The Day That Almost Got Away

Wow! Where did that day go? I just got here and it's already after five o'clock and I haven't even started this. Well, okay, technically I have.

Still I haven't got anything to go on with, so I'm going to do what I always do at a time like this. I'm going to offer up one of my flash fiction pieces.

The following is based on a description that one of my colleagues gave me of what she and her partner experienced when they were evacuating the fire.

* * * *
Passage Through Hell

“Do you smell that?” Steve looked up, settling the newspaper onto his lap with a sharp crackle.

At the kitchen counter, Shelley looked up, scenting the air. “Smells like smoke.” She sliced the last piece of apple, dropped them into the bowl and set down her knife. Wiping her hands on her apron, she crossed to the open back door.

Beyond the screen, the late autumn day was a tapestry of bright blue and yellow, russet where the trees were ready to shed and patches of green.

“I don’t see anything, but it does smell like smoke.”

Steve got out of his chair and walked to the front door, opening it to peer outside. “There’s smoke.”

Shelley hurried to see as he pushed the outer screen door open and stepped out into the shade of the porch roof. “It’s strong and the wind’s blowing this way.”

It was unnerving, standing there with thoughts flooding in. The drought had the county in a death lock and fire was what everyone feared most. “What do you think?”

Steve, normally placid and calm, looked worried, making her fear worse. “Stay here. Pack some things. I’m going to go see.”

In the kitchen, she wrapped the piecrust in plastic and wrapped plastic over the bowl of apples before shoving them in the refrigerator. “It’s nothing.” She reassured herself as she hurried down the short hall and began throwing things into the garbage bags she’d grabbed from the pantry.

Steve was back in record time. “We’ve gotta go, right now.” He snatched two of the bulging bags from Shelley. “It’s at the bottom of the hill and heading this way.”

A whimper escaped as Shelley followed him outside. She hesitated. “What about Mush?”

“Dunno. He’s gonna have to fend for himself.” Steve was already behind the wheel but she couldn’t bring herself to just leave their four-year old dog to fend for himself.

“Mush!” She shouted, looking around the clearing in which their house stood. “Come Mush, come!” Nothing.

“Come on!” Steve started the motor and jerked the truck forward.

A last glance around and she scrambled into the cab. With only one road in or out, she knew they couldn’t wait.

Even before she had her foot off the ground, Steve gunned the motor, shooting down the rutted drive. Shelley shrieked and grabbed the front of the seat, hauling the door closed without a word of reproach. They were both scared.

They bounced down the track and swung around the last bend. She gasped, a hand flipping up to her mouth in horror. Seemingly right in front of them, all of the trees that had always seemed so peaceful were in flames. The fire was jumping toward them. First ash, then live embers drifted from the sky. The roiling cloud of smoke flowed in front of them, making it almost impossible to see the road, but Steve kept going, relying on habit and knowledge and instinct.

Seconds later the truck rattled across the cattle guard, the tires bumped onto the edge of the highway, just in front of a line of speeding cars that emerged from the cloud. He gunned the engine and the powerful truck surged forward.

“Hope we get through.”

She knew he was thinking of the heavily forested stretch of road that lay ahead - directly in the fire’s path and closer to the flames than they were. Hanging onto the seat with one hand, the other with fingers splayed on the dashboard to stabilize herself, she didn’t dare to glance at her husband. It would frighten her too much.

Slow curve right, straight and back to the left and... They were in Hell. Spires of flame spiked up, reaching far overhead, narrowing the narrow two-lane road further. Embers rained down, whispering or banging off the roof and hood. Many came to rest in the bed of the truck, fanned into hotter flame by the passing wind, and then expiring from lack of fuel. The thick clouds of smoke turned bright day to twilight and darker as they advanced.

Still Shelley didn’t speak. Her lips hurt from biting, but there was nothing to be said. They would live or they would die and nothing she said would matter.

Movement in the sideview mirror grabbed her attention. A glance and she whirled on the seat, the cry of, “Oh my god!” torn from her throat.

The car that had been behind them was gone - buried in a fallen tree that blazed like a Yuletide log.

She turned back, sick imaginings that defied words filling her.

Minutes passed and Steve kept on like a madman, swaying around curves, accelerating along the straight stretches while the fire kept pace.

The tears chilled and she wiped them away, beginning to pray the Rosary she had learned as a child but hadn’t spoken for years. The tears returned when she reached, “O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.”

At her side, Steve’s knuckles shone white in the gloom as they rounded another curve. “Thank god!”

