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Christmas in the Antique District
Janelle Meraz Hooper
from
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Sandie opened the door to the basement closet
of the antique store to get the artificial tree her boss had sent her after—and quickly shut it again. The tree was
covered with rat droppings and, although the closet was dark at the back, she could hear movement that she was pretty sure
wasn’t reindeer.
Oh, Lordy! What am I going to do? Sandie thought. She needed her job, but her mind and body both rebelled at going anywhere
near that disease-infested tree.
Looking for a way out, she ran over in her mind
what her boss, Rodney, had said that morning as he descended the stairs from his apartment: “Today, we decorate for
Christmas! When you get a chance, go down to the basement closet and get the tree!”
Well. There wasn’t much wiggle-room there,
unless she got so busy that she couldn’t leave the shop floor to go downstairs.
“Where’s the tree?” Her boss
asked when she came up empty-handed.
“I thought I heard customers up here.”
she lied.
“Yeah, some coffee-sippers came in, but
they left.” he answered, as he took a gulp of his rum and Coke.
“About the tree,” Sandie said hesitantly,
“When I was taking it out, I saw it had rat droppings all over it, so I left it there.”
“Oh, just take the tree out and beat it
on the sidewalk—they’ll come right off. It’ll look great when the lights are on it.”
What she had to do, Sandie decided, was distract
her boss until the assistant manager, Laurie, came in. She was a friend and would be a lot more sympathetic to her disease-infested
tree qualms than Rodney was—she was sober. She hoped Laurie came in soon; if she didn’t, it was going to be a
long day. Luckily, Rodney discovered that his glass was empty, and he went back upstairs to his apartment to fill it.
Meanwhile, Sandie sat on a platform at her hostess
desk and watched the Christmas tapestry of the rich, poor, and homeless run up and down the Seattle sidewalks.
The windows in the store ran from floor to ceiling, so she had a panoramic view of the trendy area filled with antique shops.
There was a cold wind, and the street men and women leaned over their shopping carts that held all of their possessions to
keep the sharp wind from biting their faces. One man had tied a rumpled Christmas ribbon to his cart. As a woman hurried by
with her basket piled so high with black plastic sacks that she couldn’t see over it, the wind blew open her scarf that
was wrapped around her face, and exposed a black eye. One of the street people
was in the middle of the street, poised as if to run a race. Puzzled, she didn’t realize until the last second
that he intended to ram, headfirst, into the store’s large window where she worked. It happened so fast; within seconds,
he charged the shop window, and left Sandie with nothing to do but scream.
The man’s head hit the glass full force,
but the glass didn’t break. The impact shook the whole building, and Rodney leaned out his upstairs apartment door to
see what had happened.
“What was that noise?” he asked.
Just then, the man hit the window again. Didn’t
he know how dangerous glass was? Chances were that he wouldn’t just cut his head, he could decapitate himself!
“Oh, that happens a lot this time of year.”
Rodney said when he looked at the dazed man. As he turned to go back to his kitchen, he said, “It’s cold out.
He’s trying to get arrested so he’ll have a warm place to sleep tonight. Don’t worry; he won’t break
the window. It’s a special glass that wouldn’t break if he had a hammer. And don’t worry about him coming
in here to keep warm while you’re alone. They all know they can’t come in here. I’ve taught them that much.”
Sandie’s heart was still thumping violently
as the dazed man stumbled down the sidewalk in search of an easier window to break. The rest of the day she spent anxiously
watching windows and doors: the window in case the street person returned, the front door so she could catch the assistant
manager as soon as she got back from her furniture set-up, and the door to Rodney’s apartment. It had gotten very quiet
upstairs. Apparently, he’d passed out for the afternoon.
There were few customers, so she had lots of
time to think. What would she do if she had to go get that tree and beat it on the sidewalk in front of half of Seattle? She decided she had no options. She’d do it, if she had
to; she needed the minimum-pay job. She wouldn’t be happy about it though. Once, she’d had a good middle-class
life, but now she was on a long financial slide after a lengthy illness, and she dreaded the extra humiliation of having to
beat that turd-infested tree on the sidewalk.
