Fiction Archives

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?”

Elvis Never Died Like They Said

by Patty Perrin | Jan 26, 2021 | Creations, Fiction, Humor

By L. Stevens

I could see Jackie Carter was annoyed. Heads turned and ears pricked up in every cubicle in the office. “Larry, damn it! Go buy your own stupid cake if you want one. I’ve got better things to do. Now skedaddle!” Jackie’s workload had gotten much heavier since the recent layoffs at the Food Service company where we worked, and Larry Thigpen was wasting her time.

A while later, I stopped by her desk. “What’s that about a cake? Larry wants you to buy a cake?”

Looking exasperated, she shook her head. “I swear, does that man have a real job here, or do they pay him to walk around and pester people about Elvis Presley and UFO’s? It’s maddening. I had to shoo him away from Janice the other day. He had her all worked up—for a good twenty minutes—about the crop circles. Did he show you those pictures?”

“I have to admit, those things are fascinating,” I said. “You know, another ‘ride-with’ canceled on him this morning, so he’s got time on his hands today. We know what that means.” Larry Thigpen is the company’s sales trainer; part of his job it is to ride along with junior salespeople as they make customer calls. In theory, it’s to train them in sales skills. However, it was not uncommon for a struggling trainee to be terminated shortly after spending a day with Larry. Some think he’s the General Manager’s “hatchet man.” So, for job security, junior sales reps on his schedule often make excuses and beg off, leaving Larry with an entire day to kill.

“Most of the reps run from him. I can’t imagine why. Looks like the company would lay him off,” Jackie said, sarcasm in her voice.

“Not going to happen so long as his buddy Bill is General Manager,” I answered. When Bill Snyder was hired two years ago, he brought along his crony Larry to report directly to himself, by-passing the Sales Manager and the Training Department. The two had lunch together at least once a week.

Larry made a point of letting Jackie, the office supervisor, know. “I’m going to lunch with Bill, in case anyone is looking for me.” And Jackie would roll her eyes.

“What was the deal with the cake?” I asked, recalling why I’d stopped by to see her.

“He wants me to take up a collection in the office, like I do for employees’ birthdays, and order a cake for Elvis’s 80th, in 2015, right after New Years’. Remember he brought one in last year? He’s asking for donations this time.”

“That’s a laugh. I wonder when O.J.’s birthday is?” He’s been on that kick lately, too.”

“Tell me about it. He just eats up the attention when people argue with him. I’m too busy for his foolishness.”

Back at my desk I checked a new personal email on my phone— a ‘prompt’ for the next meeting of my fiction writers’ group. “Write 1,000 words or less about your most unforgettable character.” This will be easy. Larry is industrial strength unforgettable. The piece will write itself.

Days later Larry Thigpen stood at my desk, miffed about the story I wrote for the ‘prompt’, which I had also emailed to the folks in our department.

“Pulver, I don’t appreciate you making me sound like an idiot. You never heard me say Elvis is still alive—he could be dead by now, we don’t know. But he never died like they said—they made it to look that way.”

My tale told of a whacky Elvis Presley enthusiast. My character ‘Harry’ often visits the ‘Evidence Elvis is Alive’ Facebook page. There he ‘friends’ a man called ‘Barry’. They get on famously. In the office, the story got a lot of laughs.

The flesh and blood Larry Thigpen cherished an autographed copy of “The Elvis Conspiracy” by Meg Keller. He’d picked up that prize when he and his wife departed West Palm Beach at 1 A.M. and drove eight hours to the author’s Barnes and Noble book-signing in Atlanta. The man is dedicated.

He glowered. “And what’s the stuff about me claiming O.J. didn’t kill Nicole? What’s O.J. got do with Elvis?”

“Take it easy, man,” I said. “It’s only a story. Fiction, get it? About two guys named Harry and Barry.”

“Bullshit!” he snarled. “You changed my name from Larry to ‘Harry’ and threw in ‘Barry’. Who’s that supposed to fool? Harry can kiss my hairy butt, and that goes for Barry, too!”

“I like the name ‘Harry’,” I lied. “And O.J.? I remember you telling me, some time back…” He scowled, but I continued. “But everything about Elvis was true, wasn’t it? Things you’ve said yourself.”

