Love in the Query

I was in a training session, recently, where the trainer said, “Sometimes, data relationships can be complicated.” Because my wife is a huge fan of those Hallmark Rom-Com Christmas movies, and because I like to let my mind misbehave sometimes, I came up with a three book, romantic comedy series about complicated data relationships.

Here’s the synopsis for Book #1: Love in the Query

In the bustling, digital metropolis of Data City, where every byte counts and every table has its place, the Columns of the LoveDB database lead surprisingly complex lives. Our story centers around Colin, a charming but somewhat disorganized column of type VARCHAR, and Rowena, a strict and structured INTEGER column with a knack for sorting things out.

Colin and Rowena reside in the same database, but their paths rarely cross due to their differences. Colin enjoys being part of free-form text queries, mingling with wildcard searches and string concatenations, while Rowena thrives in the orderly world of numerical operations and index optimization.

Everything changes when a new query is introduced—one that requires both of them to join forces in a highly complex relationship. As they navigate foreign keys, composite indexes, and left joins, Colin and Rowena start to see each other in a new light. Despite their differences, they realize that together they create something meaningful: a perfectly balanced dataset.

But their relationship faces challenges when Charli, a BOOLEAN column with a penchant for binary decisions, enters the picture, threatening to disrupt the fragile balance they’ve built. Colin and Rowena must overcome their relational challenges, understand each other’s strengths, and realize that love, much like a well-constructed query, sometimes requires a little compromise and a lot of collaboration.

In a heartwarming and humorous journey through inner joins and outer conflicts, Love in the Query is a romantic comedy that reminds us that even in the structured world of databases, love can be a complex, yet perfectly executable, function.

 

A Fondue Two-Fer

Due to some scheduling mishaps on the back end, our Labor Day Explode-A-Ganza shifted around a bit. The good news for you, Dear Reader, is that, today, you get a TWO-FER.

That’s right!

Two Labor Day stories for the price of one! With all the economic uncertainty lately, extra fiction for the same low price is a win in my book.

Story #1 comes to you from Mr. Joseph Courtemanche, who explores the frustrations many of us feel about having to work on Labor Day (and many other holidays. True to his nature, Mr Courtemanche takes his story to the logical extreme, then arm-bars it, throws it to the floor, and screams Arabic curses at it. Awesometastical! That’s why we like Joe.

Check out “On the Horns of a Dilemma

Story #2 sees the unmatched stylings of Ms. Kathy Kexel and everyone’s favorite Wisconsin Heroine and star of a Chinese conspiracy mystery in The Covid Quarantine Cantina: Janelle! This time, Janelle’s knitting session is interrupted by the F.B.I. and some serious backstory. There’s a ton of intrigue. And Family drama. And knitting!

Check out “The Labor Day Misadventure

We’re working HARD for you, here, at the Fondue Writer’s secret bunker in rural Florida, and we hope you enjoy our stories. If you liked this one, why not check out the sites for ALL of the Fondue Writers: Joseph CourtemancheJamie D. GreeningKathy KexelDerek Alan ElkinsRob Cely, and Dr. Paul Bennet.

IF you could see your way to parting with a (very) few dollars on occasion, you might pick up a few copies of their other books as well? It covers the cost of everything, and it gives us hope in those long, dark nights when we’re dreaming up new stories, that Labor Day miracles really do come true.

You might also consider our first collection of short stories, The Covid Quarantine Catina, written during the first months of the Covid-19 lockdowns. It’s available in Kindle, Paperback, and Audio formats.

Rob Cely will be back tomorrow with the next Labor Day story.

The Labor Day – A Free Fiction Fondue Writer’s Story from Jamie Greening

Ladies and Gentlepersons. The day you have been waiting for, the hour you have dreamt of, the moment for which you have held out hope, the very second upon which you have rested all of your pent up antici…

…pation has finally arrived.