A
few minutes before closing, Sandie gathered her things. The assistant manager came through the door just as she was putting
on her coat.
“Laurie—we need to talk. Rodney wants
me to put up the Christmas tree and it’s full of rat droppings.”
“Oh,” Laurie laughed, “he says
that every year, and every year I go out and buy a tree out of petty cash and put it up. He never even notices that the tree
is real. Don’t worry about it, I’ll pick one up tomorrow.”
On her way to her car, Sandie walked alongside
some homeless people pushing their carts. She had a couple of bucks in her pocket, so she looked for the man who had tried
to break the shop window, but she didn’t see him. Maybe he had succeeded in getting arrested for the night. She hoped
so. It was sure to get down to the twenties before the night was through. She felt guilty that she’d been so upset over
a silly tree. But who could say? Every homeless person started from some point in his life. Maybe that Christmas tree in the
basement closet would have been her first step.
My Christmas List
Janelle Meraz Hooper
from Free
Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Here
they come again. On my television screen. Men with no shirts on, hawking men’s cologne that my husband wouldn’t
wear to chop wood. It’s just $69.99, the tagline says. Who are they trying to kid? That’s almost $70.00!
And
here come the beautiful women looking like they’ve never cleaned out a sink basket. They’re trying their best
to convince my husband that he doesn’t really love me if he doesn’t buy me that ring that has diamonds big enough
to choke a hippopotamus.
The
tip-off for these pricey gifts is the tagline at the bottom: available in fine department stores everywhere. I’m waiting
for the ad that says: Pick one up anywhere—we made a zillion of them! Better yet would be an ad that said: Free
with a tank of gas!
Luckily
for our bank account, after over thirty-four years, my husband has my number. If he wants to make me happy, all he has to
do is bring on the singing fish. The rest of the family is catching on. My aunt sent me a singing chicken. My grandson gave
me a singing lobster last Christmas. This year, I’m hoping for singing turtles—three of them.
Add
to my list:
I
want the new re-mastered CDs of classic rock and roll songs recorded by guys like Hall & Oates, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Mick
Jagger. They rock!
And
one of those big packages of computer paper in assorted colors. I want the loud kind. Not that wimpy, pastel stuff. I have
no idea what I’ll do with it, I just want it. It must be the little kid in me.
Then,
I want a tree, some tangerines, and some popcorn. It’s not Christmas without popcorn. Everyone knows that except that
skinny guy on my television with the shaved chest selling cologne.
Oh,
and honey, I was just kidding about not wanting the diamond ring. I’m crazy, but I’m not dumb! Pick one up!
The Matriarch
Janelle Meraz Hooper
from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
When my grandmother was alive, she enjoyed her position as the head of our large family. When we lost
her at ninety-two, my mother found herself suddenly the designated matriarch. A gentle person, Mom was never a leader. She
liked to say, “You watch your little red wagon, and I’ll watch mine.” Content to let everyone lead their
own lives, my mother was only interested in controlling three perks of her matriarchy:
The Thanksgiving dinner: Every year mom planned the menu and it was always the same as the one her mother had served for over
sixty years. Always. Nonetheless, Mom always wrote down each dish on her menu as if it were a new idea.
The Christmas tree: Mom was in charge of the family Christmas tree. Each year the tree was
up and decorated and the official lighting was always at eight o’clock, two Sundays before Christmas. As far as I know,
she was never late by more than five or ten minutes. A feat less difficult than it sounds because she kept the tree in a box
in the hall closet.
The washing machine: Mom was the only one who
ever touched the machine. Two of us, way past our fifties, were reminded of this rule a few months before Mom passed away
when she insisted we could not wash because it was Sunday. She never washed on Sunday. Besides, we couldn’t hang wet
clothes on the line anyway. Mom never hung wet clothes outside on Sunday.