“It’s still a bunch of crap,” he said. “You made me look the fool—I heard people in the office laughing.”

He wasn’t wrong. The character in my razzing satire could only be Larry. And I did make his obsession with ‘The King’ sound ridiculous.

He never stops with his insistent, overbearing, contrary nonsense. When you try not to take the bait, he keeps it up. No matter how you fight him off, he comes back for more. Jackie is right; it’s all about his being the center of attention. So, it’s hard to resist a response. And, I’ll admit, sort of fun.

“Help me out here, Larry. The part in the story I wrote, where the Mafia guys think he’s a government mole, that Elvis is working with the FBI in Las Vegas? You saying that’s B.S.?”

“No, no, that’s true,” Larry insisted. “It’s proven fact Elvis went to the White House and volunteered in the war on drugs, and President Nixon gave him an honorary badge. In Vegas, some mob guys figured Elvis was a stool pigeon.”

We’d had this conversation more than once, but when Larry gets going about Elvis, he doesn’t mind repeating himself. “Was he?” I prodded. “Working undercover for the Feds, I mean?”

“Well, somebody sure must have thought so.” He raised an eyebrow, looking pleased with himself, as if he’d dispensed some indisputable logic.

I persisted. “So, to keep Elvis from getting rubbed out by the mob, the FBI faked his death and put him in the Witness Protection Program?”

“Exactly. That’s why the family spelled his middle name wrong on the
tombstone—with two” A”’s. His birth certificate spells Aron with one “A”. They knew they wasn’t burying Elvis.” The way he said it, it sounded obvious.

“I mentioned that in the story. And the million-dollar insurance policy on his life they never cashed—is that the truth?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Would have been a crime to collect it when they knew he wasn’t dead.” Larry had simmered down, happy for the opportunity to go on about ‘The King’.

“Can I ask you something, Larry? If people in the office are laughing— like you say—what does that tell you?”

He ignored that with the grace of a matador, and stayed on the offense.

“How come you didn’t talk about the picture I showed you in the ‘Conspiracy’ book, the one of Elvis with Muhammed Ali, seven years after he was supposed to be dead?”

“The photo was fuzzy. It could have been Engelbert Humperdinck for all I could tell.”

“It’s Elvis. Come on, man. Humperdinck would’a sued the pants off the writer and the book publisher. That’s misidentification. Premeditated.”

‘Premeditated misrepresentation’? I choked on my Snickers bar. “Sweet Jesus, Larry! Nobody said it was Engelbert…ahh, never mind. The thing is, my story could only be a thousand words. I couldn’t put in everything.”

Larry jumped all over my lame excuse. “Man, you lie like a dog! How come you mixed in O.J., if you were running out of words?”

“You don’t understand fiction—I used that to make it colorful.”

“Colorful, my ass!”

“But I’m curious, Larry. Do you honestly believe O.J. wasn’t the actual killer?”

“Let me just say this: O.J. was a world-class athlete. A millionaire movie star. Everybody said he was a stand-up guy.”

“He was great in ‘The Naked Gun’.” I admitted.

“And you believe those lying bums on the LAPD over somebody like O.J. Simpson? Shee-it!” He was warmed up now. “No way he did it, and I can pretty well prove it to anybody with common sense.”

“You can prove it?”

“Sure. When they brought in the bloody glove, it was a dead giveaway. There was no way those detectives didn’t plant it for fake evidence.”

“The glove didn’t fit, you’re saying. But did you ever think that probably the leather glove dried up and shrunk?” I asked.

“Shrunk’s not the point. Here’s the deal. O.J. was a professional football running back, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So, the guy who hardly ever fumbled the football when he was playing is going to let a glove slip off his hand— and leave it laying there? No way! The first thing a football player does when he drops the ball is, he jumps on it to recover it, from pure instinct, like second nature. If O.J. fumbled that glove, he’d a snatched it up in a heartbeat. Right there’s the dead give-away. But I guess the cops was too dumb to think of that angle. I’m surprised Johnny Cochrane didn’t point it out. I damned sure would have.”

