The Muse

Brock Santangelo was a writer. His destiny was to be a writer. His name, after all, was Brock Santangelo, and that name has writer written all over it! But he’d been unable to scratch even a single paragraph for almost three months. 

In desperation, Brock joined the On-Line Writers Guild to get prompts. 

Nothing.

He enrolled in a creative writing class at Shelbyville Community College.

Nothing, again.

He went to the neighbouring city of Clayton to visit the airport, and eavesdrop.

Still nothing.

Brock knew that his muse, Mirta, loved water. He tried with a full kitchen sink for three days, and finally, he went to Scarscastle Gorge and waited along the banks.

After two days, he got hungry and left, but all was not in vain – he met Michelle there.

He and Michelle discussed his long dry spell.

“You know, Brock,” she recounted with her whisky dry voice, “In ’85 after I published ‘Abeng,’ it was two years before I got my next book, ‘No Telephone to Heaven,’ to the publisher. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but if you are worried, you might look for another muse. Try a desert muse or a muse from the green. I can take you to the Afèith, in Evergreen County, or there is a Zawn in Dorado County where the waves smash against the cliffs with wild abandon. That’s a wonderful spot. Your muse might be in either of those places, you know.”

Brock and Michelle stared into one another’s eyes and considered their options. When she spoke again, Michelle ploughed ahead, “Or you might enjoy listening to the whispering trees. You have some in your garden, I think. 

The two clasped hands and moved slowly to Brock’s house, nestled below the foothills on the east edge of town.

Brock pointed Michelle to the gate and he slipped into the house. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of red. There was no cheese in the house, but there was a soft, rustic loaf of bread. He took that as well. 

The two writers sat in the grass beneath the old Sycamore and listened.

OLWG# 364- Goodnight Winnett, Montana; Wherever You Are

Written for OLWG# 364

###

I left the Winnett Bar and Grill with Ella. She linked her arm with mine and we strolled to the curb without needing to speak. Just enjoying the company and the moment. Moment by moment. I pressed the button on the key fob to unlock the truck and opened the door for her. Holding her hand, I steadied her as she hoisted herself up and into the passenger seat, then waited as she slid across the long bench before tossing her the key. She caught it and fired up the 8.0 L, V10, which rumbled smoothly beneath the bonnet.

“Truck is sounding pretty good,” I said above the engine noise.

“You should think about getting one of these for yourself.” She answered and swept her hair behind her ear.

“No thanks,” I said, “My dad always told me that I should never buy a Chrysler product; besides, I like my ride.”

Ella stuck out her tongue and flipped me off. I smiled and blew a kiss as she roared off on East Main St. and disappeared with a left turn on Moulton Avenue. I could hear the big engine for a long time, probably to HWY 244. That girl was gonna get another speeding ticket for sure. 

As I always did when I let Ella drive away, I wondered why I let her go. She would stay if I only asked.

My ’57 Volkswagen Beetle was parked right behind where Ella’s truck had been. I didn’t have far to walk. When I cranked it over the air-cooled, 1.2 L flat-four, purred like a kitten. I slipped it into first, pulled away from the curb, spun the wheel, and did an about-turn. I could make it to Lewistown in about an hour unless there was still a problem at the bridge east of Grass Range; there’s usually a problem at that bridge.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. Jesus and John Lennon
2. she hunted him down
3. goodnight Winnett, Montana, wherever you are

OLWG# 363- St. Umabel

Written for OLWG# 363

###

Umabel may have been an Arch Angel, like Michael, who was dropped to earth by Deus in July of 1955. She was supposed to land in Kobenhavn, predestined to be the angelic daughter of Dorthe Schønfeld and her husband, Søren. She was supposed to become a world-renowned campaigner for social justice and a strong champion of women’s rights: an angel of God.

There must have been a strong wind that night because she wound up in Bell’s Ferry, Alabama. She was born to an unknown, unnamed, never-seen-again father and Ms Ember Rough. Ms Rough was a waitress at Morgen Zee, a popular breakfast spot on the north end of Vermillion Bay. There was no fine hospital, doctor, or midwife, only Ember sheltering in an abandoned, squat, low-rise shed in a dark alleyway that branched off South Water Street. 

