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 

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part 3

Pixabay Creative Commons License

Flash Fiction Friday arrived on a Tuesday. I've been behind lately. Sorry, again, for the delay. This is the final installment of Alternative Fishing Methods. Enjoy.

Alternative Fishing Methods Part 3

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Disappointed, Dusty pulled his small aluminum fishing boat off the boat launch, leaving a little trail of water dripping from the trailer. It was the third weekend in a row without any luck catching fish. He thought maybe he needed to upgrade his vessel from a rowboat size with a 15 HP motor to something more fancy. However, he knew that his friends, with more expensive equipment, didn’t necessarily have better luck then him. They did, however, spend more money on upkeep and gear. He decided to keep troubleshooting until he zeroed in on what was making the fish bite.

Dusty had tried grubs, worms, and even those rubber frogs which he danced over the lily pads like a marionette at the end of his fishing line. Nothing worked.

Today he brought along preserved shads; expensive ones that his buddies insisted were the only brand to spend his money on. They were soaked in laboratory engineered scents, artful packaging, and sat behind the counter in a locked display case. Even with the high price tag, Dusty still wound up empty handed. Discouraged, he was determined to come up with another solution. A creative one. He would lure the fish not with a lure, but a luring tactic.

Dusty had an outdoor pond where he had thrown in a couple of goldfish that had outgrown their aquarium. They were larger than the average aquarium specimen, but smaller than a koi.

The aquarium had brought a peaceful ambiance to the living room, and Dusty found that he missed it once he transferred the goldfish to the outdoor pond. He began spending more time in his yard sitting on the ledge of the pond to relax while reading or eating. The two goldfish, one orange and one white, swam up and puckered their mouths at the surface; most likely looking for food.

One day, Dusty placed his finger just above the water and moved it back and forth. To his amusement, the fish chased it. He thought it was a fluke, but it happened again the next day so he rewarded them with an extra pinch of food. He took his exercise a step further by running his finger along the water then raising it up quickly. At first, the goldfish didn’t do much except stare, fan their fins, and pucker their mouths. On later attempts, they stuck their mouths out of the water. It progressed to popping their faces out, and before long the fish were leaping out of the water when Dusty raised his finger. He had trained his goldfish to jump like the dolphins at Sea World. Now that they were capable of jumping out of the pond, he had to keep a screen over the top when he wasn’t there.

Now this trick could prove useful in Dusty’s fishing woes. His luring tactic was simple: place a goldfish in the lake, have it chase his finger, let a wild fish come to it, and in the nick of time raise his finger and have it jump back into the boat. Dusty would have a net sitting in the water when the wild fish continued swimming straight ahead when his goldfish leaped to safety. There’s no reason why this shouldn’t work.

* * *

Dusty’s trailer bounced and creaked over the bumps in the road on the way to the lake. He glanced over at the front passenger seat, his old aquarium half full of water splashed water over its edges. Inside, floated his two goldfish, glubbing as if the jostle didn’t phase them one bit.

Arriving at the boat launch, he back in the trailer as usual, released the boat, parked the truck, and returned carrying his aquarium of goldfish. He passed a pair of tobacco chewing fisherman lollygagging at the shore.

“What’s he carrying his pet fish for?”

“Beats me. Unless he’s the type who likes to drive the game warden crazy by introducing a new species into the lake.”

The first man spat out a wad of chew. “Should we tell the bonehead not to?”

“Nah.”

When Dusty reached his boat, the breeze picked up, sending gentle ripples over the lake’s surface and rustling the leaves in the trees on shore. Ever so carefully, he stepped into his small boat, steadying himself before bringing the opposite leg in. He gently placed the aquarium on the floor, wedging it as best he could between the seats. Satisfied, with his arrangement, Dusty yanked on the pull-start and the motor bubbled to life with a brief puff of exhaust. Steering the boat in reverse, the captain and unlikely crew were off.

Dusty made sure that his pace was slow and steady, staying clear of any bumps or waves. He found his fishing spot empty; unusual, but welcomed nonetheless. Before getting started, he decided a bare spot along the shore was best for a practice run.

The boat slunk into the sand, sliding to a stop. Natural waves lapped against the metal hull with a dull clink. Dusty climbed out of the boat into the water and grabbed the goldfish net he’d brought along. He scooped the orange one out first, and while still confined in the net, dipped it in the lake water. At first, the goldfish panicked. After a few moments, it calmed down, fanning its fins rhythmically.

