I am unsure about the future of the project… Perhaps it has run its course.

If you have any comments, please leave them here…

Felicity has just bought an old house. While removing layers of wall paper, she discovers a secret door behind a layer of drywall.

Felicity is not one for surprises. She likes tradition, order and routine.

Please submit your story by April 10th! Have a lovely spring.

I take it from him and try to process my frustration into a facial expression that is supportive. “Oh Harvey. Look at that! It’s… it’s remarkable.”

“I know, right? I thought after all of the book shelves and tables, I’d try something personal, for you,” he replies. He pats the top of the small box with that look of unwavering hope in his eyes.

“Well, you surely challenged yourself,” I reply. I remember my mother’s advice. It’s just a phase, dear. Your father went through the same thing. Just indulge him a little. So I say, “Let’s take a closer look.”

“You really like it?” he asks as I set it on the table.

To my surprise, it sits evenly, enough. “I love that you love making it, Harv. That’s enough for me.” I am proud of myself. Of rallying beside my husband in this most recent endeavor, and remembering, I turn to him and hug him. “Thank you.”

“I know I still need to hone my craft, but I’m … I’m self taught.”

“I know, sweetie,” I open the top of the box and give him my very best supportive smile. I know that I am being condescending. I don’t know how else to feel. He is a terrible carpenter. God bless him for all of his love of this new-found hobby I am growing tired of furniture that leans and of his lack of precision. I lift off the lid and see that he has glued red velvet to the inside of the box. It is still wet at the edges and the fabric swirls unevenly along the inside of the box. Inside the box does not look that bad, or won’t when the glue is dry.

“Oh look, a velvet lining,” I say.

“I thought you’d like that. I know you like red. That way,” he explains,” your jewelery won’t get scratched on the sides.”

“Yes,” I reply. I inspect the box further. He has attempted to carve small roses on the outside of the box. They are crude and uneven. The surface of the box is gouged with whatever tool he used, but it is smooth since Harvey loves to use sandpaper. Lord. He loves sandpaper.

“Here’s the thing, Susan,” he says.

I am dreading this moment. From that first bedside table that groans whenever I place so much as a paperback on it, down to the angled bookshelves in the hall, I sensed that this … this passion was something to be reckoned with.

“You know Bernard?” he continues.

“Bernard? The gallery owner?”

“Yes. Well, he said that my work has a naïve intensity and potential.”

I laugh. Sincerely this time, “Did he?”

“Yeah. Well he said that he’d sell some of my ‘pieces’ for me,” Harvey pronounces proudly. “He says that there’s a market for them. That they are more than just regular furniture and that recently buyers are looking for something that combines ‘art’ with ‘function’.”

“Heavy on the art part then,” I say glancing up at him to see if he really understands what I mean.

“Well maybe, but anyway, I was thinking I could do… more of this,” he replies, not making eye contact.

“Bernard says he thinks he could sell some?” I repeat. “For how much?” I ask.

“I’m not quite sure, but you’re only young once,” he replies. He runs his hands through his already wild hair and grins at me. “I just might do it.”

I pause. “Well I guess young is how you feel. What are you saying Harvey?” I am attempting to fit the lid back on the box. He takes it from me turns it 90 degrees and it falls into place.

“I’m saying, Susan,” he says, his voice now the authoritative one I know from before, “I’m saying I think I’m going to quit my job. Do this full time.” He looks defiantly in my eyes, unwavering.

“Oh Harvey,” I reply as I throw myself into his arms. He doesn’t hug back. I start crying quietly and whisper into his shoulder, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Harvey you’re a writer. Why would you give it up to be a carpenter? You want to trade, show don’t tell, for, square and level?”