Ember succumbed at a young age, a victim of the unequal gendered economic impacts of the pandemic in the South, and Umabel became a ward of the state. She stayed in Mobile, living at the Grace Home for Orphaned and Wayward Girls in Summerville, educated by the good Sisters of St. Gemma’s School.

Umabel was smart as a whip with strengths in history, mathematics, and statistics. She earned a scholarship to Auburn and majored in Political Science. After attaining her degree, she took a position as a Policy Analyst at a progressive think tank in DC, where she grew into a strong campaigner and organizer for women’s rights and social justice. At the age of thirty-one, Umabel Rough was killed in the notorious Metro Red Line Bombing at Union Station along with 436 other innocent souls.

Earlier this year, there were discussions of canonizing Umabel Rough. It hasn’t happened yet, but there is a strong belief among Vatican insiders that by applying the proper persuasion, maybe next year, or the year after, we will know the name of Saint Umabel, Patron of Women’s Rights & Social Justice.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. persuasion
2. It gave new meaning to the phrase TGIF
3. Dude, don’t you remember what Isaac told us about the apple?

OLWG# 362- Can We Survive the Next Storm

Written for OLWG# 362

I started to write this about the first prompt (the part that you don’t see) and the way things work. The way folks communicate their expectations without explicitly telling you what they want and the way that Kindred Robillard lost her freedom. Somewhere along the way, the story took on a life of its own. As Kindred lost her life, I lost my control. This is what appeared on the page.

###

Claire Arne, the headmistress, was meeting with Miss Kindred Robillard to discuss the teaching position for grades 1 through 6 at the Three Rivers School in Westerbarrow. Miss Robillard leaned forward, paying close attention to Ms Arne as she listed the expectations and rules for the successful candidate.

“Now, Miss Robillard, you need to pay attention to what I am about to tell you. There are rules to be followed at all times now that you work at Three Rivers School. I assume that you are an unmarried woman.” Ms Arne paused, and though it wasn’t a question, she seemed to be awaiting a response.

Kindred nodded her head, “yes, ma’am,” she intoned.

“Very well,” Ms Arne continued, “You understand that you may not marry and that you are not to keep company with men during the term of your employment. You can secure lodging at the Oak Hotel on High Street. You are responsible for negotiating those terms with Mr Campos directly. The last unmarried teacher did laundry and other odd jobs for Mr Campos. I would expect you should be able to reach a similar agreement with him.”

She paused again, and Kindred nodded and wondered what had happened to the last teacher.

“We expect you to be in your room at the Oak between eight PM and six AM, unless you are attending a school function. I do not have to tell you that it is forbidden to loiter downtown in the ice cream store. Or to linger too long when shopping.

“You may not ride in carriages or automobiles with any man except your father or brother. “There will be no smoking of cigarettes or drinking of alcohol. You should never dress in bright colours or dye your hair. You must always wear at least two petticoats, and your dresses must not be any shorter than two inches above your ankle.”

Kindred had been nodding with Ms Arne the entire time, so she waited.

“It is your responsibility to keep the schoolroom neat and clean. You are to sweep the floor at least once daily, scrub the floor at least once weekly with hot, soapy water, clean the blackboards at least once a day and light the fire at 7 AM so the room will be warm by 8 AM when instruction begins.

“Is all this clear? If so, you can find your way to the Oak, just a short walk south of here, and I will instruct Thurman to fetch your trunk and bring it to the Hotel straight away.”

Again, Kindred just nodded her head. She stood and found herself at a loss. Should she bow, curtsy, or shake hands? She was unsure. She settled for a curt, “Thank you Ms Arne. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

She turned and made her way to the door. On the street, she stopped an urchin running past, “Which way is South?” She asked, “How do I get to the Oak Hotel?”

