Healing through story

Category: short fiction (Page 1 of 10)

shortfiction24 – penguins in florida

Three retirees from sales careers sit at a Florida patio table talking about a sermon on penguins. In the middle of summer!

Enjoy the short story.

Penguins in Florida

Bob Gillen

Mack slammed his open palm down on the patio table. He drooled sarcasm. “Pete, we’re sitting here in the middle of a Florida summer and you’re telling me you’re going to preach your next sermon on penguins?”

Pete grinned as he sipped his iced coffee. “Yup.”

Charlie chimed in. “Might work if you talked about Batman’s arch enemy.”

The three retirees sat under a spreading umbrella on a coffee shop patio. They each wore a flower print shirt and various versions of straw fedoras.

Mack continued. “You’re talking to snowbirds or native Floridians who’ve never seen snow. You’ll have the entire audience moving to their phones.”

“Congregation, Mack.”

“Whatever. It won’t work.”

“The wife died two years ago,” Pete said. “I dealt with my grief, but after a time I realized, for the first time in many years, I am answerable to no one. So I took training to be a deacon in my church. Kate and I were always churchgoers. Always bored by the sermons. Now I can say interesting stuff.”

“Don’t you have to follow the company line on talks? You’re still answerable to someone.” Charlie said.

“To some degree, yeah. But I can say what I want to say, and then not hear blowback during the week. Not like the other clergy who are accountable twenty-four-seven.”

“What the hell would you say about penguins?”

“They got strong survival skills.”

Mack shook his head.

“I was watching one of those TV nature shows. All about the penguins in the Arctic. They waddle around in the snow and ice, no shelter. No caves, no rocks to hide behind. So they huddle in a huge mass. The frigid wind blasts them. The ones in the middle of the mass survive with their shared warmth.”

“Yeah, but what about the poor bastards on the edge? They get the brunt of everything.”

“That’s where I make my point. After a while the ones in the middle of the mass separate, crack open to let the ones on the edge come in. Then others take their place for a while. They rotate to survive.”

“I’m not seeing it,” Charlie said.

“It’s a metaphor, Charlie. Family life. Friendship. Workplace. Even immigration.”

Charlie took a pill bottle out of his pocket. “Time for my statin.”

Mack said, “How’s your cholesterol doing?”

“Good. When they took out my gall bladder, the ultrasound tech said it was full of sand. Blobs of cholesterol. I can eat pretty much anything now.”

“Remember the days when pills kept us going?” Mack says. “Traveling around the country, one time zone to another. Jet lag. Delayed flights and early morning presentations.”

“Don’t miss it at all,” Pete said.

“You still working at the Harley dealership?” Mack asked Charlie.

Charlie nodded as he swallowed his pill. “I’m part-time. Beer money.”

“Sell any hogs lately?”

“Nah. I deal with accessories. Saddlebags, helmets, mud flaps.”

“Any Angels come through?”

“A few…” Charlie sat forward. “I had a guy come in yesterday. A lard-ass lawyer, pulls in on a Harley that must have cost him a year’s income. He’s part of the crew of lawyers and accountants that ride up and down the Interstate on weekends.”

“Boring,” Mack said.

“Boring, but they got money.”

Mack shrugged. 

“Seriously. I still got my sales skills. This guy wanted saddlebags with brass studs. I looked him over. He was wearing a black tee shirt and dad jeans. I says to him, ‘You need protection.’”

Charlie smiled. “He looks at me like I was crazy. ‘I wear sunblock,’ he says”

“No, no. Protection from road rash.”

“‘What’s that?’ he says.”

“You need a leather jacket. Protect you from road rash when you fall.”

Charlie adjusts his fedora. “The guy is standing there shaking his head. I nailed him. He was rubbing his arms. I said, You’re gonna fall. Every rider does. Without a jacket they’ll be picking bits of asphalt and concrete off your skin for days.”

“And…?” Mack asked.

“So I sold him a $500 jacket.”

“Next round of coffees are on you,” Pete said.

Mack laughed. “I miss sales.”

Pete said, “Mack, did you ever tell Charlie about the Mets game?”

Mack smiled, turned to Charlie. “I was selling point-of-sale equipment to businesses. Based in New York at that time. I get a guy, Marketing tells me he’s a good target. Name is Buzz. Comes in from Iowa or Indiana, one of those places. He’s got a couple of food markets, looking to expand. So I figure, he must like baseball. I take him to an afternoon Mets game. We get to Shea after the game had started. I grab two dogs and a couple of beers. While we’re watching the game, this Buzz guy keeps looking around at the people in the stands. After a while, he leans in close and asks me, ‘Why are all the people in the stands wearing those skull caps’?”

“So I look around. We’re sitting in the stands in the middle of a bunch of Jewish guys wearing yarmulkes. I figure, I can take this guy for a ride. So I said, we got here late. Today is free yarmulke day. Get here early and get a yarmulke. You know, like free bat day. Buzz says, oh, okay, then goes back to eating his hot dog.”

“Did you get the sale?”

“I did, but six months later his business flopped.”

“Back to my penguins,” Pete said. “It’s all about survival. I come from an Irish background. My aunt married an Italian man. Name of Sal. My grandmother refused to attend their wedding. Wouldn’t talk to them for years.”

“That was harsh,” Mack said.

“Yeah, but you know, after a while my grandmother cracked a bit. She let Sal into the family. Sal and my aunt ended up surviving.”

“I hear you,” Mack said.

An older man stepped out onto the patio. The only free table was in the full sun. He sat, clutching what looked like a hot coffee. He wore no hat.

Mack looked in Pete’s direction. “Penguins, huh?”

Pete nodded.

Mack called out to the guy at the open table. “Hey, buddy.”

The man looked over, a bit hesitant.

“You alone?”

The man said, “Yeah.”

Mack slid his chair to the side.

“Drag your chair over and get out of the sun.”

“You sure?” The man smiled, moved over to their table.

“Thanks. That sun is fierce.”

The three guys smiled, nodded.

“So, I don’t want to interrupt. What are you guys talking about?”

Mack said, “Penguins.”

***

shortfiction24- looking for america

Aiden Connor leaves Belfast to do his senior year of high school in New Hampshire. Will he find America?

I repeat my favorite mantra from Hemingway: Write hard and clear about what hurts. School gun violence, and the failure of legislators to correct it.

Enjoy the story.

Looking for America

Bob Gillen

Aiden Connor set a cordless drill down on the stage floor, brushed sawdust off his jeans, and pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket. He pushed his white beanie higher on his forehead as he read a message. A text from his father. Aunt Maeve says you’re a big help around her B&B. Proud of you, lad. Keep ‘er lit. And keep looking for America.