It didn’t matter that my aunt and I were living out of a suitcase and had just been on a three-mile walk in ninety-degree
weather and we had no clean clothes.
It has slowly dawned on me that I am now the matriarch of my own very
small family. Unable to discipline even myself, I’m even worse at being in charge than my mother was. Around our house,
it goes like this:
The Thanksgiving dinner: Blessed with a family full of cooks, when my daughter dutifully calls
me every year before Thanksgiving and asks “Mom what can I bring on Thursday?” I usually answer, “Come early,
and you and your father can cook it all!”
The Christmas tree: My husband and I like to cut our own Christmas tree at a local tree
farm, so depending on weather or the flu season, it may be days, not just minutes, late. The whole family often comes over
to pitch in, so the element of surprise is right about nil, except for the years when an admittedly less than charming tree
has turned into an elegant creation with the grace of God, electrical lights, and a very large and still growing ornament
collection.
The washing
machine: I’ve
never staked out a territorial claim on the washing machine. Anyone in the family is free to dump in a load anytime they choose.
The only rules are: let me know if there’s any room in there for some of my stuff.
I don’t know if our whole family structure is going to ruin, matriarch by matriarch. Maybe we are.
I prefer to think that times are changing. These days, a little flexibility is desirable. The world won’t come to an
end if the Thanksgiving menu changes or if the Christmas tree is a little late. No longer a status symbol, the washing machine
has joined a long list of other household appliances and has become merely a huge convenience for a busy family.
If Mom were here today, I think she’d be upset about the lackadaisical way I handle the holidays.
She’d frown over the fresh Northwest mushrooms that we serve with our Thanksgiving turkey and cluck over the real Christmas
tree (What if it has bugs in it?”). She’d be distressed over the lack of control I have over the
household appliances and would warn me, “Someday, someone is going to break your washing machine.”
And maybe they will. At least we’re all still minding our own little red wagon. I think she’d
like that.
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The New Anything-But-Turkey-Diet
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
(condensed version)
And now, from the chicken-wire pen behind a restaurant on Ruston Way,
a few words about the season from one soon to be seasoned...
Not again! Every year we go through this, you guys start walking briskly
up and down Ruston Way with your dogs, building up
an appetite. I see you out there, and from where I sit, some of you could stand
to miss a few meals. But, no, you’re starting to think about turkey (Yikes!)
and dressing, aren’t you? Then, comes Christmas, and you want to eat a goose.
Easter, it’s some poor lamb or pig. Can’t you guys ever eat a carrot? Or how about a nice bowl of cold
cereal? This year, I’m introducing the New Anything-But-Turkey-Diet. The idea is you eat anything but turkey. You won’t lose any weight, but neither will I (do ya get it?).
Come on, folks, work with me here! While you’re out on the street in those funny outfits, running
and working up an appetite, I’m pacing up and down this cage trying to make that old cook inside the restaurant think
I’m too crazy to eat, and all he worries about is that I’m making myself tough. “Rest.” he says. “Take
it easy.” he says. He’s even offered me this nice oval pan to nap in. Does he think I’m a dumb cluck? I’ve
had one foot in the roaster before.
Look, if you won’t try this New Anything-But-Turkey-Diet, then I gotta go somewhere where they
don’t eat turkeys. I’m thinking maybe Hollywood.
I hear they’ve got all kinds of turkeys down there driving around in fancy cars and playing in swimming pools and none
of them get eaten.
People down there eat sushi. Maybe you guys should try it.
A little green seaweed, a little pickled red plum, it’s festive. Add some sticky rice and you’ll never miss me.
Well, if I’m going to Hollywood,
I’d better get movin’. I figure I’ll get out of this pen, jump in the water here, and float to California. Maybe I’ll just keep going, all the way to Mexico. Think about that seaweed and pickled red
plum, now. Hmmm...wonder if I should leave a note?
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Happy
Thanksgiving, ya'll!
Old Turkey
Neck
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Old turkey neck—
That’s what
it is.
Wrinkled and bumpy—
And covered in
frizz.
