That shocking proposal

Posted on April 18, 2013 by admin

Here’s another Belinda Blue Brown episode draft. The more of these I write, the more loose ends there will be to clean up when I pull them together into one document. I hope you enjoy that I’m sharing a bit of the writing process here. In the end, I don’t know if the whole project will be a keeper, but that’s part of the fun.

That Shocking Proposal

My friend Velda Sue, well, she goes by Suzette now, and since we haven’t spoken in, oh, thirty years and since I only heard about her plight third-hand, I don’t suppose you could say she’s my friend anymore. But, jeeze, we’ve known each other since we were tykes runnin’ barefoot in black earth that seemed a whole lot moister way back when, you know. Oh, that dirt. It smelled so good we didn’t just make mud pies, we tried eatin’ ‘em out in my backyard one day. And my mama, she came out to hang laundry on the line and saw that mud all around our mouths, and us chewin’ up a storm.

She hauled us inside, stripped off our clothes and dumped us in the tub real quick, nothin’ harsh about it though. She was speedy but never the punishing’ type, thank goodness. Neither was Velda Sue’s mom. They lived right across the street from us, so it wasn’t long before Velda Sue’s mom came over, and the two of them were laughin’ about our mud pies over Sanka coffee in the kitchen and my mom’s special-recipe pound cake that tasted a whole lot better than mud, come to think of it.

And when Velda Sue and I were gettin’ bored splashin’ in the tub, it was her mom who came in, gave us each a good scrubbin’ and dressed us in matching sundresses, and told us to play inside for a while, at least until our dads came home from the Good Days Bakery, where they both worked as supervisors—my dad in the cookie department, and her dad in the bread department. So Velda Sue and me were like sisters, twins almost, born just a day apart, and we went to the same school and took the same ballet class and played on the same softball team and all that. I thought someday Velda Sue and me would live across the street from each other and raise our babies up together, just like our mothers, but, you know, I could tell by high school that wasn’t gonna happen. I just didn’t want to admit it.

See, my pa died in an auto accident when Velda Sue and me were ten. Her dad was driving, and he survived without much damage, just a few bumps and such. But my dad went right through the windshield. And it turns out he didn’t have any life insurance, and Mama had no marketable skills, so it wasn’t long before we moved in with my grandma and grandpa on the outskirts of town. So Velda Sue and me didn’t go to the same school again until high school, and, well, by then let’s just say we traveled in different circles. She was gorgeous and blonde and real coordinated, made the cheerleading squad all four years, which was like being a rock star or some kind of goddess. Now I was slim enough, I guess, but shaped sort of like a pear and not at all coordinated. Plus my wardrobe was, um, limited, and back then clothes mattered, a lot. So, Velda Sue and I would say a quick hi sometimes if we passed each other in the halls, but that was all.

But then, here’s the thing, we did become friends again for a little while, not the best of friends like when we were kids, but friendly for sure. After graduation, she went off to some fancy school in the East, and I went to school in California, a junior college outside of San Francisco where my uncle worked, so he pulled some strings to get me in tuition free. I got my AA and did the books for a music store for a year or so after that, but then, well, okay, I’ll admit it, I missed my mom and my grandma and grandpa, who were gettin’ up in years, and they all missed me, too. I kinda missed my brother and sister, too, and even North Bend, though I never figured on that. When I got on that Greyhound headed west, I thought I was goin’ away for good.

About a year after I returned to North Bend, Velda Sue came back to town, too, and it turns out we both showed up to volunteer for this thing called VISTA on the same day. It’s kinda like the Peace Corps only folks work in America, not in other countries, and it seems a lot of folks in North Bend are underprivileged, according to the government, so there was plenty for volunteers to do right here. And you know who else was volunteering? None other than my Bernie, but of course he wasn’t my Bernie back then. And Velda Sue and Bernie and some other volunteers and me, we’d go together to Paulie’s Diner after work, or throw parties, and so we had a little social group goin’ that was pretty fun, and it turns out Velda Sue, she fell for Bernie.

