TwitterShort Challenge 12

                

 

 

               Boomer struggled for breath as she wrapped her fingers around the chain link. While trying to recover her lungs, she glanced over her shoulder and felt the relief of being alone. She’d outrun them once more. There was no way she was ever going to be bullied into wearing that flannel onesie that smelled like half a jar of dill pickles was spilled down its front through the middle school halls again. They’d caught her once, and it took an entire bottle of hand sanitizer to get the smell off of her skin.

                After school, she would always run here. The Sandlot. It was her private paradise. Abandoned for years, the overgrown field barely resembled the glory that had been. The brick half-wall that marked the home run dividing line was crumbling. Most of the red bricks were worn and split in two. The pitcher’s mound was barely a bump. The base path was covered in spearmint. Boomer was in heaven.

                She wiggled her way through the gate. The latch was rusty, and one end was snapped off and secured with wire. Boomer didn’t even bother with it, since she was tiny enough to slip through the opening. And she made her way to the mound.

                Boomer could hear the announcer: AND NOW, REPRESENTING YOUR BARTONVILLE BOUNTY HUNTERS… BOOMER “THE KID” JENKINS! She comes in with an ERA of 1.00 and the meanest 12-6 curve ball you’ve ever seen. Looking to make the final out against the visiting Bronze Wombats of Willow Creek. This could be the most pressure The Kid has been under. Will she get this final out of the game?

                Boomer took her spotlight center stage. She grabbed the rosin bag and bounced it in her palm. The dust floated like an angelic cloud around her hand. She let the bag drop, straightened her hat, and leaned forward.

                She shook off the first two signs and then nodded. She settled into her stance. Lightning quick, she unloaded a 98 mph fast ball right down the middle. Caught the batter looking. Strike one.

                The routine started again, and she tried for the inside of the plate. Foul tip. Strike two.

                Down to the final strike, Boomer knew how to finish him off. The sign was made. Her smirk was her reply. The set up. The release. And an absolutely filthy sinker left the batter swinging at air. Strike three. Game over. Series winners.

                Boomer threw her glove in the air and waited for the mob of teammates. For two minutes, nothing else mattered. Tomorrowdidn’t matter. The future didn’t matter. There was no way to know that her fortune would be secured by trading a tiny pink USB flash drive full of pictures of the District Attorney holding double ended purple jelly dildos and wearing black leather Domme shoes. That was a future far away.

                Right now, Boomer was just enjoying her Gatorade ice bath from her team, and enjoying the power of imagination.

 

TwitterShort Challenge 11

 

 

                It was my fourth call of the night. I was already exhausted. I looked up and could see the faint full moon even though there was still daylight in the sky. No wonder everyone was a little Froot Loops tonight. Frakking full moon.

                I crumpled up the empty bag of Fritos and tossed it on the seat next to me. High class dining. I fired up my sedan.

                I met Dino at the crime scene. He descended on me as soon as I opened my car door. “You’re not gonna like this one, Boss. It’s as ugly as Lieutenant Ken’s shorts in there.”          

                I laughed at the simile. Ken was never going to live down that golf outing.

                “Talk to me, Dino.” We walked toward the house.

                “Burglary gone wrong. Seems like the perp picked the wrong granny. Blowtorch Bobby…”

                I interrupted him. “Wait? The perp is Blowtorch Bobby? Ken’s CI?”

                Dino nodded. “Yup. The same. Rather, the perp WAS Blowtorch Bobby.”

                Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.

                “What do you mean “WAS”?”

                “Better just to show you, Boss,” he said as he held the door.

                The home was decorated in kitsch and hideous 90’s wallpaper. It did look like Ken’s shorts.

                Dino directed me through the dated home to the kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table was a tiny woman dressed to the nines on an eight dollar budget. Her rings and baubles were clearly costume jewelry, but she made obvious effort to look completely put together. A beautifully hand-stitched linen apron covered her polyester Goodwill dress. The entire kitchen smelled like peaches. Judging by the measuring cup, flour, and unfinished pie crust on the counter, Blowtorch Bobby had interrupted her baking.

