Cindy and the Prince

by Gail Balentine

     It was time for the Prince of This Land to marry. He was giving a Royal Ball and all the single maidens in the kingdom were asked to come because it was rumored that at midnight he would select his Princess. Cindy’s stepmother and stepsisters had already left the house to attend but she did not plan to go, preferring to stay home and catch up on her reading. Just as she’d settled in with a good book, she heard a tap-tapping sound at the window. Her Fairy Godmother (FG) popped in and told her she had to go, too.

     “Are you sure I have to do this?” Cindy asked as she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the beautiful gown her FG had just created with a wave and two wiggles of her magic wand. “I mean, this is a pretty dress and all but aren’t these balls for the Royal People like my stepsisters? They’re not for the Regular People like me, are they?”

     FG ignored her and continued muttering strange words as she created a coach from a pumpkin, then a tiara and finally glass slippers, which were a little slippery to wear and made Cindy nervous when she walked.

     After the mice were turned into horses, the coach got underway, thundering up the hill. The coachmen, who had been bloodhounds only moments before, did not obey Cindy like they usually did. When she told them to turn around and go back they said “No” in unison. So, with no other choice at hand, when the coach stopped at the castle she stepped out and onto the red carpet.

  

     From seemingly nowhere, the Prince appeared. He leered at her and then affected a pose that said, “Look at me, a tall, blonde, handsome Prince. Everything a girl could want, right?” Cindy suspected it was going to be a long evening.

    Soon they were in the ballroom, dancing every dance, and drinking punch in-between while the Prince talked about his hunting dogs, his horse, his collection of very special marbles and the toothache that had been bothering him for two days, putting him “off his feed”. Just before midnight, when he started to get down onto his right knee and mentioned “living happily ever after”, Cindy realized what was about to happen. She scooped up the many folds of the dress and ran, moving so quickly that she left one of the glass slippers behind.

    The next day, she hid when the Archduke came to her stepmother’s door. He said all the women in the land had to try on the glass slipper and the one it fit would marry the Prince. She smiled when one of her ugly stepsisters pushed and grunted until she finally squeezed her foot into the slipper. When the mice, who’d been watching the whole scene, wanted to know why she didn’t want to marry the Prince, Cindy simply said, “Because I’m leaving This Land tomorrow morning and going on adventures in Other Lands. I want to learn new things and meet New People.”

     “Oh, but Cindy, that’s so soon. Aren’t you even going to say goodbye to anybody first?”

     “Yes, to my grandmother, but she lives deep in the forest where it can be dangerous. I knew I’d need protection along the way so I hired the Big Bad Wolf. And look!” she reached behind her and picked up something red. “He even brought me a cape to wear!”

     The mice gasped, “But Cindy – who will protect you from him?’

     Cindy just smiled and patted the .44 Magnum tucked into the inside pocket of the cape..

For a good friend gone too soon.

 

 

The Funeral Trees
by Liz Ciampa

High above the funeral trees, you float
Grass blades nick our ankles 
All of us, including you, watch a hole in the ground
Open up, deep and dark, beckoning, welcoming
We know you are not in that box
Even so, like puppets, we jerk through movement
Shells ourselves, our spirits reach high for you.
You are the lucky one, now strung from the sky
Like the ancient stars.  You glimmer at us
And give a platinum wink.

(Ciampa, Liz.  What is Left.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 15. Print.)

Plain Brown Wrapper

by Law Hamilton

“A plain, brown wrapper?” she asked while sitting down and rearranging her bags onto her lap as she sat down.

“What would people think?  You know my small town.”  The two women in their fifties had been friends since their kids were in grade school.  The first one on the train always saved a seat for the other.  “I just want to keep up with the popular culture, and not be the subject of raised eyebrows, for reading a novel.”

“But really, you look like you are reading you children’s school book,” the second woman added while trying to get the lid on her travel cup to deliver a drop of coffee.  

“Did you want to borrow it, when I have finished it?  This is getting interesting, I may read the second.”

A hacking sound is made by the woman who just got a gulp of her coffee.  “Agh - are you serious?”

“I always finish the books, even if it is not to my liking,” replied the first.  “But this whole story is taking three books to tell.  Some parts I just skim.”

“But why not a more elegant cover, maybe a classic - Moby Dick?”

They both stop and just look at each other for a long pregnant pause, before their peals of laughter cause other commuters to peer over newspapers and glasses.

“Yes, that would be more discrete.”  The first woman places a bookmark and snaps the  novel shut, hiding it in an oversized purse.