The Fondue Writer’s Club and Bar and Grille and Laundromat is back with a host of Labor Day stories to flirt with your fantasies. From now through Labor Day, the Fondue Writers will Bring Tha Funk and Bring the Noise, all in hopes of satiating the quivering desires of you, our most favoritest people, our constant readers (and random folks who stumbled in from the farthest reaches of the Internet.

LEADING OFF this time is Jamie Greening with a Sci-Fi-ish take on Labor Day. Dr Greening has a nigh-CS-Lewisian approach to Science Fiction, with. Stephen King Like ability to turn the story on a dime and make you question reality, and he does not shy away with his Labor Day Story: The Labor Day.

We’re working HARD for you, here, at the Fondue Writer’s secret bunker in rural Florida, and we hope you enjoy our stories. If you liked this one, why not check out the sites for ALL of the Fondue Writers: Joseph CourtemancheJamie D. GreeningKathy KexelDerek Alan ElkinsRob Cely, and Dr. Paul Bennet. IIF you could see your way to parting with a (very) few dollars on occasion, you might pick up a few copies of their other books as well? It covers the cost of everything, and it gives us hope in those long, dark nights when we’re dreaming up new stories, that Labor Day miracles really do come true.

You might also consider our first collection of short stories, The Covid Quarantine Catina, written during the first months of the Covid-19 lockdowns. It’s available in Kindle, Paperback, and Audio formats.

I say our “FIRST” collection, which might imply a second collection coming down the … pipeline … soon. More on that in the weeks to come.

The Parade

Red, white, and blue streamers danced in the wind as the handlebars of a small Huffy bicycle with Spiderman designs obeyed the expert instruction of its rider, seven year old Benji Price, as he bobbed, listed, righted himself, and dove bravely through a treacherous landscape of overgrown yards, poorly-maintained patches of concrete sidewalks, and large, family vehicles which jutted meancincly across his path. He sped down the big hill on Cromwell Road, toward the traffic light which marked the intersection of Cromwell and Winton, cursing his parents the whole way. 

“They think I’m not going to the parade,” he muttered. “But I’m going. I didn’t get to go last year, we missed the Labor Day fireworks because Dad was sick again, Mom wouldn’t let us do Halloween or Easter because she’s still afraid of Covid, and Dad wouldn’t let me go see my friends at the Memorial Day party on Burley because he wanted me to clean my room.” 

He hit a spot in the sidewalk where the roots of an old oak tree jutted the concrete squares up at an odd angle, pulled back on his handlebars, and left the ground for a full second. In his mind, Benji leapt over giant canyons full of monsters, racing his bike through the jungle in search of treasure, like Indiana Jones. He landed quickly, his resolve undeterred. 

“I’m going this time. I don’t care what Dad says.” 

The light at Winton Road turned red. Benji pulled his bike to a stop, hit the crosswalk button, and waited. 

The Greenhills Fourth of July parade was the highlight of the summer for all the kids in the neighborhood, Benji Price included. It started next to the Community Building, or what used to be the Middle school as his father would sometimes reminisce on occasions when his moods were light, then made its way around the Commons, past the WWII memorial, and back to the Community Building where it all began. Each year, the mayor and several other village leaders would hand out awards for the kids, who paraded their decorated bikes around the commons along with the marching band, the truck from the local fire department, various community organizations, and the large, Red Cadillac with the sign for Humbert’s Meats.  

Benji coveted that award. He’d watched from the sidelines for as long as he could remember as older kids in the neighborhood rode their bikes full of streamers and noisemakers round and round the Commons. Two years ago, Brian Woods from up the street had won a huge trophy for decorating his bike to look like a speeder bike from Return of the Jedi. And so what if he blew up the trophy later that summer with a homemade incendiary device he’d made using a two liter, aluminum foil, and a particularly corrosive toilet bowl cleaner he’d had to order from Amazon. 

