Celia Cruz in Emeryville

I waited twenty minutes to try on two dresses,
one for the evening
(I was going out on a date and wanted to look good)
three jeans with rips above and below the knee
four tops all V-necklines that showed off my cleavage
and a pair of embroidered cut-offs,
no pockets, but why not buy one anyway for fun?
The line was long, a second weekend of Madness Mark-Downs
I might’ve gone over the allowed dressing room limit
but the attendant handed me a number
assigned me to a stall
where I hung up my try-ons and unbuttoned
my plaid jacket, the one I love with the fuzzy lining,
yanked off my T-shirt but started to hear loud music
realized the sound was emanating
from a loose tile above the mirror
(BTW Ross dressing rooms don’t have doors);
lifted up the tile slowly didn’t want to ruin my manicure
when I heard salsa
a horn section followed by shouts
of “Azucar, Azucar,”
started to dance, rolled my hips,
my pants slipped to my ankles
began singing in perfect Spanish
even though I’d taken only one semester
in high school, “Azucar, Azucar!”
And everything fit.

You don’t want to miss The Golem.

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Stonebridge in Pleasanton

dancing inside a circle
of orange traffic cones
wish me luck

shopping trip
automatic doors
glass elevator

dropping down
two strollers
on the prowl

in retail heaven
shopping bag
flashes wide

itching to be filled
with a remoulade
of half-offs

crammed on racks
is the back story

come Dasher
and Dancer…
Donner and Blitzen…

except Victoria
won’t tell me
her secret

i’m gonna
make her
give me a club card

one hundred push-ups
she handles my boobs
so nice

Big Help for those Trump blues. Buy your copy now.

The Golem by Lenore Weiss

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Southland in Hayward

Southland Mall sits like a waxed vagina
hidden behind a concrete preserve
you would never know
what lay behind the FedEx guards
Locksmith keys
no trees
not even a fake orchid
dresses from countries
we don’t trade
agree with anymore
when a clock strikes
the commute hour
queues up
that’s me riding
the up escalator
my halo hollow
everyone tries so very hard
to be cheerful
walk along the white way
past a Shoe Palace
Forever 21
buy two plastic dicks
get one free
mine comes along with me

behind a red curtain
a background
blue or grey

I choose you
we cheese

The Golem is now available!!!

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Upcoming Reading Dates

The Golem

Upcoming reading dates from my new book, The Golem:

March 7, Spice Monkey, 1628 Webster Avenue, Oakland, 6:30 to 9pm, Open Mic

March 10, Nefeli Cafe, 10th Anniversary reading, 1854 Euclid Avenue, Berkeley, 7pm to 9pm, Open Mic

April 22, Book Passage, National Poetry Month Reading, 100 Bay Street, Sausalito, 1pm

June 10, Frank Bette Center, 1601 Peru Street, Alameda, 7pm-9pm, Open Mic

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Breaking out of Jail

old telephone with dial

LPW NEWS FLASH: Found out today that I won second place in the Browning Society Dramatic Monologue Competition for my piece, “Drive to Denny’s.” Award ceremony will be held in San Francisco on March 10. I’m advised to wear a hat and “dress smart.” Let me know if you can join me!

The damn phone was ringing again. She hated those telemarketers.

The landline was only good for calls from health enrollment plans, or calls for someone named Philip Martin. Lots of calls. “Is he there? Are you a relative? Do you know how we can reach him?” For two weeks, different agencies kept inquiring if he were available. She told them to strike her phone number from their list. They didn’t.

Callers wanted to talk to this Martin idiot who must’ve been delinquent on his bills or owed child support all over town. She wanted to put an end to it, unplug the phone jack and let it dangle. Problem solved, right? It was one of those ancient-looking phones with a dial. She liked old things, had picked it up at a garage sale. It worked fine.
The phone kept ringing. She couldn’t believe it. She’d call up the phone company to complain; maybe she’d get them to lower her bill, not force her to have this landline as part of the whole Internet package.

Her next thought was to throw the phone into the garbage. She’d pay for the landline all right, only stop that damn ringing because things were difficult enough; bad enough that her son was in jail for possession of meth and was sure to do time. Her only son, the boy she’d given birth to in her own home, the boy who had placed his ear against a stereo speaker and fallen asleep listening to music, who’d stayed awake at night memorizing the flags and coins of different countries, and who’d won a black belt in karate. But there was always a question in the corner of his eyes, a discomfort she could never reach. He carried distance around his waist like a life preserver.

