Beautifully written. I love it.
1 Like
Pumpkin pie! Oh! how delicious it tasted to me as a small, growing girl.
Mother usually made pumpkin pies around Thanksgiving, and sometimes when Daddy raised these veggies, she would have enough to bake one at other times during the Autumn season occasionally. The lovely aromas of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg would fill the kitchen, and the cool, crisp days of Fall always energized me.
I remember one Thanksgiving Mother made two or three pumpkin pies. I must have been extra hungry for it because it tasted so wonderful. When the meal ended, it was time for dessert. I kept eating one serving after another until I had ingested almost an entire pie by myself. I don’t know how my little ten-year-old stomach could have held so much.
I don’t think I have ever eaten that much pumpkin pie at once, since then. The cool, crisp days of Autumn have always been my favorite time of year. I wonder if that perfect Veggie pie’s fantastic creamy taste could be the reason for that. Oh! I still like pumpkin pie, but I don’t think I will ever be able to eat that much of it again!
1 Like
The Standout
To look at him you’d be forgiven if your thoughts went immediately to someone else, mine nearly did. He dressed in a manner designed, it seemed, to ensure invisibility, the essence of how you might expect a person with little to keep your attention to be attired. His shirt, neatly ironed and tucked into the top of his pants, had the air of being one bought for price and availability rather than style or comfort.
A thatch of short, wombat brown hair, styled as the afterthought of a man unused to having to impress anyone, was slightly receding and greying at the temples. The ensemble was not improved by the scuffs and dull patches on his slip on shoes, which gave the impression of a man still living with his elderly mother.
The thing keeping me focused on him was his nervous fidgeting with a sheet of paper that made it look as though his next move might include falling to the ground in a dead feint.
3 Likes
The door opened, and immediately a small white gift bag covered in stars was thrust into my face.
“Happy birthday for Sunday,” Carol said.
And there she was, standing on my doorstep, hair immaculately coiffed. Her shiny brown-black bob framing her round face, not a hair out of place, untouched by the wind and yet so natural looking. She wouldn’t be out of place in a Loreal advert.
I’m not jealous.
Really.
Well maybe a little.
Her lips quirked up, reminiscent of one of my favourite emojis, as I invited her in for a coffee.
2 Likes
The Doctors surgery
When Covid-19 was at its height I did not want to go to the Surgery but go I must it was time for my regular blood test.
I entered the Surgery to be greeted by people just like myself masked up and sitting at a distance from each other.
I took my assigned seat and looked around there was one lady double masked who looked like she was not enjoying herself, another gentleman sat very close to the Hand santizer station, and he was not very happy to use the one beside him I watched as he tentatively put his hand out to get it squirted but no he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his own little bottle he too was uncomfortable.
The lady who was triple masked shifted in her seat because a little child knelt beside her and the look on her face was priceless, she tutted loudly as the young mother who was unmasked scooped her child up and gave the lady a withering look, I just sat there taking in all these sights and thought back to precovid-19 days when the surgery was crowded, and we all sat together some days touching shoulders.
2 Likes
To a Cook wizard.
He was cook, young and so experimented. He look so relax but his real magic was to turn raw ingredients into a dish with only a few and his two wooden tools. Even though he looked so relax he knew when to act at the right moment.
1 Like
“Do you know her? She brought pickles to the party.”
“Huh?”
“The one with the dreadlocks. See that pickle jar? She brought it with her. She said she’s a biologist.”
She’s sitting at the end of the table, talking to Dougie and his friends. I can’t quite make what she’s saying, something about growth cycles, I can’t really hear her.
Her dreadlocks are whipping around as she talks, her white t-shirt has wet stains on front, and she keeps readjusting her thick wire-framed glasses, as they keep falling off her oily skin.
“Did you hear me?”
“No. I don’t know her.”
The pickle jar on the table is huge, it has a date written on it, and It’s filled with dark brown brine, with a few cucumbers plopping in it. The brine is moving in the jar, the murky dreg in the bottom stirring as she’s talking, waving her hands erratically, and hitting against the table.
Maybe she came here from work, that would make sense. She didn’t know the bar, the dress code, and now she feels embarrased that she’s underdressed for the party.
“You think she brought them from a lab or something?”
“What?”
“The pickles. Maybe she works with pickles.”
“She’s underdressed for this.”
