The Feather

 Furious Fiction

500 words. 55 hours. Go!

This month’s criteria:

1. Your story must include a GIFT of some kind.
2. Your story’s first sentence must contain only THREE words.
3. You must use the following words somewhere in your story: PALM, MATCH, ROSE                                                                                                                                     

   I love gifts. My mother tried to hide them every Christmas. I always found them. I was like a truffle-hunting pig, rooting them from locked suitcases and dusty cupboards, foraging for them in attics and R.V.’s, basements, and bins. The garage.  “Open your palm,” said my husband.

   I appraised my husband’s smile, extending my fingers and squeezing my eyelids. I envisioned the Hope Diamond. I figured the gift might be heavy, like a gold bar or antique Russian nesting doll, so I clenched my muscles. I felt a tickle. “Okay. You can open your eyes,” he said.

   It was a red feather. My husband had done this before with a strip of red licorice, a pretty rock or seashell, a chocolate kiss. But it’s almost Christmas. I furrowed my brows. “That’s not funny,” I said.

   That night I felt a hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep.

   I noticed the red feather the following day; it was in the utensil drawer. I grabbed a knife and slammed the drawer shut. I plundered the butter and jam from the fridge, noticing a bowl of dirt—or sand beside the milk. My husband entered the kitchen with bare feet. I could hear his sticky footsteps on the tile. He yawned in that annoying way he does, like a tired dog, and hugged me from behind. I didn’t say anything about the fridge.

   On Christmas Eve, I wrapped my husband’s presents and placed them under the tree: a goofy tie with clowns that I found on Etsy, some matches from our favorite restaurant, and a rose-scented candle for the bathroom. The real gift was a book from his Goodreads. I also wrapped a piece of charcoal in some newspaper and placed it in his stocking, just in case I received more feathers.

   There was only one gift under the tree for me. I frowned and stood, adjusting a few ornaments that were hanging backward. I noticed a tacky plastic palm frond projecting from the middle branches. Usually, I would laugh. But the lack of gifts made me feel gloomy. I left the room.

    After a candlelight dinner, we opened gifts. I glanced at the stockings, then handed my husband his packages. He opened them and laughed, wrapping the tie around his head. I eyeballed my single package, then the stockings. “Your turn,” he said.

   I grabbed the gift that my husband had wrapped with green foil. A red feather waved from the top instead of a bow. My stomach constricted. My heart fluttered, hoping it would be better than expected. I tore the foil away and ripped off the tape; the box was an obvious re-gift, last year’s amazon prime. I opened the flaps, burrowing into the tissue paper. I discovered an empty coconut and a photo of a Scarlet Macaw.

   “We’re going to Costa Rica!” he exclaimed.

   I ran to the fireplace, tearing the stockings from the mantel. I threw my husband’s stocking into the fire.

    

   
   

The Doll House

 

Furious Fiction

500 words. 55 hours. Go!

Your November Furious Fiction story criteria are as follows:

1. LOCATION: Your story must take place at a HOTEL.
2. OBJECT/PROP: Your story must include a PHOTOGRAPH. (In the story itself – do not send us a photo!)
3. WORDS: We had a set of ‘red’ words and ‘blue’ words ready and have chosen the blue-themed set. So, your story must include the following words: COLLAR, GLOOMY, POLICE, RHYTHM, SAPPHIRE.

The Doll House

Larry rubbed his whiskers with long sweeping arcs before scrabbling down the corridor until he reached room 701. The door was open. Police sirens blared outside the window, and lights flashed across the wall. The air smelled like rot.

                He crept into the room, stopping in front of the orange cat lying prone on the carpet. He sniffed the air and watched for movement. He squeaked.

Dead as a door latch. Larry thought.

                Memories. Larry’s whiskers twitched in rhythm with ghostly circus music, the refrain repeating over and over inside his head. In his mind’s eye, he watched the cat complete his well-worn routine: jumping through hoops, scaling walls, climbing rope, disappearing, reappearing. Larry pulled fur from the dead cat’s belly, stuffing it into his cheeks for safekeeping. He filled his mouth and left.