The boy pointed over his shoulder and continued to scamper North.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. the part that you don’t see
2. in the backseat of my car
3. Liberté toujours (freedom forever)

Haiku for a Spring Day- Not Again

Sue called her sister,
Ace has passed out on the stairs,
“Come get your husband.”

OLWG# 361- The Movie Business

Written for OLWG# 361

###

Bernadette didn’t answer the doorbell; she came around from the side gate and smiled at me. Her hair laid plastered flat against her head, soaking wet and soggy. The lace undies, she wore, were sodden as well, but she held two highball glasses, one in each hand: Tequila Sunrise’s.

“Esther, I thought I told you not to wake me too early,” Bernadette said. She held out one of the drinks.

I took the proffered libation, “Uh huh, and it’s almost three-thirty.” I emphasized the time by pointing to the sun moving into the western sky. “Besides, it looks as though you have been swimming in your underwear. You’ve been up for a while.” I smiled.

Bernadette lit a cigarette, blew out the match and waved the smoke away from her face. “I suppose you’ve come to ask questions about the new project.”

“Yes, I have.”

“OK, then. Ask away.” We began moving back to the rear of the house, by the pool.

“Do you have a title?”

“We have a working title, “The Language of Love” I don’t think that will be the final title. Rory has suggested we go with “Bad Man from Bodie, but that’s not decided yet either.”

“What’s it about?” I asked as we sat at a round glass topped table with a large umbrella rising from the centre.

Bernadette flicked the ash from her smoke and reached into an ice chest on the deck by her feet. She pulled out a chilled bottle and held it up for inspection, “Del Maguey Iberico.” She clapped her hands. As if summoned, Bernadette’s house man appeared from nowhere. He took the bottle of Mezcal from his mistress. Then he poured generous dollops into globe-shaped glasses that he seemingly produced, from nowhere.

“Madame,” he said as he handed one to Bernadette. The other he proffered, without words, to me. I smiled as I took it.

Bernadette began, “It’s inspired by a minor silent western from 1925. It features a protagonist gambler named Oak Miller. Miller is out for revenge on the man who misused his sister, Rose. We’ve already signed Magda Selene Lottke to play Rose. The man he seeks has selfishly damaged Rose’s reputation, leaving her ill. And, under the care of the woman Oak loves, Barbara.

“The antagonist whom Oak seeks, Granger, is planning to rob a train with the collusion of a band of Indians under the command of the renegade warrior, Wren Thunderstrike. Later, when Barbara is suspected of killing her lascivious stepfather, Oak takes the blame and is arrested right before he is needed to save the threatened train.” Bernadette paused to reflect. “Esther,” she said, “I think you would be perfect for the part of Barbara. And, we are negotiating with Tucker Holden to play Oak Miller.” Bernadette smiled wantonly and winked, the two of us clicked glasses and smiled.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. uh huh
2. don’t wake me too early
3. Three words: grenadine, sodden, lace

As Remembered, From My Youth

When I was a boy I used to attend Sunday Bible School whenever my parents weren’t too hung over to take me to church. The teacher was Ms Landy. She was the wife of Mr Landy. Yeah, that Mr Landy, the Mr Landy of Landy Chevrolet fame. Looking back after all these years, I realize now, that Ms Landy was about twenty years old and Mr Landy was at least in his mid-fifties. She had a step-son who was older than she was, but that isn’t pertinent to this story. What matters here is that she was teaching us bible stories, a lesson about the apostle John. The story went like this:

Jesus and his apostles were at a picnic on the beach, eating bread and fish. They were having all kinds of fun playing games, smoking cigarettes, and drinking the nouveau Beaujolais, which had only recently been water. Jesus had noticed that John wasn’t participating much, although he had visited the face painting booth and had a rainbow unicorn stenciled thereon. Jesus thought he should get John more involved in the day’s activities, So before the sack race, he said to John, “Come forth and you shall be granted eternal life.” But John came fifth and only won a toaster. Mark, though, Mark came forth and won the eternal life. He was kinda bummed, because all he had really wanted was the toaster.

Lest We Forget

On this date in 1963, the USS THRESHER, SSN 593, was lost at sea with 129 souls.