“You’d have made one hell of a criminal attorney, Larry. You should have been on the defense team.” The image of Larry, sitting alongside Johnny Cochrane and Robert Shapiro in the televised courtroom broke me up. I laughed, and couldn’t control myself; tears ran down my face.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny. Interesting how you’ve got time to write cute stories to pass around the office—at a time like this, people being let go. Did you send a copy to Bill? I imagine he’d get a real kick out of it. Maybe I’ll do that.”

The snake! Is that a threat? It feels more like a challenge, to me.

The next day Jackie Carter called out as I walked into the lunch room. “Pulver, come here. You gotta’ hear this.” Mischief danced in her eyes. I took a seat at her table.

She lowered her voice. “So, you know that Larry Thigpen brags to the new sales trainees about what a good golfer he is, right? Well, this morning it bit him in the butt. What a hoot!”

“Yeah. It beats me why he does that. What happened?”

Jackie explained what she’d heard from the grapevine. Mr. Jenkins, the owner of our company, needed a decent golfer to host the execs of a large account at his country club’s course on the weekend. Tom Boyd, our sales manager, is a low-handicap player. He usually does those honors. But Tom was out of town.

It seems my buddy Mark Shapiro overheard Mr. Jenkins’ secretary talking about it, and he suggested Larry could do it. As Jackie got it, when they told Larry that Mr. Jenkins wanted him to play, he turned green.

“Hah! I’ll bet his sphincter muscle puckered. He can’t break 100. He stinks.”

“So I’ve heard. Can you imagine? Mercy!” she howled.

“That must have been something to watch. Last thing he’d want is to embarrass himself for eighteen holes. In front of important customers, to boot. At that ritzy private club? No way…”

“Isn’t that too funny? So, I guess he talked his way out of it. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall.” Jackie raised her hand in a ‘high-five’ move.

Just then Mark Shapiro come through the door, heading for the coffee pot. I yelled, “Hey, Mark, I salute you, Sir. Good one!” I was sure he’d set Larry up, had called his bluff.

He filled his cup and walked over to us. “Not as good as you’d think. He weaseled out. Told Ellen he never claimed to be a good golfer. But, shoot, I’ve heard him say exactly that. More than once.”

“That would be Larry,” I said. So, Larry Thigpen got a comeuppance. Good.

Mark looked uncomfortable. “I’m not so sure you’ll appreciate how it went, Pulver. He threw you under the bus.”

“Me?” My pulse quickened. “How?”

“Well…Ellen called me to her office, wanted to know why I’d recommended Larry, when he said he’d never played golf. I said I was sorry. I understood otherwise, my mistake.”

He hesitated, then added, “And he also told her, ‘No doubt that’s something Arthur Pulver dreamed up for his ‘fiction writing’ club, and spread around the office.’ Then Bill walked in and asked her what was going on. I got the hell out of there, so that’s as much as I know.”

