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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Mrs. Randall’s Bear

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

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I like to check in with Wordsmith.org on Tuesdays to get a feel for the theme of the week and build up a good does of writer’s anxiety about what kind of challenge I might face on Wednesday. I’ll be honest, this week’s theme threw me off guard: dirty words.

Okay, I told myself yesterday, don’t jump to conclusions here. “Dirty words” could mean anything, maybe just words about dirt and soil.

Then, I read Wordsmith’s blurb on the theme of choice:

This week [we’re] showcasing words related to — well, if the English language made any sense (as in words include/exclude) — the opposite of increment.

Excrement, and anything related to it…boy, oh boy. And today’s word goes right to the heart of it:

scatology. noun. 1. The scientific study of excrement. 2. An obsession with excrement or excretion. 3. Language or literature dealing with excretory matters in a prurient or humorous manner.

Alrighty, then. Here goes nothing.

*****

Mrs. Randall’s bear

Mick Skuzowski drove the honey wagon for the small town of Palmyra for twenty years. He knew all there was to know about cleaning up and removing waste.

“My career is in the shit house!” he joked more than once over a pint at the Palmyra Tavern. He came from a long line of waste collectors, and he was proud of it.

The Skuzowski’s were well-known for clearing out a septic tank in fifteen minutes flat, stench-free. And, Mick in particular was famous for tracking bears by studying the scat they left behind. So, when Mrs. Randall’s pet, a 350 pound black bear named Bessie, lunged at her throat the morning after Thanksgiving and killed old Mrs. Randall, Mick got the call.

“Mrs. Randall didn’t have a chance,” her husband sobbed. “She was carrying a bucket full of bones and giblets from the last evening’s turkey dinner. Mr. Randall said that Bessie tore a path from the back of their yard, through Mrs. Randall’s garden, and into the woods on the other side of the two lane road.

“Bessie’s never laid a claw on Mrs. Randall, didn’t even nip her when she was a young cub.” Mr. Randall shook his head. “But Bessie had been acting funny lately. Then, this morning she just turned, lumbered across the yard faster than a jackrabbit, and –”

“Don’t you worry,” Mick assured him. “We’ll find her. I’ll track her, and Billy’s hunting crew will shoot her.” At that, Mr. Randall broke down again.

Within the hour, Mick was dressed in his heavy brown overalls, rubber boots, and a camouflage hat. He went into the woods with only a knife. He found where Bessie broke between some trees and discovered a clump of Mrs. Randall’s gray hair hung on some low brush. Mick kept his eyes on the ground and his mind on that bear.

For the most part anyways.

Mick couldn’t help but be a little distracted by the pain in his lower back. It’d been bothering him since last Friday. After he finished cleaning out the septic at the Johnson’s place, he went to wind up the hose and felt it hit a snag on something or other. He tugged the hose and tried to shake it loose. When he finally jerked it toward him, the hose let go quicker than he expected. Mick stumbled backwards and fell onto a cluster of rocks hidden in the grass beside the Johnson’s garage.

Mick stepped gingerly through the woods, standing on his left foot once in a while to alleviate the pain. He walked with his knife open and used it to lift brush or stab and push over a rotting log. He was a few yards from a creek bed when he stopped to straighten his back. He winced at the pain and fell to his knees.

He thought if he could make it to the water, he’d splash his face and rest a bit. Soon enough the pain would subside and he’d head back to town and ask for help. He hated to let Mr. Randall down, but he couldn’t do much tracking on his hands and knees.

Crawling towards the edge of the creek, he thought he heard a noise from across the water, the crack of a stick and the rustle of ferns. He looked up, but saw nothing. As he leaned over and scooped up water, he heard a splash.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her as she rose up on her hind legs. She had a rabid look in her eyes and blood on her teeth. Mick froze. Then, he fell over on his side and yelled out. The pain in his back prevented a quick escape, so the bear was on him before he could stand and run.

The hunters found Mick, and the bear, the next day.

“In the fight,” Billy told Mr. Randall, “Bessie must have fallen on Mick’s knife. She didn’t suffer long.” Billy put his hand on Mr. Randall’s shoulder. “Mick was a real hero, Mr. Randall, always looking out for others.”

“Yes,” Mr. Randall said, quiet. “Ain’t nobody who could clean up a mess as well as Mick Skuzowski. ”
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Wednesday’s Word Flash Fiction: Knitting at Littleton Elementary

I love the quote Anu Garg uses to jump start this week’s theme on Wordsmith.org:

The French writer and philosopher Albert Camus once said, ‘Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.’

Today’s word is:

nescient. adj. Lacking knowledge or awareness.

I tried different strategies to get my story going: word association, breaking down today’s word into others that might spark an idea, trying to come up with a character name using only the letters from “nescient” itself (if only I’d had one more decent consonant). Nothing worked like I had hoped. So, here’s to writing by the seat of your pants!

