Chapter 8: Bombshells

Okay fans, this is the long awaited next segment of For Tomorrow. This isn’t a full chapter, just a short but necessary scene. 

Remember to read the previous chapters 1,2, 3456 and 7

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Fueled by adrenaline, Jake pushed his old Jeep to the limit for the first ten miles after the diner incident. When no motorcycle headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror he finally slowed down and breathed a sigh of relief. Old country songs on the scratchy AM radio kept him company as the miles rolled by. Continue reading “Chapter 8: Bombshells”

How Eagle Got a Crooked Beak

This is just a fun little parable type story I came up with the other day out of the clear blue sky. It is purely fictional. 

Five sheep lived on a grassy green hillside. Life was good. The sun was warm but not too hot, the grass was sweet and tender, never in short supply. A spring bubbled up from granite boulders at the lower end of the pasture, and the water was cold and refreshing and plentiful. When the sun became too hot the sheep stood in the shade of an ancient oak tree at the top of the hill where the breeze always blew cool and fresh. Continue reading “How Eagle Got a Crooked Beak”

Chapter 7: Extensions

Next installment of “For Tomorrow.” This is another flashback to Jake and Wakesho’s days in Kenya. 

Remember to read the previous chapters 1,2, 345, and 6

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

“Can’t you have one of your girlfriends do this?” Jake complained, shaking his hands to try to restore feeling to his fingertips.

“They all want money. Or they say they’re too busy. Besides, I like the way you do it, you’re very gentle,” Wakesho said.

She was sitting on the floor on a foam cushion from Jake’s sofa with her head between Jake’s knees as Jake sat on a stool from his kitchen. They were on the front porch of Jake’s house facing the ocean, watching the tide come in. Continue reading “Chapter 7: Extensions”

Chapter 6: Reunions

Next installment of “For Tomorrow”. Back to the present time, picking up where Chapter 4 left off. Remember to read the previous chapters 1, 2, 34, and 5.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

“Hello?”

“Jake?”

“Yeah, this is Jake, who is this?”

“Hey bwana, it’s Mike. Habari ya siku nyingi?” (How have you been for so long?) Continue reading “Chapter 6: Reunions”

Chapter 5: Waves

In this installment we flashback to see Jake and Wakesho in happier times in Kenya. Remember to read the previous chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4. Oh, and in case you were wondering, for the non-Swahili speakers, Wakesho is pronounced “wah-KAY-show.”

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

“Let’s go to the Seychelles for our honeymoon.” Wakesho had been flipping through a travel brochure, and now pointed to a picture of a white sandy beach and an impossibly blue ocean.

“Babe, I’ve been living on the beach for the past two years, I could use a change of scenery. Why not someplace like Cape Town? We could do a winery tour and go hiking in the mountains. Or what about Morocco? I’ve always wanted to see the Atlas Mountains.” Continue reading “Chapter 5: Waves”

Chronicler of my oral history

Purple-gloved fingers in my mouth. Surgical steel picks of all shapes and sizes. Her deft fingers manipulate the picks, scraping and digging away at stubborn chunks of tartar below the gum line. She rinses the rubble with a stream of water and then inserts a suction tube which pulls the spit right out of my mouth. She is a detailer of teeth. Buffing and polishing enamel, shining my denticulate bling. She picks and digs, testing the integrity of each suspect spot for hidden rot. My jaw aches. She lets me rest. My gums hurt from the assault. Spraying and spitting, picking and buffing, poking and prodding, she undoes sixth months of neglect. No I don’t floss every day. No I don’t brush after every meal. Just as Santa knows who’s naughty and nice, she knows who smokes, who is addicted to coffee or tea, who chews gum, who chews tobacco, who eats too much candy. My teeth offer a glimpse into my lifestyle and she is the oracle who interprets it.  I see her for half an hour every six months but I don’t know her name. Sometimes she asks me questions that I can’t answer with her fingers in my mouth. Sometimes I attempt to reply, but mostly I don’t. She is the cleaner of my teeth. Inspector of my mouth. Chronicler of my oral history. I think her name is Linda?

The little train that just couldn’t

The Blue Line train was chugging along nicely on an ordinary Wednesday morning rush hour commute, but then it started thinking about things. Asking itself questions like: “What if Metro heaven doesn’t exist? What if this is this all there is? Am I doomed to a lifetime of schlepping these poor slobs back and forth to work every day before being shunted into some railway boneyard and cut up for scrap? I always wanted to see Paris. I could have carried beautiful people who spilled their wine and ground flaky croissant morsels into my carpets under the heals of their glamorous shoes as I glided along elegantly beneath the Champs Elysees whistling La Marseillaise. But alas, here I am in suburban Virginia carrying fat defense contractors in cheap suits to the Pentagon. Oh woe is me.” Then it broke down in a heaving fit of sobs and decided to just sit quietly in a dark tunnel and feel sorry for itself for a while. Eventually it composed itself and, resigned to its fate, decided to get back to work. Stand clear, doors closing.