Story #10: "Sleeping Dogs Lie"

Here's another short one for your reading pleasure. Or something like that. Story #10 in my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. Ready, set, go!  ~  JH

"Sleeping Dogs Lie"

You can't trust a sleeping dog. Like the old axiom says, they lie.

I once approached a dozing Doberman, just to get a glimpse of its impressive teeth, only to have three of my fingers bitten off by said teeth while losing approximately two pints of my precious lifeblood.

Then there was the time I creeped up on a snoozing schnauzer, just to catch a close-up glimpse of its bearded snout, only to find that the dog was merely resting its eyes – not sleeping, thank you very much – and having it tell me in no uncertain terms by persistently barking at me (I was walking away, clearly no threat to the dog or anyone else) until I was thoroughly out of sight.

The third and final time I tried to disprove my own theory about sleeping dogs was what I now ominously refer to as the Shih Tzu Incident. It's been five years, and I still can't bring myself to talk about. Don't ask me to dredge up the painful memories, because I simply refuse.

Just know this: Sleeping dogs lie. Through their teeth. Beware!

Story #9: "Cat's Out Of The Bag"

Admit it, you thought I had abandoned this #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, didn't you? Not so fast! I am nothing if not persistent. (Which is why, frequently, I am nothing.) Yes, it is Day 15, and yes, this is only Story #9. But I wrote several of them over the weekend, all of which will be posted here forthwith. Before you know it, I'll be all caught up again. Just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins. Just you wait...  ~  JH

"Cat's Out Of The Bag"

The cat is out of the bag. I thought I'd tied the top securely, but I guess not. This is a small airport, but the cat is no easier to find nonetheless. It's probably headed for the food court. I know I would be if I were a cat. 

Fifteen minutes till boarding, and instead of going through a security checkpoint, I'm chasing a cat that, frankly, I don't even like. 

Maybe I should just let it go. No, I promised my mother that I would bring it. Why did I make that promise anyway? Oh yeah, she's lonely. Dad's been gone six weeks now and Mom's had no one to talk to but the walls, and they aren't very good listeners.

Where is that stupid cat anyway? On second thought, this isn't such a small airport after all. I refuse to miss my flight because of a dumb animal – tickets are far too expensive for that.

Sorry, Mom, but I give up. I'll buy you another cat. A local one. It may not be orange with white speckles like you asked for, but it'll have to do.

I suppose it's just as well. I'd probably never have gotten through security with a cat in a bag anyway.

Story #8: "Hit My Baby One More Time!"

It's Day 10 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and I'm still playing catch-up. This is Story #8, a totally fictional story that seems like it could be true, which practically wrote itself once the idea came to me. Hope you enjoy reading it!  ~  JH

"Hit My Baby One More Time!"

Aunt Suzie has always been a passionate gesticulator. This is not normally a problem. Except when she's holding my six-week-old baby daughter, that is.

I'm sitting on the love seat, Aunt Suzie facing me in her recliner. She is chatting away about something that only remotely interests me, probably involving the current health problems of my third cousin twice-removed whom I've never even met. I'm nodding my head periodically, pretending to listen, but really I'm watching her like a hawk.

My baby girl, Starla, is nestled in the crook of my great-aunt's arm and she's being jostled violently every few seconds as Aunt Suzie gestures this way and that, visually articulating some salient point of her story. Starla, for her part, is drowsing happily until Aunt Suzie's story takes on a darker tone – I guess, I'm not listening at all now – because now she's slapping her knee with her hand, the same arm in whose crook my child is reclining. Aunt Suzie's story reaches a crescendo and she slaps her knee with the opposite hand, only she misses wildly and plants her palm squarely on the cheek of my sweet daughter.

Starla awakes with a start, and instantly begins to cry. I can't hide the look of shock and alarm on my face, as I helplessly reach with both arms for my baby girl. But Aunt Suzie is undeterred. She makes a shooing, everything-is-fine motion with her hand and continues her diatribe with increased vigor. Meanwhile, Starla's tears are ebbing, but she looks no less startled and the stinging slap mark on her cheek is reddening by the second.

Like the expert storyteller she fancies herself to be, Aunt Suzie smoothly transitions from recounting the story of third cousin twice-removed Edgar's kidney stones – I think; again, I'm not really listening – to how my Great-Grandma Flossie used to knead dough to make the biscuits by hand. Aunt Suzie demonstrates the time-honored process by kneading her hands together in the air. At that moment, the phone rings and Aunt Suzie's hands errantly unclasp suddenly and her right hand – the previous offender – ricochets back onto Starla's unsuspecting face, this time right in the kisser.