That lying bastard! He lies, then blames me! This can’t go unanswered…

~~~~~

Office chatter on Monday morning, the 29th of December 2014, was of Christmas gifts and plans for New Year’s Eve. I was excited about something else altogether.

In the days since Christmas, I’d researched Elvis Presley history and hatched my plan for payback. And was it a dandy! Pulver, old man, if this works, you will have outdone yourself!

I headed for Jackie’s desk and handed her a note. “Check out this webpage, and make sure Larry gets an eyeful. This should interest him.” In a minute the page was loaded on her monitor.

____________________

Palms News Service

DOES ELVIS HAUNT THE WEST PALM SHERATON?

by Edward Glenn

December 19, 2014

The appearance by Elvis Presley in our town on February 13, 1977 would sadly be part of his final tour. That night, the entire fourth and fifth floors of the West Palm Sheraton served as headquarters for the 42-year-old King of Rock n’ Roll and his entourage. The motor lodge on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard was a stone’s throw from the West Palm Beach Auditorium, the site of the concert. Six months later he was gone.

Until about five years ago — according to some recent reports in West Palm Beach, when guests at the historic Sheraton reported seeing apparitions they describe as “Elvis’s ghost.”

Your correspondent met this week with Jack Bartleson, General Manager of the Sheraton property. “People tell similar stories as the first time, five years ago,” he informed me. “At least ten guests claim to have seen Elvis’s ghost.”

The ‘appearances’ began in January, 2010, according to the manager. He had organized a “75th Birthday Party” for Elvis. “It was a publicity thing. We invited local musicians, Channel 5 TV, and a writer from the paper. We decorated the lobby and the banquet room with photos and memorabilia, and I hired an Elvis impersonator as the ‘guest of honor.’ He wore a white jumpsuit like the one Presley wore at the Auditorium.

“The party was a success and ran late that night; the media was long gone. As we wrapped things up, a middle-aged couple came from the elevator. They rushed up to the Elvis impersonator in the lobby, who was saying his goodbyes. The gent says: ‘How in the world did you do that?’ He thought the fellow had tricked them somehow.”

“The Elvis guy asked what he’d done,” Mr. Bartleson continued. “The couple described coming back to the hotel shortly after midnight. They got on the elevator, and when the door closed, they claimed to see another ‘Elvis’ at the rear of the lift. They hadn’t seen him at first, but there he was, dressed in black, not white. Naturally, they took him as part of the festivities. When they got to their floor, and the door opened, they turned to say goodnight to him. But whoever, whatever, had disappeared– they were alone. That’s what they said.”

The manager went on, “The couple came back down to investigate. When they got on the elevator, according to them, no sooner had the door closed, than ‘Elvis’ was back.

“It petrified them. But when the door opened at the lobby, just as before, he was gone. “

Bartleson stressed: “I can verify, the couple was sober, and not crazy. But very frightened.”

Concerning later sightings, the manager was equally definite.

“The same thing happens, always after midnight, on the 8th of January, his birthday. People say he never speaks, just looks sad.”

Until recently the hotel had not gone public about the phenomena. ”It would disturb some folks, obviously. We kept it quiet.

“But two weeks ago, a guest went to the newspaper. After that, others confirmed the same thing. At this point, we might as well enjoy the free publicity.”

However, Bartleson had a disclaimer about the upcoming 8th of January, Presley’s 8oth birthday.

“Only registered guests for that night will have access to the elevators, until the following morning. If it takes a security guard to enforce it, I’ll hire one.”

________________________________

Jackie sounded doubtful. “Well, yeah, this will definitely get his attention. But why show it to him? It’s all we’ll hear about.”

“Hopefully, he’ll want to go check it out for himself.” I was certain he would.

When Larry got to the office that morning, I watched and listened from my nearby cubicle, as Jackie pointed to her monitor. “Take a look, Larry.” The screen displayed the article by Edward Glenn of the Palms News Service. He read it once, and then again. Minutes later, we heard his eager-sounding voice, as he walked toward the front exit, cell phone to his ear. “Can you stick my name on standby? If you get a cancellation, call me.”

“Hear him? He’s trying to reserve a room for January 8. He’s taken the bait,” I told her.

“What bait?” Jackie asked.

“There’s no Mr. Bartleson, or Palms News, or Edward Glenn. I made it all up and posted it on a WordPress blog. I’m a fiction writer—that’s what we do.”

“Seriously?” she cried out, as she slapped my hand. “You’re wicked—I fell for it, too. How funny!”

There was no birthday cake for Elvis on January 8. As the office closed, I heard Jackie ask: “Larry, are you going over to the Sheraton tonight? I’m curious to know if the ghost shows up.”

He grunted. “See you.” Then he was out the door.

