Feeling at peace in our neighborhood is something we all strive for. When we believe we have achieved it, we don’t want things to change.

However, time has a way of modifying a community’s dynamic. What it was, is no longer what it is, as you will experience . . .

On The Street Where We Live

“I have often walked down our street before,
And my path, has always filled with neighbors I adore.
Each time my emotions soar,
As enchantment pours out of every door.
I feel at peace, knowing I'm on the street where we live.

“Oh, the towering feeling just to know my neighbors are near.

The overpowering feeling that any second they might appear.

And when they do, they stop and share their stories with me.
There's nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.
I feel at peace, knowing I'm on the street where we live.

“Let time go by, it doesn’t bother me.
I won't care, for I have friends to see.

If things can just remain the same for all eternity,

This would be the only place I’d ever want to be.

I feel at peace, knowing I'm on the street where we live.”

     “Jerry, who are you talking to? Are you on the phone? I can hear you from the living room.”

     “No, I’m not talking to anybody.”

     “Are you talking to yourself again? You know that bothers me. It gets pretty eerie sometimes.”

     “If I want to talk to myself, I’ll talk to myself. But that’s not what I’m doing now.”

     Penny poked her face into the den. I turned away from my iMac and saw her shaking her head. She had a strange look on her face and I couldn’t imagine why.

     “Okay, you’re writing another one of your crazy stories for your blog and reading it out loud. I get it.”

     “Well, almost.”

     “So, fill me in on the rest.”

     “You know the song “On the Street Where You Live,” from the musical, My Fair Lady?”

     “Yeah, I love the song.”

     “I’ve been rewriting it so it applies to our block.”

     “How so?”

     She walked over, stood next to me, and focused her attention on the computer screen, where I’d written the new lyrics for the song. Then she smiled.

     “I like it, but . . .”

     “But what?”

     “Our street’s changing. When we moved in most of our neighbors were under seventy. The energy on the block was overpowering. Now we’re old, or . . . dead.”

     “I know. But if we don’t hold onto something, we have nothing.”

     “Then let’s plan something and get the whole block involved.”

     “Not a bad idea. Actually, it’s a really good idea. What do you have in mind, Penny?”

     “Me? You’re the brains in this family. My job is to come up with the idea. I expect you to make it work.”

     “Hmm. About sixty percent of the block has lived here at least fourteen years. What about an ‘On the Street Where We Live, Come as You Were Party?’”

     “Sounds interesting. Do you think people will buy into it? We have over sixty-five people living on our street. At the ‘National Night Out’ gathering last summer, less than twenty of them showed up. How do we get them out of their houses?”

     “Drag them,” I bellowed.

     “You’re kidding. Aren’t you?”

     “Only a little bit. If we have to go house to house to make it happen, I’ll do it. I think Karen and Ben would be willing to help. Hand me the phone.”

     I dialed their number and it rang and rang. “I hope they’re home,” I mumbled. And then I heard Ben’s voice.

     “Hello, Jerry,” Ben groaned.

     “What took you so long to pick up the phone?”

     “Hey, I’m no youngster. Each day it becomes harder to get up from my recliner. I’m thinking about getting one of those chairs that lifts you up and tosses you out. I even reset the phone so it rings longer before it goes to voice mail. So, what do you want, old man?”

     “Speak for yourself, I’m only seventy-two years young. The reason I called is that I need your help.”

     “With what?”

     “Penny and I are planning an ‘On the Street Where We Live, Come as You Were Party’.”

     “I can’t even come as I am. How do I come as I was?”

     “You’ll have to work at it, old friend.”

     “All right. Karen and I will do whatever you need to make this happen.”

     “Come over after dinner tomorrow evening, about seven, and the four of us will work out the details.”

     “Okay, see you then,” Ben stated, with a hint of enthusiasm.

     I hung up the phone, leaned back in my chair, and smiled. “This is going to be great.”

     Penny’s jaw dropped. “I hope so. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

     The next day, the doorbell rang exactly at seven. I went to the door and opened it. When I saw what stood before me in the doorway, I almost lost my dinner. Ben, a former police officer, had tried to get into the uniform he wore when he first moved into our Gateway Village Active Adult Community and hadn’t retired yet. And I mean tried. The buttons on his shirt wouldn’t close and I didn’t dare look down to see how his pants fit. His darling wife, Karen, swung open the bright red raincoat she wore, exposing more of her body than I’d ever wanted to see, as she had made a vain attempt to get into a bikini. I did everything I possibly could to keep from laughing.