                “Howdy, Ma’am. What’s your name?” I extended my hand to her.

                “I’m Greta,” she said with that lovely, old lady waver in her voice. Her handshake was more like a touching of fingertips. “When are you going to let me finish my pie?”

                “Very soon, Greta. My name is Sergeant Bensko. I just need to ask you a few simple questions.” I grabbed my notebook and pen and scribbled while she talked. “What happened tonight?”

                “Well. This guy comes up to my front door. Now, I don’t open the door after it gets dark. That’s just not safe. Edna said there was a blue Ford going up and down our block lately, and I just don’t take chances. So he comes to my door and says he had a jury duty summons letter for me. Well. I always take my civic duties very seriously. I peeked out the window and he looked all respectable in his suit. So I opened the door. He handed me that envelope.” Greta pointed at a legal sized envelope bagged as evidence sitting on her kitchen table. “Then he just barges into my house like he owns the place. He slammed the door behind him. I think he was high. He smelled like the weed,” she spat with contempt.

                I looked over at Dino. Dino nodded and said, “We did find a joint in his pocket, Boss.”

                “Okay, Greta. Go on with your story.”

                “So I was already in the middle of putting my pie together. And I didn’t appreciate him coming into my house like that. So I told him that I had business in the kitchen and he needed to leave. That’s when he pulled the gun from his pocket. I wasn’t scared. After 92 years, there’s nothing that boy could do to rattle me. So I just went into the kitchen. He followed me. So I grabbed a mason jar of my lemon curd and I whacked him right in the face with it. Just WHACK! Like that.” She made an awkward motion mimicking a pitcher throwing to first base. “And that glass just shattered everywhere. And then he fell down and didn’t move.”

                The coroner had already removed the body, but the giant bloodstain and glass shards in the middle of her kitchen floor seemed to match her story. I thanked her for her time and left her my card. “If you ever need any help, Greta, I want you to call me as soon as you can, okay?”

                The old lady smiled and said she would.

                I left Dino at the scene to finish up. 

                I looked up at the full moon and prayed there wouldn’t be a fifth call.

 

TwitterShort Challenge 10

 

                The electric toothbrush buzzed happily in my hand. 

                And rinse.

                And spit.

                There was no way I was going to look anything other than perfect when he woke up.

                My fingers tucked a few rogue strands of brown behind my ear. I leaned into the oversized mirror and gave my lips the pucker and pout. The lipstick swept perfect lines of poppy onto my lips. One final smack together and I was ready. Not that there was far to go. He was currently sleeping two rooms down the hall.

                I’d been nervous all night. Sitting at the bar by myself. I was afraid I’d end up going home alone again. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, just started to play when he sat down next to me and nodded at the remains of my watered down gin and tonic. It should have been his omen.

                “You need a refill?” His voice was as smooth as a slide rule. He was devilishly handsome. Slick styled jet black hair with one renegade curl falling on his forehead like a metal Slinky. Even darker inky eyes and hard jawline completed his flawless face. He could have been a superhero. He was stunningly perfect.

                “Sure.” I followed up with an innocent smile.

                It was only a matter of a half hour before I’d convinced him to come back to my place. Once safely tucked away at home, I turned on the charm.  I purposely batted giant doe eyes at him. I touched my neck. I put the back of my hand on my mouth when I laughed at his jokes. I used nearly every trick my Southern Belle of a mother had taught me. I invited him into my studio where I made extra cash as a photographer. The plush velvet of the couch was exactly where I wanted him.

                When his eyes started to get heavy into his second glass of Shiraz, I knew that tonight would be perfect. He was oh-so-beautiful and my camera had been lonely as of late. Fifteen minutes. He was out like a light.

                I grabbed my war sack and went to work.