Next, Dusty removed the net to see what the goldfish would do. It swam around in circles but didn’t stray far. Dusty put his finger near the water and the goldfish came right up to it, just like in the pond. They practiced the leaping skill and the goldfish was rewarded with a pinch of food.

This test was repeated with the white goldfish, which passed as well. Dusty placed his goldfish back into the aquarium and motored out to his usual fishing spot further out.

Gently, he scooped out the orange goldfish, placing in the lake. Dusty turned the motor handle to the lowest gear, putting his way over the water, while the opposite hand’s finger was outstretched over the water’s surface. As the boat moved, the goldfish followed. Before long, a bass tailed it. As it ganged up on the goldfish, Dusty raised his finger and his pet leaped into the boat while the bass swam into the fishing net secured to the side of the boat. There was more scrambling than expected to get the goldfish back into the aquarium and the caught bass into the boat. But—the ruse worked.

He tried the white goldfish next but no luck. After several minutes it tired, so he scooped it back in the boat and switched fish again. A second bass swam up and Dusty instructed the goldfish to leap as before. After securing the goldfish’s safety, Dusty examined the bass. It was considerably larger than the first one, and more than capable of swallowing his pets. He was putting his goldfish in very real danger. However, the risk was paying off.

He took a snack break, noticing an osprey circling overhead. After finishing, he scooped up the white goldfish a second time, deposited it into the lake, and starts his motor. Not long later, a large elongated head appears behind it; and far more ferocious, than the bass. It was a two foot muskie with teeth that will turn that palette of pure while goldfish scales into a dripping red canvas.

Dusty directed the white goldfish to leap out of the water. It wiggled its little tail as it sailed through the air. To his disbelief, the muskie splashed out of the water after it. Twisting its torso midair, it thrust itself toward the goldfish. Dusty had began to panic when the osprey dove down, sinking its talons into the muskie. The raptor struggles with such a large fish and they become entangled, wrestling on the water’s surface. The muskie thrashd back and forth, using its long muscular body to throw the bird off its back. It worked and the osprey landed back first into the water. The muskie whipped around to sink its teeth into the mass of feathers, but the osprey quickly flipped over and leaped airborne out of the water to safety as the fish dove back into the abyss.

While Dusty had remembered to turn off his motor after retrieving his goldfish, the boat’s momentum continued over the water and the bow floated into an object with an echoing tap. He turned to see the game warden staring down at him like a pirate ready to take over a ship.

“Why do you have pet store stock in your boat?” he growled.

Dusty’s mind quickly thought of all sorts of things to say but none made a lick of sense. Taking them out for a joy ride. They needed fresh air and a change of scenery. They’re my emotional support animals.

“Well?” the warden asked again.

“They are fishing with me,” Dusty answered.

The warden looked around, not seeing any poles. He didn’t buy the story. “You okay, mister?”

“What do you mean?” Dusty asked confused.

“The sport of fishing doesn’t mean take your pet fish for a boat ride. Should I call someone for you?”

Realizing that the warden was concerned for his mental well-being, and his ticket out of trouble, he said, “Sure, that’d be great.”

Grabbing his radio from above the steering wheel, he asked, “Who should I have dispatch call for you?”

Dusty tried to decide which friend or family member would tease him the least.

“Actually, some friends are waiting for me at the launch. I don’t let them chew tobacco in my boat. Wouldn't want them to spit it into the lake. Don't want to introduce something non-native to the lake fish.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

Artwork Pixaby under Creative Commons License use

Sorry for the delay this week. This isn't true flash fiction; ran a little longer at 1500 words. 

Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A spontaneous camping trip with friends at a new campground, leaves no time to think about items other than essentials. Packing consisted of throwing together the tent, food, and other necessities ensuring nothing was forgotten. By the time everyone, including the family dog, is loaded up in the SUV and hit the highway, it's realized that fishing gear was not on the checklist.

Quinn tried reassuring himself he wouldn’t have time to fish because he’ll be doing all the campsite setup, and he isn’t familiar enough with the area to figure out the good fishing holes anyway. Even with these reasonable excuses, it does no good. Quinn drives, silently stewing about the what ifs as the kids banter back and forth about one thing or another.

