Guest Author Lana Kortchik.

Lana Kortchik grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union - a snow-white Siberian town and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her husband live in Sydney, where it never snows and is always summer-warm, even in winter. She loves books, martial arts, the ocean and Napoleonic history. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She was the winner of Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition and the runner-up of 2013 Defenestrationism Short Story Contest. Lana's first novel, Savaged Lands, was published by Endeavour Press in January 2016.

 

 Chapter one from Savaged Land.

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.

 

 

 

It was a balmy September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, cars screeched past the famous Besarabsky Market. And just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk. Yet something was different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of the many chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – there was anxiety, fear and unease. 

And only three teenagers seemed oblivious to the oddly hushed bustle around them. 

Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl, slowed down to a complete stop and turned around. Hands on hips, she glared at the other two. ‘Hurry!’ she cried. ‘We’re in so much trouble.’ 

‘Lighten up,’ said Natasha’s sister Lisa, eyes sparkling. ‘Papa won’t even notice we’re gone.’ 

Grabbing Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He will if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. There were times when she admired Lisa’s impulsive character. Today was not one of them. 

‘Get off!’ exclaimed Lisa, turning her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street and several passers-by glared in her direction. 

Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that wasn’t padlocked shut and abandoned. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner. 

‘Alexei!’ Lisa called again. Her voice quivered. 

Alexei handed the stall owner some money and pocketed the knife. ‘Wait up!’ he cried, breaking into a run. 

‘Dillydallying as always,’ said Lisa, her plump lips pursed together in a pout. ‘Keep this up and we’ll leave you here.’ 

‘Nagging already? And we’re not even married yet.’ Pecking Lisa on the cheek, Alexei adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of mock suffering and distress. 

‘Get used to it,’ said Lisa, pinching the soft skin above his elbow. He attempted a frown but failed, smiling into Lisa’s freckled face. 

They paused in the middle of the road and kissed deeply. A van swerved around them, a stream of obscenities emanating from its open windows. The two lovers didn’t move. They barely looked up. 

‘And this is why I walk five metres away from you. It’s too embarrassing.’ Natasha stared at the ground, her face flaming. Wishing she could run home but not wanting to abandon Lisa and Alexei in the middle of the street, she was practically jogging on the spot. ‘You heard Papa this morning. Under no circumstances were we to leave the house.’ 

‘We had to leave the house,’ said Lisa. ‘You know we did. It was a question of life and death.’ 

Natasha raised her eyebrows. ‘A wedding dress fitting is a question of life and death?’ 

Lisa nodded. ‘Not just any fitting. The final fitting.’ 

‘The final fitting,’ mimicked Alexei, rolling his eyes. ‘I had to wait for you for an hour! An hour in the dark corridor.’ 

Lisa pulled away from him. ‘You know you can’t see me in my wedding dress. It’s bad luck.’ She whispered the last two words as if the mere mention of bad luck was enough somehow to summon it. 

‘It’s bad luck to be outside at a time like this,’ murmured Natasha. 

Lisa said, ‘Don’t worry. The streets are perfectly safe. And Papa will understand.’ 

‘I doubt it. Just yesterday he said you were too young to marry.’ 

Lisa laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. ‘And I reminded him that Mama was younger than me when they got married. And Grandma was only sixteen when she married Grandpa. When Mama had Stanislav, she was the same age as you.’ 

Exasperated, Natasha shook her head. 

Lisa continued, ‘Did you hear the dressmaker? Apparently I have the perfect figure. Mind you, I still have time to lose a few pounds before the big day.’ 

Alexei ran his hands over her tiny frame. ‘Don’t lose a few pounds, Lisa. There won’t be any of you left to marry.’ 

His words were interrupted by a distant rumble. Half a city away, the horizon flickered with shades of yellow and red. 

An explosion followed. 

And another. 

And another. 

For a few breathtaking seconds, the ground vibrated. Somewhere in the distance, machine guns barked and people shouted. And then, as if nothing had happened, all was still again. At the outskirts of the town, fires smouldered and smoke rose in gloomy, putrid mist.  

‘Don’t be scared,’ said Alexei, pulling Lisa tightly to his side. ‘There won’t be much bombing today.’ 

‘How do you know?’ demanded Natasha. 

‘Just something I heard. The Nazis don’t want to destroy our city. They’re saving it.’  

‘Saving it for what?’ Lisa asked. 

‘For themselves, silly,’ said Natasha. 

