Flash Fiction Friday: Christmas Patrol Songs

Photo: Pixabay CC0 Creative Commons License 

Christmas Patrol Songs

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Sunday morning, Tom and I were enjoying our usual cups of coffee. It had snowed overnight, and Tom hoped it would evaporate soon so he wouldn’t have to work in it. Driving the patrol car around at night with snow and ice and whatever else lurking beneath wasn’t his idea of a favorable working environment. I tried to lighten his mood.

“You should sing Christmas songs to the people you arrest,” I said.

“Why would I do that?” Tom asked as picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines.

“To get into the Christmas spirit.”

Tom gave me a questioning look.

“Come on. If someone hits an ungulate—”

“A what?” Tom interrupted, looking up.

“Ungulate. Hooved animal. If someone hits an ungulate on Christmas Eve—”

“They’re probably drunk,” Tom interrupted again and looked back to the paper.

“Maybe the ungulate caused the accident.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He took a sip of coffee.

“No. What I mean is perhaps a little old lady got trampled by an ungulate and it fled the scene and thus darted out in front of a drunk driver who then smashed it. Then you could sing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

Tom chuckled. “Okay, that’s funny, but no I’m not singing.”

“If you arrest a drunk driver who said they hit a deer after they witnessed it flatten a granny; you wouldn’t sing?”

Tom took another sip, set his coffee cup down with a thunk, and looked me in the eye.

“If that exact scenario happened on Christmas Eve, I would sing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer while transporting the drunk driver to jail.”

“You could go further,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked. Once again, lifting coffee to his lips.

“Arrest a meth head and sing All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.”

Bursting out laughing, coffee spewed. It splattered all over the newspaper, smearing the print.

“See, wouldn’t that make work more fun?” I added.

Tom didn’t answer, but I’m pretty sure he agreed. He just wasn’t convinced about this karaoke nonsense.

“Geez, you could even hook a liberal and belt out Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

Rolling his eyes he said, “We’re having a mild winter. It’ll never fly.”

“You’re just worried someone’s gonna complain their feelings got hurt. All you’re doing is singing a song in good ole seasonal spirit.”

“That tune has been banned from the radio anyhow.”

“Newsflash: you’re not the radio.”

“I have a radio.”

“Newsflash: don’t sing it so dispatch hears. Speaking of which, there’s another one.”

“Another what?” Tom asked confused.

“Song. How many times has a drunk asked you to repeat your instructions?”

Tom chuckled. “Quite a bit. I usually respond with ‘didn’t you hear me?’”

“Exactly! But instead of using that phrase you could simply start singing Do You Hear What I Hear?”

“You’re going a tad overboard, don’t you think?”

“Nah. Just don’t sing White Christmas.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause you said you didn’t want to work in snow. Don’t sing for the snow to arrive.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Fill 'er Up

Image Pixabay under Creative Commons License.

I know, I know. I haven't been keeping up with weekly blog entries. Other items have clogged my schedule and kept me from writing. Don't worry, it's because of some exciting stuff. It's still causing some stress, and something happened today that reminded me to "fill 'er up."

My car's gasoline tank has been at or below 1/4 full for the whole week. I couldn't seem to find the time to stop at a gas station even though I drive past half a dozen or more every single day. On Wednesday, I took the car to the other side of town (because there is no longer a manufacture dealership on my side of town anymore) for a recall fix. Knowing the tank was near empty and my schedule full, I just told myself it'd be fine for another couple days.

There are those drivers who will gasp in horror at something like this, but today the gas up light came on. Calm down folks; it's just a dashboard illumination--nothing to worry about (right?). I left early enough for work and stopped at the corner gas station and fed my car the overpriced refined oil. As the glubbing sound of pump started, I relaxed back in the driver's seat with the sun streaming through the window, warming my face. I momentarily closed my eyes and realize how tired I was. I realized that I needed to fill up my own gas tank.

A busy schedule, worrying, and not sleeping well, leaves for a depleted emotional gas tank. I was drained and until I found the time to "fill 'er up," I was going be stranded on the side of the road. I had taken on too much while not taking care of myself like I should have. My car can't go very far with a low tank. Why did I think I could run on a 1/4 tank of emotional gasoline all week?

Everyone refills their tank differently. Octane levels are individualized. Some simply want to relax with NetFlix; others party like it's Y2K. I write and find other artistic outlets. It doesn't matter what you do, just make time for self-love.

Filling up my car's gas tank was a good reminder to stop, or at least slow down, and refuel my emotional gas tank. No matter what or how much we think we can do, we can do it better on full.


Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Free the Zucchini

Free the Zucchini

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Luigi blinks. The zucchini seed he planted in the last corner of the garden has taken over, sprawled out like an octopus lazily snoring on its favorite undersea rock. Orange blossoms bask in the sunlight and oblong green vegetables lay about. At first, the budding squash look cute and innocent. But they easily grow a foot overnight; multiplying and, more than likely, plan an invasion. 

