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.

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.