A. L. Kaplan

Author: A. L. Kaplan

  • MATCHMAKERS

    “This one’s a sceptic,” said Yenta.

    Clarence looked at the man curled up on the hay in Pete Forrester’s barn. “He’s here isn’t he?”

    “But he doesn’t believe.”

    “Yenta, look at him. All alone in a dilapidated barn. The man’s desperate for love. He needs our help.”

    Yenta pulled a pair of glasses from her carpet bag and scrutinized the sleeping man. He wore faded jeans and a Frank Sinatra t-shirt. Gray hairs dotted his head and a pair of red cowboy boots sat on the floor next to him. “I don’t know, Clarence. This one might be beyond us.”

    “Think of it as a challenge. Just last week you complained this job was too easy.”

    “All right. No need to kvetch. Who are we going to pair him with?”

    “Merry is about the same age.”

    “She’s a cup half-full girl. He’s half-empty. They’ll never agree on anything.”

    “Olive?”

    “With his vinegary attitude?”

    “Helen?”

    “Too explosive. He’d get buried alive.”

    “Fine. Ginger.”

    “Be serious, Clarence.”

    “I am. Lord knows he needs some spice.”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Where’s your sense of adventure, Yenta?”

    “I left it at the shtetl.”

    “And then you found me.”

    “So you always remind me.”

    “Yenta.”

    “Okay. You work on him and I’ll go yell in Ginger’s ear.

    “I think you mean whisper.”

    “No, Ginger is a heavy sleeper. I’ll need to yell to get through to her subconscious.”

    “Well good luck, then.”

    Yenta rolled her eyes. “Ginger and Al, a match made in heaven.”

  • GUIDING LIGHT

    Grogan yanked the huge oil drum up another step. He was almost to the top of the lighthouse now. Pain lanced his arm, but he ignored it. He had to light a beacon and save the ships headed for the rocks.

    Outside the hurricane hammered the old lighthouse. For thirty years he’d been her keeper before they were both declared obsolete. Who needed a lighthouse when everyone had electronic guidance? Now the fancy new phone his granddaughter gave him spewed nonsense. It looked like the ships were fouled up as well.

    Good thing they hadn’t forced Grogan to leave when they cut funding and stripped her clean. But now the only way to make the lighthouse shine was to burn her. Tears streamed down his face as he pulled at the drum.

    “Sorry, Love. You know it’s the only way.”

    Another wave of pain shot through his chest and his foot slipped on the smooth stone steps. He watched with dismay as the barrel clanged to the bottom. Grogan doubled over in pain.

    “How can I warn the ships? I need help, Love.”

    Suddenly the pain stopped and warm arms pulled him up. Grogan took the last few steps in one stride. He knew what to do now. Fire radiated deep inside him. It burst outward in a blinding light. Almost as one, the storm-tossed ships turned away from the rocks.

    “Thanks for your help, Love. You’ve always been there for me. We’ll be together forever now.”

  • MUDDY PAWS

    LailaBrown eyes look up at me, filled with such longing. They seem to ask “Are you the one?” Do you want me?” Black fur, smooth and shiny. My fingers sink into its softness. A small spattering of white decorates her chest and paws. Two ears perk, their tips folded softly like a tulip. Her fluffy tail swishes ever so slightly. Tentative, hoping without much hope.

    I open the window and hang my hand down and am greeted with several licks. Silently she puts her paws on the sill and reaches out to kiss me. I glance at the sign. They think she’s a year old and their best guess for breed is a Border collie mix. Those eyes look into my heart and I freeze. Why am I here? Am I really ready for this? It’s only been nine months since Arthur passed.

    I force myself away to look at the other dogs. My husband and daughter have already moved down the hall. A quick walk around only brings me back here, to her. Something about her calls to me so I flag a volunteer.

    In the visiting room she jumps around like a puppy, sniffing, playing, and exploring everything and everywhere at once. There is so much to see. I bend down and spread my arms wide. She climbs in and snuggles, buries me with kisses. Then she darts to my husband and daughter. So energetic, so full of love. Who would give up such a sweetheart and why? They are questions impossible to answer, only surmise.

    She bounds around the room like she’s never run before. For several seconds a ball holds her attention, then a movement distracts. Off again. Endless energy sends her every which way, but always she comes back to snuggle, to give one more kiss. She’s small, only thirty five pounds, but full of fluffy love.

    I fill out the application with shaky hands asking myself if I’m really ready. It’s been a long time since I trained a dog and I wonder whether I can do right by her. When I leave she looks so sad. As if to say, “I knew it couldn’t last. No one wants me.”

    Dog proofing the house takes all week. It’s been nearly fifteen years since we needed to do so. Everything at dog level goes away. Gates go up. Several trips to the pet store and everything is ready, toys, food, bowls, crate. Doubts still gnaw at me, but I am happy, excited. Soon my new baby will be here. Her name is Laila.

