Geeklog Site

A Raphael's Village Contributor Has a New Short Story Collection!

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Another one of our regular contributors with exciting news to share! Editors

Regular contributor Jeff Gardiner has a collection of stories, A Glimpse of the Numinous, available now from Eibonvale Press.

A girl born with a number for a name, destined to become a new messiah...a seagull who becomes a household pet and national celebrity... flashing patterns of light as a key to your darkest fears...an impoverished family with a murderous secret... In the fourteen stories of his first collection, Jeff Gardiner shows a startling range of styles and imagination, from visceral horror to lyrical literary prose. Keen psychological insight is allied to a shrewd knowledge of ancient myth and mysticism. Gardiner’s recurring interest is in religion and spirituality and the strange traces these almost outlawed strangers have left on modern urban life. His characters are often dangerous and unreasonable, their actions unpredictable, a far cry from the rational universe we like to think we share. Look again at your world and let Gardiner show the glimpses you’ve been missing of the doors that beckon you to other ways of seeing. The ominous, the luminous… the numinous.

Available from: http://www.eibonvalepress.co.uk/books/books_numinous.htm or from www.jeffgardiner.com or from http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=glimpse+numinous

Support our contributors and get your copy today!

No Cause to Remain, by KJ Hannah Greenberg

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Another cute story about the wisdom of little children from one of our regular contributors. Humor Editor

No Cause to Remain, by KJ Hannah Greenberg

Siegfried’s mum had not yet picked him up. Mrs. Tharasus bit her lip. Of all of the children in her care, Siegfried was the most likely to squeal, to cry, or to otherwise emphatically telegraph just how displeased he was with a situation. Yet, for reasons beyond the teacher’s ken, that child sat, soldier still, watching the daycare’s doorway.
Bobby, in balance, was already hysterical. Worse than disparaging the limited staff for not catching the imaginary gelatinous monsters, which lurked behind his classroom’s garbage can; worse than decrying the small school for not exterminating the invisible hedgehogs, which stole his friends’ lunches; worse than deprecating the student teachers, who confused attendees’ sets of mittens; was his condemnation of this new dreadfulness -- abandonment. Bobby and Siegfried carpooled.

Mrs. Tharasus phones Siegfried’s mum. The poor woman, up to her eyebrows with florists, with dressmakers, and with other professionals relevant to Julie, Siegfried’s sister’s, wedding, had straight out forgotten the preschoolers. Cursing and apologizing in turn she promised to be on site in ten minutes. For the time being, all she could do was to offer Mrs. Tharasus a free dye and curl at her beauty emporium. Mrs. Tharasus graciously accepted.

That sixth of an hour was eternity for Bobby, and, consequently, for his teacher. He deconstructed the castle that Emmy Lou and Sandra had spent two weeks building. He took all of the toilet paper out of the potty training room. He tried to eat a piece of chalk.

At last, complete with pink hair set tape stuck to her forehead and her small poodle yipping at her heels, Siegfried’s mum arrived. Bobby burst into fresh tears. Siegfried, though, casually regarded the puzzle piece in his hand before returning his attention to the table in front of him. He had gotten bored with counting cars.

Bobby made a linebacker’s lurch for the knees of Siegfried’s mum. Siegfried, though, nonchalantly put back the pieces of his project and restored that box in its correct place on a shelf. He gathered his backpack, his cap and his jacket.

Mrs. Tharasus tried to pry Bobby from Siegfried’s mum, but made due with giving his accoutrements to Siegfried. A tad burdened, the five year-old walked a few paces behind his parent and his friend. That lag gave Mrs. Tharasus the means that she needed to settle with the intrepid young man.

“Siegfried, why weren’t you upset when your mum didn’t come?”

“Didn’t have to be.”

“You trusted me?”

“No.”

“You knew someone else would get you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t care being left here?”

“No.”

Mrs. Tharasus grabbed her own coat, her tidy briefcase and her ring of keys. She took Siegfried’s hand as they crossed the street and walked into the parking lot, where Siegfried’s mum and Bobby were waiting.

“But, you were so brave.”

“Not really.”

“What, then?”

“Grandma woulda’ killed Mum if she left me here forever.”

