I’m doing research on things people hate for an upcoming story. Please click on this link (the whole paragraph is a link), which will direct you to my five-question research poll.

Thanks!

xo, Amy

To eat is to survive to be hungry.—Alan Watts

Vivian lay across the window seat, tracing patterns on the glass and gazing out into the garden, where her mother’s rosebushes stood frosted with snow.

The entire house was filled with roses—Mother kept three bushes in the little conservatory so they could enjoy the blooms all year. Vivian liked the roses, although sometimes she wished her mother liked another kind of flower, too. Roses got boring after a while.

Mother entered the room and sat with Vivian on the cushions. “Have a good Christmas, then, darling?”

Vivian rolled over and smiled. “Yes, thank you. Did you like the necklace I made you?”

“I’m wearing it now. See?” Mother opened the collar of her blouse and fingered the tiny beads. “It’s lovely, Vivian. Like you.”

Vivian reached out with her finger and gravely touched the tip of Mother’s nose. “Happy Christmas, Mother.”

“Happy Christmas.”

Vivian rolled back to the window, but Mother lingered on the cushions. “You’re awfully quiet. Is something on your mind?”

Vivian touched the glass the same way she’d touched her mother’s nose. “Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Wants.”

“Oh? Was there something you wanted for Christmas that you didn’t get?”

Vivian hesitated. “Yes and no. I was thinking yesterday about eating.”

“Eating.”

“I get hungry because I need food to live. Just so I can live to be hungry again.”

“That’s terrible, Vivian! There’s more to life than eating,” Mother chided.

“Maybe I’m not saying it right. I just meant it’s the same. I want something, then I get it and when I’ve got it, soon I’ll want something new. No matter what you get, there’s always something else to want.”

“You’re so precocious, Vivian. Catastrophically precocious, sometimes.”

Vivian shrugged. “There’s something I want, but I don’t know what I’d do if I got it. Because what’s next? I think if I got it, I would always be happy. But what if I wasn’t? And what would I want next?”

Mother took Vivian’s hand. “We all want, my love. It’s part of being human. So what do you want?”

Vivian glanced down at the wheelchair near her feet. “I want to walk.”

Suddenly Mother was hugging her tightly, rocking Vivian back and forth and weeping into her hair.

“Or a model submarine to play with in the bathtub,” Vivian murmured. “That would be fun.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Seems like a good time to re-post the remainder of my Christmas stories. Have a warm and wonderful holiday.

xo, Amy

LISTEN TO THOSE LITTLE NIPPERS SING!

THE GIFT

Another cup of Christmas cheer, re-run from last year. xo, Amy

“Do you love him?”

“I’m marrying him, aren’t I?”

He looked down at his hands. “You know what I meant.”

“He’ll be a good father,” she continued, “He’s a tradesman, he has his own business, he’s popular, and he’s a really, really nice guy.”

“But do you love him?”

She broke eye contact. “He’s very… sweet, he really is.”

“Did your cousin Elizabeth talk you into this?”

“No!” she said, too quickly. “Anyway, I have to go. We’ll be married Friday. There’s a lot to arrange, yet.”

“I could be a good father,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “You’re an apprentice! You live with your mother!”

“This is my child, too. Besides, what will you tell your fiancé?”

She blushed. “He doesn’t know I’m not a virgin. Don’t spoil this. This isn’t about me and you, it’s about giving our child a decent home.”

A tear rolled down his cheek. Suddenly compassionate, she took his head in her hands and rested her cheek alongside his. “If it’s a boy, I’ll name him after you. If it’s a girl, after your mother.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“And keep working. Once you’ve got the skills, Joseph will hire you. I’ll see to it. You will know your child,” she promised.

He nodded. “Please go now.”

She hesitated, but gathered her things and left.

God, how he loved her.

He wondered how she would explain the pregnancy to her new husband. Well. Mary would think of something.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

So much for my hiatus. Finished this this morning… xo, Amy

Anna opened her eyes to find a nurse standing over her. “Where am I?”

“Mercy Hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

The intravenous drip in her arm reminded her. She hesitated, wondering how much the nurse knew. “I was dead?”

“Dead,” the nurse repeated disapprovingly.

“Oh.” Anna swallowed. “Could I please have some water?”

“The doctor has to see you first.” The nurse whisked out a clipboard and a pen. “Name?”

Anna knew the drill. “I don’t remember.”

The nurse made a bitter face. “We don’t release patients with amnesia.”

“Betty Boop.”

“Your real name.”

“Okay, Elizabeth Boop.”

“Fine,” the nurse spat, writing. She clicked the pen shut and bustled out of the hospital room as though she had other, more important business. She probably did, Anna reflected.

Anna lifted her gown to look at the marks on her chest. It hurt to breathe, like her lungs were bruised. She wondered what they’d done with her clothes. Assuming Bruce had put any on her before getting her to the hospital. She didn’t wear anything during the actual act, of course. That could be messy.

