Men and Boys

A Short-Short Story
by CJ Heck

The moments are rare, but when the mower is silent and the hammer and nails have joined the drill and other tools in the garage,  my eyes can get hell bent on persuading the rest of me that they don't see a man enjoying his later years, but the child the man once was.  It's a brief insight, mind you, but when I'm allowed to see,  it's a treasured glimpse into a life that I wasn't privy to share.  

Today, out on the front lawn, I saw a young boy, a precocious child of perhaps six.  His hair was tousled, and he was both barefoot and shirtless, tying rags to the tail of a kite.  Then, he was running with the wind, a huge grin plastered across his face, with delight oozing from every pore.  Then just as quickly, the vision was gone again and I was left staring in awe at an aging giant, a grown man, who was at home in his own skin, and merely flying a kite with a happy grandson. 

I love how these seemingly magic moments seem to get flash-frozen and locked away by an efficient mind to suspend like fruit in a gelatin salad.  There, they wait patiently until I have the need and the time to revisit them, as I so often do.  I find it astonishing how easily my senses can pick the lock and, once freed, how quickly those same moments are breathed back to life -- at least for a little while.   Once they are, sometimes I cry, sometimes I smile, sometimes, I only sigh, but it's okay.  Memories seek their validation and I must give them that.  Only then can they diminish to a size where I can put them back inside and go on with life.

Today, once more, I was reminded that there really is no difference between a man and a boy, only the price of his toys ... and for me, a new memory was flash-frozen, locked away and waiting.

Short Story: "A Penny for His Thoughts"

Mocha Java Swirl Espresso

by CJ Heck

Libby sat scowling into her medium extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso.

The small round table wobbled with an audible racket as she shifted the hot paper cup from her left hand to her right, and then back again.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a folded piece of cardboard to shove under that stupid table leg for stability -- and some blessed silence! She thought to herself, her attitude nearly as steaming as the coffee was.

Libby had to admit, she had never been any good at reading Richard's silences. She tried to remember how long it had been since she and Richard had talked to each other about anything, other than when the dry cleaning should be picked up, or whether the trash cans had been put out by the curb on Tuesday mornings. 

She sighed. Sometimes, what's not said says way more than what is.  She almost didn’t want to know what was behind the silence.

There was a time when she would have just asked, "Hun, what's wrong? Is there something we need to talk about?" But not anymore. The silence had gone on too long now. Besides, there were times when she did politely ask, "Something bothering you, Richard?"

But he always answered the same way, "Nothing, Elizabeth.  Nothing at all."

Maybe she should just leave well-enough alone. Truth was, she was afraid to ask him the exact words, "What is wrong?" now. They weren't married, only living together, and had been for five years. Whatever was wrong would probably hurt and not be something she wanted to hear. Then again, she thought, maybe it's something I need to hear.

Libby's imagination was turning somersaults as she tried to imagine how the conversation might go:

First, I would smile and ask, "Richard? How about a penny for your thoughts?"

He would then say, "Elizabeth? Let's not play games. Would you like to tell me where you're going with this?"

Then, I would say, "Well, you walk around in silence these days, Richard. You never talk to me anymore. Tell me what's going on in your mind ... and in your life, while you're at it."

Then Richard would get haughty. "Elizabeth, you're being ridiculous. Let's stop all of this foolishness, shall we?  You must have things to do.  What time is dinner?"

Then, naturally, I would try again, "Talk to me, Richard ... you know, a penny for your thoughts. Would five or six cents get me the truth and maybe spare my feelings? Richard, come on, play along. How about two nickels then, that's ten cents? Would that sweeten the pot? Or maybe three dimes for two or three honest thoughts -- tell me what you are thinking right now, this very minute."

Of course, Richard doesn't like it when I use sarcasm, so he would probably get angry at this point, Libby thought. "Oh for God's sake, Elizabeth, stop it! I don't know what's gotten into you today! That is enough!  You don't want to push me! You may not like what I'll say. Do not push me with this game of yours, Elizabeth."

