The Red Envelope by Jeff Burt

Olga Kalinina

The Red Envelope

She stands by a church at the top of a hill with a spire dwarfed by the eucalyptus and wild grains near an open quarry that stand taller than her child and resemble the straw on which they slept for seven nights. 

Her breasts ache, going dry, her hands ache as they pass over the flaking paint of a railing. 

She waits for a red envelope, a benevolence. She has received it with a heart-shaped card before, knows what it contains, the gifts, cards, cash, survival, and imagines the faces of those who fill an envelope, shiny-headed elderly, common working John and Jane Does, stable, with houses or apartments, places to call home, who avoid the random terror she experiences.

Inside the sanctuary, she peeks at the old chairs stacked in fours with a worn sepia patina, then climbs two steps to a stage where a drum set sits behind plexiglass. Behind the drums, she spins the chair up, takes up two beaten sticks, clicks them against the snare, and beats the bass drum with the kick. 

Her child comes and pats both toms, grows bored, and runs up and down the aisles like a plane circling to land. 

May you never land, the mother whispers. A swung hammer flashes through her mind, the sudden impact not of iron on flesh but the distance the impact brings, the marriage severed. She clutches her shoulder, thinks how stupid she had been not to hide money, not to insist on joint ownership. I fled, she says, to herself, but corrects to I am fleeing, always fleeing, one site to another, anonymous, avoiding the hammer. She has made her daughter into a buoy in the ocean, something to clutch, to hold fast, not to prevent the child from drowning, but herself.

Wild small magenta plums hang from two trees in the back lot of the church and she plies five plums not pierced by robins or yellowjackets from a lower branch and first shines four on her blue skirt, opens them with her front teeth, pushes out the stone seeds and drops them, giving the stones life by pressing them into the soil as if putting out the stub of a cigarette. She hands her daughter the three plums, saving one for herself. 

The woman who works the church front office returns, her feet not making a sound on the walk, hands her the red envelope and asks if she’d like a cup of coffee. 

It's good, the coffee, the churchwoman says, as if surprised, then asks if she can give the woman a hug.

Yes, the word leaps out of the mother’s mouth without thought, as if a reflex, and the churchwoman, smaller than she is, envelops her, like earth the stone of a plum.

The mother could weep right then, weep over the coffee, or the plums, or how silently the churchwoman stepped on pavement, or the awkwardness of the hug, or her child still an airplane on back grass, or weep over nothing, but she catches herself, bites her lower lip, tastes the plum skin, the acrid stones, steadies, drops first one hand with the red envelope and then the other into the skirt pockets like two spades put away after planting.

© Jeff Burt

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Jeff Burt

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and Labrador that dreams of being a plow horse. He has contributed to the Williwaw Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig, Red Wolf Editions, and numerous other publications. He has two chapbooks available and a book of poetry scheduled for release in October. More can be found at http://www.jeff-burt.com.

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Who Wants Pizza? by Jon Moray

dazindu d

Who Wants Pizza?

"I am so sorry. I didn't see the stop sign. Are you okay?" Corey panted as he rushed over to check on the person he just side-swiped at a rural intersection.

"I'm okay. Did you call 9-1-1?" huffed Lenny, the victim in the crash.

"Yes. I am so sorry. I am new to the area. I don't know the roads yet," Corey offered, his quivering lips acknowledging it was a feeble excuse.

Lenny peeled off the remnants of the air bag that had deployed on him and reached for his phone. "Giuseppe, I got into a car accident. I am okay. I am going to be delayed by at least two hours because I will need to have my car towed.

Giuseppe shared his concern and ascertained where the accident happened. "For some reason, there are a lot of crashes at that intersection," the pizza owner lamented.

"Giuseppe, give the pizza to someone you think might need it," Lenny voiced and ended the call with a friendly farewell.

The two motorists toiled through the inconvenient task of exchanging information and waiting for the state trooper and tow truck to arrive.

"I moved from out west. My wife and I were looking for a change of pace from all the hustle and bustle of city life," Corey offered, in an attempt to pass the time with idle conversation.

