Marianne

Marianne started life as a rewrite of Mitre. I wrote the original Mitre sometime in the mid-1970s and have never been happy with it. The current version (I’ll share it next week so you can see how Mitre and Marianne differ and how Mitre‘s change from the first sharing back in Oct 2018.

Anyway, Marianne is a different take on the same idea.

As always, let me know what you think.


Marianne

 
Marianne looked up as Rose threw some paperwork down on her table. “What are plane tickets doing on your MasterCard bill, Mother?”

Marianne turned her wheelchair and glanced at the bill. “How many guesses do I get?”

“Well?”

“What exactly is the problem? I paid with my own money, used my own phone, tapped the order with my own fingers, arranged for Uber to pick me up and drop me off on both ends of the trip, – ”

“Are you going to Oregon to commit suicide?”

“I can’t go to see my sister?”

“Is she going to help you commit suicide?”

“She’s always been such a dear, hasn’t she?”

“You think I’m going to allow you to do this?”

Marianne laughed. “You won’t allow me to do what? How about I won’t allow you and that Captain Holes-in-his-Pockets husband of yours four thousand a month rent for this – ” She looked around her. ” – room.”

Rose’s face blanched.

“Is that your big worry? You won’t be able to keep your house once I’m gone? How about you stop spending money you don’t have. And I don’t remember giving you Power-of-Attorney. What gives you the right to open my mail?”

“I just thought I’d be helping -”

“You just thought you’d be snooping.”

Rose clutched her arms to her chest.

“Close the door on your way out, Daughter.”

Marianne checked her wall calendar. June. Doctor Mulvaney said she’d be bed-ridden by this time next year and little more than a locked-in idiot in two. “I’d like to go while I’m still able to know I’m doing the going.”

She grabbed a Mackintosh apple and a small paring knife and wheeled herself to her window. A crow and a catbird stood on either side of a feeder she attached to the window when she moved in. “Hi, Amos. Hi, Andy. How you boys doing? Your chicks worried about how many seeds you’ll leave them when you pass?” She gazed at the knife. “I suppose if I was brave enough I’d just do myself in. Nobody’ll notice until a bill needed to be paid.”

Amos hopped closer to the window. Andy watched, a sunflower seed rolling in his beak as he cracked the shell.

Amos tapped on the window.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t know Morse code.”

Andy hopped over to Amos.

“Teaming up on me, boys?”

They both tapped.

“Want some apple?” She raised the window. The birds hopped onto the sill. Marianne cut slivers of Mackintosh and put them next to the birds.

Amos looked at the slivers. “Thank you.”

Marianne looked at the bird and blinked.

Andy pulled an apple sliver from his beak with a claw. “Don’t worry, M. You’re more sane than not.”

Marianne stared at Andy, then at Amos. Amos nodded. As much as a bird can nod, Amos nodded.


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Steam

Another flash piece (~430 words). Steam is my first attempt at the Steampunk genre and, being honest, I’m not sure it’s Steampunk so much as it’s Josephpunk.

The initial inspiration came pre-covid. I participated in a mostly steampunk con. I walked the hall meeting authors, asking questions, looking through their books, and wondering, “WTF is steampunk all about?”

My previous experience with anything steampunkish was several years ago reading Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine. A story (and sorry, I can’t remember the title) about a steam-powered airplane (and if anybody remembers its title, please share it in a comment). The technology was interesting, the aircraft feasible, and what caught my attention was the emphasis on character in the story. I read the story because I wanted the characters to succeed.

But none of the books I scanned at the con dealt with character, all focused on technology, and could probably be classified as “Tour of Wonders” stories more than anything else.

Not for me.

But as I stood beside my table signing books, I wondered, “What would a truly character-centric steampunk story be like?”

The concept came to me immediately.

This flash piece took about fifteen months to get to a first draft and a few more to polish.

Let me know what you think.


Steam

Arrival

 
The shrieking of my wheels on the tracks as I pull into the station, so like your screams when you realized what they’d done.
The hiss of my brakes, my body slowing as my heart began racing.
But could not; eyes on meters, release valves turn lest all their work be in vain.
Has no one told you?


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Why It Works for Me – Mark Hayes’ “The Strange and the Wonderful”

The Why It Works for Me series are my opportunity to share with others particular pieces of writing which stand out (to me) and why (as in “this piece of writing taught me something about writing, encouraged me to be a better writer, engaged me, captivated me, educated me, …”).

As I’ve written elsewhere, it’s one thing to know something is good, it’s a better thing (in my opinion) to know why it’s good and then be able to copy what’s good about it, to learn from it so you can be as good and (hopefully) better.

This time out, Mark Hayes’ “The Strange and the Wonderful” in Harvey Duckman Presents Volume 7.

 

 

Rough Night

A flash piece (~1,000 words). I remember it came to me full bore but don’t remember what precipitated it.

Oh, wait, I do remember. Can you guess what brought it about? The answer’s at the bottom of the post.

As always, let me know what you think.


Rough Night

 
Haggarty’s feet seemed to argue with him about walking through the door. His five-o’clock shadow was well past midnight and he wore the same clothes he wore when I last saw him two days ago.

He grabbed a coffee and sat.

Lucello left me in charge and to be polite I said, “Rough night?”

He nodded, pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed up a few screens.

I tapped my pencil on the table. “Well?”

“I got home and all day my wife’s leaving me texts and voicemails that the dryer vent is loose and rattling so fix it when I get home.

“So I get home and I know I’m not gonna get any peace until I fix that dryer vent so first thing I go to the junk drawer for a screwdriver to fix the vent.

“But the screwdriver isn’t there. I’m thinking, ‘Oh, she fixed it herself.’ then I notice the little hammer isn’t there, either. I start moving things around. The pliers aren’t there and the Phillips head is missing.

“What the fuck? So I go into the bathroom where the dryer is and sure thing, the vent is completely off and there’s a hand there, the fingers clamped around the pliers, and I’m thinking ‘What the fuck?’


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Postcards

Not sure what caused this one to come out. It’s still a work in progress.

Let me know what you think.


Postcards


I picked a book from the carousel, something to read on the beach. I prefer the feel of a real book and, thanks to years of training and working in the field, I know “I prefer the feel of a real book” tells the reader so much about me. Just about everything you need to know if you’re paying attention.

My son, Jeremy, laughs at such statements. He has his ereader. Nook? Kindle? Android? Phone? I’ve lost track, he has so many devices. I’ll have read four to five pages by the time he’s found what he’s looking for on his various devices.

You would have thought my son would be more organized. I don’t mind him using devices, but for Chrissake organize yourself.

I’ve noticed that about younger people. They lack some rudimentary skills and my memory at twice his age is better than his. I remember where he put things better than he does, and they’re his things!

But a good book, a good cigar, a solid wooden beach chair with canvas strappings and a foldover shade to keep you out of the sun. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

The little bell over the door jingled and I looked up.

I know her. Or knew her. Couldn’t place her name. But my pulse quickened. Her, I remembered.


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