Oliver sat in the back like he was watching a trainwreck.
Rio Luna's courtroom doubled as the Town Council's meeting place. The five men huddled behind the judge's bench, shoulder to shoulder, squeezing their chairs together to fit behind the large wooden block. The gavel was pushed aside but the message was not lost on Fran.
The Chairman had a shaggy gray moustache, the hairs of which floated when he talked. The other council members nodded up and down along with the Chairman's voice.
The issue was paint. To be specific, paint the Chairman called gaudy and "not at all in the spirit of the Rio Luna town philosophy of conduct." The person in question was young, and female, and new. Not really new, because she was born in Rio Luna, but new because she decided to paint the bar a different color after she inherited the business from her deceased father. New because she had just added a small renovation to her bar and was serving coffee in the morning.
The paint was neon and the style was semi-Victorian, and the few tourists that flew through Rio Luna on their way to Vegas preferred it, rather than the old cafe with vinyl seats.
And the old cafe was owned by the Chairman's brother. Fran took her coffee at the bar.
The young bar owner, in her twenties, poor thing, was rubbing her thumbnail with her index finger, over and over again, and was looking sideways at the council, making eye contact, but keeping her head averted all the same. Her testimony was fractured and nervous, and no one in the meeting remembered what she said.
Fran sat at the folding table behind the podium, put together in her button-up dress. To her amazement, the only emotion she could muster was amusement.
The Chairman finished speaking, and said, "Well, Fran, unless you have a response to that, I will call a vote to close the bar. I think we've all decided."
Fran said, "Two words come to mind." She pointed at the Chairman. "Pontificator." She pointed to the other four men behind the judge's bench. "Sycophants."
The court room was silent. Fran wasn't sure if they were stunned or if they needed a dictionary.
Showing posts with label Fran and Oliver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fran and Oliver. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Carrying On
Fran opened the door into her home and heard voices. She walked through the dining room to say hello to Oliver, to ask what he was doing home so early. Then the woman's laugh drifted through the closed kitchen door, and Fran stopped.
Cabinets opened and closed, dishes and silverware were set on the table, the water ran in the sink and was quiet. The smell of cold roast and pickles and the sound of Oliver's low, pleased grumble made it to Fran, all the way to the dining room.
Fran would have rather caught them in bed.
She nudged the door open and walked into the kitchen, pretending to be surprised, as if she were the one who had something to hide. The woman was a young beatnik, dressed impossibly in long blue striped pants and a flowered blue shirt, and bare feet. She was standing behind Oliver as if to be ready in case he needed more food, or salt, or a refill on his coffee. They were not touching.
"I thought you volunteered at the school on Tuesdays," Oliver said to her, an accusation.
"I had a headache," Fran said.
Fran had always imagined hippies smelled bad and didn't comb their hair, but this young woman smelled like lavender and had long, silky brown hair tied neatly with a scarf. Fran could see a soft freckled shoulder and no bra strap. The woman gathered Oliver's empty plate and placed it in the sink, and without a trace of shame, set to doing the dishes. The plate, the fork, the cup and the dish towel found their homes while Oliver and Fran looked on, as if they were watching the theater.
It was Fran, not Oliver, she addressed. "Tears will build up in your ears if you don't cry them out, and then you won't hear anything." She touched Fran's face and left, and they both watched her climb into her little white Ford Falcon parked across the street and drive away, still barefoot.
It was the only day in their entire marriage that Fran did not make dinner. She lay in the lavender-scented bed and listened as the children came home from school, while Oliver boomed that their mother wasn't feeling well and he would take everyone out for hamburgers and shakes.
In the twilight of their lives, in one of her deliriums, Fran would take electric pruning shears to her husband, but they never spoke of it.
To read more about Fran and Oliver, and the electric pruning shears episode, click "Fran and Oliver" on the right, or search for "The Toe," one of my fiction stories.
Cabinets opened and closed, dishes and silverware were set on the table, the water ran in the sink and was quiet. The smell of cold roast and pickles and the sound of Oliver's low, pleased grumble made it to Fran, all the way to the dining room.
Fran would have rather caught them in bed.
She nudged the door open and walked into the kitchen, pretending to be surprised, as if she were the one who had something to hide. The woman was a young beatnik, dressed impossibly in long blue striped pants and a flowered blue shirt, and bare feet. She was standing behind Oliver as if to be ready in case he needed more food, or salt, or a refill on his coffee. They were not touching.