If that is truly what he would say, I still wouldn't be able to stop myself, "Okay, Richard, two quarters then. I DO want to know. Will that buy me your thoughts? Wait, I’ll even up it to a dollar for one clear, loving thought. That’s all I want … it’s all I need, but it has to be the truth, Richard. I need to know the truth. What is going on in that head of yours? Do you still love me, Richard?"

Libby slammed back to reality when the hot, medium, extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso suddenly belched all over her hands, the wobbly, noisy table, her lap, and the floor. She hadn't even realized she was doing it, but during the brief interlude into her imagination, she had squeezed her paper cup hard out of rage and pent up frustration.

As Libby helped the waitress clean up the mess, she couldn't help thinking, "I would never tell him this now, but he could have had me and everything I own forever if, just once, he had talked to me, lovingly talked to me ...


(from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck)

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"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

When It's Over

A Short Story

by CJ Heck

Sydney was stunned, as she swiped at an errant tear with her tissue. She had just left the courthouse and was walking down the twelve stone steps to the street to hail a cab. She always heard divorce brought mixed feelings, but she never figured that her feeling of choice would be sadness -- God knows, the marriage had been dying for years. Still, the sadness puzzled her. She had always thought her own main emotion would be one of elation, once the judge signed the decree that stated she was finally free.

As she got in the taxi, Sydney gave the driver her new address and shut the door. It's all so odd, she thought. You meet someone, you fall in love, and with all of the best intentions, you believe it will last forever. Over time, things happen. You never even see it coming. You both get busy, tired, and things just seem to get in the way. The world and everything in it pushes and pulls and then, with no warning at all, it eventually plants itself right in between you. Without ever realizing that it's happening, at some point along the way you both change and suddenly it's over. You're merely shadows of who you were, and avoiding each other because of who you've become -- two total strangers sharing the same house.

You don't really know how you know it's over, but you do, she thought. For her, it came slowly, the awareness. With the certainty and final resignation of a child learning there's no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny, she just knew.

The breakfast table, once a venue for long dreamy stares and coffee-flavored kisses, had awkwardly become a wordless stage for reading the paper and eating breakfast. One morning she suddenly realized that the ticking clock on the wall and the crackling of the sports pages were the only sounds left between them.

Wiping a fresh tear away with the back of her hand, Sydney recalled the smell of his shirt when she used to bury her face there. She could remember the touch of his hands on her body, as if they had a life of their own. With a sigh, she realized that both had silently slipped to a place wherever memories go to gather dust. There, they'll lie dead and forgotten among all the shards of boredom and what used to be.

How she would miss the nights, and the love they had shared -- at least for awhile. Sydney remembered all too well their perfect fit, how his body and hers breathed and moved as one. I don't know, she thought, maybe it was those nights and the way they used to be that finally gave the knowing life, but she just knew. And, in the knowing, she finally realized -- it was over.

Like the ocean tides on her favorite beach, love had slowly receded with all of the other yesterdays and she wished she could trade all of her tomorrows to have it back, but at least now she finally understood why she was sad. She grieved for the death of love. It truly was over.

Mother's Day 2011

With Mother's Day almost here, I was thinking about Mama this morning. It's hard to believe she's been gone for twenty years -- there's an oil painting of her done by my great-grandfather and it's hanging on the wall at the bottom of my stairs. I can see it from my couch in the living room, and I often talk to her. Today, I was remembering.

Mother's Day at our house was always special.  It was something we kids looked forward to all year long. Mama (and Daddy) got breakfast in bed. It was concocted by all six of us together, using our age-appropriate contributions and skills, sometimes with a mess, but always with love and appreciation for what Mama meant to us all.

This year, I feel especially proud with Mother's Day almost here. Robert's mother was one of my mother's best friends way, way back, and she's very special to me -- it's almost like having Mama here again.  I'm going to talk with Robert about an idea I have.  This year, maybe we could make her breakfast in bed ...

