fictmcfa8 Sammy and May

Sammy and May

by Stanley McFarland

“She was cheery,” I said. “That’s what people liked ’bout her. She was pretty as a picture and quick as a whip. She could dance and sing, and she had astounding comic timing for a four-year-old.

“But she was cheery – a chirpy, amiable soul that lit the hearts of television audiences from coast ta coast.”

“And she kept your show on the air,” said the reporter.

I nodded. I had hoped for a softer interview – especially now that I was just an old fart in a nursing home. “She did,” I agreed.

“Weren’t they about to cancel your show when you brought her on?”

“I’d heard something like that.”

“Then you never let her move on.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I grumbled. “It was totally her decision – May and her parents. I never tried ta stop her.”

“But you never let her go, either.”

“It was never my decision,” I repeated the same words I’d said to scores of reporters over the years – most of them in the weeks after The Sammy King Variety Hour went off the air. May was six then, and a television veteran with years of cuteness ahead before puberty would force her to make the transition so few child stars ever managed.

May never had to deal with that problem. She had only one response to network execs who offered her work – “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” We did a guest appearance on The Muppet Show a couple years later. She hadn’t lost a thing - perfect timing, perfect inflection, perfect cheeriness.

I wasn’t my best. I wasn’t sober for one thing. May carried me through our old routine, but people could tell. We didn’t get any offers.

That’s not true – May got plenty of offers. She even got an offer for a show of her own. Her response never changed. “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” A week later I got a letter from Eddie at the old network. He offered me twenty thousand dollars to convince May to move on without me.

I burned the letter – almost set the couch on fire, I was so drunk when I did it.

Over the years I kept getting cards from May – on my birthday and at Christmas. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she didn’t get any back from me once my agent dropped me. His secretary always sent out my cards.

“Mister King?”

I didn’t hear the reporter’s question – maybe not the last two or three. Forty years ago, they would have blamed the bottle. Now it was just age. Maybe that’s better.

“Maybe you better come back another time,” said the large black nurse. I never could pronounce her name. It was something African.

“I don’t think I have enough for my story,” the reporter said.

“Another time,” the large black nurse repeated. She was good at that – making people do what they didn’t want to do. At least this time she wasn’t drawing enough blood from my arm to sink a… I tried to think what would be funny – a row boat? the Queen Mary?

Nah, I thought, a lot of people didn’t know the Queen Mary anymore. May would’ve come up with something. The kid was quick.

I must have dozed because when I woke the reporter was gone. I used to do that on purpose sometimes – pretend to doze off when I didn’t want to deal with somebody. Then it started happening for real. Seemed a lot funnier before.

I saw a letter on my bed and for a moment I thought it was from May. But May never sent cards with address windows on them. I guessed it wasn’t my birthday.

I used my walker to get up from the chair. It took a little longer than it had a month before. I shuffled over to the bed and opened the drawer in the bedside table.

Someone had rearranged it again, but I found an old card from May. Her youngest was going off to college. She wrote that she was proud, but that she was going to miss her.

The words got blurry. My eyesight was fine, but I was tearing up. I never used to tear up – not even when I drank. Suddenly I only wanted one thing in the world. I wanted May sitting in the chair the reporter had vacated. I want to tell her how sorry I was.

“Lotta good that’s going to do her now,” I muttered. “What is she – forty-five? fifty? That America’s Sweetheart boat sailed a long time ago.”

I reached up and pulled the help cord. I’d never done that before. I always figured a big gong would sound, or at least a bell. Nothin’. I was angry but I started laughing. They gave me a damn defective help cord! The world just couldn’t wait to get rid of Sammy King.

“Mister King?” said the big black nurse as she pushed open my door. I was still laughing and seeing her looking worried made me laugh more.

“Can you talk, Mister King?” she asked. “Raise your hand if you can’t.”

“I can talk,” I sputtered.

“Are you in pain?”

I held out May’s card. “I need to call this woman.”

“Mister King,” said the nurse, “if you’re not in trouble, you shouldn’t be pulling the cord.”

“I’m in trouble,” I said, though I knew it wasn’t true.

“How are you in trouble, Mister King?”

I looked into the nurse’s eyes. They were big and brown like the rest of her. She was tired and annoyed, and a little bit worried – maybe she was worried I was losing it.