After his father had died, Charles had shattered into pieces. His father had meant everything to him, an actor and a director who had never known his own dad. George had improvised what it meant to raise a son, but in the end, improvisation hadn’t been nearly enough, a student of the work of Gurdjieff’s, a man who’d spent time with the Sarmoung Brotherhood in the Hindu Kush Mountains of Northern Afghanistan and later met up with some dude named Ouspensky who was a kind of public relations man from a distance. Gurdjieff had explained how people were always in a state of walking sleep. “Which life is real,” he asked as they stretched out in bed. “this one, or the one when we’re sleeping?”

His favorite past time had been in discussing Gurdjieff’s theories, giving professorial lectures to whomever would listen. Their circle of friends dwindled as his collection of esoteric books increased. On the weekends, he trolled local bookstores for defunct international publishers.

The day after he died, he’d come to her bed and made love to her one last time. She felt him. He was obese.

An old friend of Charles had come knocking on her door over the weekend to tell her that her son was in jail. “He wanted me to call you,” he said, a man with a beard who apologized for disturbing her on a Saturday morning. “All my friends call me when they get into trouble.” She thanked him and took down his phone number. Each time the phone rang, she thought it was her son, but it was only a call for Philip Martin.

She viewed her son’s charges and mug shots online. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes. Janeen pictured him sitting behind bars. The County operator had told her that if he were sentenced for less than a year, he’d been in the County, if not, housed in Oregon prison for some nameless time that pulled her down like an iron weight. She waited for his call.

The phone rang once again. “A deep voice with a slight echo spoke to her. “Who is this?”

“Me. Philip.”

“Who the hell are you? You know I’d appreciate if you’d pay your damn bills.” She unplugged the phone jack, but the voice kept talking. She banged the receiver, and tried to shake lose something that was still working within the phone, something that was causing this aberration.

“I’m a friend. A good friend.”

“People have been calling me for weeks now looking for you. You sound like a dead beat. How’d you get my number?”

“Do me a favor. Just press star.”

“Look, mister. This is a bad joke. I don’t even know how you’re talking to me.”

“Press it twice.” His voice was quieter now. “You’ve got to hurry or we’ll lose the connection.”

She didn’t know what else to do, upset after weeks of worry, her sisters living too far away to offer more than well-meaning support. She was tired of pacing from the kitchen to the living room and looking at the clock as if time meant anything more than annoying ticks. “Okay.” She pressed star and threw down the receiver that sent its double-A batteries rolling along the compressed wood flooring as she fell to the couch letting loose a flood of sobs that she’d been holding back all week.

“That’s okay. We’ll do this together.”

Janeen looked up from the couch and wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Standing in front of her entertainment center with its TV screen guarding her CDs and shelves of Lakshmi and Asherah statuettes that she’d picked up over the years at flea markets, was her husband, George, a lot thinner, but it was George all right, a bald man with piercing green eyes and a prominent nose that bespoke of his Russian heritage.

“I don’t understand.”

“Janeen, I’m so glad to see you.” She wasn’t so sure if she was glad to see him. “Aren’t you going to give me a hug or something?”

“How can this be you?”

“You always were the skeptic,” he said, sitting down next to her on the green sofa. She moved over to make room for him. “I know this is a lot to take in, but remember how I used to talk about quantum consciousness?” How could she forget?

“When we die,” he said, “the energy of our consciousness gets recycled back into a different body.”

“How come you’re in the same one? Your last one didn’t hold up too well.”

“So you’d recognize me,” he said. “I did this for you. For both of you.”

George got down to business. He said that the phone was a device he was using on a temporary basis as a way to teleport himself from where his quantum information resided, a places of microtubules. “Like your backup device,” he said. “Sort of.” Anyway, he was there to help break their son out of prison. And as soon as he said that, both he and Janeen were standing in front of the Columbia County Jail, a squat building of yellow concrete with two pine trees growing at either end of a parking lot. There was a stream running along one side, almost overflowing from the spring rain. George had a big smile on his face and held the telephone receiver from Janeen’s house. He explained that all they had to do was to call the jail’s central number.

“And then what?”

“That will open the doors. Don’t worry. Not all the doors. Just his. We’re on the same frequency. Gee, it will be great to see him again.”

