THE LOVE BETWEEN THEM by Janet Cipolli

Harold and Winifred Munson were waiting to board a plane from Hartford, Connecticut to Miami, Florida. Winnie wanted to escape the brutal winter they’d been having and since they could afford it, she went ahead and booked a two-week trip to Florida. The elderly couple had never flown on a plane before and it had taken some convincing to get Harold to agree but in their fifty-seven years of marriage Harry had always ended up doing exactly what his childhood sweetheart wanted.

Now, after two hours of sitting at the airport due to an unexpected ice storm, they were both getting a slight case of cabin fever.

“Stop pulling on my sweater!" Winnie scolded as she straightened her sleeve.

Harry adjusted his watchband but not the sour attitude he had acquired since their flight had been delayed.

"I don't know why we couldn't have just gone to Atlantic City for a few days," he complained. "Look at this place, it's crawling with illegal aliens."

"Oh hush! You don't know that," Winnie scowled, "And keep your voice down."

"Why? If they can't speak English they sure as heck won’t understand it."

Over the past two hours, several people had sat down next to them but all had decided to move. Just as Harold was about to get back to his ongoing rant about the unfair cost-of-living freeze on Social Security benefits, a young man wearing a cowboy hat sat down in a seat across from them. Harold waited for eye contact before opening his mouth.

“Howdy there cowboy, where you headed?” Harold asked.

“Back home to Dallas, Texas sir.” The young man tipped his hat towards the couple.

“Oh my,” said Winifred, delighted to see such manners in a young person, “What brings you way up here?” she asked with a smile.

“Well, ma’am,” he took his hat off and placed it on the seat next to him, “I was here to attend a funeral—my Dad passed away last week.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Winifred’s face scrunched up as if she were in pain.

“Why was your Dad way up here?” Harry probed, then added with a spark. “I’ll bet it was to get away from all them illegal aliens, wasn’t it?”

"Enough with the aliens!" snapped Winnie.

The young man naively turned to Harold to answer his question.

“No sir, my father was forced to leave Texas some years back for coming out as an openly gay Republican.”

Harold arched his eyebrows, “Your father was a Republican?”

“Wait a minute,” Winnie waved her hand at her husband, “How could your father be gay?” she asked.

“It wasn’t easy,” continued the young cowboy, “First, he had to have my mother’s hands surgically removed from around his neck…”

“Hey!” blurted Harold, “Was that her on 60 Minutes?”

“Will you shut up for a second?” Winifred scolded.

Harry turned to his wife to offer a response but she was already addressing the young man.

“Your mother must have been devastated,” offering him a sympathetic look.

“Well, if I woke up next to a Republican I’d be pretty devastated too,” piped Harry.

Winnie looked at her husband, “I’m a Republican dear."

A booming voice over the airport’s loudspeaker announced the boarding of all passengers to Dallas, Texas. The young cowboy quickly put on his hat and graciously bid the elderly couple goodbye.

Winifred looked around at the dwindling crowds while Harold adjusted his watchband for the hundredth time.

“The storm must have passed,” she said with quiet anticipation.

Harry sat silently, staring forward.

“Harry?” Winnie turned to him, “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you tell me to shut up,” he huffed.

Winnie smiled to herself and gently patted his leg.

“Oh hush,” she poked.

“There you go again,” he said as he looked around for more aliens.

Winifred poked his arm. He turned to see her rosy cheeks and smiling eyes beaming back at him. They sat looking at each other and as would often happen, saw the childhood sweetheart in each other.

“Do you think we have time for another hot chocolate?” she asked coyly.

Harry perused the area of the beverage machines. “As long as a large gathering of aliens don’t get in my way.”

“And can I have some little marshmallows this time?”

Harry got up from his chair.

“You can have whatever you want Winnie.” He leaned over and gave her a peck on her soft rosy cheek before heading off to the beverage machine where a large gathering of foreigners apparently had the same idea.

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.
Janet invites you to follow her writing (button at top of page) or go to: http://fictionalseasons.blogspot.com/

CUPID'S BROKEN HEART by Janet Cipolli

It was nearing Valentine's Day and Cupid was nowhere to be found. His Supervisor decided to pay him a visit at his home and when he arrived he found the winged dumpling sprawled on his sofa in front of the television.

"Hey!" shouted the Supervisor in dismay, "What the hell are you doing? Do you realize it's only four days until Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cupid replied, staring at the TV.

"Well get up!" walking over to the television and turning off Jerry Springer in mid-sentence.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Cupid annoyingly shouted.

"This is the reason divorce is at its all-time highest," pointing his finger at Cupid, "Get out there and get some people to fall in love--you lazy bum!"

Cupid looked up at his Supervisor and decided to confess his doubts.

"I can't do it anymore boss," he sat up and pulled a pizza bite out from the folds of his belly. "What's the point? So they fall in love, big deal. They got nowhere to go from there but down. They can’t afford to buy a house, most of them are unemployed and those that do get married only end up arguing about money and blaming me, I'm sick of being the scapegoat for everybody's problems."

The Supervisor listened as Cupid continued. "Boss, you've known me for a long time. I was the one who convinced Burt Bacharach to write that song about the world needing love..."

"Yeah," interrupted the Supervisor, "and you also were behind The J. Geils Band's "Love Stinks!"

Cupid blushed. "I was pissed off that day, but now that you mention it, it does stink."

The Supervisor sensed the seriousness of Cupid's depressed state.
"Look, I'll make you a deal."

Cupid, with a look of doubt on his chubby face, "A deal? Who are you, Monty Hall?”

"I'm serious. You gather up your supplies, head out and if you can get 4,000 couples to fall in love in four days I'll give you a huge bonus."

"4,000? Are you out of your mind?" Cupid shimmied to the edge of the sofa, his feet dangling. "First of all, there aren't FORTY couples out there who want to take it to the next level and half of the ones who do can't even get married in most states. I'm telling you it's over. I'm finished!

The Supervisor wasn’t giving up. "Do you remember the day you stuck me and my wife with that misguided arrow?"

"You mean the one that was meant for Diana and Charles but I tripped over a rock?”

"That was the best mistake you ever made. I've been a happy man for many years and my wife couldn't be more pleased with her life. Did you know we got married on Valentine's Day?"

Cupid listened in silence.

"It’s because of you that our life has been so fulfilling. Even if you hook up just one couple, at least two more people will know the beauty of love in their life.”

Cupid's own heart was beginning to melt.

"Okay," Cupid spoke, wiping a tear from his eye, "I'll give it another shot."

He gathered his bow and arrows and headed out the front door. The Supervisor followed, closing the door on his way out.

"What a moron," he muttered. "Thank God I was able to get a quick annulment from that broad, what a mistake that would have been!”

