Story #17: "Mother Of Pearl"

Here's Story #17 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. It's another one written from a female perspective. No, I don't have a gender identity crisis. I simply like to explore life – even fictional life – from different points of view once in a while. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"Mother Of Pearl"

I'm worried about my daughter. She doesn't call like she used to, doesn't visit, and doesn't even think about me more than once every six days. (I should know – I'm clairvoyant.)

Pearl has always been very close to me and her father both. But lately she seems so withdrawn, and my biggest fear is that she'll never come back to us.

It's been three months since the aliens abducted her – just sucked her right up into their flying saucer. (Just like the ones you see on TV – somebody in Hollywood KNOWS something!) They've been experimenting on her ever since.

Just yesterday, they had her hooked up to some fancy-pants extraterrestrial device intended to measure the length of time between her sighs. Apparently, sighs matter to the little green guys in ways we'll probably never understand. In my mind's eye, I saw her – in high definition, no less – trying to hold back her audible exasperations just to screw up their tests (which would only have to be repeated the next day, so her efforts were likely in vain).

Pearl's always been a fighter, what with the bullies at her high school (they didn't know how to relate to someone as intellectually and metaphysically superior to them, as she clearly was), the curse that gypsy put her under in college (the horns and tail eventually fell off, but not before leaving faint scars), and now these blasted extraterrestrials.

Pearl's had a rough go of it, no question about that, but I can say with confident clairvoyance that she'll come through on the other side of this a conqueror.

Still, it doesn't stop a mother from worrying just the same.

Story #16: "What's In A Name?"

It's Day 19, and here's Story #16 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. And there's more where this one came from. I stayed up late last night and wrote 4 short stories, all of which I'll post today. Which means...drum roll, please...I will end this day with 19 stories and will officially be caught up. For today, at least. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"What's In A Name?"

All my friends have stupid names. 

I have a very close friend whose name is John Hammer, yet he insists on being called by his nickname: Jack.

Another dear friend of mine – bless his heart – is called Pete (though his given name is Peter) – and his  last name is Moss.

I once dated a girl named Betty who was desperate to get married to somebody – anybody! – so she could leave behind her father's surname of Petty.

My current girlfriend is Kimberly Wemberley, and her BFF Anita was born a Mann. (She's currently single.)

I may come off as overly critical, but I really and truly love all of these people. (Except Betty – she was crazypants!) I simply question the names that they were given or choose to use.

Of course, I have absolutely no room to talk. My name is Henry Butts. And I go by Harry.

Story #15: "Please Keep Off The Grass"

I tend to write stories in bunches, so it's no surprise – to me, at least – that one story led right to another. And will probably lead to yet another one, which would almost get me caught up. Either way, the #astoryaday June Writing Challenge rolls on...  ~  JH

"Please Keep Off The Grass"

It might be legal in some places now, but you better not bring that junk in my house. It ain't good for you or anyone else. 

Sure, you might feel right happy when you're smokin' it, but that high is always gonna go away. And then what? You gotta find another high, that's what. 

Maybe you smoke more of the grass. Or maybe you shoot some other, harder drug up into your veins. Maybe you take some of them funny pills. You might not be addicted now, but just you wait. One thing leads to another. 

Reefer might be something that grows out of the ground, but I'm telling you it ain't natural. You need to stay away from that junk. 

Now, I'm not one to judge. I've done my fair share of bad stuff, too. You probably won't believe this, but I took a sip of whiskey one time, a long time ago, when I was just twelve years old. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever set to my lips. I've often said that if I'd a taken a second sip, I'd be a bonafide wino to this very day. But I didn't. I knew then as I know now that it wasn't for me. 

Now, I know what you're thinking. This old fuddy-duddy geezer don't know what he's talkin' about, but I do. I've got somethin' that you ain't old enough to have yet, and that's wisdom. And I'm tellin' you, it just ain't wise to puff on that weed. Leave it alone, and you'll be alright. 

