“Speak now, for to hold your tongue is to condemn this boy to death. What say you, my constituents? Will you execute the gaffer?” Father Yosemite slowly ran his claw-like titanium fingernails down the gaffer’s cheeks, leaving behind identical deeply etched mazes. Bloody hallmarks of shame.
“The floor is now open for discussion,” he spread his arms wide—a humble man not afraid of discord—then pointed to the focal point of the chamber. A slab of granite retracted to reveal the Open Floor, a natural phenomenon, burping and expelling noxious fumes, around which the Judgement Chamber was constructed.

“Please,” the gaffer begged, his tears winding through twin mazes of coagulating blood as they flowed down his cheeks. “Bid me freedom, my Lord. I can do better. Be a better…” his words trailed off.
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. To go against Father Yosemite, defending the gaffer’s cause, was to invite the father’s wrath. Waves of dry heat wafted up from the pit, accompanying the noxious fumes, bringing the temperatures in the chamber to unbearable levels, thus reminding the converts of the fate that awaited the gaffer should no one step forward to champion his cause.

“Is there No one?” Father Yosemite impatiently tapped one woven, silk slipper-clad titanium foot.

“Ahem,” broke the tension.

“Someone spoke?” Father Yosemite raised one jewel bedazzled eyebrow, his eyes seeking the source. “Ah, young Andreas. Will you defend the gaffer?”

“Nay. ‘Tis merely a frog in my throat, Father,” rasped San Andreas, the boy who through no fault of his own, was seated in the Hot-Zone of the Open Floor, with its great ghastly exhalations of sulfuric fumes—undeniably the worst seat in the chamber. He coughed and gagged, working a frog the size of a kitten from deep within his throat.

“Humpff,” a sharp burst of stale air escaped his lips when he birthed the frog, who abruptly hopped over the lip of the belching maw. Seconds later, a dull thud followed by a sizzle resonated from deep within the pit.

The tension was agonizing as the silence continued and the minutes of the gaffer’s trial ticked by. The gaffer, weakened by the fear brought on by his impending doom, hung limp against his restraints. Tick-tock, tick-tock, echoed from the cogs of the ancient chamber clock. The end of the free-assembly’s trial session drew nigh.

An elderly subordinate suddenly lurched to his feet. The converts gasped and the gaffer lifted his weary head. Alas, a champion for his cause!

“Brother Sequoia, what say you? Will you champion this man?” Father Yosemite’s eyes were livid pools of darkness.

“Nay. Leg cramps! A mere Charlie Horse, my Liege. The curse of the aged,” Brother Sequoia managed to loudly enunciate while bending low to massage his bloated calf.

“Arr, it pains me like a thousand stinging bull nettles,” he collapsed, writhing on the floor while the converts watched in slack-jawed awe. Brother Sequoia clutched his pulsating leg as the flesh behind the knee peeled back in a moist squelch. A tiny whiskered muzzle broke through his hamstrings.

“Ye curst creature,” Brother Sequoia cried out in pain. Charlie Horse nickered as he slid out to rest on the hard-pack clay of the floor for a moment before shaking off his birth-sac, to gallop away, neatly sailing over the belching gap, as he made his escape.

It was some time before the exclamations and whispers, over having witnessed such sights as never before seen in free-assembly, died down. The final seconds ticked off and Gongman drew back his mallet to sound the gong, officially ending the trial portion of the Golden Global Free-Assembly.

Before the mallet met with the imposing gong, Old Lady Moonbow arose from her perch. She stared off into space. The gaffer’s face beamed with hope. At long last. One brave enough to face Father Yosemite on the Open Floor.

“Do you want to speak, my dear? The floor is yours,” Father purred, a twitch in his lip giving away his ill intentions.

“Yes, my Savior. There was something,” she tapped her forehead, “Something aflutter. Right here,” tapping hard enough to leave a bright red divot in the center of her forehead, “I. Just. Need. To…,” Old Lady Moonbow clawed at her head, yanking wide swatches of silver hair from her scalp. “I MUST…”

Elder Moonbow came to her rescue, standing tall before the blazing eyes of Father Yosemite. “Forgive my wife’s outburst, my Lord. She is plagued by a chronic case of Bats in the Belfry. They come on quite suddenly. Might I calm her?” Elder Moonbow took his shrieking wife by the elbow—tiny, winged creatures streaming from both of her ears—and led her to the padded room to collect herself.

Gongman struck the gong, and the trial portion of the free-assembly came to an end. The gaffer, resigned to his fate, bowed his head. The freed bats flew wide circles around the cavernous chamber, daring to swoop very close to Father Yosemite’s titanium skull covered by an elaborate crimson turban and billowing white beard coated with strands of the finest seed pearls.

“Why, I oughta,” he roared the bygone meek profanity, oft used by a legendary descendent in his ancestral clan, shaking his titanium fists at the flying rat-like beasts. He would see to it that this abominable species was abolished from Desertland Proper, heretofore.

He cradled his arms, shielding his head from the floundering bats as he approached the dais, in close proximity to the sagging gaffer. He set the Golden Script on the podium’s slanted platform before clearing his throat to speak—again to use the old tongue. To allow the historic dialect of their clans’ predecessors, those born of the mystical land known as Hollywood, to grace his lips. Father Yosemite managed to perfect the idiosyncrasies of the ancient-speak through his rigorous study of the Reels entombed within the ruins of the Film Archives located in Great Touchstone Hall.

He lovingly gazed down at the script with stars in his eyes. He hoped he could do justice to this immortal soliloquy, born of the Forefathers. Upon completion of The Reading of the Scriptures, he would pass judgement upon the gaffer. He softly cleared his throat.

“Goooood Morning, Vietnaaaam…” he began with reverence. 
~
Lisa H. Owens
Created for Reedsy Weekly Prompt #190 - Start a story with a character saying, "Speak now"
March, 2023

What is the Bulwer-Lytton Contest?
​Founded in 1982 at San Jose State University in California, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest challenges entrants to compose opening sentences to the worst of all possible novels. Inspired by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton's opening line, "It was a dark and stormy night..." to his 1830 novel, "Paul Clifford," about a highway robber during the French Revolution. To be fair to Bulwer-Lytton, "it was a dark and stormy night" is only the beginning of the opening phrase.
The full sentence reads:
"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

Lisa H. Owens 2022 Entries:

Dark and Stormy Night Themed Entry:
It was a dark and placid night, although storms were predicted in the forecast. (3/25/2022 entered)

Everything Else:

Mildred scraped off a patch of mold before shaving slivers from the government wheel of processed cheese-food, nostalgically (with some degree of horror) remembering the day when—following the tragic death of her beloved memaw—she, at a mere four years of age, was assigned the task of packing lunches for her devastated papa and seven sickly brothers each morning as they readied themselves for a treacherous day of working deep in the coal mines of West Virginia, them scuttering around the frigid kitchen to reheat the dredges of yesterday's coffee, while she hesitantly wielded a knife for the very first time, slicing off the tip of her pinky along with a sliver from the government wheel of what was—back then—actual cheddar cheese. (3/27/2022 entered)
~
Johnny-on-the-spot was not intuitive by any means, but more aptly an in-the-right-place-at-the-right-time sort of bloke. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
Mrs Kravitz was not a nosy neighbor, it was just that she was interested in the goings-on of every Tom Dick and Harry on the street; and not knowing each and every one of her neighbors' first names, she kept tabs on them all. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
It was unfortunate that in keeping with his evil nature, Dracula named his first-born daughter Ivana Sucka Yerblood. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
Here we go 'round the mulberry bush took on new meaning as the old codger chased his young golddigger of a bride 'round and 'round the side-yard shrubbery, in endless pursuit of his come-uppance and go-downtance, him taking time to momentarily dab at the bleeding scratches on his crepe-like skin with a Puffs Aloe-Infused tissue, all the while wondering why he'd never noticed the bush's stickers before now, but then realized his error later that evening when he'd Googled it, only to find that blackberries were the ones with thorns. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
Jesus served the loaves and fishes to the surging crowd from an endlessly multiplying supply within a tiny willow basket, wondering all the while why His Heavenly Father had chosen this particular entree upon which to work His miracle, as He was more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
Bob was a flat-Earther through and through, a fact that he shouted from the rooftops and always made certain to smugly proclaim at upscale cocktail parties, though—on the sly—he'd recently purchased the 'Round the World in 30 Days package from a now defunct travel agency on the corner of 5th and Main. (3/25/2022 entered)
~
Little Kenny Husenfeld the third, hid under his Circu Magical Rocky Rocket bed—the distinctly sacrine aroma of the tube of Necco Wafers (ingested on the sly earlier that evening—licorice being his least favorite), emanating from his sweat drenched Petite Plume Unisex Imperial Tartan Flannel pajama set—terrified, but also somewhat curious to see what unfortunate combination of attire the garrish monster in his closet might choose for his nightly haunting. (4/6/2022 entered)


Lisa H. Owens
Created nine sentences for the Bulwer-Lytton 2022 Annual Worst First Sentence Contest. 
Not a winner or a dishonerable mention!

NYC Midnight Round-two / Group-one
Genre: horror
Action: an egg hatching
Word: *confuse
Story disqualified for misuse of assigned word.  confusing / *confuse
***
Bob sipped cheap tequila and worked through a pack of Marlboros. He ashed out the window and the last cigarette slipped between his fingers, bouncing embers mocking him.

“Fuggit,” he mumbled and cranked the tunes.
​
He studied the confusing patch of road, illuminated by one dingy headlight, and tipped the bottle. His mouth flooded with warmth and something round and spongy.
​
It rolled along his tongue and before he could spit it out, it pulsated and ruptured. Writhing sticky legs scampered down his throat and he accelerated into a tree as clusters of spiderlings poured from his mouth and nose.
***
NYCMidnight   presents its 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2022
Round-2: 1,770 entries moved on from Round-1
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Top-ten from each group will move on to Round-3  
Group-1: Horror - an egg hatching - confuse
Read Round-1 14th place entry, How to Escape a Monster.
***
Feedback
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY:
{2035} This one had me pursing my lips, it evoked such a bodily reaction in me. I think that what worked so well was the "round and spongy" description coming just before the swiftness of the end. Using longer, more complex sentences in that final paragraph worked particularly well to usher in a fast pace.  
{1666} Awesome characterization here, from drinking and driving, to Marlboros, to mumbling "Fuggit," Bob emerged with a delightful level of clarity through your choice images and details. 
{1970} I really like the whole mood, feeling, atmosphere, the scene, the setup, and the horror of "When the Worm in the Mezcal Ain't a Worm". I think that Bob's character has a tremendous amount of personality shoe-horned into this story using very few words. Fantastic tale. Thanks.   
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK:
{2035} To me, it wasn't entirely clear he was driving from the get-go, and I actually had to go back and start again once I realized that. I think that tweaking the detail about the window to incorporate the car a little could establish the setting from right out the gate.  
{1666} There were just a couple moments of clunky phrasing that made the back end feel less carefully composed than the opening half of the narrative. The punctuation-free repetition in "warmth and something round and spongy" felt murky to me, for instance. Additionally, "it" is repeated three times in the penultimate sentence, and repetition, even in simple pronouns, tends to stick out with such a tight word count restriction. One more small note - I'm not convinced there's mileage in the patch of road being "confusing" - as the real thrust of the narrative is "Man swallows spiders and crashes car" - while there's no deduction for it, the prompt felt a bit wedged in to my eye. 
{1970} I love this story. So, what one thing disappointed this one reader? Argh. More spiders. It's always...spiders. The creepy crawlers in a horror story is most always...spiders. OK, I get it...egg. Spiders have egg sacks and you had to have an egg hatch in this story. But, you are a fantabulous writer...why not something more original than, spiders. Still, after all this ranting, it really says more about my patience than your writing...it's a wonderful, well written and exemplary tale. Thanks.   
ADDITIONAL NOTES FROM NYC MIDNIGHT: This story was disqualified for not including the assigned word (confuse) exactly as it was assigned.

NYC Midnight Round-1: 100-Word Micro-fiction Challenge 2022 
Genre: Action and/or Adventure  
Action: stealing a pair of shoes  
Word: boil
***
She crept out before dawn, slipping her narrow feet into the monster’s loafers. Then she ran. The lopsided shoe-flapping gait of an escapee running in someone else’s shoes. She tripped over exposed roots and plowed through thorny underbrush, willing herself not to look back. Blood boiled up from deep gashes, cascading down her legs, soaking into worn umber leather.
 