“I needa… to say I’m sorry.”

The annoyance disappeared. She was still tired, and worried, but the nurse’s eyes changed – they went soft. She took the card out of my hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

I didn’t remember going to sleep. I was on the bed and the big black nurse was back.

“Mister King?” she said. “I’ve got Ms. Dunbarton on the line.”

Dunbarton? Who the hell was… May – that’s right; I remembered – that was her married name. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t seem to get my elbows under me. “Help me… please?” I asked.

I don’t think I’d said please twice since they moved me in this place. The big black nurse leaned over to help me sit up. I stared at her name tag – S.H.A.N.I.Q… What kind of name starts like that?

“Here he is Ms. Dunbarton,” said the big black nurse. She handed the phone to me. I couldn’t say a word.

“Mister King?” said a voice at the other end. It wasn’t a child’s voice, but I woulda known it was May even if she had called me. “Is it really you? I’m so happy you called!”

“Got yer nose,” I said like I did when we first met. She was too old for that gag even then. May laughed back then and did again on the phone.

“I have a granddaughter now,” she said. “We were watching The Sammy King Variety Hour yesterday.”

“It’s on reruns?”

“DVD,” she said. “There’s a site online you can get it – well, a lot of the shows anyway. I still can’t find some of them.”

“I guess they have everything on their computers these days.”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Megan, that’s my granddaughter, loved it. She couldn’t believe that Grandie was that little.”

“You were a tyke,” I said. Whatever May said after that washed over me. She sounded great.

“…of course I had to explain to her who Shirley Temple was.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Our stuff is kinda dated, I guess.”

“They’re great memories.”

“Look, Kid…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a reason I called.”

“I’m so glad you did.”

“It’s just…” I was hoping for her to interrupt. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but I couldn’t get it out. May didn’t interrupt. She knew better than to step on a line. “You had a career back then,” I finally said.

May laughed. “Part of three seasons – a career?”

“You coulda gone on.”

Silence.

“Kid – I shoulda told you to move on. You had the world at your feet. You were being loyal, and instead of telling you… Well, I shoulda pushed you outta the nest.” Junk clogged up my throat. I started coughing. My damn body couldn’t even talk on the phone anymore. I reached for a Kleenex and I was surprised to be handed one. The nurse was still in the room. I grabbed the tissue and spit out the crap. May was still silent on the other end.

“It’s like this, Kid,” I said. “I was a selfish bastard, and I used you. I used your popularity to help me get back on top again. I sunk my career in a bottle, and then I became an albatross around your neck. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Mister King?” I could tell that May was crying.

“Yeah, Kid?”

“I’m so sorry that you feel bad. It’s all my fault. I should have told you years ago.”

“What’re ya talking about?”

“I never wanted to be the new Shirley Temple.”

“Huh?”

“I loved doing the show with you. I loved rehearsal. I loved the taping. I loved every minute of it, but I never wanted to do another show.”

“What?”

“You were my best friend, Mister King. You were probably the best friend I’ve ever had. We’d play and laugh and make things up. It was the world’s best make-believe, but one thing wasn’t make believe at all.”

I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head.

“You, Mister King,” says May. “You were my prince, and my jester. You were there with me through all the adventures. I never wanted to do that stuff without you.”

“Damn, Kid,” I managed to choke out. “You were a lot of fun yourself.”

I heard her half laugh, half cry on the other end. “I love you, Mister King,” she says.

“Right back at ya, Kid.”

We talked more. Small stuff – memories, laughs. The nurse stayed close. She handed me a Kleenex now and again. Finally we said good bye and I hung up the phone.

I looked up at the nurse. Through the tears I could barely make out her name tag.

“Thank you, Shaniquay,” I said.

Her big brown eyes shone. “Right back at ya,” she said.

*****

fictwrig8 Rama and the Camel

Rama and the Camel

by Will Wright

Rama’s father’s birthing day was in two days, and she had nothing to give him. She’d heard stories of genies that granted wishes when you rubbed an oil lamp. If she could find a genie, she could get her father a mountain of gold or a great palace. Rama loved her father very much and wanted to give him something he would like.

But she was too small to reach the lamp.