                I stripped him completely bare. I wasn’t wrong when I counted on his physique matching his smile. It was impressive.

                He’d folded himself in two like a stapler when my spiked cocktail took hold.  In order to get him properly positioned, I grabbed my rope to slip around his chest and under his arms. I set him up to lean on the arm of the couch. I looked him over and smiled. He reminded me of a discarded one-legged teddy bear propped in the corner of the couch. Completely adorable.

                I grabbed the flask of oil and started to rub down his olive skin. Just enough to make his skin glow for the camera. I could feel the tension building in my thighs as I looked over my handiwork.

                The final touch was the leather binds for his ankles and wrists to keep him in place while my camera drank in his glory. 

                The scene was set. I was flush and more turned on than I had been in years. He was worth waiting for.

                I scampered to the bathroom down the hall where I stripped naked and reapplied my makeup.

                Everything was perfect.

                I went back to my studio. It would be another minute or so before he woke up. I’d told myself that I wouldn’t take any pictures until he came to, but I couldn’t help myself. Just a few snaps.

                The flash must have nudged him awake. He started to stir.

                I waited with my camera to catch that moment of awareness they all experience when they realize they went home with the wrong girl.

 

TwitterShort Challenge 9

 

                Etienne couldn’t believe her ears. Grounded. And for what? Using a can of Raid and a Zippo as a flame thrower to get rid of some wasp nests? Clearly her mother would never understand her genius.

                This could not stand.

                Tonight was the third meeting of the Sage Stick Society. There was no chance she was missing it. She and the founding members were holding initiations tonight. She was expected to be there. No one in the super secret club would ever take her seriously again if she didn’t attend this meeting. 

                Etienne grabbed the broken Bulova pocket watch she picked up at a garage sale for two dollars and the remains of her half eaten chocolate Easter bunny and stuffed them into her backpack. Preparation was important when making a jail break, and rations would be crucial if she made it out. 

                She slowly opened her bedroom door and peered down the hall. She knew her little sister was already fast asleep in the bedroom directly across from hers. Getting to the stairs wouldn’t be a problem.  

                She slipped down the hall in her stocking feet and scampered down the stairs. Her parents were in the family room watching Paula Deen toss something around in an oversized salad bowl. Perfect. They were completely distracted by the TV.

                Etienne scuttled past the family room and into the main foyer. She caught her breath as the marble bust of Benjamin Franklin that rested on the corner of the piano seemed to stare her down all the way to the front door. No matter. Freedom was feet away.

                She ever so slowly turned the knob to the front door and pulled.

                There on the front porch was her little sister. 

                “MOOOOOOOOOOM!” Joni screamed.  “I TOLD YOU SHE WOULD TRY TO ESCAPE!!”

                Etienne gave Joni the death glare. 

                “Oh, Mother. This battle is yours. But the war shall be mine,” she vowed with clenched teeth as Mother grabbed her wrist and hauled her back to bed.

 

TwitterShort Challenge 8

 

                “I’ll send a postcard,” the Vanisher said.  “After that, you have ten hours. If you don’t walk when I show up, your window is gone.” 

                My heart was racing as the thought of escape finally seemed within reach.

                “Deal.” I immediately handed him the eighteen thousand dollars I had been hiding.

                After five tense weeks of waiting, a postcard from Pike’s Peak showed up in our mailbox. “Your great-aunt Nina is traveling again,” Levi said with disdain as he flung the postcard towards me like a Frisbee. 

                T-minus ten hours

                My mind was hard to calm. I wondered what kind of magic would be used to get me out of here. Boiling cauldrons with dwarf root, a box of frogs, and a lucky rabbit’s foot? No matter. I didn’t care. I unconsciously touched my cheek bone to feel that the swelling had gone down. The bruise wouldn’t be far behind. But it didn’t matter. I had a future.