*****

Knitting at Littleton Elementary

Joyce’s Dansko clogs squeaked as she turned from the clean black board and scanned the classroom. Twenty-four desks glistened from a long overdue date with a Clorox wipe. Each chair was pushed in snug against each desk. In the reading corner, books were lined up on the shelves in descending order according to height. The bulletin boards were de-cluttered, all those ridiculous xerox copies – of this rule and that rule – tossed in the trash.

Kids needed organization, structure, and only one rule. That’s what Joyce told Marcie after Marcie had gasped and stopped dead in her tracks during their morning walk.

“You signed up to do what?” Marcie’s face went pale.

“Knitting. I’ll be teaching knitting for one week to first through third graders. They’ll be making dishrags.” Joyce smiled confident.

“Joyce.” Marcie took her by both shoulders. “You’re an awesome knitter, but you don’t know squat about kids.”

Joyce took offense to Marcie’s comment. Sure, Joyce was older and never married, but she had nieces and nephews whom she saw twice a year. And, she observed enough bad parenting in the grocery stores. She knew all about how not to parent.

Marcie gestured wildly with her arms. “I know some of those third graders, Joyce. They’ll eat you alive.” She sighed, “what were you thinking?”

Marcie was young, that’s what Joyce was thinking. Just because they were neighbors and walking buddies didn’t mean Marcie knew Joyce that well. Joyce had a look that could make a chatty teenager sink down into the pew any Sunday morning. And, she had a stern voice that could freeze her cat in mid couch-pluck and send her flying under a bed three doors down.

“It’s only a week, Marcie, and I know plenty about kids. I’ll remind them of the Golden Rule, and they’ll behave like angels.” Joyce turned and started walking again.

The Recreation Department told Joyce that the kids loved knitting last year, but the woman who taught it said she was too busy with other projects to teach this year. The class maxed out at ten kids; all she had to do was teach them to cast on, knit, and cast off.

“Okay, but take my cell number in case you need help.” Marcie looked Joyce in the eye. ” And, you’d better bring candy.” Continue reading “Wednesday’s Word Flash Fiction: Knitting at Littleton Elementary”

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Off Kilter and Out of Season

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

El Niño. noun. A weather phenomenon characterized by unusually warm ocean temperatures in the Equatorial Pacific.

Check out Wordsmith.org’s theme this week – words related to weather. They each make for some challenging prompts!

*****

Off Kilter and Out of Season

Delores drove to the grocery store with her windows down.

“Mmm.” She shook her head. “In the middle of May.”

In her seventy-two years, she had never known such a hot day this time of year in Minnesota. The weather seemed to flip flop more often than not: hot when it was supposed to be cool and cool when it was supposed to be hot. Just last summer, the rose buds popped out too early and froze before they reached full bloom. The tomatoes didn’t plump up until late September, and they never turned red — at least not until she dropped them in a paper bag with a banana and rolled it up tight.

She showed the bag trick to Amanda next door, the young woman who moved here from the city early last year. Amanda was desperate to grow tomatoes, “so excited to be living out in the country, now!” she’d said. But, she didn’t know the first thing about gardening. She planted the seedlings on the north side of the house, in the shade. The plants still produced, to Delores’s amazement, but then Amanda pulled the fruit before it even had a chance to ripen.

Amanda stood at Delores’s front door one Sunday afternoon in early October – in tears – with a handful of hard tomatoes, sobbing and saying nothing was working out like it was supposed to. Delores wondered if Amanda was upset about more than just the tomatoes.

“Patience,” Delores had told Amanda over a cup of coffee and a box of Kleenex. “These things take time.” Delores patted Amanda’s hand. “You can’t expect everything to work out perfectly in the first season.”

Standing in the grocery store, though, Delores wondered if she were wrong. She gripped the cart as she rolled past mounds of vegetables and fruits picked before their prime, some bigger than her fist. She realized that neither patience nor the weather had anything do with cultivating and harvesting these days. She could buy what she wanted whenever she wanted. But, while the fruits all looked pretty, she wondered about the taste.

When her husband Ed was still alive, he grew his own vegetables out back. He weeded around the cantelope with a gentle hand, taking care not to damage the vines. The melon always felt rough and looked ugly, but it melted in her mouth. He grew cucumbers from seed, which wasn’t easy. There were plenty of seasons when too much rain ruined the first crop. But, Ed was patient and persistent. Even his kohlrabi grew in juicy and sweet.

Surrounded by all those fruits and vegetables, Delores missed Ed. After fifty-three years together, she had grown accustomed to his mood swings. She was fond of the curve in his back, as she nestled up to him in bed. It had taken a long time for her settle – completely – into their relationship.

Years, in fact.

Delores thought of Amanda. She hadn’t seen much of her in the last few months. Delores rolled her cart around the potatoes and onions and back out the door. She stopped off at a bakery and picked up a rhubarb pie: in season, just right. When she got home, she knocked on Amanda’s door and offered warm pie and a little conversation.
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