Being only six, she could only reach the candleholders, the water jar, the oil cruse, and the incense box. She considered each, but decided that, with her small hands, the incense box was best.

So, she took the incense box from the shelf and began to rub it.

She was glad there was no fire in the box, because as she rubbed, the box started getting warm. She was sure she had rubbed the box longer than the hero in the story had.

Shouldn’t a genie have come out by now?

She kept rubbing the box.

She started rubbing after the morning meal, and was still rubbing at noon. She stirred the soup with one hand while she rubbed the incense box with the other. At table, she ate with one hand and kept the other beneath the table rubbing the little incense box. As she gathered the goats, she had to put down the goad in order to close the gate – she needed one hand to rub the incense box.

Lying in her blankets, she worried that she might fall asleep before the genie came.

Her left eye blinked, but she rubbed the incense box.

Her right eye drooped, but she rubbed the incense box

Just when she couldn’t stay awake another moment, the little box jumped in her hand, let off a puff of incense, and there on her blanket stood a man no bigger than Rama’s little finger.

“I am the genie of the incense box,” said the tiny man in a squeaky voice. “I grant you one wish.”

Rama would have clapped her hands in glee, but her hands were too sore from rubbing the incense box all day. She set her face to her most adult expression and said, “I wish, for my dear father, a mountain of gold for his birthing day.”

The genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned red… but nothing happened.

“I’m sorry mistress,” he said. “I am not able to bring a mountain of gold.”

Rama was a little disappointed. She remembered hearing her father say, “Our lives will be wonderful when I find us a mountain of gold.”

It was, perhaps, too much to wish from such a small genie. Still, there was one other thing her father desired.

She set her face to her most adult expression and said, “I wish, for my dear father, a great palace for his birthing day.”

The genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned purple… but nothing happened.

“I’m sorry mistress,” he said. “I am unable to bring a great palace.”

Rama was even more disappointed. She remembered hearing her father say, “Our lives will be wonderful when we live in a great palace.”

It was perhaps, too much to wish from such a small genie.

Once again, she set her face to her most adult expression and asked, “What wishes can you grant for my dear father on his birthing day?”

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he answered, “I can turn his nose into a clove of garlic.”

Rama thought, but not hard. She didn’t think her father would like his nose changed into a clove of garlic for his birthing day.

“I do not wish that,” she told the genie.

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he said, “I can turn his nose into a wad of wet wool.”

Rama thought, but not hard. She didn’t think her father would like his nose changed into a wad of wet wool for his birthing day.

“I do not wish that,” she told the genie.

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he said, “there is only one other magic I can do. I can make his camel smell any way you wish.”

Rama thought, and this time, much harder than the other times. A camel can smell very bad indeed. Perhaps her father would like a sweet smelling camel for his birthing day.

“I do wish that,” she told the genie.

The little genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned blue.

“It is done, Mistress,” he said, and disappeared in a little puff of incense.

Rama woke early the next morning. Though her father’s birthing day was still a day away, she decided to surprise him with a good smelling camel a day early.

“Jasmine,” she said aloud. She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath as she had seen the genie do. “I wish the camel to smell like jasmine.”

She hurried to wash and dress herself. She couldn’t wait to see how her father would like his surprise.

When she got to the table, she greeted her mother. Her father was outside tending the animals.

What if the genie lied to her or couldn’t do what he promised? He was such a tiny genie. Perhaps even the wish of changing the camel’s smell was too great for him.

Father entered the house. He looked angry.

“Papa!” called Rama.

“One moment, dear Rama,” he answered. He turned to Mother. “Did you hear anyone moving around the animals last night?”

“No,” Mother answered. “I would have wakened you.”

“Someone,” Papa said, “has played a trick on me. He has spilled perfume all over the camel. How can I do my business at the bazaar with a camel that smells like flowers?”

It had not occurred to Rama that her father would prefer a camel that smells like a camel. If only she could take back her wish.

What had the genie said?

“I can make his camel smell any way you wish.”

Perhaps, if she wished it, the camel would go back to normal.

She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. Silently she thought, “I wish the camel to go back to normal.”

Rama went about her chores without her normal enthusiasm. She was tired and disappointed. She had gotten a wish and wasted it. She should have known her father wouldn’t want a camel that smelled of jasmine. She didn’t even know if her second wish had changed the camel back.

