| "The Fortune Cookie" (the twelfth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Fortune Cookie" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight, August 15, 2002 (EDT) |
| The Fortune Cookie by Ken Goldstein greenkenrg@yahoo.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| One day in her life, Cora Lynn
decided to stop being the custodian of other peoples' memories. Looking around
her small, crowded, but immaculately clean Beacon Hill house, she could see no
evidence that she had ever had any life of her own. Instead, what she saw were
souvenirs, brought to her by well-meaning relatives, of their
adventures. It wasn't meant to be this way, Cora thought to herself as she picked up an ivory elephant from the second shelf in the antique curio cabinet in the corner of her living room. The elephant had come from her next youngest brother, Barney's, first trip abroad, to India, in 1958. Cora was supposed to have been graduating college at that time and getting ready for her own world tour, but instead was still living in their parents home, taking care of her younger siblings. Mother's arthritis wouldn't allow her to do much cleaning or cooking, and father was far too busy to learn such tasks, and so it came to young Cora to put off her own future to help the family. That's what an oldest daughter is for, Cora's mother often reminded her. By the time Cora's brothers and sisters were all able to care for themselves, she had given up on ever making it to college and found an escape from the house in the form of a marriage proposal. Henry had been a classmate of Barney's, and although two years Cora's junior, saw an inner beauty in Cora that everybody else had missed, and told her so often. Cora left her parents' house and moved into Henry's without so much as a Niagara Falls honeymoon. Instead they had driven down to Rhode Island where Henry had some business dealings. Cora walked to the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers until she found the ancient bottle opener Henry had bought at the Narragansett brewery. "Hi, Neighbor! Have a 'Gansett," it said, their one souvenir from their one trip together. That's it! Cora thought. She brought the bottle opener back out to the curio cabinet and cleared the top shelf, placing Henry's prized memento in the center. Digging in the front closet she found an old hat box and placed the other objects from the curio into it - the ivory elephant, a pair of white and blue Delft ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like a pair of Dutch wooden shoes, a miniature Japanese Kimono spread over the bottom shelf - all gifts from her brothers' and sisters' travels overseas. Just when Cora and Henry had started to build up enough of a nest egg to raise a family, and do some travelling themselves, Henry had gotten ill. No children, and certainly no vacations, were in store for them, as Cora became the caretaker once more. After her siblings had settled down the tradition of gathering foreign objects was passed on to another generation. All during Henry's long decline they'd be visited by nieces and nephews, each bringing gifts and photographs from their travels. First one hat box, then another, and then several shoe boxes were filled with items from her cabinets, fireplace mantle, table tops, and shelves, all from locations across the country and the world that she had only dreamed of visiting. Already in the closet was a Jackalope, sent by their nephew, Stan, from his hitchhiking trip across Montana. Henry had loved the ugly thing, but Cora removed it from the hallway wall only weeks after Henry's death. Cora now wrapped the Jackalope in a plastic shopping bag and moved it to the garage with several of the boxes. Cora packed up her international showcase of tourist ware, gathered by others, and she swore to refill her house with her own memories, yet to be created. As the boxes filled she thought about where she might go. Perhaps she should start with a cruise down the East Coast, then on to the Caribbean, maybe even sailing through the Panama Canal and up the West Coast to Alaska! Once she'd surveyed this continent, then there'd be time to venture beyond. She might even sell this house and settle in Australia; that would show her family what Cora was really made of. Nearly to dinner time, Cora packed the final item: a small bronze replica of the Golden Gate bridge, sent to her by her grand-niece, Polly, who had just arrived in San Francisco for her first year of college. The first item to be received from a third generation of her far-flung family. Cora would have no more of that. She packed the bridge back into the small box it had arrived in earlier that day and added it to the stack of boxes in her garage. Cora decided to begin her adventures at that very moment by heading down the street to eat at the Chinese restaurant her neighbors were always raving about. Once seated she thoroughly enjoyed her dinner of Almond Chicken with Special Fried Rice and Won Ton Soup, imagining what exotic dishes awaited her on her upcoming travels. Once the dishes were cleared away, and the check presented, she opened her fortune cookie delicately, as if cracking an egg, taking care not to have crumbs shower the table or her lap. Putting the halves of the cookie aside, she smoothed out the fortune on the clean table cloth and read the enclosed message: THE TREASURES YOUR FAMILY BRINGS YOU ARE LOVE Cora looked from the fortune to a family enjoying their meal at the large corner table, then back to the fortune. Pausing a moment, she opened her pocketbook, pulled several crisp dollar bills from her wallet, and placed the fortune in her change purse. At the register Cora politely thanked the hostess for a most marvelous meal and a wonderful evening. Leaving the restaurant, Cora Lynn walked directly home where she began unpacking her boxes. |
| The Fortune Cookie By Michael Upchurch nurpu2002@yahoo.com (Entry #10) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It didn’t look like much from
the outside. The house looked very plain from the road, being a light gray and
artlessly square, set upon the standard beach house stilts. Only two windows
watched as they pulled up the sand driveway. A natural wood staircase, on the
right side of the house, rose towards a door and then appeared to continue
towards a porch on the beachfront side. Phillip wondered if he had made a mistake renting this house as opposed to one more expensive. He climbed the stairs, enjoying the warm salty breeze, and unlocked the door. As he stepped into the house his concern disappeared. “Hey, it’s a lot nicer on the inside.” Vince and Matt followed Phillip inside. “Wow, that’s contrast for ya,” Vince said. “this is really nice.” “Look at this view.” Matt was gazing out the beach side of the house. Large windows running the length of the wall looked out across a huge porch that extended towards white sand dunes, and beautiful blue ocean. The living room, being nicely furnished, and kitchen occupied one large area, and a hallway led to three bedrooms. Everything seemed clean and well kept, although a thick line of ants, like a black rope, crossed the tan linoleum, stretching from a window and disappearing under the refrigerator. Upon closer inspection, Phillip determined the small ants to be of the stinging ‘fire’ variety. The assembly of ants worked feverishly, apparently smuggling a substance, as of yet undetermined, to a nest beyond the window. “Dude, that’s a lot of ants. See what they’re after under the fridge and I’ll see if I can find some spray.” Matt said. Phillip found a flyswatter in a drawer and slid it underneath the refrigerator. Along with a lot of ants, Phillip snagged two halves of a fortune cookie. The cookie was covered with ants that appeared ready to defend their discovery, for they did not scatter and run but almost seemed to rush forward, crowding onto each half. Phillip considered briefly how odd this seemed (maybe fortune cookies were considered quite a delicacy in the ant kingdom), before grinding the ants into the floor with the bottom of his shoe. As if some of the ants had leaped over his foot, Phillip felt something crawling on his leg. He looked down and saw only a pile of crushed ants and cookies though. “Here’s some Raid.” Matt handed Phillip the can. Moving from the refrigerator to the window, Phillip doused the train of ants, and, feeling very pleased with himself, swept the dead into a dust-pan. Satisfied the ants were dead, he emptied the tiny carcasses into the trash can. Now everyone could unpack and begin enjoying their vacation. ***** Matt was ripped from a dream by yelling and, instinctively, jumped out of bed. As it was the first night he’d spent in this house he was disoriented, to say the least, and forgot where he was. It was dark, and somebody was screaming. He listened and heard, “Get them off…they’re all over me….ow….it hurts…off…off…quick…”. Matt recognized Phillip’s voice and suddenly came to his senses, remembering where he was, and rushed into the hall. Vince was already opening Phillip’s bedroom door and Matt followed him in, flipping the wall switch. Phillip was lying in bed, eyes closed, yelling. Vince grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until he opened his eyes. Immediately Phillip jumped up, violently, knocking Vince over. He ripped the covers off himself and started scratching and brushing his body. “Phillip! Phillip! Dude calm down. You were dreaming,” Matt yelled, slow and deliberately. Gradually Phillip calmed down and stopped scratching. He looked at Matt, while Vince picked himself up, quite astonished and confused, still trying to figure it out. “Hey man, we’re at the beach, remember.” Matt laughed. “That must have been one hell of a dream.” One last glance at his legs and realization spread across Phillip’s face. “Holy shit! I’ve never dreamt like that before. Man, that was so real. I felt pain! You’re not supposed to feel pain when you dream.” “Whatever, I’m going back to bed.” Vince said and he left the room. “Yeah, me too. See ya tomorrow, and no more yelling tonight.” Matt said as he went back to his bedroom. ***** “Hey bro, what are those red bumps on your foot. Kinda looks like poison ivy, or mosquito bites.” Vince said. They were lying on the beach, cooking under the sun. “I don’t know.” Phillip sat up and examined his feet, as if he was unaware of the bumps. “Damn, I don’t know. They kind of look like mosquito bites. I just now noticed them.” On cue, the bright red bumps began to itch and burn. “Well, now that I know they’re there I can start enjoying the itching. You shouldn’t have pointed them out.” “Sucks for you. Hey, what was that dream all about last night?” Vince asked. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I can’t remember a thing.” Phillip replied. “There’s no way you don’t remember that. You were screaming like a little girl.” Matt said. “Ouch, shit!” A tiny ant was furiously attacking Phillip’s arm. “What?” Matt said. “Just an ant.” ***** Phillip stepped out of the shower and groped for his towel, eyes burning and shut tight, snagged it from the rack, and wiped the soap from his eyes. He began drying himself and a sharp, fiery pain shot across his cheek. Slapping himself in the face, instinctively trying to remove the cause of pain as a person does when stung by bees, he looked in the mirror. Fire ants. There must have been a dozen, viciously biting and stinging his cheeks. While brushing the ants from his face into the sink, he began to feel stinging on other body parts, particularly his feet, which were now covered by the towel he had dropped so hastily. The white towel on the floor was covered with tiny black spots, a swarm of ants, now spilling onto the white tile floor, like someone had spilled black sand. Phillip jumped into the shower and turned on the water. Ants slid off his body and washed down the drain. At first glance, one might think Phillip had had dirt all over him, tracked it across the bathroom floor, and was rinsing off. When Phillip was satisfied that all his attackers had drowned, he quickly grabbed the ant covered towel and tossed it into the opposite end of the shower, by the drain. He diverted the water to the bathtub faucet and, after turning the hot water all the way up, rinsed the little fuckers down the drain. There were still ants on the floor, moving in random patterns over the tiles, having absolutely no reason to be there. Phillip stepped quickly across the floor and charged out the door into the hall. ***** “Whoa, dude. That’s not cool. Put some fucking clothes on.” Vince said, quickly looking away. Something was wrong though and Vince cautiously looked back as Phillip turned into his bedroom. “Holy shit! What happened man? You’ve got red marks all over your back.” Vince walked into the bathroom. The water was running and the bathtub was filling up because a white towel clogged the drain, but everything else looked normal. He unplugged the drain, glancing at the clear water, and dropped the sopping towel on the floor. “Where’s that can of Raid?” Phillip was yelling from his bedroom, hopefully while getting dressed. “I’m just going to spray the fuckers and then I’ll mop them