A Dish Called “Wanda” – another interesting, creativity-provoking contest from A Word with You Press – produced a panoply of powerful, pleasing and peculiar posts, and sometimes all three.  Readers were introduced to (among other things) a ghost, a sea monster, a soldier, a foodie, a cowboy, a [...]]]>

A Dish Called “Wanda” – another interesting, creativity-provoking contest from A Word with You Press – produced a panoply of powerful, pleasing and peculiar posts, and sometimes all three.  Readers were introduced to (among other things) a ghost, a sea monster, a soldier, a foodie, a cowboy, a satellite dish, a gambler, and some pretty delicious coconut cake.  Each story had to contain this exact phrase:  ”The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there . . .” (and then fill in the rest with the writer’s wonderful imagination).

The contest rules also included a clause about comments:  In order to be eligible to win, each story had to garner at least eight comments from other readers (that is, not pleasant chit-chat, but actual comments about the nature or quality of the story); and each author had to leave at least three comments on other entrants’ posts.  This narrowed down the number of qualifying entries to six, and to give the writers their due, I would like to mention them here:

• Mac Eagan’s Advance Notice and The Attraction
• Miryam Howard’s A Dish Called WANDA
• Peggy Dobbs’ A Night on the Town
• Mari Maiko’s My Adventure to Wanda’s
• David Boop’s True Grit in Willow Creek

There were also some stories that fearlessly and beautifully tackled heavy-duty topics, such as Stefanie Allison’s Honor and Duty and Juan Vandendorp’s haunting Waiting.  Dave Fisher contributed two magnificent pieces as well, and we look forward to reading more of his published work.

But once the comments were tallied up, there was one absolute, no-question-about-it winner:  David Boop’s True Grit in Willow Creek.  This delightful, well-written story with a twist at the end collected a staggering 38 total comments, with 20 of them being particular comments on his story.  David, you have unequivocally captured the people’s fancy.  We hope to hear more from you!  Your name will be inscribed on the Wordu Award (a word + u; isn’t that punny?) and added to the hallowed ranks of our honored contest winners.

But wait, there’s more!  We’d also like to announce our two runners up:  Mac Eagan and Peggy Dobbs.

David, you will receive a $50 gift certificate to spend at your favorite restaurant, pub, cafe or other eatery, and Mac and Peggy both get $25 for the same delicious purpose.

But for crying out loud, don’t order the grits.

There’s something about Juan Vandendorp’s writing that reminds me of Hemingway.  His sentences are spare and plain.  He describes what the narrator is thinking from moment to moment without a bunch of flowery sentiment. The action may include a flashback, but it feels linear. And there’s not always a [...]]]>

There’s something about Juan Vandendorp’s writing that reminds me of Hemingway.  His sentences are spare and plain.  He describes what the narrator is thinking from moment to moment without a bunch of flowery sentiment. The action may include a flashback, but it feels linear. And there’s not always a happy ending.  I’m posting this on a sunny summer morning, and thoughts of mortality are far from my mind – but Juan (who won highest honors in our Coffee Shop Chronicles contest) has a good point in his entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest:  someone, somewhere is about to die.  Is it luck which separates the living from the dead, or is it our choices?

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Waiting

The room I’m in must be at least fifteen feet high. There’s a window the size of a small pillow close to the ceiling, and the sun shoots through in the afternoon; that’s the only time when I see where I am. The rest of the time, it’s  pretty dark in here. That’s what I’m waiting for before they kill me, for the sun.

I want to feel the sun on my face one last time. Yesterday, when the beam of light came in, I could hear the Iraqi kids playing soccer outside. I grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it into the cube of light; immediately I saw the dirt become billions of particles. I leaned against the red brick wall and watched the particles dance in the light. They made intricate designs. I put my face into the beam of light and its warmth took me to Venice Beach, to one afternoon with Marion. Her eyes were so blue and her skin so white. We were playing in the cold Pacific that made us feel so alive. My reverie ended when I opened my eyes and was blinded by the powerful light; I kept my eyes open as long as I could and when I closed them, all I could see was the rectangle that the window carved in my mind.

Sean’s body lay in a corner; the pool of blood behind his head had turned black and flies were all over it.

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there no written warning at the Base? That escapes me. When you first arrive in Baghdad, you learn that “the Locals” are the guys who have two or more tours under their belt.  One of the locals, a guy from Arizona, said Wanda was an Englishwoman who was against the invasion; she was friendly with insurgents and her place had the best drinks, legal and illegal, and the best hashish.

My wife had pinned a newspaper article entitled “Your worst habit will be your worst accident.” That was her way of making me quit pot. It turned out to be true, since it was a sudden desire to smoke hashish that got me to Wanda’s.

