September 25, 2024

During our last meeting, my writers’ club decided to have a homework assignment. We were asked to write a mystery at a campsite short story. While I’ve read many books in this genre, I found writing a mystery short story to be a difficult task.

Here’s what I composed for our meeting on Wednesday night:

Mystery

As our school bus turned onto a dirt road, I bounced on the seat. “Oh Em, I’m so excited I’m gonna pee!”

She laughed as she said, “Gross! Get away from me.”

In a quiet voice, I asked, “Are you sure Jase will come?”

She whispered, “Ron said they’d take a canoe and expect them here about 11 or so.”

We grabbed our duffels from under our seats and joined the line of girls. A camp counselor greeted us, checked names and assigned our cabin, then handed a list of rules to us.

I looked around the compound. The sparkling blue lake, massive greenery of forest surrounding it, and ten numbered log cabins. It was a pleasant April afternoon, but too cold for swimming.

Em led the way to No. 4, which was the second from the lake. Bette and Vic were right on our heels. I slung my duffel on the lower bunk to the right. Bette sighed and headed across the room. It didn’t take long to unpack our jeans, tees, and hoodies. I waited until they left before asking, “How far away is Camp Olympia?”

“Bout two miles west along the shoreline. Can’t even see it from the dock.” Em bit her lip. “Dee, please don’t argue with the staff. Just nod and do what they say. I don’t want their attention on us.”

When I opened my mouth to complain about the undercooked hot dog, Em poked my ribs. “Thanks for the yummy food.” She mumbled, “shut it,” as she pushed me toward a table. She hissed, “Keep a low profile.”

I did my best to enjoy the festivities around the campfire. Jodi, recently returned from a Texas trip, dressed in cowboy boots and hat, came forward with guitar in hand. Her fake country twang made my nerves jangle. When I squirmed, Em pinched my arm. After three songs, Jodi quit caterwauling. I barely clapped.

Back in the cabin, Em and I shrugged off pants and left them on the floor. Vic muttered, “Slobs.”

I ignored her and slid under a quilt. The bed shook as my bestie went up. I closed my eyes, pretended to sleep, but listened to their chatter. Checking my watch when Bette snored, I found it was 10:15. I waited until I heard one from Vic before I got up.

The frame creaked, then Em stood beside me. I held my breath as I forced myself into my pour-on jeans. With hoodie on, I grabbed my flashlight and put it in the pocket. The door squeaked as I opened it. We both stood silent for several seconds. Outdoors, I let out a relieved breath.

We crept across the courtyard, then ducked between the cabins. A few yards past those, we entered the woods. The trees cast eerie shadows in the glow of our flashlights. Twigs snapped underfoot no matter how I stepped. “Sorry.”

Em whispered, “Shush. Voices carry out here.”

We finally reached the sand. She took off jogging and I followed. I was panting when she slowed. She gasped, “kill your light,” as she turned off hers.

A small fire lit the beach ahead. Em dashed forward to hug Ron. I hung back, looking at Jase. Tall, blonde, and athletic. A mythical Greek god. He added more driftwood, then turned and smiled at me. Heart hammering, I approached. When he took my hand, I thought his touch was magical.

We chatted with Em and Ron for several minutes. When they began to suck face, he led my bestie away.

I chattered nervously. Jase touched my arm and said, “You’re so beautiful. I will never hurt you.” He pulled me close. I shivered with anticipation. Our lips met. It was divinely marvelous as our kiss lingered, growing into a desire for more.

I worried if I had done something wrong when he pulled away. He fumbled in his pocket.

A sudden spotlight enveloped us. Blinded and immobile, I was lifted from the ground.

***

“Dee, what’s with you. If you don’t get up, nothing good will be left in the cafeteria. Bette and Vic went over 10 minutes ago.”

Aching all over, I struggled out of bed. “I don’t feel good. Something weird happened to me and Jase.”

“I don’t know any Jase.”

“Em please don’t tease me. My head hurts.”

She raised her voice. “Dunno what you talking bout.”

“Oh pullease. He transferred here in October. We met up with Ron and Jase last night.”

“We did not! You’re delusional. Ron and I broke up last weekend. You know not to mention his name. That’s downright mean.” She slammed her way out.

Em wouldn’t sit or talk to me on our way home.

On Monday, I visited the school office. “Miss Hanson, I’m worried about Jason Argos.”

With an odd look at me, she asked, “Is this some sort of prank? We’ve never had a student with that name.”

***

“Commander.”

“Make your report.”

“Argonaut retrieved.”

“Was there a problem?”

“No…but…”

Her gaze shifted from paperwork to glare at me. “What?”