Laws of the Sea, by Richard Hartwell

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A fun story about how to pull off a good prank from on of our regular contributors. Fiction Editor

The Laws of the Sea, by Richard Hartwell

The very first time I went down to the sea, it was in a Balboa Dinghy. She, for all boats are she by the mystic laws of the sea, was an eight-foot pram: a blunt-nosed, wooden beginner’s boat. She was built along the lines of the more popular Sabot, but was saved from such mediocrity by being manufactured all of wood and she was varnished rather than painted. Because of this she was, obviously of course, older and heavier and slower. But in a breeze--oh my, in a breeze, she was just superb.
She had a starboard leeboard rather than the Sabot’s dagger board, and because of this she often scooted sideways, slipping on the waves on a starboard tack when my ten year old weight could not hold her flat and plunge her lee-board deep enough to prevent side-scuttle. But on a port tack she sailed supremely well, with the leeboard deeply dug into the water. I would perch my butt on the gunwale rail and tuck my feet up under the center seat. I would lean out precariously with one hand holding the main sheet tightly wrapped around my clenched fist, because I couldn’t afford a jam cleat, and the other hand delicately grasping the tiller and working the wind and waves going to weather. She had a blown-out, tomato-red sail made of cotton, but that inefficiency, presumably along with her many and various other sins, was never identified by me nor would I have given any of them any significance if they had been obvious.

In her I was a pirate king and I plied my trade of sail from China Cove and the Pirates’ Cave to Aliotto’s Fish Market and from the Back Bay and Shark Island to The Pavilion. I was a minor master mariner of Newport Harbor and I harnessed the wind to my fancy or else changed my fancies from day to day to fit the mood of the wind. Sometimes I would race, and mostly lose except when it blew hard and hairy, but mostly I settled for day-cruising the coasts of my imagination. I rarely took on passengers and I resented quickly the few I had. I was mostly a loner, but never alone, and only total darkness and the doldrums of night would stop my daily adventuring. On numerous evenings I would finally have to abort any further attempt to search for a whisper of wind and would finally succumb to the need to mount oars and row for shore.

It was on one such night, when I had been forced to row back to dock, that I encountered the other one: my nemesis, the other boy with whom I shared the dock. Actually, I was a latecomer and had only been berthed on the dock for a month or so. Before then I had had to beach my boat nightly, like a coastal buccaneer, tied to a piling or else plunder the shore in search of help to carry her to the garage. We both, the other boy and I, were allowed to keep our boats on this dock by the personal grace of a Grand Dame of the Little Island. She was one of the Beek descendants to whom had been bequeathed the home, the dock, and the legacy and requirement “to help the young people of the Island.” She knew so very little of the ways of water or of those who made their lives at sea, and yet she tried to please us all.

The other boy, I’ll call him Malcolm because I forget his real name and Malcolm seems pretentious enough to fit him, was rich. He owned a Sabot with a sail number in the mid-thousands, while my sail bore double digits only. His boat was fiberglass and gleamed of polished brass and plastic laminates and every expensive “go fast” item money could buy. His sail was pristine white and it had the taut snap and resiliency of tempered Dacron with a perfect pocket, much as a pitcher’s oiled glove, but this pocket could catch the slightest hint of a breeze. His boat was perfect, as was he, and it was false to the sea, as too was he. He never helped others. He always had others waiting to help him. He was pompous and prideful and whiny and false.

On this one particular evening, he had overstayed the welcome of the evening breeze and barely made it back to the dock by sculling and drifting. He must have been there five minutes or so before me, for he had un-stepped his mast and removed his sail. He had unclipped his rudder and dagger-board and they lay atop the white pillow of his folded sail. Only the paddle remained in the boat.

As I approached, rowing with my back to the dock and my dark red sail flapping uselessly above me, I yelled for him to fend me off and secure my painter to a cleat on the dock. He told me to take care of my own problems as he continued to fuss with some personal trifle. I shipped oars and thumped the unforgiving dock knowing I would regret the ding later. I grasped the cleat, jumped to the dock, and wrapped my painter unprofessionally, not in a figure eight with a half-hitch, but coiled around the cleat and dropped in haste. I walked casually across the dock and undid his painter and threw it inboard on his bow.

