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Emmett Wilson wheeled onto the view platform and expertly turned his chair sideways to get as close as he could to the edge. He propped his elbow on the smooth fence railing and tipped his straw hat down to better shade his eyes from the sun. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the sky, and a brisk, cool breeze toyed with the brim of his hat, threatening to carry it off into the air along with the salt and the tangy smell of the sea. Emmett smiled, and breathed deeply. Today was his 80th birthday, and he could think of no better place in which to spend it. His daughter walked up behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and giving them a slight squeeze. “Mark and Jeff are going to go down to walk on the beach for a bit.” she said softly. Emmett looked at his two grandsons standing at the other side of the platform. They waved at him and started to bound down the stairs that meandered down the face of the cliff. He patted the hand that rested gently on his left shoulder.
“They are fine young men.” he said. He didn’t need to turn around to know that his daughter was smiling.
“Will you be okay by yourself here for awhile?” she asked. “I’d like to walk down the cliff trail a bit to get some pictures.” Mary was a professional photographer; she’d made a fine living for herself and her two sons with her skills behind the lens.
“I’ll be fine, just fine.”
Mary’s hands squeezed his shoulders again and then she was gone. His two grandsons had reached the bottom of the stairs now. It was probably only 100 feet down to the beach, but it could have been as far down as the Grand Canyon floor as far as Emmett was concerned. He would have given anything to be down there, laughing and tossing the football with the boys, feeling the sand squish between his toes.
Continue reading ‘The Grass Is Always Greener…’
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Make at least five thousand dollars per month working only three or four hours per week!!!
Monica stared at the multiple exclamation points at the end of the subject line on the email she’d printed out yesterday. She had known it would be too good to be true. But she’d called the number indicated in the email anyway, and to her surprise she had reached a live person, not a recording.
“Anderson Enterprises.” answered the drone on the other end of the line. “Can I help you to achieve your earning potential today?”
What a line. Still, she’d answered with a sarcastic “Yeah, why not?”
They’d asked her for her name, age, phone number, cell phone number, and whether or not she had a criminal record.
Continue reading ‘The Game’
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“Man, that’s a beauty!”
Jerry was walking past the new fire station on Avalon Canyon Road. It was a handsome building in a backdrop of hills and palm trees — white adobe, red tile roof, and four engine ports fronted by huge green garage doors. One of these, the one closest to the main building, was open, and the inhabitant of that space was the object of Jerry’s admiration.
“She is at that!” came a voice from the back of the garage.
Jerry startled. He hadn’t seen anyone there by the gleaming red truck that was currently bringing back memories from his youth, real and imagined. He had always wanted to be a fireman when he was a kid. He still fantasized about it now. In a way, he did know how to put out fires — but just the technical ones, not the real ones. He watched as the owner of the voice appeared from around the back of the truck. He was an older man, maybe in his early sixties from the looks of his wrinkled, pleasant face and his grey hair and old-fashioned handlebar mustache. But the guy was in better shape than most men Jerry’s age. His shirt was off and he was sweating. He held a chamois cloth in his hands and it was obvious that he had been in the process of polishing the fire engine to its current pristine sheen. The man’s chest was tan and well muscled behind a screen of silver fuzz, his biceps brown and large as tree trunks.
“Want a closer look?” he asked with a bright smile, waving Jerry into the garage.
Continue reading ‘Avalon Number Nine’
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“I spy with my little eye, something that is…. red!”
I groaned. I hated this game, and it was one of my sister’s favorites. As if there was any doubt as to what she could have picked out of the scene in front of us, given that everything else in our environment was either green or brown or blue. Or white. But I had to be nice — my mother had insisted that I be the patient older sister on this trip.
“Hmm… let me see… ” I played along. I couldn’t disguise the lack of enthusiasm in my voice, but my sister was young enough to be oblivious to such things. “The rooftop on that building across the lake there.”
Continue reading ‘… Like it was yesterday.’
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Jill stood in the center of the Trieste Centrale station, looking up at the train schedule. With Carlo’s forty Euros, she had just enough for a ticket to Rome, and twenty minutes to spare. She walked to the ticket counter and purchased a one way fare.
She turned from the counter warily, her eyes scanning the wide room to see if Carlo might have followed her here. She didn’t think he would. He had said he was on his way to the piazza for some reason and hopefully that reason would keep him there. She felt a small pang of guilt for taking his money; he’d been a really nice guy. But she needed it more than he did, and the ends justified the means in her limited perspective.
Continue reading ‘Justifying the Means’
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Carlo woke to the feel of the sun on his face. He smiled, took a deep breath, and stretched, his long legs swinging off the side of the bed. He had a full, perfect day with nothing to do ahead of him. The first in a long time. Today was going to be a good day.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and sneakers and a shirt plucked at random from the closet. He shrugged into his jacket – it was still early enough to be cool out – and stuffed his money clip in his back pocket. No need for anything else, not now at least. He’d start the day by having espresso at his favorite café in the piazza. Nicoletta worked there on Saturday mornings, and her smiling face would make the morning shine even brighter.
He whistled a happy tune down the two flights of stairs, out the door, and onto the street. First thing first, he needed a paper to read with his coffee. He waited, still whistling, as a produce truck rumbled past on the narrow street, then crossed over to the opposite side toward the newsstand. There was a woman on the corner; she was reading a map and looking up with a confused look on her face. An American tourist, he was sure of it. He stopped in front of the small wooden newsstand, its racks filled with magazines and newspapers in at least six different languages. Piles of tabloids sat in neat stacks in front of the cash register, manned by the ever-present, rain or shine Gianni Verina.
Continue reading ‘The Dubious Kindness of Strangers’
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