It all started with the ants.
Ok, wait a sec. This is Sarah. Not the crazy psychopath in Marcus' Story. No, really. The story is here. The following is true, as hard as this may be to believe.
So let's try this again.
Ahem.
It all started with the ants.
They came traipsing into our living room, acting like they owned the place. Heck, maybe they really do own the place. Nevertheless, we're bigger than they are and so we will kill them and claim it as our own. So the ants came marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah and ate our crumbs and walked over our computer screens and infested our carpet and we all went marching down. To the end. Of the earth. To get out. Of the rain.
And finally Steven had enough. He figured out where they were getting in (a teeny tiny hole at the bottom of our balcony door) and we crammed it full of bay leaves. So that stopped them. For a while. Then they discovered the front door. They crawled up the outside wall (two stories, remember) across the hallway ceiling and down to our front door where they weaseled their way in. Persistent little buggers.
So again, Steven had enough. He went to Wal-Mart, the source of all things evil (like bug spray) and came home with ant poison in a convenient aerosol can. He sprayed. He sprayed and he sprayed some more. Ants died by the bajillion. Staggering, hands on hearts, dramatically exclaiming "Goodbye, cruel world" before falling belly-up to be swept up by our vacuum.
And the Curtis' rejoiced.
And celebrating our good fortune, we sprinkled bay leaves at the balcony door the discourage any new freeloaders.
And noticed the wasps. They were building a condo on our balcony ceiling. Swimming pool, fully furnished, pets extra.
"Call the landlord!" I yelled at Steven.
To which he replied, "Okay."
While he was thinking, "I can handle this."
So when I went to work he knocked it down with a broom handle.
To which the wasps replied, "Meh, we didn't like that house anyway."
Which is why there are approximately 2,334,813,907 wasps on the balcony now and they're building the playboy mansion, wasp-sized on the side of our place.
Poo on varmits. At least they're not spiders.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Second Try
A new story for your reading pleasure. Or not. There may be more or there may not. I haven't quite decided yet. Just read it, okay? And let me know what you think. Even if it's horrible.
Really. I can take it.
-------
It rained on the day I killed Marcus.
His grave looks almost the same as it did after I buried him. The kudzu's a little thicker, that's all. Sometimes I dream that he wasn't really dead when I planted him and he's slowly digging his way up out of the ground, earth deep under his fingernails as he claws his way free. But whenever I visit the spot, I know all is well. He's exactly where he belongs.
He'd had it coming for a while.
We were friends. Just friends, that's all. He wanted more, I didn't. Sometimes he'd push the issue and I'd push back, distance myself for a day or two. He'd sulk and then seek me out, laughing and joking, his old self again.
Sometimes he'd kiss me. I'd let him, if I was feeling particularly mellow, but I never kissed back. I'm not into that.
That's not why I killed him though. What, do you think I'm crazy or something? I killed him for running his mouth. He just wouldn't shut up.
On our last day there, I waited until he went into the bathroom. A few weeks earlier, I'd put a deadbolt on the outside of the bathroom door. I got it from a door I'd found in the junkyard, so it wasn't all shiny and new looking. He probably never even noticed it. Yeah, this was premeditated. You can put that in your report. Premeditated.
He was looking at himself in the mirror. He was a good looking guy, and he knew it. Spent hours just preening and smiling at himself, making different faces: happy, sad, surprised. Yeah, he was asking for it.
His back was to me as he checked out his teeth. He saw me at the door and his reflection smiled at me. I smiled back.
When I got the deadbolt, I'd also found a half-filled container of lighter fluid. Now I'm no expert on accelerants and all that, but I figured that would be enough to at least get the party started. After that, it'd be up to the rest of the bathroom to continue my little blaze. Hair spray, toilet cleaner...that stuff's all flammable, right?
I'd dumped the little metal can of fluid into a short garbage can. Added an old sheet I'd found in the house. I think it was a painter's tarp or something. The sheet soaked up all of that lovely fluid. Pulled the sheet out. I went into the bathroom, smiling at him. As he started to turn toward me, reaching out, I draped the sheet over his head. He must have thought I was playing some game because he didn't struggle to remove it. Not at first. I lit the corner of the sheet. Watched flames begin to devour it. That fluid worked better than I'd ever expected. It took him a while to react. It seemed like he stood there for hours, just burning. Then he started to flail. Silently, his arms swiped at the sheet. I went out the door, slammed it and bolted it. It wasn't long before he got to the door and start pounding on it...