up. Be careful, don’t walk in there. They’ll bite the shit out of you. I’m going to call the real estate company and have a word with them about this, and they better send a goddamn exterminator out here now!” “Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” Vince yelled back. Phillip walked into the bathroom, looking exhausted, like he’d just run ten miles on the beach in ninety-degree weather without any sunscreen, and obviously furious. However, it was apparent his anger was directed towards something of which he was frightened. His face was bright red and splotchy, and being shirtless, Vince could see that his torso was the same. “All of the ants, dumbas-…” Phillip was back in the bathroom gawking at the floor. He looked like he had seen somebody drive a Ferrari into the bathroom and park it there, only to have vanished while he was changing in his bedroom. In that moment, the inexplicable degree of confusion plastered on his face, Vince was convinced it was time to take a little trip to the loony bin. And then Phillip was on hands and knees, looking behind the toilet, under cabinets, in cabinets, throwing aside the bathmat, scraping the shower floor with his hands. He grabbed the towel and shook it and spread it on the floor and examined both sides. “Man, this bathroom was covered in ants just a minute ago,” Phillip turned to Vince and pronounced, as if he couldn’t possibly be mistaken, with complete and total sincerity. Vince was not sure if Phillip was lucid. “What are you talking about? I don’t see a single ant. Just calm down, you’re acting kinda crazy.” “Where the hell did all these bite marks come from then?” Phillip said, with that crazy look again, pointing at himself. He looked like he had the measles. “Okay, okay, calm down. I believe you.” And Vince did believe him. There was nothing else that could explain the bite marks, other than a swarm of bees, and Vince considered ants a more viable explanation. Vince studied the tiles, although pointless considering Phillip’s inspection, for cracks the ants might have escaped through. The idea was ludicrous and Vince had to suppress laughter, knowing that Phillip considered this no laughing matter. Then Vince felt something sting his foot. He knew it was an ant before looking and brushed it off. There was one more ant, which he stepped on, but that was all. “Where’d those come from? What kind of ants are these, invisible ones?” Vince said. “See, I told you.” ***** “You guys are crazy. What in the hell are you talking about?” Matt called from the kitchen. “Come check out what I found on the kitchen floor. It’s kind of funny…Holy shit, what happened to you?” Matt said as Phillip walked into the room. “Ants, in the shower. Disappearing ants apparently,” Phillip said. Matt looked at Vince for clarification. Vince shrugged and held out his hands. “Don’t look at me. Those are ant bites all over him,” Vince said. “So, what did you find?” Phillip asked. “Oh, check it out,” Matt, still looking shaken by Phillip’s appearance (he looked horrible) handed Phillip a short, thin piece of white paper. “I found it near the fridge just a minute ago. It must be from that fortune cookie that was covered with ants yesterday.” ‘All life is sacred. The man that takes the life of another living creature needlessly shall suffer the consequences deemed fit by its spirit.’ “Oh, that’s real funny alright. I guess I’m being attacked by ghost ants now - night of the living dead ants. I’m going to go drink some beer out on the porch.” Phillip tossed the paper into the trash and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He planned on drinking until he could no longer feel pain from the bites. It was early evening and the setting sun’s fleeting rays reflected off the clouds in brilliant orange and red. The ocean breeze felt good, cooling Phillip’s burning body. He sat in a lounge chair and laid back, enjoying the cold beer, and steadily growing drowsy. Dazed, mind blank and no worries, all thoughts of ants erased, Phillip took his last sip of beer. The sensation slowly brought Phillip back. Something other than liquid was in his mouth. Sand, it was sand. Sand pouring between his teeth and under his tongue, between his cheeks and gums. He must have swallowed some, because he could feel the grit slide down his throat. Then a thousand needles stabbed Phillip’s tongue and Drano poured down his throat and coated his stomach. Phillip, still clutching the beer, felt fire on his hand and saw a line of ants climbing the side of the bottle. The beer fell onto the deck and so did Phillip. He climbed to his knees, spitting ants from his mouth and watching them land on the wood in big clumps. With one hand he scraped the inside of his mouth and smeared ants onto the porch. The pain was unbearable and he cried out between coughs and gags. He could feel them writhing in his throat, tearing it apart, like heartburn from battery acid, and sliding into his stomach. Phillip could feel his tongue slowly swelling as he spit up blood. “Hep…Hep. Maa, Viiii. Heeeeeeeeeeepppppppp!” Phillip could barely speak now, his tongue engorged, poison coursing through his mouth. He struggled to his feet. Vince and Matt rushed out onto the porch. “Holy fucking shit man,” Vince started, and Phillip spit up more blood. “Matt, go call 911 quick….no fuck 911, that’ll take too long. Let’s get him in the car.” “There isn’t a hospital on this island and I have no idea where one is around here,” Matt said. “How bad is it man, you gonna be alright for a minute?” “Caa bree, Caa breeee,” Phillip gasped. “Wha……..?” Matt said “He can’t fucking breath. Holy shit. Pick him up and take him to the car and I’ll call 911 on my cell phone!” The words were fading, as was the world. Bright metallic spots flashed across Phillip’s eyes and in his last coherent thoughts his mind drifted back to the fortune cookie and he realized he was going to die. Killed by ants. Could Matt and Vince see the ants? |
Here are all the entries, posted in
the order they were received.
Entrants, please proofread your submissions
and report any mistakes to me at MyEntry@aol.com.
| The Fortune Cookie By notmanos@yahoo.com |
#1 of 10 |
| "Hard work pays dividends,"Molly read,screwing up her
face in disappointment."Oh,that sucks.Why can't I ever get a good
fortune?" "I'll trade you,"Rob said,holding out his scrap of white paper. Molly waved it away,dropping her fortune on her half eaten plate of Kung Pao chicken,the paper instantly soaking up the violently red-orange sauce."No way.Keep your damn 'Haste makes waste'.That's even lamer than mine."Her soft blue eyes turned towards him,and she asked,"So what does yours say,Chris?" With great reluctance,Chris broke open his fortune cookie,the brittle thing almost exploding under the pressure of his fingers,scattering crumbs all over the remains of his sweet and sour prawns and most of the red tablecloth.He never liked fortune cookies:if the dry,tasteless cookies weren't bad enough,this fortune nonsense seemed like the concept of a diseased mind.He kept his thoughts to himself, though,because clearly Rob and Molly got an enjoyment out of the concept that he couldn't hope to achieve,no matter how many doses of Prozac he consumed. Virtually the only thing left was the shred of white paper,and he glanced at it with a disinterest bordering on hostility.All it said,in tiny,slightly off center black font,was..."You'll get what you deserve,"he told them,scowling at it. "Wow.Do you think we could get a side order of vagueness with that?"Rob said,grinning at his own joke.He was the only one. Molly gave him a troubled look,a small line forming between her dark brows."That sounds kind of ominous,doesn't it?" "What,are you kidding?"Rob replied,giving Chris such a hard slap on the back it probably qualified as part of the Heimlich maneuver."Chris here's a saint.He's probably going to get the Nobel Peace Prize or Crystal from Accounts Receivable or something." He shook his head,rolling the piece of paper into a tiny little ball that he lobbed in the dregs of his green tea."It's not like these things aren't mass produced in Taiwan,along with souvenir t-shirts and Pokemon cards.The graffiti in the bathroom stalls is more likely to come true." "I don't know about that,"Molly said,getting an oddly dreamy look in her eye."I ate here with Jennie last week,and her fortune was 'Good luck will fall upon you'.She bought a lottery ticket,and hit the jackpot,remember?" "Not the big one,"Chris pointed out,although he had to admit to himself that twenty thousand dollars was nothing to sneeze at."And besides,that was coincidence.You're an accountant,Mol.You're the last person I thought would fall for this superstitious crap." Her face took on a pinched look,as if she suddenly smelled something bad."What does that mean?" As he grimaced at what he had just said,Chris wondered why he did these stupid things.He didn't even like Chinese food all that much,or Molly and Rob for that matter.But it was the dance you did in the every day world,from kindergarten to the grave,chumming up with people you really didn't care about one way or another and pretending to be something you weren't just to get by."Nothing.This just seems silly to me." What was he going to say?That she had what he considered to be 'Accountant's Disease',which was a personality so amazingly bland she was as exciting as a table lamp with a burned out bulb.Her rather soft and almost bovine countenance didn't help matters much.Rob had the opposite problem,being an obnoxious hanger on from marketing who hit his peak in high school and refused to move on from there.He thought rebellion was wearing obnoxiously patterned ties that always clashed with his shirt,unaware that it just made him look like a clown on the dole. Chris knew he had precious little room to judge,but they didn't know that.He was a liar of epic proportions,bullshitting his way through a life that seemed perfunctory and devoid of color,like he was a black and white man in a Kodachrome world.He had no real friends because he trusted no one,so he ended up sliding along with the sad sacks and the various office refugees who never found a clique that would accept them.He didn't know which of them was the most pathetic. Rob slapped him on the back again,shoving him forward in his chair.Chris had to suppress the urge to elbow him in his puffy face,but oh how he wanted to."Ol' Chris here may be a saint,but he has no romance in his soul." Chris was about to say something he knew he'd regret when the waiter came by with the check.Molly easily worked out the sums each of them owed for lunch,and the moment for him to tell Rob exactly what he thought of him passed. Work was so mind numbingly dull he found himself occasionally wondering what 'You'll get what you deserve' could possibly mean in his life.He wanted to think it would mean he'd hit the jackpot like Jennie (although he assumed he'd have to play the lottery once in a while to actually win at it),or that some rich relative he never knew he had would die and leave him a fortune,allowing him to retire from this corporate drone job and travel the world with a bevy of ravishing supermodels by his side,but some little voice in the back of his mind reminded he deserved none of that. What did he really deserve?It was a philosophical question that he mused over on the subway ride home.He told people his parents were dead so he didn't have to admit they were complete neurotic wrecks,and that he had no siblings so he would never have to own up to the oafish brother who put the trash back in white trash.He would have argued to anyone who'd listen that he didn't deserve them, but it was remarkable how little people cared. Walking home from the stop in the cool early evening air,he was struck by how unusually quiet it was.His first thought was there was a natural disaster or something that had pulled everyone in front of the nearest t.v. set.Maybe O.J. was leading another slow motion chase over an unpaid parking ticket somewhere. Yet,breathing in the air,unusually clean from a brief shower an hour before,he realized he hadn't experienced this kind of peace in the longest time.Yes,he was a liar,and yes he hated his job and could barely tolerate his co-workers,but who didn't?Maybe this was what he deserved-quiet. This thought made him happy until he went up the steps of his brownstone,and saw his front door was slightly ajar. He paused on the top step,feeling his heart skip a beat as he realized there was a light on in his front room,and he could hear the idiot blare of the television inside.He had left nothing on when he'd left this morning,and certainly he'd never be stupid enough to leave his door open. Chris knew he should go over to the Henderson's and call the cops,but the Hendersons hated him,and the cops would probably put him on hold anyways.But what the hell kind of burglar left the television on? He crept quietly to his door and gently pushed it open,enough so he could see inside his front room. On his sofa sat a man in a mustard stained white undershirt and grey boxers that were starting to unravel at the hem,holding a can of beer in his right hand.Idly,the man scratched his crotch with his free hand,then looked up and saw Chris staring at him. "Hey bro,"his brother Mark said casually,as if Chris was dropping in on his house."Sorry about bustin' in,but Laurie kicked me out of the house,and I had nowhere else to go.Guess we're gonna be roommates for a while."He grinned broadly,displaying a full mouth of tobacco stained teeth. Chris's eyes scudded over the rest of his brother's clothes scattered over his formerly neat carpet,and when his eyes finally came to rest on the small pile of suitcases and bowling trophies crushing his potted ficus in the far corner,he screamed in abject horror. He would swear he had never done anything in his life terrible enough to deserve Mark. |
