Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  “I know it’ll make me feel better if I eat ice cream now. Besides, it’s melting.”

  He pointed at the front door.

  I glanced at the bags on the front step. Yikes, they were leaking. Muffy clawed at the window. Beads of perspiration were forming on Amy’s face. I closed my eyes and rubbed the back of my sticky neck, visualizing the newspaper headline: Unfit Mother Abuses Children, Poodle, and Perishables.

  I reached inside my pocket for my cell phone to call the police. Not there. In my purse! I kicked the tire again and stubbed my other big toe. I mentally swore. It took a lot for me to conjure profanity, and even then, never out loud. Not for the kids’ ears.

  This emergency called for drastic measures. I’ll ask one of my neighbors to use their phone. But who? Mrs. Perfect ... Judy Duncan, with the perfect kids who never do anything wrong? I shook my head. I’d never hear the end of it.

  What about Mr. Sims, the neighborhood curmudgeon? No! I’d get a long lecture about how kids were raised in his day when the world was a better place.

  How about Mrs. Perry, the elderly widow who has taken gossip to new heights since she got her own website. No! Terrible idea.

  I glanced at my watch: two o’clock. Dinner was set for five.

  My head ached.

  As I stared down at my sore toes and prayed for a miracle, I heard a voice call out, “Are you having car trouble? Can I help you?”

  A young woman pushed a twin baby stroller toward us. My eyes lit up as I looked up to heaven and mouthed, “Thank you!” Her twins weren’t old enough to know right from wrong. She didn’t have enough experience yet to give me a lecture on how to raise my kids, and she wouldn’t have time to gossip.

  “My daughter is locked in the car, and she won’t open the door. May I use your cell phone to call the police?” I raised my eyebrows. “You do have a cell phone, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She smiled and handed me her phone.

  I called the police and then my husband. He said he’d take his manager to a restaurant for dinner and suggested I order in a pizza and relax. He planned to call back in a half hour for an update.

  When the police arrived, they asked questions and started using a special tool to unlock the door.

  One of them grinned. “Don’t worry, lady, this happens all the time. After all this, I know you’ll always take your keys and purse out of the car first.”

  When they opened the door, Amy screamed, and Muffy jumped out and raced down the block. I stumbled and fell on the lawn when I tried to chase her.

  Just another normal day in my stressed-out life.

  The Fairies’ Godmother

  S.L. Menear

  Author’s Note: For twenty-five years, off and on, my mother worked on a book about tooth fairies. I wrote a few chapters to help her finish it, but the book was born from her wonderful imagination. The following poem is about her and her beloved fairy novel, Journey into the Land of the Wingless Giants.

  She views the world with childlike wonder

  In everything beauty she does see

  The fairies all adore her

  And she loves them equally

  She honors their lives in the telling

  Of their stories both mighty and small

  And all God’s children everywhere

  Take delight in reading them all

  The power of her visions

  Keeps her forever young

  With each new chapter in her life

  A new adventure is begun

  She’s a very special person

  Who is loved by one and all

  And especially

  She is loved by me

  My friend, my mentor, my mom

  Dumpster Diving

  D.M. Littlefield

  I was savoring my morning coffee when my neighbor, Jane, knocked on my door. Weary, I sighed and limped to open it.

  “Good morning, Dottie. Are you going to the condo board meeting this morning?”

  “No, I don’t feel like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t sleep well after my terrible night.” I rolled up my sleeves and showed Jane my arms.

  “How did you get all those scrapes and scratches?”

  “I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself.” She rolled her eyes. “I promise.”

  “Okay, sit down, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “This had better be good because I don’t want to be late for the meeting.”

  “Oh, it is, believe me.” I handed her the coffee and sat across from her.

  “Yesterday, I spent the whole day cleaning out my kitchen cabinets. I filled lots of bags and piled them by the front door to take to the dumpster. I was so exhausted afterward, I had to sit down and rest.”

  “See, that’s your problem. You don’t know when to quit, and you suffer for it later. For Pete’s sake, Dottie, remember you’re seventy-six.” She sipped her coffee and made a sour face. “Pass the sugar, please.”

  “You’re right. Old too soon and smart too late, that’s me. I fell asleep watching TV and woke up at midnight. I took a shower, put on my pajamas, and remembered the garbage pickup was today.”

  Jane stirred the sugar in her coffee. “So?”

  “So I put the stretch bracelet with all my keys on my left wrist. I needed the mailbox key on the way back from the dumpster. I thought no one would be outside at midnight, so I went out in my pajamas and fuzzy house slippers.”

  Jane arched her eyebrows and shook her head.

  “I opened the front door with a bundle of newspapers under my right arm and picked up a shopping bag with each hand. Somehow, I also managed to grab two garbage bags and clutch them to my chest. I was so loaded down I almost lost my balance when I pushed the door closed with my foot.”

  “It’s a good thing we have streetlights so you could see.”

