Almost Famous

I look like Maddox. Do you think Angelina and Brad would adopt me?

I want to travel around the world, go to a French school (until I have to travel around the world), and be in People magazine (my new parents would get paid for those photos).

Maddox and I could hang out. It'd be cool. But don't think I'd be a babysitter for the rest of them. That's not happening.

Still, I could hang.

Penguin

"Hey, mom! Look, I made a penguin!"

"Wow! That's a really good penguin. How did you make it?

"Out of clay. I even baked it in a kiln."

"Why did you choose a penguin?"

"Well, first, I think they're really awesome. Then, my teacher told us about how the earth is getting warmer, and she told us how things are melting and that's hurting all the living things. So, I wanted to make something important."

"That's wonderful! You did a great job. Your father just pulled in. Put your penguin on the table so you can show him."

"Hi, daddy! Look what I made!"

"Hi, honey. No! Don't put the bags down there!"

The penguin was crushed under a pile of paper and plastic bags.

~React by Cynthia~

My neighbors think I'm crazy. I'm not, I just like dancing on rooftops.

In the morning I get the kids off to school, making sure everything is in their backpacks. My husband goes to the office. I drink my second cup of coffee in silence. I then clean a room for that day. Each room is assigned a certain day, it doesn't vary. After the room is cleaned top to bottom, I take a short nap.

When the alarm sounds, I take my outdated CD player and an assortment of CDs to the roof. I plug the player into the building's electricity, turn up the volume, and move. I'll dance to anything. Nothing is planned in advance. I listen, feel, and react.

When my neighbors scream to knock it off, I know it's time to go back to my apartment. I'm back in time to prepare the after school snacks and to start dinner. I welcome my family back to a clean, happy home.

~Start-up by Cynthia~

Driving home, I thought about the presentation I made to a potential client. The group included six men, three women; five gung-ho company people, two wanna-bes, two know-nothings. Nine skeptics. Nine people who could make or break me. Nine I needed.

As I was reassessing, and doubting, my effort to drum up more business, I saw a pick-up truck in front of me.

"No, it couldn't be. I haven't seen one of those in decades."

Speeding up, I got close enough to see it was the same kind of truck my father drove to take us fishing.

Suddenly, I was eight years old again. My father was starting the engine, my brother and I were sitting in the front seat with him. This truck was finicky; you had to start it just right, or else it defied you. After the third turn of the key, it sounded like it was ready to go. Instead, the cab of the truck filled with a thick, acrid smoke. We bailed, leaving the doors open to clear the air.

My father waited a few minutes and tried again. The truck started up fine.Looking at us, dad said, "See, just keep trying. It'll work."

We made it to our fishing spot. We were quiet as we watched the lines - didn't want to scare the fish away. But when dad cleaned the fish, he'd talk. That's when we learned about his childhood, his dreams, his real world, his way of getting by.Now, as I passed the pick-up truck, I didn't look at the driver. I wanted my father to be driving. One more time, I needed him to tell me, "It'll work."

***What fine work all writers did on this piece. Please read Cynthia's gorgeous piece, then continue on to the additional writers' pieces in the comments section.***

~Pink Motel by Cynthia~

"Pixies, my ass," the maid said to her reflection in the mirror.

She ripped off the sheets from the double bed and left them on the floor. She continued into the bathroom to scrub the tub, clean the toilet and empty the wastebasket that held several condom wrappers.

"At least she had the sense to use a rubber."

As the maid worked her way around the room dusting and vacuuming she wondered who was in here last night. It looked like it must have been some party - beer and vodka bottles, soda cans, pizza boxes, a white powder on the nightstand.

She just shook her head and kept on cleaning.

"Don't know why I work so hard. It's not like the people who come in here would even notice."

She put clean sheets on the bed and smoothed the thin bedspread until all the wrinkles were gone.

As she bent to pick up the dirtied sheets, she noticed a piece of paper under the bed.

On the crumpled piece of paper were the words, "Help me! I don't want to be here! Please help me!"The exclamation points all had little hearts at the bottom.

~Not Leaving by Cynthia~

Forty nine years ago I gave my hand to you in marriage. Now you give your hand to me in sickness.

You reach for me from the bed placed in the living room. You can no longer make it upstairs to our marriage bed so I sleep on a love seat next to you. I'm not leaving.

Our hands may be veiny, dry and a bit swollen with arthritis but they have built a good life. Our hands still fit together.

As you sleep, your pain must ease because you smile often. Every once in awhile you mutter words about our life.

When you start to awaken, your hand reaches out. I'll always be there to hold it.

***Lovely***

~Damn Drum by Cynthia~

"Why do I always end up next to the damn drum?"

He blows a few more notes, squelching the need to cover his ears. The signal comes for him to take a solo, a short one because revelers have short attention spans.

As he plays, he looks down at the open instrument cases. He tries to take a fast count of the money collecting in the banged up receptacles but there's too much movement. When his solo ends, no one notices.

