Puzzles

With Gary only half-through the daily crossword puzzle, Anita knew she would be spending the afternoon suspended in yet another wordless bubble. She’d tried to cancel the paper a month ago, but they called two days later and spoke with Gary offering less than what they’d been paying for it for the last three years. She pretended she didn’t know how it had gotten cancelled in the first place. Lately, during the silence, Anita has been wishing she were a dog person—a rambunctious dog-lover who lets the pup run amuck, chewing on furniture and tearing up the newspaper. Obviously she can’t teach Jellybean to do any tricks, unless she considers litter on the end tables some sort of help. Gary wasn’t always into crosswords, in fact when they met he was fascinated by insects and they’d often take day-trips up to Morgan-Lang hill and collect them in old prescription bottles. He’d told Anita being around flying bugs made him feel whimsical. She’d laughed, and just to impress him since they’d just begun their togetherness, she told him they made her feel desirable. Breaking the silence as Anita reminisced; Gary called from his recliner, “What’s a nine letter word for household pest?”


Thanks to The One Minute Writer's daily prompt: What puzzles you? Check out her blog!

The Ghost

She’d said I was like a ghost, and fluttered her hands in the air that looked more like a butterfly. I laughed and did the whole “who me?” bit, but then it sunk through me: a cloud of annoyance, with the top hovering around my head and the bottom coming just under my diaphragm. The whole sensation was unshakable, throwing me into a funk that seemed to last a little over a week. I’d wake up while it was still night, noticing the back porch sensors being triggered by raccoons cleaning up the rest of Mr. Magee’s food dish, and then I’d think of ghosts. Not like Casper or the see-thru versions of my childhood favorite horror movies, but skewed versions of myself when I was thirteen, fourteen, all the way up until now—thirty-eight. I demanded to myself I was no more of a ghost than those portrayed on television—mere special effects—after all who had I ever haunted? Old friends or co-workers? Acquaintances? My ex-husband or past instructors? And is that what she meant when she’d said it, that I’d become a recurring memory for her, or perhaps she only truly wanted to compliment me.

The Talk

The conversation started light. How was I doing? Fine. How was she doing? Okay. George her beagle had died, but now there was Kyle, the German Shepherd, so things were looking up, she'd said. Some comments on the weather and the price of gas weaved through, a bit about the plastic cups we were drinking out of. The necessity of recycling, she'd warned. I didn't bring up my habit of using disposable picnic-ware for my meals. A few words on how bad diet drinks were on the body. I was glad I'd ordered mine before she arrived. Then, when the waiter came by to see if we were ready for the check, he was wearing one of those T-shirts with the fake tuxedo printed on the front with a red tie, we said "not yet" in unison and began talking about Derek as if we'd seen him only yesterday.

Award Speech

He scribbled it on the grocery receipt Laura left in the fruit bowl on the table. The oranges were starting to go soft, so a discolored smudge was at the top of the thin paper, near the store name and date: Frederick's Foodsaver, February 23, 2009. In his neat handwriting he began writing: Jimmy, Tom, Lucy, macaroni and cheese, chess, Japan, Twinkies (not low-fat), and the late Jim Henson. He stuffed it inside his jean jacket, put on his stocking cap and as he got into his car he wished he would have remembered to get the rest of the Twinkies back from Laura, those award shows never had Hostess.

This paragraph was prompted by The One-Minute Writer's prompt for today: You've just won an Academy Award. What will you say in your acceptance speech?
Check out her blog: http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

The Makeshift Treehouse

Mattie hadn't been back to the treehouse since the weekend her step-grandmother came to visit and then ended up leaving in an ambulance. At the dinner table the six of them, Mattie, her mother and step-father, Greg and his friend Tommy and Grandma Jess, ate hamburger pie made with Bisquick and green beans. Greg was the first to see Grandma Jess roll her eyes back and open her mouth just wide enough to allow the gray-colored sludge to roll down her chin. He watched with his own mouth open, eyes wide, frozen as if seeing the water in a stopped up toliet creep to the top of the bowl. Mattie saw Greg and poked him in the arm to get him to close his mouth. Then Grandma Jess started to shrug her shoulders in fast, jittery movements and Mattie's mom jumped up and put both arms around her to keep her from falling out of the chair. Later, when Greg was put in charge while their parents stayed at the hospital until after dark, Mattie went out to the treehouse with the leftover hamburger pie. She divided it out onto her plastic dinner plates, mashing each portion with a wooden spoon, trying to get it to look like it had on Grandma Jess's face.

Personalized

Faye was a horror. A selfish, passive-aggressive, black-haired beauty that stayed with Neil just until he dropped out of the welding program at the community college and then she left him. She broke every personalized coffee mug that he had given her. She washed his clothes with olive oil. She even threw his Macadamia nuts on the floor and crushed them with her tiny little feet. But Neil just sat at the kitchen table, legs crossed, reading the letters to the editor and sucking on a handful of sunflower seeds. And finally when he heard her car door shut, Neil spit his seeds on the floor and uncrossed his legs, resting them up on the table—right next to the broken handle of the first mug he gave Faye.

Desserts

"Ice cream," she whined.
"Cake!" he pounded his fists on the counter.
"Rainbow Sherbert!" she insisted.
"Devil's food." he plugged his ears.
"I'm allergic to chocolate." she screamed in his face.
"I'm allergic to you." he kept his ears plugged so the words sounded funny only to him. He laughed.
"You think this is funny?" she pried his hands away from his head. One slipped and he slapped himself.
"Yes." But he didn't really.
"Forget it. Fine. Devil's food." she grabbed her keys.
"You're driving?" he rubbed the side of his face.
"So?" she put her hands on her hips.
"Okay." he shrugged his shoulders.
"What?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking."
"Thinking what?
"I'm not sure Devil's food sounds that good anymore."