Most zucchini in front of Luigi now are of acceptable size for harvest and culinary use; the ideal time to pick before they do any serious damage.

The deeper Luigi walks among the vines, the more tangled the stalks become. It’s like trying to navigate through a wild rose briar. He casually stepped through this garden jungle, severing the vegetables from their mothership and placing them in a cardboard box, until he arrives at a giant. It's hidden under the oversized leaves and partially buried in the dirt. It’s obviously stayed off the radar because it’s nearly four feet long.

He squats to slice it off the stem, but is pulled down and pinned in the dirt. Surprised, he instinctively elbow jabs the unknown entity, freeing himself. Standing up, he steps back only to have something wrap around his ankle, bringing him to the ground again. He is smacked in the gut and soon a wrestling match with a ferocious elongated green vegetable erupts in a street fight type battle.

Flipping onto his back, Luigi is met with a blow to his sternum. When he finally gets a good look at his opponent, he is shocked to see it’s the large zucchini he tried to pick. He pushes the squash off of him and manages to get upright on his knees, spitting out dirt. Placing a leg up to push himself to his feet, he feels cool smooth skin wrap around his shoulders. The zucchini tugs him backward, attempting to knock Luigi over and back to the ground, but he throws it off. 

He turns around and faces the zucchini. What could this vegetable want? Its offspring back? He tosses one out of the box. The fighter pauses as though staring at its lost child. Luigi could’ve sworn he saw it breathing.

Slowly sliding out, the giant zucchini gently taps the smaller zucchini toward the center of the plant, as though protecting it. Next, it lunges at Luigi again. He steps back but tosses the rest from the box. Perplexed, he watches the giant gather them into a pile in the center of the plant. It arranges the vines and leaves so it and the offspring are obstructed from view.

Panting, Luigi walks back to his house and into the kitchen, tossing the empty box in a corner.

“I thought you were bringing me zucchini so I can bake bread,” his wife says, when she sees his empty box.

“They weren’t quite ready,” he lies. The truth was too bizarre.

“Maybe in a few days."

Luigi nods.

He spends the remainder of the day planning how to retrieve the zucchini and avoid attack from the giant.

The following morning he heads to the garden with an ax. He snoops around the vine, searching for the giant but doesn’t spot it. He inches his way into the briar of vines, scanning the area at the same time.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moves. Luigi whips his head just in time to see the giant slithering deeper into the center of the plant with the sound of leaves gently crunching.

Gripping the ax’s handle, he swings and whacks off a juicy vine, tossing it aside. A faint squeal of disapproval is heard. Luigi cuts off another vine and another until the heart of the plant is left. In the center was the giant zucchini protecting the smaller ones. Luigi raised the ax as the clan of zucchini huddle together closer.

“Are they ready now?” his wife hollers from the house.

Looking at the scattered vine pieces, Luigi turns his gaze back to the zucchini, helpless and scared. He lowers his tool and yells back, “I think an animal got into the garden last night. The plant is destroyed."

***

Climbing into bed that night, Luigi leaves the bedroom window cracked open to let in the cool night air, and falls asleep quickly.

Soon an large oblong green vegetable slips through the opening...

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Is Kindness Weak?

Is Kindness Weak?

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Do others see our individual weaknesses the same way as we view ourselves? This question arose at a work training exercise where participants were asked what they considered their weaknesses. Out of eight employees, four said kindness. Before we moved on with the exercise, I inquired why they felt this way. The general consensus was when they are kind, it allows others to take advantage of them.

One person gave an example that they have a hard time saying no their friends when they asked to borrow money, even knowing they probably won't see the money returned. Another person said that friends and family know to ask favors of her because she will always say yes.

"Oh, okay. I see now," I said, and left it at that.

But this whole "kindness is a weakness" mindset bothered me. I mulled over it most of the week. Showing kindness isn't weak; compassion is something we should all practice more of anyway. What finally clicked was that kindness was not their weakness, but rather is was the lack of setting proper boundaries. Instead of loaning what someone needs, only loan someone what you can afford and/or are willing to give them. If the money isn't returned, there's no hard feelings. The same concept can be applied to personal favors. Say someone needs a ride twenty miles away because their car broke down. Offer to drive them, but with the condition to reimburse for gasoline cost.

I know what you are thinking: How are these examples of kindness if you are expecting something in return?

Receiving something in return isn't, nor shouldn't be, a requirement for kindness. The purpose gets lost this way. However, setting boundaries is necessary in order to not feel repeatedly taken advantage of. Unfortunately, some people will certainly take advantage of others' generosity if they can.

However, I think there is a big difference when someone asks for help versus taking advantage of another person. The intent of seeking assistance should be because one is unable to do it, versus not wanting to do it. I battle this with my kid every so often when she asks for "help" cleaning her room. She is perfectly capable of doing it herself, but each time she complains of too many things to put away. I guide her through it by suggesting she start with certain tasks: stuffed animals first or organize the book case. I insist she does the work because I know if she is capable of making the mess she is capable of cleaning it up. I set boundaries, otherwise if I "help" in order to finish the task faster, I'm not being kind, I'm allowing myself to be taken advantage of.

