Anna's Headache

Anna had a great morning run, until she found her X-husband’s dead body on her front lawn. It would be just like him to prank her. She nudged his leg with her foot. Nothing. Then she wound up and kicked him really hard in the thigh. Nothing. “Shit, Shit, Shit,” flew out of her mouth as she stomped towards her neighbor’s side door.

Her thoughts were flying. Oh, you are so the prime suspect. Maybe that stupid, little twit of a girl friend did it and dumped him here. Oh, maybe his crazy business partners got sick of his crap? This is not good. Shit! I have to cancel my morning meeting.

She knocked on the neighbor’s side door and waited.

“Hey, Curt, I hum..well..I think Jack's dead on my front lawn.”

Curt just stood and stared at her as he wiped this face to get the sleep out.
“Sorry? Jack peed on your lawn? How would you know that?” still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Dead. I think he is dead?”

“What?”

“He’s on the lawn by the rhododendrons,” as she put her hands to her face to keep from crying.

“Ah…Let me…ummm…shoes…” as they started down the drive way, “Yep, that’s Jack.”

They stood and stared at the still body for a few minutes. From across the street, Alice, the 78 year old neighbor, came out of her house to pick up the morning paper. Her coffee mug in hand tattered in her bony hand, while a cigarette perched on her bottom lip. She walked up to Anna and Curt, “Why’s Jack sleeping in the bushes?”

“He dead, I think?” Anna just stood frozen.

“Well, is anyone going to do a test?” Alice took her foot and nudged Jack’s arm. Nothing.

“Tried that," said Anna trying not to vomit.

“How about this?” as Alice’s leg swiftly flexed and landed squarely in Jack’s stomach. Nothing. Curt’s face went white as he searched for his cell phone.

“Yep, rat bastard’s dead,” Alice took a sip of her coffee and headed back towards her house.

Playing with Fire

Mother always told me not to play with fire, which for someone raised in the 1940’s and 50’s that phase meant the following:

1. Wash the makeup off your face and put a slip on under your dress, or you’ll end up pregnant. What? How does that work?
2. Go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and you’ll get into heaven. Really, I cannot skip one stinkin’ week, or I am damned to Hell? Could someone please point out that specific chapter and verse?
3. Don’t go cruising with rowdy boys (or any type of boy, for that matter), or you’ll end up pregnant. OK, fine, I’ll give her that one.
4. Don’t wash your hair while you have your period; it is bad for your health. Oh, I just don’t have the strength to argue that insane logic of a wife’s tale.

However, the following story isn’t really, what mother had in mind when she talked about playing with fire. Normally, a series of uneventful tasks linked by a life in the suburbs with a husband, 2.5 kids and a dog named Chris defined my life. I know, I know...you’re thinking Why a dog named Chris? After Chris Rock, of course. The .5kid gave him the name.

Rant:.5 is a neighbor kid who unofficially lives part-time at our house. How does an 8 year old know about the comedian? His parents. You see, these parents (and I use that term very loosely) see parenting as a low priority in their very self-absorbed lives. They don’t have time to teach or haven’t figured out how to teach the kid about diversity. Instead, they let him watch Chris Rock comedy specials to gain insight about the Black Experience. To this day, this idea baffles me. A typical weekend with these “Parents” would include hang-gliding off a cliff, tequila shots and poker games with the notion that poker is a great teaching tool for counting, determining shapes and reading (which one needs when being the beer caddy, I suppose). Maybe, it is the overwhelming attention to family traditions like Thanksgiving, where everyone determines their own dinner time by making their very own Turkey lunchmeat sandwich with the items left out on the counter. Nothing says love like “Make your own damn sandwich and while you’re there can you bring me a beer.” Perhaps, this would explain why he cohabitates with my family. Between checking on homework, family meals and marathon games of Monopoly and Rock Band, we seem to toss in a hug and a few words of encouragement.

Oh yes, playing with fire. Well, it all started when .5 kid ran into the kitchen and plowed his face straight into the side of the cupboard. This caused an antique tea cup to wobble and smash to the ground. .5's face was fine. His brain...hum…not so sure.