A girl with short dark hair and a baggy, paint-spotted orange hoodie called over to Aiden. “Hey, Irish. Nice work.” She pointed to braces Aiden had screwed to a scenery flat.

Aiden felt a blush rise in his cheeks. 

“I’m Riley. Riley Reedy. A senior, like you. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet.” She held a paint brush as she stood in front of a scenery flat she was painting, a castle wall in grays and blacks.

“Aiden Connor.” 

“How do you like living in New Hampshire?” She waved her brush in a circle.

“It’s cool. Lot to get used to.”

Riley set her brush down and wiped her hands. “You came over from Ireland, right?”

“This summer, right. Came from Belfast.”

“Why?”

“My aunt runs a B&B here. Her husband died. She needs help while she decides whether or not to sell the business. My father sent me.”

Riley pointed again at Aiden’s work. “You look like you know what you’re doing. Where’d you learn that?”

“My dad is a carpenter. Works on some film sets, too. Learned it all from him.” He reached for a handful of wood screws. 

Riley continued. “What’s different here?”

Aiden shrugged. “I dunno. Here’s less diverse. We have a lot of immigrants coming in.”

He nodded at Riley’s paint work. “We got murals all over Belfast. Ever done any?”

“Last year’s play…I did a set-wide mural.”

Two boys approached from the backstage area. “Going to the cemetery tonight?” they asked Riley. When she said yes, they looked at Aiden. “You come too, Irish.”

Aiden looked down. “My aunt will be expecting me. I have her truck.”

Riley said, “Text her. Say we’re working late on the set.”

“Maybe.”

The boys turned away. Riley gathered up her paint gear and went to wash off her brush. 

When Riley returned, wiping her hands on a clean rag, Aiden was staring at  his phone. “Who’s texting you?”

“My dad.”

“Can I look?” Riley asked.”I’ve never seen a text from another country.”

Aiden shook his head, laughed. “They’re the same.” He held out the phone for her to see. Aunt Maeve says you’re a big help around her B&B. Proud of you, lad. Keep ‘er lit. And keep looking for America.

“What does he mean, ‘looking for America’?”

Aiden shrugged. “He keeps telling me to treat this like an adventure. To search for the real America. Not what we see on Irish TV.”

He texted back to his dad. Aunt Maeve’s great. Miss you, da. Building sets for a school play. Everyone likes my work. Learned it all from you.

Riley shoved her hands in her pockets. “My grandfather came over from Ireland. Don’t know what part. He owns a bar in New York City. Reedy’s. I went there once with my parents.”

An hour later Aiden followed Riley’s car in his aunt’s truck as they pulled off on a road that backed the local cemetery. They ducked through a line of trees and came to a small clearing. A bunch of students from the school play milled around.

“Riley!” A boy called out. He ran up to her.

“Hey, Joey.”

“Look what I got for my birthday.” He showed her a pistol that lay flat in his open palms.

“Is it loaded?”

”Nah.” He shifted, too excited to stand still.

Riley took the gun, pointed it down to the ground, and checked the feel of the weapon. 

“Nice, Joey. Feels good in my hand. You’ll be tearing up the target range with this.”

Joey rushed off to show others his new gun.

“Lot to get used to,” Aiden said to Riley.

“No guns in Belfast?”

“Not like this.”

Another boy came by handing out cold beers. Riley took one. Aiden waved the boy off.

“You don’t drink?” Riley asked.

“Not this piss. It’s just water.”

Riley looked up at Aiden. She yanked the white beanie off his head. “Hunting season starts in three weeks. You’ll be a dead man in that hat.”

“More to get used to,” Aiden said as he stuffed the beanie in his pocket.

“I should take you hunting. I got a new scope for my rifle. Got my first deer last year.”

Riley noted that Aiden kept looking around, watching the perimeter of the clearing. “You nervous or something, Irish?”

Aiden remained silent for a few moments. In a hushed voice he said, “Don’t have a good history with cemeteries.”

“You got ghosts in Belfast?”

Aiden rubbed a spot over his right eyebrow. “You can’t see this in the dark. I have a scar. A Garda clubbed me one night. I was in a cemetery drinking with other fellas. The Garda came in swinging. I tried to cover one of my mates. I got clubbed. Four stitches.”

“What’s Garda?” 

“Our police.”

“You’re okay here. No one bothers us. We know to keep it down.”

At home later, Aiden took a moment to text his dad. Hey Da. School’s okay. So much to get used to. 

His dad replied right away. Fair play, lad. Keep looking for America.

Aiden fell asleep with a smile. 

The next morning Aiden arrived at school an hour late. The kitchen sink in his aunt’s home had sprung a leak and he stayed to fix it. As he entered the school building, a security guard greeted him and asked to examine his backpack. Cleared, Aiden got a late pass from the office and headed down the hall to his classroom. 

Aiden stopped cold. A young man with an assault rifle appeared at the end of the hall. As he turned towards Aiden, Aiden spun his backpack around in front of himself. The shooter fired down the hall, blasting three holes in the backpack. A teacher walking next to Aiden went down clutching his leg. 

The shooter entered a classroom and began firing. Alarms rang throughout the building. Screams and the roar of gunfire obliterated the alarms.

Aiden dropped his backpack, helped the teacher to his feet, and half dragged him to the office. The security guard, gun drawn, ran past them in the direction of the gunfire. Office staff locked the door behind them and the school nurse immediately tended to the teacher’s wound. Aiden collapsed to the floor, sat there stunned as more gunfire rang out. 

And then…silence. Broken by the PA system blaring, “Emergency. Please evacuate the building immediately. Gather out on the ball field.”

Aiden race-walked out of the building along with a horde of students, everyone holding their hands high. He sat down with his back against a chainlink fence and texted his aunt. I’m okay. 

Aiden wrapped his arms around his knees, staring as students frantically texted their families and first responders screamed onto the campus. He spotted Riley staggering past and called out to her. She heard his voice, searched the crowd till she found him. Tears poured down her face.

She slumped down next to Aiden. “Joey’s dead. The shooter got him. Other kids, too.”

Riley sobbed as Aiden put his arm around her shoulder and held her. He had no words.

His phone vibrated. Aunt Maeve. I heard the news. Are you okay?

He answered, Yes. Fine. See you later.

Minutes later his phone vibrated again. His dad. Maeve says there’s a school shooting. Are you okay?

Aiden hesitated. He scanned the chaotic scene in front of him. Heard nothing but sirens and shouting. Riley continued to sob. He poised his thumbs over the phone keyboard.

