Local writers and special guests

Cadence Skye Olivarez has Texas roots dating back six generations. She currently resides in Corpus Christi with her three year old son, Everett, who would legally change his name to Batman should she allow it. She spends most of her time amid the palm trees of TAMUCC while she works full time, studies Creative and Professional Writing, and serves as the Associate Editor of Nonfiction for The Windward Review. She was recently a recipient of a HAAS Writing Award for her work completed in Fall 2018 and is a perpetual student of life. She is an avid lover of Mother Nature, yoga, coffee, and kindness.

There are no obscurities when it comes to grief.

It is simply a part of you.

It’s the pit of a stone fruit, lying in the center of your perfect peach.

It’s the light leaking out from a break in a cloud,

causing shadows to dance on your brightest moments.

It’s the aging of your hands,

worn and weary,

with the creases growing more evident as the years pass,

reaching for that peach – that tender, ripe peach – wishing

they could share it with you over a bowl of Blue Bell.

It’s their soft leather chair,

mahogany, and impressed with the memory of their seat,

remaining empty on Christmas Day.

It’s celebrating their would-be birthdays on a cedar plank deck

built inches above the Gulf,

with no one there to blow out the candles,

besides the brackish bay breeze.

It’s finding old photos

and wanting to share them with the world,

because then – maybe – it would stand as a testament

of their life’s meaning.

Maybe.

But it will never suffice for feeling their laughter

fill an entire room,

or picking Fredericksburg peaches

together

on the side of the road,

or having them walk you down the aisle,

all dressed in white,

on your wedding day.

No, there are no obscurities

when it comes to grief;

it is simply a part of you. 

read more like this in CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2019

as my twenty-seventh lap around the great star comes to a close, i am humbled by the beauty earth holds, gentle and cosmic in the palm of my hands; by the fragility of existence in this form, fleeting and weightless; by the binding force of love that resides within each of us, waiting to be awoken; and within all the dreams sung by the hum that my bleeding heart beats i welcome peace and stillness, yet remain open and willing for my soul to be stirred, never shying or shielding from the rain but allowing it to wash over my bones, and flesh, and eyes to pour out the hundreds of paths i chose not to walk, and breathe into the one i plucked, the fruit of what is. this path i’ll water and wander for all of my years to come, for i’ve only just begun the story that has yet to be spun. 

 Mesquite Tree

Heal me beneath the moon and the sea.

May the crashing waves devour my fears

and wrap me in a cocoon of the unknown,

spun like a dreidel of silk and sound

as harmonies of locusts lull this loud dream.

Blood orange moon, mother moon, longest of the century,

gleam unto my bare breasts that have changed shape

in aging and nourishing of my sweet babe;

see me for not the hundreds of versions there are that exist of me within each stranger,

but for who I am. Who I am.

A wandress shifting shadows,

morphing under the wings of sky,

soles of my feet calloused from kissing the red Texas dirt,

pulling the earth toward me as if it were an Afghan in the dead of winter’s night.

An Afghan knitted by the hands of my great grandmother who lived through The Great Depression,

starved through poverty, hunger knowing no race.

She praised her God on a day when she had animal fat to cook in her beans,

trekked across dry desert, cactus country, shielding her cooing infant from the blistering sun,

all to give me this life. This life.

With only the fire cracking and smoldering mesquite branches to warm my bones.

I sharply inhale this vision, and exhale the realization of permanence:

because of her, and the bloodline coming before me,

because of these ancestors who fought for this life,

healing under this moon,

because of them, I am eternal.

Baby Bloomer

Once a speck of stardust, then a sprouting seed,

blooming from the verdant, velvet covered leaves.

Your size a Meyer Lemon, canary and so sweet,

your skin the perfect hue, heart a steady beat.

Gentle in this iris, curled up serenely,

your rosy cheeks and chin, drawn down to your knees.

The beauty of becoming: budding, bittersweet,

eclipsing space and time, when our eyes finally meet.

Petals lending warmth, awaiting your first breath,

an act that will transcend, even my own death.

A self-proclaimed desert rat, Chuck Etheridge was raised in El Paso, Texas. A US Navy veteran, he has worked as an actor, a convenience store clerk, a Rent-a-Poet, and a catalog copy writer before finding respectable employment as an English teacher, first at McMurry University and, later, at Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi. His poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of reviews and anthologized in a number of books, and he has written two plays that have been produced. Look for his upcoming novel  CHAGFORD REVISITED. See his website. 

Thirty-three thousand tons of steel,

She slogged through the gray seas,

Like an arthritic aunt,

Determined to cross the street without help, 

Graceless but reliable.

When Uncle Sam invited her to the dance,

The dance called World War II,

She was not his favorite niece,

He told her to dress,

So she could take care of sea planes.

She stumped gracelessly across the Pacific,

To Japan,

Where out-of-ammo pilots aimed planes 

At her thick hull.

She wasn’t pretty, 

But she was tough,

Shrugging off attacks,

Giving better than she took.

She sank sixteen enemy ships,

Put thirty more out of action, 

Shooting enemy aircraft out of the sky

While performing more than 400 rescue missions.

Like sailors, Ships get medals—

She was awarded two, 

And the admiral made her 

His flagship.

All she wanted to do

Was make her Uncle Sam proud. 

But was obsolete before she got home from the dance.

But her Uncle Sam was a thrifty fellow,

Figured she’d gotten all gussied up

Why not invite her to a different ball?

“It’s an honor,”

He whispered in her ear, 

“You’ll be a test platform. 

We’ll put new weapons systems on you,

To see if they work.

You’ll be the first to try everything.”

She didn’t quite trust,

The lascivious, tempting sound

Of Uncle’s voice, 

Gamely, though, she agreed.

Her sailors kneeled worshipfully on her decks, 

Holystoning each teak plank, 

Polishing her brass,

Painting her deck, 

And she hoped that, 

Just once, she would be 

The belle of the ball,

When they ripped wood off her fantail she cried,

Blushing when they bared her bare steel bottom

For all the world to see.

She howled when they cut a huge hole

On her fantail

Plunging a missile magazine into her depths,

Leaving a launcher sticking up out of her bottom. 

It was embarrassing. 

None of her ship friends even knew what it was.

The first missile

Made her decks burn like no ships’ decks

Had been burned before.

She hadn’t been built to take this kind of abuse,

But the same hull and decks

That shrugged off Japanese zeros

Took it,

Because she wanted to make her Uncle Sam proud.

But, quietly,

She cried at the burns,

On her beautiful teak decks.

Her Uncle had other concerns, though,

The Soviets were putting things up in the sky,

Out in space,

And the Navy had to track them,

So he added three more decks

To her already top heavy frame,

Looking like a short, heavy woman

Forced to teeter about on six inch heels.

Decades came and went,

But she was always game,

They cut out launchers, 

Added others launchers,

More radar.

One day, 

Uncle Sam called her up,

She could hear tears of joy 

In his voice.

“The Cold War is won!”

He breathed excitedly,

“We command the seas.”

Then, an embarrassed cough,

“Um, and we don’t need you anymore.”

She wanted to plead,

Promise to be useful,

But he had already hung up.

She was the oldest line ship in commission,

For more than forty years, 

She’d taken everything they’d thrown at her,

Dive bombers, enemy ships,

Missile platforms, radar—

And now they were done.

All that is left of her now,

Is a plaque and a ship’s bell. 

The steel melted down now for other things—

Maybe a girder on an overpass,

The steel in a building,

Maybe a playground Jungle Jim,

Or maybe the razor blade you shaved with yesterday.

Her eternal reward 

For forty-five years

Of faithful service

To her Uncle Sam. 

I’ve always been taught, that if somebody is hungry, you feed them. It’s a basic act of human decency. Forget the politics. Forget trying to analyze the situation that made them hungry. Forget blame. If someone is hungry and you have the ability, you help. It goes doubly if there are children in need.

This past weekend, my wife, Diana and I went with a couple of people to do some relief work at one of the camps in Matamoros, Mexico where asylum seekers are waiting for the chance to enter the US legally. Along with our priest, Father Jonathan, and a friend named Donna, we took a car full of gifts donated by our church—air mattresses, cook pots, and a couple of hundred pounds of food. We were also armed with a generous cash donation from the parishioners to buy needed materials once there.

Our first stop after leaving Corpus was the Humanitarian Respite Center in McAllen, about a 2 ½ hour drive...

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

The Gods of the North warn

Hell is a hot place.

Do bad, and you will burn, 

Smelling brimstone in a fiery pit

Forever.

South Texas sun blazes like an angry god, 

Sweat runs rivers down my back,

My pale skin burns, red, so I must hide from the Sun, 

Shield myself from the wrath of Thor

With sun hats, and sunblock,

While he burns my plants,

Evaporates lakes and rivers, 

And slays even the toad 

Crossing the parking lot,

Who dies, then swells up,

A grotesque balloon blistering on asphalt

This is summer.

Gods of the South snicker at the North,

Bask in the heat of Thor’s wrath, 

And warn,

Do bad and you will freeze,

In a dark cold place,

Forgotten.

Old Sol, the Sun, has grown weak

Forgetting Chicago in January.

I must work outside, 

Stand in waist high snow, 

Try to use a metal wrench

When it’s twenty below zero.

The wind shoots down from the North,

Knifing my heart through the long underwear,

And heavy jacket. My hands, numb, can’t work 

With gloves on, 

But can’t work when they are frozen.

This is winter, 

Quetzalcoatl’s anger is everywhere, 

Inescapable.

My southern bones fear Aztecs 

More than Vikings,

Can always take clothes off,

But can’t put on enough to keep warm.

If I have to choose hell, I’d rather be Aztec than Viking,

Would rather burn than freeze.

Copyright Charlesa Etheridge

Chelsea Brotherton is a writer in her senior year at Texas A&M University- Corpus Christi, and will be graduating with an English writing degree in August 2019. She is a a recent winner of the 1st place undergraduate creative writing 2019 Haas English Writing Awards for a small collection of poetry. A Houston native, she is and enthusiastic Corpus Christi transplant. 

Here’s to you, and trying to forget

My father, who art in nowhere.

Your face, barely seen, burns in memory,

Damned be your name.

My father who art in nowhere,

Would you know your children’s faces?

Damned be their names.

Yours was mine, but erased from me.

Do you know your children’s faces?

Have they been hidden from your kingdom?

You were mine, and erased yourself-

May your hell be as it is in my earth.

I try to hide you as I forge my kingdom,

But daily your ghost creeps back to me.

May your hell be as it is in my nightmares,

Your ghouls the faces of your forgotten children.

Your ghost creeps back to me,

And I cannot forgive your trespasses.

The faces of your forgotten children,

I imagine them happy in your absence.

I cannot forgive your trespasses, oh father.

Abandonment is an ever-weeping wound.

I imagine myself happy in your absence,

And in moments of temptation, I let myself.

Abandonment is an ever-creeping wound,

Climbing spine and occasionally finding brain.

In moments of temptation I let myself

Be delivered from your evil.

Here’s to you, and trying to forget

Your face, barely seen, burns in memory.

Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

I relapsed today 

into my old ways. 

It’s been five months 

since I left this pit-

I was conditioned to ignore

His words, convinced of their emptiness-

Leaving me just as empty. 

I would be more 

To make up for him. I was sure

If I could make the right meal

Or speak gently enough

Or wear something sexier

That he would be happy

Enough to treat me like it.

I’m not sure what made me walk away, 

But I’ve spent five months trying

To figure out what I’m worth

In my independence, my singularity. 

I have been failing, pining

After sweet words and squeezed thighs.

But today it happened, a shame

I thought I had forgotten. 

Like when I brought Peter home from the shelter,

The way he auto-cowered at the mere flinch

Of a finger- he still does this sometimes, 

A reflex.

And today your words burrowed

Through my ears, banging around pinball

Style, knocking my stomach over,

Punching holes in my brain. 

“Another bitch that cares

about nothing but herself”

“Fuckin cunt”

“I hate all you whores”

And my reply? 

I was my dog, cowering in a corner. 

“I’m sorry”

And I am sorry

For you, but it’s not my damn job. 

Mostly, I’m sorry for myself. 

And I’m writing this down

As a reminder, that the next time a man calls

Me a cunt on a second date

(or a 400th)

To say “I’m sorry”

But to follow it with

“But you can fuck right off.” 

 Coffee Cat has lived in Corpus Christi all her life and graduated from Texas A & M University as a first generation college student with a Bachelor's degree in English. She currently works as a technical writer. Her novel DON'T DIE is available on Amazon. Summary:  Anastasia Adira has read, watched, and heard countless stories with the same trope: do anything for love or save the princess. Two formulas that never seem to get old. As much as he enjoys a good romance, he never thought he’d be a part of one. Galaxia knows love as a word he can’t spell or recognize on the page. All it is, is something his clients say to him after a night of business and nothing more. When the two meet, the real story begins. BUY ON AMAZON

Tell me what it's like to be alive and not just survive. 

Tell me what it’s like to know you’ll always have food at home

And have a home 

To call home

Tell me what it’s like to be content. 

Tell me what it’s like to drive down a little street 

And pull up into a driveway.

Tell me what it’s like to have the keys to a house, 

How does it sound when the door unlocks? 

Tell me what does it smell like? 

Does it smell like the cigarettes and gunpowder from the

Apartments above and below?

Or does it smell like citrus?

Tell me what it’s like to have a yard and a garden. 

Tell me what it’s like to have a barbecue in the backyard

That lasts late into the night. 

Tell me what it’s like to have a home. 

Tell me what it’s like to be alive and not just survive. 

And I’ll tell you what it’s like to survive and not be alive.

Poison me with the hope that one day I too can be alive. 

When I was a Kid I told myself

I’d never live past 25

Diagnosed with Demons

The prescription was church

I folded the pages of Bibles

Into the shape of pills

Desperate to quell the monster

In my head because

If the bandages from the

Priest’s mouth don’t

Heal your broken mind

It’s your fault

For rejecting the lord

When I was a Kid

I told myself I’d never live past 25

My self-inflicted

Stigmata nothing more than a 

Symptom of my failure

I didn’t want to be stitched up

By prayers

But held together by human arms 

When I was a Kid I told myself

I’d never live past 25

My blood boiled from

A baptism based on

Biblical Blasphemy of giving my

Life to the lord

What’s the point of being alive if

Your life isn’t yours anyway?

