Born and raised in Nebraska, Merry Muhsman is sometimes a fantasy writer, sometimes a nonfiction writer, sometimes a flash fiction writer. Basically, she’s a writer of a lot of styles. She reads a lot of different styles, too, which often influence her writing. As Forest Gump once said, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.” And so is the case of this site. Merry still lives on a farm with her husband and son, a dog and lots of cats.
“There are three of them. THREE,” I said a bit over dramatically because no one was truly understanding the gravity of the situation.
My husband smiled. “They do tend to multiply.” He sorts through the mail sitting on the counter, discarding the junk into a pile, and picking up his bills, then setting them on the counter where he plugs in his phone.
We have a letter sorter. Nothing fancy, just a plastic letter sorter that sits on the desk. It’s meant to organize those letters for easy access. Instead, we just leave our letters in a pile on the counter until company comes over or the bills are due.
“How did you manage to get the mail from God’s creatures?”
“Hmph,” I uttered. “Don’t make them sound nice.” Evil minion from hell seemed more appropriate.
“You didn’t see me? I saw you stop at the end of the field while I was getting the mail.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I was trying to adjust the sprayer.” He paused and leaned on the counter. “Why?” He gave me his best “dad” stare—the one that says basically, “what did you do?”
What did I do indeed? Well it started off with a song and something like an exorcism.
***
I strode down to the mailbox, needing a walk after my office job had me tied to the desk all day. And no one had gotten the mail.
This would need to be addressed at the dinner table tomorrow night. There are three vehicles that drive past the mailbox on their way up the driveway.
Three.
The air was heavy, like walking through a blanket of hot hair. There is nothing quite so humbling like humidity in Nebraska.
I opened the mailbox with some force, and backed away quickly. The box had been cleared of webs and the swollen egg sack in the back. Still I did not trust that the spider didn’t linger there.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the mail and flung it on the gravel road, like I was tossing holy water to scare out anything evil.
Nothing moved on the ground.
I kicked it with my foot and then she emerged. Scrambling from beneath two envelopes, a black spider scurried off the hot gravel into the church newsletter.
I yelped, scurried back and started to utter words that might make a sailor blush.
Of all the places to hide, the church newsletter was folded in half, multiple pages and plenty of folds to hide in.
I picked up the rest of the mail, looking for the other two spiders. I looked back into the box and saw two black spots cowering in the back. “As you should,” I snapped and slammed the lid shut.
Looking back at the ground and my current problem, I contemplated if the newsletter was worth picking up. There was an online version.
I looked down the road and saw my husband’s John Deere tractor and sprayer parked in the corner of the field. Could he see me? I’m sure he knows why I’m at the mailbox and pausing way too long.
I sighed. I have to overcome this. The mail is on the ground. I have two shoes and a heck of a stomp. I can do this.
I turned back to the newsletter. I couldn’t leave it on the ground because someone will stop, pick it up and bring it in the house, including the spider.
I will not relive that experience again! I sent a silent prayer into the clear, blue sky.
I remembered an old African tune that one of our member’s used to sing. Earnie had a voice that would shake the foundations of our church and awaken your soul. It was deep, beautiful and joyous. His voice now joins the angels in heaven.
Thinking of him gave me an idea.
I kicked the newsletter again, skidding it across the hot gravel. Nothing moved.
Ok we will do this the hard way.
I picked up the newsletter. With trembling hands, I ripped open the seal, shook the pages and started to sing. I may not be able to sing like Earnie, but I can try.
“Get thee spider out
Get thee spider out
Get thee spider out of my church newsletter.”
The black shape scurried out of the pages and into the grass.
“Hallelujah!” I hollered, jumped in the air and fist bumped heaven.
I scooped up the newsletter and kept humming my new tune as I walked up the lane.
I am not naïve enough to think that spider won’t crawl back into the mailbox, but if she does, I’m armed with my song.
Today, we meet Juneta Key, author of Raising Magic in the Space Wizards short story anthology.
Welcome Juneta! So happy to interview you today! Let’s dive in!
