Bob Gillen

Healing through story

Category: storytelling (Page 1 of 28)

shortfiction24 – cruising route 66 with charlie watts

October 22, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Nick’s story with Charlie Watts first ran here on the blog at the end of October. In a serendipitous moment, I found another spirit to join the story. While I was shopping at my local Trader Joe’s I chatted with Carla, the checker. She asked what I planned to do with the rest of my afternoon. I told her I would do some writing. She asked what kind of writing I did. I told her of my blog and the short stories. She asked, what’s the current story you’re working on? I gave her a brief summary of this story. After a pause, she lit up and said, You can have the two pick up a hitchhiker. Another musician. They can compare notes on their favorite performances. I was stunned! I came straight home, put away the groceries, and started outlining a revision to the story. Freddie Mercury became the hitchhiker.

Here’s the revised version. Thanks to Carla. I hope you enjoy the story.

Cruising Route 66 with Charlie Watts

Nick padded into the room and dropped into his worn leather chair, eyes set on the trees out beyond his patio sliders. A mild breeze stirred the few golden leaves still clinging to the tree tops. 

It had been a hard day. A hard week. Shit, a hard couple of months. He rubbed the skin around his eyes with the heels of his hands. So tired. Fatigue from his meds. Fatigue that drained him of all energy. Even brushing his teeth every morning was a forced effort. 

His oncologist had put him on an increasingly aggressive round of treatments. Something about the numbers in his blood work being skewed. Damn, his whole life felt skewed.

Nick reached for his iPad, opened Spotify and scanned through his library of saved music. One album caught his eye. The A,B,C and D of Boogie Woogie. One of Nick’s go-to albums. Recorded live at a tiny jazz club in Paris in 2010. Axel Zwingenberger and Ben Waters on pianos, Charlie Watts on drums, Dave Green on bass. Charlie Watts, also the drummer for The Rolling Stones. Charlie, gone now, four years ago. Nick connected to his soundbar, hit Play and poured himself two fingers of Jack Daniels, neat. Not a good idea considering all the meds in his system, but today he didn’t give a shit.

Nick closed his eyes as he sipped the drink, his hands cupped around the glass. The road trip song came up. “Route 66.” Pianos building through a modest intro to a rollicking melody as the drums and bass rumbled in. Vocals strung out on top.

Two thousand miles, Chicago to LA. Passing through St. Louie, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Flagstaff. Nick recalled making part of that drive several times himself. In healthier times. LA to Albuquerque. His kind of driving. A ribbon of interstate spooling out across the open desert. Usually only modest traffic. Cars, big rigs, all on the route with a purpose. 

Nick’s mind drifted, wishing he had been in the Paris café when this album was recorded live. A tiny venue, audience only feet from the stage. I wish I could play the piano, he muttered to himself. His mind ran back to the fifth grade, when he had taken piano lessons for a year. He hated it. Never felt the music. Never got past the rote practices. Now, a lifetime later, he rued not learning to play. Ironic, because at family gatherings he had loved when his mom played the piano and everyone gathered around to sing. 

As he sipped his drink, all he could feel was, shit, why am I so beat down?

The album music played on. What he heard was fun. Joy. Four men making music. Pianos swinging, bass and  drums providing a bottom. 

He squeezed his eyes tight as the recording played on. 

A breeze rustled his hair. A shudder ran up his spine. What the hell? He opened his eyes. 

Nick found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of a classic luxury Duesenberg. Deep green leather seats. Convertible top closed, the windows open to night desert air. He shook his head. 

This is not real.

He tapped the gas pedal and felt the large engine surge. He glanced to his right. In the passenger seat sat Charlie Watts, drummer on the album, more famously, drummer for the Stones. Nick shook his head in disbelief. Charlie’s spirit?

Charlie turned towards Nick, smiled. Nick’s voice squeaked, “What’s going on?” 

Charlie nodded as Nick kept his eye on the road. Well after midnight, Nick guessed. He peered out the window to see a black sky studded with countless stars. Inside, the dim lights of the dash lit his knees. A road sign told him he was rolling on Route 66.

