Fiction

 I stretched my aching shoulders and back, waiting in baggage claim for my sticker-covered suitcase to join the others from the four-hour flight from Knoxville to Phoenix. Dad’s wife Jolene texted me the previous morning, confirming what I already knew.

“Dad is getting worse. The doctor said it’s time to call the kids in. Come as soon as possible. "

The strongest man I know had been in the hospital for a week. His seventy-year-old body filled with fluid, causing excruciating pain and cognitive issues. Doctors removed some fluid with Lasix, allowing him to regain use of his faculties, but the excess fluid surrounding his heart and lungs remained a threat to his life. His last words to me the day before left me feeling hollow and helpless.

                        “I don’t think I’m going to make it out of this one, kiddo.” His voice was a raspy whisper. Fear gripped him, and I feared for him. 

                        “Guess who!” a perky voice sang while simultaneously placing cold, bony fingers over both my eyes. The smell of beer on her breath was a dead giveaway.

We have never been close. Our parents divorced when I was eight and she was twelve. They gave us the choice of which parent we wanted to live with. I chose Dad in Wyoming. My sister chose Mom in New Mexico. 

Years later, over cold beers on a sultry Texas night, Dad sheepishly confessed that Shanda was his favorite.

“It’s a firstborn thing.” He said with a knowing wink and an unapologetic shrug of his flannel-clad shoulders.

                        “You treated us differently. I knew a long time ago,” I say dismissively. Stealthily avoiding a conflict by bottling up my own emotions.

There was no way I could compete with Shanda’s bubbly, extroverted nature, angelic gorgeousness, wavy blonde hair, and piercing light blue eyes. I was an awkward introverted tomboy with straight, mousy hair and eyes the color of shit. While she was Dad’s pampered princess, I was his dependable helper buddy. She wanted braces, and she got them, creating her dazzling smile as an adult. I wanted braces too. I can still whistle through the gap in my two front teeth. 

                        “I’ve rented a car.” She declared as she locked arms with mine, pulling me along like we were besties.

                        “Need me to drive?” Her arm tensed before she jerked away.

                         “I had a few beers while I was waiting, and you are giving me hell about it. It’s five o’clock somewhere and in case you’ve forgotten, our dad is dying!” 

                        “I don’t mind driving and it’s only 9 a.m.,” I spouted facetiously, holding my hand out for her keys as we approached a blue Nissan. The hatchback opened slowly, and we angrily threw our luggage inside.

                        “Fuck you!” My sister yelled as she clambered into the driver’s seat. Reluctantly, I slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. 

We remained silent until we pulled into the crowded hospital parking lot.

                        “See, I do it all the time. A few beers are nothing.” She bragged.

                        “That’s a skill to be proud of,” I retorted, trying to hurt her with my words as I watched her touch her phone to a disc implanted on her scrawny bicep that monitored glucose. 

                        “You got fat.” She blurted, trying to hurt me with her words. It worked. My eyes met hers. I saw the look of triumph on her face. We both knew I wouldn’t fight back. I will always back down. 

We found Dad with his heart doctor in room 404. He recognized us instantly. Dr. Bishop announced that recognition was an excellent sign and gave us an explanation of what had happened since his admittance.

“Ladies, your dad is not out of the woods yet. He needs to quit drinking if he wants to live.”

Defensively, Shanda replied, “He knows his limits,” her bloodshot eyes narrowed at the doctor, who then turned to me.

    “His life depends on quitting right away.” Bishop’s scolding made his point crystal clear.

                        “I understand.” I looked over to my once indestructible, fearless dad, attached to multiple machines beeping and chirping rhythmically as they kept him alive. “Do you understand what he is saying, Dad?” He looked at me with sorrowful, exhausted eyes, and then at Shanda.

                        “He’s a grown man and can make his own decisions. Isn’t that right, Dad?” Shanda proclaimed, bending her skeletal frame as she kissed his wrinkled forehead.

                        “That’s right Princess,” he breathlessly whispered through dry, cracked lips. “I believe I’ll have another.”

 I entered this 100-word story in a contest. Prompts were historical fiction, stumble, and tour. I placed 19th out of many more, but didn't advance any further.