Lenny forced a half-smile and grumbled that he had lived in the area for over twenty years.

The state trooper arrived, surveyed the scene, inked the damage to each vehicle on an accident form, and began his oral investigation by questioning Lenny first, with Corey standing a distance away. Lenny offered his version of the events in a somber tone while the road patrolman dotted it down without looking up.

Next up was Corey, and as the trooper approached, Corey blurted out his guilt that rivaled a deathbed confession. "I feel terrible for causing this," he added, which Lenny overheard, and softened his feelings toward the man.

Lenny was checking the damage on the passenger side of the vehicle when he noticed a pizza delivery vehicle pull off the road near the intersection. Lenny's eyes squinted, accompanied by a curious tilt of his head as Giuseppe exited his vehicle, opened the trunk, and balanced three pizza pies on one hand and soda bottles in a bag in the other.

"Who wants pizza!" Giuseppe bellowed theatrically as he neared the scene of the crash.

Giuseppe read the perplexed look on Lenny's face. "You said to give the pizza to someone who might need it. Well, here it is," Giuseppe exclaimed and placed the food on the hood of his patrons' car.

The state trooper finished up with Corey, and they both shuffled over to the welcoming aroma of the pies filled with delectable toppings.

"I brought your order and enough for everyone," the pizza man cheered as Lenny patted the generous proprietor on the back.

Corey took no time to dig into a slice. "Mmm, this is delicious. I was looking for a good pizza place when I relocated."

Giuseppe's eyebrows bounced toward the patrolman as a lure, but the visual and aromatic presentation of the food was enough for the trooper to relent. "What the heck, I was officially off duty and on my way home when I got the call," he reasoned, while licking his lips and basking in first, second, third, and fourth bite bliss.

Corey approached Lenny and offered a handshake. Lenny paused a moment, looked Corey in the eye, and reciprocated his request. "We all make mistakes. Every now and then, I need a reminder," Lenny expressed with a warm smile.

© Jon Moray

Jon Moray

Jon Moray has been writing short stories for over a decade, and his work has appeared in many online and print markets. When not working and devoted to his family, he enjoys sports, music, the ocean, and sci-fi/Fantasy media. Read more of his work at moraywrites.com.

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1952: The Biltmore Hotel by DC Diamondopolous

Paramahansa Yogananda
January 5, 1893 – March 7, 1952
Yogananda with his autobiography, 1950
He passed away at the Biltmore Hotel in 1952.

1952: The Biltmore Hotel

For the past year, Irene had stayed home grieving for her husband. Now, she was ready to live again, but without Robert. Her new life would begin tonight in downtown Los Angeles at one of her favorite places, the Biltmore Hotel. 

The lavender tails of her Hermès scarf fluttered as she entered the limousine and slid in beside her best friend. The fragrance of Beatrice’s White Shoulders perfume gave her comfort.

Beatrice reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s good to see you, dear. Thank you for inviting me to this important occasion.”

“It’s good to be with you, too,” Irene said.

“I can’t wait to hear Yogananda speak.” 

For the past seven years, Beatrice had been a patron of the Indian guru and studied yoga and meditation at his headquarters in Mount Washington.

Beatrice patted her poodle cut with the palm of her hand. “Do you think it’s too short, dear?”  

“It becomes you.”

The chauffeur navigated the driveway of Irene’s South Pasadena estate. As she surveyed the grounds, the feathers in her hat swept across the roof. The jacaranda tree had dropped its winter leaves, a golden buttery hue. In two months, it would bloom purple. Robert would never see that splendid display again. 

“I’ve missed you, dear. The French twist is so attractive, especially with that hat. And the scarf goes beautifully with your auburn hair.”

“I feel fragile. Like I’ll break.”

Beatrice moved her matronly body next to Irene’s and put her hand on top of hers. “Of course you do.”

Irene drew strength from her friend’s closeness. They had met ten years before when they were docents at the Huntington Hartford Museum. 

“You’ve been so kind. The baskets of food and flowers were lovely,” Irene said. “And the phone calls. Brief as I made them.”