Charlie wore a dark green suit that matched the car’s upholstery. White shirt and green paisley tie. His outfit wrinkle-free.

The two drove on. Passed several Swift big rigs making their night runs from their Arizona hub. The Route 66 music from the album came through the car’s sound system. “This is a beautiful car,” Nick said. “A model J, if I’m not mistaken.” He ran his hands over the wheel. “I read somewhere that you collected classic cars.”

Charlie nodded without turning. “Only European makes. This one was an exception.” 

Nick felt himself relaxing, easing back in his seat. He breathed in deeply, the smell of desert sage strong on the breeze. The music from the album continued to play. He watched Charlie drum lightly on his knees with a pair of drumsticks as they drove on. 

“Can I call you Charlie?” Nick asked.

Charlie nodded once. 

“How did I get here? Am I losing my mind?” 

“I have only a few words, Nicholas,” Charlie said, almost in a whisper. “I am here for a brief time.”

Nick scrunched his lips. “Okay, so what do I do? Just sit back and enjoy the ride?”

Charlie shook his head.

Nick looked hard at Charlie. “So I’m supposed to do something? Or say something?” 

Charlie, “Perhaps.”

“I read about you,” Nick said. “You collected vintage cars. But you didn’t drive. Didn’t have a license.”

Charlie shrugged.

“So you, like, collected toys and kept them in a garage. Only to look at them. That must have killed you…not being able to drive a beauty like this.”

Charlie lifted both hands in surrender. “I took pleasure in sitting in them with the engine running. Listening to the music of the machine.”

“Without moving?”

“Each car had a different sound, a unique vibration. It’s all in the listening.”

“But sitting in Park? No movement?”

“I spent almost sixty years drumming behind a front man. Always in the background. It’s who I am.”

“Your music…You were in the driver’s seat. The backbone of every song.”

Charlie grinned, nodded.

“It must have given you so much joy to play in that Paris café. The album is fantastic. I feel so much joy, such energy, when I listen to it.”

Charlie offered a wide smile. 

Nick drove on. He passed a slow-moving VW micro bus, the driver waving and giving a thumbs up.

Charlie began tapping out his part of the song that played on the album.

“If I had my life to live over,” Nick said, “I’d be a musician. A piano player. Play in small groups. Keyboard, bass, drums…maybe a tenor sax.”

Charlie sat motionless. “But you can’t do it over. Your life is what it is.”

“What about you? Fifty-eight years as the drummer for the Stones, right? Would you have done any of it over?”

Charlie closed his eyes for a moment. “If I could…only the drinking…the drugs. I regret that. It almost destroyed me.”

“So…what? I’m here in some kind of dream, driving with the spirit of Charlie Watts, talking about doing my life over?”

“I told you…you can’t live it over.”

Nick shook his head trying to clear this illusion, asked, “Do you wish you were still alive? Still drumming with the Stones?”

Charlie said, “It is what it is.”

“That’s it? No regrets? No wanting to go back?”

“Nothing to go back to. I was finished. Time to move on.”

 An Arizona State highway patrol car passed the Duesenberg, slowed for a moment, then moved ahead. 

“And where are you, exactly, Charlie?”

Charlie did a mini drumroll on his knee. “I now drum with Gene Krupa. Play with Oscar Peterson and Art Tatum. Duke Ellington. All the greats. Pure joy. Boundless opportunities.”

“Musicians on the other side.”

Charlie nodded.

“I may be joining you soon. My cancer is relapsing.”

“I am aware of that. Make the most of your time,” Charlie said.

“Easy for you to say. Most days I’m too exhausted to do anything.”

Charlie shrugged. “I think of Churchill. In the middle of World War II, he famously said, ’Never give up.’”

Nick spied a shooting star light up the sky ahead. He nodded towards the windshield, “Our lives are like that shooting star. A flash and then gone.”

“I disagree,” Charlie said. “I was with the Stones for fifty-eight years. I played jazz whenever I could. I collected cars for fun…And I brought joy to many people. I don’t consider that a flash and a flameout.”

