My Dad

     He was always happy to see me, even if I wasn’t happy to see him.  For most of my life he would visit once per year at Christmas time.  He had usually traveled somewhere exotic and would be armed with photo books.  I wasn’t always interested in his travels, but sometimes I was. The man went everywhere.  He gave the best hugs.

    He burned bridges here in Minnesota a few years after the bitter divorce when I was in 3rd grade and fled angry former allies and creditors by taking a job that moved him around the country.  I remember he went to Kentucky first, then Texas, then Florida.  He eventually settled in Florida and remarried to a woman who had 3 kids from a previous marriage.  I was in 5th grade when he walked out of my life.

    I spent too many years thinking that it was normal; that it was okay for a dad to do that. It has affected me to this day and colors every relationship I have, even still.  You can chalk most of my bitterness and cynicism toward the world as remnants of raging abandonment issues.

    I used to tell people that I was lucky because my dad lived right by Disney World.  I never felt lucky.  In 5th grade I wondered what I could have done wrong to make him do that.

    The first time I was on an airplane I was in 9th grade and I flew to Texas alone to see him.  He lived in Lubbock.  We didn’t have much to talk about but Dad was an okay person to share silence with.  We went on a few road trips to Carlsbad Caverns and a place called Cloudcroft, Colorado.  During my time there, he pointed out Calvin and Hobbes to me.  The strip about a boy and his possibly imaginary tiger quickly became my favorite.  At the end of that trip, he asked me if I would continue to follow it at home.  I explained Mom didn’t get the weekly newspaper, just the Sunday one for the ads.

    When it was time to leave, to fly back to Minnesota, I heard him talk to the attendant at the gateway and mentioned that I might be upset when I left.  He walked me onto the plane and I burst into deep, thundering sobs and clung to him before he left.  I didn’t know it then, but that was the only time in my life that he and I would spend an extended time alone together.

    From that day forward, he clipped out the Calvin and Hobbes strips and mailed them to me, once per week through its entire run well past High School.

    Over the years, I went to Florida a total of 3 times.  Once when he lived in West Palm Beach, and twice after he got married and lived in Tampa.  But other than those trips it was his once-yearly Christmas visits.  He was always generous with gifts at Christmas and always mailed a check for my birthday.

    But other than that, I grew up and moved on.  He was someone who showed up in my life once per year.  One of the times, I was getting ready to go to a formal banquet for my job.  For the first time, I was attempting an actual tie, rather than a clip-on.  I had no idea how to tie it.  I asked Dad for help and he said something vague about how it would have to be on him for him to be able to do it.  A cab driver ended up doing it for me.

Toward the end, about the last 10 years or so, his mental faculties started to decline and his visits became a chore.  He was really hard to spend any time around, let alone have him as a houseguest.  The last time I saw him, we went to a Mexican restaurant and he told us how he was in the military and saw the scores of planes that they were preparing during the Cuban Missile Crisis, just in case. 

Dad was full of stories like that, but there was never a deep connection with him.  He had Aspergers and wasn’t capable of a real human connection with anyone.  So there was no real reason to be mad at him, right?  Because none of it was his fault, it was just mental illness.  I found that out about 5 years ago.

We reconnected again, briefly, in January of 2021 around the time of the insurrection.  His politics had flipped very far to the left because of Trump, and we agreed on everything for once.  We had some long talks.  I was alone, then, and I honestly think I was just scared of what was happening around me and wanted my Dad to make me feel better.

I’m sure I told him I loved him the last time I talked to him.  I can never know for sure.  He died on Tuesday.

Grief is a bitch because it’s sneaky, like a living thing with a bad attitude.  It hits you when you least expect it.  For me, it was yesterday when I heard “The End of the Innocence” by Don Henley.