“I’ve missed our afternoon teas at the Biltmore, and here we are,” Beatrice chuckled, “on our way there.” She removed her hand. “I’m glad you chose to come out for Ambassador Sen. You’ve done so much to help the people of India.”

“Helping others is what saved me from despair.”

Years ago, when she and Robert had visited India, she was appalled by the starvation, disease, and poverty. After months of mourning, she delved once again into her charity work with India. She wrote letters, made telephone calls, and sent tens of thousands of dollars to help with the suffering. For her generosity, Irene was invited to dinner at the Biltmore Hotel to honor India’s Ambassador Binay Ranjan Sen. The name of the guest speaker caught her attention: Paramahansa Yogananda. 

After Robert’s death, Beatrice encouraged her to see the yogi. Irene declined.  She was suspicious of all things other-worldly—yet Irene saw a change in Beatrice. Her friend was happier, expanded her endowments, and had enormous energy for a woman of fifty-six, fourteen years her senior.

Thrilled with the invitation, Beatrice said she’d pick her up on the way from her home in San Marino.

The limo turned onto Fair Oaks Avenue. 

On this late winter evening, as the sun vanished below the Pacific, Irene found Ambassador Sen and Yogananda’s presence together at the Biltmore—ironic. 

“You’ll finally get to hear him. What Yogananda has brought to this country is immeasurable, that we can know God through meditation.” 

Irene sighed. “You know I’m agnostic.”

“So you’ve said.” Beatrice laughed. “I’m not saying you’ll have an epiphany, dear. But you’ll enjoy him. He has a wonderful sense of humor.”

The chauffeur drove up the freeway ramp and headed toward downtown Los Angeles. 

“The skyline will always remind me of Robert,” Irene said. From her husband, she had learned about architecture—functionality, durability, quality, and asceticism. His buildings were modern, innovative, and sleek. She grew to love the older ones, too—like the Biltmore—as Robert had. “He had so many plans for the city.” 

“He was a great architect. We were both lucky to have such wonderful husbands. Even though their lives were cut short, we were fortunate to know and love them. It’s been over fifteen years, and I still talk to Lloyd.”

“I wish I had known him.”

“So do I. My, you can still see orchard groves to the south and meadows. It’s no wonder Yogananda was guided to come west. Open fields, open minds, land of possibilities.”

Her friend’s enthusiasm often conflicted with Irene’s skepticism. “I still can’t believe Robert’s gone. I wish I knew he was all right.”

“Yogananda says that when death comes, mortal tortures cease. They can’t go beyond the portals of death.” She leaned over and whispered, “I know Robert’s fine.”

“No one really knows what happens when we die, certainly not that TV evangelist Billy Graham. Or Yogananda.” She bristled at religious leaders who professed to know everything. “Isn’t Yogananda just another cult?” 

“Hardly, my dear.”

Cars and limousines jammed the off-ramp at 6th Street.

They inched down the incline in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

Huge excavators towered in the sky above Pershing Square.

The park held a special place in Irene’s memory. In 1930, when she and Robert picnicked on the grounds, he proposed to her. She loved many things about him, and his light-heartedness brightened her reserved nature. During the war, he and his buddies performed in a drag show. She didn’t see it, but the pictures of him made her laugh so hard tears streamed down her face. He was a handsome man but a frightful-looking female, especially with the five o’clock shadow. 

They turned onto Olive Street. 

In the twilight of Los Angeles, with its silhouettes and concrete, she was reminded of a black-and-white movie. 

The limo parked in front of the Biltmore. 

Rich in history, the hotel had hosted the Academy Awards several times. For their 16th anniversary, Irene and Robert stayed in the same suite as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Visitors insisted that the ghost of a young boy roamed the third floor. At midnight, Robert left and went looking for him. He returned ten minutes later. “Maybe if we finish off the bottle of champagne, we’ll both see him.” They laughed, and he drew her onto the bed. 

* * *

An attendant opened the door.

“Thank you,” Irene said, staring up at the tall archway.

Dozens of people were arriving and entering the Biltmore. 