“Yeah, but I have no hope of living like that.”

“You seem to have regrets, dear friend. Yes, you struggle with ill health. Is there no hope in your life?”

Nick laughed. “Hope? I see only a slide towards the end of life. Act three, scene three. There’s a guy waiting in the wings, his hands on the curtain ropes.”

“That is most unfortunate…most unfortunate that is all you see.”

“I’m not as lucky as you were.”

“Lucky? No, my friend. Persistent. Showing up every day. Sober, high on alcohol and drugs, sober again. Fifty-eight years behind the front man. Giving the others a foundation, always from the back.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But you got paid well. You had incentive.”

“No, I had joy. I had a lifetime of making music, creating harmony. Listening to my band mates. Making music together.”

Nick drove on in silence. 

“You remind me of Ray Charles,” Charlie said.

“Huh?”

“I played with him once. We were doing ‘Georgia on My Mind.’ He was playing so slowly I could not drum.”

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s my point. You are so slow I can’t communicate with you.”

On the shoulder of the highway Nick spied a man hitchhiking, thumb out waving vigorously. Nick said to Charlie “He looks familiar. Should I stop?”

“No need.” He pointed a drumstick towards the rear seat. A man sat there. White sleeveless undershirt. Huge smile.

Wait, how did that happen? Nick gazed into the rear view mirror.. “That’s…you’re… Freddie Mercury. What the hell?”

“Evening, pal. Thanks for the ride.” 

Charlie smiled. “Been a while. How are you, friend?”

“Brilliant. Started a new band.”

“Any good?”

“Getting there. Looking for a sax player.”

“They don’t die as often as we do,” Charlie said. “Have you tried Clarence Clemmons?”

“Already got a string of gigs lined up. Can’t get to him.”

“This is unreal,” Nick said. “How is this possible?”

“You were feeling beat down. Am I correct?” Freddie said.

Nick nodded.

“Yet you look to music to get you through the bad times. I see you play Charlie’s album every time you’re down. Like now.”

Nick had no words.  

Freddie turned to Charlie. “You loved doing that recording, didn’t you? So different from what you’re known for.”

“So different from your own performances, Freddie. That Live Aid show at Wembley. Thousands in the audience, singing with you. Broadcast everywhere. It rocked my soul.”

“And you,” Freddie said. “A quiet performance in a tiny venue. Recording audio only.” 

“Right. I spent 58 years in arenas in front of thousands. That performance was my favorite. Quiet. Yet raucous. The rolling thunder of boogie woogie pianos. The high and low notes. Me behind them providing a bottom. I loved getting away from the Stones and doing the jazz clubs.”

Nick drove on. Charlie Watts and Freddie Mercury in the car with him. Why?

“I see you are perplexed, Nick. Relax. We’re here on a break, taking a bit of the spirit world to the physical realm. To you in particular.” 

“Why?”

“Binging you a bit of peace, we hope. Letting you know you can get through this. And when you’re finished, there’s an infinite amount of music to enjoy.”

A kind of shiver seemed to pass over Charlie. “I will be leaving you shortly.”

Nick looked in the rear view. Freddie dissolved into nothing.

“Wait, I still don’t get it. Why is this happening?”

“You are right. You don’t get it, Charlie said. “I am telling you, my life was all about listening. But you are not hearing me.”

Nick shook his head. The car’s wheel seemed to shimmy a bit.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you want to make music with your life? Listen to your heart, my friend. Listen to your own soul. Find the joy. In every moment.”

A dark cloud enveloped the two men.  

As the darkness eased, Nick’s vision cleared. 

Once again at home, his hands still clutching the glass of Jack Daniels. 

No Charlie Watts, no Freddie Mercury,. No Duesenberg, no Route 66.

Only silence. 

A night sky beyond the patio.

The album had played out on Spotify. Nick shook his head hard, shaking off visions beyond his seeing. 

What the hell is wrong with me? The damn meds are making me hallucinate.

