A Workable Solution

The hallway outside the dean’s office contained two mismatched chairs, each vying for the position of most uncomfortable, dull green walls, a cluttered bulletin board and one bored professor. Annie stretched her feet out and then stared at the ceiling. Sudoku, Facebook, seeing if her last check had cleared, email, and the latest Trump news taunted her but her iPhone was almost out of juice. She looked back at her novel and began her desultory reading once again .

The sound of footsteps brightened the hallway. Annie glanced up and then closed her jaw and looked down again, the words on the book no longer appeared to be English or else she had forgotten how to read. The adjunct approaching her was stunning - tanned skin, long black velvet hair, dark eyes, and the lithe physique and movements of a panther.

He sat down in the chair next to her. It wobbled. Annie smiled. “I’m Annie, Dr. Annie McIntosh. What are you in for?” she asked.

“In for?” The man looked confused for a moment. “Ah, I have been summoned here, I was told it was to discuss my pedagogy.” He opened his briefcase and took out a stack of papers to grade.

He did not, to Annie’s dismay, ask her why she was here. Not reading her novel, she cast surreptitious glances at the adjunct as he worked. Great swaths of precise red writing covered the first paper with amazing speed. She ventured to comment, “If your grading style were a movie, it would be Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

*****

The scratching of the pen stopped. “If my grading style were a movie...? The title does not sound inviting.”

“No, it’s not,” she rushed on, “It’s brutal. How do your students react to the bloodbath you’re making of their work?”

“Bloodbath? I do not see the reason for all the violent imagery.” Tovaras frowned and wondered why this woman insisted on commenting at all. He looked at her. She was in her early fifties and had the same sort of humorous glint in her eyes he had learned to associate with humans having fun at his expense. “They do not seem to appreciate my efforts.”

“Of course not,” Annie said in a smug voice, “My grading style would be Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Everyone loves chocolate.”

Tovaras raised his eyebrows, amazed this woman was teaching. Annie added, “The Johnny Depp version.” After a beat she added, “Goes without saying.”

“Yet, you said it.”

Annie sighed. “So I did.”

Tovaras went back to his papers, ruffled and self-conscious about every red letter placed on the page. He was aware that the woman still studied him.

“Do you actually read those things?” Annie seemed shocked.

“What?” This comment surprised Tovaras more than the previous one. He had, after all, heard multiple similar grumbles from students about his editorial butchery, so her comments in that area were not unfamiliar. “You do not read the papers you grade?”

Annie snorted, “Shoot no! They pretend to write ‘em and I pretend to read ‘em. It’s not ideal, but, it’s a workable solution.”

“A sense of personal integrity would dictate that we read and grade each paper thoroughly.”

“You mean harshly?” Annie asked, cocking her head.

She appeared to be laying a trap and it made Tovaras uncomfortable. Deciding the correct answer posed no threat, he responded, “If the paper calls for it.”

“Is the comfort you find in your own self-righteousness more important than your students?”

Tovaras raised his eyebrows. He wondered if he had been called in to instruct her on proper pedagogy and if that was the source of her defensiveness. It struck him as logical. He also did not relish the idea of tackling that task. Annie did not strike him teachable.

*****

The door opened and the two academics were summoned into the dean’s cluttered office.

*****

“You are to instruct me?” Tovaras said as they left the office. “I do not understand.”

“It’s a strange world,” Annie replied. “Let’s go get some tea. Feed some squirrels. Have some fun.” Tovaras found it strange but the idea appealed to him.

That's What You Get

"Afternoons are forever in the summer," Annie sighed and sipped her iced tea. "Mornings start way too early too; but, you can get around that if you put a pillow over your head and ignore the cats. Afternoons, however, are another matter entirely."

"At least you're at home sipping tea," Grace offered. The early hours of the afternoon had been trying for her friend. Dealing with government offices was somewhere above going to the dentist or same-day surgery in terms of torture. Nothing for it but hours of waiting with the dogged stoicism of an animal at a slaughterhouse.

"You've got that right," Annie said with a smile. "I think it's over...until the next letter that is...if the next letter comes. It's why I don't get my mail on the weekend."

"The fear of a letter...," Grace began, knowing her friend's long standing refusal to check the mail box on weekends or holidays.

"...From the IRS, the DMV, or the California State Franchise Tax Board. You'd think they'd find an easier name."

"Now, why on Earth would you think that?" Grace laughed.

"You have a point," Annie answered.

"How's work?" Grace asked. Her friend looked like life lay heavy on her and these long afternoons were good for long conversations.

"Still have a job. There's a student I'm fixing to pray for..."

"Really difficult?"

"Yes! Nailed it in one. Difficult people are best prayed for -- love the difficulty right out of them. At least, that's been my experience in the past."

This has got to be one of the most boring pieces I've ever written :( Sometimes writing what you know just doesn't work.

Come What May

“Just when you start to think you’ll never again think ‘I’m deeply sad’…” Delores sighed. In happier days she was Dee or Didi – names so chirpy a sparrow would be embarrassed to own such a moniker – but today she was
Delores, full of sorrow in this vale of tears. 

“Why are you sad, dear?” Frona frowned at her friend. She was well used to Didi/Delores’ ups and downs, although she didn’t understand them in the least. Life was a practical common sense affair, Frona thought, you lived your life, you did what needed doing, and it was good.

“I have no idea,” Delores said, “As usual. Haven’t got a clue. Can’t write, can’t create, I’ve got nothing.”