“I’ve wanted to be a carpenter for forty years. You know that.” He starts another nail and misses his thumb by a hair. ”Remember thirty years ago I started building my summer lake cottage in Vermont. I want to finish it and sell it before I die. I knocked together a birdhouse for cub scouts when I was six and since then I’ve never stopped building things in my spare time. Writing just pays the bills but I could stop tomorrow and never think twice about it. If I have to resolve the conflicts in a boy meets misunderstood girl trope one more time I could go insane. You ever try to complete the story arc involving a post modernistic pastiche of characters? I never thought I’d be doing it for my whole life. You know what I mean?”

“I do. It’s the way I feel about sanitation engineering, believe me, but I thought you told me in the past that you hate to rebuild furniture.” He takes another swig of beer. “You don’t even like to use sandpaper.”

“Yeah, that’s true about the sanding. Once it’s build it’s built, sanding just makes me sneeze, but the rebuilding, that’s not my fault. It’s impossible to satisfy the public working part-time. I have no cred; the stain’s never the right color exactly, the seams are never perfect, and chairs are bad even if they wobble just a minute amount. No one wants to rock anymore. These people would criticize their mother on her deathbed, and what do they know, they’ve never built a piece of furniture they could sell. So, regardless, I keep reworking the piece until it’s right for them. If I was an established master carpenter I could build a reproduction 19^th century French antique Louis XVI fake walnut armoire out of driftwood and barn board and they’d think it was a masterpiece. There are so many things I want to build. I want to build things that I would want to use.”

“I hear you.” Pausing to take another sip, “I’ve got to tell you something as a friend. Remember the kitchen cabinets you put in for my wife last year?”

Harvey glues the last of the nightstand legs in place. It’s a quarter inch short and glue is dripping on his wingtips. “Yeah, those were beautiful. That idea came to me one morning as I was taking a shower. Bamboo shoot shelves and matching split cane door handles. Nobody’s ever done that before.”

“You’re right about that, Harv.”

“You told me your wife was delighted, your words in my blog. Later she told me they were beyond anything she could have imagined.”

Harvey cuts the other three legs to match the length of the fourth. One is short by an eighth inch. “True, but I never had the heart to tell you two of the cabinet doors were nailed shut and one of the drawers opened up through the counter top. Man, it took me a month to square that away. My wife was pissed.”

“Sorry about that, you should have said something. I would have fixed it no charge.”

“I know you would have. It’s just that there were some ‘square and level’ issues and a couple of other things she didn’t like. Didn’t want to embarrass you, you know.”

“Yeah, I understand, and thanks. Y’know, fortunately, I’ve learned a lot since then. Just finished another little hutch for that family in the Quonset hut across town. It’s a perfect match to this nightstand. They loved it and have friends that want one like it. ‘Course those jobs are for free. Gives me a chance to practice my tradecraft until I can nail down a big paying job.”

“What about an internship at a cabinet shop?”

“Thought about that but I think what I might do is build on spec and sell through consignment shops. I see online every now and then a carpenter makes it big that way. At least I have things to give to folks at Christmas and on birthdays. My wife tell you she loves the armoire I built for her for our twenty-fifth anniversary?

“Yeah we did talk about that. That’s the one at the back of your walk-in closet, right?”

“Yeah, I love that piece. Spent a lot of time on that one. Regardless, just a matter of time, then I can quit writing for good.” Looks at the clock on the wall, “Wow, 8:00 already. Got to go upstairs. We always watch Idol. They’re doing the auditions. I love to watch those tone-deaf clowns who think they can sing. Grab another Bud.”

Getting up and adjusting his camo hat, “Nah, I better head out. I got a test tomorrow in my hydraulics class at the college.”

Name: Harvey

Hobby: Carpentry

Scenario: Harvey loves making furniture. Unfortunately, he is a very bad carpenter. He is contemplating changing professions to become a full time carpenter and is having a discussion with someone about this choice.

You have two whole weeks to submit your story! Please submit your story about Harvey by Sunday March 27th.

Principal Jenkins wasn’t a drinker. He saw no point in lowering your intellectual faculties merely to break the so-called ice. Inhibitions, after all, serve a very useful social function. Not that Principal Jenkins would have any objections if you were to offer him something expensive from the top shelf. But could it really be called drinking when one generous measure would last him an evening?