So what? He still won the thing. Just seeing Brian walking home from the parade, carrying that giant trophy, barely able to guide his bike back up Cromewell hill filled Beni’s heart with excitement, and maybe a bit of jealousy. 

Last year, Benji had covered his bike in cardboard to make it look like Enderman from MInecraft. He’d finished it a week after school let out, and missed riding bikes for what seemed like half the summer in anticipation. Then, his Dad saw the bike sitting in the garage and tore the cardboard off, yelling at him not to waste boxes. 

When Benji started crying, his Dad told him to “suck it up,” so Benji did, taking the broken Enderman pieces to the recycling bin outside. 

This year, Benji planned to cover his bike in so many streamers it would look like a Fourth of July Medusa, floating down the street as he sped his way around the commons. He’d saved up all his allowance for two months to buy the streamers (Brian Woods ordered it for him from Amazon. Brian’s parents let him do a lot of things Benji’s parents didn’t), and hid them in his Cub Scout camping backpack so his dad wouldn’t see them. 

Benji Price had it all planned out. 

But when Benji’s Mom came out of their bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her, and told Benji that “Dad isn’t feeling well this morning. He had a late night last night. We’re going to have to miss the parade,” Benji was furious. Instead of whining, like he usually did, Benji forced a smile. 

“Okay, Mom,” he said, and read from his summer reading book until she went back into the bedroom. As soon as the door closed, he grabbed his backpack and sprinted outside to jump on his bike. 

The light at Winton Road changed green and Benji Price made his way across the busy, six-lane road. 

At first, he was afraid. He’d never before ventured this far from home by himself, and the huge, rumbling cars, waiting on Winton Road for their light to change green, seemed more daunting than the treacherous path down Cromwell hill that got him here. For a moment, Benji thought of turning back, but he closed his eyes and pushed forward. 

“I’m going,” he said, and that was that. 

Benji’s foot found the upramp on the sidewalk opposite Cromwell. He opened his eyes and watched as the cars behind him took their cue from the traffic light and made their way to and from on Winton. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said to himself. 

Benji rode his bike past Our Lady of the Rosary church, and stood at the crosswalk in front of the Greenhills Community Building. One more road and he was there. A few more steps and he’d be ready to start setting up his bike for the parade. 

A police cruiser stopped in front of him, and rolled down the window. 

“Hello, there son. How ya doin’?” 

“Fine.” 

“Whatch’ya up to?” 

“I’m taking my bike to the community center to get it ready for the Fourth of July Parade.” 

“Are you, now?” 

“Uh huh. My friend Brian Woods won the trophy two years ago, but he blew it up in his back yard with a bomb he made from the internet.” 

“Is that so?” 

Benji wondered if maybe he’d say something bad, but he continued.

“Yeah, and this year, I’m going to win. I’ve got a backpack full of streamers and my friend, Jason, says he has a wrestling outfit he’s going to let me use.” 

“Parade doesn’t start for another four hour, son. You know that?”

“It doesn’t?” 

“No. Where are your parents?” 

Benji lowered his head. He’d seen enough t.v. shows to know where this was heeded. 

“Back at home,” he said. 

“Why don’t you hop in the car and I’ll take you there? I’m sure they’d want to see their big boy win his first trophy.” 

“Okay,” Benji sighed. His shoulders slumped. One more year. One more missed opportunity. And, now, because the cops were bringing him home, his parents would be mad. Dad would wait for the cops to leave, and then the yelling would begin. 

“What’s your name, son?” the officer asked. 

“Benji.” 

“Good name. My name’s Officer Riley. But you can call me Ken.” 

Benji ws silent. He looked out the window as the trees and houses he’d just passed on his bike, reversed themselves toward his house. After a moment of silence, Officer Riley glanced in his rearview mirror. 

“You got a scratch on your forehead, I see.”

“Yep,” Benji said.  

“How’d that happen?” 

“Fell off my bike.” 

“Did you, now?” 