“That seems like a reason to me. If you’re a writer, you need to write. If you’re a reader, you need to read. Painters need to paint. Bakers need to bake. Simple as that. I’m feeling like some cookies, hot from the oven.”

“Drowned in wine,” Delores snipped back. “I didn’t ask to be an artist or a writer.”

“Ha!” hooted Frona. “I grew up with you girl! You wanted to create from preschool – probably before but you don’t remember because memory doesn’t work so well when you can’t storify it.”

“Storify?”

“Set it to words. Can’t do that if you can’t talk, now can you? It’s all raw experience, no context, just like dogs and cats, only not having stories, if they don't have them, don’t hinder their memories none. But humans, we can’t do anything not set to a story; we were gifted with language and then stories it had to be.”

“Cursed more like it. Given a sacred duty to clothe the world in story? Life is best when dressed in fairy tales?” Delores smiled at her friend, intrigued by the idea.

“Yes, a sacred duty,” Frona agreed, a solemn expression playing on her face. She continued, “I read once that Jesus was a god who told stories and Christian scripture does say that we are made in God’s image…”

“Frona, you think God ever sat there, maybe on a hot afternoon one of those seven days and thought, ‘I have no idea what to do next'?"

Frona laughed, “Sure thing, dear, that why we have platypuses, star-nosed moles, and really colorful butts on baboons. You just know God was messing about because the ideas just weren’t flowing. But, you know what? The world would be sadly lacking without platypuses."

“You got me there; but, a god without ideas is a scary thing perhaps,” Delores mused, not so optimistic about the concept.

“More a delight,” Frona laughed, “showing us that some of the best ideas come when we’re bored and stumped and haven’t got a clue.”

“Come what may, I will create today,” Delores rhymed, “sucks as a couplet.”

“That it does. But then, some things round about, like fleas, let you know that sometimes even God misses when it comes to writing the poetry of life. But then, you turn around and there’s gay penguins. You can’t ever say it’s all meaningless and hopeless and empty in a universe with gay penguins.”

 

The Merry-Go-Round

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," the customer drawled the words with distaste.


"That cliché comes in a wide variety of forms and even appears in sacred texts,” the salesman said, rushing to her side and officiously dusting off an imaginary speck on the “G” in change.

“I know, Ecclesiastes 1:9,” the customer replied, covering her mouth in a fake yawn. “What else you got?”

“Not so fast,” the salesman insisted, “This is your cliché. I’m sure of it. I feel it in my bones. This is the cliché for the current age. Put it up in lights, read the history books for today’s headlines, this is it!”

“Well, it’s a bit better than ‘May you live in interesting times.’” She hesitated.

“We don’t sell curses here. Only the finest in clichés. Sayings that have stood the test of time. This one,” the salesman nudged the plaque toward her, “is eternal.”

“So, it is.” The customer sighed. “I was hoping for something more hopeful. Tis love that makes the world go ‘round, all you need is love, that sort of thing.”

“No love in your future, I’m afraid. Only the same old thing. I can wrap it up in bows and ribbons though. I’ll even throw in a sparkler. Would you like that?”

“No. A brown paper bag is fine. This is not something I want to call attention to…all things considered.”

“I understand completely. In this case, you may like our consolation package – one brown paper bag and a bottle of rot gut.”

“That’s the ticket,” the customer said, her smile never reaching her eyes.

Memories Written in Water

"It's an ancient cliche," Sophie said, "from the ancient Greek writer Heraclitis of Ephesus. He wrote that you cannot step into the same river twice and he wrote it two and half millennia ago." "Likely it wasn't a cliche then," Grace remarked.  "Ah well, there's nothing new under the sun. Thus I raise you one memory written in water and the idea that everything changes with a proverb nearly three thousand years old." "Ecclesiastes," Grace replied with a smile. "You know of course both are true." "Goes without saying." Sophie held her father's hand. It was dry and brittle with paper skin. It reminded her of leaves and twigs blown or raked into crumbling piles in the fall. His hand was brittle but solid, his mind...his mind was another story. Memories, Sophie mused, our memories are written in water. No day is the same, all our castles are made of sand and the waves of time erode them away. Hendrix wrote a song about that, she remembered, only Jimi didn't live long enough to see how very true his words were. "Da's sleeping?" Grace asked. "Yes." Sophie smiled slightly, "No way Da would let me hold his hand like he was a great big sissy if he was awake. Never met such an awkward man for touching or being touched." "Well, my dear," Grace replied with mischief, "he has his moments." "And one of them led to me. Thanks, Ma." Sophie laughed. Unlike almost everyone she knew, ideas of parent sex didn't bother her at all. Seems silly to go through life acting as if you somehow came into the world with immaculate grace and Sophie was a rare one, a dreamer with a matter-of-fact acceptance of the physicality of reality. "Do you think he'll remember me when he wakes up? It seems like memories are gobbled up by a monster moving backward through time and now he's left only with his life before Sophie. How long before Grace only swam in a river he could no longer wade into? She blinked back tears. As if reading her mind, Grace was like that, she laid her own gnarled hand that still held strength and warmth and remembering over her daughter's and husband's hand and said, "We do get to step into that river once and what a lovely swim we've had. His heart remembers -- the heart always does -- the heart is the beat and flow and rhythm of the river. And that river flows from one heart to another to another." "I remember." Sophia said and closed her eyes to set that memory in water.