She pumped her arms, gaining speed. Then launched herself upwards to arise and soar like an eagle—the wretched shack and discarded loafers left behind—shrinking until they were engulfed by trees. Too late, a door slammed, and the monster roared his defeat.
 ***
NYCMidnight   presents its 100-word Micro-fiction Challenge 2022
Round-1: 6,973 entries divided into 118 groups
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Top-fifteen from each group will move on to Round-2 (1,770 total move on) 
Group-75: Action/Adventure - Stealing a pair of shoes - Boil
Read Round-2 entry, When the Worm in the Mezcal Ain't a Worm.
***
Judges' Feedback:
Dear Lisa H. Owens,
The feedback from the judges on your 1st round submission from the 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2022 is below.  You should be proud of rising to the challenge and we hope you find the feedback helpful.  Because you placed in the top 15 of your group, you have advanced to the 2nd Round kicking off at 11:59PM EDT (New York time) on Friday, June 18, 2022.  Congratulations and best of luck in the 2nd Round!
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY:
{2086}  The gripping pace and momentum of this story spring off the page with life and urgency. Similarly, the stakes are both obvious and riveting.  
{2059}  I really loved how you managed to keep tension high throughout this story. The description of the action/the girl's escape is excellent and helped me stay in the moment with her. I also loved the how the shoes were heavily featured (and how she leaves them behind as well at the end of the story). 
{2035}  I liked the violence of her escape. The word choices you used when talking about the blood and thorns, I thought, highlighted her struggle well and showed us how even this much pain was better than spending another day trapped with the monster.  
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK:
{2086}  It might be interesting to consider whether there are ways of touching upon who the central protagonist is as a person. Understanding just a little more deeply the context and perspective that she represents could bring all the more emotional connection to this nevertheless action-packed, engaging piece.  
{2059}  I wasn't quite sure that the last line ("Too late, a door slammed, and the monster roared his defeat") felt essential to me. The story is so focused on the girl that it didn't feel necessary to revisit the monster. I'd encourage you to interrogate this ending just a bit more. What does it leave the reader with? What is gained and lost by moving away from the girl?  
{2035}  Although I like the power of the image of flight, I wasn't sure why the protagonist didn't fly and escape from the get-go. I think that highlighting some rationale for the protagonist's inability to fly until that moment could show us why taking the shoes was a necessary aspect of her escape, adding a layer of inevitability to each action.

​I was exhausted after an excessively long three-day trip, catering to the whims and fancies of Lockheed L-1011 TriStars filled to the gills with passengers flocking to Fort Lauderdale by the millions, it seemed. Everyone seemed to be heading south; it was snowbird season in the Northeast quadrant of the United States. I dragged Dog, the name given to my navy-blue carpet covered carry-on suitcase, up a couple of rickety stairs leading into the kitchen. I rounded the corner to head up to my bedroom coming face to shlong with Tony, my swarthy Greek landlord who spoke English, though he was sometimes a little hard to understand.

“Oh, Christ! You scared me,” I jumped at the sight of him casually sauntering down the staircase centered in the foyer area of my side of a decrepit two-family home, the outline of an excessively long schlong evident against the frayed fabric of the towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp, and he knew that I knew that he had used my bathroom to take a shower. The fragrance of my Herbal Essence Shampoo was evident as he drew near.

“Hey, Leeeza! And please, no need to call me Christ,” he laughed, cracking a joke to ease the tension of the elephant in the room, or under the towel as was this case. After the awkwardness of the initial double-take, I avoided looking at the bulge as he slowly, for full effect, meandered down the stairs. The crotch-to-knee lump—a lump he was obviously quite proud of—was there to be praised and I could read disappointment on his face when I didn’t take the bait.

A door in an unoccupied room on the lower level of my side of the house, opened straight into the office of his side, a single-story smaller apartment. And though I kept it locked, Tony had a key. He had no boundaries where the home—or anything, really—was concerned. He was having minor renovations...or so he said...on his side of the wall, therefore, his shower was not working.

“You can’t just come on my side of the house whenever you want,” I chided him. But he just laughed and proceeded to the room housing the door to his side, currently wide open, and disappeared into his “office.” His “office” was the room he used to cut cocaine with powdered B-12 and other white powdered substances to stretch his product. To make it go further.

Yes. Tony was a drug dealer.

He was also addicted to crack, using a pipe he’d fashioned out of foil and some type of screen, possibly from my kitchen window coincidentally missing a square of screen about the right size. He was in his early thirties and had already suffered two heart attacks, according to him, caused by smoking the crack I’m pretty sure he cooked up on his side. I once arrived home from a trip and caught him crouched over my gas stove, getting high as he heated the tiny crystals of rock over a lit burner. On that occasion, he couldn’t find his lighter and his gas was turned off for renovations...or so he said.

Yes. Tony was a habitual liar.

He was so adept at the lies that even though I knew he was lying; I still fell for his lines of bullshit every time. He once convinced me to pay my rent a week early promising he would not cash the check until the day rent was due. I argued with him for a while, and he charmed me with reasons that didn’t really make sense as to why he needed immediate possession of the check. I buckled and wrote out the check, telling him it would bounce if he cashed it early.

Yes. Tony cashed the check—immediately.

It bounced and I subtracted the fee from the following month’s rent. Being a savvy young woman and having lived on my own for years, I knew in my heart he would immediately cash the check because he likely needed the money for drugs. I was smart. I put myself through college with the assistance of part-time jobs, government grants and loans and also moved halfway across the country, alone, for flight attendant training and a new job in a city I had never seen. I was comfortable being on my own and handling my own finances, but he was that good at working people's emotions, convincing them of his good intentions.

His younger brother Nick ran their legitimate business, which was construction, yet the ongoing construction supposedly keeping all elements of his home from being in working order, never progressed. Sure. His side was in disarray, but it seemed more like the permanent disarray of an unorganized drug abuser, not related in any way to ongoing construction.

Thus, I made my decision. I waited until his truck was gone.

I snuck into the detached three-bay garage, an area too full of junk to actually park a car in, and dug around for a while, finally coming across a hammer and a rusted coffee can containing nails of various sizes. I kept one eye focused on the driveway as I ran back into my side of the house through the side kitchen door. I took my handy-dandy tools into the empty room with the door that opened into Tony’s side and knocked, loudly calling his name. Though I wasn’t doing anything wrong by keeping him out of my apartment, I was a little fearful of proceeding with the plan if he was holed up in his office cutting while snorting the cocaine he wrapped in small foil pouches to sell to his customers.

“Hey Tony? Are you there?” No response from his side, so one at a time, I hammered two inch framing nails, angling them through the solid wood door into the wooden doorframe. I started at the top on each side of the door, working my way down to floor level. When I was finished, I turned the doorknob and pulled a little bit and when it didn’t give, all 135 pounds of me—at 5 feet 9 inches tall, a weight pretty close to my weight limit restriction, being a brand new flight attendant still on probation—yanked at the door with a full-body vengeance. It held fast.

I went about my business, catching up on my laundry and doing other necessary things as I waited for Tony to pull into the driveway. He got home a little after dark and I was on pins and needles waiting for him to try the door.

I started to heat up the left-over pasta from the previous night’s dinner to find it had been nibbled around the edges and a large hunk was missing from the middle.

Yes. Tony had eaten my pasta.

I was mad but then I remembered the door, sealed shut like the lid of a coffin and my mood instantly lifted.

Later that night, I heard insistent knocking and Tony’s voice, “Hey Leeeza, you can pay me the rent early, yes? And what happened to the door?”


Lisa H. Owens
​Creative nonfiction
Due by: July 1, 2022
Created for a Reedsy Weekly Themed Prompt: The Lease I Can Do (Include a character in your story that is often in an apartment building, but doesn’t actually live there.)
Read Part-two, The Other Couple.