The place was about two miles from the Green Zone. It was a brick house with tall trees and a shabby awning that gave shade over old wooden benches and tables.  Mainly old Iraqi men were scattered around, playing cards and smoking hashish.

We left Michael and Sanchez chilling in the humvee, and Sean and I entered the house. I saw Wanda behind the bar. She was a woman in her forties with blond hair and a tattoo depecting a dolphin on her right shoulder. She glanced at me and gestured for us to sit wherever we pleased.

Sean and I odered beers. Wanda placed them on the table and gave us half a smile. In a corner of the smoked-filled room two very old men were rolling tobacco and hashish joints. The one with the white beard caught my eye and, in a very friendly gesture with his hand, raised a white joint for me to see. I looked at Sean and joined the old men at their table. I took a deep hit and felt it right away. The stuff was strong. The old man urged me to smoke more, and I did. Soon I was fighting to retain my attention. The room became a blurr and I passed out.

I woke up in this room and found Sean lying next to me. He was still alive then. It took me hours to regain a sense of myself and when I did, I realized that we had been made prisoners.  They had taken our weapons and papers and our boots and left us only with pants.

The day they came to kill Sean, I heard the same noises. First the arrival of cars, and then trucks, then I heard voices speaking in Arabic. They were shouting as they approached our door. Sean looked at me and he was shaking with fear. Our feet were tied, but not our hands. I crawled to where he was and he came close to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. He was hugging his legs. I heard the sound of many boots approaching.  The door slapped open over the brick wall, which bounced it back, only to be stopped by a hand holding a 9mm gun. When I saw the armed men, my stomach rose into my throat.  I knew what they had come for. A strong- looking man grabbed Sean by the armpits and threw him againt the brick wall. The one with the 9mm put his gun in Sean’s face. I saw Sean’s eyes for a brief second. They were scared. His white face seemed like a stone. The man pushed him to his knees and shot him.  After he shot Sean, the man holstered his gun and took a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. I watched Sean lie on the floor like a doll, the blood slowly streaming over his neck to the dirt floor. Seeing Sean took away my fear and I watched as the men left the room. Before closing the door, the last one left a cigarette by the door and threw a matchbox toward me that landed at my feet.

Everybody, at one point or another, thinks about how they’re going to die. I thought I was going to die old. I thought Marion and I would have three kids who would go to college and play ball with us. But I was wrong. I will die in some room in a suburb of Baghdad and the guy who will shoot me in the back of my head doesn’t even know me. I never stole his girlfriend. I never keyed his car.

Now I am waiting for him and the sun and hoping that the sun will beat him.  My eyes are fixed on the window. I can smell coffee and incense in the air. I can hear the faint sounds of cars approaching. I zero in on that sound which has become defeaning outside my window. The trucks grind the pebbles on the dirt road and the engines come to a stop.  A silence follows and I hear the men come inside the building. My eyes remain at the window. I hear the door that bangs open and four men come inside. Two of them lift me up and make me stand in the center of the room. Sean lies to my left. I struggle to keep my balance.  I lift my eyes to the ceiling and I see the face of Marion smiling at me, and the face of my mom. I turn my face around and see my killers:  they are all young kids. One of them comes from behind me and positions the barrel of the 9mm over my head. I can smell the coffee and the rose incense. I feel the dirt floor under my bare feet and my eyes are glued to the window, waiting…

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It may be fiction, but it rings all too true.

In addition to the entries we’ve had for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest, it’s also inspired several riffs – stories that don’t employ the exact phrase “The locals warned me about Wanda’s but why was there . . .” but nevertheless explore the idea of Wanda.  Sometimes Wanda [...]]]>

In addition to the entries we’ve had for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest, it’s also inspired several riffs – stories that don’t employ the exact phrase “The locals warned me about Wanda’s but why was there . . .” but nevertheless explore the idea of Wanda.  Sometimes Wanda is a woman, sometimes it’s a place.  For Julie Ann Weinstein, she’s a ghost.  Julie, who was a finalist in our Ain’t That Quaint? contest, sends us this untitled snippet of a story, part of her work-in-progress, Ruby Lucy.  It’s like an appetizer for your brain.  Especially if you like sweet potatoes.

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We missives found in dreams or otherwise foggy states in daylight have to watch out for Ruby Lucy. She is onto us. She waits for us while others stay wide awake at night, not sure they’re ready to hear what we might say.  And most missives are lost when the sleeping eyes are open to daylight. Yet Ruby Lucy waits, she wants to hear us. She is my great granddaughter, and I, Wanda, a spirit, am speaking to her while she’s still a child.

She is now simply playing in the garden with her sweet potato that has grown vines.  Only she sees its eyes.  They’re mine and are gray, like the overcast skies by the coast.  She is not bothered by eyes on a potato; it is the mouth that I make that causes her to run inside screaming.  The mouth is not any more potent than the eyes, but it reinstates in her childish yet adult mind that she is seeing something that most people don’t.

