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Hi. We're Merike Lugus and Rod Anderson. Welcome to the RodMer Arts WebLit Boutique. You have just entered the RodMer Short Story Room containing eighteen of our short stories (twelve by Merike, six by Rod) organized into eighteen packages. You can select and read any individual short story (as many as you want) immediately on-line or you can download a short story package in 'rich text format' for printing out on your printer. Or you can just look quickly at the one or two opening paragraphs. For more information see the About page. If you need help or explanations on how to use this site check our Help page. If you haven't been here for a while, check out the What's new? page.
OK, bring up the Table of Contents.
Probably most recent browsers will work satisfactorily. But the ones I am familiar with are Netscape and Internet Explorer. The most recent free downloads can be obtained here:
| Pkg | # Words | Author | Title | Read now | Download** | See 1st. Par |
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| AA | 8,300 | M | Annika's Big Plan |  |
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| BB | 7,100 | M | Mrs. Blackwood's Cookie Hour | |
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| CC | 4,400 | M | In Real Life | |
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| DD | 6,700 | M | The Matter with Annika | |
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| EE | 3,600 | M | Annika and Cleopatra | |
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| FF | 1,700 | R | The Final Win | |
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| GG | 1,800 | R | Leslie and the Universe | |
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| HH | 3,500 | M | And Furthermore | |
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| II | 3,600 | R | Taking Charge | |
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| JJ | 2,200 | R | Working Out | |
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| KK | 3,600 | R | Closing the Mansion | |
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| LL | 4,100 | R | The Klane Shift | |
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| MM | 10,300 | M | The Queen of Jupiter | |
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| NN | 10,000 | M | Vermont Weekend | |
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| OO | 1,600 | M | The Goodnews Lady | |
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| PP | 1,300 | M | Scrabbled | |
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| 10,000 | M | Parapraxis or Don Juan's Wife |
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| RR | 5,800 | M | Something Important | |
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| **You will need the free Stuffit Expander for decompressing the downloaded rtf.sitx files. | ||||||
Annika's Big Plan:
The front door slammed. It meant her brothers had gone off to school. She pretended to sleep. Mama's footsteps came faster that way. She'd felt her warm breath close to her head, the touch of her lips on her forehead. And after she was gone the house was empty and the day spread out like an empty beach. Annika stayed with the pool of light behind her eyelids. There a butterfly flitted in and out like a hazy memory of something - something she needed to catch and hold on to. Yesterday she had had a big idea. It had almost become a Big Plan, but by morning, there it was, just a butterfly.
Mrs. Blackwood's Cookie Hour:
Annika stood on the kitchen doorstep looking out into the backyard. The grass was freshly cut, and the rake leaned against the garage wall. Annika was keeping her options open, resisting the urge to turn cartwheels on the cool grass. She could almost feel the stubble of it against her palms, her bare legs hurtling through the air, but cartwheels would bring attention to herself and to the grass needing to be raked. She looked down at her father sitting at the picnic table working on the week-end crossword puzzle, his hand on the dictionary next to the newspaper, within easy reach of the coffee mug. He sat there like another fixture that had to be navigated. He didn't take much notice of her except when she annoyed him, which, as it turned out, happened whenever she brought attention to herself.
In Real Life:
Annika is walking down the street with three princesses.
She laughs inwardly. She has no container for his kind of happiness. It rushes in and out as through a sieve. By the time she reaches Elm St., she expects, it might all have run out.
Whatever else happens, she thinks, I still made the team.
The princesses are smiling at her. Annika is dazzled, sees them as an indivisible trinity. They ruled the team the year before, and will again this year. Next year they'll be in high school. Tall, slender, their hair shines like copper, ebony, chestnut. Their mouths are supple, free to spit, swear, sigh, laugh. Tongues unexpectedly protrude and mimic panting dogs or lick at invisible ice cream cones.
The Matter with Annika:
Death by humiliation. It happens to Annika every Monday morning. Latin class is in session and Mrs. Wilson won't let Annika sit down. The class is hushed. And yes, Annika is mortified. And yet, she lets the drama repeat itself week after week. In every other class she's invisible in the last row, rarely called on because she's always got the right answer.
Please translate the first paragraph on page forty-three, Mrs. Wilson repeats.
I can't, Annika says, her voice edgy. She's on her feet holding the book in front of her. The page seems so far away and an angel is looking down at the tall girl in the navy sweater, her skinny legs rigid, her toes up against the confines of her shoes.