Lest we Forget.

OLWG# 360- Summer Camp

Written for OLWG# 360

###

It was the first day of Olivia’s first summer at camp. Her parents had sent her, and she was enthusiastic to go. She wanted to meet new friends and join in cabin raids on the boy’s side of the river. She wanted to be up to her elbows in tempera paints during arts and crafts. She longed to send people on the snipe hunts she had heard about from Dad. She wanted to tell stories around the campfire at night.

That first day, Olivia and eight other girls her age got assigned to cabin eight. Their counsellor was a high school girl named Amanda. Olivia thought Amanda was beautiful. She had long, straight blonde hair. She was cool, and her voice sounded like song. She was everything that Olivia aspired to be. Each cabin had their table for lunch so the girls could get to know one another. That day at lunch, Amanda asked each of the girls what they were looking forward to most this year in summer camp.

Maddie wanted to roast marshmallows over the campfire.
Beth was eager to swim in the river,
June looked forward to arts and crafts,
Christine wanted to write letters home.
Then it was Olivia’s turn, she said, “Telling spooky stories around the campfire at night.”

“Do you know some good spooky stories?” Amanda asked her.

“Oh yes, I do,” Olivia said, “Wanna hear one?”

“Sure, we all do!” Amanda seemed excited.

Olivia launched into the story about a young couple. He was a woodsman. She was a school teacher with a job at the one-room schoolhouse in Putnam County. She always wore a yellow ribbon around her neck… and yada, yada, yada. “Don’t ever remove the ribbon.” Yada, yada, yada, her husband removed the ribbon on their wedding night and… her head fell off.”

All the girls moaned, even Amanda.

“Was that a great story, or what?” asked Olivia as she scanned the faces of all the other girls. “Wasn’t that scary?”

“Not particularly,” answered Beth. Christine was sitting, shaking her head from side to side. Maddie and June were asleep.

“I don’t think it was all that scary.” answered Amanda, “but perhaps, it’s because it’s lunchtime, and it’s not dark, and there’s no campfire. The ambience isn’t conducive to scary stories.” There was a long pause, “After dark, maybe you can try again.”

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. night sweats
2. after dark you can try again
3. I can see the mountain, and nothing else

OLWG# 359- Ten Cents a Dance

Written for OLWG# 359

###

I met Constance when I was on shore leave in San Francisco. She was a dime-a-dance girl at one of those spots by the waterfront. I’d heard stories about those girls before, so I might have made some assumptions about her that I should not have made. I acted out of character. Out of character, even for myself.

A three-piece band was performing on a low platform in the corner of the room and there was a wooden plank dance floor, with only a few nails sticking up. Not the pointy ends sticking up, mind you. The nails would work their way loose, from all the dancing, and raise their heads. They were still dangerous, as tripping hazards, but they got hammered back down after the music died.

I saw her standing alone in a dark corner in the back of the ballroom.

She was thin, maybe somewhere midway between lithe and slender.

Her legs were long. She stood straight with her shoulders held back. Her small breasts pushed forward against the smooth silk of her blouse. Round and firm.

Dark-coloured pre-Raphaelite curls spiralled past her shoulders almost to her waist, and she wore those shoes, red ones of soft leather, with Cuban heels and open toes.

Those were some shoes.

I introduced myself, “My name is TN Kerr,” I asked her to dance.

She took my hand as we glided onto the dance floor. That was when I screwed up. I put my hand on her ass and pulled her in fast and tight.

She stopped and stepped away.

Her hand came up as if to slap me. I should have let her. I deserved it, but I stepped back as her open palm whiffed harmlessly past my face. It was a swing and a miss.

“This is the last time I’ll dance with you, Mr Kerr.”

So, yeah, it was a rough start, but these days whenever we go dancing, Constance grabs my butt, pulls me in tight and tries to lead. We gave up trying to slap one another that first night, though.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. this is the last time I’ll dance with you, Mr Kerr
2. those shoes
3. love, and revenge… with snakes