He grips the steering wheel tighter in frustration while his foot pushes down harder on the gas pedal, increasing speed until their friends, who are following, honk their horn to get him to slow the hell back down.

“Why are you going so fast?” Quinn’s wife asks.

“No reason,” Quinn mumbles.

* * *

Arriving at the campground check-in lodge, the attendant informs them of the park’s rules, available facilities, hiking trails, and proximity near the river. As usual, the kids need to use the bathroom and want to eat and play because they are bored immediately upon exiting the car. Quinn is sent solo to the campsite.

With the company of Gus, the family’s golden retriever, Quinn does the grunt work of setting up the tent. He pulls out the bundle of dowels, aligning the ends of the sections together so that they form one large pole which he then feeds through strategically-placed pockets and loops in the canvas. He repeats the process as necessary and soon the tent pops up in its upside-down ice cream cone shape. With the rubber mallet, he pounds in the stakes, securing it to the ground.

Quinn takes a step back to rest when Gus looks at him with that “let’s go explore” look. Shrugging, Quinn agrees and the two trot out of the campsite.

Allowing Gus to take the lead, they walk down a dry dusty trail with dense shrubbery on either side. Quinn hears his kids playing in the distance indicating they have passed the playground, because he but is unsure of where they are headed. After all, this is a new place. Soon, the air begins to cool and mosquitos buzz and are quickly swatted away. Gus runs ahead wagging his tail to meet the steady stream of the river. Letting out a bark he splashes his paws into the water, waiting for his owner. Quinn catches up and greets Gus with a scratch behind the ears.

The river speaks its language. In the shallower spots, the water trickles and laps over the rocks, while in the deeper sections, the current creates a few white-capped rapids. Nothing for rafters to get excited about, but a reminder of the river’s power. A splash causes Quinn to whip his head in that direction. He is too late and only sees the circular ripples growing larger and larger as they hint of what created them. Quinn doesn’t need to observe it again to know that it was a leaping trout.

That the was the moment he regretted the spontaneity of the camping trip. An empty feeling sat in his soul, desperate for a pair of waders and a fishing rod. All the reasoning he did with himself on the drive was tossed aside. He now found a good fishing hole and can’t do a darn thing about it except enjoy the scenery. Folding his arms in disgust, he unknowingly grinds his teeth together with a crack.

Gus, being a dog, only saw the water for what it was: fun. He walked in further, finding a smooth flat rock under the surface to stand on. Something caught his eye and his ears perked up in a playful fashion. He dipped his head in the water swiftly and surfaced with something in his mouth, and proudly galloped over to Quinn, who continued sulking. Gus dropped a pink, wriggling slimy creature at Quinn’s feet and waited for praise.

Astonished, Quinn looked at the trout then his dog and back again, then broadened into a smile. “Good boy,” he said.

Gus panted, his tongue dangling out of his mouth and appeared to be smiling. He shifted his wet paws, the fur stuck to his legs making them look skinnier.

“Go get another,” Quinn said.

Gus spun around and returned to the river.

While the dog attended to the new fishing technique, Quinn grabbed a stone and put the trout out of its misery.

A few minutes later, Gus returned with another fish.

Giving the dog more praise, Quinn said, “Keep going, Gus.”

There was a bark of approval, before returning to the water.

As Quinn took care of the second trout, a voice behind him said, “You got a permit?”

It was a park ranger. Quinn quickly stood up.

“No. I’m not fishing.”

The ranger pointed to the set of fish on the ground. “How’d you get those?”

“My dog caught them.”

“Very funny. I’ll need to see some ID, please.”

Thumbing his ID out of his wallet, Quinn noticed a name patch that said Ranger Smith.

"Like I said, I'm not fishing. I don't even a rod on me."

“Where’s your net? Trot line? Those aren’t permitted either, you know.”

“There’s none. Look,” he pointed to Gus who stood on the rock scanning the water. “My dog is out there snagging fish.”

Gus thrust his head under water again, but came up empty.

Ranger Smith eyed Quinn suspiciously. “That’s a pretty wild story. Even if it were true, that’s not legal. I will need to confiscate these.”

As he bent down to gather the fish, Gus let out an unfriendly bark. “Your pooch friendly?” he asked.

“Usually,” said Quinn. “Say, can you show me in a rulebook or something that dogs catching fish is illegal?”

“Don’t matter. The trout are in your possession and you don’t have a proper license.”

