Franchot Inspired

Short stories are still my focus in 2023, but I’ve decided on putting my series together in a collection. I think it would work great. Girl’s Night and my Union Station series. For now, this post is about Union Station. I’ve been very busy, with my day job of course and putting the finishing touches on a Union Station 3 parter that kicks off with ‘Doris’. I’m becoming quite fond of my Union Station series and its characters, finding myself becoming invested in them, especially the employees of America’s third busiest rail station. 

Doris, one of the station’s custodians was introduced in the pilot ‘9:20’. A single mother raising an adorable five year old daughter Angelique. Doris has recently ended a problematic relationship with her boyfriend Terry which takes an unexpected, concerning turn. Here’s a little preview. As with all my previews, what appears next may not be the final edited version. Thank you for reading it.

Doris: A Union Station Short Story

“Mama, mama can I go to work with you?!” Angelique said. The five year old was beyond cute with her big expressive brown eyes, long wavy hair in pigtails and chocolate milk stains that had sprayed across the crisp white collar of her shirt; it was a part of her uniform. Doris smiled, but felt so guilty. She was about to take Angelique out of the private Catholic school. Doris just couldn’t afford it anymore and was planning to tell her soon. Angelique was very intelligent for her age and Doris felt it was only fair to talk to her. Doris wouldn’t be able to afford next month’s tuition. Doug at work loaned her the money for this month. I love Doug, but it was embarrassing to accept his offer. I was just venting to him at work that day. Doris wanted the best education for her baby. She lived for it.

“Mama?!”

“Huh?” Doris said, and then checked the time on her phone. It was 1:12pm. Her shift starts at 2pm. Where’s Danette? Her sister was usually on time and texted when she wasn’t.

“Mama?!” Angelique shouted and slapped the palm of her small hand on the kitchen table.

“Hey!” Doris said.

“Well?!” Angelique said.

Doris smiled, seeing her own face in the little brown-skinned girl.

“Can I go to work with you?”

“Angelique sweetie I’m sorry not today.”

“Why mama?!”

“I just can’t I have a lot to do and won’t be able to watch you.”

Angelique put her little hand on her hip as she sat there at the kitchen table. “I don’t need nobody to watch me I can sit there and talk to Doug!”

Doris laughed, “Doug is at work too….we’ll both be at work.”

“I can work too mama!”

“Sweetie not this time.”

“You took me there before.”

“I didn’t have anybody to watch you that day.”

“I like the choo choo trains mama!”

“Sweetie I know you do,” Doris said, hating to tell her baby no, but she couldn’t take her to work again, not if she could help it. “Finish your grilled cheese, Tee Tee is on her way. You can watch scary movies with her until I get home.”

“I don’t want to I’m scared at night I hear mice in the room mama!”

“They not in the traps?”

She shook her pigtails.

Doris was devastated. She thought she was getting a grip on the mice. I gotta move! She rose from the kitchen table like she was in a daze, grabbed Angelique’s plate with the half eaten grilled cheese sandwich and took it over to the sink. Her eyes did catch a few mouse droppings on the floor by the fridge. She hurriedly wrapped the grilled cheese in two plastic bags, threw it away and washed the plate quickly. She dried her hands and turned back to her daughter. Just then, Danette walked into the kitchen.

“Girl I’m sorry,” Danette said.

Doris’ little sister by three years looked like she’d run a marathon. She and Doris barely resembled; they had different fathers and grew up together sporadically, and then one day realized they were all each other had. Neither of them really knew their fathers and from what their late mother said, weren’t missing much. Doris was dark brown-skinned and Danette was a few shades lighter, thin and much taller. Danette had a bushy Afro and Doris had her naturally long hair in neat cornrows.

“You had me worried,” Doris said.

Angelique looked up at her aunt and frowned.

“Girl I got held up, got to tell you.”

“What?” Doris said.

Danette looked down and saw the frown on Angelique’s face. “What’s the matter Fruit Loop?”

“Don’t call me that I don’t like it.”

“Yes you do Fruit Loop.”

“Stop Tee Tee!”

Danette started laughing and slowly a smile grew on Angelique’s face. Doris smiled too.

“You know you like Fruit Loop,” Doris said, and then looked at the time. “I better go!”

Doris walked over to her daughter, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I know, I don’t want to leave you either baby, but mama got to work so I can take of you and have a place to live, okay?”