                When Levi finally passed out from painkillers and gin, I gathered the few things I could carry with me for my escape. In the kitchen junk drawer, between the silly straws and the Elmer’s glue, was a pocket knife. I jammed it into my front jean pocket and raced up the stairs. I threw a few clothes into a tattered laundry basket. Knowing time was running short, I hustled as fast as I dared without making too much noise. My hand was on the ornate glass doorknob to our house when I realized there was one last cathartic thing I’d forgotten to do.

                I put the laundry basket on the travertine of the foyer and headed for his study. There was Levi’s beautiful antique hurdy-gurdy. I raised the beautiful inlaid wood instrument above my head and brought it down as hard as I could on the mahogany floor. It was instantaneously reduced to thousands of splinters. The noise should have alerted him. It didn’t. 

                I grabbed the basket and sprinted down the driveway. 

                The Vanisher was there, just as he’d promised. 

                “Your necklace,” he said when I entered the van.

                “What?” I replied as I brought my hand up to my throat.

                “You’re gonna have to give me your necklace.”

                “Oh. Right, right.” I unclasped the honeybee necklace made of jet and gold that Levi expected me to wear at all times. I’d grown so used to it that I had forgotten it was there. The simple task of removing the delicate thing made it feel as if a pallet of bricks had been removed from my shoulders. I gave the Vanisher the trinket and looked back out the window one last time. A single silver birch leaf that hadn’t given in to winter’s grasp finally let go. Every tree from our yard was finally bare. 

                The metaphor was unsettling.

 

                

 

TwitterShort Challenge 7

                We went to the museum about once a month. Hector would hold my hand as we rushed from display to display, his boyhood eagerness for knowledge hurrying his steps. Everything here was scavenged from the surface.  He would laugh and point at the lampshade embroidered with a picture of a camel. His eyes would shine at the pictures of elephants and turtles and tigers. He reenacted casting a fishing line when he saw the fishing rod and tackle. His cheeks would color when we walked past the mannequins dressed in shimmery negligees and ladies’ dresses. He would talk about how one day he’d drive as fast as he could when we saw the windshield wiper and driver’s side door from an old car. 

                I followed Hector as he darted back and forth between exhibits. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at me. “MeeMaw, what is your favorite thing here?” he asked. It was difficult to choose, but I always seemed drawn to the one that held the old Avon lady carpet bag. There were pictures and trinkets reminiscent of a much, much simpler time placed in beautiful glass cases. But knowing he would not understand nostalgia so much, I got a small bit of mischief in my eye and said, “YOU are!”

                Hector laughed and raced ahead. He was headed for his favorite display. The one with the most tragic of stories. His cheerful mood grew solemn as he approached. “Tell me about the Million and One MeeMaw.”

                The skull in the jar was a brutal reminder of the tragedies that happened after the earthquake. There were hundreds of tokens left in tribute to those who died. Scattered around the jar were bottles of rum and tequila, a child’s small plastic bracelet, and candles in various colors and heights. There was even an old twenty dollar bill printed in 2008. 

                When the earthquake happened, the leaking radiation proved the surface was not a viable living option. Half the population went underground. The other half took to the skies. Some chose not to deal at all. 

                On the wall behind the shrine were a million and one names carved into the stone. These people who died were not just poetically just mercy killings of someone with a broken heart. These were people who did not want to move forward. They drank a poison and had their remains cremated. The last fleet of blimps to leave the surface took the ashes and scattered them throughout the land in the hopes that the soil would once again be fertile.

                “How long until we can go to the Surface, MeeMaw? ”

                “I’m not sure, Lovie. Now, how about we go home and play some catch with your wiffle ball while your Mommy finishes lunch?”

                Hector grabbed my hand. We exited the museum and started down the tunnels for home.        

TwitterShort Challenge 6

 

 

 

 

                I’d been drinking at the local dance club for hours. The Pepper Mill had its fair share of patrons, but I found it lacking for a standard Saturday night. I stood up to leave and was stopped dead in my tracks.

