Contemporary Fiction | Jamie Gregory

The Mindful Matchmaker

Posted on April 5, 2024 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the second round of the 2023 NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge. I was required to write a 250-word story that matched the following prompts: Genre: Romantic Comedy. Action: Brain-picking. Word to be included: “Plus”.]

***

“Ready to order?” The waitress clicked her pen.

Colby checked his watch. “She should be here any minute.”

I’ve waited years to land this date. Colby swirled his water like fine wine. A bit longer won’t hurt.

Jenessa sauntered to the table twenty minutes later. “Sorry I’m late…traffic,” she mumbled, tossing her plush faux fur coat over the chair.

Colby fumbled with his phone under the table. He opened the Mindful Matchmaker app, his latest invention, and tapped on Jenessa’s profile under, New brain signal detected. “No worries.”

Colby’s brain implant tingled with the first transmission: Traffic…AKA pregaming in my car and working up the nerve for this.

Huh. I thought I would be the nervous one, Colby thought.

The waitress returned. “Drinks?”

“Can I see the cocktail list?” Jenessa asked.

I need a stiff drink. Remember, get in, get the grant funding, and get out.

So that’s what this is about, he thought, deflated.

“I need to use the restroom.” Jenessa shot up from the table.

I’m going to puke if I have to endure small talk with this loser.

After ten minutes the Mindful Matchmaker lost Jenessa’s signal.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” The waitress lowered her amber eyes. “It’s on me.”

Colby’s phone vibrated in his lap.

New brain signal detected.

The profile showed a charming brunette. The name matched her name tag, Amy. He tapped on it.

I can’t believe she bailed on this guy. I’d take her place in a heartbeat.

***

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A Chip Off the Old Block

Posted on February 26, 2024 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction Challenge. I was required to write a 500-word story that featured the word “punch”, featured the action of “spilling something”, and broke the writing rule of “avoid cliches”.]

***

Trailer trash.

The words were scrawled across my locker in bubblegum-colored lipstick. Sniggers popped off behind me, like crickets warming up for their nocturnal chorus. I didn’t dare turn around — unwilling to endure the smirks and pointing fingers, yet again.

I used the sleeve of my threadbare sweater as an eraser, but the lipstick simply smeared across the dull gray metal. I scrubbed harder, tears streaming. The stack of textbooks I carried spilled at my feet, adding insult to injury — I scrambled to gather them. A Nike sneaker pinned my biology book to the linoleum. The football quarterback, Silas, loomed over me, his girlfriend, Sasha, on his arm.

“Oops, my bad. Didn’t see you there, T.T.” Silas kicked my textbook down the hall.

Onlookers gathered like a pack of hyenas, drooling over wounded prey.

“Get to class,” Mr. Steward shouted from his doorway across the hall as the bell rang.

Saved by the bell.

Sasha winked, blowing me a kiss with bubblegum-pink lips. “See you at lunch.”

Mr. Steward handed me the biology book. “You need to show those jerks they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

I gave him a weak smile, shoved the books into my locker, and scurried off to the cafeteria.

The cashier sighed as I slid my tray to her register. “You still have a negative balance, sweetheart.”

I stared at the blob of mashed potatoes on my tray. “I’m sorry. My mom said—”

Mom said, “We don’t need charity. Pack a lunch.”

A student jutted out of line. “What’s taking so long?”

“Tara, this is the last time you can borrow,” The cashier closed the register. “Remind your mom, okay?”

“T.T.’s trying to get a free lunch ‘cause she’s too poor to pay like the rest of us,” Sasha said from behind me where she had cut in line, waiting to pounce.

I spun around and upturned my tray onto her chest. Mashed potatoes and corn slid off her cheerleading uniform. She scowled at me, astonished, speechless.

“What’s wrong, Sasha? Cat got your tongue?” She opened her mouth to retort. Reeling back, I punched her perfect little nose.

***

The clock ticked in Mr. Steward’s room during after-school detention. Sasha, arms folded over her stained uniform, glared at me with purple bruises blooming around her eyes and bloody cotton balls shoved up her nose.

When time was nearly up, the classroom door burst open and Sasha’s mom stormed in.

“You’re pathetic,” Sasha crumpled under her mother’s wrath. “Get up before you embarrass me any more than you already have.”

Sasha followed her mom into the hallway like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“You better hope your nose isn’t broken,” Her mother slammed the classroom door. “Your face was your ticket out of this town. God knows you aren’t smart enough to go to college.”

Mr. Steward laid down the newspaper he was reading. “Well, I’d say she’s a chip off the old block.”

Mom said, “Hurt people hurt people.”

***

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Heart-Shaped Box

Posted on May 4, 2023 by jamiegregory

[9 minute read]

Content warning: death of a parent.

—

In the time it took for Peter, Paul, and Mary to croon 500 Miles on my mother’s dusty record player, I discovered that my entire life had been a lie.

