The Blue Gardenia learns to sow her blossoms

Isn't this illustration cream puff grand? Say yes. Please.

 If I may tout my other blog — and I may, mayn't I, beloved readers — allow me to urge you to check out She Says, my fiction blog. Short stories, to be precise. Now, stop that. No groaning allowed. No tossing of tomatoes. Please. Be kind. You don't want to hurt my feelings. You don't want me reaching for the Puffs. Do you? Of course you don't. You want me to be happy.

My former colleague of 14 years, Bruce Oren, did the illustration for "The Dalmatian-Print Chair." It's dazzling. Absolutely. I think you'll agree. Bruce, you dear, thank you. Ever so.

Anyway. Check it out. I beg you. Become a follower. My ego needs more followers. It does. It's as flat as a balloon under a stiletto heel. Deflated. Popped. Forlorn. Completely.

So. I hope you'll enjoy the stories. I know you'll like the art. And leave comments. Please. Let me know how you feel. I want to know. I do.

She says. And she says it often.

Today, may I announce my new blog? Of course I can. Of course I will. After all, this is my blog. Now, whether you choose to read my new blog, She Says, is entirely up to you. Entirely. Completely. But I hope that you will read it. Each and every word. 

Now. Don't run away when I say this — please — but it's a collection of short stories. A warning, though, for those of you who like your language mild: The narrator is a stalker, and he uses four-letter words. Freely. OK. That's it. That's all I am saying. Go forth. Follow. Read She Says. I will not lead you astray.

I love short-shorts. I do. Do you?

All right, dear readers, consider yourself warned. I am sharing another short-short today. (Aren't you glad that most of my short stories are far too long for the blog?) I hope you like it. You know that I live for your approval. I do. Absolutely.

Cherry Pie

                                                                           

                                                     1

She is fourteen. It is sweltering, humid, the sheets stick to her thighs like cotton candy residue.

She sits up, sprinkles baby powder on her skin. Wraps arms as slim as asparagus stalks around legs soft as a lily stamens. Feels the moistness in her private place, the place no one has touched but she. She lifts one foot, watches her toenails, painted petal pink, scrape his smooth brown chest. He grasps her ankles, slides her toward him. Gently.

It is the first time.

 

2

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No! I’m not ready, this isn’t the time, this isn’t the place, this isn’t the way . . .

You’re ready. See? You’re wet.

So? This isn’t the way. I want it to be special. I want candles, moonlight, damn it, clean sheets, at least . . .

You had champagne. And there’s a moon out there.  Somewhere.

Ouch. That was it? That’s what all the fuss was about? Jeez. She looks at the pile of laundry on the floor in the corner, shirts, jeans, t-shirts, undershorts turning yellow and gray. Shit.

She is nineteen.

 

 

3

He paints her toenails. Each tiny coral stroke so gently, so perfectly — no smudges, no smears, no flaws. The Michelangelo of pedicures. Her white foot, his brown, capable hand.

 

4

I want to pleasure you.

No strings?

No strings.

You don’t expect me to reciprocate?

Not unless you want to.

I will feel awkward.

I don’t want you to.

Why then? Are you really so unselfish?

No. I want to see how your face looks in ecstasy.

You’re rather sure of your prowess.

I had a long affair with an older woman when I was young. She taught me everything there is to know about how to please a woman.

If you’re sure.

She awakens, sated, to his kiss. Sees the sun peeping through the window behind his shoulder. Feels his hand guiding her head downward. Firmly.

My turn.

No strings. Remember?

Selfish ass.

 

5

Stroke after stroke of candy-apple red. Perfect. Precise. He holds one foot, admires his handiwork, patiently blows, breath after breath — wphoo, wphoo, wphoo — on each toe. Kisses the sole of each foot, once, twice, twenty times. Slides her to him with his big brown hands.

It is glorious.

 

6

She watches him watch her. He is the one. Sleek. Muscular. As golden as a wedding band. A god she has erected an altar to venerate. She has waited for, yearned for the perfect moment to lay herself upon it. Tonight is not the night. She is too drunk. She has told him so. He has agreed to honor her wishes.

May I spend the night, he asks, just to hold you close? He has done so before. OK, she says.

She sleeps in a white cotton camisole and white briefs tied with a pink satin ribbon. Not alluring.

She wakes sometime later. He is inside her. He has stormed the castle wall.  Uninvited.

You feel like heaven, he says. We are perfect together.

It is true. Why couldn’t he have waited? Been patient. Delayed quick gratification. He’s ruined everything.

She is angry.

Would you like a pearl necklace?

She shoves him off. Tells him coldly he must go.

She will not return his calls. She will not answer his knocks. He has burned his own altar.

She is 31.

 

7

He brings her cherry pie, a photo op for Bon Appetit. It is still warm from the oven. The crust is as flaky as her Mee-Maw’s. Mmmm. Real butter. The filling is exquisite, tart and sweet. She takes one bite, two, the juice streaming down her skin. He leans over her, licks. She places the saucer on her bedside table. Curves inside him.

It is the first time.

 

8

Would you bake me a cherry pie?

You’d make a better one.

But what if I were tired and longing for a freshly baked cherry pie, brimming with juices?

I’d run to the supermarket and buy a Mrs. Smith’s.

For better. Or worse.

 

9

If I asked you to paint my toenails, would you?

Are you insane? No.

What if I said it’s hard for me to reach my toes?

No.

What if I said it would arouse me?

No.

So much for laying with me in a field of stone.

She is 42.

