Steven Keiths

I don't think I plan it so much as I intentionally do it as the story unfolds. Is this ninny picking?

This was absolutely beautiful Kap. I can't add more than what has already been said. I was touched by its loveliness.

Well, there's really not much for me to say. Everyone else said it. I litterally squirmed while reading it. I sometimes forget it's a story and get pissed at the author for making me feel uncomfortable. That's good story telling. Thanks for this gem, Cole.

Interesting topic, though there for a while I thought it was going to be totally hijacked by a cowboy and his cock. So many good things were said and so I dicided to add my ha'pence. I don't think I'd ever change my story because a reader didn't like a character, situation or an event. If they say I think you should do thus and so or should have; Well I say, let them write their own story. I have no problem if they point out a discrepancy, punctuation, historical or timeline error or grammatical error. I appreciate it when they do. I, of course, blame my editor. I like readers' comments, after all, I do have an ego. I would hope if there are critcisms, they at least be constructive, or at least not too brutal. I'm sensitive, aka, touchy bastard. I have as yet had to wrestle with any of the editors I so richly reward with uh, uh... well money isn't everything. I like it when one editor doesn't agree with another editor's edits. I sit back and giggle. Anyway, lots of good stuff was said.

I think Rick is an oustanding writer. It would have taken a twenty-mule team (with or without the Borax) to rip my laptop from, uh, my lap, while reading Redemption and The Farmhand. Beautifully written stories.

Very sweet story, though, as others, I presumed it was a rescued pet. Having recently rescued a pet, we went through briefly, what you described so well. Mine's a Minpin, however, not a greyhound and he's the sweetest and cutest thing.

Wonderful job you guys. Beyond being moving, these were fun to read. Let's hear it for POVs!

What a wonderful piece, James. A great work of flash fiction.

God, yes I cry. I've even gone so far as not to kill off a main character because I just couldn't do it after writing so much about him and developing him. I like Cole, intentionally write things that I hope will move people emotionally. Be it sad, glad, anger or somewhere in between.

For some ungodly reason I am having visions of Wilbur and Mr. Ed. Nice work Gee. Playful but underneath meaningful.

James, I didn't post these in the order I wrote them. They are stand alone vignettes, I guess you'd call them. I took one thing, in this case, a hot dog stand and wrote five separate pieces having to do with a hot dog stand. I've never thought about tying them altogether. I was thinking about when I lived in NYC and how much I liked the hot dogs from the carts on Wall Street. I think at the time you could get 4 or 5 for a buck. Something told me (that small strange voice) to write these. Just a fun endeavor really. I do think Cole's suggestion has merit. After all, it is the kicker for this paricular piece. Thanks to both of you for your comments.

This is the final story in a series of five. They all center around one thing. Don't know (or should say don't remember) if I mentioned it earlier. If I didn't mention it, guess what all five have in common. Hope you enjoy them and would appreciate any comments or feedback, as always. Just so you don't get confused, in order of posting, the stories are: Work Ethic, Cetting Educated, Fond Memory, Patience/Impatience and A Dream Come True --SK A Dream Come True By Steven Keiths Enrique held a package of hot dog buns over his head, trying to keep the rain off his face. Tongs in one hand, the buns in the other, he stood patiently beside his cart as the downpour soaked all but his head. Five men, Wall Street types wearing their trademark business suits, were huddled beneath the umbrella. Their dark suits were in sharp contrast to the bright orange and yellow stripes of the umbrella, or the shiny chrome of his new hot dog cart. They chatted with each other, noshing on their ketchup and mustard slathered hot dogs, oblivious to the rain, oblivious to Enrique getting soaked. Enrique didn?t mind?he even smiled. These were his first customers. Enrique had been putting his savings away for this very moment since he was 15 years-old. That was seven long years ago. He had just made his first ten- dollar sale. He was now an entrepreneur.

