Love Struck by Linda Chandanais, hazelnut latte

 Cupid's arrow pierced my heart and left me crazed for the girl I’d called lobster lips and chicken legs all through school.

Suddenly, her slender legs curved in all the right places and I yearned to kiss her luscious lips, even as she sneered, ‘Leave me alone.’

I sent her flowers, candy, and two lovebirds. I even wrote a song and sang most of it before she turned the hose on me. I would have tried again if it wasn't for the restraining order.

So, I declared my love for her on the front page of the local newspaper, at Krogers in the dairy aisle, and at Sunday church service even though the pastor said it wasn't exactly witnessing.

 She remained unswayed. I was left with no other choice. I made the call.

A blindfolded ride in a black sedan put me face-to-face with Cupid himself. He was taller than I expected and reeked of cannabis. He was eating BBQ.

‘Sounds like I’ll need to use the supercharged serum,’ the cherub said as he licked the sauce off his fingers. ‘It's expensive plus you need to know only one of you can be lovestruck. If I shoot her your spell disappears.’

 But I reasoned if she’d had me lovestruck I wouldn't be needing Cupid’s arrow. I paid the cherub.

Two days later there was a knock at my door. I found good ol’ chicken legs on my porch with a red rose between her donkey lips. 

About the author 

Linda’s love of storytelling began with ‘stories from her head’ told to younger siblings. After a decades-long hiatus called adulthood, Linda has renewed her passion for storytelling. Her works have been published in The Drabble, Entropy Squared-A Story in 100 words, Everyday Fiction and SpillWords. 

 

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Puke-a-puddle Bill

 by Linda Chandanais

black coffee

I love flipping my calendar to the new month, a mini new year. But it has to be done on the 1st; otherwise, it would be like kissing the new year in before the ball drops. I feel a tickle of anticipatory excitement as I flip January to February, and what greets me? Frigging Groundhogs Day, my thrill dissipates like a fart.

“I hate that damn groundhog,” I mutter as I eat my oatmeal and look out at the overnight snowfall that’s crept higher than the windowsill.

 I bundle up and go outside to shovel the driveway, the sidewalk, steps, and porch. When I finish, I go back inside, and before the icicles hanging from my eyebrows thaw, I see it's snowing again. I can't help thinking how nice it would be if old Puke-a-puddle Bill didn't see his shadow.

Stop it! I scold myself. But it’s too late; the seed has been planted in the fertile ground my better-brain supplement provides, even though I still can't remember to get the garbage can to the curb.

By night, thoughts of green grass and daffodils pull my eyes away from the TV over to the seed catalog. I feel hope sprouting; I try to stomp it down.

I know how tomorrow will go. After a tedious build-up from unnaturally attractive newscasters, the cheeky bastard will see his shadow smirking at the camera to rub it in.

I climb into bed, resolved not to watch the news in the morning, to play Sudoku instead.

But what if this is the year? Do I smell lilacs?

“Well, if nothing else, the cocky critter might bite someone. I wouldn't want to miss that.”

 About the author

Linda Chandanais lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula with her husband and two dogs. Her love of storytelling began with ‘stories from her head’ told to younger siblings and grew from there. After a decades-long hiatus called adulthood, Linda has renewed her passion for storytelling.

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