Her father returned from the bazaar at dusk. She walked out to the pen to smell the camel for herself. Her father was feeding the animals when she arrived.

“I can do that, Papa,” she said.

Her father looked at her. “Maybe you are big enough. What a helpful little daughter I have.” He patted her on the head. “Make sure you’re inside before dark.”

The feed sacks were heavy, but Rama managed to pour feed for the goats and draw water for the trough. She put fresh hay in the manger.

She went over to the camel and took a good sniff. All she smelled was camel.

“It was a silly thing to wish a camel to smell of jasmine,” she said.

“I liked smelling that way.”

Rama had never heard the camel speak before, nor any other animal. She had been pretty sure that animals couldn’t talk like humans did. Still, the camel had just spoken to her.

She was only six; there were probably a lot of things she didn’t know.

“You like jasmine?” she asked

“It’s a lot better than how I usually smell,” the camel replied. “Though I think I like the smell of lemons better.”

Rama crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. “I wish for you to smell like lemons,” she said.

Instantly the pen was filled with the delicious smell of lemons. It was very strong, but not overpowering.

“Ah yes,” said the camel. “That’s very nice.”

Rama agreed, but she still liked jasmine better.

She was just about to wish the camel back to normal again, when a large group of people she’d never seen before came over the hill from the north. The crowd went right up to the animal pen where she and the camel were standing. They were holding shovels, and pick axes, and rock drills, and every one of them had a clove of garlic for a nose.

“Since the day we were cursed,” said the first person to reach the pen, “I have smelled nothing but garlic. Now, I can smell lemons.”

“We all smell lemons,” another agreed.

“I never thought I would smell something so wonderful again,” added a third.

“Is it you child, that I’m smelling?” asked the first.

“No,” Rama replied. “It is this camel.”

“We are gold miners,” said the first. “If we dig gold for you all night, may we sit by this wonderful camel during the day?”

Rama knew she should ask her father, but here was a way of getting a real present for him. If she asked permission, it would ruin the surprise.

“I agree,” she said.

The miners went to their work.

“If father comes and smells lemons,” said Rama, “he may think someone has tricked him again.”

“It is true,” said the camel. “You should wish me back to normal.”

“I will return in the morning,” promised Rama “and you will smell of lemons then.”

Rama woke before the dawn and rushed out to the pen to see the camel. Next to the pen lay a mound that sparkled even in the deep blue pre-dawn.

“Good morning, Rama,” the camel greeted her politely.

“Good morning, Camel,” she replied. “Are you ready to smell like lemons again?”

“There’s no hurry. It’s not day yet,” said the camel. “I’ve been thinking. I also like the smell of cinnamon a lot. Can we try that?”

“Oh, I like cinnamon too,” said Rama. She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. “I wish for you to smell like cinnamon,” she said.

Instantly the pen was filled with the delicious smell of cinnamon. It was very strong, but not overpowering.

“Ah yes,” said the camel. “That’s very nice. I like it as much as I like the smell of lemons.”

Rama agreed, but she still liked jasmine better.

She was just about to wish the camel to smell of lemons, when a large group of people she’d never seen before came over the hill to the south. The crowd went right up to the animal pen where she and the camel were standing. They were holding hammers, and trowels, and chisels, and every one of them had a wad of wet wool for a nose.

“Since the day we were cursed,” said the first person to reach the pen, “I have smelled nothing but wet wool. Now I can smell cinnamon.”

“We all smell cinnamon,” another agreed.

“I never thought I would smell something so wonderful again.” Added a third.

“Is it you, Child, that I am smelling?” asked the first.

“No,” Rama replied. “It is this camel.”

“We are palace builders,” said the first. “If we build a palace for you all day, may we sit by this wonderful camel at night?”

Rama knew she should ask her father, but here was a way of getting a second present for him. If she asked permission, it would ruin the surprise.

“I agree,” she said.

Rama’s father was surprised to find a large group of people sitting in his animal pen all day, and a different group at night, but as he saw the beginning of a great palace, and the beginning of a mountain of gold, he didn’t seem to mind.