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

CHOCOLATE, NOT CHOCOLATE by Janet Cipolli

Every year when Valentine’s Day rolls around, Walter Chester’s mouth begins to drool. For the past ten years, he and his wife Beth have spent cupid’s holiday at Mario’s Restaurant indulging in the most-delectable Italian foods and wine. Upon returning home, the two cozy up in front of the television to watch The Honeymooners and share a Valentine of Russell Stover chocolate.
     Unfortunately for Walter, this year Beth is determined to stick with her diet and exercise plan that she began right after the New Year’s holiday. As she prepares to break the news to her husband over breakfast, she braces herself for the inevitable tug-of-war.
     “How about hittin’ me with another short stack sweetie?” asked Walter, smacking his lips and wiping maple syrup from his chin.
     Beth, sipping her coffee, “Walt, do you honestly think you need it?”
     “If you want me to shovel that foot of snow out there so you can head over to Fat Central—yes, I do” he chided.
     Beth tilted her head with a look of annoyance, “I’ll have you know that I am totally committed to the gym this year. The girls and I have decided to take charge of our bodies.”
     Walter handed her his plate, “Cool, throw another side of “oink” on here while you’re at it.”
     Beth rolled her eyes and shook her head as she took the plate over to the stove to pile on Walter’s second helping. Foregoing further hesitation, she proceeded to bring up her plans for Valentine’s Day.
     “While we’re on the subject of food, I’ve decided we’re not going to Mario’s this year for Valentine’s Day and I don’t want you to buy me any chocolate either.” She sat down and handed Walter his plate.
     “Why not?” he asked dumbfounded.
     “Because,” she replied, “I don’t want the temptation.”
     “But it’s Valentine’s Day. We always go to Mario’s.”
     “Not this year. It will completely blow my diet.”
     Beth now had her husband’s full attention. Walter sat holding his fork over the untouched second stack.
     “You can have a salad,” he offered.
     “Walter, be serious. I’m not going to sit eating a plate of rabbit food staring at your pile of lasagna and baskets of garlic bread, not to mention the cannoli.”
     “I’ll get calamari,” Walter debated. “That’s fish. You can have fish can’t you?”
     “Not deep-fried, and you’re not hearing me…” in a singsong voice.
     “Okay,” as he finally attacks his pancakes. “We can go someplace else but I’m definitely buying Russell Stover.”
     “No you’re not, I don’t want chocolate.”
     “Well, Valentine’s Day isn’t just about YOU,” he whined. “I’m a Valentine too and I love Nut, Chewy and Crisp!”
     Beth smiled. “Yes, you are a Valentine and don’t worry, I got you something.”
     “Well its first name better be Russell,” he warned.
     Beth poured herself another cup of coffee, feeling pleased with herself for standing her ground.
     “No Mario’s, no Russell and no whining. All of us girls agreed to spend Valentine’s Day evening together at the gym, working out. And that’s that.”
     Walter stared at his wife for a minute, ”So what do you want for Valentine’s Day then?”
     Beth felt relief, “Well, since you’re allergic to flowers and perfume, how about some lingerie?”
     “I’m not going to a lingerie store,” resuming his stack attack.
     Beth laughed, “Why not?”
     “Everything is so…pink,” he stuttered.
     With a heavy sigh, Beth stared as Walter finished wiping his mouth.
     “I know!” he snickered. “I’ll buy you an Aloe Plant. You can use it on that caloric burn you’re always talking about.”
     Beth was unable to hide her disappointment, “Where is that romantic guy I married?”
     “Still here sweetie,” grabbing his coat and gloves. “Same weight too.”
     Beth bit her tongue until she heard the back door close. “Burn this.”

When the evening of Valentine’s Day arrived, Beth set off to meet her friends at the gym while Walter settled in on the sofa. The Honeymooners marathon was about to begin and although the absence of his wife was felt, the 2-lb box of Nut, Chewy And Crisp he managed to sneak past her offered him great comfort. As he ripped through the wrapping and pulled off the cover, the robustly rich smell of his favorite chocolate wafted around his nostrils till all he could do was close his eyes and feel the buzz. About five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
     “One large pepperoni?” the delivery boy asked.
     “That’s me,” replied Walter.
     The boy continued, hoping for a nice tip, “Enjoying a happy Valentine’s Day sir?”
     “Yes, very much,” shutting the door.
     It wasn’t that Walter was cheap; he just couldn’t wait any longer to sink his teeth into his Valentine treats.
     After only two episodes of Ralph Kramden sending Alice to the moon, Walter sat back on the sofa looking down at the all but empty box of chocolates and discarded pizza crusts. Admittedly, he felt like a stuffed sausage. Suddenly, the sound of keys in the front door made him jump—it was Beth!
     “Hey you,” leaping off the sofa and shoving the remains of his feast to the floor. “You’re back early.”
     The expression on her face was one of sheer disappointment.
     “They all caved!” throwing her coat and purse in disgust. “I was the only one who showed up! They all went out to dinner with their husbands, can you believe that?”
     “Aw, I’m sorry,” putting his arms around her, mainly to shield her from the incriminating evidence.
     “They’re probably all out feasting on lobster ravioli,” she moaned then noticed the pizza box on the floor.
     “You had pizza?” she asked with longing in her voice.
     Walter stretched his arm behind the sofa and pulled out her Valentine gift.
     “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he grinned as he handed her an Aloe plant wrapped with a big red ribbon.
     Beth wasn't amused. She pouted as she lifted the cover to the empty pizza box. Walter suddenly remembered the last piece of chocolate still in the box on the floor and bent over to get it. When Beth saw it her mouth dropped
     “Chocolates? You bought chocolates?” her eyes bulging with desire as she reached for them.
     “Bad for the diet,” and popped it in his mouth.
     Feeling depressed and defeated, Beth headed off towards the kitchen thinking out loud; “I wonder if kicking myself in the ass counts as aerobic activity.”
     Walter, still working on the last Chewy, “Whatever gets your heart rate up sweetie.”

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

AUTO REPAIR FOR THE CLUELESS by Janet Cipolli

Most people really don't care what goes on under the hood of their car. They just want to get in, start it up and let blind faith get them to wherever they're going. Then the unexpected happens. We’ve all been there. You’re driving along, not a care in the world, and then –BANG! You drive the next few miles praying to all the saints, including Al Sharpton, that the god-awful noise your car has decided to make will just go away. But it doesn’t, in fact it gets worse.

If you’re like the majority of folk, the very idea of bringing your car into a repair shop can be unnerving—and rightly so. Auto repair shops are as intimidating as a Hells Angel standing behind you in line at Krispy Kreme (you leave with a dozen Plain and decide to return later); as eerie and uninviting as that banjo-picker from "Deliverance". Car mechanics have always belonged to an exclusive and impenetrable boys club of sorts. Unfortunately, the sound of metal scraping concrete says it's time to bite the lug nut. With your tailpipe between your legs, you humbly enter the local garage with the hope that it’s not that bad. Of course, it’s never that bad—it’s always worse, far worse.

Whenever the clueless walk into a repair shop, there’s always a “tell” that gives our ignorance away.

For men, it’s either the way they’re dressed (never wear a suit to a garage and if you’ve been out golfing do yourself a favor and go home and change first) or the lack of tattoos (this says you have no interest in male bonding and that alone could cost you). If you’re a manly man and sport a tat or two, try wiping that forced look of infinite knowledge off your face. Mechanics are trained to smell fear.

If you’re a woman, you’re better off finding someone named Butch to take your car in for a repair estimate. An auto repair shop is no place for a woman. It’s like walking into the back room of a bar. Every mechanic stops what they're doing to compare you to their ideal which is usually hanging right above their toolbox. Did you ever notice that it’s always January in a repair shop?

Since requiring the services of a mechanic is about as inevitable as needing a dentist at some point in your life (and just as painful), finding one located conveniently nearby and running a background check on him might prove beneficial. Here are three easy steps you can take:

1) Find out how the mechanic likes his coffee and what kind of doughnuts he enjoys, then on a weekly basis, just drop in on him without requiring any service—this tells him you care and will definitely keep the future cost of any minor repairs to a minimum.

2) If your mechanic is married, find out what kind of perfume his wife wears and buy large quantities to keep on hand at all times. This comes in handy when faced with more serious engine problems.