Angelique was frowning again, but nodded her head.

“Now watch some movies with tee tee, don’t have to be scary….I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Can I get pizza from Italian Fiesta?!”

“Okay, but don’t eat too much of it, and not too late.”

Angelique smiled, “I’ll leave you some mama.”

Doris smiled, “Let me get going.”

“You got a minute?” Danette said.

“Not really.”

“Doris I need to talk to you.”

“What?”

Danette looked at Angelique briefly, and then motioned with her head out of the kitchen. “Be right back Fruit Loop.”

Danette walked out into the small living room. Doris was right behind her.

“What is it why can’t she hear?”

“I don’t want her to,” Danette said.

“Well what? I got to go.”

“You know why I was late getting here?”

“Why?”

“Terry.”

“Terry?!”

“Girl he was outside my house!”

Doris’ eyes bucked, “What?!”

“I thought you broke up with him.”

“I did it’s been over a month!”

“Well Doris, he showed up outside my apartment as I was leaving saying stuff.”

“What he say?”

“He said ya’ll didn’t break up and that you’re getting married.”

“Danette stop it!”

“I’m just telling you what he said.”

Doris was speechless. She shook her head, and then walked over to the couch and sat down.

“Are you sure y’all broke up?”

“Yes! That’s why I changed my number.”

“Doris he asked me for your number.”

“What did you tell him?!”

“I told him I didn’t have your new number.”

“Did he believe that?!”

“Girl I don’t know what he believes I had to get going.”

“I can’t believe….he only came to pick me up at your place once, awhile ago.”

Danette shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” Doris said.

“It’s okay he just ain’t over you girl.”

“Danette I had to end it with him….he’s not right, something was never right.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know Danette. What do you think?”

“When it comes to men, I’m not the one, but you got to do something.”

I start writing, I stop, and then start again. That’s how I am with non-fiction; extreme vacillation. I’ve had the idea for this blog post for months, maybe I’ll finish it this time.

Basically it’s about the pandemic and how much I’ll include it in my works of fiction. I already did it with my Union Station short story anthology in ‘Mask’. But should I do more? I’ve already decided that I won’t add it to any of the works I had in progress before the pandemic; it just doesn’t feel right or natural to my storytelling. 

I use the word “Organic” a lot; that’s because I have to be truly inspired to tell a story. Mask came to me naturally because of all the political outrage over wearing them. When we first started wearing them, I was coming from work one evening, walking along north Broadway, a car pulled up to the curb beside me and a woman with wild, crazed eyes yelled out at me, “You’re scaring the children! Die! Die!”

That incident unnerved me. 

More specifically, my Girl’s Night series or other short stories I had in development before the pandemic will remain Corona Virus free.

Dick Wolf’s One Chicago Franchise:

I love my TV dramas which has a lot to do with my inspiration to write short stories; they’re the closest form of written entertainment that’s similar to television shows. But we all know, written entertainment came way before TV. Don’t get it twisted. Last fall when the new season premiered it was all about the pandemic. Most of all the shows returned with fresh storylines involving the Corona Virus. All of my favorite characters were wearing masks.

Let’s start with my absolute favorites: Dick Wolf’s One Chicago Franchise: Chicago Fire, Chicago PD and Chicago Med. No pun intended, but even before the pandemic these shows had me on lockdown Wednesday nights.

As I watched familiar characters running around all masked up, it made me think about my fiction. First, I strive to entertain. I try not to obsess about being some literary genius, but I do like to write quality fiction that deals somewhat in reality. Art imitates life, right? It started to gnaw at me whether I should include the pandemic in my fiction. At first I got so wound up I was about to rewrite everything and throw in the Corona Virus; it was causing me anxiety. I had to stop and take a breath. After thinking about it, I have choices as a creator of fiction. I don’t have to include the virus in my work unless it feels absolutely natural. I refuse to jump on the catastrophe bandwagon just because it’s the latest global tragedy. Whether it be books, movies or TV, I personally feel it’s in bad taste to exploit a worldwide pandemic that has cost us so many lives.