1. Was there a moment while writing your Space Wizards story when everything suddenly ‘clicked’?
Well, normally I am an under-writer, meaning I have trouble with anything over 2,500 to 3,000 words. This story, I doubled the word count goal. I created a series world; oh no, this is supposed to be a short story around 4,000 to 6,000 words. What do I do? I decided to build the story around the father–daughter theme as focus rather than plot or world building, which there was plenty of. Could I make this a satisfying short read? Despite the fact that it’s set up for a continuing series? I’ll let you be the judge. It clicked once the story was centered on the theme.
2. How would you describe your writing style to someone who’s never read your work?
My writing blends wonder, mystery, adventure and heart with a touch of humor. I love exploring the complexity of human nature through speculative fiction, whether I’m writing about grumpy old gods, midlife heroines, star-traveling wizards, ghosts, or ordinary people discovering they are capable of extraordinary things.
At its core, my work is character-driven. I’m fascinated by the choices people make, the stories they tell themselves, and the moments that transform them into heroes, anti-heroes, villains, or something beautifully in between. Relationships matter deeply in my stories—family, found family, friendship, romance, loyalty, and betrayal often sit alongside magic, mystery and adventure.
Readers can expect evocative settings, mythic undertones, emotional journeys, and a sense of discovery. I enjoy balancing wonder with humor, hope with loss, and the extraordinary with the familiar. Even in stories filled with ghosts, ancient powers, or spaceships, I want readers to recognize something true about themselves and the people around them.
If I had to describe my style in a few words, I’d call it evocative, mythic, adventurous, a little magical, and somewhat humorous—with plenty of heart.
3. What themes do you seem to return to, whether you mean to or not?
Whether I intend to or not, I seem to return again and again to stories about belonging, identity and transformation.
My characters are often searching for where they fit in the world, discovering who they truly are, or learning to embrace parts of themselves they once feared, denied or misunderstood. They are frequently outsiders, people carrying old wounds, hidden legacies, difficult choices, or responsibilities they never asked for.
Found family appears repeatedly in my work. I am drawn to stories about collecting your people, creating community, and discovering that family is not always defined by blood, but by love, loyalty, and the people who choose to stand beside us.
Another theme I revisit is resilience—the idea that, even after loss, betrayal, grief or failure, people can rebuild themselves and create something meaningful from what remains. My stories often ask what survives after everything changes and whether we can become stronger, wiser, and more compassionate because of what we’ve endured.
I also find myself exploring the power of stories, memory and legacy. I am fascinated by the myths we inherit, the stories we tell ourselves, and how those narratives shape who we become.
Ultimately, I write about hope. Even when my stories venture into darkness, mystery or heartbreak, I return to the belief that healing is possible, connection matters, and there is still magic to be found in living.
The questions are unconsciously woven into every story I write because I ask them of myself.
Who am I really?
Where do I belong?
Who are my people?
What do I do with the wounds I carry?
Can I become something more than what happened to me?
How do we keep hope alive when the world changes around us?
4. What is one fact about you that might surprise people?
I live in a nursing home as of 2024; I was 61, but my mind still thinks I’m 30. I still dream like I’m 25 if being honest.
5. Are you a hoarder collector of anything?
Clears throat, ah…Star Wars.
6. What’s one habit or quirk that sneaks into all your writing?
A funny or lovable side character or sidekick.
7. Do you plan everything in advance, or discover the story character?
Pantsy most the way, but I’m a linear writer. Sometimes I check structure to gain insight and ideas.
8. How did your story idea originally begin – as a joke, an image, a question?
A wizard with a pointy hat, as a side character, while looking at the anthology theme and cover.
9. What do you hope readers feel when they finish your story?
That they want more, but are satisfied. Would like to spend more time with the characters.
10. Which character (if any) surprised you the most while writing?
Kelerii, or maybe Hapster, who was tiny, but mighty.
11. Be honest: wizard hat – yes or no? Why/why not?
Yes. I love it. It’s humorous, quirky, and holds authority in a magical world. I see them as kind of wizard ceremony hats.