She is afraid of a sweet potato, I chuckle in her ear. The realization, the humor, makes her run back out into the backyard. Child or no child, she’s no coward. I smile with the vine limbs and wish I could hug this great granddaughter of mine. But all I can do is hear her calling out to me, “Oh Wanda, oh Wanda, come out and play. Hah, hah, hah, but the locals warned me about Wanda’s, hah, hah, but why was I speaking to her, hah, hah, hah, she’s – you’re just a potato head….hah, hah, hah. You are, aren’t you….? Oh, the vines, the vines you make twist. Oh, I do like it when you make them curl.”

Yes, I like them too. Making leaves look like corkscrews amuses a five year old. But making the wooden fence on her backyard dissolve for moments so we can visit – that, she doesn’t see, or rather doesn’t want to. Another missive lost. I take what she can handle.

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I’m suddenly very hungry for sweet potato pie.

To commemorate the last day of our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest – and there are still a few hours remaining, by the way! – the inimitable Peggy Dobbs sends us this poetic tribute to those bold writers who have taken up our challenge. If you’re one of the [...]]]>

To commemorate the last day of our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest – and there are still a few hours remaining, by the way! – the inimitable Peggy Dobbs sends us this poetic tribute to those bold writers who have taken up our challenge. If you’re one of the authors, you’ll get a giggle out of seeing your work in rhyme – if not, read the stories so you can giggle, too!

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Wanda’s Writing Contest

Mac and I were musing the contest.

We must use a line given by Thorn.

“It’s not tuff,” Thorn said. “Work it in, you wimps!”

He teased through his Editor-in-chief bull-horn.

The locals warned me about Wanda’s,

but why was there reason to fear?

As an example:  I have a Guardian Angel

who is heart-close and ever-near.

Everyone thinks so differently

as we pick up pen and ink,

To write the words our brains ooze out

tied together like a sausage link.

Some stories are deep and weighty,

others funny, silly or inane.

Each unique as the one who wrote them,

different, as each cloud-tear in the rain.

I wonder… does Wanda lure with addicting sweets

in the form of coconut cake?

When whatever lures us as our road must surely fork,

Is it not our choice always to make?

Maybe Wanda is a gigantic gorilla,

with a bar where the thirsty dare.

Maybe a Wanda is a “Witchy Woman”

with long and tangling hair.

Perhaps it’s a place to throw the dice,

greedy hands longing for one more toss,

Begging some unknown entity of luck,

“Please…not another loss!”

Could she be a “plus-sized” barber,

Polyester pink with red hair,

Whose only talent is one-inch hair styles,

lonely, in her barber’s chair?

What if her specialty is “soggy fries”

and the path to them is through an alley.

Would you follow a barker blindly,

dreaming it’s a Roman valley?

Could felines be drawn to Wanda’s,

dozing where roaches play?

Would you eat her food without asking,

“What did the Health Dept. say?”

Let’s gallop back to the West, in time.

Wanda travels as she will.

A saloon filled with drinking cowboys

and loose girls for a little thrill.

A Bounty Hunter comes into Wanda’s,

a Colt strapped to his hip.

He plays poker with Monty Decker,

sending him on his last trip.

Children love to hear bedtime stories

told by someone they hold dear.

The “Adventures of Wanda” are always fun

so they have naught to fear.

But as they grow into adulthood,

they find that life just isn’t fair

Watching as loved ones fade away

seems to be more than they can bear.

In the town of Willow Creek,

The arsonists danced the night away.

No fireman in the crowd was seen

as a traveler left at break of day.

It seems that Wanda’s restaurant

could not cook orgasmic grits.

The lack there of threw locals

into  gastro withdrawal fits.

We find Wanda again as a diner,

on the table, a shotgun and wormy bait.

I’m still not sure what the patron was served

or if it wiggled off the plate.

A beastly mammal came flopping in.

With putrid breath to take a bite.

But the patron shot him before dessert.

The shotgun stopped the fight.

This time Wanda’s a beaten-up café,

Captain Redmond’s luring place,

Where his commanding officer arrives

and they’re seated face to face.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” is the official word

but secret MP traps await.

What does “Honor and Duty” really mean

as one decides a soldier’s fate?

WANDA, a “communications network”!

Do you suppose there is such a thing?

NASA could be a supernatural being, listening.

Answer cautiously to your cell phone ring!

But suppose Wanda is a Heavenly Angel,

and her pure love blinds our self-centered eyes.

Suppose our Creator is trying one last time

to light our paths before Creation dies?

***************************************

What if, indeed!  It’s the beginning of every great story.