Ahead, no more than a mile, the haze was thinner, whiter. He pressed harder on the accelerator just as three fire trucks came around a bend ahead of him, lights flashing. An arm appeared at the window of the lead truck, signaling Steve to stop.

“What’s it like back there?”

“Hellacious. There was an accident about six miles back. A tree fell on a car. Don’t know what happened to them.”

“You’re almost out. Red Cross is setting up at the fairgrounds.”

“Thanks, and good luck.” Steve began to roll up his window, just catching, “Thanks. We’ll need it.” He waved in acknowledgement and drove away.

Two weeks later, Steve and Shelley returned to nothing. Mush was never found.

* * * *

Sadly, while this is fiction, it is also a modicum of fact for many victims of the fires that burn everywhere in the world each year.

If you have the wherewithal to donate - be it clothes, money or time - do. For those who lose everything, you will be a saviour.

Have a fire-free day.

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

It's Pretty Much Like Life

I think it's definite. It's at least probably definite that I'll do NaNoWriMo this year. I've pondered it in the past couple of years, but never felt motivated. This year I have the motivation and the story idea. It's pretty strong, too, so I think it will be reasonably easy.

The whole point of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in thirty days. That's substantially a complete novel since most commercial published stories are in the range of 50,000 to 90,000 words, depending on genre.

Because of the time constraint, I've decided that I'm going to do something I never do when it comes to my stories.

I am what's known as a "pantser" - meaning I write by the seat of my pants. I don't draw up an outline for stories. I don't plot them. I don't do character development off to the side. In fact, I don't do much of anything but write them down and then fiddle with them endlessly. Mostly because I hate barriers and restrictions and I do see an outline as a restriction.

If I say, "this is how chapter one should be, and chapter two and..." I get locked in. Then, if something unexpected develops from what I'm writing, I have to struggle with how or whether to follow that thread - even if that thread seems brilliant but will blow the rest of the outline out of the water. It creates an unnecessary conundrum, in my opinion.

Now, because of the time frame and the story I have in mind, I will draw up an outline. I even have the title (I think). Just a bit of research to make sure that James Bond had the proverb correctly when he spoke it. If so, I'm good to go. Otherwise, I'll have to come up with another, similar declaration.

It's going to be a surprise for those who read my posts here. I'm not going to give anything away - not the title, not the outline, nothing. If you want to know what it is, you'll have to wait and then read each day in November because I have decided to serialize it. It should be fun for both of us.

In the meantime, Authonomy did shut down, as HC threatened. It's a sad day for many people, but we have other places to go.

Kudos to Harper Collins for doing the decent thing and giving everyone prior warning. Not just twenty-four hours, either. They gave us more than a month's warning. That was marvelous because it gave us a chance to search out new homes, to discuss them - their pluses and minuses - and to decide what would work for us, as individuals, to reconnect in new places. It was a gracious thing to do and I, for one, appreciate it very much.

I did check out several. Some on which I already had accounts, others were new. None are like Authonomy, but they all have their minuses and pluses, just like everything in life. I've picked my new homes - WriteOn for the writing. It's affiliated with Amazon's Kindle which will make the step to publication easier. Scribblers will be my place for the communing with my fellow writers.

My flash pieces will start on Scribblers and may end up here. Or not. I'll chat there and work on WriteOn. Or maybe I'll do flash on both places since Scribblers has the weekly FFF thread, and WriteOn has a Weekend Write-In. Both are different, both are challenging although I do find the WriteOn theme more difficult since it limits the word count to five hundred instead of one thousand.

If you want to try it, just start writing a story - whatever you choose - and then complete it in under five-hundred words.

It's hard at first, but as with everything else, if you practice, you get better - which means you're cutting the chaff and keeping the kernels, which is something imperative to good writing. You don't want your story to get lost in too many words. Keep it to just enough and you're golden. But it is hard because stories do tend to take on a life of their own.

On WriteOn, I already have two books up and two flash books started. It's an active site and encouraging, although if you're not active your books fall off the radar - which is actually a good thing.

That was one complaint I had about Authonomy, and about Book Country. You never knew whether the book you were reading and commenting upon was active or someone's abandoned baby. In just the past ten days, since I was focused on wedding stuff and wedding recovery, I haven't been writing / updating and posting. And my books have evaporated into the background. Which is fine. I'll get active, they'll resurface and things will get back on track.

I looked at some other places, too, but none compare to Authonomy. And they shouldn't. They should stand or fall on their own merits. Some people like this or that and I don't, so we'll commune together on Scribblers and go our separate ways (or not) for our writing. Pretty much like life.