And if you ever feel like you need to get high, you just come right on over to my house, and I'll set up my extendable ladder, and you can clean out my gutters. If that ain't high, I don't know what is.

Story #14: "Jump Off A Cliff"

It's Day 17 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge and this is merely Story #14. Which all-in-all isn't that bad actually, but I'm still playing catch-up. Here's a bleak little tale that could've taken any number of directions once I came up with its title. I think it took the darkest turn possible, but it is what it is and I still like it. I hope you will, too.  ~  JH

"Jump Off A Cliff"

Some people do it for fun, a bungee cord attached securely to their person. Some people fall accidentally and pulverize their bodies against rocks, trees, and what have you. Some people get pushed maliciously, with virtually the same result. And some simply do it because they feel like they've either served their purpose here or simply have no purpose and they want to end it all. 

Me, I jump off cliffs for cash. Well, direct-deposit checks, actually, but you get my point. I'm a stuntman. It's been my job for twenty-odd years now to make the hard stuff look easy for all your favorite stars. That I suffer the bumps, bruises, scrapes, and breaks so they don't have to is probably no concern of yours. They generally appreciate my work, and believe me, it is work. 

Sure, I'm technically safe, secured by invisible wires or safety harnesses that get edited out digitally before you ever see them. But there's always an element of risk to my work, and it's always a possibility that I won't come home each day. At least not all in one piece. 

Tonight, I'm jumping off the highest cliff I've ever seen in person. I'm not here on a lark, not being careless or reckless, not desperate to end my life, but destined to do so nonetheless. 

I'm not alone. There's a small handgun pressed into the small of my back, clasped tightly in my wife's hand. I still don't understand why she's doing this, and she won't explain, but it probably has something to do with the insurance policy we took out last year. Jobs have been spotty of late, as I've been recovering from one injury or another, and she hasn't worked outside the home since we've been married. Times are tough. But I never thought it would come to this. 

We approach the summit, and I look up at the stars. They're shining bright tonight. The river far below me glistens in the moonlight. The jagged rocks break up the flow of the water and further ensure that I will not survive this stunt. 

She nudges me roughly with the gun, urging me forward. Maybe I'll keep resisting, go out with a bang – literally. No one would believe it was an accident, my getting shot and then falling off a cliff. She wouldn't be able to collect the insurance money. Then how would she afford all those nice things she so richly deserves. 

I'm being sarcastic. She's a nice lady, but she doesn't deserve any of that. Still, I wouldn't deny her the pleasure of seeing me fall one last time – she's visited me on the set  a few times lately; I wonder how long she's been fantasizing about and planning this? 

Have I fulfilled my purpose? I don't know. Does anyone ever truly know their purpose in life? I'm not giving up, but I am giving in. 

I'm forty-two years old. She's thirty-six. She can still live a long and happy life, with or without me. She can marry again, maybe have kids with her new man. I could never give her that, which may have been part of the problem with us. 

I slowly turn to face her, my back to the precipice. She waggles the gun in my direction, smirking creepily. I mouth the words "I love you" and step out into nothingness.

Story #13: "BRB"

Last one of the day. Story #13 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. And it's the shortest of them all (so far). But it just might bring a smile to your face. Or a blush. I'll take whichever as a compliment. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"BRB"

"Your move."

"Be right back."

"What's up?"

"Gotta use the john. Only take a minute."

"Don't get lost in there!"

"Only take a minute."

"You said that already."

"I meant it."

"Well, hurry up, why don't ya?"

"Be right back."

"You said that, too!"

"Sorry."

"Still your move."

"Still haven't used the john."

"What's stoppin' ya?"

"You're still talkin' to me."

"You ain't gotta answer me."

"Nonetheless…"

"Go on then!"

"I'm goin'."

"You ain't moved an inch."

"Don't have to."

"But you said you had to use the john."

"I'm goin'."

"But you…"

"Right here."

"You ain't!"

"I reckon I am."

"Why'd you go just standin' there for?"

"Couldn't wait."

"Who was makin' you wait?"

