Javelina in Coyote Shoes
29 Thursday Dec 2016
29 Thursday Dec 2016
29 Thursday Dec 2016
Posted Fairy Tale, Flash Fiction
inAs per my previous post, I recently entered a Flash Fiction contest. This is the story I wrote for the second heat of the contest. I’m out of the running now, but to my surprise, this story got more points than the first one did. This surprised me because I thought it was awful. I can’t even make myself reread it. đ This contest required writing a 1,000 word story with assigned elements and submitting it in 48 hours.
My second assignment: In no more than 1,000 words, write a story in the âFairy Taleâ genre that is set on a construction site and includes a clam shell at some point. You have 48 hours â GO!
The Tree Teller
Three motherless girls, born to an ogre, struggle to escape his cruel grip on their lives.
Once upon a modern day, deep in the middle of a forest, lived a less than likable ogre of a man. Ogre did not have any sons. Instead, as he would tell anyone who listened, he had three worthless, motherless daughters.
Many years before, the ogre-to-be married a beautiful woman. She loved and was devoted to the then handsome man. The woman was undaunted by the fact that he lived in an RV and led a nomadic life managing the construction of remote transmission lines.
After the birth of their first daughter, the coupleâs relationship changed. Ogre had been openly disappointed that his wife had not borne a son. Although Bella was lovely as a summer sunrise, he could see his daughter as nothing but a dimwitted waif. Ogre began to occasionally beat his wife in frustration.
During his wifeâs second pregnancy, Ogre was optimistic. However, another girl was born and she was ugly. Although Elena was inexplicably intelligent, her father viewed her as an eyesore. Ogreâs aggression towards his wife escalated. The beatings were increasingly savage and came with regularity.
Ogre hardly acknowledged his wifeâs third pregnancy. Ogre needed a son to inherit the business and he would kill his wife if she had another girl.
A third daughter was born. Bertha was healthy and sturdy. The woman knew she had to leave before she was murdered in her sleep. Unable to provide for them, she was heartbroken at having to leave her girls behind. She slipped her wedding band off, poked it into the seam of her infantâs ragdoll, and disappeared into the night.
Ogre was astounded to learn his wife had abandoned them. He kept the girls though, to keep his RV straight and make his meals. Threats and fear held them captive. As they grew, each girl was assigned a task within the familyâs construction business.
Beautiful but dimwitted, Bella earned her keep by traveling to distant towns and attracting strong, young men to work for Ogre. Elena, dowdy yet brilliant, was the companyâs accountant. Unusually strong, Bertha was the Ogreâs mule. She spent her days on the construction site digging post-holes for fencing.
One morning as she returned from town, Bella noticed an unmarked path leading off the road. Curious, she followed it and found a clearing filled with wildflowers. In the center sat a tree trunk as large as a silo. At the base of the oversized stump was a bright red door and a sign that read: Tree Teller.
Bella tucked a copper colored lock of hair behind her ear and knocked. A willowy woman answered and invited her in. The girl explained she was traveling by, saw the stump, and wondered what a Tree Teller was. The woman explained that she was a reader of palms, a teller of truths. A Teller who lived in a tree. The girl asked the Teller to read her palms.
The woman explained she would read for a piece of gold. Having no gold, the girl thanked her went on her way. Bella recounted her adventure to her sisters. At the mention of the fee of gold, Bertha reached into her cleavage and extracted a gold ring hanging from a ribbon sheâd tied around her neck.
âWhere did you get that?â her sisters cried. Bertha pointed at the battered, old ragdoll her mother had left her. Sheâd found the ring inside years ago. Knowing it belonged to their mother, she wore it close to her heart. The next day, the sisters snuck away to see the Tree Teller. The woman welcomed them in and read their palms.
