Wants

Maggie entered the store first, heading to the front counter. She glanced up at the town’s only television screen, watching the woman walk across the stage in sparkling champagne dress. In all honesty, she thought the dress absolutely hideous, but she still wanted one like it. No man, even Pete Marks himself, could ignore her then. It would still be a minute or two until the lady on television started to pull numbered balls out of the spinning machine, but Maggie could wait.

“Has he come by yet?” Maggie asked Bill, who manned the counter.

He leaned on the counter, making a tally of recent sales on a yellow legal pad. “Oh, him? Not yet. He will probably be here soon, to see the lottery numbers same as you.”

Maggie leaned against the counter, peering over the slate-colored register to steal a glance at the legal pad. “I don’t see the point; no one ‘round here has ever won anything.”

Bill pointed a finger, to the ceiling, or to Heaven, Maggie couldn’t be sure. “Not true. Your paps won three dollars in a scratch the day you were born. He always—“

“Called it his lucky day, I know.” She sighed bored, letting her eyes pace from the television screen to the door. “I mean, no one has won the jackpot in this town.”

The store owner shrugged, stretching the shoulders of his green apron slightly. “Just means we’re that much more likely this time, eh? Between you and Pete, we could buy this town, and lunch!”

“Like I’d share anything with him.” She wanted to.

Ding! Pete slipped in past the glass door, with his hands in his pockets. He glanced at Maggie’s eyes before glancing at the screen. “Did they start yet?” Joining the others, he leaned with his chin in his hand as he braced his elbow on the counter.

“Nice to see you too.” Maggie frowned.

“Shh.”

The glittering woman pulled out the first ball of six, gave it a passing glance, and then read the number for her audience. “23.”

Maggie searched her pockets, trying to locate her ticket.

“14!” The lady squealed.

Both pockets in her jacket turned up empty. Maggie tried her jeans pockets. Still nothing.

“5!”

“Missing something?” Bill asked politely.

“Yeah, my ticket.”

“84!”

“Crap.”

“Is this it?” Pete stood up from the floor, where he had knelt to pick up a dropped, pink slip of paper.

“20!”

“I think so.” She leaned toward him to see if she recognized the numbers.

Pete’s mouth hung open, rounder than the zero in the last number. He didn’t hand over the ticket. Instead his head jerked toward the screen, eyes getting wider as he read each number in the sequence.

“Pete!”

“Be quiet for once.” He muttered, holding the slip of paper tightly, switching hands when Maggie tried to grab it.

“50!”

“Come one Pete, she’s done reading it, let Maggie see the ticket.”

Pete shook his head, but Bill was too quick and tore off the top half. Bill whistled.

“Hey! Give it back!” Pete called out.

“No, give it here!”

“Why should I? I sold it here, in my store.”

"I paid for it!" Maggie retorted, lunging again.

George, a regular fisherman came in to buy some bait. The wind followed him in. Three sets of eyes widened as they followed the path of the ticket fragments out the door.

"Hi George! Excuse me." Pete shoved past him as he ran outside.

"Hey George. See you around." Maggie followed on Pete's heels.

Bill merely tipped his hat as he brushed passed him and followed in their wake.

George stared at the now empty doorway. Then he glanced at the counter, also empty. His head tipped up, to each of the ceiling's four corners, empty again. He hummed a little tune to himself as he crept toward the counter. Swinging to his right, George made sure the entire store stood empty. As he swung to his left, he dipped down beneath the counter. Pulling out his favorite brand of bait, George whistled as he left the store. Surely Bill wouldn't miss one jar, right?

Child in a Blender

Rebecca and Heidi

each  like their hair long,

one ginger, the other cinnamon.

Both like sports fields

and shopping malls.

__________

Diana likes her hair short,

but she likes her hours long,

spent in a cubicle or an office.

She also likes a distance of 26.6 miles.

________

Jim learns to like his hair gray, then white.

He finds his home behind the microphone,

on a church stage,

or in a box at a basketball game.

_________

Dad likes his hair clipped twice a month

and he loves a couch in front of a tv.

Mom liked her hair the way we liked it,

and she loved places to put her feet up.

_________

I like my hair red and long

as the sun is warm,

as I follow its rays across the sky.

Leaving out the will

He came down the aisle and stopped at the appropriate row. Pausing, the man took his pillow and stashed it up above in the nearest compartment and closed the hatch securely. Then he sat down, taking deep breaths as he flipped through the Skymall magazine, his eyes only glancing at each ad for two seconds. Setting the catalog aside, he ran his hand through his hair, impatiently waiting for the plan to take off.

Other passengers milled about and took their own seats. He wondered if anyone would be sitting between him and the window. In the worst possible scenario he imagined, he’d get stuck between two large chatty passengers who wouldn’t allow him a moment to think. As he waited, he stared at the images in the sky mall magazine until the colors congealed like those in an old man’s tattoo.

He’d been training for this day for a couple years.

“Excuse me sir.” She stood less than a foot away, wearing a blouse and a loose skirt. “I have the window seat.”

Nodding, he set his neglected magazine aside and stood up to allow her through. He dropped into his seat faster than a two-ton bomb and she floated down to hers a second later.

“I’m Callie.” She volunteered, watching him as he picked up the catalog again.

He nodded in reply, before glancing back through his catalog. Her persistent gaze attempted to burn holes in the paper.

“And what’s yours?”

After a little hesitation, he replied “Ali.”

“Oo, like the boxer?” She leaned forward over the empty seat between them.

“Yeah, like the boxer.” He smiled at the right corner of his mouth.

The flight attendants went through the demonstration, holding up oxygen masks for all the passengers to see. Ali looked around him to see if anyone paid attention; nobody seemed to. He wondered if masks were all that useful in certain situations. Certainly they wouldn’t work if the passengers had died on impact, definitely not if they burned alive. If the plane sank in the water, the masks would only serve to keep passengers alive for so long.

Soon enough the plane interrupted Ali’s thought process with the pull of takeoff. He stared at the no-smoking light as he counted the hours and minutes. Ali only had to wait two hours and—

“I’m from San Diego. You?”

He held back a sigh, and instead he smirked. “Where do you think?”

Callie pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she ran through her bank of information. (Near as Ali could tell, she hadn’t deposited much in her account.) “You have an accent, that’s for sure.”

“So do you. It’s just different.” He laughed, managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“Mm, yeah, I guess so. Mm…..Dubai?”

Ali’s eye twitched. “You’re too kind.” He hated that dump of a city.

“One of those Stan countries?”

“Close enough. Saudi Arabia, actually.”

“Oh, neat!” She continued to chatter away, but Ali heard little of what Callie said.

He dug into his backpack, feeling each and every package he had inside. As required by airport security, each and every bottle had less than three ounces of liquid inside. They didn’t seem to care how many bottles he packed with him, however, and so he packed as many as he could in the quart-sized Ziploc back. Ali rehearsed in his mind the exact sequence and recipe that required such ingredients. Like his fellow trainees, he knew he’d have a hard time finding them in a supermarket. If Ali messed up the order he might destroy his foot, or burn a whole through the bottom of his backpack; he wanted to avoid both scenarios.

Callie still hadn’t stopped talking. “Me and my brother used to play soccer all the time before he died. He always dreamed of playing in the World Cup.”

“Really? So did my brother. But he decided to help my dad with his souvenir stand instead.”

“What souvenirs did you sell?”

“T-shirts, key chains, and postcards. And local candy.” Ali checked his watch, swallowing hard. He needed to focus. He needed to stop talking to a San Diego girl named Callie. He needed to act, but she was nice to talk to. He couldn’t silence her just yet.