Memories of Paris: Pigeons
I’m back in Kansas City now after having spent a week in London and a week in Paris, and I’m looking forward to finishing up my short film and starting some new projects, too. London was wonderful for taking in the art other people had produced, and Paris was perfect for creating some of my own. I wrote this on the plane back from Paris; hope you enjoy.
PIGEONS
Most people have one of two reactions to the pigeons swarming the square in front of Notre Dame (or really any other place in Paris). Amusement mingled with amazement at their sheer audacity is one of them, and it is usually reserved for tourists. The other is indignant annoyance, usually combined with a vigorous shooing hand motion or the harsh thwap of a menu or a book or some other flat object. This is demonstrated in perfect form by waiters in outdoor cafés.
A third category, much smaller in both number and stature, is the fascinated child, who sees the pigeons as an odd sort of temporary pet meant to be chased around whilst giggling.
These are the three largest divisions of pigeon interaction, but there is a fourth, and it is the true rare bird of pigeon-related behavior: the elderly man or woman who insists on feeding these avian creatures, considered by many to be nothing more than rats with wings. These folks are content to sit amongst hordes of them, in fact encouraging the birds to come closer. They remain nearly motionless, living statues, save the motion it takes to toss a handful of seed onto the ground.
I saw one such woman as I looked down upon the square from one of the towers of Notre Dame. Admittedly, I’d never given these eccentrics much thought. But from the gargoyle’s eye view, I was suddenly stricken with curiosity. What possesses any given person to adopt such behavior? I myself fall into the Amused Tourist category when it comes to pigeons, but when more than three approach I start imagining Hitchcock-esque scenes and quickly add space between myself and the feathered creatures.
But this woman had to have been keeping company with at least fifty if not a hundred, in front, behind, and some even sitting on the bench right next to her. I was a little baffled, and no small part of me was rather frightened for her safety.
I turned to tap my sister’s shoulder to show her the spectacle, and when I turned back, I saw something even more bizarre. A mass of pigeons was hovering in a column of sorts, only a few paces from the woman. I peered at the strange pillar, for a second annoyed that I was so high up. I pitied the gargoyles who surrounded me, always watching from this dead space between heaven and earth.
But then the column began to change before my eyes. Whether it was some sort of cognitive process catching up to reality or a bit of magic happening on the ground, I cannot say with any certainty, but I know what I choose to believe. I no longer saw a pillar of pigeons but a man, matched in age to the woman on the bench. He wore a Bogey-style hat, and a pigeon sat on top of it. His arms were outstretched, and there were three pigeons on each. The woman did not run away frightened or jump up with excitement. She simply remained on the bench, her face turned toward the man. I could not see her expression from my position, but it must have been welcoming, as the man sat down beside her, displacing some of his avian companions (though they did not seem to mind — they almost seemed to make room for him, as if they accepted him as an equal, just as deserving of the woman’s attention as they were).
At that moment, we were siphoned into another stairwell leading to the very top of the tower. From there, I could see all of Paris, but the woman, her pigeons, and her mysterious male companion were gone. The bench was empty, for a moment, and whatever I’d just witnessed (a meeting? a reunion?) remained only in my memory.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Easter Hare
I’ve been on FridayFlash hiatus for a few weeks due to a variety of excuses, but I’m back for at least this week with a quick Easter story. Hope you enjoy!
THE EASTER HARE
The children woke early and woke their parents, too. Part of having children is rising much earlier than necessary on at least two days out of the year, and this day was Easter.
Barely awake and hastily dressed, the adults were dragged outside by miniature hands on their sleeves. But as soon as they crossed the threshold into the cool, crisp air, an odd crunching sound found their ears. The children stopped in their tracks, nearly sending their parents tumbling over them. Now alert, they looked out over the yard.
It should have sparkled with foil-wrapped chocolates and candy-colored eggs. That was the deal. It was How Things Worked.
And admittedly, there were in fact eggs. Hundreds of them, perhaps. But these were not Easter eggs. No, they weren’t even hard-boiled, and they certainly weren’t chocolate. The brown and white shells, some in tact and others not, littered the yard. Egg yolk colored the tree leaves, and the viscous white dripped from the branches. And even though the air was cool, the sun was beginning to warm the surfaces, and a putrid smell was just barely beginning to rise from the yard. Tears filled the children’s eyes, and thoughts of teenage hooligans rampaged in their parents’ minds.
Before anyone could take action, though, a flash of white sped through the yard.
