BOLO

Ken sat behind the wheel of his old Sportage tapping his fingers intermittently with wiping sweat off his forehead. He stared at his watch willing it to change. As the minutes dragged on, he finally ran a hand over his sparse hair and then lit a cheap generic cigarette. The smoke drifted from his mouth, nose, and the end of the lit tobacco. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound from his wrist watch grew louder in his ears until it was replaced by an intense ringing of the alarm bell as his friends ran from the bank. Each dove into the back seat floorboard, pulling the doors shut and removing their masks. 

“Get the hell out of here!” one shouted. “You waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Ken sped away and drove fast for two blocks. He turned a corner and slowed down to the posted speed limit.

“What are you doing knuckle head?” the man asked.

“Shut up, Clarence. If I speed past a traffic cam it will take our picture. We don’t that,” Ken added slowly.

“Yeah, Clarence,” Ralph, the other man said. “We need to be all nice and normal; just three guys out for a spin.” 

Ken closed the garage door behind the vehicle. He looked out a window on the door and scanned the neighborhood. The street was quiet.

“Ken, get in here!” Clarence yelled from inside the house.

“What?” Ken said irritated. He yanked the refrigerator open and pulled out a can of beer.

“They’ve got a BOLO on you man. How’d they get a look at you?”

“They have a drawing that sort of looks like me; no name,” Ken replied, pointing at the television as they re-ran the story on the bank robbery. “What was I supposed to do? Sit there with a mask on my head? Nothing says ‘call the cops’ like a man in a mask sitting outside a bank behind the wheel with the engine running.”

“Just lay low. We’ll dump the car,” Clarence said. “You remember where the money will be?”

“Yes. It’s going to be in locker forty at the bus station,” Ken replied.

“Your share,” Clarence corrected. “Me and Ralph will take ours and split up.”

“What?”

“It was your plan,” Ralph said. “You’re the one who is behind on your mortgage.”

“I’m also the one they have the drawing of,” Ken said. 

“Just lay low. I’ll remove the VIN tags so they won’t ID you as the owner if they find it. Wipe it down too; the whole works,” Clarence said. He tapped Ralph on the shoulder and motioned to the door with his head. 

Ken sat starring at the television as the other two left with his vehicle and the money, which had added up to only twenty grand; divided up three ways was not enough to save his home. They had used funs so it would land him fifteen years if he was caught. 

The next morning Ken carefully opened his door, barely stepping outside long enough to grab his newspaper from the porch. He closed the door and locked it. 

Unfolding the morning edition, he scanned the front page for the story on the robbery. In a paragraph subtitled Update he found that a source close to the police had told the reported a vehicle matching the description of the one involved in the robbery was found with a body murdered inside. No further information was available.

“Which one?” Ken screamed, and knocked over his coffee. He hung his head as the hot beverage ran off the table onto the floor. “The money is gone,” he wailed. He shook his head as a thought came to him: Two men went into the bank wearing masks. Someone saw him speeding away and one man was dead in the get-away car. Somebody is getting away with the money and murder.

He looked up when he heard the sirens. He nodded his head as he spoke to no one. “He left the VIN plates intact too. Had to be Clarence; he’s the only one mean enough to make sure he got pinned with the whole thing.”

Ken opened the door and sat on the porch with his hands behind his head. 

Officers, guns drawn, approached Ken, identified him and read him his rights.

“You are under arrest for felony bank robbery and the murder of Clarence Menlow,” one said.

Ken looked up wide eyed. “It was Clarence; not Ralph?’

“What do you mean? You sound surprised,” the arresting officer said.

 “I didn’t think he had it in him. Ralph didn’t even take a loaded gun into the bank,” Ken said.

“You understand you have just incriminated yourself in the bank robbery?” the officer asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost everything anyway,” Ken replied.

…In a bar in Mexico, Ralph laughed with a beautiful, black-haired young woman as he ordered two more bottles of beer. 

Hungry

“Mama, wake up!” three year-old Cindy cried as she shook her mother’s shoulder. She was asleep on the couch again. “I’m hungry.”

“What?” her mother mumbled. “There isn’t anything to eat. Go play in your room. Mama’s tired.”

Cindy wiped a tear away and went into the kitchen again and searched the empty refrigerator. She pulled a chair up to the counter and pulled open a cabinet door. The cereal box was empty. She pulled a box of what she thought might be mac and cheese going by the picture off the shelf but thought she shouldn't try to cook that. The last time she had almost started a fire and her mother yelled at her. There was nothing else; even the peanut butter jar was empty. She left it on the counter and opened another cabinet. She pulled out a plastic bowl and grabbed a spoon out of the dish rack and climbed down.