Now in the case of One Chicago, this is first responder fiction; firefighters, cops and doctors. It would be weird to completely ignore the pandemic. A global health crisis fits easily into their world of saving lives. Interestingly, I recently read a review of the One Chicago shows. A fan was tired of all the focus on the virus. Me personally, I thought they did a very responsible job without shoving it down our throats, but on the other hand, from that fan’s perspective, that person wanted to escape into a world of entertainment and leave the virus where it was, in the real world. I get it. At the very least, fiction can allow us a small break from the frightening world in which we really live.

Shout out to another favorite TV show of mine, NBC’s impeccably written and acted This Is Us. They delved not only into the pandemic, but also the racial unrest, not absent, but further exacerbated by another world tragedy: The brutal murder of George Floyd.

Never say never: Will I write about the pandemic again? It remains to be seen. Today I’ll say no, but if something hits me-the way ‘Mask’ did it might just happen. I’ll repeat, any fiction I was working on before the pandemic will remain pandemic free; that’s my way and my readers way to escape. We need that. Some authors may need to express their frustrations and fears in their work; it’s nothing wrong with that, but as we approach the 20th anniversary of another world tragedy, I have stop and take another breath.

Lastly:

In my opinion nothing has been exploited more than the gun violence in my beloved city of Chicago; my hometown. Hollywood loves it, but wouldn’t step foot in one of those neighborhoods. Just ask director Spike Lee of the exploitive ‘Chiraq’. Unfortunately no city is exempt from this horror. From New York City to Los Angeles gun violence itself is a world pandemic.

I’m excited to say that Roach Cobbler is finally published, released in late January. I previously posted a couple of chapters from it on this blog, but I want this post to celebrate its official release. I have to admit Roach Cobbler is a favorite of mine. I enjoyed writing it immensely and fell in love with the characters. I can’t easily let them go. I’ve become attached to them.

The idea for Roach Cobbler is old, so old that I can’t even tell you exactly when I was inspired to write it. It’s a true story that I heard about listening to family over the years. Many years ago, an aunt of mine was disgusted by eating over a friend’s apartment that obviously had a bad roach infestation. My aunt sat down to eat her friend’s peach cobbler and found a big dead roach in it. Later on, after the disgust wore off it became a family favorite, causing side-splitting laughter at family get togethers, especially where food was involved, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. “Roach Cobbler” it had become. “Yeah, remember Carol’s roach cobbler?” We hollered!  As I was writing it, I did intend to highlight the humor of the situation, but I also wanted to take seriously the issues we continue to face in our society. I wanted to show a demographic that we tend to ignore; aging, single black women struggling in poverty. My protagonist Marla Stout is in her sixties, alone, no children and historically unlucky in love. Life passed her by waiting for men to treat her right, then she lost her older sister who was like a mother figure to her. Her sister passed away from lung cancer.

At present Marla is unemployed, living in a roach infested apartment run by a slumlord. The roaches are terrorizing her, taking over her small one bedroom apartment in Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood. Desperate for help she finds Jim, an exterminator that came with good Yelp reviews. Jim is white, also aging and somewhat jaded by a profession he didn’t choose, but inherited from his father. Jim is there to do a job, but when he witnesses Marla’s meltdown over the roaches, he empathizes with her and a connection develops between them; this is where I put in a hint of something more, but it’s vague. At the time I was writing it, I wasn’t sure where Marla and Jim’s relationship would go. I’m having a better idea now.

I had been yearning to write about the family dynamic and I got a chance to do it here. Marla loves her family. With no children of her own she became attached to her niece and nephew, Charisse and her younger brother Denny. Like some families, they are close, at times taking each other for granted. Charisse and Denny are also grieving the loss of their mother, but busy with their own lives. Charisse and her husband Woodrow, never had children together, except for the mother-like bond Charisse developed over the years with Buzzi, Woodrow’s twenty-something daughter from his past. Buzzi is a beautiful, free spirited flight attendant that has an obvious crush on her uncle-ish Denny. Denny, a man with a womanizing past respects Buzzi as a part of his family, but he avoids her, maybe a little more than he should. Denny’s latest conquest is the sassy, but sweet Sharkeeta, a country girl from Memphis, new to Chicago and new to the likes of Denny.

As with every story I write, I never intend to make a series out of them unless it feels a natural part of my storytelling. Roach Cobbler could stand alone as a short story, a novelty of sorts, but I do really like these characters. There’s a lot of stories here, waiting to be told. My creative wheels are turning. I’m curious to know what you think.