|
| The Fortune Cookie By guy_in_az2001@yahoo.com |
#2 of 10 |
| I’ve always been the shy one. The perennial
wallflower, constantly adorning the back row of every social gathering
I’ve ever been to. I don’t dislike people, quite the contrary,
it’s just I don’t communicate well. My relationship with Eric, if it can be called that, has been less than fulfilling. In the two years we’ve been seeing each other, the feelings I have for him have not grown stronger with time. Dwindled is a more apt description. I know it’s mostly my fault, but that doesn’t lessen the emptiness I feel. With another Friday night watching movies alone behind me, I’m feeling a great relief to be on my way to the Golden Dragon for my usual Saturday brunch. It’s my weekly refuge from my boring and mundane existence, and my mood is brightening the closer I get. I love the restaurant. The smells, textures, colors and personalities I see while simply sitting at a table and enjoying my meal. For me, just being able to mingle with the other diners is a pleasure, and intoxicating in the possibilities. The exotic décor doesn’t hurt either. I pull into the parking lot, further enticed by the number of vehicles already present. It appears there will be a rather large crowd here today, and I’m pleased. I walk toward the entry, straightening the hem on the bright little sundress. I love this dress, knowing that the pattern and color compliment my petite figure so well; at least that’s what my mirror reveals. As I enter, the first stop as always, will be the small stand presenting the menu of the day. It’s positioned just adjacent to the ledged window opening into the kitchen. I stand there, reading slowly, and of course listening for the proprietor and his wife. I’m addicted to the constant banter between them. Him being the handsome well built front man, perpetually wearing form-fitting slacks and an open collared silk shirt. Her being a razor-tongued shrew that constantly criticizes his every move and motive. The contrast is as intriguing as the aromas drifting through the window. I always wonder if he’s as dissatisfied with his chosen partner as I. Perhaps we both need to embark on paths of new beginnings. I’m not disappointed as he moves from the kitchen and walks toward me, smiling as he picks up a menu. He is so handsome I get chills as his hands wrap the menu jacket, and I can see his rippled torso so clearly through the silk. I think of how pleasurable it would be to simply reach out and run my hand across his chest, letting my fingers trace the rugged curves. I decide then and there to give the romance novels a rest, at least on Friday nights. Still, I take a parting gaze at his manly features. I notice too the sidelong glance of the shrew as she enters from the kitchen door. I can’t help but wonder how such a woman can possibly satisfy him. She is still glaring as he gestures for me to follow. As I’m ushered toward a table, I notice a couple, perhaps a bit younger than I, in a heated but still quiet debate. I’m more than pleased with being seated next to them, eager to hear the discussion more clearly. I order immediately to dismiss the proprietor, and I catch the tail end of the couple’s exchange. “Ha, now I’ve heard everything,” the woman retorts, and rather mockingly “a salesman and a comedian” “Well you won’t find a better price anywhere,” his tone showing his indignation and roiled ire. “Look, I’m not paying you a penny beyond the ten thousand, so forget it,” the woman snaps. “I can’t sell them at that price,” the man rails, “it’s fifteen and that’s final!” “So keep the damn things then,” the woman replies, waving a backhanded rebuke and turning slightly as though to leave. It’s then I notice how handsome he is, dressed so well in the obviously tailored suit. His fine-featured face is reddened with the flush of anger. I’m drawn to the sight, and unexpectedly, a twinge of desire ripples through me. “Ok, ok, ten it is,” the salesman relents, adding a final note “but just to be rid of you.” “Now that’s better,” the woman replies, presenting her hand to him. They shake, and she rises to leave. I note the satisfied look on her face. “I’ll see you Monday then,” she says, sounding very pleased with herself. The salesman’s face is dour as she leaves, and his lack of any parting word or action only adds to the flavor of the exchange. I’m still in awe of the woman’s brash persuasiveness as I watch her leave. Her haughty demeanor so dissimilar to mine, I almost envy her. My soup arrives, and of course accompanied by a small dish containing two fortune cookies. I’m pleased, loving nothing better than a second chance at what fortunes lay inside. As the first small ladle of soup touches my lips, I get the distinct feeling of being watched. Still savoring the warm rich aroma, I slowly turn toward the next table. Our eyes meet, and oddly, I do not turn from his gaze. I simply look, almost able to peer into his very soul. Unnerved, he turns away, and his face reddens. Perhaps we’re not so different, he and I, and I wish I possessed more daring. I turn back to my soup, wondering as the warm flavors incite my senses. Would he? I’m on my second mouthful, when I turn to the rather quiet, “Excuse me” It’s the salesman sitting next to me who has spoken, and I give him my full attention. I see the look of apprehension cross his face, and I can imagine his feelings. I know them well. “Would it be too bold of me to ask to join you?” our eyes again meeting. “No, and yes you may,” I reply, shocked at the sudden ease with which I speak. He’s seated at my table before I even catch my breath, smiling, and extending his hand. “I’m Chin, Chin Li, and thank you for allowing me to join you. I’ve had a rather bad morning, and would appreciate some company…I don’t like dining alone” Still flushed with excitement and surprise, I take his hand, nothing the firmness of his grasp, “I’m Claire” “Pretty name,” he responds, “so Claire, do you come here often?” “Almost every Saturday,” I reply, a bit hesitantly, “I love the daily menu”. I don’t mention that all things oriental, especially men, excite my every sense. “It’s the atmosphere that draws me here,” he replies warmly, “I spend a lot of time in the Orient” “How exotic. So what takes you to the east so often?” “Raw gems mostly,” he says, thanking the proprietor for bringing his meal to my table, “that’s my line of work, jewelry, or at least providing the raw materials” “How interesting” and I find my eyes wander to his hand, searching, and not finding any jewelry, particularly a wedding ring. I’m delighted at the absence. With a wondrous ease and openness we begin talking, our conversation so animated and fun that I totally relax in his presence. We converse like old friends, catching up on our lives after a long parting. I’m quickly rapt in both his presence and persona. As we chat, I idly break open a fortune cookie and read the words ‘Good fortune will come your way today’. I smile, thinking of the good fortune sitting right across from me. I simply can’t believe how two strangers can suddenly meet and share like we are now. He is unlike me, both in speech and manner. I’m the shy, retiring and quiet one. He is gentle, handsome, and polite, yet has a boldness that I could never have. I like him immensely. Two full hours and another pot of green tea later, Chin says he has to leave shortly. I’m almost distraught at the thought. As we end our conversation, I open the other fortune cookie. I’m so glad to have two, as I read the words ‘Good fortune is yours for the asking’. Can I? Should I? I fold the little strip of paper, and discretely drop it into my purse. I’m soaring in relief and delight as Chin offers to call me later and perhaps arrange to meet again some time. I go further. I invite him for lunch tomorrow. Actually, I make the offer as brunch, allowing him to pick the time of his choosing. My hand begins to quiver as I write my address and phone number on a napkin, presenting it to him as he readily accepts my offer. With a warm, lingering touch to my arm he is off, leaving me unexpectedly giddy and flushed. I rush home, filled with anticipation of tomorrow. The abrupt ring of the doorbell catches me off guard as I finalize the preparation of the fruit salad. “Come on in,” I call out, “it’s open.” “Hi Claire, where are you?” I hear Chin call as he enters. “In the kitchen, come on in,” I reply, hearing the door close softly in the living room. “You have a beautiful home,” Chin remarks as he enters the kitchen, “really beautiful” “Thanks,” I reply, beaming that he noticed the comforting surroundings. I turn to look toward him, my eyes drinking in his handsome features. He’s dressed as smartly as yesterday, the cut of his trousers and the crisp polo shirt compliment his physique. “I love your look,” I say, almost desperate to start a conversation to distract me from openly staring, “I’m surprised every woman in the neighborhood isn’t clawing at my door.” “Well it was a struggle, but I managed to fend them off,” Chin laughs, adding, “You look rather stunning yourself.” “Thanks,” I reply, “there’s cold drinks in the refrigerator, help yourself” “Anything I can do to help?” Chin asks as he opens the refrigerator to pull a soda from the shelf. I can’t help but notice the delicious fit of his slacks. “Oh no,” I quickly reply, “Everything’s all set. I thought we might eat outside on the patio” “Sounds perfect,” Chin replies, “I’d love an alfresco lunch on such a beautiful day” Brunch is exquisite. Our conversations draw laughter and mirth from both of us. Chin is indeed a charmer, and he has me totally rapt and intrigued with his life of travel and discovery. All thoughts of Eric vanish as quickly as the fruit salad. I watch as Chin bites delicately at a slice of melon, his tongue catching a drop of juice poised to fall. Delicious visions fill my thoughts, and desire flares as I envision his lips moving over mine with the same slow movements. What would his lips feel like, doing such a thing, devouring me? As we finish our lunch, and casually talk and sip at the tea, Chin asks, “Would you like to see a matinee with me later this afternoon, and join me for dinner afterward?” “That sounds wonderful, what movie did you have in mind?” “It’s an older one, but I love it, and it’s playing at the Strand at four o’clock. It’s called the Joy Luck Club” Good fortune indeed I think as I nearly gush, “I’d love to see it. It’s one of my favorites” “Perfect,” he replies, smiling, “it’s a date then” I’m almost weak in the knees. I thought this was the date. Could it possibly get any better? “Here, let me help you with those,” and he rises to assist as I begin clearing the patio table. I’m impressed with his offer to do dishes. His thanks for the exquisite brunch; at least that’s what he said. “Thank you, I’ll just go freshen up before we leave” I’m almost euphoric as I tease at my hair and do a quick check of my make-up. This man excites me so, and I can hardly think straight. A last quick glance in the mirror pleases me. Taking a calming breath, I check my purse. I notice the small folded piece of paper. I pull it out and read the words Good fortune is yours for the asking. I smile, thankful for my brief surge of courage. I tuck the little piece of paper back into a compartment of my purse. Perhaps the fortunes do come true. At any rate, I’m not about to discard the little message just yet. Is this man what I have needed for so long? Would Eric ever excite or move me this deeply? I knew not. All thoughts are now of Chin as I hasten back to his enchanting company, ready and eager to exploit the good fortune that’s come my way. This is a new beginning for me I decide as I near the end of the hallway. Finally in my life some good fortune has indeed fallen, and I am not about to let the opportunity slip from my grasp. Ever. I round the corner to the kitchen. Chin turns, smiling so warmly at me as he asks, “Shall we go?” |
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| The Fortune Cookie By Dalia M. daliameg@yahoo.com |
#3 of 10 |
| He was walking on the beach, wet sand oozing from
between his toes, salty breeze ruffling his blonde hair. the beautiful brunette
was with him, snugly fit in the crook of his arm. They stopped in front of
canopying palm trees. He looked deeply into her eyes and, slowly, lowered his
lips to hers. leaning her head forward, she met him half-way, then stopped. She
opened her mouth to say something, and suddenly,…instead of words, he
heard a shrilly pealing coming out of her mouth. He leapt back in alarm, and