     “Well, what do you think?” Ben grunted.

     “Ain’t I ready for the ‘Miss America Pageant?’ Karen chanted, as she dropped her raincoat to the ground and twirled herself around.

     Penny, who had joined me at the door, jumped into the conversation before I could say something I might regret. Ever the diplomat, she smiled and said, with a lilt in her voice, “Excellent, just fabulous.”

     We ushered Karen and Ben into the dining room and sat down around the table, decked out with snacks to munch on and soft drinks. We then started to brainstorm ideas for the party.

     Karen yelled out, “What about a beauty pageant for both the men and women?”

     “Hell no. First of all, it’s winter. And second, you’ll never get me into a bathing suit,” Ben blurted.

     I wanted to say, “I’ll take bets on that,” but I kept my mouth shut.

     “What about having everybody dress like they dressed in a picture they took of themselves when they first moved in? They can bring the picture along so we can compare how they looked then with now,” Penny suggested.

     “I think that’s a marvelous idea,” I exclaimed. “I’ll create a poster board for the then pictures.”

     “And I’ll bring my camera and take now pictures,” Ben volunteered.       

     “Karen and I will put together a menu of light appetizers and snacks,’ Penny declared. “When we send out the invitations, we can ask if anybody would like to bring a dessert.”

     “And I’ll design the invitation. I have some great ideas. Also, I believe I have a picture of the neighborhood when we first moved in that I can use on the front of the card.”

     “I think January 14, after the holidays, at 7:00 p.m. is a good time,” Penny said. “It will give us almost a month to prepare. And we’ll hold it here.”

     Well, we were ready to get going on the marvelous event. For the rest of the evening, we chatted about old times, like when Maxine, not paying attention, drove her car into George and Carla’s open garage and walked in on them having . . . uh, sex in the family room. Then there was the time Misty had planned a surprise party for Roger, and the stripper hired for the party showed up early and went to the wrong house. When Gene opened the door and the young women dropped her coat exposing everything, Irene thought she’d have to call 9-1-1. Fortunately, Gene was just fifty-eight at the time and survived.

     Nostalgia is great, but the next few weeks meant rolling up our sleeves and getting to work on what we hoped would be a wonderful party. Everything went as planned. I completed the invitations and decided to personally deliver them. So on January 3, I dressed in a navy blue suit and red, white, and blue tie. I wanted to look both professional and patriotic.

     I started at the far end of the block at Norm and Betty’s house. I hadn’t run into them in over six months. I rang the doorbell and nobody responded. Then I heard Betty yell to Norm, “There’s some man in a suit at the door. He’s either selling something or he’s one of those religious guys who wants to convert us.”

     Well that didn’t go too well. And things didn’t get any better as I progressed down the block. Some people weren’t home, so I stuck the invitation in the door. Others politely declined the opportunity to come to the party. And one couple dressed up like “Farmer John and his wife,” laughed at the invite and said in unison, “We don’t do costumes.”

     As I walked away from these “strangers,” I recalled the line from the song, “If things can just remain the same for all eternity, this would be the only place I’d ever want to be.” But they don’t,” I moaned, with tears in my eyes.

     Shaking my head, I shuffled down the block toward my house. My mind was in a fog. And then someone shouted, “Hey, Jerry!”

     I turned and saw Granger and Susan and Teresa and Tom, two nice “young” couples, who’d moved into our neighborhood in October, standing in Granger and Susan’s driveway, smiling at me.

     “What’re you up to, man? Looks like you’re dressed for a wedding. Come on over and chat,” Granger stated.

     “Okay, I’m coming,” I replied.

     And so, as I headed toward my “new friends,” my heart skipped a beat and my future seemed much brighter.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Grandchildren are an important and exciting part of our life. We want to be there for them and be able to help them in any way we can.

However, something as simple as reading a story to them can be challenging. This becomes evident in . . .

Furry Tales: A Love Story

    It was the week before Christmas. Darkness draped the living room of my daughter’s house, illuminated by the lights on a small Christmas tree and a single lamp on the end table between the couch and the loveseat, where I sat reading the sports section of the Daily Gazette. My grandson, Jonathan, dressed in his SpongeBob PJs, came rumbling down the stairs yelling, “Good night, Grandpa. Good night!” Before I could reply, he chanted, “Grandpa, grandpa, read me a story, please.”