He had a paddle. He had a dry boat. He also had an outgoing tide and the lights of Newport Harbor on a late summer evening instead of the stars, but he had no common sense. He had no water wisdom. He had no one who cared who could hear his cries. As he slowly drifted away, I finished cleaning my boat and securing my gear. I left his rigging on the gray dock, turned my back, and walked up the ramp homeward.

My grandmother received a call from Miss Beek just a bit before midnight. My grandmother was told to have me remove my boat from the dock first thing in the morning. I was, it seems, a perfectly unacceptable tenet, and she could no longer help a young person such as me. The Coast Guard had picked up Malcolm floating out of the jetty towards the open sea about two hours after I had left him. He had lost his paddle and was traumatized, sitting in the middle of his boat terrified and crying. Apparently Malcolm’s story was somewhat different from mine, not that anyone ever asked me what had happened. His connections and family were different too. No one -- not the Coast Guard, nor Miss Beek, nor even my grandmother -- wanted to hear my side or any story. Everyone assumed that I had maliciously set about to harm Malcolm, because of jealousy I assume. His own sense of superiority and innate stupidity had done him far greater harm than I could ever have designed.

I heard later that he sold his boat, or more likely it was sold for him, and he never went sailing again. At least I never ran into him again, not even at school for he attended a private academy. As for me, I went back to the dock about six the next morning when the bay still glistened with the early morning oil sheen, undisturbed by waves or wakes. I rigged my Balboa Dinghy under the watchful eye of Miss Beek, and ingloriously rowed away because there was not a zephyr of wind, one ten-year-old boy adrift against the world.

Deb Hockenberry

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Deb Hockenberry has always wanted to write for children since she was a child herself. She is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature and is taking an ongoing worshop in writing for children at C.B.I. Clubhouse. In her spare time, Deb loves to watch movies on her DVD player. Especially, Harry Potter! She currently resides in Pennsylvania where she shares an apartment with her cat, Sasha.

The Toss, by Deb Hockenberry

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Enjoy this story of family, loss and healing. Fiction Editor

The Toss, by Deb Hockenberry

Eric raced home kicking the red and orange leaves. He panted as he slammed the front door and hurried into the kitchen. “Dad, will you toss the football with me?” He asked as he dropped his spelling book on the table.
“I can’t. I’m starting dinner,” Ben Martin said, as he smiled at Eric.

“But Dad I have to practice! How can I get to be a quarterback?”

“Remember how we talked about this when Mom died?” Mr. Martin chopped up vegetables and threw them into the slow cooker. “Hmmm. It says in this cookbook that if I cook this on Hi the food will be done in time for a late dinner. Hand me the plate of beef cubes, Eric.” The boy walked over to the counter next to the sink and carried them to his father. “Everyone in our family has new jobs to do. One of mine is making dinner. Maybe one of your friends will toss the ball with you.”

“Me play, me play,” said Eric’s two-year-old sister, Jackie. She smiled and looked up at Eric with big blue eyes. Peanut butter and jelly were smeared around her mouth.

“Naw. You’re too little,” Eric replied as he put his black windbreaker on. His T-shirt hung out beneath his gold and black striped jersey. He went outside and sat on the front step with his dog, Duke.

He looked around and saw his older brother, Dave walking home from school.

“Want to toss the football with me?”

“No,” Dave said grumpily.

“You never want to do anything but stay in your room since Mom died. You used to like tossing the football!”

“Yeah,” Dave said walking up the steps to the front porch. “Things are different now.” He slammed the front door shut.

Why did everything have to change since Mom died? A tear slid down Eric’s cheek.

Eric looked up and down the street. None of his friends were out. He scratched Duke behind the ears. “Who can I play football with, boy? How can I join the NFL if I don’t practice? Eric suddenly had an idea.

“Dad,” he yelled into the house. “I’m going to the park. Duke’s going with me.”

“Do you have any homework?”

“No,” Eric hollered as he ran out the door.

“Okay,” Mr. Martin yelled back. “Come home when it starts getting dark.”

“Let’s go, Duke.” This was the best that Eric had felt all day. Grabbing the pigskin, Eric and Duke ran up the street and to the park.

He looked around and still didn’t see any of his friends. "Shucks! I thought someone would be here. Duke,” Eric said looking around. “I guess it’s just me and you. Want to play ‘fetch’?”