I’m okay, Da. I found America.

 ***

shortfiction24 – a light after sunset

A woman fired from her university teaching position struggles to find her way forward. An unlikely encounter reveals a note of hope.

I don’t often write in first-person POV, but this story seemed to need it. Please enjoy!

A Light After Sunset

Bob Gillen

As the setting sun slides below the day’s cloud cover, I turn away from the view. I feel the dying warmth on my back as I plod through the sand. My own footprints are lost among the thousands of footprints pockmarking the beach. Pretty much how I feel today. Lost. Down near the water’s edge a man sets up a tripod to capture photos of the sunset. This puzzles me. These images can be beautiful. But photographing something that is dying? I yearn for the glory of an open beach in full sun, its golden sand shining brightly, kissed over and over by sparkling waves. 

I take in one long breath of the salt air as I leave the beach. Someone has decorated the path over the dunes with strips of driftwood, even a few worn lobster trap buoys. The colors on the buoys seem to match my appearance this evening. Denim shorts, an old red tee, a floppy white hat atop my head. A black shoulder bag sits against my side. Like the buoys I feel worn. Faded. Tired.

 The path takes me to a near-empty parking lot, where I brush sand from my feet and slip on my flip-flops. Labor Day passed last week. Tourists are gone. Locals have regained their home ground. I walk the road that takes me to town. The smell of hot asphalt assaults my nose. 

This is a town I am unfamiliar with. I am like a leftover tourist. A coffee shop displays an OPEN sign in the window. I step in, purchase a hot tea and an almond croissant, and carry my snack through the town.

At the marina on the bay side two gulls startle me with their screeching as they fight over an empty bag of chips. I find the cabin cruiser I rented for several weeks. The New Dawn. A lovely, 35-foot boat, well maintained but rarely out of its slip. I balance the tea as I step aboard. Many of the other boats have already moved on to their home ports. I sit in a folding beach chair on the deck, setting my tea and croissant on the rail. 

My phone is in my hand before I realize I’m holding it. A habit I hope to break while I’m here. My messages are few. No job offers. An email from a former student who has found a new MFA program online. He seems happy with the move.

I sip my tea, a delightful drink with a hint of cinnamon. The croissant is surprisingly tasty. I stare at my phone. I had expected to be busy teaching my ninth year of creative writing in an MFA program. The university shut the program down unexpectedly. My students found placement in other programs. I was fired. Budget cuts, they claimed. Not enough interest in a program that did not lead to a lucrative career for its grads.

I am here now, sitting alone on a rented boat as semesters begin across the country.  Sitting here, on a boat that doesn’t go to sea any more. A teacher who won’t step into a class this year. Maybe never.

This boat is comfortable enough. In the cabin two narrow bunks, a tiny toilet, a galley that can accommodate a kettle and a burner for a small fry pan. A shelf with a row of old books lining one side. Space for me to stow clothes and my own books. The cabin smells faintly of varnish and burnt coffee.

The sun is down now and night edges in. Lights flicker on all around the marina and the town. I hear the sound of a conversation drifting over from a boat five slips farther away. The scent of aromatic cherry tobacco drifts on the breeze. Ice cubes tinkle on glass. An older couple enjoys drinks, talking about where they want to eat dinner. A majestic sport boat motors by, in from a day of fishing, its gentle wake slurping under my boat.

I finish my tea and swallow the last of the croissant. In spite of the hot tea the cool evening air makes me shiver. I step into the cabin to retrieve a sweatshirt. When I return to the deck, a woman is standing dockside, looking across at my boat.

I nod to the woman, sit in my chair. Without looking up I can feel the woman continuing to stare at the boat. At me. I glance at my phone again, turn an eye to see the woman still standing there. The woman looks sunburned, her graying hair tousled. She wears patched jeans, a tattered Christmas sweater with a red pompom, two different sneakers. She holds a plastic bag stuffed full of what looks like clothes.

The intrusion makes me squirm. I don’t need this. Not tonight. Not ever.

The woman shuffles her feet, turns away. I call out, surprised by the sound of my own voice. “Can I help you?”

The woman turns back. She shakes her head. Turns away again. Remains standing in place.

“Would you like to sit for a bit?”

I point to a folded beach chair on the deck.

The woman turns to face me. Without a sound she steps aboard, sets her bag down, unfolds the chair. She sits.

The woman seems to melt into the chair, sighing with comfort. 

“It’s only a flimsy beach chair,” I say.

The woman nods, avoiding eye contact. 

A long scar on the woman’s neck catches my eye. 

I point. “Have you had surgery?”

The woman touches her neck, nods slowly. Her eyes fall to the floor of the deck.

“I can’t offer any food,” I say. “I plan to shop tomorrow.”

The woman shrugs. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a candy bar. She unwraps it and takes a bite.

“I like your sweater.”

The woman looks down, seems surprised at the Christmas display, a reindeer with a huge red nose.. She cracks a tiny smile.

I glance at my phone again. Old  habit. No one will reach out. I shove it in my pocket.

A gentle night breeze brushes my face. Light from a nearby lamppost falls on the woman. She chews slowly on her candy bar. Almost oblivious to my presence. I think, Now what? She can’t stay here all night.

My curiosity grows. Who is she? Where is she from?

A marina security guard strolls by. He nods to me. Calls out to the woman, “Hi, Dasha.” He walks on as she gives him a brief wave. 

“Your name is Dasha?”

She nods as she pushes the empty candy wrapper into her bag.

“I’m Letitia,” I say.

Another silent nod. Still no eye contact.

The darkness is complete now. Full quiet has fallen on the marina. It’s me and Dasha. Sitting here. Not speaking.

Dasha reaches into her bag, pulls out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen. She turns her chair so the light from the lamppost falls on her lap. She starts to write. Print, actually. In large letters. She holds it up for me to read.

I have no voice. Surgery and chemo stole my voice.

I reply, “Is that permanent?”

She nods yes. Then shrugs. Her eyes reflect the dark of the water alongside the boat.

“I’m sorry. That must make life difficult for you.”

Dasha once again lifts her shoulders in a shrug, the reindeer on her holiday sweater rising and falling with the movement.

“Do you live around here?” I ask.

She nods once. With her hand she makes a circling motion.

“Here in the town?”

A shrug.

I find myself talking. “I’m renting this boat for a few weeks. I was fired from my job last month. I came here to find a few days of peace. To decide what to do.”

Her eyes lift to meet mine. She smiles. I sense that she understands.

“I don’t know the town. Maybe one day you could walk me around…show me what’s here.”

I see a brightness rise in her eyes. 