3) For a full-blown transmission, the mother-of-all-repairs, just go for the 14-day cruise around the Mediterranean. Trust me, it will cost you far less-just ask the putz standing next to you-yeah, the one wearing the forced look of infinite knowledge.

Of course, these aren’t your only option. Barnes & Noble offers CAR REPAIR FOR DUMMIES but like the title suggests you’re already an idiot so just leave a blank check the next time you crack a head gasket.

There’s a good reason why mechanics over-charge to repair your car—because they can.

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

THE PAPERBOY by Janet Cipolli

Andrew has a pretty easy job and it pays pretty good too.
     "What do you plan to do with this season's windfall?" asked his Dad.
     Andrew thought for a minute, "Maybe I'll take us all on vacation. How about Disney World?”
     His Dad chuckled and opened his newspaper. Even he couldn't believe how his 10-year-old son had turned a funny observation into a moneymaking venture.
     Andrew and his Dad had been driving through their neighborhood on the way home from a hockey game. His Dad tried to take him to a game once a week but there was never enough money for T-shirts or any memorabilia. His Dad wasn't rich.
     On this particular day, Andrew had noticed that many houses along the route home had newspapers piling up on their front lawns, porches and driveways.
     "How come people leave their newspapers outside in the snow to get ruined like that? What a waste of money."
     His father looked to one side of the street and then the other.
     "Well, that house over there is where Sal the plumber lives. He's in Florida with his family and I wish he'd get home soon because our water heater is still leaking."
     Andrew pondered his Dad's words. When they turned onto their street he noticed the house on the left had newspapers piled up at the end of their driveway.
     "Look!" exclaimed Andrew, "Carly's family is in California! Wow, I'll bet everybody is someplace else—that’s why they're piling up!"
     His Dad agreed as they pulled into their driveway.
     "I got an idea!” said Andrew with excitement. “Yep, I got a great idea!"
     He hopped on his bicycle and rode all over the neighborhood, writing down all the addresses that had newspapers piled outside. With the help of his parents, he contacted everyone on the list and convinced them to hire him as their "away paperboy." Instead of delivering their newspapers he would be taking them away.
     "That's a great idea!" they told him. "No need for us to broadcast that we're not home for a few days. Thanks Andrew!"
     His Dad looked up from his morning newspaper, "How would you like to go to a hockey game this weekend son?"
     "Well, I've got every T-shirt from every hockey team that's played here this season." he deliberated. "How about we hit the basketball scene? I'll even buy you a shirt."
     He looked inside his newly purchased wallet. "It's school vacation and I'm loaded!"

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

HORSING AROUND by Janet Cipolli

It's always a good idea to have a place to put a horse before you buy one. Of course, my Dad wasn't concerned with what he called "minor details." He wanted to buy my younger sister and I a horse and it didn't matter that we lived on a tiny quarter-acre of property with a 3-bedroom ranch, two-car garage and no stable. In fact, we didn't have a chicken coop either but that didn't stop him from bringing home twenty chickens and a rooster. He got the idea he wanted fresh eggs for breakfast so now we have chickens. My sister wanted a horse so he bought us a horse.

My father was born on another planet—far, far away on the other end of the galaxy. There, folks don't get bogged down with common sense--they just go after what they want and worry about everything the rest of us might consider "important" when they cross that particular bridge. I’ve never met his people. Nor do I have immediate plans.

The horse was a beauty--a palomino. Not a pony either but a full-grown horsey. He didn't come with a saddle but he had a harness and bit with rope attached for reins.

"Oh Daddy! I love him!" exclaimed my clueless sister. "What's his name?"

"I didn't ask," said our Dad while tying the newest member of our family to a small Maple tree in the backyard. "Guess we can call him whatever we want." But of course Dad, I thought to myself. It's a good thing you remember our names.

I was obviously the only one who thought it weird that we now had a horse tied to a tree in our backyard. That was until the very next morning when the neighbors two streets over got to meet him. At first, my sister and I thought the horse had gotten loose, after all my Dad had only flung a rope around the tree a few times and not very diligently. When the first call came in we ran outside and sure enough the horse was gone.

"Daddy!" my sister yelled. We could hear his voice behind us. "Where are you?" we called out.

"I'm feeding the chickens." He was behind the garage in a fenced off area that was a makeshift home for the hens.

"Marshmallow is gone!" cried my sister. Oh yeah, she named it Marshmallow which I thought was so dumb. I had suggested the name Pally, short for Palomino but my sister had pooh-poohed it saying, "I'll bet every Palomino is called Pally." Uh, right--"that's because it's a good name dufus.”

My Dad looked completely indifferent to the fact that people were calling our house to tell us they just saw our horse galloping past their window. "He's okay,” our father replied nonchalantly. “I just let him loose for a little while so he could stretch his legs." I looked at my sister and she at me, both of our heads tilting to the side in unison.

"Daddy?" I spoke first, being the oldest. "I don't think it was wise to do that. A car could hit him.”

He looked at me and then back at the chickens pecking at his feet. “Hmm, you know? You might have a good point there,” he said. I hope the spaceship returns for you soon Dad, you must miss your people an awful lot.

He put down the pail of chicken feed—it took all of two seconds for the hungry hens to knock it over and begin their binge eating—and walked down the driveway. “You girls go inside and I’ll go get Marshmallow.”

My sister and I went in the house and waited—our arms resting on the back of the sofa watching out the big picture window. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hello dear, this is Mrs. Whitaker over on Highland Street,” said a woman’s voice, “I think you’re father might need some help.”

“What happened? Is he alright?” I nervously asked.

“Well, he seems to be alright,” She hesitated. “But I don’t think he’s ever going to catch that horse with his bare hands. They’ve already run past my house a dozen times.”

I don’t know why, but I apologized to Mrs. Whitaker. Then I went over to my sister and apologized to her for calling her a dufus.

“It’s not your fault,” I said, peering down the street. “Apparently it’s genetic.”

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Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