12. Star Trek or Star Wars and why?
STAR WARS: It’s space opera, it’s about family, fighting the darkness and embracing it. BUT I love Star Trek too; seen every series and still watching. This is society as a whole, not one family’s effect on the galaxy.
13. Are you a Firefly fan? Why/why not?
Yes. Love the whole concept. They describe it as a space western, with a renegade crew and quirky characters right up my alley. I liked Serenity too, the sequel.
Buy Space Wizards from Barnes & Noble, Apple, Kobo and PubShare.
Prepare to be spellbound by this (mostly) light-hearted short story anthology offering a blend of science fiction and fantasy with one common theme: wizards and outer space. Imagine a galaxy in which magic is fused with machine, luxury space cruises run by cyborgs are the norm and familiars are a little… different.
Join the adventures of a powerful space wizard during wartime, a young wizard-in-training with her griffon familiar, and a time-travelling biker wizard who accidentally ends up in the future – well, sort of. Let’s not forget the caustic robot familiar cat, a faulty 3D printer causing magical havoc, spells gone wrong, space pirates, and a junior contract analyst who experiences a series of inexplicable, extremely inconvenient events as a result of a strange cube his team recovered as space debris.
That’s not all! A quantum conjuring that violates the laws of thermodynamics – check. A wizard in a Wild West-type setting – check. An ancient maths book that might hold the key to immortality – check. An adrenaline junkie smuggler and a daring rescue – check. Add an intergalactic circus with a shifty shifter, a bioship giving birth under dire circumstances and a moulting wyrmling with the potential to explode planets, and you have an anthology that is sure to enchant you until the last word and beyond.
Juneta Key is a Texan living in Florida who writes speculative fiction filled with magic, adventure, mystery, romance, and the wonderfully complicated nature of people.
She loves writing about space opera, fantasy, paranormal women’s fiction, grumpy old gods, strange worlds, unlikely heroes, and the choices that turn ordinary people into legends. Her stories often blend humor, mythology, mystery, and heart while exploring the shadows and strengths that make us human—whether the characters are human, magical, alien, or something in between.
She is a published author, co-owner and senior editor of Stormdance Publications, and an administrator for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group.
She is a story development coach and craft teacher.
Juneta is currently working on her planned six-book paranormal women’s fiction series, Midlife Ghostwalker: Katje Storm.
Readers can join herfiction subscription on Reamfor early access to Katje Storm stories, exclusive fiction, behind-the-scenes updates, sneak peeks, and a front-row seat as the series unfolds.
Readers can join herfiction subscription on Reamfor early access to Katje Storm stories, exclusive fiction, behind-the-scenes updates, sneak peeks, and a front-row seat as the series unfolds.
Today is publication day, and I am on cloud nine today!
I’m included a free preview of my story here. There’s 11 stories in the Space Wizards anthology, and for only $3.99, it’s a bargain.
More to come, but for now, enjoy this little preview.
The Dragon on Deck 12
I cradled the ball of lightning in my palm. Beads of sweat trickled down my neck.
“Hold, Amber. Don’t let the sphere overcome you. Allow it to grow; pull the power through your fingertips as if you’re stretching the magic like a string. Yes, that’s it.”
Maser Wexell leaned on his knees, hands folded as if in prayer. I wavered, caught the sphere in my hand. His metal beard tinkled as he shook his head.
“I got it,” I said with more certainty than I felt.
I traced my finger back from the iridescent sphere, pulling it into a teardrop.
“Remember your mother.”
My mind skittered back to the moment my mother had enveloped me in a crystal sphere. I narrowed my eyes and the sphere crystalized, grew larger.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. I stiffened. I knew those footsteps all too well. The memory faded, and the sphere slipped away from me, floating on its own. I flicked my finger to bring it back, but it continued to float away. It grew until it filled the space between Master Wexell and me.
The door swished open. The sound startled me and the sphere burst, showering me with tiny pieces of ice that sizzled on my hot skin. Other shards piled on the ground before lifting into the air in a dark cloud.
“Amber!” Captain Maverick shouted.
Thanks for reading, and feel free to share this post!