When I had surgeries I needed someone else to drive me to appointments or extracurricular activities because I physically couldn't do it myself. I asked for help because I needed it. I offered to reimburse my drivers for gas and their time. (Some accepted, some didn't.) Either way, they showed kindness simply by making time for me.

Kindness isn't a weak characteristic flaw unless it's allow it to be taken advantage of. Compassion is a valuable skill; it shows you care about others. I don't think any of the earlier mentioned participants are weak. They can be role models in a too toughened up world.

Fiction Friday: Green Beans In Heaven

Image: Pixabay under Creative Commons License CC0

Green Beans in Heaven

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“One of the hardest things you will ever have to do, is grieve the loss of a person who is still alive.” ~Anonymous

The sun delivered a sliver of color to the morning sky as I snapped green beans in the kitchen, alone. The call came early that morning while it was still dark; I don’t even remember who was on the other end. “She’s gone to heaven,” they said. Truthfully, she’d died months before. 

***

She went to bed, then in the morning, recognized no one.

One of the days following, at the hospital, I navigated the labyrinth of sterile hallways, corridors, and ancient moldy elevators dangling by thinning cables. Life monitors beeped everywhere.

Locating the room, I peered in at the sleeping patient, but it wasn’t her. Spinning on my heels, I quickly walked out, feeling embarrassed as if I’d entered the wrong room. I called a relative to verify the room number. “Yes, that’s correct,” they answered.

“But it’s not her.”

They called me crazy; I knew they were right. Her name was right on the door. But the person inside wasn’t Grandma. It didn’t feel like Grandma. She even looked different. To me, it was like she wasn’t there; like she had left Earth.

Not wanting to disturb her rest, I retreated to a visitor waiting area. I don’t care for them. What are we waiting for?

Beyond the window was the regular function of the city. Cars meandered through the streets, sirens approached the hospital, birds flew on sidewalks nibbling on dropped crumbs. I saw no people; just the presence of them. Like a still life in motion.

I shifted my focused from outside, to the window glass, then the window sill, then the empty chair in front of it. Becoming aware of myself, loneliness closed around my mind, and a sensation entered my body, burning my lungs. My breath heaved to get it out. I realized I had started sobbing.

I waited for the dread to pass, in a waiting area with a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner. Grandma had always had an icon of the Holy Mother near her. She said it gave her comfort. I never thought to ask, “Comfort from what?” I guess it doesn’t matter now. She wouldn’t remember if I asked.

Composing myself, I returned to the room with her name. My footsteps echoed like thunder over the cold tile floor. I entered and walked to her bedside. In a reclined position with her hands folded over her belly, her head bowed forward in slumber; chest rising and falling with inhalation and exhalation.

I don’t remember how long I stared when I got tired of standing and pulled up a chair. An ugly chair that reminded me of the drab ones in the waiting area. Dragging it across the floor wasn’t quiet and the noise interrupted her rest.

With fluttering eyelids, she woke up, revealing the brown irises I knew well but somehow her personality had faded. Delighted, she smiled at my presence. I recognized her neat row of teeth and smiled back. Then I asked her my name and she gave an answer.

“No, Grandma. That’s not right.”

She had called me Mary.

I grabbed her warm hands the way she used to hold mine to comfort me. She rubbed my fingers because they were always cold.

Today her skin was thin and translucent, bumpy with veins. I held her hands and gently rubbed them which she said felt good because they hurt. Perhaps cold fingers, felt cool and soothing. She noticed my wedding ring and commented how pretty it was. Then she stroked her own fingers and mumbled, “They took my fingers off.”

“No, they’re still there. See?” I lifted up her index finger and she looked at it, puzzled. It took me a moment to realize she was probably referring to her own rings, most likely removed upon admittance. Although, I reassured her that her fingers would be returned, she thoughtfully reexamined my ring.

“Do you remember that day, Grandma? My wedding day?”

She squinted her eyes, struggling to grasp the memory. Too much effort was required so I continued speaking.

“It was August, and it was hot. There was a horse carriage and everyone gasped when it rounded the corner. You clapped your hands in surprise and excitement...”

She had drifted off to sleep again, this time with me holding her hands.

Once more, I stared out the hospital window where a hill blocked my view of whatever sat between it and the sky. On the ridge were pines trees with a road that twisted in and out of pockets of clearing with a few houses pinned here and there. The wind made the tips of pines dance and I wished I could open the window and drown the glum environment inside.

“What are you looking at out there?”

Broken from my trance, I jumped and looked at her.

“What is so interesting?”

“Just looking at the scenery, Grandma.”

“It’s only trees,” she said.

No, it’s much more than that. “There’s birds, too, and—”

“There’s nothing so interesting about a bunch of trees. Don’t go wasting your time.”