When I was a Kid I told myself

I’d never live past 25

 But the other day

I woke up two years past my

Expiration date

Two Degrees and

Not a dime

Not fully alive

But not dead either 

Cynthia Breeding often wonders if she was born in the wrong century. She has a love/hate relationship with technology and has an avid interest in medieval history. Most of her books are historical romances with a bit of paranormal thrown in now and then. She also loves sailing and horseback riding. Cynthia is a well-established romance writer with 49 novels and novellas available.  

(Novel Excerpt)

By the devil’s own horns, he hadn’t expected Abigail Clayton to be so beautiful. The information he’d gotten on Sayer’s new bride hadn’t said much. Luke Cameron narrowed his gaze at the woman who’d just stepped off the train. She wore no bonnet and the sun made her golden hair glow like a halo, brightening her eyes to the deep blue of the Pacific. She had the face of an angel, softly rounded with a pert nose. Not that Luke had any experience with angels. Gunslingers rarely did. But…he studied her face again. Her mouth was definitely not angelic. The full lips, right now gathered in a pout, begged to be kissed. He pushed the thought away. He was here to see who would come for her now that Sayer was dead...

Buy Gunslinger on Amazon

21st century history teacher Elizabeth O’Malley wakes up in a Texas barn in 1849 wearing only a black silk negligee. When she’s discovered by Texas Ranger Miguel de Basque, he thinks she’s a prostitute from a Fort Worth brothel…perhaps suffering from amnesia,

given her wild tales of where she’s from.

Elizabeth O’Malley was falling, gliding through mists, hurdling downward, the air getting darker until all was pitch. She reached for something to grab onto, but met only swirling vapors as she spiraled on. A speck of light dawned ahead, silhouetting the shape of a flame-haired woman dressed in white leather. The vision became engulfed in a web of blue and green strands as Elizabeth rushed forward. She put her hands out to brace herself and swept right through the mesh, landing with a solid thump onto a floor, bumping her head in the process.

“Ouch!” Rubbing her forehead, she slowly opened her eyes. She was lying face down in a pile of fresh hay. Her nose twitched. The smell of horses filled her senses. A stable? She must be dreaming, but this felt so real.  

Behind her, a horse gently nickered and stamped a hoof. Elizabeth rolled over and sat up in front of a box stall. The dappled gray who looked at her had large intelligent eyes set in a broad forehead and well-placed small ears, cocked forward as he leaned over the half-door to nuzzle her. 

Trembling, she stood and stroked his muzzle. The horse felt real, but she often dreamed of horses, or at least she had until sexy men began appearing in her night visions, and she always dreamed in vivid color. 

She looked down. She was still wearing the Victoria’s Secret black bra and thong with the chiffon wrap her traitorous fiancé would never see. She certainly did not need to relive finding Edward in bed with a Barbie look-alike. Not that she should have been surprised, she grimly reminded herself. Edward was drop-dead gorgeous and had enough Bad Boy attributes to make him alluring to any female. Better she had found out about his promiscuousness now than later.

Elizabeth fingered the leather strap on her wrist from which a Native American wood-carved fetish dangled. Her history students had given it to her yesterday, before the start of the Chirstmas holidays, along with a beautiful dream-catcher. The kids loved to tease her about her passion for the Old West, but they’d gotten caught up in the era after she’d brought in vintage John Wayne films and Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. The fetish probably wasn’t the right accessory for her black lace, but she had not wanted to take it off. Just as she started to close the chifforn wrap, not that it covered much, she heard a sound. She whirled around and gasped.

A half-naked Indian teenager stood not two feet away, close enough for her to see a slight bead of sweat on his upper lip. It was uncanny how authentic this dream felt—probably the result of seeing too many of those western films.  He wore a breechclout and leather leggings. Colored beads hung around his neck and his bare chest. A hawk feather was braided into his long hair and he had the blackest eyes she had ever seen. He looked like a hungry wolf stalking its prey. Instinctively, she took a step backward.

The Indian took a silent step forward. “I could have counted coup, you know,” he said. “Touched you without your knowing I was here. But I wanted you to know.”

Elizabeth drew another shaky breath and tried to cover herself more fully. Why in the world would she be nearly nude in her own dream?  The Indian’s glance traveled from her face to her breasts and a small smile played on his mouth. A hard mouth, thin-lipped and straight-lined. She took another step backward and bumped against the wall of the stall. Trapped. The wall felt real, too. Some dream.

He came closer and reached over to touch her copper hair. “Fire Woman. You must have much magic. Your eyes are the color of our forests—a blessing from the Earth Mother.” He touched the diamond solitaire at her throat with a finger. “A shining star from the heavens. Yes, you have much magic.”

Elizabeth held herself still, hardly breathing. This would be a really, really good time to wake up. “I don’t have magic. Where am I? Who are you?” 

Drawing himself up, he said proudly. “I am called Swift Hawk. My father is a Comanche chief.” He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. “To my people, a woman with flaming hair has much power. Many even fear her.”

She smiled weakly. Good Lord, a Comanche? She had conjured someone from the fiercest of all the Plains Indians to dream of? The finest light cavalry in North America, some said, and the most dangerous fighters. They loved to fight and feared nothing. Well, except maybe a woman with red hair. Feeling ridiculous to be so deep into the dream, she raised her chin.

“Take your hand off me if you don’t want to feel my wrath.”  

Swift Hawk laughed and his hand dropped to her shoulder. “I said many fear you, Fire Woman. I do not. I am the son of a chief. I will claim you as my woman and have much honor and power among my father’s people.” He grasped her head in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her. She pushed against him, hard.

“Don’t you want to know where I came from?” she asked, trying to stall him. 

He looked surprised. “The Great Spirits sent you. I do not question them.” He glanced down at her breasts again. “I like what they’ve clothed you in, too.” His hand slid down to stroke a breast. 

She needed to something to stop this—closing her eyes, she screeched at the top of her lungs. 

Suddenly, he was yanked away. Elizabeth felt cool air surrounding her. Slowly, she opened her eyes and then quickly closed them again. She could not have seen what she thought she had. Clearly, her mind was bent on fantasies tonight. 

Tentatively, she peered out from behind her tousled hair. The man—her rescuer, she assumed, for the Indian boy was gone—was breathtakingly handsome. Far too good-looking to be real and very much like the delectable man she’d encountered in her sleep a couple of nights ago. She might still be dreaming, but this was much, much better. The stranger’s blackish hair curled just above the collar of the open neck of his shirt and a part of it fell across his forehead, giving him a roguish appearance. She almost reached out to brush it back for him. His eyes were warm brown and deep-set above high cheekbones and a straight nose. He had the most sensuous mouth she had ever seen. Definitely kissable. Well, of course he would. She was dreaming! He was tall, well over six feet with broad shoulders. With the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, she could see tan, well-muscled forearms. Her gaze traveled to his tight fitting jeans and she tried to ignore the bulge lodged there. She focused on his well-developed thighs. Big mistake—better to look down. The boots were hand-tooled. Cowboy boots. Real ones. She really had to stop reading romance novels about the Wild West. Cowboys and Indians. Her students would get a real laugh!

“Who are you and how did you get into my barn?” His voice was deep and resonant and held a note of authority. A man would think twice about crossing him, she thought and almost giggled. She certainly had conjured up her perfect cowboy. And all man. She couldn’t resist extending her dream-fantasy just a little longer…

“Elizabeth O’Malley,” she said and gave her dream man her best smile, the one her best friend, Brooke, said made her look alluring. “And you are one hot fantasy.”

The man blinked and let his gaze travel slowly over her body and back to her face. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Happy to oblige. My name’s Miguel.”

Elizabeth became uncomfortably aware of how much of her body was exposed. She drew her wrap closer which caused her fantasy to grin. It was a lopsided grin, giving him a definite Bad Boy look. Obviously, her dream-mind hadn’t quite learned its lesson about Bad Boys. But it was only a dream— 

“How did you get into my barn?” he asked again. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” His glance lingered on her breasts. “Are you a working girl?"

Working girl? Did he mean prostitute? This dream was taking an ironic direction given the fact at twenty-four she was the oldest virgin she knew. Her fantasy man sounded dangerously real. She could almost feel the heat radiating from him. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m a teacher.”

buy Catch a Dream on Amazon

Excerpt from Bedroom Blarney

Chapter One

“Vodka martini, extra dry. Two olives.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Coming right up.”

As the bartender moved away to get her drink, Eve O’Connor closed her wet umbrella and plopped it alongside her satchel on the empty barstool next to her and pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve tension. TGIF had never sounded so good. Her art classes had been crap today. Not one high school kid had taken notes on value and hue in color and they certainly had not cared about line and space in composition. 

Given the array of video games on smart phones and tablets, it was getting harder to get her students interested—let alone keep them interested—in something as mundane as classical art. Little wonder newbie teachers lasted less than two years in many cases. She had even contemplated changing careers herself, but Joe, her worthless ex-husband, had gambled away her savings before she’d caught him and she was still paying off the cost of the divorce. Besides, she had almost ten years invested in Deer Hill High School.

“Why so glum?” a male voice asked behind her. “It is Friday, after all.”

copyright Cynthia Breeding

read more of this story in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology.

Most mornings Cytnthia Giery goes out at sunrise to walk with her dog, Sophia

Another gray morning, spent walking under the harbor bridge. I have a weird fascination with the angles of this structure... and found something new to me... the balloons painted on one of the support structures. 

I almost skipped going over the bridge, but the fog lifted for a bit. It was so gray and misty, but still a nice walk. Then the fog rolled in again 

A cold Saturday morning at Bob Hall Pier - love the blues and oranges. Sophia cutely convinced several walkers to pet her, so it’s a perfect day if you’re a dog.

Took a quick walk at the Corpus Christi Marina and caught a pretty bird right at sunrise. And ... there is just something about the wispy fronds on a palm that make a cool silhouette 

Driving home from our morning beach walk - where it was QUITE chilly - BB sized hail. Neato. I guess it’s winter. Took pics of the piles in my backyard. The cat was not impressed and the dog has had enough of the cold for this morning. 

Morning walk around the CC Marina — and I just loved this tree. Then we went to the old Oso Pier that has been falling to pieces. Sophia was very interested in SOMETHING under the bridge, but I have no idea what it was. 

It was gorgeous at the beach this morning — very little wind — so I was really enjoying the walk. Sophia ran into a big, lab/Golden friend to play with and they were romping like crazy in this cooler weather. HOWEVER, they got a little wilder than they should. Sophia rolled over and then somehow came up wrong. She was limping so our walk ended about half way. Got her into the car, home, fed and now she’s resting. Pretty sure she just twisted wrong but with her back injuries I gotta be extra cautious. Sigh.

Addition: she limped out to the backyard to lay in the sun and finish her chew from yesterday.

Good morning from Bob Hall Pier. There was an odd bank of clouds surrounding the area but it was still a nice, chilly walk. I found 4 complete sand dollars and told a mom with kids where I’d put them. The kids were THRILLED when they “found” the sand dollars. It makes me happy 

Merry Christmas from Bob Hall Pier —- it was chilly but oh so pretty 

It was FREAKING chilly this morning. The north wind was blowing so hard and the humidity made the chill waaaaay more than I planned for. However, Sophia LOVED the weather. Except when the wind blew her over TWICE while attempting to poo. I laughed because I am a horrid dog mom 

Yesterday at Whitecap Beach - it was beautiful. Possibly because I hadn’t been there in so long, but it’s still very pretty. Yes, I get there waaay too early, but the dawg pack has to play. Sophia chased, jumped, rolled and swam with her pack. Life is good 

The weather has been incredibly beautiful this week, so, naturally, my favorite place is at the beach. Such a shame to HAVE to walk in this beauty. Sigh ... 

Dr. Jim McCutchon practiced medicine in Corpus Christi for many years before retiring to pursue other interests, one of which is writing. He is currently working on a novel about life on a 19th century plantation in Louisiana. As an exercise while studying the writing craft at a workshop in Santa Barbara California, he was challenged by the moderator to write a short story containing a very specific ending, and to do it in ten minutes. That story is EMERGENCY, which was included in Corpus Christi Writers 2018. For 2019 he decided to do something a little different.

May 3, 2017

While taking a tour through Pass Christian on my way home from a trip to Biloxi, I stopped at Live Oak Cemetery to see if the gravestone had been placed on my aunt Rebecca’s grave and to just look around. Live Oak is a special cemetery to me. There are so many of my ancestors buried there, and the quiet, the giant moss-covered oaks and the battered headstones all come together to give me a special feeling of being connected to my past. It’s a feeling that I get in no other place and in no other way. Modern cemeteries have what they call Perpetual Care. It’s a prepaid way for the cemetery to take the responsibility for maintenance. Live Oak was established before that idea took hold, and the families are responsible. In my case, there is no family close by, and I think, from the looks of the place, that is not uncommon. Iron fences around family plots are rusted and broken. Marble headstones, softer than the modern granite, are covered with mildew leaving the inscriptions difficult to read. Many headstones tilt to one side, and some are broken. In places, Hurricane Katrina removed headstones, and no one has replaced them.

I drove onto the shell road that has grass growing between the tire tracks and parked alongside the collection of family graves that is just inside the place where the pillars that marked the entrance used to be before Katrina swept them away. Here was the grave of my great, great-grandfather. The family was rich then, and he has a suitable marble monument. Near it is a smaller marble monument for my great grandfather. Near that is a small granite headstone for my grandfather. It is a poignant reminder that, as the family fortune diminished, so did the stone markers. I wasn’t sad, just pensive. I’m probably better off for not having inherited wealth. But I’ve gone down a rabbit trail. It has nothing to do with zombies and revenge.

In the same enclosure were two graves that lay flat with concrete perimeter walls about six inches high and a concrete slab for a lid. At the head of each was a marble headstone about 3 feet high. For some reason, both of these tombs had marble crosses leaning on the headstones, obscuring the inscriptions. They were identical. The vertical beam was about 4 feet long. The transverse beam was about 3 feet long. In thickness, they measured 4 by 4 inches. I was curious. By leaning over, I could see that the first name of the person buried in the tomb to my left was Frederick. I couldn’t see the rest. My guess was that I was standing atop my great uncle Fred at whose house I stayed in and played in as a young child. I remember the house and Uncle Fred very well although he died when I was only five. Another rabbit trail. Stick to the story!