Patience/Impatience By Steven Keiths ?Hey, Buddy, are these real hot dogs, ya? know, all-beef, and not those damn chicken-filled pieces of crap?? The customer was a sour-looking man with a protruding, round stomach and red face wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a striped muscle shirt about a size too small for him. He had moved up to the hot dog stand in a way such that he?d cut in front of two other customers who?d been waiting their turn. That he?d moved directly to the front of a line of customers didn?t appear to concern him in the least. ?No, they?re all-beef,? said the vendor. ?Let me get to these people first, and I?ll be right with you.? The hot dog man, his stooped shoulders, gray hair, gnarled hands and arthritic body movements bearing testament to each and every one of his sixty-two years, answered the man reluctantly, his manner clearly showing his desire to help the next person in line. ?Well, I?m in hurry,? the customer said with impatience. ?One sec, please, sir.? ?Oh, and I want everything on it too.? The man seemed determined not to be shuttled aside. ?Uh, all the fixins, are right there on the side, you can put anything on it ya? want. I?ll be with you in just a moment, sir.? ?Jesus, ya?d think at a buck seventy-five, ya?d get a little better service.? The vendor ignored this remark and tended to the two people in front of the irascible customer. When he had served them, he used his tongs to pull a dog from the steamer, dropped it into a bun, wrapped it in white paper, and handed it to the irritated customer, somehow managing a smile on his wrinkled, weatherworn face. Then he turned to the next customer. ?Hey, Mac, ya got any of that spicy mustard, not this French?s crap that?s probably not even French?s, but some sort of fake stuff you poured into this bottle. I know how you guys like to cut corners on expenses.? Pointing with his tongs, not even turning to look at the overweight and overbearing customer and with his shoulders slumping just a bit lower, the hot dog man answered, ?Next to the ketchup.? ?Hell, ya think it would be next to the yellow mustard, not the damn ketchup,? the man complained loudly and argumentatively. Then an unmistakable sound could be heard. Phrillurp! ?Oh, great, the damn thing?s run out and now I got mustard splattered on my shirt. How long have you been in business, anyway?? ?Sorry, sir, let me wet a napkin for you. It?ll help get the mustard off your shirt. It should wash out when you do your laundry. Oh, and here?? The hot dog man reached into an ice chest at his feet, retrieving a new bottle of spicy mustard and handing it to the fuming fat man. The customer grabbed it without a word, but then asked, again interrupting the vendor as he tried in vain to help his next cutomer, ?Hey old man, are these onions fresh? Don?t want to be catching no damn salmonella.? ?Diced this morning,? replied the vendor. ?Well, if I get sick, you can bet your damn ass, I?ll be back,? the man threatened. He gave the hot dog man a withering look, then turned and walked away. The old vendor watched him without any change in his expression other than a slight wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. It took him a moment, but then he turned to the next person in line. The person waiting at the counter smiled, a little tentatively, showing his embarrassment and not sure just what to say. The old man shook his head, dismissing the moment. ?What can I get for you, sir?? he asked, showing nothing of what he was feeling inside.

Thanks Bruin, they are really stand alone pieces. They have only one thing in common. I'll try to get the other two posted before I leave on Thursday.

A Fond Memory By Steven Keiths ?See here kids,? said the exuberant father as he pulled his two young boys over to the hot dog cart shaded by a large, red and yellow striped umbrella. ?When I was a kid, these only cost a nickel. Wow, look at the price now?a dollar seventy-five. But still, they?re the best hot dogs you can buy. Not like those ones you buy in a package at the grocery store. I?m going to get two. How many do you kids want?? The two boys looked at each other, seemed to silently communicate, then both held up two fingers. ?You sure you can eat two apiece?? asked the dad. Both nodded their heads. ?Okay, then two it is.? All three of them bit into their hot dogs. ?Oh, God, aren?t these great? You can feel a crunch when you bite into them. They?re nothing like those store-bought ones. When you bite into those you feel like you just bit into a bar of softened butter. See how juicy these are, too? No, sirree, now this is what I call a hot dog.? The two little boys again glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They were not aware there was epicurean judgment to be made about hot dogs. They just gulped theirs down, and watched their father delighting in a childhood memory.

Unintentionally suggestive I'm sure! Okay, I have a filthy mind. Courageous effort at verse, Cole, but I'd stick to story telling/writing, more your forte. The Yahoo Lament would be a great title, however.

