Creations Archives

AAAAAAh Vacation

by Patty Perrin | May 1, 2023 | Creations, Humor

By Farrell Fand

“This is going to be the best vacation ever,” I said to Anna, my wife.

“Maybe, but do we have to use the pop-up camper?” she whined. “Driving all the way from New Jersey to Quebec with that thing behind us doesn’t seem like a good idea. Can the car do that kind of trip? It’s 525 miles, remember.”

“I had the car checked, and it’s fine to go. I’ve planned everything. I know you don’t like using the camper, but I promise we’ll only stay in campgrounds that have immaculate bathroom facilities. That’s important to you. We can’t afford to use motels, and we have a camper. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“Mom, we can play ‘Car Bingo’ and ‘I Spy’ while we ride,” 9-year-old daughter, Beth, encouraged.

“Can I eat cookies in the car?” our seven-year-old son, Pete, asked

“Maybe,” she responded and we left Maplewood, off for an adventure.

“Oh, Canada,” I started singing when we pulled out of the driveway.

“Dad! Stop!” Beth and Pete shouted at almost the same time.

“Stop yelling, you two. I want this to be a peaceful vacation,” warned Anna.

“And fun,” I added.

As usual, the best-laid plans of Farrell Fand ofttimes go astray, and they did regarding timing. I planned the first stop for five in the afternoon, but five became eight. We had to stop along the road and eat some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Then, I drove the rest of the way to our first campground.

“Bonjour,” the Canadian gatehouse attendant said.

“Bonjour,” I replied. “We’re the Fands. We have a reservation for a campsite. I’d like to get there right away. We’re exhausted from traveling. Which one is ours?”

“Bienvenue dans notre camping,” he replied.

Oops. He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak French. Instead of talking, the Quebecer led us to our campsite, waving his arms to indicate “Follow me.”

Once we were parked, I chased him down the road yelling the only phrase I knew in French. “Ou est la toilette? Ou est la toilette?” (Where is the toilet?)

I must have said it right, because he pointed to a building just down the lane. Like the whole campground, it had decorative lights strung along its rooftop and looked festive. Hopefully, it would pass Anna’s inspection.

When we got to the door, we were a bit confused. “Dad, is this the door for the ladies’ room? Then where’s the men’s room?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s check with someone.”

Eventually, a man walked toward the door. “Do you speak English?” I tried.

“Oui, I do.”

“Where are the bathrooms? There’s only one door.”

“Oh no, there is only one. It’s for men and women.”

“Let’s get out of here, right now. I’m not using a coed bathroom. Not a chance,” Anna said to me.

“Look, it’s only one night, and I’m too tired to drive. We don’t even know where there is another campground. Can’t you try to deal with it?” I pleaded.

“Ok, but I don’t like this at all.”

Everyone survived. The next day, the trip to Quebec was relatively short, and we found our next campground easily. People there spoke both French and English. Amen, I thought. The bathrooms were sex-separate, and clean, hallelujah. That first campground was just a minor glitch on what would be a vacation our family would remember with fondness.

Quebec was a delightful place to visit. In addition to the buildings and ambiance, there were street vendors, artists who would sketch one’s portrait, and music. French was fine when it was backed up with English. We were surprised to meet someone from home in the quaint historic area of the city. An elegant dinner at a fancy French restaurant capped off the evening. Wow, what a great vacation! I thought.

That night, we returned to the campground and used the separate bathrooms. All was well. The beds in the camper were comfortable, and we drifted off to a good night’s sleep.

“What was that? It sounded like a huge crash,” Pete whispered to me.

“I heard it too. Don’t wake Mom and Beth,” I cautioned.

I needn’t have worried. A clap of thunder woke our family and probably all the sleepers in the campground, as well. Big, jagged lightning lit up the sky.

“What’s happening?” Beth was up.

“Just a little storm,” I told her. “Nothing to worry about. It’ll stop soon.”

Anna was awake too. “Are you sure about that? There’s a car driving around the campground. It has a yellow light blazing on top, and it’s going back and forth, past all the sites. That can’t be a good omen.”

She was right. The aerial bombs got louder. Lightning bolts hit the ground near us. We’re sitting ducks, I worried.

“Let’s stay close together for a while,” Anna suggested. We sat on one of the beds, and hugged each other, Anna whimpering, and all of us shaking. It took several hours for the storm to let up, but everyone finally did get back to sleep.

The next morning, we cut this leg of the vacation short and headed for the next stop, Niagara Falls. It’ll be clear sailing from here on, I thought. This will be fun.