“You can’t,” she said. He looked at her like a hurt animal.“This is your son. And he’ll never learn anything if you walk him out of that jail. I won’t let you do that.”

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Listen to me. I’m your wife, god dammit. At least I used to be.”

She wrestled the receiver from his hands and threw it with her best windup pitch into the stream where it evaporated with a loud hiss.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

“You don’t belong here anymore. You never did.” She walked away into the Columbia Jail. As long as she was in Oregon, she’d go and visit her son.

The next month, she received a very large bill from the telephone company.

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The Golem from Hadassa-Word Press

New book out soon!

The Golem

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The Color of Coffee

Bernice wondered what color to paint her toenails, being that it was sandal weather and time for her feet to reveal themselves to the larger world and to prospective dating partners. There were so many colors, reds and pinks were her favorites. Forget about those navy blues and blacks that young girls seemed to like; she thought it was a color that was too heavy to ride upon the insignificant weight of a finger or toenail. She thought a person should reserve black for funerals, unsuitable for making appearances on a young girl’s hands, just like Vaneeta’s in her Sophomore English class, and certainly unsuitable for a white woman in her forties.

During the school year, Bernice only wore clear. She didn’t want to distract her students from their discussion of Ralph Waldo Emerson or Emily Dickinson. Transcendentalists like Bernice took their colors seriously. She had taken months to figure out the right swatches for her living room. She’d loved the mountains outside and the southwest sunsets, decided to paint the walls light browns and deep purples. But it was summer now and her nails were bright red.

She was sitting in her first home since her divorce a year ago; she had a mortgage, her name on the dotted line, and each time she sat down on the couch to watch TV, she congratulated herself on her sense of color coordination. Looking out on the patio, she felt like she was in the mountains, not in a town house facing out on a major highway with a dozen or so more units being built behind her.

She’d even begun dating and was going to meet Jeffrey at the Starbucks close to the university in just under two hours. This was their first date. She and Jeffrey had been corresponding. Neither of them had photos. She didn’t want her ex to know she was dating, even though he’d probably never know, let alone care. Jeans for sure and maybe her red top. Red  communicated strength and vitality and the shirt matched her nails. She swung her bag over her shoulder and walked outside, excited that her life was taking a new turn.

She drove to the coffee shop and parked, five minutes early, fiddled in her car listening to music, going through text messages although she’d scrolled through them at least ten times already this morning. She wondered what she was going to say, but remembered how easy it’d been exchanging messages about their jobs, traveling, music.

Jeffrey played the piano and worked at the local radio station. He said he was getting a photo to post, and she shouldn’t worry; he wasn’t a monster. He’d be wearing a green shirt and a Diamondbacks cap.  She walked into the store and saw a man sitting to her right near the windows. She saw the shirt, the cap. He was African-American, light-skinned, the color of coffee. She swallowed, moved herself forward, and shook his hand.

“Hi, I’m Bernice.”
“Jeffrey,” he said. “Can I buy you a cup?”
“Yes, thank you.” She felt her head nod.
He almost tripped over his chair. “What can I get you?”
“Grande latte.” She hadn’t even sat down.
“Good to meet you, Bernice.” He smiled. “Be right back.”
She looked at her nails and then focused on Jeffrey standing there and waiting to order.

Links to my work

Sketchbook Project

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The Half & Half

Earl’s Half & Half was located at the border between Louisiana and Arkansas. The liquor half was in the state of Louisiana, and the grocery half, in Arkansas. Customers joked that you could go from one state to another in less time than it took to sign your name.

The store had started out as a coffee bar, a place for truckers to buy their morning cup. Earl’s customer’s kept asking for more—gum, chips, cigarettes, magazines, then canned goods, fried chicken wings, pizza, and of course, sodas to wash it all down. Earl nursed the bottom-line until his big day came: he was able to afford a liquor license.

Since Hentsbury was a dry county, everyone driving there to Arkansas, stopped to get beer. The place was a goldmine. Sales helped put their girls through college. But five years ago, Earl had come down with a rare blood disease. Rae-Ann stood by his side and watched him sicken and die.

The girls had already moved away. We became her family. And there were always other people passing through—people from Wildlife and Fisheries checking on stands of loblolly, hunters and fisherman, nephews and grandnieces on holiday visits. She worked weekends, didn’t want to be in the house with reminders of Earl: the leather recliner in the living room where he sat watching TV, or looking at the framed photographs over the fireplace with his arm draped around her like a fox stole.

