjoyment.
Later, in the safety of my own yard, I heard the woman wail, “Dammit! What am I going to tell Janet?”
Now that I’ve reclaimed the turf next door (after fighting off two other Toms, mind you), I walk my beat each morning, sniffing at who has and hasn’t been visiting while I’ve been locked (against my will) in the house all night. One early morning in spring, I paused to raise my sniffer and was surprised by a smell unexpectedly pleasing. Not pleasing if you are like my human who goes for the sickly stench of fragrant blooms, but something far more compelling. This smell moved my four paws, transporting me through the dew-wet grass to the front side of the house next door and right up the concrete steps. What the hell? A complete break from my habitual route! The scent clung thickly there, all the way up to the threshold, a kind of fishy O’du musk that had me salivating and lifting my tail at the same time. However, once in front of the door, I found myself shaking, all the rush of past trauma with that terrier took over. As I turned (casually) to leave, I heard a voice inside. New people?
It sounded like woman’s voice, a high, gliding singsong, shaping vowels to leave puffs in the air, like she was talking to something small – a baby? A kitten? Lions save me from another yapping canine. Curiosity wasn’t gonna kill me this time (I keep score), so I stopped myself and inched closer, my left ear nearly brushing the doorframe. Amazed that I could hear anything over my pounding my heart, I detected a deep purr followed by short mew – a femme de feline - next door! Leaping off the steps and landing in the bushes, I slipped off to my lookout on the water tank. A new cat in the hood can be tricky, especially as I’m not ready to back off on my claim to their sun-drenched back deck.
*
Though it is a cliche, curiosity got the best of me. I sauntered back to the neighbors and hopped up onto the window ledge to get a better look. Inside I saw a big woman admiring herself in a mirror and holding a squirming golden cat.
“Don’t we look gorgeous, Sasha?” the woman exclaimed. “Janet at the beauty shop said she’s never had a client bring in their pet cat for a color match. But she had to admit it’s a fabulous idea. One look at your luxurious, blonde fur had everyone in the shop jealous. Janet did a phenomenal job and she said if you ever had kittens that she wanted one. Couldn’t believe it, she even refused a tip.”
“Well, I told her that you’re too young for that. And besides, I need to find the right Persian male. No ratty alley cat for my little princess.”
“Ouch! What’s got in to you, Sasha?” The cat wiggled more frantically. “Ever since we moved here, you haven’t liked your cat box. Funny, I need to use the little girls’ room myself. I’ll let you outside just this once, but don’t go far.”
The golden cat hightailed it out the front door and, to my utter amazement, made a mad dash to me. No preliminary introductions were necessary. This was uninhibited animal magnetism. My heart pounded with lust and bliss, as our whirlwind love-making tore up the petunia bed.
“Sasha, where are you?” called the woman.
I couldn’t help myself, I let out a cry of pleasure and pumped one more time.
The big-boned woman with the golden locks came careening around the corner. “NO, NO, NO! This can’t be happening! Sasha get away from that emaciated skunk!”
This insult was too much to bear. Just because my fur happens to resemble that noxious night animal, doesn’t mean we’re the same species. I made a mental note to spray her porch every day. Thankfully Sasha ignored the woman and we completed our affair. Though the broom bashing my head did diminish my enjoyment.
Later, in the safety of my own yard, I heard the woman wail, “Dammit! What am I going to tell Janet?”
"Provincetown" Starter Thayer Walker Finisher Les Cizek
It's not often women 40 years my senior attract--much less hold--my glance. But what drew me to her weren't her looks, though they were pleasant enough.
I was 23 years old and newly-minted from a stuffy ivy hall, though it took me five, make that five and a half, years to sweat-out a mortarboard, sheepskin and a loan repayment plan. I thought, wrongly, that learning Russian would be a smart career move. But when my girl friend disappeared to New York with my housemate, I fell apart that semester. ‘Dr. Ruskie’, as she was widely-known essentially told me when I asked for a second chance to “stick it”.
My new neighbor, the woman next door, looked a lot like that Russian prof. And she arrived on my back porch trailed by--I'm guessing--100,000 bees.