Stefanie Allison, a.k.a. our loyal, die-hard fan Star5fallonmyheart, has served up another juicy story for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.  It deals straightforwardly with a divisive subject, and will no doubt elicit some powerfully-felt responses. Just keep your comments polite, because we’re in mixed company – writers and [...]]]>

Stefanie Allison, a.k.a. our loyal, die-hard fan Star5fallonmyheart, has served up another juicy story for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.  It deals straightforwardly with a divisive subject, and will no doubt elicit some powerfully-felt responses. Just keep your comments polite, because we’re in mixed company – writers and readers. At the very least, we can agree on this:  Don’t order the onion rings.

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Honor and Duty
for Lieutenant Colonel Victor Fehrenbach

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there a tinge of urgency when Captain Redmond asked me to meet him off the Air Force base?

Deciding that helping a fellow soldier had to take precedent over badly breaded onion rings, I went ahead and left the base right at eighteen-hundred hours on the dot as he asked me. Well, almost. As only luck and fate would have it, my military ID went missing from my wallet after a rushed search around my visitor officer’s quarters and figured to hell with it. Manny was running the security booth that night and he knew exactly who I was—no need to flash the ID or anything else for that matter.

I tried not to cringe when I drove up to the beaten-up roadside café. The dilapidated roof looked like it was about to cave in at any time from the weight of too much bird shit that birds bombed it with before World War…I. I could feel the inevitable stains on my immaculate BDU’s before I even left the Jeep.

Captain Redmond nervously twisted his faintly stained linen napkin. For someone who fought mock-dog fights in M-16’s like he was drag racing, he jumped when the waitress asked him if he wanted to try the raspberry iced tea.

“No, too fruity for me,” he mumbled before looking up, standing up and saluting. “Sir, good to see you.”

“At ease, Captain, we’re off base,” I said, sitting down and shoving the menu aside. “What is it that you needed to see me about?” Captain Redmond ran his hand through his spiky, milk chocolate hair. I always wondered why a good-looking kid like him always acted as if the ground he was walking on was made of soiled tissue paper.

“It’s about the other night,” Captain Redmond said. “About what happened.” I leaned back. Captain Redmond had assured me days before that he was able to handle the situation.

“There’s nothing wrong with what happened that night,” I said assuredly. “It’s normal for people like us.” Captain Redmond cringed when I said the word “us.”

“Normal? But they’ll never accept us. They’ll never trust that it’s ok. It’ll never be alright to be what it is that we are,” Captain Redmond said, bowing his head. As I carefully weighed my next words I realized what I was doing was the right thing to do. He was my fellow soldier, another thread in the fabric that made our unit, our air force, and our country what it was. And of course, if nothing else, I was beginning to see him as my friend. And he needed me.

“It will be alright,” I said firmly. “Things may not be perfect right now, but one day, they will become accepting. They’ll see someday. When Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is overturned someday, they’ll see how ridiculous it was and that the system has been working just fine as it is with gay people like us there. Just keep doing what you’re doing, Jason. Keep your private life private in the meantime, but just keep trucking. Understand, Basic?” He seemed to perk up slightly when I called him “Basic” as a semi-affectionate nickname from his days in the academy.

“Yes, sir,” he said back, standing up. “Glad you could talk to me. Good day, sir.” I made no note of the fact that he neglected to salute me as he left, but I did tell him that he was at ease. I’d probably jokingly remind him to properly salute his superiors next time I saw him in the hangar, but otherwise, I felt pretty confident—sort of like the walk Captain Redmond finally had leaving the café. Well, Wanda’s, thanks for being the place where I could be open and honest to one in my command—but you can keep the onion rings.

As I walked out of the café, my fight response kicked in when I felt two sets of strong hands pull me to a Jeep marked “MP” and shove me onto the hood. Screaming obscenities over my Miranda rights, I was able to turn my head slightly to notice Captain Redmond talking to what looked like a four-star general.

“He coerced me into coming here,” Captain Redmond said professionally to the general. “After admitting to me that he is a homosexual, he made several unwarranted sexual advances toward me before I was able to make the call.” I shook my head. Like the general had the time to drop everything right then and there to pick up a fag.

As the general more or less upgraded Captain Redmond to my position until further notice, the MP shoved me into the Jeep. My last human contact other than the officers shoving me into my cell at the mental ward at the air force base hospital was glaring at Captain Redmond.

What’s wrong, kid? Scared of a faggot like me? I thought to myself. Or that you’ll never be able to run that unit or fly a plane as good as me?

**************************************

What some people will do for a promotion.

(If that doesn’t make any sense to you, well, you haven’t been properly initiated into our loose, bendy, flex-it-to-the-limit-and-make-a-pun-out-of-it-even-if-it’s-a-bit-obscure way with language.  If it DOES make sense to you, you’ve either been reading too much T. S. Eliot, or been in a lot of bars, or perhaps both.)

