The man was thin. Unnervingly thin. So thin his family averted their eyes when they came to visit. Illness and its various treatments had riddled his body beyond repair. He was miserable.

Alone in his hospital room one night, he stared up at the ceiling and prayed in silence.

Please, he whispered without a sound. Just to go one year without pain, without illness—one year without having to give my family bad news, without tests and treatments. One year that I can take my health for granted, like anyone my age should. Please.

Far across the universe, an ear (of sorts) that hadn’t paid any real attention to this particular galaxy in the billions of years since it had set the stars in motion heard the man’s piteous prayer. And was moved. With the slightest gesture of its great celestial hand (in a manner of speaking), the maker of the universe, of all that is, seen and unseen, healed the man wasting away in his hospital bed, rejuvenating weary tissue, supplanting sickly cells with strength.

For the first time in many months, the man was able to give his family good news. He was well. He could function as a normal human being again.

A year was nothing, a mere tick to the great watchmaker. When the watchmaker’s attention was drawn again to the man whose pleas had been answered, twelve months had passed.

And twelve prostitutes had been raped and strangled, left naked in the woods along a desolate stretch of highway. Police realized the murders were connected to a series of killings that had ended abruptly many months before, but could only theorize as to why the murders had stopped, then started again. Perhaps the killer had been in prison during that time.

But the man’s prayer had been for just one year of good health, and that was all he got. His illness inexplicably returned, and he found himself again incarcerated in his hospital room, wondering when or if he would ever be free again.

The watchmaker shrugged. You win some, you lose some.

Copyright 2007 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mr. Nims was looking over the latest inventory when Gus from the mail room came into his office. The little accountant looked up from his figures. “Yes?”

“I’ll be running the mimeograph today. Miss Inez is out again.”

Nims sighed. “Her gout again, I expect. Well, it can’t be helped.”

“No, not gout. In fact, I guess her gout is doing much better. I heard she’s taking dance lessons.”

“She took leave for dance lessons? Gus, are you certain you have this right?”

“Straight from Gloria’s mouth. Miss Inez is out for her flum—flamemba—”

“Oh! Flamenco, my dear boy, the flamenco. A Spanish dance. You’re familiar with it, of course.”

Gus blinked. “I thought that was a bird.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I thought flamenco was a bird.”

“A what?”

“A bird. You know, with wings?” Gus flapped his arms at the elbows. “Tweet tweet, polly want a cracker?” He put his arms down again. “My neighbor has one on his lawn. It’s very classy.”

“Flamingo.”

“Flamenco.”

The little accountant shook his head sternly. “No, no, no, Gus. You’re thinking of flamingoes. Big pink birds that stand on one leg. Correct?”

“It makes sense, though, Mr. Nims. Isn’t the dance made up to look like the bird?” He stood one on leg, folding the other up underneath him, and hopped. “See? Like this, right?”

“I don’t think that’s a proper dance, Gus.”

“Oh. Maybe if I use my arms?” Elbows flapped again. “Is this the flamingo?”

“It’s not the flamingo, it’s the flamenco. Guitars and flared pants.”

Gus was still hopping and flapping. “But this is the dance you’re talking about, right?”

“No, it’s more of a clapping, stomping sort of—oh, dash it, you’ve got it all wrong. Watch my feet.” Nims sprang up onto the desk, scattering pencils and papers, and performed a surprisingly accurate flamenco. “Now try it with me, Gus.”

Gus hesitated. “Should I be up on the desk, too?”

“If you like. I believe it can bear our weight.”

Gus clambered up onto the desk surface and tried to imitate Mr. Nims. “Oh, I see. Pretty simple, isn’t it?”

“By gum, I think you’ve got it! Now clap to the right and then the left. You see?”

Gus started to sing to the rhythm. “Honky-tonky cha-cha, honky-tonky cha-cha… Sing it with me!”

“I can certainly see why Miss Inez would take a day to try this. Honky-tonky cha-cha, honky-tonky cha-cha…”

“What on earth are you doing?”

Mr. Nims whirled at the sound of Gloria the secretary’s voice.

She was standing in the doorway, looking none too pleased. “Do you realize I can hear you all the way over at my desk?”

“Oh, beg pardon. Gloria, do you flamenco?”

Gus flapped his arms. “Mr. Nims is teaching me the flamingo for when Miss Inez comes back from her dance lessons.”

“Dance lessons?”

Nims attempted to clear matters up. “Flamenco.”

“Lumbago.”

Gus rolled the word around in his mouth. “Lumbago? Is that a dance?”

Mr. Nims sighed heavily. “No, it is not a dance. It is a back ache.”

“Oh.”

Gloria smirked. “I don’t think Miss Inez will be doing the flamenco anytime soon.”

“Flamingo,” Gus corrected.

Copyright 2007 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.