Samantha Lee Week 170: Appearances

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Appearances

It is a cobbled street rising upwards between old stone buildings. Golden lamp light and ash-hued shadow bathe the view, casting the scene with an eerie tint that, in a word, is just plain spooky. From somewhere down and around the corner, pounding music and rowdy voices drift, the only other sound being the loud echoing click of her heels against the stones. She's a tiny little thing - delicately proportioned, slim as a supermodel, and not even five feet tall. Her skin is deeply tanned almost hiding the smattering of freckles splashed across her nose. Long blood red hair falls to her waist, its underside streaked with black, her face framed by snowy white bangs. She's wearing a dark purple dress with a black leather jacket, fishnet stockings, and black knee-high boots. She's dancing in the streets, twirling and spinning around, and singing a song in a language too old for anyone else but her to remember.

And, most importantly of all, she is alone.

I wait for the perfect moment, until she is midway up the hill, too far from where she came from and where she's going to reach either if she tries to run. The business these buildings host closed hours ago, the bars and clubs now filled with patrons are too far, too noisy to hear anything but their own fun.

When I step out, blocking her path, she halts her dance and smiles. This close, I notice her large eyes are the colour of the night sky above us, complete with stars. Odd, but then given her lack of aura I suspected she was something more than human.

"Good evening, little one," I purr. "Out here alone tonight, are you?"

She cocks her head to one side like a curious puppy, studying me, her expression tinged by just a bit of uncertainty but devoid of any fear. Pity. "Hello yourself, stranger" she says, her voice quiet and flavoured by an almost-but-not-quite Irish lilt. "And I'm fairly certain you're the sort my Da warned me about, the sort I'm supposed to steer clear of."

I grin, take a step closer to her and am delighted when she takes a step back, unease flaring in those star-studded eyes of hers. "I'm fairly certain there are no other strangers like me," I tell her. "One of a kind, I am, and a good thing too; world couldn't handle any more like me."

That unease of hers deepens, becoming something darker at its edges, but still not quite what I'm looking for, what I need. She starts to fiddle with the charms of her necklace with one hand and takes another step back. And then another. "I...I can't, um, chat anymore. I have to go; I have someone waiting for me and he doesn't...doesn't like it when I'm late."

"Ah, jealous type, is he? Who's this then, your boyfriend? Ah, and what will he do then? Punish you? It's not but a wee chat we're having, harmless, through and through."

Shaking her head, she wraps her arms around herself and looks around, nervous now, but still not where I'd like her to be, where I need her to be. "No, not my boyfriend...not exactly but, ah, if I'm not...if I'm late he'll come looking for me. He, ah, he was hurt recently - isn't quite himself yet...coming to look for me would be bad."

Well, this was new. Hundreds of times I've done this, first time I've heard anything like this. Then again, not-quite humans are always a mite unpredictable. "Aw, now, can't be that bad, can it? Only a moment here to chat, that's all, hardly a drop anyone waiting will notice. Cross me heart."

Her eyes narrow, suspicion stiffening her spine. "I have to go." She turns and starts to walk on up the street.

I let her get a few lengths away, then smoothly move to get ahead of her again, my graceful speed easily taking over her stumbling gait. I reach for her and curl my fingers around her upper arm, my grip tight enough to hurt. "Now, now, little girl; didn't your Da teach you it's rude to runaway like that?"

She struggles, pulling on her trapped arm, but it does her no good and I revel in the fear that seeps from her, washing over me like rain in the desert. Delicious. "I'm already late. Please, he can't...he really shouldn't be out. It's d-d-dangerous."

"I'm sure he'll be just fine without you for a spell."

Shaking her head, her hair tangling around her face, she pulls harder on her arm and pushes at me with her free hand. "Not dangerous for him, for everyone else. He's not...not ready. Not yet. He...Oh, just let me go! Please! You don't understand what cou-"

The cacophony of human voices suddenly stills for a brief second of silence before screams suddenly rent the air, cutting off her words. She sags briefly, defeated, bowing her head. "Never mind," she mumbles.

"What the hell is that?" I demand, more alarmed than I care to admit.

As if in answer, a shadow appears at the base of the street, becoming a man's silhouette as it draws closer. His long, dark silver hair is tangled mess, his feet are bare, and his clothes - black jeans and an unbuttoned dress shirt - are ripped, torn, and bloody. He's pale, like marble, with a griffin and hourglass tattoo over his heart, and a smattering of injuries - bruises, gashes, cuts, all of them severe -in various stages of healing on almost every inch of him that's visible. Blood is smeared over his face, a beautiful face, an angel's face, despite the craze in his ruby eyes and the severed arm held in his hand.