I am pleased to announce my story, “The Dragon on Deck 12” is almost here!
My story is part of anthology called, “Wizards in Space”. There’s 11 stories in one book, and it retails for $3.99. I will post the link when it’s up for sale this Friday, July 24th!
Up until a few months ago, I had never written a Sci Fi story. I read Sci Fi sometimes, but mostly I’m comfortable in fantasy. One day a Vanessa Finaughty, a writer friend of mine and who I have featured here on the blog before, reached out because she was putting together an anthology.
Sure, I thought. I can do this. Well, the deadline was in 10 weeks. It was mid-December. There was Christmas and New Years and taxes. And… life! I panicked.
I can barely write a blog every two weeks, let alone a short story.
I did the math, and I knew I could write 150 words daily. The story will be sloppy, need lots of editing, but at 150 words, I figured I could get it done in about six weeks. I actually got it done in four weeks. Which left me about six weeks to polish it.
It might not have been my best work from the start, but this goal was more about proving to myself that I could do it. And I crushed it. I had always been a write when you feel like it, or write on this day, but daily? Not happening. Until it did.
I’d like to say I applied this goal to a new fantasy novel. And I did. For a few days, but I made that goal 500 words. That was a bit too much, and I haven’t touched it since.
Lesson learned. Just because I could write a short story quickly, it doesn’t mean I should take that goal times 5 and expect the same result. I suppose it’s like running a 1 mile race and then signing up for a 16 mile race, without putting in the training.
I can’t wait for you to read my dragon story. It’s funny, dramatic and heartwarming. Friday I will give you the link where to purchase. It’s a great end-of-summer read!
In the meantime, see if you can find my dragon in this group photo of characters from all the stories.
And we are looking for people to review the book. Message me if you’re interested!
It’s been a year since I stopped getting the mail. A year since I have been petrified, gained more gray hairs and unable to do the simple act of opening a box to retrieve my mail.
I am engaging in battle again. There are spiders in my mailbox. Three of them. The hate is once again pulsing in my veins.
Photo by Abstrakt Xxcellence Studios on Pexels.com
I am not a hateful person in general. I don’t mind mice or snakes or even rats. But spiders and I have a long history of hate. No love. Never love. Simply hate.
And for good reason.
Take for example the fact that spiders are lazy. You heard me. They are lazy.
Oh I get it. You’re thinking that they build these beautiful webs. Just look at how the dew clings to the web in an intricate pattern in the early morning light. Sure. Maybe I can get on board with that. It makes a pretty picture, but consider this. Spiders build a web, and then they sit in the middle. Waiting for their food. Not stalking their prey, just hoping the good Lord blesses them with a fly.
Worse, those webs are nearly invisible, and they are sticky even to humans. Have you ever tried to shake a web from your hand? As Daffy Duck said, “Despicable!”
Imagine walking up the stairs, ducking your head just in case their “creation” is in your path, miscalculating the web’s distance and running headfirst into it. The spider drops in front of your face, screaming at you about ruining your home. You run upstairs into the hayloft shrieking like a beauty pageant contest who ate an entire donut and then realizes the swimsuit competition is the next event.
Your dog races up the stairs, circling the hayloft of the barn, looking for the predator that nearly killed his owner.
It has happened.
Some spiders just run around, chasing people, curling up on their hydraulic legs, spinning around while their intended target screams bloody murder.
Some spiders even chase their intended victim because they got tired of the victim flushing her children down the toilet. If this should happen to you, jumping on top of the bathtub rim does work, and buys you time until your father comes in and takes care of the problem.
Screenshot
It has happened.
Some spiders take an existing, functional mailbox and turn it into their personal home. It’s like they are squatters in a house they aren’t paying rent for. Kick them out, and they move right back in. They turn your mail into their own personal hiding spot and then jump at you when you’re getting something that’s rightfully yours—the mail.
There could be that Publisher’s Clearing House check I’ve been waiting for. I’ve bought enough magazines that surely I’m going to win this year.
Alas, I’ll never know. I have stopped getting the mail.