     “But it’s your bedtime Jonathan.”

     “Pleeeease. Just a short one.”

     My grandson’s soft, pleading eyes melted my heart. I couldn’t resist his request. “Well, Jonathan, what story would you like me to read? Maybe a Christmas story?”

     “Uh, no. But I’m thinking. Give me a minute.”

     “Okay, but just a minute. It’s getting late.” He became silent as his eyes perused the children’s books on the five-shelf, oak bookcase next to the leather loveseat. At six, I had given him a task that took some thought and he seemed to be focusing considerable energy on it. His small hands grabbed a large book off the third shelf. He turned toward me and smiled.   
     “This one, Grandpa.”

     “Okay. But can I ask you a question before we begin?”

     “Yes, I think so.”

     “You looked at all the books in the bookcase and you picked that one.” He glanced down at the book he held below his waist. “Why did you choose that book rather than one of the others?”

     He didn’t take but a second to answer. “Because it’s my favorite. It has dogs in it. And you know, I love dogs.”

     Well, he left me speechless—a direct, concise answer, which kept me from asking any more unnecessary questions.

     He crawled onto the loveseat dragging the book, “Furry Tales: A Love Story,” behind him. He yanked it up on his lap and slid it across onto mine. Then out of his mouth came a simple statement, “I’m ready.”

     I put my feet against the edge of coffee table and propped the book up against my bent legs. Jonathan snuggled up next to me and I began to read.

     “Once upon a time, in a little kingdom on a far away shore,

     There lived two furry, four-legged critters all did adore.

     They had a life almost royal, although they clearly were not.

     Living with a loving family, most everything they wanted they got.

             

     “They romped and played, their days filled with joy,

     One named Princess Sara, a perky young girl, the other Sir Thomas, a            
          spirited boy.

     Now Princess Sara cocked her head as most cockers do, she’d become a       
          damsel of great repute.

     On the down side, however, life at times left her clueless, she didn’t       
          appear too astute.”

     Jonathan tugged on my arm interrupting my concentration. “What do you want, Jonathan? Do you need to take a potty break?”

     He gave me a quizzical look. “Uh, no,” he replied.

     “Then what?”

     “What does astute mean?”

     “Oh, that’s easy. It means smart.”

     “Then why doesn’t the book say smart?”

     “That’s a good question. I guess the person who wrote the book wanted a word that rhymed with repute?” Now, I confused him even more.

     “Huh, what does repute mean?” he queried.

     “It means a person or, in this case, a dog named Princess Sara, is good and people and other dogs like her.”

     “He had a thoughtful look on his face. Then he gave me a wry smile and gushed, “Okay, I’m ready. Read more.”

     And so I did.

   

    “Sir Thomas, on the other hand, considered a spaniel of note, his vocalizing a 
          cut  above.

    He yelped and ‘sang’ to his heart’s content, as he tried to impress Princess Sara 
          and show her his love.”

     “He likes her, doesn’t he?” Jonathan sighed.

     “Why, yes,” I replied, making me wonder why, after his previous questions, I thought this book might be too hard for him.

     I guess I took too much time thinking about this, for he pulled my arm and moaned, “Grandpa, you still awake?”

     “Yes, Jonathan, I am.”

     “Then why aren’t you reading? Mommy’s not going to let me stay up all night.”

     “Okay. Lean back and I’ll continue.”

     “But in most ‘Furry Tales,’ things in life do not always happen in the predicted way.

     And so the unexpected befell the romance between Princess Sara and Sir Thomas   
          one fateful day.

     The sun shined bright on one side of the road, while clouds draped over the other.

     A contrast created, much like the one between Princess Sara and Sir Thomas, her brother.”

     “Wow! He’s like me,” Jonathan screamed.

     “How do you mean, like you?”

     “Well, I love Annie. And she’s my sister.”

     “I think you’ve got it.” His hand shot up and I gave him a “high five.” He laughed and I smiled. But, as I looked down the page, I wondered if I wanted to take him where the story was going. This seemed like a children’s book meant for adults. But I knew he’d never let me stop, so I continued.

    “The province’s wise men cringed at the thought of a brother and sister falling 
          in love, as this could mean trouble.

     But who, they asked should be called upon to burst the loving couple’s bubble?

     A kingdom in turmoil, yet the decision seemed clear, the process must be started.

     The two joyful creatures’ love affair appeared ill fated, as most agreed they   
          be parted.”

