Curse of the Stone Arms: Kitty-Boy's Tale

From the desk of Gothika, Dark Lord of the Grimalkins aka Kitty-Boy

                “It was a dark and stormy night.”

                No.

                “Once upon a time, in a land far away. . .”

                Oh drats! How does she do this? And why? Slavering for public approval like one of her hulking outdoor “pets” – is nothing beneath her dignity?

                 Actually, it was a rather ordinary night, but for the enormous Iah,  (which modern humans, tapping into their full  literary and imaginative potential, have dubbed “the Supermoon.” *sigh*). I had watched its ascent across the night sky, and had fallen asleep contentedly on the kitchen table (the Man having gone to bed hours earlier) when I was awakened by the horrible shrill of my human’s Pavlov Response system. (Please see footnote#1.) Inevitably, the humans shine at classical conditioning exercises, and I watched with some pride as they hurtled from their bed, donned boots and clothing, and scurried from the house. Their performance was marred only by a brief collision in the bathroom doorway. Both snarled and swore most impressively. My Human showed her teeth.

I did not see them again until the lovely Iah had disappeared over the hill. They came home positively reeking of house fire, their noses black with smoke and their eyes circled with it. Most alarming of all, My Human had turned to stone from wrists to elbows. (Please see footnote #2) She seemed most vexed at this transformation ie, more colorful swearing; she is truly well versed in language skills. The Man, as is often the case, was also quite vocal about the inciting incident, and implied that the entire fiasco could have been avoided had My Human slowed down and looked before you f**ng leaped.

                I haven’t the faintest notion what My Human leaped into, but the results have been catastrophic. She has the temerity to pat my head with her stone hands! I very nearly chipped a tooth whilst defending myself. She is hit-and-miss with my food dish and her attempts at scooping my litterbox have been dismal. In the spirit of generosity, I left my latest offering on the floor next to the toilet and the ingrate swore at me! Who would have realized the tenuous connection between human hands and brains? Is her mind turning to stone as well? I fear it is a possibility.

                My Human knows I must have ice in my water bowl at all times, and yet she is failing at even this simplest of tasks. When in desperation I stand on the (dirty!) dishes in the sink to drink from the faucet, she responds in the vilest manner by trying to lift me bodily with her concrete arms. I will not stand for it!

            Alas, I fear for my well-being. If you are reading this, please send help. Preferably in the form of salmon.

Pink, Alaskan salmon. Fresh.

Canned tuna offerings will be summarily rejected.

#1 Nine-one-one page to a fire.

#2 Arm casts from wrist to elbow.

Nicola Writes: "Dark Anniversaries"

Most EMS personnel have been on that call. The call that becomes, over time, a sort of dark anniversary, a still moment in time when we are forced to acknowledge the certain inevitability of death and our own inability to stave it off. My main character, Nicola Thomas, stepped forward this week to blog about one such call. I almost put the kibosh to it, given that it is pretty . . . well, dark. But then she pulled off a beautiful save in the last couple of paragraphs and I decided that maybe the viewpoint of one who had stood so close to death might actually be valuable as far as helping the rest of us to better live. Let me know what you think. I can always fire her.

The last curve ­­­on Kittideere Road is a broad hook, shaded by the arthritic arms of oaks and elms and scented, in the summertime, with the heady stink of joe pye weed. By July, the undergrowth at the roadside will be impassable, tangled with morning glory and maypop, and latticing over the little white cross - finally covering it in vines and blossoms and making it far more palatable.

Are roadside memorials unnerving only to EMS and fire personnel, or do they inspire a universal sort of flinching?

The Kittideere cross commemorates a truck vs tree, victim twenty years old and breathing his last on my nephew’s birthday. I arrived on the scene with the dazzle of three candles still in my eyes and had to blink against the white-hot glare of August sun before pushing my sunglasses into place.  Our patient was part way down a ravine, still in his truck and wearing a tree – the branches encroaching through the shattered windshield to pin him hopelessly, resolutely, against the seat, the cab squashed and flattened all around him.

