Coming Soon: A story in multiple parts

Before I dive into today's post, I want to remind everyone of a few things:

1. Don't ingest bleach, detergent, cleaning products, hand sanitizer, and things like laundry and dishwasher pods.
2. Sarcasm is not an appropriate form of communication if you're say, the president of a country addressing the public during a global pandemic. 
3. Also, that's not how sarcasm works. 

Moving on.

Back in 2014, I participated in National Novel Writing Month for the second year and the end product, Transient Suburbia, is my favorite thing I've written. I did one more NaNoWriMo the following year, but 2014 was really the best. I had an idea that I loved about music, travel, and the power of the mail, three of my very favorite things. I finished during within the one month time limit of NaNoWriMo, and worked on the novel on and off for about a year after. A few of my friends read it and seemed to like it, which was pretty cool. 

In 2017 I was about to go on a trip to Nashville, a city I've never visited, but one that was central to the college years of my main character. The trip was a research trip, so I'd plan to do so many things. A few days before I was supposed to go, my aunt died and I canceled the trip to go to Michigan for her funeral. While I was in Michigan, I was laid off from my job by the company I was working for at the time (yes, they called me while I was out of the office attending a funeral...people suck). When I came back, I put the novel away. I didn't want my grief over my aunt's death and my job situation to ruin the story for me. I felt like I would somehow taint the story if I worked on it while I was so angry and sad and frustrated. I did, eventually, write another chapter, but I don't think it's quite right so I put it away again. 

As the reality of our new world of staying at home set in, I made a list of things I was going to work on while having to stay home. I put Transient Suburbia on the list, towards the bottom, but on the list. I figured it would take me a few weeks to do some of the other things, particularly the commissioned embroidery piece I finished recently and a few home improvement projects. I also decided to make a bunch of postcards and bake a bunch of stuff, so the novel keeps getting pushed to the end of the list. While I was writing last week's post about postcards, I got the idea to post the novel here, a few chapters at a time. If I do it this way, I have to spend time each week reviewing and editing my work, and my lovely Island readers get a little bit of entertainment while staying home trying to figure out what to binge watch and, more importantly, not giving yourself bangs. We're still not at the stage of staying home where anyone who isn't a trained professional should give themselves bangs. Put the scissors down. Now.

Starting next weekend, I'll post 1-3 chapters of Transient Suburbia per week. I'll try to be consistent and post on Saturdays, but a lot will depend on my ability to edit during the week, so an occasional post may come out on Sunday. There are around 30 chapters, but since the chapters vary in length and it may make more sense to share more one week than another, this is going to last well beyond when the Virginia stay at home order ends. I'd love to hear what you think, but also no big deal if you don't want to read it or don't want to share any feedback. This is an exercise for me to be more accountable for the things I create, and to finally say this novel is finished.

I hope you'll join me each week as I introduce you to the world of Transient Suburbia. Sometime this summer, we'll return to your regularly schedule Island posts including some Lazy Movie weekends (which is everyday now), a new Ask a Cat post, and some reminders about voting. 

Road to 300: National Writing Date: Mystery Cake

I begin fall by participating in National Writing Date. It's a great opportunity to take a break from my current writing projects (my novel, technical writing at work, witty blog posts about lady parts) and have a little fun. Enjoy this year's entry entitled "Mystery Cake." 

Lily found the recipe by accident. Her grandmother’s handwritten recipe book was a favorite of hers. When she wasn’t at the bakery or making goodies for her side business at the farmer’s market, she loved to spend time with the book, tracing her grandmother’s even script and inhaling the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. The smells were faint but always present, permanent reminders of recipes past. Lily grew up making most of these recipes; the ingredients and instructions were as much a part of her life as breathing and walking. Banana bread, blondies, pumpkin cookies, peach pie with the perfect pie crust, blueberry coffee cake, German chocolate cake; each recipe evoked a memory for Lily. Each recipe made her happy.

She loved these recipes like they were family. When she was at work making yet another batch of petit fours or some other complicated confection, she let her mind wander to the simplicity of banana bread or the flavor combination that was the pumpkin cookies (with her own addition of brown sugar frosting). Macarons and eclairs could be such temperamental little guys; the perfectionist in her and the perfectionist in the desserts didn’t always play nicely. Where she to live the rest of her life never making another petit four again, Lily would be a happy woman.

The new recipe surprised her. It literally fell into her lap. She thought she knew every piece of the recipe book. She sat in the window seat in her living room, flipping through the recipe book. Lily was looking for a little inspiration. Her farmer’s market project was going like gangbusters, but she wanted to introduce a new recipe for the fall season and was stumped. Her standards for this time of year included banana bread, two types of pumpkin bread, various apple desserts and breads, and pumpkin cookies. She also made cookie bars by the trayful; she couldn’t bake them fast enough. But she felt something was missing. Then this recipe fluttered into her lap.

She picked it up carefully not wanting to damage the fragile paper. It was folded over and yellowed with age. Lily could also see the spots of use. That was a sign of a great recipe; smudges from oil and other ingredients showed the love a baker had for it. Lily carefully unfolded the recipe, seeing it was cut out from a newspaper. The date read February 12, 1930. She didn’t know which paper it was from; no name appeared anywhere on the page. In the margin, there was a name written in cursive script “Mrs. Gibson.” Lily had no idea who Mrs. Gibson was. The handwriting was similar to her grandmother’s but she couldn’t be certain. Along the bottom of the page, her grandmother had written (she was sure of the handwriting) “Use vanilla buttercream frosting or cream cheese frosting if you must.” Lily laughed at the “if you must”; her grandmother had never liked frosting despite the fact that she made excellent buttercream. Lily could hear her grandmother’s voice as she read those instructions. Her grandmother had also written another note on the back of the paper: “Make for Pop’s birthday - favorite cake.” Pop was Lily’s great-grandfather. She didn't remember him except from pictures; he died a few months after she was born. 

The recipe was an odd one; it was called Mystery Cake. She scanned the ingredients: oleo, sugar, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, flour. It looked like a normal spice cake recipe. Then she saw it, the last ingredient on the list. Canned tomato soup.

Lily had never heard of using canned tomato soup in a cake. Would it taste like tomato sauce? Tomatoes are fruit so maybe it added sweetness. Would the cake be red? Personally, Lily found tomato soup nauseating. It tasted like it didn’t know if it was a fruit or a vegetable. The only way she’d ever been able to eat tomato soup was with grilled cheese. Something about the cheese and bread balanced out the weird tomato taste of the soup. Lily grabbed her laptop off the coffee table. She opened up Google and typed in “mystery cake.” Lots of hits but none that included tomato soup. She added “tomato soup” into the search and finally a few helpful links appeared, including an article about Sylvia Plath and baking. Lily quickly learned Mystery Cake or Tomato Soup Cake, as it was also called, was a favorite of the author’s. Who knew?

Several of the links took her to articles on the history of the cake from its origins during the Great Depression (aligning with the date on her recipe) and its resurgence in popularity in the 1970s when carrot cake was all the rage. From what Lily gathered, both cakes were seen as “healthy” alternatives to other types of cake despite the fact that this was also when cream cheese frosting got added to most recipes for the tomato cake. She also learned the recipe was the first recipe Campbell’s ever featured on a soup label. Fascinating. Lily knew she had found her new recipe. The mystery cake would spice up her fall offerings.