"I thought you volunteered at the school on Tuesdays," Oliver said to her, an accusation.
"I had a headache," Fran said.
Fran had always imagined hippies smelled bad and didn't comb their hair, but this young woman smelled like lavender and had long, silky brown hair tied neatly with a scarf. Fran could see a soft freckled shoulder and no bra strap. The woman gathered Oliver's empty plate and placed it in the sink, and without a trace of shame, set to doing the dishes. The plate, the fork, the cup and the dish towel found their homes while Oliver and Fran looked on, as if they were watching the theater.
It was Fran, not Oliver, she addressed. "Tears will build up in your ears if you don't cry them out, and then you won't hear anything." She touched Fran's face and left, and they both watched her climb into her little white Ford Falcon parked across the street and drive away, still barefoot.
It was the only day in their entire marriage that Fran did not make dinner. She lay in the lavender-scented bed and listened as the children came home from school, while Oliver boomed that their mother wasn't feeling well and he would take everyone out for hamburgers and shakes.
In the twilight of their lives, in one of her deliriums, Fran would take electric pruning shears to her husband, but they never spoke of it.
To read more about Fran and Oliver, and the electric pruning shears episode, click "Fran and Oliver" on the right, or search for "The Toe," one of my fiction stories.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Detour
Does God care more about the piss-ant town in the desert or the city, where the full-on press of people touch shoulders while their eyes bore into the sidewalk?
Fran wondered. Her husband's mind was closed to her. If she had to say whose mind she knew better, Oliver's or God's, she would say God's. She couldn't imagine Him up in the sky inhabiting every mind at once, shifting from Japan to China to Utah, and then deciding after weighing all the options to settle His gaze on her.
She sat on a cliff above the town, shoes off, toes in the grit and pebbles. It was noisy, but it wasn't. She thought she heard the highway twenty miles north, maybe a jake brake every once in a while. Western Kingbirds rushed the sun and lingered in the shade.
She smelled sage and sneezed.
If she were a betting woman, she'd put money on Him checking in on New York City, or at least somewhere on the East coast. She pondered the things all women ponder when they have a free moment:
apples
bananas
spaghetti (if she were back in New York the Italian deli would have the fresh pasta and marinara and she'd pick up some bread to go along with it)
but canned is fine, just fine
iron that shirt (and why Oliver started wearing plaid is beyond her)
organize the cupboard above the stove
send her daughter a birthday card (thirty two years already?)
psyche herself up for time with Oliver on the sofa tonight (she'd try not to be obvious about the fact that she'd rather be in the den reading a book)
butter
lemon
coffee cake
provolone
rye bread
batteries.
She traced a message for God in the sand, in case He happened to look there, then slipped her shoes on and walked to the grocery store.
Fran wondered. Her husband's mind was closed to her. If she had to say whose mind she knew better, Oliver's or God's, she would say God's. She couldn't imagine Him up in the sky inhabiting every mind at once, shifting from Japan to China to Utah, and then deciding after weighing all the options to settle His gaze on her.
She sat on a cliff above the town, shoes off, toes in the grit and pebbles. It was noisy, but it wasn't. She thought she heard the highway twenty miles north, maybe a jake brake every once in a while. Western Kingbirds rushed the sun and lingered in the shade.
She smelled sage and sneezed.
If she were a betting woman, she'd put money on Him checking in on New York City, or at least somewhere on the East coast. She pondered the things all women ponder when they have a free moment:
apples
bananas
spaghetti (if she were back in New York the Italian deli would have the fresh pasta and marinara and she'd pick up some bread to go along with it)
but canned is fine, just fine
iron that shirt (and why Oliver started wearing plaid is beyond her)
organize the cupboard above the stove
send her daughter a birthday card (thirty two years already?)
psyche herself up for time with Oliver on the sofa tonight (she'd try not to be obvious about the fact that she'd rather be in the den reading a book)
butter
lemon
coffee cake
provolone
rye bread
batteries.