​The man I still call Husband, though we have been separated for over three years, was my boyfriend and roommate back in 1985, us sharing a dilapidated two-story house with another couple. The house, a study in contrast, on the one hand was a thing of beauty, being that it was located merely one block from a decent beach between Swampscott and Nahant on the Atlantic Ocean, while on the other hand, a thing of horror, being that our landlord was a drug dealer who kept trying to get us addicted to hardcore drugs.

Tony, our swarthy Greek landlord, could often be found creeping around our mostly unfurnished side of the monstrosity of a house in the dead of night wearing only a threadbare towel around his waist. In said state, he covertly snuck food from our fridge and peered behind louvered accordion closet doors, looking for God only knows what. The rent was cheap because the four of us were broke as fuck, but that didn’t stop Tony the drug-dealing con artist, from perpetually trying to rip us off in various creative ways. It was either that or his relentless attempts to turn us into his drug-addicted drug-dealing minions.

Only two out of the four of us fell for that.

‘Twas the other couple, high school friends of my boyfriend. They were ensnared by the old, C’mon, try it. The first one’s free trick. Their addiction, like most, started out small: snorting coke. From there, it progressed to smoking crack out of Tony’s homemade crack pipes, the duo crawling around feeling for phantom crystals dropped deep into filthy shag carpet by the end of most nights. Their highs wore off quickly and transitioned into endless tears and feelings of deep regret and depression as they began to come down. This led to Tony hooking them up with Valium to ease the transition and Imodium to ease diarrhea, a gross side-effect of the combination of drugs. To say the least, they were both useless wrecks—not showing up for work or for anything, really.

Conversations among the four of us typically began with, “Do you have money for the [insert one]: water bill, phone bill, electric bill, heating oil?” And ended with the other couple storming off after, in head-shaking disbelief, one of us said, “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this ... again.”

It wasn’t long before the duo quit eating and caring for themselves physically, both thin as rails,  and parents were called in for an intervention, using the landline that fortunately still had a dial tone, which was a miracle during the time of The War of the Bills. Since they were still young, only twenty-three, they were forcibly separated and hauled off to their childhood homes to occupy their childhood bedrooms and be regulated by childhood rules, only with a lot more policing involved.
And then there were two.

My boyfriend and I, a more mature version of twenty-three, were able to afford to stay without replacement-roommates since our rent as a couple remained at $400.00 per month. I think Tony, used to being stiffed by the other couple, forgot that the total rent was $800.00, a bargain in Massachusetts in the mid-80s. We said “NO” to Tony’s continual attempts to addict us to his brand of drugs and place us in the other couple’s territory as low-level distributors with his offers of the first one’s free. To clarify, we said no to the hardcore drugs. Everyone did drugs in the 80s. It was all about making wise choices. We worked hard and paid our bills, partying only on weekends like the majority of recent college grads who were working professionals.

We reached an unspoken agreement with Tony after having to seal an interior door shut, the one that passed between his side of the house, a small unkempt single-story apartment, and our side, a two-story mouse-infested monstrosity lacking furniture—and food after one too many of his midnight food raids. His feelings were hurt by the only term of the agreement, that he was not to wander unencumbered through our side of the house at all hours of the day and night, unless he was invited to enter, like a vampire. Overall, behind a rough and extremely hairy exterior, he seemed to be a sensitive man.

We didn’t see much of him after that. We assumed he was either mostly hunkered down on his side or on the streets selling drugs or assisting his brother Nick with general construction, the legit business they ran as a team. (Nick did all of the legit work.) From time to time, we spotted him creeping around poking through balls of tangled wire, hordes of lumber and boxes of tools and general junk, stacked floor to ceiling in the detached two-car garage at the end of our driveway.

On the first of the month, we would hear his light knock on the side door by the kitchen and open it with our rent checks in hand. He always looked so dejected to the point that I had to harden my heart by remembering the state of the other couple, before closing the door. He never asked for more money. We continued to pay only half of the rent.

This went on until he missed rent collection day a month before our lease was to expire. We were flummoxed. This was out of character for him. His car generally parked in the area where the driveway met the grass—askew—as if a blind maniac had jumped out while the car was still moving, had been glaringly absent for a couple of weeks. We weren’t too concerned. He was a busy man, partnered with brother Nick in the legit construction and slumlord businesses as well as the shady side of things, so we went on with our lives, expecting he would show up when he was desperate for drug money.

Sure enough, about a month after his disappearance on a morning when I was alone, there was a knock at the side door. I looked through the kitchen window, expecting to see Tony, only to lock eyes with one of the two men in rumpled double-breasted suits, as was the style in the mid-80s, patiently waiting with hands folded. I left the safety chain on and cracked the door open enough to see a small portion of each of them while having a conversation.

“Have you seen Tony around,” asked the taller, more stern of the two.

I told them my roommate and I hadn’t seen him in about a month and that the rumor was that he had sold the house and moved out of the country. This was kind of true. My boyfriend and I speculated on this scenario the previous night. It was the only thing that made sense. Either that, or he was buried in a shallow grave or floating face-down in the Mystic River headed towards the Boston Harbor.

The men introduced themselves and showed ID indicating that they were detectives with the local police force. Not Narcs, but something more serious.

Yes. Tony was a wanted man.

Not wanted for dealing drugs. He was wanted for murder. I thought about all of the times he had broken into my home and walked around half-naked, eating my pasta and using my gas-stove to light his crack pipe. That was pretty wretched stuff, but I never would have pegged him for a murderer.

As it turned out, our contemplation was accurate. Tony really had sold the house and left the country, he and brother Nick, both returning to their beloved homeland, Greece. We never saw them again and before we moved, we sold most of the crap he had left in his overfilled detached garage at $1 per item. We made enough money to fund our move halfway across the country, where our landlord was just the usual brand of sketchy. Not a murderer or drug lord.

Lisa H. Owens
​Creative nonfiction
Due by: July 8, 2022
Created for a Reedsy Weekly Themed Prompt: Fighting Talk (Write a story that includes the line “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”)
Read part-one, What Happened to the Door?

Globe Soup 7-Day Short Story Challenge #5: finalist (April 25, 2022)
​Genre: Humor
Theme: A Twist of Fate
***
They’d met at an Overeaters Anonymous weekly meeting held in a defunct Sears and Roebuck Catalog Center, ironically on the corner of Fifth and Main right next door to a Church’s Fried Chicken. It was unfortunate placement and proof that the gods really did have a twisted sense of humor. The mouth-watering aroma of chicken, expertly battered and fried to a delicate golden brown, made it nearly impossible to think of anything other than eating fried chicken.
Bob thought about chicken a lot. He also thought about pizza and three-layer cakes. He’d spent many-a-night telling the big fat three-layer cake in his refrigerator to SHUT UP, but the cake’s pull was strong, and he would find himself tucked away inside a partially open refrigerator door whittling away at the icing.

Bob had a problem. Overeaters Anonymous might be the answer. Once upon a time, he thought it would, but he’d been attending regularly for nearly two years and was frustrated. And bored. He arrived late, as usual, so he wouldn’t have to make idle chit-chat with the knuckle-heads who arrived early specifically to chit chat.

