Letting Off Steam

Stale, musty air filled the cabin as Jacoby and David boarded the plane. Quickly finding his seat, David stows his carry-on in the overhead compartment and sits down by the window. Coming down the isle, Jacoby sees that the seat next to David is empty, along with about a dozen other seats; unusually barren for a trip bound to southern California.

"Hey David, mind if I join you?," Jacoby inquires.

"Not at all," David replies, "I can't sleep on these damn things anyway."

Jacoby places his briefcase in the bin above and tosses his jacket alongside. Sitting down, Jacoby sighs, tired from his day and hoping desperately that this trip will land a new client. Sarcastically, as if to blow off some steam, Jacoby turns to David and remarks, "You don't want to drop a half million in premium billboard space and full page glossies in five general interest rags do you?"

"Actually, put me down for an even mill," David jabs back.

Chuckling, Jacoby appreciates his flight mate accommodating his stress relief. "So, you mentioned earlier some family business." Asking David, "wedding?, graduation?"

As his chin turns away, David replies, "I wish this occasion was so happy." Then pulling the window shade down, he reverts to his polite, eye contact pose. "You mind if I leave it down until we get above the clouds?"

"No problem," Jacoby answers, sensing the approach of an unpleasant subject. "Hey, I'm sorry if I crossed a line by being too nosey."

"We all have them, so at some point the statistics point toward problems, right?," says David as his expression sags. "It's inevitable. Even Bonds struck out every now and then. I just wish my situation wasn't this bad."

"Listen," Jacoby interjects, "it's none of my business. Let me buy you a drink. Miss!," raising his hand to signal the attendant.

"I guess I should be more private about my pending divorce," David continued, "but I just can't pretend anymore that it's not happening. When she left me, she took our two kids and moved in with her parents. My week will consist of fighting about who gets what and trying to convince my girls that their dad loves them. It's been a month since I last saw them."

Sympathizing, Jacoby says, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, of course you love your kids. And they love you."

The attendant approached the two men, smiled and reviewed the drink menu. "What will it be?", Jacoby asked David.

"A vodka spritzer for me," declares David.

"Make it two," Jacoby said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his money clip. He hands her the cash and reclines his seat.

"Thank you," David says looking over toward the isle seat. "So what about you? You often travel for work?"

"Very often. I'm in advertising and right now, well, it's tough business. I'm networked, have great relationships with my contacts. It's the money factor that's beating me." Continuing to summarize Jacoby says, "The economy is tight and the political culture is such that companies are scared. When that happens, the checkbooks close." Jacoby pauses to taste his cocktail that was delivered almost immediately.

Listening, David kicks his shoes off and says, "At least you have the relationship part down. My problem is just the opposite. I have more money than I can spend; huge house, luxury cars, private school for the girls, but Angie says it just doesn't work anymore."

The Passing of Time

Jacoby tosses his bag onto the belt and progresses through the line waiting to board his flight. Another business trip, but not a welcome one after some long, tiring days and too many broken down deals. Shoe laces untied and I.D. in hand, Jacoby can do nothing but wait. Running on fumes, his eyes glass over in a perpetual glare; mind slowing down but with sharp, clear thoughts.

"How did this happen? How did I get here?," Jacoby silently reflects.

A small town boy growing up in a poor family, there was no such thing as opportunity. Jacoby always dreamed of getting out of that sleepy, hillbilly town, but his hopes were not rooted in a displeasure of his life but from a curiosity of his purpose. He loved his family and friends, even the town itself. But questions persisted; wonder about the future and the role he would play in the advancement of history. A day dreamer who would often consider what could be, Jacoby was a thinker, inspired by possibilities. There was something magical about a boyhood filled with almost nothing. There were neighborhood baseball games and an occasional campfire, bike rides and open fields. Apart from the simple pleasures of being a kid, the days were filled with unscripted leisure. Time to imagine, pretend, create and be lost in whatever world he wished.

Pondering these things, memories swirled in his mind prompting questions not unlike the days of his past. Filled with both confusion and awe as the memories flood, Jacoby's stare loosens as the line toward the departure gate inches forward. Suddenly a flight announcement blared and jerked Jacoby's gaze out of focus and his attention back to the line he was standing in. Wondering how long he had been napping, Jacoby guesses it was only a minute or two as the line continued to slither through the terminal.

A man, tall and appearing disheveled, standing just one place ahead of Jacoby, turned around and gazed at the busy activity around him. The man dropped his boarding pass and Jacoby bent down to retrieve the creased card.