THE CHINESE TULIPS by Janet Cipolli

My six-year-old granddaughter was spending Saturday afternoon with me, as she often did when her mother had many errands to do. Luckily for both of us, we shared a love for flower gardening. Lucky for me because I didn't have to find endless ways to keep her occupied and lucky for her because she was discovering the joy of gardening, something her mother had little time to show her.
     Very quickly, she learned the process of planting seeds, nurturing them with both water and plant food and reaping the rewards of their colorful blooms smiling back at her. In fact, she became so interested in growing flowers that she made it her job to greet the mailman when she visited to check for the arrival of my new seed catalogs. I was very impressed.
     One afternoon we sat looking through the latest catalog together and she became excited over a picture of multi-colored tulips.
     "Grandma, look at these!" she said with excitement, "Can we get some and plant them in our garden?"
     "I don't see why not. I’ve never planted tulips but Joe's Nursery must sell them." I replied.
     So we hopped in my car and drove to the nursery. She and I picked out about half-a-dozen pouches of tulip bulbs--different colors and varieties. We then returned home where she proceeded to introduce them to their new friends.
     "Zinnias and petunias, meet the tulips,” she said, holding up the bulbs for all to see. She dug a small hole with her spoon and buried the bulb with dirt.
     "Oh no honey, that's not deep enough," as I read the label on the pouch, "We need to make holes about this deep." I held one hand above the other to show her the distance.
     Halfway through our digging, she sat back on her heels and asked, "Grandma, if we just kept digging and digging and never stopped, what do you think we'd find?"
     I smiled--remembering when I asked that same question to my mother as a child. "Well we'd end up in China, on the other side of the world." She sat staring at me and then at the holes in the ground.
     "Humph! That's too far for me to dig."
     I agreed with her and we finished planting. She watered the garden, giving an extra gulp to the tulips before we called it a day.
     Three weeks later, neither of us could see any progress in the tulip department. Not one little sprout. She looked up at me as if she had just opened a Christmas present filled with coal.
     “Where’s my tulips?” she pouted.
     I surely didn’t know but I took a guess.
     “Maybe the bulbs were bad. Let’s go back to Joe’s Nursery and buy some new ones.” She happily agreed.
     An hour later, we finished planting our second crop of tulips and crossed our fingers. She also crossed her eyes, which made us both laugh.
     Another three weeks passed and still no sign of our colorful little friends. My granddaughter was beside herself.
     “Well this is a rip-off!” with her hands on her hips. “We need to go back to Joe’s and tell him he has deadbeat bulbs!”
     I stood, pondering what could possibly have gone wrong—we did everything right, so it has to be the bulbs. I let out a deep sigh.
     “Let’s go inside and have lunch sweetie,” I offered. “Let me think about this for a bit.”
     After a quick soup and sandwich, I noticed the mailman pulling up outside. My granddaughter went out to meet him as I stood by the door.
     “Hi there,” greeted the postman, “There’s a new flower catalog for you in here,” handing her a large stack of mail.
     “Big deal,” she replied with a scowl.
     “What’s wrong? I thought you loved those catalogs,” he probed.
     She shrugged and told him about the disappointing experience of planting tulips.
     “Hm,” he scratched his head. “My wife plants tulips every year and she never has a problem. You do know they have a top side and a bottom side, right?”
     She turned to me, looking like a wood plank had just bonked her upside the head.
     “No…” her voice trailed upwards.
     “Well then, maybe that’s the problem—you planted them upside down.”
     As the mailman drove off down the road, a smile returned to her cute little face. I took the pile of mail from her and put on my gardening gloves. We both marched outside to the garden.
     “Well now, let’s dig these all up so we can turn them around.” I announced, much to her surprised dismay.
     “Oh no Grandma, we can’t do that!” she objected.
     “Why not?” I asked.
     “Because,” staring down at the empty flowerbed, “we don’t want the Chinese families to wake up tomorrow and find all their tulips gone!”
     Now, how could I argue with that? So, we drove back to Joe’s Nursery and eventually proved the old saying to be true—third time’s a charm!

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Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

FAKE, NOT FAKE by Janet Cipolli

Beth and Walter Chester were doing their annual holiday browsing through Home Depot. Beth enjoys looking at the seasonal displays of brightly lit trees and holiday decorations. Walter doesn’t mind as long as he can check out the endless supply of switch plates, indoor thermometers and birdfeeders.
     "What a beautiful tree! Walter, look." Beth pointed to a seven-foot-tall white artificial tree with multi-colored lights.
     "I hate white trees. Especially fake white trees."
     "You paid $150 for the fake tree we bought here two years ago. You love that tree."
     "It's not white sweetie." he debated in his bull-headed way. "And I don't love it. I think we’re going to get a real tree this year.” He stood tall breathing in an imaginary aroma. “A lush pine-smelling eight-footer."
     Beth turned to him, arms crossed, anticipating the imminent battle of dealing with her husband's stubborn nature.
     "Oh no, we're not spending any more money on a new tree. The one we have in the basement is just fine."
     "Nah, I want a real tree. I want to wake up on Christmas morning and smell the outdoors, the Alps, the Rocky Mountains--all those big hills."
     Beth turned away with a huff.
     "I am not dealing with the mess of a real tree," she insisted. "Falling pine needles and spilt water all over the place? Uh, uh.”
     She already knew it would be pointless to continue her argument because of the faraway blank stare on her husband's face. At that very moment, Walter was skiing down the Matterhorn with someone named Jean Philippe amid the fresh scent of pine trees. She could only hope one of those eight-footers was directly in his path—he could use a good reality whack.
     A week later, Walter was getting ready to drive over to Pine Acres, a local purveyor of Xmas trees, and was excited about it. Beth had already made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with shopping for his “dream tree” and that was fine with him. 'A few fallen needles and some spilt water, big deal,' he thought to himself. He could handle that. As he reached for the car keys he looked to see if his wife had perhaps emerged from her mood.
     “Do you think we need a tree stand sweetie?”
     Beth’s facial expression was sufficient.
     On his way down the street, Walter noticed all the holiday decorations on his neighbor’s houses. He stopped at the corner of the street.
     “Now that’s a tree!” he said out loud. On the front lawn of the corner house stood a brightly decorated Blue Spruce. He knew an elderly couple lived there but in all the years he could remember this was the first time they had ever decorated that tree. Boy, it looked good.
     As he turned the corner, the station wagon hit something—big enough for Walter to bang the side of his head against the door. From the sound of crunching metal under the car, it wasn’t hard to imagine what had just happened.
     “Mommy!” a little boy shouted. “My bike!”
     Walter got out of the car to see the boy’s mother storming out of her house.
     “I’m sorry kid,” Walter offered, looking under the car. “I didn’t see your bike. What’s it doing in the street anyway?”
     The boys’ angry mother rushed towards him. “I just bought that bike for him now look what you did!”
     “Whoa, lady” Walter leaned back. “Back off! I really didn’t see it. Here,” taking his wallet out of his back pocket “is fifty-dollars enough to replace it?”
     The woman stuck her nose in the air, grabbed the cash and shoved it inside her top. “You’re just lucky my old man isn’t home or it might have cost you more than just your money, mister.”
     “Yeah, okay,” Walter smirked. “You have a nice day too.” He took his time, moseying back to his car to let her know he wasn’t afraid of her, her imaginary old man or starring in an episode of COPS.
     Back on the road, he arrived at Pine Acres to find it crawling with people and their kids fighting over which tree to buy.
     “Daddy, Daddy! Get this one!” one kid shouted as the tree he was holding fell on top of him.
     Walter steered his way through the rambunctious crowd to an area towards the back. There, under a hand-painted sign that read NORTHERN BLUE SPRUCE, he spotted his tree. It was beautiful—just like the luscious eight-footer he had imagined. He shoved his face between the branches and inhaled the fresh aroma.
     “Get your face out of the tree,” said the worker.
     Walter jumped back causing pine needles to stick to his hair, “I’m buying this tree,” pulling out his wallet. “How much is it?”
     “100 dollars.”
     Walter pulled out his cash and counted sixty-five. “Here, I’ll write you a check for the difference,” handing the money to the young man.
     “Cash only mister,” pointing his finger to a sign that read NO CHECKS.
     Perturbed, Walter envisioned the face of the angry mother with the bike and silently cursed her before reaching for his ATM card, “Hold this tree. I’ll be right back.”
     The worker handed Walter back his sixty-five dollars. “Can’t hold trees mister. First come, first served.”
     Walter began to get agitated and flustered. “Well then take my cash as a down-payment. I want this tree.”
     The young man pointed his finger towards another sign that read NO DOWN PAYMENTS ACCEPTED.
     Walter impatiently looked around at the increasing number of tree shoppers headed toward the area of his Northern Blue Spruce.
     “Oh look Marvin, what a beautiful tree!” a woman’s voice caught his attention. “That’s the one I want.” She was pointing right at Walter’s tree.
     “Oh no you can’t buy this one,” Walter told her. “I already bought it. Go away.” Waving them to move on. She looked suspiciously at Walter before taking hold of her husband’s arm and turning away.
     Walter shoved his wallet back into his pant pocket and with both arms outstretched grabbed the Northern Blue Spruce and picked it up. Boy, was it heavy! He put it back down and tried to figure out a way to get it to his car. He thought “if I could just get it to the station wagon, I can tie it to the roof and have Beth bring me the rest of the cash.” He set it down on the ground, picked it up by the stump and began pulling it along towards the parking lot.
     “Hey! Put that back!” a worker yelled.
     Walter picked up his pace and yelled back. “That’s okay, thank you, I got it!”
     Just as he caught site of the station wagon, a strong yank backwards made him lose his footing. He looked up from the gravel to see two men hoisting up his Northern Blue Spruce. Walter jumped up and with the help of his flowing adrenaline, he thrust his arms between the branches and matched the formidable force of the two men. For a minute there he thought he had them and if it weren’t for the distracting sounds of the approaching police sirens—he would have.
     “So, how much has this dream tree cost us so far?” Beth taunted as she and Walter left the police station.
     “Don’t ask,” was his reply.
     After they got home and much to Beth’s chagrin, Walter headed down to the basement and came up carrying their artificial tree. Ten minutes later, Walter walked back into the kitchen and put on his jacket.
     "Where are you going now?" Beth asked.
     "To get our tree."
     "You just brought it up from the basement.”
     "I told you we’re getting a real tree this year, get with the program sweetie."
     "What did you do with our fake tree?”
     "I gave it to the old couple down the street." grabbing the car keys, "Oh and I promised them all our ornaments and lights too so we'll have to pick up some new ones."
     "Why the hell did you do that?" crossing her arms yet again.
     "Because that’s what they wanted for the Blue Spruce on their front lawn.”
     It was now Beth who stood with a blank stare. As Walter began to leave he stopped and turned to his wife.
     "Do we have an axe sweetie?"