Eric bent down to pick up a stick for Duke to chase. When he did he saw a pair of shoes walking toward him. It was Dave.

“Uh,” Dave mumbled. “I was thinking about tossing the football. Maybe I can do that with you..”

“Great!” Dave threw the football like a professional. It straight as an arrow. Eric’s long arms made the catch with ease. His blond hair flew as he threw the football back. The ball sailed through the park. Leaping, Dave caught the pigskin.

Eric missed the catch when Dave returned it. The ball hit the ground with a thud. “You threw it too hard,” Eric shouted at his brother.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re a dead man when I catch you, Dave.” Eric chased his older brother from one end of the park to the other. Eric ran as fast as he could, over the uneven ground. Duke was at their heels chasing them and barking. Eric forgot about being mad. Even Dave was laughing.

Eric soon caught up to him and tagged him on the shoulder. It was Dave’s turn to chase now.

“You’ll never catch me!” Squealing with laughter, Eric took off.

Dave caught up to his brother quickly. When he realized this, Eric quickened his pace. He ran faster but just couldn’t shake his brother.

“Give up?” Dave asked.

“Yeah,” Eric said panting.

Eric sat down on a swing and thought about how his life had suddenly changed. Dad always tossed the football with me before. Why did everything have to change?

“Hey, the sun’s going down,” announced Dave. “We better head home.”

The two brothers walked down the street toward their house.

Eric looked at Dave and asked, “Why did things change so much when Mom died?”

“Everyone in the family has new jobs to do since Mom died” was the answer.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Dave “We all have to do the jobs that Mom used to do before she died. It’s sad and not much fun,” Dave twirled the football upright with his fingers. “ Like, we both have to help Dad help with Jackie, Dad always makes supper now. He never did before. We both do the dishes too. We all clean the house on Saturdays. Things have changed a lot,” Dave tossed the football into the air and caught it again. Then he continued, “I figure it this way, Eric. We’re covering for Mom.”

“Then we’re still a family?”

“Sure,” Dave answered. “You’re still my pesky kid brother, too.”

“Come on,” Eric shouted. “I’ll race you home!"

Frelisa Walker

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Frelisa Walker won the 1989 WJBK TV2 Essay Writing Contest for her school. Since then she has graduated from the University of Detroit Mercy and she is now working on completing her studies at Long Ridge Writers Group. She resides in a suburb of Detroit where she writes short fiction and essays.

Hunting for Red, by Frelisa Walker

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Enjoy this story of family, frustration and laundry. Humor Editor

Hunting for Red, by Frelisa Walker

Yesterday, I gave Drew, my son, the money to buy mosquito repellent to spray my mother’s yard for our family reunion. He bought it, but he forgot to bring it for our visit. At the beginning of the dinner, Uncle Mark and Aunt Raven smacked themselves and asked for the repellent. I didn’t want them ridiculing him. So, I said to them, “There’s no need for it.” Even though, I had shorts on and bite marks covered my legs.
Mark and Raven believed Drew never carried out anything right. They weren’t perfect either. One time they brought Chinese food to our home for dinner. The food was on the top of the roof of their car. Uncle Mark said, “Maybe that’s why people blew their horns at us, Raven.”

The way Drew left the laundry room was another problem. If he washed and dried the laundry, it wasn’t done right. I questioned, “Should I clean the laundry myself?”

Our dryer was above the washer. I reached it with the help of our aluminum step-ladder. I clicked it open to check for clothes. Trouble; no one had emptied it. Drew had crammed clothes, dish towels, and two bed comforters into the dryer. What was this? Damp and dry clothes came together to form a ball inside one of the comforters.

Never mind. I knew Drew jammed the clothes, quilts, and towels in the dryer to shorten the loads for drying them. I pulled one piece at a time out, to prevent all them from falling out on me at once.

A red sock twisted around a blouse and a striped dish towel. My feet wobbled the ladder as I yanked the sock. I covered my face. The clothes and towels flew on top of me.

I placed the towels in a large green basket because they were soggy. I tossed the clothes into two separate baskets, one for the damp and the other one for the dry clothes. A few of them stuck to my sweater and pants because Drew failed to use the dryer sheets. The static cling caused me to be charged. I tried to finish folding the dry clothes fast, not happening; too many of them were sticking together. Everything always took longer than it had to in the laundry room.