Early the next morning, Larry was at Jackie’s desk. I watched and listened in. “Show me that ‘ghost’ article again, will you?” he barked. “Something is very screwed up.”

“I don’t know that I can find it.” She looked him over. “What’s the problem? You look awful.”

“No shit? If you’d been in and out of an elevator ‘til three in the morning, you would too.”

“Oh, my lord! You went there? So, did he show up? The ghost?”

He ignored her questions. “Get me that article. I want to read it again. See this?” He placed a business card on her desk. “John Richards is the manager of the Sheraton. The night clerk never heard of… what’s his name…” He pulled a note from his pocket. “Jack Bartleson. Stupid kid didn’t know anything about the Elvis party, either. I gotta see that article.”

“Larry, I’m busy right now. Maybe later. I’ll let you know what I come up with,” Jackie said. I’d taken the article down, but there was more ammunition coming.

In an hour, she called him to her desk. I listened in and situated myself to watch the proceedings. “I didn’t find it. Maybe you should call the newspaper. But—I found two things on Jack Bartleson.” She brightened. “One, his obituary. And, there’s a small article, ‘Jack Bartleson, manager of the West Palm Sheraton, found dead of heart failure,’ says he died on August 16, 1977.” She waved the fake printouts I’d given her earlier.

“August 16, 1977?” Larry had turned pale. “That’s nuts! That’s the day they claimed Elvis died…”

“How odd,” Jackie said. I could see her struggling to keep a deadpan expression.

He sputtered, “But they wrote the first article now, not 1977—about Elvis’ 80th birthday. This here says the hotel guy’s been dead almost forty years. How… did they… interview him… this week?” He looked disoriented and a bit wobbly as he found a chair a few feet away and sat down.

Jackie was magnificent. She was a fine actress; I’d had no idea. “Good Lord…you’re right!” She cried out. “Amazing! It looks like… Mr. Bartleson died the same day Elvis went into Witness Protection.”

Then she put the cherry on top. “Weird, isn’t it, Larry? I mean—you couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.”

The End

Ice

by Patty Perrin | Aug 10, 2020 | Creations, Fiction

By Farrell Fand

“Mom, it’s so hot outside. I think the sidewalk is going to melt.”

“Now, Georgie, don’t give me any trouble. You know that I’m going to have company this afternoon and I need to clean the house and get ready. My old friend, Gloria, is coming and I want to impress her. I haven’t seen her for years, and she’s always been very special to me.

“Just go outside and play.”

“O.K., but it sure is hot out there. I’ll bet it’s a gazillion degrees, honest.”

“Gazillion or not, please make it easier for me and go outside and play with your friends. Jeffrey’s your best friend and he must be outside playing too. Why don’t you go and find him?”

“All right… I’ll go out, but can I get a drink first? I’ll be really careful and won’t spill anything. I promise.”

“Sure, that’ll be fine. Just put your glass in the sink and I’ll wash it later. Have fun outside.”

Now, getting that drink was the beginning of the problem. The refrigerator had lots of orange juice in it, Georgie’s favorite, but he wanted it to be really cold, to brace himself for the “gazillion” degree heat. Lots of ice cubes would do the trick, so he loaded the glass, filled it with juice and gulped it down in a few seconds.

“Mom, I’m going out now. Call me when I should come in.”

“Have fun, Georgie. Try not to get dirty. I want you looking great for when you meet Gloria.”

Just as he was leaving the kitchen, Georgie had a “great idea.” He went to the fridge, opened the freezer, and filled his front pockets with ice cubes. “I’ll be nice and cool now,” he thought. “And these front pockets are really big, so they hold lots of ice. It’ll be like walking with a personal air conditioner right on me.”

But sometimes, what seems like a stroke of genius at one moment, can be a cause of disaster just a little while later.

Georgie found Jeffrey down the street, playing “poison” marbles with Bruce and Neil, two tough kids from around the block. For at least that moment, everyone was getting along together, no arguments, no bullying, just a game of marbles in the dirt.

Georgie always carried some marbles in his back pocket, just in case. He had ten of them and one was an incredible beauty, a big glass “jumbo.” In Poison, after making the round of holes dug out of the dirt, without being hit by other marbles, a marble became a “killer,” and would win “for keeps,” any marble he could roll and hit. Georgie was good at it and had won a lot of other kids’ marbles playing “Poison for Keeps.”

So he got down on his knees and got out his marbles to play. The only problem was, his air conditioning system was clearly malfunctioning. Oh, he was cool enough, but the ice in his pockets had begun to melt, slowly, wetting the front of his pants. By the time he had gotten his first marble through two holes, the front of his pants was soaked from the ice.

Georgie didn’t want to stop playing, but Bruce, from around the corner, noticed the wetness and started yelling and pointing. “Georgie peed in his pants. Look! He PEED in his PANTS. What a baby.” Then he started chanting, “Georgie peed in his pa….nts, Georgie Peed in his pa….nts.”