Lisa scowled. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’  

   Natasha could tell her sister was scared because Lisa no longer dawdled. Quite the opposite, she was walking so fast that Natasha had to make an effort to keep up. Racing one another, the three of them turned onto Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and dashed through the park adjoining the university. The ground was littered with shells that had once carried death but now lay peacefully at their feet. Natasha could feel their sharp edges through the soles of her boots. One of her favourite places in Kiev, the park was unrecognisable. Anywhere not covered by pavement was excavated. In the last three months, it had transformed into what seemed like the habitat of a giant mole, full of holes and burrows. All the trenches that the Kievans were digging, all the barricades they were building, enthusiastically at the end of June, habitually in July and sporadically in August, now stood empty and abandoned. How meaningless it all seemed now, how futile. 

   It was inexplicably, almost nonsensically warm. The splendour of Ukrainian autumn, its sheer joy, its unrestrained abundance seemed out of place in the face of German invasion. The sun, the blue skies, the whites and reds of the flowers contrasted sharply with fires and damaged buildings. What was happening to their city now, what had happened three months ago when Hitler attacked the Soviet Union, none of it made sense to Natasha. She felt as if at any moment she would wake up only to find the streets of Kiev peaceful and quiet. 

   Since the day her city was first bombed in June, Natasha had waited impatiently to wake up. 

But the nightmare had continued. All through the end of August and the beginning of September, she watched as platoon after platoon of Red Army soldiers retreated, away from Kiev, away from Natasha and her family. Soon the authorities followed the army. Now, in late September, the city held its breath in fearful anticipation. There was nothing but melancholy faces, nothing but grim skies. 

Uncertainly Lisa muttered, ‘The Germans aren’t coming here. Haven’t you heard the radio?’ Like clockwork every few hours, the radio and the loudspeakers outside screeched that: ‘Kiev was, is and will be Soviet.’ 

How ironic, thought Natasha. As if anyone believed it now.  

‘The Red Army will soon push Hitler back,’ added Lisa. 

‘What Red Army?’ muttered Natasha. 

Lisa squared her shoulders but didn’t reply. Suddenly, on the corner of Lva Tolstogo and Vladimirovskaya, she came to an abrupt halt. Natasha, who was only a couple of steps behind, bumped straight into her sister. ‘What …’ she started saying and stopped. Her mouth assumed a shape of an astonished ‘Oh’ but no sound escaped. All she could do was stare. From the direction of the river hundreds of soldiers in grey were marching towards them. 

Wide-eyed, the sisters and Alexei backed into the park and hid behind its tall fence, watching in fear. 

The wait was finally over. The enemy was no longer at the gates. Surrounded by crowds of confused men, women and children and accompanied by barking dogs, the enemy were right there, inside their city, their grey uniforms a perfect fit, their green helmets sparkling, their motorbikes roaring, their footsteps echoing in the tranquil autumn air.  

It was Friday, the nineteenth of September, 1941.

 

Thank you Lana for sharing this captivating chapter. I look forward to reading more.

You can find out more about Lana at the following links.

Website: http://www.lanakortchik.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lanakortchik

Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/lanakortchik

 

 

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Two Grumpy Old Men Cafe - a short story by Allan Hudson

If you don't like being insulted then don't go through the door.






This story was inspired by an afternoon sharing some drinks with a few buddies. Someone suggested that when we retired we could move south and open up a restaurant only serving breakfast and have the afternoons off. Most of us thought that wouldn't be a good idea because the person that made the suggestion was too grumpy in the mornings.


Two Grumpy Old Men Café was born.

The following is Part 1. If you would like to read Part 2, leave your email address in the comment box below and I'll send you a free Word or PDF version of the complete story.Copyright is owned by the author. This story was first published in SHORTS Vol.1

The TGOM café is open from 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. Monday to Friday for breakfast only. If the two Canadians that owned the place had to stay open any longer they wouldn’t be just grumpy, they’d be downright inhospitable. At 77 years of age, Wilmot Parker III is an avid golfer, not a very good one mind you; in fact his fellow hackers call him Trap. There is always enough sand in the cuffs of his golfing pants at the end of a game that management accuses him of trying to steal it. If he ever played eighteen holes under ninety, it was likely his turn to keep score that day. Nonetheless, he loves the sport and has to be at the clubhouse by 1 p.m. every day except Sunday, which is church day. He’d been a financial advisor most of his working life, a golfer for about nine years, a widower for twelve, restaurateur for three.

