Perfect Little Plan

by Jennifer Miller

  “Alright, run it by me again. Pretty please,” I add just to sweeten her up again.

  She’s not fooled and smiles at me while rolling her eyes before explaining to me once more about the list she insists I need to make. “It’s simple, and so exciting. On the night of a new moon, like tonight, you meditate about what you want to happen in your life. Things you want to change or declarations you want to make. You let those thoughts manifest themselves into a list that you write out. Basically, you make strong, declarative statements about what you want.”

  “Okay, got it. A list. That seems easy enough. Then what?”

  She neatly stacks the last set of Tarot cards and turns toward me, brown eyes shining as she continues explaining, “You reflect and think deeply on your list, internalize it, and when you’re ready, you burn it.”

  I raise my brows. “Burn it? Why? What does that do?”

  “It represents sending your wishes for your life into the universe. The universe will accept them and then you just need to be confident in the message you sent, and let the universe do her thing.”

  “Do her thing?”

  “Yes,” she sighs at me as she walks behind the register and grabs the duster. “Trust the universe to work its magic and take care of you.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Pretty simple.”

  “What kind of things have you put in your list when you’ve done this?”

  “Oh, well you know, things like my store will continue to do well,” she stops dusting and looks at the ceiling like she’s trying to remember, “I’ll keep myself open mentally and spiritually in order to hear whatever magic the universe tries to communicate to me. I’ll spend more time fostering relationships in my life that matter to me, like with you,” she smiles, “with my parents, and my Aunt Marianna. That kind of thing.”

  “Well, okay. I can do that.” I’m sitting on the counter by the register, swinging my legs as I watch Mischa continue to run the duster over all her store’s treasures.

  “Yes, you can. Now stop asking questions and just do it already. Tonight.”

  I jump off the counter and walk up to Mischa and smack a kiss on her cheek. “Yes, oh wise spiritually gifted best friend of mine.”

  “Smart girl,” she laughs. “You leaving?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to head home and do a few things around the house and just relax before I go into work tomorrow. Tomorrow is the big day!”

  “I know. They announce the big promotion, tomorrow. Are you ready?”

  “Definitely. I’ve been waiting for this forever, it’s about time they promote me.”

  “You more than deserve this,” Mischa agrees.

  “You got anything in here that will help me be in a zen frame of mind in order to deal with Brandi tomorrow?”

  Mischa’s mouth turns up in the corners, likely because I used the word zen. “Brandi is still making you crazy?”

  “Yes, she’s so ridiculous. She can’t even take a phone message correctly. Why my stupid boss hired her as a receptionist, I will never understand. Wait, I take that back. Of course I know why. It’s because of her huge tits.”

  “Aspen!” Mischa admonishes, but a giggle escapes her mouth before she can stifle it.

  “Well, it’s the truth. You can practically see his erection tent his pants when he looks at her. It’s gross. You need to come visit me at work some time so you can check it out. Only then will you truly be able to feel my pain.”

  “I’m sorry sweets, but I don’t know if there is anything in the store that can make you be zen enough, as you put it, to deal with her.”

  I sigh dramatically. “You’re probably right.”

  “How about we plan on doing lunch a day this week?”

  “Yeah, cool, that sounds perfect. See you later, babe.” I walk towards the door, already searching for my keys in my massive handbag. You would think I would learn to not buy such large handbags or to put my keys in the side zipper compartment or on a larger ring, but no. That would make sense.

  “Peace be with you!” Mischa calls behind me as I walk out the door.

  “And also with you,” I throw back, knowing it made her smile.

  In the parking lot when my civic comes into view, I once again wonder how much longer she’s going to last. Oh, well there’s an item to put on my list of wishes. This baby is on her last leg, but she’s paid off and I need her to last for another year at least. Or maybe not if the universe has other plans, I think in a slightly cynical manner. Knowing compliments go a long way, I murmur them to my little car as I put the key in the ignition, begging her to stick around a bit longer.