I changed the subject but kept trees in our conversation. “I remember the pine trees in your field at the fence line. The quail and pheasants nested under them. You and I, we’d find the nests in a bed of dried grass—”

“I told you not to go under those trees! You could get a tick!” Grandma shook her index finger at me and wrinkled her eyebrows.

I hung my head, but soon heard a gruff sigh. She looked out the window; I wondered if she still only saw trees. I wanted to talk about the tall spruce in the middle of her yard, too, the one I used for a hideout, but thought better of it.

Did she remember our garden? The dirt so black it looked wet, and row after row of garden vegetables; garlic, zucchini, and potatoes. What about the fresh basil and parsley growing outside the kitchen window? I mentioned all of them, but none elicited a response. She continued staring out the window with a glazed mask painted on her face.

“How about the green beans?” I asked.

She turned her head, and I was thankful for a motion of acknowledgement.

“What about them?” she asked, inquisitively.

“We plucked them off the plants and into the large yellow bowl.”

She paused a moment, as though lost in thought.

“Yes…”

“We filled the bowl up, then brought it back to your kitchen. You dumped them on the counter, and one by one, you and I snapped off the ends of the beans.”

“What beans?”

“The green beans.”

“We did?”

“Yes.”

“That was you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” She nodded her head, albeit confused. “We talked a lot,” she added.

I swallowed a hard lump in my throat and answered, “We did.”

“Sometimes you were sad.”

She squeezed my hand. Did she know I was sad now?

“Sometimes. But I also talked about happy things.”

“Yes,” she said. “You won.”

I blinked. “I won?”

“You played a game—it was tense.”

My mind raced flashbacks, trying to pinpoint what she referred to.

“Tennis?”

“Yes.”

I smiled, and she smiled back.

“I like talking to you,” she said.

Tapping her wrist, I told her, “So do I.”

“Where are the green beans?”

“In here.” I tapped her skull, indicating her memory.

“Why there? They go here.” She stuck out her tongue and pointed to her mouth.

I laughed and so did she.

The next day she didn’t remember the green beans. Nor the day after that. The memory long plucked and snapped from her essence. She was right. The green beans didn’t belong in her head.

***

Now here I was, snapping the ends of the green beans in my own kitchen, which I plucked from my own garden.

The sky now turned to a pale blue and I could see the end of a green bean vine sticking from the top of the trellis; one bean dangled from the end. With nothing else to grab onto, the breeze swished it gently back and forth as it reached toward heaven.

I hoped she found them, my green beans. In case she wants to talk with me.

 Copyright 2018 by Jennifer E. Miller

Rock Painting #ad #freesample

Rock Painting

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

I'm writing something a little different this week. Some of you know I am a member of Smiley360.com, a consumer review group that allows members to try various products for free or low cost in exchange for feedback. Anyone can sign up and it's free--you should, too. When new products are available to test (called missions), Smiley360.com notifies members with an email. They have to take a survey to ensure the consumer is a good fit for that product. Upon successful qualification, they mail it. As long as members leave reviews with honest feedback with hashtags like #ad and #freesample, they will continue to be offered future missions.

This time around, it's a little different. With a Summer DIY Challenge mission, I don't get free product, but I earn extra points (which I have never figured out what those do, but hey, I have something to write about.)

Rock painting is a new hobby I began last year after stumbling across one. Community groups paint and hide rocks around town in public places. The idea is that a stranger locates a painted rock which brightens their day. Instructions written on the back of the rock, encourage the finder to post a photo on corresponding Facebook rock group (there are hundreds, if not thousands, nationwide).

I haven't ever considered myself an artist. I draw stick people and my handwriting is illegible to the point that if you can read it, you may as well have decoded a foreign language. Until that point, art to me was writing--preferably via the typewriter. But this rock painting "game," if you want to call it that, seemed fun enough to give painting a try. Surely, stick people on rocks with happy faces can brighten someone else's day.

I started with simple things like patterns or simple shapes, then quickly wanted to draw more things that were of interest to me, such as birds. I Pinterested how to draw quail and other birds, following the tutorials to paint on rocks. The more I challenged myself, the better the artwork, and the happier the stranger was who found them.

For example, I painted a COCO rock (as in the Disney movie). All it was was the iconic title of the movie and the little guitars and leaves on branches, although the lettering was challenging due to my handwriting handicap. I posted a photo of my finished creation in the rock group long before I released it into the world. Seriously, people went nuts over it. They wanted to know when and where I was going to hide it. A little girl ended up finding it, and her mom posted a photo of her holding it with a big smile and said how excited she was to find "the COCO rock."

Another one that has generated a lot of attention is my Dwight Schrute rock. If you are/were a fan of The Office, hearing the name Dwight should get you giggling. But if you haven't delved into The Office world I will enlighten you a little bit. Dwight lives on a beet farm, is an expert at warding of bears, and is a fan of Battlestar Galactica. In one episode Jim Halpert, his office rival, dresses as Dwight and tells him "bears beets Battlestar Galactica." So, I present my tribute to Dwight Schrute below. I haven't hidden it yet, but rock group members got a huge laugh from my creativity and wish to find it. It will probably make it's way to Dunder Mifflin's big box competitor.