Clarence Jerome Parker (no relation), known as CJ, is 75 and has never been married. When questioned about his bachelorhood, his defensive phrase is “there are too many lovely ladies, and I only have one lifetime. It would be unfair to womankind for me to impose myself upon one partner for the rest of my life.” His afternoons are spent in front of his computer writing what he calls “smut novels” under the alias of John T. Boner. The series is a moderate internet hit, available exclusively on his web page. Other people manage the site now, but every day except Monday (restaurant accounting day) and Friday (happy hour day), he writes from 1 to 5 p.m. He’d been a building contractor for thirty-five years, a hobby writer most of his life, a restaurateur for three. He cooks the biscuits in the mornings.

Estero Boulevard in Fort Myers Beach is mostly deserted at 5 a.m. The café sits down a side street off the main road, third business from the corner. It’s tucked neatly between a family-owned hardware store appropriately named Family’s Hardware and a used book store called The Author’s Index, run by a retired couple from Burlington, Vermont. All the buildings are constructed of rust-colored bricks and flat roofs. The café is the brightest on the street. The brick is whitewashed under large tinted glass windows that are shadowed by a four-foot awning of wide black-and-white strips. The dark green letters TGOM dominate the center of the twenty-six foot canvas held taut by black wrought iron stays that had been installed by the former occupant, Mel’s Big and Tall, a haberdashery that suggested they “have you covered up to size 6X.” The inside had been gutted to expose the overhead metal joists and the raw brick walls when CJ and Wilmot bought the building four years ago. 

The coming day is a sliver of pink and orange that winks across the eastern horizon, threatening the night, forcing it to flee. The air is balmy, scented with palm and sea salt that CJ breathes deep as he unlocks the door to enter the pantry/office at the back of the restaurant.  A beeping warns him the alarm system is armed and needs the proper code or it will call the police.  He flips the light switch just inside the door, keys in his code – dthroat1 – on the finger pad just below the switch. He grins as he does every morning when he enters the premises, liking how tidy Wilmot keeps his desk and how Taffy, their only employee, keeps the stores. The floors, shelves, refrigerators, cupboards are so neat and clean they look like they’re in an ad.

There is a staff washroom on the left, to the far right. The remaining portion of that side is a makeshift office. A shelf-filled wall that faces the back door is broken by a wide antique French door with translucent glass that separates the back room from the main cooking and seating area in the front.  The ceilings are tall and filled with sprinklers, water lines, wire conduits, air-conditioning and exhaust ducts that all roam the steel rafters in balanced order. The whole apparatus was sprayed a soft brown, like milk chocolate.  The brick walls that line the outer dimension of the restaurant were sandblasted then painted a buttery color much like the tiny yellow flowers in the center of a common daisy.

Large portraits of well-known Canadians – Karen Kain, Lester B. Pearson, Burton Cummings, Stomping Tom, Donald Sutherland and Celine Dion – adorn the walls in mismatched frames: black-and-white close-ups with large dark eyes that follow your every move.

CJ wears one of the “company issue” black golf shirts with TGOM tastefully stitched in gold over the left breast. A pair of leather sandals and khaki cargo shorts, pockets bulging like squirrel cheeks, complete his ensemble.  Shutting the door, he opens a narrow closet on the right, next to a food prep area, where among other things seven chef jackets hang, all black, double-layered cotton with the same logo as the golf shirts. Four are still in the plastic from the cleaners; three are stained and ready to be picked up tomorrow, on Tuesday. Two of the clean ones are a 44 regular; they belong to him. Wilmot wears a 42 tall. Shredding the clear covering on one, CJ puts on a jacket and buttons it up as he wheels about the pantry collecting bowls, spatulas, eggs, flour, baking powder, salt, shortening and buttermilk – all the ingredients needed for by his grandmother’s recipe, committed to heartwarming memory.

Soon, the oven is turned to 450 while the coffee finishes brewing – just one pot for the staff for now. The biscuit dough is rolled out on the counter, emitting a raw floury scent. Not long after, a two-inch round cookie cutter is poised to form the delicious circles when the back door roughly opens. High-pitched female chuckling precedes her as she bursts in with all the energy of a freshly lit flare. Taffy Fitzsimons’ whole being is a kaleidoscope of colors, emotions, kinetics.  Often reminding the owners of the drabness of the black golf shirt, she countermands their strict policy on company dress by wearing the most colorful of pants, often the stretchy version. Notorious among her peers for second-hand shopping, she always has something new on Mondays; there will be no disappointing the regulars today.  Her lower portion is clad in fuchsia tights; beige denim cut-offs with cuffs rolled at the knee cover her thighs; her shoes are high-heeled and orange. The golf shirt is just right clutching her tender curves.