I moved to the twin tomb, thinking it must contain the remains of my great uncle Jimmy. That made sense. They were brothers. They should lie together. Since I am called Frederick James, I was especially eager to see if Old Uncle Jimmy was in there, but that chunk of marble was too heavy to lift. No problem. It should be easy to tilt it up just a tad and peek. Leaning forward, I did just that. It must have disturbed the occupant. Suddenly, as though someone had shoved it, the cross lurched forward, struck me in the lower right leg and propelled me onto my right shoulder alongside the grave. Memories of a previous fall on that shoulder immediately came to mind. And I didn’t like the prospects of another operation. Jimmy Dinn is a nice guy and a good orthopedist, but shoulder surgery hurts.

Then, I thought about my immediate problem. The cross was lying on my right lower leg and foot. I was trapped. The zombie in that tomb had taken revenge on the fool who dared to disturb him. Now, the deserted cemetery was not a blessing. There was no one around to help. Lying down on your side and reaching to your foot does not provide a mechanical advantage for lifting a heavy object. Just the opposite. I couldn’t budge the cross with my left hand. My cell phone was in a pocket that I couldn’t get to, and I considered the possibility that I would die there and join the zombie that had shoved the cross on top of me. The idea gave me the adrenaline surge I needed to rise halfway up, use both hands with a right shoulder crying out in pain and lift the cross one inch. All I needed. I was free. Was my leg broken? No. Incredible luck. I stood, looked around and decided to get out of there. So there. Uncle Jimmy or whoever you are in that tomb. You zombie. 

Holding my right wrist with my left hand to stabilize my sore shoulder, I went to my car, opened the door with my left hand, got in and slowly drove off. I was miles away when I realized that I hadn’t taken any pictures. Too late, but I was pleased to be free, and I knew that I could drive with just my left hand. I’ve had experience. When I was in my teens, I sometimes had a date on a cold Saturday night. In those days, cars didn’t have air-conditioning or heat. We also didn’t have center consoles in the front seat. If my date was cold (not in the metaphorical sense), she would sit close to me to keep warm, and it was rude not to help by putting my right arm around her. We didn’t have power steering either. 

I drove 3 hours to Baton Rouge on Saturday, stayed overnight with my step-kids and drove 8 hours home to Corpus Christi on Sunday. I was very tired on Monday, but not too tired to go see Jimmy Dinn. X-rays showed no broken bones, and Jimmy prescribed toradol for pain and for its anti-inflammatory action. I had refused offers of pain medicine, but doctor’s orders trumped my stubbornness. I took my first toradol Monday at bedtime. Amazing. I slept well and woke refreshed and almost pain free. Thanks Jimmy.

The story gets better now. Today, I called Live Oak Cemetery and spoke with the administrator. He checked the records and found that someone named Harriet is buried in Uncle Jimmy’s tomb. Well, I guess it isn’t Uncle Jimmy’s tomb after all. Or is it? Are they together? Did I disturb some after life romance? We will never know, and the zombie or zombies will rest undisturbed, at least by me.

read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

A funny thing happened to me last night. Not funny in the sense of humorous but in the sense of unusual, very unusual. I had just turned off my bedside reading light, turned on my right side as I often do and closed my eyes when the light went back on. That’s strange, I thought. Lights shouldn’t turn back on by themselves...

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019.

He was sitting at his desk after lunch, talking with three associates. An important business meeting. He had left strict instructions—no calls, no interruptions of any kind—but there it was, the blinking red light on his phone demanding attention. He tried to ignore it, but it flashed with such insistency he finally had to respond.  

It was his secretary. The principal from Jenna’s school had just called, and he needed to get there right away. 

Not again! Please God, not again . . . the blinking light, the tone of voice; it was too familiar. He turned pale. Dreading what he might hear, he didn’t ask for details. A year ago his wife Darlene had been on her way to that same school to pick Jenna up for a ninth grade soccer game. A truck blasted through a red light and T-boned her. Within moments firemen were working furiously with the Jaws-of-Life to get her broken body out of the car, but it was no use. She was lifeless as a china doll. The flashing red light and his secretary’s tone were the same then as now…

He replaced the receiver, muttered a quick excuse to his three colleagues, and quickly walked out of his office. As he hurried by his secretary’s desk, she gave him the same fearful and sympathetic look she had that time a year ago. 

He took the same elevator down as he did then. The same ad for the same cafeteria was pasted on the same elevator walls; the same picture of the same food was still there. 

A sob caught in his throat. He suppressed it. 

The elevator . . . so damn slow—couldn’t they at least change the picture?

He got in his Beamer in the garage, but his mind was already at the school. The car seemed to drive itself, turning left at the drugstore on the corner of Walnut and right at the gas station, four blocks down to the school, with no conscious input from him. 

He had been taking Jenna to school over that same route for a year. Ever since the accident. Picking her up too, though not for soccer practice. Jenna had quit soccer. Quit everything—writing for the school paper, acting in the plays, cheerleading, even talking on the phone with her friends. Mostly she stayed in her room with the shades drawn and the door closed. And she didn’t listen to music anymore. She used to be his sunshine girl, smiling only when she wasn’t laughing. 

But not anymore. 

Oh God…

Darlene’s face had been smashed. He had chosen a closed coffin. Jenna wanted him to open it so she could say good-bye to her mother, her best friend. He didn’t want to do it, but he did. A mistake. Jenna hadn’t been the same since. 

She and Darlene had done everything together; shopped for brightly colored clothes, walked in the rain, danced to teeny bop tunes in the kitchen while cooking, baking or washing dishes. Everything was fun for them. 

No more. Jenna didn’t laugh any more. Her stylish preteen clothes hung unworn in the closet. She now chose brown, sometimes black. She rarely talked. It had been a year. He had waited for her to heal, but she only got worse. Now this.

He pulled into the parking lot at school and forced himself out of the car. A security guard offered to take him to the principal’s office. Judging by the look on his face, the guard already knew what had happened. 

Fearful and hesitant, he approached the principal’s waiting rom. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. As he stood before the receptionist, he saw she too was apprehensive, as though sitting on tragic news she was not free to divulge.  

She told him he was expected, that he should just knock and go in. He hesitated in front of the heavy door for a short moment. What horrible news was waiting for him behind this solid core door with imitation brass doorknob? 

He took a deep breath, gingerly knocked, and opened the door. 

He stopped, unable to release the doorknob for fear of collapsing. The walls and floor appeared gray, but he was dimly aware they might only seem that way because his vision was fading. The principal’s desk was gray too, cold institutional steel, and there were no chairs for visitors. 

A tinge of anger began replacing the despair. The anger grew as he realized he would be made to stand like an ordinary suppliant while his eminence fed him the details of this latest tragedy. 

He tightened his hold on the knob.

The principal got up, came around the desk and adjusted his ridiculous tweed jacket with the leather patches at the elbow. Who did he think he was, an Oxford Don? A little man with a squeaky voice, he was saying something like . . . terrible thing . . . never had this happen before in my school . . . so much mess to clean up after her . . . can’t have classes this afternoon . . . the students are out of control . . . no atmosphere for academic pursuits . . . was such a nice girl . . . a tragedy . . . and it’s all her fault. 

He was really angry now. All the little man cared about was his damn school and his spotless record. Solid core or not, he just might tear the doorknob out and plant it in the principal’s skull. 

By now the principal was pointing a trembling finger at something in the corner of the room hidden by the opened door. He was saying, “She started a food fight in the cafeteria.” 

He looked behind the door. There was Jenna, standing erect with her head held high and her arms folded on her chest. She had the light in her eyes that he loved but hadn’t seen since Darlene’s death, and she was grinning with defiance and delight. It had taken a year, but in the end, the spirit of his sunshine girl had burst back into life, and neither school authority nor the principal’s anger could suppress it.

“Jenna!” he exclaimed, “Thank God! I thought . . .” 

The principal continued his petulant sputtering, but neither father nor daughter paid the least attention. He stooped to embrace the girl. “never mind what I thought . . . oh Honey, I’m so proud of you!”

READ MORE GREAT WORK by local writers in CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2020.

Joseph Wilson taught Senior English Advanced Placement, Film Studies, and Creative Writing at Richard King High School for 42 years. He created and edited the poetry magazine "Open All Night" for 40 years. His students included several contributors to Corpus Writers 2018 and Corpus Christi Writers 2019. He writes poetry. He also posts frequently on Facebook, and has a large following. 

Joe Wilson reads "Bedotted" from Corpus Christi Writers 2020

I have been following with interest the debate about whether men will show up, pay their dollars, and watch the newest adaptation of Louisa May Alcott's classic American novel "Little Women." Director Greta Gerwig reinvents both story and structure. Employing a non-linear format, the director moves the narrative around reminding the viewer of dreams or flashbacks or impressions. When you remember the events in your own life, often one story triggers another story or to put it another way, one memory spins you off to another memory related by the cast of characters in your life or plot-points in your life that are similar. So is a chronological approach better or more accurate to a retelling or understanding of your own life? I don't know. In the art of cinema, I think it is simply a choice of the artist, Gerwig in this case. Her narrative approach can be confusing, but I think that makes the work wonderfully impressionistic. I have not read the novel, so I had to follow where the story led.

Greta Gerwig and her artistic collaborators have created a beautiful beautiful movie. The cinematography by Yorick Le Saux is gorgeous. The music by Alexandre Desplat is stunning. And the editing by Nick Houy seems pitch perfect.

The acting ensemble is extraordinary by any standard: Meryl Streep as Aunt March, James Norton of "Grandchester" fame as John Brooke, Chris Cooper as Mr. Laurence, Tracy Letts as Mr. Dashwood, Bob Odenkirk as Father March, and the marvelous Laura Dern as Marmee.

And the phenomenal young women are Saoirse Ronan as Jo, Emma Watson as Meg, Eliza Scanlen as dear Beth and Florence Pugh as Amy.  Beautiful, believable, touching as loving sisters. The young men are Timothee Chalamet as Laurie and Louis Garrel as Friedrich.

I think this 19th century novel is a fine way to test out the theme of independence versus attachment. Particularly for women this is an important idea to play with. What does a modern woman want out of her one and only life?

In our current crippling times this March family opts for the Christian values of love, sacrifice, charity, and community service. The March women oppose slavery. They help the poor.  They love one another.

I left the theatre tingling and joyful.

***** stars for quality

***** stars for like ability

I must say the movie camera always loves Saoirse Ronan and Timothee Chalamet. They fill the screen.

But new to me Florence Pugh is just wow as Amy

one hundred years ago

my grandfather

Paul Herbert Cline

fought in WW One 

he survived terrors in France

P. H. died from lung cancer

when I was a freshman in college 

he was a good man

a hard man and a hard-working man

a screaming kind of man

in his basement shop he taught me how

to hammer bent nails into scrap boards

and cut planks with a table saw that buzzed 

like hornets in my hair

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

I want to read the NewYorkTimesSundayEdition all the way through

just once

I want to hear live jazz 

in an outdoor city space with the trace of a breeze

and a strong cup 

of coffee 

I want to walk three miles on the bayfront toward the Harbor Bridge

I want to go to the restaurant Egg in Brooklyn and have braised vegetables garnished with fresh herbs over oatmeal 

with a fried egg sunny-side-up 

on top

I want to see two movies at the local cinema

which begin at the 

same time 

I want to gaze into my dog’s brown eyes for three minutes 

to raise the level of oxytocin in our brains

I want to cut some white roses in the pasture

I want three glasses of Prosecco with raspberries blueberries and 

arils of pomegranate filling the bottom of the bowl of the

wine glass

I want to speak to my mother on the telephone and 

have her really be able to hear me

I want to hit some tennis balls with a colleague and raise a sweat

I want to engage in a serious conversation 

face to face with my friend

who can’t seem to do that 

with me

I want to find just a little mindfulness right now

right now

right now 

I want to finish 

this poem

Kenneth Bennight is a husband, father, lawyer, former Marine, and native Texan, and the grandfather of the cutest little boy on the face of the Earth. Kenneth grew up in Corpus Christi and graduated from Ray High School. He now resides in San Antonio, Texas, and is the author of the hard-boiled Nacho Perez stories, Nacho Perez, Private Eye and The Truth Shall Make You Dead. Those stories and others are available on Amazon.   

Wheel Colony XJB776, Interstellar Space

The blue chick’s bright mane was no yellower than a jonquil and her clothes no skimpier than a clumsy pickpocket’s purse. She stood at the bar, her stripes pulsing to the beat of the music. I let out a deep breath. Middle aged, I’d all but lost my stripes, except when mad—or scared. She’d never give me a second look.

Stale ale and THC-product smoke wafted to me. Flashing signs lit the room. The bar sat on an outside bulkhead, and a four-meter diameter porthole showed the galaxy spinning around us. Pedants insist we’re doing the spinning. Whatever. I never tired of gawking. Every deck along the 100-kilometer circumference of the wheel was lined with portholes, but schmucks like me don’t live next to outside bulkheads.

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Where the hell was the damn center stripe? Thad Will peered ahead. The wipers and the full-blast defroster kept only a patch of the windshield clear from freezing rain. His headlights barely penetrated the blur. He kept his speed around 40 miles per hour, his knuckles aching from his tight grip on the wheel. When was the last time South Texas had weather like this? His eyelids felt heavy.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. No sleep in almost two days. Getting a room in Cotulla would have been good. If he could afford it. But Eagle Ford work had slowed and threatened to disappear. He couldn’t spend money on motels with Justin needing braces and the dining room set about to be repossessed.

His eyes closed, his body relaxed, he almost slid into sleep, and the car started to drift. Adrenalin hit. His eyes popped back open, and he jerked the car straight. Damn it all. He repeatedly slapped his cheek.

He hadn’t seen another car since leaving Cotulla, shortly before he’d passed a sign warning that the next gas station was 94 miles down the road. FM 624 cuts east-west across the South Texas brush. He’d heard it called the world’s longest hunting lease. Traffic was seldom heavy, and only an idiot would travel it on a night like this. 

