I started keeping a bucket next to me because I can’t always make it to the toilet before hurling. At first the nausea lasted for just a few days. And mostly when I tried to eat. Each time it persisted a little longer. Until that horrible metallic taste, and the nausea, are pretty much constant. Now just the thought of food is enough to send me reeling.

The chemicals course their way through my body, ravaging everything. Unable to eat. Unable to drink. I suck on chips of ice and half the time I bring that back up too. Or convulse with dry heaves.

I’m wasting away. This cure — sorry, treatment… there is no cure — feels worse than the disease. Hah, you know, “disease” sounds so innocuous. A cold is a disease. This is… barely living. Living with the tiniest thread of hope.

So I bundle under blankets because I get so damn cold all the time. And I lay bare my veins for more needles. And I take another round of chemo. And I remember what life used to be like. So close, I can almost taste it.

Our messages blast across the galaxy at the speed of light and yet it takes four years each way. Imagine sending a greeting or asking a question and not getting a reply until eight years later. And so far away from Earth, even the concept of a year seems arbitrary and pointless. You might as well say that everything takes forever. But we send a steady stream of data to each other, a thin ethereal umbilical that keeps me connected to my home world.

At least, we did. I mean I still send my data continuously and faithfully. But this morning — morning? there’s another meaningless concept — the incoming stream suddenly went silent. Something has gone wrong on their end. My imagination runs wild with every possibility between some intern tripping over a power cord to some kind of global cataclysm. I may never know. And I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that while I’m just now becoming aware of it here, whatever it is, it happened four years ago there. I have never felt so all alone.

Note: The #FridayFlash community is four years old and is sponsoring this blog hop to celebrate. You can play along too and maybe win a prize! Check out the details and find other participants here.

Lady Heather wafted into the entry hall and scrunched up her face. It seemed apparent that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark. Or something had suddenly crawled up her nostrils and died. “What is that obnoxious odour?” she asked.

“I didn’t notice anything before you came in,” chirped Fawcett.

He turned a blank face toward her and smirked. They both knew her question was half-rhetorical as Fawcett had lost his proboscis in a particularly rambunctious game of I’ve Got Your Nose that had gone horribly and tragically wrong when he was an infant. His overzealous au pair had been summarily dismissed and deported. All subsequent caretakers had been instructed not to engage the child in any “contact sports.”

For her part Lady Heather ignored Fawcett’s implied slight and reeled in the undeniable stench — a veritable tidal wave of malodorous vapor. She rang the bell to summon the housekeeper. When several minutes passed with no response she rang for the butler. Fawcett leaned in the library doorway and sipped at a tumbler of Scotch older than he was.

“What the devil?!” exclaimed Lady Heather. “Fawcett, where is the help?”

“Gone,” he replied, deadpan.

“Gone? Gone where? Surely they knew I was scheduled to return today.”

“I think they quit.”

“Quit? When? Why? Dear God, Fawcett, what have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, but drink.” He sipped again. “And I might have entertained a fair young maiden or two.”

Lady Heather brushed past Fawcett and found the library in horrible disarray. Wandering further, she discovered the parlor, dining hall, kitchen — in short every room — in similar distress. She returned to face Fawcett pointedly. She arched an eyebrow in a condemning, unasked question.

“So, I guess I threw a couple parties too,” he conceded.

The problem, Lady Heather realized was as plain as the… oh, never mind.

When the shell made a direct hit on our hidey hole I was suddenly floating. The last thing I saw was the look of resignation on my comrades’ faces. And then there was nothing — no sight, no smell, no taste, no touch — nothing except the roar of the blast overpowering the screams of its victims. And then the roar slowly ebbed to a steady pounding.

There should be activity, I think. Chaos. Some rush to look for survivors. Or at least some mad scramble to move to safer quarters. But all that remains is this tympani beating in my ears. For a moment I wonder if I am airborne, but I never feel the pull of gravity or the inevitable return to terra firma.

The relentless sound beat on. I had no concept of time. The thub-thub, thub-thub was all that existed. All that ever had been or ever would be. Was I going mad? How could this drum beat be my entire world? My entire existence? Only when it stops does it occur to me. Oh, god. That was my heartbeat.

Silence.

But after I removed them and compared them to the rest of my collection, turns out they were the second biggest.

I am no action hero
nor romantic leading man
more comic mocumentary fluff
than dramatic thriller

My supporting cast is superb
the script [so far] wickedly wry
I humbly play my small part
and am inspired by actual events

Free to good home. Serious inquiries only. No delivery, must be willing to come and pick up. Need this gone ASAP!

Needs work, but it’s a start. If only there were some way to include a photo. I’ve heard that ads with photos are more successful. I fear it would be false advertising to use a photo of her when she was alive. Oh, well. One must work with the material — or immaterial — that one has.

The ad is a long shot anyway. I don’t even know whether this will work. Seems fitting though. After all, she treated me like rubbish at the curb often enough. She poisoned our relationship, so I poisoned her. How was I supposed to know her spirit would keep haunting me?

I pull up Craigslist and then hesitate. In which category does one post an ad to give away the ghost of a dead ex-girlfriend?

Anyway, so I had just gotten my coffee when I looked up and there she was. Something you should know about me: I become all thumbs around beautiful women. I saw her and I was immediately thinking, “10 thumbs up, baby!” At the same time I dropped my coffee right on the floor. So much for our thumbs being the key to our dexterity.

Anyway, so there I was standing in a steaming puddle and she’s looking at me like, “Are you okay?” Well, it was more likely she was thinking, “What the hell is wrong with you?” but this is my version of the story. I can make up whatever internal dialogue I want.

Anyway, so I looked her right in the eye and in my best Bullwinkle voice I said, “For my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.” Without missing a beat she came back in a very convincing Natasha Fatale voice with, “But you’re not wearing a hat, dollink.” I was floored. Or maybe I just slipped on the coffee.

Anyway, so when I finished picking myself up [and mopping the floor -- you'd think they'd have people to do that, wouldn't you?] I scraped together a modicum of dignity and headed for the door. Suddenly, there she was holding out a fresh cuppa joe for me. I reached for it with both hands. “Thanks,” I said, “next time I’ll wear a hat.”

Anyway, so that probably should have been the end of it. But I can’t pretend it was mere coincidence that I went back at exactly the same time the next day. After all, I felt indebted and hoped for a chance to repay her kindness. It was simply providence though that the weather was cold enough that I could wear an old fedora without looking like a total idiot. No, I have far more elaborate ways to look like a total idiot.

Anyway, so I had no idea whether I would really ever see her again, but I’ll be damned if she didn’t show up not five minutes later. I faced her as she entered. I waited a beat or two to see if she remembered me and when I saw recognition dawn across her face I doffed my hat. I did the Bullwinkle routine again and with a flourish I pulled out a bunny slipper. Her laughter was deep and throaty and well worth having walked around with that stupid thing balanced on my head for the last hour.

Anyway, so I offered to buy her a coffee. She hesitated a moment and said [again in the Natasha voice], “I must get mine to go, dollink. But you will meet me here tomorrow and we will talk, da?” I’m pretty sure that out loud I simply said, “Of course,” or something equally banal. In my head though I was reeling through every version of yes I could think of: da, ja, oui, si, yup, and OMFG yes!

Anyway, so I showed up again the next day, sans fedora and wearing the bunny slippers. I figured I could work in a reference to a lucky rabbit’s foot somewhere in the conversation. Because I’m smooth like that. And obviously not a slave to fashion. I waited an hour and never saw hide nor hair [nor hare] of her. Did I mention that she had long black hair? The kind that men imagine getting their fingers tangled in?

Anyway, so I gave up and start walking home. Suddenly she’s pulling up right beside me in a black sedan. “Hurry,” she called. “Get in. Is not safe here.” I hesitated. Too long as it turned out. Another black sedan squealed around the corner up the block. She let loose what I assume was a string of Russian expletives and sped away.

Anyway, so I never did see or hear from her again after that. Probably just as well. I thought the bunny slippers were cute. Of course, I couldn’t wear them any more after coming home one day and finding them boiling away in my stockpot. Even worse, the next couple pots of soup tasted like feet. I tossed the whole thing and bought a new one. I also bought a coffeemaker.

So, here are the rules. [All of which I intend to break.]

1. You post 11 random facts about yourself.
2. Answer the 11 questions your presenter gave you.
3. You pass the award on to 11 other bloggers.
4. Compose 11 new questions for your recipients.

These are facts. They may not be random (and they do not total eleven):

1. This is post number 1001 here on otoh. Sure, some of the posts are repeats recycled rather than new content. On the other hand, I have deleted a few posts over the years too. Don’t ask.
2. I occasionally smoke cigars. I know this does not make me look “cool.” I know it is bad for me. On the other hand, I think everyone should have one vice and I am not promiscuous nor do I gamble or drink to excess.
3. I think it would be fun to do a series of posts that I would call Tim’s Top 10₂. There would, of course, be only two entries numbered 01₂ and 10₂. [They're binary numbers.] On the other hand, I find it difficult to come up with categories in which I want to highlight only two things.
4. I do not understand why people think My Favorite Things is a Christmas song. On the other hand, I find it less annoying than The Little Drummer Boy, which really is a Christmas song.
5. I quit teaching two-and-a-half years ago, but I still occasionally have dreams about being in the classroom. Wasn’t it enough that I had to be there when I was awake and employed there? On the other hand, it’s nice to wake up and realize that not only was it just a dream, but I don’t have to get up and go to school in the morning.
6. I was sorely tempted to make some kind of Liebster/lobster pun in this post. I went with the German title instead. [It's a web translation of I really love you all by the way.] On the other hand, watch this video.
7. I’ve never had a redhead. On the other hand, I have been had by one.
8. I am a night owl by nature. On the other hand, if I have work to do I prefer to get up and get it over with. So when I was teaching I would be up at around 5:00 a.m. most mornings. But if I had more than a couple days off I could easily be going to bed at around 5:00 a.m. [Yes, that really messes up my internal clock.]
9. I know that I can write well. On the other hand, I am continually surprised, amazed, and grateful that anyone ever comes here and reads what I write.

Since I was tagged by two people I have 22 questions to answer. But that ain’t gonna happen. Instead, I’ll answer a few from each of them.

From John Wiswell:

• 01₂ What’s the last book that left you envying the writer?
  It’s not unusual for me to run across a FridayFlash or some other online source that makes me envious, but the last book that really surprised me and made me envious of the writer was Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.
• 10₂ What did you envy about that book?
  The dialog and the use of non-standard English will be a turn off for some people, but I found her phrasing descriptive and beautiful.
• 11₂ You’ve got a friend named ‘John’ who tends to listen to musicians one song at a time, and dislikes albums. You’ve got a band you want him to try. What song do you recommend first?
  A sentimental favorite of mine around Christmas-time is Christians and Pagans by Dar Williams. I love the humor and the family elements of it and Dar is a talented singer/songwriter.

From Steve Green:

• 01₂ If you could come back in another life as an animal, which one would you choose to be?
  I’ve already done that. I chose the human animal.
• 10₂ Do you believe in other world life forms?
  Yes, but I imagine that the vast majority of it is probably on the level of microbes, slimes, molds, and such.
• 11₂ Which do you prefer, the quiet of the countryside, or the hustle-bustle of the city?
  Between those two I would choose the countryside, but I am a child of the suburbs. I like having some of the services and activities of a city not too far away, but I would hate living in a city.

I suppose since I was tagged by two people I could pass this on to 22 other people. Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen either. This has already made the rounds of the people I usually read. If you some how did not get picked yet, feel free to assume that I have passed the award on to you.

Here are your 11₂ [smirk] questions:

• 01₂ If I were to have one week to travel anywhere in the world, where should I go?
• 10₂ What place near where you currently live do you think any visitor should definitely not miss?
• 11₂ Tell me about a trip you took that you think shaped your personality.

Or I give you permission to go read any of the previous award pages and use any of the questions you find there. I also give you permission to make up questions for yourself. Memes come here to die. [Or maybe I just kill them when they show up. And rarely, like this time, I toy with them first.]

Moonlight fell across Todd’s face. Ashleigh crossed the space and whispered again, “Todd, I’m scared.”

Ashleigh lifted the covers and crawled onto the bed. She wormed her way under Todd’s arm and snuggled with her head on his shoulder. Her golden curls tickled his cheek. Todd’s fingers brushed the soft cotton of her nightgown. In the pale light he smiled.

*********

Ashleigh shivered alone in her bed. Moonlight passing through the bare branches of the tree outside her window cast jagged shadows across the room. She peered at the closet door to ensure that it was still closed and then pulled the covers over her head.

Was that a creaking floorboard under her bed or had she imagined it? Pictures of big hairy monsters filled her thoughts. In her mind’s eye they were crawling from under the bed and reaching for her. Could she make it to the safety of Todd’s room next door?

She threw off the blankets, jumped from her bed, and ran out the door. Ashleigh padded down the hallway to her brother’s room….

*********

“The monsters live in the closet,” Todd said. “They hide under your bed. And after you fall asleep, they grab you and drag you away.”

Ashleigh pulled the blanket tight under her chin. “No way.”

“Sure they do, if they get hungry enough. You know Billy next door used to have a baby sister. You’re too little to remember. The monsters took her away on a night just like this.”

“Maybe I could sleep in your room?”

“Nah, Mom and Dad want you to sleep in your own bed. I’ll leave the night light on for you though. And I’m just next door. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Todd closed the door. Ashleigh shivered alone in her bed….

*********

“But Mom,” Todd Whined, “I’m six years old and Ashleigh’s only three. Why do I have to go to bed at the same time? I should be able to stay up later.”

“It’s hard enough to wake you up in the morning. You need your sleep. Now go say goodnight to your sister and go to bed. Lights out in five minutes. Do you want me to come tuck you in?”

“No. I’m too big for that too.”

Todd climbed the stairs and paused at his sister’s open door. “Good night, Ashleigh. I hope the monsters don’t get you.”

“What monsters?”

“The monsters live in the closet….”

*********

Author’s note: I wanted to tell this story “backwards” by presenting a scene and then flashing back to the scene that preceded it and then to the scene before that and so on. I’m curious whether your impression of the characters, their actions, and their motivations changed based on the new [or is that old?] information. Let me know in the comments.

.

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You better not sext
you better not spoof
you better not troll
I’ll forward you proof
Santa Claus is coming online

He’s pinning on Pinterest
Even still checks Myspace
Gonna find out who’s blogging
(follows your RSS)

He RTs you when you’re tweeting
He’s your Facebook friend
He plus-ones every comment
His Tumblr never ends

Oh, you better not sext
you better not spoof
you better not troll
I’ll forward you proof
Santa Claus is coming online
Santa Claus is coming online