"Don't swat,” she warned. "Bees recognize faces. If you hit them, hurt them in anyway, they will remember you." She paused. "Forever". Then, "Just like jilted lovers." She laughed. Slowly she waved her hand in front of her face as though about to faint. A dozen bees scattered and flew outside. Impressive. Even more striking, the screen door was propped open so i could move in, and the swarm stayed outside like a dog doing “sit”. Except for one lone bee on a book box.
“They're very good at sniffing out bombs, too," she added. pointing to my meager possessions. ”You packing bombs in those crates?” she chuckled.
Her words came fast and clipped like grass cuttings from a mower, that damnable aristocratic, New England-ese that announces "I don't care how much money you have, I am better than you in every way.” From her, it worked.
She was not at all the "screaming virago" described by my landlord, the village mayor when he gave me the keys the day before. "Honey bees,” the mayor had sighed. “But nothing sweet about her. No, no. Keep your distance, young man.”
Now, it seems, I had no chance to take the mayor’s advice, because here she was in my living room, such as it was, sitting on my moving crates and pouring me a cup of tea from a thermos she pulled from a cloth grocery bag, and chatting at me as if I was her long lost playmate. She was smart, and charming, and probably not easily bruised, so i took a chance. “The mayor had told me you might drop over.”
“That over-educated pompous baboon. Did he call me a “virago?
“A ‘screaming virago’ actually.”
She uttered a self-satisfied “hmmmph.”
***
I sipped my tea, feeling a glow of comfort and warmth, a relaxing confidence unlike anything I ever experienced. I was almost giddy
“Something bothering you?” the woman said.
Must be something in the tea, I thought, but words poured out as if someone had untied my tongue.
“ I got dumped by my girlfriend, changed jobs, moved to a new town, and none of it’s working.
Everything I ever believed or thought I learned from external sources-my parents, school, the media, the government.
“Close your eyes” the woman said.
In the dark behind my eyelids, thoughts jumped around like grasshoppers. She might be some kind of witch. Why di I say that. I hadn’t known I thought it until the words came out.
There was a buzz in the room.
Something soft landed between my eyes.
Don’t move, the woman said. Don’t even breathe.
I held my breath and felt a sharp sting.
Ow! What the hell! My eyes flew open and I touched the spot to ease the pain.
“ I wouldn’t complain if I were you. A bee just gave her life to give you insight.”
What the hell was she talking about? It hurt like murder.
The woman screwed the cap back on her thermos and got up to leave. An interesting little smile on her lips.
“A pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
I sat alone in the room with my boxes. I didn’t even know her name. The pain faded and I felt oddly clear headed. Better than I had since Dolores handed me back the ring.
A world waited outside this room and I had a glimpse of how I wanted to be in that world.
Good, that was the word. Sounds sappy, but I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror at the end of each day and know I’d done O.K.
An idea all my own.
I was 23 years old and newly-minted from a stuffy ivy hall, though it took me five, make that five and a half, years to sweat-out a mortarboard, sheepskin and a loan repayment plan. I thought, wrongly, that learning Russian would be a smart career move. But when my girl friend disappeared to New York with my housemate, I fell apart that semester. ‘Dr. Ruskie’, as she was widely-known essentially told me when I asked for a second chance to “stick it”.
My new neighbor, the woman next door, looked a lot like that Russian prof. And she arrived on my back porch trailed by--I'm guessing--100,000 bees.
"Don't swat,” she warned. "Bees recognize faces. If you hit them, hurt them in anyway, they will remember you." She paused. "Forever". Then, "Just like jilted lovers." She laughed. Slowly she waved her hand in front of her face as though about to faint. A dozen bees scattered and flew outside. Impressive. Even more striking, the screen door was propped open so i could move in, and the swarm stayed outside like a dog doing “sit”. Except for one lone bee on a book box.
“They're very good at sniffing out bombs, too," she added. pointing to my meager possessions. ”You packing bombs in those crates?” she chuckled.
Her words came fast and clipped like grass cuttings from a mower, that damnable aristocratic, New England-ese that announces "I don't care how much money you have, I am better than you in every way.” From her, it worked.
She was not at all the "screaming virago" described by my landlord, the village mayor when he gave me the keys the day before. "Honey bees,” the mayor had sighed. “But nothing sweet about her. No, no. Keep your distance, young man.”