  Before long, I’m pulling into the driveway of my little house, my pride and joy. I just wish I owned it and could truly call it mine. It’s perfect. I knew the moment I saw it that I would make it my home. My landlord keeps promising to eventually sell it to me or do a rent to own kind of thing. I’m not clear on why she hasn’t done it yet, but I hope I’m wearing her down. I should probably call her again and have a chat. The squeaky wheel gets the cheese. Or is it the squeaky mouse gets the cheese? Well whatever – I know what I mean.

  Putting my keys and purse on the table by the door, I stand for a moment thinking about the few things I need to get done. I begin with putting the dishes away from the dishwasher, then strip the sheets from my bed and throw them in the washer. I dust, vacuum, finish folding my last load of laundry, and when that’s all done, evening has set in and I realize I’m starving. I don’t feel like cooking a meal, it’s a pain in the ass to just cook for one sometimes, so I elect to throw a frozen dinner, chicken and rice, into the microwave. When it’s done, I settle on the couch and begin flipping through the channels on the TV. I’m barely seeing what’s in front of me because my mind won’t quit turning about this list of wishes thing that Mischa told me about.

  I inhale my dinner and then with a sigh, grab paper and a pen and head outside. I sit down at the little bistro table and chair set on my back patio and look up into the sky, gasping softly when I take in the moon. The moon is shining so brightly tonight, it’s all you can see. The stars are hiding, almost as if they know they can’t compete with the moon and won’t bother trying. The night feels still, like the moon has cast a web of silence all around me. I can’t help but wonder how many other people are staring up at its beauty right now, just as I am. How many are missing someone tonight, thinking about life, or actually making wishes? At the same time, I feel like the moon is here as a gift just for me, and I revel in the glow I feel kissing my face. Funny how something can make you feel both significant and insignificant at the same time.

  I take a deep breath, and return my focus to the task at hand. I rock from side to side a bit trying to get more comfortable in my chair, and shake my arms and do neck circles for good measure. I close my eyes and think about what I want just like Mischa told me to. I briefly wonder if I should hum really low or chant something or maybe sit in a yoga pose, but I discard them all and surprisingly, things that I want in my life start coming to mind. I start writing them down, one after the other. It doesn’t matter how silly, materialistic or unrealistic they are, I write them all.

  Before I know it, I have a whole page full of wishes. I go back through and read each one, making adjustments here and there. I nod my head when I get to the end. I close my eyes and reflect on them once again like Mischa instructed, but when my mind starts wandering to things like what color I should paint my toe nails and how giraffes have really long necks, I decide I’ve reflected enough.

  I step back inside and root through my kitchen junk drawer for my butane lighter, flick it, but find it lacking in fluid and not working so scrounge for the matches I keep stashed there. I eventually find them and then walk back outside. Caught up in the moment, I decide to go through my list one more time and whisper each line to myself with feeling. Then, I fold the list into squares, light a match and set it on fire. I stare at the flame, mesmerized by it. “Ow! Sh
it! Motherfucker!” I drop it on the glass table after it burns my fingers and watch the paper curl in on itself as it burns into nothing but ash. A steady white swirl of smoke trails into the air as if it’s taking my wishes to the sky. When the last orange ember fades, I wait a few moments before scooping the ashes off of the table and into the palm of my hand. I look at them for a moment and then lift them to my mouth and blow. At the same time I blow, a gentle breeze picks up out of nowhere, captures the remnants of my wishes and sends them flying. I can’t help but give a small smile at the magical feeling of it all.

  “Well there you go Mischa, I did it,” I state, as if she can hear me. She would be happy and even perhaps, proud of me now. Besides… what’s the worst that can happen?

  The Devil Wears Tank Tops

  By Angela Corbett writing as Destiny Ford

  Chapter 1

  SOME DAYS I LOVE BEING a reporter, other days I hate it. Then there were days like today.