I still refused to scratch my legs, especially the itch on the back of my right leg because I’d have to admit Drew messed up the laundry again and the reunion. He needed to take responsibility and to learn to follow through on things.

I only had one red sock. How could two socks go in and one come out? Drew put one in the washer and then in the dryer.

I should fix this problem by finding the sock myself. I’d decided not to do it.

***

"Drew, did you pack the dryer?" I asked. He studied in his room with the radio and internet running. How could he concentrate on completing his homework?

"Yeah," Drew said. He lowered the sound on the radio.

I held the red sock in my hand.”Where's the other sock?"

"I don't know?"

"Go back to your studying, but turn all that off!" I wasn’t in the mood to play games. I grasped the door knob, ignoring my itch. I got fried by the static. I shook my hand.

"Mama, are you having a long day?" Drew smiled.

"What do you need?"

"Jillian is the girl that sits in front of me. She farts all during class."

"Have you asked the teacher to move your seat and to open the window?"

"No."

"Tell the teacher.”

"I can't!"

"You're going to smell that every day." I put my hand on my hip and I waited for him to argue with me.

"I'll tell the teacher before class."

I wrapped my hand with my sleeve before I left the room. Then I realized he’d changed. He’d chosen to speak up for himself.

"Are you having a bad day?" he asked again.

"Yeah.” The itch moved down towards my ankle. “Make sure you put all the clothes in the washer and dryer. And don’t put too many clothes in the dryer and use the fabric sheets.”

“Will do.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “Mom, check the back of your right leg.”

I dug my nails into the back of my pants leg. My nails got caught up in a red sock.

It's Always Raining When You Look Sideways, by Margaret Phillips

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

A new contributor reminds us why it's always wise to look at things from another perspective. Fiction Editor

It's Always Raining When You Look Sideways, by Margaret Phillips

Ethan Parrola sat in the breakfast nook of his kitchen, focused on his cell phone, his lanky body folded into one of the small chairs that surrounded the table. Across from him sat Garrett Cho, intently scrolling through messages while disregarding the sighs of his best friend. On most Sundays the pair could be found working on spins or jumps at the skate park but today their scuffed boards sat at their feet, ignored. Ethan and Garrett were on a mission, fully aware that they had not reached their goal. Time was slipping away even as they sat there. The Winter Formal was in six days and Ethan had no date.
“Just go by yourself, dude. It’s a whole lot easier,” said Garrett, eyeing the plate of assorted cookies that Ethan’s grandmother had just dropped off. Ginger snaps, macaroons, and dozens of mouthwatering sweets sat five layers high on a large plastic tray. He wrestled a large brownie out from underneath the stack, sending cookies everywhere as the pile collapsed on itself. A lemon bar bounced onto his lap then landed on the floor. He picked it up quickly and popped it into his mouth. Ethan grimaced.

“What?” Garrett licked yellow frosting off his fingers. “It wasn't down there that long. That's the trouble with you. Everything is so black and white. If something's on the table, you can eat it. But if it's on the floor, you can't. If you have a date then you'll got to the dance. If not, you won't go at all."

"Bro, my dog sat and licked itself exactly where you dropped that cookie."

"Don't change the subject. If you go to the dance unattached, you can talk to whoever you want without anyone getting jealous. Plus you’re not stuck dancing with the same girl all night long. And you don’t have to listen to her go on and on about how her dress makes her look fat.”

A loud riff of heavy metal guitar exploded from Ethan’s phone. He opened the message then frowned. “Amanda Wilcox says she’s out of town next weekend. It’s her birthday and she’s going to Disneyland. Must be nice, huh?” He leaned his chair back against the wall, resting on the legs and stared out the windows. “This is hopeless.”

“You don’t think it’s because you’re so picky, do you?” said Garret, devouring his brownie in three bites. He washed it down with a mouthful of Coke then burped loudly. “Dude, what’s the silver thing by your head?”