Now, it seems, I had no chance to take the mayor’s advice, because here she was in my living room, such as it was, sitting on my moving crates and pouring me a cup of tea from a thermos she pulled from a cloth grocery bag, and chatting at me as if I was her long lost playmate. She was smart, and charming, and probably not easily bruised, so i took a chance. “The mayor had told me you might drop over.”
“That over-educated pompous baboon. Did he call me a “virago?
“A ‘screaming virago’ actually.”
She uttered a self-satisfied “hmmmph.”
***
I sipped my tea, feeling a glow of comfort and warmth, a relaxing confidence unlike anything I ever experienced. I was almost giddy
“Something bothering you?” the woman said.
Must be something in the tea, I thought, but words poured out as if someone had untied my tongue.
“ I got dumped by my girlfriend, changed jobs, moved to a new town, and none of it’s working.
Everything I ever believed or thought I learned from external sources-my parents, school, the media, the government.
“Close your eyes” the woman said.
In the dark behind my eyelids, thoughts jumped around like grasshoppers. She might be some kind of witch. Why di I say that. I hadn’t known I thought it until the words came out.
There was a buzz in the room.
Something soft landed between my eyes.
Don’t move, the woman said. Don’t even breathe.
I held my breath and felt a sharp sting.
Ow! What the hell! My eyes flew open and I touched the spot to ease the pain.
“ I wouldn’t complain if I were you. A bee just gave her life to give you insight.”
What the hell was she talking about? It hurt like murder.
The woman screwed the cap back on her thermos and got up to leave. An interesting little smile on her lips.
“A pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
I sat alone in the room with my boxes. I didn’t even know her name. The pain faded and I felt oddly clear headed. Better than I had since Dolores handed me back the ring.
A world waited outside this room and I had a glimpse of how I wanted to be in that world.
Good, that was the word. Sounds sappy, but I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror at the end of each day and know I’d done O.K.
An idea all my own.
"The Ghosts and Ms. Muir" Starter Kymberly Bartlo Finisher Amie McGee
“You know that the people who used to live here killed someone, don’t you?”
My heart thudded triple-time at the unexpected voice. I spun around, my garden trowel clenched in a quick fist. A woman stood on the other side of my white picket fence, a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low over her eyes. “What?”
“Manslaughter, actually.” She shrugged, and the silk of her purple kaftan shimmered in the morning sunlight. “They never would have sold, but the ghost drove them out.”
The observable facts of this stranger hovering at my front gate — no taller than the five-foot post of my gate, age-spotted hands laden with heavy gold rings, creases of tired skin ringing her neck — did nothing to ease my panic. She could be the decoy while her partner—her lover, her drug dealer, her captor, it could be anyone! – skulked behind one of my redwood trees, sliding noiselessly closer to attack. My skin prickled on the back of my neck. The safety of my house, only a few dozen yards behind me, felt miles away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The woman kicked her green rubber boots against the fence post. Clumps of thick clay dirt fell off, and she bent over to examine them as though they were archaeological artifacts. “He won’t harm you, you know.”
My hand quivered with the tension of squeezing the trowel. I shot quick looks over my shoulders. That tree on the left--did someone just dart behind it? “Who?”
“The man they killed. The ghost.” She straightened up and smiled at me. A gold tooth gleamed in the center of her top front row. “I’ll introduce you. He and I have visited many times.”
He who? The ghost? Who the hell was she? What did she want? Be strong, I admonished myself. I gripped the trowel white-knuckled. “I’d like you to leave.” The words didn’t come out as I had heard them in my head — firm and threatening — but instead querulous and pleading. Even in the midst of my heightened paranoia, self-disgust shot through me. After everything I had just been through, how could I still be enslaved to that ingrained politeness, that god-damned proudlyinbred fear and weakness that had so recently nearly killed me!
Though her eyes were shadowed, I could feel their weight studying me. “My name’s Dvorka. Come by anytime.”
As she turned away, I allowed myself at last to back away to the safety of my house. The woman continued down the street and opened the gate of the house next to mine. At the front porch, she turned and waved.
My relief at her departure was short-lived. The woman lived next door.
*
I took a breath. “Chelsea Christine, you let it go, she ain’t nothing but a crazy old bat walking on a slant.” I scolded my worry and lightened my grip on the trowel. I ventured back off the porch and lifted a chunk of soil from the bed. A fat worm wiggled its posterior at me.