Enough with me bragging about my artwork. How does one accomplish this rock painting thing anyway? Easy. You need rocks, paint, brushes, sealant, and your imagination.

Lets start with rocks. Pick them up off the ground, but be sure not to remove any from State or National Parks as it is not permitted. There is no need to buy craft rocks from a craft store. In fact, craft store rocks are annoying because the waxy coating prevents the paint from absorbing properly. I've heard of people purchasing landscape rocks because of the ease of finding the desired size and shape. Smooth natural ones are best and I find mine near the river. Various kinds of rock absorb paint differently. Simple trial and error is the only answer.

Your "canvas" can be any size you wish, but for simplicity I generally use pocket-sized rocks. Get creative with shapes. If a rock isn't an oval or circle, what does your imagination say it looks like? I saw a Canadian Goose in an odd-shaped one. Once you have gathered a few specimens, take them home, scrub of any dirt, and soak them in warm water and allow to dry.

Now you're ready for paint. I'm going to make this as simple as possible to understand: you can use anything to color the rock. That means, paint, markers, nail polish, colored pencils, (crayons aren't a good idea), etc. I use simple acrylic paints from Michael's craft store. I think I got a big variety pack for around $8.00. You can buy individual tubes in virtually any shade desired, but I found that I liked mixing the colors. However, if a large amount of a certain shade is needed, it's worth it to purchase a tube. Otherwise, it can be difficult to recreate the exact shade and tone, even if you remember what colors you used. I found the Bright Red (shown next to yellow) in the variety package too orangey, so I went ahead and purchased a tube of Holiday Red which I like better.

Brushes. Again, I purchased a package with various widths and angles. Since I tend to paint small things, I purchased additional thin brushes and use the wider ones from the package for larger area application. Buy whatever works for you. Trial and error will be your friend here, too.

Sometimes I want to write words or draw thin outlines. In this case I use paint pens. I'm going to be honest: I don't care much for paint pens, especially the oil based kind which glob and clog, don't apply easily over acrylic paint, and run when the sealant is applied (more on that later). Extra fine permanent markers like Sharpies work okay, but the medium doesn't mesh well with acrylic paint. What I mean is, it's obvious a permanent marker was used over paint.

Posca pens (available from Amazon.com) are extremely popular. After getting frustrated with other paint pens, I went ahead and ordered them. They are easier to use, but here's the thing: unless you let one color dry, the next one will bleed when the two are used in close proximity. I painted a rock which included lines of paint close together. I had to paint a line, used a hair dryer to dry it, then paint the next line, and so on. It took forever. If not careful, the Pocsas can splatter especially if the rock has texture. They also do not produce the coverage like acrylic paint or even the oil based paint pens. However, they haven't clogged yet, blend nicely with acrylic paint, and are much easier to write with then oil based pens. So, I guess it's a trade off. Like I said, I'm still not a big fan of paint pens in general, but the Poscas come in handy depending on what I'm drawing.

Acrylic paint in background; Posca pen for words.

After artwork is complete, it's a good idea to write something on the back with instructions to the effect of  "Keep or rehide. Post a photo to (insert rock group) Facebook group page." Sometimes I add my initials. I find the extra fine Sharpie or other permanent marker to work best. Just note that, depending the rock's natural stone makeup, the sealant sometimes makes permanent markers darker and difficult to read. Unfortunately, there's no knowing when this is going to happen. 

I blacked out the group name for photo. This is an unsealed rock.

The final step is to seal your artwork with waterproof sealant. If you skip this step, don't put the painted rock out in the world. Weather will wash off your paint or marker, which isn't good for the environment. Also, I have personally picked up unsealed wet rocks. Lemme tell ya; they're messy. Sealing is a must. I use Rustoleum pictured below which is available at Walmart for around $4. The finish doesn't matter, but I like semi-gloss for a little shine.

Placing rocks over cardboard or news paper for sealing only makes your rocks stick to it. Instead, I have a 1x6 board with strategically placed brad nails that serve as "racks" for spray sealing.

It must be noted that spray sealants makes some medium bleed, possibly ruining your artwork. Sharpies and oil based paint pens are affected. There are a couple ways to avoid this.

1) Let the medium dry 24-48 hours then lightly spray a tiny bit of sealant. Allow to dry than finish up with a thicker coat of sealant.
2) Brush a light coat of Modge Podge over artwork/writing, allow to dry then seal with sealant. Modge Podge is technically glue and not waterproof. It's imperative to seal over the Modge Podge.

I used to prefer option 2. Now I go for option 1 because Modge Podge makes everything sticky causing the paint to peel off, even on my homemade drying rack.

Once the sealant has dried, the rocks are ready to place around town for others to find. Keep rocks out of State and National Parks, National Forests, and Federal Lands. Good places are local city or county parks (less regulated) or other public areas like outside of libraries. Some people place them inside businesses, but I personally discourage that because picking up the rock can look like shoplifting. However, outside of the business in the parking lot is generally okay; I place them on lampposts quite often. Some places do not want then anywhere on their property. Get familiar with a local rock group and you will quickly find out the popular rocking areas, as well as those to avoid.