The falls were amazing and for a fee, we could walk behind the torrents of water. “Let’s do it,” I said.

The kids were eager, Anna, not so much! “I don’t know about this,” she said. “It could be dangerous.” Our youngsters pleaded until she agreed, “Oh all right. But we have to be careful!”

An elevator took us deep underground. The doors opened into a kind of dressing room. People were putting on black raincoats and boots, so they wouldn’t be soaked when we walked behind the waterfall. I pointed, “Let’s put some on.”

Anna stayed near the elevator, not moving. “Come on. This’ll be fun,” I coaxed her.

“I can’t do it. I’m terrified. There’s no way I can stay down here. I’m going back. Just go without me,” and she hurried into the up elevator.

The kids and I walked behind the falls and had an amazing experience. When we were back on top, Anna reported to us, “I had to fill out a form, telling why I couldn’t stay down there. I didn’t know how to explain it, so I wrote ‘fear of black raincoats.’ They said they’d never heard that reason before.”

A day at Niagara was sufficient; I closed the camper and started driving home. This would be an easy, drive, and we’d be back in just a few hours.

You know how you don’t look at the dashboard of your car too often while you’re driving? The road and noisy kids in the backseat take all your attention. Once we were on our way, I glanced at the dials, just to check our speed, and noticed the temperature gauge screaming at me, not literally, but there were blinking red lights. The car was overheating.

“We have a little problem,” I explained to Anna. “It looks like the car is too hot. I have to pull over to the side of the road. It’s dangerous to drive the car right now.”

“Dangerous? Stop. Stop!” she said.

“Kids, we’re pulling over to the side of the road. There’s a problem with the car. Why don’t you and Mom wait on that little hill over there, while I open the hood and see what’s going on? This probably isn’t a big problem.” But it was. Steam was coming out of the radiator. I knew that if I waited a while, it would cool down and I could drive to get help.

A good Samaritan saw us and pulled over. “Hey buddy. Looks like you’ve got a problem. Do you need any help?”

“No,” I answered. “The car’s just overheated. I’m going to let it cool down and drive to a gas station to get it fixed. Thanks for stopping. I appreciate your help.”

“OK. Good luck,” he said. Then he got into his car, put it in gear, and backed into the front of our Dodge Dart by mistake.

He started to get out of his car. “Just go. My car’s ok. Thanks for stopping. Go,” I said, and he did.

Now, Anna was wailing, and Beth and Peter were weeping. The car did cool off, and I drove slowly to the next exit, Batavia, New York. The radiator overheated again, but there was a gas station in sight. Hallelujah, I thought. They’ll fix the car, and we’ll just go home.

“Man, your radiator is shot. You need a new one.” That was the mechanic.

“Can you do it today?” I asked.

“Well, today’s Saturday. Nothing’s open. I can’t order a new one until Monday, but I can get it for you as soon as possible. Maybe Tuesday.”

“What about our camper? Can leave it here?” I asked.

“Hell no. We don’t have room for it. You know what? There’s a great campground a few miles down the road. People love it. I can tow your camper tomorrow and you can stay there until your car is fixed. A motel is just down the road, where you can sleep tonight. I’ll take you there.”

“That would be fine. A night in a motel sounds great,” I said. “Can we go soon?”

Twenty minutes later, we were at the Batavia Motor Inn. This will be restful. We can take showers and get a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be an unplanned extra vacation. This’ll work out fine, I thought.

The hotel room was neat, although it looked a bit “worked.” A queen bed and two singles: perfect. It was clean: excellent. The manager said there was a restaurant just a block away: fantastic.

“Dad, what should I do?” Beth said, when she came out of the bathroom. “The toilet overflowed. I just flushed it, and a lot of water poured out all over the floor.”

The manager was apologetic and came with a bucket and a plunger. “We’ll go out to eat, while you take care of this,” I told her.

“C’mon kids, let’s walk to the restaurant. You can get anything on the menu, regardless of the price. This is going to be a special meal. We’ve earned it today.”

The four of us dragged ourselves out of the motel and started walking to the restaurant. We could see it from the motel. “Hey kids, walk a little faster. I’m starving,” I said.

“Daddy, my foot hurts,” that was Peter.

“You’ll be fine once we get to the restaurant and sit down. You’ll see.”

“Dad, his foot’s bleeding,” Beth said.

Pete wasn’t wearing shoes! And his foot was bleeding! I picked him up and Anna plucked a small piece of glass out of the heel of his foot. “We need disinfectant and bandages,” she moaned. “They’re in the camper, and our camper,” she said, “is at the garage!”