I quickly reached for the broom and dustpan before this event turned into a trip to the emergency room for one of the kids or dog. From the shards of porcelain, a matchbook from a night club called FireStorm in South Philly emerged. The worn, yellowed edges and missing matchsticks exposed its age. I picked it up and all of a sudden, I could swear I heard Jimi Hendrix singing “Fire” in the distance, and people cheering at his wailing guitar. This played nicely into my theory that motherhood makes you a part-time lunatic.

A day or two went by without any unusual activity. Then Tuesday around 4:30, it started. .5 ran into the house; Conner, my son, dragged a bit behind with a very sad face.

“Mrs. S. you are never going to believe what happened at the history fair today. It was so awesome.”
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
“His Abraham Lincoln assassination model caught on fire. It was sooooo cool,” .5 screeched as he dug in the cookie jar.
“What?”
With tears in Connor’s eyes, “Tony DeBella’s Pompeii reenactment exploded all over my model.”
“John Wilkes Booth never stood and chance,” .5 rooted through the pantry for some more food.

A freak mishap, of course. This is what I told my child to keep him clam and moving forward with life. This logic worked until dinner the next evening. The old crusty wooden shed sparked flames from the windows and door. “Mr. S. should there be fire coming from your shed?” .5 calmly stated as if he were asking for more peas. With this comment, everyone at the table leaped from their chairs and darted for the backyard, except for .5, who scooped up more mashed potatoes.

Several days later while cleaning up the kitchen, I came across those stinking FireStorm matches. Got that right! raced through my mind as I tossed them into the junk drawer. .5 strolled into the house for breakfast. “Lake, could you take the kitchen trash out for me?”

Rant:What the hell? If I have to be a part-time parent, .5 can do part-time chores. Furthermore, do you see what happens when you drink too many Jello Shooters? You start naming your kid after geological nomenclatures; forcing them to question your parental skills at a very young age and go looking for surrogate parents.

“Mrs. S., how can grass catch on fire?”
“Well, during a drought, the grass can get very dry, and…”
“No, I mean green grass.”
“I am not sure what you mean?”
“The grass in your front yard is on fire.”

You would think standing in the road surrounded by neighbors as the fire department extinguished my front yard was humiliating. Nope. Maybe even a stern line of questioning by the fire chef would have made me cringe. Nope. It wasn’t until .5 walked out from the crowd towards the only non-charred portion of my yard and stated the following:

“Look Mrs. S. This is really cool,” and pulled the FireStorm matches from his pocket along with a squirt bottle of full of liquor and proceeded to set the rest of my lawn on fire in front of God and everyone then I was mortified.

Waltzing Souls

Worn pines floors below creek and bend
Music’s melodic beat enchants
Entwined souls gliding
Slow sensual dance of paramours
Strong hand guides with gentlest touch
Euphoria captures my heart
Love engulfs my life

A Twinkle

The usual Saturday morning breakfast consisted of an English muffin toasted until crunchy covered with peanut butter and orange marmalade, fresh strawberries, and plain yogurt with a hint of honey. Nancy made sure the decaf black tea was strong with two sugars brimming in a porcelain tea cup painted with four leaf clovers. It was her sister, Grace's, favorite china pattern. After the tray was loaded, Nancy walked slowly into Grace's bedroom.
"Good morning, Precious."
"Nancy. You are the sweetest."
"Would you like to go to the park today to get that creaky body of yours out and about? "
"That would be wonderful. My old bones could use a bit of sunshine."

As Grace ate her breakfast, she and Nancy chatted about the day before them. Nancy smiled as she looked into Gracie's eyes; they twinkled with delight as they spoke. A twinkling eye can mean many things. The one that was twinkling at her right now was full of life, and the sole reason Nancy took care of her sister.

Nancy cleaned up from breakfast and poked her head in at Grace.
“Need more tea?”
"Excuse me, ma'am. Do you know when my mom is coming to get me? I am going to be late for cheer leading practice."
"Soon," as Nancy fluffed her sister's pillow, Nancy looked into Grace's eyes; the twinkle was gone. Only a blank confusing stare looked back.

