Twisted Tales from the Desert

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Author’s note

I started writing short stories when I felt I wouldn’t have the discipline to write a novel. I had sold one of the stories I made up to Jack and Jill and started to write more. Now I write short stories to relax. Most of the tales in Twisted Tales From The Desert were written for o ur Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms. We’re located where the Mohave Desert and the Colorado Desert converge and the Joshua Tree National Forest is our border. Twentynine Palms is in the high desert of California, but is filled with art galleries, Marines from the huge base, and retired educators and retired Marine families. It has everything from a museum to live theatre, a drive-in movie theater, massage parlor, tattoo artists, beauty shops, and barber shops galore. All those Marines need a haircut. To say it is a quirky place really doesn’t cover the scene. That means there is an extra element of weird in my Twisted Tales.

This collection ranges from humor to murderous intent. In one of the murder stories, you get to decide who the true victim was. There’s a love story involving a ghost and more ghosts in a desert “ghost” town. The Fairy Godmother makes an appearance in another tale. You learn about a blind man inventing cruise control. There is also a Watcher interested in Earth and the harmony of the spheres is interrupted. There are forgotten areas in our desert, and you will visit one where danger lurks.

Book excerpt

A FAIRY GODMOTHER TALE 

Ashley giggled as she emptied the fourth wine bottle into Heather’s glass. “Maybe I should have bought more.” She eased her slender body onto the ottoman and raised her glass.

“To us!” The five friends toasted each other.

Heather, Susan, and Meagan, were seated on the sofa. All three were carefully clad in California casual as befitted their rank. Linda was in the overstuffed chair nearest the sofa, her golden hair beauty-parlor perfect, but her outfit was a mishmash of definitely not designer abused $269.99 jeans, but authentic faded, frayed jeans that clung to every bump and curve, a designer blouse, and flip flops completed her outfit.

This was their semi-annual gathering to discuss their lives, joys, aspirations, politics, family, irks and irritations, employment, and significant others. They had thoroughly debated those subjects and were cautiously dancing around spirituality.

“What precisely does that mean?” asked Meagan, the confirmed atheist. “It sounds like a new word for religion, except you don’t offend anyone by mentioning a specific religion or belief.” Like the rest, her nails gleamed, carefully applied makeup enhanced her features.

“Oh, no,” the rest were quick to chorus.

“It means that you are on a search for your inner self to connect with the life force of the universe.”

“And what, Susan, is ‘life force’ if not a euphemism for God?”

“Really, Meagan, you can’t deny the benefits of meditation for health and inner growth.” Ashley was horrified. “Why even doctors acknowledge the power of prayer for the very ill.”

The others rushed in with their own explanations.

“What utter rot!” Meagan exploded.

The four stared at her in disbelief.

Heather stood. “Meagan, I have $25,000.00 dollars that says you will notice a difference if you practice it.” Heather had succeeded in the market place and had married an older, extremely wealthy ex-stockbroker who promptly had the good sense to drop dead when the SEC wanted to investigate his personal dealings with a well-known oilman.

“Do you mean I’m supposed to sit around for ten or twenty minutes a day thinking about some deity to achieve self-awareness and a feeling of peace?” Inwardly she gritted her teeth. She hadn’t mentioned her company would be downsizing in six months. If she didn’t find employment right away, she’d lose her house and car.

“If I did try it,” and she stressed did, “and reported that nothing happened, would you renege?”

“No, I wouldn’t. You must meditate at least fifteen minutes a day upon a spiritual entity for six months. You can report the results when we’re together again. I’ll be prepared to write you a check.”

“Are you dictating the entity?”

“No, you pick the spiritual guide or entity, but you do have to name the entity of mediation.”

Meagan considered. $25,000.00 would cover three months worth of living expenses with money left over. By that time she would have another place of employment. She racked her brains trying to think of something less offensive to her sensibilities.

“Well,” Heather challenged, “do you accept or do you concede that we are correct?”

“You’re wrong.” Meagan snapped.

“So prove it.” The rest applauded Heather’s response. “You may even choose yoga, Meagan, as long as it isn’t an inanimate object.”

The last glass of wine interfered with Meagan’s brain cells and nothing suitable seemed to surface. She needed a fairy godmother at a time like this. On the theory that more wine would be beneficial, she emptied the glass in one swallow. She needed someone equipped with a wand that could make things right. Meagan straightened, and sat primly like a little girl in a pew.

“Very well, I choose the Fairy Godmother, an appropriate mythical figure devised by a man.”

They looked at her stunned.

“But what spiritual values are embedded in a Fairy Godmother?” Ashley was horrified.

“The conditions are that I meditate on anything I wished except an inanimate object.” She controlled an effort to laugh. What an easy $25,000.00 this would be. If she found employment immediately, she could afford a new luxury car and pay off some of those credit cards.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. How does one meditate? I know how to set the timer, but what do I do; sit with my hands folded, look upward, or what?”