felt himself fall backward on something hard. He slowly opened his eyes, and
found himself…on the floor. Vincent looked at the accused with disdain, “ Why did you have to go and open your big mouth now?” Vincent asked the alarm clock as he slapped it. He stood up and headed dejectedly to the bathroom. “I’m not ugly, I’m not desperate. I can have any girl I want, right? But she was beautiful. Why aren’t there girls like that in real life?” he asked the vanity mirror, but the mirror remained quiet and Vincent remained perplexed. Stepping out of the shower, he quickly dressed and was out of the door. It wasn’t unusual that Vincent didn’t have breakfast at home because he was used to breakfasting at a small Chinese restaurant near his apartment, Lee’s. It was odd that someone would consider Chinese as a way to start their day, but the couple who own the place seem to sympathize with New York’s early-risers and have provided them with - in addition to Chinese food - doughnuts, pies and sandwiches. Oh, and let’s not forget the amazing Chinese fortune cookie which Vincent has developed an uncanny addiction for. “Good morning, Lee,” Vincent said with a slight frown as the bells hung on the door jingled merrily. “Morning, Vincent. Catch any spies lately?” “Lee, I happen to take my job seriously. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make jokes about it.” “Loosen up Vincent. What’s the matter with you today?” “Nothing, it’s…nothing. Can you just give me the usual to go, I’m late already as it is.” “Sure thing.” Five minutes later, lee handed him a brown paper bag with the picture of a red dragon on it. “Your cookie’s inside.” “Thanks. Have a good day.” “Yeah, you too.” Vincent hopped in his car and drove off to the FBI building. He had been an agent for six months now, so he was considered ‘the rookie’; the new kid on the block, and he didn’t like it one bit. Vincent didn’t want to sit at a fancy desk and wear expensive suits. He wanted to be more than that, wanted to do more than that. But how? And when? His best friend, Joe, thought he complained too much. “Maybe Joe’s right. Maybe I’m not in my right element because it’s all new to me.” He parked his car and entered the building. He was hungry and couldn’t wait until he had had a bite of the goodies Lee had packed for him. As he climbed into the elevator, he felt uneasy, but he had always detested elevators and shrugged it off as just that. He got off on the tenth floor and hurried into his office which he hated; it was the place where nothing happened. well, of course things happened, but, Vincent was counting on more exciting stuff, stuff he had always dreamed about, read about. That was why he’d signed up to be part of this elite club in the first place. He longed for excitement, adventures, catching the criminals no one else could, but that’s not what he got. “It’s going to happen very soon. I can feel it.” And the funny thing was he wasn’t just blowing air in the wind. He still had that same feeling he’d had in the elevator, but for the life of him, Vincent didn’t have a clue as to what was causing it.. “It’s probably the acids in my empty stomach.” He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. before he’d swallowed, took a big gulp of the hot coffee and felt it as it made its way down his throat, washing the remnants of the sandwich down with it. After finishing the sandwich, he took out the fortune cookie. He noticed how different it was from the one Lee usually gives him. The wrapper was elegant, unlike the cheap plastic, see-through kind. It was black with red, Chinese writing and a golden line encircling it. Vincent tore open the wrapper, and was again surprised. The cookie had a shape unlike any he’d ever seen. it was in the shape of a sphere - a perfectly round little ball with a slight crack on top which was the only resemblance it had to any other fortune cookie. It looked like someone had put in a lot of time to make it and Vincent was impressed. “I wonder what kind of fortune it’ll have for me.” At that instant, the intercom buzzer sounded. “Mr. Michaels, the Official wants to see you.” “I’ll be right there, Gwen.” He broke the cookie in half, threw half in his mouth, took out the sheet of paper and started skimming the words, then slowed down, then stopped. Vincent looked up, a mild expression of incomprehensibility drawn on his, and started reading again from the beginning. “ ‘Factory Explosion due to Negligence kills two and injures six. 19:05.’ What the hell kind of fortune is that? What a rip-off!” more disappointed than anything, Vincent shoved the piece of paper into his desk drawer and went to see his boss. The next morning, Vincent was late for work again. He stopped by Lee’s to pick up his breakfast and found Lee’s wife. she didn’t know anything about a new fortune cookie. he went to work and ate, then got out the black and gold wrapper, tore it open and found the round cookie. Just like yesterday, it impressed him that someone had gone to the trouble of making such perfectly-shaped cookies. He broke it open and looked apprehensively at the white sheet of paper. “ ‘Car Crash on 54th and E kills two at 12:10.’ Perfect! I don’t even go near that part of town.” He shoved the paper in his drawer as he had done yesterday, impatient with what he thought was some kind of joke. He took out several files and dutifully went to work. Later, he heard a sharp knock on the door then he saw it open as Gwen entered with a cup of coffee, and several folders. “These came in today,” she said. “And here’s your coffee.” “Thanks, Gwen.” “Do you need anything else?” “No, I’m just worki-” “By the way, did you hear about that explosion on 37th and Maine?” “No, I didn’t. Listen, I need to fin-” “Well, they say the factory owner was being careless. Look what he did to those poor factory workers - the asshole.” Suddenly something clicked in Vincent’s mind and his head shot up. “What did you just say?” “Asshole?” “No. you said ‘factory’?” “Yeah,” Gwen answered slowly. “There was a factory that exploded?” “Yes.” “When did this happen?” “Last night. At about seven.” “Oh my God! This is incredible! How many were killed?” he frantically rummaged through his drawers. “Where was it? I could’ve sworn I put it here yesterday.” “What is it?” “There it is!” He exclaimed, ignoring Gwen. “Mr. Michaels, are you alright?” “Never mind. Just tell me how many were killed?” “One, I think.” “One! Only? Are you sure?” “You’re upset because only one person died?!” Vincent paused, realizing how odd he must sound and a tingle of fear raced up his spine. “No, of course not. I just want to know, how many were killed?” “OK, let me think. They said six were injured-” “that’s right!” Vincent ignored the strange look Gwen was giving him. “And…two were killed. that’s the right number, I’m sure…Those poor souls. I hope that son-of-a-bitch gets a life sentence for his negligence.” “Yeah, so do I,” he said absent-mindedly. “Well, I’m gonna go now.” “Uh-huh.” God, he’s acting really strange today. Maybe the pressure’s finally getting to him. Gwen thought as she closed the door behind her. Vincent stood a long time by his desk, inattentively gazing out of the windows at the bustling city below. His mind was numb with perplexity and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. He decided to push all that nonsense from his mind and concentrate on the work piling up on his desk. Yet he couldn’t focus. He went home tired and irritable, but was adamant to stay in front of the television. He had to make sure that what’d happened that morning was just a bizarre coincidence. “Surely, it couldn’t be true. There was no such thing…Was there?” He sat transfixed for the nine o’clock news and when nothing about a car crash was mentioned, he visibly relaxed. He rolled his shoulders back and he felt the muscles in the back of his neck gradually loosen. Vincent went to finish his work. He took his briefcase and went in the bedroom. Turning on the TV in front of the bed, he flipped through the channels until he found a semi-interesting program which he left on. As the clock struck twelve, the program ended and the news started. Without realizing it, Vincent reached for the remote and turned up the volume. He heard scraps of words, but he wasn’t listening. He had attuned his ears to pick up a certain phrase; car crash. The news anchors went from story to story and the minutes sped by without one word being said about a crash of any kind. Finally, at 12:20, he’d wrapped up his work and was sick of listening to news all day like a sociopath. He looked for the remote but it wasn’t anywhere on the bed. forced to get up, he looked for it on the floor, but it wasn’t there either. Grudgingly, he took the few steps to the TV and put his finger on the power button when his ears pricked up like a trained dog’s and his heart skidded to a fast stop. “…crash of some sort, yes, a car crash ten minutes ago. Where did it take place, Bob?…On 54th and E. This is terrible. The…the two drives were killed instantly. Oh my God. This is just terrible.” Vincent turned of the TV and plopped down but nothing was there to catch his fall except the hard floor. “How can this be? this is preposterous! It can’t be true.” suddenly, the room was spinning and he felt scared and stupid. He could have stopped those accidents from occurring if only…if only he hadn’t been so hung up on his problems. He was just as guilty as that factory owner. Now what the question was: what was he going to do about it? He had to talk to someone. Or else he’d go insane. The first person that popped in his mind was his friend Joe. “Yeah, Joe’s a detective. He’ll know what to do.” He grabbed the phone and dialed. “Hello?” “Joe! Oh, God, I’m so glad you’re home.” “Who is this? Vinnie? Is that you?” “Joseph, I really need to talk to you.” “ ‘Joseph’? This must be big.” “I need to talk to you.” “OK, come on over. Susan and the baby are asleep.” Joe took a gulp of his soda before asking, “Ok, what’s this thing that’s gotten you in a frenzy?” Vincent couldn’t even look at the Coke can. “Joe, I want you to listen to what I’m going to say and don’t interrupt me.” “OK,” Joe wasn’t worried. He’d seen Vinnie in all kinds of moods. some chic had probably dumped him. Vinnie’s vanity could get the better of him sometimes. “You know how I always go to Lee’s for breakfast, well, yesterday, I took the food and went to work. Even the fortune cookie. Anyway, once I’d eaten, I got it out and it looked different from the outside, but I didn’t think anything of it. I opened the wrapper and the cookie looked like a ball. I got out the paper and read the fortune, only it wasn’t a fortune, it was…it was something really odd. Maybe you should read for yourself.” He handed him the slip of paper and watched as Joe read. He waited for him to jump up in astonishment, but it was obvious that comprehension had not set in. “It’s not a fortune. It looks like a headline for a newspaper or something.” “Ooh, you’re quick.” His sarcasm made Joe scowl. “Don’t you get it? This accident happened yesterday. Don’t you read the newspapers? I had this in my hand yesterday morning and the accident happened yesterday night! I knew it was going to happen before it actually did!” “Wait a minute, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” “I’m saying more than that, Joe.” Silence trickled down around them. “Vinnie, this isn’t possible. This kind of thing happens only in movies, not in real life.” “That’s what I thought, but apparently not, because this morning, I got the same kind of cookie and inside it was this.” He handed him the second sheet of paper. “Car crash! That happened a little over an hour ago! I saw it on the news.” “I know,” Vincent said quietly. “What do you think brought me here at one in the morning? I feel guilty as hell. I could’ve done something to stop it.” “You can’t be sure of that. I mean, these things come from a higher order. Who are you to stop it?” “Then why is this here? Why me? Tell me that.” “I don’t know, man…” “I don’t know what to do. this needs planning.” “what are you thinking?” “Well, first, I’m gonna talk to Lee, then I’m gonna see what tomorrow’s fortune will say. I’ll call you and we’ll see what we can do.” “We?” “Yes, we.” “No!” “Why not?” “Because I don’t eat fortune cookies, and because I have enough on my mind without having to worry about what tomorrow will bring.” “Joe, you’re an officer of the law. People depend on you to keep them safe.” “don’t do that with me.” “I have to, I can’t do this without you…So, are you going to help me?” “um…Don’t look at me like that Vincent. Let me think…Fine, I’ll help you.” “Great! You won’t regret this, I promise. See you tomorrow.” |
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| The Fortune Cookie By Lisa Adams crazed_author@yahoo.com |
#4 of 10 |
| Peter had been acting strange for the past week now and
everything I said was wrong. Even his parents couldn’t describe his
unusual behaviour. He was always so caring and never raised his voice but
recently he wouldn’t talk to anyone and was always on edge snapping at
everyone. We had been going out for two years now and everything was perfect.