                She hit the scene like a Betamax player: born in 1975 and like nothing I’d ever seen before. With her hair all in place and the perfect smattering of makeup, she could pass for late 20’s. Her curves were perfectly insane. She had a rack that stood out like a prism at noon on a cloudless day. The slight sheer in the black material of her top hinted at a ruby red bra. Her jeans were nearly painted on her generous backside. The platform heels she was wearing had no business on the dance floor unless you were on Dancing with the Stars. 

                I tried to gather my jaw off the floor. Her confidence and youthful looks left me feeling like an antique typewriter missing the letter Q. How could it be that she looked like that? I panicked and headed for the door.

                Unfortunately, I couldn’t make a clean escape. Her eyes caught up with mine. She half strutted – half stalked her way over to where I was standing.  She gave a crooked grin and said, “How’s it going, Buckaroo?”

                I cringed at the old endearment. Over twenty years had passed since high school, and in that moment I realized the error of my ancient decisions. Back then, she had been quiet and plain. I dumped her for the head cheerleader because that’s what was expected from the star basketball player.  I knew it would crush her, and I felt badly about it. Now here she was looking like a million dollars. And me? I just looked old and broken.

                “Hey, Kansas,” I replied. 

                “Buy me a drink, you fool,” she teased and headed to the bar.

                Maybe it just takes a couple decades for second chances to roll around.

 

TwitterShort Challenge 5

 

 

            Gina had her back to her vanity and used the silver heirloom hand mirror to look over her shoulder. She quickly and deftly tucked each and every hair into an elegant, loose bun. “That bastard. That dirty, cheating, rat bastard,” she said aloud as she turned around on the quilted ottoman.

            She placed the hand mirror face down (as superstition dictates) on the slick, cold marble of the vanity and stared hard at her reflection. It’s true. She wasn’t the spring chicken she was when she met Tommy. But she hardly thought she’d lost her looks. Back then, he had worked at the docks, and she had worked at The Dirty Apron Diner. It was love at first sight. Their love was the reason power ballads existed.

            It wasn’t long after their wedding when the union went on strike. Tommy was down on his luck, and Gina begged him to run away. Tommy was far too proud. He took on odd jobs around town to make what money he could. With depression setting in from the strike, he started hanging out at the local gentlemen’s club called The Feather and Tassel. There he got involved with some stripper named Dezzaray. When Gina found out, she’d shed more tears than a leaky garden hose. Tommy swore he wouldn’t visit the club again.

            He lied.

            One month later, Tommy was right back where he said he wouldn’t be, and Gina was making her own plans. Between the booze and the women, Tommy had become about as useful as a broken teakettle. It was time for Gina to end his cheating ways once and for all. Just like a big Black Widow spider, she needed to time her strike perfectly.

            Tonight was that night.

            As she put the finishing touches on her mascara, she heard the downstairs door slam. “Hey Baby….. dinner ready yet?” Tommy slurred as his voice trailed off toward the kitchen.

            “Nearly done. I’ll be right down,” she called over her shoulder.

            Gina picked up the tube of blood red lipstick she planned on wearing for the night. She smacked her lips together and focused on something left on the dresser. She had forgotten to put away the rat poison. No matter. Tommy slept on the couch most nights anyway.

            Would there be something in the cole slaw that night? Or maybe a little extra surprise in the Pineapple Surprise? For once in her flaw-filled life, Gina was glad for her diner expertise. She smiled a wicked smile and blew a kiss at her reflection. “Let’s do this,” she encouraged herself.

            And down the stairs she vanished.

 

 

TwitterShort Challenge 4

 

 

                After spending forty-five minutes in a high intensity workout on the treadmill, I thought I would reward myself with a cup of hot tea. Naturally. Because after working out your heart to near explosion and sweating your ass off, it only made sense to drink a scalding hot beverage. I was going to show those bathroom scales who the boss was. Afterward tea always seemed to be the right way to calm myself.