“My dog brought them to me, yes, but I was just overseeing them while he went back to the river. I’d like to see the rule, please.”

Ranger Smith was annoyed, but Quinn’s request was reasonable enough. He pulled out a smartphone and opened an application.

He scrolled through screens of information, not finding what he was looking for. Dogs infringing on wildlife couldn’t possibly be acceptable, could it?

As Ranger Smith kept hunting through the digital content of his device, Gus came bounding back to with another catch. But this time he didn’t drop it at Quinn’s feet. Instead, his tail stopped wagging and he stood still with the fish between his teeth, eyeing the stranger. The two of them made eye contact and immediately disliked one another.

“Like I said,” Quinn went on, “my dog is catching the fish, not me.”

Frustrated, Ranger Smith ran his tongue over his teeth. 

“Dogs need to be on a leash at all times within the park,” he said.

“I left it at the campsite,” Quinn responded.

Swapping his smartphone for his ticket book, Ranger Smith scribbled onto a thick piece of paper. “Sign here,” he said, pointed to the dotted line. “Press hard, five copies.”

Quinn read the ticket which indicated he was in violation of the leash law. He signed his name, then Ranger Smith tore off his ticket copy and handed to him along with his identification.

“What did you find out about the fish?” Quinn asked, folding the ticket and placing it in his shirt pocket.

“I didn’t, but I’m going to have to take these with me—” he cut himself off when he gestured to the pile of trout. It was gone, and so was Gus. Neither had seen him leave, let alone with the catches.

“Where’s your dog?” Ranger Smith asked.

Quinn shrugged.

“I need to take those trout with me. Call your dog back.”

 Quinn called for Gus and the wet and dirty golden retriever came out from behind some shrubbery.

“Where are the fish?” Quinn asked.

Gus looked at him curiously.

“Show us.”

Gus sat down.

“Gus, where are the fish?”

Gus lay down and placed his head on his front paws.

Turning to Ranger Smith, Quinn said, “I can’t force him to take us anywhere.”

“What do you think your dog did with the fish?” 

“Buried them, I suspect. That’s what dogs do,” Quinn answered.

The ranger’s radio beeped and a dispatcher called out for assistance with a first aid emergency for a hiker. Reluctantly, he bid Quinn and Gus farewell with a leash law reminder, and left.

As soon as Ranger Smith was safely out of sight, Quinn asked of Gus, “Where are your trout?”

Gus hopped up, leading Quinn to a pile of rocks around a bend. Three rocks supported against one another, creating a cavity in the middle. Gus pawed at the hole. Quinn reached down to find the slimy scaled creatures, pulled them out one by one, and headed back to the campsite. There was no need to fret over forgotten fishing gear any longer.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part I

Image, Pixabay Creative Commons CC0

Alternative Fishing Methods Part I

Regulation Restrictions

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Imagine the Department of Fish and Wildlife (DFW) has suspended the spring salmon run because fish counts have dropped. Although, the DFW has agreed to allow catch and release, that nonsense is reserved for the sport of fly fishing. To make matters worse, the river originates in another state where fish counts are stable, even thriving. With no restrictions there, that state’s residents fish salmon to the extreme, lessening the number of them available downriver and out of state. What are fishermen, who have already purchased licenses and permits, to do?

Load up and go fishing anyway is a possibility, but poaching is generally frowned upon. Ax that option.

There’s fishing in neighboring state where it is still allowed. That means spending an exorbitant amount of money on out of state licenses and permits, transportation, and lodging. This normally wouldn’t matter except significant others must be consulted dooming this idea to ever evolve beyond a fantasy.

The final option is to pray for a miracle. This means a subconscious collaborative effort of the unhappy fishermen to dream up something along the lines of “please just make the salmon show up on my doorstep.” The fishermen go to sleep, all wishing for a miracle.

Morning comes and with it the normal routine, sans leaving for the river. Groggy fishermen listen to the news while sipping steaming coffee, waiting for the beverage to kickstart their day. They hear the reporter on television spat something about spring floods…river overflows…aquatic wildlife on roadways and fields. Snapping their heads to the screen is a video of a seemingly impossible scenario. Flapping their way over floodwaters are salmon, making a desperate attempt to return to their hatchery birthplace.