This [...]]]>

(If that doesn’t make any sense to you, well, you haven’t been properly initiated into our loose, bendy, flex-it-to-the-limit-and-make-a-pun-out-of-it-even-if-it’s-a-bit-obscure way with language.  If it DOES make sense to you, you’ve either been reading too much T. S. Eliot, or been in a lot of bars, or perhaps both.)

This is just a teensy reminder that our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest ends soon – midnight on Sunday, August 15.  The winners will be announced on September 1.  And don’t forget about the juicy prize:  A $50 gift certificate to the eatery, pub or pleasure palace of your choice, or a $25 certificate for the two runners up.

Meanwhile, I’ll let you get back to reading Eliot.

Our contests may be good fun, but they do have an earnest objective, and that’s getting writers to write. Sofia Higginbotham has risen to the challenge with this piece for A Dish Called “Wanda.” She’s been following our site closely for many months, although she’s only commented once or [...]]]>

Our contests may be good fun, but they do have an earnest objective, and that’s getting writers to write. Sofia Higginbotham has risen to the challenge with this piece for A Dish Called “Wanda.” She’s been following our site closely for many months, although she’s only commented once or twice. This is her first submission, and she surprised herself as much as anyone when she wrote it.  She’s a prolific writer, but she’s strenuously avoided fiction, believing her own life and inner workings provided rich enough fodder for a million blog entries.  Sofia tells me she’s not sure where this story came from, but it must have been lurking in a dark and moldy corner of her mind, just waiting for an invitation.  Sofia, we’re glad you came out to play.

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Catch of the Day

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there an open can of live bait and a shotgun on my table?

“What’s wrong?” said the waitress impatiently.

“Well . . . ” I motioned to the wriggling worms and the polished butt of the gun.

“Oh, that,” she sighed, as if it were a splotch of spilled mustard.  She shrugged.  “I can’t do anything about that.”

“Maybe I could sit someplace else.”  There were plenty of empty tables; I was the only customer in the whole place.

“This is the best seat in the house.  Besides,” she added lightly, “you never know.”

I consented out of sheer hunger.  I sat down, pushed the gun and the bait out of the way, and she handed me a menu.  The cover displayed a golden-beamed sun peeking over the horizon.  Its rays cut through a cerulean blue sky and illuminated gentle green hills.  Dark, red-brown smudges marred the lower half.  Probably dried ketchup, left by the last person to eat here.  Maybe whoever owned the bait and the gun.

I opened the menu.  A slip of paper fell out:  Catch of the Day, pan fried with clarified butter and caramelized cippolini onions, served atop thyme-infused polenta with citrus-glazed baby carrots and grilled zucchini medallions.

I glanced up at the waitress, who was hovering near my table with her pen poised above her notepad.  “Well?” she said, raising one eyebrow and tapping her pen on the pad.  The Catch of the Day didn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d usually find at a roadside diner, but what the heck?  How bad could it be?  Maybe it would be as delicious as its description.  Like the waitress said, you never know.

“I’ll have the catch of the day,” I said, “and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”

She eyed me over the rim of her glasses.  “Where do you think you are, honey?  The Tavern on the Green?  I’ll tell you what.  I’ll get you a nice glass of peach iced tea.”  She whisked the menu out of my hand before I could even ask about pie, and walked briskly through the swinging door which led to the kitchen.  I heard her say, “Catch of the day, Wanda!” before the door swung shut.

I unfolded and refolded my napkin, then examined a bottle of Tabasco sauce.  My grandfather said that you could tell a good restaurant if there was Tabasco sauce on the table.  In my experience, the opposite was more often true.  But where did I think I was?  The Tavern on the Green?

Just then the waitress came back through the door with a plate in one hand and a tall glass of iced tea in the other.  She set the plate down in front of me carefully, even reverently.  “That’s Wanda’s specialty.  Nearly as good as her cherry pie.  Maybe you can have a slice …later.  Need anything else?”  Her left eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

“No, thank you.”  I took a sip of the tea.  It was sweet and peachy and made me think of a summer day.  “All right,” she said, and trotted quickly back to the kitchen.

The meal was artfully presented and smelled tantalizing. I couldn’t tell exactly what kind of fish it was.  It was big, that’s for sure, because the filet was as large as a steak. I took a tentative bite. It was as close to perfection as anything I’d ever eaten. The pale flesh was firm and moist with a slightly sweet, almost nutty taste.  I took another bite, this time with a bit of polenta and a baby carrot.  The flavors blended delectably on my tongue.  I ate eagerly, trying not to rush but not able to stop myself, like a lovesick man who finally touches the naked skin of the one he has most desired.