Now, I’d had a crush on Bernie since when I first saw him standin’ by his locker freshman year. Oh those big brown eyes and that sheepish grin of his, they did me in, but I kept it to myself, so when Velda Sue said she had the hots for him, I didn’t have any claim on him, so I figured they’d be an item soon enough. She said she wanted to settle down with Bernie and that she’d had it with all those fancy guys back east. So I wished her well and said Bernie’d be lucky to have her, which I thought was true. And one day she got all dolled up with eyeliner and eyeshadow and sparkly lipstick and a skimpy knit dress that hugged her curves just right. She’d gotten wind of Bernie’s having bought an expensive ring at Carolina Jewelers in town, and she said her heart was all aflutter because her dream was about to come true, and soon enough we were all at our regular booth at the diner, and Bernie got down on one knee, and he pulled out a ring, and he proposed, but he didn’t propose to Velda. He proposed to me. And I was like to be flabbergasted, and so was she, and she stormed off. I ran after her, but she yelled at me that I was a traitor, and worse stuff I won’t repeat, and she said to leave her alone.

Well, my feelings were hurt, and I stood there, mouth open a mile wide, while she got into her Corolla and started the engine, but then I thought of Bernie back in the restaurant, with all the food gettin’ cold, and so I turned around and came back to the booth. He was slinked down real low and our friends were saying stuff like, man, that’s a bummer, gosh, that didn’t go so well, did it. And so I sat down next to Bernie and I admitted I’d had a crush on him for a long time, but I didn’t really know him, and he didn’t know me, so maybe we could back up a bit and get acquainted, and if maybe after a while he felt I was still wife material and vice versa, we’d get engaged. And Bernie, being his wonderful self and all, he said of course. A year later he proposed for real at the very same booth at Paulie’s, and we got married a year after that, and had our reception at Paulie’s, too. By then Velda Sue was back in school, studying abroad somewhere, and I didn’t think I should invite her. She never believed that I hadn’t somehow intentionally stolen Bernie from her.

Now I’ve heard from my mama, who heard from Velda Sue’s mama, that Velda Sue is back at home and in a real bad way. She won’t talk about it, and she won’t go out. All she does is watch Lifetime movies and eat carmel corn and D’Giorno pepperoni pizzas. And my mama said Velda Sue is askin’ about me. Now I still have her old phone number memorized, even though I tried to forget it because I was so jealous of her, and I’m tryin’ to decide if I should call her. I did pick Bernie over her that day when I gave up on following her and returned to him in the restaurant. I could have pounded on the car window, told her she had to let me in, but maybe it was a little like how she picked her popular friends over me in high school, and maybe I was getting back at her in ways I didn’t even realize at the time. But I swear I wasn’t trying to win him or anything before that shocking proposal. The thing is, though, how do I know if Velda Sue’s really askin’ for me or if my mama’s just havin’ some fantasy about Velda Sue and me being buddies again, which I tell you, is about as likely as a cow jumpin’ over the moon.

Comments are welcome. If you don’t see a comment section below this post, go here.

Mud pie photo by derringdos; Greyound bus depot sign by kuyman.

Who knows where?

Posted on April 2, 2013 by admin

Here’s another Belinda Blue Brown draft. It’s the third in a series I’ve begun in the voice of a character who came to life in “Someday I’ll Have to Tell Him,” one of the stories in my flash fiction collection, The Ice Cream Vendor’s Song. The second in the series is in the post directly preceding this one. I am not attempting to make each of these episodes stand alone and will welcome your comments.

Who Knows Where?

The rain is thrashing my roof somethin’ fierce. You’d think the roof and rain were lovers and the rain just caught the roof kissing a wayward snowdrift. Gee willikers, I’m afraid all the commotion will wake up my little niece Pansy, who’s napping upstairs.

It sure is some crazy weather we’ve been havin’ here in North Bend lately; well, not just lately; it’s been all cuckoo for years now, which I hate to admit, because if I think about how long it’s been since the weather’s been normal, maybe I’ll accept that, say, three feet of snow in the driveway in April and weeks of 50 degree weather in December are here to stay, but be that as it may, this year has been a real humdinger so far, weatherwise.

Just two weeks ago it was snowin’, and I mean it wasn’t just snowin’; it was a blinding blizzard that came down from somewhere in Canada and moved eastward across the entire Midwest, coverin’ everything in its path, all the way out into the Atlantic. Gadzooks! It started the last day of March (ha, ha, ha to March comin’ in like a lion and goin’ out like a lamb, like they told us in grammar school) and it lasted for more than a week. Down, down, down it went without much letup, and little Pansy, oh, she was so upset because the day before the storm hit, a few crocus had popped through the hard, hard ground and, it’s such a wonder to see those lovely yellow petals pokin’ up after months of only shades of white and gray.