The rain came down in gentle sheets, soft, but cold. It was an usually warm December. 40 degrees, and my kitten Zoey was missing. A coffee and cream-colored Siamese with a heart-shaped face and turquoise blue eyes.
Wearing my Carhartt jacket and muck boots, I shined the hand-held spotlight into the darkest corners of the trees and wet leaves as rain curtain fell down around me. Because Zoey was a kitten, I didn’t really know where she liked to go. Most of my cats had their territory mapped out, but Zoey was still finding her hunting grounds.
I shined the light on the ground, calling her name into the darkness. My heart thumped in my throat, and I tried to push down the panic. She had to be hiding out somewhere, likely wet and terrified.
I flicked the light into the trees, looking for the ever watching presence of a predator. We had owls. I heard them. Our farm had been around longer than Nebraska had been a state, and we had a healthy grove of trees. The grove was home to numerous critters, including owls and hawks. If a predator was in the tree, it would explain why Zoey wasn’t coming when I called.
A small shape on a straggly branch caught my eye. I stilled. A really small bird. About 4 inches in size. I neared the thin tree and, my light caught a small owl sitting on a long, bare branch. It’s golden eyes stared down at me. Was this a baby owl? And if it was, was momma nearby stalking my Zoey?
I crept closer, ever mindful that at any moment this tiny creature would take off. I closed in, my rational mind kicked in, reminding me that the owl was not big enough to carry off Zoey. In fact, Zoey likely could carry the owl.
Curious, I crept closer. For a breath, I realize the irony… curiosity killed the cat.
If it was a baby owl, would momma owl swoop down in defense? I have seen those videos of stupid humans interacting with nature, but usually it was a bear cub or a bison, not an owl. And I didn’t have a cell phone. Clearly I was not like them.
I shined the spotlight into the trees, whipping it around like it was a sword to protect me. No momma owl in the trees. And thank the good Lord. No spiders.
Nothing. Just soft, gentle rain.
I neared the branch and the owl’s ear tufts on its head rotated back, like dark brown eyebrows, narrowing its tiny face. I cocked my head in fascination. The tiny owl’s mottled body framed a white chest and dark stripes ran down his body. His eyebrows reminded me of my mother who’s one eyebrow would arch up whenever she believed I was lying to her.
I stood beneath the tree, marveling that he was completely out in the open, getting wet and didn’t mind at all. He didn’t shrug off the rain, but just sat on the branch as if rain was just part of a life.
When was the last time I had just stopped to enjoy the rain? Or simply stare into the darkness, listening to the softness, the hush the world embraces during a winter rain.
If I was honest with myself, I spent most time outdoors with busy work like weeding the landscaping or the garden or mowing the lawn. Also avoiding any spiders crawling across the driveway.
Wisdom, isn’t that what I was talk about owls? They are wise. Bambi has a wise old owl, and the Tootsie Pops’ owl knew how many licks to get to the center.
Owls are the ones we seek for wisdom, answers to life’s ultimate questions. But at this moment, I would ask him where is Zoey? Have you seen her? Because the problem of the moment is all that I could see most days.
I recalled how often my mom and dad would sit on the picnic table and talk. No phones. No newspaper. No distractions, just the wind rustling the leaves above them, the occasional song of a cicada. The stopped, they listened to nature around them, sometimes each other, but mostly, they sat with their ice cold drink and looked out across the valley at the beauty of a summer crop of corn or beans.
They stopped to appreciate the moment, just like this owl was doing in the rain. Enjoying his nightly bath that only nature could provide.
The owl bobbed its head at me, and I smiled. He was curious. I was curious. If I reached up, I could pet him, stroke his feathers. Maybe, he’d even jump on my arm, and we could have a chat about life, rain in December.
An idea dawned in my mind. What if I could catch him? Bring him inside and teach him to hunt spiders. Did I have a cage? I had a dog kennel. That should work. And I could just cut this branch down and put it in the kennel.
He’s likely a screech owl. I know they are small. Baby owls by now would be much bigger than this by December.
And what would I feed him? I could look it up. I’d start with spiders of course. I would find some, or they would find me. Spiders always do.