Annika and Cleopatra:
"I do love him, thinks Annika, reversing her opinion of three seconds ago. Roger is a good person. Otherwise, she reasons, I wouldn't have married him. Her internal lie detector switches on a current of tiny flashes near the corner of her left eyelid.
The same question day after day has turned soggy like the weather. She feels dragged-down weary.
Assume the worst and move on, she thinks.
The Final Win:
One thing about Rogan, he was always sure of himself. In fact, it was just this supreme arrogance which was so intensely irritating. For whenever there was a problem to be solved, some enigma to be unravelled, some obstacle to be overcome, who was always there, every time, with the unquestionably correct answer? Rogan, of course, that detestable, self-centred know-it-all!
Leslie and the Universe:
Leslie is walking down the street. People keep saying hello to her -- usually men. She likes that. She hopes people will keep saying hello as if they knew her. She pushes her black hair back over her shoulder with one hand. Hello Leslie, hello Leslie, they say. And she smiles back. She knows they're just emissaries. A quaint custom from the past. Rosenkavaliers. Leslie smiles. The universe is causing all this. The universe wants to be her lover. It keeps sending her messages, like flowers, on strange men's lips. Hello Leslie, hello Leslie. Silly universe! But it's quite touching. Some day she will consent to make love. Some day she will sleep with the universe.
And Furthermore:
I put the kettle on. Black tea in the pot. Where was Jay? Probably in his study talking to some farmer. There's never a night without an emergency. And Jay is so reliable. Everyone knows that.
The cat glared at me from its basket. It made me sick at heart just to look at it.
Jay came in just as the kettle whistled. No time to sit with me, he explained. He had to go out and see about someone's cow. He looked over at the cat and then at me.
"Why don't you call up Miriam?" he said. "Maybe she can come over . . . keep you company."
"I'm not an invalid," I said. Not yet, I thought to myself. Jay hates to hear me say things like that. At least he was discreet enough not to mention the cat. We'd been married long enough for him to see that one mangy cat was going to leave the house first thing in the morning.
"Good-bye, dear," he said and kissed me on the cheek.
I listened for the engine to start up and I thought, I WOULD DO IT. It had crossed my mind many times to do it, but I've always known I'm not very brave no matter how much I wanted to be. So I was surprised to feel so decided.
Taking Charge:
"You got seega-hetchy?"
I barely hear the words over the barrage of staccato rhythms ricocheting off the drums, tambourines, and cuicas of the exuberant Brazilian band. I look up. the hand tousling my hair is connected to a brown arm. Rich brown. The colour of Santos #1 coffee beans with the light export roast. The arm too has a sort of coffee small. It takes all tastes, I always say, to make a world. Maybe I'll switch to cafèzinhos in a minute. I twist around in my chair. She's standing behind it. But she's short! Mulatas are supposed to be tall and leggy -- like the ones in the samba show an hour ago.
"Listen, Paul, this isn't going to work out."
Karen's eyes are focusing on some imaginary point two inches over your left shoulder. A 'whyyy' goes off in the tight nerve clusters at the back of your neck and shoots up six chromatic scales into your scalp. You know what the alarm means. But it catches you and shakes you rudely. Shakes you awake from a dream in which fires were never imagined. It just keeps screaming and screaming. The blue eyes continue their icy vigil over your shoulder. Little flecks of mascara wait in neat line-ups along each lash. Hard to think. Try to find some logical words.
Was mother ever young? No one knew. One theory was that she'd sprung fully aged out of the forehead of the Big Bang. "Ha ha!" said my sister Andrea. "That's a good joke! She couldn't spring out of a paper bag!" But Andrea, my kooky, passionate, closest friend, always had it in for the old woman. Another theory was that it was mother herself who'd made the Big Bang. One day when she was mad. If so, she might have been young a long time earlier. She might have. Though it's hard to imagine it. Still, I love theories. They make my pulse race with excitement at times. And I'd really like to understand them. But I don't suppose I ever shall. Still, theory or no theory, I thought Andrea carried a bit of a chip on her shoulder. "Not a chip, Sonia; the beginnings of a hump," Andrea laughed. And she hunched over like one of the White Ones and hobbled away as we gasped, then giggled nervously.