Dasha stands. She picks up her bag, pushes the notebook and pen inside.

“Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

She again makes the circling movement with her arm.

“You’re homeless, right?”

I see her shoulders sag. She starts to climb off the deck.

“Do you want to share my cabin tonight? It’s not much, but it beats sleeping outside.”

Dasha turns, smiles. A tear runs down her cheek. She nods, a firmness in her jaw.

“Let me make tea for us. Then we can turn in for the night. Tomorrow we can figure something out.”

Dasha reaches into her bag, pulls out a zipped bag with several tea bags. She offers one to me. A chamomile bag. I hesitate. Where had this bag been? But I put out my hand and take it. I step down into the galley and set my kettle on the tiny stove. 

Dasha follows me down into the cabin. She points to the bunks. “This one is mine,” I say. “You can have the other.”

She sets her bag on the bunk. Rubs her hand to smooth the blanket covering the bunk. She stretches out, forming a pillow with her bag. 

When I pour the hot water into two mugs, I turn to see that Dasha is sound asleep. I grab an extra blanket stowed under the bunk and drape it over her. 

A weariness washes over me. Ignoring the tea, I lie down on the bunk, still dressed. The smell of chamomile lingers in the cabin. 

A smile breaks across my face. No clue why. I am lying in a rented boat’s cabin. I am jobless. Sleeping in the bunk next to me is a homeless woman named Dasha. A woman who stepped into my life only moments ago. I have no idea why she’s here, or what tomorrow will bring. 

Only hours ago I stood on the beach with my back turned to the sunset. No mind for dying light, I told myself. Now, outside, total darkness has dropped. Yet when I close my eyes a light flickers.  A light rising up from my heart. What comes to mind is standing in wet sand at the edge of the beach as a wave softly washes over my feet. The wave pulls back, sucking sand with it, leaving my feet a bit deeper in the sand. Deeper in the beauty of a sunlit beach.

I smile.

***

shortfiction24 – no sleepover tonight

A planned sleepover is blown away by a school shooter. Maggie’s quick wit saves her friend from bleeding out after a school shooting.

Enjoy the story. I hope it does even a tiny bit to raise awareness of the horrific events.

No Sleepover Tonight

Bob Gillen

Maggie’s seat near the back of the American History class made it easier for her to text her friend without the teacher spotting her. 

can’t wait for the sleepover tonite

The girl sitting next to Maggie reached for her phone.

so ready, good for vaping?

 Brooke smiled across at Maggie.

Maggie dropped her phone and stooped down to pick it up from the floor.

The roar of an automatic weapon erupted in the hall outside the classroom. Maggie heard screams. 

The classroom door smashed open. 

Gunfire sprayed the room. 

Maggie stayed near the floor. Huddled into a ball, covering her head. She felt a weight fall against her.

In the hall men shouted. Maggie heard Pop Pop Pop. Someone yelled “clear.”

A moment of silence, followed by more screams, moans, sobbing. A boy yelled, “Help me!”

Maggie tried to move the weight off her back. The weight slipped to the floor. 

Brooke! 

Covered in blood.

Brooke opened her eyes, looked at Maggie. “Is that my blood?”

Maggie stared in shock. Brooke said, “Don’t let me die, Mags. I don’t want to die.”

Maggie checked Brooke’s body. Blood poured from her shoulder. Maggie reached under her desk for her backpack. She pulled out a handful of period pads. 

Without speaking she stuffed several pads into Brooke’s shoulder wound. “Roll over,” she told Brooke. “There must be an exit wound.” Brooke groaned as she turned. Maggie shoved more pads into the exit wound. Brooke rolled back. Her eyes met Maggie’s. 

“Don’t let me die.”

Maggie sensed chaotic activity in the room. Someone was directing the uninjured out of the room. A female police officer stepped up to Maggie. She examined Brooke. “A shoulder wound?”

Maggie nodded. 

“EMTs will be here in a few minutes. Hang on.”

The officer looked at Maggie. “Are you hurt?”

Maggie looked at herself. Hands and arms covered in blood. Jeans soaked from kneeling in blood. “I’m okay.” She pointed at Brooke. “It’s all her blood.”

The officer waved an EMT over. The EMT checked Brooke’s wound. He poked at the blood-soaked pads. He looked at Maggie. “Did you pack the wounds?”

Maggie uttered a weak, “yes.”

“You saved her life. Nice work.”

Tears poured down Maggie’s face. She reached up to wipe the tears, ended up smearing blood over her face. The EMT handed her a wipe.

They placed Brooke on a gurney. Brooke touched Maggie’s hand. “No sleepover tonight.”

“I’ll sleep over at the hospital one night.”

They wheeled her out. Maggie attempted to stand and look around. The female officer blocked her vision. “Nothing here you want to see.” She escorted Maggie out to the hall and away from the classroom.

Students were streaming out of the building. Police and first responders rushed in. Teachers helped with directing traffic.

The police officer took Maggie outside, steering her to a bench. “You saved that girl’s life. Be proud.”

Maggie lowered her head. Tears flowed. A teacher came over, said to the officer, “I’ll sit with her.”

Ambulances screamed away to ERs. More responders roared in. News media swarmed the scene.

Maggie and the teacher sat in the middle of it all. She wiped her blood-soaked hands on her jeans. She turned to face the teacher. “Did they kill the shooter?”

The teacher nodded.

Maggie stood. “I need to go back in there. I want to kick the shit out of the fucker’s dead body.”

***

shortfiction24 – estranged no more

Jack spends a few days at Diane’s house recovering from prostate removal surgery. An unexpected visitor brings possible healing to a long-estranged family member.

This is #8 in the ongoing Jack and Diane series of stories, which originated in November of 2021. As I have said before, I have no plan, no story arc, for the series. Each story has arisen from the prior ones, the characters not willing to fade away.

You can read the first seven stories here.

Estranged No More

Bob Gillen

Diane Somers idled her old Volvo 142S in front of the hospital entrance. She slid out of her seat as a hospital volunteer pushed Jack Marin’s wheelchair out to the curb. 

Jack managed to stand on his own, hang onto the door, and slide into the Volvo. A few curse words ensued. Diane thanked the volunteer, got Jack’s seatbelt secured, and climbed in. 

“Ready?” she asked Jack.

“So ready. Wait, do I need to tip the volunteer?”

Diane grinned. “Not necessary.”

Jack squirmed to adjust himself in his seat. “My doc had said two or three days in here after the surgery. It took five days for them to release me.”

“It was a big surgery,” Diane said. “You were on the table for five hours.”

“Yeah. They had some job removing my monster prostate.”