“Hey!” cried the little girl.
The flash became a fluffy, white rabbit, and it looked at her with sad eyes. “I’m too late,” he muttered.
“What happened?” asked the girl’s brother. Though he was not quite two years older, he put a protective arm around his little sister.
The rabbit grimaced, and then he scowled. “My idiot half brother,” he spat. “That’s what happened.”
“You have a brother?” the children’s mother asked.
“I’m a rabbit. Of course I have a brother. Six hundred and seventy-three, to be exact, and another twelve-hundred and eight half-brothers. And don’t even get me started on my sisters.”
“Are they all Easter bunnies?” the father asked.
The rabbit rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”
“Oh,” the father said, simply. “Then, which one did this?”
Fury flashed in the rabbit’s eyes as he spoke: “The March Hare.”
“The March Hare?” asked the mother, incredulous.
“Yes, The March Hare, and thank heavens there’s only one of him!” The rabbit approached the family now, and they huddled a little closer together. This was not the Easter Bunny the television specials and Hallmark cards had told them about. The rabbit put out his paws, as if expecting payment for something. But then, with a pop, two baskets, filled with the most beautifully painted eggs and decadent-looking chocolates the family had ever seen, appeared out of thin air. “Take these,” he said. “Sorry about the hunt.”
The rabbit turned around and surveyed the yard. His ears went straight up and then bent forward at a right angle, sending a beam of light over the yard. In an instant, the errant eggs were gone, and thankfully so was the smell. The rabbit screwed up his arms, prepared to dash away, but the little girl ran forward. Surprised, the rabbit stared at the little girl, and, surprised at herself, the little girl stared back at the rabbit. Finally, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Happy Easter,” she said. “And thanks.”
She let go and went back to join her family. The rabbit very nearly smiled. “You’re welcome. And Happy Easter to you, too.” And then, with a last curt nod in their direction, he was gone.
The children looked at each other, and their parents did the same, and then the boy — so wise beyond his years, as children often are before they grow up — voiced what they all were thinking: “This is the best Easter ever!”
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Cobbler’s Reward
This story started out as a short scene for a one-page screenplay contest last year. It’s been sitting on my computer for more than a year, seen by only a handful of people, and I figured it was time to give it a new life. Please enjoy.
THE COBBLER’S REWARD
A wizened little man sat hunched over a cobbler’s bench, hammering away at the heel of a well-worn boot. He wore a scowl and an old, grubby coat that might once have been green. Between hammers, he glanced up at the security camera that remained fixed on him, and, with each glance, his scowl deepened. Today of all days, this was not where he belonged.
Outside the shoe repair shop, the parade was just beginning. A boy on the cusp of eight stood beside his mother, who was tending to his curly- and golden-haired sisters. They were two and four, and they were everything. The music was growing louder, and the boy watched as his mother directed the girls’ gazes toward the marching band. They both clapped in delight at the sight of the instruments moving in unison, and their mother — and anyone who happened to spot them — clapped in delight as well. How cute they were. The boy rolled his eyes, and, having lost interest in the never-changing parade two years ago, he slipped away.
He walked down the sidewalk, glancing in all the windows. The furniture stores held no interest for him. The candy shop would have had he remembered to bring a bit of his meager allowance. The candle shop made him sneeze. He would have passed by the shoe repair shop without a second glance if it weren’t for the sight of the gnarled old man, barely much taller than himself, staring out the window as if he were caught in a prison cell. He was startled, and, though he’d never admit it, a little scared by the sight. But then the man looked at him, and his dead eyes came to life with a twinkle. The tiniest motion of the man’s hand beckoned the boy inside. So, inside the boy went.
With a twitch of his head, he invited the boy closer, and, always the curious type, the boy approached. Only when the old man leaned toward him, as if to tell him a secret, did he stop. Suddenly, a litany of after-school specials and school assemblies ran through his mind, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
“Do you know what I am?” asked the old man.
The boy looked him over and then shook his head.
“I’m a leprechaun,” he whispered.
The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was young, but he was no dummy. “Prove it,” he replied.
The old man waved his hand, and without explanation, there was suddenly a bright green, golf-ball sized emerald sitting in his palm. The boy gawped, and any notion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time vanished.
“I’m a prisoner here,” the old man explained, his expression suddenly urgent. “If you help me escape, you’ll be rewarded.”