He took a sip from the battle-scarred glass in front of him. It contained a disappointing attempt at a brandy from a dusty, sculpted bottle which promised so much. Still, he wouldn’t be there long enough to finish it. All he had to do was sign the papers and say goodbye to the soon-to-be-former Mrs Jenkins.

He would swear she had chosen this place deliberately just to spite him. She knew he’d be ill at ease in a bar so close to school. He felt conspicuous but a quick glance around assured him he was invisible. The barman was engrossed in one of those novels where the cop finds out the bad guy is his brother three quarters of the way through; and the only other patron was engrossed in his own thoughts.

As ever the soon-to-be-former Mrs Jenkins was late. Probably some sort of power game. Robert Jenkins, sat back in his chair, feeling more the man than the head teacher at last. The door opened and attracted the attention of the three occupants of the bar. To Robert’s surprise the frame wasn’t filled with the malevolent shape of his wife but a slighter, more feminine figure.

He recognised one of the nervous, musical girls from… he couldn’t remember which year. But he knew she was too young to be drinking in this state. But it wasn’t his problem. The mantle of Principal lay beside his chair. And maybe the mantle of Principle with it.

The girl looked round, her eyes adjusting to the exact level of dimness dictated by the bar’s franchiser. She rested them on Principal Jenkins for a few seconds before she fully recognised him.

“Mr Jenkins,” she exclaimed and then bit her lip. She looked around the bar, but nothing else seemed to help. She involuntarily stepped towards Robert Jenkins.

“Should you be here?” he asked.

The girl wavered but stood her ground. “I’m meeting someone.”

They both looked around.

“He’s not here I take it?” Principal Jenkins was too long a principal for this not to sound the tiniest bit mocking.

She shook her head. She stood on twitching feet, unsure what to do. A tug of war raged in her head that ended with tears fattening up in the corners of her eyes.

“I didn’t think he’d show,” she said trying to sound calm, but failing due to the broken voice and tears racing down her cheeks.

Principal Jenkins tapped the chair next to him. It seemed the only decent thing to do. He had no idea what to say. The barman hawkishly watched her sit over the top of his over-the-top novel.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Principal Jenkins, now in full principal garb once more. It seemed unlikely she would, so he was surprised when she started blubbering a story to him. He murmured encouragingly but got very little of it. He was glad. This wasn’t something he should have anything to do with. Unless the other was a teacher, of course, but he had heard the word “boy” sobbed a few times and felt glad he could relax on that front. He let her tell the story. He assumed it helped. She was at that age when hearts were still eager little fragile boxes and it was natural for her to feel her life was in pieces.

The story seemed to come to an end and the real tears started. The girl slumped against Robert’s shoulder and he had no other option to put his hands on hers. The students clearly didn’t have as much reverence for him as he would have liked.

The door juddered and opened again. This time the frame was filled with the malevolent shape of the soon-to-be-former Mrs Jenkins.

“I knew it!” she shrieked.

She stomped up to the table and threw three identical stacks of paper down in front of him. Principal Jenkins retrieved his arm and drew out his pen. His wife’s angry appearance at an awkward moment made speech seem like a shameful act. He flicked through the top document and signed them all.

As she picked them up, the soon-to-be-former Mrs Jenkins gave her parting shot. “You might be happy now, young lady, but, by God, he won’t make you that in the future.”

When the echo of the slammed door had been absorbed by the panelled walls, Principal Jenkins found he was still staring at the girl.

“Didn’t she even see I was crying?”

“No.” And then he added, “That’s why we’re getting divorced.”

“Oh,” was the only response the girl could muster.

“Now, run along home. I know you have school tomorrow.”

The girl jumped up, her spirits lifted by Robert’s joviality. They shared a smile.

