Her Neighborhood

Evelyn stirred the lemon wedge in her iced tea and watched through the window from her wheelchair. The dewy glass left her fingers damp. She wiped them on her dress.

It was hard to superimpose her childhood memories over the neighborhood today. She closed her eyes and pictured Betty skipping rope on the sidewalk across the street.

I went downtown To see Ms. Brown, She gave me a nickel To buy a pickle, The pickle was sour, So I bought a flower. ...

Evelyn opened her eyes, and three teens sat on the steps where Betty had lived. They passed around an amber bottle and catcalled at passerbys. One bent to pick up a chunk of asphalt. He hurled it - hard - at a group huddled on the curb below her window.

His aim was poor: It sailed wide and slammed into the apartment next door.

Bee grounded

Tommy coughed, and Bee, hovering just above his nose, wilted a little.

He hadn’t brushed his teeth.

She zipped to the ceiling and sat on the fan, legs dangling, looking down at the sleeping boys. She giggled then tumbled backwards and rolled off the blade, catching herself inches from the carpet and twirling out the door.

Down the stairs and around the living room, trailing subtle specks of fairy dust, she alighted on top of the Christmas tree, jealously nudging aside the angel and, with one hand shading her eyes, surveyed the landscape.

She bounced off a high branch and dove to the floor. Presents spilled beneath the tree as she plopped into the pile in a shower of tinsel.

“Achoo!” a puff of tinsel and fairy dust sneezed from the tree.

Live Bait

“Have you ever eaten anything that’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied Easton’s face.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I ate a mosquito once when I was riding my bike down the hill by my house. My mouth was open, and it flew right in and down my throat.”

“Aww, that don’t count,” Jake said. He flicked a flat stone across the pond. It bounced one, two, three, four than a staccato fivesixseveneight “Nine!” he said triumphantly and jumped to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll show you what I mean.”

They bounced up the path, each holding a twig. The air whirred as they sliced at the tops of the tall grass on either side, scattering the seeds.

The campground supply shack had an ice machine and a stack of dry wood on one side of the screen door. On the other side sat a vending machine. Live Bait, it read, with a trout snapping at a lure below.

A Noble Profession

For Three Word Wednesday. This week’s prompt: roam, noble, hidden.
--
“I chose this life,” he said.

I was checking email on my Blackberry, waiting for the bus. The growing reek of sweat and smoke preceded him as he scooted closer.

“I don’t have to be a tramp. I want to be one. It’s a noble profession,” he said.

I cocked an eyebrow. Greasy wisps of hair spilled from a black stocking cap set high on his head. His face was pock-marked and gritty, as if scrubbed by the pavement. He wore a tattered USC sweatshirt and an unbuttoned trench coat. Despite his layers, he looked comfortable in the 80 degree heat.

“Profession?” I said.

His eyes bulged.

“Oh yes. We’re the sages of the 21st century. The tramp scorns the very tenet upon which modern society thrives, the notion that a prosperous life is built on the rubble of friends and co-workers sacrificed in the unholy pursuit of the corner office. I roam the streets, observing the shameful state of humanity and offering a chance at redemption. I give reprieve from greed, an opportunity to rediscover human kindness through the smallest token: the gift of a dollar, perhaps.”

“So you want a dollar?” I said.

“But that’s not the point,” he said. “I want you to rediscover the joy of helping a fellow man. Mencius once said, ‘He who attends to his greater self becomes a great man, and he who attends to his smaller self becomes a small man.’ I want to make you a great man.”

I pulled out my wallet. “I can spare a buck.”

He smiled as I held out the dollar.

“Or you could just give me all of it,” he said.

“All of it? I don’t think –” He had a pistol hidden in the pocket of his trench coat; the barrel protruded from a hole in the lining.

“And the Blackberry,” he said.

A Lucky Hunt

My late submission for Three Words Wednesday and #fridayflash. This week’s words: budge, nimble, theory.

The dogs were off the truck before it stopped. The men piled out next, but Alex waited and then carefully handed the 20-gauge shotgun to his brother, Jake, before exiting. He could still see that bloody, careless teen in the hunter’s safety video from last week.

Alex’s new blaze orange vest was creased along the back, and every pocket was stocked with shells, 40 of them. He wore his lawn-mowing jeans, his mother’s red flannel and new boots. He bent and pulled a burr out of the laces.

Jake handed him the gun.

“You look good, but you need a hat,” Jake said. “Take mine, it’s lucky.” He placed the orange and grey cap on Alex’s head. It had a camouflage pattern formed from silhouettes of naked ladies.


“Thanks!” Alex pulled the brim low.

Jake was back from college for opening weekend of pheasant season. He had been recounting hunting stories to Alex while their dad had driven to their uncle’s farm. Once, Jake had flushed a bird at the end of a field and it ran into a power line and dropped dead at his feet. Another time, he shot a pheasant from the back of the truck as they were driving.

Home Security

He was through the window to his waist when his elbow clipped the plate, causing a clank from the kitchen sink. He stopped with his legs dangling in open air, his face near a dish that reeked of asparagus.

It was quiet.

He slid the rest of the way through at an angle onto the counter and then stepped lightly to the floor. He tilted his head, waiting as his vision gradually adjusted to the dark.

Still quiet.

This wasn’t a bad part of town; it was on the fringe of a district with character, in fact. But three blocks down and you’d start thinking about iron grates on the windows. He supposed his presence tonight made a good case for iron grates here too.

The lawn had gone to seed, and the house needed some paint, but it was otherwise maintained. A man and a woman lived here. No kids. No dog. He’d monitored the house for a week.

The husband had a physique fit for a desk job. He dressed neatly and worked 8-5, and he drove a 15-year-old Accord with rust eating the bottom couple inches off the doors.

The Bigger Man

For Three Word Wednesday. The words are: Grasp, dread, pacify.

  

The Baumgartner girls climbed onto the bus at 42^nd and Spencer, the two eldest chattering while the littlest, Ellie, pressed against them and laughed loudly, trying to be in the conversation.

Mark swung the lever to close the door and pulled back onto the road.

That morning, their ride was full of spring: Nothing blossoms brighter in April than elementary children. The old Bluebird bus bounced over fresh potholes.

The mirror caught a child jumping seats across the aisle. “K-keep your butts in the chairs, please!” Mark called back.

“Sorry!” the boy dropped immediately, and the seat springs sent him smack into a window.

Mark downshifted and ground the gears as he turned the corner onto Lake. They topped the hill on the way to the next stop.

Suddenly, to Mark, the bright jabbering and sunshine faded.

Get Them Laughing

My submission for Three Word Wednesday. This week's words: fear, ignore, weightless.


A card fluttered to the stage floor as he rifled through his notes again. He bent to pick it up and saw through a space in the curtains the crowd chattering as they waited.


It was a small school, and really, the room was sparsely filled: small clumps of students sprinkled throughout the auditorium. But it was crowd enough for him.


A drop of sweat trickled from his forehead off the tip of his nose, splattering on the renegade card. He wiped his face.


Three weeks later, he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea. He was president of the National Honor Society. You can’t nominate yourself for an office, and the small group of hyper-competitive honor students couldn’t stand to see an adversary get an advantage on his or her resume. The advisor had pleaded for a name until someone lazily said, “Jeremy Melcher.”