It was a mundane Sunday morning at the homestretch of a relentless winter. I stomped the slush off my boots, unlocked the faded front door of my childhood home, and stepped inside.

Besides the occasional packing box, and the blanket of dust that covered every surface like sprawling ivy, everything looked nearly the same as it did when my mother left her home for the final time. No matter how many times I returned to the empty house to sift through her possessions, I still expected her smiling face and outstretched arms to greet me. Instead, I was received by the soft ticking, rolling eyes, and swinging tail of Mom’s beloved Kit-Cat Klock mounted on the kitchen’s floral wallpaper.

Tick…tock. That cat had been creeping me out since childhood. Tick…tock. Its swaying eyes were always spying on my mischief. Tick…tock.

Why is this thing still haunting me? TICK…TOCK. Does it have nine lives or something? TICK…TOCK…TICK…TOCK. Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop.

I charged forward and ripped the clock off the wall, peeling strips of wallpaper along with it. It stared up at me from my trembling hands, eyes still flicking, each second ringing out with a deafening chime.

Time marches on, allowing us to return to the past only in our memories and suffer through the present as we brace for the future.

I threw the clock on the floor and smashed it with a cast iron skillet until my arms grew weak. I collapsed over top of the shattered feline. My sobs echoed throughout the silent house that was once so full of life.

Pull yourself together. This house isn’t going to clean itself.

I rubbed my wet puffy eyes, swallowed my guilt, and glanced around at the contents of our family’s historical museum, trying to decide what to sort through next.

A shimmer caught my eye as the mid-morning sun slipped between the window blinds and stretched across the room glinting off one of the golden statues in the family trophy case. The cabinet was chock full of awards engraved with the names of my older brother and sister — a state champion wrestling trophy here, a National Honor Society certificate there. If you squatted down and squinted into the back right corner of the bottom shelf, you could spot the one and only item bearing my name, a participation ribbon from the third-grade spelling bee.

I’m not in the mood for reliving my childhood inadequacies today, I thought. I’ll dump all that crap into a box later for Seth and Rachel.

I wandered over to the family bookcase, dragging my feet on the brown shag carpet. My fingertips trailed lightly over the rows of books. The miniature library ranged from Dr. Seuss to Stephen King and everything in between. An entire shelf was dedicated to Mom’s collection of Good Housekeeping magazines, dating back to the late ’70s. I flipped through a few issues of the Pinterest predecessor and tried to imagine a younger version of my mother, sipping hot tea and dog-earring page after page of sewing patterns and holiday recipes while humming along with a vinyl.

Her vinyls…. I have to find her vinyls.

Like a bee flitting from flower to flower in search of life-sustaining nectar, I meandered down the hallway. She moved her record player and vinyl collection to her bedroom a few years ago, retiring them from decades of dinner party entertainment duty. Tucked away in plastic totes under her bed, I found album after album of iconic folk and rock music: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Jefferson Airplane, Neil Young — all of the classics were there. The smiling faces of Peter, Paul and Mary stared at me from the cover of their debut album. I flipped it over to read the song list and fragmented memories flashed in my mind. My mother humming Lemon Tree over a skillet of sizzling bacon on Saturday mornings while I watched cartoons. Her face illuminated by firelight as she sang If I Had a Hammer on summer nights while I chased fireflies.

The record player on her dresser opened with a slow creak and I blew the dust out of it like it was a Nintendo game cartridge. Squinting against the plume of soot, I gingerly slid the vintage vinyl out of the sleeve, put it in place, fired up the player, and lowered the needle. The harmonious voices of the folk trio melded together like the ingredients in Mom’s homemade fudge recipe and filled the room with a warm authentic sound that you only get from LPs.

I tugged one of Mom’s favorite blouses off a hanger in the closet. The silky fabric flowed between my fingers like her long sleek hair that tickled my cheek when she tucked me into bed as a child. I clutched it to my face and inhaled, soaking in her lingering signature aroma, an echo of who she was.

This is just a shirt. It’s only a shirt.

I dropped the blouse into a garbage bag destined for the thrift store. I stared at it briefly, crumpled and lifeless at the bottom of the bag, while grief and anger churned inside me. I ripped the remaining garments from the closet and thrust them into donation bags, blinking through tear-clouded vision as I went, leaving behind dozens of empty swaying hangers in the aftermath of my frenzy.

I was about to clear the closet floor of her orthopedic sneakers when I spotted something curious tucked away on the shelf above the clothing rod. I grabbed the antique stool from her vanity and carried it to the closet. It groaned under my weight and I prayed that it would hold me. I shoved a few hats and scarves out of the way and plucked the item off the shelf. It was a heart-shaped wooden box with my name engraved on the lid. Thoughts swirled through my head like the wood grain that rippled across the box.