To beautiful Bella she said, âDo not believe everything the ogres of this world say. You are lovely and kind. You have the ingenuity to put your good looks to work. Do not believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Make it so.â
To the intelligent Elena she said, âYou are a remarkably smart girl, but you lack common sense. You will hold yourself back from future success if you let yourself be physically ridiculed. Acknowledge and embrace your brains and beauty. Take pride in your poise and appearance. Do not let the ogres tell you otherwise. Make it so.â
To able-bodied Bertha she said, âYou are hardworking. Do not take orders from ogres. You are capable and clever. You were born a protector. You have the strength and cunning to rid the world of ogres. Make it so.â
As the girls thanked the Tree Teller, Bertha reached into her blouse with a tentative hand. She pulled out the gold ring and offered it to the woman in payment. Tears swelled in the Tree Tellerâs pale blue eyes. The girls saw not only the Tree Tellerâs tears, but her recognition. Bertha was the first to regain her emotional equilibrium because the Tree Teller grabbed her broad shoulders in a vice-like grip. Icey eyes now ablaze, the Tree Teller implored Bertha, âMake. It. So.â
When they returned, Ogre was furious at the sistersâ unexcused absence from their construction site and demanded to know where theyâd been. Ogre called Bella stupid and backhanded her when she lied. Ogre called Elena an ugly liar as his fist connected with her cheekbone. He didnât bother asking Bertha because he knew she wouldnât answer. He took a swing at her, but Bertha caught his wrist in her hand. She deftly bent it backwards and dropped him to the ground. Ogre cried out in pain and astonishment.
âYou will never hurt any of us ever again,â Bertha hissed. Her well-directed kick audibly cracked his ribs. Bertha was quick to grab a nearby post-hole digger. She straddled Ogre and held the tool high above her head. With precision and control, she plunged the clamshell deep into Ogreâs chest and extracted his callous heart. Bertha made it so.
The sisters, now free of Ogre and reunited with their mother, sold the construction business. They relocated to a fabulous city and lived happily ever after.
30 Sunday Oct 2016
Posted Flash Fiction
inTags
I recently entered a Flash Fiction contest and Katie asked to read my submission, so here it is my friend. It’s goofy, no doubt. This was my first attempt at Flash Fiction – bear with me. This contest requires writing a 1,000 word story with assigned elements and submitting it in 48 hours.
(P.S. – The contest is still happening. I miraculously received points on my first entry, but have no unrealistic expectations of making it much further. And that’s ok. I was elated to have received any points at all on my first attempt.)
My assignment: In no more than 1,000 words, write a story in the “Crime Caper” genre that is set in a bicycle shop and includes a glass eye at some point. You have 48 hours – GO!
Quick Change
    Tally estimated the alarms had been blaring for three minutes. She held her backpack up to another display case and swept the items off the shelf into her bag.
    âWeâve gotta finish this up and get out now,â she yelled at Joe.
    âI know, I know.â His backpack was bulging. âThatâs enough. Iâm sure itâs even more than McNally hoped for. Letâs go.â
    The couple slipped out the backdoor and into the alley. Their heavy packs bucked and bounced against their backs as they sprinted down the block.
    Out of breath, Tally burst through the backdoor of Benjaminâs Bargain Bikes and into the cluttered workshop. Joe was right behind her, urging her forward and out of his way.
    âWeâve got maybe ten minutes until the cops start scouring the area. We need to change as fast as we can and get the hell out of here,â he said. A glance back down the alleyway confirmed they hadnât been followed, so he bolted the door. âI canât believe I let you talk me into this.â
    âItâs going to be fine. Trust me,â she said. âBenjamin, weâre here,â Tally hollered toward the show room as she shrugged off the small but heavy backpack.
    âYou donât have to yell,â Ben shouted back. âEverything you asked for is in the supply closet, Tally.â
    Dodging dismantled bike frames, Tally hurried to the closet. Joe wasnât ready for it when she tossed a set cycling clothes at him. The garments hit him the chest and landed in a heap on the greasy floor. He grimaced.
     âIâm going to get dressed in here,â she said and shut herself inside.