We turned around and headed to the motel. The manager helped us clean the cut and dress it. Back we trudged to the restaurant. “Everyone have shoes on?” I begged. This time, we made it there and had some food.

Sunday morning, the mechanic towed our camper to “Darien Lake Camp Park.” We signed in and maneuvered the trailer into the site without incident. “This will be great. Staying here for a few days will be a fun detour,” I encouraged everyone. “There’s even a lake for swimming, maybe boating. Who knows?”

Once the camper was set up, we walked around the campground. Everything was soggy from the last few days of rain. There was mud everywhere; even our campsite was flooded, but the sun was out. “Let’s see about going to the lake. That’ll be fun,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Darian Lake is about ten miles down this road.” That was the office manager. Wait a minute. Ten miles? Our car’s at the gas station. “Can you give us a ride,” I asked.

“No way. I’m done for the day. Use your car.”

Right, our car is at the gas station, I thought.

“O.K. So, we don’t swim today. Let’s play volleyball. They have volleyball courts here, I think.”

“Dad, I looked at them. They’re just big mud holes with nets. We can’t use them,” Pete said. “There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”

“There’s a big problem,” Anna cautioned me. “The bathrooms aren’t just dirty, they’re unusable. They’re flush toilets and they’re full and filthy.” Anna is the connoisseur of toilets in our family. We’d left campgrounds because the bathrooms didn’t meet her approval.

“Maybe it’s just this one,” I offered. “Let’s check out the others. There are about ten of them here.”

We found one that was barely usable. The showers were no better. To get water, a quarter had to be inserted into the slot. While Anna was shampooing, we learned that twenty-five cents paid for just seven minutes of cold water. “Help! I can’t see and I don’t have any quarters,” she cried.

The kids and I scraped together a few quarters and she finished her shower. Quarters. We didn’t have any more and had three showers to go. “Beth, why don’t you go to the office and change these bills to quarters?” I asked.

Ten minutes later, she came back and said, “The office is closed. It’s Saturday and they close early. The sign said, ‘Back Monday,” so, no showers until then.“

Monday morning, the office reported. “The gas station called. They wanted to know if you would like to leave today. Your car is ready.” Yeeeeees!

We got out of there as fast as possible. The new radiator had solved our problem and the trip home would be safe. I drove, feeling relieved. Anna rode in stress mode, watching the temperature dial. “It’s getting hot! It’s getting hot! Stop the car.”

It was hot, but not overheated. I slowed down, and the temperature remained hot, but not in the danger zone. Instead of driving 70 miles per hour, I drove 40, so the trip took twice as long, but finally, “We’re home,” I said as I pulled into our driveway.

“You know, I’m thinking that next year, we could drive to the Grand Canyon.”

The car shook. The whole neighborhood heard the screaming.

“No. Never Again!”

Talking Turkey

by Patty Perrin | Nov 21, 2021 | Creations, Fiction, Humor

By L. Stevens

In a remote, cold country field in the Florida Panhandle, the feathered pastor addressed his wild turkey flock. “In this, the first week of November, we offer our heartfelt prayers for our domesticated cousins, for this is the time of their annual tribulation. Let us bow our beaks and pray, ‘Oh, Heavenly Fowl, we implore thee that the sacrifice of these innocents may, on Thanksgiving Day, heighten the spirit of humble gratitude across this land. Amen’.”

As the service ended, a young poult approached his grandfather. “Poppy, what cousins was the pastor talking about?”

“He spoke of the many descendants of Tom and Henrietta, the first wild turkeys taken into captivity and domesticated, more than 2,000 years ago.”

“What’s that mean, domesticated?”

“Well, son, the humans put them in confinement, and fed them large amounts of grain so they’d be fat, and have sweeter tasting meat. That’s why they’re twice our size. I hate to speak ill of our overweight relatives, but my goodness, they’re enormous.” The old bird knew the curious youngster would learn the facts eventually. Better from him than his friends.

“What’s the deal with people eating turkey on Thanksgiving, Poppy?”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding of history, I’m afraid. The first Thanksgiving was when the Pilgrims, early American settlers, gave thanks to their God for the blessings of their first harvest. Friendly Indians brought deer and there was duck and pheasant for the dinner, but no turkey that day. It’s not clear what inspired the eating of turkeys to give thanks; it certainly caught on in a big way.”

“My friend says the Pilgrims were dumb. Their pants were always falling down, because they wore their belt buckles on their hats.”