-----
As long as I stood there watching, he never screamed. Just that incessant pounding. Thank God the door was solid or he might have broken it down. Finally I left the house, stopping on the front walk to see the view from the outside. The bathroom was burning brightly now, great plumes of smoke pouring out the barred windows. As far as I know, he never made a sound. I wonder what he thought as he burned. Was he confused? Expecting it? Did he welcome death like some martyr? It bothers me to think he might have died hating me. I didn't hate him.
The windows exploded, glass shooting out towards me. I could feel the heat of the fire baking the side of my face. The fire had spread, moving to the living room and then to the kitchen. I could hear things breaking with little melodic tinkling sounds. It was actually kind of pretty, the house flaming, the black smoke and the roaring of the fire, punctuated by a sort of off-kilter music. I let my mind record it, painting a picture to save for the future.
Then I left.
Our place was in the middle of nowhere, so it could just burn and burn all day and no one would care. No one would know, really. I went to a movie. Some cartoon. It was stupid. Later, I went back to the house. It had burned completely down, just a few bright embers glowing here and there. I found what was left of his body. I think I cried a little. I lay down next to him, even though the rubble was still hot and smoking in some places. I got burns on me. I think I slept a little. I really did love him, you know. Even though he was a rotten excuse for a human being, I loved him.
Morning was started to lighten the sky when I finally woke completely up. Abandoned or not, sooner or later somebody was going to discover the rubble. And if they were a little bit curious, maybe they'd discover Marcus, too.
I went and got some supplies from the dump. Another sheet, a shovel. It's amazing what some people throw away.
I went back to Marcus' body, and got him in the sheet. That's something I'm not ready to talk about. It wasn't really him, it was just flesh. Burnt flesh. I wrapped it up good so I wouldn't be able to smell it, but I could still smell it. I can still smell it.
I already knew the perfect spot: there's a stream not far from our place where the ground would be nice and soft, easy for digging. Moisture equals quicker decomposition. Also, the kudzu. Kudzu's amazing stuff, did you know? It's almost impossible to kill and it grows so fast some folks call it the "foot-a-night vine."
I dug a hole. I wanted to make it six feet deep, a proper grave but water kept filling it in. I kept at it anyway, I got blisters, they broke and bled. I got to about 4 feet before I gave up. I was exhausted. Rolled him in, he splashed to the bottom. Shoved in the mud and dirt on top of him. Pulled up some of that kudzu and arranged it all around the grave. He would have liked it here.
I fell asleep again, curled up on the bank of the stream like a fox.
Really. I can take it.
-------
It rained on the day I killed Marcus.
His grave looks almost the same as it did after I buried him. The kudzu's a little thicker, that's all. Sometimes I dream that he wasn't really dead when I planted him and he's slowly digging his way up out of the ground, earth deep under his fingernails as he claws his way free. But whenever I visit the spot, I know all is well. He's exactly where he belongs.
He'd had it coming for a while.
We were friends. Just friends, that's all. He wanted more, I didn't. Sometimes he'd push the issue and I'd push back, distance myself for a day or two. He'd sulk and then seek me out, laughing and joking, his old self again.
Sometimes he'd kiss me. I'd let him, if I was feeling particularly mellow, but I never kissed back. I'm not into that.
That's not why I killed him though. What, do you think I'm crazy or something? I killed him for running his mouth. He just wouldn't shut up.
Image via Wikipedia
On our last day there, I waited until he went into the bathroom. A few weeks earlier, I'd put a deadbolt on the outside of the bathroom door. I got it from a door I'd found in the junkyard, so it wasn't all shiny and new looking. He probably never even noticed it. Yeah, this was premeditated. You can put that in your report. Premeditated.
He was looking at himself in the mirror. He was a good looking guy, and he knew it. Spent hours just preening and smiling at himself, making different faces: happy, sad, surprised. Yeah, he was asking for it.
His back was to me as he checked out his teeth. He saw me at the door and his reflection smiled at me. I smiled back.