He still felt the fatigue that sapped his energy. Still felt beat down. But a whisper, maybe a hint of endurance, niggled at his brain. Running through his mind was the phrase, It is what it is.

Nick reached to set the glass on the table next to his chair. His hand knocked something to the floor with a clatter. He looked down. 

On the floor… a pair of drumsticks.

***

shortfiction24 footsteps in the sand

August 14, 2025 / / 0 Comments

An old man getting acupuncture treatment reflects on his life.

Footsteps in the Sand

The old man walked through the parking lot and approached the entrance to the medical building. As he neared the automatic doors he caught his reflection in the glass. I look like a feeble old man.

Inside, in an acupuncture exam room, he fumbled trying to tie the hospital gown from behind with his numb fingers. He stood barefoot on the cold vinyl floor in his underwear as an acupuncturist knocked and entered. The old man bunched the back of his gown with one hand and sat down. She asked how he was feeling. He told her the peripheral neuropathy in his feet and hands had continued. She gestured for him to get up on the treatment table. Again he bunched his robe from behind and stretched out for his treatment.

The old man lay still as the acupuncturist stuck needles in his bare feet, his arms and legs, several in his left ear lobe (to reset his body, she explained), and a single one smack in the center of his forehead. She moved a heat lamp near his feet, dimmed the lights, said, “Relax,” and left the room.

The old man closed his eyes to focus on his breathing. He let his mind drift. A memory floated in, a memory of the first time his feet felt sand and salt water. He was only six when his parents rented a cottage for a month on Rockaway Beach in New York. They left the sweltering heat of their fourth floor walkup apartment on the Upper West Side for the freedom and fresh air of the ocean. He and his brothers toughened their feet as they ran barefoot every day from dawn till bedtime. 

He wiggled his toes, recalled the hot sand squeezing between his toes and turning to cool mud as the gentle surf swirled underfoot. He and his family would sit on a sandy blanket eating bologna sandwiches for lunch. Bells from the beachside Stella Maris Catholic High School chimed every day at noon. Any Catholics on the beach at the time stood to recite a prayer to Mary. He would squirm his feet deep into the sand in embarrassment as his mother made the family stand to join in the prayer.

His family moved to a small bayside town a year later. The old man recalled small sand beaches, more trips to the ocean, his rowboat that took him to isolated shorelines. He waded barefoot along beaches littered with tiny black snails. He poled his boat through the marshes, his feet standing in a few inches of cool water in the bottom of his boat. 

Lying on the table, the old man couldn’t feel the needles in his feet. His mind wandered more as he recalled the wide open sands of Jones Beach. Hot sand. Long walks barefoot from the parking lots to the water’s edge, his feet searing on the blazing asphalt. He would go out of his way to step in a puddle to relieve the burn. Then, hours tossing a football with family, years later with friends. Running awkwardly in the sand. Always the first week out of school for summer. Working on the first tan, using a bottle of baby oil with a few drops of iodine in it. 

Years later his feet discovered the long stretches of white sand on Fire Island. The best beach in the world. He walked barefoot on the Island’s trails and plank paths, buried his feet in sand that cradled and warmed. He ran barefoot for miles in early morning at water’s edge, first East into the early sun, then back along the hard wet sand to a well-earned bacon and egg breakfast.

The old man felt himself half-dozing on the treatment table. His mind opened on the pounding night surf on White Horse Beach in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Walking where the cold wet sand told him ‘the ocean rules here’. Only the sensation of his feet vibrating to the pounding, crashing surf.

More years, more beach memories flashing in his mind. Cape Cod. Chatham and Provincetown. Wide sand beaches exposed at low water, rippled by tide and wind, making his feet sore walking over the ripples.

Now, images of Jetties Beach on Nantucket Island. Barefoot as always, his feet shoved deep into the warm sand. He remembered sitting on the sand writing in his journal. A quiet beach, few surfers, mostly families and kids. He wrote of waves lapping and foaming on the shore, tumbling the pebbles along the water’s edge. Gulls screeing in the distance. The Island ferry passing the Brant Point lighthouse, brimming with tourists.

