*Between the Tocks

Intro: I know this isn't a true flash fiction story. I still hope you enjoy it even though it doesn't really end.

When time resumed, Stephen was three months older and twice as wealthy. He was now the oldest of his high school class by five years. His ten year reunion was soon and he didn't to go. The bag of stolen crown jewels was stashed under his bed where it would remain until he had time to take it down to the vault.

It always bothered him that when he stopped time, he still had to sleep. He was extra tired when time started again. While moving through the clicking of the clock, it strained his muscles against the seconds, like swimming in molasses.

The flickering light of the answering machine held his sleep at bay. Stephen pressed the button and grimaced when an all too familiar voice spoke.

“Hey Steve. This is Kevin, from high school. I don't know if you remember me, but we were hoping you would be coming to the reunion tomorrow.”

Stephen covered his eyes with his arm, “Wait for it.”

“There's to be a tribute for Celeste and we were hoping you would be able say something.”

“You never listened to me when we were in school.”

“You'll be speaking at six-thirty tomorrow night.”

Using his foot, Stephen shoved the answering machine off the bedside table with his foot. It crashed to the floor and the voice stopped. Satisfied, Stephen kicked his shoes off and pulled the comforter up, falling into a fitful sleep. Celeste was in the dream, she was always in the dream. She was as beautiful as ever but her skin was the pale white, how it was before the leukemia finished its course.

The alarm clock went off at six the next morning. Even with late nights, he hated sleeping in late. Sleep took up too much time, he had better things to do with with his life, like make himself rich. He made himself some pancakes and then took a relaxing shower. When he was dressed, he took the bag of jewels to his basement, where the vault was kept.

All of his spoils were neatly organized. It took him an hour to get everything organized and then he left quickly, the sight of all of them made him angry. He could never provide for her when she was alive and now he could save her in more ways than one. The door slammed shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.

The afternoon he spent reading, he never watched the news because there was never anything interesting on. He was reading Winston Churchill's biography but set it down after a few hours and picked up his book to make sure that he was still making all of the signs right. The occult symbols always shifted in his memory if he didn't study every day.

As he was eating lunch there was another phone call. Since the answering machine was broken, Stephen reluctantly answered the phone.

“Yes?”

“Steve, is that you? This is Kevin.”

“What do you want Kevin?”

“We'll everyone's here at the reunion, we were hoping you could make it.”

“You want me there to make a speech.”

“That was what we were hoping for.” Kevin kept his voice light, but Stephen could hear some of the old underlying haughtiness.

Stephen didn't bother to keep the contempt from his voice, “Why me?”

“Because for some odd reason, Celeste chose you. Since this is the tenth year of her death, we thought we would have the person who was with her most do the tribute.”

A plan began to form in Stephen's mind, and he smiled to himself, “I'll be there in time, don't worry.”

After he hung up, Stephen dressed all in black, something he didn't normal do, when no one can sees him there, there is no point to dress in theatrics.

At six thirty, Stephen pricked his finger and carefully drew the segmented circle on the palm of his hand. When it was difficult to breathe, he knew it had worked. It was a two hour walk to the old high school and he was tired when he got there. He took a couple of minutes to try and catch his breath, it never worked well. He moved up to the front of the auditorium. Kevin was there, looking slightly distressed as he stood in front of a screen showing a picture of Celeste. Stephen noted absently that he had been cropped out of the picture.

When he was positioned next to Kevin he completed finished the occult and relished the look of surprise on everyone's face. No one ever showed him any respect, except Celeste.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. I am pleased to be the one to give the tribute this year.”

Everyone was staring at him. His hair was prematurely gray and he had lost weight. They weren't what he was expecting. He took advantage of that.

“Celeste was killed because a monster took over her life. Something that I would now like to show you.”

For the first time in his life, Stephen was glad he'd been cursed.

Meetings, Meetings, and more Meetings

I don’t do well in meetings that require me to sit quietly for more than half an hour, forty minutes tops. Short attention span doesn’t even cover it. Church is okay because it has a lot of variety and a lot of it I find interesting. Work meetings are another matter. Maybe if I got to sing “Head Shoulders Knees and Toes” in the middle of them I would have a different opinion.

I truly enjoy my job but it requires attending a lot of meetings that don’t always apply to me. It just looks good to have my name on the roll because something might possibly be discussed that I need to know. When that something does come up, great, I take a note. When it doesn’t, I wish to bang my head on the desk so I’ll fall unconscious and the meeting will end faster.

For a while I had so many meetings I could barely get work done. I even had meetings preparing for other meetings. I still can’t figure those ones out. Why on earth would I have to meet with a group to discuss what we’ll talk about in the next meeting? My manager at the time thought they were great. The manager would take notes and then tell everyone in the next meeting everything we had done, but we were still expected to go. That way, if anyone asked a question, we would be able to answer. I wouldn’t have minded if I didn’t have to be there. Someone reporting for me is great.