Except for one thing… no proposal. We had discussed marriage and he had no
objections but he just hadn’t popped the question yet. I was going to
bring the topic up for discussion again but with the way he was acting I
wasn’t game enough to. It was Saturday morning and I was just about to take my dog, Missy, for a walk when the phone rang. “April, it’s Peter.” Peter answered. “Oh, hi Peter. What’s up?” I replied. “Look, I can’t talk long but I just wanted to see if you wanted to go out for dinner tonight?” “Sure, that’ll be nice.” “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven. Bye April.” “Bye Peter.” At that he hung up and I was starting to get a bit suspicious. He sounded nervous. Suddenly I realised why he had been acting so strange! He was going to break up with me! In a rage of fury I forgot about Missy and walked up and down my street until lunch time, not taking any notice of the questioning glances from my neighbours. Finally at 1pm I slammed the door shut to my bedroom, sat on my bed and cried. Why now? After two years!? Finally I came to a conclusion, I would go out to dinner with him and let him explain. I would stay calm until he said the words. Happy with that conclusion I soaked in a nice warm bath. Feeling relaxed when I got out I decided to lie down for a bit of a rest. The next thing I knew I woke up and it was 6:30pm! I leapt out of bed and started getting ready. As I was rushing to get ready, my mind wandered back to Peter. My pulse started racing. “Jerk. Chauvinistic pig.” I muttered to myself. I put on my black knee length dress with a v-neck and black schiffon sleeves. I had the idea that if I wore black Peter might get the hint that I was unhappy. I was just applying the last of my mascara when the doorbell rang. My heart pounding I went to greet Peter. “Just stay calm.” I told myself. “Hi!” I greeted him. He smiled, handed me a single red rose and kissed me on the cheek. Not even a normal kiss! A definite sign of doubts. “You look great.” Peter said looking at me admiringly. I forced on a smile and followed him to the car, my spirits dropping. The black didn’t work, maybe if I put on an act of depression it would make him notice. That didn’t work either, both of us were silent for the whole trip so he didn’t even notice my silence. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t say anything to him but it was so hard. All I wanted to do was scream at him to get it over with so I could get on with my life. When he pulled up outside the restaurant I froze in my seat. Why here? We were outside our favourite Chinese restaurant. And he was going to break up with me here? This is where we first started going out and now this is where it’s going to end. After tonight I would never be able to step foot in this place again. He opened my door for me then led me inside, still not saying anything. Why did I agree to go out? It would’ve been easier to say no and pretend I was sick. I couldn’t worry about that now though, it was too late. Once we found our seats he finally started talking. He seemed so happy and relaxed, just like his old self. It put me on edge. I don’t know how I did it but I was able to put the incident out of my mind and have a civilised conversation with Peter. For a while it felt like old times and I had a spark of hope. Maybe I had blown the whole thing out of proportion? But then all those positive thoughts left my mind almost as quickly as they came when the fortune cookie found its way to our table. The triangle shaped cookie sat on the plate, waiting to be broken and read. My heat was pounding, so this is how the creep was going to break the news to me. Peter was looking at me expectantly and I was tempted not to even break it. Obviously Peter wasn’t going to break the news verbally and I knew what it was so why should I break it? Satisfied with that decision I just sat there looking at the cookie. I wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped up at me and told me what I fool I was to even think this relationship would last with the way he has been acting. “Are you going to break it?” Peter asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice. My head shot up, talk about eager, “What’s the rush? It’s only a fortune cookie.” “I’m just curious at what it is, that’s all.” “Why not look at yours first then?” “I don’t want to look at mine.” “Then why should I look at mine?” Peter was getting tense, “Please don’t cause a scene, April. What’s so difficult about breaking a cookie?” “Yes Peter, what’s so difficult?” At that I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the restaurant. I couldn’t handle it anymore, why couldn’t he just say it and get it over and done with? What makes him think he can just keep me on my wits end and not tell me himself? I had no idea how I was going to get home because we came in Peter’s car but in the end I decided to walk. It would give me time to calm down a little. I was about half way home when a car slowed down beside me. “You shouldn’t be walking home by yourself.” Peter called through the window. “Who cares.” I replied, still walking. “Get in the car, April.” “No.” “Come on, don’t be stubborn. I really don’t see why you’re getting so uptight about a fortune cookie!” “It’s not the fortune cookie, Peter.” “Then what is it?” I spun around and glared at him, “What do you think it is? It’s what’s in the fortune cookie, Peter!” “How did you know what was in it?” “It’s not half obvious! You’ve been on edge for the past week now. I’m not dumb, Peter, I just wish you were honest with me!” “Honest with you? I am being honest, April, I thought this is what you wanted!” “What I wanted? No, what you wanted!” “Of course I want it, but you do too.” “No I don’t!” “What do you mean?” “What part of ‘no I don’t’ don’t you understand? I thought things were going well!?” “Things are going well, that’s why I’m doing it.” “WHAT???” We were silent for a moment, I was so confused. What was going on? I was pacing the footpath trying to gather my bearings when suddenly Peter started laughing, I glared at him. What was so funny? He got out of the car, barely able to walk from laughter. I stood there, hands on my hips waiting for a logical explanation. “What’s so amusing?” I snapped, “I really don’t think this is a laughing matter.” Peter looked at me, his blue eyes shining happily. I felt like melting on the spot. No matter how mad I was at him, his eyes always had that sort of an effect on me. “I think we’re on two different wave lengths, April.” Peter said. “What do you mean?” I asked, getting annoyed, “It’s quite obvious that you want to break up with me! I wish you would just get it over with rather then go through this whole fortune cookie thing! I’ve been going through pure torture all day today trying to tell myself not to lose my cool. But then you go and do this! And now you’re laughing about it? I hope you have an explanation Peter.” Peter didn’t even looked shocked, he was still smiling and I felt like slapping his face. I was just about to protest but Peter held his hand up telling me not to say anything. He reached into his pocket to reveal the fortune cookie again, I rolled my eyes and started to walk off. I didn’t get very far though, Peter grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Just break it, ok?” Peter said firmly. “What is it with you and this fortune cookie, Peter??!! I know what it is, so why should I break it!?” “You don’t know what it is.” “Yes I do.” “No you don’t.” “Yes I…” “April, you don’t. Just open it please.” Peter practically shoved the cookie into my hand. I was going to throw it in his face but something in his eyes told me not to. I sighed, exasperated and broke the cookie. The night was fairly cold but there was no one around and everything was silent. The snap as it broke sounded like a clap of thunder, I felt like my world was shattering around me. I unfolded the little piece of paper, my hands shaking. As I read it and re-read it I thought I was dreaming. Suddenly all the events of the night seemed so silly to me and I felt like laughing. Printed clearly on the piece of paper was “Marry me April”. I felt like such a fool, I had blown the whole thing way out of proportion starting from the phone call this morning. I looked to Peter who by now was kneeling on one knee on the ground, a box opened to reveal a diamond ring. “I know I’ve been acting strange the past week and I am really sorry for that. I was so nervous about this whole proposal thing and I was scared stiff that you would say no, even though we have been talking about it a lot. But I love you April, more then I can express and I know that I can’t live my life without you. Will you marry me?” By this stage I was crying from happiness, his strange actions over the past week have been because of nerves? I nodded and whispered a yes and Peter put the ring on my finger. He stood up and kissed me. It’s amazing how a fortune cookie brought Peter and I closer then ever. At that moment I knew more then ever that spending my life with Peter would be the best decision I would ever make. |
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| The Fortune Cookie By Cindy Gray GRAYCINDY@prodigy.net |
#5 of 10 |
| “Your lucky number is even,” I read aloud,
squinting at the tiny scrap of paper. My glasses, suffering broken frames from
when I recently sat on them, nap somewhere in the depths of my handbag. The
fortune hardly seems worthy of the trouble of retrieving them. Just what does
it mean, anyway? I toss the thought aside and worry the bit of paper into a
tiny football. Things like that seem to follow me, so I guess you could call me superstitious, at least just a little. Most people are, in some way or another. Do you find yourself avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, thinking about dear old Mom? Or wearing a certain pair of underwear for a crucial job interview? Okay, point made. I have my quirks too. Like I buy lotto tickets sometimes, just for the heck of it. I bet you've bought at least one yourself, so don't go letting on that I'm loopy. And don't tell my husband. I only allow myself one ticket a week, so its only a dollar. We'll never miss it, and I just need one. I figure if I'm fated to be lucky, it will only take one chance for fortune to shine on me. “Good thing you don't waste money on that lotto thing,” says my husband, bringing me back to reality. “You'd be readin’ all sorts of stuff into that fortune! By the way, did you get those glasses of yours fixed yet? You're squinting." I shake my head and flick the tiny football in his direction. He's so irritating when he nags. * * * I shop for groceries on Saturday just so I can be sure to get the lotto ticket before the drawing on Saturday night. I don't do the Wednesday night drawing. Intuition tells me the big win won't happen on a Wednesday for me, so I've given myself permission to skip over that jackpot and just stick to Saturdays. Besides, my system for choosing numbers relies heavily on my grocery purchases, and Saturday is grocery day since I'm a working stiff. This is going to sound crazy, but its no more crazy than people who use their Bible to pick their numbers. Here's how it goes. I shop for my groceries, just sort of normal like, you see. If I don't do it just like I would if I weren't doing a lotto I'll mess things up, kind of upset the karmic flow or something. I wander the aisles of Minyard’s in what is pretty much a pattern, picking up whatever I think I’ll need for the next week. First I cruise the toilet paper aisle, then grab paper towels. Cat food comes next, soaps and cleaning stuff after that. I loiter awhile in the produce department, adjusting my mental menus to whatever is in season, then complement my veggies with the meats. Dairy, crackers, cookies (don't tell my husband about those), bread, and I'm off to the checkout. I can do it in 30 minutes if there's not a crowd. As soon as the cashier greets me, I request a lotto card. I’ll fill it out as she rings up my groceries. I grab the sharpened pencil from my purse. The cashier, whose name tag says Flo, is an older woman with impossibly auburn hair. Flo is an important link in the number selection process, for it is she who selects which items to scan first. I only record numbers for the first six items scanned, so Flo’s random grabs in my cart are of utmost importance. She grabs the bread first and swipes it across the scanner purposefully. $1.09, the register reads. Obviously my number can't be one hundred nine. The lotto number choices stop at fifty-four. I add the digits, one plus zero plus nine. That gives me ten, which is a lotto choice, so I fill in the bubble for ten. Seven bananas, $1.78. I add the digits again and darken the circle for 16. Two plums, only $0.46. I record this number as it is. One green bell pepper at three for a dollar rings in at $0.34. Flo still hasn't commented on the obvious association between the lotto card and grocery tape, and I'm hoping she doesn't as I record the bell pepper, then an onion at $0.28. I look back at the register display as Flo throws my bag of green beans on the scale and shifts to punch something into the register. Some of the beans spill out onto the floor, and Flo ignores them except for a shuffling of feet. She's kicked my beans! Mentally, I panic. What if this throws the count off, I think to myself. The number of beans in that bag altered. And she kicked them! Had fate intended this? My respiration increases as $1.24 flashes onto the screen. I add. One plus two plus four gives me seven. I remember the fortune cookie. “Your lucky number is even.” Seven is an odd number, but some of the beans fell out of that bag. Should I add a cent to make the number even, making up for the spilled beans? The fortune cookie makes my decision for me. It has to be! I bubble in an eight. “Some system you've developed there for your numbers,” remarks Flo as I hand her the completed lotto card and get back the lotto receipt with my numbers stamped on it, along with my grocery tape and change. I smile and tuck my receipt into my wallet, where my husband won't accidentally find it and make a remark. He wouldn't be mad, exactly, but he'd say something, and he might take it that he has permission to fritter money away just like me. Then where would it stop? I only spend one dollar a week, and he'd go way overboard. I don't think of my lotto ticket again all day. I hustle home and store my groceries, then sweep and dust a bit around the house. I don't really like housework, but unless I win the lottery a maid isn't likely. Dinner over and tv time. Nightly news. The lotto drawing will be next. I glance over at my husband. He's glued to the tube. Bikini clad girls on the screen promise youthful miracles to drinkers of Dr. Pepper. I let my husband lust and discreetly rummage in my purse for my lotto receipt. My hand closes on the paper and I put my purse back on the floor. The commercial ends and my husband adjusts his trousers and heads into the kitchen. The drawing is about to take place. A suited man with a bow tie welcomes us to the umteenth drawing of the state lotto. Balls can be seen whizzing around the container beside him. A ball emits and shoots into a clear tube. The camera zooms in on the ball. 46! I double check my ticket in disbelief! This can't really happen, don't get excited yet, I tell myself. I've never had the first number before! “The first number in this drawing of the lotto is 46!” he announces. My excitement mounts as I wait for the next number. The second ball jets into the tube beside the first. 