  “I trudged to the dumpster, laid the bags on one of the double plastic lids, put the newspapers in the proper receptacle, and threw the plastics in the other one. Then I lifted one of the dumpster lids and dropped the bags in along with my keys!”

  She gasped. “No!”

  “That dumpster is eight feet long and four and a half feet deep! I swore, stomped back to my condo for an old pair of sneakers, a penlight, and stepstool. I put the stool next to the dumpster and climbed inside to rummage through all that stinky mess, but then I heard whistling.”

  “Oh, no!” Her eyes widened. “Was it that handsome single guy I always hear whistling? I think his name is Bob Jamison. He just moved into Condo 169 near the dumpster.”

  I shrugged. “With my luck, who else could it be? I snapped off the pen light, crawled under the closed lid on the other side, and hid behind garbage bags in the corner. Then I covered my head with a palm branch.”

  Jane cringed. “Aauugh, that’s disgusting!”

  “I watched a big bag drop in and the lid close. He whistled as he walked away. I held my breath and waited until I couldn’t hear the whistling anymore. Then I inched up the lid with my head to peek out and gulp some fresh air. My back ached as I searched through the icky garbage, but I finally found my keys stuck in a torn bag of rank kitty litter. I shook off the keys and felt relieved until I noticed my stepstool was gone.”

  “Did Bob take it?”

  “He must’ve thought it was a give-away.”

  “So how did you get out?”

  “By using my ingenuity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I stacked bags against a side to climb to the top, but then two large raccoons lifted the other lid.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “The raccoons gave me a fierce look and hissed. Talk about motivation! I grabbed an edge, climbed up the bags, swung my legs over the side like I’ve seen in movies, and landed on top of Bob, who was on his hands and knees. I yelped as we rolled over. I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.”

  Jane shrieked, “You poor thing! What did you do?”

  �
�I tried to apologize and explain what I was doing, but I probably sounded irrational from crying so hard. He smiled, pulled me up, and put his arm around my shoulder.”

  “But why was he there?”

  “He explained his keys had fallen out of his pocket when he leaned over to pick up the stepstool. He didn’t realize it until he reached into his pocket to hang the keys on a hook in his kitchen.” I shook my head. “We both limped as he helped me home.”

  “Did you get your stepstool back?”

  “Yes.” I grinned. “And I’m taking Bob to my chiropractor this afternoon. We both need an adjustment.”

  “Yeah, in more ways than one.” Jane winked with a smug smile.

  The Word Artist

  D.M. Littlefield

  I'm an artist painting black images

  On backgrounds of white.

  My paintings gain color when

  Your imagination takes flight.

  I am an author, painting word pictures

  Even the blind can see by touch.

  Language is my palette, paper my canvas.

  I use a pen, not a brush.

  I hear the pitter-patter of raindrops

  From clouds that weep

  And write them to lull my readers

  Into a peaceful sleep.

  My readers awake to a sunrise

  Of shining molten gold,

  And I include all of nature’s beauty

  For them to behold.

  I write about God’s promise sign,

  A rainbow in the heavenly mist.

  As my readers inhale the fragrant scent

  Of flowers the sun has kissed.

  My pages describe lush meadows mantled

  With silver sheets of morning dew

  And include the tiny, hovering,

  Iridescent-hued hummingbirds too.

  My fairies admire pretty butterflies

  Fluttering above the flowers with care

  And watch them as they carefully search

  Among the busy bees for blossoms to share.

  My readers hear the lilting sound

  Of the bird’s sweet song

  And listen as he cheerfully sings

  The whole day long.

  They follow the babbling brook

  Into the dense green forest

  And heed the loud resonance

  Of the cicada’s chorus.

  They listen to the roaring,

  Cascading, mountain waterfall

  And marvel at the forests’ giants,

  The redwood trees so tall.

  They hear the towering pines,

  Caressed by the wind as they whisper and sigh,

  And they watch as the bright stars twinkle

  Like diamonds in a black velvet sky.

  They climb the highest mountains

  And find deep-blue crater lakes

  And stand in the hushed silence

  Of softly falling snowflakes.

  They gaze at the magnificent orange glow

  Of sunset before dusk diminishes light

  And admire the silvery magic of moonlight

  On a clear, quiet, snow-covered night.

  My readers enjoy reading about beautiful

  Scenes of nature I've seen everywhere.

  I remind them the real-life scenes are gifts

  From our Creator for all of us to share.

  Lunar Madness

  S.L. Menear

  My thriller novels are fiction, but most of the short stories I write are true and usually involve the consumption of wine. I should probably learn a lesson from that.

  This one started on the deck of one of my favorite Singer Island hotels on a warm Saturday afternoon with a cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. The sea air and festive atmosphere stimulated my creative flow. My fingers danced across my laptop as I sipped ice tea and worked on Blaze, Book Three of my Samantha Starr Series.

  I spent so much time writing at that hotel I was on a first-name basis with most of the staff. During lunch, I noticed a new waiter, a handsome young man named Matt. He was waiting on a table of pretty, bikini-clad college girls. Although they kept summoning him back to their table, he couldn’t linger during the busy lunch hour.