He crept in and lowered himself into the one empty loveseat. They were a small group of large folks seated on a grouping of loveseats arranged in a wide horseshoe pattern (one fluffy overeater per loveseat). The group leader, the recently-svelte Janice, was perched smugly (being thin had certainly changed her) upon a weak-framed metal folding chair bridging the gap. Bob mentally cursed Janice’s flagrant insensitivity in the choosing of a chair rated for a maximum weight of 150-pounds. Didn’t they despise themselves enough already without her adding insult to injury week after week?
​
Deep in thought on all the ways Janice might fall back into the trap of binge-eating, thus switching back to her plush floral loveseat—currently shoved in a corner alongside a bunch of junk, momentarily filled Bob with glee. Then he zoned out, like he always did. Nothing to see here, folks. Just another uneventful day at a meeting. Bob stared at the floor. When staring at the floor, he typically focused on a ceramic tile that had cracked in such a way that if he squinted his eyes just so, he saw a surprisingly accurate depiction of the Road Runner, Wile E. Coyote’s nemesis in the cartoons he’d watched until he was in high school.

On that day, the day that changed his life, while staring at Road Runner, he heard a musical laugh and a voice very close to his left ear whisper, “meep-meep.” He looked left into the amused eyes of a woman he’d not seen before. She was new to the group. For Bob, it was love at first sight. Something about the way her chins cascaded downward like a tumultuous waterfall ending—oh too soon—at the suprasternal notch situated just between her clavicles set him on fire. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes. Her’s were the exact chocolate brown of a Nestlé Crunch Bar.

He thought about candy bars as the meeting progressed with typical TMI monologues by the avid sharers of the group. Tales of three-layer cakes calling out to be eaten and discoveries of fad diets involving the eating of only dill pickles thrice a day and other such nonsense. Janice intervened when necessary, thwarting the use of black-market Fen-Phen capsules—spouting off facts of the dangerous side-effects, the worst being death caused by a massive heart attack. Then she went on to tsk-tsk a member of the group who for the second time in a half-hour, brought up gastric band surgery and a 20%-off coupon offer for the first fifty customers to schedule an appointment. “Good God!” Janice scolded. Had they learned nothing from the recent documentary, The Belly King: When Lap-Bands Go Awry?

Bob listened with one ear, all the while working up an opening line in which to use on the enchantress with the chocolate brown eyes. The one who, like him, recognized the Road Runner in the cracked ceramic floor tile. He thought of Wile E. Coyote careening off into the Grand Canyon while wearing a pair of Acme Rocket-Powered Roller Skates, hoping his advances would not take a similar plunge, as he tucked away a list of smooth pick-up lines in the back of his mind. He reckoned impressing her with his sweet skills and prowess would be the way to go—to get her to say YES to a date. At the moment, the most promising contender was, “I once ate an entire smoked ham,” and he knew it would behoove him to order an Acme Parachute. A plummet was coming.

As the hour was winding down and just before Janice sent the overeaters on their merry way, she gave them their assignment for the week. They were to challenge their fortitude-against-indulgent-food and use their newfound will-power by dining out with a friend, still remembering to stay within the boundary of the daily caloric intake. Then they rose, in a most ungraceful fashion, to lock hands with their neighbors to recite the OA Pledge. Upon locking hands with the enchantress, Bob’s mind went haywire and a little “meep-meep” popped out of his pursed lips. The beauty on his left squeezed his hand and a laugh that sounded like the tinkle of cutlery being laid out just before a celebratory meal, made him hungry. Bob let out a whopper of a cough to cover the sound of his growling stomach until Janice loudly annunciated, “On my honor…” and everyone joined in: “I will no longer allow food to control my life.”
Then the fun part. They released hands and began to clap, starting low and slowly building to an ear-deafening crescendo, before they all stopped abruptly, raising flabby arms and shouting, “Gooooooooooo Team!”

Pledge over, he turned to gaze at brown eyes’ lovely face, prepared with his sweet opening line, but when he opened his mouth to speak, all that would come out was, “Erm, I’m Bob and I eat too much.”
She smiled, responding, “Hmm, I’m Peggy and I eat too much too.”

It was a match made in heaven. They decided to take on the weekly challenge together—immediately. Bob crooked his elbow and Peggy squeezed her arm through, as arm in arm they shuffled the short distance from the former Sears and Roebuck Catalog Center to Church’s Fried Chicken. They unlocked arms and Bob, always a gentleman, stepped ahead to open the door to allow Peggy to enter first. They were met with the usual double-takes and whispers that accompanied an overweight person (or couple) entering a fast-food establishment, but this time, the looks and whispers didn’t hurt so much. They shared an extra-large diet soda—looking deep into each other’s eyes while drinking from two straws sticking out of the clear plastic lid at odd angles—and in adhering to the guidelines of the daily caloric intake, they each peeled the crispy skin from their original two-piece chicken combos and did not butter the corn on the cob. A travesty!
 
They talked about a lot of things and Bob tried not to stare too long at Peggy’s sexy chins. Women didn’t like to be objectified, so he lowered his eyes to her breasts. He’d never really been much of a breast man. Well hell, his own breasts were larger than those of most women, so where was the fun in that? When the meal ended and they bumped knuckles while tossing away fast-food bags, shiny with the grease of uneaten chicken skins, Bob thought, aah, this is what love feels like. They made plans to meet later in the week to take a stroll through a nearby park; and suddenly, exercise didn’t feel so daunting with a partner by his side.

He wanted to shout it high and low. To share with the entire world his good fortune in meeting the woman with whom he planned to spend the rest of his life, so he did the next best thing, he rang up his mom. News had a way of circulating with the speed of light around their community, whether he wanted it to or not once she got hold of a juicy titbit. It would be out of his hands.

He dialed and the phone rang. “Hey honey, I was just thinking about you. How was OA?”

“Mom, I’m in love.”

“Oh my! This is sudden. Tell me everything,” and so, he did. Bob told her all the gory details and then as an afterthought he added, “I almost forgot the best part. You’re not going to believe this one. Her name is Peggy. Peggy Sue McGoo from Kalamazoo. Can you freaking believe it? Her parents must really hate her.” Mom grew quiet.

“Mom?”

“Oh honey. I have some bad news. When you were three, well actually almost four—before your father skipped out—we took a road trip and stopped to visit some of his relatives in Michigan. You were probably too young to remember how you spent all weekend watching cartoons with your cousins. You and the girl your age, little Peg, really hit it off, yukking it up at the antics of that crazy coyote always setting up traps to catch that slick road runner. It’s been ages since I’ve heard you genuinely laugh like you did back then.

“Son, Peggy Sue McGoo from Kalamazoo is your first cousin.”
 