Headlights reflected in his rear-view mirror. Who else was out in this mess? A few seconds later, he realized the lights were approaching fast. Jeez. Whoever this schmuck was, he was blasting along, ice be damned.

Moments later a new Ford Mustang swung wide around him and careened back, nearly clipping his front end. It swerved and slid down the road for as far as he could see. A nutso with a death wish. Will held his speed down.

Ten minutes later, he saw headlights ahead and to the side of the road. Maybe there’s a curve. He studied the lights as he drew nearer. Something wasn’t right.

Just a hundred yards short of the lights, he caught sight of a bridge. Ice. Shit. He thumped his brakes just before he crossed onto it and slid almost to the guard rail before regaining control.

Beyond the bridge, the Mustang lay spun around and upside down against the fence. He pulled over, turned on his flashers, and took a flashlight from his glove box. His feet crunched on the icy grass, which brushed against his ankles above his low-quarter shoes. Moisture wicked up his socks, leaving his feet wet and nearly numb.

The spider-web cracks in the window glass kept him from seeing inside. He wrestled open the driver’s door, which cut an arced swath in the icy grass. A fruity, pungent alcohol smell slapped him in the face.

A sprawled body, feet to the front and head to the rear. The latter lay at an odd angle. No pulse. This fool had been driving like a madman without a seatbelt. A broken bottle of Jose Cuervo lay next to the driver.

He shone the light around to look for a passenger. No one. He was about to return to his car and call in the accident when he glimpsed something mostly obscured by the driver’s body. He kneeled in the grass, and shone the light inside. Please God, don’t let it be a child.

It was a duffel bag, the zipper slightly open – with a bundle of money sticking out. He pulled, but the driver’s body held it down. When the bag finally came free, the driver’s torso partly followed the bag out the door. Ice trickled down the back of Will’s neck. His wet hair lay plastered against his head. He shook himself, caught his breath, and unzipped the bag all the way.

The bag was full of bundled hundred-dollar bills. His jaw dropped. Were they real? He glanced at the slumped body. Who was this guy? A drug dealer. Had to be.

He pulled out his cellphone to call the police but then stopped. Rain and melting ice soaked his clothes. He climbed to his feet and looked up and down the highway. Nobody had passed and still no cars in sight. He stuffed the body back in the car and closed the door as best he could, but the latch wouldn’t catch. He locked the bag in his trunk and headed down the highway, setting the car’s heater on high.

The right thing was to turn the money in. But if he did, they’d know he’d been at the accident and didn’t report it immediately, and they’d know he’d tampered with a crime scene. Shit. He shook his head. I should go back. He took his foot off the accelerator. Then he thought of his debts. He needed that money. He sped back up.

He kept wrestling with the dilemma. He pulled over, shut off the engine, and turned on his flashers. The money wasn’t his. He couldn’t keep it. He leaned his head against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut.

It had to be drug money. He took a deep breath. The druggies play for high stakes. Might even be cartel. What if they found him? Then I’m dead. It wasn’t worth it. He should go back.

He reached for the ignition. But they weren’t going to find him. Nobody saw anything. For all the druggies knew, the driver could have stashed the money somewhere else before he crashed.

He had to clear his mind. He slumped and focused on breathing regularly.

Tap, tap, tap.

He awoke, shivering. Flashing lights showed in the rearview mirror, and a patrolman stood at his window. He turned the key so he could lower his window. The rain and ice had let up.

“Is everything all right, sir?” The patrolman was tall and haggard, and his right hand rested on the butt of his pistol. He gave no sign the cold bothered him. The name tag on his chest read Corcoran.

“Yes, officer. Everything’s fine. I just got a little sleepy, so I pulled over to doze. The cold’s got me awake now.” Will shifted in his seat and ran his fingers through his hair.

Corcoran moved his flashlight beam around the interior of Will’s car. “Show me your license and insurance.”

Will pulled his license out of his wallet, handed it over, and fumbled in his glove box until he came up with the insurance card. Thank God he’d kept up the payments.

Corcoran took the papers and went back to his patrol car. When he came back, he returned the papers. “Where’re you headed?”

“Corpus Christi.”

Corcoran looked him and his car over again. “You’re soaked. Did you have some trouble back there?”

Will’s mind raced.

“Uh, no, not really.” He gulped. “The car, uh, well, it felt funny, and I thought maybe, uh, maybe I had a flat.” The last words came more quickly than the previous ones, and he continued almost glibly. “I got out to check it, but the tire was fine.” He offered Corcoran his most innocent smile.

“Pretty wet for just that.”

Will shrugged. “I guess it took me a bit.”

“I see.” Corcoran raised his eyebrows and glared at Will as if he didn’t see at all.

Will struggled not to wither. “May I leave now?”

Corcoran nodded. “Be careful, sir. It’s a messy night. My radio said there’s a bad wreck back nearer Cotulla.”

Will bit his lower lip. “I hope the driver’s OK.”

Corcoran looked into his eyes. “I didn’t say there was just one car or just one person in it.”

“I guess I just assumed.” Inspiration hit. “Were more people involved?”

“The officer on the scene said someone had been there. You know anything about that?”

Wills shook his head repeatedly. “No, sir. I don’t, no. Not about that.” Despite the cold, perspiration formed on Will’s upper lip.

Corcoran stared but waved him on.

Will made a point of signaling to return to the traffic lane and headed east.

That settled that. He couldn’t go back. They’d found the wreck, and they had a record of his whereabouts. He kept driving.

He slammed the steering wheel and grinned. Hell, he’d spend the money. Pay off bills, buy a new car, a new TV. Megan wanted to remodel the kitchen. He could just deposit the cash and start writing checks.

But what if the IRS audited him? No way could he explain the deposit. He shook his head. A lot of shit to think about. He’d ask Harry. Hypothetical, like. Harry worked for H&R Block during tax season. He’d know.

Another thought came to mind. He’d seen enough movies to know the druggies put GPS trackers in with their money. Less than two hours after his encounter with the patrolman, he pulled into the lot of the Stripes truck stop in Orange Grove, the only place open in the wee hours of a Sunday morning. He parked under a flood light at the back of the empty lot, retrieved the duffel from the trunk, and got back in the car to open it. The bundles all seemed to be the same size, and the bills were all Franklins, one-hundred dollars. He counted one bundle out. One hundred Franklins. Ten grand in a bundle. He found seventy-five bundles. Seven hundred fifty grand. A life-changing sum.

In the bottom sure enough his fingers found the tracker. He pulled it out and held it to the light. Were they already on his trail? Was he already a dead man? He looked around. Nothing, nobody. He had to get rid of it fast. He took several deep breaths. Don’t be paranoid.

A big rig pulled into the lot. The driver left the engine idling and went inside the store. Inspiration hit Will. He could stick the gizmo on the truck. But it didn’t look waterproof. He looked at the sky. If he didn’t keep it dry, he might as well throw it in a dumpster.

He returned the bag with the money to his trunk, keeping the GPS, and followed the driver inside. Rancid oil from the popcorn machine permeated the room. Microwaveable sandwiches and burritos lay at one end of the store and the counter lay at the other. In between were rows of candy, cookies, chips, toiletries, and cans of oil and radiator coolant.

The truck driver headed to the restroom. Will laid a Coke and a chocolate candy bar on the counter and, after they were scanned, slid his credit card through the reader. Coke and chocolate would both give him much needed caffeine.

“You need a bag for that?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, please.”

Back at his car, he put the gizmo in the Stripes’ plastic bag and used duct tape from his trunk to secure the bag to the locking bar on the back of the idling big-rig’s trailer. Then he waited. The driver returned to his rig, pulled out of the Stripes, and headed north toward Mathis. Hallelujah.

Will headed east to Corpus. When he got home in the wee hours of the morning, he stuffed the bag in the back of a closet and crawled into bed next to Megan. He lay awake for an hour, maybe two.

The next morning, over coffee, he brooded. He considered depositing some of the cash at an ATM and remembered to call Harry.

Harry chuckled. “You win the lottery, pal? You know they’re going to report that anyway.”

Will ground his teeth. “No, nothing like that. You know, a friend and I at work had a bet about how to do this.”

“A bet with a friend is an old one, buddy, You must have knocked over a drug dealer.”

“Up yours.” Will hung up the phone.

Will Googled large cash deposits and found a bewildering array of rules requiring currency transaction reports and cash-transaction records, some for transactions as low as $3,000. Screw that. He’d keep the cash.

He wasn’t due back in Cotulla until Wednesday. On Monday, he paid off the dining room set and prepaid the orthodontist for Justin’s braces. That evening, after Justin was in bed, he called Megan over to the table and laid out the receipts and the bag with the money.

Her weary eyes turned quizzical as she flipped through the receipts. “What’s this?”

“I paid for Justin’s braces and paid off the balance on the furniture.”

She poked in the bag and gasped.

“Where did you get this?” She paused and looked into his eyes. “Thad, what have you done?” Her voice was soft and higher pitched than normal.

He told her about the wrecked car and the duffel bag. He left out the highway patrolman and the GPS tracker.

Megan ran a hand through her hair. “You’ve got to give it back. It’s not ours.”

“Well . . . .” He explained about Officer Corcoran.

She shook her head. “You’ve made a mess.”

He took her hand. “Only if you look at it that way. Look at it as a gift.”

Tuesday morning, Will read the neighborhood crime blotter and looked up at Megan.

“Did you read about these burglaries? Somebody might steal the money.”

Megan tilted her head and looked at him sideways. “Irony’s not your long suit, is it?”

He waved her off. He needed to spread the risk of losing the money, keep some of it somewhere else. He stuffed $400,000 into his attic crawl space. He took the unspent remainder in the original duffel bag to the rented storage space where they stored stuff they should have gotten rid of.

* * *

Monday afternoon after Will’s early Sunday morning trek through Orange Grove, Laurencio Contreras sat in the Stripes parking lot. The sun was out, and the temperature had risen to the mid-60s. Texas weather.

El Jefe had been pissed when the GPS took the wrong path. Laurencio caught up with the driver at a Victoria truck stop, and when he was done with him, Laurencio believed the guy knew nothing. But Laurencio had to find the cash fast if he wanted to stay on el Jefe’s good side. He didn’t want to see el Jefe’s bad side.

He’d traced the GPS’s movements. It had stopped three times before Victoria. The bag must have been taken at the first stop, where the mule had wrecked. The pinche borracho.

Laurencio didn’t understand the second stop on an isolated stretch of road, but the Stripes had to be where the GPS got on the truck. He surveyed the lot and spotted surveillance cameras.

Inside the store, his nose wrinkled at the rancid-oil smell. He browsed the merchandise and picked up a Big Red and an Almond Joy. Just below another surveillance camera, a picture of the manager hung on the wall, conveniently labeled with a name, Buddy Jaramillo. But someone other than Buddy stood behind the register.

When Laurencio stepped up to the counter, he set down his purchases and pointed at the picture. “I think I went to school with that vato. Is he here today?”

“Naw, he’s off.”

“Live nearby?” Laurencio added a Snickers bar to his purchase.

“Yeah, last house on the left on West Josephine.”

At the last house on West Josephine, a boy practiced dribbling and tried to make baskets in a hoop without a net. A scraggly mesquite grew at the corner of the driveway. Laurencio turned his car to face back the way he’d come and called out.

“Oye. are you Buddy’s boy?”

The boy got control of his ball and held it as his side. “Yes, sir.” He brushed aside his dark hair from his forehead.

“Is your daddy home?”

“He went to the grocery store, but he’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll wait for him.” Laurencio stepped out of the car but left his engine running. He held the candy bar out. “Would you like this?”

“Sure.” The boy approached, and Laurencio grabbed him, one hand over the boy’s mouth. The boy struggled and tried to scream, but Laurencio stuffed him in the back seat.

“When I let go of your mouth, you make noise, I twist your head until your neck snaps. You got me?” The boy nodded, tears gushing down his cheeks. Slowly, Laurencio released the boy’s mouth. The boy sobbed but made no other noise. Laurencio gagged him and used two zip ties, one to bind his hands and another his feet.

He drove back down FM 624 until he found several rows of large, round hay bales lying near the road. He cut the fence, dumped the boy between rows, and left him among piles of dried cow manure.

When Laurencio got back to the house, a large man stood in the front yard shouting, “Jesse. Jesse. Get back home, boy.” The man matched the picture of Buddy Jaramillo.

Laurencio turned his car back around again, got out, and lifted his shirt tail to reveal a gun. “You want to see your boy again? Do what I say. Comprende?”

Buddy’s eyes raced back and forth between the gun and Laurencio’s face. “What have you done to my boy? Where is he?”

Laurencio touched his gun. “Get in the driver’s seat. We’re going to the Stripes. Show me video from two nights ago. Then, you see your boy.”

Almost as many tears ran down Buddy’s face as had his son’s. “You didn’t have to take my boy for this.”

“Just do it.”

At the Stripes, Buddy waited until the clerk finished with a customer and then beckoned.

“We’re going to be in the office. Leave us undisturbed.”

The clerk nodded.

In the small office in the back of the Stripes, Buddy and Laurencio pulled up the video. Running through it was excruciating, even at twice the normal speed. The later the hour, the longer between customers. After a long period of inactivity, a car pulled in and parked under a light. Laurencio recognized the duffel the driver took from the trunk. When the driver went into the store, Laurencio had Buddy load the interior video. When he saw the credit card transaction, Laurencio’s grin turned cold, and he had Buddy pull up the buyer’s name and credit card number.

Armed with a name, Laurencio called el Jefe. Then he turned to Buddy and pointed.

“That way up 624, in some hay bales.” He grabbed Buddy’s forearm, boring his eyes into Buddy’s. “You say anything about this to anyone, I know where you live. Anything. Claro?”

“Sí, claro.” Buddy gulped air. “I got you.”

When Laurencio returned to his car and reached for the ignition, el Jefe called with an address to match the name. Laurencio headed for Corpus. He found Will’s house and spent the night in his car down the block where he had a good view. Cars littered the curb, so Laurencio’s didn’t stand out. He chuckled when Will left Tuesday morning with the duffel. Pinche gringo. Mueres pronto.