                The bells around his collar jingled as he scurried down the gloomy hall. But there was no one around to hear him—no one alive anyway. He entered room 724 and jumped onto the chair, then the table. He hurried into his dollhouse, running up the stairs to his bedroom. He pulled the fur from his mouth and arranged it over the tiny plastic bed, making four more trips to room 701 before lying down to nap. He slept for several hours.

                Larry rubbed his whiskers with long sweeping arcs and opened his eyes. He was alone now. No cat. No one. Nothing. He exited the bedroom, running down the tiny stairs to the living room. He sat on his tail, looking at the miniature photograph framed with sapphire blue as thin as pencil lead. He saw Giggles the clown, Randy the muscle man, Sara and Bobby the Ariel performers, Dumpy the elephant and the scary old tiger, Ralph. There was the ringleader, Mr. Windmire, and his assistant, Gale. There was the orange cat at the bottom. And lastly, himself. Except, he wasn’t in the photograph; he was hiding inside Giggle’s pocket. Larry looked beyond his dollhouse into Giggle’s room, bed. The humans were gone. The circus was gone. The hotel was empty and deserted. The streets outside teamed with monsters: inhuman droolers that shuffled around after dark. Larry wondered if Giggles was one of them now. He hoped Giggles was dead instead.

                The monsters didn’t pay any attention to Larry or others like him. He raided dumpsters, scurried from store to store, car to a truck, house to house, looking for food. Usually, he found it. Then he came home, back to room 724. It was his room now. He remembered a painted face and a warm palm to hold him, a finger stroking his bristly coat, and pieces of fresh, orange cheese offered with a bright, red smile. There was always motion, commotion. Life. Before.

                Larry knew he was a mouse, and mice didn’t love anyone or anything. Still, he felt like something was missing, and it wasn’t an orange cat. It was a clown.

Azrael’s Eyes

Furious Fiction

500 words. 55 hours. Go!

 Azrael’s Eyes

Azrael’s eyes were tired of seeing. There was no end to the recycling of souls—nearly 150,000 a day if he figured correctly. Sometimes, he prayed for a plague or flu, a kind of reproductive virus that would stop humans from creating life. He wanted empty wombs. He wanted death to stop.

He rubbed his cheek, fanning his wings like a peacock, flapping them repeatedly to get the blood flowing. After a time, he straightened his spine, reaching behind his back, scratching his pinfeathers with a knuckle. As he itched, two small feathers escaped to the heavenly winds, floating past the elaborate, golden gates of Ezekiel, swirling around the band of angels playing beechwood harps. The sweet, hypnotic sound filled him with disgust. He preferred the simple chorus of birds.

He watched the trajectory of his feathers with one of his many eyes. By the time his pinfeathers settled on the golden pavement, he had recycled nine-hundred more souls. Death had come most grisly in the Americas, somewhere in Europe, Dubai. But there were good deaths too. A few in Sweden and Rome. Ireland. Antarctica.

Azrael’s eyes didn’t want to see any more death. “I am cursed!” he shouted to the clouds.

The band stopped playing, staring at Azrael with unruly hair and furrowed brows. After a few seconds, the angelic fingers started plucking, strumming. Azrael sighed. His heart was wounded; his soul the object of curiosity among the others. They thought he was a trash collector, a distributor of mist; a collector of energy; a glorified matchmaker. It was like baseball: he caught the souls and quickly threw them to Homeplate—except Homeplate was a fresh, new human child. He blinked and recycled three-hundred more souls. Death never slept.

Azrael shifted his bare feet, leaning into the portal, pointing all eyes on one soul in Manhattan. It was him—the one.

The karma of this soul was the worst he had ever seen. The soul possessed an evil repeated since the beginning of time. When he recycled this soul—a job that would take a fraction of a millisecond—he would be creating the antichrist. Azrael looked again, blinking savagely. It couldn’t be; he didn’t want to make this choice. It was impossible.

How could he choose a human child to doom for all eternity? How could he recycle a soul, knowing its placement ensured Armageddon? He could not. But he must!

Azrael turned away from the portal. Still, he waved his right hand and recycled seven hundred souls. He cupped his left and caught two hundred more. He recycled them too.

But his inner eye never wavered from the evil one. He had to do something. The soul was inching toward the in-betweens—he must decide. There was a place of isolation near the Earth. He could put it there, couldn’t he? He would bury it in the deepest crater, imprisoned inside a black void. He would hide it on the moon. 