“Lovies,” I called. My two Plymmies snatched it, then pulled a loud tug-of-war until Thelma yanked hard enough to be the victor and smugly clucked her way around the yard while Louise tried desperately to filch the poor worm back.
I smiled. My heart calmed. I cupped the bell of a daffodil against my palm--my daffodil. I smiled again and shook my head. “What kind of name is Dvorka anyway?”
“I thought yous was lettin’ that go,” Mama’s voice sassed from a frayed pocket at the back of my mind.
“Hush, Mama, I’m in no mood—”
“He can’t find you here,” her superiority cut me off and lodged, rent free, in my thoughts.
“Mayhaps.” I nodded.
A Tardis-blue Prius silently rolled around the corner and up Dvorka’s drive. The carriage door clunked as it trundled up and a boy—maybe six—pressed his lips to the window and greeted me by blowing his cheeks out so I could see near to his brains. I chuckled, “Heh.” He grinned and waved as the car disappeared into the garage.
“See? Real folks live in that house, too,” I reassured myself.
The Pacific cuddled the beach with its smooth waves while the warm morning turned into a hot afternoon. I clicked my teeth and the girls answered. I narrowed my eyes in a squint and found them lazing under the azaleas and decided a nap sounded quite right.
I flopped my clogs into the basket by the door then flopped my rump onto the chaise snuggled by the sun shining through the window. And slept.
Slept until the whistling.
“Whistling?” I asked the fluffy dragon, then jerked awake. The whistling stopped and I rubbed my fingers hard into the ridge above my eye. That sounded like the teapot, but…did I put the tea on and fall asleep? Oh God damn.
I wandered to the kitchen, still groggy, and started at the man facing me, sitting at the table--my table—blowing over a steaming teacup--my teacup. He nodded toward me as he sipped and his companion turned to face me, her purple kaftan crinkled.
“How…? What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Tea,” Dvorka stated. “I told you he and I visit often.”
“He?”
“Your ghost.” Dvorka motioned with her teacup--my teacup—at the man. At the ghost. “His name is Stephen, with a P-H.”
“But you may call me Steve,” the ghost spoke.
“I told you he was nice.” Dvorka paused, “For a ghost.” She winked at me like we were in cahoots.
“You’re one to talk,” the ghost—Steve, apparently—quipped.
Dvorka sucked her teeth. The tisking noise conveyed her displeasure and revealed more than I ever wanted to know. “I don’t think Ms. Muir was ready to meet two ghosts just yet, Stephen.”
Stephen shrugged his apology. “She was going to find out sooner or later.”
I blinked thinking—hoping—I was still asleep.
“Join us,” Dvorka said as she handed me a teacup.
I looked from the tea to her and back to the tea. “What kind of name is Dvorka anyway?” I asked taking the cup--my cup.
My heart thudded triple-time at the unexpected voice. I spun around, my garden trowel clenched in a quick fist. A woman stood on the other side of my white picket fence, a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low over her eyes. “What?”
“Manslaughter, actually.” She shrugged, and the silk of her purple kaftan shimmered in the morning sunlight. “They never would have sold, but the ghost drove them out.”
The observable facts of this stranger hovering at my front gate — no taller than the five-foot post of my gate, age-spotted hands laden with heavy gold rings, creases of tired skin ringing her neck — did nothing to ease my panic. She could be the decoy while her partner—her lover, her drug dealer, her captor, it could be anyone! – skulked behind one of my redwood trees, sliding noiselessly closer to attack. My skin prickled on the back of my neck. The safety of my house, only a few dozen yards behind me, felt miles away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The woman kicked her green rubber boots against the fence post. Clumps of thick clay dirt fell off, and she bent over to examine them as though they were archaeological artifacts. “He won’t harm you, you know.”
My hand quivered with the tension of squeezing the trowel. I shot quick looks over my shoulders. That tree on the left--did someone just dart behind it? “Who?”
“The man they killed. The ghost.” She straightened up and smiled at me. A gold tooth gleamed in the center of her top front row. “I’ll introduce you. He and I have visited many times.”
