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Ginger blinked into the bright sunlight and cleared her throat.

“Death occurs in an instant,” she began. “So in a way, losing Fred took virtually no time at all. But loss… and grief… are not instantaneous. Grief is moment upon endless moment. I am continually losing Fred. I will be losing Fred forever. He is gone, but he will never be gone.”

She felt her throat tighten and tears well up in her eyes. “The last words I said to Fred were angry words. We were having an argument. That will haunt me forever. In fact, I fully expect Fred to haunt me. It would be just like him.” She paused, hoping to draw a little laughter into the somber occasion. Fred would like that — and he would hate everything else about this ceremony. But she met only silence from the crowd broken by the sound of a siren approaching.

“Fred and I liked to hold hands,” she pressed on. “Even now I can feel our fingers intertwined. My thumb strokes the back of his hand.” The siren was louder still and a brief murmur arose. “I…” Ginger gulped at the air. “I… I’m sorry.” The sun shrank to a bright point that began flashing red and blue.

The police officer approached the vehicle wrapped around the large oak tree. He didn’t expect to find any survivors. He was half right. “Ma’am! Can you hear me? Can you unlock the door? I’m going to get you out of there. Just hold on.” With grim irony he noticed that she held tightly to the hand of the vehicle’s driver — almost the only part of him that wasn’t crushed beyond recognition.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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Ginger sat in the dappled light under the apple tree in her front yard. Summer sun had freckled her nose and lightened her hair which was, as usual, pulled into a pony tail. Her gingham dress hung loosely and hinted at curves blossoming beneath. She held a book of poetry but was staring at the clouds. That one’s a bunny. That one’s a galloping stallion. She hummed quietly to herself.

Fred was out for a walk — aimlessly, he would have said, but his feet always found their way to Ginger’s street. Feigning disinterest, he intended to walk right past.

“Hi,” said Ginger. And Fred’s heart skipped a beat. He would always recall that instant as when his life changed forever.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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Note: The characters in this story use vulgar language. If you are easily offended, please enjoy something from my archives or come back next week. ~Tim

Fred grabbed a beer from the cooler. The temperature outside was well below freezing, but the beer still had to be ice-cold. “Serious business,” he said, “and you know this is true because fairly tales begin with, ‘Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.’” He paused for the laughs he expected that to draw and was not disappointed.

The men — Fred, his brother, two cousins, and three neighbors — huddled around a kerosene heater in Fred’s garage. A thick, blue haze filled the air that thickened even more as Fred lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Serious business,” he repeated, “this was last summer down at the lake. It was so damn hot that week. We were making two beer runs a day and couldn’t keep enough ice.

“Anyway, we had the boat down there. The fishing was crap ’cause of the heat so we decided to go skiing. Now, I don’t ski, but I can drive that boat. So everyone else is taking turns and I just drive. Well, it gets to be Ginger’s turn. She gets shit-faced on one beer and must have had two or three already that day. But you know there’s no stopping her when she gets it into her head to do something.

“I’m surprised when she gets up on her second try. We just get going good and the fuckin’ handle breaks on the damn tow rope. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers for effect and looked around to make sure everyone was listening. They were.

“Well, she wipes out but not too bad. I figure we need to head back in, but Ginger’s out there bitchin’ that she didn’t get to finish her turn. So when I get close she grabs the rope again and she starts wrapping it around her hands like she’s gonna ski like that. I tell her, ‘Get in the boat,’ and she’s all, ‘I’m not done yet. Just drive the damn boat.’ I tell her again to get in the boat and she says, ‘Come on, you pussy. I wanna ski some more.’ You know how they say the last four words a redneck says before he dies are, ‘Hey y’all, watch this!’? Well, I’m pretty sure that Ginger’s last words are gonna be, ‘Come on, you pussy!’” This gets a good laugh too.

“So she’s out there with the rope wrapped five or six times around each hand and I gun the engine. O’course, right off she’s face down in the water and can’t let go of the rope. I cut the engine for a sec and then idle back to pick her up. She’s coughin’ and spittin’ like she swallowed ten gallons of lake and inhaled two more. Then she’s yellin’ at me like it’s all my fault… of course.” The men all nod in assent.

“But the best part is, when we get up close we can see that her bikini top got pulled clean off and she don’t know it yet. So I reach out to help her into the boat. I get her half-way out of the water and I guess she can tell that I’m lookin’ at her tits ’cause all of a sudden she lets go. She’s back in the lake, tryin’ to cover up and screamin’ for a towel. We laughed our asses off and we never did find that bikini top.” Fred downs the rest of his beer and looks around with a smirk. “But let me tell you… Ginger has nice tits!”

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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First, a brief note: A friend recently asked about the random quotes I have up there above my posts. She considered making a comment about the quote that appeared when she read one of my posts. As she correctly surmised, unless she copied and pasted the quote into the comment no one would know what the comment was about. I welcome comments about the quotes though, if you are so inclined.

When I previewed this post tonight, this is the quote I saw:

Writing is no trouble, you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity enough – it is the occurring which is difficult. ~ Stephen Leacock

And now, on with the post.

Not A-Mused

“Slow down, slow down!” Fred scribbled furiously on scraps of paper attempting to record the whole conversation. But the discussion had become a heated argument and neither of the antagonists was willing to back down. And others were joining in.

Where was Ginger? He counted on her to mediate. No matter how abrasive the other personalities, she could turn on her southern charm and help him get the story. Writing was easy with Ginger as his partner, his muse. She would make sure everyone played nice and he would write down what he heard.

Why did he have just one pencil? It was getting dull. What if it broke? But these worries just slowed him down even more and he felt hopelessly lost. What were they arguing about now?

“Shut up, shut up!” Fred stood suddenly. He snapped the pencil in two and crushed the papers in his fist. Blood pounded in his temples and his neck was so tight he feared it would snap too. “Where the hell is Ginger? Where the HELL is GINGER?”

But the cacophony of voices just got louder. Being ignored was worse than being made fun of. For while he was often derided for his stories, Fred saw them as his salvation. They gave his life purpose and meaning. He had come to rely on Ginger’s help though, and her silence left a deep void he did not know how to fill.

He had tried drugs. He had tried therapy. “If only the doctors could prescribe street drugs,” he speculated, “instead of that crap that makes me feel so dull.” He decided he had only one choice left. With Ginger silent the other voices in his head drove him completely mad. He dropped the remnants of his story on the curb and stepped into traffic.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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Fred lifted the manuscript from the desk and leaned back in his chair. Ginger usually made him wait until her work was published before allowing him to read it. With a slight tremble of excitement he now held the first chapters of “Mort de Plume,” her work in progress. Fidgeting absent-mindedly with his Montblanc Meisterstück Solitaire Doué — a habit that Ginger detested — he turned to page one and began reading.

Some minutes later Ginger crossed the small office. She kissed the top of Fred’s head and stood behind him as he finished the last few pages.

“Well?” she asked with apparent nervousness.

“Well,” Fred took a deep breath, considering his words carefully. “Your style is as sharp as ever. But… this is a little different. You always kill someone in the first chapter. Always.”

“That’s right,” Ginger replied as she grabbed his pen and plunged it deep into his neck.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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