______________________________________________
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

THE PANTRY RAID by Janet Cipolli

White Flour and Granulated Sugar were in a semi-heated debate when Marissa walked into the pantry. She had just come home from the grocery store.

"I hope she bought vanilla for tonight's chocolate cake,” puffed White Flour.

Granulated Sugar, still boiling over from their argument, "Everything is always about you! Did you ever think she might want peanut brittle?"

"What's with you? Pretty sour attitude you got there."

Marissa placed the grocery bag on the counter just below a shelf of snack foods. She stood staring at the bags of Potato Chips, Cheese Popcorn and Pizza Pretzels. One by one, she gathered them up, clearing the shelf.

"Hey! What's with all the jostling?" popped off Cheese Popcorn. "I was feeling pretty comfy up there."

"Yeah," cracked Pizza Pretzels. "I'm breaking up!"

"Didn't you hear?" White Flour laughed. "She has to cut back on salt and you're all guilty as charged! You're looking at some serious trash time you bunch of no-good artificial losers."

"That's just like you to place your sorry White Flour ass up on a pedestal." poked Granulated Sugar. "I heard she's switching to Stone Ground Whole Wheat Flour. Ha!"

"Yeah right, llike that will ever happen. Look at her. Right now she's thinking about whipping up a huge plate of buttermilk pancakes loaded with butter and maple syrup. Stone Ground Wheat Flour is only good for one thing."

"And what's that?" asked Potato Chips right before she crushed him and threw him in the trash bin. White Flour's answer couldn't be heard above the ear-crackling screams of Pizza Pretzel.

"Guys, help me, please," pleaded Cheese Popcorn. "I'll owe you big time. Help a buddy out!"

White Flour and Granulated Sugar looked at each other.

"Sorry dude." sprinkled Granulated Sugar, "Artificially-colored friends? Uh, I don't think so."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that." said White Flour, sifting out any unintended slur.

Marissa picked up Cheese Popcorn and removed its bag-clip. She uncurled the top and looked inside before reaching in with her right hand.

"It's party time tonight! We'll be mixin' and beatin' and cuttin' in the butter," rapped White Flour.

After two handfuls, Marissa turned Cheese Popcorn upside down into its final resting place, the trashcan. She then reached underneath the cabinet and pulled out a small food scale.

"Uh, oh" White Flour looked over at Granulated Sugar. "This can't be good."

They both watched as Marissa began unpacking the grocery bag. The counter quickly filled up with fresh Fruits and Vegetables, Skinless Chicken Breast and Sugar-Free Frozen Yogurt.

Granulated Sugar screamed while White Flour shimmied behind a giant box of Fiber Rich Cereal.

Marissa grabbed Granulated Sugar and poured it over the stale remains of the discarded snacks.

"Hey look!" snapped Carrot Sticks, "A sack of White Flour, what's up with that?"

Fruit and Vegetables, Skinless Chicken and Sugar-Free Frozen Yogurt looked up just in time to see the edges of White Flour vanish behind the giant box.

"You can run but you can't hide!" they all chimed.

Much to White Flour's relief, Marissa stored away the taunting troublemakers. As she turned off the light, White Flour contemplated his shelf life. Just a few minutes later, Marissa returned to the pantry. She turned on the light and reached for a bowl and spoon.

Fiber Rich Cereal nudged White Flour.

“Look, despite what you’ve heard about me, I consider you family. That's why I'm telling you this...RUN!"

________________________________________________
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

FAIR, NOT FAIR by Janet Cipolli

For their 25th wedding anniversary, Beth and Walter Chester decided to drive cross-country from their hometown in Massachusetts to Los Angeles, CA. Walt had always wanted to visit the West Coast and Beth had always wanted to go to Disneyland but both were afraid of airplanes. This is the one thing they agreed upon—everything else was up for grabs.
     You see, Walter is a stubborn man, always has been. In fact, on their wedding day he decided to stop off for a quick beer with his best man before heading over to the Church. His best man didn't think it was a good idea and protested until finally giving up. That's what most people do around Walter—he runs you down until it's easier to just give up.
     This car trip was proving to be no exception.
     Beth, the sensible half of this duo, made sure the couple had every map of every state they would be passing through and had the GPS navigation system checked and double-checked by their friendly mechanic. So, after three days on the road, why were they still in Pennsylvania? You got it. Walter was being Walter.
     “There’s a truck stop Walt, pull over.”
     Passing the truck stop, “Truckers…all they know is where the best food is and we just ate.”
     “Maybe they can help us with the GPS? They must have one in their trucks, they travel all over creation.”
     “Don’t need the GPS. That’s what got us lost in the first place.”
     “No it’s not.” Beth reaches into the back seat and grabs a pile of maps. “You haven’t looked at one of these since we left. That’s what got us lost!”
     “Don’t need to. I know how to drive west. Besides, as the driver it is my sole responsibility to get us to our destination.”
     “Well, that’s not fair. I do have a brain you know.”
     “Is too fair and I didn’t say that you don’t have a brain. You just need to use it for things other than nagging me.”
     “Nagging you? We’ve traveled less than 400 miles in three days! At this rate we’ll get to California just in time to see Justin Bieber sworn in as Governor.”
     “Ha ha. Funny lady. Pour me another cup of coffee will you sweetie?”
     “You’re unbelievable,” shaking her head. “I’m getting really frustrated with you. I think I should take the wheel for awhile—pull over.”
     “I’m the man, I drive--you pour.”
     “This is not fair!!”
     Walter points to the right side of the road, “See that sign?”
     Beth follows her husband’s finger to a huge sign that reads FAIR.
     “Enough said.” Walter smirks.
     “Oh, yeah?” holding up her finger, “See this sign?”
     The domestic bantering continued for the next 2-1/2 weeks until they finally saw the words “Welcome to Kentucky”. Beth and Walter Chester will always remember their 25th anniversary as the year they both got over their fear of flying.
     “Pass me the peanuts sweetie…”

______________________________________________________
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

HAUNTING MANORVILLE by Janet Cipolli

     “I don’t believe in ghosts."
     “It doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t believe,” countered Wilhelmina, “what matters is three days ago I inventoried 250 bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and now there’s only 226.”
     Just seconds away from Halloween, Wilhelmina and her older sister Ruth tiptoed through the stone corridor of The Manorville Winery, each of them holding a flashlight. Wilhelmina led the midnight convoy as her sister followed too close at her heels.
     “Will you back off?”
     “I’m sorry,” stepping on the back of Willy’s shoe for the twelfth time. “I can’t see with you in the way.”
     The pair traveled along the winding corridor until they reached the massive oak doors of the underground wine cellar.
     “I hope you brought the key” said Ruth to her sister.
     Willy turned holding the brass key in her hand. It had been at the very top of her to-do-list that day.