"Sir," Jacoby declared in an inquisitive tone. "You dropped this," extending his hand toward the man.

"Oh, thank you. I can't go anywhere without this," the man replied.

"No problem...Where you headed?"

"San Diego...I've got family business out there."

As the small talk persists, Jacoby feels a bit renewed with conversation. Continuing, Jacoby replies, "We're on the same flight. Headed there myself. I've got some clients to check on."

The line to the gate dwindles as the men continue their conversation. Nearing the gate, Jacoby is interrupted by a vibrating pulse from his front pant pocket; an incoming message from his phone.

"Excuse me a moment," Jacoby interjects politely. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out his phone and sees a text from his wife. It reads, "Call me when you land. Go some BIG news!!"

"Sorry about that, it was my wife checking in."

"I understand. Everything OK?," the man responds.

"Yea, she's excited about something. I'll get the scoop later tonight."

"You know what? I didn't catch your name. Mine is Jacoby Kincaid."

"I'm David...David Crosley, nice to meet you."

With mutual pleasure the two men acknowledge their formal introduction with a nod and proceed through the gate. Shuffling their belongings out of their pockets and onto the x-rayed conveyor belt.

Hickory

A chill rips across the rolling, gray hillside. The sharp whistle signals to all who are alert, and reminds as if forgotten, that life must give way to death. A lone tree, high atop the barren pasture, sways majestically as if keeping watch; as it seems, fulfilling an assignment of sorts. This tree, old and gnarled, thick waisted, hoisting its long, spiraling limbs; absorbs the cold wind, surrendering its leaves and nuts to the hillside below.

A man approaches, bent with age but strong in breath, carrying a bag, stops to smell the hickory. The damp but earthy aroma, blunt with rustic flavor, reminds the man of younger days. He has made his appointment with the hickory to collect its harvest. This hillside, this tree, is an entry point, calling back memories of lessons learned and life experienced--recalling how those before have lead and wondering how those behind will carry forth. Leisurely the old man collects the nuts in the bag, admitting with his pace that his real purpose here is the emotions.

Looking down, the man sees a hickory nut partially embodied by its heavy outer shell, dried enough to have lost a segment of the shell all by itself. Wrenching his fingers around the shell, the man attempts to loosen the other segments. The man, wise in years, cannot muster the strength to rid the small nut from its shell, so he retrieves a blade from his right pants pocket. "Ray Kincaid" the engraving reads, saying it aloud. With his mind recalling his father, Ray clutches the nut and sits down on a nearby rock.

"It's been years since my last visit," he considers as his boney fingers fumble around with the knife prying off the nut's shell.

Ray's father brought him here as a boy; every fall, to collect the nuts. He remembers enjoying the time spent with his father; the hike, the weather, the hope he felt while working along side him. Lost with these memories, the wind ratchets up in force and the tree above can be heard moaning and creaking, sending a flurry of leaves and nuts crashing down. Steadying himself on the rock, Ray hears something like a voice calling out. He looks around but sees no one. "Crazy wind," he mumbles under his breath.

Finally able to rid the hickory nut of its outer shell, Ray drops it into his bag, looks up into sky and says, "Thanks Dad." The feelings toward his past continued to pour out as he thought of his father.

Ray was sure glad he came today--to this place--understanding that something right was happening. Glancing down and spotting a small group of hickory nuts, he went back to work.

A Man of Means

In a hurry, Jacoby presses the button signaling the elevator down as he slings his three button jacket across his shoulders while checking the status of his cross country flight from his phone. Quickly losing the signal as the elevator doors close, Jacoby slides the ultra sleek, do it all device into his right pant pocket. Having a few moments of pause descending from the 59th floor, Jacoby scanned the small chamber looking to make small talk.

Jacoby Allen Kincaid was a pro at working a crowd. Jacoby is to rapport building as Twain is to Americana. The ability to find something in common with those he met was his speciality. Meeting people was an exercise of networking, a regimen where strangers do not exist and fatigue never comes. Thus his ascent to the high rise of success as an executive in the advertising business. A man of messages with a circle of influence unlike any who has shared his name.

The elevator lunges downward as Jacoby notices the man standing next to him in a pair of black, single strap Sergio Rossi's. This Italian shoe maker was a customer, and a good one, committing significant sums to high gloss, upscale magazine ads and a championship tennis sponsorship.

"Hey, nice shoes," Jacoby insists, turning his shoulders squarely toward the man.