Surveying her cupboards and baking closet, Lily found everything she needed for the recipe including three cans of tomato soup. The soup surprised her; she had no memory of buying it. The expiration date was two years from now so she felt confident in its usefulness. She shot off a quick email to her booth partner, Hallie, letting Hallie know about the cake. Hallie handled the business side of their enterprise. Lilly was hopeful she would be able to come up with a fun and creative way to market the new product.

To: hallielittle@mail.com

From: lily_sheffield@rmail.com

Subject: New recipe - something fun

Hi Hallie,

I think I found a new recipe for our fall menu. It’s called Mystery Cake but it’s real name is Tomato Soup Cake. It’s basically a spice cake with tomato soup in place of some of the normal wet ingredients. The recipe was popular during the Great Depression; I found it in my grandma’s recipe book.

Anyway, since I have everything else ready for the weekend I’m going to play around a bit with the recipe. I’m trying it as a sheet cake and as individual cakes with two different frosting options.

What do you think?

Lily

Lily got to baking. She opted to use Crisco instead of oleo as the recipe suggested. The sheet cake version came together beautifully. The batter was reddish; more like the color of red bricks than of a tomato. The other ingredients seemed to tame the tomato red to a more palatable fall shade. It looked like a spice cake with no hint of the mystery ingredient. She tasted a little bit of the batter. Lily couldn’t taste tomato at all. Instead she tasted fall and crisp air and warm sweaters. Yes, one lick of batter conveyed all of that. She could only imagine what the finished product would taste like. She got to work making the individual cakes. They wouldn’t take as much time to bake. Her phone chimed with an incoming email as she finished pouring the last of the batter into the individual cake pans.

To: lily_sheffield@rmail.com

From: hallielittle@mail.com

Subject: Re: New recipe - something fun

Hey Lily,

Tomato soup cake! It’s just weird/normal enough to work especially at our market. The history angle of the cake will definitely appeal to our regulars especially the little hipster children who like everything retro. I have a feeling a few of our older patrons will enjoy this even more. Let’s do a little contest to see if people can guess the mystery ingredient. They can put their guess and name on an entry form. The first winning guess we pull gets a free pastry on their next visit. We can also have people vote if they want it to stay. Why don’t we use the sheet cake for samples and sell the individual cakes?

Hallie

Lily fired off a quick reply. Hallie was brilliant as always. The contest would be a fun way to get their patrons involved in the booth which Lily hoped would one day translate into them being involved in their brick and mortar bakery whenever that opened. She set to work making another batch of individual cakes and prepping frosting. The sheet cake was cooling and Lily was counting down the minutes until she could taste a little corner of the cake. The aroma of fall, spicy and crisp, lingered in her kitchen. She decided she couldn’t wait for the cake to cool. She cut a small piece from the corner. There was a hint of sweetness but no trace of tomato. She could taste the spices, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg, clearly. They were the stars of the cake. It didn’t need frosting, her grandmother was right on that. The samples would include frosting-free options too. It was the only way to really show the versatility and simplicity of the cake. Lily knew she had a hit.

Two Days Later - The Farmer’s Market

“I can’t believe we sold out of everything by 10 am. That has never happened in the entire time we’ve had a booth here,” Hallie sat down, exhausted from the busy morning.

“Do you think the Mystery Cake had anything to do with it?” Lily began breaking down the booth. 

“Could be. People definitely came by to try it and guess. And they stayed to buy. Unless our informal survey tells us differently, I think you can add Mystery Cake to the fall menu. Maybe give it a new name though.”

Lily laughed. “I already have a new name; Pop’s Surprise Cake. It was my great-grandfather’s favorite cake according to the note my grandma left on the recipe. I think he’d like having something named after him.”

“Works for me. Let’s get all this packed up and out of here. I have all this free time back in my day. I feel like should do something really frivolous.” Hallie folded up their booth sign.

“Let’s pick a winner before you run off and I don’t know, buy expensive shoes.” Lily knew that was Hallie’s definition of frivolous.

“Good idea. Let’s see what we’ve got in here. I hope someone gets it right. This one says “applesauce.” Next we have “licorice.” Not even close.” Hallie read through ten more entries, all of them wrong. Other guesses included pumpkin, brown sugar, cardamon, allspice, and apples.

“You try, Lily. Maybe you’ll have more luck.” Hallie handed the box to Lily.

Lily pulled the next entry. The handwriting was a little shaky, but still legible. “We have a winner! This man guessed tomato soup.” It wasn’t one of their regulars but Lily remembered the man from earlier in the morning. She’d seen him around the market before and he occasionally bought cookies or bread from them. Today he bought two of the mystery cakes after trying a sample. Mr. Franks. He’d introduced himself and told her it was the best cake he had ever eaten. Hallie took down his contact information so she could call him later about his prize.

“Lily, there’s a note here on the back. It’s definitely for you.” Hallie handed her the paper.

“Really?” Lily took the paper back.

Thank you for making my favorite cake. My mother used to make this for me for my birthday. We didn’t have much money back then but she always made birthdays special. For years, she wouldn’t tell me what was in the cake; she probably thought I wouldn’t like it after I found out! On my 18th birthday she finally told me and we had a great laugh over it. I would have never guessed. I haven’t had a tomato soup cake since 1955 so thank you for bringing back a little bit of my childhood. I’ll be back for more!

“This is the best note ever. Pop’s Secret Cake is definitely going on the fall menu. I don’t care what anyone else says.” Lily showed Hallie the note. “I never even thought about the fact that an entire generation of people grew up on this cake and probably haven’t eaten it in decades. What a cool find.”

“You’re the baker; I just work here,” Hallie replied, jokingly.

The women finished cleaning up and set up time to meet on Monday to discuss next week's menu and update to their business plan for the bakery. Hallie left to go buy shoes and contact Mr. Franks; Lily decided to head back home and she what other treasures she could find in her grandma’s recipe book. What else had she missed?
This post was inspired by the prompt "Your favorite recipe" from the book "642 Things to Write About" by the San Francisco Writer's Grotto. Follow my adventures of making a mystery cake here.

Writing Date Day, Part Two: Al's Place

Al's Place

Driving from Seattle to New Orleans sounded like a good idea at the time. The wedding dress wouldn’t have survived a flight even if I had carried it on. I couldn’t let a plane ride ruin the dress I had worked on for almost a year. Truth is I really like road trips. The music, car snacks, stopping at weird places along the way; all of it appealed to me in a way air travel never did. Maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in me.

Twenty hours is a long time to drive by yourself. My musical companions, Bowie, Lou, Metallica, and girl groups from the 80s, were started to lose their magical touch. I needed to stop again soon or I’d never make it to my hotel. Originally I thought I’d drive the thirty eight hours straight but then I realized I’m not that crazy or stupid. My hotel was just over the Colorado/New Mexico border. I was about three hours away but I needed a break. Badly.

As if the road trip gods were listening to my inner monologue, a sign appeared on the side of the road for Al’s Place. It was at the next exit and it was open all night. Diner food sounded like heaven at 2 am.

Al’s Place was the only thing I could see as I exited the highway. Bright lights shone on the building and a huge sign took up most of the sky. The sign had a 60s vibe to it and it moved. The figure on the sign, Al I’m guessing, had mechanical arms that were moving as if to flip a pancake. This place was going to be amazing. Maybe I could find some kitschy souvenirs for my friends. They’d love this place.

The first steps after sitting for so long were agony. I walked around the parking lot a bit to wake up my limbs. I took a few pictures of the sign and posted them to Instagram with my road trip hashtag. All of my friends were using it as we made our way to New Orleans for the wedding. It was going to be an epic “photo album” for Stewart and Janie.