The girl sighs, resigned. "That's Tru, my mate. Honestly, he's normally a very calm and level-headed soul and usually leaves the insanity-born murder sprees to me but he was pretty badly injured recently and he's still running on pure instinct. Mostly. Do you think burning down the club or bar or whatever he just slaughtered will be cover up enough? You can't just vanish the entire clientele of a...drinking establishment, after all, not anymore. Um, you should probably let go of my arm now before Tru is close enough to notice."

"THAT is your mate?!"

She winces and gives me a sheepish look. "Like I said, he's usually a lot more, ah, sane. Just having an off few days. Once he heals, he'll be back to his usual civilized, rational, less homicidal self."

There is something very wrong with that picture; like imagining a panther mated to a gazelle. "YOU are mated to THAT? YOU?!"

"Well, it's not like Fate gives you much of a choice about these things, you know; although, now that I think about it, I doubt there'd be very many interspecies matings if she did. Which is a total shame, really; I once had a fling with a Ganesh who, while admittedly not the most well endowed male ever to grace the planet, more than made up for it when it came to what he thought to do with all those arms of his, to say nothing of his trunk. Truly imaginative thinker. My arm, please."

"Huh?"

"My arm? That thing you're currently squeezing and bruising? I'm going to need it back now. Your arm's continued attachment to your body depends on it.

" I let her go and she smiles, beams really, and thanks me, then buries her hand in my chest. The pain burns at first, like a flash flare, then aches, every breath setting off a spearing pang that cuts me through to my core. Her fingers are curled around my heart, gripping hard enough that I can feel the imprint of each finger against the flesh of the muscle, each one a potential knife just waiting to stab in deep.

"You know, important life lesson alert, it would be rather wise of you to do some research into this whole big bad wolf routine of yours; not that it goes much better for his prey, but, so far as as fairy tales go, big bad wolves rarely skip away to happily ever afters." She leans in and places her cheek against mine, inhaling my scent before chuckling and whispering, "And I should know, after all; I was big and bad before there were such things as riding hoods and brick houses."

She opens her hand, pulls it out of chest, and lets me crumple at her feet. I'm injured, yes, but it's not fatal; I'm going to heal, going to live. I lay bleeding in the street, watching as she skips over to her monstrous mate, not a single bit of hesitation or fear about her. She actually laughs and bounces when she reaches him. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, indifferent to the blood that coats his face.

"Hi, Tru," she murmurs when the kiss breaks, smiling bright enough to dim the sun by comparison. "Did you miss me?"

The vampire growls and kisses her again, roughly, savagely, so that this time when they part, her face is smeared with his victims' blood. And she laughs and playfully smacks his chest with one hand.

"I love you too, you great big dummy."

Appearances.

Gah

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SJ Maylee Week 169: Fire & Ice

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SJ Maylee’s’ Choice: Both

Title: Fire & Ice

Sasha leaned forward over her leg. Her muscles, still warm from the brisk walk to the theatre, eased into the stretch. She had another ten minutes to prepare her body for the hour performance.

Normally, the muffled noise of the excited audience pushed her through the last minute jitters of opening night but she could no longer deny there was something different about the evening. The same eerie sense she was being watched crawled up her back. For weeks now, the feeling had invaded her thoughts.

Sasha. The same thick raspy voice from last year filled her head.

She pulled her leg from the barre and twirled around. Nothing but dancers surrounded her. She closed her eyes and braced her fists against her sides. With all her strength, she fought the urge to run. All she’d earned would disappear if she ran again.

Sasha. I have come.

She tripped over the dancer behind her and landed hard on her ass. Pain radiated down her leg. She grabbed her thigh.

Your fire is mine. This time, you will not escape me.

She clasped her chest. A fierce storm burned her from within. She searched her thoughts for that cold wet thing, the one image from her childhood she couldn’t erase, the chilly deep puddles that soaked her pant legs and left her shaking for hours. She filled her thoughts of being a little leaf sinking in one of those murky puddles.

The burning sizzled out and her world went black.