I've come across various internet articles written by grumps who don't want to see unnatural things like painted rocks in a natural setting. This is somewhat reasonable, which is why rocks should stay out of State/National Parks and the like. In addition, I try to place my rocks on man-made items: lampposts, park benches, picnic shelters, trail marker signs, highway rest areas, etc. In my humble opinion, this is a good compromise. I also only take no more than five rocks at a time to hide in one area. While rock hunting is fun, seeing a plethora of colorful stones detracts from the ambiance of natural settings. At my favorite local park by the river, I've come across twenty plus rocks in a hundred foot diameter area; too many. Using good judgement goes a long way and it will still brighten a stranger's day.

Happy rocking!

If you participate in (or decide to start) rocking hunting, I'd love to see some photographs of your artwork.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Lost Cowboy

Illustration: Pixabay under Creative Commons License

The Lost Cowboy

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The paved trail by the river is line with pine trees and some sort of wild legume plant that rattles like Mexican jumping beans. Runners such as myself, walkers, strollers, dogs, and bossy geese sporadically populate it. Not a typical spot for a cowboy, but there he was leaning against a tree. 

Unlike those home décor silhouettes, his back and boot sole wasn’t propped against the trunk, but his shoulder  leaned into it, like he was steadying himself. His cream-colored Stetson stood out against the brown bark and he clutched a modern medical-grade cane. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief yanked out from his back pocket. Wearing black denim jeans and a twill shirt, seemed awfully hot on a day like today, in the mid-90s, but maybe cowboys are used to that.

Hearing my footsteps approach, he turned and smiled. Well, more like grimaced. A top row of gold and silver teeth mixed sparkled as his Hispanic wrinkles stretched across his facial contours. Although clearly tired, he held his fingers to his hat rim, tipping it at me. I casually waved and ran on, feeling his watch upon me. 

Did he need help? I now wondered. Stopping, I turned around to check. He was leaned against the tree again, but this time seemed comfortable and relaxed as he panned over the cool river’s current, as though lost in his mind.

I heard the legume plant’s jumping bean noise again, momentarily causing me to turn my head in its direction. When I looked back at the cowboy, he was gone.

Flash Fiction Monday: The Unusual Suspect

Photo Jennifer E. Miller 2018

The Unusual Suspect

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Childhood summer days were spent at Grandma’s house. Her garden bloomed with zucchini, lettuce, peas, green beans, and of course tomatoes. A few plants grew in pots up by the house, which is where I found a tomato hornworm; a large green caterpillar. It was the largest caterpillar I’d ever seen, and it was awesome. It was bright green and when it crawled its sides moving fluidly like an accordion. A spike protruded from its hind end, which didn’t frighten me at all. I plucked the caterpillar from the plant and barreled through the sliding door into the kitchen to show grandma.

“Grandma! Look at this huge caterpillar. It’s part unicorn, too,” I exclaimed, pointing out the spike.

Grandma shrieked. “Where did you find that?!”

“On a tomato plant.”

She allowed me to place it in an old mason jar for observation. I was intrigued when it tried climbing the side, allowing me to see its little feet suctioning on the jar. After about 4.27 minutes, I got bored of watching it and left to go do something else.

Later, when I returned to the jar, the caterpillar was gone.

“Grandma, what happened to my new friend?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, refusing to look at me.

As with most kids, I forgot all about it and continued with my day.

* * *

A few days later, I rubbed my morning eyes as I scuffled into the kitchen.

“Grandma, I’m ready for breakfast,” I said, groggily.

No answer. That’s weird. She was usually waiting for me.

“Grandma?” I called again.

Nothing.

No matter. I prepared myself cereal and juice. While crunching the bran flakes, I heard what sounded like a cheer. I abruptly stopped chewing and listened closer.

“Ohhhhh!” I heard, followed by a cackle.

Setting my cereal spoon down with a clank, I walked to the next room and snuck up next to the window, so not to be spotted. Peering out, I saw Grandma with the neighbor, hunched over at the edge of the garden. Grandma poured something from a container. When the contents reached the ground, she cackled again while the neighbor oohed and aahed and took a step backward, as though getting out of the way of something.

Swiftly, I ran back to my room, threw on some clothes, and returned to the window. By this time, Grandma had retrieved the garden shovel. Curiosity grabbed hold of me and I turned from the window and out the back door.

I approached without a sound, hiding behind shrubs and trees. They hadn’t seen me.

From my James Bond vantage point, I saw something wiggle on the ground, uncomfortably. The container was now in the hands of the neighbor who sprinkled more of its contents, which I could now see was salt. She poured it over a slimy creature that writhed around in the dirt.

“It doesn’t like that, does it,” the neighbor stated.

“Nope,” answered Grandma.