In memory of Joanne Parrish:  I love you, Mama

Breakfast in Bed
by CJ Heck

Wake up, Mom and Daddy.
We’ve got a BIG surprise.
Me and Sissy made you breakfast.
Please, open up your eyes.

Here’s the paper from the porch,
just in case you want to read.
Please wake up and put your glasses on
so you guys can see.

There’s cereal with milk on it
and toast with butter, too ...
Sissy scraped the black stuff off.
We made this ALL for you.

We didn’t make the coffee,
but, Mommy, that’s okay
‘cause me and Sissy found some
in the pot from yesterday.

Our eggs look kind of funny,
not like the ones you make.
Ours are way too slickery.
They keep sliding off the plate.

We’re sorry there’s no muffin,
but there weren’t any more.
Well... the one that WAS left over
got smushed on the kitchen floor.

There used to be a donut,
it was right there on the plate.
Me and Sissy got real hungry,
but it’s the ONLY thing we ate.

When it comes to making breakfast,
there's a lot of work to do,
but we made it just to show you
Mom and Daddy, we love you.

Call Girl: Flash Fiction

Lately, I've been trying my hand at writing short-short fiction (1000 words or less) and flash fiction (500 words or less). This story has 220 words ... granted, the subject matter is a little bit out there, but it was fun using my imagination.  

Call Girl
Flash Fiction
by CJ Heck

Only moderately full, the 4:57 to Detroit still promised to be worth a few thousand over and above Julie's regular take.

It wasn't that tough, just an amusing parlor game, actually.  Play it cool and distant -- they eat it up. The more distant and snobby she was, the more interested the poor bastards were -- of course, the pouty lips, come-hither eyes, and the come-fuck-me stilettos helped, too, she thought, with a knowing smile. Yeah, but the cool and distant -- uh huh, that's what does it. They can't resist.

(She pens a quick note to herself: Must remember to buy a few more shares of Maybelline in the market -- hmmm, maybe L'Oreal, as well? They both saved my ass more than a few times.)

Okay, Julie thought, I'll make Detroit by eight. Ought to be able to do the guy there with no trouble, then cab it back to the hotel, shower and reapply my face. Easy. I'll still have time to take the elevator up to twelve for the john in 12 C. Piece of cake. Then I'll sock another six big ones into the pocket of the suitcase before the 11:30 to Reno. Sweet.

Have love, will travel.  Beats a pimp on a corner any time ...

A Need To Get Away

I don't know how you feel about it, but I think this winter was long, way too long. After spring actually arrived, we had a few days where it hit the 60's, but then the temperature dropped way down again. Shoot, just two days ago, April 6th, I looked out the window to see it was snowing again!

I'm so ready for this weekend. They're calling for it to be nearly 80 degrees on Sunday ... and it can't come too soon for me. I've got cabin fever and I need to get out for more than just groceries, the chiropractor, or the gym for my workouts. Better yet, I dream of kidnapping Robert and going far, far away, entirely out of the midwest, somewhere with no computers or phones. A Caribbean cruise would be nice; or maybe the Florida Keys; or even a romantic road trip down the coast, stopping now and then to walk a beach in my barefeet and holding Robert's hand.

It's so important to get away now and then. We need to recharge the love batteries, put aside the "me" and the "I", and make sure we don't lose sight of the "we". Otherwise ... well ... here's a little tease about what could happen ...

We Need To Get Away
by CJ Heck

Have I told you lately
how good you smell
when the shower
finally spits you out?
I can't remember
the last time, but
it wouldn't surprise me,
considering how much time
we actually get to spend
alone together these days.
I do know I remember
how intense we used to be.
We need to get away,
just the two of us,
before we grow any ruts
in this relationship highway.

Let's go somewhere,
before talking dirty
really means:
"You doing a light load?
Can you grab my pj's
on the back
of the bedroom door?"

Before wanna catch a quickie?
really means:
"I'm pooped. Wanna take a nap?"

Before Oh God, I'm coming!
actually means:
"Don't nag me, I'm almost ready!
Go and start the car."

