The Most Beautiful Place You’ve Never Seen

Well, yesterday’s writing challenge turned out so well, I decided to live another day. Freshly inspired by the new Sherlock Holmes movie (what a great screenplay, and so well produced… not to mention incredibly well edited), primed to create.

Day 3:
Write a setting based on the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen.

What places have I seen… in real life, not in movies or photos or books or the Air and Space Museum’s To Fly! IMAX film.

I’d better start with a list of where I’ve been: beach, park, Florida, the keys, California, Mount Vernon, Niagra Falls, lighthouses, gardens, Seattle, Denver, Estes Park. Oh… I know!

The wind fluffs his hair and makes him squint as he holds on with one hand and gazes out to sea. It’s high – 200 feet above the water. And on this cloudless day, the view is incredible.

Down below, a ceremony is underway. He can faintly hear the low, boomy echoes of the mayor’s ribbon-cutting speech about the brilliant engineering, the dedication of the construction crew members, blah blah blah sacrifice, blah blah. Thanking everyone who made this day possible.

We didn’t do it for you, he thinks as a lone cloud scuttles across the sky, making a playful shadow over the water. The rippling waves touch sand and retract in their habitual familiarity. From here all the trees and houses are scattered neatly in untraceable patterns.

But the best sight is seen above. The massive steel architecture is breathtaking in its strength and beauty. As awe-inspiring as it is practical, the beams crisscross with the sun, the bounds between earth and sky getting lost in the intersection.

He’s seen it every day for the last three years, building this bridge. This special, private place just for him and his fellow crew members, suspended between heaven and earth. A bridge that took a lot of hard work and sweat equity to build. A bridge that gave even more.

Tomorrow it will be overrun with motor vehicles. Commuters on cell phone and trucks belching fumes. People using the bridge to get where they’re going, who may or may not pay attention to the glistening waves and the intersecting sky lines. Tomorrow is tomorrow.

Today, he’s on top of the world.

Quite a Character

Warning: I don’t really feel like doing this.

Day 2:
Create a character with personality traits of someone you love, but the physical characteristics of someone you don’t care for.

I didn’t think this would be too tough – I like coming up with characters. But usually characters just pop into my head and tell me about themselves. Mixing DNA on my own is a little tricky and forced.

Maybe blogging this 12-day challenge wasn’t such a great idea.

Too late for wimps. Here goes…

She drew stares as she rounded the garden gate. Her rectangular Ray-Bans and angular haircut were visible a full foot above the gray and graying heads of her fellow tea party mates. A glance at her feet explained the incredible height, sporting red leather wedges with a full six inches of platform between the soles of her feet and the shimmering slate.

Mrs. Persson, the diminutive hostess of the afternoon, extended her hand. “So lovely to have you, Amanda dear. What a striking um-” gesturing to the striped and variegated swaddling of cobalt blue and persimmon that perhaps could best be described as a dress, “Delightful. Please, won’t you help yourself to a sandwich?

Following Mrs. Persson’s lead, Amanda approached the dainty table of snacks and reached a gloved hand for a plate. She glanced at the two ladies in blue and grey, who pretended to be studying the edibles intently. Mrs. Persson addressed them.

“Mrs. Porter, Miss Snow, allow me to introduce Mrs. Blake. She’s in London only for today, so it’s really wonderful that she could spare the time to join us. Oh! I see I have another guest arriving- I trust I may leave her to your care?”

Not pausing to discover whether her trust was well-placed or not, Mrs. Persson was off to welcome the newcomer. “How do you do,” said Amanda with a sweet smile.

“Charmed,” breathed Mrs. Porter through a pinched nose – or was it Miss Snow? “I never miss the Annual Garden Party In The Garden. Such a perfect day for it, too.”

The other one clucked and nodded with an emphatic mm-hmm. “Last year it rained all night and into the morning. Should’ve seen the grass after – it looked like a rugby field. Why, you would have sunk in to your knees!” Gesturing to Amanda’s stilt-like footwear.

She glanced down. “Oh, yes I daresay my shoes would never have done. They are a bit of a trick to wear, especially on these stones. But you know I do so love being high up.”

“Where do you come from, Mrs.- is it Blake? Mrs. Persson mentioned your leaving town soon.”

Amanda fidgeted and glanced round. “I’m from here actually – but I’m traveling just now on tour with a new show, Nature’s Nanny.”

One of the Porter/Snow gasped. “Of course, Amanda Blake! Well then you’re the one who is to perform this afternoon!”