Point of View

Asiya (ah-SEE-yah) stood in front of the hospital looking into the street; she saw nothing but rain. It was nearing the end of the monsoon season. The sun would come out soon, but it would take another month for the land to dry. With this thought, she smiled, opened her umbrella and ran for the city bus. As the bus weaved through the watery streets, Asiya gazed out the window. The cityscape made no impression; her thoughts kept her pre-occupied. Every detail swam through her head. This project had taken years to get off the ground. The government and private funding were a nightmare to get going, let alone the plans and permits. That was all behind her now, in two months, the architect’s drawing was going to become a reality. The bus came to a stop; Asiya snapped back from her thoughts and started the brisk walk home. Upon entering the main hallway, her mother called to her from the kitchen where hot Darjeeling tea was waiting for her. The smell of hot samosas filled the house. These were her favorites. The spiced potato filling with onion, peas and coriander surround by fried pastry was the perfect ending to a long week of work at the hospital.

* * * *

The final bell had rung indicating the exam was over. Numair (noo-MAIR) put down his pencil and looked over his calculations as he walked to the professor’s desk. Numair stared out the window. The rains were not as heavy now; the signal that the rainy season was coming to an end. This was the only time he could ever remember being so happy for rain. He even prayed to Allah for more rain, but he knew his prayer was selfish and arrogant and would not be answered. Gathering up his backpack, Numair headed out of the class room. He meandered down to the first floor and just stood in the lobby; finally, he walked over to the bench near the side wall, pulled out a history book and just read for a while. He was not interested in going home just yet.

The walls of the Mathematics department were old stone and cold. The noise of people echoed though the lobby and up into the stairwell. This building was built in the 1900’s even though the Government College University had been in existence for almost 60 years. An hour had past and Numair was finding himself a bit hungry. He packed up and headed for the bus stop. While riding home, he couldn’t help but notice how pretty the city always looked after the rains. Oral ledged dates the city, Lahore, back 4000 years.
While looking out the bus window, the Badshai Mosque came into view. The light rain created a bit of a mist around the orange, 17th century brick structure with spiraling towers. It seemed to be floating in the clouds. Numair just started at its beauty. His father took him there to pray during Ramadan every year. The bus turned the corner, and the mosque disappeared from site. The bus finally came to a halt. Numair grabbed his backpack and jogged home in the light rain; his mind cleared from his worries. As he opened the front door, he could smell the Samosas. He quickly put his items away and walked briskly into the kitchen. His sister and mother were engrossed in a conversation. “You ate all the mango chutney?” he pouted and stormed out of the kitchen.

* * * * *
Four months passed since the rains. Numair sat on the porch of the medical clinic reading one of his history books; while his sister closed up for the evening, he just wondering why he was here and not in school. His dad had insisted he chaperone his sister on her trips. They were only 3 days at a time every few weeks; she would be fine without him. There was another doctor here and two nurses. No one tried to compromise Asiya’s honor or ransack the center. He just didn’t see the point. Numair looked at the sun setting in the distance against the orange color of the mountains and decided to get ready for evening prayer. Something moving slowly in the distance caught his eye. As it came into view, he realized it was a woman pulling a child of 7 or 8 on a stretcher, which tied to her waist. “Asiya,” he screamed franticly, “Asiya.” She came running to the porch. As she turned to look, she saw the woman collapse to the ground from exhaustion. “Help me,” Asiya said as she grabbed her brother’s arm. They both took off running towards the woman and child. They frantically untied the stretcher from the woman. The child had a badly broken leg and cried in pain. The doctor and her brother picked up the stretcher and carried the boy as quickly as possible into the medical center. After the boy was placed safely on the examination room table, they both ran back out to help the woman into the other examination room.

“Numair, take care of her. Get her some water,” barked his sister as she ran into the other room to see about the boy. Numair, fetched a cup of water for the woman and listened. The woman explained how she came to carry her son by herself. Her husband managed a rather large herd of buffalo, and with sightings of thieves in the area, he was not able to leave the livestock unattended. Moments later, Numair heard his name called from the other room. He ran to his sister. As he entered the examination room, Numair thought he was going to vomit. The bone from the child’s leg was sticking out of the skin. He was in such a rush before he hadn’t noticed it until this moment.