She traced a message for God in the sand, in case He happened to look there, then slipped her shoes on and walked to the grocery store.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Ankle Biters
The horrid thing about giving birth was that the world expected her body to retreat into a certain round softness. Fran ripped the pins out of her hair and tossed the long strands aside, then hiked up her skirt and went down on all fours in the grass behind her garden shed. She did ten push ups, quick. Her first baby was only six months old but Fran wanted to shed her alien layered slabs of fat. She jumped up and studied herself in the shed's window. She saw no difference. All she had to show for her exercise were two bites on her ankles from the little black ants that managed to crawl unnoticed up her bare feet.
There's nothing sexier than a woman's ankles. And a red-checked skirt haphazard in folds, and dark brown hair flipped over one eye. Fran in the sunlight posing in front of the shed window - unaware that Oliver was inside the shed searching for his old favorite hammer to fix the creaky stair - was to Oliver tastier than moon pie and cold milk.
Later that evening they made baby number two.
There's nothing sexier than a woman's ankles. And a red-checked skirt haphazard in folds, and dark brown hair flipped over one eye. Fran in the sunlight posing in front of the shed window - unaware that Oliver was inside the shed searching for his old favorite hammer to fix the creaky stair - was to Oliver tastier than moon pie and cold milk.
Later that evening they made baby number two.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Toe
I found it in the desert, west of town. I saw Fran driving the old blue truck, loaded down with tree limbs and dead branches, and then I saw her climb out and pitch the stuff off the side of a shallow arroyo. It was seven in the morning, and I was walking before the heat had a chance to start baking the trail.
The toe was severed clean, like a surgeon had sliced it with a very sharp saw. It was the big toe, with a yellowed nail and a hairy toe knuckle. The bone was surrounded by meat that had dried some. It reminded me of a steak I’d forgotten about on the counter a couple of weeks ago; the desert air had sucked out the moisture and left dried, raw flesh, rough to the touch and darkened on the edges like jerky.
It rested on the sand, next to a tree limb with leaves already curling from the approaching heat.
I wondered if toeprints were like fingerprints, and if the victim could be identified from the whorls on the pad of the appendage. Did Fran know she had a toe in her truck?
I liked Fran. I did handyman work for her and her husband Oliver about once a week. Painting, mending fence, cleaning the gutters – whatever they needed. Fran always told me I was “a fine young man, but too skinny,” so she fed me dinner often: fried chicken, thick mustard potato salad, green butter beans and apple pie. I’d be shoveling in the garden and she’d take my dirty hand in her frail, spider-webbed one, and tell me to stop and eat. Sometimes she would forget my name was Chris and call me Allen or Bill, but I never corrected her. She was in her eighties, after all.
I shrugged off my backpack and got a sandwich bag full of grapes. I sat on the sand with my back to the sun so my face would be shaded. An ant found the toe, and began chewing on the fresh end near the nail. I finished the grapes and put the toe in the bag.
I kept the rest of the hike short and on the way back, I looked down where the toe had been resting. A column of ants were milling about, probably confused that the meal one of them had found was gone.
I took the toe to Tom. He was the local sheriff, the only law enforcement for fifty miles or so. I figured a severed toe was worth reporting, but I wasn’t sure what Tom could do with it.
Tom didn’t touch it at first, just sat with his arms crossed and looked at it through the plastic bag. “And where did you say you found this?”
“On my hike,” I said. “You know the trail that goes west past the arroyo?”
“Did you notice any footprints, or anything unusual about the area?” Tom asked. “There could be a whole body up there.”
“Just the toe, nothing else,” I said. “I don’t think there’s a body up there.”
“I’ll have to check it out,” Tom said. “Do you think you could take me to the spot?”
I don’t know why I lied to Tom. It just sort of happened. I took him well short of where Fran had dumped her tree branches. I made him believe I’d found the thing about three hundred yards up the trail off the paved road. Tom knelt down and looked at the footprints on the path, mushed up and vague in the sand, and took a sample of dirt in the place I’d told him I found it.
Fran had me whitewashing the fence and moving paving stones that afternoon. Oliver, in his eighties himself, waited until the shade had found the front steps before he ventured out. He was dressed as usual in a white button down shirt and high-waisted pants with suspenders. The cane was new, though.
“Oliver, did you hurt your leg?” I asked.
“Just an accident,” Oliver said. “Can’t stay young forever.”
I noticed he had one shoe on. A white sock covered the other foot, and I could see the bulky outline of a bandage underneath.