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SJ Maylee believes hearts are meant to come together and find love. As a writer she has a tendency to break hearts, but she always glues them back together. You can follow her at @SJMaylee,

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Michael Wombat Week 169: Fallen

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Michael Wombat’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Fallen

The Gray School bell rang for the very last time, and opened its door to the late summer day the way Stacy had opened her heart to James the previous night. They had sat on the school bench out by the trees, shyly held hands, and he had fallen for her like the blue star that had fallen from the night sky above them. They had kissed; proper grown-up kissing, too. Stacy had tasted of strawberry. She had taken his hand and put it on her small breast, but he hadn’t known what to do next. Oh sure, Richie Chester had told him all about how men and women did it, but it all seemed a mite unlikely to James. Not to mention embarrassing, and not at all romantic.

Four sisters and three brothers had educated Stacy in the ways of the world far more extensively than he, but she had given him a stunningly beautiful smile, and told him not to worry. They were probably too young to do more than kiss, anyway. For now, at least. James was more than content, for kissing Stacy was the finest thing he could imagine in the whole wide universe.

As twilight deepened and fireflies commenced to doodle in light, Stacy had gone home as instructed by her father. Mr. Bennett kept a close eye on his daughter, as was only right, and he had told her to be home by nine. James had offered to walk her home, but she had reassured him that it was only a half mile through the trees, and James’ own father would begin to worry if his son stayed out too long after dark. He had watched her disappear into the trees, admiring the sway of her hips, then jumped on his bike and pedalled hard all the way home.

He had found it impossible to concentrate in class today. James had spent most of his time writing Stacy’s name all over his notebook, and thinking about her beguiling lopsided grin. Each minute had seemed like ten, each hour like a day, but now, finally, he was free. He would head over to Stacy’s house now, to see whether Mr. Bennett would allow him to take her out to Cheryl’s Shakes. His mind still spinning with the memory of Stacy’s hair sapphire-lit by the falling star, James stumbled outside with the rest of the students, squinting in the dazzling late-August sun. The hot air buzzed like a fat bee.

A colossal, gnarled hand grabbed his shoulder, the fingers digging painfully into his flesh through his thin checked shirt, and flung him hard against the old tree stump embedded in the school wall.

“What the hell did you do, boy?” Mr. Bennett thrust his furious face close to James’, flecks of spittle spraying from his twisted lips.

“Sir... sorry, sir, I don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mr. Bennett growled, thrusting the barrel of a shotgun up against James’ nose. “You’ll come with me. Now!”

“Yes, sir. I... of course. But what—” Mr. Bennett shot James a murderous look that stilled his voice, and pushed him towards the trees and the narrow dirt path that ran through the small wood to the Bennetts’ home. James’ stomach felt tight and flippy. He was baffled and terrified. Mr. Bennett was normally so calm, so in control. James had never heard him curse even mildly before, let alone say f... use that word. What could have happened to make him so angry? And what had it to do with James?

Oh God, Stacy. Maybe something had happened to Stacy. He turned to ask Mr. Bennett if she was OK, but the nearby tree trunks distracted him before he could speak. They were scorched, burned charcoal black, but only in a small section between about one and four feet off the ground. Further away from the path the trees were untouched, but those close by had all been subject to intense heat.

They emerged into sunlight once again by the Bennett house. Stacy was standing there, thank goodness, her back to him, her captivating hair lifting slightly in the breeze. James’ heart lifted. She was OK. Thank God she was OK. She turned as she heard them approach, and James’ mouth fell open as his world fell apart.

Stacy was pregnant – hugely pregnant – her distended belly pushing what was clearly one of her mother’s dresses far out in front of her. Her breasts seemed much larger than James remembered from, well, from last night. He gaped at her idiotically. When she saw him she ran to him and threw herself into his arms. He held her as close as he could, as she sobbed against his chest.

“Now boy,” barked Mr. Bennett, “Explain yourself. How’d you do this?”

“Papa, I’ve told you!” Stacy cried, “It wasn’t James! We’ve never... we’ve never...” She looked up into James’ eyes for help.

“We’ve never made love,” James said, trying to read her expression. All he saw was confusion and fear.

“Don’t give me that crap,” Mr. Bennett snarled. “I know boys like you. You’re only after one thing. You’re slaves to your dicks and your filthy thoughts. Now I don’t know how you managed to make this happen overnight – maybe it’s some modern thing you got out of those damned comic books or those god-awful movies you kids like about giant ants or Martian invasions. I don’t much care, frankly – but you will do right by my girl.”