                I had just placed the teapot from the cupboard on the counter when I heard a noise from the front room. My roommate was visiting family in Peoria, and I knew she wasn’t supposed to be home for another day. My jacked up heart rate only went higher. I couldn’t remember if I had locked the front door or not. And someone was definitely in my brownstone.

                I looked all over my kitchen for some kind of weapon. A travel coffee cup wouldn’t amount to much. Neither would the staple gun I’d brought from school since it was empty. The only thing left to grab was the cast iron pan.

                I grabbed the heavy skillet and headed toward the living room, hoping the intruder was still in the hallway. My first floor made a circle with the front door hallway, dining room, kitchen, and living room. I didn’t dare peek from the dining room to see if he was there.

                I crept as quietly as I could. My naked feet were soft on the Persian rug that covered the threshold between the kitchen and living room. I saw a shadow of the man thrown on the wall by the front door. I clutched my pan with both hands and drew it back over my shoulder. My knees were shaky. I was so jacked up on adrenaline and fear that I felt like I had no bones. I was certain a rubber chicken would have more ability to stand upright.

                I summoned all the courage I could and charged the man. I swung the cast iron with every bit of strength I had. With that one swing I remembered why I never made the softball team. Total whiff.

                “Jayzus Krryss, Eleanerr! Whahter y’doon?” the figure shouted as he ducked.

                There was no mistaking the accent.

                “Holy fuck, Tommy. I’m so sorry.” My face turned scarlet as my neighbor turned to look at me.

                “I goht a piece a’ yerr mail. Saw th’ door wa’zohpun.”

                “The door was open?” I asked, fear one more grabbing my heart.

                Suddenly a crash came from the kitchen.

                Someone, or something, was definitely in my brownstone.

 

 

TwitterShort Challenge #3

 

 

           The first day of school sometimes comes all too quickly. Not this year.

            See, it was my first day of comedy college.

            And fairies take laughter seriously.

 

            I looked all around the commons and immediately felt at home. Over in the corner were a group of Jesters, those brave fairy masters of pure physical comedy. The art form of self-depreciating humor through trips and bumbles really didn’t make a big splash on the scene before the Middle Ages. Although Jesters are rarely called upon anymore,  I gave them a big smile and a wave as I walked past. One of them stood up to wave back, but the chair slipped out from under him, and he crashed to the floor. Genius.

            Another group you could find on campus was the Twisters. They had a knack for nudging things to set off a ridiculous chain of events. One time I saw a Twister loosen a thread in a mom’s yoga pants when he did the laundry. When she bent over to pick up her kid’s toys, the seam of her britches split wide open. This made her one year old howl with glee. The uncontrollable laughter of the baby startled the cat. The cat scrambled to get away from the shrieking baby and launched itself off the couch and hurdled over the coffee table, knocking off an entire bowl of cheese puffs the mom had been munching. Next thing you know, the peacefully sleeping dog was covered in head to toe in cheese puff dust. Brilliant.

            We even have a highly trained, specialized department called THTSDTMBLAN, more commonly known as The Highly Trained, Specialized Department That Makes Babies Laugh At Nothing. Where that ridiculous acronym came from has to be a story unto it self. The Faders have maybe the hardest job of all. Invisibility. It takes a special type of fairy to be always anonymous and never take credit for one single peal of laughter. The next time you see some kid giggling at thin air, remember to say, “Good job, Fader!” They’ll appreciate that.

            I was headed for none of those departments. I looked down at my portfolio. I had a whole new path for this college to take. My specialty was electronics. I was eager to show the Dean how I had successfully mastered tinkering with gadgets to give them Electronic Tourette’s. That’s right. I could make robots swear. And no one would ever be able to discern why or when it would happen next.

            I was at the Dean’s door. I took a deep breath and knocked.

