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The Old Grey Wall
by Paul Liadis
Author’s note: originally entered in the “Silent Grey” contest at The Clarity of Night
For most men, their most fond childhood memory involves playing catch in the backyard with their dad, like the ending of The Natural. Mine’s a little different. Mine is of the old grey wall outside of the apartment Mom and I lived in when I was a boy. We had electricity most of the time, hot water occasionally, but the old grey wall was always there.
Mom used to come home late from work only to find me outside throwing the beat-up Rawlings baseball Grandpa gave me against the wall, imagining I was Ozzie Smith roaming the Busch Stadium infield. I was too small to make the baseball team, but on that gravel filled pavement I was an All Star. For years I was sure I held the record for most throws, 5,429, without a miss and if the Guinness Book of Records people ever happened to be in my neighborhood, I would be famous.
I still return from time to time to my home town to visit my mother, who now lives in a nice little Ranch not too far from the city. That dilapidated excuse of an apartment building burned down a few years ago but the old grey wall remains. I rarely miss the chance to visit my old friend, only now I bring my son with me and we stand in front of that old grey wall and have a catch together. Sometimes, I miss the ball on purpose, just to give my friend a turn.
It’s Hard out Here for a Baby
This story was originally published at Write Stuff as part of their Creative Carnival.
Life isn’t easy for a baby. No one seems to understand me. Sure every once in a while they do something amusing and I flash them a smile. Overall, however, these so-called grownups, the people are supposed to be in charge, don’t seem to know what they’re doing. I hope it isn’t like this my whole life.
Just the other day, my parents were preparing for a trip to the grocery store. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching them run around the house, gathering diapers and bottles, and always forgetting something. What makes me mad is when they strap me into that horrible chair, which if it’s use wasn’t banned by the Geneva Convention, it should have been. The seatbelts always scratch my neck and keep me from touching my toes, which I would have you know I just recently discovered. On top of this, they pick me up and put my stupid chair in the car backwards, so the only thing I get to look at on the trip is the back of the car!
Whoa, look at that! It’s my hand…Cool…
Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah. I was strapped into the seat on our way to the grocery store. I cried for a while just to let them know I wasn’t happy with the whole seating arrangement. After that, I figured I could use a nap and just as I was dozing off, the parents were jerking me out of my car seat and into my stroller. This contraption might be a pleasant change if it wasn’t so filthy from being in the trunk of the car all day.
By the way, what’s up with the grocery store? It all seems pointless to me. Can’t you people be like the rest of us and eat the natural way? I don’t get my food off some shelf at the Piggly Wiggly, if you know what I mean.
My parents managed to go through every aisle of the store and pick out all of their food without banging my stroller on anything too often. Of course they forgot the one item they were buying for me. I tried to tell them they forgot diapers, but they just wouldn’t listen. They thought I just wanted to be held. Whatever the reason for the miscommunication, it means in a few hours I will be strapped into the seat again and paraded around the store.
Anyhow, I haven’t eaten in two hours and fifty-five minutes, and it doesn’t seem like anybody notices. Enough of this, someone better feed me soon… “Waaaaaaaa!”
Hungry like the Wolf
This was an entry for a contest at The Clarity of Night. Out of 100 entries, it received an honorable mention.
“I’m so lame,” Scott thought to himself as he stood staring at the sky, noticing the moon as it peeked through the clouds. It had been months since Scott started attending the werewolf “mixers”, and in that time he had yet to even talk to a member of the opposite sex. Suppressing the urge to howl, so cliché, he continued down the lonely path in the woods to the old wooden cabin.
Waiting for him outside the party was his best friend Ron. Ron had been a werewolf much longer than Scott and always seemed to know what to say. Ron’s advice to Scott regarding women was to “be confident”, but Scott could not for the life of him see what he was to be confident about.
“Excellent! Two chicks for every guy,” said Ron as the two friends entered the cabin, which smelled a combination of hair, smoke and alcohol. Basically, if a drunken dog caught on fire and wound up at the party, no one would have batted an eye.
Scanning the room, Scott caught the eye of a particularly curvy brunette. “Go get ‘er,” said Ron, nudging Scott not-so-subtly in the back.
For what seemed like the longest walk of his life, Scott approached the brunette hoping desperately his walk wasn’t as awkward as it seemed.
“Hello,” offered the young lady in a voice that surpassed her looks and suggested to Scott more than chit-chat.
“Nice beard,” mumbled Scott, realizing it would again be a lonely night.
Paul Tales 
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