The two companions walked arm-in-arm into the lobby. 

The hotel, with its elaborate wrought iron lattice railing, enormous four-tiered chandeliers, and the brown satin sofas and chairs, was just as Irene remembered. Two years before, Robert had given a speech. She could still hear his deep, vibrant voice. His descriptions of modernism in architecture were exciting and vivid. 

Passing through the foyer, they encountered security guards and East Indians. 

At the banquet door, Irene gave the usher her invitation. 

They entered the hall. For the ambassador’s first visit to California, the room was filled to capacity, and Irene was overjoyed with the turnout, the people engaged in conversation, and the overall sense of anticipation. 

Irene and Beatrice’s table was close to the rostrum. They both faced the dais. 

Ambassador Sen and his wife arrived. She was stunning in a white dress, with a fringed Indian shawl draped over her shoulders. Irene looked forward to meeting them. 

Following the diplomat’s wife was the man who inspired her best friend and millions of Americans. Paramahansa Yogananda’s charisma overshadowed his short stature and portly appearance. Black hair fell to the shoulders of his ochre robe. She found his brown face serene, his countenance—as Beatrice often mentioned—inviting.

She had her doubts about him but would try to keep an open mind. 

Yogananda smiled at Beatrice. He put his palms together, hands up, and bowed his head. She returned the gesture. 

The host made introductions. 

Yogananda walked to the lectern. A hush spread across the room. 

He introduced the ambassador and his wife and mentioned the late Mahatma Gandhi, who applied Christ’s principles to politics and won India's freedom. He repeated the words, “My India, my America.” 

“World nations and men are all a little bit crazy,” Yogananda said.

Irene agreed.

When the guru spoke of a model civilization in which all nations would form a United World, with God guiding them through their consciences, applause broke out. 

Irene found it incredible that politicians could ever agree on anything.   

Yogananda continued with how India and America could learn from each other. He talked of focusing on the good qualities of a nation and said, “I remember that just before I first came to America in 1920, I was warned by Hindu friends never to go in dark alleys, lest my scalp be removed by Red Indians! And whenever I saw a bald-headed man, I thought some Indians had been at work!”

Laughter erupted. 

Beatrice glanced at Irene and winked. 

He continued his speech about America's industriousness and the Hindu’s focus on building spiritual skyscrapers of the mind. “Somewhere between the two great civilizations of efficient America and spiritual India lies the answer for a model world civilization.”

As the audience sat spellbound, his lyrical voice filled the room. Irene thought him a poet, a dreamer. Once in a while, his gaze lifted upwards with just the whites of his eyes showing. His words inspired, but how could there ever be world peace? 

“If we can raise money for wholesale killings, couldn’t we picture the possibility that if all big leaders and all peoples got together, they could collect a vast fund that would banish poverty and ignorance from the face of the globe?”

Irene knew he had the best intentions, but was doubtful, knowing that millions of people followed someone like Hitler. 

He proceeded. “I am proud that I was born in India. I am proud that we have a great ambassador representing my spiritual India.” 

The crowd applauded. 

Yogananda read from his poem, “My India.”  

“God made the earth, and man made confining countries and their fancy-frozen boundaries. Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves, and men dream God—I am hallowed, my body touched that sod.”

With those words, Paramahansa Yogananda slumped to the floor.

Someone shrieked.

People on the stage rushed to his side. Security guards spoke into walkie-talkies. 

Beatrice jumped up, spilling water, and ran around the platform to the guru.

Irene stood. “Is there a doctor here?” she shouted, scanning the audience. 

Guests zigzagged around tables to get to the yogi.

Beatrice hunched over. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she looked at her friend. 

In a split second, Irene saw a blur—or was it an apparition? It floated away from the dais and disappeared. In disbelief, she covered her mouth with her hand. Her fear of death fled, replaced by an inner calm. Irene could question what she saw, even deny it, but not what she felt. 

As people tried to save him, she knew Yogananda had died.

Weeping, Beatrice made her way to their table.

“Yogananda always said when he left, all that would remain would be his love.”

Irene held her friend tight. “I’m so sorry.”