Roach Cobbler: Available now.

https://books2read.com/Roach-Cobbler

As a fiction writer, I truly believe If I don’t somewhat enjoy my own work, I can’t expect readers to enjoy it. My forthcoming short read ‘Roach Cobbler’ I really enjoyed. It’s emerging as one of my favorites. There’s a lot of scenes I like, but this one, a very short chapter, my protagonist Marla Stout, overjoyed that her latest extermination seems successful has a sensitive moment with her exterminator Jim. It’s no secret that something is developing between them; Jim is a kind man, keen to Marla’s financial dilemma, but she’s a proud woman that can pay for his services, however she doesn’t want to be stereotyped as a black woman in the ghetto that can’t pay for anything. The scene ends with a tender moment between Jim and Marla and kind of foreshadows where things could possibly go. I hope you enjoy this little scene from Roach Cobbler. It’s coming soon!

Another day had gone by and there was still no sign of a roach, not one. Day two and day three, still no roaches. Marla was ecstatic, but afraid to let her guard down. It was day three that Jim called to follow up. He called her on Tuesday after one in the afternoon.

“That’s great Marla!” he said.

“I haven’t seen not a one!” she said.

“Almost four days without seeing those critters is damn good!”

“Jim could they really be gone?!”

“It’s possible.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“It’s the building Marla….it really needs to be treated.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“I know. What an asshole your landlord is.”

“If I could find a job I’d move. I’m sure he’s sending the sheriff soon because I haven’t paid rent in two months, going on three.”

“Well I got all the proof if he takes you to court. You’ll win.”

“Really Jim?!”

“Hell yes! I can’t tell you how many times I went to court as a witness for tenants with slumlords for pest infestations….believe me you’ll win!”

“Then if I can find a job I’ll get out of here!”

“You will.”

“I’m older Jim it’s tough, so much prejudiced against older people….my unemployment runs out soon.”

“How soon?”

“Four more checks coming.”

“Two months.”

“Yes!”

“Well don’t worry about this,” Jim said. “If you need more treatments We’ll do a payment plan.”

“Jim I didn’t tell you that for charity. I can pay you.”

“I’ll bill you the way I want.”

“Please don’t do this I’ll mail you a check I know what your rates are!”

“Why are you insisting?”

“Cause I’m not some poor old black woman in the ghetto that can’t pay for…..,”

“Hey, hey!”

“What?!”

“Stop this Marla it’s me you’re talking to.”

“Who are you?!”

“Jim.”

“I don’t know you Jim!”

“Yes you do!”

“Who are you?!” she snapped.

He paused, “Just a man who cares….that’s all.”

I love making up stories, hence why I write fiction. I feel my first duty is to entertain, but I do respect a certain amount of realism in storytelling. When the pandemic really took hold last March, I wrestled with whether or not I should tell a fictional story about the effects of the Corona Virus. It really started to gnaw at me, but like every other story I’ve written, I have to be inspired. I can’t force myself to write about something just because I think I should and it’s important to me not to exploit a situation that has impacted so many lives.

I put it out of my mind and focused on my other stories, revising, editing and thankfully publishing them, especially my new short story anthology that I set in Chicago’s Union Station. Two are published so far and I have released the third: Mask.

Looking at all the controversy regarding masks inspired me to tell a story about it and set it in Union Station. It felt perfect to me. At first I was confused, telling myself to come up with some dramatic situation regarding Masks, but as I pondered it more I felt a ‘less is more’ approached would be better. After all, this is a social issue and I wanted to display that. Passengers traveling through Union Station during the pandemic, all wearing masks, except for one rebel named Aria. She wants no part of a mask. How would her refusal to conform impact the passengers around her? Darcy, an elderly woman who’s raising her 17 year old grandson Donnie. Darcy is fearful of her mortality as she’s aging. She’s worried about dying, leaving Donnie alone before he’s old enough to take care of himself. Other passengers include Janel and Monte, a young interracial couple traveling to tell Monte’s family about their engagement. Janel’s sensitivities of dealing with the unfortunate day to day prejudice that black and white couple’s face is only heightened by the pandemic and a racially volatile, Black Lives Matter climate.

I was able to introduce another character I plan to work into the series, Derek, an attractive, muscle bound security guard that overseas the station. I haven’t wrote about this yet, but he has aspirations to join the CPD. He’s conscientious and serious about his job at Union Station. In Mask he’s reluctant to confront the mask-less passenger Aria. It doesn’t help that he finds her beautiful. Doris, the Union Station custodian is back, but briefly. More on Doris in future stories. She’s a keeper!

