Tag Archives: story

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 7.]

by David E. Booker

I hadn’t refilled my drink and there wasn’t anything on a nearby table, so Marc dropped the rest of the Ricky Ricardo on the floor, turned and raced out of the restaurant.

Everybody’s a food critic.

#

Father Brown was waiting for me at what passed for an office. Treehouse with slightly insulated walls was a better way of describing the former storage area, second story walk up. The steps needed repair and were steeper than some parts of the trail at House Mountain. Not exactly inviting for business. And there was an odd smell, like cooked cabbage and roasted Brussel Sprouts that came and went without seeming regularity or reason.

I thought about asking him if he had a hot plate hidden somewhere in my ramshackle pseudo-office, but wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

Father Brown was in his seventies and had been a Catholic priest. He had been tall in his day, but was now a bit stoop-shouldered, maybe even hunched back, and more than a little reluctant to go outside. His hair was white and he wore a goatee that could make him seem like a mischievous old uncle or a devious old man, depending on what he said and how he said it. His having one slightly lazy eye didn’t help in determining if he was mischievous or malevolent. Being convicted as a pedophile didn’t help either. At least that’s how people heard it. He had actually been convicted of aiding a pedophile, something he said he did not do wittingly. He did not know he was doing it.

He came to me to help him clear his name. The church wasn’t going to help, nor the parents of any of the kids. But a couple of the kids who were now adults came forward and said he had nothing to do with what happened to them. Armed with that, I had tried to move forward, but then Father Brown started losing his mind, so to say. Memories became jumbled, details incoherent or empty in places. Then, out of the blue, details return. Sometimes only for a while.

Doctors, at least the ones I can afford, have not answer. Medicare has not been much help, either, in paying for some specialty tests. Thus far, speculation … excuse me, diagnosis … has run the gamut from chemically based to an emotional one, a form of post-traumatic stress. A few ten thousand dollars more and they might just be able to nail it down … or not.

When lucid, he could be a wonder to have around and for a man of his age. He has taken to the computer as if he’d entered a second childhood. He says he has his own place, but he is always “locking up the office” at the end of the day and is the first one in.
I have found food wrappers and apple cores in the trash sometimes in the morning, but Father Brown says he brings things in and heats them in the microwave he bought at a yard sale, then donated to the office. Once in a while it makes an arcing sounding when heating something and some day may catch fire and burn the place down.

Brown’s first name is John and I can see the headlines now: “John of Arc Sets Self on Fire.”

I should not be so flippant.

“Did you make mud pies at your lunch meeting at Holly’s?” Brown asked when he saw me.

“Probably would have been better off if I had,” I said. “Ran into Marc.”

“I bet that hurt.”

Sometimes Brown took things too literally or maybe he was having fun with me. Sometimes I couldn’t tell. He handed me a damp cloth to wipe myself off.

“The client and I couldn’t agree on terms, so she left and I’m on the search for another replacement.”

“That’s the second one in the past week that you couldn’t reach terms with.”

We were standing in what served as the receptionist area. We had erected a flimsy wall with drapery on a rod across the opening where a door would be. Brown sometimes called it my Les Nessman door.

We were six hours and many years away from a fictional radio station. I would have to make sure Brown had no plans for turkeys this Thanksgiving.

“This one was about finding a family heirloom,” I said.

“Heirlooms can be priceless.”

“Not a recipe.”

“Recipes and spices have played important parts of history.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I told him so.” It was a woman’s voice. It started a little whiny, then turned a little guttural.

I tossed the wet wipe in the trash and stepped through the curtain and behind door number one was the woman who had threatened me with her rolling pin. She was still gripping the deadly device.

#

(To be continued.)

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 4.]

by David E. Booker

I felt a little heat come into my ears.

“How cute,” Tricia said, her eyesight back to normal.

“Glad I could entertain.”

I turned and walked up to bar to order a sandwich. Diving into the mud and straddling a 2×6 had left me wet and hungry. The wet part would have to resolve itself with time. The hunger part I could do something about.

“I’ll have a Ricky Ricardo,” I said. “Don’t tell Lucy.”

The young woman behind the counter had a rainbow of colors in her hair, and if perplexed could be a color, she had that one on her face.

I made my glass of tea and found where Tricia was sitting. It was in a booth that looked out one of the front windows. On the window was painted a pig carrying a rolling pin and words underneath about bacon being a salvation. Beyond the pig was the outside world, the sidewalk where I had taken my dive, and the rain that continued its drumming on the world. My client had had a front row seat to my brush with a rolling pin.

Tricia already had a sandwich, something vegetarian and most of it eaten or at least nibbled into.

“That was my sister that threatened you.”

I didn’t bother correcting the second that. “She doesn’t look anything like you.”

“Well … technically she’s my step-sister. My dad remarried after my mom died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tricia shrugged. I was two when mom died. Don’t remember much about her. My step-mom was the only mom I really knew, and she was okay … when she wasn’t drinking. And I’m afraid my sister has inherited her predilection.”

I raised an eyebrow slightly. I was impressed that Tricia knew what predilection meant and wasn’t afraid to use it.

My sandwich arrived. I had snagged a bottle of hot sauce from the small round table nearby. The sandwich was cut into two pieces. I lifted the top off one half and added some of the sauce. Tricia winced.

“Don’t like hot sauce?”

“You’re ruining the chef’s work.”

“The chef doesn’t put enough heat on my Ricky.”

Tricia slumped back in her booth seat. There was a slight frown on her face, which only served to make her look even more attractive. She was almost too pretty: blond hair, thin, big teeth, large blue eyes. The wrinkles made her look more human, more accessible, at least to a shlub like me.

“You’re right,” she said. She reached forward and fiddled with her paper napkin.

“Tell you what. I’ll eat the other half as is. As it was made by the chef.”

(To be continued.)