When I got the deadbolt, I'd also found a half-filled container of lighter fluid. Now I'm no expert on accelerants and all that, but I figured that would be enough to at least get the party started. After that, it'd be up to the rest of the bathroom to continue my little blaze. Hair spray, toilet cleaner...that stuff's all flammable, right?
I'd dumped the little metal can of fluid into a short garbage can. Added an old sheet I'd found in the house. I think it was a painter's tarp or something. The sheet soaked up all of that lovely fluid. Pulled the sheet out. I went into the bathroom, smiling at him. As he started to turn toward me, reaching out, I draped the sheet over his head. He must have thought I was playing some game because he didn't struggle to remove it. Not at first. I lit the corner of the sheet. Watched flames begin to devour it. That fluid worked better than I'd ever expected. It took him a while to react. It seemed like he stood there for hours, just burning. Then he started to flail. Silently, his arms swiped at the sheet. I went out the door, slammed it and bolted it. It wasn't long before he got to the door and start pounding on it...
-----
As long as I stood there watching, he never screamed. Just that incessant pounding. Thank God the door was solid or he might have broken it down. Finally I left the house, stopping on the front walk to see the view from the outside. The bathroom was burning brightly now, great plumes of smoke pouring out the barred windows. As far as I know, he never made a sound. I wonder what he thought as he burned. Was he confused? Expecting it? Did he welcome death like some martyr? It bothers me to think he might have died hating me. I didn't hate him.
The windows exploded, glass shooting out towards me. I could feel the heat of the fire baking the side of my face. The fire had spread, moving to the living room and then to the kitchen. I could hear things breaking with little melodic tinkling sounds. It was actually kind of pretty, the house flaming, the black smoke and the roaring of the fire, punctuated by a sort of off-kilter music. I let my mind record it, painting a picture to save for the future.
Then I left.
Our place was in the middle of nowhere, so it could just burn and burn all day and no one would care. No one would know, really. I went to a movie. Some cartoon. It was stupid. Later, I went back to the house. It had burned completely down, just a few bright embers glowing here and there. I found what was left of his body. I think I cried a little. I lay down next to him, even though the rubble was still hot and smoking in some places. I got burns on me. I think I slept a little. I really did love him, you know. Even though he was a rotten excuse for a human being, I loved him.
Morning was started to lighten the sky when I finally woke completely up. Abandoned or not, sooner or later somebody was going to discover the rubble. And if they were a little bit curious, maybe they'd discover Marcus, too.
I went and got some supplies from the dump. Another sheet, a shovel. It's amazing what some people throw away.
I went back to Marcus' body, and got him in the sheet. That's something I'm not ready to talk about. It wasn't really him, it was just flesh. Burnt flesh. I wrapped it up good so I wouldn't be able to smell it, but I could still smell it. I can still smell it.
I already knew the perfect spot: there's a stream not far from our place where the ground would be nice and soft, easy for digging. Moisture equals quicker decomposition. Also, the kudzu. Kudzu's amazing stuff, did you know? It's almost impossible to kill and it grows so fast some folks call it the "foot-a-night vine."
I dug a hole. I wanted to make it six feet deep, a proper grave but water kept filling it in. I kept at it anyway, I got blisters, they broke and bled. I got to about 4 feet before I gave up. I was exhausted. Rolled him in, he splashed to the bottom. Shoved in the mud and dirt on top of him. Pulled up some of that kudzu and arranged it all around the grave. He would have liked it here.
I fell asleep again, curled up on the bank of the stream like a fox.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I'm Back, Baby!
(said in best George Costanza voice)
Saturdays are my days to relax. Relaxation, to me, is leisurely sipping coffee, catching up on reading and baking/cooking/creating til my heart's content.
Lately I haven't felt up to it, but today...
It's my third Saturday back and I've finally got my cooking groove back. Today I made homemade apple butter and English muffins from scratch. There are no pictures because my camera has gone missing. Maybe the dunderheads stole it. I'm not mad, I promise. I've got my pity hat on now.
I came home and rejoined the ranks of the church ladies. Lots of our church folks have gardens and mini orchards and if I don't eat the produce, it'll go bad, I swear! Lately the fruits of their labors have been apples. Mmmmm, home grown Granny Smiths.