Overall I’m proud of Mask. It turned out just how I envisioned it, and I don’t take that for granted. I hope you enjoy it.

Mask: A Union Station Short Story.

https://books2read.com/Mask1

At times when I’m busy writing, I can lose focus on things, like why I’m writing in the first place. It takes an unexpected situation, good or bad to jolt me back into reality. This time, I’m glad to say this jolt I experienced is a good one.

On a cloudy, rainy Saturday afternoon I decided to spend a night at the Hilton Rosemont, it’s near O’Hare Airport. Don’t ask why a diehard city guy like me would choose a place like that. You can ask; it’s a nice, mid-sized hotel with a great bar, good food, great staff and a vibe that fuels my inspiration. I stumbled upon the hotel about two years ago while exploring the nearby Fashion Outlets, a place that has great deals on all kinds of designer shit, real shit, not knock-offs. Never understood the whole knock-off craze. Anyway, after I checked in (shout out to Justin at the front office) I went over to the lobby Starbuck’s, got a dark roast and became engaged in a friendly conversation with the barista named Anna. At first, Anna, an older barista than you’d normally see in a city Starbuck’s was overly talkative and I felt myself overwhelmed with her, but as she continued I decided to step out of my selfish Chicago ( I only have two seconds to spare) attitude and listened to Anna. She was going on and on about how she sold her home in Chicago and bought a smaller house in the western suburbs, not far from her job at the Hilton Starbuck’s.

I could barely get a nod, let alone a word in edgewise, but I listened as she mentioned Bolden, her late husband. She talked about her new home and the garden that she worked so hard on, laboriously planting tomatoes, potatoes, cauliflower, broccoli and even beans. Anna wouldn’t come up for air. My Chicago attitude and time selfishness began to take over again, but she mentioned her late husband Bolden again and I took notice. It was then that I started to understand her a little better. She mentioned Rick, her new fiancee, but Bolden kept coming up. Anna continued with her story; her description of her garden was vibrant, dramatic and she told it like I’d imagine reading one of my fictional stories aloud. Listening to her got my creative juices flowing. Luckily there were no other customers looking for coffee a the moment. She spoke about her garden so much that the only other natural step was for me to ask for pictures. Before I could blink, her phone was in my face.

I was looking at a beautiful garden and I was impressed. It made me hopeful that I’d be able to take care of my own home someday. The sweet little barista named Anna had inspired me. I’m not sure exactly what she inspired, but she inspired me to write this post. 

I had to offer my condolences about Bolden. I asked respectfully when he had passed away. She told me 2008. Nobody knows better than me how the loss of a loved one can change your life forever. I took something from Anna’s story. She didn’t directly tell me, but I know her dedication to her garden and all the work she put into it came from a place of pain. She needed a focus, something else to care for after Bolden was gone and the result was beautiful. She was proud of her garden.

As I had my coffee and was ready to go to my room, I repeated to Anna how beautiful her garden was and she said to me, “Franchot my garden looks the way it does because I dreamed, visualized and lived like it could really happen.”

It’s finally here, the second in the Union Station short story series; not really a follow up to 9:20, however, Chicago’s Union Station still provides the backdrop and that’s enough to inspire me to keep coming up with drama for the monolithic station. There’s no Hank and Virgin sex-capades here (not saying that they won’t be back). There’s a new set of guests: Jeremy Nova, a handsome, fit, successful asshole that becomes morally challenged by Walter, a dirty, smelly derelict that roams around the station begging for money. Final Call, my fictional Union Station bar that’s based on a real bar (now closed) is back too where Doug, the bartender is introduced. I brought Doris back. She’s the station custodian that let Hank and Virgin in the ladies room in 9:20. I don’t mention Doris as the custodian, but I wrote her in as off duty. She stopped in Final Call for a beer before going home. I tried to foreshadow some drama for Doris that I hope to bring back later.

Derelict is short, but longer than 9:20, coming in at over 3000 words. Here’s a preview, but what’s great it’s free, available to download on most major ebook retailers.

Preview:

Jeremy Nova was always rushing and never really had to; he had an hour before his train left. He entered Union Station at the Canal Street entrance, pushing everyone in his path aggressively out of the way. Heading down the stairs to the Great Hall, he answered a call, handsfree as his Apple earbuds were planted securely in his ears.