What is this? Why is my name on it? And why was it in Mom’s closet?

I sat on my mother’s bed, cradling the ornate box in my hands, to examine it more closely. I traced the grooves of my name with a dusty fingertip — C-a-r-o-l-i-n-e. My name was surrounded by a symbol, a triangle intertwined with a heart. Mary started singing about a train whistle when I carefully removed the box lid, as if I was disarming a bomb, and laid it beside me on the threadbare quilt.

A familiar face stared up at me from within the box. The wallet-sized photo had a faded vintage look to it that Instagramers try to replicate. I instantly recognized the duplicate, its clone is in a family album I haven’t flipped through in years. I was pretty unremarkable in my standard-issue hospital swaddle and expressionless chubby-cheeked face. But my hair, thick tousled tangerine tufts, had been making a statement since the day I was born.

I glanced in the vanity mirror across the room searching for a resemblance to the blank slate version of myself in the photo, but even my hair had dulled to a murky amber.

—

My pruny little fingers rested on my lap as the rhythmic tugging of my mother braiding my hair nearly lulled me to sleep. I raised my droopy eyelids to our reflection in her vanity mirror and studied her obsidian locks.

“Mommy,” I said with a yawn. “How come I got red hair but Seth and Rachel got black hair like you and Daddy?”

She hesitated, fingers frozen mid-braid, then put on a reassuring smile and directed her answer to my reflection in the mirror like a salon hairdresser.

“It’s one of those traits that skip a few generations,” She resumed braiding. “I think there’s some Irish on Daddy’s side of the family so he probably had a great-great-great-someone-or-other with red hair.”

She secured the braid with a hair tie and gently lifted my chin to meet her gaze.

“You’re the lucky one, pumpkin. Most girls would love to have hair like yours.”

—

The memory vanished and the room came back into focus. I set the baby photo aside to inspect the remaining contents of the box, two folded documents. I unfolded the first one, my birth certificate, and laid it aside.

I guess this is like a baby keepsake box. There’s probably one for Seth and Rachel somewhere too. I’m surprised theirs weren’t displayed in the trophy case.

The second document was made from a similar type of blue paper. It was a birth certificate for a Bridget Murphy. That name didn’t ring a bell, nor did Carolyn Murphy, the name of Bridget’s mother, and no father was listed. The date of birth, however, was the same as mine.

“How come I got red hair but Seth and Rachel got black hair like you and Daddy?”

Once again I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror and, not for the first time in my life, had the niggling feeling that a stranger was staring back at me. The room started spinning around me and I felt lost, like an intruder in that house, that family, that life. Questions bubbled up in my mind until they rumbled and overflowed like a pot of boiling water.

“Who are you?” I screamed at my reflection, tears raining down my cheeks. “Who am I?”

I launched the box of deceit across the room, shattering the mirror and everything I thought I knew about myself, leaving behind only a broken reflection. Pieces of me were missing and yet, for the first time, I truly saw myself.

—

I rapped my dry knuckles on the open door of room fifteen at the Bridgehaven Senior Living facility. Mom was asleep in the corner rocking chair despite the Price is Right theme song blaring from the TV. I turned off the TV and gently nudged her awake.

“Is it time for my meds already?” She asked, her voice sluggish. As the fog of sleep lifted, she looked me over. There was a brief flash of recognition in her eyes and then her face hardened. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?” Her voice was laced with paranoia as her eyes darted around the room.

I reached an arm out to touch her hand. “It’s me, Carol—”

“I know who you are. I thought I’d never see you again.” Her gaze shifted to the heart-shaped box tucked in the crook of my other arm. “What is that?”

I held the box out to her and rested it on her lap as she drew her hands away. “I found it in your closet. Why didn’t you—”

She shoved the box off her lap. The lid popped off as it landed and wobbled across the linoleum floor, scattering its contents. Her slippered foot stomped on the baby photo as she stood up from the rocking chair.

I watched her, speechless, as she hobbled to the bed where she pressed the red button on the wall above the headboard.

She turned on me, eyes fierce like a lioness protecting her cub. “I knew you would come looking for her someday.” She jabbed the red button repeatedly. “You didn’t deserve her then and you never will. Bridget is our daughter now. We raised her and loved her in a way that you never could. You stay away from her.”

A nurse frantically rushed into the room, glancing quickly between us and the items scattered on the floor. “Is everything ok here, Mrs. Jackson?”

“No, it’s not. This woman needs to leave.” Mom shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me.

A day will come when she won’t remember you. Don’t take it personally. Try to control your emotions.

“I’m sorry, I think I triggered her,” I whispered to the nurse, choking back tears. “I didn’t think she would…I just needed to….”

“Ma’am, I don’t think Mrs. Jackson is in the mood for visitors right now.” The nurse said loudly for Mom to hear as she escorted me toward the doorway. “Maybe you can visit another time.”