“Hah! That’s an old joke.” Poppy went on, “Now, we wild turkeys are blessed. Humans aren’t fond of our gamey meat. Oh, they like to shoot their guns at us, but on the whole they’re poor shots, and not half as smart as we are in the woods. You’ll hear more on this at training camp before the hunting season starts in March. But you asked about Thanksgiving.”

He continued the lesson. “It was a disaster for the descendants of Tom and Henrietta, who are now the main course of most Thanksgiving dinners. On that day, humans stuff themselves with food to the bursting point, then fall asleep afterwards. Before their holiday season is over, many of them will amass a good deal of body weight, I suppose in the manner of our fattened cousins.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Poppy?” the youngster asked.

“I’m the flock’s historian, I suppose. We wild turkeys have quite a history. When they formed the United States, a man named Ben Franklin proposed our species as the national bird. We lost out to the bald eagle, that thieving, carrion-eating degenerate.”

“Yeah, my teacher says the bald eagle is too lazy to fish for himself, he’d rather steal what other birds catch. We got cheated.”

“Well, it’s uncertain Franklin’s proposal was serious. Some say he suggested it to annoy Thomas Jefferson, who wouldn’t eat turkey–it upset his stomach and made him break out in a rash.”

“That wasn’t fair, Poppy.”

“It seems one did not trifle with Jefferson, though some believe Franklin started calling male turkeys ‘Tom’ to rankle him, and it probably did. You see, George Washington, the first president, declared Thanksgiving a national observance, and John Adams continued the tradition. When it was Jefferson’s turn, though, he canceled the holiday. His excuse was, an official day to give thanks to the Creator violated the separation of church and state. But people figured it was because he couldn’t tolerate turkey meat.”

“I’ll bet that made our cousins happy,” the poult exclaimed.

“I suppose—for eight years, anyway.” The wise old bird sighed. “It’s sad, for that’s when they missed their golden opportunity to give up their lazy domesticated lives and join us in the wild.”

The old bird gobbled and commenced to deliver what to older members of the flock was a familiar rant: “They could have exercised, braved the elements, gotten lean and mean, and above all, become tough and gamey. They could have worked like we do to find nourishment, instead of sitting around gorging themselves on free food. But I suppose they were too far gone. They liked the soft life. It doesn’t pay to get soft, youngster.”

“When I grow up, I want to be tough and gamey, Poppy.”

“You shall, my lad. For that I give thanks.”

The Planet Exchange

by Patty Perrin | Sep 4, 2021 | Creations, Fiction, Writing

By L. Stevens

I enjoy writing, and participate in a fiction writers’ group that sends out monthly “prompts”, (suggested topics), challenging the members to compose short pieces accordingly.

Here’s a recent example; it left me without a clue.

8/02/21 This month’s prompt:

The Dog Days of summer are named for the rise of Sirius in the night sky this time of year (known as the “Dog Star” by the ancients). Write a story in which the night sky, and stars you can see in it, figure prominently. This can be science fiction, but does not need to be. Make your story 500-600 words long.

I know nothing about the stars, except they’re nice to look at. Beyond that, how was I to write a story with not less than 500 words about the stars I see in the sky on a cloudless summer night? Even with unforgivable repetition, it was a stretch.

My best effort started out like this:

It was a warm summer night in North Florida when my wife called me to our outside patio, where she exclaimed, “There’s not a cloud in the sky. Would you look at the stars out tonight!”

“Amazing,” I agreed. Judy was right. That day, at the Planetarium, she’d learned how the “Dog Days of Summer” got their name in ancient times, from the rise of Sirius (the Dog Star) in the night sky this time of year.

With the moon and the stars all lit up, even our property was illuminated. A person could walk around on the street and see where he was going. That’s what I decided to do. “I’m going to take Spot for a walk,” I said.

“But you took him already, before dinner,” my wife reminded me.

“Yeah, but the stars weren’t out then. Don’t forget, it’s his “Dog Days”, too. And besides, he’s already done his business…I won’t need to bring a poo-poo bag.”

My story had gone from the Dog Days to dog crap. My heart wasn’t in it. I had to stop there, to toss in the towel. Maybe, next time, the ‘prompt’ would give me something to work with.

Then, I met with my friend Chuck, and everything changed. What follows is my submission to the group.

* * *

8/14/21

“So, it’s over, you and Ginger?” From our recent phone conversation, I’d been aware things were rocky between my buddy Chuck and his fiancée. He was down; I’d stopped by his apartment to check on him.