Amanda smiled and edged out of the way of a black-clad teenager pushing a dour old woman to the refreshment table. Porter/Snow was going on:

“I loved – no, adored your performance at the Hall. I went there last Friday with my husband,” (this one must be Mrs. Porter after all… Porter=blue, Snow=grey, got it. “When you raised up at the end and sang so brilliantly about your life’s dedication to the children, just before- before-” here a hand went to her eyes. “Oh, it was thrilling,” she finished at last.

Amanda smiled and murmured her thanks, but the Porter speech attracted other ears. In minutes the crowd of tea ladies were assembled around their heroine in disguise. Even the joyless widow in her wheelchair pulled Amanda down to whisper in her ear.

“I don’t care what the press says. You sing like an angel. Even if you look like a heathen.”

After tea, Amanda was convinced to sing something. As she stood before the crowd of expectant faces, she felt a little shy. Then she picked a note and started to sing, and all other thoughts left her. She was at once lost in the simple joy of performance.

New Year, New Rules

It’s 2012. Has been for nearly a day now.

I seem to be in a somewhat deadpan mood, so bear with me. I’m not unhappy, just a little worn out. Too many late nights, spending time with great people and celebrating big deals and eating a lot more sugar than is normal for my body. So. Indulge my short sentences and limited punctuation, if you please.

Perhaps you caught this article in Writer’s Digest suggesting 12 writing exercises coinciding with the 12 days of Christmas. I don’t know about you, but Christmastime is lucky to get an email from me, let alone gratuitous writing. Plus I didn’t see the article until last week.

So let’s start off the new year with some flexing of the writerly apparatus, shall we? Here we go:

Day 1:
Write 10 potential book titles of books you’d like to write.

Wow. 10 potential book titles. It doesn’t help me that titles are often pretty obscure references to the subject matter. I’m going to have to let my imagination do a dance on this one.

1. A Collection of Short Stories Having to do with Spies

2. Jack and the Magic Coffee Beans (I love fairy tales, and often play with twisting around some of the key concepts for major plot changes… in this instance Jack’s giant is on the hunt for a triple venti latte, no foam)

3. Ghost Hunter (Pac Man brought to life, eating his way through a foresty maze)

4. Proverbs 3 Principles for Success 

5. An Encyclopedia of Chocolate Customs and Creations Around the World (heavily researched, of course)

6. Ms. Magnifique’s Summer Camp for Young Ladies of Consequence (A novelization of my last script)

7. I Ran Away From Home And No One Noticed Until Christmas

8. Nine Ladies Dancing: Diaries of the Ruminostian Ballet (fiction)

9. Disciplines of an Angry Gnat

10. Where Are You Going? A Universal Comparison of Places, and What I Thought They’d Be Like Before I Got There

Wow, that was so much harder than I thought it would be. Not totally sure I would actually want to write each of these books, but at least most of them. The others are books I’d like to read. Or at least pull off the shelf and flip through.

To whomever is reading: What about you? Any book titles rolling around your brain?

Secondhand Magic, Part II

The second half of my 15-page entry. Does it make you wish for more?

EXT. WHARF –- DAY

Mort has his notepad at the ready, talking to a crusty old DECK HAND.

INT. SMITH’S CAR

Harry Smith, feet up on the dash, binoculars on Mort.

EXT. WHARF

MORT: Have you seen anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary?

DECK HAND: No, I can’t say I have.

MORT: Really? Do you- well, I mean have you- Do you know if there are any gangs around here?

A sudden commotion gets their attention.

EXT. BOAT

A crowd of people in various stages of confusion and shock. Mort tries to make his way through the obstacle course but can only glimpse pieces of the boat below the wharf.

CROWD (ad lib): What the… Some kind of prank. Call the cops!

Mort tries to negotiate his way through.

MORT: Hey, give an old man a break!

His dignity notwithstanding, Mort carefully goes to his knees and crawls inside the huddle.

The view is worse. But he’s able to wiggle through bit by bit, gradually gaining ground.

He sees the deck. The edge of the fish net sprawled open. The dark, scaly tail flowing out of the net.

INT. SMITH’S CAR

Smith looks up from his crossword, can’t find Mort.

EXT. BOAT

A foot shifts, crushing Mort’s hand under it. He cries out and hits the offending leg with his free hand.

The foot quickly moves and a head looks down.

MORT: Watch it!

MAN: Sorry.

Scooting forward in the inches that the shuffle has afforded, Mort can see the whole of the fishing deck, its crew milling around the strangely captivating catch.

For a moment, all Mort can see is the long tail extending outside the huddle of fishermen. Presently they shift enough to reveal what looks like…

A MERMAID.