The older woman pulled back and brushed away tears.

“One of the disciples said Yogananda knew he would leave tonight. I myself heard him say, ‘I do not wish to die in bed, but with my boots on, speaking of God and India.’ It was his time.”

“I know. Just as it was Robert’s.”

© DC Diamondopolous 

DC Diamondopolous 

DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction author with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC’s book Captured Up Close: 20th Century Short-Short Stories is her second book. She lives on the California coast with her wife. dcdiamondopolous.com

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Missing Everything by Souad Zakaran

RDNE Stock project

Missing Everything

The sun was shining outside. The grass was not exactly green, but with a little imagination, one could be forgiven for thinking it was autumn or spring. There was no sense of winter, and certainly no sense of Advent. Summer or winter – she didn’t really care. She had nothing to look forward to in either season.

She sat in her small flat from morning until night, waiting for each uniform day to end. In the morning, the nurse would come, offering a few minutes of dressing and words exchanged. The same happened in the evening, day in and day out for over two years.

In the beginning, the children came on weekends, at least after her stroke. They had wanted to put her in an old people's home, but she vehemently and successfully fought against that. She was still able to move her left side and walk around the house with her walker.

Then she could no longer cook, so the children arranged for Meals on Wheels to come to her home. They organized everything for her. She didn't not like it; at least someone came around for lunch and offered friendly conversation. It lets her days have a bit of variety again.

Yes, the children were great. They always sorted everything out and made sure she was comfortable. However, they were just so busy with their stressful jobs and their own families that they hardly called. The grandchildren were also all grown up and didn’t have time to visit grandma.

During this special, pre-Christmas period, she thought so often of the past. Especially her husband. When she thought of him, a smile would appear on her face, and for a brief moment, she was happy. They’d had a wonderful marriage, and he’d loved to carry her in his arms as they’d danced.

He’d died five years ago, suddenly and without any apparent illness. She never moved on. In the first few days, the children stayed with and comforted her, but they couldn't really understand the sudden loneliness after forty years of marriage. And now she was sick herself. Her thoughts went back to when the children were small, and they celebrated Christmas together as a family. The house held a lively atmosphere; its memories were heartwarming and cherished. Now it was quiet and bleak.

Last year, the children visited on Christmas Day. They arrived in the afternoon and had to leave in the evening.

The next day, they went skiing, leaving her alone again. She didn’t know what would happen this year. They hadn’t told her yet.

Well, it was only the Second Advent. She still had enough time to imagine that things could be as they used to be. A few tears ran down her face, but she hadn’t forgotten how to dream yet.

© Souad Zakaran
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Souad Zakaran

Souad Zakaran is a Moroccan writer, poet, and translator. She graduated with a Bachelor's in French literature and English Linguistics. She worked as a foreign language teacher at a language institute in Casablanca. She currently works as a translator for a local newspaper and has poetry, narrative, and critical contributions in various regional and international literary newspapers and magazines. Her works are featured in several anthologies worldwide, including Poems for Rich, Centenary Project, Oldham Poetry, Well Read, Hooligan Street, and others. Her poem "Weiß" was shortlisted for the Ulrich GRASNICK Lyrikpreis 2025. Her poem “Sauberer Erde” earned third place in the Friedrich Schiller International Poetry Competition 2025.

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Going Out by Lori Erickson

cottonbro studio

Going Out

 Billie’s patience fractured. “Get out of my room, you mealy-mouthed twit.” 

Alfred R. Moorhead, M.D., was indeed a mealy-mouthed twit, but because no one had ever called him one to his face, the words startled him, triggering a faint squint and a slight parting of his lips. 

“Um, Mrs. Wicker,” he said, struggling to sheathe his pen in his new pocket protector. “Perhaps I should come back after you’ve had time to collect your thoughts so that we can discuss this further.”

Billie Wicker’s temper, voice, and pulse rate rose in tandem. “I said, get out, you big oaf.” 