Then the snow came and covered up them flowers, and Pansy was completely distraught. We spent a whole afternoon shovelin’ the snow off; well, not exactly shovelin’. We had trowels, and of course the whole project was futile because as soon as we uncovered a crocus, the snow would cover it up again. This brought to mind the myth of Sysiphus, which I first heard when I was in high school English class, not that I was payin’ much attention back then to what went on in class, although I wish now that I had, but I did manage to get the gist of Sysiphus and his plight of rollin’ that boulder up a mountain only to have it roll down again and again, the same thing over and over ’til the end of time. Now, that story really depressed me, but for some reason I mentioned it to Pansy, while we were getting’ our mittens all soaked through to our frigid fingers from our efforts to rescue the crocus. Then, of course, she asked who’s Sysiphus? So I had to tell her the story, and she said flat out that she just didn’t believe it. She thinks Sysiphus probably escaped or got pardoned or something because nothin’ is forever.

Can you believe that? My little niece, just four years old, mind you, said something as profound as that. She comes to visit three afternoons a week because her moma, my brother’s wife, Glory (short for Gloria Jean), up and flew the coup when Pansy was just a little baby of five months. Glory wrote a note. Well, she didn’t write it; she typed it on her computer, and she said she had dark, dark thoughts, and liked to want to hurt Pansy when she cried—and, I do remember, little Pansy was a colicky baby. So Glory said in that note that she was afraid after being up all night, night after night, with my dear brother just sleepin’ away right through the chaos (she didn’t write that part, but I know it’s true) she said she had to split before she did something terrible to the baby.

She didn’t leave a phone number or address where we could reach her or anything, and she’s never sent one note or email. Nothin’. Not even her mama in nearby Cornville has heard from her, and she was as close to her mama as bubbles are to soap, yes indeed, but not even her mama has a clue where she might be, which some of us think is mighty suspicious, but Officer Renell, who is just plain old Bobby Renell, the guy who once shit his pants when we were in the third grade, isn’t askin’ for anybody’s opinion. He says he just wants the facts, thank you very much. But all we know for sure is that we don’t know where she is. She did say in the note that she might head south so the warmth could bake the bad right out of her.

I think she must have had postpartum depression or maybe even that postpartum psychosis like some women, like that Andrea Yates, who end up drownin’ their kids in bathtubs. I wonder why our Glory didn’t go to a doctor like Brooke Shields did when she didn’t exactly adore her baby. Nowadays, a lot of folks in town talk bad about Glory, even my own brother, her supposedly ’til-death-do-us-part husband, and our mom, but I kind of think it was a brave thing to do, to leave for the sake of your child, if you think that’s the only way to protect the new life you’re holdin’ in your arms. And you know what else? I think, wherever Glory is, she’s grieving every single day.

Now Pansy couldn’t possibly remember her mom since Glory left when Pansy was so new to the world, so I don’t think she feels left out. We all love her like the dickens, so it’s like she has all these new moms (that would be me, my sister Corinna Mae and my cousin Lilac) who love her so much that if she were Humpty Dumpty and had a great fall, we’d find a way to put her back together again. But maybe somewhere deep inside Pansy does miss her mom, and that’s what makes her so wise to say stuff about Sysiphus like that, or maybe she’d say that stuff even if Glory was here right now bakin’ oatmeal raisin cookies for a snack after Pansy’s nap.

I don’t know, but I do know little Pansy will wake up soon, and she’ll want to go out and play in this downpour. We’ll put on our rain slickers and boots and find some puddles to splash in because, well now, she’s not going to want to do this puddle stompin’ forever. In a few short years she’ll be paintin’ her nails and talkin’ to boys, and I won’t exactly be able to splash in puddles by myself, even though I would enjoy it. People would talk if they saw me doin’ something out in public like that, and I won’t make a fool of myself for my dear husband Bernie’s sake. So little Pansy and I will go enjoy the downpour today, because god knows, with the weather so harsh and unpredictable like it’s been, pretty soon it could be bone dry here, and the puddles and mud out there could seem as distant as our great great grandparents, whose names most of us probably don’t even know. I kid you not. There area no more summer showers these days, haven’t been any for the last several years. They’re gone, just like Glory. Gone, and who knows where?

Crocus photo by Rose Robinson; puddle photo by gachiman; both used under Creative Commons license.