Where was Bruce, anyway? He hadn’t hung around the emergency room, she was sure of that, but was he waiting for her to call and let him know she was all right? Did he even care?

No TV in the room, she noticed. A curtain hung from ceiling to floor next to her. She could hear someone moaning softly on the opposite side. A real patient.

Anna sighed and shifted on the gurney. This waiting was bullshit. Doctors did it on purpose. She was fine. What if she got up now and left? Nobody could stop her. She had her rights.

“Elizabeth?”

A female doctor and a man had entered the room.

Anna sat up. “Can I go now?”

“I’m Dr. Rees. This is Mr. Saludi, our social worker.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “This is a joke. Just sign off and let me go home, okay?”

“We have new rules now regarding patients who may be abusing—”

“Fuck off! It’s not illegal. Where’s my stuff?”

Saludi spoke gently. “You don’t have any. You were left naked on the curb outside the ER.”

“I’ll wear the gown home.”

Dr. Rees shook her head. “Not until you’ve had a psych evaluation.”

“Fuck you!”

Saludi again. “You’ve been DOA at Mercy three times now, always for the same reason.”

Rees. “It’s becoming more common. Using home defibrillators to cause death, then resuscitate. You become addicted to the endorphin rush.”

Anna put her hands over her ears. “Shut up and let me go home!”

Rees: “How often do you induce death? Who owns the defibrillator?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m ordering an EKG. You may have weakened your heart.” Rees departed.

Saludi leaned forward. “Look, Elizabeth, or whoever you are. Tell me. Why do you do it? Why kill yourself?”

Anna swallowed. “It makes life bearable.”

The silence was uncomfortable.

“Can I have some ice chips now? Death makes you thirsty.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I’m working on a longer project this week, but I offer this special SPASM in the hopes that it will give you a little Christmas spirit. xo, Amy

It was the night before Christmas. Scrooge had dismissed his employees earlier in the evening, and after a simple supper, he donned his flannels and nightcap and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. Being a miserly sort, he blew out the stub of candle before falling to sleep, and lay still in the darkness a few moments before drifting into slumber.

He awoke to the rattling of iron chains. Opening his eyes, he found the room awash in an ethereal gleam, and the ghost of his old business partner, Jacob Morley, hovering above him. Morley was trying to tell him something, but Scrooge paid no heed. His hand flew to the nightstand and seized the telephone, a newfangled invention from Mr. Bell. Scrooge had always possessed a fondness for gizmos and whatnot. “Operator! Get me the Ghostbusters!” he cried.

Scarcely an hour later, the Ghostbusters had done their duty and departed (with no Christmas tip!) the premises. Scrooge smiled to himself and slept soundly until the next morning, when a group of carolers gathered to sing a hymn beneath his windowsill. Scrooge found himself filled with delight. Leaping from his bed, old Ebenezer heaved up the chamber pot from the corner of the room and hefted it out the window onto the carolers.

“Merry Christmas!” he cackled from the window as the carolers sputtered and choked in filth. “To hell with you all, every one!”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I’m working on a longer writing project this week, so please enjoy some classic SPASMS in my absence. xo, Amy

Gertrude was on her way to the store to buy some groceries when a man beckoned her into a dark alleyway. Normally Gertrude wasn’t the kind of broad who followed strange men into dark alleyways, but today was Thursday and you never could trust Thursdays. The man opened his trenchcoat to reveal a dinner napkin. “Is that all?” whinnied Gertrude. “A napkin! I thought you were going to sell me some jewelry or a watch!” “Listen, dame,” he said (he was a real smooth talker, you could see that), “Listen, this here is no ordinary napkin. What we got here is a serviette.” Gertrude snorted. She’d never heard of a serviette, and what she didn’t know would overflow a landfill. Even in Jersey. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. If I can prove to you that this here serviette is magic, that this is a gen-yoo-wine magical napkin, if I can do that, then will you buy it for… a dollar?” Gertrude thought a minute. Two, actually, seeing as she didn’t know how much a cloth dinner napkin would cost and also it was Thursday and she didn’t think so good on Thursdays. “Well, if you can prove it, maybe,” she allowed generously. “And make it snappy, I’m starving here!” The man in the trenchcoat set the serviette on the alley floor and placed his toes on two adjacent corners of the napkin, or serviette, whatever. “Put your toes on the corners, facing me.” Gertrude did so, and found herself nose-to-nose with the man. “Now, would you believe that this napkin can fly?” And surely enough, Gertrude felt a breeze on her legs. But the breeze was from the fact that the guy in the trenchcoat was raising her skirt up behind her. Sure, it was corny, but hey, the guy in the trenchcoat was kinda cute, and before you could say “Canarsie,” Gertrude and the guy in the trenchcoat were a little more friendly, leaning up against the wall smoking on a couple of cigarettes. Gertrude laughed and said, “Well, it was nice, but I’m not giving you a dollar! This napkin didn’t do squat!” “It is magical. Works every time,” said the guy in the trenchcoat, who turned out to have a name, which was Conrad, and a nice little apartment, which wasn’t large, but it was big enough for the both of them, and before you know it, Gertrude was Mrs. Conrad Blevins, with three little Blevinses in tow. And Gertrude kept the magic napkin in the china cupboard in the dining room as proof that anything can happen on a Thursday.