My reverie was interrupted by a violent crash, splintering glass and shriek of bending metal.  A stench assaulted my nostrils – rotting vegetation, pungent, foul, like flowers that have been left in a vase too long. I heard heavy footsteps and a wet, slithery, swish-flap sound. The silverware on my table jangled.  I looked over my shoulder and saw a creature about as big as a man.  It pulled itself forward on massive webbed feet, dragging a silvery fishtail behind it.  Its gray-green scales glimmered dully under the flourescent lights.  A dorsal fin rose out of its hunched back, reminding me of the Chinook salmon I caught on my last fishing trip.  I gutted it right on the beach, where the river met the sea, and the gulls dove down to fight over the bloody entrails.  I roasted the whole fish, flashing scales and all, over a driftwood fire.  It was vivid pink, easily pulling apart in big, flaky chunks and filling my mouth with spectacular salmony flavor.  When I wiped my chin, my hand came away slick with oil.

The fish-thing hauled itself toward me, its breathing labored, its gills shuddering with effort.  It was at least half mouth.  Its eyes were set deep into its skin above the jaw-hinge.  It did not blink.  It fixed me with a disconcertingly human eye – hazel flecked with gold and encircled by lush, soft-looking lashes. It flicked its eye toward the can of worms, but then returned its gaze to me, as though I might be the tastier morsel.  It opened its black maw and I couldn’t draw breath for the putrid fumes of decay that wheezed out of its belly.  There was no tongue, just row upon row of jagged teeth.

I didn’t care what the the thing was. I wanted to live long enough to finish my dinner. I grabbed the bait can and flung it across the room.  The monster followed the can’s shining arc with its eye and heaved forward in a sloppy, lurching gallop.  As it galumphed away between the tables I grasped the shotgun and nestled the butt to my shoulder, so that I could feel the cold metal against my cheek.  I’d never fired a gun before, but if there was a time to learn by doing, it was now.  I hoped that the safety was off, aimed in the general direction of the fish-thing, and squeezed the trigger.  The kickback flung me hard against the booth.  I could barely hear; I felt as though I was deep underwater.  One sound reached my ears – a guttural moan, a last, gargling whoosh of death-sweet air from the creature’s lungs.

The kitchen door swung open and the waitress sauntered out with a slab of cherry pie.

I struggled to speak. “Wha . . .what was that?”

She tilted her head to one side, smiled and said, “Catch of the day.”

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Next time, order the waffles.

Most of us have moments of deeply spiritual wonder, glimpses of eternity, a nanosecond where all mysteries are revealed and we feel thoroughly alive and connected to every beautiful thing on the planet.  It’s not unusual to feel this way after a narrow escape – say, when you’re pulling [...]]]>

Most of us have moments of deeply spiritual wonder, glimpses of eternity, a nanosecond where all mysteries are revealed and we feel thoroughly alive and connected to every beautiful thing on the planet.  It’s not unusual to feel this way after a narrow escape – say, when you’re pulling onto the freeway and the 18-wheeler next to you doesn’t see you and tries to merge into your lane but you floor it and pull in front of him at the last possible second.  The protagonist in David Boop’s tidy, entertaining and well-written entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest may have experienced this same phenomenon, but for entirely different reasons.  Read on to see what I mean.

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True Grit in Willow Creek

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there a total lack of fire-fighter presence as the restaurant burned? It baffled me. We’re talking not even a Dalmatian in a five-block radius and, by the absence of sirens howling in the night, none would be coming, either.

Oh, there were people. You’d swear the whole town of Willow Creek had come out to see the spectacle, like a neighbor being dragged off to jail for having child pornography on his laptop. Many of them openly wept, too. It was only on closer inspection I noticed they weren’t tears of sorrow, but of joy. Kids high-fived and a garage band started setting up on the opposite corner.

What Brigadoonian hell had I wandered into? When I pulled off the highway and asked the gas station attendant what, if anything, was still open, he shuddered in that walked-over-his-own-grave way that set my neck hairs tingling. He said that the only place that would serve anything close to food that late was Wanda’s, but refused to give me directions to it. When I went outside to search the phone book that swung in a late summer wind, I was unnerved to find that the address and number were scribbled out and a message read, “Not while I’m alive.” It was only my morbid curiosity that wouldn’t let this go. But even my GPS betrayed me, refusing to lock on to the address I’d gotten off the internet. I ended up at a motel, a body shop and a dog groomers before I gave up and drove around until I found the street.

My course took me to the outskirts of town. The glow that appeared on the horizon reminded me of a traveling carnival you see from the highway and can’t help but take the next exit to enjoy even though you’re running behind. Only, as I drew closer, I saw the smoke that accompanied the flickering orange light and recognized it for what it was:  a giant bonfire.

Now, as I stood beside my car and gazed with fascination as couples danced together for what seemed like the first time in decades and teens, male and females alike, ripped off shirts and swung them overhead like patriotic flags, I questioned if some sort of narcotic was burning in that establishment to drive these rural denizens into such a frenzy. I sniffed the air thinking I’d flash back to a Dave Matthews concert, but all I could detect was the smell of burnt wood, wires and ham.