After Earl’s death, we insisted that she go away with us for a girlfriend weekend (we won’t take no for an answer). We rented a cabin in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Whenever she passed by a mirror, she seemed embarrassed by what she saw: an attractive woman who could’ve passed for ten years younger than her actual fifty-three, a fringe of bangs and shoulder-length hair that she dyed a light cocoa, her body plump but not out-of-shape, still able to fill out a pair of jeans with dignity.

They’d met in high school. Earl had been a member of the football team. She’d sat next to him in Biology. I heard her talk about Earl on our walks home.

When he graduated and began to run the front desk of his father’s storage facility, he proposed. They bought a house on a main road leading into town. After the girls were born, she decided to open a day care. She put a large blue sign in her yard with a picture of Tinker Bell touching a sparkling wand to the words Day Care, and ran an advertisement for a few weekends in the Penny Saver.

For years she ran her business out of the house, set up a screened area on the back porch where the babies could play in the summer. When her girls got older, every so often they watched the babies so she could head over to the Half & Half and lend Earl a hand. But after twenty years of running the day care, it seemed like she always had a cold or sore throat, catching whatever the toddlers had. Plus, snacks were getting more expensive and she didn’t think she could raise her rates to cover costs. By the time Earl had been diagnosed, she’d closed the daycare; she’d converted the patio into a greenhouse for tuberous begonias with glossy green leaves and waxy orange and pink blossoms.

We’d mailed her condolence cards that she’d arranged on the fireplace mantel, brought by baskets of fruit, and a book of daily prayers. I brought her a kitten to keep her company. She’d named it Whiskers, an orange and white tabby that liked to hide behind the kitchen curtains and attack her feet every time she walked by. “You scamp,” she’d pick him up by the fur of his neck and scratch the white fur on his belly. “What am I going to do with you?” She always did the same thing—gave him a hug and placed him back on the ground until Whiskers was distracted by a crumb on the kitchen floor, or by some fly that had gotten past the screen door.

The older girl was in Atlanta. She told Rae-Ann that she had an extra room. “Just think about it, Mom. Please. You can move in.” As tempting as the offer was, Rae-Ann didn’t want to weigh down her daughter who’d just gotten married.

Each morning she felt her way through the darkness, colder in the winter months especially after an ice storm, slipped on her work shoes before throwing on the light. A few people relieved her around lunch and after the first mill shift in the evening, the same people who had worked for Earl, like Janice who was getting close to retirement age and wanting to spend more time with her husband who’d been diagnosed with diabetes. Confidentially, Janice had told Rae-Ann that the doctor said her husband had to stop drinking a pint every day, and if he didn’t, he’d probably end up with a liver problem in addition to everything else that was wrong with him. Rae-Ann only told me, because I was her best friend.

People trusted Rae-Ann. She knew about the pastor’s wife, Eudora Franklin. For some reason, Eudora had blurted out how she had become pregnant with their fifth child, and never told her husband. He was pastor of The Living River. “You have to understand, it’s not like I wanted to do that,” and bit her lower lip looking down at the display of Slim-Jims and raising her eyes back to Rae-Ann again.

Earl had never liked Dwayne McCullor who came into the store every Friday to load up on several cases for the weekend. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t like him, but told Rae-Ann over dinner, “He’s not put together right. Can’t put my finger on it.”

Jeff Corkle’s dad was getting milk and orange juice from the freezer and talking about car parts. His friend was having problems with his starter and wanted to know where to get it fixed. A small TV on the counter was tuned to the Weather Channel with news of a cold front moving in by afternoon.

He looked like any one of the mill workers, broad shouldered, wearing a wind-breaker and a Razor Backs cap. But it was his eyes that were strange. Rae-Ann watched. Now he was walking down Aisle 3 and heading back her way. A stream of morning sunlight shone on cellophane packages of whole wheat bread. He picked up a can of Vienna sausage with a pop-up aluminum top and placed it inside his shopping basket. “That’s it. Except for this.” He handed her his thermos, battered from years of use. “Fill ‘er up. I drink this stuff by the gallon.” She turned on the spigot of the coffee pot and kept her finger on the spout. “Also a pack of Marlboros,” he said.