   

Remember when the days were long

And rolled beneath a deep blue sky

Didn’t have a care in the world

With Mommy and Daddy standing by

But “happily ever after” fails

And we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales

The lawyers dwell on small details

Since daddy had to fly

    I cried an ocean of tears at a stoplight, yesterday.  I was hit by wave after wave of bittersweet, vivid childhood nostalgia.  I could taste the Kool-Aid and Bologna sandwiches and all those sugary cereals.  I could see the cartoons and feel my skinny legs in footie pajamas.  I remembered the Bonneville with the moon roof and could feel the grease paint on my face from my Kooky Spook costume one Halloween.  I remembered “Star Wars” t-shirts and trying to learn the “Thriller” moves with friends.  I remembered the antique car wallpaper on my bedroom walls and  my favorite stuffed toys Frisky and Large Frisky.  And my very own handmade Sesame Street blanket that I always wrapped up in when I watched “Scooby” after school.

    I also remembered the fights.  I remembered hiding under a table in our hotel room at Disney World because mom and dad were fighting again.  I could taste the sickly sweet terror that a child feels when their parents fight that viciously in front of them, like your entire existence is crumbling around you and you are helpless to stop it.

I remembered my mom running off with me in a sobbing rage one freezing rainy night and telling me to say goodbye to my sister because Mom and I were leaving forever.  I remembered the time I fell through the ice and another time I “went missing” with my friend Roberta and everyone being convinced we had drowned in Fish Lake.

I smelled those summers from childhood, the ones that smelled like fresh dirt, grass stains and sweat.  And popsicles.  And pudding pops.

    He couldn’t talk at the end, but he could hear.  For the first time in his life, he had to shut up and listen to me.  My stepsister held the phone to his ear and I told him that I loved him and I would miss him, that I’m sorry we weren't closer.  I told him he was a good dad.  And goodbye.  I didn’t feel the need to be angry, I just wanted him to have some peace after being sick for so long.  At that moment, none of that mattered anymore.

    In the end, he never really knew me.  He missed out, and I can’t forgive him for that.  I think I can let it go, though, and try not to take any of it personally.  Or at least, less personally.  It’s all still a work in progress, but the finality of death has ended my relationship with one of the most frustrating, heartbreaking people I have ever known.

    But we will always have Calvin, Dad.  We will always have Calvin.

   

The New Guy

This is Sarabellem's version of The Unlikely Friendship

“I’ll take three, no four, “the woman said. “ Send them to my office along with the paperwork and I’ll take care of the red tape. What? Yeah, okay…just get it done. Thanks Jerry”

The woman got off the phone and proceeded to pick up her Pencil and write a series of notes. The Pencil got excited and flushed, swishing up and down quickly with her curly script. He never paid attention to the words; they didn’t really matter to him. He was always too caught up in the dizzying ups and downs and curl-arounds, the way the woman made her tiny little dots so precisely and then slashed the tops of her t’s with flair, it was breathtaking.

The woman stopped to take a drink of water and set down Pencil, who was a ecstatic from 5 minutes straight of use, that didn’t usually happen. Usually a note here and there was it, but apparently this had been a big phone meeting and she had saved her note taking till the end. The pencil lay there for a while, catching his breath and letting the lead in him calm down from the vibration of writing. Then suddenly the woman picked him up again and stuck him in the electric sharpener. It was a strange feeling, part of him being whisked briskly away, but he came out with such a nice shiny point. Then she put him back in the blue pottery cup, she always sharpened at the end of each use and she never over sharpened, she was good like that.

He sighed contentedly.

“Show off,” came the inevitable mutter next to him.

Pencil felt irritation crawling up his lead length. “You needn’t be so cranky about it. I don’t choose how long her notes are or who she uses to take them.” Although, she likes me best, he thought privately.

“Maybe not, but you stand there all sighing and important like you wrote the Declaration of Independence“, Pen complained haughtily. “Which I would remind you, was done in ink, not lead, which would fade, as all your words do in time. She just took some notes about inventory coming in next week.”

“I don’t pay attention to the words, Pen. My job is to serve for her writing pleasure, whatever it might be.”

“I hope she sharpens you to a stub, Stumpy!” Pen retorted. She wasn’t in a good mood.