Someone’s grandma took my hand.

“Dance with me, stranger!” she commanded.

She’d gone the way of the youth and was sans top. I was relieved she’d kept her brassiere on. After two songs, I broke away and was offered a beer from a keg that’d been dropped into the center of the street. I politely declined saying I was driving to California and hadn’t eaten yet.

The music ended abruptly. The people stopped moving and they all turned to look at me. The man who’d offered me the brew swallowed hard and said in a shaky voice, “You weren’t comin’ to eat at Wanda’s, were you?”

I nodded slowly, not sure if should have lied. There was a collective gasp. The man, a balding gent with a paunch around his mid-section, held out an open hand and yelled, “Brat! Now!” From nowhere, someone deposited a fully-loaded Johnsonville cheddarwurst into his palm. He handed it to me and firmly grasped my shoulder. “Sir, thank your maker you didn’t arrive sooner.” He looked at the crowd, water forming at the edge of his eyelids and proclaimed, “WE SAVED ONE!”

Like a Super Bowl field-goal kick in overtime, the crowd erupted into a riotous cheer. I accepted the beer this time and ate two more dogs before getting back into my ride. Everyone waved goodbye as I backed down the street and retraced my steps to the highway.

I stopped by the gas station once again to fill up, looking forward to putting the night’s events behind me. The attendant came out as I stuck the nozzle in.

“Is it true?” he asked. “Wanda’s is gone?”

I nodded.

He spat on the ground. “Good riddance!”

I couldn’t stop the question from escaping, “So, what’s the deal? What was so bad about Wanda’s?”

Without cracking a smile, he said, “Worst. Grits. Ever.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And that’s when I came to realize the people of Willow Creek take their grits pretty seriously.

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As well they should.

Dave Fisher rings the cowbell once again – a challenge to all of you to 1) find the cow that’s missing its bell and 2) write a better short story than this tidy little narrative nugget of pure gold.  If you’re not deep into the Old West by the [...]]]>

Dave Fisher rings the cowbell once again – a challenge to all of you to 1) find the cow that’s missing its bell and 2) write a better short story than this tidy little narrative nugget of pure gold.  If you’re not deep into the Old West by the end of the first sentence, you’re either asleep or you’ve gone looking for that missing cow.  At any rate, you’ll get some powerful enjoyment out of Dave’s second entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.

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Last Bottom Deal

Life came cheap in Virginia City; if there wasn’t at least one body laying in the street come morning it was considered a quiet night. It was just the kind of place I’d expect to find Monty Decker. You see, I had business with Mister Decker. I hunt wanted men and he was a wanted man.

Decker likes to deal cards and hold up stages. His last robbery, he killed a Wells Fargo driver and shotgun man. The next day the U.S. Marshall put a 500 dollar reward on his head and added my favorite part . . . dead or alive. That’s my kind of deal. An outlaw tied over a saddle is a lot less trouble than one sitting up in it.

I stepped into the Delta to the hum of voices, rattling glasses, and a tinny piano. I squinted through the cigar smoke, making my way past the chance tables to the bar. I stepped in between a miner and another man sporting a white shirt and tie, both locals.

I motioned for the barkeep to give me a drink; I looked toward the miner and nodded. “You happen to have any idea where I can find Monty Decker?”

“Why would you want him?”

“Old friend. He told me to look him up if I ever got to Virginia City.”

He looked me up and down, “You the law?”

I laughed, “Hardly, just looking up an old friend.”

“You’ll find him dealing stud at Wanda’s. That’s one mean man, best stay on his good side.”

The man in the tie turned toward me, “You don’t want to go to Wanda’s.  Trust me.”

I looked at him, “Why not?”

“That’s the worst place on the row. The food’ll poison you, and the dealers will skin you slicker than a summer sheep. Not a square game in the house.”

The miner chuckled, “And Wanda’s girls will slip something in your drink and roll you for everything you got. I wouldn’t go into Wanda’s for half the Comstock lode.”

“Well, if I want to find Monty, I guess I’ll have to.” I tossed down my drink and headed for Wanda’s.

I found the place, but I had to step back and wonder. The locals had warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there a crowd of men wall-to-wall in the place if it was that bad? It didn’t take me long to figure it out. They were giving away free whiskey to anyone playing at the tables.

Pretty smart on Wanda’s part. Fill a man with enough liquor and he wouldn’t know if the dealer was sliding a card off the bottom New Orleans slick or pulling one out of his ear right in front of him. I looked around and spotted Decker dealing at a table. I knew him, but he didn’t know me, which is how I like it.

As luck would have it, the man sitting in the chair opposite Decker got up and left and I just sat myself right down. Decker looked at me. “Game’s five card stud, a buck to open, and we play them straight.”