Rae-Ann rang up his bill at the cash register; he stood there shifting from one foot to the other; his eyes darted back and forth as though they were having muscle spasms, almost like he was on the verge of a fit. Then he opened his wallet and said, “How much do I owe you?” It was a few minutes before eight o’clock in the morning. Rae-Ann looked at the TV screen above the cash register. The broadcaster was still talking about weather—some artic plunge.

“Ever try one of these?” Rae-Ann pointed to a pack of tobacco-less cigarettes. His eyes started spinning in his head. “You feeling okay?” she asked.

He rested his beer on the counter. “He screwed me.”

Rae-Ann swept his change into his palm. She didn’t know what else to say. “Thanks, Dwayne. Have a good day,” which is when it happened. Dwayne took out a pistol and started shooting. Everywhere. We’re not sure that he meant to hit Rae-Ann, but he did.

Her daughters asked me if I wanted to take home a few of her begonias. They were in bloom with heavy pink blossoms. The girls found a small cardboard box from amongst her things and told me to pick out whichever ones I wanted. Whiskers jumped into my lap. “I don’t suspect that you’ll be wanting to take the cat home?”

They looked at each other. The cat began to purr. “No,” they said.

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Learning to Walk

  1. I sat in the li-roo-roo and rubbed my step-outs against the bumps of the rug until they got warm. It had been cold in the walls, the sound of much tallers waving their feelers. I stopped the music box played a song my ears felt them smiling. Rubbed my piggies my bottom rolled  reached toward the sound they made. Everything sounded. My piggies stuck in a darker place where the froggy peed when the lights went out. The person who held me close rubbed there. She made the rug warm. The rug bumps are stuck together and scratchy against my step-outs. I pressed a bump with my biggest and the fuzz jumped bigly. Knees head toward a sitting place hold on to a smooth swelling and push up.  Another sitting place across the li-roo-roo to the happy froggy when it pees and goes hissy. I am on two step-outs. Light comes on with feelers and watch across the floor to the other sitting place. The clock goes tick-tock.  My feet listen. Almost can yes.
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Mr. Hot Spot

girl on phoneHe couldn’t get the fertilizer stink out of his nostrils. The sacks he delivered were made from liquid raw sewage brewed locally in Bakersfield. The odor seeped into his clothing and scalp. Even his dog Beast ran away from him.

By the end of the summer, he’d figure another way to pay for community college. What girl would want to go out with him smelling the way he did, especially someone like Jenny Thurmond?

Once he got home, his sister was in the kitchen. She sliced several lemons. “Try washing with them.”

He thought she was a witch in metal braces. “You have to be kidding.” Still, Dan was desperate enough to try anything. In the shower, he squeezed lemon juice on a sudsy cloth. It stung his skin. He scrubbed. The water was steamy. He scrubbed again and rinsed. Then he put on his clothes. She sat on the living room couch reading a fashion magazine. At sixteen, she was three years his junior. Her hair was tied back with a purple scrunchie, a mark of the Purple Ponytails, the all-girl band that played at her high school.

Rhonda sniffed her brother. “Better. You don’t stink!”

“Hey, Rhonda.”

“Hay is for horses.”

“Quit it. Do you know a girl named Jenny? Jenny Thurmond?”

She picked up a guitar magazine and admired the new Gibsons. “Where’d you meet her?”

“On my delivery route.”

“Oh, great.” She got another magazine and rubbed perfume from a pull-out page onto her wrist. “Jenny’s in my Spanish class. We sit next to each other.”

“You’re lying.”

“Really? I happen to know that Jenny volunteers at the animal shelter. And you’d make a great pair. You both smell.”

“Actually, she did tell me that… I mean that she volunteers. I met her at Millie’s restaurant. Told me she’d lunch with her mother for the first time in years.”

She always rankled when she heard that word. Their own mother had died when Rhonda was two. Afterward, she and Dan had sat in bed for months reading comic books. Rhonda couldn’t remember anything about her, except the way she smelled. She held up a picture of a model wearing jeans with a white cut-off blouse and high boots. “D’you think this would look good on me?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know…Look, I was wondering…”

“Or do you like this one better?” She held up another page, one of a vampire, actually a girl twirling around in a black lined cape. “It would look better lined in purple. That would be hot for the Ponytails.”

“Zip it up. D’you have Jenny’s phone number? Her email?”