I like to talk. That is part of the same problem. I don’t think about what I’m saying. I go to all kinds of meetings, and since I am not really paying attention, when I’m asked a question, all kinds of random information comes out. There are days I wonder why people still invite me places. I feel like the Shel Silverstein poem “If you have to dry the dishes.” Maybe I’ll say something so off I’ll no longer be invited to meetings.

Funny Note:
In my Monday meeting, I was busy drawing elephants (see my Flash Fiction story this week if you’re wondering why). I would’ve felt bad, except my manager was sitting next to me and kept complimenting me as he watched me draw.

*Edgar the Elephant

Intro: The idea for this story came from my husband. When I started writing this I had some great mental images of poor little Edgar. I like the idea of this eventually becoming a picture book. I may take that on as the next project in my art class. I hope that you enjoy the story. Yes, Edgar is an Elephant.

On Edgar the Elephant's second assignment from work, he realized he'd been insane to apply. The first assignment went smoothly enough. He picked up his assigned package and started the journey to Cambodia. Glad he would see more of the world than the small African savannah he'd lived in his whole life, he trudged along, taking in the scenery.

One of his co-workers flew by, “Hey, Edgar. Pick it up if you want the package to make it on time.” There was a chirping chortle and then he was out of sight.

Edgar didn't let it bother him. He kept moving knowing he would get there eventually. When he reached the coast of Somalia, he used his trunk and held the precious bundle in the air as he swam. It was difficult to keep going, but by swimming, Edgar shaved a couple of weeks off his time.

Tired and bedraggled, he finally reached the small hut in Phnom Penh. A fence, he wasn't expecting, was accidentally crushed as he tiptoed up to the window. The noise from the splintering wood brought eager faces to the window. A lone tree in the yard offered him a little cover, the darkness helped with the rest. The two young children only watched for a few minutes before they turned away.

More nervous then ever, Edgar crept around the small hut until he found a room with a crude crib in one corner. Very carefully, the package was place in the crib and as he drew his trunk back, he knocked a small chair over. The racket woke the infant and Edgar crouched down by the side of the house, covering his face with his ears, as people ran into the room. While the occupants were busy admiring the new addition to their family, Edgar crawled away and headed home.

He was too tired to swim so he went by land. By the time he made it back to Kenya, he realized maybe his co-worker was right.

The dispatcher motioned to another package, Anchorage Alaska. Edgar swallowed as the dispatcher cawed. The package squirmed and Edgar realized he had made a wrong choice. S.T.O.R.C (Speedy Transportation of Children) was not for him. He couldn't do this job, no matter how much he wanted to. With great reluctance, he turned in his resignation. As he left, a wiser yet somber elephant, he thought through everything on his dream job list. As he mentally checked off the STORK job, he smiled to himself.

“It's a little warm here, maybe I should try Santa's little helper now.” He went back in and picked up the package, figuring he could drop her off on the way to North Pole.

Ka-thunk! (And other words not to say)

I mentioned earlier than my friend and I took a trip to Oregon over spring break one year (30 Sept 09). We weren’t use to the coastal road and didn’t feel comfortable going the speed limit through the curves. (At this point we knew that the shoulder was non-existent at some points.)

At one point there was a fellow tailgating us and my friend found a place to pull off to the side so the annoyance behind us could pass. From my perspective in the passenger seat, I saw there was a six inch difference between the road and the shoulder. The only word that came to mind as she pulled off was “Ka-thunk!”
Continuing to pull off she asked, “What?”
Ka-thunk!
“Oh.”

Apparently my sound effect of what was going to happen wasn’t a good thing to say in warning. Although, between the two of us, that works just fine. If one of us says ka-thunk while the other is driving we know what is going to happen.

I must be bad luck. People tend to run red lights when I am in the car. Because of the multiple experiences I’ve had I have learned a few things not to say when warning people of red lights.

Main Street, two in the morning.
Me: “Um. . .”
Driver: “Hmm?”
Me, as we pass under the red light: “That was red.”
Driver: “Whoops.”

First East, night.
Me, pointing wildly: “Ahh, ahh, ahh”
Driver: “What?”
Me, as we pass under the red light: “That was red.”

Center Street, night.
Me: “Red. Red.”
Driver: “Red?”
Me, as we pass under the red light: “Red light.”
Driver, slamming on the breaks: “Shucks.”

Fourteen North, early evening.
Me: “Red light, red light.”
Driver: “Where?”
Me and driver as we see a bus coming into the intersection: “Oh dear.”
Me and driver coming out of intersection, unharmed: “gulp”

First west, afternoon.
Me: “Stop. Red light.”
Driver: “Oh. Thanks.”

It only took five times to get it right. Now I know and I am passing on that valuable information to you. Say stop.