Starla starts weeping again, and I make my move to rescue her. This time, I won't be stopped, but just like that Aunt Suzie stands up quickly and moves toward the home phone, slinging (I may be exaggerating a bit) my darling daughter up onto her shoulder in the process. Starla squeals in displeasure, and now I'm run-walking toward her, determined to snatch her up from the unkind arms of her great-great-aunt, greatness twice-removed.

Aunt Suzie has one of those old-school rotary phones and when she picks up the receiver to answer it, the mouthpiece clocks Starla in the back of her soft little head.

"HEY!" I shout, louder than I knew was possible. Starla's wailing has increased, understandably so. Aunt Suzie, phone in hand, turns to me in surprise.

"I'm on the phone," she mouths quietly.

"HIT MY BABY ONE MORE TIME AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!" I scream, and there's a scary tone in my voice that frightens even me.

"What are you talking about?" mumbles Aunt Suzie uncertainly.

"Give me back my baby!" Starla seems unmoved by my volume, crying with the same intensity as before I spoke. And I don't wait for Aunt Suzie to relinquish my sweet baby girl. I reclaim her myself, forcibly, as Aunt Suzie looks on in wonder.

I slam the door behind me as I leave, glancing back only to glare once more at my aged relative.

I unlock the van and secure my girl in her car seat, kissing her cheeks relentlessly to soothe her. I'm sitting in the driver's seat, van cranked and already in reverse, when it hits me. I left the diaper bag on Aunt Suzie's love seat.

Crap.

Story #7: "Trophy Head"

Here's Story #7 in my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. There's a bit of self-revelatory truth in this one, but I won't tell you how much or which parts. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"Trophy Head"

They call me Trophy Head. No, I've never won an award of any kind. I'm not the athletic type (too top-heavy). They call me Trophy Head because my ears stick out wildly on either side of my head. 

I don't have an actual deformity of any kind, at least not according to the doctors who've checked me out. I simply have ears that are disproportionately large when compared to the size of my head. It's always been this way, and unless I get the gumption and/or experience a financial windfall to correct it surgically, it will always be this way.

I've endured my fair share of ribbing over the years. I've been called any number of names, some more creative than others. There's Dumbo, Car-Door Ears, Ross Perot, Dopey, and many more.

I decided long ago, since there was very little I could do about my appearance – other than growing out my hair long and thick to hide my ears, which didn't appeal to me – I might as well embrace it. And that I have.

These days, when someone sees fit to point out the obvious, that I am abnormally endowed in the aural department, I simply grin and say, "The better to hear you with, my dear." Unless the speaker is a man, in which case I will excise the phrase "my dear" and replace it with "kind sir."

If I'm feeling particularly punchy, I might reply with the coyly phrased, "You know what they say about people with big ears…" Which really means nothing, because there is no time-honored axiom relating to people with big ears. I made it up. It does set one to thinking, long enough either for me to change the subject or them to vacate my presence, which is ultimately the point anyway.

So go ahead, throw your barbs if you makes you feel like more of a man or a woman. Ask me if my hears hang low. Inquire as to whether or not they are capable of wobbling to and fro. Are you curious to know whether I can tie them in a knot, or perhaps a bow? You'll never know unless you ask. Go ahead – speak your mind. I'm all ears.

Story #6: "The Boogie Man"

Part of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, here's a short, but (IMHO) amusing vignette I plotted out over the weekend, but didn't write till today. Enjoy?  ~  JH

"The Boogie Man"

I like to move it, move it. Dancing is in my blood. Any style, any beat, anytime, anyplace. Play me a song and I will dance to it. 

Admittedly, it's not a pretty sight. I am bald, I am overweight, I am white, and I am a terrible dancer. But I don't let these little details get in the way of my having a good time. 

I have danced on planks to the fluid sounds of reggae on the shores of Jamaica. I have danced with Zulu warriors in southern Africa. I have waltzed with royalty in the United Kingdom. I have twerked to Ke$ha at The Spot downtown. 

Sure, I have heard the boos and hisses of disapproval from the masses, practically every time I get my groove on. I have endured being thrown out of not one, not two, but thirty-five different establishments for rashly committing collective buzzkill. But I simply do not care. 

I will dance until the day I die, and then I will dance on the other side. I dance because I must. Because I can't not. 

I am the Boogie Man, this is my world, and you are welcome in it. May I have this dance?