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Didn’t do a SPASM….

Did finish writing and editing a 10,000-word story for submission to the Misfit Library.

Wish me luck, kids.

xo, Amy

(With heartfelt apologies to Charlie Daniels. - xo, Amy)

Now, when the devil went down to Georgia, he was lookin’ for a soul to steal

He weren’t behind, but never mind—Scratch loved to make a deal.

So when he came upon a young man workin’ a fiddle in disrepair,

Devil jumped up on a hick’ry stump and said, “Hey, boy, listen here!”

Then he spun a tale as big’s a whale ‘bout bettin’ a violin

That’s made of gold, the stakes his soul, if you can play better’n him.

The boy said, “My name’s Johnny, and I’ll take your bet, because

It’ll be your loss, you silly hoss, ‘cause I’m the best there ever was.”

Now, you all know the story how Johnny beat the devil square,

With “Fire on the Mount,” but that don’t count, ‘cause the devil don’t play fair.

So when the devil bowed his head because he knew that he’d been beat,

He said, “You win, you’re free from sin, just sign this here receipt.”

Johnny may be a fiddle pro, but he can’t take a hint

And with a wink, he signed in red ink, when he should’ve read the fine print.

Fire on the mountain, run boys, run

But that fiddle’s turned into a ukulele…

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mr. Bloom smiled brightly when he entered Accounting. “Nims, I’ve hired you an assistant. This is Mrs. Galloway,” he added, stepping aside to admit a rather voluptuous woman with hair of an improbable shade and tortoiseshell spectacles. “I know you’ve been very busy lately. Mrs. Galloway will be a great help to you. She can sit at your spare desk. I’ll have Gus bring a typewriter around this afternoon.”

Mr. Nims looked up from his ledger. “Beg pardon?”

The General Manager indicated Mrs. Galloway. “This is your new assistant, Helen Galloway.”

Nims frowned. “Assistant? For what?”

“To help you, you silly goose,” Mrs. Galloway tittered, revealing enormous teeth. “Oh, isn’t he just adorable? You go on, Mr. Bloom, I think we’ll get along just famously.” She adjusted Mr. Nims’ green visor, which sat backwards on his head.

“Don’t touch my visor, please.” Mr. Bloom had already left the office. Nims apprised Mrs. Galloway warily. “If you’ll just sit at the spare desk quietly, I must return to my work.”

Mrs. Galloway seated her plump derriere on the wooden chair and adjusted her green dress over her ample décolletage. “Adorable, that’s what you are. Why, you remind me of my dear departed Herbie. That’s my husband. He’s deceased. Is your name Herbie, by any chance? It’d be just perfect if it was.”

“…point eight zero six. Beg pardon?”

“Is your name Herbie?”

Mr. Nims squinted. “No. Good heavens, no. What a silly name. Please hush, madam. I am completing a rather complicated—”

“Zip the lip? Don’t you fret, I won’t say another word.” Mrs. Galloway mimed a zipper across her scarlet lips. “You do what you need to do, and I’ll just tidy up our cozy little office.”

“Hmmph,” Nims replied skeptically.

Mrs. Galloway fluttered around the room, straightening piles of papers and clucking in distaste at the dust on the file cabinets. She shoved a folder under the little accountant’s nose. “Where does this go?”

Nims sneezed. “I don’t know. Just leave it on the cabinet. I’ll get to it later.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Galloway opened the window. “This place could use a little fresh air. Have you ever been married, Mr. Nims?”

“What? No, of course not. Look, I’m rather busy—will you please stop that?”

Mrs. Galloway finished straightening the little accountant’s bowtie and pinched his cheek for good measure. “What a handsome man you are. So strong and authoritative.”

“If we are to share an office, Mrs. Galloway, please cease using quite such an abundance of perfume,” Nims choked. “It is rather overpowering.”

Mrs. Galloway smiled. “You noticed! Do you like it? It’s very expensive.” She giggled girlishly, then caught sight of the box on the windowsill. “Ooh, what’s in there?”

“My pet, Sir Galahad. Must you insist on interrupting my—”

A frightening sound came from Mrs. Galloway’s lips, and suddenly she was cowering atop the spare desk. “Ooh! A cockroach! A cockroach!”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Mr. Nims, and went back to his work.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.