I'm writing this as an old man. Never mind my name. That doesn't matter. I probably have another name at other levels. Most people do. Klane alone seemed to be able to shift around keeping the same name. And, of course, Trina.
Yes, I knew the famous Klane. Joseph Elliott Klane., PhD, LLD, CC, Nobel Laureate -- though to all of us his name was simply that one simple monosyllable: "Klane". Klane and I were undergraduates together. In the 'waking state', that is. But no doubt you would have assumed as much even without that last sentence. Still, since the invention of the Klane Shift, one can never be too sure.
The morning went by like darts, fast and ending in poison. Jules was unhappy. In no time flat his irritation flew from job to home then zeroed in on Annie's spending habits. Annie had blown up. Her VISA was paid up; they lived, unnecessarily, like paupers, she said defensively. She'd be happy to go out and get a job. Working was a privilege, as far as she was concerned. "You stay home!" Always at this point Jules quieted down. He wanted her home for Karina and Jamie and for his own comfort and he didn't want to get bogged down in the topic of his wife's ambitions. "Thank you," said Annie quietly, furious that this simple logic had to be paraded at all.
"Don't forget Christmas is a month away. At least keep the VISA bills down-I mean, keep it under control." This last dart he threw at her just as he shut the door behind him. It carried a slow-release venom that would circulate in her for hours.
We've come here ostensibly to see the fall colours. But secretly, I've come because there is a mountain. A small one, sure, and not very steep. Worst of all, there's a paved road almost to the top. But never mind; I've been thinking of climbing a mountain. I've been thinking that climbing a mountain might be a cure for this hollowness, this paralysis in me. It's been going on too long.
When my marriage came to an end, so did the world. The great granite rock of marriage, which I had thought securely anchored the tower of my life, split in two. Now, as the dust from the resulting collapse is clearing, it seems there is nothing to keep the ghosts in their place. It is as though the underside of human life has been exposed: greed and cruelty; pain and suffering. I look around me and I see a world in which kindness has vanished.
She's flirting with a sort of split reality: there's the good stuff and then there's the bad. Take the boat, for example. She tries pretending it isn't there. But the boat is almost as big as the house itself and the green tarp tied loosely around it crackles like gunshot with every gust of wind. Such a boat and they have no money. Johnny says so. That's why she can't go back to the city to visit friends. Or rarely. Muriel stands outside, thick sweater over a thin summer dress, and sips coffee. She envisions a woman in blue standing on a hill sipping coffee. Autumn sunrise.
Mistress of the hill.
Outside, snow is falling softly, muffling the sound of traffic. In another hour the sun will be behind the houses across the street. The Scrabble board sits between them. Willie knows the outcome already: Dad wins. Though Dad says it's not about winning. It's about playing the game. Dad says there's honour in losing, if it's done right. Doing it right means not whining. Anyway, Willie sees no way out of it: this is his allotted Quality Time With Dad.
Parapraxis (or Don Juan's Wife):
She was chasing after a Frisbee, swiveled around and ran backwards in anticipation of the catch when they collided, arms and legs momentarily suspended, her blonde hair fanning out, tumbling around her face together with sand and wind, his brown torso twisting to minimize the impact, arms taking flight, grasping at the air behind him. Hair like a raven's wing lifted from his forehead.
Juan had just started his late afternoon walk with his father when it happened. Nora scrambled to her feet and offered her hand to assist him. He was captivated by her mobile face as she apologized.
Surely it was her brother Alex who had chosen the snarling lion's head knocker in the middle of the red door. It's far too brassy for his wife's more subtle aesthetics. Nina's confidence plummets. Approaching Alex's world has always had that effect on her, but she takes the beast by the nose and raps her version of alleluia. She reaches for Ben's hand and holds it tight.
Elena opens the door to greet them. Warm aromas from the house come rolling after her. Saffron bread in the oven, freshly ground coffee, roses. Nina catches a glimpse of the table set in the side room, a lace table-cloth studded with lapis and gold-rimmed plates. Elena is an interior decorator and their house is filled with stuff that Nina can't afford. That would be o.k. if it weren't for Mother who likes to point out the Lalique vases and Sterling silverware, nudging Nina with her elbow, coaxing her into the worship of money and good taste. Look. Learn.
Or to the Poetry Room
http://www.rodmer.com/StoryRoom.html -- Revised Aug 17, 2005
Copyright © 1997 - 2005Rod Anderson and Merike Lugus
rod@rodmer.com