Story #5: "I Told You Not To Fall Asleep"

OK, so I'm a few days behind here. I don't know if I set any hard-and-fast "rules" for myself at the beginning of this #astoryaday June Writing Challenge endeavor or not, but if so I'll amend them thusly now. As long as I am able to write 30 original stories in 30 days, namely during the month of June, I am off the hook. This takes off any pressure I may put on myself to write something every single day, when the goal is not to stress myself out but to get me writing creatively again. So it's Day 8, and this is Story #5. Don't worry, the rest of the weekend's stories are right behind this one. Enjoy?  ~  JH

BLOGGER'S NOTE:  This story is written in a woman's voice – i.e., the protagonist (if you can call her that) is female. I don't do this often, but when I do it usually works out alright. This one took an expectedly violent turn, which I'm not entirely certain that I condone, though I do understand her motivations. I go where the character leads me, though, and this one led me here.

"I Told You Not To Fall Asleep"  (251 words)

Nine long years is nine too many. I'm taking back my life once and for all...

You probably thought it was an idle threat. You never listened to me anyway – if you did, you didn't take me seriously. I told you not to fall asleep, or you might not wake up again.

Many a night I spent, trying to stay awake, not knowing whether – whenever you decided to come home – you would be the thoughtful, sensitive man I married or the sadistic monster you all-too-quickly became afterwards.

Tonight, you sealed your fate. I didn't say or do anything to cause your latest outburst; but you never needed much of a fuse to explode anyway.

You fell asleep much earlier than usual. I sneaked out of bed, crept down the hall to the kitchen, and withdrew the widest, flattest cast iron pan in the cupboard. I wanted to make sure you never woke up again.

The pan was heavier than I'd anticipated. I hadn't cooked much on a regular basis lately, so I'd forgotten. I would definitely have to use two hands.

I looked at you sleeping, more peacefully than you had a right to. I contemplated saying goodbye, but knew I would only regret it later if I did.

I raised the pan over my head, reared back, and brought down the fury on your skull. And again. And again.

Seeing the crimson stain spread around your head didn't make me feel better. But it did make me feel free. Finally.

Story #4: "The Rise And Fall Of Alvaro Chalupa"

It's Day 4 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, so here's Story #4. Many of my stories come into existence after I've thought up what I deem to be an interesting title. This one started when I devised the name of its main character. The rest of the story kind of fell into place around that. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!  ~  JH

"The Rise And Fall Of Alvaro Chalupa"

Not so very long ago, in the only hospital in the town of Ocozocoautla de Espinosa, in the state of Chiapas, in the country of Mexico, a young woman by the name of Luz de la Luna gave birth to a son, whom she called Alvaro Manuel Chalupa.

The boy grew in girth if not in stature over the course of the next few years, and at the tender age of twelve, began to have strange and terrible visions. Some would call them prophecies, others lunacies, but Alvaro called them Esteban.

"Mamá," he said to her in a characteristically quiet tone one cloudy Thursday. "I have had another Esteban."

"Oh, dear boy, no!" Luz replied. "What has your Esteban foretold this time? A famine? A pestilence? Perhaps a government shutdown?"

"No, Mamá," the boy patiently explained. "This Esteban involves neither hunger, plagues, nor legislative incompetence. I have had an Esteban about myself."

A sharp intake of breath highlighted Luz's apprehension. "Is it bad news, Alvaro, my dear?"

"Not at all," smiled Alvaro. "My Esteban has told me that I shall become a great leader. Men, women, children, and goats will follow in my footsteps, heed my edicts, and build statues in my honor."

"Oh, Alvaro, this is a wonderful Esteban indeed!" She beamed proudly, adding, "Goats?"

"That bit was confusing," he admitted. "But I have not yet told you the best part."

"Oh, my boy, tell all! Do tell all," said Luz, clasping her hands dramatically in front of her face.

"The best part of all," continued Alvaro, "is that I shall become a martyr for my people. I shall be killed violently for the sake of the cause by ignorant rebels who refuse to defer to my authority. Is that not wonderful, Mamá?"

Luz's smile sank quickly into a frown and her hands fell to her sides in defeat. "A martyr, my son? Are you certain?"

"Have I ever had an inaccurate Esteban?" The question was rhetorical, of course. Alvaro's Estebans had correctly predicted the outcome of the previous Mexican presidential election, the past two Kentucky Derby winners, and the price of cheese at the Soriana supermarket half an hour away in Tuxtla Gutiérrez.

"My boy, I wish it were not so," cried Luz, dabbing at her tears spasmodically, as was her usual manner when frightened. "But this must happen as you say, I suppose."