You're stuck at home. Why not write a poem?

My illustration Toilet Buddies. (Just a typical day at my house)

I answered the call. Then...crickets. 

The Minneapolis Star Tribune decided to throw an anticlimactic poetry party for National Poetry Month. Earlier in April, the Star posted a call for humorous limericks related to the Coronavirus. Rhyming fun ensued. (at least for me) On April 30th, they were supposed to publish the winners. Nobody won. There were no poems. No rhymes. Nothing. I looked.

At least, I learned something:

A limerick is a short and fun five-line poem with a distinctive rhythm. The first, second and fifth lines are longer than the third and fourth lines. The rhyming pattern is AABBA. The longer A lines rhyme with each other and the shorter B lines rhyme with each other.

Maybe they'll publish the limericks on a later date. Or, maybe it was an April Fool's joke. Until then, here are my submissions:

Some folks fear a sidewalk contagion

While others tread with distracted domination

The meek always pass on the grass

The rude hold firm to their path

I hope sidewalk sharing is the new situation

>^..^<

I'm shuttered up tight with the spouse

Not a threshold's shy of the house

We quarrel from noon until six

All is fine when we tune to Netflix

Happier still lifting spirits to mouth

>^..^<

There was a cat with a notion for commotion

The racket left me wondering what it inhaled as a potion

The evidence lay outside the loo

 A roll of T.P.chewed up, but no poo

Now there's a naughty cat in need of demotion

Do you have a favorite? I bet you can guess mine. 

P.S. The Star published the poems on May 2nd. They were hilarious. The paper received 4,000 submissions. Holy cow! I didn't make the cut. 

Space for Improvement

"We are placed here with certain talents and capabilities. It is up to each of us to use those talents and capabilities as best we can. If you do that, I think there is a power greater than any of us that will place the opportunities in our way, and if we use our talents properly, we will be living the kind of life we should live." 

John Glenn 

"Grow and Give." "Grow whole, not old!" "We're wired for purpose."

Words of wisdom from Richard Leider, author and senior fellow at the University of Minnesota's Center for Spirituality and Healing. 

Purpose is a word worth pondering. I've thought a lot about the "P" word since putting down my paintbrush, tackling empty pages on a computer screen instead. Richard says -  in his Q&A in this week's Star Tribune - that finding purpose is all about securing guidance. So true.

When I contemplate guidance - a subtle, or downright overt, directional shove - I think about my late, High School English teacher, Mrs. Laverty. Long ago, she singled me out, complimenting me on a book report about Charles Dickens. I was touched, but even so, didn't think much about that moment for thirty-odd years. Back then, I was strictly a nerdy artist. I wasn't adept with grammar or punctuation, (it's still my kryptonite) so her words settled inside my brain, collecting dust. As a teen, I loved filling my notebook with goofy stories, but if I ripped them from their spiral casing, (remember the paper dandruff that would follow?) they'd only be good enough to line Oprah Winfrey's cupboards. 

 We're told to make a living, so we seek out work instead of purpose. I could draw, so I went to school for Graphic Design. I could paint, so I illustrated children's books. It wasn't until I was nearing fifty, that I regurgitated my teacher's comment, wishing I would have listened - as if she'd been advocating four-day weekends - earlier. Now I know my purpose is to write fiction. My creative brain was designed to spin supernatural stories. Who knew? (right now, only me) I always told myself that in my next life I'd be a writer. Unfortunately, I'm still on life number one. Or 101. Who can say?

  I wonder, am I too long-in-the-tooth to learn the tightly-twisted ropes of novel writing? I want to give people good books. I don't want the same people to give me bad reviews on Goodreads. Ugh. Hopefully my purpose isn't to be a literary punching bag.  Regardless, I've already morphed into Rumpelstiltskin, becoming a weird, middle-aged woman, churning tales about levitating cars and spooky R.V.'s. But will my haystack weave golden threads or lie on the floor of the barn, destined for animal feed? Only time will tell. At least I found my purpose!

So remember: "Grow whole, not old!"

Have you found your purpose? Maybe you need The Power of Purpose by Richard Leider to guide you. 

P.S. John Glenn certainly had a purpose!