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” she called as she hurried out of the door. She left before he could reply which was good because he still didn’t recall her name.

He went to take a last swig of the brandy and then thought better of it. Instead he threw down a tip and stood up. As he walked out, the barman eyed him with an expression that said, “I know a dirty secret.” With the door shut again, the bar returned to its trademarked dimness and the barman went smugly back to his siblo-thriller.

Today he takes a left off School Street onto Oak Street. There is a foot-wide strip of wet dirt and gravel between the sidewalk and the curb where a mix of modest cars and luxury sedans are parked along the potholed road. A dozen purple and yellow crocuses have sprouted alongside an old black Mercedes. He stops for just a few seconds to admire them. Snow lingers in black and brown speckled heaps scattered along the street, and water from the melting snow pools in places across the sidewalk. Up ahead is the barn board façade of the Whiteboard Café, a biker bar of doubtful distinction.

Walking briskly now, approaching the door of the bar he hears the growing shriek of sirens, passing cars splashing through puddles, and birds chirping on wires overhead.

Inside the bar, the massive 6’5” owner, his enormous white rippled gut hanging over his belt and out from under a stained tee shirt, ambles around the end of the bar shouting, “Hey Buddy, I’m not going to tell you again. Take it easy on her”. With the distraction, Melinda breaks free of her ex-husband Freddy, runs between tables, knocks over chairs, pushes the front door open, catches her foot on the rotted two-inch lip of the doorframe, and begins to fall.

Fifteen minutes earlier, at about the same time Tim started his walk, Freddy had been waiting for her in the parking lot when she left her luncheon meeting at the elementary school across town. No one saw him grab her as he pulled her into the van driven by a heavily tattooed figure. All he said was, “You’re coming with me. We’re going to talk.” When the van stopped behind the bar and he pulled her through the back door, she was terrified. This was the once happy but socially awkward actuary she had married. With two beautiful children and nearly $400,000 in income, for a time, their marriage had been predictable. Then the divorce papers were served, he bought the low rider Harley, and she found the crack hidden in his basement workshop. Two years later she ran into him on Broadway in New York City with the fifty-something blond. They were both wearing his gang’s scull covered black leather jackets.

Melinda falls out the door, trying to hold onto the door’s push bar and feels hands grope her as someone grabs her from behind. She screams, “Get your hands off me”.

Tim is shaken by the scream but awkwardly manages to catch her under her arms to break her fall. It takes him only a second to realize it’s Melinda Throckmorton, the Superintendent of Schools for the district. Patrol cars from both directions come to abrupt stops behind him, as officers run towards him, guns drawn, leaving their lights flashing and doors open. “Get your hands up and move away from her. Now.” A mobile unit from local Channel 3 News is just turning off School Street onto Oak as several more patrol cars scream past them.

“That must be the woman that was being assaulted. Joey, start shooting now. I don’t care if we’re three blocks away. Get whatever you can. We haven’t posted a story in four days. Ok, here I go.  “This is Gloria Solaris reporting live from Oak Street, downtown at the scene of…”

Behind the bar, on the street running parallel to Oak, a white van slowly drives away, turns left on Fremont, and gets on the ramp for the interstate.

Hands up against the barn board wall, Tim is looking over his shoulder at Melinda, confused by the officers’ rapid questions and conversation, his eyes jerk quickly from place to place, and then as neighbors and small children come out of doorways and watch from the street, he drops his head. The spotlights from the news truck turn on and he looks up to see a young redheaded woman he recognizes step out, talking into a hand microphone, and pointing at him. Within all the noise, the bar owner stops shouting, “That’s not the fuckin’ guy, a’holes”, and is leaning against the door of the bar shaking his head. Tim, head down again, keeps saying to no one in particular, “I was just walking by.”

*   *   *   *

Tim arrives back at his school forty-five minutes later. The police, once they realized the Principal and Superintendent were involved, had ordered all city schools into lockdown. Tim has talked to his wife. She has already seen the live breaking news story on television after friends had called her at her office.