Fran poked her head out of the door, and I smelled pot roast. “Chris doesn’t want you to start in on your stories, dear. He’s hungry. Come and eat.”
The potatoes were buttery and the carrots tender, but all I could think about was the big toe.
We finished dinner and Oliver and I sat on the porch while Fran cleaned up the kitchen.
“How did you lose your big toe, Oliver?” I asked.
Oliver drew in his lips and gripped his cane before him with white knuckles. “Did Fran tell you? I didn’t think she’d remember.”
“I saw her dumping tree branches out of her truck, and I found the toe. I gave it to Tom.”
“Why would you do that? What in the hell will Tom do with a thing like that?” Oliver asked. His hands shook.
Something metal clattered to the floor in the kitchen, and Fran screamed. I rushed in and saw Fran holding her arm, blood everywhere, and her carving knife on the linoleum at her feet. Oliver limped to her and pressed a kitchen towel into her wound. She cried and fought against him, and then Oliver began to cry. It was the most bizarre scene I had ever witnessed: Fran seemed not to be in pain from her cut, but terrified of her husband of fifty years, straining against his arms so that the veins showed in her neck, as if she didn’t recognize him.
“Shhh, honey, quiet, it’s me,” Oliver was shouting over her screams, tears on his cheeks.
After about two minutes, but what seemed like an hour, Fran stopped moving and stared at Oliver as if he had just walked in for his dessert. Her expression was calm, almost happy. We bandaged her arm and took her to the bedroom, where Oliver stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He led me out to the front porch. “If you tell Tom, if you tell anyone she lopped off my toe with the electric pruning shears, I will cut something off you myself.”
“What is wrong with her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Could be Alzheimer’s or some type of dementia. That’s what our doctor in Flagstaff said. We didn’t catch it until the advanced stages.” Oliver paused, and closed his eyes. “The doctor thinks she’ll pass soon.”
“Pass? As in die?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. She was active. She had cooked our dinner that night, worked in the garden all day.
“Chris, there’s a lot you don’t see. She’s moved those paving stones three times now. She forgets. She gets mad at me, and comes at me.”
“How about help? A nursing home or something? All these accidents…”
“That wouldn’t work. Now drop it. And like I said, if you tell anyone, I’ll take the pruning shears to you myself.”
Then Oliver sighed, big. I should have written down the words he said: “Every moment with her is a gift. The times she’s smiling at me, the times she doesn’t know who I am and the times she wants to hurt me. Sometimes around dusk she starts crying and she can’t stop, and the nights when I can comfort her, when she knows me, I hold her until she falls asleep. The nights she doesn’t know me, well, I just sit outside the bedroom door until she cries herself to sleep. When she’s out for the night, I sit on this porch and drink beer and watch the moon and I feel as lonely as anybody has ever felt. When she passes away – and she will, soon – I’ll sit on this god damn porch and drink beer and watch the moon and feel lonelier.”
I picked a time of day I thought they would like, when the sun was setting in the west and almost down and the stars were just starting to come out. The sand crunched under my hiking boots and I could almost hear the spiders wake up to start their nighttime skitters. Broken, tinder-dry branches formed a pile up ahead, and I took the paper bag marked “Evidence” out of my backpack. Tom had looked at me funny when I asked for the toe, but he hadn’t done anything to investigate the case and wrote me off as just a weird kid wanting a souvenir. The toe was defrosted from its time in the chest freezer at the sheriff’s office and almost exactly as I had found it a year before. I placed it on the sand near the branches, and said a silent prayer for Oliver and Fran, dead within two weeks of each other, lying in graves in the Rio Luna cemetery.
I don’t know why, but it felt right to let the ants pick the bone clean, to carry Oliver’s toe piece by piece to their hill.
The toe was severed clean, like a surgeon had sliced it with a very sharp saw. It was the big toe, with a yellowed nail and a hairy toe knuckle. The bone was surrounded by meat that had dried some. It reminded me of a steak I’d forgotten about on the counter a couple of weeks ago; the desert air had sucked out the moisture and left dried, raw flesh, rough to the touch and darkened on the edges like jerky.
It rested on the sand, next to a tree limb with leaves already curling from the approaching heat.
I wondered if toeprints were like fingerprints, and if the victim could be identified from the whorls on the pad of the appendage. Did Fran know she had a toe in her truck?