Getting Educated by Steven Keiths I just can't believe this. A bachelor's degree in business and I?m operating a hot dog stand. A little pushcart hot dog stand. My father's counsel that 'you can't go wrong with a business degree,' certainly hasn't panned out. After graduating, I searched for weeks trying to find a job, any job. Does selling hot dogs out of a cart on a street corner qualify as a job? Yeah, I guess it does. Barely. "Could I have two dogs, one with sauerkraut?" requests the customer, interrupting me from feeling sorry for myself. "Sure, would you like a soda and some chips with that?" That's what we were taught at the training class. Would you believe that they actually have a training class in how to sell hot dogs? What with my business degree, I thought I shouldn't have to attend the training with the others, but they wouldn't give me the job unless I sat through it. So I did. They stressed that to be successful, we had to provide good service, and always be thinking about increasing sales. Pushing items to go with what had already been ordered was one way to do that, they said. "Yeah, I'll have a Coke and a bag of those barbecue chips," he says, pointing at the rack of snacks on display. "That'll be two dogs, one with sauerkraut, one Coke and a bag of barbeque chips; coming right up, sir. Your total will be four bucks." You always tell the customer the total of the order before you start to fill it. You don't want to hear, "Oh, sorry, I don't have that much cash on me right now." Once the dog is out of the steamer, You can't put it back. "And you don't want to do that," one of the instructors had said, "because if you have to throw it away, that's an increase to your costs. Keeping costs down as much as keeping profits up is the trick to being successful," he'd kept harping at us. "Here you go. Two hot dogs, this one's with sauerkraut, a Coke and you can just take the chips from the rack. Thank you. All the condiments are at the side of the cart." I take off my protective disposable gloves to take his cash and make change. The gloves are a requirement of the health department for food handlers. Can't be too careful with all manner of germs floating around. Can't have someone getting sick and suing, stressed the instructors at the hot dog training session. If a health inspector should see you do that, he'd shut you down, throw all your dogs away, and maybe you'd even lose your license. We were told we had to learn and then follow all the regulations that applied to street vendors selling food. They gave us pamphlets, then tested us on them. "Kids, quiet down so I can order," my next customer, a young father, admonishes his two rambunctious children. "We'll have three hot dogs, please," requests the frazzled dad. "Would you like sodas and chips with those?" I inquire. After a brief powwow with his kids, he says, "We'll have a Coke and two Sprites." "Daddy, Daddy, I want a bag of chips." "Me too," chimes in his sibling. We were taught to repeat the order, and if someone, like a kid, requests something, you'd throw that in too. It was yet another way to increase sales. 95% of the time people went along with the order you repeated back to them--that and parents rarely refuse thier kids. I repeat the order, adding in the additional snacks request by the two hyper boys, and tell the daddy his total will be $8. After giving them their order and taking their money, I watch the father herding his two small fry to a nearby patch of grass to eat their dogs. I wipe the counter as I was instructed to do after each customer has been served and continue to wonder what it is I could possibly learn about business from this job.

This piece is going to become a short story. I have quite a few pages already written. This piece is also one of five short pieces that all have to do with a hot dog stand. I may add one more from the series before I take my trip to Thailand. I'll be leaving next Thursday and I'll be returning on December 9th. As always, I appreciate the responses I receive for my writings. I hope all have a nice Thanksgiving.

Work Ethic By: Steven Keiths Sal had watched the boy, had seen that he was getting more disheartened as the lunch crowd ignored him. ?Spare change, mist..?? he?d try to say, only to have the men push past him time and again, oblivious to anything but their hunger and tight schedules, sometimes almost knocking the boy down as they forced their way to the hot dog stand. The kid, who looked to be ten, maybe eleven, was wearing frayed jeans and a T-shirt. He had been hanging about since Sal had set up for lunch, panhandling, or at least trying to. Lunchtime on Wall Street, with the hustle and bustle of stressed businessmen rushing to grab a quick bite to eat, was not the best time to be begging for coins. Sal, as he busily served hot dogs and sodas and bags of chips to the lunchtime crowd from his cart, kept glancing over at the boy, feeling progressively worse for the little guy as time passed with no money being dropped into his small, outstretched hand. The lunchtime rush finally ended. Sal took a deep breath and relaxed against his cart with a smile on his face. He?d had a profitable day. He started to pack away his things, then stopped. Turning, he took a look at the boy, now sitting on the ground with his head hanging. Sal walked over to him, reached down and touched the boy?s shoulder. The boy looked up, and Sal asked, ?Hey, kid, how?d ya? like to make a buck?? The boy?s eyes snapped wide open. ?Uh, sure, Mister, what da? ya? want me ta do?? ?Help me put all this stuff away and push my cart over to that pickup truck and hitch it up.? The boy jumped up, and Sal showed him what needed to be done. The boy was eager to help, and a willing worker. He struggled and grunted, but managed to get the ice chest moved despite its weight, then handed the remainder of the supplies to Sal until everything was loaded. ?Watch your fingers,? Sal warned as they hitched the cart to the truck. When they were all done, and Sal was ready to get into his truck, he handed the kid a baggy containing five unsold hot dogs and buns. He also gave him two dollar bills. Smiling, the boy looked up at Sal and said, ?Hey, thanks, Mister, uh, but, you made a mistake. This is two bucks!? ?Yeah, well, you earned it. You did mosta? the work.? The boy started to walk away, but after only two steps, stopped and turned to Sal, who was getting into his truck. The boy hesitated, then said, ?Hey, Mister, if ya? want, I can be here tomorra ta? help ya.? Sal smiled. He admired someone who wanted to work. ?Sure kid, and by the way, what?s yer name?? ?Timmy.? ?Okay, Timmy, see ya? tomorra.? Sal pulled away from the curb feeling good, knowing Timmy would have something to eat. The kid looked too thin. Timmy, neatly folding his money and putting it in his jean?s pocket, walked away also feeling good, and not only because he had something to eat. He had something else, something almost as good. He had something to look forward to tomorrow.