The boy’s eyes shot to the emerald. The old man, realizing the implication, pulled it back protectively only to receive a stern look from the boy. The old man, clenched his jaw, sighed heavily, looked longingly at his emerald, and then even more longingly outside.
“Oh, all right,” he said, looking none too happy about it.
The boy beamed.
“See those shoes?” the old man asked, eyeing a pair of high-fashion high heels that no one in the small town would ever consider walking around in. They were the only shoes in the store that bore the accessory of an anti-theft device. The boy saw them immediately; they were hard to miss. “Take them.”
The look of surprise on the boy’s face was not unexpected, but the old man had been playing at this game much longer. He moved the emerald into the light, and he watched the boy’s inner struggle with a hint of glee as the sunshine played in the facets of the jewel. The boy grimaced and met the old man’s eyes, and the old man knew he had won.
Without another word, the boy dashed to the shoes, grabbed them, and sprinted out the door. At the sound of the alarm, a fat man barreled out from the back room, giving pointless chase down the street.
The old man stood, and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled. He walked over to the security camera, gave it a wink, and then shut it off. When the fat man returned without his prized shoes, he found he had also lost his prized cobbler.
Outside, having escaped into an alley way, the boy leaned against a brick wall to catch his breath. He’d discarded the shoes in a dumpster a block back, just in case. He wouldn’t know the term for another five or six years, but he understood plausible deniability like an old pro. As his breath finally slowed, it occurred to him that he and the old man had never settled terms on how he was to receive his reward. He stood up and for the first time experienced the unsettling feeling that he had been swindled.
The sound of shoes crunching against the pavement caught his attention, and he looked up. At the other end of the alley was none other than the old man, standing straighter and looking more spritely than the boy would have thought possible.
“Hey, what about my reward?” the kid called out.
The old man grinned and began walking away from the boy. Not about to give up without a fight, the boy took a step to run after him, but got no further than that due to a suddenly odd weight in his pocket. He reached into it, and, when his hand emerged, it held the emerald — solid, real, and more beautiful in the open air than he could have imagined. The boy smiled and looked up to find the old man, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Absolution of an Abomination
Carrie Clevenger did a riddle flash last week, and I’ve decided that this story makes for a nice little riddle, too. Can you guess what the creature is?
ABSOLUTION OF AN ABOMINATION
“WHAT IS THAT?!” the archangel spluttered.
The other archangel stood with his arms crossed, staring at the little abomination that had drawn such a reaction from his colleague. His own reaction had been much the same.
“The one responsible wouldn’t talk. We don’t know if it was a mistake or some sort of cruel joke.”
“Well, either way, we’d better destroy it before the Creator gets an eyeful.”
The second archangel started to walk away, but then paused at the sight of the monster spitting a stream of water from the puddle in which it was playing. He turned back and crossed his own arms. The two could have been twins, arms crossed, heads cocked just slightly to one side.
“Is it just me, or is he… well, sort of cute?”
“Only if you look at him long enough.”
The archangels looked at each other, each searching the other’s eyes for the will to do what needed to be done. Neither found it. They looked back to the
“He’s got fangs,” the first one said.
“Big ones,” said the second, nodding. “Claws, too.”
“Sharp ones,” echoed the first. “He does have wings, though.”
“That’s true. We can use that.”
“And he sure does like water.”
The angels’ eyes met again, and they smiled.
* * * * *
High above the ground, towering over the people who walk below, rests a leathery, eagle-eyed spectator. His claws grip the stones that serve as a monument to something beyond imagination. His teeth, sharp enough to pierce the toughest skin, are bared, waiting. Eyes that find him look away quickly, the shudders that follow a reminder of something savage. Thoughts swirl at the sight of him: why does something so grotesque exist on something so beautiful?
But he is oblivious. The clouds gather above, and, as the skies darken, he feels a thrill of anticipation. Soon, it will rain.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Did you guess? The answer is here, and you can read more information about his creation and purpose here. Thanks for reading!
[FridayFlash] Seeming is Believing
Noticed one of these this week and found myself grinning back.
SEEMING IS BELIEVING
The child sat on the curb at the corner of two flower-named streets, waiting for her bus. As the snow came down, coating everything in white to contrast the last vestiges of the black night, she fumed. Even at the young age of nine and three-quarters, she had no patience for snow unless it meant a school cancellation. She’d been awfully tired this morning and would have been quite content to remain in bed, dreaming of things that made no sense, rather than dealing with a waking world that, to her, seemed no better.