I liked Fran. I did handyman work for her and her husband Oliver about once a week. Painting, mending fence, cleaning the gutters – whatever they needed. Fran always told me I was “a fine young man, but too skinny,” so she fed me dinner often: fried chicken, thick mustard potato salad, green butter beans and apple pie. I’d be shoveling in the garden and she’d take my dirty hand in her frail, spider-webbed one, and tell me to stop and eat. Sometimes she would forget my name was Chris and call me Allen or Bill, but I never corrected her. She was in her eighties, after all.
I shrugged off my backpack and got a sandwich bag full of grapes. I sat on the sand with my back to the sun so my face would be shaded. An ant found the toe, and began chewing on the fresh end near the nail. I finished the grapes and put the toe in the bag.
I kept the rest of the hike short and on the way back, I looked down where the toe had been resting. A column of ants were milling about, probably confused that the meal one of them had found was gone.
I took the toe to Tom. He was the local sheriff, the only law enforcement for fifty miles or so. I figured a severed toe was worth reporting, but I wasn’t sure what Tom could do with it.
Tom didn’t touch it at first, just sat with his arms crossed and looked at it through the plastic bag. “And where did you say you found this?”
“On my hike,” I said. “You know the trail that goes west past the arroyo?”
“Did you notice any footprints, or anything unusual about the area?” Tom asked. “There could be a whole body up there.”
“Just the toe, nothing else,” I said. “I don’t think there’s a body up there.”
“I’ll have to check it out,” Tom said. “Do you think you could take me to the spot?”
I don’t know why I lied to Tom. It just sort of happened. I took him well short of where Fran had dumped her tree branches. I made him believe I’d found the thing about three hundred yards up the trail off the paved road. Tom knelt down and looked at the footprints on the path, mushed up and vague in the sand, and took a sample of dirt in the place I’d told him I found it.
Fran had me whitewashing the fence and moving paving stones that afternoon. Oliver, in his eighties himself, waited until the shade had found the front steps before he ventured out. He was dressed as usual in a white button down shirt and high-waisted pants with suspenders. The cane was new, though.
“Oliver, did you hurt your leg?” I asked.
“Just an accident,” Oliver said. “Can’t stay young forever.”
I noticed he had one shoe on. A white sock covered the other foot, and I could see the bulky outline of a bandage underneath.
Fran poked her head out of the door, and I smelled pot roast. “Chris doesn’t want you to start in on your stories, dear. He’s hungry. Come and eat.”
The potatoes were buttery and the carrots tender, but all I could think about was the big toe.
We finished dinner and Oliver and I sat on the porch while Fran cleaned up the kitchen.
“How did you lose your big toe, Oliver?” I asked.
Oliver drew in his lips and gripped his cane before him with white knuckles. “Did Fran tell you? I didn’t think she’d remember.”
“I saw her dumping tree branches out of her truck, and I found the toe. I gave it to Tom.”
“Why would you do that? What in the hell will Tom do with a thing like that?” Oliver asked. His hands shook.
Something metal clattered to the floor in the kitchen, and Fran screamed. I rushed in and saw Fran holding her arm, blood everywhere, and her carving knife on the linoleum at her feet. Oliver limped to her and pressed a kitchen towel into her wound. She cried and fought against him, and then Oliver began to cry. It was the most bizarre scene I had ever witnessed: Fran seemed not to be in pain from her cut, but terrified of her husband of fifty years, straining against his arms so that the veins showed in her neck, as if she didn’t recognize him.
“Shhh, honey, quiet, it’s me,” Oliver was shouting over her screams, tears on his cheeks.
After about two minutes, but what seemed like an hour, Fran stopped moving and stared at Oliver as if he had just walked in for his dessert. Her expression was calm, almost happy. We bandaged her arm and took her to the bedroom, where Oliver stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He led me out to the front porch. “If you tell Tom, if you tell anyone she lopped off my toe with the electric pruning shears, I will cut something off you myself.”
“What is wrong with her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Could be Alzheimer’s or some type of dementia. That’s what our doctor in Flagstaff said. We didn’t catch it until the advanced stages.” Oliver paused, and closed his eyes. “The doctor thinks she’ll pass soon.”