Tutor Training

by Mary Higgins

In the 1990’s, I had the opportunity to become an ESL tutor. My mother glancing through the paper, came across the ad for tutors needed at the public library to teach English to foreigners.

I eagerly attended the first meeting held in October inside the children’s room of our local library. I had 12 years of happy memories in that room before graduating to the adult department up the stairs. Our pert ESL instructor with her short brown hair and perfect complexion, handed out packets of information stapled together. She informed us there would be three weeks of training to be held on Sunday afternoons. I certainly had nothing to do on Sunday afternoons. It was an opportunity to escape the drone of the football games my dad listened to on the TV all afternoon, first one game then the next.

Ten other friendly people joined me in training to teach English as a second language. The instructor with her interactive approach asked us in what ways would being unable to read English be a detriment? The group came up with some creative ideas. Grabbing the wrong medication bottle, taking the incorrect dose of a medicine, feeling frustrated at the inability to read a newspaper, (in those pre-internet days) and perhaps grabbing the wrong bag off the supermarket shelf with the unlucky person pouring flour all over her morning cereal, rather than sugar, came up as ready examples. We laughed hearing the predicaments spoken aloud, knowing full well it would be far from funny if some of these things actually occurred.

Each week, we reviewed the materials and I imagined what my student would be like. As a first-time one on one tutor, the materials I was given were full of pictures with the names for them printed in bold type. The packet making up our Teacher’s Manual featured the fundamentals of the English language starting with pictures of objects we take for granted; furniture and appliances that you would find around the house: chair, sofa, table, TV. Each page was devoted to a specific room. There were items that one would find in the bedroom and objects that one would encounter in the kitchen: saucer, pot, frying pan, kettle, spatula, refrigerator, stove, table, as well as items you would find in the bathroom.

It transported me back to junior high school- to the very first day of French class. The teacher spoke no words. There was no announcement that French class would suddenly begin. She suddenly plucked a ruler off a student’s desk and pronounced the French word for ruler then pointed to the window, pronouncing a beautiful-sounding French word, then addressed other objects in the room: a pen, pencil, a book on a classmate’s desk. Those days when I didn’t yet know a word of French but yearned to join the French conversations that my dad would have with one of my brothers. That night I proudly proclaimed at the family dinner table, that I knew eight French words!.

I wondered if my student would be a man or woman and what age the student would be. I envisioned a Spanish woman with long dark hair possibly swept up in a beautiful chignon, heavy eyebrows, and attired in a long black skirt. One evening in November, with a crisp 20 degree chill in the air, I felt so alive as I walked home from a meeting beneath the stars, enthusiastically anticipating both Christmas and the New Year when we would meet our individual students.

The day finally arrived! I was handed the name of an Indian man whom I met in the back room of the library amid a huge wooden conference table. He was close to my age and dressed in a buttoned down white shirt and a pair of twill slacks. I remember his ready smile. He worked in his parents’ Indian restaurant in Everett.

For both of us, new worlds opened as a result of that first meeting. I found him an eager student, ready to soak in the knowledge I had to present to him. The next week and thereafter, he came not only with his lesson book, but bearing a yummy plate of food for me, his tutor. It might be yellow saffron rice, beans with chicken or beef. Totally unfamiliar with Indian food, it was a pleasant adventure to sample something new every Tuesday when we met. I’d walk up the street carrying a hefty plate covered with aluminum foil and walk into the house savoring the aroma. I offered it to my family but no one else shared my spirit of adventure at trying new foods so I got to eat it all.

Ⓒ Mary Higgins May 2015 All rights reserved. 

West Beach in Late Spring

by Lauraine Lombara

 It begins in May-the influx of people who come to West Beach to enjoy the sun, sand, ocean and whatever else the beach provides for them. I am here to bask in the sun, walk the beach and attempt a little swim if the water is not icy. It is always cold on the North Shore but I am used to it. I never wade in; I need to dunk quickly. I wonder, has anyone ever had a heart attack from sudden cold water immersion?

Today is splendid-warm temperature and not a cloud in an azure sky with the ocean a matching hue. White sheeted sailboats are strung out as if outlining the visible front of Misery Island. A few lazy kayaks are gliding further inshore, their oars like single windmill blades; up and down, up and down. Gulls are screeching along the shore, picking up morsels they find in the seaweed and under rocks. Are there any meaty clams, mussels or unsuspecting periwinkles or perhaps a bit of fish? A few brave gulls peck at unsupervised sunbathers’ lunch bags until shooed away by neighboring blanket or beach chair occupants. Toddlers are a joy to watch as they race to chase the birds as if they might catch one.