Grandma tapped the shovel over the ground and the metal tinged over a rock. Next, she raised the shovel over her head and slammed it down like an ax. Bits of fleshy material flew in various directions and dirt clumps splashed outwards.

“You only got part of it. Hit it again,” said the neighbor, a little too enthusiastically.

Grandma swung the shovel a second time, and in one big swoop sliced the creature clean in half. I knew that because the neighbor cheered, “By golly! That was like chopping off a fish head.”

I felt the color drain from my face.

Grandma rinse off the shovel at the spigot while the neighbor sprinkled another dose of salt “for good measure.” Then, the two women walked back to the house with Grandma mumbling something about me probably being awake and wanting breakfast. I pressed back into the shrub so they didn’t see me.

Once they were inside, I stepped out, toward the murder scene. My heart went thump-thump as the ground bobbed up and down with my stride.

A small crater lay exposed in the dirt, and what was in the center surprised me. I was expecting some poor critter I saw regularly: a bird, rabbit, or other garden menace. What I saw, of course, was a behemoth slug—rather what was left of it. That explained the salt, too. The crystals stuck to the slug’s slimy skin like nubby porcupine quills, slowly suffocating the creature until the shovel severed it from its misery.

I hadn’t seen my grandmother kill anything before, but now had a slightly better understanding of why the garden was a success. Thinking back to my tomato hornworm’s disappearance, I questioned if it perhaps met the same fate as this slug.

Without much time to mull over what I had just witnessed, I snuck back in the house where Grandma greeted me with, “I was just about to scoop you out of bed. Sleeping too long. You want one slice of toast or two?”

Scoop…shovel…dirt…slug…in two pieces…toast…

“Well?” she pressed.

“I’m not hungry.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Coincidental Changes

Photo Jennifer E. Miller 2018

Coincidental Changes

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Last week, we lost Scrunchy, our disabled butterfly. I supposed you may be wondering how we acquired a pet butterfly in the first place. We raised ten caterpillars into butterflies (ordered from an insect company). They grow and spin into their cocoons, then finally emerge into beautiful butterflies. The butterflies are fed fruit or nectar and stay in a cylinder-shaped netted habitat/enclosure until release day.

One of the ten butterflies unfortunately didn’t develop correctly; she had deformed wings and was unable to fly like the rest of her friends. I called the insect company and asked what to do, because it was clear she wouldn’t survive in nature. They said to keep it in the netted enclosure for its life span, which is about two to four weeks. That’s how we acquired a disabled pet butterfly, who was promptly named Scrunchy.

Scrunchy at bottom after hatching from cocoon. Photo Jennifer E. Miller 2018

Gia was excited about this. We no longer have any pets and Scrunchy was a welcomed addition to our otherwise animal-less household. Although, it was sad to release the nine other “sibling” butterflies and leave Scrunchy behind.

Scrunchy’s habitat hung in Gia’s room at night, and during the day I moved it around the house so Scrunchy could look out the window or soak up some sunlight. A slice of watermelon or kiwi, sprinkled with nectar, was provided to her (we found she ate better with this option). Fresh flowers adorned her enclosure daily. Depending which flowers were blooming in my garden, she got peonies, lavender, or day lilies. I snapped some large hosta leaves, too, creating a playground, so to say, for Scrunchy. She liked to hide underneath the leaves or hang upside-down.

Over the weeks, we discovered and tuned in to Scrunchy’s personality. On nice days, I brought her outside to enjoy the sun and air from the safety of her enclosure. If Scrunchy was in the sunlight she ate better. If it was hot temperatures, we made sure that the enclosure didn’t sit directly on a hot surface like the deck or patio table; otherwise, she’d bounce all over the place in a panic.

Bouncing was just one alternative to flying. Another was climbing and Scrunchy liked climbing the habitat’s netting. I think she figured out the zipper is where her food entered because she frequently hung out there. Sometimes she’d climb too high and fall, landing on her back and wiggling her legs in the air until she flipped back over. Who knew a tiny butterfly could pack so much personality.

Time to explain the coincidental change part the title references. I’m ready to mix things up a bit, and started a new job. Truthfully, job searching was scary as hell because I’ve been out of the workforce for nearly ten years now. Would anyone want to hire me? What skills could a stay-home bring to any position? Would my volunteer experience be enough to promote myself in the job market? Even as a writer, resume writing is difficult for me because I basically have to brag about myself on paper, which is uncomfortable. I don’t put myself on a pedestal or above others, but in a competitive market I supposed that’s what one must do.

I put in seven applications to various places and secured one interview with a company who eventually hired me. Ironically, it’s a disability service, assisting developmentally disabled adults live their lives. Coincidentally, we were nurturing a disabled butterfly.

Since starting the job two weeks ago, I’ve met some of the clients when they come into the office with their staff member. They all have their own quirks and personalities, just like Scrunchy. One woman is usually happy and excited when she walks in. She communicates verbally but I can’t always understand what she says. However, she understands me so I talk to her. It was funny, the other day, when she saw someone eating pizza. She frowned and pointed to it with a grumpy face like “I want that, too.” Who can blame her?