“Yep,” Benji lied. He didn’t like to talk about the scratches. Or any other injuries for that matter. 

“Well, that’s a surprise,” Officer Riley said. “I’ve seen you. You seem to have a good handle on things, riding that thing up and down Cromwell hill.” 

“I fell.” 

Officer Riley made it to the top of Cromwell turning left onto Andover Street. 

“Your parents home?” 

“Yeah, but Dad’s still asleep.” 

“He sleep a lot?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“He ever get mad at you?” 

Benji Price trie to change the subject. 

“That’s my house right there, Office Riley.” 

“Ken.” 

“Mr. Ken.” Benji tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Once you’re in the back seat of a police cruiser, you’re in. At least until they let you out.

“That’s my house right there. I can ride home from here.” 

Officer Riley did not respond. He drove up to Benji Price’s house, parked in the driveway, got out, and let Benji climb out as well. He opened the trunk to get Beni’s bike. Benji grabbed the bike and ran to the side of the house to hide it. By the time he got back, Officer Riley had already rung the doorbell. 

“Officer Riley … Ken … please don’t tell my dad I rode my bike across Winton Road. He’ll be mad, and when Dad gets mad, he…” 

The door opened. Benjamin Price Sr. stood in the doorway, his grey hair a mop of unkept thistles, hanging down over his eyebrows. He wore plaid pajama pants, a faded Dave Matthews Band t-shirt, and a pair of pink bunny slippers. Officer Riley took a step back and covered his nose. Benjamin Riley smelled as if he’d been rolled in wet mulch and left baking ni the hot sun for days. 

“What?” said Benjamin Price Sr. 

“Found your son down the road a piece. Seems he’s a bit excited for the parade today. Will you folks be joining him?” 

Benjamin Price saw Ben Jr (aka “Benji”) cowering behind Offcer Riley. HIs eyes grew wide and he stepped forward. 

“There you are! I told you we wasn’t going this year, you little son of a …” Benjamin Price looked at the stern expression on Officer Riley’s face and corrected himself. “.. young man. I told you I wasn’t feeling well. And neither is your mother.” 

Angela Price stood behind Benjamin Price Sr with her eyes lowered. When she glanced up, both Benji and Officer Riley could see the discoloration on her cheek hidden by hastily applied makeup. 

Benjamin Price Sr stepped out onto the porch, grabbing Benji firmly on his left arm. Benji winced. 

“Thank you for bringing him home, officer. I’ll make sure to teach him a lesson. Have a nice day.” 

Benjamin Price Sr moved Benji toward the door. Officer Riley placed a hand on Mr Price’s shoulder. 

“Hold on a minute. Let’s chat for a moment.” 

“About what?” 

“Mrs. Price. I can see the marks on your face. How did that happen?” 


“Ran into a door,” she said, never lifting her head. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes.” 

“See!” said Benjamin Price Sr. “Everything is fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, officer.” Mr Price tried to pull Benji inside, but Officer Ken Riley held firm. 

“Mrs. Price. You know what’s going to happen to your son if I leave here, right?” 

Mrs. Price did not speak. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen the scratch on his head, the mark on the back of his neck, and the way he favors his left ankle.” 

“That was a bike accident!” Mr Price said. Benji screamed as his fathers fingers dug further into his arm. 

“Mrs. Price, this isn’t the first time I’ve come here to visit you. And you know it won’t be the last. What do you say this time you speak up. It can all stop right now if you just say the word.” 

“I’ve heard enough!” Benjamin Price threw his son into the house through the doorway and stuck a finger in Officer Riley’s face. “How DARE you accuse of …” 

“Accuse you of what?” Officer Riley was calm in his questioning. 

“You know what you’re accusing me of. Get off my porch, Officer, or I’ll have your badge.” 

“Mrs Price?” 

“She has nothing to say.” 