     âWhy? I see you naked every day.â
     âWell, Benjamin doesnât,â she said.
     Joe took off his clothes and stashed them in a barrel of used gear lubricant. He grabbed the bike shorts off the floor and looked at them, unamused. âThis is not going to happen. My ass is not going to fit in these shorts, Tally. We donât have time for games! Shit.â
    âMake it work,â Tally said. âWe need to look like recreational bicyclists. Itâs the fastest way to get across town and make the delivery to McNally.â
    After wrangling herself into the cycling attire, Tally emerged from the closet in a neon-yellow outfit that clung tight in all the right places. Joe however, was going to split a seam if he took too deep a breath. Both of their shirts sported Benjaminâs triple-B logo in the largest possible font.
    âHow do I look?â Tally waggled her hips at Joe and twirled.
    âCould you be any more conspicuous?â Joe blurted. âNeon is going to draw everyoneâs attention and once they see you in that getup they wonât be able to take their eyes off you.â Joe turned toward the sales floor, âBenjamin, are kidding me?! These shirts have your logo on them, are you trying to implicate yourself? Shit.â
    âNo, man. Itâs advertisinâ,â Benjamin said. âYowza Miss Tally, youâre lookinâ fine.â His toothy grin was overshadowed by the hollowed out socket of his right eye.
    âThanks Benny Boy,â Tally said in a falsetto, punctuated with a seductive wink.
    An involuntary shiver shot up Joeâs spine when he looked at Ben. âJesus H. Christ,â he muttered. âBenjamin! How many times do I have to tell you that I cannot look at you when you look like that? Where the hell is your eye? Put it back in for Christâs sake. And whatâs with Tallyâs clothes? Sheâs going to stand out like a bikini model on a giraffe hunt.â
    âThatâs the idea,â Ben said. He fished a glass eye out of his jeans pocket and popped it into his mouth as if it were an oversized gumball. After sufficiently lubing it, he slipped it into his face. Tally laughed when Joe cringed. Ben massaged his eye with the heel of his hand, âCops wonât be lookinâ for people ridinâ bikes down the street, âspecially a sexy one thatâs attractinâ attention. Theyâll be lookinâ for shady hoodlums lurkinâ in the alleyways. Whyâd anyone want to hunt giraffe?â
    âBecause theyâre idiots,â Tally said strapping on a shoe. âYou do look good in those shorts, Hot Stuff. That crotch padding is really flattering on you.â She gave Joe an affectionate pat on the butt as she went to grab their packs. She slipped them into larger bags embellished with the BBB logo.
    âYeah. Right,â said Joe. He snatched a bag from Tally and slung it over his shoulders. âLetâs get a move on.â
    The two bikes Benjamin had prepped for them were parked on the sales floor. As they fastened helmets and adjusted seat heights, the bell attached to the front door jangled. They turned their heads in unison, but did not react in the slightest as two police officers made their way toward the sales counter.
    âThereâs been a robbery a few shops up. Whoâs the owner of this store? We have some questions,â one of the policemen said.
   âI am sir. Iâll be right with you.â Benjamin made a production of thanking Joe and Tally for their dedicated patronage and held the front door open so they could wheel their bikes out. Tally thanked him for his stellar customer service. One of the cops whistled his approval of Tallyâs outfit as the couple exited the store. Tally smirked at Joe.
    Outside, she pouted in her falsetto, âYou may owe our Benny an apology.â Mischief shined in her eyes as she mounted her bike, âOur silly disguises seem to have worked after all.â   Â
   âYou may be right,â said Joe, relieved to be out of the shop. âBy the way, that cop might have been whistling at me, you know.â Joe pushed away from the curb.
    She admired his butt as he pedaled off. His shirt was riding up and his ass crack was visible just above the waistline of his bike shorts. She couldnât help but smile. Maybe he was, Hot Stuff. Maybe he was.