Dr. Moorhead had been called a big oaf twice, once by his ex-wife and once by a bulky, red-faced man driving a pick-up who suggested, as he sped around the doctor’s Audi S5 Cabriolet convertible, that the big oaf needed driving lessons. 

“Mrs. Wicker, I understand that this is difficult news to bear.” He tried to remain even and professional, although the tension in his voice and his stiffly nodding head betrayed him. Dr. Moorhead nodded perpetually.

“Just leave, you pill-pushing, prickly-faced son of a stink bug.” Her voice was like chipped teeth – brittle, ragged, but capable of quite a bite. One look at Wilma Wicker’s fiery eyes helped Dr. Moorhead summon the courage to concede defeat, close his mouth, and leave the room. Billie ushered him on his way with a big raspberry, then spent the next few moments recuperating from the outburst.

“Is it safe to come out?” The wispy, wavering voice belonged to Billie’s roommate, Clara Munson. Clara was in the bathroom when Dr. Moorhead arrived, full of a condescending prognosis. Once the fireworks started, she thought it best to remain there. “Is Dr. Bobblehead gone?”

“Yes, Clara.”

 Clara shuffled over to her bed and hoisted herself up so that she balanced on the edge, her spindly legs dangling, her feet a good foot off the floor. She weighed barely 85 pounds. With a full head of soft, white hair and fluffy snow-white slippers, she bore more than a passing resemblance to a cotton swab.

Still stewing over Dr. Moorhead’s visit, Billie growled toward the door and spat one last reference to the good doctor. “Festering boil of a quack.”

“I’m so sorry, Billie,” Clara whispered.

The two sat quietly. Billie hurled a menacing glance toward the wall clock; its relentless ticking was like a time bomb counting down to the inevitable, now-impending end.  

Billie set her jaw, slowly rose to her feet, and marched to the tiny closet opposite her bed. She extracted a pair of navy blue sweatpants, a pastel pink sweatshirt proclaiming, “Virginia is for Lovers,” and running shoes. A twitch of a smile crossed her face. Running shoes – Perfect, she thought. Clara tilted her head daintily as she watched Billie and tried to process this departure from routine. “Where are you going, Billie?” 

“Out,” came the unadorned reply. Billie finished fastening the Velcro closures on her shoes and locked onto her friend’s gaze before proffering the invitation. “You wanna come along?”

Clara’s heart started to race. She began a silent clap with her hands, and her watery, pale eyes widened with anxious excitement. “I’ll get my shoes,” she chirped as she hopped off the bed and skittered toward her closet.  

Between them, Billie and Clara had lived for 170 years and had been married and widowed three times. Clara’s only child died in an automobile accident when he was in college. Billie’s three step-children from her second marriage abandoned her two decades ago following the death of their father. Neither woman ever imagined winding up in a place like Cottage Gardens, but age and circumstance whittled away at their autonomy, leaving them few options. Adjustment followed resignation.

The two octogenarians were strangers when flooding from a burst pipe temporarily rendered their private suites uninhabitable and thrust them together in room 117-East until cleanup and repairs could be completed. They coexisted awkwardly but politely, a mismatched pair of socks. The night before they were to return to their newly renovated private quarters, Clara developed a sudden, unexplained fever. Nurses, CNAs, and the on-call physician swarmed around her bed every few hours, buzzing in medicalese, scratching notes on charts, administering tests and meds. When the staff departed, Billie sat holding Clara’s delicate hand and quietly shared stories from her travels in Europe as a young woman. She described in vivid detail quaint shops and village markets, towering cathedrals and hilltop castles, breathtaking landscapes and luminescent city skylines. When Clara’s fever vanished as unexpectedly as it had appeared, she and Billie opted to continue as roommates and returned to their daily activities as comrades and allies. 

Visits from friends and the odd niece or nephew, once frequent and festive, were now rare and perfunctory. Billie and Clara amused themselves by creating nicknames for the members of the Cottage Gardens workforce. In addition to Dr. Bobblehead, others regularly prowling the ward included Yolanda of the Yukon – the nurse with cold hands, Typhoon Tilda – a CNA who constantly swirled in frantic circles, and an internist with a lazy eye, uncontrollable sprouts of kinky gray hair, and a laugh that sounded like machine gun fire, whom Billie dubbed Dr. Wack Ass. Over time, a congenial competition developed between the bunkmates to see who could generate the most far-fetched, scandalous anecdote about each staff member. 