And so it did. In six years' time, as Alvaro Chalupa had reached manhood, he had already gained a large following of people (and goats). His philosophies were startlingly simplistic yet refreshingly apolitical in nature, which drew many to him. Alvaro was unanimously elected president of Mexico and served half his term before being unceremoniously cut down by an assassin's rocket launcher in the middle of a speech about horticulture. His state funeral was the grandest his country had ever seen. Festivals were thrown in his honor and grenades were thrown at the rebels. The war was long and hard-fought, but ultimately the rebels were ousted and sent to live on the tiny island of Rábida in the Galapagos, where goats were banned and flamingos thrived.

Fond memories of Alvaro Chalupa continued long after his passing, in his home state of Chiapas in particular. Luz de la Luna lived a long and miserable life without her "dear boy," but was much revered by her fellow countrymen, who regarded her in nearly the same light as the Virgin Mary. Her only consolations were dwelling in the obscenely opulent mansion her son had built for her after his rapid rise to fame and driving her gaudy but gorgeous red Lamborghini at excessive speeds over back roads outside the city.

Story #3: "Courtesy Flush"

Day 3 and Story #3 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. This one is über-short, but after reading it you may thank me for that fact. I've been mulling over the appropriateness – or lack thereof – of penning such a vignette as this for quite some time now, and finally decided – "What the heck! Why not?" – so here it is. Enjoy?  ~  JH

"Courtesy Flush"

  How can you call yourself a human being and be so thoroughly devoid of compassion and consideration? How can you so cruelly and callously disregard your fellow man? How can you concoct a product so noxious, repugnant, and malodorous as this and not stop to think – for one second! – that others may not relish the aroma as you so obviously do. You are a disgrace to common decency and a scorner of etiquette! I could continue castigating your character ad infinitum – and you would well deserve it! – but I am above that. In point of fact, I have but four words yet to disseminate: Please. Flush. The. Toilet!

Story #2: "Aim Too, Please"

It's Day 2 of my June Writing Challenge, or #astoryaday, or whatever it is I'm going to decide to call it. Did you like yesterday's story? I'd love to hear your response to it. Additionally, I hope you enjoy this one and look forward to hearing what you think of it as well. I don't expect it, but I look forward to it nonetheless. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"Aim Too, Please"

I don't know why we're playing chicken like this, but apparently it's a road we have to cross to move forward. I love you. You love me. Do we really have to prove it with silly and potentially catastrophic games? You of all people should know I was never very good at sports.

I'm staring down the shaft of my steel-tipped arrow, aiming to the best of my meager ability at the serendipitously heart-shaped apple perched atop your fine head. I don't want to do this. I don't want to let go of this string. I don't trust myself to hit my target. But my love for you overwhelms me, compels me to aim straight and true and sever the fruit from its core instead of your brains from your head.

Measure twice, cut once – isn't that what they say? I've lined up my shot, now I do so again, and still one more time. (Does overextending an axiom negate its truth?) I close my eyes and release.

The thwack is quicker and louder than I expected. I can't bear to look, though I must respond with haste if I have missed and gravely injured you. I open my eyes.

You are eating the apple, careful not to cut your tongue on the head of the arrow, which has impaled the fruit as was its intention. I find this strangely funny and respond with nervous laughter.

"I love you." The words are shaky, uttered from shaky lips. I feel disconnected from myself, though I know I was the speaker.

You smirk slyly and reply, "I love apples. So juicy." You cock an eyebrow and your head at me and I relax my shoulders. (I wasn't aware I'd been raising them so stiffly.) "And you, too," you add, as an afterthought.

"That was exciting. And by exciting, I mean terrifying." I plop down onto the grass and expect you to join me. Instead, you approach me and take the bow from my hand – softly, not meaning to intimidate but succeeding at such. You pull the arrow – the reverse thwack is no less jarring – from the remains of the apple and toss the core onto the grass.

"Where's the other one?"

"The other what?" I inquire.

"Apple. It's your turn now."

I'm flummoxed. I don't know what to say. "I'm flummoxed," I say. "You want me to do it, too?"

"Don't you love me?"

I stand quickly, the nervousness invading my being anew. "Of course, but…"

"Then prove it." She doesn't wait for me to pull the apple out of my hoodie pocket. She reaches in and grabs it for herself and hands it to me.

And here we are. My back to the tree, with the second apple – not serendipitously heart-shaped, I might add – resting peacefully upon my noggin. You, with the arrow in place and the string drawn back, and your history of clumsiness in motion and life in general. I love you, truly I do, with all of my heart. But I don't want to do this. I don't want you to let go of the string. I love you, but I don't know if I really trust you.

Thwack!