Put off by the random compliment, the man stretches a smile and nods.

"My name is Kincaid and I work upstairs. Love to get your opinion on those shoes for an ad campaign my team is developing."

"Listen, I'm late for a meeting," the man responds, obviously annoyed with friendly chatter. He straightens his tie and tunnels his stare into the mirrored elevator doors shutting down any indication of his interest to talk.

Jacoby leans forward and in a confident tone says, "No problem, we can meet for lunch next week." Reaching into his jacket pocket, Jacoby grabs a card and steps forward presenting it to the man in the fancy shoes. "If you're not happy with the comfort or look of the pair your wearing", clinching his jaw with inquisitive eyes, "tell me and I'll ensure your complete satisfaction."

Sensing something for nothing, the man takes his hand out of his pocket, accepts the card and smiles. "Yea, how about I call you next week?"

"I'll look forward to it," says Jacoby reaching to shake his hand.

As the handshake consummated the business exchange the bell toned and the doors to the 23rd floor opened. The fancy shoe man, who suddenly felt empowered, exited as others rushed onto the platform.

Midgets, Miners, & Misery

110words recently published week 3 of 3 in the genre series. This last entry of the series required stories of a 'politically correct' nature. Since there were no other guidelines the participating authors worked with caution I'm sure. That's what makes this short story experiment so fun, the page is blank with any number of directions to take. Below is my entry.




Midgets, Miners, & Misery

Dear Mother,
I hope this letter finds you well as I myself am feeling ill. Don't worry; I'm fine, really. It's just the critics, they're overwhelming these days. I've caused quite a stir with my 'Snow White' creation. The 'Little People', corrected as I am, are seeking legislative asylum due to simply how they were referred. Those in the mining community are outraged claiming they were depicted erroneously as ignorant, naive laborers. I've enclosed a copy of the title tune to my new feature. Hopefully 'When You Wish upon a Star' will quiet the politically correct crowd. Not catching any flak from the children. Go figure.
With love,
Walt

[x-thoo-shush]

I am still participating in this writing group that focuses on learning the skills. So, the entries are short by design. I am learning to say more with less if that makes any sense. Some of you who are reading this and know me well can insert your snide remark here. Jokes aside, this week's entry is the second part of three dealing with genres. Based on the photo the assignment was to write a Sci-Fi story in 110 words or less.

[x-thoo-shush]

I am called Xthousious and I come from the city of Dark Forms. By my words my memory has returned but my strength fails. The Worm Lords have confounded me here. This place is cold and I feel a force within it; a shield of sorts, not elemental but spiritual. An evil presence looms here. I must depart at once. I can hear the waves of motion beyond this corridor but I am unable to pierce the threshold. Something--this presence--is preventing my advance. It's dominion I cannot break. Telepathic signals may reach my comrades in time; for rescue, before the hemorrhaging of the sun. Focus I must.

Moonshine Whiskey

"Jeb, would you stop messin' with that damn cat? You're makin' me nervous," shouted DeWitt.

"I'm just tryin' to make a friend, maybe somethin' you should be doin'," replied Jeb.

"You told me you would help me stand guard against those county bastards that want to shut down grandpa's still. This still has been producin' for ages and I ain't about to back down. You with me or not?," asked DeWitt.

"I'm here ain't I?", responded Jeb. "You didn't tell me I'd have to stand guard with my rifle. Besides, I'm supposed to be hayridin' with Miss Annie."

"Chasin' felines is about all you're good for anyway," bemoaned DeWitt.

110words, #027

After a week off, the fiction is flowing again. The prompts this time were to first explain how the man and rabbit meet (no pet-owner relationship allowed) and second to tell the story in 110 words or less. Sounds easy enough, right? Here is my entry.

Eddie Rabbit Alter-Ego

Dewey's was slow, so slow the girls bailed before the last set. The smoke was thicker than usual and curiously sweet. Teddy felt sick and the sweat was a squall. He needed the money so he swallowed one last shot and set his pick. Next thing he knew, he was singing songs he'd never sung before. He closed the bar with "Every Which Way but Loose" but had no idea why. Ironic? Yea, his head was pounding. Dude in the front asked for a photo and autograph; wrapped his arm around him and grinned. The lights went out and that is all Teddy could remember.

110words, #024-026

The last three weeks of short fiction writing have been a series. The prompt was to create a character and develop a story using that character. There were three different photos but the point was to thread that character using what was provided. I am listing my entries starting with photo #024 so you can see the progression. Of course.


