Campo-Morena Village Library Writers Group: Session January 25, 2020

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When you walked in you were so tired you could hardly speak

By RC

Screwtape was making his rounds, which he always did soon after new arrivals; before they proceeded on through the check-in line, they rested a while in green pastures by still waters. There was one particular person whom he was more interested in seeing, because of what was in store for him. His name was Jonas, and he had been a soldier in life.

Screwtape went down the green sward toward the pool, where most of the people hung out, quenching their thirst (it was a very warm, sunny day), and eventually he saw Jonas lounging under the shade of a tree.

“Hey there, Jonas,” he called out as he approached. “You don’t know me, but I’m Screwtape.”

“Screwtape? That’s a funny name,” Jonas replied. “Say, I don’t know how I got here. I was…I was…oh yes, I was in the middle of scalping an Indian at the pueblo in New Mexico. We had a grand time there, I can tell you. They were running like rats. But how’d I get here—wherever this is?”

“That’s a long story, Jonas,” Screwtape said. I can tell you this, when you walked in you were so tired you could hardly speak. I understand why you might have no recall. You had a wound in your back, by the way. I think it was from what they call a spear down there.”

“Come to think of it, I do remember a sudden sharp pain in my back as I was bending over the redskin.”

“Well then, that’s the explanation. But I’ve come to usher you into your reward.”

“My reward? You mean this is heaven?”

“Of course. What reward did you expect for slaughtering all those—“redskins,” did you call them?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, but something good, even though I only did what any red-blooded American would have done. Those people are stopping our progress west.”

“Right. Well, we have a grand surprise for you, Jonas, and it’s right through that door.” Screwtape pointed to a door which was barely visible as an outline against the sky at the top of the nearest little hill.

“There?” Jonas pointed.

“Exactly. If you walk through there, you’ll get everything that’s coming to you.”

“Well, what’s to wait for?” Jonas said reflectively as he got up with ease. It seemed that he had regained all his stamina. It was then that he looked at himself, still dressed in his dusty and torn cavalry uniform, and asked, “Say, aren’t I supposed to get something new—you know, like white clothes, and all that?”

Everything you need for your new existence will be provided on the other side of the door,” Screwtape replied.

“Well, okay, I’ll see you later,” and Jonas started eagerly up the hill.

One of Screwtape’s assistants had come up and Screwtape turned to him. “This is the part I love,” he said. “When they step through that door, thinking about what great things they’re going to get. It’s rich. Just rich, especially the contrast with what happens before.” While he said this, they both glanced toward the door, which the soldier was just stepping through. A tiny flame of fire could just be seen beyond, but it was too late for the soldier to turn back—even had there been somewhere to go.

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Then I heard a lot of whispering behind me.

by CT

My daughter Alice and I sat in a family restaurant, waiting for our lunch to arrive.

Alice looked around, patted my arm, and said, “Look, Mama, look at the birdie!”

I glanced where she pointed. Sure enough, a parakeet sat on an elderly man’s shoulder, bobbing its head to the canned background music. I smiled at Alice, and said, “Cute, isn’t he?”

I turned back to my new People magazine to continue the article about the royal family.

Then I heard a lot of whispering behind me, plus a few snickers of laughter. Beside me, Alice jerked.

There she was- shoulders scrunched to her ears, eyes wide and terrified, and her mouth open to scream. On her head sat the nonchalant parakeet. She yelled; he startled, chalked, and flew back to his master.

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If money were no object, I’d stay in England a very long time.

By MD

She’d traveled to England to enroll in a course in Literary Grammar. The teacher, Professor Leander, was a famed academic in his field and admittance to his course was quite selective. She was surprised, actually, to receive the letter of acceptance. She raided her bank account to pay for the trip, leaving only enough money in it to avoid closing the account altogether. The airfare and the tuition for the course came close to rendering her penniless, but she figured it was money well spent.

On the first day of class, she arrived early and found herself alone with the famed professor. She introduced herself; he greeted her with a scrutinizing gaze, his eyebrows knotted on his forehead, his mouth pursed in a scowl. She smiled at him with what she hoped was a winning expression.

“How are you enjoying this London weather?” he asked her. “Coming here from California,” his voice dripped with disdain when he said her home state’s name, “you must be bemoaning the perpetual rain here.”

“Oh no,” she gushed, still hoping to gain his favor. “If money was no object, I’d stay in England a very long time.”

Professor Leander’s face wrinkled into an even uglier visage. Loudly he cleared his throat and pinioned her with his poisonous gaze. “You are an ignorant slut,” he said. “You are not qualified to take my course and you must leave immediately.”

Shocked beyond belief she asked, “But why?”

“Because, you stupid American, everyone who takes my class must speak the Queen’s English. And you just broke the rule concerning the verb to be in an unreal conditional even when the subject is singular.” His voice oozed with condescension. “As anyone with any knowledge of basic English knows, what you should have said was ‘If money WERE no object, I’d stay in England a very long time.’ “

“But. . .”

“No buts about it!” he roared. “Get out of here.”

She obeyed, but lack of funds meant she did stay in England a very long time. Until, in fact, she died and was buried in a pauper’s field near a small wayside chapel.

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Among a big enough group of people of any age somebody’s going to have a screw loose.

By CC

Among a big enough group of people of any age somebody’s going to have a screw loose. Maybe even two of them.

The Twin Pines Senior Center’s annual bus outing to Ensenada always took place on February 14^th. Usually three or four couples and twenty widows filled the old tour bus to capacity. But when, one magical February day, Tim Hornfeld signed up as the only widower, the tour sold out in fifteen minutes instead of the customary month.

Tim was tanned and fit and smiled a lot. The widows hung over their seats watching him. He seemed happily self contained. One widow, Lara Boneshall, whispered I think he killed his wife. I saw it in the newspaper.

Debbie Marshall’s eyes widened in surprise but then quickly narrowed. I had him marked as a psychopath from the first moment I saw him, she muttered under her breath.

The whispers flew all along the bus, but near the front sat a well groomed recently widowed woman who prided herself on logic. Julia Foster wasn’t like the rest of them. She worked assiduously to keep her stomach flat and weight down. She wore expensive makeup and simple jewelry that spoke of wealth and class. She had an eye on Tim, who seemed to value health and fitness as much as she did. There would be no contest here.

When the long bus trip finally ended and the rush to the restroom was over, the ladies staggered out of the concrete bathroom, limp with relief. Then suddenly their heads swiveled as one, watching Tim stroll down the beach hand in hand with Julia Foster. She had no idea of the danger she was in! They decided to get a burrito at a restaurant across the street and talk it over.

By evening the widows had returned to the bus with their bags of souvenirs and trinkets, but Tim and Julia were still missing. Heads nodding sagely, the widows grimly acknowledged that their suspicious had been well founded.

The bus eventually had to leave without the missing couple. The Mexican authorities were solicitous but the widows could tell that these cops knew a killer by scent. Julia’s body washed up a week later, but Tim was never found.

The widows of Twin Peaks went back to their old ways, painting watercolors, gardening and gossiping. Every now and then they would talk about Julia and Tim, but eventually they lost interest in the subject. The annual bus tour shifted to Las Vegas, where everyone had a blast.