His memories carried him forward to California. To Malibu. Dipping his toes in water shared with surfers, celebrities, Angelenos escaping the inland heat. He would sit under the Malibu Pier, watching the surf break through the pilings, inching up to his feet. Looking out at the beachgoers, the surfers, kids with their boogie boards.

The old man recalled a recent early morning walk on the beach in Carmel. Tide out, vast flat expanses of dark, wet sand underfoot. Dogs ran freely, splashing through soaked sand and outgoing tide. Cool before the sun broke through. Easy on the feet. The hardest thing – climbing back up to the road in soft sand, leaving him breathless. Clint Eastwood and Doris Day may have walked those very sands. And not too many miles away, John Steinbeck worked and wrote in Monterey. Who knows, the old man thought. My feet may have touched grains of sand that were once between the toes of these celebrities.

The acupuncturist re-entered the room, bringing the old man back into the moment. She raised the lights, removed the needles. In a soft voice, “How do you feel?”

“Maybe better. Hard to tell.”

“Nerve damage takes time to heal,” she said. “Only about one millimeter a day. In some cases, it never heals.”

The old man sat up, swung his legs off the table, grasping the back of his gown again. He shook his head. “You know, days like today, I feel like a doddering old man.”

“You’re not an old man.” She pointed at him. “You’re a survivor.”

He smiled. “I like that.” He gestured towards his feet. “These feet have left a lot of footsteps in the sand.”

***

shortfiction24 fall risk

April 10, 2025 / / 0 Comments

“First The Truth Will Piss You Off.”

Will Thomas spends a night in the ER over a scare about bleeding on the brain.

Enjoy the story.

Fall Risk

The PA in the crowded Los Angeles ER squawked. “Intermediate critical, ETA five minutes.”

 Lying in his narrow, hard hospital bed in the ER, the announcement took Will Thomas back to his years as an L.A. firefighter and EMT. He had delivered countless victims and patients to the ERs that neighbored his fire station. Now retired, and living with his wife Marie in Idaho, he did not miss that life. Many good memories, of course, but just as many difficult ones, some tragically unforgettable. 

Will squirmed in his bed. He was lucky enough to be in a small private room on the periphery of the large ER. A closed door, a small window, curtained off most of the time. His bed had both side rails in place, and his bed was not adjustable without asking for help. His tailbone was sore as hell. He scrunched to his side, awkward due to the EKG electrodes wired to his chest and abdomen, and to the IV needle in his dominant right elbow. 

Last night sleep only came in a few one-hour spurts.

He had been admitted to the ER mid-afternoon the day before after going to the hospital’s infusion center for his weekly myeloma cancer injection. A blood platelet count at ten and a persistent headache had prompted staff to refer him immediately to the ER.

A head scan and EKG had eliminated the worst fear. No bleeding to the brain. But the low platelets made him a fall risk. Highlighted by the yellow wristband he now wore that blared: Fall Risk. He needed a medical assistant to walk him to the rest room every time he had to pee.

Will was waiting for a second doctor to show up, hoping for a quick release. One oncologist doc had said he was “cautiously optimistic” for a release the following morning. Will did his best to ignore that.

A technician from Pharmacy came in to review Will’s meds. “You look pretty well for an ER patient.”

“Being here ain’t my choice.” 

His nurse Keisha stepped in to monitor his vitals. “Tell me the truth,” Will said. “Am I going to get released today?”

“Up to your doctor,” she replied.

“Truth?”

“You know what they say about the truth. First the truth will piss you off. Then it will set you free.”

Will laughed. 

The house doctor finally came to Will’s room a few hours later. “I can release you today. The staff is prepping for your release. My only advice is to take it easy for a few days.”

“No worries there, doc,” Will said.

Keisha came back in to remove the IV from his elbow. She said they wanted to leave the EKG monitor in place for a bit longer.

Will called his wife to say he could catch a late flight out of LAX and be home by bedtime.

