Mrs. Jones

The glass was raised, the lips parted slightly, a sliver of tongue, just visible, reaching eagerly toward the icy liquid. Fist contact of glass to lip, a slight clunk of ice against a front tooth confirming the anticipation; the need of the throat to share in the experience. The gums seize up slightly at the sudden invasion of cool splendor. The first trickles run delightfully, almost playfully, into the throat. The grateful contraction of swallowing, gradually at first, then more greedily as if remembering there was more in the glass and more where that came from. The surge of chill as the liquid makes its final dump into the stomach which sloshes gratefully as the entire content lands.

Her fingers snake to the stomach, sure that she will be able to feel the coolness through the nap of her shirt, through the wall of skin and muscle. The hands drop to her thighs and while hunched over she takes deep calming breaths through her nose and out through her mouth. Fingers walk steadily up to the hips and then the unbending of the torso until she is once again standing at full height.

She is now able to stare across the counter at the waitress who is staring back with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "You passable now, hon? You look like you had the devil at your heels when you came running in here." She nodded slightly, not really sure what it felt like to have the devil at your heels, but ready to concede that she just may have found out.

"You're still palpitating child. Sit down and have another glass full while I get you up a supply of eggs. I put plenty of ice in there so you can get availed of it easy-like."

Who talks like this she wondered as the waitress made her way into the back room. Why was she talking like this, with these words, especially this little fizzy-headed waitress smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona; a waitress apparently who doubles as a chef and could very well be the only resident of this place; a waitress who wears an old-fashioned uniform making her look more like a nurse than a waitress, complete with white rubber-soled shoes, a little frilly half-cap, and the name 'Mrs. Jones' emblazoned boldly on her slightly askew name tag?

She felt a frisson of her earlier fear creep back in at the base of her spine and make a spidery crawl upwards. Despite this, she sat down feeling abruptly sure that the eggs just might be the cure for the devil at your heel. The backs of her thighs instantly stick to the red vinyl seat of the bar stool and she see-sawed them up and down feeling the suction pulling and releasing her skin. She watched as the hot, dry desert wind gently opened and closed the screen door of the diner, seemingly in rhythm with her fittering legs, her jittering nerves.

Keeping the same rhythm, almost trancelike, she began muttering, "eggs, eggs, cure the devil, eggs, devil, devil, eggs, deviled eggs. Deviled Eggs..." and a screach of laughter tore from her throat followed by a screach of terror as a plate of eggs was plunked on the counter in front of her. "You ain't assuaging yourself none, are ya hon? You just eat this up and you'll start feeling better in a jiffy. Then I'll get you off to bed with the others."

She took her fist tentative bite, trying not to speculate about these 'others'. There didn't seem to be anyone else around for miles. "Egg, devil, devil, egg." Go to bed? It was barely morning and although she was tired from having driven all night, she really did not like the idea of this waitresses 'bed' or the 'others'. "Devil, devil, egg, egg."

She was therefore amazed when she looked down to see her plate empty, the waitress who was smiling at her with satisfaction, her full stomach signalling the disappating fear and she smiled back. To prepare for her rest, she raised the glass and parted her lips slightly.

Penny From Heaven

The sun glinted off a piece of metal just showing through the dirt and dried weeds of late summer. He bent to look and then tried to pick it up from where it was wedged. It took some poking and wiggling to remove it from what must have been its home for quite some time. After turning it over on his palm several times he realized it was a penny that had been flattened and stretched to the size of a silver dollar. He smiled slightly as he closed his fingers into a fist around the coin.

He remembered taking pennies and placing them on train tracks when he was young. The reprimands of his mother to "stay away from those tracks" making the adventure all the sweeter. Remembering the thrill of placing the penny and then running like hell because Old Jim had told him a single penny could derail a train. Remembering the laying in wait and the panting run back to the tracks for the retrieval. Remembering not being able to show his parents for fear of being grounded for not "staying away from those tracks". Not that his father would have minded, might even have been proud of his son's daring escapade but would also never have gone against the wishes of his wife and her boatload of worries.

Most of the time, on his treks home for supper, he would throw those coins into the weeds or if he was walking into town would present them to Molly who always exclaimed, "Well, my my, I bet I can buy extra with this big ol' penny" and it always made him smile. Just like he was smiling now. Just like he hadn't smiled in a long time.

Penny still clenched in hand, he headed to the tracks with those age old admonishments ringing in his head. No one to scold him now but the same thrill of placing the penny on the track and running, a bit more slowly, for cover. The wait seemed longer, but then the trains don't run as often now. This time though when he picked up his prized he pocketed it with the one that spurred his current reminiscing adventure and strolled toward home for supper. This time he would keep one but still give one to Molly.

quick and lazy

the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy brown dog