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Never Forever Lost

Posted on November 29, 2012 by admin

Never Forever Lost
By Laura McHale Holland

It’s in her closet behind the blue Midnight in Paris relic, maybe, or in the sand beneath barefoot dancers on the beach. But then, it could be behind her ear, waiting for the right magician to come along.

Her heart beats, her sweat flows, her lips tremble, her eyes close. Gone. Not forever, though, never forever lost joy.

* * *

I didn’t think I’d post a story this week, but I got inspired by Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction challenge. I used the picture she posted there, too. I will welcome your comments on this.

And I’m still looking forward to stories that take off from the sentence I posted yesterday, which was: She knew right away the stamps were no good – no good for mailing anyway.

Two people have posted terrific stories already. I hope you’ll take a look and contribute one of your own.

It came on the breeze

Posted on September 23, 2012 by admin

It Came on the Breeze
By Laura McHale Holland

It came on the breeze, sidled through Gracie’s nose and lodged in her throat. The vibration was ever so slight, just a hint of sensation. She forgot all about it as she spent the day splashing and sunbathing at the community pool with her girlfriends. But when she checked email one last time before bed, her laptop monitor emitted a strong sepia light. Her heart thump thumped. The light dissipated. Her pulse settled down. She went to sleep.

Then, in the night, her world split open to a thundrous sound directly above. She looked up to a wide crack splitting her bedroom ceiling, the attic and roof. From a sepia orb suspended above the house desended thousands of faerie-like beings, each about an inch tall and carrying a harp or flute. They swarmed her, jigged all over her and played melodies reminiscent of ancient folk songs, but more strident, discordant.

Behind Gracie’s bedroom door, her mother’s voice boomed, “Gracie, what’s going on in there? Turn that awful music down!”

At that, her visitors retreated; the crack in Gracie’s universe closed.

“Thank you.” Her mom strode away, satisfied.

Gracie rolled on her side, thinking maybe she’d been dreaming. Then she saw a tiny harp on her pillow. She dropped the harp into a velvet pouch she kept on her headboard. It landed on a ring of fake garnet and gold she’d gotten from a vending machine while shopping with her mom. In her sleep, she dreamed of flying among the stars.

In the morning, she peeked inside the pouch. The ring was gone, but the harp remained. “Gracie, time for breakfast,” her mom called. The voice sounded weak, as though far, far away. Gracie tucked the pouch into her T-shirt pocket. It vibrated every so slightly as she padded toward the kitchen.

Photo is from ketrin 1407′s flickr photo stream.

A stunning review of Reversible Skirt

Posted on May 30, 2012 by admin

I stumbled upon this review of my memoir, Reversible Skirt, on Goodreads. It’s by a member named Ana:

“Reversible Skirt is probably the most honest and gripping memoir I’ve read. McHale Holland is on my top 10 of writers writing today. She’s managed to tell a tragic story fraught with emotion without the poor poor pitiful me some writers might have fallen prey to.”

Bliss.

On the seat

Posted on May 17, 2012 by admin

I’d been picturing this scene but couldn’t get myself to sit down and write it. I finally drafted it today while at Whole Foods after work.

On The Seat
By Laura McHale Holland

Carly and Chloe, a mother and daughter long separated by force, sit on opposite sides of a love seat; they are now separated by choice, a shoebox full of pictures between them.

Carly taps a bare foot on the plush carpet below; Chloe swings her little legs out and back, out and back.

One by one, Carly lifts pictures from the box and tells Chloe stories about them. One by one, she hands the pictures to Chloe, who stacks them on the seat next to the box. Carly talks of birthday cakes, Cabbage Patch dolls, sleepovers, Great America, her grandfather’s 80th birthday, her first crush.

When the box is empty, Chloe picks the pictures one after another from her pile and drops them back into the box. She says solitary words as the pictures drop: closet, dark, bruise, bam, bang, blood, splat, drive, waterfall, beach, puzzle, bye bye. When the box is full again, Carly replaces the lid, puts her hands in her lap, sighs.

“Again?” Chloe asks. “Of course,” Carly replies. She removes the lid. Chloe inches closer to her on the seat.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

Some thoughts on sisterhood

Posted on March 21, 2012 by admin

I’m going to be on a panel at the Women’s PowerStrategy Conference Saturday and even though the panel topic is “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother” (on which I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say, no doubt), I’m preparing a one-page handout about sisterhood (on which I have even more to say). I’m pasting my draft in here and would very much apreciate your feedback.