Step One: Obtain Wal-Mart bag full of lovely, non-pesticide treated apples from church ladies. Thank them profusely.
Step Two: Get home, pull off leaves, wash apples, quarter and throw in pot. (Leaving on skins and cores for flavor and natural pectin).
Step Three: Add two cups water and one cup vinegar (you could also use apple cider vinegar or just apple cider, but you'll have to adjust the sugar later.)
Step Four: Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer for about 20 minutes. Apples'll get all mushy. It's okay!
Step Five: Toss the whole kit n' caboodle into a food mill (or, if you're spoiled like me, dump it into your Kitchenaid grinder/strainer).
Step Six: Dump resulting apple puree into a heavy pot. Add sugar (about 1/2 cup per cup of apple puree), 2 tbsp cinnamon, 1/2 tsp each ground cloves and allspice. Stir, stir, stir.
Step Seven: Stand there stirring mixture until your arm falls off (about 2 hours at medium heat-don't you leave that pot!) Ooooorrrrr, stir occasionally with heat very low. Cook about 4-5 hours or until deep and dark gorgeous brown. You can even do this in the oven, again set very low or in a crockpot, though you'd want to leave the cover off to encourage evaporation/reduction magic.
Serve on English muffins or, if you're like me, scoop some into a coffee mug and eat it with a spoon. 'Cause we're so civilized around here, dontchaknow.
Saturdays are my days to relax. Relaxation, to me, is leisurely sipping coffee, catching up on reading and baking/cooking/creating til my heart's content.
Lately I haven't felt up to it, but today...
It's my third Saturday back and I've finally got my cooking groove back. Today I made homemade apple butter and English muffins from scratch. There are no pictures because my camera has gone missing. Maybe the dunderheads stole it. I'm not mad, I promise. I've got my pity hat on now.
I came home and rejoined the ranks of the church ladies. Lots of our church folks have gardens and mini orchards and if I don't eat the produce, it'll go bad, I swear! Lately the fruits of their labors have been apples. Mmmmm, home grown Granny Smiths.
Step One: Obtain Wal-Mart bag full of lovely, non-pesticide treated apples from church ladies. Thank them profusely.
Step Two: Get home, pull off leaves, wash apples, quarter and throw in pot. (Leaving on skins and cores for flavor and natural pectin).
Step Three: Add two cups water and one cup vinegar (you could also use apple cider vinegar or just apple cider, but you'll have to adjust the sugar later.)
Step Four: Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer for about 20 minutes. Apples'll get all mushy. It's okay!
Step Five: Toss the whole kit n' caboodle into a food mill (or, if you're spoiled like me, dump it into your Kitchenaid grinder/strainer).
Step Six: Dump resulting apple puree into a heavy pot. Add sugar (about 1/2 cup per cup of apple puree), 2 tbsp cinnamon, 1/2 tsp each ground cloves and allspice. Stir, stir, stir.
Step Seven: Stand there stirring mixture until your arm falls off (about 2 hours at medium heat-don't you leave that pot!) Ooooorrrrr, stir occasionally with heat very low. Cook about 4-5 hours or until deep and dark gorgeous brown. You can even do this in the oven, again set very low or in a crockpot, though you'd want to leave the cover off to encourage evaporation/reduction magic.
Serve on English muffins or, if you're like me, scoop some into a coffee mug and eat it with a spoon. 'Cause we're so civilized around here, dontchaknow.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Home, home on the range...
We left for Michigan on a Saturday. We arrived late that night, exhausted but glad to be home. Steven's birthday was Sunday and he was overjoyed to spend it with family. Monday, my parents and I along with my sister Becky and her son headed up to the land of grandparents past for a day of blueberry picking, cemetery exploring and pizza devouring. Mid-pizza slice, I received a call from my dearly beloved, telling me that a church member, Mr. Bill had passed away and that Steven was needed in Memphis. He left. I stayed. My dad's retirement party was Tuesday. Goodbye to General Motors after 45 years. I spent the morning shopping and the rest of the day cooking and trying not to mingle.
Mixed in were picnics with the family, playtime with the niece and nephews, church services and relaxation. Well, a bit at least.
Then on Sunday, my parents drove with me (since Steven had the car, remember) back to Memphis. Steven returned to Michigan on Monday morning to "finish his vacation" and my parents stayed with me in Memphis until Thursday morning. Confused yet? I sure am.