There were a surprising number of cars in the parking lot. Given the hour, I figured they were either desperate travelers like me or people who worked night shifts or really early morning shifts. We weren’t that far from Pueblo, CO so maybe they were all on their way there. A friendly waitress named Marge seated me at a booth by the window. Marge looked exactly like a diner waitress in a movie; a little older, a little tired, and super sassy. She had big blondish teased hair and perfectly applied eye makeup. Her peach colored uniform fit her as if it had been made for her and she wore the kind of sensible shoes I never consider buying. She poured me some coffee and told me she’d be back in a few for my order.

The menu was huge like most diner menus; a little bit of breakfast and lunch and a dessert menu that rivaled any I’d seen before. I opted for my standard diner order of pecan pancakes and bacon. Marge brought me orange juice even though I didn’t order it. She said it was good for me.

I’m the kind of person who likes going to restaurants alone. I like to people watch and diners are perfect places for people watching. Especially at 2 am in the middle of nowhere Colorado. The diner was pretty large and old fashioned in the way diners tend to be. I guessed it looked like this the day it opened. The other patron even looked a bit old fashioned, not out of place just worn. There wasn’t anyone near me; most people were seated around the counter or across the room along the side window. There was a family of five eating in a corner booth. The youngest child had made a mess of his scrambled eggs and his parents looked too tired to care. His siblings, a boy and a girl around 9 or 10, were blowing straw papers at each other. Behind them was a table of guys in work boots and coveralls. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I matched them with the big truck in the parking lot with Marvin’s Repairs painted on the side. They were all enjoying dessert, pie if I wasn’t mistaken. The rest of the people around the counter were your typical late night diner crowd. There were quiet conversations, lots of coffee refills, and the constant call of food orders. It was all very soothing.

Marge refilled my coffee and promised my food would be right out. As she stepped away from my table, I noticed another single diner across the room from me, staring out the side window. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him. He looked so familiar but I couldn’t place him. I didn’t know anyone in Colorado so it was strange. I couldn’t figure it out and I didn’t want to be that person who creepily started at another person at a diner at 2 am. Nothing good ever came out of being that person. I distracted myself with browsing on my phone until my food arrived. I dug in as soon as Marge placed the plate in front of me. I am not exaggerating that these were the best pecan pancakes I have ever eaten. The syrup was homemade and the combination of that with the pecans hit the spot after a long day of driving.

I noticed that the man across the room had a guitar and was getting ready to play something. It wasn’t anything I recognized and no one seemed to mind his playing. Scrambled Egg Kid stopped making a mess and focused entirely on the man and his guitar. The workers finished up their pie and sat back to listen. I had never been to a diner with live music before. It seemed to make absolute sense. I took a few covert pictures of the guy. I didn’t think any of my friends would believe me when I told the story later.

He kept playing softly but loud enough that I could hear him across the diner and above the din of food orders and forks scraping on plates. He played a bit of everything, classic rock, country, and an acoustic version of “London Calling.” He even threw in a stripped down version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” He never sang, just played the songs.

Marge came back to check on me.

“Who is that guy? Does he play here all the time?” I asked as she refilled my coffee cup.

“The guitar guy? I think his name is John or Jim. He comes in every now and then late at night or early in the morning and plays for bit. Doesn’t bother anyone so we let him do it. People think he’s someone famous but I don’t know. Can I get you anything else?”

“I think I’d like a slice of cherry pie. I shouldn’t have it but I will anyway.”

“Always eat dessert honey, life is too short.”

I didn’t really need the pie but I wanted to stay and watch Guitar Guy more. No one else seemed like were leaving anytime soon and I didn’t want to be the one to break the spell. I posted a photo of him to my friends with the following caption “Guitar Guy at a diner in the middle of nowhere. What are the odds? #stu&janegethitched”

As I started in on my pie, a few comments came in on my picture. My friend Marnie thought the guy looked familiar too, “Is that that “musician” you dated in college? LOL!” Another friend asked if I was bringing him to the wedding. It was the third comment that stopped me mid-bite, “Doesn’t he look like a bit like Jim Morrison?” That was it! That was who this guy reminded me of; he looked a lot like Jim Morrison. He was dressed like the Val Kilmer version of Jim Morrison but with facial hair. He wasn’t old enough to actually be Jim Morrison (if you were one of those people who believed Morrison was dead). Guitar Guy could be his son.

He looked at me at this exact moment. He didn’t stop playing. He nodded his head as if to say, “I get that all the time.” I didn’t know what to do except smile. He went back to playing and I quickly finished my pie and paid my bill. It was time to get back on the road. I left a tip for Marge and took one last look around the diner. The magic of the moment seemed to have passed; Scrambled Egg Kid was throwing eggs again and the workers were paying their bill. Guitar Guy finished his last song as I walked out the door.

I got back into my car, popped in a Doors CD, and made my way back to the highway. I could see the lights from Al’s Place in my rearview mirror for about mile down the highway. Jim Morrison sang “Roadhouse Blues”. I knew in my heart that Guitar Guy was not Jim Morrison but the possibility of it would keep me awake for a few more hours. Maybe all the way to New Orleans.

Based on the prompt: You've been on the road driving for almost twenty hours. At 2 am you drive up to a restaurant that's open all night. Describe the experience and the people you see.  From 1000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder.

Writing Date Day, Part One: Fall

Today is National Writing Date Day! For the second year in a row, I join the wonderful Jessica (check out her blog, Neek Confessional) to stretch our writing skills, get ready for NaNoWriMo, and hang out despite there being 1500 miles between us. The goal is to write for two hours using two writing prompts and see what happens. I have not edited either piece so please excuse any grammar or spelling errors.

Fall

The nail salon opened to no fanfare. One day the building was dark with a “For Lease” sign in the window. The next day there was a banner announcing “Mimi’s Nails” hanging outside and a small “By appointment only” sign in the window. There was no opening celebration, no flyers or ads went up, and no one ever seemed to go in or come out of the salon.

At first I didn’t think it was odd. There were two other nail salons in the neighborhood so maybe it was taking time to get a client base. My coffee shop was on the opposite corner from Mimi’s. I could see the front of the salon from my counter. When it got slow after the morning rush, I’d watch the salon waiting to see someone go in. I’d occasionally catch a glimpse of a tall, middle-aged woman opening the front door. I could never see her face and I never saw her leave. Mimi’s remained a mystery.

Six months passed. Nothing changed at Mimi’s. As the new school year started, my watching became less frequent but I’d still catch myself glancing across the street every now and then. Nothing ever changed. It was almost time for me to roll out my seasonal menu for fall. Last year I introduced an apple crisp that sold out so quickly I had to triple the recipe for the remainder of the season. I also offered a spiced chai bread and pecan pie bars that made a nice afternoon treat. Of course, my regulars wanted more and they were demanding the one ingredient I didn’t want to deal with...pumpkin. It’s not that I don’t like pumpkin; I love pumpkin pie and pumpkin cookies. The problem is that it’s just become too much. Everything is pumpkin flavored or scented so it’s not special anymore.

I was considering my pumpkin conundrum and half listening to Angela Thorne, president of the Franklin Street Small Business Association, discuss plans for the upcoming Fall Festival when Davis Stephens, owner of many of the buildings along Franklin Street, elbowed me in the ribs.

“Sammy, Angela just asked you a question.” He stage whispered to me.

“What? I’m sorry, Angela. What did you ask?” My cheeks were a fine shade of red and I felt guilty for not listening.

Angela shook her head and repeated the question, “I asked if you would be interested in running the baked goods booth again this year.”