“Your doctor said it was thirty five grams.”

“More like twenty pounds, I think.”

Diane laughed. “Let’s get you home.”

Jack enjoyed seeing the familiar sights as they drove to Diane’s house. He squinted into the bright sun and moved the sun visor down. A piece of paper fell into his lap. He reached for it. A photo. “This looks like you with your husband and Margaret.”

“Wait till we stop for a red light and I’ll take a look.”

At the next light she glanced at the photo. “Yeah. Me and Frank, and Margaret.Frank must have put it there.”

“I’ve only been to your place a few times,” Jack said. “I don’t think I saw any pictures of your family.”

Diane sighed. “I have one picture in my bedroom. Our wedding picture. I like to think about beginnings, not endings.”

“Nothing in between?” Jack asked.

“I put all the photos away when Margaret alienated herself from me.”

Diane pointed. “Put the photo back in the visor.”

As the traffic light changed, she said, “I set you up in the spare bedroom…and cleared the couch. You should be comfortable for a few days till you get your strength back.”

She backed into the driveway to position the passenger side near the front door. Jack pulled himself out of the seat and stood holding onto the door. Diane came around and supported him.

“Let’s try the couch for a while,” Jack said. “I could use a dose of TV.”

Diane got him settled on the couch, set a blanket over him, and tucked a pillow behind his head.

“How about a sandwich?” she asked. “A turkey club?”

“Sounds good. Washed down with a beer?”

She handed him the TV remote and headed to the kitchen.

Jack rested his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I could sure use a shower but I think I should wait till tomorrow.”

“No worries,” Diane called from the kitchen. “I’ve got room deodorizer.”

“Funny.”

Diane came in with a luscious sandwich and a sweet pickle slice on a plate, a cold longneck in her other hand. 

“This looks great,” he said. He reached for the bottle and took a long swig, a smile breaking across his face.

“Beats hospital meals, I hope.”

“It does, but you know, their food wasn’t that bad. A turkey dinner one night, meatloaf and mashed potatoes another night. Not bad at all.”

Jack devoured the sandwich. “How about another beer?”

“Let’s take it easy,” she said. “You’re still on meds. Why don’t you take a nap?”

Jack nodded, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

The following morning, after a breakfast of bacon and eggs in bed, a home health physical therapist named Molly showed up to assess Jack’s condition and start him on some core-building exercises.

“I know you’d rather stay in bed, but we need to re-build your strength after the surgery. Are you in any pain?”

“My lower back hurts,” Jack said.

“We can work on that.” Molly put Jack through a series of PT exercises while he was lying down.

“Now let’s get you up to a standing position.”

Diane handed her a walker she had rented for Jack till he got stronger.

Jack tried to sit up and swing his legs off the bed.

“Oh…oh, sweet Jesus!” he cried. “I can’t do this.”

Molly stepped forward with the walker. “Hold on to this, roll your legs off the bed, pull yourself up.”

Jack grimaced, cursed. On the third try he got to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

“Can you stand?”

Gripping the walker, Jack hoisted himself to an upright position. “Standing is easier.”

Molly helped Jack walk through the living room and into the kitchen.

Standing against the counter, she had him move up on his toes, then back on his heels, ten times.

“I want you to do this twice a day,” she said. “And I’ll leave you with a page of exercises to do. I’ll be back in two days.”

“This isn’t too bad,” Jack said. “It’s the getting out of bed that hurts like hell.”

“That will get easier as you build your core.”

Later that afternoon, after a nap, Jack watched TV from the couch. Diane brought him a cold beer. She sat, leaned gently against him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty shitty, overall.”

He sipped the beer. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Diane had stocked the guest bathroom with adult disposable underpants. Jack dragged himself to the bathroom. He struggled to get his pants off and change the paper underpants. “Taking these big-kid underpants on and off is a real pain,” he called out.

Diane cracked the door, handed him a package. “I also bought you men’s pads. You can change them without taking your pants off.”

“Brilliant,” he said.

“We girls been down this road before.”

Later, at dinner, Jack devoured chicken tacos, rice and beans. “You’re spoiling me. I won’t be able to do this when I get back to my own house.”

Jack lowered his head into his hands. He sighed deeply. “This isn’t how I pictured my life going.”

“It is what it is,” Diane said. She rubbed his shoulder.

“Lying in the hospital bed all I could think of was how fucked up my life is now. After my wife died, I mourned for a year, then found a routine. It wasn’t much, but it worked for me. Now…that’s all in the wind. I can’t travel any distance because of the incontinence. I can barely get out of bed. Instead of walking, I’m teeter tottering. I could never pass a DUI test.”

Diane smiled. “Relax. It’s only been a week. You’ll get there.”

She got up and cleared away the dinner dishes. “How about watching a movie?”

Jack smirked. “If I can stay awake…”

The following morning Jack pushed himself to get up from his bed and use the walker to move to the kitchen table. Diane stood at the stove in her robe, flipping buttermilk pancakes. 

Jack poured a mug of coffee and sat at the table. “You are clearly spoiling me.”

“It feels good to have someone else in the house. I’ll feel lonely when you go back to your own place.” She set a plate of pancakes in front of Jack. “Syrup’s there if you want it.”

The doorbell rang.

“Huh.” Diane said. “Who could that be?”

“Expecting any packages?”

Diane shook her head as she stepped to the door.

A woman stood in the door, backlit by the morning sun.

Diane peered at the figure. “Margaret?”

“Mom.”

Diane stood frozen for a moment. 

“Have you been driving dad’s Volvo?” Margaret pointed to the driveway.

“A mission of mercy.”

“Can I come in?”

Diane stepped aside. “Of course. Forgive my shock.”

Margaret entered the house. She wore jeans, a loose sweater, her hair in a long ponytail.

“Who is it?” Jack called from the kitchen.

Margaret whipped around at Diane. “That’s a man’s voice.”

“Come in and meet Jack.” Diane walked into the kitchen.

Margaret followed her. She stood staring at Jack. A man at her mom’s kitchen table. In his pajamas. Eating breakfast. 

“Jack, this is my daughter Margaret. Margaret, Jack.”

“We’ve met,” Jack said. “At the cemetery last month.”

Margaret said nothing. She glared at Diane.

“Do you want coffee?”

Margaret shook her head.

“How could you?”

“How could I what?” Diane said.

“You kept dad’s terminal sickness from me three years ago. Now you have a guy living in with you and you didn’t tell me.”

Margaret turned, ready to storm out. Jack stood, awkwardly, and reached out to her.

“Please stay,” he said.

Margaret said, her back to Jack, “Why? More lies. She’s replacing my dad already. I’ve had enough.”