I would train him and maybe find other owls and Nellie…
I stopped. Nellie. She would be so proud of me. She would find a way to get more screech owls, put armor on them, maybe tag them with a radio band on their leg.
The owl’s ear tufts rotated back. Just like Mom. I closed my eyes, suddenly the slightest hum of shame crossing my heart. What am I doing?
Had my fear of spiders led me to look at some wild, beautiful creature and consider to turn it into my own personal weapon. Or worse, a pet.
No, the owl deserved better.
I heard a high-pitched meow, and felt the familiar rub against my leg. I knelt down and scooped up Zoey, her little chirps echoing against my skin. She nuzzled her head against my neck.
I looked up, and the owl took flight from the branch and disappeared into the dark, gray night.
Be free my friend. If you happen to catch a spider, make sure it’s a big one.
I handed Thelma a tissue from my purse. “Why is it my fault?” It took all I had to not roll my eyes and swallow down the sarcasm.
Thelma blew her nose into the tissue with all the grace of Daffy Duck. “You should know. You’re the one that told me.” She wadded up the tissue and shook it at me. “Remember the fog?” She paused, wiped her nose. “The coyote snot?”
Something bubbled from my throat, and I giggled. Totally inappropriate. I leaned in anyway and laughed. “You believed me?” I managed through giggles. Nellie snickered, tried to cover her mouth and then let out the best, most contagious laugh I’d ever heard.
Thelma pushed away from the table and rose, her chair clattering to the ground. “I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously. “You lied to me,” she roared. Her face turned red as sunburn.
Oh she was serious.
I rose from my chair and walked around the table. She backed away. I put a hand out like I was taming a stray cat, leaned down and picked up her chair. “I am sorry Thelma, I will listen to you now.”
The apology seemed to take the bite out as she eased herself into the chair.
I eased down in the chair by her. “Please go on. I remember telling you about the coyotes creating fog, but I didn’t think you took me seriously.” I put a hand on her forearm. “I am ;. I only wanted you to give me my certified mail.”
“I would have given it to you,” she said, turning on me and pulling her tissues over her eyes. “I told… oh… I told the men at the coffee shop. They laughed at me.”
Heat flared up my spine, carried by a memory to the surface that I had thought I buried deep. One that reminded me of why I hadn’t talked to Thelma in many months. She had been my friend once upon a time when we were teenagers. It had been a few years, but I remembered when every eye turned on me because of something she said. Had I done the same to her?
“Do you remember when I moved back Minnesota, Thelma?” I asked. A “I-already-know-the-answer” tone to my voice. “I tried to rekindle our friendship from high school and you started a rumor that my husband left me because I had moved back without him. Do you remember?” Thelma stilled.
Nellie stiffened across from me. “I remember that,” her eyes widened and she pointed at Themla. “You started that rumor?”
Thelma sniffled. “Yes, but I thought it was true.”
The heat seared my skin. “Now who’s telling a lie? You called me and I told you that he was staying there until we sold the house. And yet, you didn’t stop the rumor. You could have.”
She sniffed and cleared her throat. “I know, I just… I was well…jealous. You made a life for yourself and I’m just a mail lady in a small town.” She paused and looked toward the wall, avoiding my gaze. “And now the laughing stock of the town.”
I shook my head. “Thelma, they will move on.”
“No, no they won’t. They will hold onto this one.” She stopped and put a tissue to her mouth. “I… it’s why I put the spider in your mailbox.”
“You did what?” The heat turned into an inferno, and the tips of my ears prickled. “I was terrified. That spider was almost as big as my hand.” I shivered.
“You killed it when you blew up your box,” she said low.
My eyebrows shut up in such an arch my own mother would be proud. “And I would do it again and again,” I said, through my teeth.
“Ladies,” Nellie tried to soothe us. ”Must we argue over this. As I see it you’re even.”
“Even? Really? She did the one thing she knew would terrify me.” I gave Thelma my best pirate smile. “I do believe tampering with a mailbox and holding someone’s mail might be criminal. A felony even?”