Sprawled across the net – lifeless – wet hair plastered across her scaly face, back and arms.

Mort stares in disbelief.

SUE (OS): Mister Glover?

He looks up and sees Sue.

INT. SUE’S HOUSE — DAY

The front door opens to a tiny kitchen. Sue leads the way, wiping her feet and banging through to the adjoining room.

SUE: My car’s in the shop, but I can drive you back sometime after five o’clock. Hello! Dad, you home?

Mort enters more sedately, glancing around the small galley kitchen with dishes in the sink and worn linoleum.

Sue is back.

SUE (CONT,D): It’s just us, have a seat. You want some coffee?

Mort eases into one of two chairs squeezed into a makeshift breakfast nook. Sue gets the coffeemaker started.

MORT: Sure. Y’know I bet that mermaid froze to death.

SUE: It is October.

Mort observes the CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS in the window.

MORT: You’re worse than the department stores. Christmas already?

SUE: Can’t help it, I LOVE Christmas. I start planning December twenty-seventh. By January first, I know exactly where I’ll be and what I’ll do on Christmas Day.

MORT: That’s very impressive. And a little bit nuts.

Sue flops down opposite him as the coffee pot percolates.

SUE: Stick with me and you’ll hear yourself saying those words a lot. What about you?

MORT: Nah, I’m just nuts.

SUE: No, I mean what are you doing for Christmas? Oh. (catching herself) I probably shouldn’t ask you that the day your wife gets stabbed.

For some reason this makes Mort laugh. Sue joins him.

INT. SUE’S CAR – DAY

MORT: My wife was a cold woman. She could hold a snowball for hours and it wouldn’t melt. That’s how cold she was. Like a fish.

Mort is showing her a WEDDING PHOTO of Maxine and him at 30. Mort grins from ear to ear, while Max is more demure.

SUE: She’s pretty.

MORT: I worshipped the boots she walked in. Well, at first anyway.

He flips to a more RECENT SHOT of Max alone.

MORT (CONT,D): Marriage has a way of showing you what you don’t want to see when you’re head over heels for a good lookin’ girl.

SUE: Think we’re being followed.

Mort looks back. Sure enough, Harry Smith is behind them, trying to look nonchalant.

SUE (CONT,D): Hang on, I’ll lose him!

MORT: What? Oh- oh boy.

As Sue pulls a daring 180 and ducks into an alley amid a flurry of horns honking and annoyed shouts. Smith stops just short of an accident, cursing.

Sue laughs and Mort looks impressed.

EXT. SEA VILLAGE MARINA — DUSK

Sue’s little two-door sedan pulls up to the marina lot.

EXT. MORT’S FLOATING HOUSE

Sue walks Mort to the door.

MORT: Thanks for the ride. And the coffee.

SUE: Sure. Take care, Mister Glover.

She watches him go inside, then looks the house over curiously.

INT. MORT’S FLOATING HOUSE — NIGHT

Everything is quiet and dark. Mort flips on the row of light switches by the front door, turns the corner and comes face to face with MAXINE.

Mort cries out and stumbles back in shock.

EXT. MORT’S FLOATING HOUSE — NIGHT

Sue is creeping around the deck to the back of the house where a RED STAIN marks the wooden floor. She flips her PEN LIGHT around the area, but nothing seems out of place.

She continues carefully around the edge of the house and is suddenly GRABBED FROM BEHIND. A hand over her mouth covers her scream.

JACK: Shh!

Jack turns her so she can see it’s him and takes his hand away. Sue is mad.

SUE (whispers): What are you doing here, you-

Jack grabs her again, finger to his lips. Voices.

INT. MORT’S KITCHEN

Mort is sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands.

Maxine/Claire finishes pouring tea and sits opposite him.

CLAIRE: I know it-it’s hard to believe. But truly, I’m not Maxine, I’m-

MORT: Claire. I heard you the first time, I’m not deaf, I just… I saw you-

CLAIRE: You saw Maxine, Mister Glover. She is dead, I’m- I’m so sorry.

Claire looks anxious and conflicted. Beyond them, two faces appear at the sliding glass door – Sue and Jack.

EXT. MORT’S HOUSE

Sue and Jack exchange incredulous looks.

SUE (whispers): Isn’t that his wife?

MORT (OS): And the mermaid they found this afternoon… you expect me to believe that was you?

SUE: But how can- shush, I can’t hear!

CLAIRE (OS): –body I’ve had for the last forty years. Yes.

INT. KITCHEN

CLAIRE (CONT,D): I know it sounds crazy, but I need your help. You’re the only one I can turn to.