 

10

He rises, pulls on his jeans, his shirt, his boots. Holds out his big brown hand. I will make you cherry pie. I will paint your nails. I will keep you satisfied. Take my hand. Walk beside me.

Yes.

Calling all hip recessionista cats and kittens

Oh, you lucky, lucky readers. The universe has smiled upon you today. It has. I know you'll agree. Because. I am going to share – now, don't run off – another poem with you. Yes. I am just that sort of kind and generous person. Munificent. Unselfish. Magnanimous. Really. I am. Truly. To a fault.

So. I wrote this a few years ago when I took a film noir class at the local community college. It was inspired by the drumming scene in the 1944 movie Phantom Lady. (More background than you wanted, I imagine. But oh well.) Love the movie. Love the book. Now, sit. Be patient. It's a prose poem. Or is it a short story? You decide.

One Hep Kitty

She swings. The bills are piling up the bills are piling up the creditors are calling but she can’t stop swinging. This club. That club. She doesn’t have to pay. She cannot pay. She has no money no money no money none. None. Work? She works. She works. She does. Hear me. She does. Day job. Night job. The money doesn’t go far enough. It stops here. There. There. Here. Never far enough. Never.

She prays. Always. Here. There. In the pantry on her knees. Door shut. On the treadmill in her sneakers in her sweats one foot in front of the other. In the car at the red light at the stop sign at the green light impatient drivers honk behind her. Loud. Rude. Insistent. Go. Go. Get on with it.

She prays. For forgiveness. For her mother. For her father. For her husband. For the phone calls to stop please stop please please please stop. She prays for money more money enough money enough money money money to pay the medical bills the house note the water bill the light bill this bill that bill all the bills please. She puts them on the altar. Take the bills. Pay the bills. Take the bills. Please.

She accuses. Herself. She lambastes. Herself. She hates. Herself. Her worrying hand-wringing penny-pinching money-spending brow-beating bad-choice-making self.

She berates. Herself. Why this why that why here why now. Why now? She’s nice. Now. She’s not that girl. Now. She’s someone else. Now. She’s a woman. Now. Isn’t she? A beneficent woman. A faithful woman. An honest woman. Now. She is!

She doubts. Herself. Her choices. Her husband. God. Sometimes God. Sometimes.

She rhymes. When she’s fretting, she cannot stop. I want my bank account to be in the black. If it’s not there soon, then I will have to pack. Are there enough groceries in the sack? No, there aren’t, there aren’t, will I always lack? Sam I Am, Sam I Am, get back, get back! Stop! she cries. Stop, but she cannot, she is on the rack.

No.

Stop.

Enough.

She prays. She does. Bulldozes over her sporadic doubts. Please God please God please God please. Show me what I’m doing wrong I must be doing something wrong this must be all my fault it must be. It must be. Show me tell me make me understand. So I can fix it. I can fix it? Please. Are you there? You must be there. Show me. Show me. Eradicate my lingering doubts.

She wonders. She ponders. Is this karma? Bad karma coming back like a boomerang like a guest she can’t get rid of like the scarf she gave to Mary who gave it to Tonya who gave it to Lucia who gave it to Elena who gave it back to her? She must have done something to deserve this. Something. Something bad. Really bad. Extremely bad. Horrid.

She gives thanks. Because. Because there are good things. Great things. Grand things. Some things she is thankful for grateful for appreciates like coffee like M&Ms like blue skies like butterflies like health like the sunset like the wind. Like her lover.

It will get better. It must get better. It must.

She swings. As the bills pile up. As the doorbell dings. As the stoplight blinks. As the drivers shout. As the telephone rings. As the fat lady sings. She swings. This club. That club. She cannot pay. She does not pay. She is in her bed. She is in her head.

This is what happens when I attempt to get organized

Discarding. Cleaning. Sorting. Unpleasant, tedious tasks, true, but sometimes, among the dust, the dirt, the ancient bank statements, the Post-Its that no longer stick, one finds jewels. Yes, indeedy.

An example, this 1950s picture of my parents, snapped long before I arrived. It's always been a favorite. And it inspired a poem I wrote several years ago. Yep, I am going to share it with you, dear readers. I am. Allow me this self-indulgence. Please.

You may tell me what you think. You may. In fact, I beseech you. I beg you. I plead. Divulge. Unless, of course, you hate the poem. Then you can keep those thoughts to yourself. I don't want to know. I don't. Because I am sensitive. Tender. Vulnerable. Absolutely. Anyway, you  remember what your momma said. Right? And you always do what your momma said. I know you do. Yes, ma'am. You bet. But Billie Holiday said it, too. If you can't say anything real nice . . . . Oh. Heck. Ignore her if you wish. Be brutal. If you must. If you must.

'56  Snapshot

 

They stand

Together

In black and white.

 

He is lean.

A strand of linguine

In faded jeans,

And scuffed boots,

Hair as springy as risen dough.

She is curvy.

A bottle of Youth-Dew perfume.

Her smile is radiant,

As full of promise,

As a red-leafed shoot on a rosebush.

 

His arms envelop her.

His chin rests on her shoulder. 

Her chin tilts skyward,

a haughty falcon

atop the Chrysler Building.

 

She is

Defiant.

Her eyes flash:

I

will choose

who I love.

 

His grin boasts:

I am the cat.

I have the canary.

 

They stand.

Together.

They dare the future.

Black and white.

And gray.

(And soon, Ms. Still Life In Buenos Aires, I will tell all I know about self-tanning lotions. Because you asked. And I will deliver. Soon.)