Although he started trying to explain, it was too late. Georgie was now in no position to do anything but start swinging at Bruce. In seconds, the two were fighting on the ground, marbles rolling in every direction.

When it was over, Bruce had some scrapes on his elbows and a red spot under his eye and Georgie’s shorts were no longer just wet. They had become mud, the water and dirt having mixed together. His nose was bleeding. His shirt was torn, he was blubbering, just a little bit, and his beloved Jumbo had disappeared.

It had been the sound of Georgie’s mother calling him, “Georgie, Georgie, come home now. Gloria just got here and I want her to meet you,” that stopped the fight.

Totally humiliated, Georgie picked himself up and slowly started trudging home to meet Gloria.

When he got to the back door, his mother opened it. One look was all it took. She didn’t bother to ask him what had happened. She started doing that whisper-yelling that mothers use when they get angry and they don’t want anyone but the recipient to hear. “You, you, how could you do this to me? Go and get yourself cleaned up. Then, you’ll meet Gloria and when she leaves…….YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

Lizard

by Patty Perrin | Aug 10, 2020 | Creations, Fiction

By Farrell Fand

I should never have given Tommy that butterfly net. I just thought that a boy his age, 9, would love the fun and excitement of chasing lizards all over the Florida landscape. When I was his age, my parents took me on a vacation to the Bahamas and there were lizards all over the place. All I wanted to do was chase them around and try to catch them. Naturally, that’s like trying to put a size 9 foot into a size 3 shoe…. impossible.

When I saw my son chasing lizards here, in Florida, I just knew that he should have a better time of it than I did. At least, with that net, he’d have a chance to actually catch one, something that never happened for me.

And so, I gave him the net and a plastic container to store his catches, with instructions not to run into the street while chasing lizards or do anything dangerous, to be aware of his surroundings, and to make sure he was in a safe place at all times. Of course, he promised, but I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t paying too much attention to me, eager as he was to get outside and onto the hunt.

Carla, my wife, was out shopping for god knows what, but she’d be out all day, I was sure, because she was with her friend, Marcie. She knew that I was good with Tommy and left early that morning, with promises of us all going out to dinner when she returned.

I had just received a third notice from my publisher, who told me in no uncertain terms that I was to submit the revisions of my article by 5 o’clock today, no excuses, no further delays, OR ELSE! I knew he meant it too, so I was determined to chain myself to my computer until I was finished and had that job off of my mind. It never occurred to me that I needed to be watching Tommy closely. He was really a great kid and followed directions, almost always.

So, I started to work. At first, I didn’t notice the commotion outside. It just entered my mind as background sounds, not really getting my attention. But then, I realized there was a lot of yelling out there and the sounds of many people running. It didn’t seem right. We lived in a really peaceful neighborhood, where everything was usually calm and quiet.

I went to the front door and opened it, expecting, I don’t even remember what, but certainly not what I saw. Mrs. Abrams, my next-door neighbor came running down the street, in a bikini, not a sight anyone would want to see, that’s for sure.

Not only was she running, she was screaming, “You’d better keep running you little monster, because if you stop, you’ll never run again!”

Who was she chasing? Well, at first, I wasn’t sure. My neighbor from four doors down the street, John Abernathy, was in front of her, chasing the same person. John’s face was covered in shaving cream.

Two or three other neighbors were in the same chase. Then, I saw what it was they were chasing. It wasn’t a “what” they were chasing, it was a “who,” and the who was my son, Tommy, clearly terrified and running at top speed, keeping ahead of the crowd.

So, what else can a father do? I joined the chase, yelling at people to stop chasing my son.

Now, let me stop this narrative here for a moment to fill in some important information. Remember, it all began with my giving Tommy the butterfly net to try to catch some lizards and that’s what caused all of the commotion.

Let’s start with Mrs. Abrams. Tommy had been looking for lizards to catch. He kept trying to get one, but they were too fast for him, even with his net. Then, he saw a really beautiful, big, and what looked like a lazy one, on Mrs. Abrams privet hedge. He was sure that this was the one he was going to catch, but when he got closer, the lizard went around to the other side of the hedge.

Mrs. Abrams had been enjoying the privacy of her back yard, doing some sunbathing, lounging topless, and enjoying a glass of chardonnay, when she saw some movement by her shrubs. Suddenly, Tommy’s head appeared through the hedge. He was looking for the lizard. What he got was a hysterical scream from Mrs. Abrams and a good look at what shouldn’t be seen by a boy his age.