“Sure. Of course. I have some new fall desserts to add to this year.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Sammy. I hope you’ve got something pumpkin planned.” She winked at me and moved the conversation on to other Fall Festival related topics and I drifted back to my own thoughts.

And then I saw her. Sitting in the back of the room behind the two guys who owned the hardware store and Doris Smith who owned the donut shop. It was the woman from Mimi’s. She never came to meetings.

“Davis, do you know who the woman in the back row is?” I whispered.

Davis followed my gaze to Mimi (as I thought of her). “Nope, never seen her before.”

“I think she owns that nail salon, the new one across from my shop. I never see anyone go in or come out. It’s strange. And she never comes to meetings.”

Angela shot me a look and I mouthed my apologies. The meeting wrapped up ten minutes later. I tried to make it to the back of the room to meet Mimi but she was gone before I could get there.

“So weird,” I said to Davis.

“Maybe she’s shy. Maybe she thinks we’re all idiots for spending a perfectly good Thursday night discussing baked goods, booth placement, and whether this year’s logo will scare children.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s hiding something.”

“No one has secrets around here. Small towns don’t work that way.” Davis said goodnight and walked towards his car.

I didn’t buy it. I decided to make an appointment and see for myself.

During a morning lull, I went back to my office to make my manicure appointment. The phone rang and rang. No message, no voicemail option. I tried a few more times, hoping someone would pick up. No one ever did. The salon didn’t even come up on yellowpages.com or the town business directory. It was like Mimi’s Salon didn’t exist. I decided I’d have to be bolder. I’d have to go over and visit. I put together a basket of baked good and coffee samples and headed across the street.

The windows were dark. They were covered with a film I hadn’t been able to see from across the street. Whatever it was made it virtually impossible to see inside. I couldn’t see any movement and the front door was locked. I knocked, hoping someone was around. No one answered. I should have just given up and gone back to the coffee shop. But I couldn’t. I had to know what was going on in that salon. There was a back entrance to the building. All of the buildings on Franklin Street have them. I walked around the building and found myself in an alley just like the alley behind my shop. Just a dumpster, nothing out of the ordinary. I tried knocking on the back door. Again, no answer. When I tried the doorknob it opened. I had found a way in.

Cautiously, I took my first step into the salon. It was dark, as dark as it had looked from the outside. It smelled strongly like a nail salon; I recognized the sting of polish remover and the fumes of nail polish. I could make out the shapes of massage chairs and footbaths for pedicures and what looked like rows of tables up front. A door was to my left; I assumed it was an office or storage room. I opened the it and found myself staring down a dark set of stairs. Did this building have a basement? I had already entered without permission so it was too late to go back now. I left the basket on the floor and started down the dark staircase.

About halfway down the stairs a smell hit me. It was a comforting smell, like baking or mulling spices of some kind. I could pick out cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and vanilla but there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was earthly and fruity all at the same time and it worked perfectly with the spices. Then it hit me.

Pumpkin. Lots and lots of pumpkin.

The stairs ended just as I figured out the smell. Another door was in front of me. I could see light around the edges and the smell was even stronger. I opened the door.

It took a second for my eyes to readjust to the light. It was a lab or a lab-like room. There were a five or six people in white coats at a table, conferring over something. They hadn’t seen me so I ducked down and crawled closer to where they were. I hid myself under another table two rows behind them and listened.

“I think this one gets the pumpkin pie scent just right. It’ll be perfect for air fresheners and candles. Maybe even for scented soap although it might be too much for soap.” This from a male voice, the person standing closest to me.

“Since when do we care if it’s too much for something?” A woman replied. The group laughed at this little inside joke.

I could make out the figures a bit from under the table. One of the woman was Mimi. She was one of the scientists or whatever they were.

She continued, “We need to ship six more distinct fall scents before the end of the week. Four of them have to feature pumpkin so let’s work on the levels of this a bit more make it more palatable for soap and perfume. Gerald might be right about it’s potency.”

The man, Gerald, seemed pleased with the response. They moved to another table and a second woman started passing out samples in tiny cups.

“These are the new pumpkin flavored potato chips. I think the added cinnamon gives them a little something.” The group seemed to agree.

“We’ve also got a new pumpkin yogurt, pumpkin Pop Tarts, an improved pumpkin spice Oreo, and my personal favorite, pumpkin Goldfish crackers.” The woman passed out samples of each. The group approved of everything.

“You would think people would get tired of pumpkin flavored things but we can’t work fast enough to get the flavor out there.” Gerald spoke to no one in particular.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing or seeing. This was where all the pumpkin flavored things came from? A basement laboratory on Franklin Street hidden beneath a nail salon? It seemed completely ridiculous.

But then again, it made sense. Using an appointment only nail salon as a cover was genius and the odors of nail polish remover and nail polish covered the pumpkin smell. I was close to the lab door before I realized what it was. These guys were geniuses.

They still didn’t know I was there. I could have said something but I decided that it was better to get out of there before I was discovered. I crawled back to the door and moved as quietly as possible back up the stairs. I made it back to the top and closed the door without making any noise. I almost tripped over the basket I’d left. I thought about taking it back across the street with me but then I decided to leave it for them to discover. They would know that I knew what they were up to. I would send them a little message with cookies and coffee.

I walked out the backdoor and back across to my shop. I immediately headed to the kitchen and threw away all of the pumpkin desserts and pumpkin I had. I didn’t want any part of it anymore. The pumpkin madness would stop with me.

A few days later I noticed a “For Lease” sign at Mimi’s. Message received.

Based on the prompt: There is a nail salon near you that never seems to have customers. You discover the real purpose of the business. From 1000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder.

Short Story: Return of the Peeps, Part 2

 Read part one HERE and the story that started it all HERE.

Monday afternoon
The soft rustle of paintbrushes on canvas was the only sound in the studio. Margaret walked around the room, observing her students and occasionally making suggestions or answering questions. Her Monday afternoon class was a quiet group, none of the friendly chatter of her Friday groups. Normally the quiet was soothing and gave her time to truly observe and teach but today it just made it easier for her mind to wander back to her kitchen and the evil waiting for her at home.

She supposed she should have called the police but what exactly would she tell them? Every explanation sounded ridiculous. It had been too early to call Sam when it happened; she'd talk with him when she got home. He would want to her to call the police. He was rational that way. She had been going over and over opening the box in her head since leaving her apartment. Who would have sent something like that to her? Why would they do that? Who else knew about the diorama she made? She hadn't told anyone and had sworn Sam to secrecy. No one else had known. That was what troubled her the most.

Margaret didn't suspect Sam of anything. If she were to follow horror movie formula, Sam would be the first suspect for the Peeps Murders and for the package. She knew in her heart that he was not involved in either. There had to be someone else.

The end of class pulled Margaret out of her thoughts. She wrapped up the lesson with her students and made end of class small talk with several as they gathered their things to leave. Margaret had one tour left to give and then she could call it day and figure out what to do next. She closed the studio and made her way to the 4th floor galleries to meet her group. She did a few deep cleansing breaths to prepare for her talk on contemporary photography. Thankfully, none of the artists used Peeps in their photos.


Later that evening
The conversation with Sam was not going as she had planned. He couldn't believe that she hadn't called the police. "You're being threatened, Margaret. That's a serious thing. You have to hang up right now and call them. You need their help." Sam's tone was one part stern parent and one part concerned boyfriend. Margaret knew this would be his reaction but that didn't stop her from being annoyed with him.

"You didn't tell anyone about the diorama did you? You kept it a secret like you promised right?" Margaret had to ask.