Will and Marie had retired to Idaho three years ago. A quiet life, early morning fishing for trout, book clubs, a good social life. A routine medical exam last year had revealed a need for more blood work and a biopsy. And then a phone call from his oncologist. “Stage four multiple myeloma. Not curable, but quite treatable.”

“How much time have I got?” He had asked.

“Five to ten years. Maybe more. We need to start treatments right away.”

His oncologist had relocated her practice from L.A. to Idaho several years back. She had connections in L.A. and wanted him to travel there weekly for injections. Oral meds he could take at home. L.A. would have easier access to the injection meds he needed. So he began a weekly flight to Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. 

A couple of medical assistants wheeled Will’s bed out to the hall for the last half hour before his release. That put him in the middle of the controlled chaos that was this ER. Medical staff moved hospital beds up and down the aisles. EMTs hustled patients through in Stryker chairs. A cop walked by with a bloodied man in handcuffs.

A petite young woman carrying a clipboard stepped up to Will’s bed. 

A cheery voice. “Hi. I’m a volunteer. Can I get you anything?”

“Sure, Will moaned. “Find a nurse to get me released.”

The volunteer scanned the room. “I’ll find someone to help you.” She walked off.

A while later Keisha appeared. “I was on a break. Let’s get you out of here.”

Still in his hospital gown, with his clothes in a bag, he said, “I need your help.”

Keisha removed his EKG electrodes. “Better we dress in the bathroom.” She walked Will to the bathroom, entered with him. He said he had to pee. “Go ahead. Just sit down.” 

“Do you have to stay?”

She nodded. “Fall risk, remember?”

Will shrugged, sat to pee. As he stood to put on his pants, Keisha said, “Best to sit for that. You don’t want to fall.”

He groaned. After he dressed, Keisha led him out to the hall. They exited the ER, Keisha gripping the back of his shirt firmly. She walked him out to the sidewalk, sat him on a bench to wait for his Uber ride.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.

“Thanks for asking for help,” she replied with a smile.

At LAX Will passed through security quickly, got on the boarding line for his flight. An airline employee walking by stopped next to Will. “May I see your wristband,” she said. He held up his left wrist. The yellow Fall Risk band still circled his wrist.

“That’s from yesterday’s hospital visit,” he said.

She stepped away, returned a moment later with a wheelchair. She pulled Will off the line, set him in the chair. “I don’t need this,” he said, his face reddening with embarrassment.

“Just a precaution,” she told him.

She wheeled him to the ticket counter, continued to the ramp and onto the plane. She left the chair at the entry, escorted Will forward. “We have an empty seat in first-class. A courtesy upgrade.”

She offered him a seat, said, “As soon as we take off, you can get a free drink and snack.”

Will smiled. ”I would love a cold beer.”

She said with a firm look, “Not sure that would be a good choice, considering your fall risk.”

“I’m not a fall risk. The wristband is from yesterday.” He waved at the first-class seat. “This is not necessary. I’m not handicapped.”

“Just a precaution, sir.” She nodded, stepped off the plane.

Will sat back, thought, I am not a fall risk. 

A flight attendant stepped up. “Welcome to first class,” she said. “If you need to use the restroom, just let me know and I can escort you.”

Will’s shoulders sagged. “I can do this on my own.”

“Looking out for your safety, sir,” she said.

Will shook his head. Keisha’s words from the ER came back to him. “First the truth will piss you off. Then it will set you free.”

Will settled himself in the plush seat, fingered the Fall Risk wristband. He took a deep breath. I’m going home…first class.

***

shortfiction24 patriarchy: zero

April 3, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Nikki Bolt scores one for the feminine side.

I’m back to posting stories. It’s been a five-month hiatus. Initially I paused to recover from the 2024 election. Then I got hit with a few medical issues. Treatments caused me a great deal of fatigue and a loss of motivation. I’m feeling much better now and trying to regain momentum with the short stories. Thank you for your patience.

Enjoy this story.