Let's go somewhere, while
Honey, that was fantastic
still means more than
a Sunday Scrabble win.

It's not too late.
Oh yeahhh ...
I remember.


Have a great weekend, everyone! ~CJ

Celtic Woman and Fairies

The Little Blond Fiddler

Robert and I sure had a whirlwind weekend, last weekend -- and I'm still tired. We drove to Ohio (4 1/2 hours) to see family, something that's always a treat.

Once there, as usual, we hit the Buehler' grocery store to buy some of the best cream-filled long johns that were ever invented to take along.

We spent Friday night with his mom, dad and sister, Cindy, and left at around noon on Saturday. We then drove to Columbus to my dad's.

When we arrived, my oldest younger brother was there and we enjoyed visiting with him.  Then we had plans to meet up with Robert's son, David, at the Outback for dinner and some more visiting.  The Outback's a great restaurant, by the way ...

Sunday was my dad's 84th birthday and we had tickets to take him to a Celtic Woman concert at 2:00.  Listen, if you ever get the chance to see them, go! I guarantee, you won't be disappointed. What a wonderful, magical show they put on.

That little blond gal that accompanies the group with her fiddle is well-worth the show, all by herself. She fiddles AND dances while she's doing it, tosses her long hair with a perpetual smile and charms everyone in the audience. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and the 2-1/2 hours sped by way too fast, even with two curtain calls after a standing ovation.

Ya know, when I was a little girl, I used to think I could see fairies dancing barefoot in the grass under a tree in my backyard at dusk. It was only my imagination, I know, but if there really had been fairies there, I swear they would have looked just like a miniature version of the little fiddler with Celtic Woman.

 I was so enamored by my imaginary fairies, I even wrote a poem about it which was in my first book of poetry for children.

Fairies Dancing

Dancing Fairies

On warm dark nights I think I see
beneath the weeping willow tree,
wee fairies dancing in the grass
on tiny feet that fly so fast.

The music is the wind that blows
while fairies spin on bare tiptoes,
and fireflies jewel up the night
reflecting fairies in their light.

Round and round the fairies dance!
On bitsy feet they skip and prance
through tiny dew drops to and fro,
til morning comes, and then they go.

I wonder where the fairies live
and do they know what fun they give
to little girls and boys that see
beneath the weeping willow tree?

After the concert, we got back to dad's and two of my sisters were there waiting to take him out for a birthday dinner.  I was happy to get to visit with them for a little while, before we had to get back in the car and on the road to PA.

We didn't get home until nearly midnight, but the concert was still  very fresh in my mind.  I couldn't resist peeking through the curtains at the upstairs window.  I just had to know if I could see any fairies under the tree in the yard ...


"A Writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

The Winter Linger

It's the last day of March, and we woke up to a new three-inches of heavy wet snow. That sorta pokes a hole in the old adage that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, doesn't it? Here in DuBois, Pennsylvania, March came bleating in at around 60 degrees and, as of today, is roaring out with measurable snow ...

I can't complain, though. As only a heavy wet snow can do, all of the limbs and branches of the trees are laden with the same three inches of winter. As I look out my windows on top of the huge hill we live on, I have a panoramic view of pretty much the whole town and it's beautiful.

As Robert was leaving for work a few minutes ago, I waved goodbye and noticed the snow on the garage roof. Like icing on a too-warm cake, the snow is slowly sliding off the roof, literally in tiers. I couldn't help making a human, yet metaphoric, connection.

Winter is technically over and yet Old Man Winter desperately hangs on, not wanting to step aside for spring "just yet". How like human life that is. When we reach the winter of our lives, we also do everything we can to stay here as long as possible. We exercise, we take our vitamins, but still, age takes it's toll and, like the wilting snow on the garage roof, our bodies eventually do a similar slow slide in tiers. Oh, there are things we can even do about that, if we have the means, but when our winter is over, it's over.

The biggest difference between Old Man Winter hanging on and humans who can merely stall for time is, winter knows it gets to come back again every year and, like a spoiled child, it still wants more ... as for me, I'm just grateful.