“Jeremy?” the voice on the other end said.

“What?”

“You sound stressed man.”

“I’m trying to catch a train.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“It’s not even seven man, chill.”

Jeremy looked at his Apple watch: 6:54pm.

“I just want to be ready.”

“Ready for what? It’s Friday.”

“I’m busy.”

“Let that shit go until Monday.”

Jeremy took notice to all the women watching him, and the men too. He knew he looked good in his tight, designer suit. He was thin, but muscular and made sure his suits revealed it. It was the only thing that made him smile at the moment as he walked the Great Hall.

“Did you hear me man? You there?”

“What Ken?!”

“Let that work shit go until Monday.”

“You don’t get it,” Jeremy said, scoping out benches in the Great Hall to sit at and get on his laptop. People were all over them. He didn’t like the way they looked; old men and ladies and a derelict looking man that seemed to be coming toward him. He’s gross! Jeremy quickly detoured, thinking about the food court upstairs.

“What don’t I get?” Ken said.

“If you had an important job like me you’d know.”

“Oh I see,” Ken said. “I’m just a lowly construction worker and you’re a tech company nerd.”

“Whatever,” Jeremy said.

“You need to drink something to chill man. I’ll call you in a bit, after you’ve had a few sips, got something to tell you.”

The call ended. Jeremy was on his way toward the escalator to the food court until he saw Final Call, the Great Hall bar and grill. There were seats open at the small bar. He decided to go there instead and have a drink like Ken suggested. He walked toward it, but felt something. It was behind him. The hairs on his neck stood up. He turned around quickly and jumped, startled by the spaced out, crazed yellow eyes he saw staring at him.

“Gotta dolla?”

Jeremy turned around and took off, almost running into Final Call. The few people sitting around the bar looked at him, including the bartender. Jeremy composed himself and sat down on one of the backless stools. He looked back at the entrance. He didn’t see the man. It was the same derelict he saw out by the benches in the Great Hall. What did he want? He stinks! Damn bum!

https://books2read.com/Derelict-A-Union-Station-Short-Story

I’ve become fond of writing dream sequences. Dreams the characters experience can heighten the story by adding extra layers of humor, suspense, surprise and horror. Dreams can also provide a creative shift in the main story, just like the dreams and nightmares we experience in our real lives. The following scene is a dream sequence my character Marla has in the forthcoming ‘Roach Cobbler’. I’m still in the revision and editing process so this may or may not be the final version. Regardless, I hope you enjoy. 

Marla stood there watching the door after Jim was gone. He’s gone, just like that. Will he come back? Will he have to come back? Oh God I hope not, but he said he’d follow up. Just then, Marla realized how tired she was. She wanted to look around her apartment, mainly because something felt different about it. There was that calmness she felt again. Am I imagining this? Something felt finished, final, like maybe the tall white stranger Jim had actually gotten rid of them. But she didn’t want to feel too good yet. The bastards are still here, hiding for just a little while until this treatment wears off. I can’t take it I still have to leave, not just spend the night with Denny. I have no money, but have to find a way to leave here!

She went into her bedroom and looked at the bed. Her clothes were on top of it, the clothes she was taking to Denny’s. I’m so tired. I have to get a nap before I go. She went to the bed, pushed her clothes over and sat down on the side of the bed. She put her phone on the nightstand and looked at it; no new calls or messages. She kicked off her shoes, and then swung her legs up to the bed. It felt so good to her. I’ll just close my eyes a few minutes. She looked up at the ceiling first. They weren’t there. She closed her eyes.

***

Her eyes were still closed, but she felt someone sit down on the bed which caused her body to sink slightly. She tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t open. Wait! Open your eyes. I can’t! Marla kept trying, but they wouldn’t open. Am I that tired?

“I’m sorry,” his voice said.

Who is that? Try to open your eyes again. Marla was getting scared.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I couldn’t help you.”

“Who are you?” she said.

“Don’t you know?”

“I can’t open my eyes.”

“Try harder.”

“I am.”

She was trying with all her strength to pry her eyes open, but suddenly they opened with no further resistance.

“Can you see me?” he said.

Her vision was fine. It was Jim, the exterminator, sitting on the bed right next to her.