* * *

The Sunday afternoon after his early-morning encounter with Thad Will, Earl Corcoran propped up his feet on the coffee table and took a puff on his cigar. Marisol never would have let him put his feet on the table—or smoke a cigar in the house. But when he’d gotten home, all he found was a spite letter calling him a low-life. She’d packed up the kids and headed for her parents. At the beginning of his week off. Bitch.

He shook his head. Dwelling on Marisol’s letter wasn’t a good idea. His mind turned to the squirrel last night on 624. Will had been at the wreck. His nervousness, his being soaked, and his comments about the wreck. All that clinched it. Will had to be the one.

He chugged the rest of his beer. A week without family. Hell. He might as well stake the bastard out.

Tuesday morning, Corcoran watched Will leave the house with a duffel bag. A blue-shirted Hispanic male in a car down the street followed Will. Corcoran followed them both.

Will traveled down South Padre Island Drive until he pulled into a sun-and-salt-bleached storage facility. It consisted of five wings of storage rooms all running perpendicular to a once-white office in the front. Will entered a code and went through an automatic gate. Blue Shirt’s car squeezed through and paused by a nearby storage unit. Corcoran grimaced, taking Blue Shirt’s pause as an effort to lull Will.

Corcoran ran through the office, holding out his badge to a sleepy clerk, who had incense burning. From the back door, Corcoran looked down one of the rows. Someone with a pickup was loading a mattress and box springs. Will’s car came into view as it passed to the right along a cross drive. Corcoran turned to the right just as he caught a glimpse of Blue Shirt’s car.

When Corcoran got to the next opening, he saw Will traveling away from him down the row. Will stopped, unlocked a unit, and took the duffel from his car. Blue Shirt whipped around a corner and skidded toward Will. He hopped out of his car and popped off a round in Will’s direction.

“Give me the bag, pendejo, and maybe I’ll let you live.” Will tossed the duffel into view.

Corcoran aimed his Glock at Blue Shirt and called out, “DPS. Drop your weapon.”

Blue Shirt wheeled and fired at the new target. Corcoran flinched when he felt the whoosh of the slug flying by his ear. Corcoran aimed center of mass and let off two rounds, but Blue Shirt was moving. The shots missed.

Will scuttled around the next corner and peeked back at the fight. Blue Shirt took aim and fired at Corcoran. At the same instant, Corcoran fired back.

Corcoran grabbed his side. Damn. Pain spread across his upper body. Blue Shirt’s round had probably broken a rib, but Blue Shirt had dropped from view. At least I got the bastard.

He approached where he’d last seen Blue Shirt. Not there. The opened storage unit. Corcoran stepped toward it, but a round slammed into his back. Corcoran staggered and fell to his knees. Blue Shirt had hidden behind Will’s car.

Blue Shirt staggered to where he had a clear line of fire at Corcoran and fired three rounds, all of which connected. Corcoran got off two rounds and stayed conscious long enough to see Blue Shirt collapse in a pool of blood.

* * *

Will winced at the sirens. He looked longingly at the duffel, but fear paralyzed him. The first officer arrived in moments and others soon followed. Two dead men and a bag full of money greeted them. Will needed a story. Fast.

“I was just checking my storage unit, you know, to see if it was OK. I hadn’t been here in a while. Then these two guys started shooting at each other. I nearly got hit, but I hid around the corner. I don’t know what it was about.”

Will wasn’t sure the cops believed him, but they let him go after a few hours. The evening news gave him hope.

Off-duty DPS Officer Earl Corcoran was killed today in a gunfight with known drug trafficker Laurencio Contreras, who also died in the encounter. Police recovered a large sum of money at the scene, money that will be forfeited as presumed proceeds of the drug trade. A police spokesman said this was a major blow against a cartel run by a man known as El Jefe.

The story didn’t say how much money was in the bag. The bad guys would think the cops had it all. Will thought of the $400,000 in his attic. Only Megan and he knew.

* * *

Buddy Jaramillo’s jerked up straight in his chair. The slain drug trafficker shown on TV was the guy who kidnapped Jesse and watched the security tapes. Then the reporter mentioned a Thad Wills. That was the name on the credit card receipt. Buddy reached for the phone and called the sheriff.

copyright Kenneth Bennight

read more great writing like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology

Kristi Sprinkle has not traveled abroad, but she has traveled through the universe in dreams. She has been creating new phrases since she was a snotty teenager, living in Corpus Christi. Attending college in Austin (because everyone else was), she set down roots that could not be pried from Austin’s soil – and was part of the grassy-roots open mike poetry there. After raising chickens in a suburban neighborhood, she decided she could raise goats, pigs, guineas, peafowl, dogs and a cat or two, along with green leafy stuff and potatoes on a large piece of grassy land close to Austin.  Recently she has been doodling a lot on scraps of paper she intends to collect in retirement and make them make sense.  She has worked for the Texas School for the Blind in Austin for a great number of years as a technologist, co-writer of a book by a great man in the field of visual impairment. She created two different museums for the school.   

Ere I seem malapert,a gnashbag, or even a sciolist, I contend that the puissant scoundrels of this country, led by a growing number of cumbergrounds, have truly made this pestilent malison cause most to see that our nation is saddled with picaroons, fopdoodles, leasing-mongers, dalcops and a gowpen-o' mummers.

The rest of us are thole with wanion, even the sluberdegullions and the roiderbanks. I have, however, not developed lethophobia - yet.

Today is the day you forgot there were dark chocolate-covered almonds in your shirt pocket when you went out to dig in the dirt - where you contemplated the death of a very good friend and started to cry, but because you are a half mile from your neighbor, it occurs to you that screaming is okay.. and you do it, fists raised to the clouds and you realize that younger, they were dying by suicide or by overdose or car crashes and now it is by heart failure and cancer and all that crap you give a wide amount of space to in your aging thoughts because at the end of the day your back will be sore from digging new holes for new life - in the form of flowers to spring up and, while the light is dimming, you finally smell that chocolate in your pocket and wipe the melted mess out with a paper towel and the day has ended, and somehow you are happier with it than you thought you would be, understanding the difference between what was and what is, finally, and after all.  

Yesterday... was just a bad day. whacked myself a good one (very large bump and bruise on my forehead - the old rake joke - step on the tines and WHACK! There was a twig intertwined with the tines, so I stepped on that. Same effect ("I'm not a COMPLETE backbirth")). Almost as bad as the time I dropped a post setter on my head. The garbage disposal started leaking... then I found some gopher holes where I just planted roses ("carefree beauty" that has a patent and certification from the department of agriculture... whatever happened to just plain plants?). The chickens that are free-roaming destroyed my potted tomato plants. Then this fraud - fighting it at a time when Mike and I should have been sleeping (we wake up fucking early, even in my retirement). Dead tired. Today? Went to bank and got new debit cards and had to write a novel to Visa on the events that took place last night and this morning with the fraud. Now starts the long process of changing all those autopays over from the old card number. Making chicken stock (HEB has 10lbs of chicken halves for 5 bucks). Delivered eggs to the Mennonites down the road, went grocery shopping where, unbeknownst to me, my debit card had just been canceled (see previous post). Just made salsa with old pico, using a boat motor on it. And new pico with fresh ingredients. It IS a better day. So far.

copyright Kristi Sprinkle

woke up today in clarity's 
sense of sheer happiness
weary of nothing
quiet eyes 360 degrees around this path
seeing what's been done and undone
wizard behind the curtain 
hands crossed, perplexed
at the powerlessness
to stop
this high
because i see everything i am
and have
and do
and all the people i know
settled and unsettling
pushing this world, pulling it
- life/death and threats of both
and it all comes together
perhaps i'm crazy
but all the good and bad
suddenly doesn't matter
because here we are
more than those words on a wall
and yes, the glass is half full
finally held in hands
that were strong
all along 

visible briefly Is

A lone metal chair Inside a grove of California trees

Just under a turnpike

(Noticed from a higher road on our way elsewhere)

It sits facing railroad tracks that, from

The chair’s eyes, run north and south and disappear in both directions

And I wonder whether a young soul

Or an old soul sits there

And why

copyright Kristi Sprinkle

Lee Hultin found success in writing technical manuals from plumbing to technology that led her to a career in application development. After retiring early and looking for new adventures, she left Chicago’s cold winters and settled on the Island. These days, she spends her time enjoying island life on the Gulf with her rescued husky mix and writing about life.  

Read more great fiction like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology.

I woke in the dark room. All the doors were closed, the drapes and blinds drawn tight. Jack didn’t like the sun waking him. He lay still sleeping by my side. I couldn’t sleep anymore and I had to see the sun, the light, the Gulf. I decided I wasn’t going to waste any more time waiting on Jack.

Outside, Marty was tinkering on the boat. It was red with white cushions, and his pride and joy. He had just traded up, his older boat for the used red one. It was bigger and more powerful than the old one, and seated eight, a definite boost over the four-seater older one. He had only logged a month on it and was still getting used to how it performed. He was having problems with the GPS working properly and a few minor issues with the motor.

Inside, I helped Jessica put the beer in the tote along with chips and nuts. “Let’s get going,” Marty said as he entered the sliding glass doors. Jack emerged finally, freshly showered and grabbed a cold beer. Jessica laughed and said, “A bit early isn’t it Jack.” Jack just smiled and said, “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” letting out a not so quiet belch while walking down to the pier. I grabbed my sunglasses, hat and hairclip, taking the tote on the way out the door. Jessica locked the lanai doors and walked the 15 steps to the boat. Marty was already in the boat yelling at Jessica, “Did you bring my sunglasses?” “Right here” she said, handing them to him. With everyone on board, Marty turned the motor on and backed out of the pier, put the boat in gear and drove slowly down the canal.

I never tired of the slow crawl moving past beautiful houses, looking at the landscape and imagining living in one. Some still had their hurricane shutters up, meaning it was a second home. I wondered what these people did for a living to have more than one house. They had perfectly manicured lawns with foliage discreetly hiding patios and swimming pools, jet skis and large boats in private piers, and they were so much bigger than my own house. Jessica remarked on a red, garden pagoda in one yard on the corner lot to the Intracoastal. “That’s new,” she said. “The couple who bought that house also owns a new Asian restaurant on Water Street.” Jessica always knew when something changed or who was home or who had bought or sold these beautiful homes.

Marty opened it up, and the little red boat was flying, the engine purring loudly. Three dolphins, attracted by the engine sound and the bubbles the large wake created, were following us. Soon they were jumping alongside, greeting us on this mostly cloudless day. I pulled my hair back and secured it at the nape of my neck with a large clip.

Marty turned right, slowing as he came to little patches of sand islands. They really weren’t islands, only what was left of sand bars moved by the sea and tide. It was the long way around the Island to the Gulf. Marty had said earlier we would stay close to shore since the forecast predicted a few storms. I didn’t mind, I loved being in the boat and taking a little journey around the Island. 

Soon we were into the Gulf with the Island on our right. You couldn’t stay too close to the Island because of shallow waters and unexpected sand bars, so Marty moved a bit further out, still keeping the Island in sight. I moved upfront sitting beside him and opened the windshield windows. I loved putting my feet up and feeling the boat bouncing off the waves. The wind picked up and the waves were now becoming swells rising higher and higher on both sides of the red boat. I was laughing at each jump the boat made over the waves, coming down hard on the sea. Thrilled by the roller-coaster ride, my laughter got louder as the adrenaline pulsed in my veins. I looked back at Jack and smiled. He acknowledged me by raising a can of beer. He only liked sitting up front when the waters were smooth as glass.

To the west, we all saw it. Dark skies were rapidly moving east and in our direction. Marty sped up and Jack started to get nervous and said so. Jessica and I switched seats so she could help navigate and I sat beside Jack. Jessica was trying to get the GPS on her cell phone to work. “Let’s get back Marty. I don’t like the looks of that storm coming in,” she said calmly. Before she even finished her sentence fog appeared seemingly out of nowhere. I looked at Jack, a silly grin on his face, taking a sip from another can of beer. In seconds the fog covered the red boat and we could only see a couple of feet in front of us. Jack exploded, “Were all going to die.” I chuckled, “I fully trust Marty, and I think we are in capable hands. After all, Marty knows these waters and has been driving in the Gulf for over 15 years.” Jack’s face, reddened by the coastal sun from our few days of vacation, was now pale. He gripped the bar around the side of the red motorboat with one hand, his knuckles as white as his face, while keeping his other hand firmly around the beer can. “Marty, I don’t want to crash or die,” Jack voiced in a hoarse whisper.

I could see the side of Marty’s face: it was as pale as Jack’s. He said softly, “I’m not sure where we are. I don’t know if we are close to the Island anymore.” The swells and wind were lifting the boat in the air. We hit the water with a hard slap that shook the boat and lifted us from our seats. The fog was so thick I couldn’t see beyond the edge of the boat. Only then did I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe we might be in trouble. 

copyright Lee Hultin

A Texas farmer, Vietnam veteran, and “C” college graduate who cannot spell, Mike leaned heavily on the computer age to put his voice to page. Hundreds of stories, poems, and unfinished books have given him peace and become the centerpiece of his retirement. 

These are the days of remembrance.

Discounting the loss of memory

There is a lifetime of topics to embrace.

The older I become, the further back

in history my mind retrieves.

Sometimes I think my youth is returning.

Then I recognize the finality that is near.

Drawing on knowledge past is essential

To prevent future immature acts.

The scope of believability is challenged

When younger minds hear me protest.

When their minds are old and feeble

What then will be the score?

I may not win but then again

I bet they forgive themselves and me

For remembering more than we dreamed. . 

The Vietnam war cast a long shadow over many young Americans who fought there. FOREVER ALONE, an experimental novel written in diary format, explores war and its aftermath as well as the healing power of writing.  

Dian Night Lights

I tug down a warm Korean beer and listen to the Vietnamese band as the girls in their G-strings bump and grind out another tune. I can see white phosphorus flares in the night a mile out to the North of the perimeter. Some infantry unit is engaged in sniper fire while we try to enjoy the U.S.O. show as best we can.

These must be the bravest women in the world to come here and do what they do to entertain the troops. They either have tremendous hopes for a career when this is over or the pay is just good enough. Oh well, they always end up with the Officers anyway. Maybe if I can get enough beer down, I will sleep through anything that might come tonight...