Some Thoughts on Sisterhood
By Laura McHale Holland
Author of Reversible Skirt, a Memoir

My two sisters are my dearest friends. Over the years, they have cheered me and comforted me through all my triumphs and sorrows. And vice versa. But we weren’t always buddies. Our early years brought us significant heartbreak and abuse that, rather than pull us together, drove us apart. For many long days, nights and years, an ugly current of bitterness ran through our relationships; fights, ridicule and jealousy ruled our world.

Then things changed. Gradually at first, and then more rapidly, we transformed from sniping detractors into enthusiastic fans. And we have been close for so long now, the times of strife among us truly are distant memories. However, countless times people have come up to me, remarked upon the bond my sisters and I share and then looked wistfully as they’ve said something like, “I haven’t spoken to my sister in years. What’s your secret?”

So I’m going to write down ten things my sisters and I, through trial and error, have learned about how to care for each other. I hope these thoughts on sisterhood help others seeking to form a closer bond with their beloved sisters—by blood or otherwise.

Together you and your sisters must:

1. Decide you want to have loving, supportive relationships with each other and commit to taking action to make that happen. It is best for all parties involved to make this decision and commitment. Meaningful progress will be much slower otherwise.

2. Remember that the past is over; there is nothing you can do to change it. So forgive yourself for any harm you may have caused your sisters and forgive your sisters for any harm they may have caused you.

3. Realize that you and your sisters will inadvertently hurt each other’s feelings after you’ve made a commitment to do the opposite. Forgive yourself and your sisters for these blunders as they occur and move on.

4. Focus more on listening than on being heard, and learn to see things from your sisters’ points of view.

5. Do things together that you all enjoy, things that make you all laugh, things that will bring smiles to your faces long afterward.

6. Tell your sisters often how much you love them. Always put your loving connection with one another above all else in the relationships.

7. Notice your sisters’ good qualities and the admirable things they’ve done. Tell them about these things repeatedly—and celebrate them.

8. If you need to complain about one of your sisters, do it with someone outside of the situation. Look for a sympathetic ear, but don’t try to convince the person you are good and your sister is bad.

9. Think about where your sisters need a hand and provide wholehearted, passionate assistance.

10. Be patient. Some struggles we face are life-long. Have high expectations, but don’t give up if your sister falls short. Hold out an encouraging hand.

This is my first stab at sharing this, so I’m bound to have left some things out. I may elaborate on these and provide examples in the future. I will welcome your comments.

Back pocket wishes

Posted on March 19, 2012 by admin

I edited this story a bit a few weeks after I posted it, so some of the comments people made in response to the earlier version might not make sense to someone reading the story and comments for the first time.

Back Pocket Wishes
By Laura McHale Holland

Sparks fly from his eyes when he passes the herd of microphone waving media. “It’s a family matter,” he growls, brushing a matinee idol curl from his forehead. His sandpaper grip wrenches his wife’s rigid wrist. Shoulders hunched, she glares at her toenails, manicured to perfection that morning.

From the chauffeured Mercedes idling at the curb, the child—conceived atop a pile of coats in a back bedroom the night her parents met—watches them approach. Her tiny fingers fumble for back pocket wishes, the simple things she yearns for but dares not show, as dread, seeping from the floor boards, soaks her mary jane shoes.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

Guest post at TellTale Souls

Posted on January 5, 2012 by admin

I don’t have a story ready this week yet (I’m still thinking over what direction I want to go in this year), but I do have a guest post up at Lynn Henriksen’s TellTale Souls blog. It has to do with mothers, and, well, mothers are what brought us all into this world, and some of us are mothers ourselves, so it’s hard to be neutral on the topic, isn’t it?

I hope my thoughts on my mother and stepmother stimulate you to share your own perspectives.

Here’s the link:

http://telltalesouls.com/blog/extolling-the-virtures-of-mom-in-memoir-not-for-everyone/

Music for ghosts

Posted on December 10, 2011 by admin

Music for Ghosts
By Laura McHale Holland

Sleepless and in pain, Mireille hears murmuring by her bedroom window. She looks outside and sees familiar translucent forms gathering in the darkness along the backyard fence. She angles into the wheelchair at the side of the bed, lifts a mandolin from her cluttered dressing table, and maneuvers out of the bedroom through the house and down the ramp into her yard.

