Family time

Day 23: Clock
No Novel November 2019

1971 Chevrolet Chevy Camaro Z28 yellow fastback

“Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”

Officer Jensen leans on top of the canary-yellow Camaro fastback with a disapproving look on his thin features. His radar gun had nearly exploded when this thing came whipping down the country lane he’d been assigned to this weekend.

“I can’t imagine, Officer,” the driver says, all innocence.

“Ma’am, I clocked you going a buck ten in a forty. Anything about that seem odd to you?”

“Oh my. Yes, sir, I suppose that is a bit fast.” She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes at him through the window. “But seeing as there’s no one out here besides you and me, maybe you could let me off with a warning or a lecture or a coffee date?”

Jensen sighs and shakes his head. If this was the first time she’d done this, he’d be embarrassed. But seeing as it happens at least once a month, he’s nothing but frustrated.

“You can’t keep buzzing me like this when I’m on duty,” he says.

She sniffs. “Well, Steven, maybe if you called more, I wouldn’t have to get your attention this way.”

Before he can defend himself, she cranks the key in the ignition and peels away, leaving him standing on the shoulder in a cloud of dust and laughter.

Jensen pats the dirt from his uniform, then trudges back to his car, pulling out his phone.

“Siri, reminder: Tomorrow, 8am, call Mom.”

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

Preserved

Day 5: Pickle
No Novel November 2019

Mason jars monochrome by rollingfishays via Deviant Art

I watch Gramma prep the glass jars by washing them with blue soap and clouds of hot water before roasting them in the oven as high as she dares set it. The massive pot—the one she used to bathe me in when I was little—hisses under its lid, fixed to boil.

She waves a thick, soft arm in my direction without looking. I scurry from my seat at the kitchen table to join her. It’s the first year I’ve been allowed to watch, and I don’t want to miss a single step.

We don’t speak as she pours plain white vinegar into the jars. Or as she measures coarse salt in the palm of her callused hand. Or as she pinches dill and cracks pepper and spoons coriander. I pass her the sugar; she likes them more sweet than sour. The contents of the jars cloud and swirl until I can’t make them out even by squinting.

We work in silence until she puts the lid back on the roiling pot and starts the timer.

“Why do you save up your memories like this, Gramma?” I whisper.

She pulls me into her side. The puff of air between us smells like yeasty dough, like brine, like home. “You just never know when you might need them,” she says.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.