[FridayFlash] Love in Love
This week’s installment is a little Valentine’s-themed story that I’d eventually like to turn into a short film script (and then a short film, natch). I wanted to do something similar in tone to Neil Gaiman’s “Harlequin Valentine
LOVE IN LOVE
The dress had to be perfect. Everything was riding on it.
She examined the fabric of the little burgundy number she was wearing. Too thin and it would show every bump and dimple she hated about herself. Too thick and it would hide every line and curve she loved. Her eyes poured over the places she liked and loathed. The fabric, she decided, would do.
Her eyes traveled to the hemline. Too high and it would make her look like a Halloween Catholic school girl. Too low and she’d look like an everyday Catholic school marm. She raised on her tiptoes, and then she stood flat-footed. She pulled up a stool and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and then at the knees. She stood back up, twirled, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the place where the burgundy met the peach of her skin. She stopped and looked at herself straight on. The hemline, she decided, would do.
In all her focus, she nearly missed the flash of gold dart behind her in the mirror. She turned around just in time to see an old man throw aside his cane, take his equally-decrepit wife in his arms, and kiss her passionately. The woman’s brow furrowed. She took one more quick look in the mirror, ripped the tag off, and stomped to the cash register to pay. She couldn’t chance going home to change. She was wearing this baby out of the store.
As the cashier handed the woman her receipt, a bolt of gold flew over her shoulder, whisking her hair forward. Before her eyes, the cashier, a dowdy matron who could be pretty if she tried, clasped her hand to her heart. She turned to look across the way to the cologne department, where, after another barely noticed flash of gold, a balding man turned to face her. The woman watched in annoyance as the two left their stations and met in the aisle, embracing as if they were star-crossed lovers who’d finally sorted the constellations. The woman scowled. She did a little mental geometry, calculating where the darts of gold had originated. And then she set off at a pace somewhere between catwalk and slight jog.
Down the street she went. Another spark of gold to her left, and another match made. She picked up her pace. To her right now, two lovers reunited with tears of joy. She looked ahead, and there she spotted a tall man in a white suit. He saw her, too. And then he turned and disappeared into the rush-hour crowd. She ran after him, thoughts of grace replaced by the heat of the chase, ignoring the shooting pain from her heels to her knees and praying that her brand-new, blown-paycheck heels could hold their own.
She followed the flashes of gold like they were yellow bricks, and they led her to another glimpse of white. She refused to blink, breaking into a sprint now. She gained, and finally, just as the man in white was releasing two golden, heart-tipped arrows from his bow, she caught him. She made to grab for his arm, but he was too fast. Pointed straight at her chest was a dark, pewter-colored arrow. The woman froze. The tip of this arrow was heart-shaped, too, but down the middle of it ran an ominous, lightning bolt of a crack. Her eyes ran along the silver shaft to the crow-feathered fletching, and then up the arm of the man and finally into his steely eyes.
“You can’t,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”
She saw the pity in his expression. The bowstring loosened, if only by an inch. “You can’t be in love with Love,” he said.
She shook her head and moved toward him again. The bowstring went taught, even more so than before. “I’m sorry,” he said, and something in his eyes made her believe he meant it. Before she could cry out, there was a leaden arrow in her heart.
And then he was gone.
The woman walked the dark streets, the sun having retired hours ago. The sky opened up and let loose the rain it had been threatening for days. Still miles from her apartment, and the cabs of the city filled with Valentines both new and old, the woman sat down on the curb and stared at the rainwater washing the pavement of its debris. She heard footsteps, but she couldn’t summon the passion to look up.
It was only when the splash of red passed into her vision that she looked up. A well-dressed man, soaked to the bone, walked down the street, a dozen red roses dangling facedown from his hand. She looked at him curiously. And then he turned and returned her expression. He retraced his steps and offered his hand to help her up. She accepted. He held out the roses, and she accepted those, too. And as they looked at each other, whatever heartbreak had befallen them that night was suddenly forgotten.
Neither suspected or noticed a thing when a man in an unblemished white suit passed them by with nothing more than a nod of his head and a wistful look in his eye.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] I’ve Got Bills in All the Right Places
I thought I’d go way back into the archives of my life for this week’s episode of FridayFlash. A little background: in 2004, straight out of graduating magna cum laude, three internships under my belt, and a history of nearly all straight-As, I found myself unable to obtain a job in my chosen field. Thus, I found myself in the most humiliating position possible for a 20-something with a sense of entitlement — a cashier in the automotive department at Wal-Mart.