Roll Tide

"Yep, we'll go right out there a ways to get the best signal," Kenny explained to the game warden, who wondered about the contraption he had seen motoring around the lake.

Kenny wasn't one for long drives or large crowds but he loved his Crimson Tide football. Instead of traditional tail gating, Kenny enjoyed listening every Saturday on his FM dial. A scratchy, snowy broadcast was all he was able to get from his trailer tucked beneath the densely wooded ridge.

"You been drinkin'?", questioned the warden.

"No sir," replied Kenny. "Neither the Lord or the extre weight on these insulation panels could stand it." "Plus it's dangerous."


Other Plans

Satisfied that Kenny was sober, the warden left. Now, Kenny had just enough time before kickoff to grab a bag of pork rinds and his 'Bama foam finger. As he headed up the ridge, he noticed his cousin Herb and a few others, that he had not laid eyes on before, had gathered out in front of his trailer. Remembering that the revival meetin' was goin' on, Kenny decided to go with what he already had--half of an oatmeal cream pie and a plug of Levi Garrett. He had to hurry though to get back down the hill before Herb caught sight of him. Today football was his religion.


Painted Memory

"I don't think Herb saw me," Kenny said to himself, gasping for air after running down the ridge as fast as he could.

Catching his breath, Kenny cranked the motor to his craft and headed toward the middle of the lake. With the high sky and a stiff breeze, Kenny's mind wondered, remembering the company he kept on Saturday afternoons. Pulling an old photograph from his pocket, he thought of his beloved mother. Kenny was just a teenager when it was taken. It was the only game they ever attended in person.

Pushing a tear away, Kenny cried, "I know your up there watchin' mama. I miss ya."

110words #022

I participate in this very short fiction writers community called 110words. Here is my latest entry which happens to be the feature story this week. I don't call myself a writer, but I am trying to learn. This writing community is a good way to practice. Having my work featured defiantly injects a boost of confidence. Read my entry below and then check out the other participants work either from the link above or under "blogs i follow" to the right. You can participate too by just going to the blog. C'mon, join me.


Convincing Mom

Yes! This potentially no good, horribly bad day has turned sublime. "Good bye" community theater and "so long" teeth whitening commercials. My big break is finally here. I'm going to be a star with endorsements, paparazzi, bling, a pop album...I need to call my friends, oh and mom. How do I tell my mom about this part? Do I mention the bedroom scene? I'll never hear the end of it. I know, I'll tell her it's just a kissing scene, which I've done before. What if I have to take my pants off? She'll never understand. Ahhh, I'll say I have a stunt double and that those cheeks aren't mine.

110words #021

The most recent entries are posted now on 110words. Here's mine below.

William Rudolph Kincaid
Died January 26, 2009 at the age of 82. Beloved husband of Mildred Warner Kincaid, loving father to daughters Kimberly Fairchild & Joyce Woods, and cherished grandfather to 13 grandchildren. Preceded in death were three sons; William, Bradley, and Daniel. Known for his patriotism, Kincaid adorned proudly the military achievements of his sons who died in service of their country. Memorial service to be held Friday, January 30 at 10 am. The medals of valor will be bestowed to his loving wife then be donated to the National Museum in honor of her friend, hero, and soul mate. Family and friends will be received at a private burial.

110words, #019

The Poser

The man with the yellow boots stepped out of the shadows as the rented cargo truck sped away. What seemed inadvertent was completely according to plan. The ball was dropped and the man, wired to communicate, stood gawking and admiring this overgrown Christmas ornament. Drawing the attention of onlookers and halting the flow of traffic, the heist was underway. As the scene spirals into chaos, the man with the yellow boots turns away and folds up his umbrella; signaling the next phase of the operation. Nerves pounding, he walks away and disappears into the crowd. Making good on his part, the man awaits his share of the booty.

(to see all the entries, go to the 110words blog)

110words #017

Unction of the Sick

"...from ashes to ashes and dust to dust", pronounced Father Fredrick solemnly. "This concludes the ceremony of last rites."

As Father Fredrick closed the book, the guilt swelled within. When parishioner Christopher asked for counsel about his dilapidated car Fredrick did not foresee this misunderstanding. Father Fredrick had advised against repairs due to the condition and the expense relative to its years of service. Strangely depressed and mournful, Christopher requested the unction of the sick sacrament. Caught off guard and painfully empathetic, Father Fredrick agreed. Leaving the priesthood was something not dared considered, until that day.