She’s not embarassed, she has an audience, they’re all locked in, Dougie and them. Smiling, listening and laughing. The man next to her moved his cocktail to his left hand to avoid her knocking it over as she keeps slapping the table, almost spilling it. The table is glistening - someone’s drink is already spilled.
“You think she’s here with someone?”
“Maybe.”
She had to be here with someone. Who would invite her? Maybe Jonny, she seems like someone Jonny would know. Someone from Rockford.
“Hey, excuse me! Sorry, what’s your name?”
“What?”
“I see you make pickles!”
“What?”
“I-, I heard you make pickles!”
“No. I’m a biologist.”
3 Likes
**An Infernal Soul’s Redemption**
*When a violent past can heal a troubled future.*
…
“Who’s asking?” The voice appeared to be coming from a glowing area a little further out in the lava field. The welcoming sound of a fire crackled in the night air. “Well – are you gonna come over here and share my fire, or act like some snot-nose kid scared of the dark?”
Offended he snorted, “humph! Like I’d be scared.” Sam strode down into the desert towards the glow; being careful so he would not slip and fall onto the sharp and jagged lava. Walking round a large chunk of rock, he entered the campsite of his host. It looked like an inverted bowl, less a section at the top, and had a crack in the side. It had been created when the lava was still fluid, and a gas bubble formed within the cooling rock. Years of erosion wore away the upper section, while settling of the field had created the crack. All in all, it made a decent shelter in this frozen wasteland, just sixty feet from the highway, but well hidden.
A hairy throwback, looking like a lovechild from the nineteen-sixties, stood up and offered his hand. “Hey man, cool you could join me, The name’s Harley.”
Sam accepted the offered hand. “Uh – good to meet you Harley, the name’s Sa… Frank. Yeah, it’s Frank. I’m Frank”
Harley cocked his head to one side. “Frank, you say? Well… Far out.” With a dazzling smile, he shook Sam’s hand so vigorously that Harley’s love beads clattered together. “Glad to meet ya man. Sit, take a load off.” He pointed towards a tie-dyed blanket that was folded-up to cushion the sharp rock underneath. “Frank huh. That’s like, far out man.” Harley adjusted his sheep wool jacket as he resumed sitting by the fire.
Sam just stood there, first looking at the Hippy throwback, and then back at the crack he had entered through. Maybe I should leave. This guy seems a little weird and. maybe he’s dangerous.
“Hungry, man? It’s so freaking cold out there, I bet your freezing. Got some hot vittles here.” Harley laughed. “Just like Granny. You ever watch them Hillbillies on TV? Man, I loved that little old mama. She was like, out there. Like cosmic man.”
Sam’s nose was assaulted with a delectable aroma, causing his stomach to growl. Turning back to the fire, he noticed a pot over it. “What,” he asked confused. "Was that there before? I didn’t see…”
“Sit man,” Harley leaned over the fire gripping a wire handle on the pot. Lifting it, he poured some steaming stew into a bowl before returning the pot to its prior position; he offered the food to Sam.
“Wasn’t that hot?”
Harley looked at his hand, a look of bewilderment on his face. “Coulda been man – hey, don’t hurt my feelin’s, eat that. This stew is just like my mama use ta makes.” Once again, he offered the bowl.
1 Like
definitely want to more - good lead in
1 Like
The Boy Holding a Cigarette
College is a whirlwind of extroversion—whether or not you want to meet new people, you will find yourself in situations where small talk is crucial to keep time passing, or to simply keep from being completely alone in a new city of students. Then there are scenarios where you see a person so often that it becomes awkward to not say hi. Meeting so many new people in such a short instance of time might be the hardest adjustment as a first year student, but sometimes, there are just a few that stick out no matter how hard I try to overlook them.
The first time I saw him was on my way to a morning class. The air was crisp despite the oncoming hot afternoons, speeding buses with little to no patience run past as they made their routes, and bicyclists were weaving between hordes of people that were late to their classes. But amongst the morning rush, I saw a boy in a beanie, walking nonchalantly with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Nowadays, people mostly use a vape or an electronic cigarette, so it had been a while since I saw a traditional lung-ruiner. When the bitter scent of burning tobacco first hit my nose, I sniffled, and my mouth became dry from how strong it was.
As I turned to make eye-contact, I noticed that he was looking at me too, the only other person on the sidewalk who wasn’t hustling past others like it was Wall Street during rush hour. We paused, nodded at one another, and went out separate ways, the only thing sticking to memory is the image of an orange-tipped cigarette and a black beanie.