     This is where it got hairy for me. I thought I’d gotten through this section, but then Jonathan gave me a strange, penetrating look. I tried to turn the other way, but it didn’t work.

     “Grandpa, if a sister and brother love each other, isn’t it a good thing?”

     “Sure, it’s a very good thing. I’m glad you love Annie.”

     “Then, why are those people in the book saying it’s bad?”

     My God! I don’t want to teach sex education. It’s his parents who should be teaching him about the “birds and the bees,” not me, I thought to myself. Jonathan sat in silence awaiting my response. I started to squirm and stammered, “Uh, brothers and sisters are not supposed to get married and that’s why the people are not in favor of Sir Thomas and Princess Sara falling in love with each other.”

     He stared at me for what seemed an eternity and then muttered, “Okay.”

     All seemed right with the world. It looked like I’d dodged the bullet I thought would bring me down. So not allowing for any more conversation, I began reading again.

     “Under a cloak of darkness, two eerie masked intruders grabbed Princess Sara 
          from  her bed one cold, dreary night.

     She howled and yelped in a call for help, she appeared to be in a state of fright.

     Sir Thomas heard her screams of panic while on the side of the house on the     
          doggy ‘john.’”

     Jonathan burst out laughing and screamed, “He’s going poop.”

     “By Jove, you’ve got it,” I exclaimed.

     “He pooped on his potty, didn’t he?” He paused for a moment and . . . “But doggies don’t have potties.” He looked at me somewhat confused, and then stated, “Oh, well, it still was really funny.”

     “Yes, it was. May I continue?”

     “All right.”

     “Let’s see what happens next.”

     “Realizing misfortune had befallen his beloved, he shrieked at the top of his   
          lungs to sound the alarm.

             

     “Lo and behold, the piercing sound traveled throughout the kingdom far and wide.

     A brigade of dogs, both big and small, gathered by Sir Thomas’s side.

     It became obvious what had to be done—the princess, the love of  Sir Thomas’s       
          life, must be saved.

     Sniffing and snorting their way down the trail, Princess Sara’s freedom they 
          craved.”

     It didn’t hurt that the book had superb artwork. Jonathan’s eyes had been glued to the pictures from the beginning of the story. Also, they started to droop as his bedtime already had approached and passed.

     “Jonathan, you look sleepy. Let me put you to bed. We’ll finish the story tomorrow.”

     He looked at me with sad eyes. “Nooo, finish it now. There are only a few more pages.”

     “Okay, sit back.” I cleared my throat and continued.

     “With the urgency to act quite apparent, they hurried to abort the Princess’s certain
          fate.

     But then a revelation from the heavens above conveyed a message to them to wait.

     For as it had occurred in many ‘Furry Tales’ before, a mistake, a major error had   
          been discovered.

     The two doggie mates, paired under a single roof, had not been brother and sister
          after all, this critical fact uncovered.”

     Half asleep, Jonathan muttered, “They can get married now. Can’t they?”

     “Yes, they can,” I sighed.

     His eyes closed and his head drooped. I kissed him on the forehead and whispered the last lines in the book to myself.

             

     “The news traveled fast throughout the tiny country, so all knew what had to be,

     Princess Sara and Sir Thomas living together again, forever and ever, happily.”

     Lifting Jonathan up, I made my way upstairs to his bedroom. I placed him under the covers and started to tiptoe out of the room. But before I could exit, he murmured, “Why can’t sisters and brothers get married?”

     “Good night, Jonathan, we’ll talk in the morning.” I left his room and went back downstairs hoping the question would be lost to sweet dreams during the night.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You plan your life so it is safe, productive, and fulfilling. And then the unexpected happens.

You find yourself convicted of committing a very serious crime, which puts you behind bars for a long time. Each day is darker than the one before. You’re isolated and alone. However, if anybody will listen, you maintain your innocence. The outcome of your efforts becomes clear in . . .

But I Didn’t Do It

    Twelve years—twelve miserable years. Will the torment ever end? I can’t handle it anymore. I hate what they’re doing to me. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

     I don’t know what to do. Nothing I’ve tried is right. Five attorneys have walked away. They told me they were unable to help. “It will soon be over,” they said. I want to scream at the top of my lungs—proclaim my innocence. But nobody wants to hear my side of the story.

     The warden and guards rarely speak to me. They treat me with disrespect—just push me around. One called me a “sorry soul,” who belongs in hell. How do I make them understand? I’m just a job to them. They clean my cell and make sure I’m fed. But they don’t care about me.