Diane flared in anger. She threw a dishtowel down on the table. “Hold on. You chose to stay away from me for these three years. Now you show up out of the blue and begin making judgements on me and Jack.”

“I can see what this is,” Margaret said, turning back to face Diane.

“No,” Jack interrupted. “You’re not seeing what this is.” He grimaced in pain as he moved, and quickly sat down.

“Margaret, I don’t know what brought you here today.” Her anger softened. “But I am thrilled that you’re here. Can you sit and talk with us for a few minutes?”

Margaret glared at both of them, then slowly sat, hanging her purse over the back of the chair. Diane put a cup of coffee in front of her.

Margaret had estranged herself from Diane since her father’s death three years ago. The separation had sat heavily on Diane’s heart, carrying her husband’s loss alone until she met Jack.

Diane spoke. “Let’s clear the air about Jack. He is someone I am seeing. We met on a dating app maybe six months ago. We have both lost spouses. Both retired. Both looking, quite tentatively, to have someone in our lives. Jack is here because he’s recovering from surgery and needs support for a few days till he can go back to his own place.”

Jack leaned on the walker. “I had my prostate removed because of a carcinoma. I was on the table for five hours. Your mom is helping me. I can barely get out of bed. I am fumbling all over the place. And I am now incontinent from the surgery.”

“TMI,” Margaret said, holding a palm up in Jack’s direction.

“Just putting it all out there,” Jack shrugged.

Diane spoke, “We are moving slowly in our relationship. And as to intimacy, that’s none of your business.”

Margaret spoke softly to Jack, “When I saw you at the cemetery with my mom, I figured it was something serious. She wouldn’t bring just anyone to dad’s grave.” 

Diane had taken Jack to Frank’s grave on Margaret’s birthday a month ago. One of the three times each year she visited the grave. Watching from a distance, Margaret had tried to talk to Jack while he strolled around the cemetery. Jack had refused, saying he did not want to get in the middle of the two and their difficult relationship. It was later that Diane had told him, you’re in the middle, or you’re out. Your choice. Jack had chosen to continue his relationship with Diane.

“And speaking of your dad,” Diane said, “it was his decision, not mine, not to tell you how serious his illness was. He didn’t want you suffering through his last weeks. I brought you in only when he said he was ready to see you.”

Margaret began crying. She rubbed away tears. “I could have sat with him in those last weeks.”

Diane also began crying. “We wasted these three years. I could have told you this if you had listened…if you had not stayed away.”

She stood and hugged Margaret’s shoulders. Margaret put a hand on Diane’s arm. “I couldn’t deal…”

“You’re here now.” She pulled Margaret to a standing position and hugged her hard. Both sobbed deeply. 

Jack sipped his coffee. 

After the two women had eased their sobbing, Jack said, “It’s good to see you two together. But the pancakes are getting cold. Margaret, please sit and eat with us.”

Margaret sat, grabbed a couple of napkins to wipe her eyes and nose. Diane reached for another plate.

“But I’m curious,” Jack continued. “What brings you here, Margaret? Why today?”

Margaret smiled, met Diane’s eyes. She set her hands over her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

***

shortfiction24 – talking an old man down

Travis ditches school for one more day on the water before fall turns to winter. He encounters an old man languishing in the marshes. Is the old man there to die?

I first posted this story in June of 2020. This is a revised version with more depth of feeling, I hope, Please enjoy the story.

Talking an Old Man Down

Bob Gillen

Blowing off a school day in mid October, Travis steered his small boat down the creek and out toward the open bay. A last day of freedom on the water before the seasons changed, before fall slipped into winter. A light breeze carried the sharp, sweet smell of wood smoke from nearby chimneys. A brilliant blue sky dotted with white cloud specks offered the perfect backdrop.

Travis moved east, passed under the railroad trestle that intersected the bay, and swung south. He soon eased up to a narrow beach accessible only by boat. Tiny black snails littered the sandy bottom at the shore’s edge. He tilted his outboard motor out of the water to keep the propeller from striking the bottom. He slipped off his sneakers, rolled his pants legs up to his knees, and hopped out of the boat into the clear, warm water.

All summer Travis had spent hours scouring the bay’s beaches and marshes for treasure, anything useful washed up or adrift. The best thing he had ever found was a varnished oar.

Today’s scrounging yielded nothing but a shredded nylon rope. He pushed the boat off the beach, left the motor tilted up, and used an oar to pole his way parallel to the beach till he reached the narrow channel he knew snaked through the marsh that filled the center of the bay.

Travis took in the slight odor of decay underlying the salty smell of marsh grasses and tall reeds. The tide ran high. He had a few hours till he needed to worry about getting caught in the shallows.

A swarm of flies surviving from summer flitted frantically around the boat. His oar sent up a billow of sand every time it touched bottom. A horseshoe crab glided by under his boat, dodging his oar. A battered rowboat appeared, stuck deep in the marsh grass. A quick glance told him there was nothing to be salvaged from the wreck.

Fifteen minutes later Travis rounded a curve in the narrow channel. The grasses here grew straight up over his head. He spotted a boat up ahead. Bigger than his. A tiny cabin, looking like an afterthought, stood at the bow. 

Got to be something useful on this boat, Travis thought. He edged his own boat closer. He spied an outboard engine on the stern. “Oh wow! A motor!” he said aloud. He poled closer. 

Stopped cold. 

Sitting on a tattered beach chair in the back of the boat was an old man. 

An old man with his back to Travis. Dozing?

“Hello,” Travis called out. The man jumped, shaking his boat, ripples playing out into the channel. He turned to look at Travis.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus. “Beat it. Keep moving.”

Travis ignored the old man’s hostility. “Sorry to startle you. I’m just moving through the channel.”

“Well, move on by.” The old man gave a sharp gesture toward the channel.

Curious and confused, Travis moved closer to the old man. He got a better look at his boat. White paint faded, peeling in places. Barnacles and sea grass adhering to the boat under the waterline. A dented outboard motor tilted up out of the water.

“Did you run out of gas?” Travis asked.

A croak. “I said, keep moving.”

Travis hesitated. He couldn’t leave the old man stranded. Could he? “I can spare some gas, or tow you out of here.”

“How many times do I have to say, get lost?” The old man turned his back, wrapped his arms around himself.

Travis felt an uneasy vibe. He poled his boat closer to the old man’s. 

“Are you hungry? I’ve got a couple of sandwiches I can share.”

Silence, broken only by a screeching gull.

Travis noticed that the propeller on the old man’s motor was missing.

“Where’s your propeller?”