“Mama, are you getting up today?” Cindy asked her mother, trying to wake her once more. Her mother just rolled over and snored.

Cindy sighed and walked to the door. She set her bowl and spoon down on the floor so she could use both hands to open the door, retrieved the items and went outside and next door to her neighbors’ house.

Cindy knocked on the back door. When Mrs. Donnelly opened it she smiled sadly down at Cindy. “Mom asleep again, honey?” Cindy just nodded and held up her bowl. “Come on in,” she said, taking Cindy’s small hand and leading her inside.

“Thank you,” Cindy said in a voice slightly louder than a whisper.

Mrs. Donnelly set a plate of eggs and toast and glass of milk in front of Cindy. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I had a peanut butter sandwich yesterday sometime,” Cindy said matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Donnelly patted the child on the head. “Alice!” she called to her eldest daughter as she peeled a banana and placed it on the place next to the eggs. “Eat this too if you can hold it.”

“Wow! So much at once,” Cindy said in amazement, although she was used to Mrs. Donnelly feeding her at least three times a week.

“What is it Mom?” her daughter asked walking in to the kitchen.

“I need you stay with Cindy while I go over and talk to her mom,” she said. As her daughter nodded and sat down with Cindy, she walked out the door.

Mrs. Donnelly didn’t even bother to knock, she just went on in. She looked around and was surprised at how clean the small house actually was. She thought there would be trash and alcohol empties strewn all over, but she had to admit that Cindy was always clean when she came over. She found Cindy’s mother on the couch asleep and shook her hard to wake her up.

“What?” Tara, Cindy’s mother said drowsily. She sat up. “Cindy, stop waking me up,” she said before she realized it wasn’t Cindy standing in front of her. “Sandra? What’s up?”

“You!” She said angrily. “I don’t mind feeding a starving child; in fact, I’d rather Cindy come over to my house to eat than stay hungry, but you have got to get some food for that child or Social Services will be notified.”

Tara threw the blanket off she had pulled over herself when she crashed on the couch. She was rail thin herself and her eyes were gaunt. She stood up. “I will go get her. I didn’t know she was going over to your house to eat.”

“There’s no need. I told you, I don’t mind feeding her, but a few mornings a week is barely enough to keep her alive. It looks like you haven’t been eating much either,” she added, more calmly, now more concerned than angry. She sat down on the couch and pulled Tara with her.

“Tell me what’s going on Tara. Why is there is nothing to eat?” she asked.

Her face reddened and it spread down her neck and to her pale, rough hands. “I barely make enough to pay rent on this place and believe me, I’ve tried to find something less expensive. Short of drug-filled housing project, there isn’t anything. I clean office buildings at night and they cut my hours, so there isn't enough for a lot of food, okay! I’m lucky we have lights on still and water. That’s why they are usually off.”

“Tara, have you gone to the food pantries?” Sandra Donnelly asked her.

“Yes, I did, but they can’t give out a whole lot either. They don’t have enough to go around and it’s just the two of us. Her father hasn’t paid a cent in child support.” She pointed in a corner where an old television sat. “That thing isn’t plugged in so it doesn’t run up the electric bill and that’s the only entertainment we have. This place is so clean because the pantry has plenty of cleaning supplies, laundry soap and even bath soap. I wash her clothes in the bathtub. Maybe you’ve noticed the clothes draped over the clothesline out back.

“Yes, but I just figured you like air-dried laundry. A lot of people do.” Sandra stared out the window. “Tara, where’s your car?”

“I sold it,” she said. “I couldn’t afford gas or upkeep, much less insurance. I take the bus or walk to work.”

“Tara, get dressed. I’m taking you to Social Services. You need to sign up for some assistance. Don’t let pride stop you either. You need help before they take notice from someone other myself calling them and then they take Cindy. They’ll help you pay for childcare too, although you could have just asked if we would watch her.”

Tara looked up her a moment then slowly nodded agreement.

***

Many people think that hungry children only belong to the addicted or mentally ill who are unable to care for themselves, but the truth is that employed Americans are also unable to feed their families. Many children only receive nutritious food at school and when school is out, they either do not get adequately nutritious food or little to no food for long stretches of time.

According to the website www.nokidhungry.org 48.8 million Americans, including 16.2 million children are in what is termed ‘food insecure’ households; the largest number being in the inner city, but by no means only there. Rural areas and suburban areas – outlying areas- also suffer from hunger.