“No, don’t you ever come back.” Mom roared. “Do you hear me, Carolyn? Stay away from Bridget.” She gasped and her voice became manic. “Don’t you dare tell her the truth. Did you tell her? She was never supposed to know. Carolyn! Did you tell her?”

I grabbed the nurse’s arm and pleaded, “You have to save that box for me, please.” She nodded, ever so slightly.

I slipped into the hallway where I waited and listened, out of sight, stifling sobs as the nurse calmed my mother down.

A train whistled nearby.

“Is it time for my meds already?” Mom asked from within the room.

I stole one last glance from the doorway before I left. I saw her, resting peacefully on the bed — the woman who raised me with so much love that I never doubted that she brought me into this world. She was locked away again, lost in her broken mind, and somewhere in that abyss of forgotten memories were the secrets behind the heart-shaped box. She took those secrets to the grave and I chose the path of blissful ignorance.

—

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Mommy, Can You Hold These for Me?

Posted on April 26, 2023 by jamiegregory

Your first glimpse of my face as I held you in the delivery room will be forgotten.

Your first night sleeping in the crib instead of the bassinet beside my bed will be forgotten.

Your first taste of peas, and your chubby face puckering with disgust, will be forgotten.

Your first steps, tentative and wobbly yet determined, will be forgotten.

Your father’s grin when you first uttered Dada will be forgotten.

You won’t retain long-term memories until the age of seven.

Take heart, little one. I have captured these moments for both of us.

—

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estate-sale-list.docx

Posted on February 24, 2023 by jamiegregory

[5 minute read]

Hey sibs,

I’ve started organizing Mom and Dad’s house. Here’s the growing list of items we’re selling. I’ll keep track of what sells so we can divvy up the profits later. Let me know if you have any questions. I know it’s going to be hard to let go of some of these things, but we have to remember that it’s just stuff, and clinging onto it isn’t going to bring them back. We still have our memories.

Love,

Olivia

Item: Dad’s 1975 Chevy Silverado (AKA Ol’ Rusty)
- Asking price: ~~$1,000~~ $500
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Enzo: Does this hunk of junk even run?
  - Olivia: No…we’re selling it for parts.
  - Enzo: Nobody is going to pay $1,000…$500 is more realistic.
  - Summer: Awww I learned how to drive in that truck!
  - Olivia: I learned how to make out in that truck haha
  - Enzo: This should’ve been a spreadsheet.

Item: 1968 Airstream Overlander
- Asking price: $25,000?
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Olivia: Do you guys remember that winter when we hauled this thing all the way to Florida, then we all got the flu and spent the whole week of vacation puking?
  - Enzo: Or the trip to Tennessee when Mom and Dad picked up that hitchhiker with the neck tattoos and let him spend the night with us?
  - Summer: WAIT! I want to renovate it and use it as an Airbnb. I’ll split the income with you guys!
  - Enzo: Since when do you know anything about renovation? Show us a plan and maybe we’ll consider it.

Item: Mom’s porcelain doll collection (39 dolls)
- Asking price: TBD
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Enzo: Sell these on eBay instead. eBay = doll collectors = more $
  - Olivia: I don’t care where we sell them as long as I never have to see them again. Those things are creepy AF.
  - Summer: If any of them don’t sell, my roommate said she’ll use them in her next performance art exhibit.
  - Enzo: I’m not even going to ask….

Item: A-Z Encyclopedia set from 1964
- Asking price: $150 (based on eBay comps)
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Summer: What’s an Encyclopedia set?
  - Olivia: They were like the book equivalent of Google before the internet.
  - Summer: Oh, so they’re pointless now? Who would want to buy them?
  - Enzo: Hoarders.

Item: Dad’s deer head mounts (3 bucks)
- Asking price: $200 each
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Summer: Ugh…I hated it when Dad hunted. I cried every time he hauled a deer home in the bed of Ol’ Rusty. What kind of sick person would buy these?
  - Olivia: I don’t know what I hated more, eating so much venison or sitting in his tree stand for hours in complete silence for “father-daughter bonding time”. What I wouldn’t give to join him in that tree stand one more time though….
  - Enzo: Don’t sell the ten-point buck. I want to mount that one in my lake house.

Item: Mom’s costume jewelry
- Asking price: $1.00 per item
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Enzo: Take that crap to Goodwill.
  - Summer: Can I look through these first? Mom had some great pieces that I’d love to have. Remember the black and white Kit-Cat Klock earrings? The eyes moved when you wiggled the tail back and forth. Not to mention all the great boho pieces from the 60s and 70s.
  - Olivia: Yep, but I call dibs on the tacky Christmas brooches. They’ll pair nicely with my ugly Christmas sweater collection.