He who? The ghost? Who the hell was she? What did she want? Be strong, I admonished myself. I gripped the trowel white-knuckled. “I’d like you to leave.” The words didn’t come out as I had heard them in my head — firm and threatening — but instead querulous and pleading. Even in the midst of my heightened paranoia, self-disgust shot through me. After everything I had just been through, how could I still be enslaved to that ingrained politeness, that god-damned proudlyinbred fear and weakness that had so recently nearly killed me!
Though her eyes were shadowed, I could feel their weight studying me. “My name’s Dvorka. Come by anytime.”
As she turned away, I allowed myself at last to back away to the safety of my house. The woman continued down the street and opened the gate of the house next to mine. At the front porch, she turned and waved.
My relief at her departure was short-lived. The woman lived next door.
*
I took a breath. “Chelsea Christine, you let it go, she ain’t nothing but a crazy old bat walking on a slant.” I scolded my worry and lightened my grip on the trowel. I ventured back off the porch and lifted a chunk of soil from the bed. A fat worm wiggled its posterior at me.
“Lovies,” I called. My two Plymmies snatched it, then pulled a loud tug-of-war until Thelma yanked hard enough to be the victor and smugly clucked her way around the yard while Louise tried desperately to filch the poor worm back.
I smiled. My heart calmed. I cupped the bell of a daffodil against my palm--my daffodil. I smiled again and shook my head. “What kind of name is Dvorka anyway?”
“I thought yous was lettin’ that go,” Mama’s voice sassed from a frayed pocket at the back of my mind.
“Hush, Mama, I’m in no mood—”
“He can’t find you here,” her superiority cut me off and lodged, rent free, in my thoughts.
“Mayhaps.” I nodded.
A Tardis-blue Prius silently rolled around the corner and up Dvorka’s drive. The carriage door clunked as it trundled up and a boy—maybe six—pressed his lips to the window and greeted me by blowing his cheeks out so I could see near to his brains. I chuckled, “Heh.” He grinned and waved as the car disappeared into the garage.
“See? Real folks live in that house, too,” I reassured myself.
The Pacific cuddled the beach with its smooth waves while the warm morning turned into a hot afternoon. I clicked my teeth and the girls answered. I narrowed my eyes in a squint and found them lazing under the azaleas and decided a nap sounded quite right.
I flopped my clogs into the basket by the door then flopped my rump onto the chaise snuggled by the sun shining through the window. And slept.
Slept until the whistling.
“Whistling?” I asked the fluffy dragon, then jerked awake. The whistling stopped and I rubbed my fingers hard into the ridge above my eye. That sounded like the teapot, but…did I put the tea on and fall asleep? Oh God damn.
I wandered to the kitchen, still groggy, and started at the man facing me, sitting at the table--my table—blowing over a steaming teacup--my teacup. He nodded toward me as he sipped and his companion turned to face me, her purple kaftan crinkled.
“How…? What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Tea,” Dvorka stated. “I told you he and I visit often.”
“He?”
“Your ghost.” Dvorka motioned with her teacup--my teacup—at the man. At the ghost. “His name is Stephen, with a P-H.”
“But you may call me Steve,” the ghost spoke.
“I told you he was nice.” Dvorka paused, “For a ghost.” She winked at me like we were in cahoots.
“You’re one to talk,” the ghost—Steve, apparently—quipped.
Dvorka sucked her teeth. The tisking noise conveyed her displeasure and revealed more than I ever wanted to know. “I don’t think Ms. Muir was ready to meet two ghosts just yet, Stephen.”
Stephen shrugged his apology. “She was going to find out sooner or later.”
I blinked thinking—hoping—I was still asleep.
“Join us,” Dvorka said as she handed me a teacup.
I looked from the tea to her and back to the tea. “What kind of name is Dvorka anyway?” I asked taking the cup--my cup.
"The Unloosening Starter" Starter Liza Saenz and Finisher Norma Watkins
“Just be patient, the sun will be hitting the abalone shell any minute now,” he said. We sat at the edge of the creek, staring at the mosaic sundial, once again jumping through a hoop for one of Magdalene’s whims. Our relationship had begun here on the creek, constructing something illegal, slightly impossible, with the belief this woman could make it come to fruition.
Magdalene lived on the adjoining ten acres. We were the emergency go-to people when the water or solar system doesn’t work and whenever she rented out her place for retreats. During a three-year drought, she began re-routing the creek to make a mosaic bath. It started with dozens of cinder blocks, tons of cement board, marble and old, chipped, handpicked tile. She was told Gaudi was an ancestor, so she decided to transform the land into a mini Sagrada Familia.