Since the incident, Tim Jenkins still puts his Red Socks hat on occasionally and high-fives kids in the hallways, but he doesn’t take another random walk for two years.

I’m going on vacation until March 12, but decided that I didn’t want to leave you prompt-less over that time.

For the next couple of weeks, here is the prompt:

Name: Principal Jenkins

Location: A bar around the corner from the high school at which he works.

Situation: A mistakenly compromising situation.

You have until March 13th to post your story! Have a great couple of weeks. I’ll eat some maple candy on your behalf.

Also, a warm welcome to Peter More who has just joined us!

The words took Agnes by surprise. Sharon had been so silent that Agnes had forgotten there was someone attached to the plasma she was changing.

Agnes looked at her quizzically, trying to recall if this was part of a conversation she had forgotten she was in. It happens. Sometimes patients want to speak and an overworked nurse whose English was still “getting there” was apt to be only casually involved. Before she could ask anything, Sharon added more.

“You have her eyes.”

“Who’s eyes?”

Sharon stared at her annoyed. The annoyance changed to realisation and then apology.

“The girl at Cannes.”

“I do not know this girl?” Agnes finished securing the plasma bag.

“Of course you don’t.”

“Oh.” Ordinarily Agnes would have left now, but she hung round awkwardly like someone who is pretty sure they have been invited to stay but not 100%.

“She looked like you.”

“The girl at Cannes?”

“She was very pretty.’

“Thank you.” Agnes blushed and shifted the plasma pole a little.

“My husband thought so.”

For the first time Agnes sensed some bitterness in the words. Sharon bit her lips and started murmuring to herself. Agnes felt a prick of guilt at being glad the conversation would no longer involve her. She was busy and nothing Sharon had said had made much sense. And murmuring meant being alive and having some sort of brain function – which for some patients was more than they could hope for.

As Agnes reached the door, Sharon called out.

“Odette!”

Agnes turned and hung in the doorway. Sharon was staring at her, her eyes filled with decades of brine.

“Je vous pardonne.”

Agnes nodded and smiled. “Thank you,” she said without knowing why and left. An inexplicable sense of having done good followed her around all week.

AV, Sharon’s friend since she was eight in Montana, twenty years ago, is sitting in the rolling recliner at the end of Sharon’s hospital bed. They are talking about Sharon’s two-year-old son Billy, who is living with AV and her husband while Sharon is being treated.

“Like I‘ve been telling you, I always keep one eye on him. No pun intended.”

“Sharon, that’s awful.” They both grin weakly.

After a pause AV says. “So what’s the verdict?”

The muscles in Sharon’s face tighten and she looks out the window, “If they don’t get all the shrapnel out this time, I’ll probably lose sight in my left eye, permanently… Then I’d be blind.”

“When are they going to do the operation?”

“Three days…” tears now, “I knew when I blacked out it was part of the same problem. Losing one eye terrified me, but both.”

AV stands up, steps to Sharon, and takes her hand in both of hers. “I have something to tell you. It could be very important. Should I tell you now or maybe tomorrow? You might be less tired.”

“I’m OK. If it’s important, tell me now.”

AV steps to the window, “Well a few years ago I was with Anton and we met someone. It was about the time Anton and I first met in Vegas. I think you might have heard of him, Tom Watson, the guy who runs the robotics company.”

Cocking her head, “Yeah, I have, and?”

“Well, he and Anton get together every now and then, and yesterday they had lunch in New York City; Anton mentioned your situation to him… He wants to send one of his people to talk to you. It’s about artificial eyes. They’ve been working with the military on this since 2059. He thinks, since you’re an ex-marine, you would qualify for the beta program… He said there’s some risk.”

“What does Anton think about it?”

“He’s excited about it. He thinks it could rock your world…” She softly bit her lower lip, “There’s more to it than just restoring normal 20/20 vision.”

“Huh, that’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard for a while.”

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