Bob gently set down the phone, opened the refrigerator and pulled out the remains of the three-layer cake that was begging to be eaten.

The End
 
 
Lisa H. Owens
Globe Soup 7-Day Short Story Challenge #5 finalist
Genre: Humor
Theme: A twist of fate

NYC Midnight Round-1: 250-Word Fiction Contest 2021 
Genre: Action and/or Adventure  
Action: Winning a bet  
Word: Scrap
***
George sprinted through the front door like the hounds of Baskerville were hot on his heels. He zig-zagged through the living room, hurdling a misplaced ottoman, and continued through the kitchen, scarfing down a scrap of bacon—congealing in its own grease. He pivoted then streaked down the hallway, ending up in the master bedroom.

He shouted over his shoulder, “Grab my boots and leather gloves, honey,” stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Franny lying on the bed, softly crying.

“No time for tears, dear. Time’s of the essence,” he consoled her, plopping on the foot of the bed to shed his work attire: clip-on paisley tie, a plastic pocket-protector…shielding mechanical pencils, a short-sleeved button-down, spit-shined wingtips, and creased khakis. He might be a mechanical engineer, The Nerd in all its glory, but no one would call him a coward.

He arose, mighty in socks and tighty-whities. He turned to Franny, “Chop-chop! Now, where’s that sumbitch?”

She didn’t move a muscle. On her back with her phone resting upon her chest, her eyes twitched upward, towards the headboard. George blanched. Though he’d won many bets, this one was a real lemon. Who’d a thunk a reptile, escaped from the neighbor’s exotic mix of illegally acquired creatures, could’ve wiggled through their doggy-door? A hooded viper slithered down a bedpost, tongue flitting and yellow eyes focused on Franny’s pulsing carotid artery.
​
George slowly knelt, his hand fumbling for the over-sized T-square with the jagged broken edge, somewhere beneath the bed.

Lisa H. Owens
NYCMidnight presents its 250-word Micro-fiction Challenge 2021
Round-1: 5,175 entries divided into 115 groups
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Top-Ten from each group will move on to Round-2
October 16, 2021
*[update]
This submission was awarded Third Honorable Mention. Did not advance to Round-Two.
***
Judges' Feedback:
Dear Lisa H. Owens,
The feedback from the judges on your 1st Round submission from the 250-word Microfiction Challenge 2021 is below. We hope you find the feedback helpful and you are proud of the story you created for the challenge. Thank you for participating and we hope to see you in a future competition!
''Here I Come to Save the Day: Tighty-Whities to the Rescue!'' by Lisa H. Owens:    
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY: 
{2117}  The whole story is very high-energy, and moves along at an entertaining pace throughout.
The protagonist's character is well-developed, and his characteristics are shown in passing, rather than having to be explained to the reader in a download of prose.
The touches of nostalgic references and humor throughout the story are effective and make the story a really entertaining read.  
{2147}  The author manages to convey the frenetic energy of the circumstances in the way in which they have paced their writing.
A described "nerd" in underwear and socks trying to dispatch a threatening snake with a T-square is quite a comedic sight.
{2038}  I appreciated the way your description ("zig-zagged through the living room, hurdling a misplaced ottoman") gave a relatively mundane, domestic story the feel of an action-adventure. I enjoyed the description of his work attire. George is effectively heroic, tighty-whities and all.  
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK:
{2117}  Franny, due in part to her situation, feels a bit flat. You spent so much time on the protagonist that she feels a little one-dimensional in comparison.  
{2147}  In the following phrase, the ellipsis is not necessary: "a plastic pocket-protector…shielding mechanical pencils"
It's a little confusing that George comes in asking for boots and leather gloves, (which he does not receive), but then proceeds to remove all his clothing except for socks and his tighty-whities. If he's worried about the snake being venomous, the purpose of stripping here is unknown. It doesn't seem to make sense.
The set-up is curious; did she call him about the snake? She's not moving for fear of being struck in this scene. If the snake was far enough away for her to make a phone call, she could have simply left the room or thrown a bed sheet over it. If she shouted out to him and he happened to be in the house, that might make sense. But we're not sure the mechanism of how he was alerted to this predicament. It might help the story to somehow indicate how George is alerted to the situation.
The T-square with the jagged broken edge, is a nerdy tool to use in this situation. It works as comedy, perhaps. But a nerd is typically a really smart person, and surely would come up with a more efficient and practical solution. 
"Though he'd won many bets, this one was a real lemon." It's not entirely clear what this particular bet was. 
{2038}  The bit about the bacon seemed a bit much/unlikely. I also found it odd that Franny would be laying on the bed, with the viper right there. If she was frozen in fear, perhaps you could mention that she was "frozen on the bed," or something along those lines.

​NYC Midnight Round-2: 100-Word Micro-fiction Contest 2021 
Genre: Sci-fi  
Action: Grilling Meat  
Word: Above
***
Trainee-Units lined Preparatory Stations. Replicant CF-ANNE, sporting a white hair swoosh, descended from above. Class launched — knives collectively extending — when she sing-songed, “Welcome to Food-Intro-101.

“Mise en place...before we cook. Rehydrate VG-compounds and unseal BeFe-pods.

“Activate Sere-Mode. Dump your BeFe onto your Hafnium-Hibachis. HEAR THE SIZZLE! BROWN FOOD TASTES GOOD!

“Now we dice. CONSISTENT CUBES!”

Trainees spasmodically mimicked.
​
“NO-NO-NO! THE MOTION OF THE OCEAN!” she maniacally demonstrated, rocking the knife, just so. “STRONG KNIFE SKILLS.” She was relentless. Knife-wielding trainees—gone haywire–spiraled.
​
“IF YOU CAN'T STAND THE HEAT…” engineers intervened. Sliced and Diced ANNE-BURR-L #9 units littered Quad-KCH-N #3.

