Monthly Archives: January 2024

#20 – The Overlap of Children and Psychopaths

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged

“She just stood in the doorway and smiled,” Cora explained to her aunt Lily as they walked the old dirt road that ran alongside the train tracks on the south side of town. It was one of those trademark sticky summer days that felt like an endless soak in tepid water. The sky was a wet and murky grey and the cicadas screamed like car alarms. “Kind of like a child.”

Lily nodded as she listened. She was distracted. 

“Or like a patient in the psychiatric ward,” scoffed Brian, Cora’s brother, who was dragging along behind. Cora turned and looked at him over her shoulder. She gave him a nasty look.

“What?! All I’m saying is there’s a fine line between kids and psychiatric patients, ya know?”

Lily furrowed her brow and looked at him quizzically.

“Okay,” Brian stopped and held up his hands. “Get this. So, like, if a child walks down the street laughing hysterically and wearing a bag on his head, he’s not accused of being crazy.”

“He might be though,” Cora responded, knowing full well (but just a split second too late) that engaging with her brother in matters such as these was pointless.

“Yeah, he might be,” he nodded, with one brow cocked. “But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s not the immediate explanation. Fine line,” Brian shrugged. “I think all kids are nuts though so what do I know?”

“But how did she look?” asked Lily, slicing through Brian’s ridicule. “I mean, did she look happy?” she asked with strain in her voice. It was almost as though she hoped the answer was no. “Was she at least healthy?”

Cora and Brian exchanged looks. How to answer that question? Like Lily, they hadn’t seen their cousin Shelby since they were kids. They’d ride bikes together along this very road to go into town to buy frozen slushes and penny candies. Then they’d circle over to see if Farley, the guy who ran the chip wagon, was in town. He would set up his truck over near the park where they’d get one large order and sit at a picnic table, scarfing down those golden fries glistening with salt and soaked with vinegar. Shelby and Cora would team up, as girls were wont to do, against Brian – teasing him and telling him he was adopted. Brian would make fun of Shelby who seemed to always have vinegar dripping down her chin. (He would reserve a far more merciless form of teasing for his sister once they returned home; something he deemed as his birthright as a brother.) 

That was nearly thirty years ago though. 

“Uh, yeah,” Cora stammered.”Sure. I mean, she seemed okay, I guess? Right, Brian?”

Brian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and tapped in on his arm. He took one cigarette out, lit it, and took a long drag off of it. Filthy habit, Cora thought. It’s not enough that it killed Mom, her mind began spinning before she put an abrupt end to it. She would not entertain going down that rabbit hole again. 

Brian exhaled out a plume of softly winding smoke that seemed to suspend itself momentarily in the humid air. He looked at Lily. “Yeah. She seemed alright. I mean, ya know…”

They were now walking the long bridge that spanned the Culprit River. As a child, Cora had thought nothing of the name. Culprit. But after Shelby disappeared, the name took on a menacing countenance. (At one point, the town had voted to change the name to Misty. But the motion was blocked by the ‘backward hillbilly pine stump barbarians who populate this hell hole,’ as her father used to say. And yet, her father still lived in this very town. In Cora’s and Brian’s childhood home, no less.) 

Lily stopped at the midpoint of the bridge and shuddered. She hadn’t been on this bridge for 30 years – since the fateful day when all she could hear was the distant sound of country music mixed with static coming from the open door of the car. Their car. The old Blue Nova that she and Zane had been so excited to buy just five years before that. She’d started running to the car, screaming out her daughter’s name with sheer panic in her voice. When she arrived she saw that Zane had left the radio on, tuned to her favorite station. She’d stood there and stared at the open door on the driver’s side, incredulous. Shelby’s favorite blanket sat crumpled on the passenger seat. He’s finally done it, she thought. He’s finally taken his life and taken my baby with him. As she collapsed, the last thing she remembered hearing was Tammy Wynette singing “Stand By Your Man” as though from inside a tin can.