With distaste she produces a gun.

A gasp draws their attention to the glass door. Jack and Sue duck out of sight, but it’s too late. Claire looks distressed.

CLAIRE: Oh! It’s empty.

Mort opens the door and the two guiltily enter.

SUE: We were spying. Sorry.

MORT: Don’t be.

CLAIRE: I didn’t mean to frighten anyone. But I’m desperate. I’ll do anything if you’ll help me get to Florida. That’s where I met Maxine forty years ago.

Max is pouring tea for the new arrivals.

MORT: Max never went to Florida. She hates the ocean, I could never get her to go with me.

CLAIRE: Well yes, but I think that’s because she knew I’d find her if she got anywhere near it. See I was out on the water by myself one morning and this mermaid shows up. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I thought: what a wonderful thing to happen to me, to see a mermaid.

Sue and Jack glance at each other.

CLAIRE (CONT,D): She told me how she’d been watching humans all her life and how she had longed for just one day on land. I was so moved, or just plain gullible, I agreed to switch.

SUE: Switch bodies?

CLAIRE: Switch bodies. She could live my life for a day and I’d live hers. I mean I was kinda curious, you know?

MORT: Lady, today I’ve seen a stabbing victim, a dead mermaid and a resurrected body. Don’t you think I got enough problems?

He bangs the kettle down on the stove.

MORT (CONT,D): And how the heck am I supposed to listen to a person who committed murder?

SUE: Mister Glover, I think she’s about to explain.

Mort throws up his hands and starts pacing.

CLAIRE: It wasn’t murder, Mortimer. It was self defense. You see Maxine never came back. She left me there in her mermaid body for forty years.

Mort stops pacing and turns to look at her. Jack whistles.

CLAIRE (CONT,D): Turns out there was one little detail Maxine left out of her sad story. The only way to switch back is if one of us dies.

SUE: So you had to kill her! Otherwise you could never get your body back!

Mort freezes. The room falls silent. Beat.

MORT: Florida, huh?

Claire looks hopeful.

MORT (CONT,D): Hey Jacky. You ever sailed a floating house?

 

Secondhand Magic, Part I

This was written for a contest, in which the first 15 pages of a script were to be entered based on the logline given. Though the entry did not make the top 10, it’s still a fun piece of fiction. Read and enjoy.

After waking to find his wife dead in their backyard, a man conducts his own investigation, and uncovers the hidden life of a woman he thought he knew.

FADE IN

INT. DETECTIVE OFFICE — DAY

MORTIMER GLOVER, 71, is seated opposite DETECTIVE HARRY SMITH, 45, giving a statement.

MORT: We never had kids, but that’s okay. We kept busy. She was terrific at making stuff – had a real gift. I mean she could design a hat out of cardboard and duct tape. Terrible in the kitchen though.

SMITH: Mr. Glover-

MORT: Yeah, so. She was always moving around, you know? Like she couldn’t keep still in her sleep.

SMITH: Sleepwalking?

MORT: I’d wake up in the night and she’d be gone, so. Sometimes I’d find her in the basement or outside. After a while I stopped looking for her. I figure she’ll come back when she wants to.

Smith is trying to look interested. Mort looks back at him.

SMITH: So it didn’t surprise you that your wife wasn’t in bed this morning?

MORT: Didn’t I just say that?

Smith changes positions and exhales impatiently.

SMITH: Mr. Glover, who do you think killed your wife?

MORT: Are you kidding me? That’s what I want you find out!

EXT. POLICE STATION –- DAY

Mort and JACK HANSON, 19, are walking out of the station.

MORT (CONT,D): No-talent pretty boys. What do we pay taxes for, anyway? Come all the way down here just to find out the police expect me to track down Maxi’s killer.

Jack pats him consolingly on the shoulder.

MORT (CONT,D): I don’t even know where to look. Who stabs a sixty-nine-year-old woman?

INT. DINER –- DAY

A sleepy Jersey shore diner in the off season. Mort and Jack sit at the counter while LARRY, mid-fifties is behind it pouring coffee.

LARRY: Well Morty, let’s be honest. You sure it wasn’t just – y’know – natural causes?

MORT: She had an ice pick coming out the back of her head. That sound natural to you?

Plates of food arrive in the hands of SUE, 18 and direct.

SUE: Talkin’ about your wife?

Mort looks up in surprise.

SUE (CONT,D): Everyone else is. Some of ‘em think you killed her, but I say it was an accident. I’ve seen some pretty strange things, you’d be surprised.