I look in the mirror—
and what do I see?
It isn’t
the turkey—
Dear Gussy, it’s
me!
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The Thanksgiving stories are from my short story book, Free Pecan Pie
and Other Chick Stories. $12.95 USD, Order your copy from:
Coming soon on Kindle and Sony!
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
Janelle
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Thanksgiving dinner was always the same at Mom’s, and that was how we liked it. In a changing world
that created new stress by the minute, we could always depend on Mom’s turkey to be perfectly browned, and her cornbread
dressing nicely laced with celery, wild pecans, and raisins. Giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and peas filled
in every spare spot on our plate. There were no tortillas on this day—I suspect because there just wasn’t enough
free counter space in the kitchen to roll them out. The rolls we ate were the packaged kind that came in a paper tray and
were already partially cooked. The cranberry sauce that replaced the normal salsa was canned and always served on our
fancy glass tray that had been around since Roosevelt put a turkey in every pot (or was that a chicken?).
Okay, so it wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it was good—and the large family that came to
share it thought it was perfect. Almost every time.
But one year, when my mom and her sister were both close to eighty, my aunt arrived from California and brought her new-fangled ideas about tradition with her. Thanksgiving morning,
my Aunt Pat got up early and beat my mom to the kitchen, determined to “California-ize” our turkey dinner. The
first item on the menu that she changed was the cranberries―she used real ones. Mom was suspicious when she looked
at the marble-sized fruit bubbling on the stove with bits of fresh orange peel. She didn’t like the looks of those orange
shavings. To her, they looked like something that slipped past the food inspectors.
Mom believed cranberry sauce should be pushed out of a can with those little ridges that showed her where to cut the
slices. “No one will know what this stuff is.” she worried. “This isn’t what they’re used to.
And it smells funny.”
My aunt stood her ground. Resigned to a cranberry failure, Mom went to the living room to relax and read
the paper. She didn’t see my aunt pull my mom’s traditional cornbread dressing out of the oven and stir in a bag
of fresh spinach. The last thing my aunt did before she left the kitchen was replace the table butter with an unidentified
soy product she’d brought in her handbag from Santa Barbara that didn’t look, taste, or smell like butter.
The family was sitting down at the table when Mom pulled the dressing out of the oven and discovered that
it’d turned green. Her sister told her it was the latest thing in California,
and much healthier. Mom was appalled and predicted, “No one will eat it.”
And they didn’t. That bowl was passed around the table so often it looked like it was in its own
special green orbit, and no one would touch it. On one of its last flights around the table, my cousin reluctantly put a spoonful
on her toddler’s plate, but the kid broke out in tears, so my cousin took it off and hid it in her napkin. Finally,
my aunt mumbled something about taking the dressing to the kitchen to heat it up. It never returned.
The fancy cranberry sauce met much the same fate. When it was passed around the table, everyone would
try to get a portion that was not laced with orange peel. No one succeeded. Soon it entered its own orbit, crisscrossing
the orbit of the green cornbread dressing. Around and around the table it flew until the contents of the bowl were just a
fragrant red blur circling the Planet Table, not unlike the rings around Saturn.
Mom and her sister are both gone now, and I think of them often, especially around the holidays. Looking
back, maybe green dressing and orange cranberries wouldn’t have been that awful. I should have at least tasted them.
Although, sister rivalry being what it was, I’m sure Mom would have never forgiven me if I had.
It has been years since that dinner, but the saga of the New-Fangled Thanksgiving Tradition lives on to
this day. No one in our family will accept an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner without first inquiring, “What’s
in your cranberries—and what color is your cornbread dressing?”
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Soldiers Give Writer Reasons
to be Thankful
from
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
When I was a kid, I was raised in a large military family in a small town next to Ft. Sill,
Oklahoma. Half of my family was Catholic and the other half Baptists (don’t
ask!), but once a year, we got together at a large table to make a turkey suffer. My uncle, the Head Baptist, had such a reputation
for praying so long every year that my grandmother always brought a rosary to the table so she’d have something to do
while he blessed everyone but the pope.