Really frightened by the whole experience, Tommy pulled his head out from the hedge as quickly as he could and started to run. He didn’t really know where he was running, but he wanted to get away fast, and, stumbling as he went, he didn’t realize where he was headed.

Mr. Hart, a neighbor from down the street, was taking his dog, Jojo, for his afternoon walk. Tommy tripped on Jojo’s leash, which pulled out of Mr. Hart’s hand, and freed Jojo, who immediately high tailed it down the street.

“Stop! Jojo, come back here,” Mr. Hart shouted. Then, he began to chase the dog, but not before yelling at Tommy, “Once I get her, I’m coming back. I’m coming after you!” Tommy’s a smart kid and knew that the best thing to do was to get out of there as fast as he could, which is what he did.

After he had calmed down a bit, Tommy realized that the sun was still hot and lizards were still basking in it, and he had only caught two so far. Why should he give up? There was still time and there were lots of lizards around. He was going to get lots more of them, no matter what.

Tommy started stealthily hunting for another lizard. Unfortunately, he began hunting in the backyard of the Morrisons, who live just one block from our house. He knew them very well because he often played with their son, Malcolm. The boys often spent time in the Morrison’s greenhouse, a truly spectacular glass structure in their backyard, and something the whole neighborhood was proud of. They raised a variety of exotic flowers inside and shared many of them with their neighbors.

So there Tommy was, sneaking up on a beauty of a lizard, right next to the greenhouse. Slowly, he inched up to where he could reach the lizard and whipped the net back to catch it. Unfortunately, he pulled the net back a bit too far, in order to get good momentum. When he did that, he lost his balance and hit one of the large glass panes in the greenhouse. The glass shattered, which would have been bad enough, but some of the glass cut a watering hose, and water started pouring all over the greenhouse and Mrs. Morrison, who was working in there at the time.

“It’s all right. I’m not hurt,” Tommy said. Mrs. Morrison lost it. She started throwing things at Tommy, which caused him to run out of the yard and into the street.

When he reached the street, Mrs. Abrams, now wearing all of her bikini, saw him and started chasing him. At the same time, Mr. Hart, who was tugging at Jojo, now attached to his leash, saw her chasing him and joined the pursuit. Mrs. Morrison managed to get out of her house in seconds and not only chased Tommy, but she had a basket of tulip bulbs over her arm and she started throwing them at him. All of these people, plus a few others, were chasing Tommy and screaming at him when I went outside to see what all of the commotion was.

As I said earlier, I joined the chase. “Stop, stop. That’s my son. Stop! Wait! Please..” and then, it happened. We all stopped all right, but not because I was yelling and pleading.

Suddenly, there was a brilliant, blinding light overhead. It literally stopped us in our tracks. Then we heard a loud humming noise, like a quiet, but powerful motor and then something came out of the sky and landed in front of the whole crowd, including Tommy.

I know this sounds incredible, impossible, if you will, but it was some kind of a space ship. It landed slowly and so quietly that it didn’t seem possible that this was really happening. But I’m telling you, it was happening.

After a few short moments, a door in the side of the ship opened and a ramp lowered to the ground. This sounds unbelievable, right? But it’s true. And then, some thing came out of the doorway and walked down the ramp. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen, and yet it was like things I’ve seen all of my life. It looked like a giant lizard, wearing a space helmet. It didn’t have on any clothes, just that helmet and some kind of backpack.

It was carrying something in its claws that looked just like, if you can believe it, Tommy’s butterfly net, only it was huge. The creature scanned the group of us and walked over to Tommy, who was still holding his container filled with lizards, and, so quickly that I didn’t even realize what it was doing, it whipped that net over Tommy, scooped him up, and carried him into the space craft.

About three minutes after that, while we were all immobilized by the impossibility of what was happening, the ship lifted off and disappeared into the sky. That was the last time I saw my son. Tommy is somewhere out there, in that spaceship, and who knows what they’re doing to him.

And that, doctor, I swear, is what happened to my son. I had witnesses who could explain it the same way, but everyone in the neighborhood seems to be pretending that this never happened. The police think I’ve done something to my son, but it’s not true. I loved Tommy and still do, but he’s somewhere out in space, on that lizard’s ship. Honestly!

Do you think I can go home soon, back to my neighborhood? I’ve been in this hospital for a long time, and Tommy could be coming home any minute.