The old man pointed toward the marsh grasses.

“It fell off? I can help you find it.”

“I don’t want to find it. I threw it in there.” He waved towards the marsh. “It’s gone.”

Travis let his boat nudge up against the old man’s boat. He gripped it to hold the two together. 

The old man turned, glared. “Don’t touch my boat.”

Travis could see at least a week’s worth of gray stubble on the old man’s sunburned face. His shabby clothes hung loosely on his frame. Cigarette burns dotted the edge of the old man’s boat. 

“You look hungry.” Travis dug out a sandwich and offered half to the old man. “It’s only peanut butter and jelly.”

The old man looked at the sandwich. Pushed Travis’s arm away.

“What are you going to do?” Travis asked. “The tide will be going out soon. You’ll be stuck in here.”

The old man shrugged.

Travis shook his head. “You’re weird. You going to sit here till you die?”

The old man looked hard at him. A single tear rolled down his craggy cheek.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

That silenced Travis. He wants to die out here?

Travis continued to hold the two boats together as they bobbed gently.

“When was the last time you ate?”

The old man ignored the question.

“You going to die hungry, or do you want the sandwich?”

“What do you care?”

Travis stared at the soggy sandwich in his hand. “Not sure I care either way…I guess I never gave any thought to dying. It must be hard. But I don’t think I would want to die hungry.”

“Come back in a few days. I’ll let you know… if I’m still breathing. Otherwise, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

Travis could think of nothing to say for a few moments. Then, finally, “This is an awful place to die.”

“Not so bad. Water, open sky, quiet.”

“Won’t people miss you? Look for you?”

The old man shook his head. “No one cares.”

“Where do you live?”

“The south end of the bay.”

“Do you have family?”

“One son… lives three states away. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“No one else?”

“No one.”

“Neighbors?”

“None worth a damn.”

Travis waved a few flies away from his sandwich. He  bite into it, wiping stray grape jelly off his face.

“Why are you here?” the old man asked. “Isn’t today a school day?”

“I ditched.”

“Won’t they look for you?”

“They’ll call my mother. Get her voicemail.”

“What will she do?”

“Not much. Cry about how hard life is, how much she sacrifices for me.”

“My mother was like that too.”

“School sucks.”

“No argument there.”

“Today is my last day out on the water before I have to haul my boat out for the winter.”

“So you came in here to mess with me.”

The boy smiled. “It’s quiet in here. Peaceful. Away from everything.”

“So maybe not a bad place to die, huh?”

“I guess… how are you going to do this?”

“Sit here till death finds me.”

Travis once again offered his sandwich.

“Do you want half?”

The old man hesitated, stared at the sandwich. “If I eat it, it’ll take me longer to die.”

“Yeah, so…a few more minutes enjoying this.” Travis waved his arm up to the sky.

“Peanut butter?”

Travis said, “Yeah.”

“What the hell.” His hand trembled as he took the sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Why not die at home?”

The old man opened his arms to the marsh. “Why not here?”

“I got no answer for that.”

The two ate in silence for a few moments. 

“Am I supposed to talk you out of it? We have a suicide hotline at school. They try to talk you down.”

“You called the hotline?”

“Once. Mostly to see what it was like.”

“You wanted to die?”

“Not really. Just got sick of everything. Wanted to see if someone had a better idea.”

“And?”

“Nothing better. Just stuff about my future… about hurting my mom.”

“Was that enough?”

“Not really. I mean, I’m not depressed or anything. I just get tired sometimes.”

“I didn’t know kids felt like that.”

“I get tired of trying to figure things out.”

“What do you have to figure out at your age?”

“Girls.”

“Ah. Yeah, I get that.”

The old man finished his sandwich and wiped his hands on his pants. “So… are you going to beat it and leave me to die?”

Travis had no answer.

“This is what I want, buddy.”

“Really?”

The old man closed his watery eyes, drifted into silence once more. A silence that seemed to fill the entire marsh.

The old man’s eyes popped open. He turned to face Travis. “Want to know the truth, kid?”

“I guess so.”

A hoarse whisper broke from the old man. “Dying scares the shit out of me.”

“You said you want to sit here till you die.”

“Yeah, I said that.” The old man stared down at his feet. “I got nothing to live for here. I lost my pension. No one cares if I live or die. He pointed to the sky. “But the thought of the other side. I mean, shit, who knows what it’s like.”

“Do you believe in heaven?”

The old man took a deep breath. “What is that, really? Sit and stare at the clouds day after day after day? I don’t want that.”

“It’s supposed to be happiness…forever,” Travis said.

“Look, I’ve been sitting here for two days. I thought it would be a peaceful way to go. And… I am bored out of my skull. And when I die? More boredom. Only it will never stop.”

Travis felt his boat pulling away from the old man’s boat. He had to grip more tightly to keep the two together. 

“Tide’s shifting, isn’t it?” the old man said.

“Feels like it.”

“You don’t want to get stuck in here.”

Travis nodded. “I’ve got some time yet.”

“Don’t waste your time on me, boy.”

The marsh grass rustled as the afternoon breeze picked up. Gulls screeched off in the distance.

“Should I get someone to come in here for you?”

“No…not till I’m gone.”

Travis couldn’t bring himself to leave. “Let me take you home. Your boat can stay here. It’s a piece of junk anyway.”

The old man grimaced. “You takin’ a shot at my boat?”

“No offense, but it’s older than you are… and more messed up.”

“You think I’m in better shape than my boat? Thanks for the compliment.”

Travis laughed.

The old man smiled.

“I could help you fix it up,” Travis said.

“She looks like hell, but she’s tight and dry.”

“The bottom is covered with barnacles. It would have to be hauled and scraped. And it needs a good paint job.”

“More work than I want to do.”

“I could come weekends. Once my boat is out of the water, I won’t work on it till spring. I’ll have time.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know… I love working on boats. We could fix yours up pretty easily. Together.”

The two locked eyes. “And maybe it would keep you from dying.”

The ebbing tide increased its pull on Travis’s boat.

“Look, I gotta get out of here or I’ll be stuck till the next high tide.”

The old man said nothing.

“Come with me. Get in and we’ll tie your boat to mine.”

“Get going. I want to stay.”

“You just said you’re scared of dying.”

The old man smirked. “You were listening.”

“I always listen…at least outside the classroom.”

 “You got any more sandwiches?”

“You’ll have to get in my boat to find out.”

The old man cracked a thin smile. “A tough negotiator.”

He leaned over from his chair and gripped the edge of Travis’s boat. His feeble legs kicked the chair aside as he swung into the smaller boat. Travis held the old man’s arms. 