At 68, Taffy is still an exotic sight. Her light brown hair is always pulled back into a delightful knot, highlighting her diamond-shaped face. She’s a beautiful Polynesian and Caucasian blend, originally from Hawaii. Eyes a rich brown find delight in almost everything; few wrinkles line the edges. Charming and witty, she trades gaffs with the Parkers, as she calls them, with aplomb. Insults come easy to her, she’s a retired firefighter. She followed husband number two to Florida, never to return. He died five years past, leaving her a mountain of money. No one would think to describe her as shy. The patrons love her.

Wilmot enters close behind, laughing at some joke he probably told Taffy. He brings her a new one every day.  How he remembers them is no mystery; he can even remember the one he told her last Monday. His memory is measured in terra gigs, fathomless. He’ll know what Apple’s shares are trading at as of a half hour ago, what they closed at yesterday, the day’s high, the low and what they were last Monday and the Monday before. He’ll know the final scores of every NHL game this weekend, which everyone will hear about whether they like hockey or the Toronto Maple Leafs or not. Except for the biscuits, he does the cooking.

He’s wearing his usual “business casual” shorts, dark grey today. The pleat is perfect, thin and sharp as a piece of paper. His golf shirt drapes his long frame and hangs out over the shorts. Every inch of his skin is tanned to a dark oak finish. His hair is greyish blond, like old age ripening in the sun; it’s full and sweeps back from an extended forehead. The nose is thin and the grin is wide. His eyes tell the world he is happy, it’s difficult for him to be grumpy. He heads to his desk, where he fiddles with the computer that is always operating. The ten speakers hidden subtly throughout the premises begin to emit the most soulful saxophone music via their favorite Internet station, The Jazz Groove.

“G’morning.”

CJ is cutting and sorting the biscuits on cooking sheets; Taffy grabs her waitress’s apron and, while tying it on, heads out into the main restaurant to start the coffee. The first customers will be here soon.

”Mornin’ to you, too, Wilmot. How’d the golf go yesterday?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I torture myself like that.”

“I’ve been saying that since I’ve known you. Why don’t you find another hobby?”

“Whatever. Did you get a hold of the electrician? We need those extra plugs.”

“Yeah, he’ll be here around ten... Oh, and Mrs. Tucker called and wants scrambled this morning.”

“And when she gets her she’ll swear she said fried. Dumb biddy.”

Wilmot just shakes his head as he slips out of sandals and shorts, placing them on the office chair. His boxers have Ninja Turtles with menacing stares. He opens the closet to remove a pair of plaid chef pants from a hanger. Quickly pulling them on, he slips the sandals back on while removing an apron from the top shelf.

“It’s been hot lately; think I won’t bother with the jacket today.”

Donning the dark green apron, he chats with his friend for a few minutes, some business, most not. Their organization is pretty simple. They each own one half of the company, which includes the building. There is no debt. Like Taffy, they don’t need the money. This venture came not only as an outlet for the three friends, in alignment with the need to be around people for part of their day, but as a commitment to what the end of each shift would bring. After expenses, which are meticulously accounted for, they give the rest away. It all started with three friends drunk in a hot tub. It would end anytime one of them wanted out, no arguments.

Its five minutes until opening when Wilmot slides the first two flats of biscuits into the oven. CJ finishes cleaning up his mess before removing the jacket to re-hang it for tomorrow. He dons a short black apron over his khakis and will serve the clients that line the horseshoe counter that enfolds the cooking area, which is open to the patrons. Wilmot keeps everything spotless, as if the room is full of health inspectors. He’s fast and a damn good cook. Taffy serves the other customers that choose to sit at one of the wrought iron and glass tables for two along the front windows – the most popular seats – or one of the three booths for four along the right wall. Mondays are always busy. The first customer is outside the door right now as usual. CJ is in the back washing his hands when he hears Wilmot exclaim.

“I’m warning you two, no will-not jokes today, okay, I’m getting tired of them and they aren’t funny anymore.”

Neither CJ nor Taffy can respond because they’re laughing so hard. Taffy gets her snickers under control as she goes to unlock the door but can’t resist,

“Okay, we will not.”

The door quickly opens with a hydraulic whoosh to admit a disheveled middle-aged man clad in a black T-shirt half tucked in that reads Bonnie’s Bistro in neon pink letters across the back, jeans with one knee “fashionably” ripped, and scuffed LL Bean hikers. Taffy’s bonhomie will normally thaw most ice cubes, but Horatio Rasmussen is just totally disagreeable. It’s why he comes here. She doesn’t bother being nice.