By Lisa H. Owens
7/24/2021
NYCMidnight   presents its 100-word Micro-fiction Challenge 2021
Round-2: 1,650 entries divided into groups
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Group-1: Sci-fi - Grilling Meat - Above
Story did not make it into the top 8 for Group-1.
Read my Round-1 (9th place) entry: A Brown Beauty
*** 
Judges' Feedback:
Dear Lisa H. Owens,
The feedback from the judges on your 2nd Round submission from the 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2021 is below.  You should be proud of making it to the 2nd Round from an original field of nearly 7,000 writers and rising to both challenges along the way.  Thank you for participating, stay safe, and we hope to see you in a future competition!
''Back to the Drawing Board'' by Lisa H. Owens -    
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY -
{2114}  A chef robot was a really fun premise for your story. Her dialogue (those clichés TV chefs love to spit out) was well-written and had a keen sense of humor.   
{1866}  This was a creative setting and story. The author did a great job creatively naming all of the robots and imagining the language they would use. It felt like a realistic sci-fi setting. There was a good mix of dialogue and storytelling which lead to an overall pleasant to read experience. 
{1970}  I like the visuals that came to mind as I read "Back to the Drawing Board". I pictured a test kitchen so severe it's downright clinical. Knives, like surgical instruments...indeed a really good chef's knife is razor sharp, like a scalpel. I could hear Anne's voice....'NO-NO-NO!' You did a great job of putting my feet to the fire right along with the Trainee-Units. Thanks.  
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK -
{2114}  Your story didn't have a protagonist to latch on to. No emotional arc. There are a couple of ways to solve this. You could give CF-ANNE thoughts and feelings, frustration at the humans who can't keep up. You could also introduce another character. Perhaps a trainee trying to learn from this robot chef?   
{1866}  The robotic language and labels were almost too dominating for such a short piece. It was at times hard to read and understand what was happening. It also felt somewhat random for the trainees to go haywire when they did. A little more plot development could have improved the piece.  
{1970}  There is so much a like about this story. What could use work? I have to say that I am familiar with Anne Burrell, her shows, etc. And even I did not pick up on the connection my first time reading this tale. I think that's because I was so focused on trying to decipher everything else about this story. It is clever, but I fear that between readers who are not familiar with Chef Burrell, or cooking for that matter, and the very enigmatic style of the narrative, you may lose some readers. Thanks again for the very different tale.
***

​A Brown Beauty [100-Words]
NYC Midnight Round 1: 100-Word Micro-fiction Challenge 2021
Parameters:  Genre: Historical Fiction ~ Action: Bidding on an item at an auction ~ Word: Strong 
​
​I’d been called an ugly nag and his was the only bid, so when the auctioneer cried, "Sold," waves of laughter rippled through the crowd.
​
I flinched when he patted my rump. Then again, as he shouted to be heard over the terrified screams of horses being poked and prodded, "She's no beaut; but she's spirited and of strong hindquarter."

Money changed hands and he smiled broadly as he caressed my neck, then proudly led me away.
​
I settled in quickly, nickering and nuzzling sugar cubes from children's fingers—my new name: Brown Beauty. Unremarkable—until that fated midnight ride.
​***
NYCMidnight   presents its 100-word Micro-fiction Challenge 2021
Round-1: 6,932 entries divided into 110 groups
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Top-fifteen from each group will move on to Round-2
Group-33: Historical Fiction - Bidding on an item at an auction - Strong
***
Judges' Feedback:
Dear Lisa H. Owens,
The feedback from the judges on your 1st round submission from the 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2021 is below.  You should be proud of rising to the challenge and we hope you find the feedback helpful.  Because you placed in the top 15 of your group, you have advanced to the 2nd Round kicking off at 11:59PM EDT (New York time) on Friday, July 23rd.  Congratulations and best of luck in the 2nd Round!
 ''A Brown Beauty'' by Lisa H. Owens -    
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY -
{2059}  I absolutely loved how you worked in the historical element (the reveal of 'Brown Beauty' at the end). The way you make this horse *feel* like a real, human character is also quite remarkable and very effective.  
{2022}  Telling a famous story from the perspective of a horse was a great and memorable take on historical fiction. I'm glad you didn't try to make it into a gimmick–you bring a lot of empathy to the character. 
{1651}  I thought it was effective how you told the story from the POV of the horse. She has a specific, colorful personality that we're drawn to, and it makes us want to read more.  
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK -
{2059}  As mentioned, I loved the reveal of 'Brown Beauty' at the end, but I do think you might consider changing the title (as it ruins the surprise in the story a bit). In terms of efficiency, I did think the lines that start 'Then again...' and 'Money changed hands' could be combined. You might find that freeing up words there allows for you to dive even more into Brown Beauty's thoughts/emotional state.  
{2022}  Not everyone may be familiar with the story of Paul Revere and his Brown Beauty (which you can't necessarily control.) However, I don't think it would hurt for you to include his name somewhere in the story. I recommend "until Revere's fated midnight ride. 
{1651}  I'd consider giving us another strong hint in the story that this is about Paul Revere. It feels like we need a bit more. You could do this by either by filling in another detail about the man who buys the horse or detail about what's going on in the world.
 *Update: Brown Beauty was awarded 9th place (of 63 submissions in Group-33) and I will move to Round-2.
Read my Round-2 submission: Back to the Drawing Board.

Do Angels Eat Pasketti?

"Mommy, why do wasps sting?"
"How does light get into the light bulb?"
"Can a T. rex beat up a bear?"
"Mommy, when will I get bigger, like Daddy?"
"Mommy, where is Daddy?"
"Can we have pasketti for supper?"
"Can Daddy eat pasketti in heaven?"
"Mommy, why are you crying?"

By Lisa H. Owens
Submitted to a May 2021 Premises Magazine Mini-Contest - Theme: Question Everything [using 50 words or less] Every sentence must be a question.

NYC Midnight Round 1: 250-Word Micro-fiction Challenge 2020
Parameters: Genre: Suspense/Thriller ~ Action: Chewing Gum ~ Word: Grip [or a form of the word] 

​"Sounds like a cow pulling its foot outta the mud," I’d echoed my old man's words, gruffly spoken, anytime I chewed gum. The kid had it coming; though I regretted my tone. Rumination.
 
I clenched my armrests tight, continuing to gulp deep breaths, like my therapist instructed when sweaty fear gripped me, twisting my gut. Reality.
 
"Tell your brat to keep his body-parts off my seat. While you're at it, tell him to chew with his mouth closed. Sounds like a goddamn cow pulling its foot outta the mud." Would Dad's angry words be my last? Regret.
 
We were hurtling through space—downward—my head melding with the seatback. G-forces.
 
I heard crying and mumbled prayers to different gods and it suddenly hit me; I'd forgotten to pay my electric bill before I left. Random thoughts.
 
I thumbed the beads of my rosary one-by-one—working down the chain—my lips barely moving as I too began to mumble a rusty prayer. It had been a while, "The Lord's Prayer," feeling strange in my mouth but somehow comforting.
 
A ping from somewhere in the back followed by hushed spidery words, “Okay, Captain,” before a frantic voice began shouting, "Brace! Grab ankles. Heads down. Stay low. Brace! Grab ankles. Heads…" a broken record as we plummeted, the glow of fire vivid just under the left wing.
 
I struggled to turn my head, an attempt to see the seat behind me, "Sorry, kid." Redemption.
 
My conscience clear, as we plunged into a dark sea.