He stood up to examine a silver frame hanging on the wall next to Ethan. It was actually a shallow box, about eight inches square and an inch deep. Across the top of its gray metallic face were the words Mr. Weatherman Future Forecaster in large important letters. Beneath it were sections showing the date, time and temperature. A decorative moon was waxing full in the lower left corner while on the opposite side, a large sun shone cheerfully with the tiny words next twenty four to forty eight hours written under it. Garret leaned over to get a closer look, cocking his head from side to side. Almost magically, numbers and images sandwiched within the layers of liquid crystal appeared and disappeared on the screen. Snowflakes shimmered underneath rays of sunlight. The temperature fluctuated between fifty seven degrees and sixty three degrees. Garrett stood entranced. “Awesome.”

Ethan shot the frame a disgusted look. “Oh, please. You want it? My grandfather gave it to my parents for Christmas. It’s supposed to predict the weather so now all my folks ever do now is check to see if its raining or sunny or whatever. My mom looks at the temperature in here then goes out and checks the thermometer on the fence. Back and forth, back and forth, two or three times a day. It’s pretty lame.” He dropped his chair back on the floor, landing directly in front of some macaroons that had fallen off the tray. He ate the biggest and stacked the others. With a flick of his thumb and finger he sent them skidding across the table and over the side. Suddenly his face lit up. “I know. Jasmin Magana. Do you think she’d go with me?”

Garrett continued to watch the electronic display, ignoring Ethan and waiting for something, anything to happen on the metallic face. Finally the time inched forward by a minute and the black digital numbers changed. He raised his fist and pounded the air triumphantly. "Yes."

"Really? You think she'll go with me?"

“Who? Jasmin? She might say yes but her dad will say no. He's really strict and doesn’t like her dating outside their religion. You’d have to take her older brother and three cousins with you as chaperones.” A small cloud floated across the sun and settled in front of it. Garrett’s eyes grew wide. “Dude, this is so cool. It predicts the weather for the next day and tells you what phase the moon’s in.”

“Who cares what the moon’s doing? I have a serious problem here.”

“Your problem is that you should have been born Chinese. All women think Asian guys do martial arts like Jet Li. They flock to us.”

“Which is why you’re not taking a date to the dance, right? Come on, think of someone else I can call.”

Garret paused for a moment as if he were contemplating his words. He glanced at Ethan out of the corner of his eye then spoke cautiously. “Margaret Benson wants to go with you. She told Brittany Mirigian who told me on Friday.”

Ethan almost dropped his phone. “What?” he exclaimed loudly, “you want me to take a band geek to the Winter Formal? Are you serious?”

“I told Brittany you’d say that. Yes, I’m serious. She’s nice. I ran track with her last year and she’s lots of fun. At least you wouldn’t find her in the hallway kissing Jon Cisneros like your prom date did last spring.”

“Margaret is skinny and has braces.”

“Well you two have something in common.”

Ethan screwed up his face and shook like he had swallowed something bitter. “Dawg, she is totally not cool. She’s too serious. And plain. There is no way I’d be seen with her.”

Garret stepped away from the wall, stretched a few times then sat back down. He cracked his knuckles loudly then pronounced himself ready. Tones rang out as his thumbs spelled various names on his phone. He stopped and looked up. “How about Larissa Henrikson from home room?”

“She giggles all the time.” Ethan picked a piece of coconut out of his braces. “My Gramma really makes good cookies, doesn’t she? These are really awesome.”

“Well, maybe you should take her to the dance.”

“Who, my Gramma? Don’t be dissing her or you can take her. She always tells me how cute you are. Now, who else you got in there?”

More tones.

“Nicole Samano.”

“Going out with Gabe whats-his-name.”

“I didn’t know that.” Garrett tapped the keypad again. “Sarah Hebler.”

“Drama queen.”

“Okay, Megan Parker. She was all over you last year. I bet she’ll go.”

“I already asked her. She’s going with some junior from her French class. Everybody’s taken.” Another cloud floated across the sun on the weather forecaster.

“Hey,” said Garret, gleefully pointing to the box, “it’s showing a change in weather. And it’s gone up another degree outside. This is a so cool.”

Ethan glanced at the screen. “That thing is never right. It was warm and sunny all last week and Mr.Weatherman here, showed rain drops every morning just like those on it right now. I think my Grandpa got ripped off when he bought it.”

Garrett frowned. “Bro, there are no rain drops on the screen.”