Travis took a length of rope from the floor of his boat, tied one end to a cleat on his stern, and tied the other end onto the old boat’s bow cleat.

Then he let go of the old man’s boat, felt the towline go taut, and began poling the boats out through the narrow channel, south toward deeper water on the old man’s side of the bay.

The old man said, “How about that sandwich?”

Travis handed over a sandwich. “What color can we paint your boat?”

“Whatever’s on sale.”

The old man chewed the sandwich while Travis stared at him. Did I just talk him down? Cool. 

“Not what you expected today, huh, kid?”

“Nope.” Travis grinned. “It sure beats Social Studies.”

***

shortfiction24 – on shooter watch

Retiree Will Morris appoints himself a watcher for his local neighborhood school. To protect against active shooters. The police and the school administration are wary of his motives.

Please enjoy the story.

On Shooter Watch

Bob Gillen

Will Morris had just poured himself a coffee from his Thermos container when the police cruiser pulled into the parking lot of the James P. Madden Middle School and positioned itself in front of his CRV. Will watched as a female officer keyed his plate number into her onboard screen. Apparently satisfied that both he and the car were legit, she slid from the patrol car and stepped over to his driver-side window. Will rolled it down.

“Morning, officer,” Will said, raising his coffee cup in her direction.

“Morning,” she said in return.

She took her time looking around the interior of Will’s car.

“Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle?” she asked.

Will set the cup of coffee carefully on the dash and got out.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” she said.

“No. Don’t own a gun. Don’t care to, either.”

The officer had Will step to the side so she could see clearly into his car.

“I see coffee and snack bars. You planning to be here for a while?”

“All day,” Will replied.

“What’s your business here?”

“Watching.”

The officer shook her head. “Watching for what?”

“Trouble…specifically, an active shooter.”

The officer’s facial expression turned to steel. “Active shooter?”

She motioned for Will to turn around. She frisked him. “No weapons.”

Will turned back to face her. “Officer, I retired six months ago. I have nothing of any consequence to do with my life. I watch the news all day. It tears me up every time I hear of yet another school shooting.”

“And this is your business?” 

“I can help in one small way by watching this school. I live a few blocks over. It’s convenient for me to watch here.”

The officer raised her head, looked off into the distance.

“Is there a problem with that?” he asked.

“We had a call from the school’s administration that an unknown man was loitering in the parking lot.” The officer stared straight at Will. “That would be you.”

Will shifted his stance. “First of all, I am no longer unknown. I saw you key in my plate number. You have my identity.”

The officer maintained her steely expression.

“I am trying to render a service to my community.” Will paused. “If I may express myself more clearly, since the gutless politicians in Congress turn their faces away from the many children murdered by guns in our schools, I figure someone should step up to help avoid more shootings.”

“That’s a fine motive,” the officer said. She gestured toward the school building. “But you’re making the people inside nervous.”

“I am not a creep or a perv. Perhaps I should introduce myself to them. Would that help?”

The officer stood tall. “Perhaps you should go home and leave the watching to us. One of us is always five minutes away.”

Will shook his head. “If I went home and something happened here – God forbid – I could never forgive myself.”

“You’re not armed.”

“No, ma’am. I have no intention of trying to stop an active shooter. Only provide an early warning of his presence.” He smiled. “I’m not a good guy with a gun.”

The officer took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. “Maybe we should take this inside.”

Half an hour later Will and the officer returned to the parking lot after a tense discussion with the school administration. The school principal reluctantly agreed to Will’s watching from the parking lot during school hours every day. Their attitude was, it can’t hurt. So long as the police vetted Will.

The officer again noted Will’s license and registration. Will offered her his phone number as well. “If you see my number come in on 911, you’ll know there’s trouble.”

She nodded. “My name is Stanton. Call this number if anything looks amiss.” She offered him a number which he immediately added to his contact list. “Keep your head low. I don’t want any trouble from you.” 

She drove off.

Will sat all day in his car, with time out for a bathroom break across the street in a fast food facility.

At the end of the school day he watched the children run to meet their parents for their rides home. The students screaming, laughing, hurling backpacks into the cars. The joy of another school day finished. They get to go home again. 

Will continued to watch, every day, for several months. The school staff warmed up to his presence, occasionally bringing him donuts or fresh coffee. He preferred to lie low and not be noticed.

In mid November, as the weather turned colder, Will sat in his CRV with a blanket wrapped around his legs. He sipped coffee, nibbled on an energy bar. Early snow flakes fell from a gray sky.

Late in the morning, Will spied a car pull into the parking lot. A beat-up Chevy splotched with rust and faded blue paint. The car circled the lot slowly, stopping for a few moments near the school’s entrance. Will set aside his coffee, yanked the blanket off his legs. Trouble?

The car circled for another pass. Will jotted down the license number. The car paused at the far end of the lot. Will saw the driver pull a beanie down low over his head. Will dialed Officer Stanton’s number. She picked up right away.

“I have a suspicious car cruising the parking lot. Here’s the plate number.”

Stanton said, “I’m on my way. Stay in your car.”

Will called the school office. “I’m seeing a suspicious car in the parking lot. You may want to lock the doors for a bit. Police are on the way.”

A siren pierced the quiet. Officer Stanton’s cruiser swerved in behind the suspicious car. Before she could get out, another cruiser roared in and blocked the Chevy from the front. Stanton eased out of her patrol car, hand on her gun holster, and stepped up to the car. 

Will heard Stanton shout, “Get out of your vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Moments later a young man in a baggy hoodie stood up against his car, legs spread, hands on the roof. The second officer peered in to the passenger window. 

“Cuff him,” he said to Stanton. “He’s got an assault rifle on the seat.”

Stanton yanked the man’s arms back and cuffed him. She spun him around. The second officer frisked him, found a hand gun stuffed in the pocket of the hoodie.

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

The man shrugged. Said nothing.

Two more police cruisers and an ambulance screamed into the lot. Several officers moved to protect the school entrance.

Stanton yanked the suspect away from his car. Shoved him in the back seat of her cruiser.

“Call the bomb squad,” the second officer said. “We’re not taking any chances with this vehicle.”

School officials put the school on lockdown as a precaution. 

Will remained in his car, watching the activity. While officers ran tape around the Chevy, Stanton stepped over to Will’s car. Will rolled the window down. She said, “You might want to move your car away from here.” Will nodded.

Stanton tapped the roof of Will’s car with her knuckle. “You did good.” She stepped away.

A broadcast news truck rolled into the lot as Will drove out. Will smiled. Said to himself, “Yeah, I did good, didn’t I? Kids will get to go home again today.”

***

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