Henri and Louis Gasteau were brothers and proprietors of The Manorville Winery, a family-owned business since the early 1950’s. Their father had moved the Gasteau family from Bordeaux, France to California after World War II. He purchased 500 acres of land and began the vineyard, which steadfastly grew to be one of Napa Valley’s finest winemaking establishments.
     From the first day that the brothers took over operation of the business, they disagreed about everything—from grape variety to product cost. Unlike Louis, who was a penny-pincher, Henri enjoyed the good life—sparing no expense when it came to cars, women and promoting his wine. He would organize and host extravagant wine-tasting parties on the weekends, offering caviar and truffle-laced delicacies prepared by chefs he had flown in from Provence.
     Louis Gasteau, on the other hand, drove a pickup truck to work each day and carried his lunch in a brown bag. Always looking to cut operating costs, he would argue constantly with Henri about money.
     “We need to charge people to taste our wine—$75 for brunch and the wine sampling,” Louis would adamantly argue.
     Henri would throw up his hands, “You are a fool! People want to come and taste life! Not just food and wine. They want to be pampered, they want to be courted—just like a lover—and then they will buy whatever you put in front of them.”
     “You’re an idiot! By the time we finish filling them with your fancy hors d’oeuvres and our Gold Label wines they would have to buy the entire vineyard for us to just break even!”
     Each morning the same argument and every afternoon the brothers would retire to separate corners of the winery. Henri, in a cloud of his favorite cologne, would stroll off to the Wine Shop to offer visitors free glasses of sparkling wine and chocolate-covered strawberries while Louis stomped down to the wine cellar where he would obsess over the declining inventory.
     In mid-November of 2006, the Manorville staff was informed of the sudden and unexpected passing of Henri Gasteau. Louis didn’t offer any details of his brother’s untimely death but suggested that staffers make an extra effort to promote sales of Henri’s favorite Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc in lieu of any flowers or sympathy cards.
     “It would make Henri very happy,” Louis said.
     How odd, Wilhelmina thought, Henri hated Sauvignon Blanc. As the staff dispersed, she walked over to her boss.
     “I’m very sorry Louis.” offering her condolence, “Didn’t you mean the Cabernet Sauvignon? That was Henri’s personal favorite, wasn’t it?”
     Louis stared at her and for a split second Willy thought she saw anger flash across his eyes.
     “No, it wasn’t.” His voice retained its sternness as his eyes relaxed. “I’m putting you in charge of the wine cellar stock. It will be your job to monitor our inventory and keep me abreast of the count on a twice-weekly basis.”
     With that he went back into his office and closed the door quietly in her face.

Wilhelmina turned the key and pushed open the heavy door. Ruth’s hands were on Willy’s back as they entered the heart of the winery.
     “You really need to get a grip—turn on the light will you? Please?”
     Ruth scuttled along the wall until she found the light switch. The cellar lit up but not too brightly. There were filigree sconces on the walls fitted with low-watt bulbs from Wal-Mart.
     “Oh my, what an impressive painting!” Ruth said admiringly.
     Wilhelmina turned. “The Gasteau brothers. Henri had it commissioned by some French artist. Louis always hated it until an appraiser told him that it was worth a small fortune. Now it’s welded to the wall. Come on,” Willy waved for Ruth to follow, “and watch your step. There’s an open well up here with a 40-foot-drop.”
     “Oh great!”
     “Don’t worry, it’s covered with a plank—just be careful.”
     They walked passed the barrels and to the left, down the narrow path to the storage racks. They got about twenty feet when Willy stopped, holding her arm out to shield Ruth.
     “What?” Ruth couldn’t hold back her giggle, “Flying grapes?”
     “Don’t you smell it?”
     Ruth walked around to stand beside her and sniffed the air.
     “It smells like a wine cellar,” she shrugged.
     “It smells like Sauvignon Blanc!” Willy darted around looking between the aisles of barrels for a leak or broken bottle—anything that would explain the strong aroma that shouldn’t be there.
     “I’m getting tired Willy. I'm not having fun anymore," Ruth appropriately whined.
     Wilhelmina spun around pointing her index finger.
     “You promised to come down here and help me count these bottles! If I can’t explain why twenty-four bottles of Manorville’s finest wine have disappeared…”
     “Alright already! Geez, it’s not like you were ever good at Math—you probably just miscounted, Sherlock.” Ruth looked around, “Where are they?”
     She followed Willy another twenty feet to a row of racks labeled Manorville Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc 2006. Ruth perused the racks—anxious to be done and back home in her warm, cozy bed.
     “So, how do we do this?”
     “I’ll start here with this rack and you go down that end,” Wilhelmina ordered, pulling a small notebook and pencil from her jacket pocket, “we’ll meet at the middle rack and add it all together.”
     About ten minutes later, Ruth announced, “112.”
     Willy scratched at her notebook then shot a look of horror at her sister.
     “What?” demanded Ruth, her nerves wearing thin by now.
     “I counted 104 and with the six in the middle,” her eyes grew wider as she spoke, “now there’s only 222!”
     “Well that can’t be.”
     “Well, it be!” Wilhelmina was beside herself. “Count them again.”
     Ruth and Willy counted the Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc ten more times—and got ten different totals.
     “221 bottles.”
     “218 bottles.”
     “216 bottles.”
     “211 bottles.”
     After the tenth count, the two sisters hurriedly vacated the wine cellar, trying not to trip over each other.