FOREVER ALONE will be available in 2021

Olivia Noble is a writer, painter, and Humanities major at Yale University, and an erstwhile resident of Corpus Christi. She attended King High School and took English classes from Joseph Wilson.  

Play the moth game, inspired by the short stories of V. Woolf. The game goes like this: walk around from room to room until you have enough dead moths to fill each hand, which comes to about a cup and a quarter in a standard glass Pyrex. Another word for a double-handful is a yepsen. This group of moths you’ve picked up is now your first friend.

Draw with a pinched-out match tip on the white bottom of your sink. Turn the disposal into an unblinking all-seeing eye. This friend is good for staring contests and quick moralizing glances. It will look at you until its lids become runny. (The disposal should not be a new friend. It is loud and old and eats too much.)

Anything can be a friend if you try hard enough. Two faucets running in different rooms are now in conversation. Sometimes it’s unwise to interrupt, but even on bad days you can always listen. 

You can find them while you’re drinking your maple milk at the window. On the streets all of your new car friends have snub-noses, like cats. The Volvo can be a little distant but at least it’s direct. 

Take off your shoes and arrange them in a clutter that you would never have left – oh, look, a friend must have kicked off their shoes in a hurry. It works, I promise.

Cut the bottoms off a few yellow pears and set them on their new stable bases. Look carefully for the bumps and brown marks that could be freckles, or even real dimples. Say, “I have missed seeing all your lovely faces!” 

The moth collective is jealous now. Be on guard with your new friends. Their disapproval is a heavy thing.

One day you may wake up and find that the shirts on the clothesline are already such well-intentioned friends that you didn’t even have to clip them up yourself. Their pale cuffs tumble and wave from the lawn. Pour the rest of your milk, which is now too warm, over the side of the porch and into the hostas. They might be taking things a little fast, but who are you to object?

copyright Olivia Noble

Paul Gonzales is an award winning journalist for The News of San Patricio weekly newspaper as well as a filmmaker. His novella, I Wear My Sunglasses at Night, is available on Amazon. His novella, Once Upon a Time in Rehab, are being reviewed for publication. He is working on the second novel of his Koufax series while seeking agent representation. He spends what little free time he has with his wife and three children who live with him in Corpus Christi.

Thunder rumbled overhead as Noah looked up and down the street. He stood his guitar case up beside him and pulled out his phone. Just then a car pulled up and rolled down the passenger side window.

“You call an Uber?” the driver asked.

Noah nodded and slid inside the back with his guitar. The driver’s eyes focused on Noah’s cloud, which was just above his head.

“That thing gonna leak?”

The cloud was dark grey and rumbling, so Noah could see why the guy was worried. “No. Not here.”

The driver cleared his throat and shifted the car into drive.

Noah looked out the window as the monochrome buildings blurred by, not how he remembered them, but how he saw them now. He felt the worn edges of his old guitar case and thought about her favorite pair of jeans. The ones with soft white tufts of busted threads jutting from torn holes exposing slivers of her knees and thighs.

The club was nearly empty the night he met Sophie. It was an open mic night which were usually only filled with performers doing bad poetry readings, even worse stand-up comedy and every once in a while a decent singer plucking through new material. Noah showed up every Tuesday night, much to the chagrin of Mike who ran the show. To say Mike wasn’t a fan of Noah’s sorrowful renditions of pop tunes would be a major understatement as shown every time he made his way to the sign-up table.

“Can you play something a little upbeat this time? A little catchy? Know any Miley Cyrus or sumthin’?” Mike asked him that night.

“I’ll see what I got,” Noah replied as he signed his name on the form laying on the table where Mike sat.

“Yea. Right,” Mike said staring up at the light grey cloud bobbing over Noah’s head, illuminated with random white pulses. “You go on third.”

Noah nodded, the cloud mimicking his motion, and set the pencil down. He turned and smacked his guitar case into a girl standing behind him he hadn’t noticed.

Their clouds bumped, leaving a thin crackle of electricity between them.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” Noah said slowly, his eyes meeting hers. “I, um, didn’t see you there.”

Sophie tucked her head down and grinned. She looked up at the cloud hovering above his head through stands of blonde hair cascading from underneath her beanie.

“It’s ok,” she gushed. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The cloud above Noah’s head inched towards hers as she made her way around him to the table to sign up. Noah shuffled to one side and then nervously walked away, wanting to say more, but his mind was a clean slate.

He found an empty table near the stage and sat down, leaning his guitar case against a stool. Noah watched in the distance as Sophie awkwardly looked around, nodded to a few people she obviously didn’t know, then darted off towards the bathroom, her cloud a few inches behind playing catch up.

When Noah got on stage he looked out into the small crowd and adjusted his guitar. Scanning the audience twice, he finally saw her. She was in the back of the room underneath the Exit sign, which bathed her and her cloud in a gorgeous red glow.

His cloud rumbled overhead.

“This one’s for Mike,” he uttered into the microphone as Mike, now standing by the stage, rolled his eyes and shook his head.

The slow, gentle twang of his fingers across the old strings of his guitar filled the room. Noah leaned in close to the microphone and closed his eyes. The opening lines of “Wrecking Ball” slowly escaped his lips. It was a solemn version of the pop song; it’s verses changing tone under the tutelage of Noah’s longing, sullen deep voice.

Sophie grinned, her eyes glistening with neon satisfaction.

Thunder rolled from her cloud softly as she passed him making her way to the stage lugging a bright pink keyboard that was nearly as tall as she was. Noah got up from his seat to help her, but bumped his guitar case and it slammed onto the floor, causing the few people in the room to stop and stare at him. By the time he leaned his case back against the stool she was on stage. After a few moments of setting up she sat and brushed the hair from her face, adjusted the mic and took a deep breath.

“This is an original,” she said gently into the mic not looking at the small crowd. “I call it, “Bethesda’s Nighttime Parade.”

Noah watched as her fingers skipped across the keys and listened as her lips slowly parted and released thoughtful, fantastic words into the air. The song was an upbeat, somber tune about a little girl who thought a nearby train was a parade at night. She wished she could join the parade, but it was always her bedtime when the train would pass, so night after night she missed out. Then, after her parents tucked her into bed on night, she snuck out of her bedroom and hopped on the train, which, as it turned out after all, really was a parade. There, she marched with elephants and bears and a big band where she played trombones and trumpets and danced with the jugglers and waved at the night watchman and lighthouse keepers.

The last verses told of the sun coming up and her telling the ring master that she needed to get home because she missed her folks. With a bright grin and a flick of his wrist, they were engulfed in a mist, and she opened her eyes and she was alone, but she was home.

She rubbed her hands nervously on her torn jeans as the small crowd applauded.

The cloud above Noah’s head grumbled loudly as the Uber driver turned to look nervously at Noah and his cloud.

“I should probably get out here,” Noah told the driver. “It’s not too far of a walk now anyway. Thanks.”

The car quickly pulled over and Noah got out, his dark cloud bumping the roof of the vehicle producing small strands of white lightning as it did.

Noah sighed and glanced up at his pulsing cloud in disappointment.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he thought as he took a step down the sidewalk.

A passing car was blasting a familiar song and Noah’s attention snapped his neck to follow and saw Sophie behind him. Their clouds sparked a hello to one another.

“That song,” Sophie said. “I want that one playing at my funeral.” It was David Bowie’s “Modern Love” coming from the car, now fading away. “Do you know any Bowie?”

“Why are you asking me?” Noah asked, now walking backwards to face her.

“You’re the funeral singer.”

“So you think we’re going to live a long, loving life together? And then just assume I’ll outlive you?”

“I’ve lived a hard life, dude. I eat ice cream like crazy. You have no idea.”

“Wow. So hard.”

“So, what about it? I want that Bowie song.”

Noah stopped and their eyes dove into one another’s. Lighting zapped across the short distance between them.

“Sure.”

Sophie laughed and skipped ahead of him. As he turned to follow she was gone again and he was left standing alone with his guitar case underneath a rumbling cloud.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it up to his ear.

“This is Noah.”

He talked as he walked down the empty sidewalk. It was bright, sunny day but the cloud, now larger than before he got into the car, provided some much needed shade. The call was from one of the funeral homes he worked with. They had requested a new video about the services he provides for their website and they had uploaded it a few days ago.

Noah was now walking into a small warehouse art space following Sophie. On one side there was a white backdrop with some cameras on tripods. On the opposite side was the same setup but with a green screen instead. A table with some computer monitors on it sat near the entrance.

“Well, what do you think?” she said, her arms outstretched as she twirled.

Noah spotted some boxes of children’s toys in the corner. “Impressive. What is it that you do here again?”

The corners of Sophie’s mouth curled upwards “I just make YouTube videos. For kids.” Noah nodded. “Remember, I was telling you I was hanging out with my sister and my niece was on her phone just watching these videos of toys dropping into buckets of soap. Toys talking. It’s sort of weird, but kids love it.”

“Right, right. And you and your band, the Bed Bugs, record songs. See, I pay attention.”

“I guess you do. But anyway, this is where the magic happens.”

“I can see. Awesome.”

“So let’s talk about this video of yours.”

Before Noah knew it he was playing some songs in front of the green screen as Sophie walked back and forth between two cameras watching the monitors. After a few hours he found his mouth pressed against hers, their clouds sending thin white streaks of lightning between one another.

Noah stopped. “Wait. Just so I know, you’re not going to put some weird stuff in the background are you?”

Sophie shot him a surprised glance. “Of course not, dummy.”

“Just checking.” he said as he leaned back in.

The funeral director on the phone said that while the video was definitely “unique,” the response the funeral home had received was phenomenal.

“I had some help,” Noah said. “I’ll look over the client list after I’m done here. I appreciate the call.”

Noah winced as a bolt of crooked lightning singed his hair followed by rolling thunder.

He could see the cemetery gate up the street from where he stood and reached out his hand, searching for hers.

Sophie took it and yanked him forward. She was wearing her favorite old jeans but with a new red pea coat he just bought her. She was grinning wildly and laughing.

Their clouds were now just small white puffs floating above their heads.

“Come on, Noah!” she said. “It’s not going to be that bad I swear.”

Noah shuffled his feet in contempt. “Can we just do it some other day?”

“Uhg, you’re such a puss. My parents are super cool, you’ll see.”

Noah pulled her close.

“Can’t we grab a bite to eat? Maybe go catch a movie?”

“Baby Shark” erupted from Sophie’s vibrating pocket.

“Is that seriously your ring tone?” Noah laughed.

Sophie held her finger to her mouth and answered the phone. She stepped a few feet away and Noah watched her pacing back and forth. Her hair was blowing slowly in the breeze, her small puffy cloud swayed above her beanie back and forth like a feather refusing to fall. 

She nodded, said something into the phone, slid it back into her pocket and returned to him.

“You’re lucky, buster,” she said with a mock frown, bumping into his shoulder. “Dad had an emergency work thing.”

“Well, shoot,” he said sarcastically.

“Shut it,” she gently kicked his shin. “I just really want them to meet you.”

“I know, I know. I’ll meet them soon enough.”

Her hand slipped into his but he noticed it was hard and rigid. Noah glanced down and saw the guitar case in his grip. The cemetery gate was standing before him.

Walking up over the hill he could see a small gathering of people under a large green tent. He sighed, lowered his head and made his way towards them.

The priest nodded to him as he came up to the side of the podium. He set his guitar case in the grass and popped it open quietly, the sobs and sniffles the only sounds on that day. His cloud was larger than it had ever been and nearly black. As he pulled out his guitar and slid the strap over his shoulder, he could feel the drizzle against his face.

He saw Sophie’s band mates. Some of her friends he’d only met a handful of times. And, there, in the very front row, were her parents. The ones he never met. The ones that never met him.

Noah stood, took a deep breath and, underneath a pouring cloud, strummed his guitar and sang.

I catch a paper boy

But things don't really change

I'm standing in the wind

But I never wave bye-bye

But I try, I try

There's no sign of life

It's just the power to charm

I'm lying in the rain

But I never wave bye-bye

But I try, I try

I heard the beeps first. Machines placed around me somewhere in the dark buzzed, whirled and wheezed. Then I felt the needles sticking out from my skin pumping fluids through my veins, all of them swollen. My skin was sore. My chest was separated under bandages and stitches and blood and exposed marrow and healing arteries and I wondered what color my blood was down in there. I imagined the highways of vessels crisscrossing under my chest plate turning the blue blood red as it was exposed underneath the still fresh wound splitting my chest in two even pieces, soaking up the stale hospital air. With eyes closed and hands still, I tried to feel around the room. Tried to sense someone or something. My ears listened. My nose sniffed. Eyelids twitched. Only machines and tubes that dripped and flowed and stabbed and the one that breathed for me. I had nothing else to do but sleep. But I didn’t do that.

****

I lay there staring out a window that faced another wing of the hospital. Dirty peach. That was the color I came up with. That was the color of the brick caked onto the ancient hospital. Nurse. Jell-O. New sheets. Dirty peach. For days that was it. I could hear the nurses whisper about my lack of visitors and how a bad heart at such a young age was such a shame. And I lay there thinking and looking out the window and listening to my new heart hammer on the inner walls of my chest.

When I got home I could see my neighbors peach tree from out of my bedroom window. Overgrown and filled with rotting peaches. He once asked me if I liked the fruit and I had told him no. So I watched the tree from my bed, my body still too weak to move about much, so alone in my house watching autumn transform the landscape, it was the same view. Rotting peach. That was the color I came up with.

****

There was a cake on the break room table already cut and missing pieces when I walked in. The boss and the other two employees leaned against the counter laughing and shouting, showering themselves with chocolate. They noticed me and offered some of my welcome back surprise cake. “Surprise!" I thought. “There’s still some left!”

My desk was almost bare except for my computer monitor and my pencil holder, which was the opposite of how I left it. Full. I was able to return to work as long as I took over Feather’s secretary position. She had gone into labor three days ago and still hadn’t blessed us with Rocko Firth Shapiro Warren. For some reason that’s what I figured its name would be, but I hadn’t paid attention enough to even know what the sex of the baby was. I just needed to get out of the house. My chest was still tight and sore so I couldn’t do any hard physical activities. Not that my former activities at the office could be anywhere near the realm of being called an activity much less be referred to as physical. So I sat and answered phones, took messages and from time to time I found myself staring out of the window facing the street. One minute I would be helping clients fill out forms, then the next I was watching the passersby scuttle across a cold, wet street through a foggy, ice covered window.