Item: VHS tape collection
- Asking price: $1.00 per movie
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Olivia: Remember our Friday Family Flick nights? Our house was like the neighborhood Blockbuster! I’m pretty sure some kids befriended me just to borrow movies.
  - Summer: Do people still own VCRs?!
  - Enzo: Save the Star Wars set for me.

Item: Mom’s 1972 Kenmore sewing machine
- Asking price: $200
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Olivia: Mom made the best Halloween costumes. They were better than anything you could buy in a store. I wish she would’ve taught me how to sew.
  - Summer: Yeah, one year I wanted to be a zombie unicorn and she made it happen! She could’ve been on Project Runway.
  - Enzo: I remember helping Dad repair the sewing machine one time and watching the needle go straight through his finger. I learned how to raise the presser foot that day and never touched the thing again.

Item: Antique rolltop desk
- Asking price: $250
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Olivia: Enzo, remember when we used this desk to pretend we were detectives? My favorite was the case of the chocolate cake burglar.
  - Summer: I don’t remember that…
  - Enzo: It was before your time, Summer. Spoiler alert: Dad was the cake bandit.
  - Summer: I can still see Mom sitting at this desk chasing her dream of writing a novel. Liv, have you found her manuscripts yet?
  - Olivia: Not yet. I did find her journal though. You guys will have to read it. For the first time ever I felt like I got a glimpse into who she was as a woman, underneath the mom mask. Her worries, her dreams, her secrets. She shielded so much from us.

Item: Yamaha upright piano
- Asking price: $3,000
- Questions/Comments/Concerns from the fam:
  - Olivia: Guys…I found some home videos of our Christmas Eve “concerts”. Priceless. Especially little Enzo dressed up like an elf singing Jingle Bells.
  - Enzo: Please make sure those videos never see the light of day. Also, I thought Mom wanted to donate the piano?
  - Summer: My local community theater would love to have it! You guys could fly out here for our annual Holiday Hoopla and Enzo could reenact his youth.
  - Enzo: In your dreams….

Not for sale:

Memories: family vacations, chaotic holidays, unconditional love, overcoming adversity, fighting, and forgiveness.
Lessons learned and values instilled: hard work, responsibility, honesty, loyalty, and compassion.
The legacy left behind by two amazing parents. Let’s keep their legacy alive.

—

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This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously.

Robots Are Companions Too

Posted on June 18, 2022 by jamiegregory

[7 minute read]

A loud crash jolted me awake. I was having a bad dream in which our five-year-old twin boys ran downstairs on Christmas morning only to have their excitement deflated like a punctured balloon when they discovered there wasn’t a single gift under the Christmas tree.

“Jordan, wake up,” I said, nudging my husband beside me who continued snoring. I tried again, shoving him this time, “Jordan, I heard a loud noise downstairs.”

“What? What time is it?” He said groggily, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand to check the time.

“I don’t care what time it is, we need to go see—”

“It’s 2:00 am. I’m sure it was just one of the cats knocking something off a counter again.” He grumbled as he rolled over, trying to go back to sleep.

“I heard a really loud crash. I can’t believe it didn’t wake you up. I think we should go down there.”

He reluctantly flung our buffalo plaid comforter off his chest and stomped across the room with me scrambling after him.

He carelessly descended the stairs like he was going to fetch a cup of joe on a lazy Saturday morning. On the other hand, I crept cautiously behind him, avoiding the creaky steps so as not to alert the burglar or murderer that was inevitably lurking on the first floor. Just as I was tip-toeing off the last step and contemplating what would be a more effective weapon, a golf umbrella from the coat rack in the foyer or a stapler from our home office, I heard Jordan yelling from the living room.

“Dammit! Get out of here, Oscar.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that we weren’t in imminent danger after all, and sauntered to the living room only to stop abruptly when I laid eyes on the chaotic scene before me. Our nine-foot-tall Christmas tree had completely toppled over as if we had been visited by a lumberjack instead of Santa Claus. Broken ornaments and pine needles were scattered all over the floor. Great, another reason for Jordan to complain about the fact that we bought a real tree this year, I thought. All of the wrapped presents that I’d painstakingly arranged under the tree were strewn throughout the room. Hmmm, that’s strange. Why are the gifts so spread out? The falling tree wouldn’t have caused that.

“C’mon now. I said get out of here. Bad dog, bad dog.” Jordan said, distracting me from my thoughts.

Our fourteen-year-old Basset Hound, Oscar, was drinking whatever water was left in the base that formerly held the tree in place. Jordan finally succeeded in shooing him and he hobbled away with his tail tucked between his arthritic legs.

“Honey, you don’t honestly think that Oscar did all of this, right?” I said.

“How else do you explain it?” He barked.

“I’m just saying, he’s old, he’s not very big, and he doesn’t get around that well anymore. So I don’t see how he possibly could have—”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t one of the cats. You saw him drinking the water out of the base. He probably nudged it over with his head. See? This is why I didn’t want to buy a real tree. Fake trees don’t need water or shed pine needles everywhere.”