“Papa, it wasn’t James. I left him last night at nine, like you’d said.”

“You got in at ten thirty,” her father told her. “Ninety minutes to walk half a mile? Then you went straight up without even coming through to apologise for your lateness! What’s this horny bastard been doing to you?”

“Papa, don’t. I told you, something crazy’s happening. I was walking home through the trees and then – Lord knows – then there was a bright blue light. The next thing I know I’m waking up in bed this morning like... like this.”

“Mr. Bennett, sir,” James faced the confused, angry man who was pointing a shotgun at him, and hoped that the honesty of his words would show in his face. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what’s going on here. I’ve only ever treated Stacy with respect. Sir, please, I... I love her.” He looked Stacy in the eyes, those deep beautiful eyes. “I love you.”

She smiled and tears rimmed her eyes. Encouraged, he continued “and whatever this is – whatever is going on – I will stand with you and protect you and look after you and stuff.”

“Oh, James,” she sniffed. Her smile made his chest swell. His skin tingled where it touched hers, and his feet felt wet. Why were his feet wet?

“Oh James!” Stacy cried, “Lord, I think my waters broke!”

“Your what did what?” James squeaked, wide-eyed in panic.

“The baby’s coming! It’s coming now!”

“Nope! Stop that nonsense, girl. Babies never come that quick,” Mr. Bennett said firmly. “Well, except in bad movies and crap stories.”

“Then maybe this is a crap story, Papa, because I tell you it’s a-coming! It’s coming NOW! Aaaaaah!”

Stacy got down on the lawn on all fours, helped by James. Mr. Bennett flapped his hands, looking lost. He would be no help at all.

“What should I do?” he asked Stacy, though part of him was desperate to run and hide.

“James, you’re going to have to help the baby out,” Stacy gasped, trying to catch her breath.

“How? How does it happen?”

“Remember when your dog had puppies? Like that.”

“I closed my eyes! It was icky!”

“Well you’re going to have to keep them open now!” Stacy pulled up the dress, baring her backside and parted legs. Blue liquid ran down her thighs.

“Stacy Bennett!” roared her father.

“Papa, we ain’t got time for embarrassment. This baby’s a-coming fast. James, if you love me, keep your eyes open and DON’T DROP IT!”

“This can’t be happening,” wailed Mr. Bennett, dropping his shotgun on the ground.

James looked between Stacy’s legs, a thing he had never even dreamed have doing. From between her plump thighs a slippery round thing protruded. He put his hand gently under the head, and with the other prepared to catch the small body as it came out. The baby slid out of Stacy like eggs from a pan, then it was safe in James’ hands, covered in blue gunk, but breathing. He cradled it securely, supporting the ass and the head.

“James, you have to cut the cord,” Stacy panted.

“Um, there ain’t one,” he said. “Look.”

Stacy turned and sat on the grass. James sat beside her and laid her child in her arms. He put his own arm round her shoulders, protectively.

“Oh, look, Papa!” she laughed. “Isn’t it beautiful? Look at its tiny horns!” She stroked her new child’s wriggling tentacles and it gazed up at her with lidless red eyes. “I think we should call it Colin.”

Colin roared in approval, and reached up with his tail to stroke his mother’s hair.



Several Twitter chums all influenced this story. My thanks to @flcro, @rachaelkanute, @ekctafc, @landladycheryl, @captain_doodle, @SBennettwrites, @LEJamez and especially to my eternal muse @KJCollard.

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Michael Wombat has published several books - search for him on Amazon, or go talk to him on Twitter where he is @wombat37.

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Denise Callaway Week 168: Archaic Practices

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Denise Callaway’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Archaic Practices

Sylvan skidded into the grass and embraced the sunlight. A day away from the compound was just what she needed. The brick and stone structures held fast, although they stood crumbling. She had read about them during her explorations courses.

Sylvan took pleasure in walking barefoot across the green grass, She explored the town with the stone arches leading into great places of worship and learning. A rusted gate leading into a yard for a large building had the word “school” across the top. It was hard to imagine everyone studying the same thing. How did they develop their gifts? How did they become experts in their field. The fluidity of learning now took place in context. Reading was taught by parents along with manners and behaviors. Numbers became a part of that process. Once the building blocks were in place, they began to explore areas of interest. She was a historian. She loved delving into the past and trying to understand how it shaped their current times. The maths, sciences, and other subjects fell into place as she explored her area of interest.