But, to be fair, he always had a lot to pray about. That year, I had three relatives overseas.
One was in Korea, one in Japan,
and one in Alaska. Well, I know Alaska isn’t technically a foreign country, but we worried about him just as much
as the other two. So my uncle would pray and pray, then, when even his stomach
started to growl, he’s say, “Amen!”
While he filled his plate, he’d start around the table, asking each person to share
what they were thankful for that year. I usually said something dopey like, “I was thankful for my mother and my new
poodle socks.” And I was. Truly. It was short and sweet, and he’d move on to my cousin, who always said something
that his mom had helped him rehearse, like he was thankful for the farmers who worked so hard to provide the feast we were
going to enjoy. I always kicked him under the table after he said something like that.
Well, I’ve grown, and at sixty, I have a whole list of things I’m thankful for.
If he asked me now, we’d be there until a green scum floated on the cranberry sauce: I’m thankful for a loving,
healthy family. I’m thankful for this beautiful planet. I’m thankful for this country. I’m thankful for
those old geezers who wrote all that “We the People” stuff. And I’m thankful for the men and women who protect
it everyday.
As I write this, it’s weeks until Thanksgiving, and well, with the world situation
the way it is, some of you may not be sitting at your family’s table this year. Although I wish deployments weren’t
necessary, I’m thankful for a strong fighting force that is able to keep the peace wherever it’s needed.
Most of all, I thank God for letting me be born in this great country, enabling me to see
my child and grandchildren grow up safe and healthy. Oh, sure, I crab about the politicians and what’s going on with
our government, doesn’t everybody? But usually about then, they have a story about Afghanistan
or Iraq on TV. Then (too often it seems),
I see an American soldier pushing through the sand, probably praying he or she doesn’t step on a landmine. I always
think that if I’m watching, maybe their parents are too, and how stressful that must be for them.
So, to the men and women who are out on a limb sometimes and think nobody cares, I do. Lots
of us do. And we’re thankful not only for you, but to your families who make such great sacrifices so that our children
and grandchildren can play in our backyards without fear. Happy Holidays, dear brave men and women, from my heart to yours.
Come home safely.
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Wanda Hits Wall Street
© 2008 Janelle
Meraz Hooper
Wanda was hot under her witch hat. It was bad enough that the crooks on Wall Street had stolen her retirement
account, but their greedy screw-up was going to cause a case of trickled down economics at its worst. Parents everywhere announced
they were going to have to cinch in their belts, and the first thing to go was
the trick-or-treat candy.
Well, Wanda didn’t blame them. She’d just been turned down on a loan for one of those new,
green brooms. It was Wall Street she had it in for, and she developed a two part plan to get even. The first part would be
easy. She provided Halloween candy for all of the world’s children, even in countries where Halloween wasn’t celebrated.
She figured even if they didn’t celebrate Halloween, they would know how to celebrate a pocketful of candy. She paid
for the candy with the petty cash the stockbrokers had hidden in secret bank accounts. That done, it was time to move to part
two of her plan.
Right at midnight, Wanda flew into Wall Street with her fat
cats and instructed them to leave deposits everywhere. On the carpets, on the desks, and in the fancy espresso coffeepots. Then, when the cats were done, with a wave of her wand, Wanda multiplied the deposits
by 34.5%. That was the exact percentage the investors were charging for home and small business loans. Their golden parachutes
she turned into fool’s gold, their retirement packages vanished into the crisp October air. Their trophy wives began
to look like their first wives. As a final touch, the Halloween candy on their desks was exchanged for a special blend that
gave the investors a permanent case of the green cherry quickstep. Then, on her way out the door, she turned and waved her
wand and permanently sealed the doors to their executive bathrooms.
Ah, it was a good night’s work. But it was over too soon. Wanda moved onto Washington, D.C.
Happy Halloween, Everyone! Oh, if it were only so!