“How else should it be?” I grinned and laid my money down.

He dealt out a few hands and I watched as he pulled sleeve cards, palmed an ace, and dealt off the bottom. At first he only did it to the other players who had been drinking, and I wasn’t. Then, he got bold and fed me four hearts building a flush; I knew what was coming next. I slipped my Colt out of the holster and laid it on my lap.

He skimmed one off the bottom and tossed a spade on the hearts acting like he didn’t know.

“Nice bottom deal, Decker.”

He scowled at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means just that.”

“You saying I’m cheating?”

“You have been the whole game, so I’m calling it to your face . . . four flusher.”

In a flash Decker’s hand was in his coat and back out with a double barreled derringer. My Colt roared as the slug blasted its way through the table top and found a home in Decker’s right breast pocket.

The black powder smoke rose toward the ceiling as Decker slid to the floor. I stood up while the other men sat dumbstruck at the table. “That was his last bottom deal, boys. Looks like Wanda’s going to have to get herself a new dealer.”

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As was said of Mae West:  “Thar’s hills in them thar gold!”  (That doesn’t exactly have any relation to Dave’s wonderful story; I just wanted to say it.)

We’ve still got a couple weeks left in the Wanda contest – let’s belly up to the bar, and keep ‘em comin’!

Here is prolific contributor Peggy Dobbs’ second entry into our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.  She examines complicated family ties, the push and pull of filial love, and the responsibility which falls heavily on the shoulders of children who feel an uncomfortable reversal of roles as they care for [...]]]>

Here is prolific contributor Peggy Dobbs’ second entry into our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.  She examines complicated family ties, the push and pull of filial love, and the responsibility which falls heavily on the shoulders of children who feel an uncomfortable reversal of roles as they care for those who once cared for them.

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Dried Rose Petals on the Floor

She never had any children of her own. It seems almost cruel, yet her kind of love was too possessive to raise a child. It was the kind of love that did not know how to say “NO!” There was never a child of any race or color that she didn’t love instantly and they, in return, sensed that love and returned it.

I was an only child and my mother resented the fact that her sister-in-law thought I belonged to her. I felt like a wish bone. My aunt pulling and wishing I was hers and my mother pulling, confident I belonged to her. There was a quiet dislike between them from the beginning of their relationship. My birth fed flames of dislike with jealousy like a hot iron left on warm ultimately leaves the imprint of a scorched outline.

My aunt told wonderful stories to me, my children and their children. One of our favorites that we insisted she tell over and over began, “The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there anything for me to be afraid of?  They didn’t know that Wanda’s looked like a very scary place on the outside to keep adults away, but since I loved children so much, I was allowed to be the door keeper.  Children knew that Wanda’s was the door way to a magical land that only the children and I could see.”  From that point, the story would differ with each particular child.

She lived to be ninety and for a few months, I tried to take care of her in my home.  With her mind slipping, the nurses where she had been living, told me it would be too much for me to handle.

It was!

I had to return her to the nursing facility for my own health’s sake. She lived there until she died. But her love and her stories still live in the hearts of all the children her life touched.  One day when my perceived failure caused the inevitable guilt to surface, these words erupted:

Who is this old person who lies in this bed, who demands my attention and demands to be fed.

Who asks where I’m going and when I’ll return.

Who wants what she wants with no care for the ruin of any other life on this vast planet earth.

Has she been this way always…this way since her birth?

Who is this old person who lies in this bed as she’s viewed by my aging eyes, in my graying head?

This caregiver’s not old, but neither is she young.

In caring for this old person, is there no joy left to be sung?

If only I could remember before age took its toll,

Through the mind of a child before this loved one got old.

Who is this old person who lies in this bed?

Did she rock me and tell stories and see I was fed?

Did she take me to town and gently pinch on my cheek?

Did we really have tea parties at her house once a week?

I wish I could remember. It all happened…but when?

Through the mind of a child, I need to go back there again.

Who is this old person who lies in this bed?

Surely, my childish recall can’t already be dead.

But I do remember with clarity, she told me one day,

“You can know you did all you could, when I’ve gone away.”

So as I look at her there in such a wrinkled up state,

Seeking the mind of a child, I know is too late.

This old person here, who lies in this bed

Has all rights to her dignity and it must always be said

That she was cared for and loved because she had worth.

It’s her right as a person, but in me, there is no more mirth,

As I watch while she withers like dried rose petals fallen to the floor.

Through the mind of a child, the one I loved so…is not here anymore.

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Editor’s Note: I watched my own grandmother – a rather memorable personality – slowly transformed by age into someone less and less like the person I knew as a child.  Maybe, when someone you love dies, there’s always a feeling that you could have done more; the truth is, we do the best we can at the time.