  “Gary Smith’s chickens got out again! I’m tellin’ ya! We can’t just have chickens runnin’ around willy-nilly in the middle of the street chasin’ kids and cars. They’re birds, not dogs!” Norm Crane, Branson’s resident rabble-rouser was standing at the podium in front of the Branson Falls City Council, trying to incite chicken-hate furor.

  Jessie Green, a Branson Falls City Councilman, pounded his fist on the table. “Dang those chickens!”

  Dale Call, another council member, barely looked up over his brown, plastic-rimmed eye glass frames as he raised his hand and said, “Second.”

  All of the commotion in the room stopped as everyone’s heads swiveled simultaneously in Dale Call’s direction.

  Finally, Councilman Mark Brady spoke up, “Shoot, Dale! That wasn’t a motion! You can’t dang chickens!”

  I sat listening to the ridiculous discussion, and taking notes. City council meetings weren’t usually this lively and I could generally browse the celebrity gossip sites on my phone in between discussions about the latest tractors, or whether ATVs should get their own lane on the road. But thanks to the chickens, today’s meeting was more animated than usual.

  “First, people start tryin’ to take our guns away, then men start marryin’ men, and now chickens are runnin’ citizens off the road. This country is goin’ to heck in a handbasket!” Norm threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

  I stared at Norm through his outburst, trying to figure out what in the world gun rights and marriage equality had to do with chickens. No one else seemed to be able to make the connection either. “We’ll talk to Gary about constructing a better cage,” Councilman Brady said.

  Norm huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, I guess that’ll have to do. In the meantime, I’ll just pray for the second comin.’ Nothin’ else is gonna stop the madness.”

  My eyes were huge as I watched the crazy back and forth in utter disbelief. I’d considered skipping the meeting and going home to binge watch TV shows on Netflix. Now, I was happy I’d been there to witness it all in person instead of asking one of the other reporters to cover the meeting.

  Suddenly, Councilman Brady remembered me sitting in the back of the room and the blood drained from his face. “You listen here, Kate,” he said, pointing at me with a stern look, “that chicken thing? That’s off the record.”

  I smiled dutifully, and nodded my head. The Branson Tribune certainly wouldn’t want to be the cause of a scandal by reporting that people were upset about chickens crossing roads. Though, I was mighty tempted to ask our graphics guy to make a comic about it for the opinion page. I was also pretty sure everyone in the meeting would get the council’s message back to Gary Smith and every other person in town before tomorrow morning, let alone the Tribune’s next printing in a week.

  Brady adjourned the meeting and I gathered my things, smiling at June Tate, a Branson resident who’d been sitting next to me. She’d come to complain about increased traffic by her property. Her house sat next to a highway, so there wasn’t much the city council could do. “I’m sorry they couldn’t help you,” I said to June, noticing her white shirt under a matching lavender skirt and jacket. She looked very put-together in the business attire.

  She shrugged. “We bought the house before the highway was there. I guess we should have moved before it got so busy.” She was in her sixties and she and her husband had lived in Branson Falls all of their lives. “I just don’t know why it’s picked up so much during the last six months.”

  “Well, if it’s only happened recently, maybe it will slow down again too,” I offered, trying to make her feel better. With the population growing in Branson and neighboring towns, I had a feeling it probably wouldn’t be getting better.

  June fanned herself as she stood. It was August in Branson, and still hotter than the ninth circle of hell. The city council met in a building that was constructed sometime around the extinction of dinosaurs, and didn’t have central air, or even a swamp cooler. “Aren’t you dying of heat?” I asked, looking again at her very professional, but stifling layers. “I don’t know how you can stand it. The less clothes, the better I say.”

  “I agree.”

  The deep voice brought me, and everything south of my navel, right to attention…even though I wasn’t particularly happy about it. June looked at him the same way as every other woman on the planet…well, every other woman except me: with complete adoration. “Dylan Drake! I thought I saw you sneak in,” June said with a warm smile. June had seen him sneak in and I hadn’t? Observant reporter fail.

  “What are you doing at the meeting tonight?” June asked.

  Drake gave his winning politician’s smile, practiced over years of working in the Utah House of Representatives. “Well, when I heard you were going to be here, June, I cancelled all of my other plans.”

  June waved a hand in front of her face, blushing. “You’re such a charmer, Dylan.” I did a double take at the use of his first name. Most people—me included—called him Drake because that’s what he’d been known as on the football field. June put her hand on his forearm. “If I was thirty years younger, you’d be in trouble.” She gathered her things. “I better get home before Paul burns the house down trying to cook dinner.” She glanced at me, eyes twinkling. “You two have a nice night.”

  I wrinkled my nose at that twinkle, and wanted to correct her and say there would be no “two” of us at all, but she was surprisingly spry for a sixty-something year old, and already out the door. I turned my attention back to the man who’d snuck up on me—something he did frequently. His thick, dark hair framed his perfectly sculpted square jaw. Broad shoulders filled out a grey polo shirt and his black slacks draped over his lower body like fabric temptation. I shook myself out of the haze he almost always seemed to create in my head. I blamed it on his serious excess of testosterone. My ovaries just needed a minute to calibrate with the new hormones in the air. Eventually, they’d calm down and get blood back to my brain.

  “Hey, Drake,” I said, picking up my own things and trying to avoid eye contact. Locking gazes wouldn’t help my ovary situation. But once I had my purse, camera, phone, and notebook, there was nothing else to do unless I wanted to start folding up chairs. I took a deep breath and looked up at the six-foot-three extremely attractive giant in front of me.

  His smile was slow and deliberate as his eyes trailed over me, taking in my teal ruffled skirt that fell four inches above my knee, and my lacy grey tank top showing a bit of cleavage—none of which met Branson’s conservative dress code. I was a rebel. Drake didn’t seem to mind the rebelliousness at all—at least, not when it came to my clothes. “Katie,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on mine. “Will I see you at the parade this week?”

  I stuffed my notebook into my purse and searched for my keys as I answered, “Probably not.”

  “You’re not covering it?”

  “No, I am. But I’ll be reporting from the parade route, not a float.”

  Drake’s brow lifted. “That’s a bad move on
Spence’s part. He’d get a lot more Tribune subscribers with a pretty girl in the front seat.”

  I fought back a blush. Because as much as I didn’t want Drake’s flirting to affect me, it did. When I was younger, I’d dreamed about him saying things exactly like that to me. Now, I knew his reputation—even if my ovaries hadn’t gotten the memo. “I’m making it a goal to not draw attention to myself.”

  I tried to skirt by him, but he laughed and followed me outside to my car. A move that would undoubtedly start the Ladies’—Branson’s version of The Real Housewives, with less money, perms, talon-like fingernails, and the ability to ruin a person’s reputation in less than an hour flat—gossip phone tree. You know, because they didn’t already have enough information to terrorize me with. As a prerequisite to becoming a Lady, you generally had to be perky, pretty, and popular in high school. I was none of the above, and I would never want to be a part of their gossipy group.

  Drake gave a hearty laugh. “Good luck with that. Do you know who your mother is?”

  “Ha, ha, Drake,” I said with my best glare. “I’ll also be avoiding you.”

  His lips slid into a hurt frown. “That’s not nice, Katie.”

  I tried my best not to be nice to Drake. He pushed every single one of my buttons, both good and bad and I had a hard time managing him, and my completely conflicted feelings about him. My strategy so far had been constant offense that bordered on hostility. I’d learned it in elementary school. “I assume you’ll be on a float, fake-smiling and waving to people, trying to get votes for something?” Drake was Branson’s district representative for the Utah House of Representatives. He was also a lawyer. I despised him on both counts.