“She accused me of putting off tying the knot, taking her youth, no commitment, yada, yada. Same old story for the last ten years, like a broken record.”

I blinked. “You’ve been together that long…”

“And she’s hocking the diamond, not giving it back. She handed me this instead— heartless.” He reached for a framed certificate and passed it to me.

“Global Star Registry. Ah, so you got a star named after the two of you. Heavenly Ginger-Chuck. Neat.”

“For our fifth anniversary.” Chuck shook his head.

“Of your engagement, you’re saying.”

“Yeah.” He groaned. “What am I supposed to do with this thing? It’s an embarrassment. Now, there’s a Ginger-Chuck floating around out there. Forever, for God’s sake! You sure can’t pull it out of the sky, can you?”

“Not really,” I agreed with a sigh. Heavenly Ginger-Chuck…

* * *

I’m a problem solver, and a serial entrepreneur. Thinking out of the box is my forte. So, I researched the Global Star Registry.

The company began the sale of naming rights to stars some fifty years ago. In a news article I found, the firm claims to have named and sold one million of them since. “Ours is a seasonal business,” explained Morris “Mo” Lester, it’s founder. “Strong at Christmas, but even more around Valentine’s Day. And the month of June, as bridal gifts.” With that, I realized how countless other parted lovers shared Chuck’s predicament.

Each year, on average, 20,000 new astronomical dedications inhabit the firmament. Often, in honor of couples, as a sign their love is eternal. Until it isn’t.

Because about half of all marriages end in divorce, engagements like Chuck and Ginger’s die, and thus, the heavens fill with sad, painful memories. There could be 100,000 or more stars fitting such description in the skies. Neither the couples nor the galaxy are any the better for it.

My stroke of genius came by way of a radio commercial. “We will get you out of your time-share, or you owe nothing.” That’s it! People like Chuck need a recycling service for the stars that bear their names, forever stigmatizing their dashed hopes and broken hearts.

For a small fee, my new company will assume responsibility for such humiliations, and extend re-naming rights to the public at ‘used star’ prices. Planet Exchange, “the place where stars are re-born”, will assist humanity and the planet in brightening the atmosphere of outer space. Shark Tank, here I come.

* * *

Chuck was my new company’s first customer, and though my hopes for Shark Tank hadn’t come through, soon Craig’s List had produced a steady flow of business, from all over the country. The healing of the heavens had begun.

Then, six months later, I confronted the Achille’s Heel of the business model, the thing I should have anticipated. Chuck got a marriage license and went with Ginger to City Hall, where a municipal judge pronounced them man and wife. Then it was off to the Bahamas for their honeymoon.

“What am I supposed to tell Ginger?” Chuck pleaded, when they got back to town.

“Your Heavenly Ginger-Chuck was my first transaction,” I explained to my disheartened friend. “It’s now named after an Ocala boy’s dog that got hit by a car—Patches in the Sky. There’s no way I’m going to that little boy…”

Tears welled-up in Chuck’s eyes. “What did I do, Arthur?” he cried out. “I’m an idiot. I should never have been in such a hurry.”

“We can handle this,” I assured my friend. “I have plenty of inventory, and I’ll do a new Heavenly Ginger-Chuck. As a wedding gift.” Chuck looked doubtful.

I added, “Probably best we don’t let Ginger know there’s a new edition.” Then inspiration struck again. “And someday, if the two of you get a dog, you might want to name it “Patches”. See how it all fits together?”

Ladder

by Patty Perrin | May 3, 2021 | Creations, Flash Fiction

By Farrell Fand

“Joe, all you have to do is climb up the ladder, reach up, turn the knob, and come back down. It’s not so hard. Actually, I would do it myself, but then who would hold the ladder? You’re not strong enough to hold it for me, so I’ll hold it while you go up.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Frank. This ladder is 12 feet long. If I go up there, there isn’t anything except the ladder to hold onto. And you’re asking me to hold this four pound wrench in my hand while l climb up, so that I can turn the knob once I get there. Are you sure you can’t do this yourself?”

“I’m telling you, I’d do it myself but I would need someone to hold the ladder for me and you’re too light to do that. There isn’t anyone else around today, so you’re the only one I can ask.”

“O.K. I’ll go up there, but you’d better hold that ladder tightly. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, but I do get nervous when I’m up high, and I’ll need to know that you’re down there holding it firmly, so that it can’t move. One shift and I could fall. I can’t imagine what that would be like, but it wouldn’t be good. A drop from twelve feet onto the ground would kill me, I’ll bet.”