Rama found that her father was right. Things were wonderful living in a palace with a mountain of gold. Many things were different, but as she and her parents still loved each other, the best parts of her life remained the same.

The builders and miners were happy, her parents were happy, and even the camel was happy, with all his new friends, and smelling like lemons during the day, and cinnamon at night.

And during dusk and dawn, when it wasn’t fully day, nor was it fully night, and the world was most beautiful, Princess Rama rode out among the hills on her wonderful camel that smelled of jasmine.

FictWrig/McFa3 Flash Fiction

Myrtle

by Will Wright

Myrtle burst into the air, her flame streaking past the sputtering remains of an oldster. She surged with potential, her energy building within her. She let loose a blast of color, red, then purple, then green, syncopated by three concussive claps. Beneath her, the humans marveled. She was the star of the sky as she was always meant to be.

Suddenly tired, burned out, she descended looking for rest. As she fell, she saw Barry rushing through her embers, ready to explode into a circular blossom of light.

“Ah youth,” she sighed as she fizzled and died.

Sandman’s World

by Will Wright

In the rapid blinking of an eye, Sandman took young Justin across the seas. In Sandman’s world, ships could fly and even reach the stars. Villains were conquered, bravery rewarded, and there was always room for Frisbee the Labrador. But there was no room for homework, braces, or school bus rides next to smelly Cecil Sminglethorpe. Sandman’s world canvassed forever and beyond. Justin was the perfect age to explore it.

A different scent than Cecil’s took Justin away – a scent both acrid and demanding. Justin twitched his nose and fell back into the mundane.

Coffee: Sandman’s eternal nemesis.

Rosebud

by Stanley McFarland

A Bicycle?

Stacy’s little brother, now a man in his fifties nodded. “I said no, but you took it, and you lost it.”

“Someone stole it.”

“Because you were careless!”

“I was a child.”

“You never should have taken it.”

Stacy put her hand on her brother’s arm. “But we’re family.”

“No, we’re not - not anymore.”

Her brother awkwardly placed flowers on the fresh grave. They were orphans now as

was almost everyone their age. But that didn’t soften the grief.

Stacy watched her brother’s back as he left the graveyard.

Now she had no family at all.

Flash Edit

by Stanley McFarland

It wasn’t de-ja-vous. Allen didn’t think he’d been in the same place or done the same thing. There was the same mysterious haunted feeling, but if anything, it was anti-de-ja-vous. Allen was sure that something was different – something had changed – maybe even he had changed.

Worse, it felt as if the change had been against his will. Some force, personal or impersonal, had ripped into his life, his being and mangled it – or at least reshaped it significantly.

It left him feeling helpless, impotent and frightened. It also left him questioning the point of any action, plan or ambition he might have.

“What’s the point?” he spoke into the air, as if the monster of change was in the same room with him.

“It makes for a better story,” a voice replied, calmly, matter-of-factly, as if it – perhaps she, spoke out of the air to people like Allen all the time.

“A better story?” asked Allen, both hoping and fearing that the voice would elaborate.

“It made no sense for you to be a sea captain,” said the voice. “The story makes far better sense in a modern setting, and modern sea captains just aren’t as dashing as their 18^th and 19^th century counterparts. We also negate all that nautical argot that only a small segment of the reading public understands or enjoys.”

“So what am I?”

The bodiless voice laughed – light-hearted, unconcerned, as if Allen’s crisis was a trivial matter. “You’re an international spy,” said the voice. “You were once an assassin for hire, but now you work freelance for the NSA.”

“But my ship.”

“There is no ship,” said the voice. “There never was. Look in your pocket. There are two tickets to Rio there. What you should be most concerned about at the moment is for whom the second ticket was obtained.”

“I don’t care. I want my ship.”

“We’ll change that.”

“So all I am is just bit of fictional fluff to you?”

“Exactly.”

“And you don’t care if I wish to participate in this… story?

“Not a consideration.”

“I can’t believe that even a writer would show so little feeling for his characters.”

“I’m no writer,” said the voice laughing. “I’m an editor.”

“Very well,” said Allen as he sat firmly on a chair that he felt certain had been his sea trunk not long ago, “I refuse to cooperate.”

“Oh well,” said the voice laconically. “I guess you’re just flash fiction.”