    The skies opened up the day we bring her home. We leave the shelter with her tugging and jumping all over the place. My eldest daughter struggles to keep her under control in the car. Laila dives to the floor and manages to find a stray napkin. The box of tissues is fair game as well. Once home we go straight to the backyard, sliding on the rain-drenched lawn. The downpour has turned all the grass free places into mud pits. Laila is ecstatic. Once released, she circles the yard at high speed, leaving behind a trail of torn turf and mud. Her body stretches out with each stride, long, like a greyhound and just as fast. Thank God for sturdy fences. I wait until she begins to slow before I call her and she tries to jump into my arms. Wet kisses coat my hands as we enter the house for the first time.

    Laila is everywhere, or would like to be. I keep the leash on to prevent her from jumping up on the counters, tables, and couch. Each new toy holds her attention for only moments. I can’t leave the room. By evening I sit on the floor, exhausted wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake. Is she too much for me? Too energetic? Then she crawls into my lap, so starved for attention. I sink into those brown eyes and wipe the muddy paw prints off my pants. This is right.

    Curled into a tiny ball of fur, she sleeps. So quiet and peaceful. But as soon as we try to leave the room she cries and barks, pawing at the crate door. Pain and longing ring in those calls. It’s a new house full of strangers. Like any child she doesn’t want to be along. My youngest daughter sleeps on the floor beside her.

    A new day dawns, rain continues to stream from the sky in sheets. And Laila greets me like a long lost friend. Once again she darts around the back yard intent on reaching the speed of sound. Already she’s learned to stay off the counters. My mind spins with all the other new things to teach her.

    This is not a young puppy, yet neither is she a grown dog. Whatever her past, it could not have held much stimulation. Her little head darts back and forth, taking in all the new sights and sounds that greet us on our walk. A leaf blows by and makes her jump. So does the sound of water rushing down the street. A car drives by and she stares, fascinated at the sight. Even walking on a leash seems alien to her. But Laila is a fast learner and soon learns not to pull and tug.

    Two weeks later Laila has learned so much. Counters and tables are off limits as are the bathrooms and bed. She goes into her crate voluntarily, sits while her harness is put on and taken off, and stands while her feet are wiped after a walk. In these few short weeks she has worked her way deep into our hearts. She curls up on her bed at night next to me, safe, happy. There are no more doubts, just plans for education, toys to challenge her mind and keep her interested. Slowly she’s learning that mommy will come home. It is a hard fought lesson. Somewhere in her past that fact was proven false. Her head rests on my feet as I write; you’ve found your family at last Laila. Welcome home.

     

  • SENTRY

    Sentry Devil’s tongue hung down, heat from the midday sun scorched the lookout rock. In the canyon below a small band of humans struggled through the twists and turns, heading straight for the Black Canyon pack’s den. The scent of dry death hung in the air. How could they not smell the spring only a few hundred yards away? Despite obvious need, the humans stumbled away from the only source of water for miles.

    Humans were food to the Black Canyon leader, but Devil remembered his old human pack. Food had been plentiful, members full of love and kindness. They were gone, killed by the sky fire.

    One of the human pups stumbled, then curled on the ground, whimpering. She was so like his little human. Devil reach the bottom of the canyon before he realized he had left his sentry post. The pack leader wouldn’t be happy.

    Devil approached the humans cautiously, circling around until he stood between them and the spring. The scent of fear was strong, but they didn’t attack. One of the men moved toward him. Devil sprung back, toward the spring, then waited. Bit by bit he drew them closer to the spring, then sat several yards away as they drank their fill. He liked this pack. They felt right and the dried meat they tossed him was good.

    Devil spun around as the Black Canyon leader approached. It was time to oust the real devil and return the Black Canyon pack to humans.

  • The Golden Castle

    “Get in there, English scum,” said the guard as he shoved John into the tiny stone cell of El Castillo de Oro, or as the inmates called it, The Place of Bones. “I don’t care how many prisons you’ve escaped from, you’re not leaving here until you’re rotted bones.”

    John held out his hands. “My good man, you seem to have forgotten to remove my shackles.”

    “You want them off so bad, start chewing.” The guard slammed the door shut and left.

    Unfazed, John smiled at the man across the hall. “Greetings. To whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

    “Only the gentleman pirate, John Deane, talks like that. Paul’s me name. You done gotten in too deep this time, Mr. Deane. There’s no escapin’ this place.”

    “Don’t be so sure, Paul.”

    John knew the history of this prison and the English translation. There was far more to the Golden Castle’s name than the stones, which shimmered gold in the setting sun. He extracted a pencil sized cylinder from its hiding place and gave it a few twists. Off popped the shackles, then the door lock clicked open. Casually, he stepped into the hallway and walked deeper into the prison. At each cell he released prisoners by pointing the cylinder.

    “You’re going the wrong way,” said Paul.

    “You can continue to the traditional exit and die,” said John. “Or you may come with me and walk away with as much Spanish gold as you can carry.”

    Paul glanced at the prisoners who ran for the exit, then back at John. “Gold?”

    John knew the lure of gold would do its trick. He smiled as Paul and a few others followed him into the bowels of El Castillo de Oro. Escaping the prison and finding the gold was easy. Convincing his new crew to go through the portal would be the challenge.

