Semi-Daily Scribbles

Tucked under the eaves of the rundown Victorian on the corner of 3rd and Landon, a nest sat vacant of swallows for decades. A permanent tenant moved into the space, and birds avoided  flying too close. The nest was no longer home to eggs and chicks, but it was far from empty.  A thorough inventory revealed four RC Cola bottle caps, a Black Jack Gum wrapper, the Monopoly  iron, a torn picture of a fairy princess asleep on a mushroom, and a frayed, pink grosgrain ribbon flecked with rust-colored stains. Perhaps a swallow purloined the items and brought them back to the keep. It is a plausible supposition. But only small birds flying in close would be able to sense the chill and electricity come through the wall behind the nest. There was no rest to be had in the little hidden spot. Not when eager hands emerged from shade and mist to touch the treasures of childhood.

Maude sat in the stuffy broom closet and listened to the conversation out in the hallway. She cracked the door ever so slightly to watch the action unfold. Clyde and Emma stopped talking. They were locked in a silent showdown. Their toes and noses touched, but it didn't look like a tender, intimate moment to Maude. Clyde and Emma were purple in the face, and Maude wondered if their respiratory systems had shut down. As she watched in silence, eerie silence, Maude brought her hand up to her face to smother a snort. She'd forgotten to breathe. Clyde and Emma turned toward the broom closet. The slap-thwap of snapped roundwound strings filled the hospital corridor. The sound was loud and made Maude jump backwards into a mop bucket. Not before, however, she saw her colleagues' bodies twist violently to the side, while their heads remained in profile, nose-to-nose. Clyde and Emma shuffled in unison toward Maude's hideout. She fumbled behind her in the dark for anything pointed and sharp.

The man across the aisle smelled of boiled asparagus. It was not a good sign. I was in fear of the journey before the train pulled out of the station. Once we'd gotten underway, the stench, combined with constant motion, jogged images hidden at the back of my brain. It was the dream from the night before. My heart pounded in my ears, and my breath came in labored bursts. I ran with all the speed I could muster. Decay blew in on the wind, and then I saw the women. They wore diaphanous silver gowns. Their long hair was the color of day-old blood. The women were 10 feet tall. They flew above my head. Some circled me, which threw off my balance. Others nipped at the heels of my bare feet. Their yellow teeth were long and pointed. The ringleader dropped down in front of me and I staggered backwards. She had to be the boss. Slashes and gouges across her forehead spelled out the word Queen.

"You thought it was seasonal affective disorder, didn't you?" The Queen of the Unseen asked the question in a basso profundo that made my skeleton vibrate.

"It's what the doctor told me. I stick my head in a box every day."

"Does it help?" I didn't know how to answer. I hopped around to keep the biters off my tired dogs.

"It's a living," I replied.

"It's a living what? Oh dear, we expected so much more from you. Do stop fidgeting. My trainees will not get their pound of flesh if you continue with that ridiculous dance."

"Ah, that's the other thing the doctor told me."

"What would that be?" The Queen was restless. She bit her fingers and spat them on the ground. My gut knew she would hate what I had to say, but truth likes to make unannounced house calls. I cleared my throat.

"She told me demons would come to collect my bones if I didn't do this ridiculous dance." I quickened my step. I jumped. I kicked. I clicked my heels in quick succession.

"Stop!" The Queen of the Unseen screamed her demand two full octaves above high C. It hurt. It also had the nippers on the run. I stomped, I strutted, I cartwheeled my way out of a sticky situation. As I put distance between me and sheer lunacy, I doubted the need to keep my head boxed up any longer. I could dance. That much was true. As long as I moved my body, my mind would stay out of trouble. I got up from my seat after the dream faded, and I walked from car to car on the westbound train for home.

She ate nothing but grapefruit and sunflower seeds, yet Lettie's clothes no longer fit. No fat, no flour, no fun. It flummoxed her how 15 pounds could have crept up and wrapped fleshy tentacles around her belly. Lettie looked in the full-length mirror and sobbed. Chunky and frumpy were not the results she expected from her sister-in-law's miracle diet. Lettie pinched her middle and groaned. She followed the daily menu to the letter. Hell, it was easy. Grapefruit, sunflower seeds, coffee, tea, water. No syrupy sodas or juice. Lettie blew her nose and went downstairs. It was time to eat. She grabbed a plate, a spoon, and a large plastic tumbler and set the table. Meal preparation had become so routine Lettie didn't have to think as she reached into the pantry for a package of hulled seeds. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of red grapefruit and a pitcher of tea. Lettie walked slowly back to the table. She plopped down on the wooden kitchen chair a little harder than usual and spread the victuals out before her. Lettie poured the tea and sighed as she looked at her dinner companion. The porcelain cat sugar bowl stared back at her, unblinking. Lettie lifted its head off, tilted the squat body, and watched as a delicate stream of crystals filled her cup.

The Gardens was hard to find. People stood in lines outside the wrong building all the time. We got there as the beer man pulled up. Snuck in behind him. The club was flooded. Cables were all over the floor in puddles of piss and rainwater. We laughed about getting electrocuted. We didn't laugh when the bartender handed us mops and a bucket. Said we were lucky he didn't throw us out. If we got the place cleaned up before the doors opened, we didn't have to pay cover. Seemed fair, but after a 9-hour drive I was kind of loopy. Didn't expect janitor duties. When the band came on stage, I was so tired I didn't give the mop back. Used it to prop myself up the rest of the night. My memory of that show is fuzzy. None of us knew it was the last time they'd ever play. I can tell you one thing, though. It took forever for my sneakers to dry. Never could get rid of the smell of sewage.

The envelope didn't fit. The slot was too narrow. Amanda cursed her inability to get to the point, keep things short, say what she meant to say. Most of the letter was an apology. Well, mostly a long explanation why she wasn't coming to Easter dinner, and then the apology. Work was hell. Two of her sales associates quit without notice, and Amanda had to cover the floor as well as stay on top of her managerial duties. She hadn't had a weekend off in months, and didn't know if she'd make it to Teddy's graduation, or the reunion over the 4th. Amanda's daily roster was filled with gaps, and she was the only person who could do more than one task at work. It got to the point where she even had to be in two places at once. Amanda resented how the words overworked and underpaid described her life. She had so many plans. That's why there were so many lilac-tinted pages inside the envelope. Amanda went into detail about two of her stalled projects, and how there was much to prepare in the next few weeks. Her mind wandered for a moment as she felt the key to her storage unit tucked between the folds of the stationery. Amanda flattened and pressed and guided the packet through the slit until it disappeared, then panicked when she heard it hit the bottom of the letter box. She'd forgotten to include Mandy's phone number. Her family would need to get in contact with Mandy. Amanda sighed as she hurried back to the shop. She hoped there were stamps in the desk drawer. She needed to write another letter.

Peter is trapped inside a Monday of indeterminate length. Each floor of the fortress entices with its own formula for survival. It is difficult to know which corridor needs footsteps, but Peter accepts what cannot be retracted. He sees red and yellow doors line the halls. Now is not the time to run. What is done is done until it becomes undone, and the unknown is fixed in its ways. Peter spends all the riches he will ever earn. In this sense, the curvature of his world is constant. Change hides behind red and yellow. Red or yellow. There is always a door which must be swung open. Peter's outstretched hand trembles.