Magdalene had the strength and stamina of a forty-year-old and the resilience of a teenager. She won a bronze in the 1967 Olympics, but instead of going for the Gold, she went for her childhood dream of building a home on a creek.
She was part Catalonian and Irish. Her auburn hair drew attention with its natural blond streaks that, at times, took on the shape of a kelp bed swaying with the tides and the sunrays. She wasn’t highly intelligent, but gifted with some inner flow of wisdom, which may have come from her parents who read Emerson and Kipling. She loved using quotes or silly metaphors, so we assumed she was self-medicating, but over the years we realized she was showing genuine happiness.
*
Or that’s what some people said. I was here for the sourdough waffles.
“The sun has hit the shell,” Jeff said.
Magdalene tinkled a little crystal bell to get our attention and lifted a gate. Water from the creek rushed in, circling the maze we’d built, making the broken tile glow like jewels. As the water moved faster, it sluiced up the sides, filling the bath.
“I’m guessing when it’s full we’re supposed to jump in.” I muttered this to my partner under my breath. “Creek water in April. I can hardly wait.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Magdalene gave me one of her crushed-pansy looks, the kind you’d get after you stepped on the last fairy. “We’ll swim in summer.” She held the heavy red and gold hair back with one hand. “That’s not the magic today.”
The pool filled and on the far side, a tiled run-off looped water back into the creek a hundred feet down the mountain. “Watch.” Magdalene rang the bell again and nodded to Jeff.
He lifted a box above his head and poured what looked like hundreds of silver coins into the pool.
We inhaled shock and breathed out surprise.
The coins didn’t sink. They fluttered like tiny leaves, leaping, letting the surging water carry them out of the pool, into the trough, and on to the creek downstream.
“Winter-run salmon,” Magdalene said.
“Chinook fingerlings,” Jeff said. “Hatchery-raised. Five-thousand of them.”
We ran alongside the slough, following the tiny fish, made giddy by their exuberance.
“Fly, fly my beauties.” Magdalene rang the crystal bell as she ran. “On to the freedom of the ocean.”
I did not roll my eyes. I did not mutter anything sarcastic to my partner. I thought of sourdough waffles in a pool of warm maple syrup and kept my mouth shut.
Magdalene lived on the adjoining ten acres. We were the emergency go-to people when the water or solar system doesn’t work and whenever she rented out her place for retreats. During a three-year drought, she began re-routing the creek to make a mosaic bath. It started with dozens of cinder blocks, tons of cement board, marble and old, chipped, handpicked tile. She was told Gaudi was an ancestor, so she decided to transform the land into a mini Sagrada Familia.
Magdalene had the strength and stamina of a forty-year-old and the resilience of a teenager. She won a bronze in the 1967 Olympics, but instead of going for the Gold, she went for her childhood dream of building a home on a creek.
She was part Catalonian and Irish. Her auburn hair drew attention with its natural blond streaks that, at times, took on the shape of a kelp bed swaying with the tides and the sunrays. She wasn’t highly intelligent, but gifted with some inner flow of wisdom, which may have come from her parents who read Emerson and Kipling. She loved using quotes or silly metaphors, so we assumed she was self-medicating, but over the years we realized she was showing genuine happiness.
*
Or that’s what some people said. I was here for the sourdough waffles.
“The sun has hit the shell,” Jeff said.
Magdalene tinkled a little crystal bell to get our attention and lifted a gate. Water from the creek rushed in, circling the maze we’d built, making the broken tile glow like jewels. As the water moved faster, it sluiced up the sides, filling the bath.
“I’m guessing when it’s full we’re supposed to jump in.” I muttered this to my partner under my breath. “Creek water in April. I can hardly wait.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Magdalene gave me one of her crushed-pansy looks, the kind you’d get after you stepped on the last fairy. “We’ll swim in summer.” She held the heavy red and gold hair back with one hand. “That’s not the magic today.”
The pool filled and on the far side, a tiled run-off looped water back into the creek a hundred feet down the mountain. “Watch.” Magdalene rang the bell again and nodded to Jeff.