He was alive, but he had plenty of fluid in his airway, and the irregular gurgling sounds were harsh against an innocuous backdrop of honey bee drone and bird chatter. Cantwell had already wormed his way into the cab and the final remnants of the birthday song faded from my mind as he began suction and Burwell started the Jaws.

Cutters and Spreaders and Rams – huge hydraulic tools that tear through metal like a toddler’s finger trenching frosting. Almost too heavy for me, but the adrenaline rush is an incredible thing - roars through the brain, steadies the hands – and we went to work.

Our patient’s legs were hopeless – splintered bone showing through torn jeans, blood already pouring from beneath the door and pooling on my boot. The dash was hard against his chest.
“Hurry as you can.” Cantwell’s voice was deceptively calm, encouraging in the way of a man pitching a ball to a child, and I was aware again, for only the fleetest of seconds, of the glorious summer all around us. The simple beauty of emerald leaves against boundless sky.

Then someone said “We’re losing him,” and we abandoned caution, finally snapping the door hinge and ripping our patient free from the glut and snarl of metal and elm tree.
He fell gracelessly to the woodland carpet – ugly tangle of gristle, tissue and bone – and we flopped him on a backboard and ran with him.

Of course he died. He had brown skin and a sunburst tattoo on his biceps. A picture of a little girl in his wallet.

And so, it seems to me that memorials can be a messy proposition, little white crosses maybe representing hopelessness and defeat, blood and loss.

Maybe not.

Because if simple thoughts are prayers – and I believe they sometimes are – then I pray for him each time I see the little cross set catawampus against the roots of the broken elm. This soul - the soul of a man I never knew in life - whispers to me whenever I traverse that familiar road; and it no longer seems like bad thing, this holding hands with that other world. Maybe my prayers for him are answered with his prayers for me, and so it goes, life and death and afterlife all in a continuous whirl. All of us related, all of us hoping and praying for each other, sending encouragement, hope and love across the virtual miles.

That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? That would make it all worthwhile.   

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox every week.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~

Top Ten Silliest Calls for Help

“Fire station,” my partner answers the phone while I groan in my sleep. “No ma’am, we don’t do that. No, the chief’s not here. I’ll pass that on, sorry.”

“Who?” I manage. 

“Lady on the East end. We didn’t pick up her garbage this morning. It’s garbage day and she wants to know why we skipped her.”

“But we don’t . . .oh hell, never mind.” 

Who calls a fire station and why? 

The answer might surprise you, and, to that end – with the help of my wonderful coworkers – I have compiled a Top Ten list of Silliest Calls for Help:

1) Garbage Collecting. It’s not in our scope of practice; it’s odd to us that so many residents believe it to be. In fact, we ourselves often forget to put our own garbage out, and have been known to come flying out the door with a Hefty bag while the truck meanders on past.

2) Pool Maintenance. We can’t fill your new pool with water from our tanker. That water is reserved for fires, and besides it came from the canal and, trust me, you would never, ever want to swim in it. No, we don’t know how to make it clean.

3) If you are the Captain and you want to offer us a cruise . . . We do want to go, we do! But no matter how long we “hold” you never come back.

4) Utilities. Beyond our control! And if you’re ComCast, we can’t add the fancy movie channels. Some of those might be inappropriate anyway. Our trustees are religious and they pay the bills.

5) We’re not always sure what time the post office is closed for lunch.

6) Or what the supper special at the local tavern is.

7) Or why there’s no school today.

8) We’ll be glad to set up the meeting room for the Cub Scouts, but we can’t help you with how many snacks you’ll need to bring.

9) The Chief will get mad at us if we let your children and Dalmatian puppy pose on the truck for a family portrait. You call him.

10) We would love to come and kill the bat fluttering around your kitchen but you’re not even in our district and if somebody here has a heart attack while we’re out there swinging a tennis racket . . . well, that could get ugly.

Which of course brings us to all the millions of good, good reasons to call us! Don’t wait if you have pain or sickness or fire! If your carbon monoxide detector goes off, your life alert beeps or your car door slams on your fingers! We’ve come for dogs in the canal and even cats in trees. We love you! We just can’t do anything about the garbage pick-up.