“Numair, I need to you hold him while I set his leg.”
“The other doctor and nurses should be back from town soon…”
“This child cannot wait anymore; come help me!”
“Stand at his head and scoop your arms under his arm pits and hold him firmly…Now.”
Numair did as he was told, and within seconds, the boy was screaming in pain as Asiya pulled on his leg and popped the bone back into place.
“Numair, I need you to get a pan of 2/3rd water and 1/3 alcohol and a clean cloth.” Again, he did as told and then just stood by the boy. The sister explained how to bath someone. “Just maintain eye contact with him. Tell him a story from one of those books of yours.” Numair fumbled with the damp cloth for a second and began talking in a sing-song voice like his mother used a hundred times before when he was sick; he asked the boy his name.
“Sameer,” replied the boy.

“Well Sameer, there once was a prince named Lava.” Numair recanted the tale of how his city, Lahore, was created all the while keeping eye contact and wiping down Sameer’s face and arms. Asiya knew the cleaning had no physical medical purpose for mending the boy’s leg; however, it calmed Sameer while she formed his cast, and it gave her brother something to do. After the story told, the leg casted, and the boy had eaten, Numair sat next to Sameer for awhile without words.
Quietly in a very small voice Sameer spoke, “Evening Prayers, I didn’t say them.”
“I didn’t say mine either; do you want to say them together, now?”
“But I cannot get to the floor.”
“To be humble before Allah, simply bend at the waist as far as you can. Now bow your head.”
After making sure the boy was situated, Numair quietly knelt on the floor; together they said their evening prayers.

A Strange Day in July

A Strange Day in July

The car rolled into the gravel driveway; as soon as it stopped, Peter and Becky jumped from the car and started running. Their mother was yelling to them to change their cloths, but they didn’t listen. They just ran across the field and into the woods. Soon, they came to McMillan’s pond. Becky asked Peter to teach her how to skip stones across the pond’s cool blue water. “You do it like this…” said Peter as he showed Becky how he held the stone in his hand. ‘Watch how my arm throws it sideways and not overhand like a baseball.” Becky watched his arm movements closely. Peter threw the first stone, then the second. Just to show off, he throw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. Both children just stood and stared at the stone as it finally plopped into the water near Peter’s feet. Becky sat down on the large rock where she was standing.

Unbeknownst to the Brody kids, Ella hid in the cattails behind them snickering. She loved playing this game. The children never know what to do. All of the other kids just ran home, but not these kids. They just stared in amazement at the stone. Peter picked up another stone, turned and looked at his little sister. She smiled, and he threw it. They both watched it skip across the pond. Nothing. Then Peter threw the second stone; it skipped across the water. “Look at this,” whispered Ella to little Roxie sitting next to her. Roxie’s eyes grew bigger as she said “Look.” Ella pointed her finger at the skipping stone and then gave her finger a bit of a twitch. The stone reversed directions and skipped back towards the Brody kids. The two small girls nestled in the cattails just giggled quietly.

Becky screamed with amazement, “Do it again!” Peter picked up a stone and tossed it. Little Roxie clapped her hands and said, “Do it again!” and with that Ella twitched her finger at the stone. All of a sudden, a voice trying to shout but whisper at the same time said, “Cut that out! You’ll get into trouble.” It was Samuel, Ella and Roxie’s older brother. Ella looked at Samuel with an eye of defiance, and then she looked Roxie with a big smile and said, “Watch this.” Little Roxie parroted her older sister in a high pitched tone, “Watch.” Ella lifted both hands and began twitching all of her fingers.

Becky started laughing with delight as the stones around her and Peter started dancing in front of them some splashing against the water almost creating a tune. At this point, Peter looked at Becky and said,

“I think we should go home.”

“No, teach me. I want to make the stones dance,” yelled Becky with delight at seeing the stones frolic above the water.

“I’m not doin’ it.”

Becky paid no attention; she stood up and started to clap and dance with the stones.

Samuel grabbed Ella and Roxie’s hands and took them home.

Peter stood up and grabbed Becky’s hand. All of a sudden, the stones fell to the pond. There was a wrestling noise coming from the patch of cattails behind them. Peter and Becky turned towards the noise. They both looked at each other then back at the cattails. “Did you see?” Peter hesitated

“ Kids, they flew away. Where did they go? Peter, where did the kids go?”