    Alone on death row, I live in a world of eerie silence. The quiet is overwhelming. I can hear the ants crawling on the floor beneath my bed. I’m tempted to reach down and play with them. Almost anything would be better than the nothingness that consumes me.

    Silence broken. The words that flow through my mind are driving me insane. I have no idea where they’re coming from. They’re noisy and irritating. And they’re getting louder. So much so, my head’s going to burst.

    “Yes, I can hear you,” I yell. “But who are you and what do you want?” Quiet—no answer. And then, a question . . . “Yes, I’ll do anything you want me to do. Just tell me what it is. Don’t drag this out any longer. Stop it! Please, stop it.”

    Silence. Absolute nothingness. “Where’d you go? Don’t leave me in darkness again. Speak to me. I told you I’d do anything and I meant it.

    “What? Did I hear you correctly? You want me to. . . . But I won’t. I can’t. Why? Because I didn’t do it? Yes, I did say I’d do anything. But not that.

    “No, I’m not a liar. But you’ve overstepped your bounds. Don’t I have some rights left?”

    Silence. The ants are coming again. They’re crawling up the side to the bed. No. No. I think they’re after me. “Did you put them up to this? Answer me.

    “You must have, for there’s nothing up here for them to want. But you say you didn’t. Then why are they still coming? Oh, God! I see one on the sheet. Get away from me, or I’ll . . .

    “It’s turning in the other direction. Going over the side of the bed. I can’t see it anymore. You did this to me, didn’t you? You don’t have to respond. I already know the answer.”

    My mind. My mind. I’m losing my mind. Twelve years—twelve miserable years. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

    I hear somebody coming. “What are you saying? I should ignore them. But why? Maybe they’ll talk to me.

    “I shouldn’t speak to them. Why not? They could be my last chance for freedom. What? You say that’s impossible. I don’t want to hear that. You don’t know.”

    The footsteps. They’re coming closer. They’re placing a key in the lock. Oh, my God, I can’t stop trembling. My hands are ice cold. I’ve got cramps in my legs. But I’ve got to have courage. I have to let them know how I feel and that I’m innocent.

    “They won’t listen,” you say.

    “I thought you left. You don’t know they won’t. Why are you saying they don’t care? They’ve fed me and clothed me for twelve years—kept me alive. That’s caring, isn’t it?”

    I’ve got to pull myself together. The door is opening. Oh, my! It’s not them. . . . It’s a woman. And she’s beautiful. But where did she come from?

    “Yes, I want her. But I can’t have her? Why not? She’s not real,” you say.

    “How do you know? I can see her. No, she’s not a figment of my imagination.”

    “Hello, pretty lady.” Silence—no response. I said, “Hello.” Still no reply.

    Oh, my, she’s reaching out to me. “Donald, Donald Mason, take my hand.”

    But I can’t move. My legs are pinned to the bed. I can’t sit up. This isn’t right.

    “Please give me the freedom to do this. What? I don’t deserve to be free. But, you’re wrong.”

    Oh, my. Her auburn hair is blowing in the breeze. But what breeze? There are no windows in my cell. And she closed the door when she entered. Where is the wind coming from?

    She’s smiling and motioning for me to follow her. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed. “Don’t tease me. Please don’t. I can’t handle this. I want you.”

    Oh, my God! She’s taking her clothes off—exposing her breasts. I can’t control myself, but I still can’t move. “Don’t do this to me. This is pure torture.”

    I’ll close my eyes. If she can’t be mine, she needs to go away. This isn’t fair. “What did I do to deserve this?

    “What do you mean, I should know? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And where have you been? You need to help me get out of this—to prove my innocence. “Huh, what do you mean, I’m not innocent? I did this to myself. What are you saying? I murdered her—my girlfriend. But I . . .”

    I opened my eyes and looked up. She was gone. I was in a strange room, strapped to a huge black chair. An awful looking man in uniform placed a mask over my face. I sat alone in silence. Then everything became dark—still. I smelled gas. My breathing became labored. I gasped for air. More darkness. Silence. My head fell to my chest and . . .

    The warden looked up at the clock on the wall and spoke, “Time of death—eight thirty-five a.m.”

    A week later, the headline in the Tribune read, “Innocence Project Exonerates Donald Mason in the Death of Patricia Sterling.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

In our daily lives, we look for ways to economize, such as purchasing two things for the price of one. We know what we’re getting and we welcome the opportunity.