Now, I hope you have a wonderful day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Assisted Suicide - A Flash Piece

When I was in high school, I read and fell in love with Kurt Vonnegut's 'Welcome to the Monkey House'. It's a collection of short stories across a range of subjects. Among them was a story about a society in which assisted suicide was voluntary and socially accepted.

The individual would choose the right time for them, they would go to a center staffed by PYT's (pretty young things) who would ease them into the afterlife with a cocktail of drugs. While waiting for the easing, the person would lie on a Barcalounger which, until I read the story, I never even knew existed.

That story was about an elderly man, anxious for the company of young people, who would show up at the center, go through the routine, up to the point of saying, 'I'm ready'. Before then, he would talk and visit and get the social interaction he craved. Then, instead of saying, 'I'm ready' he would say, 'I've changed my mind.'

This morning, thinking of my MIL who is failing based on the signs I'm seeing, I was thinking of my own end of life. For myself, I do not want to go through what she's going through. More than that, I do not want to put any of my family through what we're going through just to keep her going day-to-day.

Thinking all of that, I started with a kernel of a story, so here it is. Just a flash piece, perhaps six hundred words or so.

* * * *

Mom

"It'll be so easy, honey."

"But I don't want you to!" The words were said so forcefully they might as well have been accompanied by a foot-stomp.

"I'm old, dear. I'll be ninety in a couple of months. I've had my time and now it's yours. I don't want to burden you. I don't want you to have to do for me what your father and I did for your grandmother."

Tears swam in Maggie's eyes and her throat was thick when she said, "But don't you understand? I want to."

Gail shook her head, her eyes sad as she looked at her daughter, saw her distress. "No you don't. You weren't there for a lot of it, being off at college and then your job. You don't know what's involved and I won't subject you to that. I love you too well and I don't want you to see me that way."

"What way?"

"Weak, feeble, confused and unable to do anything for myself. I don't want to be like that. It's demoralizing and it's demeaning."

"You're doing okay now, aren't you?"

"Yes, so far, but I can feel it coming. I'm more tired than I've been. It's harder to get up in the morning, to get dressed and do the things I need to do. In a few months, at most, I'll need help just doing the simple things, and I don't want to be dependent like that."

Maggie knew her mother was proud. Always strong, always capable, ready to go the extra mile for those closest to her. Thinking back, she couldn't think of a single time her mother had ever complained about anything. She could understand, in her heart, her Mom's desire not to be dependent, to have to ask for help. More than that, she recognized that she was being selfish. She wasn't looking at the decision from her Mom's point of view, only her own.

The silence drew out while Gail waited for Maggie's acceptance. Beyond the windows the autumn sunshine glowed through the gold of the trees. Jays called and the whirrrr of a neighbor's lawn mower was a constant.

Maggie's head dropped forward and Gail's heart broke. She reached over to stroke her daughter's hair, noting the fragile fingers and almost translucent skin with the liver spots she hated so much. "It's for the best, love, really. No long, drawn out waiting. No pain, no suffering. No anger or frustration or wondering 'when'."

Under her hand Maggie's head moved - up and down. "When?" It was a whisper.

"Next Tuesday. I've already called them but I wanted to talk to you and give you time to think about it, to get used to it." She heard when her daughter began to cry and leaned forward, gathering the shaking form to herself. "It will be good, love. Good for you and good for David. No more worrying, no more waiting for a phone call. I'll be at peace and so will you."

"Does David know?"

"Yes. I called him last night."

"How did he take it?"

"He's not happy, but he understands. He was there with us during your grandmother's last few weeks, so he knows." She lifted her daughter's chin on her fingers, gazed into the bloodshot eyes and smiled sweetly. "He'll be here, and I'd like you to be, too, if you think you can."

Maggie sat up, slightly surprised. "They'll do it here?"

"Mm hmm. In the comfort of my own home." She sighed and looked out the window. "I've already checked the weather report. It's supposed to be sunny and warm, just like today."

* * * *

Now, for me, that's how I'd like to do it. To make the decision and not be a burden on my loved ones because, no matter how determined one might be at the end of life, it is hard work for those around you.

With my dad, who died of cancer, there were weeks of constant care by my mother and sister-in-law.

For my mom, it was months of dressings and doctor visits to deal with the staph infection that ultimately took her life. At the end for her, a stoic woman who never, ever, ever complained about anything, she said she just wanted to die because it hurt so much. She was ninety-three.

My father-in-law had been ill, in and out of the hospital several times over a period of months and finally dropped dead of a heart attack when he tried to get up to use the bathroom. His doctor had recommended that he check into a care facility, but my FIL refused. He had spots on his liver that had not yet been diagnosed when he died.

