#11 Whiteboard on the Fridge

Monday: Pick up Pooka @ 4:30 (Vet Tech NORM?)

Dinner? Ramen (chicken?)

Ray in Phoenix: 602-748-5000 (leave message with Tina tcb)

List:    Tide

           Milk

           Tampons

           Four Roses

Tune for Ray: Falling Behind - Laufey 

LAUNDRY! (The sheets - they be walkin’!) 🧟

Tuesday: Flight 389, 7:15 Southwest

Ray new cell: 570-812-3434

Wednesday: Pick up Pooka @ 8:30

Pick up Pooka @ 4:40 NORM x7320

Thursday: Dr. Wilson and NORM at 8:30

Ray: Flight 7280 2:40 (UBER?)

Pooka Furtastic Spring Special - how expensive? 9:00

Cornell Oncology: 6072533060

$4600???

No. Just No.

Friday:💔

WhereTheFuck is Ray?

NOTE: Do messages to oneself count as epistolary fiction? Does talking to oneself count as dialogue? Or must it be monologue? (And does the "ue" seem as silly to you as it does to me?)

#10 Famished

The thin cat crossed his paws and looked through the glass at the finch circus.

Nothing new here.

Behind him, that Fat Vixen, that Tragedy, lounged in a sunlight puddle. She purred; it pissed him off. 

His stomach gurgled and he remembered food; he had missed breakfast. Where was his favorite Big One?

Hey you! Yes, I’m talking to you!

[blink, blink, blink]

One quick leap from the ledge and then, tail like a flagpole, he stalked toward the kitchen. Success! The Big One followed. The Fat Vixen watched with wide, glorious eyes, green as grass and full of poison.

#9 Origami

The green haze over New City stank of burnt oil mixed with sulfur fumes from Compton

Paperworks. A lone balloon lifted off Compton's tower trailing a large sign advertising

something. All Pigeon could see was Clara's face and her long arm draped across the copy.

Clara could sell anything.

He checked the time on his pocket watch: quarter past.

The portal opened behind him with a belch of steam. The destination: the Badlands. The

goal: to drag that fool Roosevelt back to New City. The means: this time and space folding

technological wonder that may not work.

It did.

#8 It Takes Two

To call him a mistake misses the point by a mile.

His jaw, a smooth, sharp blade. His throat, exactly long enough to keep me interested. His lips, good god, I want to paint them red and then kiss the color off. I try not to remember his fingers. It’s safer to not remember.

Now he leans into the table; our eyes meet. Tobacco, single malt scotch, and sweet warm skin. His eyes flick down to my discarded heels and my bare feet and then slide up my body.

“You wanna dance?” His hand folds around my wrist.

And I remember.

#7 The Hannigans

Ida poured boiling water into the chipped dishpan, steam molding black tendrils against

pale skin. No matter. I’m still pretty.

Her son slept in a laundry basket. A fitful child, needy, his body so hot it made her angry. Big Mum loves him more.

That Munkes woman had rushed over, waving a coiled newspaper. A girl, born last week, twelve days after her boy. Six months after the divorce. Five months and twenty-five days after a marriage. Five months and twenty-four days after she changed her name back.

Dark clouds on the horizon promised rain; Ida closed the back window.

NOTE: Historical fiction, but on a very small stage. Ida Hannigan was my grandmother - a difficult, brittle creature who never seemed to love anyone. And yet, there were stories in her life, sealed shut against the outside, like the closed windows of our old house. The dates on the graves, the names added to genealogy sites, the newspaper clippings leave an interesting trail.

#6 This Never Happened

The story goes like this.

One girl, left dancing in the rain, broke the heel off her shoe.

Damn shoe. There always is a shoe, and a slow fall, and an arm appearing out of nowhere to encircle her waist. 

Then the world slows down to the hush of breath and music; somewhere there is music welling up before the kiss.

Fairy dust scatters around them, or perhaps glitter.

That is the story.

It doesn’t end like this, an old woman silent in a wooden chair, a rocker.

It ends with that kiss.

#5 CAMPAIGN 793

“You’re such a noob.”

“Get up here now!”

“Where’s their jungler? I don’t see them.”

“I’m so hungry, can’t we order something?”

“No. Have a banana.”

“Incoming!”

“They can fly?”

“Seriously? A banana? I’m hungry!”

“A double kill! We’re amazing, little noob!”

“Stop messing about in the bushes and get farming!”

“Farming, farming, farming…”

“Smoke’s respawned; now let’s gank this mid-laner and blow the base. Then, only then, can we order pizza.”

(NOTE: If you're lost in the weeds here, you haven't had gamers take over your living room, their heads swaddled in headsets, their fingers dancing over keys and mice. For hours. Talking smack. Eating. Destroying everything in their paths.)