He keeps playing, backing another's riff. As the musical notes slide into each other, his eyes shift to the right and he sees his wife and children. They're all looking at him, clapping to the beat and smiling.

"I will get us out of this hell hole," he vows. "I will make them smile even more."

~Helpful Citizen by Cynthia~

The local news camera zoomed in for a close up.

"Hi. I'm Joe Catalano. I've been working for the city for over thirty years. Now I deliver documents for people trying to get into our low income housing."

"Joe," said the new (and in her mind, better) reporter, "what's the best part about your job?"

"Well, that's easy. When I see the kids going into their apartment and yelling about who gets what bedroom."

Hoping to get a better sound bite, the reporter responds, "That's very nice. What's the worst part of your job?"

Joe stops pushing the cart filled with hopes. He looks down, takes a deep breath, and, ignoring the camera, looks at the playground filled with children, looks at the bedroom windows covered with cartoon characters, and then looks directly at the camera.

"I help to get them in here. I help. A bad part is when a kid I helped goes bad. The worst part is when someone's kid is just sleeping and a bullet goes through their window."

The reporter says it's a wrap.

"Thanks, Joe. This will air tomorrow on the 11 o'clock newscast."

Joe nods. He looks up at the windows. He hopes this will help.

***We're certain it helped.***

~Satterfield by Cynthia~

That's my great-grandfather, fourth from the left in the top row. The newspaper didn't know his first name but it was James. James Satterfield.

When I was a child I called him Pop Jim. I didn't know him but my grandmother, his daughter, told us a bit about his life. Looking back, his life was interesting but when I heard the stories he was an embarrassment.

For most of his life he was on the run. Running from the law, women who trusted him with their hearts and futures, and men who trusted him with their money. His "business deals" involved whiskey, card games and, let's say, manly pleasures.

James met my great-grandmother, Gertrude, while he was moving from one town to another. She was sitting on her daddy's front porch cooling off after tending chickens and cows, washing clothes and helping her mama cook the big mid-day meal.

James walked by, covered in dust and stinking to the heavens, and he thought, "Here's a free dinner."

He asked for a glass of water, and she invited him to come through the gate. As James watched Gertrude gracefully and kindly get his water, he knew he was done running.

He stayed at her daddy's place, sleeping in the barn, for six months. He worked as hard as the family. He fell in love with Gertrude. Gertrude fell in love with James. Daddy gave his permission for them to marry.

They bought a small farm in the next town over. They had six children - four boys and two girls. Every so often James would think about his past and shake his head. He got lucky on the run but he still missed the whiskey.

My grandmother told me this photo was taken in town with some of his neighbors. It was taken after the men grudgingly attended church. She told me the women back then may not have been vocal about their wants and needs but they usually got what they wanted. The women just had a way.

She also told me that though her father was a good man and a hard worker, she always felt there was something dangerous about him.

Just look at his right hand. He's instinctively feeling for his gun.

~Laughing Water by Cynthia~

As the boat carrying tourists cut a smooth path through the ocean's waters, its quake extended to the local's small craft.

On the tour boat, the waves were slight, and the party was going full force. The bartender hustled to keep up with the umbrella drink orders, trays of food filled with island delicacies, as well as lemon chicken, were brought out, and the vacation laughter bounced off the water.

No one noticed the man fighting to regain control of his simple vessel.

***What happens next?***

Flasher Bio: Cynthia

Cynthia lives in Dutchess County, New York. She's a wife and a stay-at-home mom to eleven year old twins. The kids are her greatest accomplishment so far.

Since the age of 10 she has written. In her past life, she wrote sales copy for a trade show company. In this life, she wants to write creatively, get paid and build a good life for her and her children.


***Management Note: If your piece is featured, please send us a bio that we can post (to amyc@infotronics.com). If you want, we can post your web address, as well.***

~Untitled 3 by Cynthia~

Looking around the yard, all I see are grimy fences surrounding me. Tall trees, reaching to the sky, are on the outside of the fence, along with the one road out.

On my side, there are old buildings with peeling paint and creaking doors. Sometimes I think if I lean too heavily on a wall, the entire structure will cave in, burying me beneath its rotted wood.

On my side, there are years of sameness. Same routines, same wants, same broken down castles in the air. Looking upward, all I see is untainted space.

***Management Note: Thanks again to Cynthia!We love the contrast between grimy fences and untainted space.***

~Rah, Rah, Har, Har! by Cynthia~

My mother was a cheerleader. She wanted me to be one because I was shy. Now I'm bending over as I support two people on my back. If I make the wrong move, the girls on top of me fall. It's too much responsibility. Actually, right now, the thought of them tumbling down doesn't seem so bad.

How does this help me?

Now I have to laugh with girls I don't care about, and giggle at the idiotic jokes the jocks make.

Help me. Get me out of here.

Mom, this isn't fair.

***Management Notice: Thank You Cynthia! You are the first winner of Raincoat Flashers. Thanks for playing. Let's talk bio and title next week?***