“Look, Joe, stop talking about falling. What’s the likelihood of that? I’ll be here the whole time and I’ll be holding this ladder the way I would want you to hold it for me. Now, why don’t you start climbing up? It won’t be so hard and we have to get that knob turned off before the electricity shorts out.”

“What? Electricity? What does that knob control? Are you telling me that I’m going up twelve feet and turning a knob with a wrench and what I’m turning has electricity running through it? What if I get electrocuted? I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Well, it is a kind of electrical switch, but it’s perfectly safe and you’ll be grounded through the ladder, which will work because it’s on the ground. Believe me, there’s no danger of getting electrocuted by turning that knob. You’ll be safe. I’m telling you, I’d do it myself, but no one is here to hold the ladder for me. I’d be up and down in about two minutes, and that’s all it’ll take you. Just go up there, turn the knob with the wrench, and climb back down. Nothing to it.

“Oh, and when you’re up there just don’t touch the edge of the roof. It’s a metal edging that keeps the water from getting between the layers of roofing and you don’t want to touch that. You know metal and electricity don’t go well together. So, be sure not to hold onto the roof, once you’re up there, turning that knob.”

“Look, Frank, this sounds more and more dangerous. Are you telling me it’s really safe? I don’t plan to risk my life just to turn some stupid knob. I mean, that’s really way up there and I’m not so wild about heights, and even less crazy about playing around with electricity, especially when I’m so far off the ground. I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Listen I’ll give you $25.00 if you do it for me. I know you’re my friend and really don’t want any money from me, but it’s worth it to me to get that knob turned and it would just be a friendly gesture from me to you. What do you say?”

“Oh, all right. I’ll do it. We have been friends for a long time and I guess I owe you a favor, after that accident we had. I still feel it wasn’t my fault that I totaled your car that night. I mean, you were there too and we hadn’t had too much to drink, not too much. I was just going to drive a couple of blocks. How was I to know that someone was going to go through the yellow light? I did step on the brake, but I couldn’t stop in time. I still feel horrible about how badly Linda was hurt, but she’s doing better now, right? I guess I do owe you something.

“I mean, I would have paid for your car, except you know I’ve been out of work for more than a year and don’t have any money. I would have thought that your insurance company would pay for it and for Linda’s rehab, even though I was driving. It was the drinking that messed up that insurance claim, not my fault. And Linda walks just fine now, when she’s wearing those braces on her legs.

“Frank, I’ going up there right now. Be sure to hold this ladder tightly. I don’t want it shaking, because I’m really a bit shaky myself, going up twelve feet to that roof.”

“Great. Now Joe, one foot at a time. Be careful. Up you go. Good, keep going. You’re halfway there. You’ll be there soon. O.K. now you’re at the top. Take the wrench and turn that knob.

Oh, and Joe I don’t forgive you for what you did to Linda; never did. Look down here for a second. I’m turning on this electrical switch. Can you see this wire attached to the ladder? You’re finally getting what you deserve.”

The Castaways

by Patty Perrin | Apr 18, 2021 | Creations, Flash Fiction

By L. Stevens

My partner paces back and forth, clearly unsettled, recounting the latest conversation with Ben. “He said, ‘Something happened. Like the wind changing directions, she wasn’t who she appeared to be.’ His exact words.”

I shake my head. “Ben certainly has a way with words. ‘Like the wind changing directions.’ That’s poetic.”

Zenar glared. “This is serious. I’ve noticed something too. The surgery was less than perfect. We’re changing.”

“I’m not worried about Ben. He saw me without my make-up.” That isn’t exactly true. I’ve seen the differences myself, and it’s a concern. My lips are wrinkled, my eyes have lines and I see brown spots on my skin. I see it in Zenar, as well. Fortunately, as we’ve known, earthlings don’t stay focused on any one thing for very long.

My partner goes on. “Pretty soon he’ll start talking, making other people aware. We may not be able to stay here.”

“Relax, rookie. The next time Ben sees me, I’ll be made up, and he’ll have forgotten what he saw before.” Zenar is new to this line of work. We’re in serious trouble, but I don’t want to panic the novice. I’ve worked on this planet since humans dropped the A-bombs, in the year 1945. I don’t like to brag, but as everyone knows, that never happened again, not on my watch.

Back then, the technicians that prepared us agents for work on Earth were not able to build in aging. Nothing ever changed physically in the earlier releases of their work, a major disadvantage. In the Forties, I’d been placed in the U.S. Department of State. By the time the Cuban missile crisis broke in 1962, I drew attention for not looking a day older in seventeen years. Russia pulled the weapons out of Cuba, Kennedy did the same in Turkey, and headquarters killed me off and brought me home.