He lifted a box above his head and poured what looked like hundreds of silver coins into the pool.
We inhaled shock and breathed out surprise.
The coins didn’t sink. They fluttered like tiny leaves, leaping, letting the surging water carry them out of the pool, into the trough, and on to the creek downstream.
“Winter-run salmon,” Magdalene said.
“Chinook fingerlings,” Jeff said. “Hatchery-raised. Five-thousand of them.”
We ran alongside the slough, following the tiny fish, made giddy by their exuberance.
“Fly, fly my beauties.” Magdalene rang the crystal bell as she ran. “On to the freedom of the ocean.”
I did not roll my eyes. I did not mutter anything sarcastic to my partner. I thought of sourdough waffles in a pool of warm maple syrup and kept my mouth shut.
"Three Graces" Starter Doug Fortier Finisher Tansy Chapman
Dear Grace,
You don’t know me, although we both live in San Francisco. We don’t have the same friends, but we go to Grace Cathedral, at least sometimes—for me. The only things I know about you appeared in the paper. That’s not quite right. That’s what I started out knowing.
I doubt you remember standing side by side and facing each other in the store window right after your accident. We looked so much alike, but a wave in the glass made you the pretty one. You had on that summer shift with the sunflower embroidered across the front.
I’ve thought about you a lot, but not in the extreme of a stalker, more in little details like your tattoo of the stained glass window I saw that day. I found where you had it done and tattooed it in the crook of my arm, too. Your apartment on 7th Avenue isn’t far from mine, a few doors away. I like our neighborhood.
You have reasons to forget the past, but remember the good parts. The haircuts we’ve been getting are a lot better than the cuts you got from Mavis, and I’m feeling in the pink since you started going to the gym. It’s hard work, but it shows in our waistlines.
Dear Grace, there is so much more I want to experience with you, to reach new levels, to open ourselves to the future. I hope I’ll be there with you, to live our lives.
Grace
*
Dear Grace,
I admit that when your letter showed up in my mailbox, I was disturbed. I was particularly put out by the way you’ve used my accident as a way to latch onto me, regardless of the fact I might have died and the police remain suspicious about what caused the explosion.
For about a week, I became paranoid whenever I saw anyone who looked vaguely like me. Then I realized the streets are populated with young, medium height, white women with straight, shoulder length, blonde streaked hair, hurrying either to work or the gym. As for tattoos, the laugh is on you. Probably the stained glass window you saw on my arm was bruising from flying debris. Now you’re stuck with your tattoo, and I hope it hurt.
One day I attended evening prayer at Grace Cathedral and looked around for you. Call it what you like, I think you are a stalker. I was moodily contemplating burning my sunflower dress and going back to Mavis for my haircuts. In other words, I was obsessing about you, as you apparently are obsessing about me. As soon as the service was over, I spoke to one of the priests and made an appointment to see her the next day.
It was not an easy visit. I had to confess some very uncharitable thoughts toward you, even though you are apparently my neighbor. I’d even been tempted to post your letter in my building. It probably wouldn’t have taken long for people to identify you. What the priest immediately identified was that you are LONELY, as are thousands of others in this vast city. When I first moved here I was lonely too. That’s one of the reasons I was drawn to Grace Cathedral to find community. I also found help from a therapist, which I seriously hope you also will seek out before you get into deeper, and possibly illegal, waters.
This will be my last contact with you for your health as well as mine. With Grace Cathedral in the middle, we are Three Graces, as in Greek Mythology: grace, beauty, and mirth. I wish you all three, but please leave me alone to continue with my own life and healing. To be safe, I have left your letter with my lawyer.
Grace
You don’t know me, although we both live in San Francisco. We don’t have the same friends, but we go to Grace Cathedral, at least sometimes—for me. The only things I know about you appeared in the paper. That’s not quite right. That’s what I started out knowing.
I doubt you remember standing side by side and facing each other in the store window right after your accident. We looked so much alike, but a wave in the glass made you the pretty one. You had on that summer shift with the sunflower embroidered across the front.
I’ve thought about you a lot, but not in the extreme of a stalker, more in little details like your tattoo of the stained glass window I saw that day. I found where you had it done and tattooed it in the crook of my arm, too. Your apartment on 7th Avenue isn’t far from mine, a few doors away. I like our neighborhood.