Halloween morning, as the staff gathered in Louis’ office to discuss that afternoon’s wine-tasting party, Wilhelmina sat nervously awaiting her boss’s arrival. Since it had been impossible for her to sleep, she had spent the last several hours rehearsing what she would say to him.
     “Good morning folks,” Louis smiled as he entered and walked to his big oak desk, “is everyone ready for today’s event?”
     Nods and affirmations abounded throughout the room. Louis looked very pleased as he sat down. Wilhelmina began to shake as she raised her hand.
     “Uh, Louis? Can I have a word with you—out there?” pointing to the outer hallway.
     “Why?” Louis asked.
     Willy wrung her hands together as her carefully rehearsed story flew out the window.
     “It appears we have a slight problem…”

Louis stormed into the wine cellar, whacking the light switch on his way to the storage racks. When he reached the Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc his jaw dropped. It didn’t take long to count.
     “60 bottles??"
     Before he could even begin to process, he was startled by a loud crashing sound at the other end of the cellar.
     “What the…?”
     He briskly walked towards the direction of the noise but found nothing. As he started back—BANG! He spun around again, this time witnessing the heavily framed painting of he and Henri go crashing to the floor. As he suspiciously scanned the area, an all-too-familiar scent enveloped him. Could it be?
     “Henri, is that you?” He slowly walked up and down the aisles of barrels. “You have come back to ruin me?” Louis asked sarcastically. “You are as stupid dead as you were alive!”
     Louis watched and listened as he crept back towards his wine bottles. Turning the corner, he gasped in disbelief. The all-but-empty rack held just three remaining bottles. He threw his arms up to form a cross.
     “You’re not welcome here anymore! Now get out!” Louis shouted.
     As if on cue, the low-watt bulbs from Wal-Mart flew out of their sconces, hitting him in the head--one by one. He probably would have left skid marks if he could only have seen where he was going. Oops! Who removed the covering to the well?
     As the guests began to arrive, Henri emptied the last remaining bottle of his brother's wine--and poured a glass of his favorite Cabernet.
     A la bonne vie ! he toasted. To the good life!

WISHING EVERYONE A SAFE AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

_____________________________________________
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

THE RED FOX by Janet Cipolli

On the outskirts of town sits a very old apple orchard. Over 200 years old according to the tombstones nestled in the family graveyard of the owners, The Dickies.

Captain Wallace A. Dickie, a veteran of the Revolutionary War, planted the very first apple trees. Local legend has it that the spirit of the Old Dickie himself tends to the orchard. This came about because generations of Dickies that followed were nothing more than drunkards and dimwits. That lot could hardly be responsible for the sweetest, most bountiful apple crops in the entire state of West Virginia. In fact, the only thing that the old man and the current proprietors, great-grandsons Viran and Chester, have in common is a varmint that has routinely attacked the orchards chicken coop for as long as any living Dickie can remember—a red fox.

Obviously, it’s not the same red fox that Old Wallace pursued in his day but every Dickie is convinced the current nemesis is from the same den. Considering it’s probably a good idea to be sober when trapping any animal—especially a crafty fox, it’s no wonder the score is Red Fox: 126, Dickies: 0.

This days’ trip to the chicken coop was no different for Chester. He could tell from within 10 paces of the coop that the red enemy had been there. Blood and feathers were stuck to the wire fence and a trail of the same led into the nearby woods.

Then he saw it.

There was a flurry of grass and feathers floating up to the heavens. Chester threw down his pail and grabbed a nearby pitchfork. He ran towards the commotion.

“I got you now, you damn bastard! You ain’t getting away today, no sirree!”

He grinned as he raised the pitchfork above his head ready for the slaughter. Down came the pitchfork!

Viran howled like a pig being prepped for a backyard roast.

Chester saw the bright red shirt—bright red from newly spilled blood—and pulled the pitchfork from out of his brother’s back.

“Viran! What the hell are you doing out here? I thought you were sleeping off that ton of whiskey you done drank for breakfast!”

“You stuck me with a pitchfork? You damn fool! I was chasin’ that dang fox, he got into the coop again!”

Viran tried to get up but the ton of whiskey and the gaping forked wound in his back kept him down.

Little did either of them know, just three yards away the elusive red fox had been watching the entire chaotic exchange between brothers and was quite amused.

Legend smegend.

It doesn’t take a fox to outwit a dumb Dickie.

-------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All rights reserved.

THE BIRTHDAY WISH by Janet Cipolli

It was a stormy day from the moment Chrissie got up. In fact, it was the thunderous clap of lightning that awoke her from a very pleasant dream. She was at her birthday party and all her friends were gathered around the table where sat her beautifully decorated cake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting topped by a carousel of tiny horses that were moving their legs as it spun around. Happy Birthday began to emanate from the carousel as brightly colored balloons were released overhead. The candles on the cake were lit and ready for her blast of a birthday wish to come true. With her eyes closed she wished “for the best birthday ever!” She rose up from her chair to reach the flickering lights with her lips poised in a perfect circle—then crash!
        Stunned at first, then annoyed at the sudden end of her wonderful dream, she looked towards the window.
        “Not today!” she moaned.
        As she flung her quilt off to the side of the bed, her feet hit the hardwood floor in perfect unison to the sound of a cracking tree limb. At first, Chrissie looked down expecting to find the floor about to give way beneath her—then the crash outside her second-floor bedroom window revealed the true source. She paused—torn between running for the door and her curiosity to inspect the chaos churning outside. She opted for the door and ran downstairs to find her mother.
        “Mommy!” Chrissie yelled frantically, running from room to room.
        Her mother came out of the kitchen where she had been preparing her daughter’s birthday cake.
        “What on earth is going on?” her mother asked.
        “Look!” Chrissie pointed towards the backyard slider door.
        The branch of a tree was lying against it. As they both hurried towards it, a strong wind gust blew a backyard chair clear across the yard.
        “Mom! What are we going to do? My birthday party!” Chrissie shrilled.
        “Oh, for Pete’s sake Christina, stop shouting.” Her mother peered out into the yard to assess any further damage. The sky was dark gray and the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip—but over to the west she could see the sky clearing and the sun breaking through.
        “It’s just a thundercloud, see over there?” pointing to the brighter end of the sky. “It’ll be over by the time your Dad sets up for the party.” With that, she turned and went back into the kitchen. Chrissie followed but only after taking another inspection of the sky.
        “Mom, how many friends are coming to my party?”
        “At last count, I received twelve yes and one no.”
        “Somebody said no?!” Chrissie dropped her cereal spoon on the breakfast table.
        Her mother casually glanced in her direction.
        “Jessica Morgan Albright said she couldn’t come because she had a dance recital to go to.”
        “Oh, great! She’s the best one of all—now what am I supposed to do?”
        She picked up her spoon and looked into her cereal bowl as if it could tell the future. Jessica Morgan Albright’s family was extremely well off and she would have brought a really nice gift. Chrissie pondered over what it might have been. Maybe that new video game Monster Mania that her mother said was too expensive, or maybe even an IPOD. She had mentioned to Jessica one day at school that she would just “looooove to have an IPOD” like hers. What a bummer! she thought.
        “Those friends of mine better show up with some good presents or I’m gonna be really mad!’ Chrissie blurted out.
        “Christina!’ her mother scolded while shaking her head, “Finish your breakfast and then do your chores before Daddy gets home with the decorations. I don’t know where you get those manners from—certainly not from me. Be thankful that you have friends to come to your party.”
        Chrissie scowled and dove into her Fruit Loops.
        “I was talking to Benjamin’s mother next door,” her mother continued, “and she told me that he invited some friends from school to his birthday party but they all said no.” Then turning to Chrissie, “Did you know it was his birthday too?”
        Her daughter kept her eyes down and went at the cereal like it was her last meal.
        “Christina? Did you invite Ben like I asked you to?”
        Chrissie had eaten enough and heard enough. She got up and put the bowl and spoon in the kitchen sink.
        “I don’t want any boys at my birthday party,” she rolled her eyes.
        But she wasn’t fooling her mother. Chrissie didn’t invite him because he probably couldn’t afford to buy her a present.
        “You have a lot of growing up to do missy,” her mom called after her.