 

You can help by donating to food pantries, buying products labeled as donating proceeds of the purchase to food banks (and actually following the instructions on the package), participating in food drives such as by the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, United States Postal Service, Salvation Army, churches, Future Farmers of America and holiday food drives at participating grocery stores. There are also many organizations that supply food banks around the country.

In a country as great as ours its citizens, and especially its children should not have to go hungry.

Some organizations:

www.feedthechildren.org

www.bread.org

www.feedingamerica.org

www.nokidhungry.org

www.fmpfoodbank.org (West Central Wisconsin, where I live)

Lilianna Rose

Jack sat at the bar staring into the mirror at the tears that refused to stop falling. He downed the glass of whiskey in his hand. A young woman sidled up to him and started flirting. Jack looked over at her and then turned back to his empty glass.

"Leave me alone," he growled.

"Humph," she replied. "What's his problem?" she asked the bartender, rolling her eyes.

"He's upset. He lost his girl last month."

"Oh, well, I can help with that honey!" She hung on Jack's shoulder. "What do you say?"

Jack clenched his fists so tight he broke his drink glass. He opened his hand slowly and stared at the blood seeping around shards of glass without making a sound.

The bartender grabbed Jack's wrist and pulled his hand into the light. He pulled the glass shards out and wrapped his hand with a towel. He pushed a cup of coffee in front of Jack. "The whiskey won't bring her back man. Sober up and take her some flowers. The shop across the street is open late."

Jack nodded and sipped the coffee for a few minutes. He stood up and threw a ten dollar bill on the bar. "Thanks Charlie," he said, barely looking up. He turned away from the woman as if she wasn't there and left the bar.

"If she's that gone; flowers won't help," she shouted after him.

"Lady, you're an idiot," Charlie told her.

She turned away from Charlie with her nose in the air and stalked out. Curiosity piqued, she watched Jack as he went into the flower shop and then exited with a bouquet of white lilies. He walked slowly down the street and around the corner. From a distance the woman shadowed Jack as he made his way several blocks away. At last she saw him walk through a brick archway attached to black wrought iron fencing. She followed him staying behind trees and shrubs until she saw where he stopped and laid down the flowers. He dropped to his knees and wept. His head raised to the shy as his hands clutched the small headstone. "Why?" he said over and over.

A half hour later he left, wiping his eyes on the towel that had been wrapped around his hand. The woman wiped her own eyes as she read the engraving. Lilianna Rose- Beloved Daughter- You joined the angels too soon. Her age was six months.

***

Every year 7,000 infants die in America from Sudden Unexplained Infant Death (SUID) and Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), which accounts for about half the deaths. According to the Centers for Disease Control SUID is defined as deaths in infants under one year of age that is unexplained (not immediately apparent) until further investigation. While causes for unexplained death can be linked to problems of accidental death in their beds such as strangulation (drapery cords, getting caught between crib railings or railings and the mattress/ bed platform, etc.), suffocation (pillows, blankets, stuffed toys, etc.); SIDS is suspected to be related to stress, birth defects, failure to develop, or other times when babies are vulnerable (source SIDS Network). It is medical, but completely unpredictable. Babies can be healthy and still succumb to SIDSWhile research is still being done, there is still is no definitive cause or prevention and no way to predict who will be affected.

SIDS knows no social or economic boundaries.

SIDS is in no way the fault of the parents.

What you can do to try to prevent SUID:

Put you baby to sleep on their back, not their tummy. A baby can suffocate when on their tummy as they may not be able to turn their heads to get their face where they can breathe.

Keep stuffed toys, pillows, and heavy blankets and comforters away from your baby when they are sleeping so that they do not become covered by them and unable to breath.

Never let your infant sleep in the bed with other larger people (including parents). They could get smothered by the pillows or bed linens, roll onto their face into the mattress, or be rolled onto accidentally.

For more information on SIDS please visit www.sids-network.org.

The Mole

Donna walked into the building, one of three such facilities in the company, confident that she would carry out the assignment given to her. Her hopes sank as she looked around at the disorganized mess. The work stations were in sensible order but parts to every department were scattered throughout the building and people spent hours looking for items they should have readily at hand. Baskets of half completed projects sat in the way everywhere as people were pulled off of one product mid-stream and put on to another. Parts were just plain not there because the previous shift wouldn't make them. Frustration was high and tempers with it. 