“I don’t know. Maybe if you played drums in my band this weekend. Gerry has the flu.”

“You want me to play in a girl band?”

“And what’s so bad about that? You used to play with me all the time.”

It was one of the big events of the school year. The Fire Chief was going to hand out awards for an essay contest. Tables were set up outside the auditorium where local vendors were selling stuff; the PTA was pushing bowls of Five-Alarm Chile and slices of Red Hot Red Velvet Cake. She promised to hand over Jenny’s info afterward.

Being that it was such a big event, the Ponytails decided to dye their hair purple for the evening. Dan was glad to find out that the drum kit was set up behind orange plexiglass where he could hide. But he’d made one mistake: a few days before the show, he’d joked with Rhonda about wearing a purple ponytail. Leave it to her. She showed up with a clip-on extension and insisted that if he didn’t wear it, all bets were off.

Saturday afternoon, the auditorium was packed. The principal asked everyone to raise their hand if they were sitting next to an open seat. It was time for the Purple Ponytails to play their song, Little Mr. Hot Spot. Rhonda introduced the band. “We have a special guest tonight. Take a bow; it’s my brother, Dan.”

Dan stood up in his purple ponytail and recognized Jenny Thurmond sitting in the front row. Everyone laughed.

The principal got up and asked the audience to give the Purple Ponytails a hand. “Aren’t they great folks? Let’s hope Little Mr. Hot Spot doesn’t show up in our homes. He’d burn down the whole place. Isn’t that right girls?” The band members waved and gave their purple ponytails another shake before going off stage. Dan knew the song was written for the guitar player’s ex-boyfriend who had dumped her for an incoming freshman. He followed them off stage with his honorary ponytail. “And now I’d like to introduce Fire Chief Dennis Williams who is here today to announce the award for the best essay in the Mr. Hot Spot contest. Mr. Williams, will you please join me on stage.”

A silver-haired African American man in a dark blue suit with brass buttons and the whitest shirt Dan had ever seen stood up not too far from where Dan’s father was sitting. The Fire Chief made his way to the microphone, his sleeves adorned in gold braids and a silver badge pinned to his jacket. He wore a white cap with the same braid trim. Anyhow, the Chief flashed a Colgate-white smile and shook the principal’s hand while a reporter from the Bakersfield Citizen kneeled below the stage and took photographs.

“Thank you, Principal Dealey. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, grandmothers and grandfathers; all you teachers and families who have come out today to celebrate Fire Safety month. Since we began this project five years ago, we’ve cut down on the number of fires by twenty-five percent. What does that mean? That means more lives saved and more homes protected. You look like a group who understands what steps to take when there’s a fire—very large ones.” Everyone laughed. “But before you leave today, I’d like you to take a look at our special display of fire extinguishers and fire alarms—think about adding another level of safety to your home, that is, if you haven’t already. Now I am honored to announce the winner of the Mr. Hot Spot contest.” Everyone leaned slightly forward. Chief Williams tore open an envelope. “The winner is…Jenny Thurmond.”

Dan stood backstage with the band where Rhonda was trying to style his hair with the purple ponytail.

“Quit it, Rhonda. You’re bothering me.”

“Let’s give this little lady a hand. On behalf of the Bakersfield Fire Department, I’d like to award you one hundred dollars and hope you can use it to further your education.”

He handed Jenny a check. She stepped up to the microphone, eyes stuck on her paper and read about a German shepherd named Brad who’d rescued his owner from a house fire.

“We need a Brad in our department,” said Chief Williams who shook her hand and invited everyone to climb into the No. 1 fire truck that was parked outside the school. “Don’t forget to stop by the PTA tables for a slice of that Red Hot Red Velvet Cake. It’s going fast.”

On their way out of the auditorium, people stopped to tell Jenny how much they appreciated her story and wished her good luck. They heard how she loved animals, such a shame about all those endangered species of birds fluttering to the ground and dying every day, and how they enjoyed visiting the zoo in San Diego. Had she ever been there? No? She had to go. Maybe her mother and father could take her during summer vacation. They had wonderful exhibits. What a busy girl she was and good luck again.

Rhonda watched from the back of the auditorium. Her brother was drifting away from her. Maybe she’d give him the wrong phone number, but sooner or later…And how could someone who worked in an animal shelter also be pretty? One was bad enough.

Links to my work

Sketchbook Project

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