I blamed my lack of attention on the drugs I had long since stopped taking. And at night I felt like an old tin chamber in the shape of a man with warm coals glowing deep inside. It was a calming, lonely feeling. Then I began seeing places I hadn’t ever seen before play against the insides of my eyelids as I counted breaths in an effort to sleep. And they played on, even when I did manage to sleep. Street signs. Stores. People. All too real, familiar, yet alien. And when sleep eluded me and my eyes were open, images danced on the darkened ceiling and walls of my bedroom. 

The doctor’s office was cold. The hard white sheet of what must be butcher paper was pulled across the examination table and wrinkled underneath me, making a loud rustling sound that filled the empty room. A nurse walked in.

“Everything seems fine,” she said through pale, dry lips. “Your body’s taking to the transplant quite well. Just don’t do any strenuous activities and don’t exert yourself too much.” 

I nodded and began to button up my shirt. “Umm, excuse me nurse,” I said in a voice much lower than I had planned. She looked up from her clipboard. “Sometimes it feels like…well, my heart beats harder than I think it should.” 

She lowered the clipboard to her hip. “After what kind of activities?” 

I straightened up concerned. “When I’m just, like, driving or sitting at my desk at work. Even when I’m sleeping. It doesn’t hurt or anything, it’s just hard. Harder than usual. And sometimes loud. Is that normal?” 

The nurse smiled, causing the corners of her eyes to make crow’s feet. “Oh yes, that’s normal. You’re just not used to your new heart yet. Some hearts have more muscle than others. Like people. Some more, some less. You must have gotten a strong one. But don’t worry sugar, you’ll get used to it. Oh, and don’t forget to sign out at the front. Thank you and have a good day.” 

I got up to my feet and counted the thumps. Normal. It’s normal she said. But it felt hot and hollow down inside. Past the other parts that squeezed and pushed and filtered and breathed. The warm coals down inside the chamber pulsed like they were reaching and grasping out. I walked out with my fingers crawling across my chest trying to figure it. My thoughts rummaged through my innards like a lost explorer in a jungle. There was a voice. Louder and louder the closer I came to the exit.

I was called back in. I forgot to sign out.

The following day I found myself looking over city maps as they flashed on my computer screen from behind my secretary desk, studying the street names and memorizing the turns and landmarks. Some sounding strangely familiar, others completely new. Satellite images from space slid out of the printer and I poured over them as if I knew what it was I was looking for. I glanced up from the screen to the clock then back to the screen then back again as my fingers clacked away on the keys. 

My boss stepped in and said he had a doctor’s appointment and that I would be left in charge for the rest of the day. I watched from my secretary desk’s window and waited for him to pull away in his fancy car before sending the phone calls to the answering service and grabbing my bag. 

****

I began finding myself in places I hadn’t been before, but every step taken was increasingly familiar. I controlled only my eyes and mouth. My steps took themselves. Sometimes into alleys and back out again. Over sidewalks and across intersections. Sometimes surefooted, sometimes lost or confused. And after a day’s walk around foreign neighborhoods, following work usually, we’d mark our place and start from there the next day, my feet and I. Today our mark would be a street lamp.

I’d yank and curse like a mad man in the night until reluctantly my feet would give up control and we’d walk back to the car. Under highway lights and moonlit skies we’d drive back home. It had been a few days, almost a week now, but it was habitual. The relinquished control of bodily movements to uncover some meaning behind the walking and running and turning and pacing and stopping. Lungs pumping under my still newly imported muscle. That was it. The strings that pulled these marionette’s legs onward. It was the fist-sized core buried inside this cavity of bone and blood that drove my body through the streets. Wanting. Searching. Lost out there like myself.

My foot pressed down on the accelerator firmly. The street lamp marker flew by. My hands turned the steering wheel to the left and to the right. I managed to slow down the car a bit to at least maintain some sense of control over the situation before we killed ourselves, my heart and I. The maps and streets and blue colored roads and pixilated treetops passed before my eyes as my hands flipped blinkers on and turned corners and my feet pumped the gas and brake simultaneously, skipping and lunging in front of houses and apartment buildings and laundromats and record shops.

I just stared out the windshield, shrugging my shoulders, as crowded sidewalks stared back in confusion. Then my car veered into a parking space and screeched to a halt next to a meter with a brown bag placed over it. My chest felt as if was about to burst. Shotgun blast thumps pounded the insides of my chest plate. I tried to get out but my hands had fully turned against me and refused to release the wheel. My feet remained planted to the floorboard of the car. I watched out of the window as people continued to pass. I studied and browsed and stared as my chest exploded beneath the long vertical scar that ran down my torso. Something was here. This was my destination, but where was the X that marked the spot? What is it that brought me here? Seconds ticked past as my eyes bounced back and forth through the crowds. Was it a boy? A girl? A pet? A house? A car? A store? What?! My eyes refused to blink and began to burn red. Fingers gripped the wheel and sweat trickled down my brow. My pupils dilated. 

Across the street, a girl holding a shopping bag with a large, crooked red X printed over some sickly models wearing barely anything, slid into view. My chest froze. My new heart was silent. My hands reached for the door handle. My eyes, engulfed in flames, studied her every move. Her walk. Her flowing hair. Her hands. Clothes. Nothing was familiar about her but her.

My feet stumbled over themselves and over the asphalt. My chest bounded me forward in unyielding steady pounds after the girl marked with an X. Cars honked and drivers yelled as I stumbled towards her like a drunk chasing booze, a bullet chasing its target. I had never seen her before but I could feel a connection bursting from within. So hot and boiling and bubbling and shifting. Waves were washing over inside me causing my skin to burn hot. She was on her steps now fishing for her keys with the bag sliding down her forearm. My eyes were focused beams. I bumped and shoved my way through the people littering the sidewalk, excusing myself without looking away from her. Their curses grew silent. Violent gestures blurred and faded. My hand reached out. My heart made its ways through the bones and tissue and pressed firmly against my skin. My feet stopped. I stood behind her as she opened her building’s door. My shoulders pumped forward viciously.

My hand reached out further and fingernails scraped old paint. The door had closed behind her. 

My upper body stopped. My mouth open, yet silent. My eyes welled-up from the steam bellowing inside, searching for release. My breath came back rigid, thick and quick. My hand twisted the doorknob frantically. It didn’t turn.

But, from the other side of the door, a heavy thumping sound could be heard. Muffled but still audible. And my chest cavity lashed out a cry of hope. Blood rushed through my body at breakneck speeds causing color to leave my skin for a moment. I became a washed-out ghost pressed against a stranger’s door. A stranger who shared the same heartbeat I could now hear clearly as the pounding grew louder. Closer. Closer. Closer. And my eyes watched a blurred figure grow larger through the decorated glass.

Cautiously she drew herself closer. The explosions grew louder. And slowly the sounds fell into time with one another as the door creaked open. First a face. Eyes. Nose. Lips. Her deep red hair framing gorgeous features. Her torso pumped her forth, out of the doorframe onto mine like amazing magnets and our chambers connected beneath our sweaters. Smashing chests and meeting scars. A beautiful collision. Fire was everywhere. 

And our lips met. She clawed my waist with wanting fingers. My hands gently cradled her face. The threads of our sweaters intertwined and knitted themselves into one. Their belts unbuckled and leather whipped about. Their shoelaces twirled below them like snake lovers crazy with lust. And her lips called and mine answered. Our beats finely tuned instruments in this two-piece orchestra bathed in flames and burnt foliage. Strangers here underneath the falling leaves of autumn.

I could feel her lips curl at their ends as they pressed against mine. Her chest kicking hard and violent against my own. Exchanging beats and thumps and pounds and pushes and pulls and explosions and pumps and pulses.

Our hearts meet once again.

READ MORE GREAT WORK by local writers in CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2020

Skoot is one of Corpus Christi's most prolific writers. He  is a native Los Angelino, a musician, music critic and a Viet Nam veteran. He has also worked as a disc jockey, actor, speech therapist, stand-up comedian, behavioral counselor and streetcar conductor. His previous works include the Lars Lindstrom Zen-Jazz Mystery series, a black-humor novel about health care in America entitled “Apollo Issue,” and a political humor novel, “The Palestine Solution,” the King Irv fantasy series, and The Dave Holman Texas Detective mysteries. Skoot lives with his two cats, Miles and Dexter, in Rockport, Texas.

The Three Little 21st Century Pigs is from his book SKOOT'S FABLES

So I was watching television; the eleven o’clock news. I was about to switch it off, when they started a segment about a spate of recent burglaries in my area of Riverside County. “These particular thieves are pretty clever,” the pretty raven-haired talking head was saying. “They spend a few days watching houses for a pattern of lights going off and on.

“If it seems that the pattern is too routine, they take a closer look. So those elaborate timer systems on your lights won’t work on guys like these! Stay tuned for more.”

I’d already turned up the sound, and was anxious for more information, but the news report cut to a series of “adult themed” commercials. I’ve always thought these rude and nasty adverts had no place on the little box, but I was hanging on my seat, waiting for more about the recent home invasion robberies.

And suddenly, a dark-haired, bearded man with a loud obnoxious voice was telling me about “Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, the most life-like and anatomically correct inflatable partner money could buy. Available at adult bookstores, video rental and lingerie shops everywhere!”

Beautiful Zelda, I thought. She certainly did look real on my 21-inch screen. Was she realistic enough to fool a couple of criminal types gazing in my front window? She’d have to be pretty good, as my favorite recliner, the one facing the TVs flickering light, was less than three feet from my living room window’s glass.

I spent a restless night. I live in a gated senior community, but my neighbors are always talking about strangers in cars following close behind residents to sneak through the automated barrier and enter our complex in search of plunder. My well tended home could be as good a target as any other, on those many weekends that I visit my kids in San Diego or Santa Barbara.

By the dawn’s early light, I’d made up my mind. When I traveled, Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, or someone like her would be firmly ensconced in my favorite chair, eyes fixed on my flickering viewing screen. Ah, but how was she to get to my chair? We have no sex shops in our little city. The closest such thing is about eight miles away in the town of Lake Elsinore.

And even then, who was I likely to see going into or coming from such a unique establishment so close to home? Rumor had it that one of our church deacons frequented such haunts – just keeping track of the sinners he claimed – And someone from our church would never understand why I needed the company of Beautiful Zelda SX-5000. “To protect your house?” they’d say. “Come on, man, your lies are as sinful as your wicked thoughts.”

And that’s why I drove the freeway system all the way out to Garden Grove in Orange County, the next county over, before I stopped to look for someone selling dirty books and videos. Little Saigon seemed a safe neighborhood, where I wouldn’t be recognized by any of my fellow seniors from The Colony where I lived.

I stepped through a black painted door, into a twilight world lit only by small spotlights that shined on DVD cases and glossy magazine covers. In the center of all this, before a high sort of judges dais, sat a glass display case occupied by an inflatable plastic doll in a short blond wig, looking very much like one of Rod Stewart’s ex-wives.

“Ah, how much is… uh… one of these ladies?” I inquired, to which the unshaven man in the greasy hair and filthy black tee-shirt launched into a sales pitch for Beautiful Zelda SX-5000. I felt all those secretive rat-like customers around the room casting disdainful eyes as the man explained how each “anatomically correct” part functioned, and just what Beautiful Zelda could do to satisfy my every need. I wanted to explain that I just needed a human-like presence to protect my property, but each time I opened my mouth to interrupt, the sweat-ponged salesman just talked louder. When he finally arrived at the price, I nearly collapsed. I stuttered. I stammered. “How much?” I exclaimed to the chortles of a handful of punters back among the magazine racks.

“It’s alright, Buddy,” said Mr. Grease and Sweat. “I think I got a deal for you.” He came down from his high perch, a ring of keys in his hand, and proceeded to open the cabinet before me.

“This is Beautiful Zelda SX-2000,” he told me as he unfolded the blond-wigged doll from the glassed-in space. “She doesn’t have the turbo-power suck or some of the other features of the latest model, but she looks just as good.

“We don’t much call for old technology around here, so I can let her go for less than half the price of the SX-5000 model. And she’s already inflated and ready to go. Just sit her in your passenger seat and y’r off. You’re not on a motorcycle, are you?”

I hadn’t given much thought to rush hour traffic, as I haven’t driven into the city to work in a few years, but News Radio was quick to remind me that the Santa Ana Canyon, going toward my home, was slowed to crawl as Zelda and I climbed the Garden Grove Freeway ramp. Well, thought I, with Beautiful Zelda SX-2000 in my passenger seat, I could probably get away with sneaking into the carpool lane. Who’s to know the difference?

As I turned to watch the fuming drivers on my right in the regular lanes inching forward while I sped past, I couldn’t help but notice that the wind from my sunroof was jostling my plastic passenger in her seat. Beautiful Zelda would rise and fall as the breeze took her. I wished that I’d thought to do up her seat belt, but it was too late now, we were moving too fast. Maybe other drivers would just think my passenger was very excited about something. I sped on.

My attention was suddenly diverted by a squeal of brakes, a few sharp horn toots, and loud, rude shouts. I turned, and beside me, Beautiful Zelda’s buoyant backside had risen and was pointing out through the sunroof. Her flimsy cotton nighty was rising over her head, caught up behind her life-like plastic arms. Thank God at least she still had a bright red thong covering her…

That silver Lexus behind me. Is that a Colony resident sticker on the driver-side windshield? And am I correctly lip-reading the old dear neighbor of mine telling her silver-haired companion, “I think we’ve just been mooned?”

And again I’m distracted. Just as I make the transition onto the 55 freeway, the Lexus drops back, replaced by a set of red and blue flashing lights. I pull onto the narrow shoulder dreading the scene to follow. What can I say? Would they believe the truth? Am I about to be registered as some kind of sex offender?

The state trooper takes my license and registration with a serious face and walks back to his cruiser while Beautiful Zelda’s very real looking bottom rests on my car roof. In my mirror, I see that he’s on his radio. Seeking reinforcements? Calling the state mental hospital? What?