“Yes there are,” replied Ethan, turning his attention to the cookies remaining in the disheveled pile. He picked through remains of the bottom layer as he spoke, setting aside the spice bars and other cookies he didn't like. “Trust me, I see it every day when I sit here eating. Hey, didn’t my Gramma put any fudge in here?”

Garrett stared at the box. He looked at Ethan then stood next to the frame. When he leaned back slightly against the wall, tiny raindrops shimmered lightly in the second layer of silver. He laughed.

“Did you eat a bowl of stupid for breakfast this morning? You have to look directly at the face to read the forecast, genius. It’s always raining when you look sideways.”

Ethan grabbed his skateboard from under the table and muttered something about dumb Christmas presents. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, stuffing his phone in his pants as he headed towards the back door. Garrett followed, shaking his head. “No wonder you can’t get a date!”

***

When Saturday night arrived, Ethan had still not found a date. He and Garrett donned their suits, pinned boutonnières on their lapels and strolled into the gymnasium as if going dateless to a formal was part of the universal plan for high school seniors. A canopy of silk roses framed the gymnasium entrance where the students mingled and eyed each other before crossing the dance floor. Artificial evergreens lined along the walls, standing at attention in mounds of flaked plastic snow. Tiny white lights twinkled on the branches, their brightness reflected by the iridescent icicles that decorated the firs. Overhead, large snowflakes hung between shimmering blue and silver streamers. Students were clustered in small groups gossiping and posturing, girls talking to girls and boys talking to boys. A few brave souls were dancing.

“Don’t you feel even a little strange coming by yourself?” asked Ethan as they walked over to the refreshment table. He fingered his cufflinks for the hundredth time while Garrett flirted with a group of girls across the room. Some smiled back. Others giggled or waved. “Hey, did you hear me?” Ethan was insistent.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Of course I heard you. No, I do not feel strange coming by myself because I came with you. Now stop fidgeting. Have some fun! Look.” A tall brunette wearing a long pink dress walked in alone. “Nicole Samano just came in without what’s-his-name. And,” he poked Ethan in the side, “there’s your band geek. Look at her!”

Margaret Benson was standing at the front entrance, hand on her date's arm, talking to friends. Ethan watched her, studying the changes closely. This was not the same saxophone player that sat behind him in algebra. In place of her blue and gold band uniform she wore a simple red gown, perfectly matched to a corsage of roses on her tiny wrist. A rhinestone necklace glittered brightly around her throat. Her long straight hair had been transformed into a mane of ringlets that hung softly down her back and around her shoulders . Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed when she laughed.

“Jeez,” whispered Ethan, “what happened to her?"
Sarah Hebler, dressed in purple, stood near by discussing marital arts with Garrett. She tossed small after dinner mints in the air and applauded loudly whenever he caught one in his mouth. Both of them looked at Ethan.

"You're hopeless," laughed the drama queen, dragging Garrett to the center of the gym when the music changed.

"Just remember, bro," he shouted on his way to the dance floor, "it’s always raining when you look sideways!”

Margaret Phillips

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0700

Margaret Phillips rediscovered writing when she turned fifty and loves creating stories with quirkly characters and unexpected endings. She is widely published and most recently featured in Dark Things II, an anthology of "cat crime" stories. She lives in California with her husband and two cats and works in healthcare when she is not writing.

A Raphael's Village Contributor Has A New Poetry Collection Out!

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 17:30:00 -0700

Another contributor with exciting news to share! Editors

Raphael's Village is excited to announce the Dec. 15, 2011 release of KJ Hannah Greenberg's newest collection of poetry, A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend.

Songbirds are entertaining. Roses smell nice. Most passion, however, resolves as cacophonous and stinky. In A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend, this mess, which we call “love,” gets reduced, poked at, prodded, and eventually pushed over. Don't miss out on this tough, sassy, hopeful assemblage of verse. Press up against its soft concepts of intimate associations. Come slide among A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend’s articulated regrets, muted longings, and rudimentary joys! The tang of real or imagined, but almost always piquant, romantic life has never been as palpable as it is in A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend.

Links to order A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck With His Ex-Girlfriend: https://www.createspace.com/3729088 or
http://www.amazon.com/Bank-Robbers-Bad-Luck-Ex-Girlfriend/dp/193637322X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324641358&sr=1-1

Please support one of our regular contributors and get your copy of this collection today!