On Thursday evening, Steven was mugged outside a Meijer's store. Four guys in a car pulled up to him as he was walking to his vehicle and two of them jumped out and started beating on him. They touched not his money, nor car keys nor wallet. No, these brilliant overachievers stole my husband's groceries: a two-liter of Vernor's ginger ale and a package of CD-Rs. Oh, and some birthday wrapping paper. About $20 worth of miscellaneous junk. Well, except the ginger ale. I might knock somebody over the head for some Vernor's, too. After I hit "post" on this, I'm going to make a concentrated effort to stop being angry about this. I vow not to fly to Michigan and hunt down a carful of dunderheaded morons and rip their faces off.
*Sigh*
My dad and I didn't get to have our air hockey showdown. Instead, we settled for Wii Tennis. Which I beat him at. Soundly. I'm a sore loser but a really annoying winner.
Pictures will prove this feat, after I get my mom to email them to me. (Mom?)
In short, I'm back. I hope you missed me. I hope you noticed I was gone. I'm caught up on the six hundred or so blog posts that were waiting for me. God bless Google Reader.
Mixed in were picnics with the family, playtime with the niece and nephews, church services and relaxation. Well, a bit at least.
Then on Sunday, my parents drove with me (since Steven had the car, remember) back to Memphis. Steven returned to Michigan on Monday morning to "finish his vacation" and my parents stayed with me in Memphis until Thursday morning. Confused yet? I sure am.
On Thursday evening, Steven was mugged outside a Meijer's store. Four guys in a car pulled up to him as he was walking to his vehicle and two of them jumped out and started beating on him. They touched not his money, nor car keys nor wallet. No, these brilliant overachievers stole my husband's groceries: a two-liter of Vernor's ginger ale and a package of CD-Rs. Oh, and some birthday wrapping paper. About $20 worth of miscellaneous junk. Well, except the ginger ale. I might knock somebody over the head for some Vernor's, too. After I hit "post" on this, I'm going to make a concentrated effort to stop being angry about this. I vow not to fly to Michigan and hunt down a carful of dunderheaded morons and rip their faces off.
*Sigh*
My dad and I didn't get to have our air hockey showdown. Instead, we settled for Wii Tennis. Which I beat him at. Soundly. I'm a sore loser but a really annoying winner.
Pictures will prove this feat, after I get my mom to email them to me. (Mom?)
In short, I'm back. I hope you missed me. I hope you noticed I was gone. I'm caught up on the six hundred or so blog posts that were waiting for me. God bless Google Reader.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Watch out or you'll be next!
I'm not quite ready to rejoin the land of the living, but here's a little story so you'll know I'm still alive.
Today, I was talking to a patient and my brain combined "chart" and "file" and so I offered to "pull his fart."
Yes, I'm Sarah and I have a problem.
Today, I was talking to a patient and my brain combined "chart" and "file" and so I offered to "pull his fart."
Yes, I'm Sarah and I have a problem.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Things That Make Me Go "Huh?" (2)
I went to the eye doctor today and she dilated my eyes. My pupils are huge! So my question is this: When your eyes dilate, where does the pigmented part go? Where's my brownish hazelishousness? Are my pupils like a black hole in space, sucking all matter into their doomed darkness?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bring It On, Dad!
My dad and I have a long-standing air hockey competition going on. It all began when I was bragging to him over the phone about how I had beaten an entire youth group full of air hockey playing kids. So he decided to knock me off my "high horse" and say he could beat me with one hand tied behind his back. Challenged.
Here I am looking vicious. Here he is looking terrified. I'm going for a visit in August. I'm ready, Dad. Bring it on!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
A Little Update...
Mr. Jim passed away yesterday afternoon, thus ending a long, hard and painful battle with cancer. Praise God that Mr. Jim is in a better place and reunited with his wife and son. Please pray for his family and our church and also for Steven and I as we try to help in whatever way is needed. He'll be having a military funeral on Saturday...
Aunt Sarah Project
I've written about Aunt Sarah (also known as "Caroline" a time or two before.She traveled all over, teaching classes on linguistics, giving college devotions and learning languages, sometimes even creating a written language where none existed.