“Ma’am, we barely arrived in time.”

“So what?”

“I think our Routine Operation eXecutive Interface Encoder has failed in this enterprise.”

“Explain.”

“New memories were implanted in everyone. However, one had a Hera proclivity. She resisted all attempts to wipe the Argonaut from her mind. Jason has already had more modifications than any other Titan. Roxie just cannot downgrade his charm gene any farther. He is irresistible. Worse yet, as soon as Jason comes near a comely girl, all he wants to do is procreate. If this continues, we may have to wipe the planet again.”

“You scientists always predict doom and gloom. Dismissed.”

September 12, 2024

During our last meeting, my writers’ club decided to have a homework assignment to write a futuristic short story. We were to write about getting ready for bed in the year 2050. As I thought about it, a futuristic short story that I wrote in March entitled Roxie came to mind.

Here’s what I composed and shared during our meeting on Wednesday night:

Roxie Part 2

Feeling beaten to a pulp, I stand brushing my teeth with an electronic device. Every muscle aches. Wait. What? Where are my dentures?

I stick my hand inside my mouth and feel my gums. Yes, teeth are there. I look into the mirror. Wait. What? Where are my bifocals?

I look around the room. It seems like my bathroom, yet it doesn’t. The countertop is almost bare, yet my artworks are on its walls. I open the cabinet where I keep my medicinals. It is empty.

I hear a mechanical voice from nearby. “What’s taking you so long? Don’t make me come in there.”

I recognize it as the hated robot and don’t want to be punished. I hurry to wash my face, then can’t help staring at my corn-silk hair, which looks similar to what Mia Farrow wore in the 60s. My mass of gray snarls gone. I marvel that I appear to be 16 or so. It doesn’t make sense. When I was that age, I wore coke-bottle glasses! This figure is lush and not at all pudgy.

At last, I open the door. Roxie blocks my way. “Lord, took you long enough to do your ablutions, you silly git.” Her machinery whirls, emitting bleeps and blips. “Why they chose you for cryogenics is beyond me. You must go to sleep, so the process can be completed and updated. You haven’t stabilized to the year 2050 yet.”

I do my best to ignore the robot as I get out shorts and a tee. Wait. What? 2050! That can’t be right. It would mean I’m 98 years old. I feel a stinging stab to my hip before I pull on the shorts.

Roxie has turned back the bed covers and motions to me. What?! 2050. I’m 98…98…98! Zzz.

August 28, 2024

During our last meeting, my writers’ club decided to have a homework assignment. We were to write a short story about aviation.

Here’s what I composed and shared during our meeting on Wednesday night:

Fear of Flying

I confess I have a fear of flying. I don’t mean anything like Erica Jong’s novel of sexual boredom! I didn’t always have this fear and can remember how excited I was the first time I boarded an airplane at O’Hare. My girlfriend Vickie wanted the window seat. That was fine by me because I disliked heights.

Our Boeing 707 flight into Miami was without problems. We then were directed to walk across the tarmac to board the one owned by Out Island Airways. This plane was so small, there were only twelve passenger seats. The stewardess told us to keep our seat belts fastened because we would encounter turbulence. After taking off, the ship shuddered, shook, and went up and down, worse than any roller coaster ride. Vickie prayed out loud that we would safely reach the Bahamas.

It was certainly scary, but this didn’t bother me enough that I wouldn’t fly again. Our trip back to Miami was smooth. On our return trip to Chicago, we had a two-hour layover in Atlanta.

The TV news reported on crashed flights and on planes which disappeared and were never found. This was normal.

During the next several decades, I flew into Phoenix twice. No problems going or returning. No suitcases were lost.

Flying into Oakland to visit my brother was okay. Coming back was another story. Once we boarded, the plane taxied onto the runway, where we sat for several hours. Our direct flight to Chicago, ended up being directed into Denver for refueling. We arrived at O’Hare five hours later than we should have. This wasn’t something unusual.

The horrific events of 911 were certainly extraordinary. Certainly not normal for a plane to be treated like a guided missile. I didn’t find this off-putting.

I can hear you asking, “Why are you so fearful of flying?”

It’s because I’ve watched too many episodes of Dr. G Medical Examiner. So many older people have died after spending hours in an airplane. A few days after they arrived at their destination, they suddenly died of coronary thrombosis. Stuck on a long flight, you cannot get up and walk around.

This is the reason I decided to drive to Ohio and back. With my fourth novel unfinished, I didn’t want to risk it. Driving the 3800 miles, I could get out and stretch. I could also get iced mocha coffee anytime I wanted.

At this stage in my life, I wouldn’t board any airplane. Not even for a million bucks!