Once we had been friends, best friends in high school and then we grew apart. When I moved back home, I hoped to rekindle old friendship, laugh about old times, but Thelma always did things on her time, her terms. The relationship I tried to cultivate was like throwing good seed in rocky soil. Sometimes we had good moments, funny phone calls but most, my calls were sent to voicemail. My invitations to lunch were answered with excuses of how busy she was at the post office.
After the rumors started and I realized Thelma had initiated them, there was no going back to the friendship we had. I kept Thelma at a dis
Now, I truly saw Thelma for what she had always been. A bully who grew up to be a women with such little self-esteem that she had to belittle others to raise herself up. I almost pitied her. Almost.
Thelma’s pupils turned black; it was the only color on her pale face. “You killed my spider.”
What kind of screwed up logic is this? “You tried to scare me into coming to see you!”
“She was one of my favorites, too.”
“You have more?” I was mortified as if the spiders would crawl from her purse.
“I feed them,” she said with all the pride of a mother watching her children score a goal in at soccer practice.
Nellie leaned forward. “You do? We could use some creatures to well practice with.”
Thelma softened at the attention. “Well, they aren’t my pets, necessarily. They are just well…”
“Oh we would make sure you are well compensated.” Nellie paused, tapping her finger against her lips. “Maybe you could buy food, something besides tuna.” she wrinkled her nose.
“Everyone thinks government jobs pay well, but they don’t…” Thelma kept babbling, and I stopped listening.
I pushed back from my chair and mouthed “bye” to Nellie. She nodded and waved good-bye.
I didn’t need Thelma in my life, and no matter how nostalgic I might have felt when I moved back and tried to rekindle the friendship. People change, and sometimes that change is a sign to let go.
It was growing colder, and the spiders would go back to hibernating. I had a few months to figure out my next steps with my mail. But one thing I knew, I wouldn’t be going back to the local post office.
I wonder if I could get my mail rerouted to a different post office?
Nellie and Thelma bond over shared ideas for the spider bug busting job, and I go home shaking my head. Did I just create a new friendship?
For years, I’ve been told to write about my kitties; mainly my dear aunt asks and suggests and wonders why I haven’t written about my kitties yet?
I got inspired by a lady on Facebook who writes cow biographies. I thought why not cats? So in between spider stories, I plan to write a cat bio. Let me know what if you like them!
Lucky Luciano is the mob boss at the farm. He believe his true calling came from an unfortunate accident when he was a child. As a kitten, Lucky loved to climb, and he was good at it. Until one Saturday night he fell head first into a wood shredder.
Don’t worry. It was unplugged. This isn’t a crime scene story.
He was stuck upside down for 8 hours. With that perspective comes the loss of one of nine lives and the appreciation that if he got out of the situation, he was going places. Make a name for himself.
Fortunately, the male human watched enough Alaska State Trooper shows to know that Dawn soap isn’t just good for oily ducks; it’s also good for getting unstuck in the Swiss cheese-shaped grate his head was stuck in.
Once freed, Lucky jumped, played with a stick and basically showed his female human that all was well. Ultimately this event earned him the name Lucky. He added on Luciano because he had a vision of being the mob boss of the farm.
While he is small in stature, he is mighty in mouth. He has the humans on his payroll. His female human carries him every night to his red castle and occasionally, he’d get some chiropractic realignment from a full body stretch. He sports some battle wounds, but no one generally messes with a Luciano.
“The mailbox went boom,” I said, my fingers stretching out to mimic the explosion. “There’s no way I could hide it from him.” My thoughts turned to my husband, how he stood there momentarily shell shook and speechless.
Perhaps now he will understand the depths of my fear. Or not.
Nellie’s face crinkled and her lips pursed. “Huh, well that should have worked.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I was certain Al and I had the calculations correct.”
“Oh it did work,” I said, sincerely. “The spider was full of sticky yellow stuff, some of its legs were stuck to the top of the box. “ I shuddered. I really needed to move to Ireland. Someone told me once they didn’t have spiders.