“Meagan, you can sit, stand, jog, assume the lotus position, or recline. You should be wary about the latter as falling asleep doesn’t count.” Heather was becoming shrewish. “We’re taking your word on this as it is.”

“I can always sit up a video.” Meagan smiled at them. “Do I need incense or bells?”

“Yes, if that sets the mood; otherwise, no. Sometimes complete quiet is more beneficial. Crystals and scented oils are used to set the mood.” Ashley tried to interject a calm response.

Heather would have none of it. “You’re afraid we’re right. Either take the bet now or forget it.”

“I’ll take it. I’ll even set up the video and you can watch every minute of it. When I win, I’ll cater our next meeting.”

Everything that could possibly go wrong did. Meagan lost her job, but catered the next meeting as a way to celebrate and collect her $25,000.00. She did not find another position. Her ARM mortgage reset and the payments were impossible to meet. The stock market tanked along with the housing market. She shunned her friends and tried selling her house, but no takers. Her 401K and stock purchases were worthless.

Within one year, she was reduced to a sleeping bag under a cement overpass and a cart filled with her possessions. Today, she’d eaten at a mission and pocketed a protein bar at a drugstore while paying for another one. The two bars were her dinner tonight and breakfast in the morning.

“It’s too damn bad there really isn’t a fairy godmother,” she muttered as she returned from the bushes after relieving herself.

“Here I am, dearie.”

Meagan looked at the woman who had materialized in front of her. Her graying blonde hair was long and flowing, the tiara on her head wobbled to one side, the satin, white gown clung to her figure and flowed to the ground to cover any footwear. The golden wand and huge jewels on her fingers did not look like fakes; neither did the large, clear stone in her pendant. Her brown eyes were beginning to dim with age and there were wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. The neck was crisscrossed with diamond puckers of skin.

“Where were you when I needed you?”

“Tut, tut, my dear, tonight your prayers are answered. Tomorrow all will be as it is now, but tonight you’ll attend the academy awards and the dinner and dance afterward. Of course, you will have to leave at midnight.”

“In these clothes? They wouldn’t let me in the door.”

“Very easily taken care of, my dear, plus I supply the transportation, a nice Bentley or Mercedes. I won’t even make you catch the mice like dear Cinderella had to do.”

“One night? I need a house, a job, my clothes.”

“Don’t be silly. I am the Fairy Godmother. I do balls, not jobs.”

CRUISE CONTROL 

Cruise control is one of the marvels of modern automotive engineering. Once you are at the speed limit, you simply set the control and it takes over. A blind man could drive the car for all the effort it takes to hold the speed constant. Maybe that is the reason a blind man by the name of Ralph Teetor invented it.

It was for me (a frugal person at heart) a rather expensive option. Not as bad as when it first came out and was limited to your top-of-the line automobiles like Chrysler Imperial. Cruise control remains an option for fewer and fewer vehicles. All I wanted was an automobile to take me from point A to point B at a reasonable cost. Said cost, of course, required a decent mileage. As you can see, my life style became as dull as my accounting profession.

Today many of your newer cars come equipped with all the bells and whistles including cruise control and excellent mileage. That description applies to my shiny, smells-like-a-new-car-interior vehicle. Your self-righteous environmentalist will expound, “I never exceed fifty-five miles per hour to save gasoline and leave less of a carbon imprint.”  Well, fine and dandy, but the speed limit on my regularly traveled highway is seventy to eighty miles per hour.  Twiddling along at fifty-five could induce road rage in the person behind a slow moving vehicle. Not something one needs with trucks and autos whizzing by. The most compelling argument for possessing cruise control is that setting the speed control saves gasoline money.

How you may ask?  It’s simple. The cruise control creates an even flow to keep the speed at where you have set it. If you are driving at seventy miles per hour and try to keep it at seventy miles per hour, you need to keep checking your speed along with the traffic on either side, in front, and behind you. If you check your mileage at the end of a trip or a stretch of road and you’ve maintained a seventy mile per hour average, it means you’ve driven under and over, adjusting your gas pedal accordingly. Sorry, you can’t do it as efficiently as a machine.

With the cruise control on, I found I could sit back and enjoy watching the scenery instead of the speedometer. That chore of driving became relaxing. I set the cruise control and went sailing down Highway 10.  There were buildings, rocks and greenery off in the distance that I had never seen before. I heaved a sigh at the ease with which I clipped off the miles. It became a soothing drive, a soothing, relaxing morning; so relaxing I fell asleep.

Now I’m on a journey that never ends, cruising at seventy miles an hour on a road filled with madmen and madwomen as punishment for my stupidity. It’s a never ending replay of what we did wrong. At least I went out with a bang.