RichardTomLisaSerendipidyNorval JoePlanet Z“You’re not going.”
She meant it. No negotiating. Mind made up.
Still, there was no way I was going down without a fight. I was determined to make a stand.
“C’mon” I pleaded, “it’s a one-off. I won’t get another shot at it. Surely I deserve one. Please?”
It didn’t work.
“No! You’ll spend the night gawking at strippers, get blind drunk and end up naked, tied to a lamppost at the other end of the country! I know what stag nights are like!”
“OK” I countered “then, I guess there’s somewhere else I won’t be going…”
All things pass through Chicago
Since we’ve passed into a new millennium, seems fitting to regalia all with a story at the dawn of podcasting. When I was doing seven podcasts a week, one of them was interviewing podcast authors. Emboldened by its success and at this point running out of authors I reached out to the author of the sci-fi novel The Sparrow. Mary Russell kindly set aside her morning to talk. I Asked a few questions no one had ever asked her about her work. About caring capacity. When the interview was over she send me limited edition of her book.
Your not going home again.
Phil had worked for the college for 25 years. You would’ve thunk they would have gotten him a gold watch, a service pin, at the least a go away party. Nada, zip, zilch. Phil was cool about it. He would say when its time to go, better go. All the same some place with pull at your memories, such was the tiny college under the oaks. So on random Friday Phil walked the campus. He was pretty much ignored by even former coworkers. Its like Thomas Wolfe say you can’t go home again.
Short Tale about a short Skirt
Picture the scene. It’s 1986 and there’s a roller disco at the weekend. Wars have taken less planning. We’ve chatted about outfits for weeks. It’s been decided that everyone will get ready at mine & we’ll get the bus from there.
On the night Dad shouts ‘You’re not going out like that!’ from his comfy armchair. I’m equally humiliated and pleased. I say I’ll change. I know I must look amazing. It becomes a useful gauge – if Dad approves of the outfit I know it isn’t working. In time I become an expert at getting changed in small toilet cubicles.
I see you quivering in the corner, terror written in your eyes.
Both you and I know this can only end one way, and it’s not going to go well for you.
It never would: that’s the way the world works, and we both know that the odds are overwhelmingly in my favour.
It’s just a matter of time before I get bored, and you become paralysed with fear. And then, I make my move.
I’ll pin you down, my claws piercing your flesh, then move in for the kill.
Cat and mouse.
And, little mouse, you’re not going anywhere.
Billbert turned to face the sound of approaching steps. Before he could make out who approached in the darkness, he heard from behind, “You’re not going anywhere.”
Like a gorilla had grabbed him by the neck, a jolt suddenly shook him before he lost consciousness.
The following morning, Mandi walked into the kitchen. “Mrs. Weinerheimer. I think Billbert is gone.”
Billbert’s mother put a hand to her heart and asked, “What makes you say that?”
She shrugged. “I went to ask him a question last night and he wasn’t in bed. This morning, I checked again and he’s not there.”
Back in school, my mother would never sign permissions slips for fieldtrips.
“You’re being punished,” she said.
But she never said for what.
My friend Bobby faked her signature.
“There,” he said. “Problem solved.”
Except that my mother had called the school to make sure I didn’t go.
At least when I was being beaten for it, I knew what I was being punished for.
Years later, I pushed her wheelchair up to the zoo entrance.
“Ticket for one,” I said.
And I told her “Just for me. Because you’re being punished.”
And I left her at the zoo entrance.
