Terrye Turpin's Blog

Another NYC Midnight Story Obviously this image is AI generated.

This week I have a treat of a tale from one of my entries in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. For this unfortunate assignment, I received the challenge of writing a spy thriller story in 1,000 words or less. To top that off, the story had to include a flamethrower. I have forgotten what the third prompt was – just reading the story again brought flashbacks of the trauma induced by having only 48 hours to churn out something resembling a thriller. With a flamethrower.

I did not advance in that round, and the story stayed buried deep in my electronic files until now, when I have recovered enough from the embarrassment of writing it to allow it loose upon the world.

Ladies and Gentlefolk, I present to you:

Facing Fire: An undercover agent accepts a dangerous assignment to prove herself. When an unexpected threat occurs, she must face her fears in order to survive. 

When I left the Navy, I swore the next time I set foot on a ship, it would be to cruise to some exotic location. I got the exotic part, but there’d be no poolside margaritas. Three weeks until Christmas, I stood on the dock in the Port of Santos, Brazil, and stared up at the 40,000 deadweight ton freighter that would be my home for the next twenty-six days.

The ship carried a crew of 25. In the time we would travel from Brazil to Baltimore, I had to determine which of them had ties to a terrorist organization, and which of the 9,000 containers on board held ten tons of cocaine they would sell to finance their operations. I would share a bunk with the only other woman on board—the medical purser, a petite black woman who spent her free time cross-stitching flowers and Bible verses on tea towels. She was either the most unlikely suspect or the one with the best cover.

I met Captain Burke my first day aboard. He was the only person who knew I belonged with the organization with three initials and not the merchant marine union.

“You’re here against my will, Miss Leary. I can’t afford an untested officer.”

I pulled at my sleeve to better hide the burn scars on my arm. “With all due respect, sir—for my last four years in the Navy, I served as Navigator. I can do the job.”

“Fine. As Third Mate, you’ll have the 4-8 watch when you’re not in the control room.”

Night watch meant 4:00 am. Not a problem—I hadn’t slept all night since before the accident that landed me at a desk. I’d fought for this job to prove myself capable of active duty again. I owed it to the ones who hadn’t survived that day.  

A week passed, and I didn’t get any closer to identifying the terrorist or finding the drugs. Only one in ten of the huge metal boxes was searched in port, so the chances of its being picked at random were low. International maritime law ruled at sea. Domestic law enforcement had their hands tied until the ship docked. Not so for my group.

Halfway to Baltimore, I stood alone in the pitch-black early morning. Bundled against the cold, I shivered as the frigid salt spray hit my face. I gripped the handrail on the bridge and let my gaze roam over the white-tipped waves below. The stink of diesel didn’t cover the ocean’s saltwater scent. I turned at the sound of footsteps. The Chief Mate, Mark Simms, stopped beside me.

“Quiet night?” He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it.

“So far. I thought you weren’t on nights. Why the early stroll?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check, see if you needed help.”

I opened my mouth to ask why I’d need help when a noise sputtered through the silence. An outboard motor. Spotlights lit the gray water, illuminating a tiny craft zipping alongside the ship.

“Pirates!” Simms flipped his cigarette over the rail and took off. I thumbed my walkie-talkie and radioed the bridge. A klaxon alarm blasted. I imagined the crew stumbling like ants whose nest someone had kicked.

I jogged toward the stairs. Unarmed, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter any of the pirates. Halfway to safety, the ship went dark. Protocol— something we’d drilled on just the week before. The alarm died with a moan.

Footsteps pounded behind me. I spun to face a pack of men. One of them held a machete. These weren’t my fellow crew members. The lead guy had something strapped to his back, and the long, stick-like contraption he pointed at me wasn’t a rifle. I dived behind the nearest container. The night exploded in heat and orange light. The pirates were armed with flamethrowers.

With my back pressed against frost-covered metal, I shivered and let out a fog of breath. The cold reassured me I wasn’t on fire.   

The pop of gunfire sounded. Someone screamed. I eased out from behind my cover. Five feet away, a body lay stretched on the deck in a pool of dark blood, flamethrower still strapped to his back. Ahead, the pirates had taken cover behind a stack of metal drums. Bullets pinged past. At any moment, the bad guys might turn and run for the stairs and the control room. I reached a hand to grasp the flamethrower and slip it from the body.

Motion in the cargo stacks drew my eye. Captain Burke crouched beside one container. He tugged on the straps holding the box, then startled when he noticed me. He should have been locked down in the control room.

Burke crept over to whisper, “What are you doing?” He reached to his side and drew out a pistol.

I shouldered the flamethrower, and before the pirates could charge, I aimed a burst of flame at the metal straps holding the nearest stack of containers. The straps glowed white hot, then snapped as the boxes tilted. They tumbled onto the deck, blocking the pirate’s escape.

With no way out, the bad guys surrendered. Captain Burke appeared at my side. He studied the collapsed containers with a look of relief. Once we secured the pirates in the freighter’s brig, I used my satellite phone to call in my suspicions.

Homeland Security and the DEA met the ship in Baltimore and arrested Burke. His first duty should have been to the crew. Instead, he fled to check on the cargo. One stack of containers in particular, and his look of relief when that load wasn’t the one that fell, gave me the idea that the drugs would be in the one he’d checked. Turns out I was right, and he was glad to exchange his testimony for immunity. He’d only been in it for the money.

Me, I’m booked on another ship. This one sails from Galveston to Cozumel. Warm sand, cold margaritas, and not a flamethrower in sight.  

A stitch to the past Spools of thread – edited with the Waterlogue app

I belong to a Facebook group called We Pretend it’s Still the 1970s. The rules are simple – post personal photos from that decade and comment on them as though whatever is pictured has just happened. No past tense, no mentioning the future. It’s an exercise in time travel that is both humorous and poignant.

I have yet to post anything on the page, but I’m a loyal lurker. The images remind me that I lived through that era. Scrolling through Olan Mills family portraits, prom snapshots, and polaroid pics of smiling girls with that Farrah Fawcett shag haircut – I can indulge in happy memories uncluttered by the anxious reality of my teenage years.

The past seems so far away, as though the events of the 1970s happened to a different person, not me. In a way, that’s true. I’m far from that teenager now, but sometimes I come across things that bring the memories back so vividly that I can touch them and feel their weight.

We’ve been organizing our household, trying to clear some of the clutter and decide which items are worth keeping, donating, or selling. As I sorted through decades of sewing supplies, I set aside anything I wanted to keep. I’ll hang onto the thread – wooden spools either inherited or bought at antique stores and plastic spools sporting the small green Walmart price stickers from before the age of UPC tags. There are at least two dozen spools of turquoise blue thread that Mom bought on clearance. It was a really good deal.

Me and my mom circa 1970s – I’m wearing a dress I made

My mother taught me to sew. First by hand with needle and thread, and then on her classic black Singer sewing machine. A junior high school home economics class rounded out my seamstress education. Throughout the 1970s I sewed dresses, skirts, peasant tops and anything else that could be whipped up over a weekend.

I don’t sew much now, although I do still own a sewing machine. Recently I took up quilting and I’ll hand stitch together the pieces while I’m watching television. It’s a relaxing hobby and it gives me an excuse to hold onto the boxes of thread. Eventually I might even use the turquoise color that my mother found so lovely. I think she would have liked that I found some use for it.

Patterns from the 1970s

A short story

I submitted the story below to a contest recently. It didn’t place so I’m sharing it now. In this one the genre was open and I was assigned two prompts that had to be included: career advisor and mosaic. I went with fantasy/magical realism with a humorous touch. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, please don’t tell me.

Afterlife Positions Available

An hour and ten minutes after Ellen Tyler collapsed into the koi pond at the Dallas Arboretum, she woke in a sterile white room. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Was this a waiting room, in a clinic or hospital? She hoped they took Medicare. Puzzled, she patted her chest. Her clothes – the same cargo pants and matching shirt she had dressed in that morning – were dry and clean.

Right before splashing in the pond, she had felt nauseous and dizzy. She had leaned over, snapping a photo of an orange carp, until a sharp pain in her arm made her drop her iPhone into the water. When she reached to retrieve it, she blacked out. Afterwards, blue and red flashing lights, shouting, and her sister Trina’s shocked face filled some of the blank spots in her memory.

The door on the other side of the room swung open and a tall, wide man filled the doorway. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and had the pleasant, smiling expression of a television weatherman predicting sunny weather.

“Hello! Sorry about the wait. We weren’t sure when you would arrive.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Ellen. I’m Milton.”

Ellen squeezed the man’s hand. Then, not knowing what else to do, she followed him into his office. A dull metal desk filled one half of the room. Files, folders, and yellowed paper covered the desktop and overflowed onto the floor. Milton stooped and removed a cardboard box from his chair, then pulled over a wooden chair for Ellen. 

The white walls held two posters—one had a photo of a kitten clinging to a clothesline and the words “Hang in There” scrolled across the top. The other sign featured a montage of at least thirty images. A sheet-covered cartoon ghost held the center square, surrounded by several other pictures that looked like they belonged on the covers of horror novels. There was a gnarled being with knife-sharp nails, a thin man with solid black eyes, and a transparent, shrouded figure. As she stared at the poster, one of the images, a woman clothed in a long black dress, waved at Ellen.

“Where the hell am I?” she asked.

Milton’s face turned red. “You’re not in…” He coughed, “…that other place.” He shuffled a stack of papers and pulled out a glossy brochure. Handing it to Ellen, he said, “This is the Career Placement Agency for the Afterlife.”

“Wait.” Ellen fanned herself with the flyer. “I’m dead?” How could this be? She had celebrated her 71st birthday last month, but she had also received a perfect checkup from her doctor.

“You expired this afternoon.” Milton laced his fingers together. “Heart attack and drowning.”

How embarrassing. Ellen always assumed she would pass quietly in her sleep at age 101. What a ruckus she must have caused. Trina would never forgive her for insisting on tromping around in the summer heat instead of enjoying an afternoon matinee in an air-conditioned movie theater. Her sister loved the movies. Trina would have to find someone else to share her senior discount pass at Movie Plex.  

“I thought the afterlife was filled with harps and angels, not work.” Ellen held up the brochure. The cartoon ghost from the wall poster graced the cover. The title, written in Comic Sans font, read “Guiding Your Choice for Eternity—A Mosaic of Diverse Opportunities.”

“These experiences are designed to bring purpose to your life after death. I’m here to guide you in choosing which form your spirit will take.” Milton pointed behind him, to the collage of images. “Each afterlife represents at least one of our six core skills—comfort, entertainment, education, inspiration, caution, and remembrance. For example, you could choose Lady of the Lake or ectoplasm entity.”

“I drowned in the damn koi pond, Milton. I can’t imagine haunting knee-deep water for the rest of my time. And that ecto thing just looks like a blob of green goo.”

“You have leftover anger issues. Maybe a spot as a poltergeist?”

Ellen huffed. “Spend eternity chunking pots and pans in someone’s kitchen?”

“It’s not just pan chunking.” Milton sat up straight. “It’s entertainment.” When Ellen didn’t respond, he continued. “Do you like travel? I have an opening for a Vanishing Hitchhiker.”

“Can I give it a trial run?”

Milton clapped his hands. “Of course! I’ll see you back in a week.”

After the first three nights of waiting on a desolate country road for a car to pass by, Ellen wished that time would pass more quickly in the afterlife. The fourth night, a farmer in a rusted pickup with bad shocks gave her a ride. Grateful for the company, she forgot to vanish, and rode with him into town. She had to walk the six miles back to her post.

When the week was up, she met with Milton again. Her past wasn’t dark enough to qualify her as a revenant. She wasn’t deeply melancholic, so wraith would not be a good fit. She would end up a ghost orb, floating over a swamp and being mistaken for a ball of gas.

“What else is there?” Ellen pointed to the cartoon ghost in the collage. “How about that one, but without the sheet?”

Milton sighed. “I hoped to place you in an entertainment or inspiration position. Most of the other careers require a commitment to a static location.”

“That’s fine. And I know a perfect place.”

Ellen floated along at Movie Plex, creating cold spots in the ladies’ restroom and leaving the scent of popcorn in newly cleaned theaters. Her sister bought a ticket the second week, for the new Tom Cruise flick. Ellen settled in the empty seat next to her and whispered, “Hello.” When Trina turned her head to peer at the vacant spot, Ellen waited until the air conditioning kicked on with a burst of cold, then brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s face.  

“Well. Hello,” Trina said, and smiled. 

THE END

This week I continue with my list of Texas independent bookstores and a story at the end. Wild Detectives Bookstore in Oak Cliff, Texas

Last Friday my friend Cathy and I continued our tour of local bookstores. In Texas, “local” can mean anything within a three hour drive, but that day we only had to venture to Oak Cliff, about a thirty minute drive from home. This neighborhood, the Bishop Arts District, is filled with quirky boutiques, cozy restaurants, coffee shops, and of course – bookstores.

Poets Bookshop in the Bishop Arts District

Lucky for us the streets were mostly shaded, proving relief from the hot Texas sunshine. We trekked from Wild Detectives to Poets Bookshop and then on to Blush. This last store features romance titles and my companions wondered if I, a horror writer and reader, would find anything to tempt me. I did see some witchy stories, but they were all books I already owned.

Blush Bookstore, Bishop Arts District

After lunch we abandoned the sidewalks for Cathy’s Subaru, and drove to our last two destinations. We stopped first at Whose Books, where I made up for the lack of romance titles by discovering three new horror books.

Whose Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

Our last stop was at Lucky Dog Books, a used bookstore. We all left there with our arms filled with new to us titles.

Lucky Dog Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

There is no more perfect way to spend the day than in the fellowship of other book lovers.

Interior of Lucky Dog Books

This week I’m sharing a flash fiction piece I wrote for one of the NYC Midnight Contests. I think the genre might have been historical fiction and the object that had to be included was a rocking chair.

Love Makes Lighter Burdens

Mattie Ferguson would forever mourn the things she had left behind. No porcelain plates, no beads nor bells—she traded these for coffee and bacon, for shovel and scythe.

“Oregon! A new start, Mattie.” Her husband, Jonas, swept her up in sturdy arms and swung her round. Dizzy, her old life spun past.

Released, she sat in her beloved rocking chair and gripped the smooth oak. Built by her father, she imagined his worn hands as he sanded the wood, pictured her mother seated by a fire as the rocker soothed a fretful baby.

“We’ll find room,” Jonas promised.

They toted the rocker through flood-swollen rivers, and grave-marked desert. They trod beside their struggling oxen, past piles of treasures, discarded in hopes of a load lightened enough to last the journey.

In Idaho, they lost an ox. With meager possessions carved down to essentials, Jonas could not meet her gaze.

“No!” Mattie spread her fingers across her rounded belly. “I’ll carry it.”

Jonas smiled and lifted the chair. He’d bear it for her—a burden made light by love. The last mile slipped past. The trek became a story for their children and their children’s children.

A century later, a young couple pushed through a beaded curtain to wander a dusty shop. Janis Joplin wailed from the radio as smoky incense wafted through the air. The woman stopped beside an antique rocker.

“We need this,” she told her lover. “It’s boss.” 

“It won’t fit in our car.”

She pouted.

“Okay, our pad’s close. I’ll carry it.” He lifted the chair, surprised at how light the load was.

The End – Thank you for reading!

At the Fabled Bookshop in Waco, Texas

Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.

We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.

https://fabledbookshop.com/

Inside Fabled Bookshop

We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.

Birdhouse Books, Austin

There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.

https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/

Birdhouse Books – the welcome bear

The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.

Inside Black’s BBQ, Lockhart

While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.

https://www.colossusbooks.com/

The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.

We heeded the warning and did not exit through this door.

Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)

https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks

The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.

Don’t be scared, he doesn’t bite. Much. Did they mean to spell out “Hello?” Maybe they ran out of balloons. Don’t be suspicious. I picked up some books while waiting for the movie to start.

Yes, even the horror store has a children’s section. Gotta start them young.

If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.

I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.

A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin

The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.

“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.

“Yep. Enjoy the party.”

“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.

My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”

“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”

“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”

“I’ll dust off my black suit.”

“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”

“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”

“Hollister requested you.”

Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.

As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.

I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”

“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”

I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.

Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.

Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.

“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.

“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.

“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”

“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”

I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.

Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.

“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.

“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.

Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.

In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.

“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.

“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.

“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”

Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.

Searching for safe places Shelves at Recycled Books Denton – photo by the author

If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my childhood self that one day I would have enough disposable income to purchase any book I desired. When I was in elementary school, I loved thumbing through the book fair flyers, circling the books I couldn’t live without. And the day the orders arrived I couldn’t wait to bring them home.

I had a library card, but those books were only visitors to my shelves. The loaned books I had to handle with care so I could return them in the same state as they were when borrowed. I couldn’t read them again and again, until the spines cracked and pages fell from the bindings.

Now I love collecting books. Recently I went with my friend Cathy to Denton, a nearby city with three lovely bookstores on the town square. All within walking distance of each other, providing you stop by your car and unload the heavy purchases before venturing to the next stop. First on our agenda was Recycled Books – a three story treasure house of used books.

Recycled Books Records CD’s in Denton, Texas – photo by the author The horror section at Recycled Books – photo by the author

Our second stop was at Denton’s newest bookstore – The Plot Twist. This shop is a cozy stop just off the square. They are a combination book store and bar, so you can unwind with a glass of wine while you browse the books. The Plot Twist is a romance bookstore so I was skeptical about whether I, a horror writer and reader, would find something. But I am also a fan of anything paranormal or witchy so I left with three books. I don’t think I’ve ever left any bookstore without buying a book or two or three or four.

The Plot Twist in Denton, Texas – photo by the author

Around the corner we found Patchouli Joe’s Books and Indulgences. Not only did I find a book or two, but because I signed up for their free newsletter during my birthday month, I received a free bar of their scented soap. (Part of the indulgences for sale in the shop.) I would have subscribed without the soap, but it was a nice reward.

Patchouli Joe’s bookstore in Denton, Texas – photo by the author Books at Patchouli Joe’s – photo by the author

No matter the size of the store, I can spend hours searching for the perfect books. It’s not so much the hunt as it is the desire to linger in the safe space. Libraries and book stores serve as doors to different worlds. There, I can travel safely no matter what horrors the outside world contains. I can exchange battling dragons, evading zombies, and conspiring with witches for worrying over whether National Parks, Social Security, and basic human decency will continue to exist.

The books I purchased – photo by the author

I own what some might describe as a book hoard but I have named the ever-growing piles of unread tomes “my library.” Never mind that said library has spilled out of my office, into the living room, onto the floor of my bedroom, and occasionally can be found on the dining room table. The simple solution would be to stop buying books until I’ve read them all, but there is something so comforting about the stacks. The world outside is dangerous, but inside my home I have a fortress of books.

A cozy read – photo by the author

Links:

Recycled Books

The Plot Twist

Patchouli Joe’s

Not the life she imagined but the life made for her Mannequin in a Wichita Falls antique store – Photo by the author

Andrew and I have recently taken on the task of clearing out his mother’s storage unit. Roby no longer has need or use for the cartons of fine china, boxes of shoes and purses, racks of designer clothing, or bags of vintage dresses. Over the past four years we’ve managed to sell off or donate most of the bulkier items – the dressers and chairs, the dining room table. There’s still a lot left. Enough to fill a small U-Haul. Our goal is to move enough of it out that we can set up a lower priced, smaller unit close to our house and save her the expense of renting the space.

Until then, we’ve turned our living room into a sort of staging area, bringing over car loads of clothing and sorting through it for anything that might be worth selling. We discovered that Roby’s collection of vintage 1970s to 1980s Diane Freis dresses have become popular again. Imagine the sort of outfits worn by the actresses on the set of Dynasty, Designing Women, or Dallas. Think shoulder pads, wild colors, and lots and lots of polyester. To better display these dresses, I ordered a mannequin on Amazon. Andrew named her Molly Mannequin, but I call her Dolly.

Molly Dolly wearing a Diane Freis 100% Silk dress – Photo by the author

Dolly is easy to dress – pop off her head, slip her arms out of their sockets, and drape the dress over her torso. The first set of photos we put up on Ebay featured her smooth, bald head. Andrew suggested she wear a hat, but I didn’t have one that matched the outfits. Except for this one.

Dolly – Photo by the author

The hat, in my opinion, gave her a confused, wistful look. As though she couldn’t believe she had landed here.

Dolly – Photo by the author

In the second box of clothing we discovered an acrylic wig. This was better, it gave Dolly a more life-like appearance. The wig had seen better days. It also looked like it had seen some really bad days. Frizzled strands stuck up across the surface of the artificial hair, giving Dolly an urchin look. It fit, however, with the bohemian vibe of many of the dresses. I remembered a trick recommended to smooth out the fake tresses on dolls and I soaked Dolly’s hairpiece in fabric softener. It worked, but she still didn’t seem happy, despite having smooth locks.

Dolly in a sequined Diane Freis dress – Photo by the author

Something about the racks of frilly clothing and the dressing and undressing of Dolly felt familiar. The clothes were unlike anything I would choose to wear. My wardrobe is made of t-shirts with catchy slogans and sweatpants with elastic waistbands. In another life, however, I could imagine strolling through a garden party or dancing under disco lights. Maybe plotting my revenge on J.R. Ewing or Blake Carrington.

Dolly – Photo by the author

Flipping through the rack, the soft ruffled skirts brushing against my hands – I couldn’t help but smile at some of the whimsical patterns. How fun it would be to dress in one of these. I understood the attraction, the desire to own them all. At last I realized why this felt so familiar. Hadn’t I done the same thing as a young girl?

It was with another fashion icon.

Barbie aloof – Photo by the author

Nothing here is real Photo by the author

The cat arrived courtesy of Fedex delivery. This newest addition to our household was meant as a companion for my mother-in-law, Roby. She has dementia, and the robotic cat was designed to bring comfort to folks who would benefit from having a pet but who also no longer have the ability to care for one.

Kitty – Photo by the author

My husband Andrew and I had seen the description and photos of the cat, but nothing came close to preparing me for the unboxing. When I pulled back the last flap of cardboard, it revealed a creature not quite life-like, but also not quite resembling the toy we thought we had ordered. I lifted him from the box and set him on our dining room table. Not exactly the best place for a cat to perch, but this one wouldn’t shed or leave bits of litter scattered across the placemats.

Roby gathered him up, christened him “Kitty” and placed him on the dresser beside her bed.

Kitty – Photo by the author

The term “Uncanny Valley” was coined to describe the eerie feeling we get when something appears too close to human. Kitty in no way resembled a person, but he did share that characteristic of being too close to a living thing. In a dim light, from across the room, he reminded me of Church, the reanimated cat from the Stephen King novel, Pet Sematary. I know Kitty isn’t real, but I wonder if he might attempt to murder me in my sleep some night.

Kitty on his pillow

When Roby brushes his fur or pets his little mechanical head, Kitty unleashes a loud purr that sounds like gravel rolling in a tin can. If you rub him long enough, this noise is followed by his turning over for belly rubs. You can hear the gears grinding as he lifts a paw and rotates. His meow doesn’t sound exactly feline. Instead, the noise Kitty produces resembles the cry of a serial killer trying to lure us with an unsuccessful cat imitation.

Life with someone suffering from dementia has its challenges, but up until several months ago we had dodged one of the most difficult. Roby had never tried to wander from our home. Then, one evening while I was in a book club Zoom meeting, I heard the distinct click of someone unlocking our front door. I glanced out the window beside my desk in time to view my mother-in-law striding from our porch and toward the street. She didn’t seem confused about the journey – she moved like someone with an agenda.

“I’ve got to go,” I told the book club.

Outside, I rushed to get in front of Roby. “Hey, where are you headed?”

She gave me a suspicious squint and replied, “Anyplace but here.”

At that moment I couldn’t have agreed with her more. I imagined the neighbors watching and wondering why we had tossed our elderly parent out the door.

“You need to go back inside. It’s not safe out here.” If I thought a reasonable request would do the trick I was soon proven wrong. Roby tried to dodge around me. I threw up my arms and waved as I swayed back and forth like someone trying to divert a bear attack. This wouldn’t work for long. Although I outweighed her by at least seventy pounds, I couldn’t imagine picking up my five foot two mother-in-law and toting her back inside. Almost certainly there would be kicking and screaming, possibly from both of us. It was still daylight, the better to give everyone a good view of the tussle.

“I’m leaving and I’m not coming back,” she said.

By this time we had made it halfway down the drive. I considered letting her go. I could follow along behind her and pretend we were out for a nice stroll. My husband, her son Andrew, would be home soon. Perhaps he could pick us up if we made it to the interstate. Then I remembered the cat. “If you leave, Kitty will miss you.”

Roby frowned, but she stopped trying to get past me. She seemed to be trying to work out the connection between me, Kitty, and the awful place she had abandoned. We stood there, at an impasse. I decided to try going back inside. Maybe Roby would follow me, to make sure I didn’t bother the cat.

I made it to the front door. Roby didn’t move from her position at the end of the drive. She glanced back and forth between the sidewalk to freedom and the house. More encouragement was needed to lure her back inside. I went to her room and brought out Kitty.

“Here he is.” I held the cat by the scruff of its neck – no easy feat considering the creature was not soft and pliable but was instead polyester fur over a metal frame. Opening the lid to our plastic garbage bin, I said, “If you leave, Kitty goes in the trash!” This was an empty threat. At worst we’d sell him on Ebay. I shook the cat, and Kitty, interpreting this as a petting, began to meow and purr. Before he could twist in an attempt to roll over for belly rubs, I backed into the house. Roby, all thoughts of freedom now vanished, advanced on us like General Sherman marching on Atlanta. I dumped the cat on the dining room table and hid behind my office door until I was sure Roby was safe inside.

While Roby picked up Kitty and consoled him on his near brush with extinction, I locked and deadbolted the front door. My mother-in-law carried the cat back to his perch, and she settled on her bed beside him.

Roby hasn’t tried to leave since that day. Maybe her concern for Kitty keeps her grounded, or maybe she doesn’t remember what stirred her to escape. Thankfully, she forgot my part in the encounter. However, every time I see the cat I feel like I must apologize to him for my rough treatment. I know Kitty’s reactions are not governed by emotion – instead they are limited to his battery power. He isn’t a living animal, but in the dim light of the uncanny valley all it takes to make something real is our belief that it is.

I’m sharing a little story that I originally posted on Medium a couple of years ago. It’s a cautionary tale about having too much curiosity about the presents under the tree. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Do not Open Until

They were the ugliest ornaments he’d ever seen. “Are these supposed to be nutcrackers?” Adam held up one of the little carved wooden soldiers. Instead of the bright red of the traditional nutcracker, this one had a coat painted a dull maroon, the shade of an old scab. A scraggly beard adorned his face, as though the fellow had been on the run, without time to shave.

“They’re Santa’s soldiers.” Luanne, Adam’s girlfriend, grabbed hold of his wrist and scooped the figurine from his grasp. “This one’s Tom Toss. See, he has a little spear.

The soldier carried a long stick with a sharpened metal point. The glow from the living room fireplace glinted off the tip of the weapon. Too sharp, Adam thought, for something that children might handle.

“Santa’s soldiers?”

“Yes,” Luanne answered, “they guard the tree on Christmas Eve, to make sure no one snoops at the presents.” She gave him a pointed look, as though she suspected he’d be down here in the deep night, shaking boxes and disrupting the wrapping paper.

“A Christmas tradition, then.” Adam chuckled, hoping his laughter would cover up the disgust he felt looking at the ornaments. There were three more in the gold-foiled box. The remaining figures rested on a cushion of cotton, white like snow. Like the one with the spear, they all wore tall black hats and held their wooden arms stiffly at their sides. Luanne hung Tom Toss on the tree, then handed the box to Adam.

“I’ve had this one since I was a child. My grandmother gave him to me.” She lifted a chunky, round-bellied soldier to the Christmas tree. He carried a sledge hammer tucked under his arm. His coat was colored a mottled green, like camouflage. “Adam, meet Knockabout,” Luanne said.

“And this one?” Adam leaned over the box and brushed his finger across the face of a figure dressed in yellow. Unlike its square-jawed companions, this one had a pointed chin. The mouth gaped open, displaying rows of sharp teeth. “Ow!” Adam drew back his hand. A drop of blood welled up on his fingertip.

“Careful, that one’s Biter.” Luanne laughed. “And this one’s my favorite. He’s Pow Pow Boy.” This toy soldier was shorter than the others. His face, with its pug-nose and dots of paint to resemble freckles, resembled Luanne’s. A pair of boxing gloves covered his fists.

Adam, squeezing his injured finger, studied the tree as Luanne finished decorating. The four soldiers, posted at different points among the branches, glared from amongst the twinkling lights and silver garland.

“Remember, no peeking!” Luanne shook her finger at him. She wore a smile, but the past year of experience with the woman had taught Adam this was only the appearance of joviality. His girlfriend was dead serious about the snooping.

“Scouts honor, I’ll be nowhere near the tree tonight.” He wondered what she’d gotten him. Nothing too fancy, he hoped. Adam’s present to his girlfriend was a bottle of her favorite perfume and a gift card to the neighborhood coffee shop.

Luanne had carefully organized their Christmas celebration. Ice skating, caroling, shopping, viewing holiday lights—the whole parade of holiday events. She kept a calendar, with specific dates blocked out for each activity. The whole thing felt more like a ritual than the spontaneous enjoyment of the season.

At last they settled here, presents wrapped and fireplace blazing, in her family’s cabin. Tomorrow, Christmas Day, the rest of the clan would arrive. Luanne insisted they wait until Christmas Eve to set up the tree. On the way here, they’d driven to four different lots until they found a specimen Luanne deemed acceptable. “It has to be a Douglas Fir,” she said. “That’s what we always have.”

The sap that oozed from the cut trunk reminded Adam of bodily fluids. He considered it gruesome that this tree had only recently been a living thing, and now it was stuck here, festooned with gaudy tinsel and baubles. Like hanging ornaments on a corpse.

“Here’s to our first Christmas together.” Luanne lifted her glass of mulled wine in a toast.

Adam clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers,” he said. The first and the last, he thought. Adam planned to break up with her after Christmas, once a suitable amount of time had passed. Only an asshole would dump someone during the holidays. There was Valentine’s Day coming up in February, so he’d better make a clean split in early January.

An unfamiliar noise woke Adam in the middle of the night. Luanne dozed beside him, her arm flung out on top of the covers, her lips puffing out with each soft breath. He eased from the bed and listened for the sound. He heard it again, from the living room, a rustle and tap as though someone were knocking on the window.

Easing from the bed, he crept out of the room. They’d left the lights on the tree plugged in, and the living room lit up in flashes of red, blue, green. Outside, the wind buffeted the shrubbery lined across the front of the cabin. Adam peered out the window, his breath misting the cold glass. A branch skittered against the window, and Adam muttered, “That must have been it,” as he rubbed his palm to clear his view of the front porch.

A dark form lifted from the pines at the edge of the clearing. It floated over the cabin, the moonlight casting an ink-stain shadow on the snow. Adam started, before deciding the dark thing was an owl, hunting for dinner. He stepped back, forgetting the tree and the presents behind him.

One foot knocked over a stack of gifts wrapped in red and white striped paper, and as he bent to grab the pile, he elbowed the tree. The ornaments jingled and one of the nutcracker soldiers fell to the hardwood floor with a clack. This would have been bad enough, but Adam, unbalanced, stepped on the little figure.

“Oh! Crap!” He picked up the soldier and hung it back on the tree. The figure’s arm, the one securing the hammer, lay broken next to a package wrapped in green paper dotted with penguins. Had he been wearing shoes, the damage would have been worse. In the morning he’d confess to Luanne and offer to glue the arm back in place.

“I’m sorry, Knockabout,” Adam whispered. “We’ll have you right as rain soon.”

As he rearranged the gifts under the tree, he tried to remember the exact placement of each box. Maybe if he put them all back like they were before, Luanne wouldn’t notice the broken arm until later. He could blame her little brother, or maybe they’d bring the family dog, always a convenient scapegoat.

The last box was covered in white paper with glitter stars. The tag read “To Adam, From Luanne.” After he listened to make sure his girlfriend still slept, he picked up the box and shook it. Something shifted lightly inside. It was slightly larger than a paperback book, long and thin. Maybe it held the Patek Philippe watch he’d been lusting after. Adam felt a brief pang of guilt. If it was the watch, he’d have to stick around through Valentine’s Day at least. He tucked the package back under the tree.

Thirsty, he stopped in the kitchen for a quick drink before climbing back into bed. He was standing at the sink, a tumbler of water lifted to his mouth, when he felt a sharp stab on his ankle.

“Hey!” Adam shook his foot. A tiny mark, like a pinprick, leaked a bit of red down the side of his foot. Something small and dark scurried behind the kitchen door. A rat? He grabbed the door and flung it closed. Tom Toss, the toy soldier with the spear, stood there, only this time he wasn’t carrying the weapon.

“What the…!” Adam jumped. The soldier dashed past him, back to the living room. Adam turned to follow – certain he hallucinated the image. It had to be a rat, one that ran around on two legs. He’d check the tree, make sure all the ornaments were still there.

Adam made it halfway across the living room floor when Biter latched onto his calf. With a scream, Adam beat at the nutcracker until it fell away, tearing off a chunk of flesh as it went. Panting, Adam limped toward the bedroom. He’d lock himself inside, away from these monsters.

When he started down the hallway, a tall shadow rose to block the path. It was the one-armed Knockabout, a seriously pissed Knockabout, who had grown somehow, until the top of his black hat brushed the ceiling. He raised his hammer and Adam turned to race back down the hall.

He bounced against the walls, Knockabout’s thundering steps at his heels. The kitchen! He’d run into the kitchen where there were knives and things he might use as weapons. Adam spun around the corner and ran smack into Pow Pow Boy.

“No!” He collided with the toy soldier, now the size of a small boy. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Adam struggled to his feet as the boxer landed a glancing blow to his side. “Oof!” Adam lost his breath with a gasp. He crawled into the kitchen. Where were the knives? Frantic, Adam yanked open drawers, sending the contents clashing and crashing to the floor. At last, his hand closed around the hilt of a sturdy butcher knife.

“All right, you bastards,” he called, waving the knife. Pow Pow Boy appeared in the doorway and stood there, gloved fists lowered. Biter and Tom Toss, grown to the size of cocker spaniels, tip-tapped up behind the boxer. Where was Knockabout? And where was Luanne? Surely the racket would have awakened her. Unless this was all a dream, a side effect of too much mulled wine.

“Come on then, let’s have it,” Adam said. He’d taken a step toward them when he heard the patter of bare feet approach from the hall.

“What’s all this?” Luanne clutched her robe and stood in the doorway, beside Pow Pow Boy. “What happened to poor Knockabout?”

“Those things…” Adam said, pointing with the knife. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t find the words. If he pinched himself, would he wake up at last?  

“You were snooping!”

“It’s not like that.” Adam had a moment, where he wondered why Luanne was not frightened or even curious why her toy soldiers had come to life. The moment passed, Luanne nodded to the gang, and then they were upon him.

******

He woke to light streaming in through the living room window, his field of vision partly blocked by evergreen needles. Had he fallen asleep underneath the tree? Then Luanne’s face loomed into view, impossibly large.

“There now, good morning,” she said. He tried to reply, but his mouth didn’t work. His jaws clacked together uselessly. Something was wrong with his arms – they were frozen at his sides. He clutched the knife from the night before, and suddenly it all came back to him.

“I think I’ll call you Slash Dash, my new special ornament.” Luanne smiled. Adam tried to scream, his wooden jaws stretched wide as she said, “We’ll have a lovely Christmas together forever.”

In gratitude for the love we are to receive

I love pecan pie. Yesterday, our realtor gifted his clients with Thanksgiving pies. We bought our house two years ago, in the middle of a crazy market, when investors were slinging cash like the Monopoly banker. Without his expertise, we wouldn’t have been able to find a place to call home. For that, we are grateful to Kreg Hall. The pie is a bonus. A large bonus, as I am the only one in our household who likes or can eat pecan pie. To make it last, I’ll freeze portions and enjoy it during the winter months. Each time I sit down with coffee and a slice of pecan pie, warm from the microwave, I’ll lift a fork in gratitude for the blessings we have and the good people in our life.

Below is a post from 2017. I wanted to share it again, I hope you enjoy reading it.   Join Hands, Give Thanks

I lived through two decades before I discovered that there were people in the world who made dressing with stale bread cubes instead of fresh cornbread. My oldest sister’s second husband, the nice one, was from somewhere up North. New York, I think. He had dark, pomaded hair swept up and back and he smiled and spoke with an accent I had only ever heard on television. He made a bread stuffing with oysters. I forgave him because it was delicious, each mouthful a feast of earthy black pepper mixed with the salty ocean taste of oysters. Home from college, my mother volunteered me to drive the two of us up to Malakoff, Texas, where my sister and her new husband had retired to life by the lake. In those days before GPS, I got lost following my sister’s handwritten directions. We arrived late, but to a feast still warm and laid out on their Formica topped kitchen island. I wish I had asked him for the recipe for that oyster dressing.

My mother made her dish the Southern way, with cornbread. She used white corn meal, soft as sand, with a bit of flour, scooped up and sprinkled in like snow. Baking soda and baking powder for leavening, for we all need incentive to rise. Buttermilk to mix, salt and bacon drippings for flavor, then all poured into her largest cast iron skillet, warmed on the stove so the crust will brown first. It came out like a pale yellow moon and filled the kitchen with the warm, sweet scent of corn. For the dressing she mixed in celery, onions, broth, and enough sage to repel evil spirits.

When I was young, we traveled to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. Not over the river or through the woods, but past the lake and along Highway 380 the 15 miles to the town of Farmersville. My mother brought her cornbread dressing and a pie or two as her contribution to the meal. I held the warm pan of dressing on my lap where I sat in the slick vinyl backseat of our 1970 Oldsmobile and tried not to drool on the foil covering the pan. My grandmother’s wood frame house had a tiny living room decorated with an autographed photograph of a famous televangelist, before the fall. She sent him money and prayed for healing by laying her hands on her Chroma color television while he preached. The children, including anyone under the age of 18, were banished to the back porch. We fought over metal folding chairs and balanced our plates of food on our knees while we fended off the horde of feral cats living in my grandmother’s yard. The cats were only slightly outnumbered by my cousins.

Some years we visited my father’s family, where my aunts made their dressing and gravy seasoned with the chunks of turkey heart, liver, and gizzard that came packaged and concealed inside a store bought turkey. The first time I cooked a turkey I didn’t realize there was this hidden prize inside. I found them after, steamed and tucked under the skin at the front of the turkey, where his neck would have been if it weren’t shoved up into the body cavity. The neck was roasted too, because I didn’t know there was a second, secret scrap part buried inside my turkey.

My first husband was from Missouri, and the bread stuffing his mother made was moist, but thick, and had to be scooped out in chunks. My father-in-law, an honest, hard-working mechanic and assistant Boy Scout leader, led the prayer each year, insisting that we all stand before the table and join hands. You haven’t really experienced Thanksgiving gratitude until you’ve had to convince a squirming toddler to stay still during a ten minute blessing while the aroma of roasted meat and cinnamon spiced pumpkin wafts over you in a moist cloud of steam you can taste.

My mother stopped cooking a turkey for Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, when it was just the two of us left at home. She would roast a chicken instead, and make her cornbread dressing. I never saw her consult a cookbook. She cooked from memory, measuring out ingredients to taste except when she was making a pie or a cake. After she moved into a nursing home, I found a cookbook tucked away in a box she had stored in her laundry room. The book, All About Home Baking, had penciled notes in the margins and tucked inside the front cover, scraps of lined paper with recipes written in her delicate, looping cursive. Brittle, yellowed pages from a 1963 calendar fluttered out like falling leaves when I turned the pages of the book.

I roast a turkey every year, even when there are just one or two guests and my vegetarian husband at the table. This year I’m cooking both turkey and a ham. I’ll make cranberry relish from fresh cranberries and oranges and add so much sugar that it passes for jam. We’ll have pumpkin pie and a minced meat pie like my mother used to make, even though no one but me will eat it. It is a deliberate luxury on my part to have a whole pie to myself. My husband, Andrew, will mash potatoes so they come out just the way he likes them, a little bit creamy and with a few tiny lumps. When he leaves the kitchen I will sneak in more butter and salt to the dish.

I don’t cook my mother’s cornbread dressing. I’ve fallen from grace and into the boxed, instant variety but at least it’s the cornbread version. I’ll make traditional green bean casserole with crispy fried onions on top and a spinach rice casserole from a recipe my aunt gave to me. I don’t put marshmallows on the yams, instead I’ll serve them with a pecan streusel topping like my ex-husband’s mother, my first mother-in-law, made.

The guests at the table, the cooks in the kitchen, and the fellowship changes, just as the feast stays the same. I touch my past as my hand stirs the pot, preps the bird, and kneads the bread. I bow my head in silent thanks and join hands with all, even those who are absent from the table. Join hands, bow heads and give thanks. Give thanks for the love we are all about to receive.

From the left: My mom, my maternal grandmother, and my aunt