“He hits her,” Benji Price said. All three adults looked at Benji in surprise. “When he gets drunk or when he’s mad or sometimes just because. He hits her. And he hits me, too. These scratches aren’t from a bike accident. He shoved me into a doorframe yesterday when I asked if we could go to the fourth of July Parade. It isn’t as swollen as it was yesterday, but it’s still there.” 

“What?” said Benjamin Price Sr. “He’s making it all up. You know how kids are.” 

“Mrs. Price? Is this true?” 

“Yes,” she said, then raised her head and said the words she had wanted to say for years, but had never had the courage to speak aloud. 

“Help?” she said. 

An hour and a half later, Benjamin Price Sr was in the back of another police cruiser, on his way to the Hamilton County Detention Center, and Officer Riley helped Benji Price and his mother, Angela, load some clothes and a few of their belongings, including Beji’s bike, into the trunk of his cruiser. 

“My Mom says we can stay with her as long as we need,” Mrs. Price began. “After that…” 

“After that you’ll be free,” Officer Riley said. 

“After that, we’ll be free,” Angela said, a smile washed over her face. She turned to Benji. “Should we get going? Grandma can’t wait to see you.” 

“There’s one more stop we need to make,” Officer Riley said. 

That afternoon, Benji Price rode his bike in the Greenhills Village Fourth of July Parade. The streamers poured out behind him in wild pandemonium. And for the rest of his life, whenever he thought of what it meant to be free, he would remember this exquisite joy.  

Dawn – By Joseph Courtemanche

The Fondue Writer’s Club and Bar & Grille and Laundromat Free Memorial Day Fiction Explode-A-Ganza comes to a close today, and what better way to end it than with a story from Mr. Joseph Courtemanche. Mr. Courtemanche is, himself, a veteran, and has made it a Thing(tm) to write a Memorial Day story each year, to help us keep in mind those we’ve lost.

Joe C puts it this way: “I ask merely that today you reflect on those who gave their lives for this nation. They’d want you to have the barbecue and the beer. But remember their sacrifice as well.”

Ain’t no better way to put it than that. Enjoy your celebrations. Enjoy your families. Remember the sacrifices of those who made these things possible. Check out “Dawn

We will be back in a few weeks for Independence Day. Thanks for joining us. We will see you then.

The Kid

Thomas Brown was about to salt the steaks he would soon put on the grill for the annual Burley Circle Community Memorial Day Celebration when he noticed the Kid again. This time, the Kid stood in the corner of the kitchen, watching him. 

As usual, the Kid said nothing.

The annual Burley Circle Memorial Day Celebration had grown into quite a Thing™ over the years. A few people from the row houses at the bottom of the Circle decided one year that, since there were no fences blocking off anyone’s backyards, they might as well pool their resources and do a combined party. 

“It’ll keep the Kids busy, and give us adults some time to do … adult things!” said Mrs. Paoletti of number 14, who’s twin sons Jeff and Josh were notorious for breaking windows, yard signs, and a few larger pieces of property throughout the community. A few people grumbled that she just wanted to spread her children’s destructive proclivities to houses other than hers, but most folks said that, even if that was the case, so what? Raising two boys as a single mother is hard work, and what good is a community if it can’t help bear the burdens of others now and again?

So it was that, with this collective and communal positivity, the Burley Circle Memorial Day Celebration was born. And, boy, did it grow quickly. 

One year, Mr Kellersmith from number 32 offered up his collection of wading pools and Slip & Slides. The next, Johnny Teague from number 18, owner of the local toy and hobby shop, Johnny’s Toys, brought a bevy of backyard games, including a set of lawn darts, which most of the parents forbade the little Kids to use, but then indulged in themselves later that the evening when the Kids had gone to bed and the alcohol flowed more freely. 

One year, Mrs. Bello from number 27 organized the entire community to line up everyone’s picnic and card tables so they could go for the Guinness record for “World’s Largest Salami Sandwich.” They actually got the record one year, but lost it six months later to a group of automobile engineers from Bern, Switzerland who, for reasons unknown to God and Man (as Mrs. Bello put it, when she learned they had been eclipsed), took umbrage with the idea of Midwestern Americans holding any meat-related Guinness records. 

