Short Story #1

Lillian worked from home. She wasn't much for meandering about town. Her apartment was quaint and required no outside maintenance, so no one needed in. Her countenance was quaint and required no outside maintenance, so she didn't have to let anyone in. Her groceries were purchased online and delivered to the doorstep; she was always "in the shower." She'd never actually seen or tipped the delivery boy. The mild fever she had in 2002 was remedied with a cold bath and 2 days of bed rest. Bills were sent and paid online. Her family consisted of one newly-married and newly-religious sister who moved to Utah when one of her husband's wive's mothers fell ill and required constant care. Lillian cut her hair with the scissors in the bathroom drawer, the reflection from the bathroom mirror and the hand she'd purchased from Prosthesis.com after the incident. She calls it an incident but if anyone knew what'd really happened, they'd call a lawyer.

Lillian never called for an ambulance. She Googled "self amputation" with her good hand and followed the directions meticulously while chewing on a piece of leather and waiting for the Tylenol to digest.

Despite her condition, embroidery and similar examples of threaded craftiness were a hobby and a livelihood. A strangely vibrant website showcased her myriad of hand-made goods. One would assume, when perusing her site, that she was a 30-something-and-entrepreneurial stay-at-home mom of 3 trying to make some money on the side for the kids' college funds. Professionally and colorfully crafted for a seamless product ordering experience, it was the antitheses of Lillian's personal carriage. An excess of personal time, or an exclusive reservation for it, allowed Lillian to learn the trade of Java Script and interactive web design from the comfort of her laptop and floral print velvet couch. This, combined with competitive pricing and quick turnaround made her the local go-to for all things personalized and commemorative.

Lillian shipped all orders and ironed all details via email. The only ringing in her home was the bell at the top of Jubilee's scratching post.

Jubilee was adopted from the shrub beneath Lillian's window prior to the incident. The air was crisp and light when Lillian heard gentle purrs on the other side of her living room wall. At 3 a.m., she cracked the non-screened window and invited the feline inside for the first time. Her new friend curled in her lap and yawned, leaning her head back to expose her plaid collar and sufficiently descriptive tag. Her shots were up to date and after an instinctive web consultation, it was confirmed that she was void of ringworm. The web consultation also confirmed that the cat was under the care of a veterinarian 2 miles away.

Lillian had been alone, by force, then choice, for 6 months. As she ran her fingers along the spine of the furry guest, she convinced herself that this nomadic feline was somehow a paid debt by the powers that be. She decided the cat's rightful owners could surely replace or make do without her. They surely were strangers to the isolation she felt day after day. She needed the company of a beating heart. She recognized the stereotype immediately and dismissed it, believing that it would take at least 2 more to be deemed a "cat lady."

The sparks of light outside Lillian's window brought instantaneous fear. She knew exactly what was going on. The search party whispered, "Betsy" in varying degrees of loudness, hoping to attract the missing cat and leave the sleepers to their dreaming.

If Lillian's sheet curtains hadn't already been drawn, this would have been her cue. She felt the simultaneous pull of guilt and freedom. For the first time since he left, she smiled. Silently she sat, with the missing pet nuzzling affectionately, for the next hour. When no looming threat remained, Lillian and her tangible, breathing confidante retreated to bed. Lillian slept soundly for 5 whole hours, marking the second "first" of the evening.