writing101 – Page 9 – Linda Nelson



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A plate of syrup blew across the road followed by the Bluejay. It’s mind set on getting one small taste of that syrup while avoiding the mailbox on the other side of the road. Bob had other plans for that plate. That dog was always off its chain in more ways than said. It didn’t matter how many times the local pound picked it up, it always managed to escape its bonds, just like today.
Bob dove for the plate, chasing the bluejay off, clenching the syrup smeared paper plate in his teeth. His prize that he wasn’t allowed to keep for long when the school bus stopped at the end of the driveway, letting a boy and a girl off the bus.
“Bob, what do you have there in your mouth?” The boy grabbed ahold of Bob’s collar and slipped the plate from its mouth. Not once did the boy notice the ink smear across the dog’s white nose. That he noticed when he saw the state of his bedroom. All his pens chew and on the floor.
“Bad Bob, bad.”
Bob didn’t care. He took his place on the bed, closed his eyes and slept while the boy fussed about the mess.

I could see Keelaa doing something like this. She can be such a devious little pup. Chewing, that’s her bane. If allowed, she would eat, chew every piece of wooden furniture. Now I keep her well stocked in chews – rawhide. She likes beef bones too. Those I tend to cook for 10 minutes under the broiler before giving it to her. My dog is domesticated. She likes her food cooked.
She is older now, almost at the one year mark. That’s next month. It’s hard to believe she is that old. At least she never got enormous. A small dog of about 25 pounds, the perfect size.

Happy Birthday, Keelaa!

A Bit of Flash Fiction



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Jogging down the path hardly traveled, I expected an attacker to jump out of the bushes at any minute. I could have brought the dog with me, but then I would have to stop every fifteen feet for him to pee on a tree. A can of mace would have to do.
The attacker never showed their face. Instead, it was a dirty old envelope that stopped me in my tracks. I could have continued on, ignoring it as trash. Instead, I picked it up and noted the address and date it had been mailed. It had a piece of folded paper inside. My curiosity got the better of me and began to read, tears welled in my eyes by the end of the love letter that was dated December 1932.
A photo had been within the fold of the paper of a man in an army uniform. I had seen that face before, I’m sure of it, even though he was much younger then. He was a man I knew that lived in a retirement community not too far away. The woman, I wasn’t so sure about. I wondered what the chances were that she could still be alive today.
I followed up with a search on the internet. One of those paid searches led me right to her. Fate would have it, she lived in the same community, and chances were that they probably didn’t know that either still existed. The only way to find out would be to deliver that letter to the woman the next day.
She hugged me like a rag doll and blessed my little ole heart. I wasn’t sure if the tears I was feeling on my face were from the joy I saw in her eyes, or of her squeezing of my ribs in that bear hug of hers. She thought he had died in the war.
“No, No… he didn’t die,” said I. “He lives on the fourth floor.”
“Joe, on the fourth floor?” she asked. “That can’t be. I saw him yesterday and he told me his name was Howard.”
“His name is not Howard.” I laughed. “I’m sure he was asking you how are’ d you? He’s always had a lisp since I’ve known him.”
“A lisp?” she asked.
“He told me he’s had trouble with his tongue ever since the war. He had been in a prison camp before the war ended.”
She agreed to go with me to visit him. He opened the door with a blank look on his face. I had neglected to tell her that Alzheimer’s had begun to take his memories away from him. He could no longer remember his wife’s name nor his daughter’s.
“Joe, I brought an old friend of yours to visit.”
He smiled and invited us in. Pictures of family decorated his walls, but he no longer knew the names that went with the faces. He still remembered his days in the army. That was probably a memory that would never be taken away from him. The bad ones always are the last to go.
While he shuffled about his little kitchenette making cups of tea, my guest began to study the photos on the wall. She stopped beside the one of him that was taken when he entered the army just before going off to war and drew out the photo she had in her pocket and held it up to compare the two. They were the same.
I don’t know if it was the dress she wore or her hair. Something sparked inside him. “Margaret? Is that you?” The teacup began to shake in his hand.
“Daddy, do you remember her?”
He rushed toward her and pulled her into his arms, as though he were just a young lad once again. I was a forgotten memory. It was the first time I had seen him happy in years. The reunion, eighty-three years overdue.