Running outside, the fishermen examine their front yards. As though a higher power has answered, floodwaters are everywhere and with it brings salmon, squirming and jumping their way through the fake river. Throwing on galoshes and waders, the flummoxed but excited fishermen dash out the door with nets in hand.

Technically, front yards aren’t the river, so DFW regulations can go out the window. The fish are swimming, no trespassing, on private property and now the fishermen must do whatever it takes to keep them from destroying it. After all, who knows what sort of damage a fish on land can do. Floodwater is of no concern, whatsoever; it will all dry out—eventually. But can you imagine the ruts in the grass cause by spawning salmon? Might as well have moles.

Sloshing through the marshy front yards, they scoop up the leaping salmon one by one in their nets. Once a sizable stack of fish has been collected, the fishermen trudge back into their homes. No photos are taken because the legality of this new-found fishing practice is questionable at minimum. The fish are quietly filleted, vacuum sealed, and placed in the freezer.

In the next few days, the floodwaters recede, the river returns to normal levels, and the land eventually dries back out. However, the fish count unexpectedly lowers again, and DFW continues the salmon fishing ban for the remainder of the season. The fishermen maintain their secrecy of their new, alternative workaround fishing method, happy the fish did in fact show up practically on their doorstep.

The Mystery of Time

I've put together another deep-thought blog entry this week. For whatever reason, philosophical notions swim between my ears and sometimes writers just need to get them out.

The Mystery of Time

  

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Springtime brings an array of color to the otherwise drab landscape of an evaporating winter snow. Green stems poke through the earth and matted grass straightens its posture. The leaves on trees form ever so slowly, twisting and unraveling themselves to transform the brown branches into silky green bushels.

My favorite part of spring is when my garden irises bloom. Their sharp, pointed leaves appear first, followed by the bulges of the buds, tipped with color. Finally, they emerge completely, bathing my garden with rich colors and shapes.

From a philosophical approach: what causes the irises to bloom and unveil on a particular day? How do they know when to appear each year and when to stop blooming and curl back into hibernation mode? It’s strange and mysterious, how plants know when to do their thing.

My irises only bloom late spring and into early summer. Their blossoms are short-lived but it’s a tidbit of the season where I enjoy stopping and admiring their beauty. I often wonder if the reason is a higher conscience telling me to slow down, and enjoy the moment, because the next seasonal phase will arrive soon.

This reasoning makes sense. Once the irises, and other flowers, are done for the season, I turn my attention to planting my vegetable garden. As I monitor its progress, there’s weeding, keeping birds away, and watching for pest infestations. Tasked with gardening duties, there isn’t as much time to admire the flowers.

Which brings me to another observance. What is time? Dictionary.com’s first listed definition of time is “the system of those sequential relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future; indefinite and continuous duration regarded as that in which events succeed one another.” That was a mouthful, let’s read it again in a shortened version: “the system of sequential relations that any event has to any other; an indefinite and continuous duration as which events succeed one another.” The phrase that stands out is “the relation [of] events.” Taking the time, or stopping to reflect, and admire my irises, perhaps provides the awareness to shift focus next on my vegetable garden. To the birds, flowers and budding trees are signals to nest. These are examples of how events relate to one another.

The “sequential relation [of] events” correlates to anyone, but perhaps we forget to notice it. As humans, we generally observe nature, rather than take part in it. We, many times, simply see and expect the return of growth and routine of seasons. The signs of nature are cues. Cues and clues to the purpose of anything and everything in the mystery of time. 

Being A Mother

Being A Mother

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

What does it take to be a mother? Do you need a child? Or does taking care of someone qualify?

Growing up, a child’s mother feeds, nurtures, and consoles. A mother is who we run to with a problem, an injury, or just a hug. A mother is who we bond with first, our first teacher, and our first love. She raises us and releases us into the world with the skills and advice they provided. And then, one day, we experience being the mom.

Women become mothers differently. Whether naturally, adoption, step or foster parenting, it doesn’t matter. When your child cries, they run to you for a hug full of love and comfort that they know is always tucked away in mother’s arms.

What about non-biological role models? A latchkey child who spends time at a friend’s house after school where the friend’s mother provides a caring and supportive presence, perhaps brings safety and comfort. She acts as a step-in mother for a few hours each day. If this scenario went on for a long time, a bond would develop. She is a mother to another, in a sense.