My MIL is still with us. Senile and unable to focus for any length of time, confused and incapable of following simple requests or instructions. We do almost everything for her, and clean up after her when she has 'problems'. Our living room carpet has bleach stains where 'problems' were solved.

It's a twenty-four hour per day, seven day a week exercise and, as far as I can see, all she's doing is waiting to die. She does nothing constructive or creative. Her days consist of watching the television she can't even see because of diabetes and glaucoma, listening to talk radio and sleeping. Half the time what we feed her comes back up halfway through her meal. Other times, we have to rescue the lap table so she can get up in the middle of eating to use the bathroom. Which is also her only "exercise" - the almost constant trips to and from the bathroom. She won't do any more because she can't. Even when she was able bodied she wouldn't walk, even when she was encouraged to get outside - just down to the corner and back.

She is the poster child for what I don't want to be. She is the example of how not to live a life - eat far more than you need of the stuff that isn't good for you. Drink sodas by the gallon, but never drink a glass of water or milk. Never exercise, never go outside, never do anything more than you absolutely have to.

In my place, I do what I can - I park as far from the store as I can manage and walk. I do more than I must, simply to keep moving, but when the time comes for me to go, I will not burden my family. Only half-jokingly I've told my daughter that I will get a notarized statement permitting her to take me somewhere and lose me so she doesn't have to bother.

It's a tough conversation to have, but for the strong willed and strong minded being dependent is the worst thing I can imagine. It's a giving up of self, a closing in and closing down process that is, to me, now when I'm healthy, unimaginably demeaning.

Me? I have my plans. It won't be like Maude in Harold and Maude. If I can handle it, it'll be quicker and less painful. Unless Fate takes over and decides for me.

And, on that happy note... I hope this gives food for thought and I hope you have a lovely day.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Quiet Sunday - A Time for Flash

It's Sunday morning and I'm feeling lazy. I got a lot of stuff done yesterday - mending, errands, some writing and commenting, but today, I feel blah. Just lazy with limited energy and I have to go run some more errands later, so I'll pace myself. I'll post a couple of flash pieces.

One, sadly, is based on something that happened on Friday. The prompt this week for the Flash Fiction group on Scribblers was 'castaway'.

The second is my entry for the Weekend Write-in on WriteOn.

I hope you enjoy these.

* * * *

Life's Castaway

“Excuse me, sir.” The young woman leaned down, keeping her voice low so the other patrons wouldn’t overhear, even though some of them had been the ones to complain. “I have to ask you to leave.”

Tim looked up at the girl, taking note of the gray-green eyes, brown hair under the uniform cap. Defeated, again, he sighed, nodded, and gathered his battered belongings together. “Sure.”

After sliding off the bench, he set the precious dime down next to the empty coffee cup. It wasn’t much but it was more than he could afford, yet Pride insisted he leave something.

She stepped back, away from him. He was used to it. Everyone did it. That’s what people do with society’s castaways.

Outside, the sun was just rising over the hills. Shadows were still long and the air hinted at the warmth the day would bring. Feeling the tiny heat seeping through the worn out clothes, he considered his options.

Thirty yards away, the overpass rose up and arched across the six lanes of freeway, but he could see the shelter through the trees across the way. He looked at it, considering. Thirty yards, a climb and twenty yards back to the shelter door is a long walk, and I’m tired. I’ll cut across. Hell, I’ve done it a million times.

He shifted the stained and filthy backpack, clutched the plastic bag with his dumpster findings more tightly, and shuffled over to the metal guardrail that separated the restaurant parking lot from the on-ramp and freeway.

Pausing, he waited for the metering light to stop traffic, then skirted between the two lanes of cars. People behind the glass gaped at him, and he saw one punch a button on the steering wheel. But he turned away. He’d be across the road before the cops got there.

A semi blew past, whipping freeway grit, exhaust and papers against him. After a squint he looked.  There was a gap… He stepped forward, hurrying.  One lane behind him and then…

Candy and her friend Brian, commute buddies, were on their way to work. Laughing and talking and… She landed both feet, with all of her might, on the brake pedal but it was too late.

The look of surprise on the man’s face stayed with her long after the car came to a halt. Behind her, the Mercedes slammed into the trunk of her car, bolting her forward and skewing her into the far left lane while other cars swerved, honked and crashed together.

After what felt like a century Candy breathed. “Oh my God!”