Her sister loved science and thus filled her time with sciences and maths so that she could work in research and development. The histories she studied tied directly to her interests. She studied the great thinkers and how they shaped the events around her. They learned through experiment, through doing the work with a mentor or group of mentors until they knew enough to stand on their own. They knew how to research their interest and develop what was needed to complete the tasks at hand.

Stumbling over the loose concrete of the steps, she landed hard. So hard and cold, like the studies that filled its hard. Free of passion. This remnant of a building, though, was a testament to another form of learning. Everyone was taught the same thing without regard to their gifts. It was good in the beginning. However, as new technologies started developing, the school didn’t grow with it. It held to ideas and methods from a century past. Development slowed and become stagnant. New ideas still popped up every so often but not at the rate they occurred now. How many people failed to reach their potential in this structure?

Dusting off her clothes, she examined her palms. A few scratches. They will heal soon enough. Sylvan added notes to her wristband. Cataloguing her finds was second nature. She loved her field of study and even pleasure coincided with work, always analyzing, studying, and comparing. Mounting the transport, she set it on manual. Turning toward the grassy plane, she blitzed across the field. Surfing gravity was much better than falling into it.

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Denise finds herself lost in a field of dandelions. With one blow, her dandelion dreams transform into the words on a page. Some of those dreams have found their way to her website: https://lostinafieldofdandelions.wordpress.com/

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Lizzie Koch Week 168: The Promise

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: The Promise

It was the promise after the many miles trekking, the spilt blood, the loss of friends. Starting out as one of ten, ending with just me. I pondered the stairway. So many times I’d been told safety lay beyond that hill, a thriving community, civilisation. I needed that. Looking up the hill, I counted the minutes, hours and days where I hadn’t seen a soul, not heard a word uttered. I craved company. Loneliness was now my enemy more so than the virus that tore at every thread of society. It stole my family, ate away at my friends. They were the fabric of my life, and without them I was naked, starved and dare I admit, slowly going mad.

But the stairs lay in front of me. With the love of my family and the support of friends, I took the first step. With every buoyant step, I was closer to my new life. The thought of rejection never entered my mind. Why would they reject a fit, healthy, skilled human? Still. I ran through my skillset; some I’d never thought I’d ever have to do in my life but skills I learnt very quickly to survive. I had blood on my hands that no amount of washing would ever cleanse.

Halfway up, I took a quick break, swigging heartily now on the little water I had left, surveying the view. In my old life, this hike would have been a day out with the kids, maybe a bit of sketching, definitely some family pictures and flying a kite. A small smile crept across my face at those wonderful thoughts.

Thoughts that could never be.

Marching onward, I cursed my reverie. It was weak. Weakness was my enemy second to loneliness. Weakness was a distraction which would kill me. I had no idea what these new people were like but if they’d been through only half the hell I’d experienced, they’d not show me one ounce of respect for my weak and pathetic life.

The final step. My legs felt like lead but I allowed euphoria to swell within. To converse, to laugh at a bad joke, to be part of something with someone, anyone.

I took my time at the final step, stretching up, glancing back at what I’d overcome. It felt like crossing the threshold would leave everything behind, everyone behind. But this was my life now.

The fence was a good sign; tall and strong. I walked along it, my pounding heart the only sound until I reached a gate. An open gate. A thump, thump, thump sound filled my head but I couldn’t see anyone. I realised it was my heart, racing at what my eyes were seeing. Nothing.

Nothing.

No one.

I was alone . . .

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I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

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Laura James Week 138: The Fiddler

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Laura James’s Picture Choice: One

Title: The Fiddler

Marlon stood in the rain outside the house clutching his battered violin case. It had taken months of careful research but he had finally found the home of the once great violinist, Peter Strauss. Shaking he walked up the path only hoping that the man was home and would agree to see him.

Marlon didn't know how long he had stood at the front door unable to reach up and ring the bell, but it was no longer raining. He was soaked through and shaking yet could not bring himself to take the final step. What if Peter didn't live up to his expectations? Marlon had lived his life worshiping the great violinist, practicing all his works morning noon and night forsaking friends and family.

Just as he raised his hand to the bell the door opened, "I suppose you'd better come in."

"Mr Strauss, it's an honour. I..." Marlon stepped over the threshold, words catching in his throat. He was in the presence of greatness and all he wanted, all he needed to say had left him. He watched as the door was closed behind him and Peter shuffled past him further into the house. Marlon was surprised to see his hero so weak and old. Of course he knew that the violinist was in his eighties but he looked almost broken with age, his hands crippled with arthritis.