However, in some situations, two for one may not always be what we expect. What if we believed one person had entered our life, only to find out it might be two. This could turn out to be quite confusing, as you will discover in . . .

It

     A brisk wind blew, as seventeen-year-old Angelique strolled down Garfield Avenue on her way to Market Street to catch the eleven-thirty bus to the sports arena. She pulled up the collar on her coat, as the wind rustled her now unruly red hair. Her mind, cluttered with many thoughts, focused on Monique, her sixteen-year-old sister. In many ways, they were similar, but, at the same time, quite different. As she turned onto Market, Angelique shouted . . .

     “Did you see ‘It’?”

     “See what?” Monique queried.

     “’It’, over there, behind the bush in front of the liquor store.”

     “Huh, I don’t see anything.”

     “Are you blind, Monique?”

     “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Angelique.”

     “Well, ‘It’ is gone now. So it doesn’t matter.”

     “What doesn’t matter?” Monique asked, now quite frustrated by her sister’s inability to make any sense.

     “’It’.”

     “It? What’s an it?”

     “I can’t explain. You had to see ‘It’.”

     “See what, Angelique?”

     “I already told you—‘It’.”

     “I’ve had it with you, Angelique. You’re driving me crazy.”

     “I can’t drive you when you’ve already arrived. Oh, my God, ‘It’ is back.”

     “What’s back?”

     “’It’ is back.”

     “Where?”

     “Over there, behind the red truck.”

     “Oh, the guy looking at his tire. Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

     “No, not him, ‘It’.”

     “It?”

     “Yes, don’t you see ‘It’?”

     “No, I don’t. And when I ask where or what it is, you’ll say it’s gone. So, my wonderful sister, I don’t care.”

     “Well, ‘It’ is gone. You missed ‘It’ once again.”

     “Guess I’ll have to be satisfied with not knowing. Anyway, here comes the bus.”

     Angelique, along with Monique and her questions about ‘It’ tucked away in her mind, boarded the bus, paid the fare, and shuffled down the aisle to the back and slumped into a seat in the third row from the rear.

     Monique was somewhat mystified by Angelique’s seat choice and grumbled, “Why’d we have to come all the way back here when the whole bus was empty?”

     Angelique shrugged her shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she blurted.

     “Try me,” Monique retorted.

     “All right. But remember you asked me to do this. ‘It’ thought this would be the best place to sit, under the circumstances.”

     “Circumstances? What circumstances?”

     “’It’ didn’t say.”

     “Is this thing in control of you,” Monique groaned.

     “Not exactly.”

     “Then, what?”

     “I don’t think I want to share ‘It’ with you. ‘It’ is mine, not yours.”

     “If that’s the way you want to be, then I don’t want anything to do with you,” Monique stated.

     At that moment the bus came to a stop. The door opened and passengers climbed aboard. Two guys in their late teens made their way to the rear of the bus. One started to take the seat directly in front of Angelique.

     Angelique cried out, “You can’t sit there!”

     “Why not?” the young man, dressed in an open collared, long-sleeved, plaid dress shirt and tan khakis, asked in a polite manner.

     “Because ‘It’ has taken it,” Angelique replied, in a snooty way.

     The young man looked around, first to his left and then his right. Then mocking Angelique, he bent down and searched under the seat. He stood up and stared straight at her and blurted, “The seat is empty, and it’s mine to take. And besides, if someone is joining you, they can sit next to you in your row.”

     “But that seat is taken, too. My sister is sitting there.”

     “Huh?” The young man looked dumbfounded. His eyes perused the area and saw just Angelique sitting behind the seat he intended to occupy. “Is she in the bathroom?” he asked.

     “What? No. She’s sitting right beside me.”

     “Are you some kind of nut job? There’s nobody sitting next to you.”

     “What are you talking about? Are you kidding me?”

     Not wanting to get more involved with this girl, he grabbed the arm of the other young man, who had stood in silence next to him through this ordeal, and began to drag him down the aisle. “Let’s sit up front. That girl’s a lunatic,” he said loud enough for Angelique to hear.

     Angelique ranted, “Good riddance, idiot boy. I don’t want you near me and my sister.”

     The young man, tempted to give her the finger, ignored her. He and his friend moved quickly to the front of the bus and sat down.

     This whole episode took just a few minutes. With all passengers now seated, the bus driver closed the doors and continued on his way.