The Pearl Diver

The Pearl Diver

On the southeastern coast of Honshu, the ancient port city of Tomonoura has faced the Seto Inland Sea since the beginning of time. Its Japanese landlords along with various other Asians occupied the city streets. Sprinkled amongst the natives were a few European men. Murtagh O'Farrell was one of these men. As he walked the streets from his docked ship towards one of the small beach coves north of the city, the locals always stopped and turned his way gazing at his tall, lanky stature topped with a tussle of reddish orange hair.

It was a time of adventure and great culture for it was 1867, and the world seemed open and alive. This was why Murtagh, captain of the Draper, came to Japan to trade exotic treasures, search for adventure, and acquire riches. That would be the tale he would weave as you shared sake while in port. However, every sailor knows a man who pulls into the same port year after year does it for one reason. Love.

As the road neared the north cove, the captain could hear the steady crashing of the sea against the tiny shore. A small gaggle of girls ranging from 11 to 17 years old was playing in the ocean surf. Upon further inspection, one noticed the organization of the children by 2 of the oldest. With buckets in hand, the girls were given directions to various locations out in the cove. They all began wading into the water then swimming towards their destinations. You see these were not just any girls; they were from a long line of Ama, pearl divers. They drove the coves and nearby sea for shells and abalone in order to harvest the mother-of-pearl.

Sitting in solitude on a rocky jetty was a gangly girl of thirteen years with a pale complexion. From a distance, the girl heard a whistle. She immediately dropped her shells and headed for the man standing on the beach. As her feet hit the sand, “Papa,” she shouted while running. Within seconds, they embraced. “My Ashling, I have missed you. Let me gaze upon you.” Her brown eyes were enclosed with a less pronounced Asian fold over her almond shaped eyes. Her skin was more yellow tones than of her father’s pinkish white skin. As Murtagh, looked at his daughter he saw only love. When the other children in the town looked upon Ashling, they saw only an awkward looking girl with flaming curly red hair.

Their time together as a family was always brief due to the captain’s travels. He saw her only twice a year.

“How are your diving skills?”

“Excellent. They said I cannot be an Ama because I am only half Japanese.”

“Hum…Precious, time will call you an Ama, you will see. You will not just be pearl diver; you will be the Pearl.”

Three years past since Captain Murdagh’s last visit, Ashling used this time wisely. She studied all the books her father had left for her. While standing on the edge of the cove as the sea touched her toes, Ashling practiced breathing. It was something taught to her by her maternal grandmother, one of the oldest Amas on the island. The other girls would mock her and call her Sabure meaning sand, but they meant is as an irritating granule or pebble. Her diving skills had become legendary though out the port city. Merchants paid dearly for the mother of pearl and pearls she and her grandmother found deep in the waters outside of the cove.

The northeast winds were heavy for several days. This was good sailing for the captain; he pulled into port a week ahead of schedule. Murdagh tended to his business during the mid-morning and took lunch while in town. This left him the afternoon to wonder up to the north cove. The wind carried a bit of a chill, but it cooled the skin from the hot, humid summer day. As he approached the cove, he prepared himself for this customary arrival whistle; instead, he was greeted by a sound he hadn’t heard in years. The elders of the cove called it the “song of the sea”. At first, the sound resembled a chant, but as he came closer, the chant blossomed into melody.

The captain stood in awe as the two women, one petite and old with years the other tall and slender with the radiance of youth, standing at the edge of the cove with their toes kissed by the last touches of the Seto Inland Sea practiced their breathing. Quietly, he sat in the sand and watched the two women swim out beyond the cove and drive for pearls. Upon their return to the shore, Murdagh whistled. The young woman turned towards the sound. She pulled the cap from her head revealing a mane of long auburn hair. “Papa,” Ashling shouted as she ran across the beach. As she came within steps of her father, he gasped at the site of her. “Look at the pearl, Papa. Look.”

The captain glanced at the black pearl and then into his daughter’s face. “It’s beautiful.”

facing Seto Inland Sea facing Seto Inland Sea