But no matter. The party continued, year in and year out. It ws right about the time that Mrs. Paoletti’s destructive offspring had returned from their respective collegiate sojourns, ech with a wife and two sets of destructive twins in tow, that Sean Hinken from number 1 Burley Circle, who tended Bar at The Friendly Stop, a local hole-in-the-wall bar and grill, had a creative idea. 

“You ever notice how our yards slope down to that flat part at the end?” he said one evening, while sitting on his porch. 

“Yeah,” A few of the other guys responded. 

“And have you noticed how they sorta curve around, like an amphitheater?” 

“Woah,” the guys said. “Yeah.” 

“What if, this year, we built a stage and had some bands play?” 

So they did. David Hester, who taught shop at the Great Oaks Vocational School, tagged some of his students to gather supplies the morning of the next Memorial Day. They got started around 8am, and by noon they had a fully functioning stage, complete with wired sound equipment and lighting. A few local bands started the show that year about dinner time, but the highlight was when Thomas Burns invited his old college buddies to play an assortment of rock anthems, along with some of their original works. 

They played late into the night as the entirely of Burley Circle, in addition to more than a few folks from the surrounding neighborhoods, gathered to listen and just enjoy the feeling of Joy and Love that only good community brings. 

Since then, Thomas’s band, Jelly Pudding, was the highlight of the annual Burley Circle Memorial Day Celebration. After a day full of water games and good friends and more food than you can possibly eat in one sitting (despite what the grumps from Bern, Switzerland might think), everyone settled into the natural amphitheater behind the row houses on Burley Circle to hear local bands play their hearts out. And the evening came to a perfect conclusion with yet another stellar performance from Thomas Burns and the boys of Jelly pudding. 

Except, this year, things might be a little different. Because Thomas Burns saw the Kid again. 

Thomas had just started salting the steaks, which his brother brought in directly from his farm in a small town in Wisconsin, when he saw the Kid. He was an Afghan boy, about nine years old. He wore a tunic with long pants, a bright red cap over his head, and a dark, blue chapan coat under which he was strapped with enough explosives to level several buildings. 

The Kid stood in the corner of the kitchen and watched Thomas Brown. 

Thomas Brown returned the Kid’s gaze, let out a sigh, then returned to salting his steaks. 

“You again?” he said, sprinkling sea salt over row after row of Ribeye steaks. “I figured you might show up today. It IS Memorial Day after all.” 

“Here,” Thomas offered a handful of salt. “Want to help?” 

The boy stood in the corner, saying nothing. 

“Course not.” Thomas returned to salting the steaks. “You never do. Just just stand there in your tunic and your cap. A quiet, little, nine-year old bomb. And you say nothing.”

Thomas put the salt down and looked to the floor. 

“It’s been twelve years! Twelve years since you walked into that room with stupid caape of yours, that blank expression on your face. Twelve years since you walked in and killed all my friends. Everyone in the room …  but me.” 

The boy stood in the corner, saying nothing. Thomas sat on the floor aa few feet away, so his head was level with the boy’s. 

“Why? Why did you kill them? Why did you kill them and not me?” 

The boy stood in the corner, saying nothing. 

“Twelve years you’ve been doing this and you can’t answer. You have nothing to say for yourself. You just stand there and stare at me.” 

The boy stood in the corner, saying nothing. 

“SAY SOMETHING YOU LITTLE SHIT! SAY SOMETHING!” 

“Tom?” Thomas’s wife, Cheri walked into the house from the back door. She held and inflatable penguin in one hand and overly large sunglasses in another. Tom stood up quickly, focusing his attention on the steaks. “Tom, what’s wrong? Who are you talking to.” 

“No one,” Tom said, affecting a cheery tone as best he could. “Just getting these steaks ready.” 