34! My hand shakes this time as I stare at the lotto ticket, afraid to trust my own eyes. Another number correct! Oh Jesus, let it come! The balls roll with a life of their own and another pops out. 10! By this time, my whole body is quivering. “Honey?” my husband queries. “What's up?” “Shhhhh,” I hiss. A ball erupts. “Oh my God, I have a 28!” “Is that a lotto ticket in your hand?” he asks in an accusatory tone. I try to tune him out. “And it's a 16,” crows the tv carny. I jump up and down, waving my numbers in his face. “I've won, you boob, at least a thousand dollars! Don't you say a thing about my lotto ticket!! Now shhhh!” I tense as if on the brink. Give me one more number, only one more number! Scenes flash before my eyes as I picture the fortune cookie, then the spilled beans being kicked by Flo. The even number. The added penny. Eight. Let my hunch be correct. In agonizingly slow motion the scene flashes through my head again. Fortune cookie, beans spilled, kick, add a number! Your lucky number is even! Eight. “And the final number is....” drones the announcer, “seven!” Seven? It can't be! The fortune said even. Certain of it, I fish in my purse for the scrap of paper, remembering fiddling with it, folding it, then flicking it . . . at my husband. Discouraged, I slump. It makes no difference anyway. The number on my lotto ticket won't change. I've lost, plain and simple. If you call winning $1,500 dollars losing, which I do. $64,000,000? Yep, I call winning $1,500 losing. The beans, the cookie, Flo’s kick. Which factor interfered with the fates? I’d been destined to win. A rush of such thoughts plagues my mind. My husband rummages in his pocket, then struggles with something small. “Honey, here's what I don't get,” he drawls as he unfolds my fortune. “this fortune of yours said seven, didn't it?” “Give that here!” I order. Not one to argue when I'm in a temper, he complies. I squint to read the blur of the print. “Your lucky number is even,” I quote. “Uh-uh,” my husband grunts. “That's a seven.” I frown and grab for my purse. Upending it, I find my broken glasses amidst the debris of my life's essential items. The print immediately focuses as I hold them in place across my nose. “Your lucky number . . . is . . . seven!” “Didn't I remind you to get those fixed?” my husband muses in studied innocence. Sometimes I wish he'd shut up. Now, how can I spend $1500? |
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| The Fortune Cookie By parit_patel@hotmail.com |
#6 of 10 |
| The smell on the air was of summers past, in childhood
happy twilights. A familiarity of those early evenings when the sun had settled
back on wide sunset haunches, drawing the day back with it. Kids would play
with added fervor knowing that soon they would be called in, too dark to play
on more. All of that through a smell drawn in through eyes tight closed.
It had passed early evening, the day had well fallen into the night. Trees, once anchors of glittering sunlight now stood as sentinels, dark and solitary. The grass, once tumbling beds of rolling play now became a sea of rippling moonlight. The sky was clear that night but for a few pale clouds, defiant remnants, tolerated guests. Stars shone fiercely as if to wake the night-set sun, like to beckon like. Moored on a checkered blanket, upon the sea of nightlight grass, beneath the sky of determined stars and surrounded by silhouettes of watchful trees we find our rifted pair. Words had passed from slight to deep and thoughts had turned far deeper still. Memories tossed deep within broke free and fast joined to the mouth. Conversation turned to past, passed what could once have been again. “I’m surprised you came back,” said Thomas, dark of hair and now of mind. “Well I got the chance from work so I thought it would be nice to catch up with you guys again,” Joan, fair of hair now cursing in mind, catching a glimpse at an opportunity lost in the septic chuckling of he beside her. “right….work” Mental fingers gripped! “I…I did want to see you too,” mumbling words from between chewed lips. Looking at her for a moment without expression he turned to stare ahead and over the city lights beyond and around. “Obviously,” he responded. A temper flared, a quick to life. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Silence replied. A game she knew, his anger showed. Patiently she waited, suddenly very aware of just calm it was that night. A parody for sure. Still. Still she waited. And then. “How long since we last spoke Joan?” She knew the answer. He knew the answer. The space between them knew the answer. “You stopped returning my calls,” a deep breath to get some air, a pause to get his thoughts, “I didn’t get any emails from you for all the ones I sent.” He laughed; a quick snort through his nose. “I even sent you a hand written letter,” that quick-snort-laugh again, “and you know I don’t handwrite anything anymore. “It was over, you made it pretty clear”. The silence could not remain, she spoke, “I wante….” “I spent eight months waiting for something from you,” he turned to her, “I honestly thought that you’d reply. That you’d send something, even just to let me know it was fucking over.” “I kept meani…” “Do you know when I knew? Stop looking like you’re sorry. Do you know when?,” his eyes were fierce, determined and she dropped hers and shook her head slightly, “My birthday. “It hurt like nothing else because at the time I loved you like no-one else.” “It was onl…” “I almost kidded myself. I thought maybe you’d remembered late and you posted something so that it would’ve arrived tomorrow,” a smile so cold in thin warm air, “but then I knew what you were like. You remembered everybody’s birthday. You would have remembered mine.” She did not try to respond this time. The silence that remained was this time devoid. “I was scared,” he didn’t reply, “I…I didn’t know to end it. I wanted to tell you…but I just couldn’t. “I kept putting it off until you stopped sending me emails” He lent back onto his elbows. All around them they could see a city sprawl, captured stars sanitized of impracticality. A thousand thousand lives, all inside a gaze. Surprised to find himself thinking so abstractly and feeling strangely anxious he asked, “so what do you want from me…now…why’d’you want to see me like this”. Back in more familiar territory she felt greatly more composed, a dialogue had opened and he was more willing to talk. She blinkered her roving thoughts. “honestly?,” she stalled. “no,” he dripped though not quite so sarcastic, “lie to me”. “I don’t know,” a stray reply, an instinct to divert, regretted very quickly. Pensively he waited, sieving through the past. “I don’t believe you, ” still he stared ahead, “you want to get back together don’t you”. She remained wordless, unable to respond. He had the truth of it, and she possessed the reason. Thoughts had fled, no cohesion to her rescue, only emotions to illiterate to pronounce remained. Too base, too quiet, but visible. Just then he turned and looked and saw. “I knew it,” he gathered all his belongings and made to leave the rocking boat, “fuck you Joan.” Panic. Reaction. “No wait!,” reaching out to grab his hand. He stopped, then stopped. He dropped slowly into a crouch and whispered, “why?” “At least hear me out Tom” “what the hell for? No wait before you start talking again, why should I listen to you? What are you going to say that’s going to make me forget just what you did to me.” “I thought,” thoughts now gathered she began, “I thought if you knew why I…why I left you, you might understand.” He stared at her intently, cursing all the while inside. He didn’t want to stay but was driven more to know. He sat. Silently. He stared at her intently. “It was getting difficult, hang on wait, hear me out. For the first few months it was ok, we spoke on the phone and emailed and it wasn’t so bad,” she brushed an errant lock of hair, “but after a while it started to get….I don’t know…boring?” “you’re not going to say anything are you…ok…I guess that’s fair. I don’t know, maybe boring’s too strong a word? Whatever it was, we just weren’t involved anymore. All we spoke about were the things we did when we were here in England,” she stopped while he put his jacket down, “I think even you knew, I mean you must have thought about it right? “fuck you, stop making this so difficult” He sat. Silently. He stared at her intently. She met his gaze, breathed deeply and kept going. “It started to get to me, I mean I loved you and all but it was almost like a memory that we were trying too hard to keep alive.” He sat. Silently. He stared at the ground. “just when it started to really get me down…I met someone else,” she carried on intentionally regardless, “it wasn’t anything at first. He made me laugh, and was just a buddy, you know. We used to go out loads, and get trashed like almost every night. Before we slept we used to share a smoke and just chill out and talk. Kinda how we used to. “It became pretty stupid after a while. We got together but…it wasn’t…well you see we…well I…started smoking all the time,” she shook her head slightly and picked at some grass, “I think at one point I was smoking seven or eight a day. “I was out of it on that and alcohol for like weeks at a time and I’d changed….before I knew it I was trying to find a way of telling you it was over. I just kept putting it off until you stopped with me.” He sat. Silently. A question on his face. She sighed genuinely, “Chris broke up with me, we argued pretty badly and I saw myself for what I’d become,” she laughed very gently, “I was a mess.” “And now you’re here” She nodded slowly, but not while looking at him. “yeah. After Chris, I..I er tried to get my life back together. I found your letter, it made me look back for you emails. God!,” she cursed, “I missed you then. I wanted to email you then but I…I guess I thought it was too late.” “how come you’re here now? Why now after so long?” “I got work about a year later. It’s in Julien’s dad’s company,” she smiled to make light, failing, “you remember Julien right? No, I guess you don’t. “They’re, um, opening up new offices here and I volunteered to come over. To help set up our new department and stuff.” She left her conclusion unsaid and waited for him to reply. Over his anger rolled desire to fall to once more to anger again. His mind tossed his heart on a tempest sea of hurt. Then. Clarity. “No,” a resolute statement. Suddenly thrown into confusion she responded, “what d’you mean?” “I’m not giving it another chance. There’s not going to be any ‘us’” “But I…” “Fuck you Joan,” he gathered his jacket once more and once more prepared to disembark, “You want me to give us another chance based on that story? “go to hell. I wasn’t sure what to expect…but that? It’s not worth shit to me, in fact it makes what you did to me even worse.” “I…I don’t understand.” “No, of course you don’t,” his temper raised his voice, “you left me for someone else, fuck the distance thing. We could’ve worked it out or we would’ve ended it. You went your own way and left me stranded. You left me by choice. “And now? Now that you’ve been dumped you come running back? Do I look like an idiot? What? Nothing to say? Well screw you Joan. Here or not we’re not going to talk again.” Warm salty tears tore down Joan’s face as she watched him leave. Down the hill and out of the gates. She cursed and cursed and cursed again. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she sat and rocked softly in emptiness. Bathed in moonlight, alone on the sea of grass, surrounded by a troupe of dark and mournful trees that whispered in the breeze. She drifted, needing. Crumpled in her pocket, a remnant from their meal, a fortune from a cookie gained, a proverb for then and there most apt: ‘Distant water won't quench your immediate thirst’ . |