"This is where we are going to put you," Tina, the line lead told Donna. "The other guy is seriously not fast enough and it's creating a bottle neck for us further down the line."

"Looks like no one is fast enough," Donna blurted out. "No wonder Jason Cooke is so anxious about this place."

Tina looked at Donna. "Yes, I have heard several times about that now. We do what we're assigned and if that means they call us mid-morning and change what we are putting out; then we do that." She motioned over to the man who was on the machine and told him to train Donna, and that she was from one of the other buildings and they had nothing to do there so they thought she might do this job for a while. He wasn't happy about it, but he trained her and went to the next process; something he was a little faster at.

Weeks went by and Donna kept talking to people and telling them she was only supposed to be there for a few weeks. 

"Oh, what are they changing now?" Sandy asked her. "I swear they change something every day. It is just making things more congested, and now I can't even get out of my area for the materials building up."

"Well, I talked to Jason Cooke and he said that won't last too much longer," Donna assured her. "You aren't doing that right," she pointed out to Sandy.

"Have you done this at your regular plant?" Sandy asked her, annoyed.

"No, I just know you should be doing that differently. You can do it faster."

Sandy eyed her warily. This wasn't the first time Donna had made such a comment to someone, including her, she observed, and the district boss Jason Cooke was spending an awful lot of time lately at their building when previously he had only shown up about once a week.

Donna smiled one day as she clocked in. "They had better watch out now," she said. "They are bringing in a bunch of the managers from corporate this week. They'll straighten out this mess. Tina got moved last thing yesterday to another area while someone else takes over her duties to see if they get this line moving better."

"It isn't Tina's fault if they call her and tell her to change the product two or three times a day. The plant that supplies us is knocking us all over the place by sending the wrong stuff all the time. Why don't they do something about that?"

"Well, I talked to Jason Cooke and he isn't happy about how this line is being run. Besides, he can move anyone he wants," Donna said.

"Whether it's right or not," Sandy replied. She turned away when Donna glared at her. "I'm busy," she said over her shoulder. "I wouldn't want Jason Cooke to think I was loafing off."

The management team converged onto the plant spreading like ants on the march. They made their ways through all the area getting under foot of the workers while asking them how it could go better and telling them it would get better. 'You can yell at us if the changes don't work," was said over and over again. 

Sandy was moved within an hour to another work station. That wasn't what they told her was going to happen. They told her the prep station would be manned and then she would do her job better. She was livid. Listening was not what they were doing at all.

"Don't take it so personally," Donna said. "I talked to Jason Cooke and he said you didn't tell them what they wanted to hear and you were just not going to go fast enough."

Sandy glared at Donna. "You need to seriously get away from me now." Her hands shaking with anger, she went to the new work station. 

At break Sandy talked to a few of the other employees whom she had noticed Donna talking to over the prior weeks. They all had said pretty much the same thing; Donna constantly talked about how much she had spoken with the district manager and seemed to know too much. They wouldn't even look at Donna for days afterward, or talk to her.

Donna sat in her car chewing her nails one at a time from her left hand. She typed furiously with her right hand on her tablet’s keyboard. I think they know. What do you want me to do? Send.

A few minutes later her tablet let out a tone alerting her to an incoming message. Go back in. They don’t know anything.

Donna showed up at her work station the next morning. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully to her coworker Sandy.

Sandy looked over at her and cleared her throat. She smiled back. “Good morning. You missed the morning meeting. They upped our production requirement again. How can they keep doing that?”

“Well, when I worked at the other plant they did that a lot. They just want as much product as they can get. I talked to Jason Cooke and he says they’ll replace anyone who can’t keep up.”

Sandy looked at Donna and her eyes narrowed. “They already moved me. The other person is going faster because I am working the process before her and putting things in order. It just can't go any faster until it is in order to begin with. I told them that.”

“I assure you it can. They’ll just send someone over from another plant to do it if you two can’t go any faster. They expect a lot of their employees. Don’t take it personally.”

Sandy turned and walked away in a huff. “Don’t take it personally,” she muttered. “How can I not? That is as much saying we're lazy as anything. I hate spies," she said under her breath. She turned back to Donna.

“What?” Donna asked.

“You know when they converged on this place the other day and got in everybody’s way they asked me what it would take to get me to put out more product and then told me after I answered them that they would fix the problems. They asked everyone the same question and when they told them they said the same thing. Three people have been moved from their work stations and I know I’m next, again.”

“Yes, you are, actually,” Donna replied. “I talked to Jason Cooke and you aren’t keeping up there either quite frankly.” 