There she sees them, swaying like silver leaves blowing in the breeze: her mother and father, husband, grandparents, sister, brothers, best friends from childhood, the son who died while a babe in the crib—all her loved ones lost from the many stages of her long life.

She picks up the mandolin and begins to pluck as though arthritis had never invaded her fingers. Her loved ones surround her and dance—she strong as the maypole, they light as ribbons. She plays on until, hours later, she closes her eyes and drops the mandolin into her lap.

Mireille’s daughter stops by later and finds her mother in the yard, sleeping to the rising sun. As daughter pushes mother back into the house and then makes hot tea, Mireille promises to stop playing music for ghosts every night. She promises to take her sleeping pills and her pain medication. She promises to play bingo at the church on Mondays and Wednesdays and attend the water aerobics class at the Y on Thursdays. She promises many things to get her daughter out of her hair and off to work. Then Mireille sleeps the day away in her chair, hands at peace on the mandolin resting in her lap.

The kiss

Posted on December 1, 2011 by admin

The Kiss
By Laura McHale Holland

She worried as she walked the buckled pavement past broken storefront windows, dangling fire escapes and leaning Victorians. She worried, but not about the safety of her husband and children, nor the condition of her home. The crew that pried the doors off the streetcar holding her and a slew of screaming passengers said the epicenter was 100 miles away; local damage had been minimal, all things considered.

She worried, but not about the work she’d lose before everything retuned to normal, and not about the gash on her arm and painful bump on her head.

She worried about the kiss. The kiss from a stranger who drew her close as the streetcar erupted in turmoil. As the car shook and shrieked like a pig headed for slaughter, the man who had been quietly texting in the seat beside her gave her a Rhett Butler kiss. And when she thought she was losing everything in the world she holds dear, she kissed him back. She kissed him back with all the fire of Scarlet O’Hara.

She knew as soon as the rumbling died down and the streetcar stopped rocking, when she and the stranger disentangled and averted their eyes, she knew she could never tell her husband about the kiss. And she worried the secret would plague her marriage like antibiotic resistant bacteria eating through tender flesh.

Thanks, I guess

Posted on November 15, 2011 by admin

Thanks, I Guess
By Laura McHale Holland

I want to throw one of those huge Oxford-type dictionaries at him, iron his ears flat to his skull, shrink him to toy poodle size and throw him so hard against the patio door that the glass breaks and he tumbles bloody and broken to the slab outside.

Jeez! Did I really just say that? Man, I’m messed up.

The doorbell is ringing; I’m sure it’s for him. His half-eaten pizza has grown hard and cold on a TV tray, as usual. His papers are strewn all over his bedroom floor. His dirty underwear is balled up by the toilet. I could go on and on. Living with a 13-year-old boy sure isn’t easy.

I can’t believe he’s not even getting up to answer the door. Okay, okay, so it’s up to me to get the door just like it’s up to me to do everything else around here. That’s what a mom does, after all.

Damn, hold your horses. I’m coming already. People don’t have an ounce of patience anymore.

What? You’re here to deliver a package? Well, gosh thanks, I guess. So what are you standing … Oh, You want a tip? Sure, yeah, everybody wants something these days. Hold on a sec. I’ve got a couple dollars in my purse right here. … There you go.

Well, let’s see here. Man, this lid is tough, but I think I can pry it off. There now. What is that? A head? Somebody’s head? Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. No, no, no, no. This looks like … What the?

Get in here right this minute, Sonny. Right now or I’m going to slap you to kingdom come. Right now, you mental case. Right this minute.

So, is this what I think it is? … But why did you kill him and why the fuck did you send me his head? … Oh, for Christ’s sake. I never meant all that shit I said about him. He was your father. Your father! I can’t believe it. You thought it would make me happy? Oh, you’re sorry, are you? Get out of my sight, you moron. Go to your room. Go, go, go. I need some time to think.

This is bad, really bad. The head I can just dump in the river, or something. But who’s going to take him off my hands on Wednesday nights and every other weekend now? Jeez. I’ll probably have to pay somebody to keep any eye on him, the little fucker.

She’ll be ready

Posted on September 20, 2011 by admin

She’ll Be Ready
By Laura McHale Holland

She ran down the sidewalk in the dark, block after block until she reached the end, the dead end, fenced off. She squinted at the wide-open field beyond, the goats under an oak, an old tractor rusted. Heart pounding, she climbed up the fence, jumped over the barbed wire top and ran behind the tractor.