“I thought you left,” she said.

He gave her an odd stare, and then got up, turned around and started walking toward the bedroom door.

Why is he leaving?

She looked up at the ceiling and gasped. The roaches were back up there, gathering around the light fixture; it was more of them and they were bigger. “Oh my God!”

She rose from the bed with her eyes glued to the ceiling. More roaches ran toward the light fixture, starting to cover it like a swarm. Her eyes bucked and her mouth flew open. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. They started falling from the ceiling, heading straight for her open mouth. She was able to holler that time and jumped up, running from the bedroom, slapping her head violently.

“Jim, Jim help me!”

She ran into the kitchen, stopping in her tracks. Nobody was there. She yelled out, “Jim where are you?!”

There was no sound, not from a human. She could hear them and their legs crawling, but she couldn’t see them. The sound was terrifying and getting louder. Where are those bitches?! She could hear them in the walls and their thousands of legs disrespecting her apartment and turning it into their own.

“Jim help me!” she hollered.

She looked around the kitchen. The sound of their legs crawling was becoming deafening, and then she started to smell them. The stench was nauseating. She looked down at the cabinets below the sink, and then the cabinets above. She walked toward them, knowing that if she opened one of them what she’d find. But she had to do it. She moved up closer to the cabinets above the sink. Open the one on the left. She reached for it, gripping the knob. They in there. If you open it they’ll kill you. It will be over. I want it to be over!

“Jim where are you?!”

“Don’t open it Marla!”

She turned around quickly, hearing his voice, but he wasn’t there. She was still gripping the knob on the cabinet.

“Jim where are you why can’t I see you?!”

“Don’t open it Marla the roaches will kill you!”

She turned back to the cabinet, feeling more compelled to open it, and then heard her phone vibrating.

“Jim is that you calling me?”

She didn’t hear him say anything else.

“Jim are you here anywhere?!”

There was no other sound, but the sound of them she heard in the walls. Open it and get it over with. Let them take you they want you.

Her phone was still vibrating, getting louder. She opened the cabinet, ready to scream, but she didn’t. Nothing was there, no roaches, nothing but her vibrating phone, lying on the empty shelf. No roaches, oh God, no roaches! She reached inside the cabinet and picked up her phone. “Jim is that you?!”

“What?” he said, but it wasn’t Jim’s voice.

“Jim?!”

“It’s Denny.”

“Denny?!”

“Aunt Marla are you okay?”

“Wait,” she said, looking around. She was in bed, holding the phone up to her ear. She glanced at the nightstand briefly. It was a dream.

“Aunt Marla?”

“I….I was dreaming.”

“Dreaming? I woke you?”

“I thought I was napping.”

“Sorry,” Denny said.

“No it’s okay,” Marla said. “I’m so glad it was a dream.”

“What happened?”

“Roaches.”

Denny paused, “In the dream?”

“Never mind.”

“Hey, just wanted to know if you want me to pick you up tonight.”

Marla was slow to answer her nephew.

“Aunt Marla, you there?”

One of my favorite scenes from this short story. A concerned mother comes into the police station and speaks to Detective Kevin Abruzzo, Lisa’s ex. The mother confesses that she has been abused by her unstable daughter.

Detective Kevin Abruzzo was running late. He jumped up from his desk, strapped on his weapon and was about to leave, until the phone rang on his desk, the ancient annoying beeping sound heard in most police stations. It was the desk sergeant downstairs. Shit! Kevin looked down at his cell phone. Lisa texted him five minutes ago: -hi kev be at fat cat in 10 🙂

Kevin had to meet her. He was surprised that she even agreed. He couldn’t be held up. He grabbed the phone, knowing he had to do his job. Kevin was day 14 as a detective.

“Abruzzo,” he said, and listened as the sergeant filled him in. Kevin nodded reluctantly. “Send her up.”

He sat back down at his desk, disappointed. He texted Lisa quickly: -got held up be there shortly sorry-

He waited, looking for a reply back quickly, but didn’t get one. It worried him. He was praying he had a chance to fix things with Lisa, but was willing to accept it may never happen. Damage done. He looked around and realized he was the only detective on the floor. They were all out on calls, his colleagues, the more senior detectives. The lieutenant went home with an upset stomach. Kevin turned around and noticed a woman approaching his desk. She was older, moving slowly. He could see a terrible bruise on her face. He felt bad for her. She managed to smile at him even through her painful looking face. His heart went out to her. He got up and held out the chair at his desk for her.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice sounded tired and her swollen lips made it look difficult for her to speak. He went back around and sat down behind the desk. They looked at each other.