“The boys are going to wake up in a few hours and run down here to open presents and see what Santa brought for them. So, for now, I think we need to stop arguing and get this messed cleaned up.”

Once the Christmas magic had been restored I drug myself back upstairs and collapsed into bed feeling like an overworked elf on Christmas Eve. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand to check the time before falling asleep. Ugh. 3:30 am. I noticed that I had received a few push notifications from our Roomba, also known as Jeeves, which was the endearing butler-like nickname we had given him.

2:01 am

Jeeves

Jeeves’ cleaning job was canceled.

That’s weird. I don’t remember canceling the Roomba.

2:05 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Clean Jeeves’ main brushes.

Whatever, I’ll fix it tomorrow. I was so tired my vision was blurring and I could barely keep my eyes open. I drifted off to sleep and dreamed of a lumberjack dressed like Santa Claus placing presents under our tree, then chopping the tree off of the base, slinging it onto his shoulder, and disappearing through our front door with it.

The next morning was accompanied by that special soundtrack that you only hear once per year — the pitter-patter of little feet running downstairs, squeals of delight as wrapping paper is ripped to shreds, and classic carols playing in the background. I cleaned up the mountain of crumpled wrapping paper while the boys played tug-of-war over their new toys. Jordan was eager to dispose of the Christmas tree despite my wishes to leave it up through New Year’s. I lost the debate so he carried it to the backyard and, much to my surprise, lit it on fire. Sheesh, that’s a little dramatic. We could’ve at least paid our respects by singing O Tannenbaum first.

Once I had cleared all of the clutter from the living room, I could see that the floor was blanketed with thousands of pine needles. This looks like a job for Jeeves, I thought with my hands on my hips. I retrieved Jeeves from his charging base and suddenly remembered his error message from the wee hours of the morning. His main brushes were clogged with strands of tinsel from the Christmas tree. When I removed his dust bin to empty it I discovered that it contained pine needles and ornament shards.

“Jeeves, what were you doing in the living room? You’re not supposed to be in there.” I said.

The virtual wall barrier devices we had used to keep Jeeves out of the living room, and away from the Christmas tree, during the holiday season were still in place. So, I plopped Jeeves down in the middle of the living room and powered him on. This time I used the virtual wall barriers to force him to stay in the living room until all of the pine needles were gone.

12:16 pm

Jeeves

Jeeves successfully completed a job!

After inspecting his work and finding it to be satisfactory, I emptied Jeeves’ bin once again and returned him to the base so he could recharge in time for his regularly scheduled cleaning job that started at 11:00 pm every night.

Our dinner conversation that night was ripe with newfound motivation and resolutions for the new year. So, once the kids were in bed, I pulled my yoga mat out of a spare closet and unfurled it in the living room to hold my morning self accountable for restoring my yoga habit.

1:33 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Jeeves ended the job stuck.

I woke up early the next morning, slipped into my yoga outfit, and went downstairs ready to get my namaste on before the rest of the family woke up. Once again, I was greeted by a sight in the living room that stopped me in my tracks. Jeeves had gotten stuck on the corner of my yoga mat after he had smeared something all over it. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was cat feces. Our oldest, and most temperamental cat, Steve, had a bad habit of dropping a deuce on the floor outside of the litter box in the laundry room, another room that Jeeves was supposed to be blocked from entering.

“Ok, that’s it Jeeves. First the Christmas tree and now this? You’re supposed to clean up messes, not make more messes.” I said while I disabled his programmed daily schedule for the 11:00 pm cleaning job in the app on my phone. “There, you’ve been laid off until further notice.”

In the process of scrubbing Steve’s excrement off my mat, I lost my motivation to do the workout and opted for some Eggo waffles and coffee instead. When Jordan came downstairs I told him what had happened.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d swear that Jeeves was framing the pets. First, he made it look like Oscar knocked over the Christmas tree and then he smeared Steve’s poop all over my yoga mat. He almost got away with it too but he got stuck on the corner of the mat…”I trailed off when I realized that Jordan was standing in the kitchen frozen, holding a box of cereal in midair with an incredulous look on his face.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He said.

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right. That’s crazy, right?” I said.

That night I was awakened by a distant noise that I couldn’t quite make out so I crept out of the bedroom and paused at the top of the stairs. After a few minutes, I heard the noise again, still faint but I could make it out this time and it was coming from downstairs somewhere.

“Do do do doooo…please love Roomba.”

Love Roomba? Did I hear that right? No, it couldn’t be. He’s supposed to say, ‘please charge Roomba’ and besides, I thought I disabled his schedule, I thought with goosebumps spreading up my arms. I ran downstairs as quickly and silently as I could like you do when you have to lock a door after watching a scary movie. I grabbed Jeeves, thrust him onto the charging base, ran back upstairs, and jumped into bed with my heart racing. Ok, I’m not telling Jordan this time, or else he’ll really think I’m crazy.