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| The Fortune Cookie by Ken Goldstein greenkenrg@yahoo.com |
#7 of 10 Winner |
| One day in her life, Cora Lynn decided to stop being
the custodian of other peoples' memories. Looking around her small, crowded,
but immaculately clean Beacon Hill house, she could see no evidence that she
had ever had any life of her own. Instead, what she saw were souvenirs, brought
to her by well-meaning relatives, of their adventures. It wasn't meant to be this way, Cora thought to herself as she picked up an ivory elephant from the second shelf in the antique curio cabinet in the corner of her living room. The elephant had come from her next youngest brother, Barney's, first trip abroad, to India, in 1958. Cora was supposed to have been graduating college at that time and getting ready for her own world tour, but instead was still living in their parents home, taking care of her younger siblings. Mother's arthritis wouldn't allow her to do much cleaning or cooking, and father was far too busy to learn such tasks, and so it came to young Cora to put off her own future to help the family. That's what an oldest daughter is for, Cora's mother often reminded her. By the time Cora's brothers and sisters were all able to care for themselves, she had given up on ever making it to college and found an escape from the house in the form of a marriage proposal. Henry had been a classmate of Barney's, and although two years Cora's junior, saw an inner beauty in Cora that everybody else had missed, and told her so often. Cora left her parents' house and moved into Henry's without so much as a Niagara Falls honeymoon. Instead they had driven down to Rhode Island where Henry had some business dealings. Cora walked to the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers until she found the ancient bottle opener Henry had bought at the Narragansett brewery. "Hi, Neighbor! Have a 'Gansett," it said, their one souvenir from their one trip together. That's it! Cora thought. She brought the bottle opener back out to the curio cabinet and cleared the top shelf, placing Henry's prized memento in the center. Digging in the front closet she found an old hat box and placed the other objects from the curio into it - the ivory elephant, a pair of white and blue Delft ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like a pair of Dutch wooden shoes, a miniature Japanese Kimono spread over the bottom shelf - all gifts from her brothers' and sisters' travels overseas. Just when Cora and Henry had started to build up enough of a nest egg to raise a family, and do some travelling themselves, Henry had gotten ill. No children, and certainly no vacations, were in store for them, as Cora became the caretaker once more. After her siblings had settled down the tradition of gathering foreign objects was passed on to another generation. All during Henry's long decline they'd be visited by nieces and nephews, each bringing gifts and photographs from their travels. First one hat box, then another, and then several shoe boxes were filled with items from her cabinets, fireplace mantle, table tops, and shelves, all from locations across the country and the world that she had only dreamed of visiting. Already in the closet was a Jackalope, sent by their nephew, Stan, from his hitchhiking trip across Montana. Henry had loved the ugly thing, but Cora removed it from the hallway wall only weeks after Henry's death. Cora now wrapped the Jackalope in a plastic shopping bag and moved it to the garage with several of the boxes. Cora packed up her international showcase of tourist ware, gathered by others, and she swore to refill her house with her own memories, yet to be created. As the boxes filled she thought about where she might go. Perhaps she should start with a cruise down the East Coast, then on to the Caribbean, maybe even sailing through the Panama Canal and up the West Coast to Alaska! Once she'd surveyed this continent, then there'd be time to venture beyond. She might even sell this house and settle in Australia; that would show her family what Cora was really made of. Nearly to dinner time, Cora packed the final item: a small bronze replica of the Golden Gate bridge, sent to her by her grand-niece, Polly, who had just arrived in San Francisco for her first year of college. The first item to be received from a third generation of her far-flung family. Cora would have no more of that. She packed the bridge back into the small box it had arrived in earlier that day and added it to the stack of boxes in her garage. Cora decided to begin her adventures at that very moment by heading down the street to eat at the Chinese restaurant her neighbors were always raving about. Once seated she thoroughly enjoyed her dinner of Almond Chicken with Special Fried Rice and Won Ton Soup, imagining what exotic dishes awaited her on her upcoming travels. Once the dishes were cleared away, and the check presented, she opened her fortune cookie delicately, as if cracking an egg, taking care not to have crumbs shower the table or her lap. Putting the halves of the cookie aside, she smoothed out the fortune on the clean table cloth and read the enclosed message: THE TREASURES YOUR FAMILY BRINGS YOU ARE LOVE Cora looked from the fortune to a family enjoying their meal at the large corner table, then back to the fortune. Pausing a moment, she opened her pocketbook, pulled several crisp dollar bills from her wallet, and placed the fortune in her change purse. At the register Cora politely thanked the hostess for a most marvelous meal and a wonderful evening. Leaving the restaurant, Cora Lynn walked directly home where she began unpacking her boxes. |
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| The Fortune Cookie By Virginia Kent virginiakent@yahoo.com |
#8 of 10 |
| I met Bernardo on the job. His style was different from
everyone else in our group, as if he were there temporarily and by accident.
Once he mentioned that in Colombia, where he was from, children drank coffee
because it was cheaper than milk. This detail and others were unusual and
interesting to me, and I gravitated toward him. Apparently he also saw
something in me. We struck up a friendship, but it soon came to an unfortunate conclusion. The beginning of the end was the night we went out for Chinese in San Diego. After the waitress cleared the remains of the "Mongolian Beef" and "Sweet & Sour Pork," she brought the bill. Two fortune cookies sat on top. Bernardo broke a cookie, looked at the slip of paper and instantly crumpled it. "Man, this is bull! What kinda prediction is that?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, this would never come true." I laughed. "C'mon man, it's just for fun. They're not supposed to be real." "The ones from the States aren't real, but there are others that are." "Like from where?" "I know a little bakery in TJ." "And the fortune cookies from there are true? Yeah, right." Bernardo didn't bat an eye. "I'm telling you man. I didn't believe it myself, but twice I got fortunes from there that came true for me, man. Twice." I leaned back in my chair and listened, polite but skeptical. "I was sick one time, man, very sick. And the cookie said I would recover soon, and I did." "Coincidence," I said. "And this other time, it said I'd soon meet a lady, man. And I did, the very next day." "It still sounds like coincidence to me." "I'm telling you, man, it's not!" He was adamant, and there was no point in arguing. "Well, why don't you go there and get some, so we can do an experiment?" I said. "I've been wanting to get more for awhile, but I'm illegal, man. I've got no papers. They'd stop me at the border." I hesitated, then offered to pick up a bag myself. I was planning to go to Tijuana anyhow, because I could get my medication without a prescription there. "Man, that would be great!" Bernardo said. "But only if you're going there anyway." So the next Saturday I went to Tijuana and found the place. It was a standard Mexican bakery with the corresponding assortment of goods. It's kind of weird for a Mexican bakery to sell Chinese cookies, I thought, but who cares? "¿Puedo hablar con Mario?" I asked the fat lady behind the counter, reading from the piece of paper Bernardo had given me. "Mario!" The lady screamed into the depths of the store. "Un americano está pidiendo usted." Mario came out. "Russell!" he exclaimed, as if he'd known me ten years. "Welcome! Bernardo told me all about you. I'll be right back." He winked at me meaningfully. The expression looked contrived and unnatural on his flat, unexpressive face. Mario came back and handed me a bag of fortune cookies. They looked exactly like a bag from an American store. What nonsense, I thought, as I threw them in the trunk. I came back over the border and stopped off at Bernardo's. "I bought the cookies." "Oh, thank you man, thank you! How much do I owe you?" he said, grabbing the bag. "Don't worry about it, they were just a couple bucks," I said. "But remember, I want to try one myself." "Sure, man," said Bernardo. "I'll be back in just a second, okay, amigo?" Bernardo took the bag of cookies, went into his bedroom and closed the door. I looked around during the few moments he was gone. He had a small one-bedroom apartment, but there were mirrors everywhere, making it seem bigger. The front wall had a painting of mountains covered with snow. Made in Tijuana, I thought, snickering to myself. At that moment Bernardo came out, smiling. He ripped open the bag and offered it to me. "After you," I said. He shrugged and picked one. Then I put my hand inside the bag, swirled it around (as if it made any difference) and picked a cookie. I crushed the cookie and pulled out the slip of paper. YOU WILL BE LUCKY IN GAME, I read. Excitement stirred inside me. "What did you get, man?" I said, trying to play it cool. "Man, you're not supposed to say what you got until it comes true. You'll run out of luck." "If you say so," I said, full of good cheer. *** I sat in my car and counted my money. It's the 14th, I thought. I have to pay rent on the 1st. Since I'll get paid on the 30th, after food and gas I still have an extra two hundred dollars to bet. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky this time? Of course, I don't believe in such things, but if I win it doesn't matter whether I believe it or not! That night I sat on the "Gold Rush" bus and slept all the way to Vegas. The bus unloaded us right in front of the casino on Sunday morning. It was very early but it was already hot. I went inside and decided to play the poker machine first, to "stretch my gaming muscles." I lost the first and second games. But the third game, I won two pairs. I think I'm ready, I said to myself. I didn't clearly understand what I was ready for, or why, but I felt tremendous excitement nonetheless. I'm ready. I had given myself a budget of two hundred dollars, but as I stood in the casino, watching other players wager twice that amount and more on a single bet, two hundred seemed paltry. I might never have another opportunity when I knew luck was on my side. I decided I'd better make the most of it. I went to the ATM and withdrew an additional three hundred dollars. I'd seen roulette before, but had never actually played it myself, perhaps because I am not a gambler by nature and throwing away money wouldn't entertain me. But today I felt different. I came close and observed. If not for the element of suspense, it was a very boring game. People put chips on top of their chosen number on the table. Then the dealer pressed the button and the wheel started spinning. The number where the wheel stopped won. That is, if anyone won. Mostly they lost. Some people were vocal about it, some held their frustration inside. After watching half a dozen games at different tables, I chose one that my "gut feeling" disliked the least and put all my chips on zero. Five stacks, ten chips per stack, ten dollars per chip. I was very calm, as if destiny itself moved my hand. The other people at the table had placed their chips on other numbers, which brought me considerable joy since I didn't want to share my winnings. When the wheel neared a stop it was in the late thirties. I couldn't understand how it would have enough momentum to reach zero. "Come on!" I told the wheel mentally. "Come on, baby, you can do it!" To my great surprise the wheel stopped on number 43. It was amazing how easily I parted with all my money. Nothing to it. I spent the rest of the day making sure I wasn't going to miss the bus. I came home hungry and worried. Mostly, I didn't know how I was going to pay my rent. *** Usually Bernardo came to work in a peeling, beat-up old Toyota truck. But this time he drove a brand-new Mitsubishi Eclipse. "What happened, man?" I asked, curiosity overwhelming my anger for the moment. "It was the cookie!" "What kind of prediction did you get?" I asked. "You'll be lucky in your game, man. I took one of those five-dollar buses to Vegas on Saturday afternoon. I had to keep switching casinos because I kept winning. I had a hundred on me, man, and I came home with twenty grand!" My throat got tight when I heard this. Sure, part of me was happy for Bernardo's good fortune, but mostly I was sorry for myself. With a clenched jaw, I told him that I had also gone to Vegas, but I hadn't been so lucky. "Oh man," Bernardo said dropping eye contact, "I'm real sorry to hear that." I was terribly ashamed, but I swallowed my pride and asked if, considering his new-found wealth, Bernardo could possibly make me a loan? "Hey man, no problem." Bernardo smiled. "How much do you need? Only three hundred? Here you go. And don't worry about it. You give it back to me