"You were still talkin'."

"You're puttin' this on me?"

"Nope, but I put it on your floor. Got a towel?"

"Be right back."

Story #12: "Leave Velanov Alone"

It's still Day 15, and here's yet another story in my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. It's Story #12, if the title didn't give that away. I should note here that, while I do not now nor have I ever spoken Russian, I have saddled an unseen character here with a decidedly Russian surname, the exact pronunciation of which I am not 100% sure. In my head – and therefore, for full effect as it relates to the story – I pronounce it "Vell-uh-noff." You pronounce however you'd like inside your own head. Enjoy?  ~  JH

"Leave Velanov Alone"

Velanov is an innocent man! Your bitter accusations are destroying his life. You're hurting, I get that. You want answers, somebody to blame. I understand full well. But you're on the wrong track!

Velanov is kind, gentle, and wouldn't hurt a fly – clichéd but true. Do you really think him capable of strangling that poor woman, dismembering her body, and burning it in a trash barrel in his backyard? It doesn't even make sense!

The man has a solid alibi. He was with me the whole night that lady was killed. It was our buddy Ian's bachelor weekend at the beach. All of us saw him there that night.

That Velly disappeared for an hour or two when he went out to buy chips is understandable. He'd only been to this particular stretch of beach once before. He got lost is all, and he had to stop and ask for directions. Yes, the lady who gave him directions was the one who was killed that night – he admitted as much himself. But the rest is all coincidence and conjecture! 

After all, when would he have had the time to mutilate her and burn her body, as you claim he did? Like I said, he was back at the beach easily within two hours. 

No, we didn't question why he didn't want Ian to ride with him on the trip back the next day. Nor did we think twice about the foul odor emanating from the trunk of his car when we stopped for gas halfway home. Why would we? So a man doesn't clean the garbage out of this car too often and feels embarrassed about it. What of it?

This is Velanov we're talking about here – a man of integrity, for Pete's sake! Listen, I know I'll never be able to convince you. And I know, thanks in large part to your needling, the cops will probably go through with pressing charges against Velly, and there's nothing I can do to change that.

But I'm telling you – you're wasting your time. The man is innocent! If you have any sense of decency and compassion whatsoever, leave Velanov alone!

Story #11: "Wolf, In Cheap Clothing"

Okay, I gave you a couple of hours to catch up reading the first two stories of the day, though you should've only needed a few minutes for each. Here's another short one I think/hope/pray you'll enjoy. If not, there's not much I can do about it anyway. The #astoryaday June Writing Challenge train rolls on...  ~  JH

"Wolf, In Cheap Clothing"

Wolf was never what you would call a dress-up kinda guy. In his line of work, he didn't have to be. And in his private life, he didn't want to be. Wolf was a simple man, with no big dreams and little ambition.

So when he was asked to be a guest speaker at his daughter's Career Day event at school, Wolf was at a loss as to what he was going to wear. A suit would be too pretentious, but a t-shirt and jeans would be too casual. Put simply, nothing in his closet screamed Career Day.

Wolf knew an occurrence such as this demanded that he embark on an excursion he hated as much as or more than scrubbing a filthy toilet – and that was shopping for clothes.

He loved his daughter and wanted to look his best, but money was tight and so was Wolf. So to the local thrift store he would go. 

Poring over the books, VHS movies, and gaudy knickknacks for far longer than was necessary, Wolf then forced himself to stride over to the clothes racks and give it a go. After an agonizing five minutes of tortuous searching, Wolf selected a shabby-looking green polo shirt and some threadbare khakis. An outfit richer and four dollars poorer, Wolf stepped out of the store and headed to Career Day.

He knew that his daughter would be, if not proud, at least mildly pleased at his courageous efforts at clothes shopping and alternately mortified by the overly detailed explanation he would give regarding the duties of his daily job (which are unfit even to relate to you on these pages).

But Wolf would not and did not let that stop him from fulfilling his promise to participate. Cheap clothing and all.

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.