I like it Bart. I think I'd change only one thing, and it is minor. Your last sentence reads awkwardly to me (I know, I have nerve as I write some real doozies). Bill, for the fist time in over a decade, other than the occasional handshake, was overcome... I think it looses its impact the way you have it worded. I think the final thought for the reader should be how overwhelmed he was. Just my thoughts. I think it's a nice piece of flash fiction nonetheless.

Really nice piece Richard. Having had a pushy older brother, I was with Erik all the way. I found when I finally stood up to my older brother, though I lost the battle, it was the last time he ever tried to push me around. Though he didn't offer to give me a wedgie!

Error in Judgment By Steven Keiths ? 11/2008 She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. Was. Now Suzy lay slumped over the back of the living room sofa?a bullet through her heart. It took me a month to plan and orchestrate her death. I planned it so perfectly. There is no way I can ever be charged with the murder of my wife?my cheating, lying wife. At first, I stood there stunned, shocked, I couldn?t believe what I was seeing. My wife in the arms of another man?in my, our house?I was supposed to have worked late that night. I wished I had. This was too painful to witness. Dazed, I walked back to my car and drove to a nearby bar. The bar, dark and gloomy, with the jukebox playing sad songs of lost an unrequited love, which drove me deeper into my melancholy and seething rage. After several beers, I decided I could no longer live with her?she could no longer live. It took all my resolve to be sweet and kind toward her while I was plotting my revenge. I even managed to have sex. It made me sick. The longer I was near her the more enraged I became, but I couldn?t show it. I couldn?t express it in any way, lest I betray somehow, that I was upset. I was afraid she?d notice and start asking questions. Afraid that before I could answer, that I?d strangle her. No, I couldn?t do that?yet. I had to keep the status quo. I had to maintain this false front until I could carry out my plan. I had to wait for that perfect opportunity. Then she had to die. I?d be damned if I?d spend my life behind bars because she couldn?t keep her legs shut. Hell, he wasn?t even that good-looking. I?m sweating. My hands are shaking. I?m suppose to be in New York City attending a seminar. Which I am?well, that?s what the cops will find out to be true. By the time they discover the body, I?ll be back in New York. She?s startled to see me, after all, I?m not supposed to be here. She stands to come over to me. She has that sweet, loving smile. Of course, I know it?s an act. It?s then I pull the trigger. She never saw the gun. The impact of the bullet causes her to spin and to land, draped over the leather sofa. I stand for a moment looking at her slumped body; part of me cannot believe I actually did it. But, I did. I killed the lying, unfaithful bitch. Realizing I?m wasting time, I set the rest of my plan into motion. I break the pane of glass on the French door and unlock it. I scatter knick-knacks and overturn lamps. I pull out the silverware drawer in the maple hutch. I bag up the expensive flatware and then dash up the stairs and rifle through her jewelry. I bag it and continue to open most of the other drawers in our dresser and bureau and disturb the contents as to make it appear someone was frantically searching. As I?m driving out of town, I stop long enough to drop all I had taken into the swirling waters of the river that runs outside of town. I watch as the bag slowing begins to sink and in an instant, it?s gone?like my wife, like my once happy marriage. I head back to New York City. The traffic was light and it only took me three and a half hours. Once there, I return the rental car that I had gotten using fake ID, and head back to my hotel. It is early in the morning. No one is about. Perfect. I go to my room, strip and bag up everything I wore and then take a shower. In the morning, I?ll dispose of the bag on my way to my meeting. There is no way, no way in hell, I?ll ever be caught. That afternoon, two plain-clothed police officers interrupt the meeting I am attending. They inform me of my wife?s death and their opinion as to what happened. I, of course, become the inconsolable and distraught husband. I had to answer the routine questions as to where I was and what I was doing at that time. So many people had seen me throughout the day and that evening at a party, that my alibi is airtight. What in the hell is that son of a bitch doing here? My wife?s extracurricular activity. At my wife?s funeral. Do I want to press my luck? Should he be my next victim? The asshole?s even crying. One of my neighbors is expressing her sympathies, when he comes up to me. I?m trying to remain calm, now is not the time to blow it. ?Hi, uh Jim, we?ve never met, but I?m Al, I?m Suzy?s brother.