Minutes later, he arrived, rifle in hand. She trembled as shots ricocheted off her metal refuge. She trembled as lights turned on all along the street, as a distant police siren grew louder, closer. She trembled when he was cuffed and pushed, swearing, into the police van. And she trembled as she packed a bag and called a cab for the airport.

Thousands of miles away now, she pumps iron, runs marathons, teaches karate. If he finds her, she’ll be ready.

They knew not

Posted on August 23, 2011 by admin

They Knew Not
By Laura McHale Holland

She pulled her keys from her jacket pocket as she shuffled up the drive. She’d had a long day cashiering at a nearby convenience store and was picturing the wilting veggies in the fridge she’d have to use right away or toss. She didn’t notice the package by the front door until the toe of her sneaker bumped it.

About the size of a shoebox, the package was wrapped in brown paper. Her name and address were printed clearly in black ink in lettering she didn’t recognize. There was no return address. She took the package inside, unwrapped it. It was just a plain cardboard box. She lifted the lid. Nothing was inside.

She tried to squish the box so it wouldn’t take up too much room in her recycling bin, but it was surprisingly sturdy. It wouldn’t even smash when she jumped up and slammed down on it with both feet, nor could she cut it with scissors or a box cutter. So she threw it whole into the bin. It was carted away a few days later.

The next week, she arrived home, and there was a package wrapped in brown paper. It was the same, empty box, or one exactly like it. She buried it that night in the middle of her backyard.

The next morning a tree had sprouted where she’d buried the box. Over the next several months it grew and flowered and bore an exotic fruit: blue pears. She thought the pears might be poisonous, but she couldn’t resist tasting one. It was delicious, sweet, juicy, intoxicating.

She took a wheel barrow of the pears to the local farmers market, where word of their delectable taste spread quickly. Every week thereafter the tree produced more exquisite, azure pears. And every week she went to the market and sold them all.

People couldn’t get enough of them. Children cried for the taste of their juice; judges on the bench fantasized about biting into their cerulean flesh instead of paying attention to courtroom proceedings; restaurants clamored for them; artists drew murals of sparkling blue pears in the town square. The local newspaper wrote a feature article about her pears. She said the tree had grown in her yard on its own. She didn’t mention the empty box. Who would have believed her anyway if she’d told the truth?

She quit her job and developed a booming cottage industry. She made all manner of products from her prized pears: pies, cobblers, jams, jellies, soaps, lotions, balms, perfumes, incense, even blue pear charms and other trinkets. She and the town prospered for decades until one day, old, gray and feeble, she took to her bed.

She left her home, business and considerable savings to her nephew and his wife. But the precious pear tree died the day they moved in. A couple months later, an empty box appeared at their door. They were having guests over for a barbeque that night to celebrate a state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen they’d put in right where the pear tree used to flower. They used the box as kindling for their fire pit. The flames were deep blue and mesmerizing.

Nothing grew from the ashes; no more empty boxes appeared at their door. But they didn’t suffer, for they knew not what they’d burned.

I don’t suppose

Posted on August 15, 2011 by admin

I Don’t Suppose
By Laura McHale Holland

The coleus on the counter caught my eye. It was in my kitchen, but I’d never seen it before, and it looked ghastly with my blue and yellow decor. I called my long-time neighbor Layna and told her a stranger was in my home and she’d better come over quick and save me. She asked, “How do you know there’s a stranger there?” I said, “Because there’s a coleus on my counter, and I know it didn’t walk in by itself.”

She told me she’d seen the plant just yesterday when she’d come over to borrow my Shark mop. I told her she was mistaken and that it was three days ago she borrowed the mop anyway, not yesterday. She told me I was full of you know what. And we went on arguing like that until I said, “You bring back my Shark right now or I’m gonna throw this damn plant at your picture window.”

Now I’m sitting on my front porch steps, plant in my lap. She’s standing on her porch, Shark in hand. I was all set to march across the road and let her have it, but I just noticed there’s this pink, plastic rabbit stuck smack in the middle of my rosebush hedge, and I swear I’ve never seen that critter before. What if this is the beginning of my end, what if I’m slipping terrified into that good night? Layna’s my best friend. I don’t suppose I ought to brain her.