  Later that afternoon, a seasoned waitress stopped by my table with a shocked look.

  “Hey, Sammie, what’s going on?” I asked.

  “I just delivered a room-service order for Matt while he was on a break. A girl about twenty in nothing but skimpy panties opened the door. She and three other almost naked girls looked disappointed when they saw me. They were expecting Matt.”

  “Whoa, sounds like they were going to ambush him.”

  “Yeah, should I tell him what he missed?”

  I couldn’t resist saying, “Be sure to emphasize their spectacular breasts and obvious disappointment he wasn’t there.”

  “Heh, heh, that’ll be fun. But he still has food to deliver to them. I couldn’t carry it all in one trip.”

  “Then plan on working without him for the rest of the day.”

  Thirty minutes later, Sammie returned with a grin.

  “What happened to Matt?”

  “When he went to their room, the girls were dressed, and their mothers were there.”

  “Whoa! He’s such a nice guy, I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if the girls had pounced on him and their mothers had walked in. He definitely dodged a bullet.”

  “You’ve got that right.” She giggled and scampered away.

  I continued writing until my cousin, Linda, called to invite me for drinks and dinner at my other favorite place, The Islander Grill & Tiki Bar at the elegant Palm Beach Shores Resort, about a mile down the beach. Closer to the southern end of the island, it was only three blocks from my house.

  We’d both had a stressful week and needed to unwind with a little vino. Okay, maybe a lot of vino.

  The always charming manager, Larry Wertz, welcomed us and led us to a table where we could watch people on the dance floor and enjoy listening to Steve and Angela sing contemporary songs and oldies, with a few World War II songs thrown in for the Greatest Generation. Marco Berisha, who speaks nine languages, waited on us and treated us like royalty. We love him. Actually, everyone loves him, including an Italian countess from Palm Beach.

  The clientele was an interesting blend of vacationers in resort wear, families with children, and local couples dressed to the nines, all enjoying the dining and dancing.

  Niko Bujaj, the handsome and gregarious owner of The Islander, bought us a bottle of Ménage a Trois blended red wine and regaled us with funny stories about the resort. Little did we know we were about to become another one of his stories.

  After an entertaining evening with plenty of red wine and delicious gourmet dinners, Linda and I strolled out to the ocean behind the beautiful resort.

  Ankle deep in calm water warmed by the Florida summer, we gazed at the ocean sparkling beneath a brilliant full moon. I breathed in the balmy sea air and felt pure joy.

  That didn’t last long.

  I sensed a presence on my left and turned.

  A tall, handsome black man held out a cigarette. “Can you give me a light?”

  If I’d been sober, I would’ve been startled. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  He stood inches from me, his biceps bulging over a cropped, sleeveless tank top that stretched across his broad upper chest.

  I glanced downward and froze. His lower half was totally naked.

  Holy crap, this isn’t France!

  As the moonlight illuminated his manhood, my inebriated brain refused to believe what I saw. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. I glanced to my right to ask Linda if she saw him too.

  She was gone.

  Apparently, she had bolted the moment she spotted him. Well, obviously I couldn’t count on her for backup. In her defense, there wasn’t much need for training on how to handle drunks or criminals in dental offices.

  Before my
early retirement, I was an airline captain with extensive training in dealing with drunks, hijackers, and terrorists. That might have helped had I been sober on this lovely evening. I was slow to react as remnants of my rational brain struggled to convince my intoxicated brain that the man next to me was indeed naked.

  Rather than feeling frightened, I found the situation amusing. Clearly Linda was the smarter cousin. I glanced around and spied her running toward lanterns set behind three people fishing in the surf.

  I faced Naked Guy. “Excuse me, my friends are waiting for me down the beach.”

  I strolled to where Linda was pacing behind two women and a man fishing. As I told them about the nude man, I realized children at the resort might encounter him, so I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone.

  Linda and I were halfway to the resort’s wooden walkway when a man strode onto the beach with a radio clipped to his belt. He stood ramrod straight in a commanding stance as he surveyed the area.

  My wine-addled brain assumed the police had sent him even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform.

  “Wow, you got here really fast,” I said as we approached him. “I’m impressed.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “I just called 9-1-1. Aren’t you a police officer?”

  “I’m with the Palm Beach Shores Police, but I’m working my second job as security for the resort.”

  Before I could explain, two cops sped up on an ATV.

  “Are you the lady who called 9-1-1?” one of them asked.

  “Yes, and the naked man I reported is sitting right over there on that lounge chair.”

  When I pointed at him, Naked Guy turned his head and spotted us.

  To make their case, the police had to apprehend him before he pulled on his pants. Otherwise, the courts would consider it a “he-said, she-said” legal quagmire.

  So Naked Guy, who was obviously drunk or high or both, grabbed his pants and rushed to pull them on as the cops sprinted across the beach toward him.

  He managed to get his pants over his ankles, but then he tripped and fell face-first on the sand.