  • Death For Sale

    “I’m telling you, Eric, You don’t want this car. It’s jinxed. Every one of its thirteen owners’ was murdered. I looked it up.”

    “Nonsense, Carl. She’s just a classic with an interesting history. Check her out. Hot and sexy. It’s like we were made for each other.”

    ***

    Beth watched Eric hand the cash to the seller. Anticipation rippled from fender to fender. Oh how she detested his type. She’d make sure he got his comeuppance, just like the others. Already the plan was in motion.

    Long ago she learned of her fiancé’s other wives and confronted him. He didn’t like that much. But crushing her body with the hood of that 1954 blue Pontiac before it even left the factory, didn’t get rid of her. Not even a shallow grave in the woods or a thorough car wash did the trick. Somehow she’d stayed curled around that engine. Her revenge came by way of the mail to all five women. They took care of him.

    As for her, she had a knack for enchanting betrayers. The first to fall was that two timing reporter, Bill Keenan. Funny how his wife learned about his affair.  Beth’s burning hate for infidelity always helped spot the next target. Sometimes the wife did the deed and sometimes the other woman. Didn’t matter to her as long as it was done.

    Her engine began to purr as Eric slid behind the wheel. It was only a matter of time now.

  • Rainy Day

    Rainy DayWet and dreary, that was Benny’s existence even before the car struck his umbrella stand last December. One flash of pain, then he was back standing in oblivion, invisible. People rushed by. Cold rain on his back made him shiver, a memory of his last living days.

    How could anyone be more miserable? Just then he spied a rain drenched puppy shuffle across the sidewalk. Tangled strands of yellow fur lay plastered across its ribcage. Eyes, void of hope, gazed down. He held an umbrella over the dog, following as it wandered into the street, but rain continued to flow through the ghost umbrella. If only he could do more.

    Benny saw the car barrel down the road. Wheels slid across the slick pavement just like last year, only this time the pup lay in its deadly path. He didn’t think about how an insubstantial body could help as he tossed the dog to safety. He just did it.

    “The choice is yours, Benny.”

    Choice? Benny blinked with understanding. He could continue his empty existence or live one short, cold, hungry life. Loneliness was worse. His arms wrapped around the dog and he felt their spirits meld. Cold seeped into his body. Hunger drove sharp pangs in his gut. Yet he felt strangely warm for the first time.

    “How would like to come home with me, little fellow?” A young man wrapped a scarf around his new body and held him close. “I think I’ll call you…Benny.”

  • Tough Stuff

    “I won’t tell nobody,” said Tabs. “I swear, Oscar, your secret’s safe with me.”

    Oscar’s tail swished back and forth, the gray fur bristled out. Then he dug his claws into the tabby and grinned, watching Tabs’ eyes grow wide. “I know you won’t talk, Tabs. You did enough of that last night with your cluck, cluck jokes.”

    “I didn’t….”

    One sharp bite cut him off…for good.

    Leaving Tab’s body in the ally, Oscar purred, thinking about his youth. He hadn’t always been a cold hearted killer. At one time he’d been some kid’s prize-winning pampered pet. More importantly, he’d never felt right in his old skin. His heart wanted to roam the land, to hunt and kill. He couldn’t do that in a cage.

    First opportunity Oscar got he slipped his prison and found a surgeon who could make is dreams come true. It took two years to complete the change and another to work his way into the organization. Now he ruled the neighborhood. The last payment to the doctor was sent eight years ago.

    Tabs had been an old friend from the farm, the only one who knew his past. Some friendships get old, worn out. Last night’s joke in front of the guys was the last straw for Tabs. Now he was gone. No one else knew how Oscar really started life. Even the doctor had experience a small ‘accident’ recently. No one would ever know Oscar had been born a chicken.

  • Winter’s Night

    “Go ahead. I know you’ve hungered after my flesh your whole life.”

    The old wolf sat only inches from Buffalo’s throat, but only licked the festering wound on her hip. With one golden eye and the other silvery blue, she studied his face. A jagged white stripe decorated his brow.

    “You’re old and stringy now, too tough for my teeth. A calf would be easier to chew.”

    Buffalo stifled a laugh. “There’ll be none until spring. You’ll have to make do with me. I’m too tired to fight anymore, easy game. One of us at least should live.”

    “Well it won’t be me. I no longer have the strength to bite your shaggy hide. Even my pack has left me for dead.”

    “Perhaps Bear will put us both out of our misery.”

    “Bear sleeps. Even Crow hides from this blustery snow, warm in his roost.”

    “Then let me die in peace.”

    “Humph. Peace. You think I don’t wish for such a thing. I’m cold and tired. Death claws both our hides.”

    “Rest with me. Perhaps some good will come of this end.”

    Wolf curled up against Buffalo and closed her eyes. Content, their spirits leaped for the sky together. Snow soon hid their bodies.

    ***

    “What odd looking hatchlings we have this spring,” said Mother Hawk.

    Father Hawk studied the two chicks. One had a strange white stripe across his face; the other had one silvery blue eye. They snuggled against each other as if winter clawed at them.