“Sorry,” she said. “It hurts when I talk.”

“I’m sure,” Kevin said, glancing quickly down at his phone. Lisa still hadn’t replied to his last text. She’s mad. I can’t win.

“I’m Detective Abruzzo,” he said. “Have you been looked at?”

“I went to Weiss,” she said. “I’ll be okay….think it looks worse.”

“What happened?” Kevin said.

She hesitated, “I’m…I’m Virginia Rogers, my….my daughter did this.”

“I’m very sorry Mrs. Rogers.”

“Miss,” she said. “I kept his name, but I’m divorced. I may be old but you can call me Ginny.”

“Sure,” Kevin said.

Virginia looked around. “You’re alone. It seems quiet for a police station.”

“Right now,” Kevin said. “The other detectives are out on calls.”

“You’re very young,” she said. “Are you new?”

Is it that obvious?

“Young?” Kevin said. “I’m forty-two. Been a cop awhile, was just promoted to detective.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re still young,” Virginia said. “My daughter is thirty-eight. I had hopes she’d find a young man like you. She almost did.”

They had a moment of silence. Virginia looked away from him like she was embarrassed.

“Are you going to press charges?” Kevin said. “That’s an obvious assault.”

Virginia’s eyes bucked, “Oh no! She needs help….I don’t know where else to go.”

“You can press charges,” Kevin said.

“She can’t be locked up…she’s emotionally unstable.”

“Mrs, I mean Ginny, can you tell me what happened?”

She cut her eyes to the floor briefly, and then looked back up.

“Can you tell me?” Kevin said. “I know it’s difficult. Just take your time.”

“Are you going to lock her up?”

“I can’t do anything if you don’t press charges.”

“I can’t,” Virginia said.

“Okay,” Kevin said. “Just tell me why you came here. What would you like me to do?”

“It was a gun, a rifle,” Virginia said.

“Rifle?”

“Yes, a rifle….it was big.”

“She hit you with it,” Kevin said.

Her eyes became glassy. “The back of it….I think. I thought she was going to shoot me.”

“Has she been abusing you?”

“No, oh no please…this has never happened before.”

“Is the rifle hers?”

“It’s her father’s.”

“Does she own a firearm of any kind?”

“No, never.”

“Did her father give her the rifle?”

“No!” Virginia said. “She took it from him.”

Kevin became worried. “Is her father okay?”

“He’s fine. I didn’t know any of it until he called me. He said they’d gone deer hunting down in the county…he said it was missing. She’d been staying with him and never told me. She padlocked her door, I broke the lock and found the rifle.”

“So she stole his rifle?”

“Yes. She was so angry with me for breaking into her room…she…she hit me with it.”

Virginia could no longer fight the tears. She broke down crying. Kevin didn’t know what to do. He grabbed a tissue box on his desk and held it out to her. She didn’t take any. Kevin put the box down in front of her.

“Mrs…..Ginny. I’m very sorry all this happened.”

She finally grabbed some tissue and started wiping her eyes, wincing at the pain it caused. Kevin felt a vibration on his phone, but ignored it, instead he grabbed a note pad and pen from his desk.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

Virginia cleared her throat. “Karrie, with a K, Rogers.”

Kevin jotted it down. “What do you think is going on with your daughter?”

“She’s losing her mind,” Virginia said.

“She’s obviously a threat after what she did to you.”

“I never thought,” Virginia said. “But it’s my fault. I never taught her how to deal with men. I never really knew myself.”

“Is a man involved?” Kevin said. “Is there someone we should contact?”

“I don’t know anything,” Virginia said. “She never got over a break up from five years ago with Brand.”

“Brand?”

“Yes that’s his name. She thought he was going to marry her, but he broke up with her. She became very depressed, even started therapy, but she hasn’t been going to her doctor.”

Kevin jotted down more notes. “Ginny, is she still in contact with Brand?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You say he broke up with her five years ago?”

“Five years ago this month,” Virginia said.

“After she hit you, where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She stormed out of the house.”

“Did she take the rifle with her?”

“Yes,” Virginia said. “She did.”