“FUCK!” Brian was craning his torso to look backward. Legs encased in dirty cargo pants was all he could see of the man. They were terribly still. He turned back.

Candy was white, her eyes staring through the windshield, her hands, clutched to her face, were visibly shaking. A high-pitched whine filled the interior of the car while the radio announcer cheerfully prattled on about the new Prius.

“Hey!” Brian twisted toward her, grabbed her wrists. “Hey, he walked in front of you. You couldn’t help it.”

That didn’t help either. Her entire body shook, the moan rising higher. Faint sirens grew and he moved.

“Candy. Come on, Candy.” He released the seat belt, opened the door and realized he was shaking just as hard as his friend. A stagger landed him against the crumpled fender and it was all he could do to hold himself upright while he fought not to throw up.

Behind and around him other people were getting out of their cars, milling around, looking at the dead man, talking and staring at him. Several started in his direction but looked away, into the car.

Candy hadn’t moved, still sitting, staring, her hands held to her face.

Forcing himself, he moved forward, around the front of the car. He reached her door just before a Highway Patrolman.

“Are you okay, sir? Is this the car that hit him?”

“Yeah,” a gulp, a breath, “Yeah, he walked right in front of us. Candy,” he opened the door, a little relieved when she looked over at him although the look in her eyes was disturbing, “never had a chance to stop.”

The cop bent down, nudging Brian out of the way. “Are you okay, miss? Do you need an ambulance?”

Her head jerked, the stare becoming less intense. “No.” She turned away, trying to see out the back window.

“Never mind him right now, he’s being taken care of.” He released the belt, looking for obvious injury, noting the deflated airbag pooled in her lap.

“He walked in front of me. I wasn’t speeding, I know I wasn’t because I had just looked and” her head collapsed into her hands and shock turned to sobs. “I killed him.”

“Can you get out?”

Many people were inconvenienced that morning. Two left the scene with burning memories that would last all of their lives. One, a castaway, arrived on a different shore.

 
* * * *

Bambi in the Cabinet

2005

"There you go." The keys passed from the realtor's hand into Kate's fingers.

A thrill fled through her, escaping in a smile. "Thank you."

"Congratulations." Linda smiled at her client, "I think the last tenant got everything, but in case they didn't, just put it all into the garage and let me know, okay?"

Kate nodded, "Thanks for everything, Linda. I'd invite you in..." She gestured to the shadowed foyer, piled with boxes.

"How about a rain check?"

"Sure - I'll give you a call in a few days, after I see if anything was left."

Minutes later, with the screen door closed, the front door propped open, Kate looked around the bare rooms. The furniture wouldn't arrive for a few days, so she would stay in the apartment, but some things could be put away, now.

~ ~ ~ ~

1998

"Mom!" Brendan's eyes glowed with the triumph of his find. His fingers caressed the curves in awe. "Look at this."

Sara stopped watching her feet, turned and looked. The riverbed was a treacherous place to walk, but Saturday hikes with her son were too precious to skip, and this was where he had wanted to go - up the canyon to the ridge where his dad had last been seen six years before.

“Wow.” She turned back, focusing on the smooth object, seamed and holed. “It’s a deer skull.”

“Isn’t it cool?” Her late husband’s eyes in their son’s face pierced her.

Ignoring the familiar pang, she smiled, “Yeah, way cool.” Giving into his excitement, she said, “We’ll take it home and clean it up. You can take it to school Monday.”

“Coool.”

~ ~ ~ ~

2004

“I’ve got everything, Mom.” Brendan was exasperated. He was eighteen after all, and heading for college.

“What about Bambi?”

“Why would I take that? It’ll get busted, but it’ll be safe here, right?”

“Yes,” resigned, she sighed. “I’ll put it in your treasure box, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” A hand on her shoulder, a kiss on her cheek and he was gone.

She watched his departing back through the screen door, her full heart breaking, again.

~ ~ ~ ~

2005

Kate started in the kitchen, washing the drawers and cabinets before measuring them. Left open to dry, she started trimming the liners. She was just about finished. The sun, lowering through the trees, shot rays into a corner that seemed blank. Something caught her eye. Curious, she put the scissors down and crossed to the corner. Her hands found the faint line, then the hidden button. She pressed, heard a muffled snick and saw the panel shift. The crack widened and a crease appeared.

Linda said this house was old and the original owner a bit… weird. Pushing the crease she pulled at the crack. The folding door moved.

Katie shrieked and leapt back, her heart pounding. There, on one of the shelves crusted with dust and age, the blank eyes of a long-dead deer stared at her.

* * * *

Have a lovely day!

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories