Remember our first? ReadThisPlease.com Edition 12 is all about firsts. Some experiences happen upon us and we acknowledge that this was a personal first, first chances, first disappointments, first moments. We all have opportunities to travel into the unknown and experience a first. Even if a road is traveled a thousand times, the first journey is special. We invite you to read the draft passages, short tales, compilations as we build it into a book—we might pop in and move things around. Brought to you by the wandering scribes at ReadThisPlease, in Firsts, Edition 12, first draft…

Cover: ‘First Look’ a composite of images by Leah Givens.

 

Feb. 01, 2012 • EDITION 12 • CONTENTS

ONE PAGE • THREE COLUMNS • NOW

All Rights Reserved

 

Firsts

February 1, 2012

 

column 1

First Memory by M Dawn Thacker

Writer’s Firsts by Sarah Marie Scott

First Real Friend by Adrienne S Moody

First Gift of the Year by Adrienne S Moody

First Vacation by Gaboo

First Time by Gaboo

My First Bad Boy by Adrienne S Moody

 

column 2

Memorable Firsts by Adrienne S Moody

First Girl Friend by Casimirr Rexregys

My First Honest Thoughts About Mice by Jen A C

The First Church by Gaboo

First Fear of Death by Gaboo

First Crack in a Marriage by Adrienne S Moody

First Man by M Dawn Thacker

First Time For Real by Gaboo

 

column 3

First Time Alone by Casimirr Rexregys

First Spat by Gaboo

First Lover by Adrienne S Moody

That First Step by M Dawn Thacker

First Child by Adrienne S Moody

Pruning Old Growth by M Dawn Thacker

 

Look For The Latest Edition of ReadThisPlease on Amazon Kindle!

 
All works are copyright of their respective author. ReadThisPlease.com has received expressed permission to reproduce these works for your reading enjoyment. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not represent ReadThisPlease.com. All rights reserved. Duplication or reproduction is prohibited. See our Contents link for further information or leave an inquiry in the comments. Read our story and visit Now.readthisplease.com for updates and daily contributions. One page. Three columns. As is. Click anywhere, read and enjoy.
 

 

First Memory
by M Dawn Thacker

 
I was playing under the house trailer.  I know I was under it because I saw the long black axles laying across cinderblock, and I smelled the dirt. I was too tall to stand up straight, so I was on my knees. It felt cozy.  I looked out from the shade around me and saw the other mobile homes on either side.  The yard had patches of green and brown grass.  My feet were bare.

The girl from next door was with me. She was older than me and had two Barbies.  She showed me one of the dolls. She let me hold it.  The girl had yellow hair and she was wearing a white dress. She smiled at me.  She took the Barbie dolls and sat them side by side on one of the cinderblocks.  Their dresses were fancy like hers, their feet were bare like mine.  They were friends.

I saw a woman’s feet and legs. Her high heeled shoes were black and shiny. She bent over and frowned at us. “Come out from under there this minute in that nice white dress,” she said to the girl.

My friend scurried out from under the trailer and left the dolls sitting there with me.
 
First Memory © 2012 M Dawn Thacker. See more of M Dawn’s work at Now.readthisplease.com and find links to her stories in the Contents.
 

 

Writer’s Firsts
by Sarah Marie Scott

 
I remember my first poem-about a cat- I can recite it by heart. I have it scrawled in grade-school letters, in a notebook in a box in my house somewhere. It’s there.

I remember my first A earning essay, and the joy I felt at a job well done. I floated all the way home to show my parents. The next morning, I dug the paper out of the trash, ink smeared, pages reminiscent of stale ale. I saved it, neatly tucked in a once eggshell-now-dingy faded manilla envelope.

I remember my first award for English, my first written short story, my first novel manuscript, penned in old ratty notebooks, smudged with tears. I remember a lifetime of moments, standing on the bridge, overlooking the valley. And I remember, all the doors that had to open, to bring me here.

I hold the book in my hand, with its polished cover and glossy words. I am mere months away from my first college degree, and but a few years beyond I’ll have another certificate to hang on the wall. But it’s not about the certificates. It’s about the words on these pages in my hand. It’s about what that piece of paper gives me, the confidence to stretch my arms up to the sky and throw my head back, to scream into the valley below: “I made it to the mountain top!”
 
Writer’s Firsts © 2012 Sarah Marie Scott. We welcome your comments. You can read more of Sarah’s work in previous editions of ReadThisPlease, or in our daily magazine, Now.ReadThisPlease.com.
 

 

First Real Friend
by Adrienne S Moody

 

Eternal Friend and Soul Sista

Those were the words she wrote me before she died: eternal friend and soul sista. This friend since primary school is gone and she’s taken a part of me with her. No one shares these memories that we have and no more will I be able to call her on a whim just because I need to hear her laughter. There for me when first my dad died and then my mother. She rode in the funeral car both times as she was considered part of the family. She was more my sister than my own. And my family knew it.

She was my tennis partner in high school and we would still, as adults, laugh at the coach, Mr. Wood and his ridiculous loping gait. She was the one who instigated me sassing the Math teacher, Mr. Denny, and snickered as he ridiculed me. We spent one year not speaking to each other for some girlish unspeakable crime against each other. On the last day of school before the freedom of summer we walked parallel on opposite sides of the street and I remember looking at her and wishing we were friends again to spend the summer together. I said to her ~  ’do you wanna be friends?’ and how we both burst out laughing and back together we were.

Over the years, I have dreamed of the back alley that leads to her home. She lived only two blocks away. When you’re a child you notice things, like the color of the brick on a home, the black dog that races up to the fence when you walk by, the shape of the trees that line the lane. I remember the back of Linda’s house and how she always had rabbits there that she loved and tended to. Her dog Goldie would be sleeping in the sun and would raise her head at me. A cat or two lazed in the hot prairie sun.

She sang at my wedding. She put a flower and a little gift on my bed when I stayed with her for my father’s funeral.

She would leave a happy birthday greeting and song on my answering machine. Whenever she missed, which wasn’t often, I would call feeling a little hurt and saying , “What’s up? No birthday song?”

I don’t think I can fly home for her funeral. I can’t bear to even imagine her in that coffin. It would surely tear me apart to see it lowered to the ground.

She died on Friday afternoon and I had talked to her on the phone on Thursday evening. I received her email the following morning, just hours before she collapsed to the ground at the golf course. The paramedics could not revive her.

I dreamed last night of being in the hallways of our old high school. I stopped a mutual friend and said, ‘did you hear that…. Sharon died?’ a sister of another friend. I knew that was wrong. ‘no, it was Sharon’s mother,’ I amended,  but knew again that was wrong. And then I remembered it was Linda and I woke and listened to the rain.

Chime Music

I always look for signs. Ever since my dad died and I connected with him many times afterwards, I feel and know that strong connections can stay intact even after death. Linda died on Friday early afternoon. Suddenly. Her pain must have been very very short. And of this I am grateful. She died on a golf course. What better place than that especially if you love golf and she did. No one contacted me that day. I went to bed that night knowing nothing. I had received her email that morning just hours before she dropped to the ground. I smiled at her ending, the words, eternal and soul. I didn’t know then that these words would be like a parting hug from her.

I woke up in the early hours; I lifted my head off the pillow to look outside as I sensed the moon would be visible and it was. I marveled at the beauty of the eyelash moon in the autumn sky. I whispered to no one, ‘how beautiful.’ And put my head back down and went to sleep.

The next day after work I arrived home to see two messages flashing on my machine and heard this woman’s voice saying that she had something to tell me about Linda. I knew it couldn’t be good. But dead? No, I did not think that. My mind wouldn’t go there, but I knew it was something serious. And so that evening was spent calling mutual friends from back home. Telling them the awful news. I called my brother in Indiana. As I told him my voice broke up. I couldn’t get the words out easily. It just didn’t make sense to put the words Linda and dead together.

I felt grateful my roommate was still out on the Sunshine Coast and I had the place to myself. I finally fell asleep, heaviness in my heart and feeling so very exhausted. I drifted off thinking, ‘who will know these stories that she and I have? I can no longer phone her and say, ‘remember when we were in the funeral car at mom’s burial and you whispered to me   …  now I know why you can’t stand your sister, she’s driving me crazy?’  No one laughs like she and I do. No one laughs at my jokes like she does. No one gets me like she does.’

Again I woke in the middle of the night. Something roused me. The wind. Chimes. That lovely tinkling of chimes in the wind. I lifted my head and listened intently. Music. And then, suddenly, like someone put on a tap of water full force, the rain. Such force and I laid awake and listened to it and could sleep no more.

 

What’s Around the Next Corner?

I thought maybe, three days after her death, that the slip of a moon, the chimes in the middle of the night or the downpour of rain was her speaking to me somehow. But, I’m not convinced and I feel that I will know if and when she connects with me. At least I think I will. I did with my with dad. It was with certainty that he alerted me.

This is my first.

My first close friend to die. It’s different from my parents, or relatives. Our friends bring death closer to us. We expect our parents will go first and it is an alien thought, our own demise. At least for me. While she waits wherever a body waits for the relatives to retrieve and begin the process of burial, I could feel the cold of the steel that surely is there for her. I tried not to think of this, but I cannot help it. I wish her body was kept warm by the fireside with her friends all around and not in a steel environment awaiting an autopsy.

Her brothers have arrived now and someone would be tending to her and preparing her for public display at her funeral.

During these few days since she died, I’ve thought of many things. I’ve thought about what our friends mean to us. Now I’m  thinking, that could be her last email. I think that could be the last phone call. I know this will fade and I will take everything for granted once more, as that is the way we are designed. How else to live day to day doing such mundane tasks to keep everything moving? Work to pay bills to take vacation to keep the heat on and gas in our cars. It is all so mind-numbingly mundane; it is best to live without mindfulness.

Easier that way.

I thought she and I would still be comparing notes well into our 80′s. I really did. So now I reminisce about her and how much she meant to me.

Our last phone conversation. We talked at great length about our health. I told her how I have never felt so good; I have boundless energy. I feel and look great. But I can’t take stress and anxiety. I’m seeing a counselor for that. I’m tired of sleepless nights worrying about work related issues, work run by drone-like idiots who pass out letters of expectations with an evil grin on their faces. She told me that she wasn’t feeling well the past few months. She’d spoken of this before.

She spoke of a boil that appeared suddenly on her left breast near her heart. The doctor lanced it and tried to drain it. It hurt terribly. There was a lump under this and he booked an appointment for her a week later. There, he said, was a triage and a mammogram would be done and that there was a surgeon right there if he was needed for any other treatment.

“I will call you on Wednesday, Linda,” I said as I wrote this on my calender. She scoffed. “It’s probably nothing. I’m just gonna call to see how it went.”

“Strange, Adrienne, how when he did this procedure, my breast became very very hot and was so red. He put me on antibiotics.”

Maybe this is what did it. An infection so close to her heart.

If one sentence could be used to sum up a person’s personality, heart and soul, then the following is Linda.

When she was only twelve years old her parents took her and her younger brother to Ireland. Once there they stopped at a pub in the middle of Belfast. The parents warned the two of them to ‘stay in the car, or else!’

Linda watched them disappear into the drinking establishment.

“Stay here or else!” she warned her brother and left the rent-a-car.

She wandered down the busy grey-looking city sidewalk and turned the corner.

A car bomb went off across the street from her.

She ran back to the car as fast as she could, more concerned that her parents would see she disobeyed them than her near brush with violence.

“What ever motivated you to do this, Linda? Why would you just wander into a strange city like you did?” I asked, shocked at this detail of her life that she’d never disclosed before.

“I just had to see what was around the corner,” was her simple answer.

And I see she has done this once more.
 
First Real Friend © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. Check out the Contents, or read more of Adrienne’s works at Now.ReadThisPlease.com. We welcome your comments.

 

 

First Gift of the Year
by Adrienne S Moody

 

My first gift of the year arrived in the midst of one of the most stressful incidents most of us can relate to. It started with an afternoon excursion to Granville Island, a magical place with artisans, pottery shops, witch’s paraphernalia, and a marketplace that is a feast for the senses. Strawberries are stacked in their baskets; bright blueberries tempt; slabs of every fish imaginable are displayed behind glass. The smell of roasted coffee and fudge permeate the air. We arrived on New Year’s Eve around 2:00 pm. We wandered, we touched, we ooh-ed and aah-ed over the mishmash of merchandise. We joined in with the crush of people, overwhelmed.

Worried about having a purse slung over my shoulder, I did something that I soon regretted. I placed only what I needed in a fanny pack: my cell phone, a lipstick, and my visa card. Everything else was left in this nice, but nondescript fake leather bag that I stuffed in the front of the passenger seat and I covered with a raincoat.

Our next plan was to go to a movie close by. I love going to this particular theater; it’s a festival cinema and has an old fashioned balcony. The popcorn is renowned as the best. We settled into our seats and watched George Clooney in the film, The Descendants. I think now, in hindsight, watching this film, all about relationships, losing a loved one, and finding forgiveness, helped in the upcoming mini-disaster that I was about to encounter.

The man I was dating parked in front of my condo, and after thanking him for the lovely day, I gathered my things together and suddenly realized that my purse was missing. How can that be? We searched together. We searched many times before I accepted the fact that it was, indeed, gone. This meant, I had no keys to get into my place, no keys to my car parked in the underground garage, and I had to work the next day at 7:00 am.

“You can stay with me, Adrienne. I’ll drive you to work in the morning.”

Gratefully, I took him up on his offer. What choice did I have? I was exhausted at that point and as we drove the lengthy distance to his condo, I ticked off everything in the stolen purse that I could remember.  Luckily, I knew there wasn’t any money, but money can be replaced. What else was in there? A woman’s purse is a very personal item to her, to most women. Even women who refuse to carry one are making a statement about themselves. I knew I had expensive makeup recently given to me as a gift—ouch! This isn’t something I will normally buy for myself. There was only one credit card which I cancelled as soon as we arrived at Gary’s place.

As he pulled out the futon, muttering that he was sorry he couldn’t give me better accommodations, I waited, on hold, for the non-emergency police line. I wandered around his place and could see he only had a single bed in his room.

“I only have one comforter, Adrienne, so…” he trailed off making up the futon where he obviously intended both of us to sleep.

I made my report to a pleasant, business-like sounding police woman. When she heard that my keys were gone as well as my car keys, she asked if I could phone a neighbor and ask them to keep an eye on my place.

“I don’t know anyone in my building,” I told her.

True, not anyone whom I had a connection with, or knew their phone number and felt comfortable calling. It was now near midnight.

“Here,” Gary walked over to me. He handed me a piece of paper and a pen. “Make a to-do list for tomorrow and you’ll have a better chance of sleeping tonight.”

Good idea.

I realized with a sinking feeling, that someone having access to my keys and the address on my driver’s license left me very vulnerable. I recalled that my garage door opener to the underground parking was on the key chain as well. My roommate was arriving from the United States the following day. I did reach her and she comforted me, saying that she would be there in the morning and at least I could gain access to the apartment.

I took two Tylenol before bed and tried to shut off the hamster wheel spinning in my brain. Why did I leave my purse in the car? How stupid of me! And then the ‘what if’ questions…

What if I don’t get my keys back? I will have to go the the Strata and let them know what happened and, because it is such a security risk, all the keys will have to be replaced at enormous cost to me. Never mind if the criminal drives out to my home that evening and does damage while no one is there. I barely slept.

The next day the alarm went off at 5:30 am and my hero, Gary, made coffee and drove me down the freeway the half hour to my workplace. I don’t know how I got through that day, but one thing I do know is that my co-worker was instrumental in calming me and helping me put things in perspective.

I left work early, having made arrangements for my roommate to pick me up and transport me back home, where she supposedly had her keys. However, it was not going to be that simple. When I had seated myself in her vehicle, she confessed, looking very upset, that she couldn’t get in either. She’d left her keys in the condo and I remembered telling her to not to worry, that I would lock up. Neither of us could get in.

She went off to work, while I remained with the dilemma. I have an alloy deadbolt which is virtually un-pickable and un-drillable; it’s high security. I called my ex. He advised me to somehow break-in through one of the bedroom windows, gain access to my roommate’s keys, and then contact a locksmith to change the deadbolt. This was my plan.

As I mentioned I don’t know any of my neighbors—only to say, “Hello.” This incident was about to change that. The woman who is head of the Strata Council was the first to my rescue. Laura came flying down from the third floor, with all the high-powered energy that made me realize just how good she must be at her job. Full of life and a spring to her step, she rapped loudly on the door of Marsha’s condo. The three of us stood on Marsha’s balcony as I hopped over onto mine and unsuccessfully tried the windows. No luck.

“I feel like I’m Lucy in an I Love Lucy episode,” I said, hopping back over to the waiting women. “I have a handyman on call for me. I’ll call him.”

“Oh, but I’m dating a man who is a handyman. Let me call him,” and as the take-charge kind of woman that she is, Laura promptly dialed her cell phone.

Within ten minutes he arrived, looking dashing in his work clothes and tool belt. And obviously a good decade younger than Laura. She sidled up to him and kissed him before he set to business. He jimmied with the windows for about fifteen minutes and then one of them popped open. Success! He opened the door and I was able to enter my place. There were my roommate’s keys sitting on her dresser, and five messages blinked on my machine. The last one was a woman’s voice, telling me in a very serious tone that she’d found my purse laying on the railroad tracks just outside Granville Island.

I collapsed on the living room chair. Breathe. Everything was back to normal. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. We made arrangements to meet that evening when rush hour subsided. Gary insisted on driving me, and I relented, relieved to not be driving without my license in the dark and unrelenting rain.

From a well known cafe, I called her and let her know we’d arrived. She lived in one of the condos that line the marketplace. “How beautiful,” I thought as we waited for her. The area contains some of the priciest real estate in the Lower Mainland. I was admiring the waterfront when she bounded in the door, holding my purse, which to me was like meeting up with an old, dear friend. I broke into a smile. She handed it over and we chatted about what had occurred.

“You must have been frantic!”

“Yes, I really was. I didn’t expect to get it back. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“I only wish I could have gotten hold of you last night. I admit I rooted through your bag trying to find something that would give me a phone number. Finally, I found your auto emergency card and called them.”

As we chatted I went through my purse and with such relief, there was nothing taken. What’s this? A chocolate bar? I held it up questioningly.

“Oh… I just put that in there for you. Christmas and all…” she lowered her eyes, looking embarrassed.

“Thank you! How sweet of you. There are Good Samaritans after all.”

She then clasped her hands together and did this little bow, which to me was a humbling gesture. Perhaps she was a Buddhist? I held my arms out to her and she reciprocated. We hugged each other. The sound of the rain tapping the windows, the low murmur of patrons talking, Nat King Cole singing through the speakers, the smell of roasting coffee—intoxicating and warm.

“Don’t let go of your dreams,” she whispered, before pulling away.

She smiled and left as quickly as she’d come. I was puzzled. It wasn’t until I got home and went through each item in my purse that I understood. Let me say this first, a purse holds vast information about a woman. It is one of the most personal items that she owns. Whether it’s stolen or lost, it’s like a part of her is gone. This is what I thought as I examined each item, a smile on my face.

There was my Lancome makeup bag with the eight items given to me as a gift with purchase. I never buy the products as I can’t afford it. Nail polish. Five lipsticks. My wallet bulged with cards of all sorts—I saw that there was money left in there, a ten dollar bill squished in between two cards—and my notebook. I went through it page by page.

Two recipes scribbled in a mad rush. Directions to a wedding in Edmonton. And then I see it. I don’t recall writing it, but I knew I was getting out a stressful change in my life:

- roommate moves out
- accident
- giving up the dream

There it is, giving up the dream. A loss so important in all our lives. Interesting how that struck her the way it did, enough to give me a little female advice.

That evening, once I was safe at home and everything returned to normal, I realized how these sorts of incidents often have a silver lining. I felt supported by two women in my building, whom I didn’t know prior. Rather than making it more stressful, they had me laughing and kept it light. And then, meeting the Good Samaritan, with whom I felt such a connection that it brought tears to my eyes when she turned and left the cafe.

Don’t give up the dream.

Thank you, stranger, for the two gifts you’ve given me on this first day of the year.
 
First Gift of the Year © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. Check out the Contents, or read more of Adrienne’s works at Now.ReadThisPlease.com. We welcome your comments.
 

 

First Vacation
by Gaboo

 

Scene 1

The scene opens in a scullery. Cooks in aprons whirl to prepare a feast. One sits alone in a corner, peeling and having a conversation with himself.

Bellow, bellow, bellow. The sire’s in a rage. Boo hoo. Mind yourself, hush, or you’ll be summoned and whipped, or worse, dipped. I could use a good dipping this time of year. Don’t jest, you almost went without noggin last night. Oh you… whine, whine, whine. Bellow, bellow, bellow. Two dongs loose from their bells. I won’t warn you again.

Promise?

A bucketful of slop flies over the head of the lone peeler and douses him.

Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot. Now look what you’ve done… why are you even here? Hiding out?

Whine.

You’re in trouble again.

Whimper.

Just remember, don’t drag me into your complications.

Scene 2

Enter the ante room of a palace. High ceilings filter light through stone archways. Various guards, and servants loiter and pace. A booming voice yells off stage—there’s anger in the words and the entourage turns nervously. Some shirk and withdraw.

Where’s my fool! Where’s my fool! Bring me that cursed fool!

A page nervously approaches the voice, stage right, and stoops lower, timidly.

Your fool is peeling eggs, sire… in the kitchens, sire… causing a mess, sire.

The voice yells louder.

He’s doing what?!

A diminutive, but rotund man struts commandingly to center stage. He’s shod in fancy open shoes, cloth leggings, ribbed vest and a thick open robe. A wobbly crown perches on his head. Two servants follow frantically with fishing rod contraptions to correct the crown’s position. The regal man looks left and right, then to the audience, searching with his eyes. He whirls and struts, the two servants following desperately to balance the crown.

A taller, snakelike servant dressed in flowing gray robes appears from a shadowy alcove. He approaches and takes a position behind the crowned man’s ear.

My wonderful king, do not be overcome with disappointment. I will advise you in anyway possible. Ask of me, and I will do my utmost to fulfill your greatnesses requestesses.

The king peers at him, annoyed.

Oh bother, go find my fool, you lurker. Did you hear me summon my Royal Speculator? Oh Royal Speculator, Royal Speculator, where could be my Royal Speculator?

The king mocks the man, wiggling his fingers in the air as if distraught. Then he scowls.

Bring me advice on the Whereabouts Of My Royal Fool! Seeeek him!

(“Seek him, seek him, seek the fool” whisper and mutter the panicked servants as they flee off stage.)

At the thunder of the king’s command, the entourage disperses hither and fro. The Royal Speculator evaporates fearfully into the shadows. The two servants balancing the crown become entangled. They fall in collision, lying prostrate in failure. The crown tumbles to the floor. The scene ends.

 

Scene 3

The king is on a turret balcony, overlooking the moat. He leans forlorn against a stone window sill, staring despondently at the setting sun. He speaks.

Why do you leave me in my time of need?

The egg peeler in Scene 1 approaches from off stage, standing opposite the window frame so that both men can view the sunset. The egg peeler speaks.

You have to learn how to get on with things. I’m not going to affect the outcome much. You know that.

The king sighs and speaks.

Yes, I know. But it’s hard taking those steps alone, without someone to offer a realistic opinion.

The egg peeler body checks the king affectionately, making room for himself along the window ledge. Both men gaze at the horizon. The two crown balancers appear from off stage and make subtle, manual adjustments to the position of the king’s crown. Eventually, the egg peeler speaks.

Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence. I mean it.

The king clasps his own hands together and peers at the moat below.

Well, you deserve it. I know I’ve been pretty demanding lately… with all my conquering and pillaging and all that. It takes it out of ya, trust me.

The egg peeler pulls a crumpled jester’s cap out of his vest and sets it upon his own head.

Tell me, I’ve been running out of material. It gets old and I just want to be fresh. New perspectives.

The king looks at his servant.

I hear ya, buddy.

The egg peeler, now court jester, gives the king a friendly punch in the bicep. The two crown balancers again appear with hasty adjustment. The jester speaks.

You’ll do okay.

The jester stoops and plucks a rucksack, and a walking staff leaning against the wall. Then he turns to the king and speaks, smiling.

Hey, don’t be sad… I have one more for you… how does a poor man wipe his nose?

The jester wipes his nose on his own sleeve. The king chuckles. The jester continues.

How does a gentleman wipe his nose?

The jester tugs open the top of his own dusty vest and wipes his nose on the collar, discreetly. The king guffaws and smiles. The jester continues.

How does the King wipe his nose?

The king looks on curiously as the jester leans forward and wipes his nose on the king’s sleeve.

That’s how. I’ll send a pigeon with a postcard when I get there.

The king roars as the jester departs. The curtains close. 

 

First Vacation © 2012 Gaboo. Check out more of Gaboo’s stories in the Contents. You can also find links at Now.ReadThisPlease.
 

 

First Time
by Gaboo

 
It’s not all that glimmery.

“Is this your first time?” she seemed incredulous. Of course it wasn’t my first time! I knew how this worked. I read all those porn mags the welders tossed in the dust bin behind Wrenchrite Manufacturing. We discovered them together, me and my two best buddies. What a glorious summer, sitting by the creek in a ramshackle fort, paging through days of glossy butts and breasts. We read all the articles, and compared all the information gleaned—cartoons, Dear Editor letters—and we labelled all the prettiest faces and the perfect bodies. Kids today have the internet. Back then we had to use mental imagery. We had a gold mine. I remember the exotic model photo, with the banner, “The Russians are Coming”. She was gorgeous, a four by six inch goddess. I clipped the picture and saved it in a buckskin wallet. Until the fear of being discovered led me to kiss the scrap goodbye and toss her, folded to the wind.

I remember scrambling along the creek that same fall, late for school. Someone else was rooting through the cache, so I crept up quietly and peered through the twigs. Robert Nash, my arch nemesis, was engrossed in a tattered, soggy pin-up book. I’m sure he had his hands down his pants, giving it.

“Robert Nash looks at nudie magazines!”

Oh, I made sure he was busted, embarrassed royally. I ran and laughed. What a good laugh…

But of course it wasn’t my first time—how could it be my first time? I was a worldly guy; I knew how the plumbing worked. Just the motion was screwing me up.

“Lie back.”

And there it was. I was doing it, or I was being done. It was not really as scary as they say, most of the fear was in my head, because something was happening, my body was taking over. It was like a separation of wills. The skin, the hair, the sweaty heat combining two living forms together. I was getting too excited, letting too much go. I couldn’t stop. So this was it…

The door kicked in and The Hag stumbled through the threshold, with a couple of sneering drunks in tow. I couldn’t make them out, the street light shone past them and hit me like a deer. My eyes were bleary, almost teared up. We had been talking for hours, my belle and I, kissing, fondling, touching, playing dating games, closer, closer, and somehow here we were fully engaged and DOING IT—for real, and then her roommate had to crash in, the neanderwoman, the boor.

The Hag slopped herself next to the cluttered kitchen table, pushed against the wall of the one room shack and plunked in a chair. Her dates stood chuckling in the doorway.

“For frick sakes, I’m drunk,” she slurred.

“Just go take a walk,” my wondergirl scolded.

“You take a walk,” the beast defied, and then perked, “Hey, who’s that?”

“Nobody.”

“Hey, were you guys having sex?” she cackled.

“Just go, please.”

“Well, ha, ha, ha, serves you right. I’m watching TV.”

The Hag’s two escorts stood debating, then promptly stumbled off.

“F you, too.” Deb snorted.

Well, I was almost there, half way there. I could have been there, having first time sex, but I got robbed. And the cut-off, gosh is that ever painful.
 
First Time © 2012 Gaboo. Check out more of Gaboo’s stories in the Contents. You can also find links at Now.ReadThisPlease.
 

 

My First Bad Boy
by Adrienne S Moody

 
Our communication started with a simple line sent via email.

Have you seen the film, ‘The Notebook?’

An odd question, I thought. I looked at his profile and although his picture posted was somewhat fuzzy, out of focus, I could see a man with strong features and a smile that looked self-conscious. Not a guy who liked his picture taken. He was in construction work, a working stiff, is how he described himself. What a strange question from such a macho looking kind of guy.

Yes, I did and I loved it.

I responded and waited for his reply. We messaged back and forth for the next few days, getting to know each other. I finally asked him what possessed him to watch a film known to be a classic ‘chick flick.’ Did someone push it on him? Yes, he replied. My son who knows me beyond the tough guy exterior. There is this soft romantic in me that I don’t usually show anyone.

He said that he was drowning in a loveless marriage at the time and that the film brought him to tears when he realized the truth. He’d not felt that kind of love depicted in the film, since he was a teenager. The kind of love that makes it so you can’t eat.

I wrote that I loved the part of the film where the mother takes the daughter to this rock quarry and points out a worker in a hard hat as a man she used to be crazy about as a young girl. He had nothing materially to offer her and she’d turned him down in favor of someone who could give her the lifestyle she desired. This man in the hard hat suddenly looked up and saw the woman from his past and the expression on his face said it all. That look is what chemistry and unrequited love is all about. He wrote:

That look said, ‘It was good.’

I do remember love that made it impossible to eat. He lived across the street from me when I was only 14. His name was Kelly and he had a chipped front tooth making him look reckless and wild. His white blonde hair was too long and a lock of it kept falling into his eyes.

“Do not put one foot into his yard, young lady,” my father warned me, sensing something was brewing in the neighborhood and it involved his eldest daughter.

Children spilled like marbles out of a jar from the homes of my old neighborhood. So many of us, jumping, screaming, conspiring, challenging. Baseball played in the field across from our bungalow, touch football on the dead end street. The street lights flickered on bringing the moths out of hiding, twenty or so of us congregating by the telephone pole playing potato man to see who would be ‘it’ in a game of hide-and-go-seek.

Kelly and I dashed away together holding hands. We climbed fences, trespassed through darkened yards, smelling the musky damp earth and the sweet peas in the late summer. Together we hid under a lilac bush, both of us on our backs looking up at the stars in the sky. His lips were moist, and tasted like licorice, and he smelled like the wheat fields at my Uncle’s farm.

He professed his love for me there, on that night. Told me he was only trying to make me jealous when he would call out to my sister as we walked home from school. Kelly and I hid so well that everyone just gave up on us and continued on with the summer game. I remember my mom calling me in the distance and heard the sound of the screen door slamming. I knew I had time until my dad would stand on the front porch and whistle his Three Short signal, which meant “Get in… or else!”

Kelly was always in trouble for something. He was the oldest of eight kids and his parents didn’t seem to know how to look after them all. None of them were ever dressed properly for the season and whenever there was a break-in or thefts committed in the neighborhood, fingers pointed at Kelly’s house. My father reported at the dinner table one night that he saw Kelly’s father asleep in his truck down by the river early that morning. I asked one of Kelly’s sisters why they never seemed to get called in for meals like we did. She answered that usually their mother cooked up things like pancakes and left them on a big plate on the cupboard and everyone just grabbed as they walked through the house.

Kelly disappeared from the neighborhood the following year. As my high school years dragged on, his face faded from my memory. One day, my girlfriend and I were walking towards town, to hang around, and a car slowed beside us. We looked over and saw Kelly in the passenger seat with a known trouble maker, Maurice, driving.

“Wanta ride, Adrienne?” my childhood love asked.

We jumped into the back of the car, always up for some excitement. Kelly asked if I wanted to sit with him in the front, so I climbed over and sat next to him. There was that same wheat smell, and when he kissed me, the unmistakable odor of liquor. But it was a warm feeling that emanated from him. And I didn’t mind. I felt lost in that kiss and didn’t want it to end. It wasn’t a demanding sort of kiss that some are. No, his was soft and lingering and sad.

I moved away shortly after that incident. Around my 18th birthday I traveled around with a friend, aimlessly. Neither one of us knew what we wanted to do in life and taking a bus here and there around the west coast seemed as good an idea as any. We did odd jobs like chamber maid work to finance our adventure and one day while we waited to board a greyhound bus I saw him. Like putting a finger into a light socket, his eyes met mine above the crowd and it stopped my breath. The look on his face said, ‘You’re never gonna forget me.’

“Who is that?” Cathe asked, noticing the electric charge in the air.

“Oh, someone I used to know,” I answered in a far-away voice.

My mind wandered back to when I felt his hand in mine as we raced through yards and hopped over fences in the moonlight. I remembered the taste of his mouth.

A decade later, I was married, and settled into a very normal sort of life; I received a call from an old neighbor. She regretted to tell me that Kelly was dead. It was a drug deal gone wrong, she informed me. Dead. He never had a chance in life. I know that I couldn’t have saved him from his destiny and I had to let him go. But a part of him still lingers in me.

A wise friend I know said this:

‘You want my take on why some women like bad boys? Validation. Cause the bad boy can choose anything, take anything. And he takes you.’
 
My First Bad Boy © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. Check out the Contents, or read more of Adrienne’s works at Now.ReadThisPlease.com. We welcome your comments.
 

 
ReadThisPlease.com comes together with the valiant efforts of people with great technical, design, and organizational skills. We’d like to thank Steve Bryson for contributing his IT knowledge and keeping our server, sites, and databases all running smooth. Visit his site here. Many thanks to Sheila Cano for her work proofing the stories we post up here and organizing the disorganized. And a sincere thank you to Donna Lewis who administrates all of our projects and makes sure the accounts get accounted. Contact any of these fine people through the comments or email editor@readthisplease.

 

 

ReadThisPlease is on Amazon Kindle.

Volume One is in print! Click the cover to find it on Amazon’s Createspace or visit…
now.readthisplease.com/shop/

 

Memorable Firsts
by Adrienne S Moody

 
My friend said it right: first anything usually isn’t at all what we expect. First sexual experience? How many can report back with rave reviews?

First scouting for a job?

I was with a gaggle of giggling girls; we were all of 13 years of age. We bounced into the local meat market and asked the butcher if he needed someone to sweep up all that ‘sawdust,’ to which he responded with, ‘Get outta here allofya!’

First time getting fired?

I decided to moonlight and work a second job across the street at this hotel working as a waitress serving drinks at a nightclub. I’ve never done this kind of work but it looked kinda easy to me. I loved music and the music there was loud enough to hear across the street. So off I went for my first shift. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the position when a young guy about my age walked up to me as I stood at the bar tapping my foot to the music, slammed a full drink down on the counter and said, ‘You got it wrong for the fourth time. You owe me one!’ I believe I just walked off the job before they put the axe down.

First break up?

Oh yeah. That would be Lyle. Grade 11 I was and wearing his black Alaskan ring on my left hand, looking very important, indeed. The first date was memorable as he didn’t show due to his negligence in turning the heater on in the chicken coop and killing all the chickens. Things improved from there. I remember his hands, long slender fingers, but strong due to all the farm chores he had to do. His cheeks flamed red like firelight. Wasn’t meant to be, however. He just faded away and after a few weeks I passed my ring to a friend who passed it to his friend and that was the end. He was a dismal kisser, so no great loss. It wasn’t heartbreak for me, at least.

First betrayal?

Not a man, no, but a female friend taught me what it is like to have someone leave you at a time when they are needed most. And she did this more than once. Rumors abounded about me in my late 20′s. Slander of my character. She called me and hinted that it was going on. And that’s okay but what wasn’t is I could tell by her voice that she believed what was being said. Ouch! And then this same woman decided that I was fabricating or at best I was delusional in thinking a man was criminally harassing me. I no longer speak to her. I saw her profile on Facebook and it saddened me.

First kiss?

Won’t ever forget it. Kelly, the bad boy from my youth. We were at a movie held at an elementary school up the hill from where we lived. I would be about ten years old, maybe eleven. My sister and I were walking home afterwards, in the pitch blackness of the night. I remember the sound of our shoes on the wooden sidewalk and the sound of running behind us. I turned, startled and felt his lips press on mine like seagull wings. And then his excited laugh as he kept on running. I touched my fingers to my mouth. And smiled. Now that was everything and more than what I expected a first kiss to be.

 

Memorable Firsts © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. A freelance writer with several published works, read her contributions in previous editions. Visit her feature articles and stories in the Now and leave a comment.

 

 

First Girl Friend
by Casimirr Rexregys

 
“You are going to a party.”

Stan spoke then picked up Val’s laptop and headed toward the exit gate.

“Yes? Mr. Rexregys,” asked the airline attendant, trying to act normal, while Val held the ticket in mid-air staring amazed at Stan.

“Well, yes,” Val said with an informative smile, “not this flight, thanks.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Rexregys,” The attendant replied smoothly.

“Five years since London… how have you been?” Val asked when he caught up with Stan.

Val spoke again, “Now, what’s wrong with London?”

“Everything was wrong,” Stan said, eyes fixed on Val, “Do you see Sarah around? You didn’t even ask.”

“Why should I ask?” Val laughed, “Sarah only knew that she was your spokesmodel and what else?”

“Yes,” Stan said, “I did not shag her, that’s what is wrong with London. Answer your question?”

“Getting laid and London are two different things,” Val responded, “If Sarah was not expecting both, that’s your fault.”

“Respect,” Stan said, “and you know why, right?”

“Yes,” Val said, “she is related. Hardly your fault.”

“She is like a sister,” Stan said, “the same blood that goes with the entire lineage.”

“Please don’t,” Val interrupted, “we’ve discussed this from the first day you wanted me to know, we’ve been through it all, the opinions of learned men, but it does not go that way. You are you. You don’t have any birth defects or syndromes. You didn’t inherit any on the way up, and will not give any going down the line either. All this worry is not doing any good, except to make your life miserable… and those who know you. Being an ascetic monk is not helping to improve your chances, either.”

“Sarah is history,” Stan said, “She got married last week and is expecting in the next few weeks.”

“You’ll be the Godfather, right?” Val said lightly.

“Yes, Val,” Stan answered in a low voice, “she is Roman Catholic, you do remember?”

“Sure. And now,” Val said, “what party?”

“Call your chauffeur,” Stan said, “ the party just started.”

“A party, you say,” Val grinned and talked to his chauffeur on the cell phone, “Come back to airport and pick us up… where I was.”

Stan smiled with a grin.

“Where’s the party?” Val looked to Stan.

“The Police Officer Training School, in the Officers’ Mess” Stan said, “Chief Inspector Lee.”

“Kat,” Val had his secretary on the phone, “a regular party hamper to Chief Inspector Lee.”

“Yes, Boss,” Kat’s voice came through the phone.

“The Police Officer Training School, Officers’ Mess” Val repeated, and said, “after I have arrived.”

“I will arrange this with your chauffeur,” Kat said over the phone, “Anything you want me to write on the card, Boss?”

“Just write ‘From Stan’,” Val answered. “That’s all. Thanks Kat.”

“Sure, Mr. Rexregys,” Kat replied.

Stan regarded Val as the quintessential representative of charity—with a selfless desire to help. This should be a moment of joy, seeing Val at the airport, but Stan would never forget the day they first met at the London National Gallery several years ago. Val and his friend Alex were ribbing Stan’s exhibits, and he decided to spy on them, serving them drinks without telling he was the host of the show. Stan sensed they were not small calibers, that they were not carping. Alex was bent on showing off his superiority or good breeding. Stan felt that he made the right decision choosing Val as a friend. Now they’d been friends for years.

Stan imaged how Val would handle such a weird situation, how Val would handle these obnoxious police officers at the party. Stan wondered what Val would think of this Chief Inspector Lee.

“You are not…,” Val sounded seriously but broke off.

“Yes,” Stan said, “intending to seed one of his sisters.”

“But a cop? Chief Inspector Lee?” Val asked. “Why him?”

“Lee was on almost every front page after they smashed that big vice ring before he was demoted to take charge of this officer training school—this will be good for me,” Stan said in one breath. “The party we are going to is a Singles Party hosted by Lee and other inspectors… for their single sisters.”

“Hey Stan,” Val exclaimed, “you are a film producer… you own two of the best restaurants in London… is this time going to be for real?”

“For this girl,” Stan said, “yes.”

“Why involve me?” Val asked.

“Because I know you,” Stan said calmly.

“So?” Val said.

“You are an attraction,” Stan said.

Val laughed, “I asked my last girl friend to find a better man. This is wrong, bringing me into it, Stan.”

“Do this for me, Val,” Stan said, “They will be pleased that I brought you.”

“Promise me this,” Val spoke sternly, “I will catch the next flight, tomorrow morning.”

“Anything you say, Val,” Stan said with a grin, “We will talk about that after the party.”

Val sighed.

“This could be my first girlfriend,” Stan murmured.

 

At the party…

“Rich or poor, high or low,” Chief Inspector Lee was trying to break the ice at the table with debate, “such nonsense inventing differences of opinion, when people can do without all that. Everyone has an angle.”

Lee was using his latest studies in sociology to impress Val. Other inspectors at the table remained quiet, as if embarrassed.

“Yes, pretty interesting,” Stan said, “But I think I am wanted in the ladies’ corner. I’ll leave you gentlemen to entertain Val.”

From experience, Stan knew Val would always be the focus of attention. Stan himself wanted to be like Val. Val had a refreshing sense of purity; he never knew Sin City, but Stan understood all those rules from the dark world like the back of his hand. Val had no idea how much organized crime had become recognized and respected.

“Sure,” Inspector Lee replied, “will do.”

“Your father was a prominent man, Val, very wealthy,” one of the police inspectors commented. “I’m James, James Harris.”

“Thanks, James, yes he was,” Val replied.

“I never would dream you are a friend of Stan,” Chief Inspector Lee smiled, “We are thrilled to have you with us tonight, Val.”

“But you are here because of Stan,” spoke an Inspector from the far end of the table.

“And I have your invitation,” Val said with a smile, “that’s one of the reasons why I am here.”

“Yes, right,” The man spoke again, “I’m Brian, my pleasure to meet you, Val.”

“Brian was in charge of Human Resources, Val,” laughed Chief Inspector Lee, “he thinks he still is.”

“He was the one who hired that recruiting officer… the one who sent all those piglets here, to keep us busy,” spoke the inspector seated next to Brian.

“Let me introduce Mark,” Lee said, “the most hated PT instructor on campus.”

“PT? Piglets?” Val said.

“Physical Training, “ Mark laughed and said, “All freshers are piglets.”

“Don’t mind the language, Val,” Lee said, “All of us were once piglets.”

“They have a different title with the Fire Brigade,” Val said, “One of my classmates was in charge, on my last visit, he demanded the entire force to perform a formation in the training yard just to demonstrate obedience.”

“Yes, the Fire Brigade has more privilege than us,” another inspector spoke, “we can only move a patrol.”

They laughed.

“Meet Andrew. He was once an Internal Affairs Officer,” Lee said. “He was sent here because he sympathizes with the police force.”

“Now, I know what Stan meant by ‘interesting’,” Val said, “ I would miss all this vital information if I was with the ladies.”

“Stan?” Lee said, “He could never stay more than a minute with us, even when I didn’t say a thing.”

All the Inspectors laughed intentionally, to encourage the Chief Inspector, and his pride.

“Well, war and peace are just a matter of opinion,” Val said. “You mention my father respectfully, and as high ranking police officers, you should be able to say anything, as freely as you prefer, but I made you hesitate. I am glad to know you all, for such respect, and that you accepted me despite your opinion of my father. I am sure we have an understanding and we can enjoy ourselves. Very best to you all, and until the next time we meet…”

The Inspectors at the table nodded their agreement in silence.

“See how thoughtful Stan was,” Mrs. Lee approached in her shoulder dress with sequin panels. She walked around the table and said, “spicy soft drinks from Burton-on-Trent, with oatcakes and cheese for you gentlemen. The rest of the hamper, chocolate, is going to entertain the ladies.”

“Stan has never done this before,” Lee spoke aloud, “time can change a person into someone better.”

The other inspectors pondered Stan and then Val.

 

“You were holding a one way ticket,” Stan asked after the party, “You were heading to Canada.”

“Yes,” Val sighed and continued, “my sister asked me to join her, she thinks Canada suits me better.”

“What about your father’s business?” Stan asked. “You put in so many years of effort after his death.”

“Yes, but it’s time for me to go, Stan. My father’s money is too big an attraction for everyone—it would make things ugly if I join in for the fight.”

“Then the Canadian trip is not a rush,” Stan said, “stay for one more day. We have not seen each other for five years; we have so much to talk about, for old time’s sake.”

“Very well,” Val responded, “I suppose so. See you at breakfast?”

“Breakfast it is,” Stan smiled.

 

During breakfast…

“Val,” Stan said, “you must come out with me tonight.”

“With you?” Val asked, “Where?”

“To a dinner for three,” Stan said, “You have to be there—you were invited.”

“That girl full of sunshine at the party?”

“Yes,” Stan said, “She will not go if you are not going.”

“Hey,” Val said, “I am not going to get between you and your date? That wouldn’t be right.”

“If you are not going,” Stan spoke, “there will not be any date.”

“Are you sure about this woman, Stan?” Val said.

“Yes, I am, Val, but I would feel better if you were there to catch me if I make a mistake.”

“You traveled thousands of miles to date this girl, you risk our friendship by involving me,” Val said, “I really hope you are right this time.”

 

After dinner…

Stan decided to go back London, to forget this girl who showed more interest in Val. She adorned Val all through dinner. She was not meant to be Stan’s first girl friend.

 

First Girl Friend © 2012 Casimirr Rexregys. A dynamic writer and entrepreneur who contributes from his home in Asia, Casimmirr has contributed more stories in previous editions. We invite your comments.

 

 

My First Honest Thoughts About Mice
by Jen A C

 
I’d never really thought about mice and never needed to search for an exterminator. So, when I did and saw the number of websites, I was positive that today, now, this very moment, many of us have mice in our homes. Prior to the two days before Christmas this year, my only experience was twelve years ago.

Back then, I lived in a two family house converted into four apartments. The landlord roughly finished part of the basement as a laundry room for his student tenants. Our accommodations: unpainted sheetrock, no windows, one light bulb in the ceiling, semi-new washer and dryer, some wooden shelves, cold concrete floor and a beat up old couch.

I’m not complaining, this was luxury compared to going to the Laundromat, but I smiled every time I saw the couch. The room was dim, loud and claustrophobic. An eight by eight by seven room, with a washer and dryer running; was he thinking we would sit and read? Weren’t our apartments just steps away? The four of us wished it was an ironing board.

We only used the couch as a table for laundry baskets and folded clothes. I shouldn’t say only, because there’s an exception. One day three of us ended up there at the same time and started chatting. As I moved my basket to sit, I knocked over a pillow and revealed a thick pile of dust, lint, hair, fur, shredded pieces of upholstery fabric and foam with little black specks scattered about, like grains of black rice.

Let me tell you, when I realized I was looking at a mouse nest, my skin crawled. The specks turned out not to be black rice. It was mouse scat, dropped wherever the creatures felt the urge. Mice are dirty rodents… I could remember folding towels and tee-shirts and laying them over the arm of the couch and the top of that pillow every time I did laundry …and I was disgusted. My only experience with mice ended, the semester was over and I was moving out.

That experience scrambled out of my memory the day before Christmas Eve. I moved a dish near the sink and saw a grain of black rice. It only took a second or two to understand what it was. My mind started working over-time. I began scanning the counter and floor, imagining five or six of the little animals running around and I was grateful to have shoes on. It wasn’t too long before reason returned. I realized that had a mouse been in the kitchen the two dogs and I entering surely scared it away.

I’m not squeamish about mice; I didn’t scream and jump on a chair. It’s just that I’d rather not have them running across my bare feet. I’m not compulsive about cleanliness either. Growing up with four brothers and living with two dogs proves that messes are inevitable. The history of mouse dirtiness, on the other hand, is almost mythological.

What upsets me about those littler critters is that they’re small and stealthy, as are the messes they leave behind. Would you notice mouse scat every time you encountered it? If you’re familiar with mouse poop, do you know what mouse urine looks like? Do mice pooh every time they pee? Do you ever plop your bread down on what you think is a clean counter top while getting the plate for your sandwich? GROSS!

I’d much rather deal with the dogs playing keep away with a piece of frozen poop, or bringing me that special turkey carcass from the neighbor’s garbage, or my sometimes unsanitary brothers. What I’m trying to say is; I’d have a better opinion of mice if they were the size of dogs or brothers. Then, I’d have a better idea of where they were and where they’d been.

Okay… fifty pound mice in the house… not such a good idea. But, neither are three ounce mice in the house. Just the thought of that stealthy mouse sitting behind my head on the back of the couch, watching me watch TV, all the while leaving me little black presents, was making my skin crawl… again. And, that’s when I thought; game on mouse. You’ve picked the wrong single woman to mess with… you’re soon to be history… dead!

Ever try to kill a mouse?

I remember the time a farmer brought produce to the store I managed. As he opened his box truck, he saw a mouse inside. He quickly climbed on the truck, closed the door and for the next thirty minutes I heard his quick steps as he moved around the inside of the truck, his elaborate and imaginative swearing about the damned mouse wasting twelve boxes of leaf lettuce and his unforgettable stomping. When it was over, he opened the door with a proud smile and a rather moist flat mouse by the tail.

This method had no chance of working for me. I needed a different plan.

After calling the landlord, I went to the computer and researched which exterminator to hire. Next, I researched what to do about the one rodent currently running around my kitchen. I found that there are tons of products that catch or kill mice, but it became clear; the best, most humane way was the old-fashioned mousetrap. Then, it was off to the hardware store. I bought a package of three.

Peanut butter, one of the websites explained, is culinary heaven to mice, which made me wonder if I had anything else in common with them. Also, I learned that setting a mousetrap takes patience. Nothing about that in the trap’s instructions. I guess the manufacturers don’t think it’s important.

Ever try to set a trap?

Are you kidding me? My best guess is the hands of surgeons and watchmakers have lost patience trying to set a mousetrap. After being very careful not to snap my fingers and who knows how many tries, it was finally set. Only to have one of my less than surgeon like hands carelessly bang into the trap. The collision startled me but, nothing happened. Still set, the trap sat there a few inches from where it’d been.

It seems these mousetraps can be set to not work unless Bigfoot steps on them, which means that mice can eat the bait worry free. Or so delicately that exhaled breath can make them pop, which makes setting and moving them irritating. Three times in the next one hundred-fifty attempts to set this marvelous invention the jaw snapped and caused my heart to stop. Each time as the trap flipped across the counter I wasn’t sure it would restart.

I was learning. Good thing I had nothing really important to do that Friday morning; this was going to take some time. I’ll skip over the part where I tell you setting a mouse trap while standing comfortably at the counter is an altogether different talent than setting one while kneeling on the floor near the hole you discovered chewed through three-eighths of an inch of pine molding. It’s enough to say, the learning continued.

The mouse that I’m almost sure was watching, listening at a minimum, must’ve had limited intelligence, because the two dogs who were very interested when this all began, lost interest after experiencing the amount of time and frustration it took me to teach myself the tricks. My dogs would pull a sled over hundreds of miles of snow-covered tundra in a blizzard, just for the opportunity to lick a fingertip covered in peanut butter and they couldn’t be bothered with the trap but, no sooner than I had set and placed the third trap, the first snapped and I’d killed a mouse.

Now what do I do?

The scene was horrible. The jaw of death had cleanly snapped the mouse’s neck. Actually, it was more like a complete flattening of a very narrow strip of fur, flesh, blood vessels and bone somewhere between its shoulders and head, like a dull guillotine blade might. I probably didn’t need to be that graphic, as if I haven’t been graphic enough thus far, but for the first time my interactions with mice were becoming more complicated than I’d anticipated.

I’d never watched a mouse living its life, never imagined mouse life. As I said earlier, I never really thought about mice, except as disease carrying rodents whose only place in the grand scheme was as a food source well removed from the chain that sustains me. Now, because it was obviously alive minutes ago, I began to contemplate what its life might be like. Light pondering, nothing that would cost me time from sleep, but I was experiencing a thing that had earlier only been thought… I’d ended a life.

Friday ended uneventfully and Christmas Eve morning I woke up refreshed and ready for anything. Well, almost anything. The dogs and I went for a run, we played some Frisbee in the yard and by about 8:30, I was in my office reading emails. I had completely forgotten about mice and the other two traps I set, when I heard the snap of a trap. One was in the closet with the brooms and the door to the cellar and I placed the other near the hole I discovered in the baseboard behind my desk.

Having a trap slam shut unexpectedly while trying to set it, is one thing. Having one snap that you’d kind of forgotten three feet from your feet, is worse than heart pounding. After jumping straight up, banging my knee on the desk and startling my pups, I looked…

There behind the desk, in the corner, near the hole in the baseboard, sitting half on and half off the trap was a mouse. It looked plump, bigger by half than its dead relative, totally healthy and was staring back at me. How odd that was, I thought… surreal actually. The mouse just sat there; why didn’t it run away?

While I was pondering that question the dogs came to investigate and the scene quickly changed. I remember those few seconds being like a Saturday morning cartoon; the mouse jumped and the trap jumped with it. I jumped when the mouse jumped and compounding everything the two dogs were trying to find any possible route to behind the desk for a closer look.

Just… and I mean with the squeals of my two yanked handfuls of their fur… before I was chasing one of them around the house with a live mouse and a mousetrap hanging out of her mouth, I got control and locked them in their crate.

Immediate problem solved… now what to do with an otherwise normal mouse that has its back leg caught in a trap? I picked this kind of trap to avoid this. I’d read that the sticky glue traps sometimes didn’t kill the mouse and its only avenue of escape is to chew off its own leg. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. I was in tears imagining the unimaginable. I had to do something.

Aside from its cousin the day before and that was different, I’d never killed anything bigger than a fly or a spider and certainly not something like this relatively cute little mammal with huge and beautiful brown eyes. I was frantic, and stunned. It was clear that I had to kill it, but knowing that certainly wasn’t going to make it easier.

And, to make the situation more difficult for my emotional self, Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley came to mind. On my honor, between thoughts of what to do next, that pair was all I could think about. I’m certain it was because I watched Patrick Stewart play Scrooge the night before on TV, but now I felt like the worst kind of Scrooge and that the poor mouse was carrying Marley’s chains.

It must have been half an hour I stood there and thought. There was no way I could stomp it like the farmer. And worse, it was amazing to me how many forms of torturous death I was able to contemplate. Just flushing the whole thing down the toilet, like I’d done with the body of the other mouse, wouldn’t work because of the trap. My mind didn’t carry that thought to conclusion until later when I realized how awful it would be to drown that way. And, only after that thought did it finally dawn on me that there isn’t any such thing as a good way to drown. The same goes for suffocating it in a bag or a glass jar or tossing it trap and all to the neighborhood cats.

I know… I couldn’t believe these thoughts were occurring to me. It’s no defense but, I wanted badly to be detached from the act of killing the mouse. I was kidding myself, there was no way I could kill it. I was having a hard enough time gathering the courage to pick up the trap with a live mouse attached, let alone finding the courage to end its life quickly, humanely, in real-time, with my hands.

If only one of my brothers had been close, I was sure each of them would know and be able to do exactly what was needed. They weren’t close and I was paralyzed, unable to do anything.

Finally and only because I knew that doing nothing was the worst kind of torture for the poor mouse, I forced myself to act and put it out of its misery. My plan… With gloved hands, armed with my stainless steel pasta strainer and a small garden spade; I would pick up the mouse with the strainer, keep it from scrambling out with the spade, take it outside the backdoor and with the shovel kill it.

Does anything ever happen as we envision it? Each step was nearly impossible for me.

Through all of its effort to get out of the strainer and through the deafening sound of its little feet scratching the mesh, I was able to get it out the backdoor and on the ground. It just sat there looking at me, same as it had in the house.

I thought about it… maybe too much. I knew I had to hit it hard and didn’t think I could. I’m ashamed to say, I almost just left it there. Contemplating that cruelty helped me muster my courage. I wound up and swung down with all the weight of the tool, only to watch helplessly as the mouse jumped at the last fraction of a second. It moved just enough to have the force of the blow land on the trap, not its head. The shock severed the trapped foot and the mouse jumped away out of sight.

The intent was definitely there but, I’m thankful I didn’t kill the mouse. At first, considering the alternative, I thought the mouse was lucky. I’ve had time to think about it in more detail and it wasn’t lucky. The mouse took survival to a level I’d never understood and did it with grace. I don’t wish to face life or death any time soon, but I hope that if I’m ever in a similar situation I can deport myself as gracefully.

This ordeal started with me as the proud wannabe huntress annoyed at these small mammals for ruining my day. By the end, I was the inept huntress, guilty of torturing and maiming a critter that was, same as me, only trying to get through the day.

As I ponder it, I feel just as and probably more trapped and handicapped by instinct, over confidence and lack of thought as any seemingly unintelligent mouse. Though, I don’t plan on sharing my peanut butter sandwiches with the resident mice, I can’t believe how much I learned from that Christmas Eve mouse.

 

My First Honest Thoughts About Mice © 2012 Jen A C Read more of Jen in the table of contents and visit her blog. We welcome your comments.

 

 

The First Church
by Gaboo

 
To find the first church, you must destroy all the animals and insects that are a nuisance, or annoying, or dangerous. To ensure these life forms do not return, salt and pave the earth. Build walls and fences. When you are satisfied that you have disposed of all these life forms, then kill all the plants. Use saws and shovels, and combinations of chemicals to eradicate any plant. When you are satisfied that you have eliminated all these beings, then begin to build.

As you build, surround yourself with things. Make your own tools and use nothing without burning it, hammering it, or cutting it first. Build high and wide. Break the earth open and spill the waters. Adorn your buildings with lights and gold and jewels. These are prizes of your work.

Begin to see yourself as a god. Walk upon the earth as a ruler. Control all. Decide who lives and who dies. Decide who is good and who is bad. Judge all things and judge yourself to be good.

Enter the tallest, largest building which you have made. This is the sanctum. Within, find isolation amid your creation. Find satisfaction in your ability to attain and control. Find solace in your ability to kill all that might intrude upon your creation. Call yourself a god.

Next, seek the quietest, simplest space within this building. Enter into this space. Kneel before a statue which you have made of yourself. Bow your head and weep in solitude. Ask for forgiveness. You have found the first church.
 

The First Church © 2012 Gaboo. We welcome your comments. Check the Contents for previous stories by Gaboo and find links to more works at Now.readthisplease.com

 

 

First Fear of Death
by Gaboo

 
I remember a lonely night in the bottom bunk, age five, I think. My younger brother was asleep and oblivious to my turmoil. A stone turned in my mind and I realized then that my parents, my beloved mother and father, would one day die. I could not envision them getting old and gray, or lying still. I just knew that they would leave us and enter into dark and nothingness. The fear gripped me and I called out. My mother attended.

I explained my fear, that she would die. The woes of her young child must have blindsided her, because she was unprepared for such philosophies.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I won’t die until I’ve lived a long time and then death doesn’t seem so scary.”

Her ambiguity soothed me. Her words, led or not, sufficed and the anxiety faded. Play returned, as my vocation.

I also remember the time I lost my fear of death, when the lie proven. The whisper came and said, “turn, look.” I did, and there was my name. The smile I found was timeless.
 

First Fear of Death © 2012 Gaboo. We welcome your comments. Check the Contents for previous stories by Gaboo and find links to more works at Now.readthisplease.com

 

 

First Crack in a Marriage
by Adrienne S Moody

 
A woman knows when her lover is interested in someone else. Kyra didn’t worry too much about the sexy neighbor living next door. In the beginning. Even her penchant for mowing the lawn in heels, short shorts and halter tops that barely covered her ampleness. Her husband of three years merely averted his eyes from the scantily clad blonde smiling and waving in their direction as they parked their vehicle. She did notice that the woman, Myrna, seemed to spend a lot of time sitting on her front step whenever her husband Jacob did his yard work. Still, she was wary of this siren, but not worried.

It was the end of October and in the middle of a glorious Indian Summer when Jacob decided to wash their car while the sun still held some heat. Kyra had the windows open and could hear the sound of the water on the car, the music playing on the car stereo. She glimpsed Lynn smoking on the porch wearing her usual uniform: short shorts, heels and plunging top. The scene changed suddenly and just when Kyra walked past the open front door. She saw Lynn running up to Jacob and attempt to grab the hose from his hands.

“Don’t embarrass me, Lynn…” she heard her husband mutter to the giggling woman.

It wasn’t what he said, so much, but how he said it. Like he knew her intimately. It was like lightning struck Kyra. She turned away from the door and felt the blood leave her face and she felt faint. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She felt ill. She no longer felt safe there, in the tiny wartime home, with her husband whom she knew everything about. There were no secrets. But were there? How could she possibly know everything?

She heard Lynn ask him to come over for a beer and he agreed. The situation was growing more and more dangerous for Kyra. She was asked by Jacob to come along. She disagreed and sat in the house listening to the music pouring out of the windows next door. And the laughter.  There was another woman there, Lynn’s friend. He returned home in an hour or so and they never spoke of it. But the sense of betrayal that Kyra felt was like a crack tearing at the very foundation of her life, her marriage, her relationship. She had nothing but this, him and this life so recently constructed.

A couple months passed and there was a distinct change between the couple, but nothing anyone could really point out and say, ‘this is what is different here.’ Their usual gentle playfulness was gone. She recoiled when he tried to tickle her into humor. He soon stopped. She found fault in most everything he did, even the way he shifted their five speed Camaro. Winter arrived bringing the typical prairie bitter cold. They had taken to playing Bingo at the community centre.

They were the only 20 somethings there. They went every Sunday and sat amongst the chain-smoking senior ladies with thinning blue hair. They giggled afterwards at the seriousness of the senior crowd and the women with their arthritic knuckled hands showcasing what appeared to be Shopping Channel special rings. Boiled hot dogs in soft white buns were on the menu along with stale black coffee in Styrofoam cups. Kyra was on a winning streak and her winnings in a month topped over a thousand dollars. They looked forward to picking their cards and settling in side by side, nudging each other from time to time, “What number was that?” But both of them were aware of the change and they knew not what to do about it. They picked their cards in silence.

Kyra decided she wanted to go home for a weekend and thought she’d leave Jacob on his own and if he wanted an opportunity to be alone with the blonde next door, then fine, she’d give it to him. He didn’t put up any argument about her going, but mentioned that the fuel gauge wasn’t working and maybe they ought to get it fixed before she went out solo on the three hour highway drive. Kyra insisted there wasn’t time, but decided to bring her lassie dog, Doug, with her for protection and company.

Her marriage didn’t feel like home and she thought going to her parents’ place would give her that feeling of security and comfort she was missing. They were worried about her making the trip alone but happy she was coming for a visit. Kyra packed up the vehicle and gave Jacob a squeeze around the neck and waved goodbye. Did she see Lynn in the side bedroom window watching her leave? She couldn’t be sure. She pulled away from the curb and couldn’t help herself watching in her rear-view mirror, until she turned the corner and then she heaved a huge sigh.

Halfway there her car suddenly sputtered to a stop. There they were, on a two lane divided highway, deserted due to the wicked weather. It was now a blizzard and visibility wasn’t great. Desolate. The wind picked up particles of snow and created little whirlwinds. Fear. Having grown up in the North, she knew immediately what to do. No hesitation. Being a prairie girl they were taught young that if ever you are out in this kind of deadly element – move! Often she and her friends were in the position walking home without proper dress and had their feet, hands or facial features freeze. They knew of people who became very tired and would just lay down and go to sleep and freeze to death.

She bundled up in her warm jacket, scarf around her face, mitts on. She and her dog left the vehicle and stood at the edge of the highway waiting for a vehicle to pass. Ten long frightening minutes ticked by. The wind swirled white around them.  Headlights. She waved her arms frantically. To her amazement it was a tow truck. Two guys sat in it and called out to her. In no time they hooked up the vehicle and one of them sat in the car with her dog as there wasn’t any room in the tow truck for all of them.

The guys were drinking beer. She was very leery of both of them. They were rough looking and she was afraid, but more afraid of being left at the side of the road and meeting an icy death. She drank two bottles of beer to take the edge off and it did. Also, she felt this urge to be buddy buddy with these men.  She chatted about how her family punctuated that they knew where she was and would be very worried, maybe sending the police looking for her. She knew it was important to say this and let them know that she was a woman alone, but with strong connections.

She kept turning around in her seat looking for her car. She couldn’t see it. It was really dark but still…it didn’t appear to be there. She told the driver. He shrugged it off …  nah it’s there you just can’t see it in the dark. She insisted. Finally he pulled over. Sure enough the connection broke and the car was in the ditch somewhere. They circled back but couldn’t find it. Now he was low on gas. He decided they would carry on and his buddy would get hold of him the next day and don’t worry about it. It’ll all work out.

Her dog! Her car! She had to go to the bathroom. Bad! She told the scruffy driver he had to pull over as she could not wait until they arrived in the city. She didn’t care for his smile as he pulled over to the snowy shoulder; Kyra bounded down the snowy ditch and relieved herself. What a predicament! She was tense and distrustful of the guy. They were still a good hour away from the city, her parents, her safety.

She kept up with this mindless chatter: “We’re buds! You’re like my brother. You’re such a good guy!” She praised him, “My brothers will really be happy you found me and saved me and my dog!”

Finally she recognized the lights of her hometown city in the distance. She began to breathe easier. She called her family from a pay phone and agreed to meet them at a hotel on the outskirts of the city. When Kyra saw them looking bewildered but like home, she ran to them, embraced her mother, and broke into sobs. Her mother pulled away and looked at her grown daughter in disapproval “What brought this on?” she asked. Her set features and and narrow eyes told Kyra all she needed to know. Her mother thought she was acting inappropriately and as usual, over-reacting. The tow truck driver gave them his number and told them he was sure his buddy found his way into the city and they could contact him the following day and figure out how to get the dog to her.

Kyra let her mother’s arms go and walked beside her outside towards their car. She wanted to tell them of her fear of the men who picked her up and how she handled it, but they’d already gotten into a discussion about how to pick up the car and her dog the following day. She wanted to tell them that she feared her marriage was in trouble and felt like she had nowhere to go.  Kyra looked out into the dark winter sky and knew it was a mistake to come home.

It wasn’t safe here either.
 
First Crack in a Marriage © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. We welcome your comments. A freelance writer with several published works, visit her feature stories and articles in the Now.readthisplease.com as well as previous editions.
 

 

First Man
by M Dawn Thacker

 
At seventeen, I picked the man I would marry. He met my criteria:

1.    He was my height. At 6’, we saw eye to eye. I hadn’t known too many boys in my life who came close to that.

2.    He had beautiful legs. I’d never seen a man with more beautiful legs in my life. Watching his calf muscles from behind made me turn all shades of red.

3.    He could drive in the snow. I’d watched him play on the hill leading to my house, car window down, grinning at me with his arm resting nonchalantly out the door. He mashed on the gas and the car pulled sideways up the hill under his direction. He was having fun in conditions that terrified me.

4.    He wasn’t a talker. He was a doer. He fixed things: cars, trucks, and bulldozers, cut and split wood, built fences and caught and cooked fish over an open fire. When he did talk and said he was going to do something, he did it.

5.  He had a car, and a truck. The truck was a 1976 Ford pickup with a camper shell. He hunted, and knew all the places to hide that truck, especially after dark.  He also knew all the right moves.

Yep, at seventeen I picked my man.  My first, and my last.

 

First Man © 2012 M Dawn Thacker. We welcome your comments. Check the Contents for previous stories by M Dawn Thacker and find links to her other works at Now.readthisplease.com

 

 

First Time For Real
by Gaboo

 
For those with a sentimental constitution….

It had to be our seventh year, which is typical. We’d been at odds for months, and compatibility was at best, strained. I was not who I wanted to be and she was not who I wanted her to be. We were in a lie with all the blame and wasted time. I think we both pushed away too hard.

Despite the fog of inexperience, something was cracking, through the hard exterior, the fact that we were individuals was breaking. There was a force greater than the two of us, and it dropped and shuffled like little magnets in between us. Melancholy to stay. Wasteland to leave. We were caught in relationship purgatory, and neither mature enough to give in willingly.

But we did give in. I couldn’t live without her; she pined for our love, to be what it could. I was better off to stay, she was better off to try. Like how I imagined her before we met, did I tell you that? I used to have these fantasies where I was welcoming her into my world, letting her in my head, showing her what was important to me, revealing. And then I met her, though I didn’t recognize her until much later. She was that vision in my mind.

Still misery does come, and I remember her eyes, all red and soured with heartbreak, pleading for some kind of halfway. She looked at me, the anguished one, torn between duty and our bond. We would collide together or wither apart. So we fell together.

Letting go is easy when you collapse in a heap. Tears and slobber, strands of hair and clutching hands, when you can’t get close enough, can’t hold tight enough. And there was that dream about her—I remember her standing on porch, walking out of a country cabin, her arms laden with plates for family and friends. She was smiling, greeting her guests who loved her, adored her, beckoning her from tables on the lawn. She was entertaining. I walked up the steps and her smile widened. She looked right into me, and I knew that she recognized a deep and soothing love in her life. She was old and gray, wrinkled and frumpy, but I loved her more. I loved her because I knew we’d journeyed so far and we’d seen what needed together. In the dream, I think I was dead.

And in waking, she became part of me, still young and the future ahead, and I became part of her. For hours we bathed in each others presence, the intimate coil, swaying. No her or me, just the shared entwine as one. So it is real, two versus the world and the bond ever ours to grow, to nurture every day, every way.

There is a lake in heaven, and for the willing, we enter and touch love.

First Time For Real © 2012 Gaboo. We welcome your comments. Check the Contents for previous stories by Gaboo and find links to more works at Now.readthisplease.com

 

 

First Time Alone
by Casimirr Rexregys

 
“You’ve never been to an art studio before?” Celine asked, “It’s my dad’s pride.”

“Every time when we came this far,” Val said as the chauffeur cast a quick look in the rear view mirror, “this is the only shop that attracted our attention.”

“Your brother said the same thing,” Celine added, “the day we first met.”

Ken, the resident chauffeur, was aware Arthur stalked Celine almost everyday for weeks, before arranging to bump into her ‘accidentally’. Ken couldn’t forget how Arthur’s entourage, Karma and Wallace, made a plan in this very same car. Ken didn’t like Arthur’s friends and he told Val when Arthur was away in London.

“A cup of tea?” Celine asked. “Dad and mom shouldn’t be back for another hour.”

“I don’t mind meeting your parents,” Val responded, “would be nice to meet them in person.”

“Another day, maybe,” Celine said. “I need time with you in private.”

“Very well, Celine,” Val replied and then looked to his driver, “Ken…”

“Five hours from now? Master Val,” Ken answered softly, “Maryann’s place?”

“Yes, Ken, thanks.”

“You take me home because of Maryann?” Celine complained, “I should have known.”

Stepping into the small photography studio…

“It is like one of my sisters’ doll houses,” Val spoke, “and the color is comforting.”

“Father is an artist, he paints and sculpts,” Celine pointed to several works, “and Mother is a professional choreographer.”

“They make a perfect pair, and you?”

“I am working for your father, a junior secretary,” Celine announced, “you know Arthur and I went to the same school, don’t you?”

“Yes, you were one of the prettiest girls,” Val said, “you still are, if I may say so?”

“Thanks, Val,” Celine laughed, “yes, you may.”

In the living room at the back of the studio…

“I have not heard from Arthur,” Celine wondered aloud.

“Other than that,” Val relaxed, “do you have other worries?”

“Yes, I have,” Celine said, “my parents, they are getting old.”

“Your parents are artists. They sent you to an exclusive school,” Val paused, then added, “so they have rich parents.”

“That is exactly the problem, “ Celine told him, “they don’t.”

“And you understand what it’s like to be wealthy and spoiled,” Val said. “You should.”

“Yes,” Celine said, “I should.”

“You did not answer my question, Celine,” Val said.

“I am not attracted to your father’s money, if that is the question” Celine smiled defiantly, “I used to think money is evil. Am I wrong, Val?”

“I am taught to think nothing is evil,” Val answered, “No, that is not what I was asking, Celine.”

“Then!” Celine smiled with an expression intending she wanted to kiss, “What was the question? You are a very attractive person, Val, I can hear nothing wrong.”

“You should understand Arthur before you bring your parents into this,” Val sat back with a smile, “That is the answer to my question.”

“I cannot stop my parents from peeping at that lovely car,” Celine said, “They were flabbergasted at first sight.”

“You work for my father,” Val looked at her, “and your parents agreed?

“Yes,” Celine said, “but if Arthur…”

Val interrupted, “I know Arthur less than anyone else, the same as he knows me.”

“You’re a spoiled kid?” Celine asked.

“I am,” Val said, “that was why they kicked me out of school.”

“But you are very well educated,” Celine said, “unlike Arthur.”

“That was the last school. I got smarter.” Val continued, “Father hired all the best tutors when he saw I was willing.”

“I am sure you are good,” Celine purred, “You are the dream man for all the ladies in your father’s empire, they admire both your talent and your charisma.”

“One of those ladies made my father very angry,” Val said, “I did not realize.”

“Yes,” Celine said, “I cannot see that passion between Arthur and I, my parents would be shocked to know.”

“Shocked to know what? Celine,” Val made a gesture of dismay.

“Arthur is not going out with me,” Celine said, “they thought…”

“Did Arthur come to your parents and ask for their daughter?”

“No, Arthur never did ask,” answered Celine. “He never met my parents.”

“My father treated you like one of his daughters.” Val sounded like he was interrogating, “and that makes your parents think you are going out with Arthur.”

“I was going out with Arthur,” Celine retorted, “I spent more time with Arthur than with my parents. Everyday after work, I went to your father’s house and stayed until late. It was like my second home.”

“Did you go out with anyone before Arthur?” Val asked.

“Nope,” Celine just shrugged, reclining on the couch.

“I see,” Val smiled and continued, “that is why you are so important to my father.”

“Did I sleep with anyone? Is what you want to know?” Celine sank further into the couch and grinned, “No, not even with Arthur, if you want to be sure.”

“You parents would understand,” Val offered, “they know what love is, and they know how to keep things in order.”

“Thanks, Val, those are wise words.”

“I will be in London early next week, staying with Arthur for a while, before I go off to the States.”

“Actually,” Celine said, “you don’t have to go to London, right?”

“Father asked me,” Val answered, “a change of plans.”

“I am your concern,” Celine smiled, “that makes me feel better.”

“By all means,” Val said, “you deserve every concern, you deserve the best.”

“Maryann should be proud,” Celine said, “she has your heart.”

“The one who can keep yours,” Val grinned, “will hear music even when there is silence.”

“Yes,” Celine said, “I will hear music when you are gone, even in a year without summer. A woman falls in love through her ears.”

 

In the car…

“Celine is not some expensive toy… to your brother,” Ken said.

“You think the worst, Ken” Val responded, “You know Arthur more than I.”

“Arthur is not a bad person,” Ken continued, “he is confused.”

“I am a stranger to my own family,” Val looked out the window, “I need to catch up for all those years.”

“Yes and no, Master Val,” Ken advised, “there is nothing you can do about the past. Somethings can never be mended, not in your father’s life time.”

“Yes for stranger,” Val asked, “and no, not to try?”

“Correct,” Ken answered, “Master Arthur had a serious crush on one of the house staff while you were away, and Celine was his substitute of choice. But I wonder if he could forget that maid, the affair went on for years and then she was fired. Until now, she has been trying to keep in contact.”

“My parents knew about this?”

“Only your mother and your aunt,” Ken said, “everything is covered up perfectly. Maybe your father knew a few details.”

“What details?” Val asked.

“The maid carried a baby,” Ken announced, “She refused to speak of the father.”

 

At Maryann’s place…

“Your mother is beautiful,” Val commented, looking at a photo.

“Because she is French,” Maryann asked, “or because she is my mother?”

“Because she is your mother,” Val pulled Maryann closer and said.

“I will not see you again,” Maryann kissed Val and said, “if you go to London.”

“Write me,” Val said, “I have to.”

“I will not write you,” Maryann said and tears in her eyes, “don’t ever think I will.”

 

On the plane…

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Rexregys,” greeted the attendant.

“Yes,” Val smiled, tired, and said, “In my cabin?”

“Yes sir,” She replied, “I will.”

Inside the first class cabin…

“Not with the ground crew, Sophie?” Val asked, smiling.

“I lost a few pounds, so they let me on here,” Sophie pulled down the sliding door and leaned over to give Val a friendly peck, “and because you are alone on this flight.”

 

First Time Alone © 2012 Casimirr Rexregys. Writer and entrepreneur, Casimirr contributes from his home in Asia, Casimirr has contributed more stories in previous editions. We invite your comments.

 

 

First Spat
by Gaboo

 

“So you want to crawl around in this city? Figure how it ticks? Forget it. Most don’t know squat except for hand to mouth. Even the planners. How much time do you want to put in this zoo, anyway?”

“Long enough to get what I need.” Max wraps her knuckles to her forehead like she’s trying to remember. I think she’s been doing that a lot. Or she has weird headaches that she’s not talking about.

She’s still rubbing her head as the hem on her frayed sweater sleeve tangles in her sunglasses. Here we are again, hurry and wait. Max is a hyper-chondriat, you see, always running into things, with bumps and fractures everywhere, and then she complains about it. Boating? Never again. She’s a real shark, finely tuned to her environment. Ha.

“Well, I flipped the page, Max (I’m letting her know what my intentions are.) it’s not going to get any better. I’m just stringing you and everybody else along, wasting hours until I can make a move, make the jump.”

“Jump where?” Max is pulling yarn in a triangle from her frames to her wrist.

“Take your glasses off—I want to go somewhere different. (I’m the one who’s usually good at being reassuring) Don’t worry, you’ll wind up with the right person. It’ll work out. How long have we known each other? Being inseparable is just a big cliche anyway—bumper cars, that’s what we are. And we’ve been on the same circuit a long time, one big, happy carnival. You crash into someone and they’re never gonna be the same—right? We got dents, Maxine. How many times did I bump you around?”

“Millions.” Max gives up and starts over. She sets her glasses on the dash and begins looping the snagged sleeve, trying to look attentive. She always avoids squinting to prevent crows feet. There’s these evergreen eyes flashing between blinks.

“And how many times did you bump me around? (She won’t answer that one.) Don’t bother counting, it was lots.”

Then I catch this look at her, and she’s different, legitimately concerned, like she’s not supposed to be here.

“Hey, you’re alright,” I tell her.

“Please don’t coach me, not today.”

“Okay, you’re a mess. The ability to not get noticed makes you a good observer,” I say.

“Thanks, you’re a real sight for yourself.” She is ornery.

“I was just trying to be funny. I worry about you,” I say.

“It’s a little chilly today, and if we have to go running… Reid, just let me fix this.”

“You are oddly extraordinary (I have to be honest with her) or extraordinarily odd. You appear hard-assed, but I think you are just determined—”

Was that a laugh?

“I don’t have time,” she mutters. She doesn’t have time. Sure. Max is yanking her stupid wool, a feeble attempt to snap it. Then the sleeve cinches. Three feet of fuzz comes flying off in her hand.

“Oh, my.”

I admire her subtle restraint. She’s good at that, standing blissfully headlong. What do I do when she is flailing around? I grimace, “That’s not the way.”

“That’s not the way to what, Reid? Can’t you see what I’m doing?”

I don’t mind a snotty attitude, but when somebody brings it… “Eventually, Max, you’re gonna make me wanna square breathe, you know that?”

And then she stops, looks right at me, and I think she’s listening to herself pronounce. This is good, finally a sign of compassion. She looks directly at me and says, “Reid, I am sorry. I am not myself today. I don’t feel well, and I don’t really know how to keep up with you agonizing about leaving. Please forgive me.”

It can be really hard to figure out if she’s being patronizing or not.

“C’mere, you clumsy, little brain.”

I fake her out like I’m gonna rub her head. Then show the appropriate level of concern… “I think I want to take you to lunch on a patio. Not today, but soon. Just me and you, no work, no yakking. You can just sit there with your mind off and feel the sunshine.”

“That would be nice. I appreciate that.”

I can almost see her little walnut heart get jiggly.

“Anything for a buddy,” I say.

Well? She is.

“We’re close friends,” she says—nice, I’m in Max’s books.

“And partners.”

“Check.”

Discussion settled. We’re rolling. I put on my best cheerful face, “Finally, can go bust this creep?”

“We’re on it,” she smiles.

I always drive.

Siren and fade.

 

First Spat 2012 © 2011 Gaboo. Find more Gaboo in the Contents. Also, check out Now.readthisplease.com. We invite your comments.

 

 

First Lover
by Adrienne S Moody

 

I had every intention to hold off until I met the man I would marry. That is until my brother and I sat together on top the Grotto behind the Catholic church and he revealed to me that his girlfriend of five years put out completely when she was just a babe of 14 years.

“You’re joking? Melissa? You and Melissa did it? And she puts on to be such a little angel.  Is this why you hooked up that electric current to your doorknob?”

He nodded.

“Kept you out, didn’t it? If you tell anyone, Adrienne, I’ll kill you,” he threatened. “Shhh!”

He pointed down below where a lone priest walked looking ghostly in the moonlight.

“She put out? She isn’t a virgin, then?” I whispered.

“No. No she’s not. So what. And like I warned you A, if you tell anyone I won’t hesitate to kill you and you know I will. I convinced her to go along telling her no one would ever know.”

I changed my mind about the value of virginity that night. If Melissa gave it away then maybe a little experimenting before marriage wasn’t such a big sin after all. The following day my best friend and I took a train out to her family home on the coast. She came back to her home town to pick me up and off we went on this perceived big adventure. And it was, for me, not having ever been away from my family for any length of time.

Freedom. It was the 70′s, the tail end of the era of free love, drugs and rock and roll.

Rob was the first young man I met and went steady with. He had long red hair and beard and wore these wire framed eye glasses. He was tall and thin, kind of looked like an anorexic Santa Claus. I still remember his belly laugh. And his kisses. He brought me to his home for a family dinner and his parents looked disapprovingly at me. My hair was long, straight and parted in the middle. I wore a micro-mini skirt and not at all the kind of girl they’d hoped for their only son. I was told afterwards that I shouldn’t eat one item at a time off the dinner plate. I had never heard of such a rule. I would eat all the potatoes, then the meat and pick at the vegetables. Rob’s family seemed to have rules for everything. Their home looked like no one ever really lived in it. Everything neat and tidy and sterile. There was no music and everyone talked in low monotone voices. I heard disapproval whispered in every corner of that home.

He brought me to this new sub-division and took my hand. I followed him up the stairs of this one home with only the framing done. I remember the smell of fresh cut lumber. We stood at an open doorway and he held his hand out and said that this is what he wanted. He looked questioningly at me. I pretended I didn’t know what he meant. I was afraid of his certainty. I felt life with him would be like his parents with rules I would never get the grasp of.

Then I met Kevin. He was as injured an individual as I was. I somehow knew he would never cheat on me and that he would always treat me like I was special. I don’t know why I thought that and it certainly didn’t turn out to be true. But, it was with him that I lost my virginity.

We were in a tent at the beach and it was so incredibly hot in there. The temperature soared to close to 100 degrees Fahrenheit that day and the night cooled only a few degrees. It was like a sweat lodge. He was very considerate and very careful, using two condoms. It was over almost as soon as it started.

I remember sitting up afterwards bewildered that such an insignificant experience inspired the most beautiful poetry and music! What was I missing?

One thing that this experience did cause me to do, was feel committed to this man. We ending up marrying and I guess as hard as I tried to shrug off my upbringing, I felt compelled to walk down the aisle with him.

Of course the letter that arrived soon after this sexual experience, from my father threatening to disown me if I didn’t marry Kevin, kind of influenced me.   I believe the letter started out something like, ‘No daughter of mine is going to shack up…’  Yes, definitely influenced me.

 

First Lover © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. Check out the Contents, or read more of Adrienne’s works at Now.ReadThisPlease.com. We welcome your comments.
 

 

That First Step
by M Dawn Thacker

 

I light the last cigarette and step back from the group. My stomach rolls, my head aches already and I feel myself slipping to that dark place.  The nursing home patio is usually bright.  Five times a day, a handful  of old folks gather in this place for their cigarette break. Today, my charge is to monitor them, to make sure they don’t catch fire. That means I keep the lighter.  For the most part, I love my summer job; but I hate this task.  I watch the curls of gray smoke form a cloud under the porch roof. Folding my arms over my chest as it tightens, I fight the shadows.  I wonder if given enough breath, I could blow all the smoke, and the memories attached to it, away. Would the feelings disappear? Could I be normal?

Teresa waves her arm and captures my attention. She’s stuck. I know how it happened. She went out earlier to bathe her arthritic shoulders in the morning sun and time slipped away. The smokers storm the door at eleven o’clock and Teresa got caught on the wrong side of their exhaust.

I cross the divide to help her.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she says. “I need to get away from those cigarettes. I can’t stand the smell of it.”

“I don’t like it either,” I say as much to myself as I do to Teresa. “It makes me sick to my stomach—always has.” I maneuver the old woman’s wheelchair to the edge of the path and open the patio door to take her inside.

“You OK now?” I ask.

“Sure, thank you honey,” she says.

“I have to get back out there,” I tell her, opening the door to face my nemesis again.

I collect the cigarette packs and lock them in the metal box used for storage, then help the elders back into the building, but I notice Teresa is still where I left her.  She’s staring out the window transfixed.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

Teresa shakes her head like she’s clearing cobwebs and shivers.  “My father smoked,” she says. “The stench of it always reminds me of him.”

I look down at the top of Teresa’s head as she sits in the wheelchair. I imagine myself where she is in sixty years. “My father smoked too,” I lower my voice.

“What’s that honey? I didn’t catch it,” she says.

“Never mind,” I say, “It’s not important.  Can you make it back to your room alright, or do you need me to help you?”

“If you can spare the time, I’d love a little help,” Teresa says.  “These shoulders of mine are hurting something terrible.  Feels like I’ve been carrying a load on them bigger than I am.”

I have several phone messages to return and an exercise class to lead, but I wheel the old woman down the hall to her room. Teresa’s door is around the corner, the second on the right. She invites me in. Her room is cozy with family photos decorating the walls, and a handmade quilt on her bed.  Her little table top is crowded with powders, lipsticks, lotions, perfumes and a hand mirror. I catch a whiff of White Shoulders, the perfume my grandma used to wear. It comforts me.  Teresa’s surroundings don’t shout ‘nursing home’ like so many other rooms do.

“My absentee ballot came in the mail today,” Teresa says, pointing to the envelope on her dresser.  “Do you have time to help me with it?”

“Sure,” I say.

Simple chores are hard for Teresa. She was born right handed but has to use her left due to the stroke. In the time it took the clot to travel to her brain, the once fiercely independent woman was reduced to what she says, is half her former self. Her entire right side is useless. She’s a survivor though.  She can rip open little pink packets of artificial sweetener with her teeth, pull her wheelchair along the hallway rail using one good hand, and applies her makeup meticulously, adjusting her lipstick to hide the side of her mouth that droops. Teresa tells stories of her stubborn determination, and how she was a ‘Mama Bear’ when it came to protecting her children.

I tear open the envelope from the Office of Voter Registration. There are papers and instructions. I read them to Teresa and hand her the ballot.

“I’ve been a Democrat since I got married. Democrats look out for the little people.  Jeffrey taught me that.” Teresa said. “Just point out the Democrat and I’ll check it off.”

I locate the candidate of choice, point his name out to her, then turn my attention to Teresa’s family photographs on the bedside table.

I lift one of the pictures carefully and stare at the people smiling back at me.  They look so happy.

“That’s Shelby, my daughter,” Teresa says pointing to the one I’m holding. “You’ve met her,  and that’s her husband, Frank, standing beside her. He’s a nice boy. I liked him from the beginning.  Those beauties in that white frame are their girls. The oldest is a senior in college.  The boy on the wall over there is my son, Jeffrey.  He was named for my husband. He teaches school.   My husband’s picture is right there beside the bed.”  Teresa’s eyes mist.  “I was married to that man for fifty-six years.  Couldn’t have found any better,” she says, her voice catching.

I pick up the picture of Jeffrey and touch his face with a finger. “He was handsome,” I say.

“Yep, he sure was,” Teresa says smiling. “Better yet, he was a kind man, the kindest I ever met. You got any prospects?  How old are you now child?”

Before this summer job, I volunteered at the nursing home starting in seventh grade. “I’m sixteen,” I say.  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You’ve got all the time in the world,” Teresa says. “Be picky, though.”  Her brow furrows. “When you choose a man, you’re picking  a father for your children. Remember that.  Children need a decent father.”

“Yes they do,” I say.

Teresa gets that far away look on her face again. She stares off into her past. “My father and step-mother taught me what a family shouldn’t be,” Teresa says. “Long before I ever got married, I made up my mind what I wanted in a family, and it wouldn’t be what I grew up in.”

I look up from the picture of Jeffrey.  Teresa’s tone startles me. I’m not used to hearing anger in her voice. I’m not used to hearing elders speak about their parents with anything less than reverence.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s the truth,” she chastises.

“N-no,” I stammer. “I didn’t think you were lying. It’s just that I’ve never seen you angry before.”

Teresa’s face softens. She smiles at me. “Oh, I can spew it, honey.  For a long time I buried it so deep, no one saw it. I’ve learned to let it out over the years though. Can’t hide it or sugar coat it. Bottling that poison up only makes you bitter. Anyway, that man you’re holding in your hands right there helped me through it.”

“It sounds like you lucked out,” I say, my eyes going back to the picture of Jeffrey. “Your husband really loved you.”

Teresa smiles, and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “One part luck, maybe, but nine parts careful honey. I first met him at a dance in Midford County,” she says. “My friend Stella pointed him out to me.  ‘Tessa,’ she said, ‘he’s the best looking thing out there tonight.’ ”

“He was good looking.” I say.

“At that time I didn’t think any man was good looking,” Teresa says.  “And from a distance, he looked rough. His blue pants were two inches too short. He wore a green shirt, black socks, and brown shoes.  I wondered if he was color blind or dressed in the dark.  Thought maybe his mama was color blind too.  Why would she let him out of the house looking like that? His hair hung over his collar too.”

I laugh. “Something made you change your mind,” I say.

“It’s good to hear you laugh child. I seldom see you smile. You remind me of myself when I was your age. I wanted to hide, wore my clothes too big, didn’t wear makeup.”

I look down at my long denim jumper. I touch my naked face.

“I was shy too,” Teresa says. “I didn’t think I was pretty enough to be at that dance, didn’t really even want to be there.  Stella pushed me to go. ‘Come on Tessa,’ she wheedled, ‘just this once. You’ll see how fun it is.’

I listen to Teresa’s story.

“I stood off in the corner drinking punch while Stella had all the fun. She danced and laughed with all the boys. I was miserable.”

“I don’t like crowds either,” I say.

“Then Jeffrey came by to get a cup of punch. He was shy too, stood there with his head down, staring into that cup. I’d peek over at him and when he looked up, I’d glance away.  He did the same thing, until we both giggled.  He finally got the courage to say hello.”

“You were alike,” I say.

“We were.  He said he wasn’t much of a dancer either.  We stood there talking for a while, until Stella and Jeffrey’s friend came to the punch bowl, all out of breath from dancing.  We all took a table together. Jeffrey and I talked and talked.  We met at the dance hall every Saturday night for a month after that. Never did dance, but got to know each other better,” she remembers.

I’m listening to Teresa, but I’m thinking of the activities at my school. I’ve never been to a dance, never been on a date. I go to school, make good grades, and have a few girlfriends; we eat lunch together. And I work with old people. I lock myself in my room at night. My cat, Crenshaw, is the only male interested in me. I’m not interested in any male other than him either.

“Then you got married,” I say.

Teresa puts her hand up like a traffic cop to stop me. “Oh no, not that fast. I put Jeffrey through his paces, didn’t let him too close.  He was persistent though, wouldn’t stay away.  He didn’t push too hard, but he didn’t let me too far out of his sight.”

“So he pursued you?”

“Yep, he showed up at the dances, found his way to the movies Stella and I went to see, and turned up at the pencil factory where I worked to walk me home. My father didn’t like him. That’s what made my mind up about Jeffrey.”

Teresa’s mouth sets in a straight line that droops on the right side from the stroke. Her eyebrows come together again. Her left hand becomes a fist, and she says, “He wasn’t a thing like my father. That was the meanest, hatefulest man there ever was.”

“He was?” I ask.

Teresa’s jaw clenches. A muscle twitches in her cheek. “I hope he’s burning in hell,” she spits.  “God might not like me saying it, but I hope he burns over and over again.  Even that’s too good for him.”

I’ve never heard Teresa talk like this.  In a group of nursing home residents, she’s the upbeat one, finds the good in those around her and in most every situation. She laughs at her own mistakes and forgives easily.  I watch her anger grow, and her emotions overtake her.  I pull a chair from across the room and sit facing my friend.  I reach out and take her shaking left hand into my own. I look into her eyes and see my reflection there.

“He married my mama when she was young, too young… fifteen, I think. Then, he forced six children on her, one right after the other,  two girls and four boys.  My mama died giving birth to the seventh and within a few months my father found someone else to marry, my step-mother. I don’t see how either woman could stand him. He’d go after anything in a skirt.”

“Oh no,” I say.

“That wasn’t the half of it.  He went after his own daughters.  You know, that’s just plain wrong. How can a father not know any better?” Teresa asked, looking directly at me.

I cover my mouth with my hand, and close my eyes. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

We sit there together in silence for a long time.

“Give me one of those tissues,” Teresa finally says, pointing to the box of Kleenex on the dresser.  I try to find my legs, but they don’t want to work.  My stomach is tied in knots. My head hurts.  I let go of her hand and reach for the box. I hold it out to her.

Teresa pulls out one of the tissues and wipes her eyes. “You know, I didn’t cry when he died, not one tear.  I stood over his grave, spit on the dirt, and told him that I hoped he burned in Hell.”

I’d never heard this story, not from Teresa, not from her family.
“I was the lucky one,” Teresa said.

My eyes shot up. I couldn’t imagine how she could be lucky. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“My little sister Darlene got pregnant by him.”

“Oh no,” I say, feeling the bile rise into my throat and burn.  I jump out of the chair, open the door to Teresa’s bathroom and heave the contents of my stomach into her toilet.  I stay on my knees for what seems like hours, waiting for my head to clear, trying to figure out what I’ll say to her, embarrassed by my reaction.

I come out with my head down. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t you apologize for that,” she says. “I’ve lost my supper more than once over it. He was a monster.”  She holds her hand out to me and I sit back down.

“My step-mother treated Darlene like a dog after that, kept saying if she had kept her legs together, the boys down the road wouldn’t have gotten her in trouble.”

“Darlene didn’t tell your step-mother about your father,” I state.

“No, of course not.  Neither of us said anything. We were too scared of him. He was mean, and an even meaner drunk.   Sometimes, we thought maybe our step-mother knew, because of the way she looked at us and then at him, but if she did know, she didn’t let on.”

My voice drops, along with my eyes. “She should have protected you.”

“I thought so too for a long time. Oh how I blamed that woman. Still do sometimes, but her life wasn’t easy either, seven kids that weren’t hers, four others that were, and a hateful man on top of it all. She had her own Hell.”

“It wasn’t easy for anyone,” I say.

“Nope, sure wasn’t. I always felt bad that I couldn’t keep him away from my little sister, like I should have protected her. Then she got pregnant.  They made her give the baby up you know.  Strange thing was, she didn’t want to, said she wanted someone who loved her just for her.”

“I understand why you’d want to get away from home,” I say.

Teresa takes a deep, shaky breath. Then she sighs.  “Like I said, Jeffrey was my saving grace.  He asked me to marry him after our third real date.”

“And you said yes?” I ask.

“Nope, the thought scared me silly. I turned him down over and over again.  But like I said, he was persistent. When I finally realized he wasn’t going away, I sat him down and told him I wasn’t pure.  Men expected that when I was a girl, and I didn’t want him to feel like he got saddled with damaged goods.”

I look down at my hands in my lap, fingers intertwined, knuckles white. “What did he do?” I ask.

Teresa sits up straighter, her eyes shine. “He got fighting mad, that’s what.  He stomped around the room with his fists balled up. I’d had enough of that in my life. I stood up to leave. I was sad though, almost wished I’d lied, because I thought he was a good catch, but I had to tell him the truth.  He caught up with me before I got out the door, grabbed my shoulders and turned me around.  Then I got scared and started fighting him, telling him not to touch me, to leave me alone.  He dropped his hands and apologized. I was breathing hard and glaring at him.   Then he did something I didn’t expect. He looked me right in my eyes and said, ‘It wasn’t your fault Tessa.’

“He did?”

“Just like that, yes he did,” Teresa says.  Then, she raises her eyes and looks into mine. “You know, until today, Jeffrey was the only person I ever told about my father. After he passed away, the secret was going to die with me. That seemed like what I should do until today.”

“You changed your mind.” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “Of course Darlene knew, but she would never talk about it. Poor thing, went from one man to another and finally drank herself to death. She held it all inside and let it kill her.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Everybody has to deal with things the best way they know how.  I was blessed.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, we do have to deal with things the best way we know how.”

I hear my name paged overhead. I look at my watch.   “Oh my, I’ve let time slip away. I’ve got to run,”  I say.

“Sorry I kept you so long honey. You go do what you need to do.  We’ll talk more later. You come to see me anytime.”  Teresa smiles and hugs me with her good arm.

“Thank you,” I say, opening the door to the hallway.

Sally passes me.  “They’ve been paging you,” she says. The smokers are waiting for you.”

“I turn toward the patio, then, stop mid-stride and turn. I call to my co-worker. “Hey Sally—“

“Yeah?”

“If I take dining room duty for you, will you do smoke break for me?” I ask.

“Really?” she asks. “You’d do that for me? I hate dining room duty. ”

I’d like to take credit for helping her out, but I don’t.

“Nope,” I say. “You’re helping me out. It’s my first step to quitting.”

“You don’t smoke.” she says, confusion knitting her eyebrows.

“It’s a long story,” I say, smiling.  “I’ll get you the cigarette box.  Where’s the lunch menu?”

 

That First Step © 2012 M Dawn Thacker. Check the Contents for more of M Dawn’s stories or visit Now.readthisplease.com for M Dawn’s feature articles.

 

 

First Child
by Adrienne S Moody

 

Families were large when and where I grew up. On our block alone there were over one hundred children; I know this as my brother took the time to tally and announce it at dinner one evening. One hundred children. And it wasn’t an overly long block either. Being a young girl needing extra money for expensive jeans and a typewriter, I had an abundance of job offers to babysit. It’s what girls did. There wasn’t any special course to take either. I knew about babies as my youngest sister was born ten years after me and so I was experienced about bottle-feeding and changing diapers. But looking after eight children proved to be a challenge and a life-changing experience.

The Johnston family lived across the street. They had eight kids and they all had names starting with the letter B. I suppose they figured it would make it easier to remember. I recall them lining up (the ones who could stand; three were infants) tallest to shortest for their spoonful of children’s tonic. Blaine, Brent, Belinda, Blair and Brenda. Bobby, Bruce and Bryce were in various stages of infancy and required hands on care. I cleaned up the dinner dishes (no dishwasher), bathed a handful of the brood, changed diapers, and settled them into their beds. It was exhausting. I learned what motherhood was all about from this experience. I never saw romance or had any unrealistic notions about child rearing due to my hours of labor across the street.

I decided at a young age that I would be a journalist traveling to exotic countries and would leave motherhood to prissy women whose dream was to push baby strollers and wipe pablum off chins. I saw it as chained to a household where the work never ended and no one seemed to appreciate anything you did. I witnessed Mrs. Johnston arriving home after a Saturday spent shopping in the big city, looking haggard and beyond overwhelmed.

In my 20′s my brothers married women who seemed ecstatic about their bulging tummies and beamed at these gurgling, drooling babies. Not for me, I decided and rolled my eyes at the news of another little bundle of trouble about to arrive and make me an Auntie to yet another infant capable of projectile vomiting.

I ignored the biological clock ticking and when it became so loud I couldn’t bear it, I bought another animal. At that time, in my late twenties, I had three dogs and three cats. I talked to them like children. I cooked up concoctions for the dogs, feeling very maternal indeed. It pacified me for a while.

What changed my mind? Malcolm did. He was this little devilish cherub born to my eldest brother. He loved my dogs and I loved him. I didn’t expect to; it just happened. I decided after he fell asleep on my lap in front of the campfire one summer evening, that I did want one of these. But, only one. And I’d do it only if I could have a boy like Malcolm.

I told my husband that I changed my mind. He was in agreement. And of course, as most women know, just because you decide you want a baby it doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to have one. We tried for over a year with no happy bouncing result. I was very sad and exasperated. I did everything the books told me to do. I took my temperature waiting for the magic egg to be released. I marked my dates on the calender. If I was a day late, I went for a pregnancy test only to see that dreaded show of red in the process.

And then I had a dream.

I dreamed that a man in a lab coat motioned for me to come over to this table that looked like a maze. I crouched down beside him and he said to me, ‘It’s very difficult for the sperm to get through,’ and I could see that. Little commas were trying to make it through and kept hitting a barrier. ‘It will take a year before one of them does,’ he said to me with a smile.

I woke with renewed hope. I put away the thermometer and much to the relief of my very patient husband, our sex life resumed a form of normalcy. I stopped marking red X’s on the calender. I lost track of my cycles. About a year later at my sister’s wedding sitting next to my mother, I knew.

“I’m pregnant, Mom,” I whispered to her and put my hand to my abdomen.

“What? Are you sure?” she whispered back unable to hide her excitement.

“I’m sure.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“No. I don’t have to. I know.”

It was a glow that I felt. A flutter of wings inside of me. I felt life deeply within and there was nothing like it. Of course I went to the doctor and it was confirmed. At six months they wanted an ultrasound and while the technician studied the monitor I asked if she could tell the sex of the baby.

“Yes, I can. Do you want to know?” she asked.

“I already know. It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is a boy.”

And no, he’s nothing at all like Malcolm.

He is as unique as we all are.

And he has taught me all about love as no one else ever has.

 

First Child © 2012 Adrienne S Moody. Check out the Contents, or read more of Adrienne’s works at Now.ReadThisPlease.com. We welcome your comments.

 

 

Pruning Old Growth
by M Dawn Thacker

 

The mock orange and lilacs have taken over the side yard.  It’s been ten years since their last pruning. I’m not diligent.  My grandma took clippers to them yearly when she was living. Just after they bloomed, she pocketed her shears and snipped away the old growth.  Every five years or so, she’d bring my grandpa into the task. He had the long wooden handled pruners that took extra muscle.

“Way down in there,” grandma would say, pointing to the largest in diameter and hardest wood in the middle of the bush , “as close to the ground as you can get.  If you don’t get rid of that old growth, the new won’t have room to mature.”

When grandma died, six years to the day after my grandpa, she left behind a yard full of trees, bushes and flowers to carry on her legacy.  Even though it was September, she had already mulched the ground under her plants to ensure survival during a bitterly cold winter.

I’ll be fifty this year, and I’ll bet my grandma never imagined me at this age.  I remember when I was younger, thinking in terms of milestones in my life, things to look forward to, graduation from high school, college, marriage, and babies.  I didn’t think beyond those events because they all seemed so far away, like looking off in the distance where everything is tiny and details blend into the background. Thirty was across the mountain, and fifty was all the way to the next state.

Well, I’ve almost reached the state line now and I find myself stopping to look over my shoulder.  Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to happen, look forward until you’re fifty, then stop suddenly, turn back and search the past for answers. My childhood beckons me for a closer look.

It’s not easy going back there.  I remember pain, but I had a swing in the maple tree, and a sandbox too. I ate red raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries right off the vine. I played tag with my cousins, laid in the grass making pictures out of clouds, and I wished on shooting stars. Sometimes my wishes came true. I was hugged. I was loved.

So here I am, almost fifty, feeling myself slowly slipping into my grandmother’s shoes.  I separate the outer branches and reach to the center. I feel it.  Little pieces crack, splinter, and break apart.  I bring them out, one at a time,  examine the hard, rough exterior that covers the tight rings surrounding my first growth.  I back out, work on the outer edges some more, then reach inside again to experience those memories all over again.

I bought my grandmother’s house in ’86, and live there now.  I’ve been with the same man for thirty years. I’ve let the bushes in the side yard go too long between prunings. The task is almost overwhelming, but I open my clippers and cut one piece at a time.  When my muscles are spent, I call on the man in my life to help me.

“Reach down in there just as far as you can to take out the old growth,” I hear myself say.  “New growth needs room to mature.”

 

Pruning Old Growth © 2012 M Dawn Thacker. Check the Contents for more of M Dawn’s stories or visit Now.readthisplease.com for M Dawn’s feature articles.

 

 
Dearest Reader,

Thank you for visiting and reading this first draft of Edition 12, ReadThisPlease. We are compiling, building it on screen, and making a place where we meet together. What inspires a writer? The reader. Thanks for being a writer’s companion.

Peace and kindness, we hope you have lots of firsts.
 
If you would like to purchase your own copy of ReadThisPlease Volume One to pack along, click here. We’ve listed it on Amazon’s Createspace if you want a cool hardcopy. Thank you for your support.

 

Online Periodically

Feb 01, 2012 • EDITION 12 • CONTENTS

ONE PAGE • THREE COLUMNS • NOW

All Rights Reserved