After a car accident, an ER nurse may hold the hand of a child while the rest of staff attends to his critically injured parents. She is doing her job, but in that moment, isn’t she being a mother? The same concept can be applied to a teacher who consoles the crying student because of a bully: a temporary mother role.

Does being a mother only refer to taking care of a child? There may be a day when we take care of our mother. It could simply be taking care of her after a surgery or doing household chores that have become too exhausting. Does the (adult) child who looks after her mother need to be a parent herself to master this task? After all, many non-relatives are employed as caretakers. The role of mothering can default to a variety of people.

All these thoughts ran through my head as I stood next to my ailing grandmother in the hospital, a few years ago. Unable to feed herself, I spoon-fed her soup. I dipped the spoon into the steaming cafeteria-white bowl of broth, and slowly brought it to her lips as she slurped it from the utensil’s concave. Soon, my eyes began to tear up and tears leak out. I thought about how I had fed my own child this way as an infant, how my mother fed me, and how my grandmother helped with this task with all three of us. Now, here I was, reversing the natural sequential order: I was mothering my grandmother. I was being a mother.

The roles of mothers clearly extend beyond just offspring. It shouldn’t be underestimated how other special women hold a near and dear place in our hearts. A neighbor, teacher, aunt, or friend’s mother can provide a level of support or love that is needed. But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, we have a main mother role; usually that’s biological. It’s that mother who we bond with first, our first teacher, and our first love. That special woman who reared us into the person we are today. Happy Mother’s Day.

Bear Bells and Buck Knives

Bear Bells and Buck Knives

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Bushwhacking through the wilderness in search of huckleberries brings the possibility of a bear encounter; a terrifying prospect to anyone but, in particular, to children. Such was the case with my seven-year-old daughter, Gia.

“I’m scared. And why isn’t Daddy coming?” she said.

“Daddy can’t come this time. But don’t worry, there are ways to protect us,” I assured her.

I had done internet research and discovered various ways to fend off bears.

One line of non-lethal defense is to simple make noise while hiking such as talking or singing. For those who are introverts or not karaoke inclined, a bear bell is another option that alerts wildlife of humanoid presence. Kids love bells and I told Gia she bring every one she owns on our excursion.

After rummaging through her stash of toys and craft supplies, she gathered up some items. She planned to string a large Christmas bell to her shoe, clip smaller craft-sized ones to a lanyard, and found two musical instruments. One was a shaker type with a dowel-shaped handle and a cluster of bells on the other end. The second instrument was a tambourine which she declared had enough bell-like quality to ward of predatory wildlife.

The preferred line of defense, according the internet, is bear spray. This is basically high-zoot mace capable of reaching a distance of thirty feet or so. Gia was more at ease with a physical defense against the attacking bear. We headed out to the local sporting goods store to purchase a can.

The sales person was a middle-aged man with a protruding gut and a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth. I inquired as to the location of bear spray.

“You mean you want a 12-gauge shotgun.”

Gia skipped off to look at something that caught her eye.

“No just bear spray, please.” The sales person shrugged and led me to the section with the bear spray. His thick boots clonked on the tile floor. The cans were larger than I expected.

“How about a holster of some sort for this thing?”

“Don’t have those.”

When he spoke the only part of his face that moved were his lips; everything else was stiff, like his personality. I wondered how that was possible.

“How am I supposed to tote it?”

He shrugged again as he gnawed his toothpick.

I thought out loud, “Well, I suppose I could take a plastic cup, drill some holes near the top opposite each other, and thread a narrow rope through them, and attached it to my belt loop.”

“Now, that’s McGuyver-ing it!” At least he smiled. I was beginning to have doubts he possessed any personality.

“I’d also like to purchase a bear bell,” I said.

The smile was whisked away and the shrug returned, this time with a crotchety, “Mmm. Don’t have those either. But we have a nice selection of 357 magnums. If you’re not into shooting anything, the noise will sure scare off a bear in a hurry.”

Before I could respond, the phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.

Since, Gia wasn’t interested in sharing her arsenal of bells, my plan was to buy a bear bell for myself. I would have to do without. Oh well, I thought. The chances of a bear encounter were pretty slim anyway.

A head of bouncing blonde hair came barreling around the corner. “Mommy, look what I found! Daddy has a big one like this on his boat.”

She showed me a miniature marine horn. The sporting goods store had stocked baskets full of them for boating season. They were next to the cash register, the life jackets, the kayaks, and probably even the camping food.