TwitterShort Challenge #2

 

 

 

            I never thought that Bones would go through with it. He’d been threatening for years. And now Stinky was dead, just like he’d promised.

            We got the anonymous call about 2:30 that we needed to send a bus over to Stinky’s house. I got three officers and headed that direction.

            The front door was ajar when we got there. When I nudged the door, Stinky’s black cat Bootsy came screaming out from behind it. That damn cat was lucky it didn’t get shot. My boys were edgy already. Instead, the cat scrambled from the porch and tore down the front stairs. Once it reached the hedge line, I never saw it again.

            I waved with my left hand as my right shoulder pressed the door the rest of the open. The smell was overpowering. The combined stench of death, marijuana, and filth was enough to knock over a cow.

            The doorway lead to a living room and to Stinky. He was on the couch with his back to us and a game controller in his hand. Crash Bandicoot’s opening screen was on the TV in a perpetual loop. There was a single gunshot to the back of the head. Stinky never new what hit him.

            As I circled my way around the couch, I could see that the large caliber bullet had removed half of Stinky’s face. It was gonna be a closed casket for sure. Other random objects littered the living room. A milk crate of vinyl records. A singular crutch. An empty fish tank. Empty baggies and mildewed papers covered half the floor.

            Then something caught my eye. Blood. Old blood. Stained into the tan carpet.

            I followed the trail down the hallway as if the stains were breadcrumbs. When I reached the open door of the back bedroom, I nearly lost it. Looks like old Bones was right.

            In the middle of the floor was a pile of animals. Dogs. Cats. Squirrels. And there was an astounding amount of blood. You could taste the iron in the air. If the blood spatter was glitter, it would have been enough to make a stripper choke. All the missing pets. All the local wildlife. Heaved into one giant haystack of carcasses. There had to be at least 40 furry bodies bled and discarded into the pile. It was one of the most horrible things I had seen in my 12 year career on the force.

            I backed out of the room and headed toward the front porch. Even though I hadn’t smoked for years, I pulled my lighter from my pocket, closed my eyes, and lit up the imaginary cigarette. I took in a sharp breath and mentally pictured the smoke filling my lungs. I hollered for Butch to find Bones and take him in for questioning.

            It was gonna be a long afternoon.

 

TwitterShort Challenge #1

I had gone down to the beach to get a quiet reprieve. Chemo had taken the wind right out of my sails this time. The pounding surf always calmed my frazzled nerves. And this excursion was no different.

I loved the sunlight on my shoulders. I loved the squish of the sand between my toes. The smell of the salt in the air seemed a balm to my soul.

And then chaos.

I didn’t have time to fully register what happened. Before I could blink I was knocked on my ass to the sand. As I sat there dazed, the thought occurred to me that only an anal bleaching session would be able to remove the amount of sand that just got kicked up my shorts.

“Goddammit Trevor. You’re such an asshole!” said Voice.

“Learn how to throw a damn foot ball for once,” replied Trevor.

Things came into focus as two boys came over. Voice said, “I’m so sorry for Trevor plowing into you like that. He needs things like this to remind him the world doesn’t revolve around him.”

“Heeeeeyyyy!” wailed Trevor.

“That’s fine,” I said. I tried to get back to my feet. Voice reached out a hand. “Thanks,” I said as I grabbed it. It was coarse, but the grasp was gentle.

“My name’s Jay,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Jay. I’m Cathy.” I noticed his well-worn shirt read ECONOMIC MIGRATION. “What’s that mean?”

Jay looked down at his shirt. “Oh, haha. This? Nobody knows. It was a garage band I played with a few years back. You wouldn’t be interested in tossing around the football with us for a bit, would you?”

“Maybe next time,” I replied.

His smile made me completely forget about the darkening bruise on my backside and the amount of sand lodged there.

I opened my bag that held my shoes and magically produced a Sharpie. I grabbed the football and wrote my phone number in dark black ink.

“Next time,” he repeated.

I turned and headed up the beach toward home.