Recently, I came into possession of a box of letters that she wrote to her family along her journeys. Painstakingly saved by her mother and tied up with ribbon, the letters chronicle years of Aunt Sarah's life and travels all over the world. The idea behind this "project" is to put some order to this great jumble of words, to chronologically map out her voyages.
It's been a little more difficult than I had anticipated. I find myself mesmerized by her stories. What started out as little more than a genealogy side project has become something else altogether.A kind of obsession. A kind of feeling like I know someone I've never met. Like maybe I'm with her as she talks to people in strange languages and with different customs than what I'm used to.
Sitting with her next to a fire, seeing her smoking a cigar and watching a sunset, pen in hand, waiting to describe it to her mother in a letter.
Riding with her over bumpy, potholed streets in places where yours is the only car. Everybody else walks. Later, the car will leave and she'll walk, too.She laughs at the antics of the children who come to entertain her, showing off, doing cartwheels and trying to outdo each other, vying for her attention.
She wracks her brain for words when writing to her supporters, trying to sound dignified and yet still trying to raise awareness of the plights of some of the people she works with.
She's amazed by God's Creation.She misses her family.
She's ravaged by cancer, but still determined to serve.
She speaks to at chapel services, too weak to stand but still beautifully eloquent in her love for God.
I don't know her but I love her all the same.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Take One.
My first attempt at fiction! Inspired by an accident I saw a few weeks ago. Let me know what you think...
No, really. Criticism is welcome.
--------------------
"Why don’t you tell me again how it happened. From the top.”
Opal glanced around worriedly. Her eyes swept past the police, the paramedics. Thoughts of Paul and his inevitable lectures about how a woman her age shouldn’t be driving filled her head. Ever since that little fender bender last year he’d been just unbearable. She hadn’t even been hurt! Just a few little bruises. Paul certainly had a temper.
The flashing blue lights of the police car snapped Opal back to the present. “He came out of nowhere!” She blinked back tears. It was true. Maybe she had been going a little too fast, and of course that curve was the site of many an accident, but the young man on the motorbike must have been invisible until the moment of impact.
Officer James sighed. Miss Opal was going to be in a world of trouble if that boy in the ditch didn’t pull through.
They both looked up as the paramedics loaded the man into the ambulance. One of them caught Officer James’ eye and shook his head slightly. It didn’t look good.
"Come along with me to the station, ma'am, and we'll talk more. And we'll call your son, too."
As he helped her into the patrol car, Quentin James thought back on his eight years in the Highway Patrol. Never had he seen an accident like this one. The motorcycle was actually embedded into the front of Opal's Cadillac. They hadn't been able to identify the boy on the bike yet but he hadn't been wearing a helmet. If he hadn't been thrown to the water-filled ditch, he would have surely died already.
Officer James looked up warily as a black BMW screeched to a stop in front of his patrol car. Must be the old lady's son.
"Mother!" The kid was out of the car and scuttling towards them, engine running and door open, barely stopping to put the car in park. He looked more angry than worried. "Mother! What were you thinking?"
Opal cringed, shrinking into the back of the car. "Paul, please..."
Officer James tried to keep the peace. "Son, your mother's had quite a scare. This isn't the time to be berating her."
"Officer, is my mother under arrest?"
Quentin didn't like the man's tone, but he was used to dealing with all sorts in his line of work. "No, sir, she's not under arrest. I do need to talk to her, though, and get this mess straightened out. How did you even know about the accident?"
"It's a small town, Officer." Paul looked at Quentin disdainfully. "Good news sure travels fast."
"Son, you can either come along to the station with me and help get this taken care of or you'll have to go."
Paul shot his mother an evil glare.
What kind of relationship must they have? Officer James was baffled at the malevolence in Paul's face. He really seems to despise her.
"She just doesn't listen!" Paul spat the words out, giving each one it's own sentence.
"Now just calm down." Officer James tried to diffuse an increasingly explosive situation.
Paul took several deep breaths and appeared to gather himself up.
Officer James' radio squawked to life. After a hushed conversation with the disembodied voice on the other end, Quentin turned back the Opal and Paul. "He died en route. Ma'am, you have the right to remain silent."
"Oh, no you don't!" Paul darted to his car, ruffled around in the glove compartment and turned back, triumphant, with a gun in his hand. "Leave her alone," he said. "I'll deal with her later."