Wanda
and Iggy
© 2008 Janelle Meraz
Hooper
It
was just a few days before Halloween, and, at the last minute, Wanda’s cat had to go on maternity leave. With the economy
the way it was, Wanda counted herself lucky to hire a last minute replacement at the bargain salary of a few hibiscus flowers
and all the bugs he could catch. You see, he wasn’t a cat—he was an iguana.
Although
the price was right, using a lizard in place of a cat did create some problems. For instance, not only was he big and green,
but his balance was lousy. The rushed witch had to wire an old bicycle basket to the back of her broom to keep the iguana
from falling off whenever she made a sharp turn. At least he looked cool, and she figured that all the other witches would
envy her.
Off they went. Iggy, the iguana, was delighted
at the way the bugs that Wanda flew through stuck to his tongue. Wanda was tickled at the shadow their silhouette cast against
the big, orange moon. They were having such a good time they flew a couple of circles around Mt. Rainier holding hands. Well, actually, Wanda was just trying to keep Iggy from
falling out on the sharp turns…but somehow, their photo made the front page of the paper the next day. The headline
above it read “Iguana Hold Your Hand.”
Unfortunately, Iggy got broom sick, and they
had to go home early. Proving, once again, that it’s not easy being green—even if you’re an iguana.
Happy Halloween, Everyone!
Janelle
Wanda,
the Witless Witch of Boo! WA
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Wanda, the Witless Witch of Boo! circled twice
around her split-level home in an expensive neighborhood before she landed her broom on the roof. She slid down into the kitchen
through the air duct to the kitchen fan.
“Darn!”
she cried as the blades sliced her black hat and ripped her hair. “I forgot to turn the fan off again.”
See
why they call her witless?
Okay,
she was a little addled. But beautiful. Blond, and petite, she bought all of her clothes at Hoardstrom’s and flew to
LA every week to have her hair done at Chez Cher-Fawcett’s.
Stopping
only to check her makeup in the mirror, she opened the sliding French doors and threw out the pot full of frogs, slugs, and
spiders left over from her morning spells.
“Darn
crows!” she cried as crows flew down from the trees and covered her yard. “Why is it all the crows in the neighborhood
end up at my house?”
Trust
me. She’ll never figure it out.
“Who’s at the door?” she’d
call toward the front of the house whenever she heard a scratching noise on the porch. But no one was ever there. She’d
been glad when her husband had agreed to fix the doorbell and had left one morning for the hardware store. That was over three
years ago. He’d been working so hard on it that she hadn’t seen him since.
Each day she noticed the hole by the front door
was a little bigger and the red and green wires were all over the porch, so she hoped he was getting close to finishing.
Each night, she tried
to wait up for Clyde, but about twelve o’clock every night she’d get tired, so she’d put his supper on the
table and go to bed without him. The next morning, his plate would be empty. The cat, who grew fatter and fatter, was the
only one who didn’t miss Clyde. Wanda didn’t know why.
While he was off at the hardware store buying a new doorbell, she kept plenty busy. All day long she ran
back and forth, chasing the crows off the back deck, and answering the front door whenever she heard scratching. No one was
ever there.
Wanda was getting
lonely. Maybe, when she saw Clyde again, she’d tell him forget the doorbell, board
the hole up, and put up a doorknocker. Of course, then he would have to go to the hardware store to buy the knocker, so she
was reticent to do that.
The
beautiful witch got witlesser and witlesser.
Wanda
decided that she was too slow, and that was the reason she never saw anyone when she heard noises on the porch, so she began
riding her broom down the seven steps to the front door. The problem with that was her broom was too fast, and she could never
stop in time. Over and over, Wanda had to peel herself off the inside of her front door.
And
so her life went. Year after year. The crows got noisier and noisier. She didn’t know why. The cat got fatter and fatter.
How could that be? The hole by the front door got bigger and bigger.
“When
is that man going to finish?” she asked her fellow witches. “I swear, he’s slower than a dead June bug.”
Did
I tell you yet that she was totally without wit? I think I did.