I was there for a mere two weeks before I put in my notice, and I rounded out my stay at five. The silver lining is that I had plenty to write about for my first venture into NaNoWriMo back in 2005. Now, I present to you an updated excerpt from that novel/memoir – a snapshot of a day in my life as a Wal-Mart employee.
I’VE GOT BILLS IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES
Somewhat inexplicably, the automotive department at Wal-Mart attracts an unusual number of very strange women. Most pass out of memory within a few hours if not minutes, but there was one woman who will be forever burned into my mind barring any sort of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-style brain therapy.
One day, late in the afternoon, nearing both the end of my shift and the end of my service to the Big Blue Sign, a very overweight woman, probably nearing 400 lbs., came up to the counter to pay for some merchandise. I tell you this not to be rude or judgmental, but simply to paint an accurate picture of the situation.
I rang up her merchandise and presented her total, which was less than $2. She began digging around in her sweatpants’ pocket for change, which she handed to me one coin at a time as she found it. Though this was certainly annoying, and while it took all my mental prowess to ignore the disturbing warmth of the coins in my hand, I was mostly unfazed. I’d experienced worse. My discomfort was not enough to prepare me for what was about to play out.
“I think I put a dollar in my bra,” she proclaimed.
My first response to this was confusion. It was followed quickly by horror, as my mind could no longer ignore the body-heated coins in my hands. I tried to convince myself that I was simply having some sort of David Lynch-style nightmare. Surely, I was bound to wake up any second. All hope was shattered, though, as I watched her begin to fondle her own massive and ill-supported breasts.
I began a silent chant to any god that would listen to make that dollar bill so hidden within the depths and folds of femininity before me that it would never be found again — or at least not until after my shift had ended. But her hands only searched more fervently as the intensity of my prayers increased.
I was about to offer a dollar from my own meagerly-supplied wallet in order to prevent having to handle anything that had come out of the crevasse of this woman’s cleavage. But then, as abruptly as the caressing and squishing and prodding had begun, it stopped. We stared at each other for one of those moments that seem impossibly long. Terrible thoughts of her next attempt to find the dollar bill filled my mind — one in particular ending with a sweaty triple-F Maidenform bra flung at my face sent an involuntary shudder through my body. And then, she uttered the most glorious words I’d heard up until that point in my life.
“I must have put it in my billfold,” she resolved.
I laughed, half in relief and half at the absurdity as she pulled a black leather billfold out of her purse. She looked at me if I was touched in the head. I muttered an apology and took her unsullied dollar bill. As she left with her purchases, she spared me one last, curious-annoyed glance as she walked out the door. And I, beaten down and exhausted, could only smile politely back.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Merry Happy
I’ve wanted to send out a 100-word Christmas story with my Christmas cards for a few years now. This is the first year I’ve gotten around to writing a story. Alas, I did not get around to actually sending Christmas cards. So, I present it here instead, along with my wishes for a lovely Christmas if you celebrate it and a lovely day regardless.
And to make up for the mush, I’ll also share this riveting piece of cinema, created by my sister and myself as a bit of Christmas entertainment for our family.
Charity: A Christmas Story
Here’s a quick bit of short fiction I wrote last year. By the time I finished it, it was too late for a Christmas story, so this one’s been waiting all year for its debut. Hope you enjoy.
CHARITY: A CHRISTMAS STORY
Julie was setting the table when the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of her mother’s first Christmas dinner party guest. She rolled her eyes with typical teenage impertinence as she heard her mother put on her Joyful Hostess Voice to greet Mr. and Mrs. Stanson. Julie adjusted the centerpiece in the middle of the table, remarking in her head how silly it was to have a small, candle-laden winter forest scene blocking everyone’s view and crowding out the food.
Twenty minutes later, Julie; her mother, Martha (wearing a smile so plastic Julie was afraid the candles from the centerpiece might melt it); her stepfather, Steve (for whom Julie had developed a particular distaste); the Stansons (so prim, proper and polite they made your teeth hurt); and Ms. Frostberry (the divorced, busybody neighbor who wormed an invitation to Martha’s party every year) had just sat down for their Christmas dinner when the doorbell rang once more.
“Now, who could that be?” Martha asked with a chuckle.
“Well, whoever it is, they sure do have perfect timing!” Steve retorted. Everyone at the table guffawed with scripted merriment, with the exception of Julie, who smiled as politely as she could force herself to.
“Julie, dear,” Martha said, wiping tears of amusement from the corners of her eyes, “be a doll and answer the door, will you?”
Julie did as requested without complaint, more out of a desire to escape, even if only for a moment, than to please her mother. She tried to look out the window to see who was at the door, but it was fogged up due to the stifling warmth inside the house and the bitter cold outside. With no prior warning, Julie was quite surprised at what she found when she opened the door.
Before her stood a tall, clumsy-looking man in a tattered, dirt-covered suit, and she couldn’t help but note the greenish-yellow tinge to his skin and the sunkenness of his eyes in his head. In fact, she noticed, his eyes were kind of just floating aimlessly in their sockets, not bothering to focus on anything in particular.
“Um, can I help you?” she asked.
“Grrraaargh,” the man replied.
The corners of his mouth stretched back into what Julie assumed was a smile, though she was of the opinion that, due to his apparent lack of dental hygiene, he should avoid such expressions in the future at all costs.
“I’m sorry,” Julie said, trying to maintain some semblance of politeness in spite of her grumbling stomach. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
“Grrrraaaaaaaaagh!” he said, this time with slightly more emphasis on the “Gra.”
Julie was in no mood for this sort of game, and, if Ms. Frostberry took all the gravy again this year before she could get to it, Julie was going to be quite put out. She opened her mouth to tell the inarticulate man that he would simply have to go away and come back when her parents were not in the midst of a dinner party, but her mother’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.
“Julie, where are your manners?” Martha said, now playing a slight variation on the Joyful Hostess Voice called Concerned Samaritan. “Invite this poor gentlemen in for goodness’ sake! It’s freezing out there!”
She stepped past Julie and put her hand on the man’s elbow, guiding him inside. Julie noticed the man’s knees appeared to be locked as he clunked into the house. Every movement was jerky and straight-legged, and Julie was growing rather perturbed as he slung slush all over the floor she’d spent an hour mopping earlier that day.
“Now, what can I do for you, sir?” Martha asked.
“Grrraaargh,” the man said once again.
“Oh, you poor dear!” Martha exclaimed. “So cold you can’t even get your words out straight. Why don’t you come have some dinner. We were just having a little Christmas party, but there’s always room for one more!” Martha’s falsetto laugh rang through the entryway, and the man looked a little alarmed at the sound. “Julie, go grab a chair from the closet, dear. He can sit by you.”
“Mom, we only made enough food for six!” Julie said, growing more exasperated.
“Shame on you, Julie!” Martha said in her most horrified tone. And then she shifted directly into her Christmas TV Special Voice: “It’s Christmas, and it’s the time of year to be charitable and have good will toward our fellow man.”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” Julie muttered. “It’s December 16th.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Martha said out the side of her mouth, sounding like her real self for the first time since guests had arrived. “Just do it.”
Julie turned and huffed her way to the closet as her mother led the man into the dining room. She carried the metal folding chair to the table, where he nearly went into a fit at the sight of the man settling stiffly into her chair across from a very curious-looking Ms. Frostberry. Julie, with as sour an expression as she could manage, unfolded the metal chair next to the man and sat down.
“Everyone, this is…?” Martha paused, waiting for her surprise dinner guest to announce his name. When he didn’t fill in the blank (and indeed stared blankly ahead, which Martha thought a bit rude under her extremely charitable circumstances), she was forced to draw attention to her faux pas. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”
The man’s gaze shifted to Martha, and, in answer to her question, he said, “Grrraaargh.”
“Greg, is it?” Martha took the man’s lolling head motion to mean, “Why, yes, my name is Greg, and I’m so pleased that you were able to understand me despite my speech impediment.” She beamed and turned to her guests. “Let’s eat then, shall we?”
The guests began passing around the various dishes on the table, and Julie eyed Ms. Frostberry very carefully as she ladled gravy onto every single thing on her plate. Eyeing the growing ocean with its tiny islands of food sprinkled throughout, Julie had to fight every fiber of her being to stop herself from playing Poseidon and sending a gravy tsunami straight into Ms. Frostberry’s lap.
This train of thought was interrupted only by the passing of Julie’s least-favorite dish from her mother’s hands into her own. “Gross,” she muttered, as she shoved it into Greg’s hands. “I don’t know why you make that every year. No one likes it.”
That notion was immediately proved incorrect as Greg exclaimed, “Braaaaiinnns!” and looked the most animated he had since he’d arrived.
“No, no, Greg,” Martha corrected. “It’s called cervelle de veau.”
Greg gave her a look that resembled one of confusion. “Brains?”
“Well, they are technically brains,” Martha admitted, shaking her head slightly.
“Brains!” And with that, Greg dumped the entire contents of the dish into his mouth, spilling the overflow all over himself, the table, and the floor, as everyone looked on, horrified (except for Julie, who was fighting back snickers and trying to look horrified).
After licking the dish clean with a tongue that was noticeably blacker than that of the average human being, he set the dish down on the table with an unceremonious clatter, leaned back in his chair, clasped his ashen hands on his stomach, and let out a very contented, “Braaaaaiiiinnnnns…”
Julie looked to her mother, whose jaw was hanging open in shock. After a moment, she seemed to recover a bit, and she cleared her throat and continued passing along the now-nearly empty gravy boat to Julie. She took the ladle and pointedly scraped the bottom of the gravy boat, shooting Ms. Frostberry a scolding glance as she managed to dig out about half a ladleful of gravy. Highly dissatisfied with Ms. Frostberry’s willing ignorance of her failed gravy etiquette, Julie passed the boat to Greg.
He grabbed it excitedly from her, but, as soon as he saw the contents, his expression turned to one somewhere between severe disappointment and pain.
“Brains?” he half-growled, half-squeaked, like a dog whose paw has been stepped on.
“I’m afraid there are no more, Greg,” Martha said (and with very little sympathy after his behavior).
“Brains!” he spat out, sending a speck of cervelle de veau across the table onto Ms. Frostberry’s cheek.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, having never been subjected to having brains splattered across her face before.
“Braaiinns!” Greg yelled. He stood and lurched his way over to Ms. Frostberry, where he promptly snapped her neck, dug his teeth into her skull, and began munching on its contents.
Julie’s mother stood and threw her napkin down on the table indignantly. “Now, Greg! I’m sorry to be rude, but this sort of behavior is completely unacceptable!”
Greg responded, but his mouth was quite full, and what came out was even more unintelligible than usual. At that point, Mr. and Mrs. Stanson stood up.
“I’m so sorry, Martha, but I’ve just remembered we have another engagement this evening,” Mrs. Stanson said.
“Oh, please don’t go,” Martha pleaded. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out.”
“I wish we could,” Mrs. Stanson said as Mr. Stanson pulled her toward the front door. “Honestly. We’ll take a rain check, all right?”
The Stansons did not wait for a response and instead flew from the house, punctuating their departure with a slam of the front door. Martha’s shoulders drooped, and she shot an annoyed glance toward Steve who had not come to her rescue and instead was happily wolfing down the mashed potatoes on his plate. Greg looked up from Ms. Frostberry’s nearly empty skull.
“Brains?” he asked.
Martha turned to him. “Greg, it’s been lovely having you here, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to be on your way.”
Julie thought Greg almost looked as if his feelings were hurt.
“Graargh?”
“I’d be happy to put some ham and potatoes in a to-go container for you, if you wish,” Martha offered, taking pity on him.
Greg turned his head to look at Steve. “Brains?” he asked, looking back to Martha.
“Certainly not!” Martha shouted.
Greg looked to Julie. Julie had never been fond of Steve, and so, she just shrugged.
Greg’s mouth twisted into that hideous grin again, and he got up and lurched toward Steve. Steve tried to push Greg away, but it seemed Greg was rather adept at the whole brains-acquisition thing, and, in a matter of seconds, he was shoveling bloody gray matter into his mouth. Martha promptly fainted, and Julie rolled her eyes.
“I suppose you’ll be expecting me to clean up then,” she grumbled at her unconscious mother. She sighed her typical teenage sigh once more and turned to Greg. “Hey, Greg.” He paused in mid-shovel and looked at her. “Would you mind taking that to go? I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
Greg shrugged and said, “Grargh.”
“Cool,” Julie replied.
Once they’d shoveled Steve’s brains into a plastic container, Julie walked Greg to the door.
“Well, it was great to meet you, Greg,” Julie said perfunctorily. “Enjoy the brains.”
“Graaaarrgh,” Greg said, baring his yellowed teeth again. He gave a little wave, and then he walked in his stiff-legged way down the drive.
Julie closed the door and leaned back against it. “From now on, charity can begin in someone else’s home.” Her sour expression returned, and she trudged back to the kitchen and began clearing dishes.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Search for Santa
After a month off from all non-NaNoWriMo-related writing, I’m ready to get back to business. And that means #fridayflash! Now that it’s December, I present to you a little Christmas story, inspired by an idea my sister gave me this afternoon. I hope you enjoy.
THE SEARCH FOR SANTA
Michael stared out the window as the bus drove him home. Usually one of the rowdiest of the bunch, he was completely oblivious to the furor around him. Today Michael had more serious matters than elementary hijinks on his 10-year-old mind.
The topic at school that day had been “Holiday Traditions Around the World,” and it had always proven popular with the kids leading up to the holiday break. Indeed, this year was no exception, except for Michael, who proved the rule.
As soon as Michael walked through the door, his mother could tell something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked, going to him and helping with his coat in that overly worried sort of way mothers do.
“We talked about Santa today,” Michael said, looking up at her with a grimace that he felt should explain everything.
His mother looked at him as if she’d been expecting this somehow, and she sighed and pulled him into a hug. Michael tolerated the hug for a few seconds and then pulled away. “Why is Santa different everywhere?” he asked.
“What?” his mother replied.
“Mrs. Dunning says he’s called Père Noël in France, and he goes around with Black Pete, and Black Pete gives bad kids coal. But Black Pete doesn’t come here.”
“Well…”
“And in Austria and Germany and some other places he’s called Kris Kringle, and he’s a little angel.”
“That’s because… Um…”
Michael looked at his mother with increasing frustration. “And sometimes he’s called Father Christmas, and sometimes he’s called St. Nicholas, and sometimes he wears all fur, and sometimes he wears all red. He always comes down our chimney, but Ryan says they don’t have a chimney and so he just comes in the front door. And in some places he leaves stuff in shoes. Shoes, Mom!”
His mother simply stood there, mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. Michael huffed, grabbed his backpack, and stomped his way into the family office where the computer was located. He sat down and pulled out the sheet of traditions his teacher had given him, the source of all his angst, and placed it next to the keyboard with the precision of a scientist. He would get to the bottom of this mess, with or without his mother’s help.
Hours passed, and his focus never wavered. His mother brought him dinner, but it remained untouched. His father tried to convince him to give up his search, at least for the night, but, having no more answers than his mother, Michael refused him. Darkness fell, and the house grew quiet. Soon only the glow of the computer screen illuminated the room. Finally, fatigue began to gnaw at him, and he allowed himself a yawn. The handout was now covered in notes, none of which had helped shed any light on the situation. If anything, poor Michael was even more inundated than before, as the internet — even one with parental controls on — had much more to say about Santa Claus than any of his peers or teachers.
Michael leaned forward and rested his chin on his crossed arms. His eyes drifted to a picture frame on his father’s desk. It was from three Christmases ago, and his mother put it out every holiday season. In it, almost too big for such a thing, he sat on the lap of a white-bearded man in a red suit — a man whom Michael had thought was Santa — while his parents stood proudly on either side. He’d been so certain in that picture, but now here he was, full of doubts. If Santa had so many names and behaved so differently around the world, perhaps he wasn’t even real at all. He’d heard other kids proclaim this, of course, but he’d always thought them fools. The thought that perhaps he had been the fool all along was enough to bring tears to his heartbroken eyes. He closed them and buried his head in his arms.
Had the tap on his shoulder not been so gentle, he might have screamed. He turned around slowly, ready to admit defeat to whichever parent had come to shuttle him off to bed. But the tap had not come from a parent. In front of his very eyes stood — well, it couldn’t have been anyone else — Santa Claus. Somehow, he looked exactly as Michael would have imagined and also like nothing he’d ever dreamed. Michael opened his mouth to speak, to ask, to cry out in happiness, and then, perhaps, in anger at all the confusion for which this man was obviously responsible. But before he could get a word out, Santa put a finger to his lips.
“Never stop searching,” he heard Santa say.
Michael leapt out of his chair and embraced the jolly old man with all the relief and thankfulness of a child who has just had hope renewed. As much as Michael wanted to beg Santa to stay, for some reason he knew he couldn’t. He watched with both longing and joy as he disappeared into the night, and then he turned back to the computer, his determination to find out as much as he could renewed.
His parents found him asleep the next morning at the computer. Seconds after they had tenderly shaken him awake, he launched into his story, sparing no detail nor enthusiasm. His parents nodded patiently and smiled patronizingly, and even though they never said it, he could tell that they thought it had been nothing more than a dream. But Michael knew better.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