“I am, actually. And why is it you talk to Jason Cooke so much, and why is it he tells you anything about a fellow employee? You aren’t a boss and you aren’t HR, so why are you privy to anyone’s information?”

Donna looked uncomfortable and cleared her throat.

“You are so busted. Why don’t you report back to Jason Cooke that your cover is blown go back to the other plant. And while you’re at it, you can tell him he just caused a walk out.”

Donna looked at Sandy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Every sentence out of your mouth starts with ‘I talked to Jason Cooke and he said’ – or something similar. They really should send someone who can keep their mouth shut next time.”

Donna’s mouth hung open and she backed up. "We aren't union! You can't walk out!"

"That's right; we're not. They can have fun hiring new people at the last minute and training them to do what has taken us months to learn and years of practice. They can't have everyone come from the other plants; they won't have anyone to run them." Sandy smiled and turned away.

"But you can't!" Donna looked horrified.

Sandy put her fingers to her mouth and let out a loud whistle. The entire line turned towards her and she motioned with her head toward the door. Everyone picked up their personal belongings and walked out.

I Regret That Night

This is a writing prompt inspired story about a guy who accepts the generosity of someone after performing a concert. Accepting a place to sleep for the night ends up with him in prison. How would you handle something like this happening to you?

I Regret That Night

I used to be a musician. I wasn't well known, but I did all right. I slept in my van at most gigs out of town, but it was comfortable. Then there was that one night when it was really cold and that beautiful girl from the audience asked if I would rather stay with her than in the van. Dillon was so friendly and earnest in her concern for me, how could I resist? Hell, she wasn't even drunk so I didn't think anything of it. I usually get an invitation or two, but always turn them down since their invitation includes sleeping in their beds and Dillon's didn't. She had a pull-out couch that was comfortable she had told me. It was - a little too much so.

It was early October and a surprise cold front came through so I didn't have a blanket in the van. The audience was great, meaning no one threw bottles at the stage or yelled odd things for no particular reason, also known as heckling. I mean, who heckles a singer anyway? I have seen it my friend, believe me, and I have felt that bottle that didn't quite miss me as it whizzed past. Dillon was a blue eyed blonde and dressed to kill in tight jeans and a tee shirt to match. Her boots looked new like she didn't wear them often, but she was quite a sight.

When we got to her ground floor apartment she offered me coffee, another surprise, rather than something with alcohol. She said she had to work the next day and couldn't have alcohol in her system, but she didn't tell me what it was she did. She knew me though; a musician who could barely afford rent with four other guys in a small cheap apartment much less a hotel room after a concert, which was why I usually slept in my beat up van. I often took food with me rather than buy anything on the road. Yep, that was pretty much it.

Dillon had said before she went to bed that she was glad I was there, even though I was a stranger. She felt safer. I wanted to ask her from what but she just closed her door without another word. I must have slept like the dead or I would have heard that other person come into the apartment during the night. Some safety net I turned out to be.

Dillon didn't answer when I called out her name. I thought she might have gone to work already, but thought it odd that she would have left a stranger alone in her home and with no note either. Then I saw it; the blood on the door.

"Oh shit!" I said and shouted her name. "Dillon?" I opened her door and there she was naked as the day is long and very much dead. Her eyes stared at me accusingly as if I was the one who had done it. There was a belt around her throat and unfortunately, it was mine. She had cuts on her arms and legs too. That would explain the blood, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to see what else had been done to her judging by the position of her legs and the empty condom wrapper on the floor. I sighed and cried at the same time.

The police actually took me into custody when I told them I had never seen her before that night and she let me sleep on her couch. There had been no DNA and no prints on that wrapper, but that was my belt, so they decided we had a night of rough play and I got carried away and tried to make it look like someone else did it. I can't believe I got convicted on such flimsy evidence. I know whoever did it had to have had a key because she had that door locked with a really expensive deadbolt. The cops just wanted a fast conviction even though they never did break me into admitting to anything, and they sure enough tried to make me. I wasn't saving the State any money by confessing to something I didn't do.

If I ever get out of here, I am going to find out who did it. I am going to do the investigating that the cops avoided. I have a lawyer on my side trying to get me out. In the meantime, sleeping that sound is not an option. I probably won't sleep until I am either released or dead. Inmates don't like rapists, you see. They feel they deserve to get as good as they gave so being on guard is a twenty-four-seven job.

Maybe I'll see you on the outside one day, maybe not. One thing is for sure; I'll never be a singer again, and I will never accept the kindness of strangers.