"Of course I did. Who would I have told anyway? And don't change the subject. You're hanging up and calling the police. Now." The phone clicked. He hung up on her. Margaret moved from annoyed to angry.

"He hung up on me!?" Arthur circled her as he had done earlier in the day. He settle down and stared at her with those all knowing dog eyes. "You're right, Arthur. I need to calm down. I shouldn't be mad at your dad and I should call the police." She picked up her phone to do just that when she noticed something outside. Her apartment building was made up of two towers; she was in the east tower and her view was across the courtyard was of the west tower. She never paid much attention to the apartments across the way but today she noticed one apartment in particular. It was directly across from her apartment and there were two posters in the window: a Peeps promotional poster and the original Halloween poster. She couldn't recall if they had been there this morning. It was all too coincidental.

"You have got to be kidding me." Margaret said to herself. She was clutching her phone and remembered what she was supposed to be doing. She called the police and explained what had occurred as she watched the apartment across the way. There was no movement but Margaret couldn't help but feel as if she was being watched.

The police arrived promptly and spent over an hour going through the events of the morning. Since the Peeps Murders had never been solved, they were taking this call very seriously. The boxes, paper, and note had been collected and taken away. She eventually told them about the Peeps diorama from two years ago. The detectives, Arnold and Roberts, had given her an odd look but both agreed that diorama was a coincidence. Weird but coincidental. She hadn't taken any photos of the diorama but had found one sketch. The detectives took it as evidence as well. 

"Was there anyone else that knew about the diorama? Friends? Co-workers? An enemy?" Detective Arnold asked.

"No. Sam was the only person who knew about it. He helped me with the more mechanical parts of the diorama. We never really got to those parts of it because I burned everything." Margaret wasn't sure if they thought she was crazy or guilty or just had an incredibly morbid sense of humor.

She thought about it for a second, "I mean, I guess someone could have heard us in the elevator here. We talked about it on the way up to apartment a few times. You never know if someone is listening to you in an elevator." 

"Okay Margaret. I think we have all the information we need for now. Do you have anyone who can stay with you this evening?" Detective Arnold knew the young woman was scared and definitely not a killer. He also knew that now he and his partner would be interviewing all the tenants of this building.

"I called my friend to come over; she should be here soon. Sam is Denver right now and trying to come home. I'll be fine."

"Margaret, if anything else happens call us immediately. Patrols have been increased in the neighborhood for now. We'll be in touch soon." Detective Roberts gave her his card. She thanked them and showed them out. She hadn't mentioned the posters across the courtyard. She figured that was just another coincidence.

A week later
No more packages had been delivered. The detectives talked to Sam once he made it back home. Arthur kept following Margaret around the apartment but nothing else out of the ordinary happened. Margaret insisted that she was fine but Sam knew she was frightened. They were having dinner earlier in the week when she pointed out the posters in the window. Since she first noticed them more had been added: another Peep ad, Freddy Krueger, and Leatherface were now staring at them. He hadn't noticed them until Margaret pointed them out. Sam made her call Detective Arnold. The detective promised to check out the apartment. He was sure the person was already on their interview list but didn't share that with Margaret. The Peeps Murders case had always been weird and these recent developments made it even more so.

They were watching The Daily Show when they heard a loud thud against the front door. Arthur immediately began growling and standing in front of Margaret. Sam approached the door cautiously and looked out through the peephole. No one was in the hall and he couldn't see down. He chained the door and slowly opened it. A bigger box, wrapped like the first one, and addressed to Margaret lay at his feet. He unchained the door and kicked it into the apartment. No one was in the hall.

Margaret was already on the phone with Detective Arnold. He gave her strict instructions not to touch the package and to stay put until he and Roberts arrived. The tenant interviews had been going on all week and they had a few  people of interest from the building. One happened to live in the west tower across from Margaret. They were trying to get a search warrant for the apartment. The tenant, Edwin White, was unable to recall his whereabouts when the Peeps Murders occurred, he had a record (harassment, animal cruelty, and a bar fight or two) , and a fascination with horror movies. It was flimsy but the detectives needed something.

The new box revealed a more intricate Peeps display: Jason at Crystal Lake with the phrase Fridays will never be the same again along the bottom. It was one of the taglines from the original Friday the 13th.

After the detectives left without providing any additional information just reassurances that they were safe, it was decided that Margaret and Arthur would stay at Sam's place for the rest of the week. Margaret argued at first but gave in after it was agreed that they could leave in the morning. She was too tired to pack for herself and the dog tonight. They got ready for bed and both feel asleep almost immediately. Arthur had taken to sleeping by the door in protector mode. He was a pretty solid dog so an intruder/crazed Peep killer would probably trip over him and maybe break something before any real harm could be done.

Around 2 am Margaret woke up. She had been dreaming but couldn't remember what her dream was about. She laid in bed a moment trying to will herself back to sleep but it didn't work. She carefully got out of bed and went into the living, stepping over a sleeping Arthur. She had forgotten to close the curtains so she could see the other apartment tower. This time instead of thinking someone was watching her she saw someone in the window. He was dressed in all black and a white mask. It took her a moment to focus on the mask. It looked like a mash up of Jason's hockey mask and Michael Myers blank face with something else. Margaret's heart was beating fast and she couldn't move or call out to Sam.

What else was on the mask? Peeps - it was Peeps. The mask was made up to look like a Peep villain. The man (she assumed it was a man) held up a sign, Everyone is entitled to one good scare. Another tagline.

She was finally able to move from the living room. She ran back into the bedroom, waking up Sam and Arthur in the process.

"We have to leave now." She shook Sam awake. "Put on your shoes, grab your keys. We have to leave now."

Sam struggled to wake up and make sense of what Margaret was saying. "What's going on?"

"It's him. He's watching from across the tower. I saw him in an awful mask. We have to go." Margaret already had her shoes on and her phone and purse. "Please Sam, move!"

Her tone got him moving. They got the dog leashed and made their way out of the building and to Sam's car. The figure had still been in the window; Sam had seen him too. When they got to his car, there were Peeps smashed on the windows. Surprisingly that was the only damage done to the car. Margaret could see the apartment window from the car; the figure had vanished. She called both detectives as Sam sped away. Detective Roberts answered and told her to head to the police station.  Margaret looked back and saw the mask. He was following them. Sam saw too and tried to lose the guy. The second car vanished.

Every horror movie she had ever seen flashed through her mind at once. Margaret knew the Peep Murderer was going to hit them and try to take Sam out of commission. That's how these things worked. Just as she was thinking this, it happened. Sam thought he had lost the guy but he came out of a side street and hit them. Sam hit his head as he tried to regain control of the car. He was out; not dead just out.

Margaret was dazed by the crash but not hurt. She tried to help Sam but he wouldn't wake up. She grabbed for her phone and dialed 911. "There's been an accident and there's a killer outside my car. Help me!" The dispatcher tried to get her to calm down and give more details but Margaret was too distracted by the other car. It was idling across the street, poised to strike again. She dropped the phone. She braced herself and Sam for another hit.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes and stared at the masked figure in the car. And then she got angry. She forced her way out of the car and faced him. "Too chicken to hit us again? Is this too close for you? Or not your weapon of choice?"

The masked figure didn't move. Margaret stepped closer to his car.

"You've been terrorizing me for two years and you're just going to sit there? You can't even get out of the car and chase me or come at me with a machete? What kind of crazed killer are you?" Margaret was suddenly a sassier version of Laurie Strode minus the 70s wardrobe and awesome hair. The sound of sirens was getting closer. Margaret stood her ground, waiting for a reaction from the masked figure. His inaction only made her more angry.

Before Margaret could taunt him again, police cars surrounded the crash. Margaret saw Detective Roberts approaching her. "He's not going to put up a fight," she told him. "The guy won't even come out of the car."

The detective led her back to Sam. He had come to just as the police cars arrived. Paramedics were helping him out of the car. One of them had Arthur too. Margaret rushed over to them.

"You don't get to be the Final Girl after all." Sam said as they embraced.

"It's not really my style. Too much running and screaming involved."

They sat in the back on an ambulance watching as Detectives Arnold and Roberts handcuffed the man from the car. The mask had been removed and she saw a man from her building. His name was Ed or Edwin or something like that.. She remembered seeing him when she first moved in; he had given her the creeps. He looked at her right before the detectives put him into the car. His face was blank but Margaret sensed he was testing her, seeing if she'd look away first. Margaret did not blink. She stared him down and let him know that he had no power here. She was done with this story. 



Epilogue

Margaret rearranged the flowers again. She had been rearranging the table setting all morning long. Sam took the vase from her and held it out of her reach.

"I wasn't done with that. Put it back."

"No, you're done. The table is perfect. The flowers are perfect. You have to stop." He placed the flowers back on the table.

"Fine." She smiled at him and walked away from the table. They were hosting their first dinner party in their new house and she wanted everything to be perfect. In the year since the car crash and capture of Edwin White, they had moved into a new house and had decided to get married. The party was a combination wedding party (they had eloped) and Easter party. Their parents and close friends would begin arriving soon.

Edwin White had confessed to the Peeps Murders. There had been plenty of evidence in his apartment to convict him even if he hadn't. He had included the Peeps after watching Margaret work on her diorama. He thought he had found a kindred spirit and was trying to get her attention. He realized his plan backfired when he saw her burning the diorama. The bloody Freddy she had found two years ago had been his first "gift" to her. He was sentenced to life in prison and had no prospect of ever being released.

Margaret and Sam made their way back into the house. The backyard setting was beautiful. They had done a lot of work on the house since moving in and it was home. She took a final look at the decorated table. Her flower arrangements were a mix of spring flowers and Easter decorations. Two of the vases were full of Gerber daisies and Peeps in coordinating colors. Peeps weren't so evil after all.

Short Story Hour: Return of the Peeps

I wrote the short story "House of Peeps" as part of National Writing Date Day this past September. It was based on a writing prompt: make me afraid of the Easter bunny. I decided to work on a sequel to the story just in time for peak Peeps season. It's not particularly Easter-y but then again are sugary marshmallow bunnies and chicks really all that Easter-y?

It was getting harder and harder to avoid the seasonal candy aisle. Stores seemed to put the holiday candy out earlier each year. Of course, Easter was no longer the only holiday for Peeps; every holiday seemed to be in on the game. Margaret wondered how long it would be until there was a groundhog shaped Peep or awkward President shaped Peeps. There wasn't much difference between that and the pumpkins and trees and snowmen. If the added shapes weren't enough there were all the added flavors. It was too much.

Margaret did her best to avoid the holiday candy aisle whenever she went to Target or the grocery. At her local Target she had a route worked out that took her from electronics through toys and fitness to land at the edge of the regular grocery section. She could completely bypass the seasonal section. She employed this route strategy from late September (after back to school sales ended) through the end of April when Easter items gave way to summer. It was the only way she could avoid shelf after shelf of seemingly innocent marshmallow candy. She knew looks where deceiving and that the little bunnies and chicks were more vicious than anyone could imagine.

Two years had passed since the Peeps Murders, as they had been called, rocked her Arlington neighborhood. Of course it had also been the one year she finally decided to enter the annual Peeps diorama contest. Margaret's diorama depicted four famous horror movie villains in iconic scenes from their films. In each of the Peeps Murders, references were made to the movies and Peeps were found smashed at the scene. Margaret was convinced that her diorama was evil and that the marshmallow characters were to blame. She had even found blood on one of the monsters she created. She burned the diorama and the killings stopped. Margaret vowed to never buy a Peep again.

Margaret's thoughts were interrupted by the ping of her cell phone. It was a text from her boyfriend, Sam. He was the only other person that knew about the diorama and its destruction. He had actually helped build part of it. He didn't think the Peeps were to blame (necessarily) but supported a Peeps free lifestyle.

Are you still at Target? I'm leaving now. Should be @ your place in 15."

Margaret quickly responded, Just got in line. You'll probably beat me there. Had to avoid the seasonal aisle. It seems to be growing.

She knew he thought her fear was getting out of hand but he was nice enough to hide that from her most of the time. She loved him more for that and knew she needed to address this problem but Target was not the place for therapy. Sam replied that he'd get dinner started and the movie ready. It was Friday night movie night.

Make sure to check on Arthur's water. I fed him before I left but you know how he is about the water bowl.

Arthur was her/their bulldog. He lived with Margaret but they adopted him together. When they adopted the dog, Sam wasn't ready to move in together but pet parenting was apparently okay. Arthur was a great dog but he tended to stand in his water bowl when full or flip it for no reason. They had tried all the suggestions to get him to stop but he didn't. Now they just let him do it and cleaned up the mess. Recently, they had begun looking at apartments together. Maybe Arthur's water bowl issues would be resolved when they all lived together.

The line was moving fast. The couple in front of her must have children or were planning a massive Easter party. They had everything you could dream of putting in an Easter basket and then some. Margaret didn't recall her childhood Easter baskets including action figures, Legos, and Barbies. Among the chocolate bunnies and jelly beans, she spotted packages of Peeps in every color, shape, and flavor available. She focused on putting her items on the belt. Every bunny reminded her of the mangled marshmallow Freddy Krueger she created. She had to stop this. Peeps were not evil. It had just been a coincidence two years ago. Marshmallows couldn't be possessed.

Later that evening
Sam was snoring lightly as Margaret tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. She was having trouble sleeping. She had woken up two times already after weird dreams involving Peeps chasing her and demanding her soul. Sam and Arthur both slept through it all. She didn't want Sam to know anyway. Earlier in the evening, she told him she was done worrying about the Peeps and avoiding the seasonal candy aisle. He had been proud of her and excited that it was finally done. She couldn't wake him up now. She crept out of bed, heading to the living room for some television.

She flipped through her usual standard channels: comedy shows, Hallmark movies, cooking show, and travel programs. She settled one of those extreme cake baking challenge shows. Of course the featured ingredient was Easter candy with Peeps being a major focal point for most of the competitors. It looked like one had even made some sort of Peep filled city. Margaret had to force herself to watch the show until the end. It would be a first step to her letting go of her Peep fears. The show ended (Peep city did not win) but Margaret felt no more tired than she had when she started and no more at ease with the Peeps. She flipped to one of the movie channels and watched the end of a cheesy romantic comedy before returning her bedroom. Sam threw his arm around her as she settled back into bed. She eventually drifted off into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Monday morning
The weekend had gone by too quickly as weekends do. Margaret and Sam spent most of the time looking at new apartments and hanging out at the dog park with Arthur. Their leases were up in June so they had a few months to find something. Margaret was excited about the prospect of a new place and the next phase of her life with Sam. She dropped him at the airport Sunday night with instructions to keep the search going while he was away at a conference. They could look at places when he got back on Friday. She had slept well the rest of the weekend and had lots going on at the museum this week. She was teaching several art classes (mostly painting) and leading a few tours of the collection for school groups. Margaret loved her job and that she was making a living as an artist.

Margaret was startled by a loud thud right outside her apartment. Probably just someone leaving for work in a hurry, she thought. She didn't really know most of her neighbors that well. It was mostly nods and sort of friendly hellos in the elevator. Most people seemed totally fine; youngish professionals or government workers who lived in Arlington and kept to themselves. She knew her next door neighbor a bit and there were a few "eccentric" characters in the building but no one Margaret considered a friend.

She finished her coffee, checked on Arthur, and grabbed her bag. When she opened the door to leave she found the source of the thud. A package, addressed to her, had been tossed at the door. Margaret looked up and down the hall but no one was around. Packages weren't delivered to apartments normally so she was a little surprised it was there. She picked it up and went back inside. Should she open it? Throw it away? There was no return address on the box and nothing extraordinary about the packaging. Maybe one of her neighbors picked it up by accident and didn't think anyone was home so they left it. That had to be it. She decided to open it.

She grabbed kitchen scissors and sliced open the tape. Inside was another box wrapped in bright pink paper. The brightness of the paper immediately made her think of a Peep. It was the exact shade of pink. She hesitated before unwrapping the box.

Margaret screamed and dropped the box on the counter. Arthur started barking and running around her in circles.

Inside the box were four Peeps made up to look exactly like Freddy, Jason, Leatherface, and Michael Myers. They looked eerily similar to the Peeps she had created two years ago. But she had burned them. And then burned the ashes again just to make sure they gone.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. The words made Margaret shudder.

One, two Freddy's coming for you...

Let the writing begin...It's NaNoWriMo time!

It's November so that means it's time for me to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. You know, what everyone does with their November. I participated for the first time last year and successfully completed my first novel. You can read all about last year's entry here. NaNoWriMo is fun and challenging and awesome. I've been looking forward to getting this year's novel started. I hope that you'll enjoy what I have to share.

But before I preview this year's novel, Transient Suburbia, I want to take a moment to address something that happened here yesterday. I received for the first time ever a hate filled, misogynistic comment on my last post about Christmas decorations. I'd like to say that I'm surprised that I received such a comment but I'm not. The state of the Internet today is one of hate and ignorance. I've expected to receive some kind of negativity at some point. I was mostly shocked that it was that it was the post about Christmas decorations. Seriously? I'm angry and annoyed but mostly I'm sad that people can't just let others be who they are. Hate takes so much more energy; I don't know what anyone would want to spend so much time hating. Two things I would like to say and then I will let this go:

1. I would like to apologize to any readers of the Island, regular or new that may have seen the comment. I removed the it as soon as I received notification of its existence. If you saw it before then, I'm truly sorry. No one needs to see that hatefulness. I hope it doesn't keep you from continuing to visit the Island.
2. To the anonymous poster - if you're going to spew hate at least have the decency to use your name and stand behind your statements. Maybe you think it gives you power but it doesn't. I don't have time for your hate and I don't know anyone else who does either. You can believe whatever you want to believe; just stay on your side of the Internet and I'll stay on mine.

My blog isn't about politics or hate. I write to express myself and have a creative outlet. I want people to have fun while they visit and maybe even identify with some of my experiences. That's all.

With that said, here are the first two chapters from NaNoWriMo novel, Transient Suburbia. I hope you enjoy it. Please excuse any grammar or spelling errors; NaNoWriMo is not about editing!

 Part One: Pen Pals

Chapter One

Mrs. Henderson’s 4th Grade Class, September 19, 1988

    Harper was getting impatient. Today was the day. She had been waiting for this day since the first week of school. Fourth grade was serious business; they switched classes now for Math, French, and art. She was learning fractions and multiplication tables. Lockers replaced cubbies. Harper felt very grown-up. She felt more responsible and mature and wanted everyone to know it. Today would be a step in that direction. Today she was the project she had been looking forward to and she hoped it would connect her to the world outside of Dothan, Alabama. She knew there was more to life than peanut festivals and Azalea Trail Maids.

Harper Monroe was nine and had already lived in three states. Her dad worked for the government and they moved every few years. Harper had learned to be helpful and to cultivate a sense of adventure. Her father called every move “an adventure” and Harper loved that idea. Her siblings, Flannery and Walker, were five years older and less interested in adventure. Her sister just wanted to be popular and pretty and Walker went along with whatever Flannery said. Since they were twins, they often treated Harper like a pet rather than a sister. Her mother called her thoughtful; her sister called her a pest.

This was her second school; she had gone to kindergarten in Ohio and now she was in elementary school in Dothan, Alabama. She loved school and books and reading and music. To Harper books were the most important thing in the world. Once she learned to read, no one could stop her. She took weekly trips to the library with her dad (she would have liked it to be daily). The librarian knew her and always made recommendations and called her “Mathilda” after the character in the Roald Dahl book. She looked forward to the day that she would be able to read To Kill a Mockingbird since she was named after the author, Harper Lee. She wanted to be a writer someday.

Harper fidgeted at her desk. The morning was dragging on and on. Mrs. Henderson was her favorite teacher so far but the vocabulary review was killing her. Harper aced the quiz this week and was barely listening to her classmates use the words in sentences as a review. She didn’t hear Mrs. Henderson calling her name.
    “Harper! Harper, are you listening?” Mrs. Henderson knew the answer but asked anyway. She liked Harper a lot and knew the girl was very smart. Mrs. Henderson thought Harper was probably bored in class but there wasn’t currently an alternative. The gifted program had been cut so Harper had to stay in this class. Mrs. Henderson encouraged her reading and had recently started encouraging her to write more. She was also fond of Harper and let these little daydreaming moments slide.

“Sorry Mrs. Henderson.” Harper blushed and some of her classmates laughed. Her friend Janie made a face at her. Harper hated it when she got caught not paying attention.

“Stay with us, Harper. I asked you to use “captivate” in a sentence.” Mrs. Henderson smiled at Harper.

Harper thought a for a minute. Captive was both a noun and an adjective. Both forms had been on the quiz. Which one should she choose? She opted for adjective.

“Mrs. Henderson help the pen pal assignments captive all morning long making it hard to pay attention.” Harper smiled at her clever use of the word captive.

Mrs. Henderson laughed a little under her breath. “That’s an excellent use of the adjective form of captive. Can anyone use it as a noun?” She called on Peter to answer her question. As she turned to him, she looked at Harper and mouthed, “After lunch.”

Harper was disappointed. That was so far away. How would she make it through math (stupid long division), PE (stupid dodgeball), and lunch (adequate sandwich). Didn’t Mrs. Henderson know that pen-pal assignment day was the most important day of all time? Didn’t she understand how much this was torturing Harper. She was a captive (noun) of fourth grade vocab and long division. The afternoon could not come fast enough.

Chapter Two

Afternoon

Somehow, Harper survived the rest of the morning and lunch. She practiced being patient and focused on what was going on in class. She did okay on her math work; math was not her thing. She tried but it never made sense. At lunch, she gossiped with her friends and they started planning Janie’s birthday party. It was going to be a boy/girl skating party. It would be the first boy/girl party for all of them. They were all very excited and had been obsessing about about what to wear and who would skate with which boy in their class for couple skates. Harper volunteered to help decorate.

When they returned to class, they saw that Mrs. Henderson had set up the room differently. At the front of the room there was a large box that was covered in stamps. Harper couldn’t tell if they were stamps or stickers but she didn’t really care. It was finally time.

Harper had always wanted a pen pal. Her mom had first told her about pen pals. She had one when she was younger. She even showed Harper some of the letters she saved from her pen pal. They had fallen out of touch at some point. Her mother got that look she had when she talked about her childhood. Harper just let her talk.

Since that conversation, Harper had imagined what her pen-pal would be like. She would be nine and unlike Harper, live in a big city. She and Harper would have the same favorite books and tv shows but would also find things to introduce to one another. Harper would be able to tell her pen pal how much she didn’t like having twins as siblings. They would stay in touch forever and become lifelong friends. Maybe they’d be in each other’s weddings and vacation together (like her parents and their friends).

In her heart, Harper knew this was probably not how the whole pen-pal thing would work. She wasn’t that naive (she heard that word on tv and looked it up) enough to think this stranger from another state would like her or that she would like them. But she hoped. A girl could dream.

At the front of the classroom a new map had been hung on the bulletin board. Harper guessed that Mrs. Henderson had plans to turn the pen-pals into some sort of geography lesson. Where would her pen-pal live? Was it better than Dothan? As Harper made her way to her desk, she noticed new supplies waiting. Mrs. Henderson had placed two new pens on each person’s desk. Pens! Homework had to be done in pencil so the idea of pens was too exciting. Harper examined the pens as the rest of the class made their way to their seats. They were regular Bic ballpoint pens; one blue, one black. These were the same pens Harper’s mom used for her grocery lists and paying bills. Ballpoint pens signified adulthood and responsibility. Harper was ready for it. Now.

Mrs. Henderson finally closed the classroom door as the final end of lunch bell rang. She took what seemed like centuries to get the class settled. After lunch was always a challenge; there was too much energy and movement. Mrs. Henderson liked to give her class a quick active task after lunch to get them to settle down and burn off some of that lunchtime energy. Today would be no exception.

“Alright let’s get started. As Harper reminded us during our vocabulary review, today is the day we start our pen pal project. We are one of three schools in Alabama participating this year. Each of you has been assigned a pen pal from another state. You’ll get your assignment in a few minutes.”

Harper did all she could to focus her attention on what Mrs. Henderson was saying. What she really wanted to do was jump out of her seat and go through the box and find her pen pal. She showed tremendous restraint. She didn’t want her behavior to impact her match.

“Before I introduce you to your pen pals, let’s talk about a new map. Who can find Alabama on the map?” All hands shot up. “Good. Now, how many of you were born in Dothan?”

Six hands went up. “Each of you come up and grab a blue pin.”

The group went up to the map and grabbed their pins. Tony, the most popular boy in class, found Dothan and they planted their pins. Mrs. Henderson moved onto born in Alabama (twelve people) then to a Southern state (six people), and the Harper and James. Harper was born in Michigan and James in New York. Their pins were so far away from the rest.

“Once you “meet” your pen pal you’ll use a red pin to plot where they live. We’ll connect them to Dothan and to the other locations on our map so we can learn more about the different places we come from.” Mrs. Henderson looked at her students and just saw blank stares. She was hoping that this pen pal project would get them all excited about.

“Each of you will receive your starter pen pal kit. Remember when we filled out those biography sheets and wrote about ourselves? Well, those sheets were used to match each of you with a pen pal. Inside your kit, you’ll see a similar sheet about your pen pal.” Mrs. Henderson started passing out the kits.

Harper sat in the fourth row and the fifth seat. She was practically last and the wait was agony. As Mrs. Henderson passed out the kits, she explained that the kits also included stamps, stationery and envelopes, and some an assignment book they would use throughout the project. There were a few questions from the group about how pen pals were matched and how many letters they would have to write. Mrs. Henderson answered them all.

“Today we’ll start with some basic letter writing exercises to get you all started. We’ll practice our writing and using our new vocabulary words. You won’t have to to turn in all of your letters but we will go over letters in class throughout the next few weeks.” Mrs. Henderson was almost to Harper’s row.

“You’ll also have to share things about your pen pal one time per month. This will help us learn about new places and people.” The last packet made it back to the last student in class.

“Now that everyone has their kit, I’ll give you a few minutes to read about your pen pal. Then we’ll start our first lesson on greeting and salutations.” Mrs. Henderson dramatically pulled up the screen at the front of the room. Different greetings were all over the board.

Harper didn’t notice. She had tuned out her class as soon her kit arrived at her desk. The kit was a large envelope. Her name was across the top in bold orange lettering. Harper thought that was a good sign since orange is her favorite color. Postage stamps and other stamps made up the background. Harper carefully opened her envelope and removed each item, carefully inspecting each item.

The stationery was white and lined. There were geometric patterns along the bottom edge in different colors. The envelopes had the same design. Harper had never had her own stationery before. It was as amazing as the pens. Next was a book of twenty first class stamps. Flags. Not her favorite stamps (her dad let her pick the stamps at the post office) but they’d get her letters there. The assignment book was next. She put that to the side. She knew she’d be spending lots of time on the lessons. The only item left was her pen pal sheet. She would finally know her new friend. Weeks of waiting would finally be over. Harper would have a new friend.

She slowly pulled the sheet from the envelope. She said a final wish for the perfect pen pal. She slowly turned the paper over. She looked for a name and her jaw dropped.

Her pen pal was a boy.

How could this be? This wasn’t what she had imagined. What would she talk to a boy about? There had to be a mistake. A boy? It made no sense.

Benjamin Riggs, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Harper couldn’t focus her eyes enough to read the rest of the sheet. It all just blurred together. She was fighting tears. She would not cry in class. Mrs. Henderson would fix this. Ten minutes flew by and Harper tried to focus on the lesson on greetings and how to begin a letter.

“Your first letter is due this Friday. You’ll need to use what we learned today in your letter. Start short, ask a few questions, and tell your pen pal a little bit about yourself. Each letter will be easier to write.” Mrs. Henderson’s voice was encouraging.

She went on to explain that each student would be responsible for twenty letters. Mrs. Henderson would not read them but would mail the letters so everyone would get credit. They would receive their letters at home. She encouraged them to write more frequently if they wanted to. If they needed help there would be writing time during the week.

The final bell rang and Mrs. Henderson’s class gathered their books and pen pal kits. The mad rush to buses and the pickup line began in earnest. Harper was a walker; she waited for her brother or sister to pick her up and they walked home together. She took her time gathering her books and homework. She wanted her classmates gone before she talked to Mrs. Henderson.

“Do you need something Harper? Your brother is probably waiting for you.”

Harper hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to start so she just blurted it out. “Mrs. Henderson, I need a new pen pal. They gave me a boy. I can’t write to a boy.” Harper was beyond upset and on the verge of crying.

Mrs. Henderson sat down next to her and took her hands. “Harper, it’s going to be okay. You talk to boys all the time at school and you do just fine.”

“But what if he doesn’t like anything that I like? What if we don’t have anything to say? I don’t want to write to a boy.” Harper continued to protest.

Mrs. Henderson was not going to let Harper out of this. She knew that this was the kind of challenge the girl needed.“You need to think of this as a challenge. You know you like a challenge. I know you can do this.”

The word challenge hit Harper. She understood that word and knew in her heart that Mrs. Henderson was right. There was nothing wrong with having a boy for a pen pal. Maybe he would be nice and they’d like some of the same tv shows. She could do this.

“Okay Mrs. Henderson. I’ll try my best.”

“Just remember that letter writing is about being yourself. Just be you and you’ll be great.”

“Thanks Mrs. Henderson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harper gathered her bookbag and waved goodbye to her teacher. She had to figure out how to be herself and talked to a boy in a letter. Easiest thing in the world.