Leaving the sun worshipers, I head to the water’s edge. The tide is low, making a walk easier on my back which is a good reason to do my stroll first. The water temperature feels quite cold, but on my return I may be warm enough to take a quick dip and try a few strokes. Oh, but the sun is glorious, warming my bones which are still feeling or at least remembering the icy remnants left by this past winter’s heavy snow, storms and bitter winds.

I drink in the sights, sounds and smells as I walk, stopping now and again for a piece of beach glass or an interesting stone that has caught my eye—rather like the gulls! I am at peace for a few hours. It is a meditation in itself to stroll, to muse, to remember past days at the beach. How fortunate I am to live close by and able to visit this magical, mystical spot easily and often.

Willing

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

He woke up, deciding he needed to make a will. Still fuzzy with sleep, still in his pajamas and socks, while sipping his coffee, he saw smidgens of the dream he had had—was it early on, or one of those morning dreams when he'd fade in and out, the covers wrapped around his shoulders? Was he dreaming the dream or making it up as he pushed into the pillow—warm and safe until his day started?

In the maybe-dream, someone had willed him plenty of money, hundreds or thousands, he wasn't sure, plus a belt buckle (was it silver?) with an initial on it. Not his, but whose? He tried to re-create that part, but just couldn't. But a thousand bucks and a belt buckle were enough to make him realize he, too, needed a will.

Really awake now, his coffee cold, he said out loud to no one, So how do you make a will? What would I will away, give away, or throw away, and to whom? He had seen ads for wills on Legal Zoom on his computer screen, but wouldn't someone steal his information and change it around? Plus, he knew it would cost money, not the same as a lawyer's fee, but money none the less, less money to leave it to someone else.

But who? His grandsons, grown old now, and distant (where did they live?) were ingrates, sons of an ingrate; he had never liked the man his daughter had married in a hurry. At all those Thanksgivings, at the Christmases, he had kept his mouth shut, minding his own business, making sure his temper didn't flare up from the scotches he drank before the dinners and even through the desserts. He didn't have much, but he sure as hell wouldn't leave it to them.

Who then? He remembered a TV show from years ago—a guy would show up at someone's front door, ring the doorbell, or knock the knocker, and hand the guy who answered a check for a million bucks. He could do that—appoint someone to deliver a check after he died. But to whom? Better to leave it to an animal shelter even though he never cared for cats and hated the dogs his daughter had. Maybe, over the next few days, he could research charities, deciding on one or another, or leave his money to the high school marching band who was always coming around pleading for donations for new uniforms. He remembered when he was kid in the junior high band, wearing a worn-out uniform, faded to near-pink, its fringes frayed, its cuffs threadbare and dirty. He had always felt like a ragamuffin, back in the trombone section; his school never won band contests or even had their picture in the weekly newspaper.

He knew he'd have to die of something: heart attack, a cancer, failed liver. His will could mention one of those organizations and at the end of his obituary, there could be instructions: In honor of his life, please contribute to _________ or ____________. If he died in a car accident, his money could go to Triple A or a highway improvement project.

Mid-morning by now, and still in his pajamas and socks, he decided to forget about the will business for the time being. His dream had faded into a thin gauze of memory. Tomorrow would be time enough.

Noah's First Birthday

by Charlotte Savage

I sit beside the window,

Listening to the river rush by.

It reminds me of all the years that have passed,

Gone in the blink of an eye.

I think of this day, a glorious one,

Filled with laughter, fun, and good cheer.

Today, Noah was your birthday,

The beginning of your second year

It brought back many wonderful memories,

Of a cake I lovingly prepared;

Celebrating your Mother’s birthday,

When she was just one year!

It is one o’clock in the morning,

Elation keeps me from falling asleep;

I close my eyes and envision each child

Partaking of your birthday treats.

How fortunate it is to have video,

Your party enjoyed all the while;

As once again we will look at it,

Play it back with many a smile

It shows your sweet disposition,

Your delight of being in a crowd;

How much you enjoyed the frosting,

Your pleasure in laughing out loud.

Noah, my birthday wish for you,

Is happiness, success in all you do;

Excitement, challenge, creativity too,

And lots of love to carry you through.

Happy Birthday, little Noah

Love,

                                                                         Bubbie

                                                                                         

   ã Charlotte Savage 2015 all rights reserved