Then lunch time came around. and if I thought the morning was busy, the afternoon might as well be compared to a stampede. There were only so many dining halls on campus, and the closest one had a line that went out the door. My legs stopped moving as I watched with shock, wondering how I was to manage a whole meal within the hour-long break I had. An amused scoff escaped the person next to me, a black beanie on his head and another trademarked cigarette between his fingers. Neither of us took another step toward the canteen. The air smelled like ash, a smile was shared between us.
I would see him like this, in passing, a few days in between some encounters, others in a few hours. At one point, we exchanged names with a shake of the head, not believing that we would see one another so frequently in such a big school.
No matter how blisteringly hot or freakishly cold it was, he would wear his beanie, light blue baggy jeans encasing his waist and a distressed jacket of a variety of material covering his slim frame. His shirts were always a wild-card, sometimes baggy, other times cropped, but either way, his sense of style made anything work. Whatever his cologne was, there was a subtle scent of his choice of poison. Whether it be Marlboros, Paul Mauls, or even Newports, it was rare to see him lack the action of letting the smoke drag out his mouth and into the air.
He looked like the type to smile most at night, or celebrate as the moon rose beyond the horizon. It wasn’t surprising when he told me he was a drummer, his band playing small gigs at college events hosted around the area. He lived in the hall across from mine, always busying himself outside as to not bother with the small quarters, and did his laundry in the dead of night because it wasn’t so busy (well, except one washer that was occupied by yours truly). His smile is crooked and his face is taut, cheeks sunken in and freckles splayed across his nose. His voice was a tad high-pitched, vibrating the air as he spoke about whatever came to mind, something catching in his throat every once in a while.
I am by no means close with him, but college is all about making acquaintances. And even if we will never know more than one another’s first names and a few arbitrary facts, I’ll be happy to always be able to easily point out such a stranger in the middle of the street.
2 Likes
She shuffles in, head down, shoulders slumped, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. Which is a hard thing to do when I called her by name, and she is the only other person in my room. I introduce myself and her reply is so muted I struggle to make it out. Her eyes search the floor, the walls, the flaking skin on her fingers, anything to avoid mine. She doesn’t want to be here, but her mother made her come.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles, though she clearly is not.
She is dressed nicely in the latest fashion, wavy auburn hair pulled neatly into a pony. No make up, but she wouldn’t need it anyway.
It’s always such an irony when patients with eating disorders can’t see their own beauty. I hope that one day I will see her smile.
3 Likes
Every Story Has One…
He came stumbling through the door as he usually does on this day each weekend, acting clumsily, saying “hello”, and giving hugs. He’s six foot and I’ve known him a grand total of nine years now, on this particular day he’s wearing his customary black t-shirt and his white converse teamed with his skinny blue jeans. He always swears he’s on trend but there you go!
He sits down rather heavily on our brown leather sofa and breathes a sigh of relief that the week is over, he’s a college lecturer you see and we have a laugh about mispronounced words between us and the many different scrapes we’ve had and although I take the mick as I am doing here, I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is why he remains my friend because he’s so kind, gentle and loving. He’s the equivalent of a big friendly giant and that’s how he always will be.
3 Likes
Volte-face A true story.
Iris is elderly, though she wouldn’t thank me for saying so. She is just over ten years my senior and a good friend, even though we are as alike as chalk and cheese. A retired librarian, she is very ‘proper’, staid, almost. A stickler for the rules, manners, etiquette and afternoon tea at four o’clock, which consists of one sandwich, a piece of cake and a pot of tea - Heaven forbid that you should eat cake without having the sandwich first. Iris is an organiser, for which I am very thankful (I must write that down for the service on Sunday nearest thanksgiving, I’m taking the service that day and she’ll be there, as on most Sundays). Everything has to be done in the right order, at the right time and in the right place.
Iris’ one vanity is her hair. She hasn’t gone thin on top, like so many ladies her age and she always looks very smart, having her hair done each week to refresh the light brown colour, which hides the underlying silver. I walked to her house, looking forward to afternoon tea; it was Tuesday as well as her birthday. As always, Iris was immaculate, dressed in a flecked, graphite twin set with cream pearls and a rich purple shirt shot through with gold threads. Gorgeous!
Pouring the tea from her very proper, Wedgwood teapot, the light slanted through the window and shone upon her newly coiffed hair. It glowed… purple? Surely not! Not Iris, it must be a reflection from her shirt. As she passed the cup and saucer to me, it became very clear that I hadn’t suddenly become colour-blind or was having a visual migraine. Iris had purple hair. Not being unintelligent, Iris soon noticed that I was looking at her strangely. “I’m ninety today,” she smiled, “I’ve always wanted purple hair.”
4 Likes
I like this. I am usually set apart just before the beginning of the service, praying that the message I am about to deliver will mean something to someone.
1 Like
I parked the car in an alley close by, making sure that I had remembered to turn off the lights. With just a slither of light from the street lamp, I locked the car before I pulled out a pair of gloves from my bag. Pulling the hood over my head and flattening my curls, I swung my backpack onto my back, adjusted the straps, and made my way to the top of the scaffolding. There was minimal light on the construction site, so I decided that it was a perfect opportunity to try out my new toy. Sliding the straps over my head, I turned on the headlamp, the red glow gave me just enough light to see clearly without being too bright to attract any attention. I needed to stay vigilant. No one could know I was here. I approached the body which was sprawled out by the cement mixer. It was a shocking image, killed by blunt force trauma with a hammer. I swallowed as I forced myself not to look away from the gaping hole in his head. I gagged slightly at the mix of blood and brain matter that had soaked into his greying hair as it leaked out of the wound.
Studying photographs will only help you prepare somewhat for gruesome sights such as this but I don’t think that I will ever get used to the smell, it always stays in my nostrils for hours afterward. I tried to breathe through my mouth as I heaved again.
1 Like
I’m glad you liked it. 
The people of my church are usually the source of my muse, because I spend a lot of time around them and they all have very interesting stories.
1 Like
Checkout counter
The woman barely missed hitting my car as she zoomed into the parking spot. I almost smirked when I got a good look at her car. It’s a faded teal blue sedan with a dented rear bumper and a donut for a back tire. Must be a teenager, I thought to myself. I spotted her walking just ahead of me. She was smaller than me in height and body build and I saw she was an adult, not a teen. A wiry, five foot six of slim nervous energy. She strutted as she walked, but not in a cocky way. The red plaid shirt and faded tight blue jeans belonged to a girl next door image. As she hurried ahead of me into the building, we parted company.
A half-hour later, we met at the checkout counter. I realized it was the woman from the parking lot. I got a chance to study her up close. Strawberry blonde hair reached just below her shoulders with beachy waves. Large hazel eyes, a snub nose, and chewing gum through raspberry-lined lips. She wore over her shirt a red cotton vest with a lanyard around her neck holding half a dozen keys. Her name tag read Joanna M., assistant manager. I watched her. Small, thin hands grabbed packages without looking at them, ran them over the scanner, and shoved them down to the bagger. The customer slipped their credit card into the machine. The hazel eyes looked past the present customer to me. We both half-smiled at each other and she turned her attention back to her customer.
I emptied my hand cart of items on the counter and gave my shopping sack to the bagger. I scanned my credit card while Joanna surreptitiously glanced at the Apple Watch on her arm. The watch caught my attention because it’s the latest model. I know this because I am the mother of a young working adult who feels it is her duty to keep me informed of these things. Joanna has the latest model watch in red with a woven band and black dial face. She’s not wearing any other jewelry but a slim wedding band. I look into her face. She is undoubtedly in her early twenties. I remember those early years in my marriage and my little 1968 powder blue Mustang. She hands me my receipt and we smile at each other again. She moves on to the next customer.
2 Likes
The annual Halloween party has come again, the rush of guests that flood through the intricately decorated door come dressed in their best costumes and sometimes even last-minute ones. A new face walks into the hall and looks around slightly lost like a puppy, who doesn’t know what to do. Dressed in a dark flowing dress that hugs against her curved shape. She finds a seat on the empty couch, and I watch as she looks around as children dressed up run around her excited and high off the candy that was littered over the various different tables in the house. She took in a deep breath her chest rising and then slowly letting it out as her body began to settle into her new surroundings. She looked around again and her green eyes fell on me, and I felt my heart begin to race slightly as a shy smile played across her black pained lips. Her eyes danced with a fierce spark of life that I knew I wanted to get to know. Her red hair curled perfectly lay over her shoulder where a black rose peaked from underneath. I followed the throned, flower’s stem that wrapped itself around her arm. She looked away from my gaze as she tried to hide herself. She stood up suddenly her dress twirling around her like if she were a princess of darkness.
3 Likes