Then he’s grinning ear-to-ear as he replaces his mic on the dash of his car. Moments later, another state police car pulls in just in front of me and a Highway Patrol motorcycle parks near my rear fender. The three officers are faced away, but I can feel their loud guffaws as the first man on the scene points at Beautiful Zelda’s backside still lifted partially through the open roof of my vehicle.

The officer who pulled me over approaches my window once more. With a ridged John Wayne face that looks as if it could erupt into laughter at any second, he tells me I’m being cited for improper use of the high-occupancy-vehicle lane, violation of code such-and-such, punishable by a fine of not less than five-hundred dollars as his buddies come up behind him. It’s then that I recognize the motorcycle cop. He’s not a deacon, but he is a regular in out large Wildomar congregation, and his eyes are telling me that he knows all of my secret sins.

I interrupt the officer at my window. “I’m guilty,” I holler, “uh, guilty as sin,” which draws a chuckle from my bike riding fellow Christian. “Just give me the ticket and let me out of here. I’ll gladly pay the fine. I’ll pay double!”

I look up to see the third highway patrolman edging his way toward my window. “You realize that your little sex toy friend will have to be confiscated as evidence, don’t you?” He giggles. His two buddies back him with solemn nods as he rips Beautiful Zelda SX-2000 through my car’s skyward opening.

I watch in my rear-view as the laughing officers put the cuffs on Beautiful Zelda while she floats before the cruiser’s open back door. With an exaggerated pelvic thrust, cop number three sends Beautiful Zelda flying into the caged rear seat.

Had the circumstances been different, I might have gotten a kick watching two state policemen bent over in a paroxysm of uncontrollable laughter while their partner rolled helplessly in the grassy center median snorting and choking on his bemusement.

Later that night, I was watching the eleven o’clock news. When the ad came on for Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, I threw an empty whiskey bottle through the small screen of my old television, which exploded in smoke and flame, showering a fine cloud of glass particles all over my living room rug. 

Once upon a harvest moon, there were three little pigs; A very conservative Fox News kinda pig, a moderate, middle-class type conformist pig, and a wigged-out, very vouty cool and free-thinking pig.

The first little pig was too lazy to build a house of his own. He bitched that the government wasn’t setting him up for an inexpensive place to crash and finally bought a clapped-out old single-wide mobile home in the woods, landscaped with worn rotting tires and discarded, rusting appliances.

The conformist second little pig bought a three-bedroom, two bath pad in a Levitt Town tract where all the houses looked so much alike he had to count the doors every night coming home to make sure he was walking into the right crib.

The very vouty third little pig built himself a mad pad on the beach out of baritone sax reeds and palm fronds with a hip little bar and multiple hammocks swingin’ free!

As the little pigs were settling into their Texas coastal life, a big bad wolf hitch hikin’ down with the snowbirds from Minnesota stopped off feelin’ hungry and unfulfilled. Unfamiliar with the territory, the big bad wolf cut east from the highway and started makin’ tracks through the dark circuitous oaken woods. After a long bit of a trapes, the wolf found himself in a ghetto-looking clearing filled with rusting junk, rotting tires and a big aluminum box covered with Kudzu vines, Texas flags and No Trespassing signs. The wolf approached cautiously, mounted the three rotting wood steps and applied his hairy knuckles to the rusting screen door.

“Who goes there?” thundered the frightened but macho pig. “Don’t you know you’re standin’ on private property? You’d better not be a Jehovah’s Witless or something, or I’ll blow you away!”

“It’s cool,” shouted the wolf. “I’m just here to check your meters.”

When the up-tight pig opened the door, the big bad wolf gave him a wide, saliva-dripping grin. “You look like a tasty pork morsel,” the canine creature told him. “I think I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your joint down… Then I’ll have me a sort of Cajon pork sandwich with extra jalapeños!”

The red-neck pig called for his kids to fetch him his shotgun, but the over-zealous pig kids came out too fast, tripping and letting loose with a blast that sent their daddy to that big pig sty in the sky.

Not wanting to be on the scene when the gendarmerie arrived, the big bad wolf legged it east toward the coast. After a long trot through the forest, the big bad wolf came on a tract of poorly constructed houses. Hoping to blend in with the low budget surroundings, the wolf strolled down the main drag, selecting a non-descript pad with a cheap Korean car in the drive and walking up to the door with a wolfish grin. He sounded the bell and hung back until a nervous little pig opened the door.

“I always try to be politically correct,” said the pig that answered the door. “But your presence here could be bringin’ down the property values. What do you want, and make it quick, before my neighbors see you here and think I’m a bleeding heart liberal or something!”

“I’ll come right to the point,” the wolf told him. “I’m starvin’, Marvin and I need a little roast pork. So I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your square little house down, and then I’ll make a three course meal of you and your piggy kin!”

The second little pig came on like a Kung-Fu master, layin’ all the moves he learned in self-defense class on the unsuspecting wolf. The wolf blew the pig’s house down, but not before the very square pig landed a shot in his wedding tackle and sent him off in great pain.

Limping east across the wet flood plain, the big bad wolf soon arrived at the beach, where he saw a smart little Tiki Hut near the water’s edge. Approaching cautiously, the big bad wolf circled the structure, sniffing the air for wolf traps. His olfactory senses were quickly filled with the scent of illegal weed and Patchouli oil. Hesitantly, the wolf raised his knuckles and laid a crisp paradiddle on the thin reed door.

A little pig in shades and a black beret answered his call. “Welcome my brother,” the porcine cat greeted him. “Glad you could fall on by!”

“Porque, Porky,” the wolf responded, “Ain’t you afraid of me?”

“Like, should I be?” the hip little pig questioned. “We’re all God’s children in this veil of tears.”

“But,” responded the wolf, “I intend to huff and puff and to blow your house down!”

“Crazy!” cried the cool pig. “Like I got an old tenor sax in here somewhere…”

“What about a reed?” queried the wolf without thinking.

“Are you kidding?” said the pig. “The whole house is made of reeds. Just pull one out and trim it down!”

“But I’m here to eat you up!” shouted the pig.

“Oh man,” said the pig with a serious face, “Don’t you know how bad pork is for you? It’s a genuine life shortener! Clog your arteries and give you those triggie-whatsis worms… Man, like this pork isn’t even organic!”

“I can dig that,” said the wolf, “But like I’m two days short of three squares!”

“No worries,” answered the pig, “we’ll send out for a pizza while we jam!”

“Too much!” said the big bad wolf. “Can we get extra anchovies?”

“If you can huff and puff like Prez,” the cool little pig told him, “You can have anything you want on it… Except pork…”

“Oh man,” the wolf told him. “Bacon was never really my thing anyway. Do you know Cool Blues in E-flat?”

So I was watching television; the eleven o’clock news. I was about to switch it off, when they started a segment about a spate of recent burglaries in my area of Riverside County. “These particular thieves are pretty clever,” the pretty raven-haired talking head was saying. “They spend a few days watching houses for a pattern of lights going off and on.

“If it seems that the pattern is too routine, they take a closer look. So those elaborate timer systems on your lights won’t work on guys like these! Stay tuned for more.”

I’d already turned up the sound, and was anxious for more information, but the news report cut to a series of “adult themed” commercials. I’ve always thought these rude and nasty adverts had no place on the little box, but I was hanging on my seat, waiting for more about the recent home invasion robberies.

And suddenly, a dark-haired, bearded man with a loud obnoxious voice was telling me about “Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, the most life-like and anatomically correct inflatable partner money could buy. Available at adult bookstores, video rental and lingerie shops everywhere!”

Beautiful Zelda, I thought. She certainly did look real on my 21-inch screen. Was she realistic enough to fool a couple of criminal types gazing in my front window? She’d have to be pretty good, as my favorite recliner, the one facing the TVs flickering light, was less than three feet from my living room window’s glass.

I spent a restless night. I live in a gated senior community, but my neighbors are always talking about strangers in cars following close behind residents to sneak through the automated barrier and enter our complex in search of plunder. My well tended home could be as good a target as any other, on those many weekends that I visit my kids in San Diego or Santa Barbara.

By the dawn’s early light, I’d made up my mind. When I traveled, Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, or someone like her would be firmly ensconced in my favorite chair, eyes fixed on my flickering viewing screen. Ah, but how was she to get to my chair? We have no sex shops in our little city. The closest such thing is about eight miles away in the town of Lake Elsinore.

And even then, who was I likely to see going into or coming from such a unique establishment so close to home? Rumor had it that one of our church deacons frequented such haunts – just keeping track of the sinners he claimed – And someone from our church would never understand why I needed the company of Beautiful Zelda SX-5000. “To protect your house?” they’d say. “Come on, man, your lies are as sinful as your wicked thoughts.”

And that’s why I drove the freeway system all the way out to Garden Grove in Orange County, the next county over, before I stopped to look for someone selling dirty books and videos. Little Saigon seemed a safe neighborhood, where I wouldn’t be recognized by any of my fellow seniors from The Colony where I lived.

I stepped through a black painted door, into a twilight world lit only by small spotlights that shined on DVD cases and glossy magazine covers. In the center of all this, before a high sort of judges dais, sat a glass display case occupied by an inflatable plastic doll in a short blond wig, looking very much like one of Rod Stewart’s ex-wives.

“Ah, how much is… uh… one of these ladies?” I inquired, to which the unshaven man in the greasy hair and filthy black tee-shirt launched into a sales pitch for Beautiful Zelda SX-5000. I felt all those secretive rat-like customers around the room casting disdainful eyes as the man explained how each “anatomically correct” part functioned, and just what Beautiful Zelda could do to satisfy my every need. I wanted to explain that I just needed a human-like presence to protect my property, but each time I opened my mouth to interrupt, the sweat-ponged salesman just talked louder. When he finally arrived at the price, I nearly collapsed. I stuttered. I stammered. “How much?” I exclaimed to the chortles of a handful of punters back among the magazine racks.

“It’s alright, Buddy,” said Mr. Grease and Sweat. “I think I got a deal for you.” He came down from his high perch, a ring of keys in his hand, and proceeded to open the cabinet before me.

“This is Beautiful Zelda SX-2000,” he told me as he unfolded the blond-wigged doll from the glassed-in space. “She doesn’t have the turbo-power suck or some of the other features of the latest model, but she looks just as good.

“We don’t much call for old technology around here, so I can let her go for less than half the price of the SX-5000 model. And she’s already inflated and ready to go. Just sit her in your passenger seat and y’r off. You’re not on a motorcycle, are you?”

I hadn’t given much thought to rush hour traffic, as I haven’t driven into the city to work in a few years, but News Radio was quick to remind me that the Santa Ana Canyon, going toward my home, was slowed to crawl as Zelda and I climbed the Garden Grove Freeway ramp. Well, thought I, with Beautiful Zelda SX-2000 in my passenger seat, I could probably get away with sneaking into the carpool lane. Who’s to know the difference?

As I turned to watch the fuming drivers on my right in the regular lanes inching forward while I sped past, I couldn’t help but notice that the wind from my sunroof was jostling my plastic passenger in her seat. Beautiful Zelda would rise and fall as the breeze took her. I wished that I’d thought to do up her seat belt, but it was too late now, we were moving too fast. Maybe other drivers would just think my passenger was very excited about something. I sped on.

My attention was suddenly diverted by a squeal of brakes, a few sharp horn toots, and loud, rude shouts. I turned, and beside me, Beautiful Zelda’s buoyant backside had risen and was pointing out through the sunroof. Her flimsy cotton nighty was rising over her head, caught up behind her life-like plastic arms. Thank God at least she still had a bright red thong covering her…

That silver Lexus behind me. Is that a Colony resident sticker on the driver-side windshield? And am I correctly lip-reading the old dear neighbor of mine telling her silver-haired companion, “I think we’ve just been mooned?”

And again I’m distracted. Just as I make the transition onto the 55 freeway, the Lexus drops back, replaced by a set of red and blue flashing lights. I pull onto the narrow shoulder dreading the scene to follow. What can I say? Would they believe the truth? Am I about to be registered as some kind of sex offender?

The state trooper takes my license and registration with a serious face and walks back to his cruiser while Beautiful Zelda’s very real looking bottom rests on my car roof. In my mirror, I see that he’s on his radio. Seeking reinforcements? Calling the state mental hospital? What?

Then he’s grinning ear-to-ear as he replaces his mic on the dash of his car. Moments later, another state police car pulls in just in front of me and a Highway Patrol motorcycle parks near my rear fender. The three officers are faced away, but I can feel their loud guffaws as the first man on the scene points at Beautiful Zelda’s backside still lifted partially through the open roof of my vehicle.

The officer who pulled me over approaches my window once more. With a ridged John Wayne face that looks as if it could erupt into laughter at any second, he tells me I’m being cited for improper use of the high-occupancy-vehicle lane, violation of code such-and-such, punishable by a fine of not less than five-hundred dollars as his buddies come up behind him. It’s then that I recognize the motorcycle cop. He’s not a deacon, but he is a regular in out large Wildomar congregation, and his eyes are telling me that he knows all of my secret sins.

I interrupt the officer at my window. “I’m guilty,” I holler, “uh, guilty as sin,” which draws a chuckle from my bike riding fellow Christian. “Just give me the ticket and let me out of here. I’ll gladly pay the fine. I’ll pay double!”

I look up to see the third highway patrolman edging his way toward my window. “You realize that your little sex toy friend will have to be confiscated as evidence, don’t you?” He giggles. His two buddies back him with solemn nods as he rips Beautiful Zelda SX-2000 through my car’s skyward opening.

I watch in my rear-view as the laughing officers put the cuffs on Beautiful Zelda while she floats before the cruiser’s open back door. With an exaggerated pelvic thrust, cop number three sends Beautiful Zelda flying into the caged rear seat.

Had the circumstances been different, I might have gotten a kick watching two state policemen bent over in a paroxysm of uncontrollable laughter while their partner rolled helplessly in the grassy center median snorting and choking on his bemusement.

Later that night, I was watching the eleven o’clock news. When the ad came on for Beautiful Zelda SX-5000, I threw an empty whiskey bottle through the small screen of my old television, which exploded in smoke and flame, showering a fine cloud of glass particles all over my living room rug.