The lab guys still have work to do calibrating their aging process accurately. I never fully understood it, but on Earth, time moves much differently from our world, in ways that are difficult to scale. Our techies are very bright, but this has them stumped. When they sent me back to Earth this time, with a new partner, we saw the problem; Zenar and I look ten years older every few months. And feel it.

Zenar is right about our stay. For people working in intelligence service, NSA folks in New York aren’t the most observant people in the world (that explains why they put us there), but their spotting us isn’t the major problem. At the rate things are going, it won’t be long before we die of old age. It’s critical we leave Earth before that happens. I need to call home, via telepathy.

My talk with headquarters sobers me up. We aren’t going anywhere. It seems the game is over for us. The weapons of mass destruction we’ve held in check are now irrelevant. Biowarfare, in the form of a deadly virus, has been unleashed, and it’s mutating. They first called it Covid-19, but it’s become much worse. My boss, if he even knows, isn’t saying which nation set it off.

“It’s the one thing we’ve always feared.” he tells me. “We don’t have viruses here, don’t want them, and have never dealt with the ones on Earth. Nuclear reaction we can deal with. This is another story, and when a civilization is hell-bent on suicide, well…”

The problem for me and Zenar is that they won’t allow us back. We’re outcasts; pariahs. The good news is New York’s governor is putting us in a nursing home for our safety.

The Car

by Patty Perrin | Mar 12, 2021 | Creations, Flash Fiction, Humor

By Farrell Fand

The old neighborhood in Newark isn’t the same anymore. Just about everything has changed. The street, Belmont Avenue, now Irvine Turner Boulevard, is very different. It’s not a very wide street, but back in 1948, when I was seven, it looked like a huge expanse to me. The new two family house that now stands on the property has the same back yard, but the row of five connected wooden garages is gone, replaced with grass. All that’s left of the former buildings is the number.

Times were different back then. Children were told to “go out and play,” and parents didn’t feel they needed to worry about their safety. There was no such thing as a child saying, “I’m bored.” It was expected that kids would figure out what to do to keep ourselves occupied, and we did.

And did we stay out of trouble? Well, that’s a whole other thing.

“Hey Georgeeeeey! Hey Georgeeeeeeeey!” I was shouting from Georgie’s backyard, up to the third floor apartment where he lived. That was how we called for each other in the neighborhood. No one would ever think of using the phone. That was for adults. It usually didn’t take more than two tries to get him downstairs to play.

“Hi Chuck. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go play in my backyard. We can have a war with our soldiers. That’d be fun.” We both had lots of toy metal soldiers stored in our houses. Why metal? Plastic hadn’t been invented yet.

“That’s good,” Georgie said. “I’ll go get mine and you get yours; then I’ll come over. I got some new ones yesterday. Wait ‘til you see them.”

“O.K. Come right over.”

“Bang, bang, bang, eh, eh, eh, eh! Your guy’s dead, Chuck.”

“No he’s not. You missed him.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Arguments like that could continue for quite a while, but ten minutes was more than enough this time. “Georgie, let’s do something else. We could go to Mrs. Smith’s garden and try to catch some bees. I have a jar in my back hall that we can use. We’d have to be really quiet, because she almost caught me last time and I’m really afraid of her.”

“Nah, Chuck, I don’t feel like it. What else can we do?”

“I don’t know. I guess we could play marbles, but Stephen and John-Thomas both went away for a few days and you need at least four kids to play a good game of marbles.”

“I don’t feel like playing marbles either. There must be something else around that we can do, Chuck. Let’s think!”

“Hey Georgie, look over there. One of the garage doors is open a little! They’re never open. Everybody locks them. I wonder what’s inside. Should we go over and peek in? What do you think?”

“Well,” said Georgie, “We’re not supposed to go near those garages. We could get into trouble.”

“O.K., you’re right. We could get into really big trouble. But that door’s open enough for us to just take a look inside. That wouldn’t be wrong, would it?”

“Let’s just take a quick peek, Chuck. That can’t be wrong. We won’t even touch the door. No one will ever know, right?”

“O.K. This is really fun, isn’t it? It’s like we’re detectives. Let’s see what’s in there.”

“Oooh look!” said Chuck. “It’s a car. It’s beautiful! It has four doors and it’s so shiny. This must be Mr. Matucci’s car. He comes here every weekend and takes it out for a drive. I guess it just stays in this garage the rest of the time. Wow!”