Fenway Park was the ideal venue for George's season tour finale. Poised and focused, the southpaw stared down Cleveland's skinny pitcher, silently provoking him to throw a strong pitch. The sound of the impact filled the space, followed by George falling hard to the ground. Within seconds, he bounced back onto his feet, grimacing and shooting a menacing stare at his aggressor as he stumbled towards first base. Filled with fury, the pitcher seethed,

 “That’s for screwing my wife, George!”

Babe Ruth rocked back on his heals with laughter and shouted back,

“Sorry, Marvin! I thought she was your mother!”

            I entered this in a 100- word contest with the prompts horror, rumbled and paper. I placed 9th out of many, but did not advance any further in the competition.

Maggie was looking at a dead man. The graffitied metal boxcar began to fill with the down and out just before dark and the oversized tweed suit covering a wrinkled bag of bones remained motionless as they rumbled solemnly through the night. The train’s brakes screeched as Maggie pilfered through tweed pockets finding only holes. His grey head rested on a jacket that she jerked away revealing a folded yellow stained paper. Maggie greedily wrapped herself in the jacket grateful for its warmth. A lighter flick revealed words that chilled her soul. Hi Maggie, now it’s your turn to play.

Here is the story/book/series I have been hinting about. Enjoy and feel free to leave feedback.

Washing dishes was girl’s work, and Caleb made sure his mother knew how he felt about it, slamming each dish into the dishwasher after barely pretending to rinse them first. After all, why should he have to wash the dishes before they were washed? That’s what the dishwasher was for.

“You better not break a single dish, young man, or you will replace it with your own money. I’m tired of your attitude!” his mother yelled from her bedroom. Caleb could smell her perfume and knew she was getting ready to go out. Again.

Tomorrow marked two years since Victor Carlson had walked out the front door and never come back. A missing persons report had been filed with the local police. Caleb stared out the window, looking at nothing, replaying the memory of the two uniformed officers standing in their living room, questioning his mother. They had smelled of burned coffee and stale cigarettes. When the short, fat officer was introduced to Caleb, he had quickly shaken the boy’s hand, making it a point not to look him in the eye. Why was that? Caleb had wondered.

Could she think of anywhere Victor might have gone? His mom had laid it on thick, swooning onto a kitchen chair, claiming to be too distraught to answer. Had there been any problems in their marriage—financial or otherwise? Had he left because of a fight? Veronica had answered no to both.

“Th-th-that’s not t-t-true,” Caleb had blurted out, feeling his mother’s stare burning through him. “Th-th-they f-fight all th-the t-t-time.”

“We don’t fight, honey,” Mom had said coolly. “We communicate. Sometimes, we’re passionate, and voices are raised. But I’m sure these fine officers know more about communication than a fourteen-year-old stuttering boy.”

She had eyed the two officers like they were her next meal. Dragging her pink tongue across freshly applied lipstick, she had bent over, pretending to pick up something from the floor. Her mini skirt had slid higher, exposing more than just her hips. The officers had stared for an eternity before chubby had nudged slim, throats had been cleared, and it had been decided that no further questions were needed. They had never asked Caleb where he thought his dad had gone. If they had, he would have told them: as far away from this place as possible. Caleb wished he could go too.

“Finish those dishes and clean the spider webs out of that window if you want to go play with your little Indian friend,” Veronica said, poking him in the back with a long painted nail. “I refuse to raise a slob!”

Caleb wanted to remind her that he was the one who did all the cooking and cleaning while she went out and partied like Victor had never existed. She could be gone for days, and when she returned, she would be drunk, disheveled, and belligerent. Caleb had become an expert at getting her calmed down, cleaned up, and tucked into bed. He would wash her clothes, which stank of piss and beer, folding them neatly and placing them back in her closet.

That’s where he had found it. His ticket out of this shitbox. A dark yellow envelope with a single sheet of dingy white paper folded neatly inside. Once unfolded, the paper had revealed a map. Carefully taped to the back of that map was a tiny red key.

He had hidden the map in a hole he had cut into his mattress, alongside the Playboy magazines and handcuffs he’d found in the very same closet. If his mother had noticed anything missing, she had never mentioned it. And he was glad for it.

He had plans. Big plans. And he was about to make them a reality. He bowed his head in obedience and continued washing and planning.