     Angelique shook her head. “Can you believe what happened, Monique?”

     Resurfacing, Monique exclaimed, “What a creep. I’m so proud of how you dealt with the situation. He was very immature. And I can’t believe he treated me as if I didn’t exist. He had no manners at all.”

     “Boys. They never do grow up, do they, Monique?”

     “You’re so right. It’s a shame they don’t realize how badly they behave. We, on the other hand, act like grownups. We have it all together.”

     “We sure do. And I’m so glad we have each other. We don’t always agree, but, in most cases, we are on the same page.”

     “Yes, we are. Sometimes it’s hard to tell us apart, Angelique.”

     “After all is said and done, we are sisters, Monique—joined at the hip and always in each other’s thoughts.”

     The girls began to chuckle. ‘It’ was no longer an issue. ‘It’ had disappeared into the depths of their mind—lost for now, and maybe forever.     

     Then the bus driver announced they had arrived at the sports arena. Angelique gathered up her stuff and chanted, “Monique, this is the concert we’ve been waiting for. The ‘Great Sensations’ are the best.”

     “Well, I hope so. They were your choice, not mine, Angelique.”

     As Angelique reached the front of the bus, the driver called to her, “Young lady, you gave me enough money for two tickets when you got on the bus. You moved to the rear so fast, I didn’t have a chance to give you your change. So, I owe you four dollars.”

     “Why thank you for letting my sister ride free,” Angelique murmured, as she took the money.

     “Sister? What sister?” the driver asked.

     “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Angelique said with her nose in the air, as she descended the steps. “Come Monique, let’s go have a sensational time at the concert and I’ll buy the drinks.”

     As her feet hit the sidewalk, she looked back at the bus driver and smiled. Then she danced off down the block toward the arena, leaving him in total dismay. 

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Fatigue has a way of playing tricks with your mind. What you experience may not be what it seems.

However, when the truth of the situation unfolds, what has occurred starts to make sense. But . . .

Would You Believe Me, If I Told You What Happened?

     My workday didn’t end until after 7:00 p.m. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I cleared my desk, grabbed my brief case, and dragged my fatigued body to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and began the drive home.

     After a hellish twenty-six minutes, in which I had trouble keeping my eyes open, I pulled into the garage. Exiting the car, I headed through the covered walkway to the house.

     Entering through the front door, Bruno, our huge Saint Bernard, greeted me by jumping up and placing his paws on my shoulders. He then planted a slobbery kiss across my mouth and cheek. My balance compromised, I grabbed for the coat rack hanging on the wall in the hallway, while trying to push Bruno off me. I regained my composure, threw my coat over a hook on the rack, and called to my wife and kids, but got no response.

     I looked at the large mahogany grandfather clock sitting like a stately grandmaster against the wall across from the coat rack. It displayed the time, eight o’clock, and began to chime.

     I heard loud talking coming from the kitchen, so I dragged my tired body toward the commotion that must have prevented my family from hearing me call to them. Entering the room, I kissed my wife, Sheila, and hugged the kids, who had eaten a late dinner after soccer practice. Then, without a word, I turned and left the room.

     I ambled down the hall to our bedroom and changed out of my suit and tie into my gray sweats, threw some water on my face, and returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the pot on the stove, I plodded toward the living room, placed the soup on a coaster on the coffee table, and collapsed onto our large, plush sectional couch.

     As I settled in, Sheila and the kids joined me to watch the end of our favorite reality show, Amazon Survivor.  After downing my dinner, I did my best to stay awake until the show ended. It concluded at 9:00 p.m. and Sheila hustled the kids off to bed.

     “Good night, Daddy,” Nicholas, my eight-year-old, sung out.

     Olivia, my subdued six-year-old, whispered, “Nighty night, Daddy.” 

     Before I could respond, they headed to their bedrooms. Sheila leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered, “Try not to fall asleep on the couch, as you always do. Instead of staying up, why don’t you come to bed now? You look bushed.”

     With my eyes half closed, I muttered, “It’s too early. I need time to unwind.”  

     “You can unwind in bed, you know.” Not waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.

     Moving to the chaise lounge portion of the couch, a comfortable section built for two, I stretched out my bone-tired torso on its soft velvet pillows. I reached for the remote, fumbled with it to find the “Guide” button and flipped through the selections until I located the Sci Fi Channel. Pressing “Information,” I read aloud, “Lucas Kieron and Sonia Tyrone in Disaster in a Small Town.” I pressed “OK” and settled in.