Jeeves continued to emerge from the charging base every night at exactly 11:00 pm despite the disabled schedule in the app. Each night I would receive a push notification on my phone saying that Jeeves required my attention which I continued to ignore. His vendetta against the family pets went on to include spilling cat food, knocking over the kitchen trashcan which was clearly another setup for Oscar, and worst of all, bumping into a side table hard enough to send Bluey the beta fish crashing to the floor resulting in an untimely death.

The night after Bluey’s demise, I was woken once again by a loud ruckus in the middle of the night. I checked the time on my phone.

12:47 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Jeeves is stuck near a cliff.

Enough is enough, I thought. I stormed downstairs, with my phone still in hand, on a mission to put an end to Jeeves’ reign of terror. When I reached the foyer hallway I braced myself for whatever catastrophe I was going to stumble upon this time. After searching for quite some time and finding nothing I was about to give up and go back to bed. Wait, a cliff. Jeeves was stuck near a cliff. I flicked on the light at the top of the stairs that descend into the basement and spotted Jeeves, broken into pieces, at the bottom of the stairs. Just then, my phone beeped. It was one last push notification from Jeeves.

1:12 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Robots are companions too.

*No animals or robotic vacuums were harmed as a result of writing this fictional short story.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write about a character, human or robot, who no longer wishes to obey instructions.

Bangs vs Mullets

Posted on February 7, 2022 by jamiegregory

[6 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E2: Bangs vs Mullets (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

Brad and Angie had been blissfully dating for months until they discovered that they had fundamentally different beliefs. I hope you enjoy this romantic comedy short story. Genre categories: Fiction, romantic comedy. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory The short guitar transitions used to indicate scene changes in this story were created by the user busabx and downloaded via https://freesound.org/. No changes were made to these guitar transitions which are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 license.

Brad walked the three blocks from his apartment to Strikes and Pints with nothing to keep him company besides the sound of his defeated footsteps landing on the sidewalk. He had discovered the bowling alley dive bar in college and, now that he’s practically a regular there, he couldn’t think of a better place to find solace tonight. He paused at the final crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, and glanced at the scrolling marquee on the bank sign across the street.

Temperature: 15°F

He jammed his stiff hands into his coat pockets, suddenly realizing that, in his haste, he’d left his gloves in his apartment.

Date: February 14, 2022

Happy Valentine’s Day!

He knew it wasn’t possible for the electronic sign to be taunting him, but it sure felt like it was.

Brad wasn’t surprised to find the bar nearly empty since it was not exactly a prime destination for Valentine’s Day. He flopped onto his usual barstool and gave a halfhearted wave to the bartender, Hector, who was mixing a drink for a customer at the other end of the bar.

Hector was like the quintessential uncle that Brad never had — he didn’t take any crap from anyone, he had an endless supply of dirty jokes, and he always offered a listening ear for his patrons’ drunken sorrows.

“Hey lovebird, where’s your prettier half?” Hector teased as he approached Brad who responded with a silent glare. “Uh oh. Trouble in paradise? Pick your poison and tell me all about it.”

“Hennigan’s.”

“You got it, kid.”

Brad gulped the scotch, feeling its warmth sear his throat, and slammed the shot glass down on the bartop.

“Just when you think you know a person…” Brad said.

—

Angie took an Uber back to her apartment and spent the fifteen-minute drive feeling like a caged animal, becoming more irritated by the moment as she reflected on the night’s sudden turn of events. By the time she reached her apartment door full of pent-up emotions, her trembling hands fumbled the key in the lock and dropped it onto the floor. A second later she heard the muffled voice of her roommate, Sarah, on the other side of the door.

“Hello?” Sarah said tentatively.

“It’s me, Angie. Can you let me in?” Angie said impatiently.

Sarah, who was already in her pajamas, opened the door with her brow furrowed in confusion and said, “I wasn’t expecting you to come back so early. I figured you’d probably stay the night with Brad.” Then, noticing how distraught Angie was she said, “Is everything ok?”

Angie pushed past her, dropped her heavy purse onto the wooden bench near the door, kicked her boots off, and collapsed onto the couch without bothering to remove her coat.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Sarah said delicately. “Did something happen on the date? Do you want to talk about it?”

Then she glanced around with embarrassment at the remnants of her single-on-Valentine’s-Day pity party that Angie had unknowingly crashed — the half-eaten bowl of butter pecan ice cream sitting on the coffee table, the cozy throw blanket draped across the couch, and the rom-com paused on the tv.

“Just when you think you know a person…” Angie said.

—

“I thought we were really hitting things off, you know? I mean, we’ve been dating for a couple of months and—” Brad said.

“Well, the few times you brought her in here you guys seemed like two peas in a pod. Some of the regular league bowlers even gave you guys one of those couple nicknames.” Hector said.