It gave me an idea. Internet research said to make a lot of noise, like yelling and clapping, to ward of bears. Fog horns are loud. It should, in theory, get the job done. I gathered the spray and the horn and walked to the counter.

The salesman had just hung up the phone and the dirty telephone cord swayed over the edge of the glass countertop. I handed my items to him and dug out my wallet from my handbag.

“I figured you was hiking up a mountain when you asked for bear spray. What’s with the horn?”

“I thought this could be that loud noise to scare off the bear. Like you guessed, I’m not into shooting things.”

His eyebrows shot up in the air with surprise.

“You’re coming up with some pretty creative work-arounds.” He almost sounded impressed.

“You don’t leave me with much choice. It would be easier if you just carried what I need.”

“Mmmm.” Back to the crotchety grump face.

I paid and as I headed for the door I heard the salesman holler, “Donny, move a basket of those fog horns to the hunting section.” I smiled. I guess I did leave an impression.

We arrived home and I couldn’t locate a plastic cup to McGuyver into a bear spray holster. I sighed and looked around the pantry for a viable alternative. I found a foam beer bottle insulator. You know those things that keep beer cans cool, same idea but shaped for bottles. The size wrapped perfectly around the bear spray can and I secured it to my belt with a reusable rubber twisty tie. The bear spray easily slid in and out of that thing. This would work! I proudly showed it to Gia to ease her fears.

“Hey, Gia, look. Mom has bear spray, you have your fog horn and bells, so we are all set to pick berries tomorrow. Let me show you how to use this in case something happens to me.”

Gia was attentive and repeated the instructions for bear spray use: pull the safety tab, aim slightly lower than the bear’s head, and spray for five seconds.

“Do you feel safe now?”

Her little face dropped, a frown forming, and crocodile tears silently leaked out again.

“Why are you upset?”

“What if we have to use it?”

“We hope we don’t, but in case we do, it’s there. Like insurance.”

“What’s insurance?”

“Nevermind.” For a moment I forgot she was seven. “Look, I know you are worried, but we have done our best to prepare. Let’s go to bed and be rested for tomorrow, okay?”

I could tell she wanted to forget this whole huckleberry idea. Nevertheless, I helped her into her PJs and get ready for bed. I switched of her light and sat down on her bed. She snuggled her favorite teddy bear as I rubbed her back, and soon she fell asleep.

I exhaled in relief and climbed into bed, switched off the lamp, and went to sleep.

At approximately 1:17 am, I was jolted awake by a blood curling scream. I whisked myself out of bed and dashed down the hallway. Gia was flailing her arms about and kicking her legs.

“Don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!” she screamed.

I knew exactly what her dream entailed. For a moment, I considered letting the bear chase her and hopefully she’d remember to use all her defense tools we discussed. Nah, I’ll have pity and wake her up.

“Gia! Wake up. It’s only a dream!” I said, as I gently touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes, which were wide with terror. I grabbed a tissue and wiped her face, which had collected tiny beads of sweat. She sobbed while catching her breath and wrapped her skinny little arms around me. I returned her hug.

After her heart rate stabilized, she shared her nightmare.

“It was a big bear. He ran on two legs. And he chased me! I dropped my bucket of huckleberries, which I know was going to make you sad. He we reaching to grab me with his great big long claws when you woke me up.”

I smiled to myself. A bear running on two legs.

“Where was mommy in your dream? You didn’t go into the woods by yourself did you?”

“No. The bear ate you. Then he can after me.”

I gulped. “Oh. Well, did you try clapping, throwing rocks, or using the fog horn?”

She began sobbing again. “Yes! I tried all those things! You even used your bear spray; nothing worked! I’m scared, mommy. What if none of those things work and the bear still gets us?”

I knew that wouldn’t happen and reminded her that it was only a dream and to return to sleep.

 * * *

Over breakfast Gia seemed more excited. I packed food, water, and berry collecting containers. I strapped the bear spray on and as added security, I slipped a buck knife to my belt. Maybe it was the size of the knife, but Gia stared coldly at me. She had that weepy look on her face again.

“What is it?” I asked. “I have prepared us as best I can. Everything will be fine and we will have fun. What would make you feel safe?”

“If Daddy came with us.”

Copyright 2018 by Jennifer E. Miller