“You’re just jealous.” Pencil said firmly. “You are just necessary for signatures, but she likes MY eraser.”

Pen looked at him with pure hatred and then looked away pointedly towards the cube door. She lived in fear of someone coming in to borrow her ever since she had spent a week down the hall in some guy’s office that hadn’t even used her. He had used his stupid computer for everything! Why he had taken her in the first place, who knew? She was really a girly girl Pen, hot pink with little sparkles. Some did not take her seriously, but she was actually a top of the line Remier 207. Refillable even. She had thought she would never been returned till he seemed to notice her one day and use her as an excuse to return her to the woman and ask her out for coffee. Pen had laughed joyously till her ink pooled in the tip when the woman had turned him down.

Pencil was trying hard to retain the post-use glorified feeling he got from serving but Pen could be such a bitch about not being used, and she hadn’t been used in a few days. Her ink tip no doubt was feeling a tad bit dried. Pencil decided to ignore Pen. Usually they argued for hours every day and into the night, so he was trying this new tactic. He would give her the silent treatment and see how that stuck up writing utensil liked it.

He felt good today after that prolonged use. He loved the way the woman wrote, so decisively, letting her thoughts just flow on to paper. It was beautiful. Maybe a little too decisive sometimes because she had made liberal use of his eraser, but she had just put a new smart green one on him and he preened a little, catching his reflection in the make-up mirror on the corner of the desk.

“Looking goooood, Pencil!” He whispered, forgetting he wasn’t going to say anything in Pen’s hearing.

“Oh my GOD, do you ever shut up?” Pen huffed at him.

Pencil fell silent but continued to look at his nice new eraser, he wished the mirror was a little closer to the cup so he could see better.

The woman left for the day, and the writing implements studiously ignored each other all night.

The next day the woman came in as usual and set her steaming coffee cup a little closer than usual to the pottery cup. Pencil lived in fear his wood would get damp and he tried to move slightly away. Pen tried to move a little closer to the steam to get her unused tip ink moving. She breathed in the steam.

“What’s the matter Pencil? Wood getting a little too damp? Lead feeling a bit loose? Tough break for you!” Pen was smarmy and mocking.

“What is wrong with you?” Pen cried, “Always ragging on me, always this thing with your…your Pencil Envy!!”

“Pencil Envy!” she said sweetly, contemptuously. “Oh please, you’re the one who…”

“Hi there!” a bright happy voice piped in.

Both Pen and Pencil were caught off guard, in their argument, a new writing implement had apparently been pulled out of the woman’s purse and placed near her notebook.

“Who are you?” Pen asked, trying to get a better look.

The new arrival was..well what was it? He looked like a Pen, he was a dark pretty green metal, but he appeared to have an eraser as well.

“I don’t mean to interrupt you but I just wanted to say Hello since it looks like I’ll be here for awhile, I’m Hybrid 3000, a new…”

The voice trailed off, the woman had a visitor in her office and she picked up the new implement to take notes. Pencil and Pen both looked eagerly to see what would happen, what was this Hybrid model anyway?

Pencil sighed in relief when he saw it was another ink pen. He had no chance of being replaced. Pen was filled with horror, not only was it ink but it was BLUE. She herself was blue, why the hell would the woman use a new blue pen when Pen was here ready to be used? Was she being replaced? Was this the end of the line? Destination Drawer?

Then something happened. The woman clicked the top of the utensil and the ink tip retracted, a pencil lead appeared, sharp and shiny ready for use, no sharpening needed. Pencil gasped and felt trembly.

“What. The. Fuck?” he whispered to Pen. “What the fuck is going on around here?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.”

They watched, horrified, as the new implement swirling around the page like he owned it. She was making a list! And notes…two pages! The woman laughed at something office visitor said, and stopped writing. She leaned back in her chair, clicking the top of the strange hybrid.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!” The Hybrid’s moans of enjoyment with every thumb click, drifted towards the pottery cup and Pen and Pencil looked at each other horrified.

The woman then started to write something at the corner of the page.

“What is that?’ Pen cried. “Is that a doodle?!”

Pencil felt weak in the lead and had to lean against Pen for support. Instead of moving off, like always, she supported his weight. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay” she whispered to him, watching with sinking ink as a small drawing of a puppy appeared on the paper.

Suddenly the woman checked her watch and both of the humans stood up. The woman grabbed her notebook with no hesitation, her new Hybrid was going with her.

“Sorry we didn’t get time to talk you guys! I’m going to a meeting already! Isn’t that exciting?” Then he was whisked away while the others stared at him joyfully perched in the woman’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” Pencil started crying a little.

“Don’t! Pen cried. “You have to be strong! Your finish is going to flake if you do that!”

Pen thought and then said, “Look…I know we haven’t been, well friends but we need to work together, we need to unite as writing utensils if we are going to beat this guy out. He can do what we both do, and…I think better. Did you notice he has a fine tip? I’m only medium.” She blushed hard.

“Yeah, well he doesn’t even need to be sharpened, did you notice that?” Pencil sniffed trying not to cry. He could see Pen was ashamed of her tip. “Besides you have a very nice tip! I’ve always thought so!”

“Really?” Pen asked, “You mean that?”

“Well…Yes! And your ink is so…bold!”

“Thanks, Pencil. I like your new eraser too. Green suits you.” She said shyly.

Suddenly the two looked at each other and then away, bashful with their new confessions.

“I’ll be brave if you are, Pen!” Pencil said.

She looked at him, the light striking her metal tip attractively. He had never noticed that before.

“You and me against this thing Pencil!”, she said.

He looked at her shiny tip for a moment more and then shored up, ready for action. “You are right Pen my dear! Let’s call a meeting while they are gone. Yell for Stapler, he totally owes me a favor. And I think you have an in with the big binder clips? They can do some serious damage. Let me push you a little towards the coffee cup, we need that ink flowing”

Where It All Began

The assignment was to write about an Unlikely Friendship. This is Aaron Dean's entry.

She made sure to take her bramble wood basket and tie on her evening bonnet as she left the shack that morning as she planned to be out all day and may get caught in the cold wood at night. Sister Haggis was brewing her hideous Flak Juice potion and it always threw her into a frenzy. The less she was anywhere nearby the better. All of those incantations and delicate ingredients and on ordinary days Sister Haggis was likely to strike her at least once. On Flak Juice days it would be often.

A hefty bramble wood basket such as the one she carried could be used as a weapon in a pinch, with its interior loaded with the clutching thorns of the bramble wood tree. And you never knew what you would come across in the wood.

She hopped onto the lane and hurried through the sunlight, clutching her black shift and heavy shawl around her scrawny frame. She felt exposed in the sunlight, and had to go too near other homes with their windows full of prying eyes. Her tight black braids slapped her back like a carriage person, whipping her and urging her on. Her black shoes were beaten and worn yet utilitarian; they served their purpose as a means of conveyance.

She could see the dark confines of the wood and almost feel its inky coolness when a form inadvertently stepped in her path. She stopped abruptly, quite nearly toppling upon the stranger. It was a child, no more than 4 years old with a basket of her own made of the finest wicker. She could see that the young one had been collecting vilden berries along the path, for their neon green hue stained the little girl’s white frock and ran down her chin. She was eating more than she could collect, it seemed.

The little child looked up the lanky, dark frame, reached the face and let out a shriek of terror so intense it hurt the other child’s ears. The little one dumped her basket and ran straight home, leaving the sickening sweet scent of vilden berries in her stead. The other child watched her go, tried not to be stung by the rebuff of one so young and flung herself into the safety of the wood where the trees and wild things always welcomed her and none of them shrieked and ran away.

By the time she was no more than a few paces into the wood, she loosened the braids and let her long black hair flow free behind like a shiny flag as she skipped down the lane. She loved to feel it flowing free behind her, though polite etiquette ruled against it. Truth be told her benefactress would be mortified by her appearance.

She knew of a sunny knoll right along the riverbank that seemed untouched by anyone’s hands but hers. It had become her secret place to be alone and lounge in quiet reflection. She loved to stare at the sun dappling on the water, though she knew better than to ever go too near it or touch it as she was fiercely allergic.

She was lying propped against a rock on a bed of river grass and nearly dozing when she heard the scampering and mewing in the bushes nearby. She laughed briefly and smiled. She meant to check before she settled down. It seemed the grabbler had gotten another one. The grabbler was harmless enough if you knew to skirt around it or feed it lilac berries. But if it were hungry or cranky it would snatch any passing living thing within its dark branches and hold them there until it was fed again. Probably a farm cat or rabbit or some other poor creature was tangled within.

She wandered down closer to the banks and gathered a handful of lilac berries. She tossed them to the grabbler and a tawny blur came scuttling out and cringed near her shoes. She laughed and bent to the kitten only to realize in shock that it was a lion cub, tiny and a bit scrawny and definitely trembling all over.

“Poor little thing,” she murmured as she picked it up. She looked into the creatures deep, brown terrified eyes and held it close to her to cease its trembling. “Have you lost your mother?”

“If you please, strange child,” the cub said, in a squeaky little voice. “I have no mother and was out wandering the banks when that hideous bush snatched me. It seems I am constantly being attacked and prodded in this wood and it terrifies me greatly. Now I fear that a strange, green child like you is a witch and will stew me up in a pot for your dinner, quick as a wink.”

“Silly little foundling,” the girl laughed. “I am no more a witch than you are, and as for my color I was born this way, and mean you no harm whatsoever. As for what I enjoy for dinner I know that a scrawny thing like you would not fill me up in the slightest. Furthermore, why do you tremble so? Are you not aware that you are destined to be King of All Beasts someday? Why the grabbler would have loosed you immediately if you had simply let out your mighty roar.”

The cub hid his eyes in shame. “My roar is far from mighty, little miss, I assure you.”

“Let’s hear it then,” the child prodded.

The little lion trembled and then let out a tremulous little squawk that did not startle even the little bluebirds hopping nearby.

The girl laughed and said “Are there no other lions to show you how it’s done? What of your father, then, and your family?”

“I’m afraid of them,” the cub quaked.

They spent the afternoon getting to know each other, and many afternoons thereafter. In fact, the little lion cub became the joy and purpose of the little green child’s life for a time. She tried to work on building up the cowardly little creature’s nerve, but something always seemed to startle him away from learning.

By mid-summer he had grown a bit more robust and could manage to frighten the little bluebirds with his pathetic roar, but some wicked little monkeys took up roost in a tree nearby and teased the animal relentlessly. They threw bits of earth at him and sneaked down to pull his tail when his back was turned. They destroyed any progress the child made.

Just when the air began to smell of acrid smoke and the wind grew cooler the child determined that she must do something to help the little lion cub. Her benefactress Sister Haggis was a witch, after all. Surely there was a courage potion she could concoct.

The girl was unsure of many of the ingredients and their exact measure may have been off a little, but a potion she did produce. Sister Haggis watched in great good humor as the little green girl hurried off into the wood to give her potion to the lion. It was an amusement to her and she greatly anticipated what result there would be.

The little lion had taken up residence in a little cave the two had found one afternoon and had made quite a home for himself. He had a bed of fine leaves and even a tiny running trickle to drink fresh water from. He ate mostly leaves and berries for her was far too fearful to approach and kill any game, even tiny birds and bunnies.

He was also fearful of the potion.

“What do I do with it?” the lion asked, looking at the murky bottle with distaste. “Must I drink it?”

The girl looked at the bottle uncertainly. “I believe so. You just swallow it up, quick as a wink.”

She poured the murky liquid into a little wooden saucer and placed it in front of the lion. They both watched as the liquid swirled and sparked, reacting to the wooden bowl.

The lion approached it and sniffed, then snorted in disgust.

“I am afraid I cannot consume that vile stuff for it makes my stomach turn so terribly. Get it away and I will go on being cowardly.”

Just then, the monkeys descended once more and threw rocks and clods of dirt at the lion. One of them dashed forward to tweak his ears and upended the bowl, dashing the liquid on the little green girl, from head to foot.

She screamed and fell back out of the cave as the potion soaked her. Sparks covered her frame in a blue haze for a moment and when she stood again, she was enraged. A drastic change had come over the little girl. She was furious and hot anger and hatred coursed through her. And power. Such fearsome, awesome power.

She turned and let out a cry of terrifying rage at the horde of mischievous monkeys. Sparks flew from her fingertips and danced in her eyes. She shouted words she did not understand and a bolt shot from her right hand and covered the monkeys in white lightning. When the smoke cleared, they had sprouted large, floppy wings.

The little girl had become evil. The lion cub had dashed into the woods, more terrified than ever.

The power surged through the green girls lanky frame. She cared not for the departing lion cub. She wanted revenge on all of those who had ever dared cross her. She had been filled with more courage and power than any little girl needed, and that had made her Wicked.

She headed home, looking for Sister Haggis.

Worst Memory

Maleficent

by Aaron D. Johnson

I am four years old and always climb into Mommy and Daddy’s bed in the early morning hours. I fall asleep between them and feel safe and comfortable in their big bed. On Saturdays and Sundays, when Daddy doesn’t have to work he and I lay there reading the paper. He looks at the tiny print and the small words; I look at the funny pages. I mimic the expression on his face and pretend to understand the big words and the colorful panels. Though they are called the funny papers, I never laugh.

Mommy and Daddy don’t talk to each other at all. They only talk to me. I don’t like that. I don’t know why they aren’t happy living in our big house on Empire Lane way at the top of the hill. It’s the nicest place I have ever lived. I have Brandon and Roberta to play with and my big sisters Kelly and Tammy have their friends too. They even play with me sometimes though I don’t understand their games. They always want to play “Little House” and there is always a blizzard coming. It never actually gets here, but its coming. To me, it’s boring. I like to run and play outside. Nothing is better than running barefoot through the warm grass and playing games with my friends. When I whine and cry they give me the big hardcover Disney book and I sit in Daddy’s big chair and look at all the pictures, except that one with the witch from “Sleeping Beauty”. She scares me with her horns on her head. I peek once or twice and then am terrified that night in my big boy bed, turning the light on and looking underneath for her.

Tammy isn’t happy either. She spends a lot of time in her room and the cats go in her room and poop on the floor and she doesn’t clean it up. Her room and her clothes are a mess. When she and Kelly fight I take Kelly’s side because Kelly’s room is big and nice and clean and she has a big glowing thing with lights that flashes when you talk to it or play music. Kelly is always playing music.

Tammy and Kelly don’t fight with me, just with each other. But their fights are bad. I don’t like when they fight. Tammy fights with Mommy too.

One night, Mommy tells Tammy to give me a bath because I had been outside playing with Brandon and gotten “dirty and grubby”. Tammy fights with Mommy because she wants to be alone in her room, not washing her dirty brother. Tammy brings me upstairs to the bathroom to wash my hair. She puts me in the tub and gets my hair wet, then soaps it all up. I’m afraid of getting soap in my eyes so most of the time they are closed, but when I look at Tammy I see her eyes are red like she has been crying. She turns the water on at the other end of the tub and feels it, then turns it off. My foot goes down there and a drop hits me and it burns and I laugh. Who would ever want water that hot?

Tammy turns me and lays me down under the faucet to wash the soap out of my hair. She turns the faucet on and all that hot water goes all over me. I scream at the top of my lungs. I am burning and cooking alive. I never knew water could be so hot or hurt so bad.

Tammy is beaten really badly by Mommy right in front of me and Tammy cries. My head is hot where the water was. I sit in Daddy’s big chair with the Disney book looking at the pictures again. I look right at that mean witch with the horns. She’s not so scary now. She’s just a picture.