“What?”

“Brangie,” Hector said with a chuckle but Brad wasn’t amused. “So, what happened?”

“I don’t know…everything seemed great so I decided to take the next step and invite her to my apartment for the first time for a romantic dinner…for Valentine’s Day. And the next thing I knew she was breaking up with me.”

“Was the hanky panky ok? Because if that gets off to a bad start then—”

“Yes, it was great, she even said so herself.”

“Well, she had to have a reason for calling it quits.”

“Oh, believe me, she did. But you’re not going to believe me when I tell you…”

—

“I’m getting the sense we might need some wine for this conversation,” Sarah said disappearing into the kitchen and returning a moment later with two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon. She sat next to Angie on the couch and handed her one of the glasses. “I thought things were going well between you and Brad.”

“So did I. We’ve been dating for a couple of months now and honestly, I was starting to wonder if he was ‘the one’. I was so excited when he invited me to his apartment for this romantic dinner tonight. Everything seemed perfect…he seemed perfect…or so I thought.” Angie said.

“Was everything ok…in the bedroom? Because if you guys don’t have that chemistry then—”

“It was…adequate. Not a deal-breaker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So…what happened then?”

“Well, the night started off picture-perfect, like something out of a Hallmark movie. And the next thing I knew I was breaking up with him and storming out of his apartment.”

“Ok, that’s not going to cut it. I need details. Obviously, you had a reason for ending it.”

“Oh, believe me, I did. But you’re not going to believe me when I tell you…”

—

“I did everything right tonight. It was like a scene from one of those chick flicks. I lit candles, I cooked her a delicious homemade meal, I complimented her left and right, I was charming. Hell, I even deep cleaned my apartment before she came.” Brad said growing more exasperated as he relived the night’s events. “When we finished eating she excused herself to the bathroom while I cleaned up the dishes. I was about to set the stage for the rest of the night, you know, music, mood lighting, the whole nine yards. Then, all of a sudden she starts screaming from the bathroom, ‘Mullet? Seriously, the mullet?’ She came storming back into the kitchen going on this rant about her mother…and toilet paper.”

—

“Ok, details,” Angie said with a sigh followed by a sip of wine. “The apartment, clean and sophisticated in a bachelor type of way. The food, three-course Italian meal, delicious, five stars. And he was basically Prince Charming. He even lit candles for God’s sake. When we finished eating I excused myself to the bathroom. That’s when I discovered the mullet and there was no turning back.”

“Oh no…not the mullet,” Sarah said.

—

“Wait, what? Did you say mullets, her mother, and toilet paper?” Hector asked.

“According to Angie, there are two types of people in this world, the ones who orient their toilet paper roll on the holder in the bangs style with the end of the roll coming up and around from the back so it’s facing you,” Brad gestured with his hands to help Hector visualize the roll, “and the ones who use the mullet style with the end of the roll hanging down between the roll and the wall. She said something about her mother being a hotel housekeeper for thirty years…I don’t know, that part is kind of a blur now. All I know is she broke up with me because apparently, I didn’t have my toilet paper arranged properly.”

—

“My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew I was dating, or God forbid married to, a man with mullet-style toilet paper. You know, she was the head housekeeper for a prestigious hotel for—”

“Thirty years—” Sarah chimed in, having heard the story before.

“—thirty years. And, oh man, did she enforce strict rules at home. We had to make our bed every single day. She didn’t care if it was Christmas morning, our beds had better be made before we ran downstairs to open presents. And every toilet paper roll had to be arranged in the bangs style with the end of the roll folded into a crisp triangle just like they do in hotel bathrooms. Somehow she managed to translate those rules into relationship advice too. She’d always say, ‘If a man doesn’t make his bed every day and handle his toilet paper properly he’s no good. Because if a man can’t get the small things right he’ll never—”

“Get the big things right.” Sarah completed the catchphrase she’d heard Angie recite many times before.

“Exactly. Mullet toilet paper…can you believe it? I bet he doesn’t even make his bed every day.” Angie said.

Sarah raised her wine glass and Angie followed suit, the two glasses clinking together. “Well, it sounds like you really dodged a bullet,” Sarah said.

—

“Wow, so you mean to tell me—” Hector said.

“See? I told you, it’s unbelievable. Who breaks up with a person over toilet paper? It’s ridiculous. Oh, and get this, as she was storming out of my apartment she said, ‘I bet you don’t even make your bed every day, do you?’ She slammed the door in my face before I had a chance to answer.” Brad said.

“Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you make your bed every day?”

“Of course not. What’s the point? The covers are just going to get all messed up again every night anyway.”

“I gotta tell ya, kid. Between the mullet thing and the messy bed, I don’t blame her. I’d break up with you too.” Hector said with a wink.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write a story about a couple with fundamentally different beliefs.