110words, #016

The results of entry week 016 are now published on the 110words blog. Check it out! The story had to explain why the item was placed in that backyard. My feeble attempt below.


Star Launcher

Grandpa Les worked 40 years at the pipeline company. He got a gold watch and a handshake for his time. I remember when he brought home an old metal pipe and some sheet metal. He spent a whole Saturday pounding and welding. He built the "Star Launcher" for my sister and me to play on. We had so much fun pretending we were space pirates blasting off deep into the galaxy. That is until Uncle Bobby got caught with his girlfriend late one night having his own space odyssey. We'd never seen Grandpa so mad. We starting calling it "The Love Shuttle" and never played on it again.

110words#012

Here is my latest entry in a short fiction experiment called 110words. This entry was submitted on Election Day eve and as you can see, politics was my source of inspiration. Maybe inspiration isn't exactly the right word. It must have struck a nerve because it was chosen as the feature last week.

Dirty Politics

"Geez Joe! Say it ain't so", Sarah shouts.

"Now that I'm VP I don't have all that much to do," Joe responds. "So I thought I would convert this restroom to accommodate both sexes like the North Koreans have done in public places. I am the foreign policy expert you know."

"This is the U.S. Capitol building, NOT North Korea." Condescendingly Sarah jabs, "Haven't you ever heard of freedom?"

"That's unfair," Joe says.

"Is it?" Sarah replies, "You're peering over my restroom stall. Unless you're here to diffuse a nuclear bomb I don't need you in every aspect of my life."

Joe concludes, "You haven't see the half of it."

110words #011

I continue to submit weekly entries in this short fiction experiment. Lately the instructions have included a prompt which exists to generate creativity in story telling. For #011 the prompt was: "What ridiculous event is the man in the photo driving away from?" Here is my entry.

Car Ride Home

Larry's car hummed a deep growl as it idled in front of room 12A. He waits for her. This is not the first time; in fact, they had grown accomstomed to these secret encounters. Larry flicks the gray head off his cigarette and draws in another dose. As the nicotine mixes with the idle fumes, his mind suddenly begins to race. The muscles in his gut tighten and guilt overwhelmes. Larry curses himself wondering why he cannot control his urges. Frustrated, he turns up the radio trying to kill the conviction and fear. Still waiting for her, the conviction and fear win out. Larry revs the engine and drives home.

110words #009

Memoir Of A Hero

We were in the best shape of our lives back then. Dick and I thought we knew it all; ready to conquer anything or anybody in our way. We were stationed together when the war broke. The war--it made us feel weak and alone. All we had was a shared responsibility to serve our country and the companionship of one another. Dick was my best friend. I razzed him because he was a slow, bowlegged, son of a German immigrant. If I wasn't so much like my father, Dick would have known how much I loved him. Maybe things would have been different between us.

110words #008

The Plight of a Clown

"That John Denver is full of sh**!"

The comedic line rolls from the TV as it pacifies Ralph with a movie he's seen dozens of times. It reminds him of his initial encounter with the McDonald's people. During the interview it was explained to him rather convincinly that his job would be much better than the one he had at Macy's. With this position he wouldn't have to take silly photographs with squirmy and annoying kids who beg for toys they know their parents will buy them.

Ralph ruminates, "What's worse; working 20 hours a week or eating these cold, leftover fish sandwiches every night?"

110 words #006

Out Of Touch

I've never really played football in a mud bowl before, at least not intentionally. That was a well deserved break from the research paper due tomorrow. I don't know what to write anyway. My brain is all locked up. Moore always assigns these ridiculous topics and wants citations.

I didn't expect to see Janie out here. I wonder if she saw me? Good thing I added those ab sets last night. I hate doing abs but it was well worth it. It's a wonder Janie didn't tackle me herself. Girls like to play hard to get.

Hey Ryan, can I hitch a ride?

110words #5

Bad Day

After explaining to the executive editor that he had been writing such anonymous columns for two years, Tom still didn’t understand why as an AP writer his name wasn’t published, identifying his authorship.
Feeling slighted and misunderstood, Tom thanked his boss for listening and exited. Tom stepped outside, looked at his watch, and with the rest of his day open decided to self soothe with a bite to eat. First he needed cash. Seeing an ATM, Tom angrily wondered how a machine he couldn’t even reach could be credited to “Jeanie” while his writing read around the world would remain with no name. Tom’s appetite quickly vanished.