"Come through, come through." Peter lowered himself into a chair and waved for Marlon to do the same. "You have a violin case, I assume you play."

At the mention of his violin it was as if Marlon had been given permission to speak. The floodgates opened and he talked and talked. About his life, his love of violin, of the hours spent teaching himself how to play using a box and string. How he had saved enough to buy a real violin from a pawn shop, how he had found some of Peter's music and become addicted to the way Peter played.

Once Marlon had finished they sat in companionable silence until Peter lent forward and asked if Marlon would like to play him something.

"Really. But," Marlon fingered the latch on the violin case, "I'm not sure I'm good enough. I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"I'd like to hear you play," Peter raised his own deformed hands "it's been a long time since there's been live music in my home."

Marlon opened the case, took out the instrument and got himself ready. Soon music filled the air and Marlon was lost in the moment. He came to the end but didn't stop, just moved straight onto a faster more complicated piece of work. Marlon was surprised at how fast his fingers were moving across the neck of the violin, he had never played as well as this before. He was aware that Peter had stood and shuffled across the room, picking up his own violin before returning to his seat.

"You're good, keep playing."

Marlon was tired but at his heroes request he played one more composition, ignoring the burning sensation in his fingers. As the music came to an end Marlon found he couldn't stop. He tried to lift the bow from the violin and is chin from the rest, but he was trapped. "I can't stop!"

"Don't worry. You're doing great, keep playing."

Marlon watched as Peter picked up his violin and started to play, his fingers were too crippled to do much but grip the neck yet he managed to produce some noise. As Marlon continued to play the heat from his fingers travelled up his hands and he started to make mistakes. Soon he felt as if his whole body was on fire and he was fused to the violin.

For every mistake Marlon made, Peter notes rang clearer. It didn't take long before Marlon could barely hold the violin, let alone run the bow across the string and Peter was playing as good as he had in his youth. Marlon finally dropped the instrument and sank back into the seat and listened as Peter continued to play. The music washed over him, calming the fire that burned through his body and he drifted along on a wave of peace.

When Marlon awoke all he felt was pain from head to toe, his fingers were clenched into claws and immobile on his lap. He blinked his eyes a few times but his vision was cloudy, out of focus. With every movement the pain got worse and he started to cough, spitting blood into his malformed hands. A sheet of paper had been tacked to his violin case and with great effort he snatched it up, concentrating on the words swimming in front of him.

Thank you for your gift of life. Your music will live on after you are gone.
Peter

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Based in Dunfermline, Scotland, Laura is obsessed with all things horror and spends her time writing flash fiction which she hopes, on occasion, really scares her readers. Feel free to stalk her on twitter, @lejamez

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KendallJaye Collard Week 167: Death of the Small Town

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KendallJaye Collard’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Death of the Small Town

What’ll ya have, darlin’?”

I must have asked it a million times. Spent my entire life working this diner in this piece of trash town. Maybe served up five generations of folk by now. Of course, back then when I started here I was only thirteen. Everyone seemed so old to me. The regulars coming in for morning coffee. The middle agers bringing their families for dinner. I was convinced back then that I’d get out. You’re just so damn dumb when you’re thirteen.

Those folk and most their kids are dead now. Hell, I’m 83 and I don’t know how I’m still here.

“What’ll ya have, darlin’?”

And now it’s mostly old farming families tied to land that stop in on weekends for a meal they don’t have to cook. Young kids hang out in the parking lot and ride their skateboards and text each other from four foot away. Even the new wind turbines they put up on the edge of town act like sentinels for progress when farmers have been using windmills for ages.

It’s new, but it’s not.

It’s just different packaging.

“What’ll ya have, darlin’?”

Not as many travelers through here as much since the highway bypass goes around town now. Sometimes people pull off for gasoline, but they never stay. And why would they?

The door chimes just rang. A new young face on the way to the big city in his fancy truck. I hurry up and straighten my plates of homemade pie. The kid smiles until he sees my old, beaten face. I know what he’s thinking: Sad, old lady.

But I put on my best smile and head over to his booth.

“So, what’ll ya have, darlin’?”

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KendallJaye Collard gets her kicks above the waistline, Sunshine. Wine drinker, Cancer Survivor, and protected by rocksalt. Spread the love with her at @KJCollard.

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