13 Friday May 2016
Posted Skin Cancer
inHappy Lucky Friday the 13th
My close friend considers Friday the 13th her lucky day because it was the day she was adopted. Today it is my lucky day too. After a week of waiting, and five excruciating minutes on hold this morning with the Dermâs office (long enough for my brain to conjure up all sorts of horrible scenarios), I got confirmation that the mole biopsy âwas normal and no further treatment is necessary.â Could they not have called me sooner? Iâm not a fan of the âno news is good newsâ philosophy. I need confirmation. I need a live person to tell me all is well. And it would be nice if they could tell me sooner than later. It would be nice if THEY would call ME. All that of wait and worry for nothing, but I AM grateful. And lucky. OK, I rambled a lot yesterday, so Iâll keep this post short.
Have a lucky Friday the 13th and always wear your sunscreen. đ
Â
12 Thursday May 2016
Posted Basal Cell Carcinoma, Humor, Melanoma, Skin Cancer
inTags
My PSA for the month: Wear your sunscreen!
To date, I have only ever had basal cell carcinoma (BCC) skin cancers. As skin cancer goes, this is the best kind. It isnât deadly, but does have the potential to be disfiguring if left untreated. So far Iâve been lucky, the worst of my disfigurement is a 4-inch scar on my back. A battle scar. A conversation starter (Wear your sunscreen!). It could have been worse â Iâve had two removed from my lower eyelid, but luckily I found them early and had a great Mohs surgeon. No visible scars under my eye – whew.
This started in my early 30s. Iâm now in my 40s and it has become somewhat of a normality. I see my dermatologist at least twice a year and he regularly freezes off offending spots. Now and then there is a biopsy for something suspicious. In total, Iâve had six BCCs and several atypical moles. So far, so good. Youâd think Iâd be completely blasĂ© about it by now, and I usually am when it comes to biopsies for BCC. But when the Derm does a biopsy on a mole, I live for a week or so with that nagging feeling of impending melanoma doom. Biopsy Bingo â do I have the winning number this time? Or should I call it the losing number?
I had a checkup last week. He froze a spot on my ear, as I expected he would. What I did not expect was for him to decide to biopsy a mole on my calf. A mole weâd talked about before. One that he previously didnât see a problem with, but now decided he didnât like. Humph. That was a week ago this morning. I am guessing that itâs fine, because if it were bad they wouldâve called me right away. Right?
I hate weeks like this. I tend to brood and go a little crazy. Waiting for a BCC result doesn’t bother me anymore. Getting an early detection, positive BCC biopsy result is like finding out you need a root canal. It will be a short term hassle and a tad painful, but not a huge deal. In fact, I would argue that a root canal is worse than Mohs for an early detected (smallish) BCC. That has been my experience anyway. However, waiting for the result of an abnormal mole biopsy is another thing. An abnormal mole could be melanoma (Bingo!). Itâs like holding a lit match that you cannot drop and waiting with trepidation to see if the flame goes out before it gets to your fingers. If youâre lucky, it will. So far my matches have burned themselves out. But deep down I know that one of these days Iâll get burned. And so I sit here waiting to see if I this is the week I will feel a singe.
Coincidentally, May is Melanoma Awareness Month. There are plenty of articles online waiting to scare the shit out of me. Plenty of skin cancer blogs for me to ponder over when Iâm bored and waiting for the call. Melanoma Girl, a blogger I have followed for several years now, passed away a few weeks ago. Although she ultimately succumbed to ovarian cancer, she had melanoma first and ran an amazing awareness campaign. SPF = Sexy Pale Female. It was brilliant. She was only 45.
For my own sanity, I wonât wait much longer. If I donât hear from the Derm today, Iâll call first thing tomorrow. Even though I KNOW they would have already called if it were bad news, I canât spend another weekend with that little nagging worry. I mean, itâs supposed to be 104Ë here in Phoenix! Perfect for lying out by the pool and getting a little sunâŠfrom under my umbrella. đ
Donât forgetâŠwear your sunscreen! Be proud of your SPF!