“Shhhh! I don’t want to get caught before we get started.” Billie rolled her eyes at Clara, who immediately slapped both hands over her mouth to stifle her giggling. A screeching door hinge broadcast their exit from the room, prompting a wince and a snarl from Billie. In a calm and measured voice, she directed Clara, “If anyone asks, tell them we are going to the library.” 

“Right,” Clara agreed softly, barely able to control her exhilaration. “But where are we really going?” 

“To the library.” 

“…Oh...”

            The two colluders crept into the corridor and began their expedition by inching westward as casually as they were able. They made a complete stop and looked both ways before turning onto the central concourse that separated the East and West wings. Typhoon Tilda burst out of the physical therapy room and whirled past them, then abruptly made a U-turn, became rigid, and stared at the pair. The girls froze and stared back. Tilda opened her mouth to speak, but inexplicably dismissed the idea, pivoted again, and churned onward. 

Confused but relieved, the willful wanderers quickened their pace. They skirted past the dining hall and bypassed the vending machines and the custodial closet. By the time they rounded the bend at the deserted nurses’ station, they were speeding along at an impressive pace. A few yards shy of the library, Billie slammed on the brakes and grabbed Clara’s arm to halt her forward progress. 

            “What’s wrong, Billie?” 

Noticeably winded from their jaunt, Billie paused to regulate her breathing before asking, “Do you hear that?” 

Clara squinched up her face and listened. “Sounds like a party,” she replied. The muffled tones of a celebration emanated from the staff lounge farther down the hall. Billie beamed. 

“That’s Bullwinkle’s retirement party. We’re in the clear.” 

Billie would miss Bullwinkle, the lanky, good-natured nurse practitioner with a nose and ears too large for his head and a penchant for quoting classic cartoons. He could always cajole a laugh from her. And now, the affable moose’s send-off had emptied the hallway of potential roadblocks, allowing Billie and Clara to continue unnoticed on their journey. They strolled nonchalantly to the rear corner of the library before sitting in one of the reading nooks for a much-needed respite.

The library boasted the facility's most appealing architectural feature: two sets of Palladian windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling on either side of elegant French doors. The doors opened onto the sprawling, meticulously landscaped grounds that inspired Cottage Gardens’ name. 

The considerable gardens stretched the length of the property, which sat atop a hill overlooking the town’s central square. Paved paths meandered through the expertly maintained trees, shrubberies, and abundant flowers. Wooden benches scattered along the paths offered residents and visitors a variety of tranquil locations for conversation, rest, or reflection. Among the other features of the outdoor retreat were a small fountain and a series of pebble mosaics designed and installed by art majors from the nearby university. Small bronze plaques purchased in memory of loved ones dotted the gardens. They served as lasting tributes to former residents while also providing the funds to preserve the picturesque grounds for current residents' enjoyment.

After a brief rest and a quick peek outside to ensure they could flee unseen, Billie and Clara crossed the threshold and slipped away into the gardens. When their adventure began, Billie intended to take back control of her morning and grab a small slice of freedom by escaping the building. Having accomplished that objective relatively easily, she now wanted something more.

Billie felt a surge of urgency, fueled by the understanding that she was unlikely to get another such opportunity. She moved with resolve as she led Clara through the lush maze, without stopping to appreciate the fragrant Piedmont azaleas, Royal Sunset climbing roses, or the delicate, sweetly aromatic lilies of the valley. Clara accepted Billie’s grave determination without questioning her friend’s purpose. 

            Upon reaching a whimsical butterfly mosaic composed of pastel-painted pebbles and outlined with small black stones, Billie turned to Clara and, with a sparkle in her eyes, instructed her partner in crime to “Get some flat ones.” Clara blinked rapidly, furrowed her brow, and muttered sotto voce, “Flat ones.” Overlooking Clara’s befuddlement, Billie commenced using the toe of her Reebok to rummage through the smoke-gray rocks surrounding the colorful winged image. 