MORT: Do I know you?

SUE: My name’s Sue.

LARRY: She’s new. And she’s still learning her manners.

MORT: It’s okay, Larry, let her be.

The bell jingles and Larry goes to help a new customer. Sue leans in confidentially.

SUE: Y’know I bet I could help with your investigation. People come in here and tell me all kinds of things. Yesterday morning I had a customer swear he saw a mermaid in the water.

The bell jingles again and JIM, 65, is jingling with it.

JIM: “Ding-dong, the witch is dead!” Good news, Larry. This is gonna be a great day, I can feel it!

LARRY (glancing at Mort): Hey, alright.

Jim bellies up next to Mort and smacks him on the back.

JIM: Morty, my old friend! My old, single, liberated friend! Larry, give me this man’s tab.

MORT: Aw, now stop it Jim.

JIM: I mean it, I’m buyin’!

MORT: No really, look at me. Maxine was no angel, but she didn’t deserve to be shish-kabobbed in her own back yard either. Now have a little respect.

Mort picks up his fork as Jim backs off, chastened.

JIM: Okay, all right. If that’s the way you feel about it.

Jim meets Jack’s level gaze. Mort takes a bite of his eggs and chews. And chews and chews and chews.

EXT DINER –- DAY

Angle on a NOTEPAD featuring a list of shady characters: GANGS, THE MOB, ASSASSINS, NAZIS.

Mort is sitting at the bus stop, staring at the list. He crosses out NAZIS. Sue sits next to him.

MORT: Shift over already?

SUE: Oh no, I got fired. Just a matter of time, I wasn’t very good. Where’s your friend?

MORT: At the hospital. Just about broke his teeth on your omelet. (beat) I’m kidding.

SUE: That was funny. Kinda mean, though.

MORT: Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just an old man trying to solve a murder.

SUE: Any good leads?

MORT: Well. You know any gangs around here?

EXT. MARINA –- DAY

The bus drops Mort next to a sign for SEA VILLAGE MARINA. He heads toward a row of floating houses.

EXT. MORT’S FLOATING HOUSE –- DAY

Mort approaches his place, an anomaly of a houseboat – literally a floating house, permanently docked in the marina/housing community, but afloat on the bay.

The front door is still wearing CRIME SCENE tape with a few FORENSICS OFFICERS taking pictures. JUDY, 60, rushes up in a jogging suit and oven mitts.

JUDY: Mortimer! There you are. What an ordeal, I started baking as soon as I heard.

MORT: Don’t worry about me, Judy, I’ll be fine. Hey fellas, how much longer you gonna be?

JUDY: Oh look at you Morty, you’re not fine. You’ll never, ever be fine again. I know that’s how I felt when I lost my poor Harold.

OFFICER: Almost done, Mister Glover.

JUDY: You just come home with me, I can’t leave you alone at a time like this.

Some chatter comes across one of the police radios. Mort attempts to evade Judy.

MORT: I’m fine, really. Thanks.

OFFICER: Mister Glover! Can you come back down to the station, there’s um- a bit of a discrepancy.

INT. MORGUE –- DAY

Mort, Detective Harry Smith and the nervous MORTICIAN stand looking at an empty slab.

MORT: How can it be missing?

MORTICIAN: Well, ah, we have a few theories but really this is quite unusual. Quite, quite unusual indeed.

MORT: I mean a dead body doesn’t just walk away. Not that I’m any expert, but that just seems to make logical sense to me. Am I right?

SMITH: Mr. Glover, what did you do after you left here earlier this morning?

MORT: What did I do? I was investigating my wife’s murder while you bozos fouled up the evidence and lost the body! I should sue!

SMITH: Mister Glover, please calm down. Someone has clearly gone to great lengths to sneak in here, now I need to know if you have any idea who that someone might be.

MORT: Well I don’t know, I guess whoever killed her.

Harry Smith glances at the Mortician.

MORT (CONT,D): Look, I got an investigation to run. You call me when you screw up again.

Smith watches him go with narrowed eyes.

Sole Ownership

Going a different direction for this post. I wrote this for a compilation of non-fiction essays that didn’t make it to publication. The theme of the collection was ‘Going It Alone’. Enjoy!

This would be so much easier if I had a husband.

The thought flashes across my brain before I have a chance to analyze it. I’m sitting on my bathroom floor with a roll of duct tape and a wad of soapy, hairy mess that I’ve just disengaged from the length of pipe connecting the sink faucet to the wall.