“Pass? As in die?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. She was active. She had cooked our dinner that night, worked in the garden all day.
“Chris, there’s a lot you don’t see. She’s moved those paving stones three times now. She forgets. She gets mad at me, and comes at me.”
“How about help? A nursing home or something? All these accidents…”
“That wouldn’t work. Now drop it. And like I said, if you tell anyone, I’ll take the pruning shears to you myself.”
Then Oliver sighed, big. I should have written down the words he said: “Every moment with her is a gift. The times she’s smiling at me, the times she doesn’t know who I am and the times she wants to hurt me. Sometimes around dusk she starts crying and she can’t stop, and the nights when I can comfort her, when she knows me, I hold her until she falls asleep. The nights she doesn’t know me, well, I just sit outside the bedroom door until she cries herself to sleep. When she’s out for the night, I sit on this porch and drink beer and watch the moon and I feel as lonely as anybody has ever felt. When she passes away – and she will, soon – I’ll sit on this god damn porch and drink beer and watch the moon and feel lonelier.”
I picked a time of day I thought they would like, when the sun was setting in the west and almost down and the stars were just starting to come out. The sand crunched under my hiking boots and I could almost hear the spiders wake up to start their nighttime skitters. Broken, tinder-dry branches formed a pile up ahead, and I took the paper bag marked “Evidence” out of my backpack. Tom had looked at me funny when I asked for the toe, but he hadn’t done anything to investigate the case and wrote me off as just a weird kid wanting a souvenir. The toe was defrosted from its time in the chest freezer at the sheriff’s office and almost exactly as I had found it a year before. I placed it on the sand near the branches, and said a silent prayer for Oliver and Fran, dead within two weeks of each other, lying in graves in the Rio Luna cemetery.
I don’t know why, but it felt right to let the ants pick the bone clean, to carry Oliver’s toe piece by piece to their hill.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Fran's Room
Janet, Fran's seven year old daughter, had gone into her mother's garden shed and cleaned everything. The flower pots, the spades and pitchforks and the seed packets were all neatly organized. It was early spring before the first planting, and Fran could only assume that Janet thought she would be doing something nice for her mother.
The truth was Fran's garden shed was the only room that was purely hers, and she liked it messy. It was an antidote to spotless floors and the sparkling kitchen and pressed curtains. Dust bunnies did not survive, could not find a nest in the darkest closet corners of the house. Garden dirt was something Fran needed, so she let it creep into the shed and stay there, let the seed packets fall out of alphabetical order, kept cracked flower pots for their character. She had one pair of garden gloves, unused. Last fall her dirt-caked fingers had traced a design in the soft yielding muck that lived on one of the shelves. A sun, a river, a tree. A reminder for Fran in the spring of the peace the garden would bring.
Janet had wiped clean the design, the muck; had thrown out the cracked flowerpots.
It was the first grown-up talk Fran had with Janet, the first of many.
"Sometimes women need messes in their lives," Fran said as she hugged her daughter and wiped the tears. "This year I want you to help me in the garden and learn how good it feels to get dirty once in a while."
The truth was Fran's garden shed was the only room that was purely hers, and she liked it messy. It was an antidote to spotless floors and the sparkling kitchen and pressed curtains. Dust bunnies did not survive, could not find a nest in the darkest closet corners of the house. Garden dirt was something Fran needed, so she let it creep into the shed and stay there, let the seed packets fall out of alphabetical order, kept cracked flower pots for their character. She had one pair of garden gloves, unused. Last fall her dirt-caked fingers had traced a design in the soft yielding muck that lived on one of the shelves. A sun, a river, a tree. A reminder for Fran in the spring of the peace the garden would bring.
Janet had wiped clean the design, the muck; had thrown out the cracked flowerpots.
It was the first grown-up talk Fran had with Janet, the first of many.
"Sometimes women need messes in their lives," Fran said as she hugged her daughter and wiped the tears. "This year I want you to help me in the garden and learn how good it feels to get dirty once in a while."
Saturday, January 2, 2010
New Year for Fran
I wrote about Fran for the One Minute Writer's Fiction writing prompt today http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/2010/01/friday-well-saturday-fiction-new-year.html .
P.S. Lots of women leaving men-themed fiction on this prompt... interesting.
P.S. Lots of women leaving men-themed fiction on this prompt... interesting.
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