“Try to find smooth ones like this,” Billie said, holding up an example. Once Clara understood what to look for, she happily set about hunting for ‘smooth flat ones’ while remaining clueless about the point of the exercise.

            The chiming of the clock tower in the downtown square reminded Billie that time placed unforgiving limits on their excursion. “We’ve got to keep moving,” she advised as she stowed a handful of rocks in the pocket of her sweatpants. Clara dropped her stones one by one into an empty Ziploc freezer bag she found, serendipitously, hiding in her pants pocket. After securing the bag’s zipper, she grasped it at the top with both hands and carried it in front of her as she followed Billie back onto the path.

Like trails of light emanating to and from the center of a starburst, the various winding paths reunited at a large, crystal-clear pond at the far end of the gardens. The duo arrived at the pond and stood at its edge, gazing at the placid water. For the first time since venturing outside, Billie raised her face skyward, soaking in the sun and filling her lungs with the cool, fresh, floral-scented air.

“Billie?”

“Yes, Clara.”

“What are the stones for?” 

“Skipping.”

            Flummoxed again, Clara’s eyes narrowed as she combed through her mind for any connection between stones and skipping. This time, Billie detected her bewilderment. “Didn’t you ever skip stones in your youth?” 

            “No,” Clara responded, “I grew up in Pittsburgh.”

            Billie ignored the non sequitur to complete her mission in a timely fashion. “Well then, watch this,” she said as she extracted a stone from her pocket. She angled her body slightly to the right, focused her gaze, took aim, and with a side-armed motion whipped the smooth oval disk toward the water. Clara’s eyes ballooned, and her dimpled smile threatened to blast off from her brightly flushed face. Her short shrieks increased in intensity with each of the stone’s six skips across the glassy surface. As the ripples abated, Billie took a bow with a flourish of her arm, then feigned modesty as Clara clapped wildly. The master skipper stepped back and coaxed her fellow fugitive to, “Give it a try.” 

Clara glowed and emitted a bubbly whinny in reply. Her hands quivered as she selected a rock from the baggie and tried to replicate Billie’s feat. When her granite disk plopped directly down into the pond, she instantly deflated. Billie consoled her companion and stepped in to coach the woebegone rookie hurler on her grip and release technique. Clara’s fourth attempt resulted in success – a three-skip throw. The celebration of high fives, whoops, and spirited congratulatory exclamations left both skippers breathless but radiating joy.

Billie bent slightly and placed her hand on a lattice-backed bench to steady herself as she eased onto the seat. Clara, still elated and clutching her baggie, perched on the other end of the bench. Motionless but for their breathing, they listened to the swishing sighs of the soft breeze teasing the leaves.

Billie’s mind drifted back to Dr. Moorhead’s visit. Fragments of distant voices and hazy images, the auditory and visual representations of the challenges she would soon face, began harassing her tranquility. Initial attempts to shake off the stinging sights and sounds failed. As the ferocity of the assault grew, she imagined herself a warrior slaying each assailant in the battle to protect this peaceful moment. 

Clara’s voice broke in, vanquishing the enemy onslaught. “Do you think they’ll be cross when they find us?” 

 Billie snickered, “Let ‘em be cross. What are they going to do, send us to bed without any rice pudding?” 

Clara contemplated that prospect before declaring with a titter, “You’re right; who cares if they’re cross? I don’t even like rice pudding.”  Her titter swelled until it erupted with a snort that uncorked full-throated belly laughs from both runaways. They gave in to the wave of mirth, riding it until it rolled ashore and receded into a new stillness. 

“Billie?”

“Hm?”

“Should we skip the rest of our stones before we run out of time?”             “That’s exactly what we should do.” © Lori Erickson 

Lori Erickson

Lori Erickson is a retired theatre artist and educator whose short fiction has appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly, January House Literary Journal, Ruben’s Quarterly, and The First Line Literary Journal. She lives in North Central Florida with her husband.

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