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox every week.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~

"But a Necessity" : Rainy Days, Updates, and an Excerpt

Showers are but a necessity

Splashed to chase the thirst away -

                                    Theodora Onken 

Ohmygosh, what an insane week this has been, everything from fires to flooding in our little area, and multiple calls in both stations. We’ve outdone ourselves with basement pump-outs, gas leaks and rescue calls, whew. Spring is here, loud and brash! This picture is of an old bridge in our area finally giving way to the flood waters; when the news carried this, they called our creek a river, which made us all smile. By July, you’ll be able to take your kids wading without a problem.

Much the same chaos in the writing world! This week, I have joined Linked and Scribd, and two other online groups as well, in an effort to float my stories out to you! Too much, you say?? Perhaps! Time will tell, lol. In the meanwhile, I am excited – yes, truly! – to be diving into the second round of edits on my novel. I am relieved to note that very few corrections are needed, but more than that, I am thrilled that I still like my characters. I had worried that after this brief hiatus away from them, they might have gone stale for me, but thankfully this is not the case. Below I’m posting an excerpt from an early chapter where my two main characters, John Santiago and Nicola Thomas have their first significant encounter. Let me know what you think!

In the big bedroom upstairs, she burrowed, still dressed, beneath the covers, and watched him as he took off his shirt and set his wallet on the nightstand. He played with the notion of removing more clothing, but in the end stretched out beside her in his wife beater and dress slacks.

“That’s a great tattoo,” she whispered, tracing a delicate finger along his right bicep. “Oh my, it’s a really big black bear claw. Boy scouts?”

“No sweetie, not quite.” Distracted by her nearness, the swell of her hip beneath the blankets, he did not elaborate, instead brushed a kiss across the base of her throat.

“What else?” She had stiffened at his touch.

He obediently turned to show her his other bicep, the semper fi inked in red there.

“Marines?”

“A few years ago.”

“I can’t have sex with you.”

“Well, sugar puss, I never asked you to,” he said gently. “I guess we’ll either get around to it or we won’t, okay?”

“I can’t because I think it might hurt. I lost a baby and I’m sore inside and what did you call me?”

He allowed himself a moment to decipher her rushed words, to net the crucial part of her message. “You lost a baby? Just recently?”

“About a month ago,” she nodded. “And I know I’m all right, but I don’t feel so good, okay?”

“Not okay. Did you go to a doctor?”

“Yes, I got all cleaned out inside. It was horrible.”

“And?”

“And now I just feel puny. Like a stupid old hollowed-out pumpkin.” She squeezed her eyes closed as though to hide from him. “I’m sorry I got you here in my bed and now I won’t do it with you and…and I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sweetheart, please slow down.” His hands found her beneath the blankets, and he rubbed her belly where her shirt rode up. “Tell me about it.”

“I hated that baby. So much. I just wished it away until it was gone.”

“No, that’s not how that works, chica. Unless some money changed hands?”

At last she turned on her side to look at him. “I’ve only ever slept with Tony. I was so sure I loved him.”

“Well then, you probably did. Do you still?”

“No, not at all.”

“Okay then.”

“What about your Cindy?”

“What about Cindy? There is no Cindy. Poof, she’s gone, okay?” He tucked the comforter around her shoulders. “And you and me, chica, we’re only laying here, all our clothes on, see? Nothing to fret about.”

“Okay.” She knuckled her eyes and linked her fingers into prayer position beneath her chin. “I have to sleep, I feel a little sick and dizzy, okay?”

“Close your eyes, munequita.” He reached for the lamp switch, throwing them into darkness, and returned his hand to the warm patch of skin between shirt hem and pajama bottom.

“I’m sorry I’m such a freakin’ disappointment,” she murmured into her pillow and he had to strain to catch her words.

“Not to worry, sweetie.”  

Easily said, but he knew that he would lie awake for the next few hours. That, another day, he would examine his reasons for staying, and come away uncertain.