With this thought comes a fantasy. Me, blithely making pancakes in the kitchen while my husband figures out how to fix the leaky pipe in the bathroom. Perhaps I even call out cheerful encouragements as he wrestles with the clog. And then by the time breakfast is ready, the sink is all fixed and we sit down to eat together.

I’m so much more comfortable with pancakes than duct tape. Pancakes are low-key. I know what I’m doing with pancakes.

Home repairs, however, are another story. And in the last two years since I purchased my townhouse, I’ve learned there is always something to do. Even if nothing is in dire need of fixing, you have all kinds of cleaning, updating, re-treating and de-gunking just waiting for your free time. Since this home experience is mine all mine, I get to figure out the tough questions on my own.

I’m blessed to have purchased a house that – even though it definitely fits the ‘fixer upper’ category – has a lot going for it: new kitchen appliances, fairly new heating and A/C units, a great roof, a washer and dryer that haven’t caused me any problems…

Well except for that time when the washer wouldn’t drain and then it leaked all over the floor. I thought I would have to replace it but couldn’t afford to, so my roommate and I were doing laundry at our parents’ houses for months. But lucky for me my grandpa was able to fix it, and since then it’s been working fine. Although come to think of it, that isn’t the washer that came with the house.

That – I discovered after I agreed to purchase the house “as-is” – didn’t work at all, and wasn’t even connected properly. Neither was the dryer, nor could it be since it had the completely wrong plug for the wall outlet. These appliances, I later discovered, were props. Just there to fool me into thinking I had a washer and dryer until I had signed the dotted line, moved in and tried to launder something.

But it turns out my aunt and uncle had a washer and dryer in their garage that they didn’t need, so my dad and my uncle brought them over one day. They got both appliances set up for me, and even hauled away the old ones to the dump.

Other than that – well, if you don’t include the water heater, which should have worked just fine, except that whoever de-winterized the house before I moved in apparently fried a fuse and left me with a $200 repair bill. But really, that’s a drop in the bucket when you consider all the repairs I haven’t had to make.

Because this place really is in pretty good shape. Honestly, once I got over the sticker shock of redoing the plumbing in the half bath, re-grouting the beautiful stone tile in the kitchen and entryway, in addition to putting up a new ceiling in the living room where a leak had been shoddily patched, gutting and replacing the entire kitchen, and repairing the roof where the gutters weren’t draining properly… I didn’t have to do much more to it. At least not right away.

So when a friendly teenage boy named Johnny knocked on my door and offered to have a “representative” come over and give me an estimate on new windows. I thought, Sure, why not. There’s nothing much wrong with the windows I have, but maybe I’ll need to replace them someday. May as well plan ahead.

Floating on lofty feelings of home-owner pride, I jauntily negotiated a good time for the company rep to come over, Johnny was very concerned that my husband attend the meeting as well. “We want to make sure both you and your husband can be present, so you can make an informed decision.”

Not wanting to embarrass him – or delve too deeply into the details of my marital status – I assured Johnny that all the decision-makers would be in attendance. He then asked me to confirm my appointment with someone at the home office. A little impatient with how complicated this ‘quick’ estimate was already getting, I took the phone from him to speak with whoever he wanted me to speak with.

“Yes, Mrs. Matz, so we’re confirmed for 11:00 on Saturday?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

“Will your husband be there?”

Okay, fine. “Actually no-”

“Well we’d really like to set a time when your husband can be there.”

I felt like saying something to the effect of, “You and me both,” but I had stuff to do so I just alerted her to the fact that I’m not married.

I didn’t realize it’s so unusual to own a home and not be married to anyone. Apparently where windows are concerned it’s downright unheard of.

But Saturday came and so did the company rep, who proceeded to give me the hardest, toughest sell of my young life. The man practically refused to leave without my money and an order. I was completely taken aback, expecting just to get some information about the product, take some measurements, and get a ballpark estimate on what this would take to do. Eventually. As in the sometime-after-I’ve-paid-off-all-the-repairs-I’ve-already-made time frame.

After two hours of saying the same thing about twelve different ways, I finally got the message across that I would not be purchasing any windows that day. Exhausted, I shut the door after him and really, REALLY wished my husband had been there.

It is sometimes difficult being a single home-owner, I will admit. Even my tiny 3-level townhouse overwhelms me with responsibility. But thanks to my parents, my grandpa, my aunt and uncle, some neighbors and several plumbers and repair men – not to mention a small army of writers for DIY websites – I have never been completely on my own.

But it would still be easier if I had a husband.

© Cortney Matz, 2011

Hello..o..o..o…..

You know that feeling when you drop a penny down a dark shaft and wait for the sound of it hitting the bottom?