when you can." I knew that for him it was peanuts, but for me it was a huge relief. "Thank you, man. I owe you one." "Cut the crap. We are amigos, comprende? You don't have to feel obligated." He clapped me on the shoulder. "You know..." "What?" I said. "I heard once that only the first cookie pulled out of the bag comes true, but I thought it might just be superstition." "What if I went back, and got us each a bag?" I said, eager for another chance to get lucky. "That's a great idea, man! You could definitely get lucky with your own bag." *** The following weekend I again found smiling Mario in the bakery, and he sold me the cookies, two bags this time. I came back from TJ on Saturday night, and went to see Bernardo, who had moved. His new place was in a very nice area, with garage ports, pools and lots of trees. He must have rented a townhouse, I thought. I found the address and rang the bell. Bernardo greeted me warmly. "Hey, man, this is some place you've got!" I said. Bernardo scrutinized the two bags of cookies, selected a bag, then excused himself and went upstairs. While waiting for Bernardo I looked around. His new place was very grand but mostly empty, as if he were waiting for delivery of fine custom-made furniture. Just like his old apartment, it was full of mirrors, although this time he must have bought them at an expensive furniture store. They looked marvelous and made the already spacious home seem even larger. There were mirrors on the walls of every room and in the corridors. They made an interesting labyrinth of reflections. I went upstairs to admire the upper levels. It didn't cross my mind to wait for Bernardo to invite me up, because after all, we were good buddies. I was not deliberately stealthy, but the thick, cream-colored carpet muffled my footfalls. At the top of the flight, by chance I directed my gaze toward a mirrored corridor, off of which was a room with an open door. The angle allowed me to see myriad reflections of Bernardo as he hunched over a table, onto which he had poured all the cookies from his bag. To my astonishment, Bernardo cracked cookies one after the other, throwing the broken cookies together with the paper fortunes right in the trash! Until he got to one that he weighed in his hand, then carefully opened. Inside the cookie was a plastic bag with white powder in it. Aha, I said to myself. Aha. *** I slipped out quietly. On the drive home, I pondered my fortune. I had enough to pay my rent, and now felt no obligation to pay back Bernardo's loan. I'd been an unwitting pawn in a dangerous game, and I'd managed to come out with my life and freedom intact. I thought that I had been lucky in game indeed. At home, I sat at my shabby kitchen table, holding my cookies. I could not resist the urge to open the bag. I swirled my hand inside, selected a cookie, and cracked it open. GREED TURNS A WISE MAN INTO A FOOL. Yes, I thought as I tossed the cookies in the garbage, the fortunes really were true. |
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| The Fortune Cookie By walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#9 of 10 |
| “I know what you’re thinking; “Big
house, expensive furniture, fancy junk lying all over the place; but
what’s the deal with the cookie?” Yes, it is a fortune cookie, yes,
there’s a story behind it, and yes, I’m going to tell you about
it.... About two years ago, I almost got married. Or, I guess I almost asked this woman to marry me. Her name was Corrine. I met her on the internet through one of those singles sites. I know it sounds cheesy, but seriously, I stood a better chance going that route than I did trolling the singles bars. I think I tend to come across better in writing than I do face to face... Me and Corrine began writing e-mails back and forth when we realized we had a lot of similar interests. We were both more into dinner and movie dates than dancing and partying, we both described ourselves as average looking, and we both felt there was someone out there we were destined to meet. After a few weeks of corresponding, we agreed to meet each other face to face. We arranged to meet at a Chinese restaurant we were both familiar with, kind of as a neutral ground. She wasn’t as pretty as she was in the photo she’d sent me, and she didn’t seem as ‘warm’ in person as she did in her letters, but I figured she might think the same about me, and neither of us were complaining. Dinner went well, and when I asked her if she wanted to go out again some time, she said “yes”. We started dating on a regular basis, going out to dinner, sometimes a movie, sometimes we’d just go walking. I really liked her, even though she seemed to be less and less like the girl who wrote the letters before we’d met. I would say things that would play off of things we’d written in letters- fate, destiny and stuff like that, and I found that she had a much less romantic views than I had been led to believe. She said that all she really believed in was luck, and that she was a bigger believer in bad luck or dumb luck than good.. I didn’t share her cynicism, but it was easy to adjust to it if it meant spending more time with her. Eventually, I started to feel like we were getting along well enough for me to kiss her when the moment was right, but I found out that she wasn’t quite as ready as me. The first time I tried, she told me she was old fashioned, and wanted to take things slow. I had no problem with that; it had been three years since my last girlfriend, so a couple more weeks wasn’t going to kill me. I was content to follow Corrine’s lead rather than risk losing her. By the sixth month of our being together, my head, among other things, was about to explode. We eventually got to the kissing, and sometimes, we even held hands, but if there was any signal that she wanted to go further, I was getting it. I was worried I wasn’t being aggressive enough, that she was waiting for me to make the first move. But every time I tried, she would pull back, or get defensive. I finally just asked her if I we were ever going to move to the next level in our relationship. She became evasive, telling me that ‘it’ would happen, and that I shouldn’t try to force ‘it’. I told her that I understood, but I guess she must have sensed my mounting frustration, and she decided to make a concession. And that was the beginning of the ‘heavy petting’ phase of our relationship. I thought the days of awkward, reckless groping were long behind me, but when it comes down to it, it’s better than nothing. For awhile anyway. It became a regular enough thing to keep me less frustrated, but I still felt I needed more. Corrine’s needs seemed to be exactly what they were when we had started dating, which was part of the problem. I liked her a lot , but trying to second guess what would make her happy was an uphill battle. When Corrine pointed out that we had been dating for nearly a year,. I didn’t think there was anything cryptic of her mentioning it, but it was obvious she was getting restless too. It occurred to me that maybe she was wanting more out of the relationship, but somehow I had overlooked the obvious. I decided that perhaps Corrine needed a bigger commitment before becoming intimate with me. It made sense, in light of her repeated mentions of her old fashioned attitude and values. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense, and I decided that I would propose to her. I convinced myself that I truly loved her, and was further convinced that she loved me, or that she would, once the promise of commitment was made. Money was tight, so I had to borrow against my retirement fund to buy an engagement ring. I figured I wouldn’t worry about the cost of a wedding until she’d said ‘yes’. I decided to propose at the site of our very first date, on our anniversary, and came up with an idea for making the moment more memorable; I went to the Chinese restaurant ahead of time and prepared a special fortune cookie. I removed the piece of paper with the fortune on it, and replaced it with one that said “Will you marry me?”. I sealed the cookie back into the cellophane wrapper and resealed it so it looked inconspicuous. I made an arrangement with the manager to make sure that the cookie was delivered at the right moment, and to make sure the ‘special’ cookie was placed nearer to Corrine. I told him that he should watch for me kneel down after she had read the ‘fortune’, and for him to send the waiter out with the bottle of champaign that I purchased for the occasion. It was one of the rare moments in my life when something seemed to be coming together how I wanted it, and I would have been proud of myself if I hadn’t been so nervous. I returned with Corrine a couple of hours later, we ordered, we ate, we talked. Corrine seemed her usual, distant self, and didn’t seem to notice that I kept sliding my hand into my coat pocket to make sure the ring was still there. I was too anxious to eat much, but her appetite was a hearty as ever. When she finally finished, my heart began to pound . Right on cue, the waiter brought the little tray with the check and two fortune cookies on top of it. He put it down slowly and deliberately, and promptly left with our used dishes. When Corrine reached for the tray, my hand shot into my pocket, but I froze when she bypassed the cookies, pulling the check from beneath instead. The sudden shift caused to cookies to now be resting side by side. “Why don’t you let me pay for half of this...” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I protested.. I plucked the bill from her grasp, but my eyes remained locked on the cookies. She smiled slightly, and turned her attention to finishing the glass of wine she had ordered with dinner. “Don’t you want your cookie?” I asked, my mouth arid with anticipation. “You can have it; I don’t want it,” she replied. “It’s bad luck to not open your fortune cookie, “ I said, picking it up and putting it closer to her. She said “okay”, and picked it up, unwraps the cellophane, breaks the cookie and pulls out the fortune. My heart is in my throat, and my hand is in my pocket, and I’m ready to pull out the ring and go down on one knee in as smooth as move as I can muster. I guess I was expecting something different than the look that appeared on her face because something in it made me hesitate. Her eyes seemed to go glassy, and her mouth seemed to twist into something between smiling and crying. It wasn’t surprise, it wasn’t happiness- it was relief. “Oh, Marty, I had no idea you felt this way too,”she said . I sat there, caught in an emotional holding pattern, waiting for a signal, a sign that I’m likely to hear a “yes”, or a strong “maybe”. Instead, she says: “I’ve been wanting to say something for so long,” she sighed, “but I didn’t want to hurt you. I am so relieved that you feel the same way...” “Corrine, what are you talking about?” I asked. She suddenly seemed as confused as I was. “This isn’t just some random fortune, is it? It’s pretty obvious you wanted me to read it..” she said, holding the tiny piece of paper as if it might be toxic. “Yes! I mean, I think so...” Confused, I reached over and took it from her, and read it. It said: “Look for a new love”. It was the wrong fortune, but in Corrine’s reaction, it was what she wanted to hear. “Well? Is that what you wanted to tell me?” she asked. “Yeah, it is.” I nodded, acknowledging the return of her relieved expression. I let go of the ring in my pocket, and returned my hand to the table. “I’m so glad. I just didn’t see us going anywhere in the long run, but I didn’t think there was any reason we should stop dating if were weren’t seeing other people.” I nodded, the whole world a blank around me until I spied our waiter standing near the kitchen. He was holding a tray with an open bottle of champaign and two glasses, a confused look on his face. I waved and shook my head in a dismissive manner, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Corrine came back into focus just as she was saying “I hope we can still be friends”. I nodded and sat there trying to choke back the bile and anger that was building up inside me. There was an awkward silence, as I was staring at the table, and could tell it was making her nervous. “I think I’ll just get a cab home,” she said, reaching for her purse as she stood up. She couldn’t wait to get away, to end what I had unwittingly been prolonging between us. “I’ll call you sometime,” she said as she headed for the door. All I could do was sit there and watch her leave. I waited awhile, paid the check, and then got up to leave . I put the unopened fortune cookie in my pocket, slipped the ‘fortune’ into my wallet. I told the manager to give away the champaign, tipped the waiter extra for his trouble, and left. I got in my car and headed home, thinking of all the things I should have said to Corrine. I couldn’t decide if I was hurt, angry, or humiliated. I tried to recall any signs, or clues that explained what had happened, but I drew a blank. I guess I was just too desperate and lonely to notice or remember anything that would have tipped me off. I was nearly home when I noticed the liquor store, and suddenly, the idea of getting drunk was as good a solution as anything I could come up with. I went into the store, and pull out my wallet to see exactly how plastered I can afford to get, and I realize I’ve got only two dollars on me. The place wasn’t exactly credit card friendly, and there wasn’t an ATM in sight, and I was starting to feel embarrassed about having gone there at all. The guy behind the counter is waiting for me to buy something, and I’m ready to walk out when I see the tiny paper from the fortune cookie sticking out from behind the two | |