Nellie curled her hands around her glass of old-fashioned. This afternoon she needed a stiffer drink, she told me. “Well, Al will simply have to get you a new mailbox. I’ll have him get a hold of your husband and get this straightened out.” She took a sip and her eyes danced. “At least we know it worked.”
I nodded. “Too well. The mail box lid exploded into the opposite ditch. The wood pole cracked straight down the center. I had just turned the corner when I heard the boom.” I stopped, took a sip of my fuzzy navel. “It gets worse.”
Nellie leaned forward. “Worse? The device worked, we just have to mess with the calculations a bit.” She gazed the ceiling, turning the glass in her hands. “We just have to figure out which chemical we got wrong. Maybe we had too many fireflies in the mix.”
“Maybe…Nellie, the neighbors called the fire department AND the police department. A hazmat crew arrived about an hour later in their white suits and gas masks. By this time my hubbie was there, and he thought a bomb went off. They took the mailbox…” I took a swallow, Nellie’s hand reached for mine. “I called into work sick. How can I face my neighbors? My husband?”
“Al will make it right. I guarantee you that man will donate some money to the fire department, the police department and he will turn over our findings to the hazmat crew. It’s all biodegradable. It should be just fine.” Nellie gave me a weak smile and her face lacked color. Even she didn’t believe her own words.
“We went too far. I don’t think I can use any of your tactics anymore of your test subjects. I just have…” I paused, trying to gather the courage to say the words.
Nellie squeezed my hand. “You don’t mean…” her words caught in her throat.
“Yes,” I said the word coming out like a hiss. “I have to squish them or move. I heard Ireland doesn’t have spiders.”
Nellie let out a deep sigh. “You’re not moving, your life is here. Besides, there’s a few months out of the year we’re spider free. We’ll train you or something.” She let go of my hand, narrowwe. “We’ll train you. We’ll find the best ways to kill a spider naturally. There are all kinds of tools out there. Yes,” she nodded. “That’s the answer.”
I played with my glass in my hand. The sounds of Kenny Rogers “The Gambler” came over the juke box. “Know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to run.” Wise words Kenny.
“What am I going to do now? Without a mailbox, I have to face Thelma and get our mail.” I rested my chin in my hand.
“Oh she’s a bit of coocoo bird.” Nellis snickered.
I grinned. “The last time we spoke, I told her that coyote snot created fog.”
Nellie spit out her drink. “You told her what?”
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. “I did. She was holding my mail ransom. Remember that registered letter from the government?” Concern flashed across Nellie’s face, and I waved a hand to dismiss it. “I asked the government for help with the spiders.”
She nodded, the corner of her mouth turned up.
“I had to give her some…”
The bell jangled, the door banged open. Nellie’s face drained of color, and I turned in my chair to face the door. Speak of the devil.
Thelma rumbled into the bar, her face a shade of red that would make a Nebraska Cornhusker proud. Her arms were full of envelopes and packages, and I lost all feeling in my limbs. It was my mail.
She dumped the mail on the table and shook her finger at me. “You blew up your mailbox?”
“I guess word travels fast,” I mumbled. I turned back to Nellie. “Does everyone know?” She shrugged.
“I don’t have space for all your mail. You need to come pick it up everyday!” Her eyes took on some black stormy gaze. A putrid aroma hit me, and I crinkled my nose.
“Did you have tuna for lunch?”
She checked her words. “Yes, why? Does it… oh God…” She sniffed her shoulder. “I reek of it.” She pulled out the chair next to Nellie, plopped down and started to ugly cry. She transformed from a one-woman wrecking ball into a sobbing mess.
I leaned away and motioned Nellie to sit next to me. The exit was behind me, and there was a table between Thelma and myself. Thelma might have just gone over the edge.
Thelma covered her eyes, and the tears tracked down her makeup in black and brown streaks. Her sobs turned to sounds that were likely meant to be words.
I made out some words, but I couldn’t piece them together in a coherent sentence. I reached across the table and touched her arm. She was damp, warm. “Thelma,” I said softly.
Thelma’s body heaved and trembled. Hissing sounds came from her mouth. She was an odd duck.
“Your fault,” she said, raising her head to stare at me through rimmed, red eyes.