Circumventing the bridge had been more than an inconvenience all those years. Yet, she couldn’t move somewhere else. Once it was determined that Zane and Shelby were not dead, she hoped against all odds that Shelby’s father would come to his senses and bring her back from wherever he had taken her. She’d held on to that blanket like a talisman all those years, kept it by her side, slept with it at night. 

Brian coughed. “Of course, kids are kinda like drunks too,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I mean, if you look at most one-year-olds, they’re staggering around like they’ve had a few too many.” 

“What does that have to do with anything, Brian?” Cora asked, annoyed with her little brother. Her little brother who now towered her by nearly nine inches.

“Just an observation.”

Cora noticed the color had drained from Lily’s face. She knew that Lily was nervous about finally seeing Shelby that afternoon. She regretted she’d had the opportunity to see Shelby before her mother had. But it was purely coincidental. They hadn’t planned it. She gently squeezed Lily’s upper arm. “She’s going to be happy to see you today.”

Lily nodded, but felt a sinking in her stomach. What if Shelby couldn’t forgive her for not protecting her like a mother is supposed to do? For not seeing that Zane was losing it and that her daughter was in danger?    

“I’m sure everything will be okay,” said Cora in as reassuring voice as she could muster. Though she wasn’t as certain as she sounded.

As for Lily, she felt no security in the scheduled meeting with her long lost daughter whatsoever. Because if there was one thing she had learned for certain over the past thirty years, it was that every form of security has a weakness. Systems rely on technology. Security guards are human. 

Even blankets get holes. 

#19 – Perfectionist Takes the Gold

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

Steph sat down to write. Next to her was one of her three cats. It was the one that farted a lot. Even in her precious, furry, deep-breathed sleep, the farts continued. 

The house was cold and the tight and muffled feeling in her ear kept distracting her. She was trying to understand what it was saying but the sensation mostly made her feel anxious and irritated. She didn’t want to write today. She wanted to lay on the couch, eat nacho cheese chips, and snuggle with her flatulent cat. 

“I promised myself I’d write though,” she said to herself. So she sat down and began typing:

Zelda always felt that humans were more red in tooth and claw than any animal she’d ever encountered. It wasn’t that she was raised in the woods or anything like that. In fact, she’d been raised in 1970s Brooklyn – back when it was a very different place than it is now. She lived in a third-floor walk-up with her mother and her Depression-era grandparents. 

Then she erased it. What the hell did she know about Brooklyn? She realized she could change it to Chicago, though she didn’t know enough about the Windy City to make it believable. 

“But it doesn’t have to be perfect,” she said to herself. “Honestly, it doesn’t even have to be believable. You wrote a story about an asshole cat teaching yoga three weeks ago.”

Then Perfectionism emerged; that raven-haired beauty full of rage, shame, anger, and fear. “If you’re not writing something of great brilliance, what’s the point? You suck.”

Steph couldn’t entirely disagree, though she felt Perfectionism’s approach was a little harsh. Nevetheless, she returned to the computer:

My first memory of Pelko was when I was six. I was at the Canadian-American border with my grandparents who still lived in Canada part-time. Being at the border has no relevance. Being with my grandparents does. Particularly my grandmother. 

She stopped and looked it over. She did have a pivotal moment at the Canadian border with her grandparents when she was six. She had her first real understanding that she was going to one day die. She would be no more. Bite the dust. Cease to exist. And it scared the hell out of her. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to go forward with this one. Not today, at least. So she put it into a separate document and came back to the blank one.

“That’s best,” said Perfectionism. “It’s not exactly a legitimate story idea.” Perfectionism draped her lithe and black-clad body over Steph’s heart. “Ya know what? You should just give up. I mean, why are you even doing this?” 

Steph made fists with her hands. It wasn’t to beat the shit out of Perfectionism. She’d tried that numerous times and knew full well that it didn’t work. Rather, she was doing it to warm her fingers. She could turn up the heat, but something in her said she didn’t deserve that particular brand of comfort. 

“I’m not really sure why I’m trying this today. I mean, I know it’s good for me. And at the end of the day, that’s who I’m doing this for…”

“That’s the person for whom I’m doing this, you should say,” Perfectionism interrupted.

Steph released a deep sigh. The sun was shining behind her heavily curtained windows and she longed to sit in its life-giving beams. But it was four degrees outside. Fahrenheit. And her windows leaked. 

“You can do this,” she said silently to herself. Even so, Perfectionism, with her dog-like hearing, picked it up. She just laughed.

Gathering her resolve, Steph sat down and began typing again. One silly sentence after another came pouring out. She’d type it and then erase it. Type another and erase it. She did this over and over. It was as if the blank slate wanted to remain blank.

Finally, she began to type:

Steph sat down to write. Next to her was one of her three cats. It was the one that farted a lot. Even in her precious, furry, and quiet sleep, the farts continued. 

The house was cold and the tight and muffled feeling in her ear kept distracting her. She was trying to understand what it was saying but it only made her feel anxious and irritated. She didn’t want to write. She wanted to lay on the couch, eat nacho cheese chips, and snuggle with her flatulent cat. 

She shut her laptop, stretched, and yawned. She decided to lay on the couch, eat nacho cheese chips, and snuggle with her flatulent cat. And Perfectionism, of course. Because she clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

#18 – The Sentinel Tree

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

“The secret to keeping plants alive is striking that perfect balance between care and neglect,” Fiona remembered her father telling her as he tended the flower and vegetable garden that flourished behind their old house. Throughout her childhood, she’d marveled at that verdant patch that blotted the otherwise vast moonscape of south-central Wyoming. Beyond that garden, nothing else seemed to thrive. Nothing, that is, except for the single American Linden tree a quarter mile beyond the garden and under which she now sat.

“That’s what’s known as a sentinel tree,” her father had said. “It’s a guide. A landmark, see? You’ll always know where your home is when you see it.” She’d looked up at him, observing the auburn streaks in his sheen brown hair, the reddening of his freckled skin, and a degree of seriousness behind his blue eyes. Eventually, her eyes grew tired from looking up at him and into the sun. “The Linden symbolizes peace,” he continued. “And the bees love the flowers. It’s not exactly native to these parts where the cottonwoods are happiest,” he’d said pensively. “But this one is a survivor. It was here long before you and me and will be here long after we go. So long as someone tends to it.”

Those words stuck with her. As did the notion that success in keeping plants, or anything really, alive was striking the perfect balance between care and neglect. It was a balance she wasn’t certain she could attain. Especially the neglect component. As a child, Fiona’s mother had coddled her. It seemed better than neglecting or hurting her. But her mother had inadvertently taught Fiona that life was supposed to be easy and comfortable and when it wasn’t (as was increasingly the case now) it was somehow personal. That she had been cosmically wronged. 

Her mother would not tolerate Fiona facing any sort of adversity. This despite the fact that such experiences were essential for Fiona to acquire some very needed tools. So Fiona’s toolbox, in that area at least, had for a long time been as empty as the promises from her neighbor that he’d fix the loose hand railing on the front stairs of the old house next time he was out her way. 

Meanwhile, if her father saw the unintentional damage her mother was causing, he did not come to Fiona’s rescue. While they shared a deep love for the garden plants and that sole Linden tree, he was otherwise emotionally guarded. Even withholding. But not in a steely resting Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry face sort of way. It was far more subtle, covert, and therefore insidious. Because she simply didn’t see it. 

The thing is, her father knew how to smile and laugh. He was good at being with people. While he may not have sustained long relationships, he was the master of first impressions. And he had a knack for making folks laugh. She recalled the spring when she was nine and her father and mother took her to the bakery in Cheyenne. Gobsmacked by the huge display of delights, she’d stared at the rows of cakes and cookies for what seemed like hours. At last, she tapped the glass in front of a pink cupcake. “Don’t tap the glass, Fee,” her father scolded, then winked. “It frightens the cupcakes.” Though Fiona’s mother rolled her eyes, the woman behind the counter giggled. And Fiona broke into a full belly laugh at the idea that she could frighten a cupcake. 

So it perplexed her and upset her in the following years when the phone calls started. She’d answer the ring and different voices would ask for the village idiot before laughing and hanging up. Surely, she thought, these were wrong numbers. They couldn’t have been talking about her dad; the man who knew how to conjure bright red tomatoes, brilliant orange sunflowers, and deep green zucchini from an otherwise dead patch of earth. To her, he was a magician.

Sitting under the Linden tree now she thought of her father who’d long since abandoned her, her dementia-ridden mother for whom she now cared, and the mighty tree to move to Arizona. There he could dodge the harsh Wyoming winters while the political climate of the country grew colder and more bitter by the minute. She started to receive the occasional attacking text from him in the middle of the night accusing her of being an unpatriotic Marxist, among other things, because of her left-of-middle viewpoints. She didn’t know what to make of them at first. Given that she understood him to be kind, compassionate, and funny, she wondered if he was having brain issues. Here she was five years later and sitting with the truth of it all. She shook her head hard as though trying to shake off this reality. How ignorant she’d been to believe her father would be as repulsed by the misogynistic hateful narcissistic dominating the news as she’d been. He was not. 

Pressing deeper against the bark of the tree, she noticed it had developed an increasing number of ridges and cracks as it aged. She could relate. Pulling a pad of paper and pencil from her bag, she set to doing what she came out there to do. She began composing a letter.

Dear Dad, 

As I’ve gotten older, I recognize how comforting it seems to cling to old and outdated ideas. But I also recognize that pushing back against progress and lamenting better days hurts me far more than embracing change and seeing what I can learn. Is it always good? Of course not. But what is? (Don’t answer that.)

I’m not writing this to try to convince you of anything or change your mind. I do want you to know, however, the negative consequences that come with the attacking messages. And not just how they affect me, but you as well. Here’s the truth: you have a strong and resilient daughter who loves and cares for others and who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. She’s kind, generous, considerate of others, and deeply contemplative. By most accounts, she would appear to be the product of proud parents. (These are, incidentally, all values I’d relish in my own children if I’d had any.) And yet, her father – confounded by some wholly unexplored threat of lack and limitation – repeatedly rattles off what he deems as her shortcomings, care of the myopic media sources that routinely (mis)inform him. 

I can’t relieve you of the decades of unchecked anger and frustration you’re experiencing and now feel justified in unloading on those whom you love. If I could, I would release you from that particular brand of misery. But if I’m being brutally honest, I’d say that what little bridge is left between you and me could easily crumble from one more attack. If that doesn’t trouble you more than your belief that spewing hatred is the way to make America great, then so be it. But it should. 

Whatever you choose to do, I’m going to keep working on myself in an attempt to see where I can be kinder and more generous – and to shed light on my blind spots. It feels a lot better than stewing in anger and believing the world is screwing me over. I’ve already spent too much time there. I hope that you someday leave that darkness too. So from under the glorious old Linden tree that once connected us, I send you these words from a loving-kindness meditation: 

May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be free of suffering. May you be at peace…

She reread the letter three times and sighed. These days, she felt both deeply lost and yet on the precipice of figuring something out. And she was old enough to know that maybe it was something she needed to but didn’t necessarily want to face.

Looking up into the canopy of the tree, smelling the fragrant flowers and smiling at its clusters of small hard fruits and lovely heart-shaped leaves, she felt a deep affection for the tree that she hadn’t in over a decade. Her father was not the village idiot. But neither was he a magician. 

Knowing it would make no difference, she decided against sending the letter. Instead, she sighed, crumpled the letter, and shoved it deep in her bag – certain that the sentinel tree would never again mark the way home for the man she still knew as dad.

*(Heavily modified excerpts from The Winter People by Jennifer McMahon)