        Benjamin stood at his second-floor bedroom window peering down at Chrissie Clark’s backyard. The birthday party was in full swing. There was even a circus clown who was juggling bright-colored nerf balls. It looked like everyone was having fun. Smack in the middle of the yard was a humongous table set up just for Chrissie’s birthday gifts. Dozens of balloons were tied to it and he could see that gifts had already been opened—mostly clothes, girly stuff. He wouldn’t have been able to give her anything half-as-nice.
        “Benny?” his grandmother called up the staircase. “We’re ready!”
        Today was his birthday too and his grandmother, who had driven up from North Carolina just to see him, had baked his favorite cake—chocolate with chocolate frosting, he even got to lick the bowls.
        Any other time he would have been flying down the staircase but today he wasn’t feeling all that excited. His father had died earlier in the year from a heart attack, leaving he and his mom on their own. She had to go back to work and Ben was left alone most of the time. There wasn’t enough money to buy any decorations and he didn’t expect much of a present either.
        “Here’s the birthday boy!” his Mom endeared.
        She and his grandmother broke out into a chorus of The Birthday Song and he couldn’t help but smile. They were so off key.
        “How does it feel to be eleven years old? Why, you’re almost a teenager,” his grandmother turned to her daughter, “He’ll be driving soon!”
        “I know, my baby is growing up,” smiling affectionately.
        Both women stood there, side-by-side, smiling at him for what seemed an eternity. It was making him nervous. His grandmother poked his mom and they stepped aside to reveal what they had been keeping from his view.
        “Surprise!!” they shouted.
        Benjamin’s mouth dropped! On the kitchen table, right next to his scrumptious chocolate birthday cake—a huge box wrapped in lime green paper with a big orange bow.
        “Mom!” he could hardly speak as he ran over and put his arms around it. He picked it up expecting it to be heavy but it was disappointingly light. His smiling face turned sour.
        “Is this a joke? It’s an empty box, right?”
        “Open it,” his grandmother laughed and looked for matches to light the candles.
        Ben placed his gift back on the table and tore off the bow and paper. Then he had to remove many feet of scotch tape that was keeping the box sealed. Underneath days of crumpled newspapers was another box only much smaller, wrapped in the same lime green paper with no bow but with a card attached. It read ‘you deserve this! Love Mom and Grandma, xoxoxo’
        Ben smiled with anticipation as he opened the present.
        “No way!” he shouted in disbelief, “Monster Mania??”
        It was the new video game that all the kids at school were talking about. He never even bothered to ask his mom for it because it cost so much.
        “Happy Birthday sweetie,” holding her arms out for a hug.
        Though never big on hugs, Benjamin welcomed the opportunity to hide his quickly tearing eyes.
        “Go hug your grandmother too,” releasing him and smiling, “She paid for half of it.”
        After all the hugs, Ben’s grandmother lit his birthday candles. As his face loomed over their light, he wondered what he should wish for. This birthday had already proven itself to be a very special one and he wanted to choose his wish carefully. He had a very strong feeling that whatever he wished for would come true. He thought about Chrissie and her party then made his wish.
        Back upstairs in his bedroom, Ben was so engrossed in his new video game that he hadn’t noticed how dark the room had become. Gradually, pellets of hard rain hitting against the window got his attention. He left the game controller on the carpet where he had been sitting for the past hour and went to the window.
        Outside was chaos. The sudden storm and its torrential rains had sent everyone at the party screaming and running for cover inside the house. All of Chrissie’s friends were stampeding through the decorations like a frightened herd of cattle.
        In the middle of the yard by the humongous table of gifts, stood Chrissie—waving her arms and yelling after them. He couldn’t hear her words but he could tell what she wanted. She wanted help saving her presents which were now drenched and falling off the table.
        Ben watched as she grabbed as many as she could carry and headed towards her hack door. She got about three steps before her feet—with shiny new shoes—slipped out from under her. Down she went—her and the gifts! Benjamin busted out a laugh then felt guilty. It really wasn’t funny. There sat Christina in a puddle of muddy water—the rain relentlessly pelting her head.
       
        The next morning the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and Chrissie was depressed. Her mother had fixed her a wonderful breakfast of powdered French toast with fresh strawberries and a big glass of chocolate milk—hoping her daughter’s mood would brighten. But she just poked at the food with her fork.
         “Christina, I’m so sorry but it’s not the end of the world dear. The holidays will be coming up and Santa will be bringing you lots of presents.”
        Her head still down in her plate, her eyes looked up at her mother.
        “I stopped believing in Santa Claus two years ago, remember? When you and Daddy were creeping by my bedroom?”
        At least now she was talking.
        “I don’t care about the gifts anyway—it’s those idiots who call themselves my friends,” her voice returned to its regular volume. “They don’t care about me! All they cared about yesterday were their pretty new dresses and their pretty new shoes and their pretty little hairdos,” she whined sarcastically.
        Her mother turned to do the morning dishes and was pleased to hear the sound of her daughter’s appetite returning. Just as she finished her breakfast there was a knock at the back door. They could both see through the window that it was Benjamin from next door.
        “Oh, brother—what does he want?” Chrissie got up to put her dish in the sink.
        Her mother went to the back door and opened it. Benjamin stood on the porch holding a small present wrapped in lime green paper with a big orange bow.
        “Hi Mrs. Clark, is Chrissie home?” he sheepishly asked. He was really very shy and it took a lot of courage for him to walk over there this morning.
        She welcomed Ben into the kitchen and called to her daughter.
        “Christina, Benjamin is here. He has something for you.”
        Chrissie, who had begun to head upstairs to her room, turned around and walked back into the kitchen. She saw the present he was holding in his hands.
        Ben nervously spoke. “I saw what happened yesterday from my bedroom and I wanted you to have this. Happy Birthday.”
        Her mother smiled and left the room. Chrissie hesitated before taking the gift from him. She still wasn’t sure if he was only there to gloat.
        As she tore back enough of the tape to reveal the words Monster Mania she ripped through the rest of the lime green paper and flung the orange bow onto the floor.
        “Oh my God! You got Monster Mania for me? I can’t believe it—I asked my parents for this game for my birthday and they said it was too expensive. How could you aff—“ she stopped herself in mid-sentence. “I mean, thank you Benjamin. That’s pretty cool.”
        Ben felt his entire body relax. Yeah, it is pretty cool, he thought.
        “Wow,” she was still turning it over and over in her hands, “So, do you want to come in and play it with me?”
        Ben took a deep breath and said, “Sure!”
        He knew this was a special birthday and that whatever he wished for would come true. He was so glad that he wished for he and Chrissie to become friends.

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Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All rights reserved.

MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN DEAD COWBOYS by Janet Cipolli

A bullet from a .45 pistol shattered a beer bottle sitting atop a broken fence post. Gary had been feeling like that for quite some time. The world was the pistol and he was the bullet.

“Too many celebrities in this world Otis.”

He looked down at his best friend, an auburn-haired Irish Setter, then flicked the last of his cigarette onto the dirt road. Hitting the back of his pickup truck, the ever-obedient Otis jumped in.Gary lifted the heavy drop-down door and banged it shut.

He was mad. He felt mad. Walking around to the driver’s side, he began to think about his last job. He had only begun working there a month ago, putting pizza boxes together and making deliveries for Luigi’s Pizza Palace. Two weeks later, Luigi tells him business is slow, the economy is bad and he has no choice but to let him go.

“But you a good worker Gary,” spoken encouragingly while patting him on the back. “You find another job, I sure of it.”

As usual, he took the punch quietly—just another smack down in life. He gathered his jacket and cowboy hat and walked off into the sunset. Just like John Wayne would have done.

BANG!

Otis barked and jumped up to peer through the truck's window where the loud noise came from.

(TO BE CONTINUED)
  ____________________________
Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All rights reserved.