You know how you can sometimes run for miles and miles, and you round a bend thinking you’re almost there but actually you’re not?

You know how to-do list items have a habit of multiplying until all the stuff you put off from last month is buried under all the stuff you had put off from the month before?

Yeah.

I’ll be back… eventually.

Commonplace Mysteries #1

A new series – based on strange or slightly surreal events I’ve observed. And of course, stretched a bit, for the purpose of good storytelling.   -Cortney

COMMONPLACE MYSTERIES:
The Strange Incident of the Recycle Bin

I came home one day and there it was. As usual. An array of empty recycle bins strewn across the sidewalk.

This is a typical sight on a Thursday afternoon. I thought nothing of it, since most people don’t get home until later in the day, and many more don’t pick up their bins until one, two, maybe three days later. No big deal. People are busy.

But one bin in particular lingered. Even after all the others had disappeared. And it wouldn’t bother me… actually, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed… except that it lingered exactly in front of my house. And I mean right there. It was the first thing I saw when I left in the morning, and it greeted me as I got home from work in the evening.

Then the homeowners association left a little warning tag on my doorknob. Okay, really? This recycle bin does not belong to me. I don’t recycle, I don’t have a bin. It’s not my responsibility. But the HOA tag is requiring me to take action. So I do.

I put the bin in front of my neighbor’s house.

When I get home the next day, guess what I see. There’s that bad penny, right in front of my house again. I guess I get the point. It’s a tightly plotted little townhouse community, and a few inches one way or the other is all we get. I was politely being informed that not only does the bin not belong to Neighbor On The Left, but that until the rightful owner is identified, please keep the stupid bin off my property. That’s my interpretation.

Not to be outdone, I slide the bin over to the right. And it lives there for a few days.

And then it’s back in front of my house. Not like it’s been put there, but almost like it went there. I’m serious. It’s like it just moved over.

I ignored it.

That night there was a huge storm. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of winds hurling against the house, pushing tree branches around and swirling freshly raked yards with leaves. Most unhallowed of all was the gentle ruckus of the recycle bin being blown around the sidewalk.

So next morning I went out in my socks, picked it up, and put it on the deck. There. Happy?

Next day I go out to get the trash? The bin is gone. Poof.

Sometimes on stormy nights I still hear the abandoned recycle bin being blown across the sidewalk. And I really just don’t care.

© Cortney Matz, 2009

Why Grace Has A Scar On Her Forehead

This is a silly story I made up for a girl I know who wanted a good story about the scar on her forehead. This is completely fictitious and un-biographical. Laugh along with me. -Cortney

“Hey Grace, how’d you get that scar?” It had been a dull sort of day and I needed a good story. Grace has a little scar on her forehead and hasn’t everyone always wondered where it came from?

She had her hands full of takeout containers on her way to the garbage. “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s faded quite a lot.”

I waited patiently as she dumped her containers into the garbage and started tying up the bag because it was smelly. “At first it was really bright red and raised and it HURT. I kept forgetting it was there and was always scratching it or bumping it and- oh my.”

On the bottom of the bag was a giant spider. But it was dead. No biggie.

“So why was it bright red in the first place?” I inquired, solicitously returning to the topic at hand.

“Because of the hair dryer.”

“Which hair dryer?”

“The one at the hair salon. Remember that time when I got streaks?”

“The red ones?”

“No, before that. The blonde ones.”

I gazed at Grace’s purple hair and tried to remember. She can’t decide which color she likes best, so it is always changing. Which is kinda cool in an eccentric way.

“I’d forgotten about the sequins, and I think the hair dryer aggravated it.”

“Wait, where did the sequins come from?”

But Grace didn’t hear me right away because she had her head in the refrigerator. She emerged with a container of rice and I repeated the question.

“The sequins? From my tutu. I found it when I was cleaning out the basement.”

This got my attention. That basement is huge. And scary. Especially in the summer when the air conditioning starts up and sounds exactly like a deranged muppet coming after you with a tennis racket. I had to ask. “The basement? Weren’t you scared?”

She finished dumping rice on the kitchen counter and started assembling some other random ingredients. “Well not at first, because I was watching ‘Reading Rainbow’ and had this sudden urge to find all my old books. I know they were down in the basement because Mom keeps trying to sell them at the home school book sale, like, every year; and I always have to rescue them and put them back in the basement. And so LeVar Burton was telling this story about a mouse and a cookie and I have that book and I suddenly just HAD to find it!

“So I was completely absorbed in that. And when I opened the box, there were all the books and also my tutu.”

“You have a tutu?”