You have reasons to forget the past, but remember the good parts. The haircuts we’ve been getting are a lot better than the cuts you got from Mavis, and I’m feeling in the pink since you started going to the gym. It’s hard work, but it shows in our waistlines.
Dear Grace, there is so much more I want to experience with you, to reach new levels, to open ourselves to the future. I hope I’ll be there with you, to live our lives.
Grace
*
Dear Grace,
I admit that when your letter showed up in my mailbox, I was disturbed. I was particularly put out by the way you’ve used my accident as a way to latch onto me, regardless of the fact I might have died and the police remain suspicious about what caused the explosion.
For about a week, I became paranoid whenever I saw anyone who looked vaguely like me. Then I realized the streets are populated with young, medium height, white women with straight, shoulder length, blonde streaked hair, hurrying either to work or the gym. As for tattoos, the laugh is on you. Probably the stained glass window you saw on my arm was bruising from flying debris. Now you’re stuck with your tattoo, and I hope it hurt.
One day I attended evening prayer at Grace Cathedral and looked around for you. Call it what you like, I think you are a stalker. I was moodily contemplating burning my sunflower dress and going back to Mavis for my haircuts. In other words, I was obsessing about you, as you apparently are obsessing about me. As soon as the service was over, I spoke to one of the priests and made an appointment to see her the next day.
It was not an easy visit. I had to confess some very uncharitable thoughts toward you, even though you are apparently my neighbor. I’d even been tempted to post your letter in my building. It probably wouldn’t have taken long for people to identify you. What the priest immediately identified was that you are LONELY, as are thousands of others in this vast city. When I first moved here I was lonely too. That’s one of the reasons I was drawn to Grace Cathedral to find community. I also found help from a therapist, which I seriously hope you also will seek out before you get into deeper, and possibly illegal, waters.
This will be my last contact with you for your health as well as mine. With Grace Cathedral in the middle, we are Three Graces, as in Greek Mythology: grace, beauty, and mirth. I wish you all three, but please leave me alone to continue with my own life and healing. To be safe, I have left your letter with my lawyer.
Grace
"Walls" Starter Jay Frankston Finisher windflower
When the walls are thin
you can hear the bed heaving
under the sex-laden mattress,
you can hear the neighbors arguing
in violet liquor tones
while the baby cries hysterically
in his cardboard crib.
When the walls are thin
you can feel the hunger of children
in Somalia, or Bosnia
or the ghettoes of L.A.
broken bones around the hearth
and a cold wind under the door.
When the walls are thin
everyone’s problems
become your own
a large wooden cross
over the bed
and a statue of Mary
on the night table.
You must learn to swim
or you drown.
When the walls are thin
you’d better be quiet
or the neighbors will hear you
writing your poetry
in the middle of the night.
***
When the walls are thick
the membrane you wear
like a shawl
might protect you
from the baby’s screams.
When the walls are thick
you can move away
from the cusp
of other people’s lives.
A warm fire
burning in your belly.
When the walls are thick
you cannot hear
the Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s
the constant clicking
of the rosaries
keeping time
to the tragedies
of the world.
When the walls are thick
the woman next door
leans in
her ear against the wall
listening
needing the words
to rise from your page
like an anthem.
you can hear the bed heaving
under the sex-laden mattress,
you can hear the neighbors arguing
in violet liquor tones
while the baby cries hysterically
in his cardboard crib.
When the walls are thin
you can feel the hunger of children
in Somalia, or Bosnia
or the ghettoes of L.A.
broken bones around the hearth
and a cold wind under the door.
When the walls are thin
everyone’s problems
become your own
a large wooden cross
over the bed
and a statue of Mary
on the night table.
You must learn to swim
or you drown.
When the walls are thin
you’d better be quiet
or the neighbors will hear you
writing your poetry
in the middle of the night.
***
When the walls are thick
the membrane you wear
like a shawl
might protect you
from the baby’s screams.
When the walls are thick
you can move away
from the cusp
of other people’s lives.
A warm fire
burning in your belly.
When the walls are thick
you cannot hear
the Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s
the constant clicking
of the rosaries
keeping time
to the tragedies
of the world.
When the walls are thick
the woman next door
leans in
her ear against the wall
listening
needing the words
to rise from your page
like an anthem.