Finally,
Wanda was at the end of her broom. She’d fix the doorbell herself. She knew nothing about electricity, but how hard
could it be? The first thing to do was go to the hardware store and pick up some doorbell stuff. Maybe the women there had
seen Clyde. Maybe they could tell him to come home and change clothes. He must be getting
pretty ripe.
The
women at the store pretended not to know Clyde, but Wanda wasn’t fooled. She knew they
were trying to keep him all to themselves. He was quite a catch, and a heck of a doorbell-fixer.
When
she got back she got right to work. It started to rain so she decided to work from the inside (Witches melt in the rain, you
know). With her brand new sledgehammer she broke a hole in the inside wall. That’s when she discovered that, all those
years, it wasn’t company at her front door. It was birds, nesting between the walls; they came and went through the
hole left by the broken doorbell. The house quickly filled with black birds of all sizes. Flying. Diving. Squeaking. And making
a mess on her orange wall-to-wall carpet.
Wanda closed the doors
and windows and opened the fireplace insert doors so they could find their way out, but they were very comfortable inside
and showed no inclination to leave. That’s because the birds were bats, and it was still light outside. Bats hate sunlight
as much as witches hate rain. Go figure.
Not
that Wanda knew they were bats.
Say it with me: witless!
Finally,
Wanda called a fellow witch for help. “Esmerelda? Get over here right away and help me get rid of these crows, will
you? Somehow, they’ve gotten into the house.”
You know. I know.
But let’s not go there.
When
Wanda cleared the house of bats she was a happy Witless Witch, and she knew things would be perfect once Clyde
got home. And he would come home. After all, she was Wanda, the Witless Witch of Boo! Washington.
And quite a looker. How could he live without her?
And where was Clyde? At the hardware store, wandering around the parking lot looking for
his car. He’d completely forgotten that Wanda had dropped him off on her broom years ago.
Turns
out, he was the perfect match for Wanda. Zero wit. None.
Wanda,
the Wicked Writer of the Northwest
Janelle
Meraz Hooper
Wanda never went to the mailbox without her baseball
bat. For every rejection she found, she gave the box one whack. Of course, this scared the bats that lived in the box’s
belfry silly, but Wanda was always so angry that she didn’t notice.
Back inside her house, Wanda meticulously filed
away each rejection. The rejected stories about gardening she kept neatly stacked under a leaky flowerpot. The children’s
stories she filed in the bottom of her bird’s cage, and the novel rejections she filled at the bottom of her cat’s
litter box.
Wanda was especially chagrined at the rejection
of her latest 500,000-word novel. What were they thinking? It had a plot and everything! Actually, it had several plots—it
was about a gravedigger who was afraid of dirt.
Other stories were rejected because they didn’t
follow required format. Format, smormat! So what if the stories weren’t double-spaced? So what if she used the Rave
font instead of Times Roman? So what if she didn’t include a SASE? One story was returned because she didn’t
put any postage on it. The nerve.
They had to be punished. The whole lot. Publishers.
Agents. Newspaper editors. All of them.
The ticked witch went to her kitchen and whipped
up a batch of special candy for the rejectors. She’d show them to have a little respect. She filled her black kettle
with a recipe of special hard candies that turned into wiggling slugs when they were sucked on. After the candies were wrapped in Halloween paper, she put them into a tote bag and took off for New York.
Thanks to her new 300 high-speed broom, she was able to zip in and out of each office without being seen.
Back home, Wanda poured a glass of wine and lit
the candle in her Halloween pumpkin. Then she turned on CNN and waited patiently for the story to break. Soon, all over the
city there were reports of people in the writing businesses choking on slugs. Oh, they just choked a little—they didn’t
die. And how those slugs loved to sing! When they were spat out, they stood up and sang:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T! (That's
what I want! That's what I need! Give it to me--NOW!)
Wanda put out the cat and turned out the lights.
Tomorrow, she’d start a new novel. This one would be really big.
Note: The first two Wanda the Witch stories are unpublished. The second two are in Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick
Stories.
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