The wonderful gift we have, as writers, to tell a story. It would be nice to hear more stories from the others, wouldn't it? Each of us telling something that in its unique way, defines who we are now.

My little vegetable garden.

My grandmother came from the land. She worked the land as a child and showed me how to start seeds, make compost and coax life from the soil.

I remember her always barefoot in her garden. Her heels cracked by the long years without shoes. We canned and pickled, dried and stored, everything that grew. Berries, fruit, artichokes and asparagus were in supply. Neighbors given jars of peaches, jams and jellies. I learned how to pick up the soil in my hands and know what would grow in it. I learned how to cultivate the soil and treat it with respect.

People are amazed what I can grow in my garden. The soil is dark and loamy, like Wisconsin farm land. Years of composting have paid off, turning California clay into rich top soil. The worms are fat and healthy, birds come throughout the day to pick at bugs. I let the birds have the fruit of a cactus they love. The cactus fruit is wonderful to eat, a red rind with snow white flesh and black seeds, it is sweet and juicy, but the birds leave me my vegetables minus the bugs and I leave them the fruit of the cactus.

In the evening, I sit on a bench near the wind chimes that play music from a gentle time. I picture the fog coming in and my grandmother's large rump and dirt soiled heels, sticking up between rows of lettuce and turnips. The creases in her face when she smiled at me eating the berries for our pie. I remember her large soft breasts when I would climb into her lap and lay my head on her chest. She would stroke my back and tell me stories of her childhood till I fell asleep.

Fall hit us right on time. In spite of Polar Regions melting, we in Southern California had a cool, cloudy, classic fall day. It’s just the type of day to inspire a winter garden, which I haven’t planted in years. I tucked lettuce and sweet peas into the back of the garden, where the sun can shine with pruning.

Carrots, beets, radishes and I have no idea what happen to the turnip seeds.     There is a wall of bamboo on the north side of the garden. Everyone loves it, except me. Black and golden bamboo, my nelly inner-self said, ‘How beautiful it would be, in a poetic sort of way.’ The bamboo is straight from hell.

     Black bamboo, known to come from outer space, is a classic example of eternal life. You can dump chemicals that would denude rain forest, straight from the bottle, onto the roots and it will burp. Of course the rose, ten feet away, dies.

     The roots of black bamboo require knowledge of hard steel technology. They grow in a grid pattern, which could take the place of structural steel in buildings. You need a sharp, very sharp, heavy-duty axe. A crowbar or two is required, with long handles for advantage. Pick a day you have a grudge, then attack. Cursing and profanity will occur, it is from hell, remember. 

 

     They say when bamboo catches fire it goes up in seconds, including your house. The demon-possessed plant has additional curses to bestow. Rats look at bamboo like a manor house for breeding. I killed eleven this summer.

 

     It’s fall and I say thank-you-Jesus. The garden is in, I have my axe and another rat has missed dinner. Life is good.

“Oh, you’re hurting me, Ruba.” Danny felt the hand of the zombie pressing hard on his chest. Rib bones cracked from the pressure.

“Help! Help me!” A weak cry escaped from Danny, just before the zombie pulled out his, still beating heart.

     “Hi, I was wondering if you could take me to the dentist tomorrow.” Why did I pick up the phone?

     “Huh, sure, what time?” Please, dear god, not eight in the frigging morning. 

     “Eleven, I remember, you asked me not to make early appointments.”

     “Okay David, I’ll pick you up.”

     “Thanks Mike, it’s nice of you to do this. I wished I could drive and not be such a burden.” I wished I had a dollar every time I heard that line.

     “Did I disturb you?”

     “I was writing my, Caribbean cruise story.”

     “I love cruises. Wasn’t that fun when we did the Ensenada cruise last month?”

     “Yeah it sure was.” If you like babysitting someone who really needs to wear ‘Depends,’ but doesn’t. “David, I need to get back to my writing, see you tomorrow.”

     “Thanks again, Mike. Oh, did you read in the paper about that awful, Dick Cheney and what he said about Cher?”

     “Huh, no, I didn’t. David, I need to get back to my writing.”

     “Sure, but I can’t believe anyone could say something that evil about Cher.”

     “David I read the paper and there was nothing about Cheney saying anything about Cher. What paper was it in?”

     “The ‘National Enquirer,’ of course. An alien from outer space, really, does Cher look like an alien to you?”

     “I’ll pick you up in the morning. Bye.”

Let’s see, oh yeah, the zombie lifted the beating heart, blood flowing down the side of his arrrrrrrrrrrmr. Shit! Where in hell is that can of air? If I ever eat cashews while typing again, I’ll cut my own lips off.” Psssst…Pssst. “Damn! How in hell did that get in there?”

Let’s see, oh yeah, the zombie lifted the beating heart,

“Hello?”

“Is this Mike?”

“Yes it is.”

“Oh Mike, I need you to come over right now, I went to empty the trash and my dentures fell into the dumpster.”

“Mrs. Strand, are you sure they did? The last time you left them in the freezer. Remember? Before that you put them in the coffee maker.”

“Well, I should know if they fell into the dumpster, they’re my dentures!”

“Were you wearing them when you went to take the trash out?”

“Well of course I was wearing them, I never go in public without them.”

“Look in the glass next to the sink in your kitchen.”

“I don’t keep them there, I decided to put the glass in the bathroom.”

“Please, Mrs. Strand, just take a look.”

“Alright, but if they’re not there will you come over now?”

“Yes I will.” Dear god, please keep me from becoming a serial murderer.

“Mike, how did you know?”

“Just a hunch, you put them there after breakfast. Remember?”

“That’s right, I do. Are you coming over this Friday to clean the hallways?”

“I always come on Friday.”

“I need some more corn re-mover, can you pick me up a tube.” Good grief, why did I smile at this hag ten years ago?

“Will do. Bye.”

Let’s see, oh yeah, the zombie lifted the heart. “Jesus A Christ, what in the hell was that?” A banging noise came from the front door, sounded like demons from hell.

“What is it?”

“Delivery of your freezer. Where do you want it?”

“I didn’t buy a freezer.”

“Are you, Mr. or Mrs. Stanboli?”

“Do I look like a Mrs. Stanboli?”

“Look Mack, where do you want the freezer?”

“I didn’t order a freezer and my name isn’t Mr. or Mrs. Stanboli.”

“Is this 1652 Miranda?”

“It’s 1652 Martha.”

“This is not 1652 Miranda?”

“This is not 1652 Miranda, it’s 1652 Martha.”

“Are you sure?”

I can’t believe he is asking me if I’m sure of my own address, but he is. “Look, I have lived here most of life, I grew up here, I can come home from a dead drunk and find 1652 Martha. Miranda is two streets north of Martha.

“This isn’t 1652 Miranda?”

“Tell you what, why not go to the end of the block and read the street sign. If it says Miranda I’ll tell you where to put that freezer.” Where the sun never shines. “Bye.”

I copied my story to my handy-dandy word processor, and grabbed my keys. If there was ever a day to go to the beach, it’s today.

The traffic was hell, now that late afternoon has settled on the sands, the crowds thinned to just a few people. I carefully placed my blanket out on the sand, took my portable word processor out of its cover and looked at the vast open sea ahead of me.

A group of pelicans was flying in formation just inches from a cresting wave. So beautiful and graceful for such an ungainly bird when in flight.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the cool salt air, exhaling the bad karma of the valley. My fingers felt for the familiar nubs on the ‘F’ and ‘J’ key.

Splat! From the sky, from some demon planet, from some evil force of cosmos energy, a huge watery, fish smelling, acidic liquid drenched me.

I looked up to see a group of pelicans flying overhead in perfect symmetry.

 

The End.

 A true story.

 

 

 

 

Today I mailed off my short story, Los Murcielagos for publishing.  I'll know in about a week if they want to buy it.