It left me with all kinds of questions. It left me wanting to know more. Haunting is how it felt to me. Nice job James.

Out with the New, In with the Old by: Steven Keiths ? 11-2008 The phone rings. I can see from the display that it is my boss, George, calling. I dread answering: I even think of ignoring it, but I will have to speak with him eventually. I know it is about Edna. I know he wants me to let her go?fire her. Several people have complained that she?s too slow and she doesn?t possess the skills needed for the position. I have several of the memos to that effect sitting here in front of me; I?m sure George has them too. It rings again. I know she?s slow, but she?s methodical and her work product is perfect. She is an elderly woman who lost her husband a few years ago. She is finding it difficult financially to get along. Who isn?t these days? I just know if I can give her a few more weeks to become more familiar with our state-of-the-art equipment, her speed and productivity will increase. The damn phone rings again. I know all the different functions on the copier are overwhelming for her. It staples, collates, does double-sided copies, double to single-sided ones, too. It enlarges and decreases size. This machine will even allow you to send documents electronically to another person within the office; it is a very complex piece of equipment. Edna comes from an era of carbon copies done on a Remington manual typewriter. She?s not accustomed to PDF machines, e-mailing, fax machines and other gadgetry. Riiing! Another responsibility of Edna?s is relieving the receptionist for her lunchtime breaks. Edna is used to taking hand-written messages, not announcing calls or putting them into a voice mail system. There are quite a few steps for both of these procedures. To complicate her task, there are some fifty buttons on a phone panel?and many times, there are three and four lines blinking and ringing simultaneously. It takes a while to become proficient with this system, not to mention memorizing all the names of personnel and their assigned extension numbers. Yeah, she gets bogged down on occasion. She may have even lost a call a few times. She just needs more time to learn that part of the job. However, she is pleasant and very professional and congenial when she talks to the callers. Many on the staff want to know why I hired someone who lacks the knowledge of today?s high technological equipment. ?What were you thinking,? asked Tom. He is one of the production staff. Good question really. A few other well-qualified candidates had applied for the position. For some reason, Edna stuck out. She was polite, honest, even admitted she was a little nervous, as it had been years since she had held a job?outside the home, she emphasized. She needed the job. That?s why I hired her. She needed the job and I had a sense, though she wasn?t up on the newest technology, that she was a diamond in the rough. She?d try. She?d succeed. I knew it. ?Did you hire your out-of-work grandmother?? Pete asked. ?Why didn?t you hire that cute little blonde? ?Because, Pete, she was a walking, breathing blonde joke,? I said. ?She at least was nice on the eyes. Which is more than I can say for Edwina,? Pete said. ?It?s Edna, Pete.? ?Whatever,? he replied, and then hung up. Halfway through the fifth ring I answer, ?Hi, George, what?s up?? ?I want to know who assembled this McFarland proposal,? he asks. ?Why, is there something wrong with it?? I couldn?t recall a request coming through my office to assemble a proposal. ?Well, I want the front to have a clear cover and the backing to be black. It?s bound presently with a clear front and back.? ?Oh, that?ll be no problem to change. I?ll have Edna do it as soon as she finishes giving Sara her lunch break. Sorry it?s screwed up.? ?Well, it isn?t really her fault. I requested only that it be stapled. She took the initiative to fancy it up on her own. Nice job. Wish I had thought to request it bound. It looks very professional and is sure to impress the McFarland group at our presentation tomorrow. ?Since you mentioned Edna, I wanted you to know that I got a few clients calling asking who the new receptionist is. They said it was quite refreshing to be spoken to so professionally, though a few complained about waiting longer than usual to be connected to the person they were calling.? ?She?s really trying, George. Ours isn?t the easiest system to grasp, and she?s been here less than two weeks.? ?I?ve also received a few complaints she?s slow,? George adds. ?Yeah, I?ve gotten those same complaints, but?? ?Ah, that?s the problem with the younger generation,? George interrupts. ?They seem to think everything needs to be done in microwave-oven time. You just continue to work with her and see if you can get her speed up a little more. Oh, and don?t forget to send someone by to pick up this proposal and have it rebound with a clear front and black back. In fact, have Edna make four more copies.? ?Sure thing George, talk to you later.? I just look at the phone and smile. George didn?t even hint at me having to fire Edna. I know he?s gotten more than a few complaints about Edna being slow. Then I recall?George is probably about Edna?s age. Empathy. Ain?t it great?

I had to read it twice. On my second read, I noticed there were italics used. My vision--far-sightedness-- isn't very good, especially reading print on a monitor. Perhaps more could be added, but I have to agree it stands quite well as it is written. Very nice piece of FF Kap.