            “Watch what you say today, Horatio. They’re in a bad mood.”

“Yeah, well so am I.”

 

...........to be continued!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please leave your email address in the comment box and I'll send you Part 2 in Word or PDF for free, for "the rest of the story"






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Guest Author Rhonda Herrington Bulmer

You will absolutely love this short story from Rhonda!

I wrote my first novel at age fifteen.  I still have the dog-eared manuscript, embossed with words created by the typewriter that my parents bought me for Christmas—so I could finish my story, get it published and make a million dollars.

(They were also faithful lottery ticket buyers—just saying.)

I sent it to McLelland and Stewart in Toronto, a publisher which now belongs to Penguin-Random House, but back then it was our premiere publisher of Canadian authors.

I received a lovely rejection letter—not a form—from an editor who obviously wanted to encourage and nurture a naïve young Canadian writer. She told me not to give up, to keep writing and gave me a list of publishers who published teens.

A more competitive person who took constructive criticism well wouldn’t let a rejection break her. But I was none of those things. I believed it was a sign that I wasn’t meant to succeed, so I tore up the letter, threw the manuscript in my drawer and didn’t write again until I was well into my thirties, with a background in public relations and with a husband and three children.

I tell this story because my experience as a writer and as a person is of one who has always felt isolated, as though I existed permanently outside the circle. Most of what I’ve written so far, including this little piece I offer here, has this flavour.

I wrote a young adult novel called Rachel’s Manifesto in 2007 and decided to self-publish in 2011 after almost selling it to another Toronto publisher. Since I was lucky enough to marry an artistic guy who has some skills with drawing pencils, we decided to produce a couple of picture storybooks as well, Please Let Me In (2014) and Brussels Sprouts for Breakfast (2015). You can read more about my work at www.codepoetmedia.com

Special thanks to Allan Hudson for including me as a guest blogger. It is good—very good—to find that I do belong to a tribe after all.

 

 

A minute of silence

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission. Drawings compliments of Kent & Sophie Bulmer.

 

My stomach is in my throat and a tremble courses through my body when I realize I’m  next. By my reaction, you’d think I was about to be taken to prison where I would be bound and whipped, sexually assaulted and then strangled with my bedcovers.

No. No such luck.

I’m about to give a speech.

A one-minute impromptu speech worth ten marks, to be specific. Every year, grade eight English students do a unit on speeches, led by Mrs. Penney, and she delights in the torture. She’s tall, with shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin peppered with scars—looks like she had bad acne when she was a teen. Is that why she has no compassion on people like me? I may have smooth skin, but I want to vomit at the thought of being the centre of attention.

 “Rose Harrison. Rosie, you’re up.”

I hear my name and I stand up and walk to the back of the room, where Mrs. Penney is seated and I kick myself for not faking sick this morning. I thought about it. I tossed and turned all night. My eyes were open until the first pink light of dawn. But I knew to stay home would only put it off for one more day.

Because speeches--like death—are inevitable. Someday, you’re going to have to give one, and for me, today is the day.

Mrs. Penney offers me a baseball cap filled with slips of paper. I stick my hand in the cap and I try to hide my shaky fingers when I pull out a folded slip. I unfold the paper and read the word, while the collective gaze of all my fellow students focuses on my back, like a laser pinpoint of criticism.

SNOW

The single word is written in blue pen, but it might as well have been written in Russian, because I can’t remember anything about snow right now. As I walk to the front of the class and whirl around to face my execution, I realize my brain is useless. Have I been hacked? Maybe all my words have leaked out through the holes my classmates are boring in my head with their eyes.

The teacher looks at me. “You got it?”

I swallow and nod.

She clicks a stopwatch. “Okay… go.”

My glasses slip down my nose. I swallow hard and push them back up with my forefinger. I shift my weight from one rubbery leg to the other. “Well, my topic is… snow…” I scramble for words but it seems they’ve all been sucked out of my head, like air out of a balloon.

I wish I could disappear. Or have aliens light upon the roof and in a giant spotlight, dematerialize me, never to return. How about an earthquake—an earthquake is certain to interrupt my speech. At least it would be more interesting than my latest public failure.

I swallow hard and feel my armpits getting moist and I’m  nauseous. One whole minute to talk about snow? What is there to say about snow for a whole minute?

