by S. L. Menear
Howling with laughter, Joe pulled out his cell phone. “Unbelievable! Tim will need proof to believe this.” He snapped a picture of Hugo sprawled over the burglar and drooling on his neck. Chili clenched the mask in her jaws as she perched on the burglar’s head, swishing her tail side to side like a windshield wiper.
Joe texted the photo to Tim before calling him. “As you can see, my dogs have caught the day burglar. When you come to get him, bring the paramedics but leave your partner, Rex, in the car.”
Expensive Mistake
D.M. Littlefield
After a wonderful fifteen-day cruise from the Port of Miami, my daughter drove us to her home on Singer Island. My throat hurt, my eyes burned, and my head ached, so Sharon asked me to stay with her. I declined, wanting to get horizontal in pajamas in my own bed.
Sharon left my car running to keep me warm while she unloaded her luggage from the trunk. I promised to phone her upon my arrival home.
When I drove into my parking space, I burst into a sneezing frenzy. I reached into my purse for tissues and retrieved my house key attached to my second set of car keys. The cold front’s howling north wind forced me to lean forward as I hauled my luggage twenty yards to the house. Sneezing intermittently, I turned on a heating pad in my bed, set the house thermostat to seventy-eight, walked outside for the rest of my luggage, and locked the car with the remote.
I phoned my daughter to report I had arrived home safe and sound. Well safe, but sound was iffy. After donning my warm pajamas and knitted foot warmers at 8:00 p.m., I snuggled under a pile of blankets with only my nose sticking out.
Much later, my sleep-fogged brain heard an annoying, persistent ringing. Oh, the phone. Simply reaching outside my warm blankets to answer the call made me sneeze violently.
I blew my nose and croaked, “Allo.”
“Your car is running,” a man said.
I turned the light on and blinked at the clock: one-thirty in the morning. I sneezed and blew my nose again.
“My car is running?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That’s impossible. I’d never leave my car running.
I sneezed and asked, “Is id a gold Mercury parked in Golden Lakes?”
“Yes.”
“And the motor is running?”
The man emitted a deep sigh. “Lady, I’m parked behind your car in a security patrol car with the yellow light flashing. Although I’m not a licensed mechanic, the exhaust coming from the tailpipe is a significant clue the engine is running.”
Apparently, he wasn’t accustomed to conversing with the mentally challenged. Catching burglars was probably preferable to dealing with a dimwit. I rushed to bundle up and trotted outside.
I thanked him profusely and croaked, “I’b sorry. I’b sick and nod thinking clearly.”
My car had been slurping gasoline at $3.59 a gallon for almost seven hours. Instead of carrying my embarrassment in silence, I decided to share it with the world and give others something to smile about and a chance to feel superior.
You’re welcome.
Betrayed
S.L. Menear
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My brother died December 12, 2009, while approaching the runway on Bing Island in the Bahamas. The aircraft veered sharply to the left when he slumped onto the control stick after a heart attack. It cartwheeled across the shallow water beside the runway and broke into three pieces. Larry died instantly. The crash was witnessed by his friends who were waiting for a ride back to Florida.
His loss devastated me. I couldn’t write for nine months, and I’ll never stop missing him. I felt betrayed. The sky and the sea had always been my two favorite places, but I couldn’t enjoy either one after his accident. Pouring my emotions into the following poem helped me start the healing process.
The sea is a cruel mistress
So is her sister, the sky
They killed my brother
I’ll never know why
My heart is broken
And always will be
Betrayed by my friends
The sky and the sea
Anchors aweigh, Larry
R.I.P. with valor and glory
Once Upon A Time
D.M. Littlefield
Jack used the tip of his cane to push the elevator button in their assisted living facility while holding onto Ted’s walker. “See, my hand/eye coordination is still great. I did it on the first try.”
“Hey, you don’t have to tell me that. I see your coordination every day as you hold hands with one lady and wink at another.” Ted rattled his walker. “You shouldn’t have signed me up for this fiasco without my permission. I wanted to watch my favorite TV programs today.”
“Quit grumbling. You should mingle more with our neighbors. The women outnumber the men more than twenty to one here.” Jack smiled. “It’s almost like living in a harem.”
“What happened to Mary, your latest love? I’ve seen you with a different woman almost every evening after dinner.”
“We broke up because she wanted a long-term commitment. I like playing the field.”
“I can see why you don’t want to be tied down at ninety-three, but if you keep playing the field like this, you’ll end up planted in it.”
“Ted, I see life as a glass half full; you see it as half empty. I’m enjoying what time I have left.”
“I was enjoying television until you dragged me to this Adopt-A-Grandparent Day. You owe me big time for this.”
Jack and Ted were escorted to big comfortable chairs in separate sections of the library, as were other volunteer residents. They were each handed a book of fairy tales and told to choose one to read to the children.
Ted scowled as the kindergarten teacher brought two boys and two girls forward. “Children, this is Grandpa Ted. He’s going to read a fairytale to you. Say hello and tell him your name.”
A dark-haired boy with glasses stepped forward and held out his hand. “Hello, I’m Tommy. Are you a professional reader?”
“No, I’m a professional TV watcher.” Ted shook his hand and looked into Tommy’s inquisitive, bright-blue eyes. Just my luck to get stuck with little Albert Einstein.
Tommy sat on the floor and stared at him.
A little girl with red hair and freckles shook his hand. “Hello, I’m Becky. Can you take your teeth out like my grandpa does?”
“No, I still have my real teeth.” Ted shook her hand.
Becky tilted her head and focused on Ted’s face. “Wouldn’t you like some new ones?”
“No, I like the ones I have. Sit down, please.”
A little blond boy with big brown eyes stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Jimmy. I like to ride my bicycle. Do you like to ride your walker?”
“I don’t ride my walker. I push it.”
“Could I ride on it while you push it?”
“Not today. You’re here to listen to a story.”
“Bummer,” Jimmy said as he sat next to Tommy.
“Hello, I’m Emily,” a little girl with green eyes and long blond curls said. “I want to sit on your lap while you read the story.”
Ted scowled. “I don’t think so. Please sit on the floor with your little friends.”
“My grandpa let me sit on his lap when he read stories to me before he went to Heaven. Why won’t you let me sit on your lap? Don’t you like me?” She began to cry.
Just when things couldn’t get worse. “Please don’t cry. I like you. You can sit on my lap and turn the pages for me.” He helped her up. “Everybody listen now while I read the story. Once upon a time—”
“What time?” Tommy said.
Ted frowned. “What do you mean, what time?”
“You know—what time? Was it eight o’clock in the morning?”
“It was long, long ago when they didn’t have clocks.” Ted sighed. “They had daytime and nighttime. It was daytime. So, once upon a daytime, a handsome prince was riding his horse through a forest when—”
“What color horse was it?” T
ommy asked.
“The story doesn’t say.” Ted raised his eyebrows.
“Make it a white horse,” Becky said. “My Barbie doll has a white horse.”
“Barbie’s lucky. Once upon a daytime, a handsome prince was riding his white horse through a forest—”
“What was the prince’s name?” Tommy asked.
“The story doesn’t say that either.” Ted removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I want you to name him Prince Ken. Ken is Barbie’s boyfriend,” Becky said.
“Any other suggestions before I continue?”
“Why?” Emily asked.
“If I keep getting interrupted, I’ll never be able to finish the story.”
“You sound cranky. Did you have your nap today?”
“No.” Only God knows how much I’d like one right now.
“Why?”
“I don’t take naps.”
“If you did, you wouldn’t be cranky.”
“OK, I’ll take naps from now on. Once upon a daytime, handsome Prince Ken was riding his white horse through a forest.” Ted looked at their bright little faces and waited.
“When can I turn the page?” Emily asked.
“At this rate, maybe never. I’ve only read one sentence. May I continue?”
They solemnly nodded.
“There were a lot of wild animals in the forest, but Prince Ken was brave and carried a sword to protect him and his horse.”
“What’s the horse’s name?” Jimmy asked.
“What would you like it to be?”
“Blackie.”
“You want to name a white horse Blackie?”
Jimmy nodded.
Ted shook his head. “Whatever. Once upon a daytime, handsome Prince Ken was riding his white horse, named Blackie, through a forest. There were a lot of wild animals in the forest, but the prince was brave and carried a sword to protect him and his horse. The prince heard a voice cry out, ‘Save me! Please save me!’ Prince Ken raced Blackie toward the voice and found a beautiful princess tied to a tree.
“The princess shouted, ‘Please untie me before the wicked witch comes back!’ Prince Ken untied her and helped her up onto his horse.”
“What was the name of the princess?” Emily asked.
“What do you want her name to be?”
“Emily, like mine.”
“Good choice. Prince Ken held onto Princess Emily as they rode back to his castle on Blackie, his white horse. They fell in love, married, and lived happily ever after. The end.” Thank God!
The children waved to Ted as their teacher led them out of the library. He overheard her ask, “Did you like Grandpa Ted reading to you?”
“I think he needs more practice,” Jimmy said.
“I like the names he gave everything,” Becky said.
“He’s probably better at watching TV,” Tommy said.
Emily crossed her arms and said, “I think Grandpa Ted needed a nap.”
Killer Scots & Hot Cubans
S.L. Menear
It had been a year since my brother, Larry, suffered a heart attack while flying and died in a crash in the Bahamas. His sudden death at sixty hit me hard.
I missed him every day.
Mom and I needed an escape from the heartache. We loved cruising and didn’t want to be home for Christmas with so many memories of my brother, so we took a fifteen-day holiday cruise covering the Caribbean.
We met people from England on our ship who informed us Scots were aboard. Men in kilts had been sighted! I happened to be writing my first thriller, Deadstick Dawn, set primarily in Scotland, so I started searching for the kilted men. I, uh, wanted to verify I’d accurately described the Highlanders.
On the first formal night, I found a handsome Scot in a red, green, and black plaid kilt with a black waistcoat that stopped at his trim mid-section, which contrasted nicely with his broad shoulders. As to the debate of what men wear beneath their kilts, he assured me no self-respecting Scot would ever wear anything underneath. A fancy leather pouch, called a sporran, hung from his waist in front, and his patent leather brogues were laced over his white knee socks. I tried to take his picture, but my cursed camera wouldn’t work.
The next formal night, I strolled through the casino in my sapphire gown and met the killer Scots dressed in their fancy kilts. They were bigger and broader than the first Scot and looked like real Highlanders. Their daggers, known as skean dhu, were slipped inside their knee socks, as per tradition. Their friends called them the killer Scots because they were always armed.
I thought it was because of their killer good looks. I’ve no idea how they made it through port security with the daggers. They cheerfully reaffirmed the fact that they wear nothing beneath their kilts.
One of the Highlanders, six foot three and quite handsome, said, “Come wie me to my stateroom, lassie, and I’ll show ye.”
Scots are very friendly. I must’ve looked like I was thinking it over. My conservative mother gave me her don’t-you-dare-do-that glare.
Big sigh.
Another man in their group was a royal historian, who helped me with suggestions for titled characters in my planned short story. It featured descendants of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere in a brief, modern murder mystery set in Palm Beach titled, Guinevere’s Lance.
Later that evening, romance ignited on the upper aft deck. After a few glasses of Pessimist, a delicious blended red wine, with dinner and the show, I felt daring as I made my way to the top level of the aft deck. My plan was to savor a quality Cuban cigar under the full moon over the sparkling Caribbean Sea after Mom had turned in for the night.
It was quite windy in the designated smoking area of the afterdeck. I stood alone with my back to the wind and inserted the snipped end of the Cohiba between my lips. I held the lighter under the tip and started flicking my Bic. The wind blew it out, possibly saving my long blond hair from catching fire.
Before I had time to decide what to do next, a tall, insanely handsome man with dark hair, tanned skin, and broad shoulders appeared and held his high-tech mini lighter up to my cigar. As I looked into his moonlit electric-blue eyes and the tiny blue flame of his James Bond cigar lighter, I was mesmerized into a pheromone-induced brain fog.
After twenty years of working in the cockpit with handsome airline pilots, I thought I had become immune to their power. Maybe that only applied to American men.
Next thing I knew I was sucking waaay too hard on my Cohiba. Cigars weren’t meant to be inhaled, especially by non-smokers like me. My cigar was definitely lit, and so was I. When I recovered from my coughing fit, the handsome stranger had disappeared.
Real smooth, Sharon.
So there I was, alone again in the moonlight, windblown hair whispering about my face, when it occurred to me that the smart people must’ve found a better place to enjoy their cigars. I turned the corner to the non-windy starboard side and saw the handsome stranger sitting alone.
He smiled, introduced himself, and invited me to join him. Renaldo was smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of blended Chilean reds from a bottle of Almaviva wine. He offered me a glass. Nothing goes better with a fine Cuban cigar than an equally fine man and a smooth red wine.
Renaldo lit my cigar—and me—again. Turned out he was from Cuba and a cigar aficionado. He said Cuban cigars were rolled in leaves grown in soil unique to Cuba, which gave them their mild, smooth flavor, and Cohibas were among the very best.
I sipped the sensuous wine and listened to his deep, mellifluous voice as I gently sucked on my Cuban. Moonlight bathed the upper aft deck, which was deserted in the post-midnight hour.
Our mutual attraction caught fire as our cigars burned out. Renaldo kissed me with a fierce passion, and I responded with reckless abandon. We lost control during our steamy lounge-chair sex and ended up in a heart-pounding roll on the deck.
In my fertile imagination.
That man is definitely going in my next novel.
I wi
sh I could report a torrid romance ensued, or at least some hot sex, but no. He was married to dark and exotic Esmeralda. I spied them together in the glass elevator the next day. She was just the sort of wife I would expect a man like him to have. Even so, I’ll never forget my Cuban cigar with Renaldo.
I love Celebrity Cruises. Their upscale ships offer enough crew to cater to my every whim. They keep everything so clean and neat I joked if I got up in the middle of the night to use the head, I’d find my bed made when I returned. The food is delicious, the shows superb, and there’s a plethora of adults-only havens, such as the indoor solarium pool with soothing music and a gentle waterfall. I wish I could live there.
Our ship, the Eclipse, boasted plenty of fancy bars, including the elegant Michael’s Club that specialized in fine whisky. Their most expensive single-malt Scotch, Glenglassaugh, was a whopping $170 per shot! Must be very good indeed. I went there to research the best whisky for the rich Scottish laird in Deadstick Dawn. At those prices, I was glad I preferred wine.
The cruise ended too soon for me. I was in no hurry to return to reality. If I had unlimited funds, I’d book a permanent suite on that ship.
Alas, now I’m home and missing the ship, the killer Scots, and an extraordinary Cuban.
Oh, well, back to the writing world for me. “Hola, Renaldo!” Let the fantasies abound.
Ouch!
D.M. Littlefield
“Ouch! Why did you pinch me?”
“I saw you staring at that young woman. You were undressing her with your eyes.”
“I was not!”
“Yes, you were, Tom! I can read you like a book after sixty years of marriage.”
“Yeah, well then you must be reading the book upside down. I was looking at her because she was already undressed. She shouldn’t show herself like that here in the shopping mall. Her skirt—if you can call it a skirt—barely covers her behind. That girl is showing a lot more skin than fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination. Although she has one thing going for her that is commendable.”