Story #1: "Checkered Shirt Past"

If you know me at all, you can probably attest to the fact that I am full of ideas of all kinds. Many of them are bad ideas, many more are at best benign, and a few of them are darned good ones. Time will tell whether this latest endeavor will have been a good idea or a month-long disaster. But here goes nothing. Starting today, I will attempt to write a brand-new short story each day for a month and publish it here on my blog. I don't know if I am up to the challenge or not, but I'm going to attempt it nonetheless. It's Day 1, so here is Story #1. I do hope that you enjoy it. But if you don't, please do your best to wipe it from your memory and I'll try again tomorrow to do better. Thanks,  JH

"Checkered Shirt Past"

  You may think you know me, but you don't. You only know the me that I let you see. I have a past. It's not as sordid as all that, so you may as well get your mind out of the gutter. But it's a past nonetheless, and since confession is good for the soul, let's just say I'm craving soul food today.

  I wasn't always the t-shirt-and-jeans-wearing guy that you know and tolerate me as today. No, my friend. I was once a card-carrying, suit-and-tie-wearing, corporate slave, climbing the ladder to success one backstabbing rung at a time. And I was no slouch at it, either. In the game of that life, I was winning and winning big.

  So…what happened? The inevitable question. In searching for a succinct answer, I can only offer this: It started with a checkered shirt.

  Solid-colored shirts, heavily starched and pressed, were the mark of a true team player in the corporate world, and I was the captain of that team for longer than you'd believe. But one day, I found myself in front of the clearance rack of the local big-box department store of all places, gazing in awe and wonder at an orange-and-blue checkered shirt.

  Sure, it was a designer label, perhaps the economy line, but by no means a no-name piece. But it was plaid. And not a jaunty, country-club plaid at that. This shirt was two rungs shy of grunge. And, as much as it pained me to admit it to myself, I wanted it. Badly.

  Like the proverbial fugitive, I furtively glanced first over my left shoulder, then over my right. No corporate types in sight, and especially not any of my coworkers. Why would they be shopping here anyway? (Why was I, for that matter?) I lifted the shirt from the circular rack, examined the price tag casually (shockingly low for its obvious quality), and folded it over my arm.

  I beat a hasty retreat to the nearest checkout counter, which just happened to be a self-service aisle. My credit card in hand, I promptly scanned the shirt, dropped it in the bag, tapped out the appropriate numbers on the keypad, and completed my purchase.

  Fortunately I'd parked illegally in the handicapped space, so my SUV was merely steps away from the store's entrance. I had gotten away with it. (In both cases.)

  The only question then was where to wear the surreptitiously acquired top. The obvious answer, to me at least, was church. I had attended the church of my youth as often as I could, and being in the field that I was, had no reasonable expectation that I would encounter anyone from my place of employment at the service. Which is, of course, exactly what I did encounter.

  The first person to greet me at the front door of the church, serving up a bulletin with a hearty smile, was the trash guy. In truth, he was probably called a janitor or some other less-demeaning title such as "facilities coordinator." But I knew him simply as the guy who dumped my wastebasket each morning. A quiet man with whom I'd exchanged only a few passing words in the five years of my employment.

  The "trash guy," as it turns out, was the head usher at my church, newly appointed so. He greeted me by name – the look of astonishment on my face must have been evident – and patted me on the back in genuine welcome. That he added "Nice shirt" to his greeting, merely as an afterthought, must have had no effect on him – at least not as great as it had on me.

  A genuinely nice man the trash guy may have been, but apparently – as seems to be the case with many "facilities coordinators" in my experience – he loved to talk. Word of my ingloriously non-corporate attire eventually made its way to my supervisor. 

  In the cutthroat world of business, one success can make you as easily as one mistake can break you. I was broken. Shattered is more like it. Within days, I was looking for another job, having unceremoniously been relieved of my hard-earned one. All because of a checkered shirt.

  You won't see me out in public wearing a checkered shirt these days. In truth, all but the most deeply discounted ones are beyond my ability to afford now. I wear t-shirts and jeans because frankly, they're cheap. 

  Life hasn't been the kindest to me of late, but one thing remains constant. I am happy. Happier than I've ever been, in fact. I am free from the pretentious, ruthless, win-at-all-costs slavery of corporate America. I am devoid of market-changing, world-altering responsibilities. I no longer have a demanding boss breathing down my neck to see if I am meeting up to his standards.

  I live a simple life now. I'm a trash guy – well, facilities coordinator, to be precise – at the state zoo. It's a thankless job, but I love every minute of it. Not every job affords one the opportunity to converse – albeit one-sidedly – with a red panda on their lunch break. Indeed, not many workers have experienced the joy of seeing not one, not two, but a hundred kids' faces light up with joy the first time they see an elephant.

  That one checkered shirt has made all the difference. The power of plaid has changed my life. And I don't regret it for a moment.