The company gives these disabled adults a chance at a normal life. They in turn took a chance and hired me—someone with no current work experience—and I’m grateful. I don’t have experience working with disabled adults, and I find this sector of society interesting to learn. Perhaps Scrunchy’s purpose was to prepare me for this opportunity.

Flash Not-So-Fiction Friday: Social Characteristics of Doves and Pigeons

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller, 2016

Social Characteristics of Doves and Pigeons

 By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Doves and pigeons are basically the same bird. Except one is primarily found in the cities asking for handouts like a welfare junkie, while the other is in the wild living off the land.

Pigeons are urban dwellers. They hang out on lampposts and park benches; stalk people from statues and rooftops; and annoyingly tailgate unsuspecting victims. Once they’ve zeroed in on someone to pester, they inch their way closer and closer, until the person senses they are followed. Upon turning around, they find the pigeons about-face, pretending like nothing odd is transpiring.

Another strategy is ambushing city dwellers. By hanging out above ground, say in a tree, large numbers of them are less likely to be immediately spotted. Imagine a person enjoying a refreshing afternoon lunch break with a sandwich in hand, strolling through the park. He expects to walk back to the office without incident while taking periodic bites from the sandwich. Then it happens. He walks under a tree momentarily enjoying the shade, while a flock of pigeons signal to one another. In unison, they swoop down from the branches, landing on the ground, and crisscross their way aimlessly on the ground in front of the city dweller, surprising him. He has never seen so many birds congregate this close.

The pigeons cock their heads, cooing away in a secret language he can’t decipher. Mistakenly, he thinks this is a cool experience. He studies them, when one flaps its wings, approaching him. It hovers midair near his arm, the one holding the sandwich, which he naively moves away from his body to create a perch. The pigeon lands on it and lets out a throaty coo. Another one flies on next to the first. A third assumes positions on the opposite shoulder. Letting out a chuckle, the city-dweller enjoys the attention. Then it happens. The pigeons peck at his sandwich. They tried to tell him in their language, that they wanted a handout, but he didn’t get the message and have now resorted to an ambush strategy.

He tries to swat them away, but more and more pigeons fly up to their victim, flapping feathers and dust into his face. With no other option, the city dweller drops his sandwich and runs back to the office. Success!

Doves, on the other hand, live quietly in the forest nestled somewhere in the trees. They are self-sufficient creatures—until they find the backyard patio feeder in the early morning hours. They typically scope out the grub by sitting on a fence post or railing. With a squawk, they flap themselves to the ground to walk toward the ground feeder. They have tiny skinny little legs and small heads compared to their plump bodies, and thrust their heads forward while walking as though it’s going to propel them to the feast faster. A few doves is all it takes to quickly desecrate the seed offering.

Others show up at the food site, only to find the feeder empty, which kick start their city cousin instincts. They don't view the birdseed as a handout, but rather there needs to be fairness with plenty to go around. When there isn’t enough to share, they coo loudly, intending to wake up the human who supplies it. If that doesn’t work, they gently tap on the window with their beaks. In extreme cases, the flock sends a kamikaze into the window with a wakening thump. The bird, plastered awkwardly to the glass, slides down into oblivion. The human sits up, rubs her tired eyes, and looks out the window. Feeling bad for the dove, and riddled with sorrow and guilt, she notices the empty feeder and promptly refills it. Soon an entire extended family of dove have arrived to eat.

The doves’ feast appears harmonious and jolly, until they notice the quail lining up on the rooftop…

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Riding in the Car at Night

Photo Pixabay CC0 Creative Commons License

We have those moments when something--could be anything--connects us to a specific memory. A memory that we wonder why it is even a memory to begin with. It subconsciously sticks with us that years down the road, when it resurrects, we can recall our senses. Someday it will reveal its meaning, but until then we simply reflect on the memory connection. 

Riding In the Car at Night

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Along the dark highway. Rarely another car in sight. I relax in the seat; the leather conforms to my curves.

Staring through the window, I watch the painted dotted lines tick by to the rhythm of Jim Croce’s soft tunes via the stereo speakers, moving me down the highway. I got a name, too, but I don’t need to say it.

The tires whir over the pavement spinning comforting background noise, like a vinyl record’s static. Sometimes a seam in the road interrupts with a click, as when the needle jumps; skipping lyrics. And just as the song continues to move ahead, I keep rolling down the highway.

I can’t tell if life is passing me by when the light poles repeat like a broken record. They flash by—short, then grow tall as they approach, finally shrinking down, out of sight. Pools of their orangey glow dabble across the windshield, momentarily illuminating my face allowing me to see my own reflection, perhaps like my daddy did, when he drove this route.

I’m headed nowhere; is anyone going my way? It’s a lonely road, and I must be a fool to dream of the pine trees shaking to life, giving me company. But nothing else Jim sings of is awake. It’s night and they all dream, hidden, as I move ahead—pass them by—rolling free down the highway.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller