Wallflowers of the Elk Lodge Ballroom

Rhonda turned to Carolyn and shouted over the music, “Thanks again for inviting me. I haven’t been out dancing in ages. This should be fun.”

“Yeah,” Carolyn shouted back, “they have a dance here every month. I’ve been coming for about a year. There’s usually twice as many women as men, but we can always do the line dances and fast songs even without a partner.”

They sipped their soft drinks and watched the mostly middle-aged dancers gyrate around the dance floor.

“Uh-oh,” Carolyn leaned toward her friend. “See that guy coming in wearing the loud print shirt?”

Rhonda glanced at the entrance and nodded.

“That’s Frank. He wears so much after shave it will make your eyes water from ten feet away.”

Rhonda scrunched up her nose in disgust.

“Yeah, I’m surprised the cloud around him isn’t visible it’s so thick. Good thing there’s no smoking allowed in here; one stray spark and he’d burst into a ball of flame.”

Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock ‘n Roll pounded out of massive speakers at one end of the hall and the two friends tapped their feet in time with the beat.

“Oh, there’s Clinton.” Carolyn waved to a man that looked older than most of the crowd. “He’s a sweet guy, but he keeps his hearing aids turned off. The loud music causes feedback apparently. He’s not too bad a dancer, but he won’t say a word while he’s dancing. Hardly talks at all in here for that matter. And of course he won’t hear anything you say either. It’s almost like dancing by yourself, but with someone next to you.”

Rhonda nodded in acknowledgement.

“Yikes! There’s one to stay away from.” Carolyn glanced furtively to her right. “That’s Hank. We call him the Dance Nazi. Stiff as a board and hard to follow. Pushes you around the dance floor, practically tramples you to death, then he tells you what you’re doing wrong all the time.”

Rhonda averted her eyes and sipped her drink.

“That’s Jeff over there. He’s half the age of most of the people in here. He wouldn’t ever tell me what a guy in his twenties is doing hanging out with us. He’s a horrible dancer, but I gotta give him points for enthusiasm. He really does try hard. He just looks so uncomfortable with his own body though, and forget about him being comfortable with yours.”

The DJ announced that he was going to slow things down a bit and the sweet strains of The Tennessee Waltz enveloped the room. A complex pattern of exits, entrances, and partner-changes rippled across the floor. Soon there was a commotion across the room. A woman stormed off leaving her partner open-mouthed and empty-handed.

“Good for her,” said Carolyn. “I call him Grabby Gus. Saw him here for the first time last month. I danced with him for about 30 seconds and excused myself to the bathroom. I felt like I had been patted down by airport security, the man’s hands were all over the place.”

The crowd settled back into its promenade in 3/4 time. A couple dressed all in blue glided by.

“Mmmm,” Carolyn followed the couple with a dreamy-eyed gaze. “We call them Fred and Ginger because they only dance with each other now. Such a shame because he’s gotta be the best dancer in the place. She’s not nearly as good as he is, but, I mean, look at her. Guys always go for the girls with the big boobs.”

Rhonda fished an ice cube from her glass and munched on it.

“Next fast song they play we should just jump on out there,” Carolyn declared. “We might have to ask the guys to dance or just have fun without them. Most of them seemed pretty shy the last couple times I was here.”

“I wonder why?”

“Guys just don’t know what they’re missing.”

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I don’t know how often a vampire decides to “turn” one of his or her victims. Some of the popular literature might lead me to believe it is a rather common occurrence. I’m inclined to be more conservative though so I chose once per century as the average rate of getting tired of the conversations with the old partner. ["Remember that time when -- ?" I remember everything. "Did I ever tell you about --?" Yeah, dude. Only like about a billion times already.] Let’s face it, even really good friendships probably last less than half that long [and marriages even less, but that's another story. And a different sort of blood-sucker. Ahem.]

It doesn’t seem like such a lot at first. Start with one vampire. A hundred years or so later there are two. And then another hundred years there are three. And so on. But, here’s where the math gets a little tricky, the growth is actually exponential. Because I figure that every vampire is going to turn one of his or her victims at roughly the same rate. I mean, that makes sense, right? It can’t be just that one original vampire doing it all the time. If you were a vampire and suddenly one day the old bat brings home a new BFF, wouldn’t you go out in search of some new blood too [so to speak]?

So what would really happen is that the number of vampires increases from one to two to four to eight and so on. Every kid that ever fell for the old penny-a-day-for-a-month gag knows that exponents start to turn into really big numbers really fast. So the way I figure it, if vampires exist then pretty much everyone in the entire world, except for me of course, would be a vampire by now and that’s just — excuse me. There’s someone at my door insisting that I invite them in. I’ll be right back.

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“Yup, I’m out of here.”

“But why?”

“Look, Chuckles the Clown here,” Evan rolled his eyes at the security guard that towered over him, “is only giving me one hour to clean out my desk. Come over tonight and I’ll fill you in.”

The security guard, who never enjoyed escorting employees — former employees — off the property, simply glared at him and said nothing.

…

Bob balanced a six pack on top of the pizza box and rang the bell. Evan opened the door and stood there with a distinctive glassy-eyed stare. Several empty cans littered the coffee table and floor. Bringing more beer suddenly seemed like a supremely stupid thing to do.

“Look,” Bob grabbed the six pack and held it behind his back and pushed the pizza box under his friend’s chin, “I brought your favorite meat-lover’s pizza. Let’s sit down and have a slice or three.”

“Sure. Come on in, buddy. Happy frikkin’ new year!”

Evan dropped into his La-Z-Boy while Bob cleared space on the coffee table. When they had both taken a few minutes to wolf down a slice Bob asked, “So, did they really fire you?”

“Technically, I resigned. But they made it clear they would fire me if I didn’t. They even had me date the resignation two weeks ago so it would look like I gave notice.”

“What the hell? I thought things were going great.”

“Apparently there were complaints from customers. Some said they thought I was making fun of them. Some said they were so put off by my attitude that they would never deal with the company again.”

“No way….”

“Way.”

“But did you explain why you were acting –”

“Yeah, right! Tell HR that some ghost appeared to me in a dream? They would have had hauled me off to the loony bin. No, it’s better this way. At least I leave with my dignity intact.”

“I guess so. I mean, is it?”

“Better? Sure”

“Well, no. I mean is your dignity intact? After all, you were acting in good faith. I’m sure those customer’s feathers could have been smoothed over.”

“Probably, but you know when your boss isn’t willing to back you up there’s not much point in fighting. I guess they figure it was too much of a PR hassle.”

“I suppose.”

“I read some of the customer complaints. The big guys just don’t have the balls to stand up to them. Or they really do think I’m wrong. In either case, I’m better off going somewhere else.”

“So what are you going to do? Where are you going to find another job in this economy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a little savings and the boss did slip me some severance pay off the books. I’ll just have to hit the bricks like everyone else.”

“And when they ask why you left your last job?”

Evan mulled it over for a minute. “I’ll tell them I had gone as far as I could with the company and the only way to advance in my career was to go somewhere else. That’s pretty much true.”

“But you won’t tell them about….?”

“The dream? Hell no. Besides, at this point I figure that’s about the worst advice I ever got in my entire life. I might never smile again.”

“Oh, dude… you know I’m your best friend and I’ll stand by you no matter what, but… well, to tell you the truth, I kind of liked you better after that dream.”

“And see what it got me?”

“Yeah, but except for, you know, getting fired, wasn’t it better for you too? I mean this might turn out to be one of those things that looks bad but turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Hmmpff.”

The two friends ate another slice of pizza in silence. But the words Evan had read kept ringing in his ears like taunting silver bells: “excessively cheerful… disgusting happiness… unfettered joy… out of touch with reality….”

…

In a cloaked ship orbiting overhead the aliens marked their experiment on Evan as an unqualified success.

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Note: I trust that this restores the faith in my cynicism that some of you thought had slipped away in my Christmas Spirit flash. Happy frikkin’ new year everyone! ~Tim

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Michael yanked open his front door and found the street deserted; there was no sign of whoever might have dropped the note through the mail slot. He examined the page. The text was standard laser printer quality. Times New Roman. The paper was cheap white bond that could have come from any office supply store. He dropped the note in the trash, assuming it was some sort of prank, and resumed getting ready for work.

The next morning another sheet fell through the mail slot and skittered across the floor. This time the same brief message was followed by a map and directions. The starting point was his house. The ending point was called Wabasha Street Caves located across the river near St. Paul’s Downtown Airport, Holman Field. At the bottom was another line of text: Tommy Gun Trouble Friday 7:00.

Friday morning there was no note through the mail slot, but when Michael got in his car to go to work he found a duplicate of the map along with two tickets for the Tommy Gun Trouble Murder Mystery Show on the passenger seat. He knew the vehicle had been locked and the alarm set. He was at a loss to explain how the items got there, but his curiosity was overriding his fear.

While his car warmed up he called his wife. “Let’s go out tonight.”

In its checkered past the Wabasha Street Caves housed mobsters and speakeasies. Now the site specializes in historical tours, weddings, conventions, dances, and other events. Just after Michael and his wife were seated in the ballroom a tall, middle-aged man in a tour guide’s uniform approached.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Michael, “there’s a message for you at the cave entrance. If you’ll follow me, please.” Michael excused himself and followed.

“Who’s the message from?” he inquired. But his guide just grinned back at him and quickened his pace. At the cave entrance the guide glanced back again and then entered a small side tunnel. Michael hesitated only a moment and then hurried in pursuit, spurred on by unbridled curiosity. Twice he lost sight of the guide and then spied him again as the distance between them increased. The third time the guide moved out of sight Michael stopped, determined to give up the chase and return to his wife. This is beyond ridiculous, he thought.

Just then he heard a loud whisper. “Psssst. Over here.” A light flickered just around the next bend. Slowly, he moved deeper into the cave once more. When he rounded the bend he found a flashlight and a pocketknife on a small ledge along with another note. Like the first one he had received this one said simply, “Mike is dead.”

Just then there was a terrible crash as the cave ceiling collapsed behind him, trapping him in total darkness.

…

John was perched on his porcelain throne when a single sheet of paper slid under the door. “Who’s there?” he called. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house. Unnerved, he finished his business quickly and retrieved the page. His breathing became labored and his face paled as he shifted his gaze from the note to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

There was a soft rustling noise on the other side of the door and a quiet voice called back.

“It’s Jonathan.”

His body trembled as he read the brief but ominous message printed in neat laser text on the cheap paper.

John is dead.

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Note: Michael and John both posted pieces recently with the opening line, “Tim is dead.” This is my revenge.
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Every morning is a promise of possibilities. Every day that I survive is a blessing. I know what prolonged exposure can do. I’ve seen colleagues reduced to empty shells. I’ve smelled the flames and seen the charred remains. It’s not pretty.

A few of us meet to review our plans before we deploy. We keep the atmosphere light. We are all hope and commitment. Desperately so. There is no such thing as too much preparation. And yet, flexibility is key. Expect the unexpected. Be ready to make a 90 [or sometimes 180] degree turn at a moment’s notice. Never assume that just because you have a good plan that all will go according to plan. Never dare to believe in the myth of the “perfect” plan.

At last we synchronize watches and I move to my post. At a signal we begin in unison.

“Good morning, class. I’m your teacher….”

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I had scheduled my #FridayFlash to auto-publish, but I had a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. It took a few minutes to boot up the computer and log in. At exactly 13 minutes into the witching hour I opened up otoh, but it was blank. Then suddenly, my Twitter page opened — or something that sort of looked like my Twitter page.

Every tweet was exactly the same, “Ghost Story” #FridyFlash This story is a phantom. You won’t believe your eyes. I knew FFDO had had a contest, but still… how could all the posts from all these writers be exactly the same? And there was no link. It was if, like my post, all of them had vanished.

To see what I saw, click here.

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Take a look behind the scenes for this flash on Spark: Ghost Story. Where do your story ideas come from?
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There are still some surprises left in the world. I don’t think anyone expected we would find a spider that makes the Goliath Birdeater Tarantula, previously believed to be the world’s largest spider, look tiny in comparison. Where else but in the Amazon, in itself a name that denotes a grand scale? And I’m quite certain that no one expected the Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula to be quite so tasty.

We in the “civilized” world would still be ignorant of the beast, and its culinary possibilities, were it not for recent incidental contact with one of the extant indigenous tribes. Brazil has the largest number of “lost tribes” of anyplace on earth. Some of these tribes have apparently been hunting and eating the spider for countless generations. Their favorite method is to chop off the legs, scrape off the hairs — which are really more like short spikes — and roast the body over an open flame. Then a glaze of guava or papaya is applied. It is served on a stone slab and carved into pie-shaped sections. The fangs are a particular delicacy and give the diner an experience similar to that of Japanese Fugu.

Just this week the five-star Restaurante de Roda Raiada opened in Rio de Janeiro with two Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula-based recipes at the top of their menu: Coxinha Aranha and Empanada Aranha. The spider meat is shredded, spiced, and encased in dough before it is fried or baked. Purists, however, complain that both dishes taste too much like anaconda.

I have developed what I think is a deliciously simple recipe for Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula and dumplings. The hairs are burned off with a blow torch and then the whole spider is boiled in a large pot with my special blend of vegetables and spices. The dumplings are steamed on top. Sure, it’s not exactly a traditional South American dish and I don’t claim that it tastes like chicken, but everyone gets a drumstick.

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Odds of winning Powerball Grand Prize: 1 in 195,249,054. Odds of being struck by lightning in the United States in any single year: 1 in 700,000.

She has the softest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. We met in the grocery store when she hit me with her shopping cart. I’ll always wonder whether she did that on purpose, but I flatter myself at the thought. Anyway, we chatted a bit while a good size bruise formed on my leg. We made plans to meet later for coffee. I kept thinking, “Things like this just don’t happen to me.”

I know what you’re thinking, punk. You’re thinking “did he fire six shots or only five?” Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and will blow your head clean off, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk? ~Dirty Harry

I went on about my business for the rest of the afternoon with a bit more bounce in my step tempered by the pain of that bruise which was turning the most brilliant colors. Sure, we were just meeting for coffee, but that doesn’t stop a guy from considering whether there are more intimate possibilities. What? It could happen.

Star light, star bright,
first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Oh darn, it’s a satellite

Little did I know, just about then a 6.5 ton satellite was tumbling out of orbit. As it entered the atmosphere it began breaking apart and burning. Much of it disintegrated, but pieces scattered over a swath several miles wide and a few hundred miles long. One of those pieces hit me right in the head. Who would ever have thought that a burning chunk of space debris would be the last thing to go through my mind? At least I gained some notoriety in death that I never did in life.

According to NASA, the chance of a piece of UARS debris hitting anybody anywhere in the world: 1 in 3,200.

So twice in one day my life took a wholly unexpected turn. How often does that happen? I’m going to miss that coffee date. Here’s the funny thing though. Don’t ask me how I know this, but had I lived she would have broken my heart. I sure dodged that bullet.

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“Doctor,” Tiberius maneuvered his ward between us. “This is James.” I shook hands with each of them.

At a glance I could see that the boy had a sore thumb — to me it stuck out like a dangling participle. “What can I do for you, James?” I asked.

He looked at me, then at Tiberius who nodded encouragement, then back at me. “Hopefully, you can help me to better read and write words and do maths,” he said brightly. Or what I’m sure he thought was brightly anyway.

I offered my most reassuring smile and handed him a pad and pencil. “Write down this sentence for me,” I said. “You’re too kind to your two kids for their own good.” I observed the way he wrapped his fingers in a virtual strange-hold around the defenseless writing instrument — that explained the thumb. He stuck out his tongue at some apparently specific angle and hunched over the pad of paper as though protecting a small animal.

He only asked me to repeat the sentence once. That was a more encouraging sign than I had expected. When he finished scratching at the paper he handed it back to me. His eyes held expectations far out of proportion to his ability.

I examined the product of his efforts. “UR 2 KYND 2 UR 2 KIDZ 4 THERE OAN GUD LOL.” It was heartbreaking.

“That’s fine,” I handed the paper back to him. “Now, if you add up all the numbers in that sentence, what do you get?”

His tongue returned to its working position and then he muttered, “Two and two is four, and two is six, and four is ten, and one is…” He held out the paper again. “Eleven!” he announced.

A generation ago any doctor in my position would be arranging to have the boy sterilized. Back then the mottoes were, “Genetics yes, phonetics no,” and “If you can’t add, you can’t multiply.” In our more enlightened age, I am duty-bound to try and help him.

“Thank you, James. Tiberius and I need to step outside for just a moment, okay?” I unwrapped a lollipop and handed it to him. Part of me wanted to explain which end went in his hand and which in his mouth, but I figured that if there’s anything he can do on his own it is probably sucking.

I grabbed a clipboard and an IEP manual as Tiberius led the way to the now deserted reception area. “We know he needs some physical rehabilitation for the way he holds the pencil,” he began. “And remedial work in spelling and grammar… and the maths….”

“Dammit, Tib,” I hissed, “I’m a Doctor of Education, not a miracle worker!”

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My #FridayFlash for today is Web Dogz, my contribution to the Writer’s Pets Contest on the FridayFlash.org site. You have until 31 August to enter. Entries are limited to 250 words. You must be registered on the FFDO website and join the contest group. All the details are on this page. [And if you don't have a pet of your own, feel free to write about my pups.]

My pups

Web Dogz

Chrome the Wonder Dog and her faithful sidekick, Luò the Poofy Pup, sat and surveyed their domain. “What have you girls been up to?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” Chrome said in her usual, understated way, “same old, same old. Saving the World Wide Web.” Then she yawned, turned around three times and curled up for a nap.

“Woof,” added Luò.

“Wait,” I cried, “don’t fall asleep without telling me that story. How, exactly, did you save the World Wide Web and who or what did you save it from?”

“Geez, don’t get your boxers in a bunch.” Chrome rested her chin on her paws and peered at me through half-closed eyes.

“Woof,” added Luò.

“Please, go on,” I said.

“It’s nothing,” said Chrome. “We do this all the time… surf the web, search for problems, then fix them. This time we found some trolls on Google+ and we chased them off.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “as much as I appreciate that I can just block the trolls. I’m not sure that you chasing them counts as ‘saving the World Wide Web’ does it?”

“Really?” Chrome’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t think so?”

I admit, I was afraid, but I stood my ground. “Yeah, on the Internet, no one can tell you’re a dog. I don’t think I believe your story at all.”

“Hrumph, see if I bother protecting you any more.” And with that she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

“Woof,” added Luò.

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