Patriarchy: Zero

A physical therapy appointment cancellation gave Eva Havens a rare morning break. She sipped her chai latte as she eyed the almond croissant in front of her. Chatter from nearby tables on the coffee shop patio filled the space. One table seemed to have a group of athletic coaches from a nearby high school. All dressed in athletic wear, talking loudly.

“Eva!”

At table’s edge stood a tall woman in a navy blue business suit, short blond bob, coffee and phone in hand.

“Nikki?”

Nikki Bolt nodded, smiled.

Eva stood. Started to step around the table to hug Nikki, but Nikki  sat down right away.

“Nikki, it’s been a while. How are you?” Eva sat.

Nikki waggled her hand. “Could be better.”

“Can you chat for a few minutes?”

Nikki glanced at her phone. Looked at Eva. “Sure, I’m good.”

“I’ve got a croissant here. I can split it.”

“I could do with a jolt of sugar,” Nikki said. Since she had begun working in real estate, she had never sat for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

As Nikki sat, Eva caught a whiff of perfume, a fragrance she was sure she could never afford. 

She fumbled with the bag and napkin. “Let me get a plastic knife.”

“No need,” Nikki said. She glanced around quickly, pulled a switchblade knife out of her purse.

Eva pulled back a bit in her chair.

Nikki flicked the knife open, cut the croissant cleanly, wiped the blade on Eva’s paper napkin, and slipped it back in her purse.

“Is that a –“

Nikki touched a red-nailed index finger to her glossy matching red lips. “Yes, it is.”

“Wow.” Eva eased forward.

“A girl has to protect herself. I’m often alone when I’m showing a property.”

“Is that legal?”

Nikki shrugged. “How are you? Still doing physical therapy?”

Eva nodded. “I lost a patient today. That’s why I’m sitting here having coffee.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Constipation.”

“What?”

“Constipation. Third patient I’ve lost to it. Seniors. They strain so hard they cut off oxygen to the brain.”

“Huh.” 

Eva asked, “So how are you? Is the real estate business good?”

“Not today.” Nikki scowled, pointed to her phone. “I just got off the phone with my manager. I lost a sale. A four million dollar property in Malibu.”

“Your commission would have bought you a lot of croissants. What happened?”

“Patriarchy, that’s what happened.”

Nikki’s phone chirped. She looked, let it ring.

“Yesterday I showed a property to a guy who’s here in L.A. looking for investment properties. The asshole is out here from some Southern state. Alabama, Arkansas…I don’t remember.”

“Couldn’t he have invested more easily in Florida?”

“The dude thinks he’ll rub elbows with movie stars.”

“How did you lose the sale?”

Nikki gripped her coffee cup tightly, leaned in.

“Get this. I showed the property yesterday. The guy showed up at our office first thing this morning. Told Bill, my manager, he did not want to deal with a female agent. Bill said the guy had a stupid grin on his face, said ‘My gran’pappy told me years ago, never trust anyone who bleeds for five days and doesn’t die.’”

“What? That’s bullshit!” Eva slammed a palm on the table. Ignored the stares from the other tables.

“Bill threw him out of the office. Told him to take his business elsewhere.”

“Yes! Good for him.”

Nikki nodded. “Yeah, Bill is one of the good ones.”

Her phone chirped again. Nikki held up a finger to pause with Eva. She picked up the phone. Nikki “yessed” several times, smiled, said “I love karma.”

She cut off the call, turned back to Eva.

“That was Bill. Our guy tried to buy the property through another agency.”

“You lost the commission for sure.”

“Yeah, well, so did they. Here’s the karma.” Nikki leaned forward grinning. “No insurance company will sell him a homeowner’s policy. The property sits in a high risk fire zone… The guy turned down the purchase, went back home.”

“Sweet. Don’t let the the door hit your ass on the way out.”

Nikki bit off a piece of croissant, stood up. “Gotta run.” She leaned in to Eva. “Nikki: one, patriarchy: zero.”

***

shortfiction24 – penguins in florida

October 2, 2024 / / 0 Comments

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

September 25, 2024 / / 0 Comments

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

September 19, 2024 / / 0 Comments

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.

***

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