“I wonder if we squeezed inside, just to get a little closer, would that be all right? We wouldn’t touch anything, and we could get to see all of it. We sure can’t see all of it from out here. Let’s go in…”

“Chuck, look at that roof! Is that made of some kind of leather or something? You know, we can see it best if we get right up onto the car. Then, we’ll get a good look. It sure looks special.”

“Be careful climbing on the hood, Georgie. We don’t want to scratch it or anything. We’re just going to look at that roof. I’ll bet it’s leather or some other stuff. This is a fancy car!”

“I can’t believe how high we are. This is a really high car, isn’t it? I think this is the highest I’ve ever climbed. And look at this roof. Wow! I’m not sure what it’s made of. I can’t tell,” Chuck said.

“But look at this, Chuck. This one corner isn’t stuck down completely. It’s a teeny bit lifted off of the roof. I’m going to try to push it down, to fix it. Look at us, fixing a car. This is so great, isn’t it?”

“Wait a minute, Georgie; this corner doesn’t look right either. Let’s just pull both corners up a little bit, and then we can see if we can get it to fit right.”

“Chuck, you have to pull your side harder. Look, I’m pulling with all my might. This corner is pretty stuck on the roof. Let’s pull together. O.K., one, two, three PULL!”

“Oh no! Georgie, we pulled too hard! Half of the roof came off. What are we gonna do now? Oh boy, we’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

“I know what. Let’s get out of here! Run!” and we did.

The Next Sunday

Joe Matucci’s car was a perfectly restored 1935 Chevrolet four door sedan. He had spent more than a year refurbishing it to its original condition. The next day, Sunday, was the day he was going to show it off and get recognized for his accomplishment. The car was perfect! It looked like it belonged on a showroom floor as if it were a new car. Joe didn’t have any children and this amazing car was his baby, so to speak.

He got to the garage behind the house at 490 Belmont Avenue, really eager to get on the road. At first, he noticed that the door was unlocked. Could he have forgotten to put the padlock on last week? But, this was a really safe neighborhood. The lock was more for appearances than anything else.

Then, he noticed that the door was ajar, which was strange. He threw it open and saw his beautiful car with half of its roof sticking up in the air! “No! No, no, no, no, no! What happened?” He didn’t even know what to say. Then, he looked closer and noticed small footprints on the hood. He could feel his blood boiling. “Who would do something like that?” he fumed. “Why would anyone mutilate a beautiful car like this one?” he screamed.

After questioning some of the neighbors and, with the help of the landlady, Mr. Matucci came to a conclusion about who had damaged his car.

He told our parents about what had happened and that it looked like Georgie and I were the vandals. When we were confronted with the accusation, we both made tearful admissions about what we had done.

We explained that we had thought we were fixing the car. Pulling up the roof like we did was really an accident. Of course, that explanation didn’t cover our going into the garage in the first place and then climbing up onto the car’s roof.

Our parents were furious with us, and agreed to pay for any repairs. Mr. Matucci, still upset with what had happened, moved his beloved car to another garage, in a different neighborhood.

Georgie and I thought that the whole incident was finished, but then our parents called us together and we had a group meeting. Georgie’s dad spoke for all four of the parents. “We know that you two boys are really good and usually follow rules, but this time, you can see what happened when you didn’t follow them.

“Both of our families have to pay for the damage you’ve done. It’s obvious that you two can’t afford all of that cost, but there are consequences for your actions. First, both of you won’t be getting your allowance for four weeks. That money will go toward repairing the damage.

“Since Mr. Matucci is moving his car to a different garage, it won’t be available, but our families’ two cars will and we’re going to use our cars to teach you respect for cars and for other people’s property. Every Sunday, for the next five weeks, both of you are going to wash our families’ cars. If it rains, you’ll do it the next dry day.

“Don’t even try to complain about it. That’s a final decision from all four of your parents. The washing starts this coming Sunday.”

Georgie and I spent many long hours washing cars and talking about how we didn’t want to get into trouble ever again.

Looking back on that time and what we did, I’m surprised at how events in one’s youth can foreshadow what’s to come later in life. After a while, as we grew up, Georgie and I lost contact with each other, not because of any argument or disagreement. We just drifted. I don’t even know where he lives now.

I’m amazed at how things have turned out for me. Here I am, 75 years old, and a successful businessman. I never could have guessed that my success would be in automated car washes. I own seven of them, all in different locations around the state. Who would have thought, all those years ago, that I would wind up washing cars just about all of my adult life?