Instantly, Quentin's own gun was in his hand. "Boy, you don't want to do this. Just think about what you're doing."
"I am thinking. You're going to arrest my mother! I can't let you do that." A wild look had come into Paul's eyes. The look of a man on the brink of losing control.
A light rain started, darkening the street around them and whispering through the trees.
"Put the gun down." Quentin spoke firmly, yet calmly.
Paul sighed enormously and rushed him, closing the space between them in five giant bounds, gun in hand.
A deafening roar.
Opal looked at Officer James, his gun still smoking. Paul lay in a heap at her feet, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him as the rain began falling in earnest. Silently, she began to cry.
No, really. Criticism is welcome.
--------------------
"Why don’t you tell me again how it happened. From the top.”
Opal glanced around worriedly. Her eyes swept past the police, the paramedics. Thoughts of Paul and his inevitable lectures about how a woman her age shouldn’t be driving filled her head. Ever since that little fender bender last year he’d been just unbearable. She hadn’t even been hurt! Just a few little bruises. Paul certainly had a temper.
The flashing blue lights of the police car snapped Opal back to the present. “He came out of nowhere!” She blinked back tears. It was true. Maybe she had been going a little too fast, and of course that curve was the site of many an accident, but the young man on the motorbike must have been invisible until the moment of impact.
Officer James sighed. Miss Opal was going to be in a world of trouble if that boy in the ditch didn’t pull through.
They both looked up as the paramedics loaded the man into the ambulance. One of them caught Officer James’ eye and shook his head slightly. It didn’t look good.
"Come along with me to the station, ma'am, and we'll talk more. And we'll call your son, too."
As he helped her into the patrol car, Quentin James thought back on his eight years in the Highway Patrol. Never had he seen an accident like this one. The motorcycle was actually embedded into the front of Opal's Cadillac. They hadn't been able to identify the boy on the bike yet but he hadn't been wearing a helmet. If he hadn't been thrown to the water-filled ditch, he would have surely died already.
Officer James looked up warily as a black BMW screeched to a stop in front of his patrol car. Must be the old lady's son.
"Mother!" The kid was out of the car and scuttling towards them, engine running and door open, barely stopping to put the car in park. He looked more angry than worried. "Mother! What were you thinking?"
Opal cringed, shrinking into the back of the car. "Paul, please..."
Officer James tried to keep the peace. "Son, your mother's had quite a scare. This isn't the time to be berating her."
"Officer, is my mother under arrest?"
Quentin didn't like the man's tone, but he was used to dealing with all sorts in his line of work. "No, sir, she's not under arrest. I do need to talk to her, though, and get this mess straightened out. How did you even know about the accident?"
"It's a small town, Officer." Paul looked at Quentin disdainfully. "Good news sure travels fast."
"Son, you can either come along to the station with me and help get this taken care of or you'll have to go."
Paul shot his mother an evil glare.
What kind of relationship must they have? Officer James was baffled at the malevolence in Paul's face. He really seems to despise her.
"She just doesn't listen!" Paul spat the words out, giving each one it's own sentence.
"Now just calm down." Officer James tried to diffuse an increasingly explosive situation.
Paul took several deep breaths and appeared to gather himself up.
Officer James' radio squawked to life. After a hushed conversation with the disembodied voice on the other end, Quentin turned back the Opal and Paul. "He died en route. Ma'am, you have the right to remain silent."
"Oh, no you don't!" Paul darted to his car, ruffled around in the glove compartment and turned back, triumphant, with a gun in his hand. "Leave her alone," he said. "I'll deal with her later."
Instantly, Quentin's own gun was in his hand. "Boy, you don't want to do this. Just think about what you're doing."
"I am thinking. You're going to arrest my mother! I can't let you do that." A wild look had come into Paul's eyes. The look of a man on the brink of losing control.
A light rain started, darkening the street around them and whispering through the trees.
"Put the gun down." Quentin spoke firmly, yet calmly.
Paul sighed enormously and rushed him, closing the space between them in five giant bounds, gun in hand.
A deafening roar.
Opal looked at Officer James, his gun still smoking. Paul lay in a heap at her feet, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him as the rain began falling in earnest. Silently, she began to cry.
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