She grins sheepishly. “Well, I had one when I was little. I kept it. Wanna see?”

I laughed. “Not if it’s the same tutu that gave you a scar.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the tutu’s fault. I think it was really because of the books.”

I was confused. “But what about the sequins?”

“Oh I think there must’ve been a thread loose, because as soon as I picked up the tutu, the sequins slid right off. I was shocked. And saddened. That was my TUTU… and it died. Very, very sad. I was mourning it right when the air conditioning came on.”

“Ohhhh,” I nodded – it was all starting to come together. “The air conditioner scared you and you slipped on the sequins, fell over the boxes, and banged your head?”

Grace finished laying out the filling for her sushi and rolled it up. “Well yes. But that’s not what caused the scar.”

I waited, knowing it was important to leave a dramatic pause before finishing a story.

“I thought I felt a bug crawling on me and I scratched my forehead trying to get it.”

And the moral of the story is:

When You Wish To Clean Out Your Basement,
Make Sure You Shut Off The Thermostat

Except When it Rains – Part VII

PART VII: When It Rains, It Pours

The next morning broke dark and mysterious.

Bea sat in the candlelight, watching Martha sleep. The cascade of emotions swirling round and round her mind had awoken her over an hour ago, and now she began to think clearly. In thoughts, rather than tugs – tugs had been all she’d managed thus far. Her thoughts were of Prince and of Martha. Two people she dearly loved, and who would lead her in different directions. Toward Prince, away from Martha. Toward Martha, away from Prince – perhaps forever. 

These were wearying thoughts and they put Bea nearly to sleep.

Then there was a song out in the wood. Bea smiled, for she believed she was dreaming. A lovely, deep down dream that danced about her weary mind like fuzzy-headed dandelions. She was dreaming of that beautiful day when she had met Prince. When she had heard his laugh. When she had sung his song. And danced in the rain.

As the song drew nearer, it occurred to Bea that she was not yet asleep. And without a thought she stood, left the room, left the cottage, and went to the wood. And as the sky broke into a chorus of rumbling thunders and the rain dropped heavy morsels of wet on her shoulders, Bea stood. Listening. Waiting. Watching.

He did appear, of course. Just as he had that day. And they danced. They sang a little. When Prince took her hand and sank to his knee, they cried. And without a thought, Bea gave him the first answer that sprang out of her heart.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Of course I’ll marry you. Only I hope we needn’t move very far away.”

Because Bea hadn’t heard the news yet that Prince had been released from his post since his term of service had only just been finished. She didn’t know these things because Prince had never been able to tell her what he was doing out there in the wood all this time. It was a secret. Bea knew only that Prince’s work compelled him to travel quite often to sometimes remote locations.

But the truth came out now, and Bea cried a little more, as she fully realized that she wouldn’t have to choose between her husband and her sister after all. And it was very exciting. As they went to check on Martha, they talked in smiles and laughter, as young lovers often do. And Bea had her hand in Prince’s pocket. And as she drew it out, she discovered there a brief note that had been intended for her.

“Oh, blast, I knew I had forgotten something!” Prince took the note with the sudden realization that he’d meant to leave it on the door yesterday so Bea would know he’d gone. And he’d forgotten it.

“Sorry,” he grinned ruefully. “If not for my stupidity, you might’ve avoided all this.” But something else had got Bea’s attention. “That’s my grandfather’s handwriting.” For you’ll remember the complete lack of writing implements at his post, and so Prince had been forced to jot the note on back of an old recipe card he’d found in the kitchen. As Bea analyzed the card, it became apparent that in the well-known though faded hand was written a very old, very popular, very original recipe. For cherry currant wine.

So the story ends. Martha made a full and speedy recovery and cheerfully applied herself to the task of getting to know her new brother. Walter and his brother James eventually returned to Town where they established a new kind of dancing school, which takes place out of doors either rain or shine. Bea and Prince married and built another cottage on the edge of Wylles Wood. And the two sisters, having been left destitute by the loss of one famous recipe, quickly found themselves the sole beneficiaries in the sale of another.

And how came the recipe for grandfather’s famous cherry currant wine to reside in the kitchen at Prince’s outpost? Well perhaps that will be another story.

As for myself, you may have guessed by now that I had my own wee part to play in this story. It’s no secret that I watched Bea and Martha grow up; aye and saw their children and grandchildren grown too. And if you happen to spot a couple of twins in their nineties running around these woods, I beg you remember the difficulty they caused me one weary night in 1915.

Or 1914. The mind grows a bit dim in my latter years.

© Cortney Matz, 2009