One minute doesn’t seem like a long time until I’m standing in front of a roomful of my classmates who already think I’m an idiot—including that snotface Chelsea Carroll. Not the smartest girl in the room either, but a great athlete. She has quads as tight as drums and runs like the wind. Once, in gym class, she said, “Come on, Rosie, suck in that gut,” while she measured my waist for a unit we did on fitness.

 “Uh…S-s-snow is… white.”

Chelsea smirks.

“And it’s-s cold …”

I shouldn’t mumble. I’ll lose marks for that. Snow is white and cold—come on, Rose, you can’t think of anything else?

The room is silent except for the sound of the stop watch. I stare at the floor or the ceiling or the walls, because I can’t bear to look at my classmates. Marty Milner is at the back. He’s the one who likes to put dimes in his mouth and scratch them against his teeth. Yuck.

But I can hear him make that funny “swhoosh” sound when he laughs. Mrs. Penney scolds him with her eyes when I glance up through my eyelashes. I shift my weight again and see the slip of paper on the floor. I must have dropped it. I pick it up and look at the word again.

“It’s spelled S-N-O-W.” I hear a rumble of giggles. Mrs. Penney shushes everyone.

Tick. Tock. Who knew a minute could last forever?

I force myself to look up. Marty and his buddies are sprawled in their seats at the back. They think this is so funny. He did his speech yesterday about a bar of soap. He talked about how he stole it from the Holiday Inn and how it smells like flowers so he gave it to his mother and she cried and never saw anything so beautiful. I wish I’d thought of that. How much more can you say about soap than snow?

Paige Larson feels sorry for me. I can see it in her freckled face and her narrowed green eyes. She is the smart student with perfect marks, who juggles her duties as student council vice-president and captain of the girls’ basketball team and manages to be an all-round great person. Her father is the local high school principal and their family lives, breathes and talks about school activities and science and math and blah, blah, blah. How can someone bore you but make you feel stupid and unaccomplished all at the same time?

“Thirty seconds,” announces Mrs. Penney from the back. Thirty seconds! I stifle a groan and gaze at my empty chair.

Wait. “Snow falls from the sky in the winter. From…clouds. But I don’t know—how that works.”

Sheila James laughs out loud and then muffles it with her hand. She turns her face toward the wall. I bite my lip and curl my toes inside my shoes.

Tick. Tock.

“Okay, Rose, you can sit down,” Mrs. Penney says in a soft voice. She must have decided to take pity on me, because my minute wasn’t up. I’m relieved and humiliated at the same time.

My desk is in front of Smarty Marty. I dive into my chair and cast a hopeful look to the ceiling. Alien abduction would still be useful right now. Marty leans over and hits me in the elbow before I hear his whisper in my ear.

“I like s-s-s-s-now, too. It’s c-c-c-cold.”

I shoot him a nasty look over my shoulder.  “Shut up. I’ll do better next time.”

 Then I turn my head to the window on the opposite side of the room. It’s a gray day, late in March when most of the snow is gone, except the dirty patches under the trees, but the spring buds haven’t broken through. In fact, we usually have a few freak storms all the way through April. This winter had been so much more cold and dreary than other seasons I remember and we had a record number of storms. It took forever to shovel out of the driveway, and we don’t have a snow blower. Dad says I’m his snow blower.

But Dad and I made a seven-foot snowman this year—it’s a family tradition to build one after the first big storm of the year, but we had a lot more snow to work with this season, and  it was the perfect packing temperature—

Then I bang my head with my fist and stare straight ahead. Yeesh. There’s so many things I could have said. What’s wrong with me? Why does my mind go blank under pressure?

Stupid brain. Stupid friends. Stupid school. Stupid me.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to hear your next one,” Marty says, still in my ear and laughing. “You know the speech next week is three minutes long, right? Maybe you can record yours on video.”

My stomach lurches at the news. I look at him, dead serious. “With any luck, I’ll be in prison by then.”

 

 

Thank you Rhonda for sharing your delightful tale on the Scribbler.

 

 

 

Rhonda Herrington Bulmer is a writer-for-hire who lives in Moncton, New Brunswick (www.codepoetmedia.com and www.ladywriter.ca ). She has self-published three books and is working on another. Luckily, she has not had to make a speech for many years now.

 

 

 

Next week on the Scribbler you will have a chance to read one of my favorite short stories - Two Grumpy Old Men Café. It has been published in SHORTS Vol.1

 

Please leave a comment and especially your email address for a chance to win one of two copies of Dark Side of a Promise to be drawn for on June 17th and shipped FREE anywhere in the world. (Your email address will not be shared or used in anyway.)