By Lisa H. Owens
(*Read Round-2 Challenge here: Te Amo, Mi Amor)
***
11/21/2020
NYCMidnight   presents its 250-word Micro-fiction Challenge 2020
Round-1: 5,400 entries divided into 120 groups
Each group is assigned a Genre, Action and Word
Top-Ten from each group will move on to Round-2
Group-13: Suspense/Thriller - Chewing Gum - Grip
*Awarded 10th place in Round-1 and will be moving on to Round-2
***
Judges' Feedback:
Dear Lisa H. Owens,
The feedback from the judges on your first round submission from the 250-word Microfiction Challenge 2020 is below.  You should be proud of rising to the challenge and we hope you find the feedback helpful.  Because you placed in the top 10 of your group, you have advanced to the 2nd Round kicking off at 11:59PM EST (New York time) on Friday, January 15th.  Congratulations and best of luck in the 2nd Round!
"Redemption" by Lisa H. Owens -    
WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY -
{1774}  This is so profoundly gripping. You paced the story well, allowing the terrifying situation to be unveiled in due course. This person's therapy came through in the experiential stages and labels on his/her thoughts. So captivating!  
{1909)  I really enjoyed this bleak, memorable story. The premise is original and memorable. I found the ending particularly satisfying. 
{1744}  I found this story very suspenseful, and your attention to pacing kept me engaged to the end. I really liked how you showed us a little about this character's personality through his irritation about the gum and his anxiety about the electric bill. I was glad that he apologized to the kid at the end.  
WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK -
​{1774}  Consider adding even more sensory elements of this horrifying (probably soon-to-be fatal) situation. Could they smell the fire...feel its heat? To maintain the word limit, you could streamline the intro to the captain's instructions or offer the dad's injurious words just one time.   {1909)  The first few paragraphs made this story feel slow to start to me. The repetition of the first line, for example, seemed unnecessary.  {1744}  There's a little repetition in his line to the kid; I wasn't sure whether he was saying this again or simply ruminating on what he had said before the story started. Rather than repeating this line, I'd recommend showing something else about the plane malfunctioning, perhaps a little more information about the moment when it started to fall.
​

Margaritas and Scrambled Thoughts

Sitting alone at the bar closest to my house during happy hour on a Friday night should make me cringe. In the past, I would have never been able to pull it off. The term “loser” would have washed over me like a tidal wave but somehow it feels different now. Sure, I am alone, but I was always alone. I just never realized it until a slew of trust shattering events occurred…again…on February 28th, the anti-versary of the first time my husband and I were married in 1987.

Apparently, I didn't learn my lesson the first time. Getting mentally gut-punched for 18 years just wasn't enough. A sucker for punishment, I willingly climbed back into the ring for round two. We remarried after being divorced-but-never-really-separated for nine years. I still saw all the red flags but chose to ignore them because who am I if I am not one-half of a couple, with him by my side? We had been together since we were 23 years old. I never realized how young that was until I had children of my...

Wait, the bartender has asked if I want another house margarita. Frozen without salt. Sure, why not? This is why I chose the bar closest to my house to drink. If I have more than one, I can drive home or even walk on the back roads. They are super curvy and filled with potholes but that makes them less traveled. Less likely to get randomly pulled over by a curious police officer, and if the officer happened to be my neighbor, he would likely just escort me home. This is a benefit of living in suburbia in a middle-class neighborhood. The cops are your neighbors.

The margarita just arrived, and I find myself giving the bartender a thumbs-up for the second time. What the actual fuck? Have I never had a social outing in my life? Well of course I have. I did more than my fair share of mingling when I was a flight attendant for 25 years, until I was injured and took early retirement. I contemplate why it is that I make lame gestures now such as winks and thumbs-ups, reminiscent of a creepy old man.

I am a middle-aged woman. I still look pretty good despite 34 years of gaslighting and narcissistic abuse. I did have that one spell—when my husband had a freak accident on vacation and almost died—where my hair was falling out in clumps with the roots still attached. At first, when I noticed the clumps of hair lying on the floor after a quick blow-dry, I thought they looked like doll hair and my first thought was Ka-burp-ee, the doll Santa brought me when I was in third grade. Her real name, in the Sears and Roebuck Catalog, was Diddee Darling; but once her hair became lumpy and threadbare, she became Ka-burp-ee. If you woke up with Ka-burp-ee in your bed in the morning, you were the big loser for the day.

Since the four of us kids all slept in one tiny bedroom, it was easy to slip her into the oversized crib with my four-year-old sister. It didn't just end there either. My brother and I piled Lincoln Logs and a Slinky and even an Easy Bake Oven on top of Ka-burp-ee, and therefore, my sister by default. We couldn't risk that monster-like-doll-creature getting out and ending up under one of our pillows.
​
Well, my baby brother couldn't have a pillow. When he was almost two years old, he had some kind of disorder that caused him to projectile vomit any time he ate, which was both scary and disgusting. We (my other brother, sister and I) gave him a wide berth when we passed by his playpen on our way outside to play. He almost died but was admitted to Duke University Hospital where they performed a cutting-edge esophageal stretch procedure. It didn't work and the surgeon gave my mom and dad “the speech,” preparing them for his upcoming death. When they checked him out one more time before sending him home to basically starve to death—since he couldn't keep anything down—lo and behold, the doctors said a miracle had occurred. His esophagus was completely normal. The surgeon couldn’t explain it except to suggest that perhaps someone had been praying. Duh. Everyone was praying.

I thought that was probably a pretty good thing but was too busy feeling nauseous from looking into the backseat of a taxicab parked by the emergency room at the hospital. During my brother’s procedure, a kid told me that someone had gotten shot in the course of a robbery in that cab. Being skeptical, I snuck down while my parents were preoccupied with my baby brother's impending death and had a closer look. The front seat and Plexiglas partition that separated the driver from the paying passenger looked pristine, and I was about to tell that kid that he was a big fat liar until I gazed into the backseat. The vinyl seat cushion had a massive rust-colored stain and there was something that reminded me of my grandmother's chicken and dumplings on the floorboard. A mental image of the flesh-colored gore invades my mind and…

Wait, the bartender just asked if I was finished with my plate, and I said yes. My appetite is sort of ruined thinking about the chicken and dumpling thing. He whisked my half-eaten order of beef fajita nachos away.

Anyway, the margaritas and scrambled thoughts have me kind of reeling, and I think about my childhood—not the funny stuff—and how completely messed up it was to move every year on the whim of a father suffering with undiagnosed schizophrenia, and it somehow puts it all in perspective. Everything I went through in my childhood gave me inner strength and the ability to persevere until our children were old enough to not have to endure a big custody battle. That was what kept me there all those years…the first time. What possessed me to hop back in a second time? Perhaps it was a trauma bond or maybe I am broken. I really can’t explain. I nurse the rest of my margarita. Thinking. Though I feel broken, I am not broken, just a little bent. I know I am better off now…I don't need him. It feels like an uphill battle; but I am finally ready to take back my life. To make my way on my own.

I am at a bar all by myself on a Friday night, but I feel less lonely than I did when I was with my husband.

I catch the bartender's attention; give him a thumbs-up and a wink and say, “Check, please.”
 
By Lisa H. Owens
Created for a WOW! (Women on Writing) Q-3 2020 Non-fiction Essay Contest Fall 2020
Published in Short Story Town (November 27, 2021)