     This “highbrow” movie made me wish I’d selected another channel. However, too tired to make the effort to find something else to watch, I stared at the screen and tried hard to stay focused on the story. However, just as I realized this wouldn’t occur, my cell phone rang. Jumping up off the chaise, I grabbed it from the end table, hit “ON,” and sputtered, “Hello.” 

     “Hi, Julian, this is Mason. I wanted to get back to you to discuss the tax question you asked me about yesterday.”

     “Yes, Mason. Thank you for calling.”

     Mason is my accountant and though I know we began to talk, I can’t remember what was said or even if we completed our conversation. And I don’t recall hanging up the phone or how I got back on the chaise lounge. But I reclined there with my eyes drooping.

     I had difficulty concentrating on the TV and the gore and devastation of a town in the midst of a tremendous earthquake, with people struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble. With my legs resting on the bed of the chaise, I endeavored to pay attention to the program, but fought a losing battle. I drifted into a semi-conscious state, not quite asleep, but not awake. 

     Then strange things started happening. I attempted to roll to my left and then my right, but had trouble doing so. I tried to bend my legs in an effort to get up, but they seemed to be pinned to the chaise. Lying on my back, with my eyes almost closed, I scanned the room, but could see only faint shadows, as the only light in the room came from the darkened picture of earthquake debris on the TV screen. 

     I felt a stabbing pain in my left thigh. I reached down to rub it and touched strange objects all around me.  As I endeavored to maneuver my stricken body, I realized something large held my legs within its grasp. I began to wiggle to free them, but to no avail. The more I struggled, the more it seemed things tumbled down onto my defenseless frame. The pain from the weight on my legs became greater and I tried to shout out in anguish, “Oh Lord, what on earth is happening?” But nothing came out of my mouth, as I fought for a breath of air.

     I attempted to locate my cell phone, but couldn’t find it. I remembered I was talking on it with Mason. However, at some time during the conversation everything seemed to go dark and then I felt trapped. But I had no idea how all this occurred.

     Maybe the phone was still on, so I gasped, “Mason,” but got no response. I tried again to move the huge object draped across my legs, however, it wouldn’t budge.

     Thinking I heard noises coming from outside the window, I attempted to yell, “Help me, I’m trapped in here.” But only a whisper came out and nobody responded. I began to panic and stammered, “Please, p . . . lease help me, I can’t move.” Again, no response.

     Could my mind be playing tricks on me? Did I imagine the voices coming from outside my window? Is this all a dream?

     My thoughts returned to the thunderous crash and subsequent falling debris. Did we have an earthquake? I didn’t feel any shaking. There was no warning. Everything just collapsed. Maybe this didn’t happen here, but just in the movie.

     But then why can’t I move my legs? I tried once more. However, nothing happened. It felt as though a herd of elephants had taken refuge on top of them.

     Why had I been placed in this perilous situation? Would anybody come looking for me? Maybe Mason would? But if we got disconnected, why hadn’t he called me back? Was he all right?

     Alone, frightened, and powerless to save myself, I feared I’d lost the battle with this silent and unforgiving foe. But I couldn’t give up. And what about my wife and kids? Were they all right?

     I attempted to retain whatever sanity I had left. Something is watching me, I thought. Mysteriously my voice returned, and I screamed in defiance, “I know you’re out there.”     

     A shrill voice responded, “You bet I am, Julian. Shut off the damn TV. I have an early morning appointment and I can’t get to sleep. That stupid sci-fi movie is going to wake the kids up, too. Come to bed, now!” 

     Sheila’s high-pitched, piercing voice startled Bruno, who had fallen into a peaceful sleep, draped across my legs, now quite frozen stiff. He rose and shook himself so hard the whole room seemed to vibrate. With my legs now free, I removed the large plastic dog bone that jabbed into my left thigh and struggled to get up off the couch.

     Then the lights went on and I saw stuffed dog toys all around me. As I gazed across the room, the menacing stare of my enraged wife cut through me. She held a dog toy in her hand and was about to hurl it in my direction. Before she could release it, I looked into her eyes and whimpered, “I’m coming dear.”

     “I sure hope so,” she said, shaking her head. She dropped the toy, turned, and left the room. I slid off the couch and shut off the TV and overhead light. Then, being the obedient husband she wanted me to be, with my head bent to my chest, I followed her down the hallway to our bedroom.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.