 Cheri stood in the doorway, staring at her husband in silence as he stared intently at the steaks. 

“The Kid is back, isn’t he?” she asked, gently. 

“Yeah.” 

“Where is he?” 

“Over there in the corner.” 

“You know he isn’t real, right?” 

“I know.” 

“What does Dr. Feldman say?” 

“He says hallucinations are a rare but sometimes expected side effect of PTSD.” 

“That’s true, honey.” 

“He also says exercise should help.”

“Oh?” 

“He suggests going on long bike rides. Dr. Feldman is always going on about riding bikes.” 

Cheri started gathering the now well-salted steaks. Thomas lifted the plates as they made their way to the backyard to join the party. 

“Well, it could be lots of fun. There’s a long path up by Milford we might try sometime.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said. 

“Come on, sweetie. Everyone is excited to hear you play!” 

Thomas and Cheri Brown stepped outside to the wild applause of their neighbors. Everyone was full of joy and laughter and love, except Thomas, who watched the boy in the tunic follow him out of the corner of his eye. 

Thomas couldn’t pull his mind away from his friends. They’d set up in an abandoned house in a small town near the Hindu Kush east of Kabul. Operation Enduring Freedom had gone well, but they were a few months into the Taliban’s resurgence, and the feeling of inevitable, quick victory had just begun to turn. 

“Might as well settle in,” their commander had said on more than one occasion. “Looks like we’re gonna be here a while.” 

Thomas had been part of team chasing insurgents from small towns near the mountains. They had cleared four similar towns in the last month with very little resistance. Most of the fighting took place to the south, so Thomas and his team spent many long nights in small places like this. 

That day, Steve Erlich, a teacher and father from Austin, Texas was trying to teach everyone how to play a new card game he invented. 

“So it’s like Spdes?” of the new guys asked. 

“Uh huh!” Steve said, excited. “And Euchre, Hearts, and Rummy … all rolled into one!” 

“And you need three decks to play?” 

“Yep!” 

“Why not just play Euchre with one deck?” said James Cook, a construction worker from Ohi who had developed a small drinking habit in his time, patrolling the Hindu Kush. “Seems simpler.” 

“Nah,” said Steve. “This is way funner. You’ll see once you get the hang of it, Cookie.”

Steve dealt another complicated hand, much the consternation of everyone else. 

In the backyard amphitheater of the row houses of Burley Circle, the Annual Memorial Day Celebration was in full effect. Kids were tossing plastic footballs and frisbees, adults lunged in all manner of lawn furniture, drinking strange alcoholic concoctions that may or may not pass local ordinances on either the amount of alcohol in the drink or the process used to produce it, and a band, comprised entirely of teenagers Thomas’s Kids would have derided as “way emo” blundered their way through covers of My Chemical Romance, JImmy Eat World, and Fallout Boy. 

“Dear God, these Kids suck!” said Tim Jensen, Thomas and Cheri’s next-door neighbor. 

“They’re learning,” Thomas said. “Everyone sucks in the beginning.” 

“There’s learning,” Tim said, “and then there’s this.” he motioned toward the stage with a full glass of Long Island Ice Tea. 

“Well if you’re so good,” Thomas said, “Why don’t you go up there yourself and show them?” 

“Nah, big man. I’ll just wait for you to show them.” 

Everyone laughed, except for Thomas. The boy in the tunic and cap sat nearby, saying nothing. 

The daylight had just begun to darken in the house near the base of the Kush mountains when Jason Chao, a college student from Milwaukee who joined up the day after 9/11, threw down his cards in frustration. 

“How the hell did I lose that one?” 

Tim Suggs, a former linebacker for the Alabama Crimson Tide, chimed in. “What you should have done was play the Ace of Spades instead of the Queen.”

“Ace of Spades!” Cathy Flynn, an actuary from Chicago said in a sing-songy manner.

Suggs continued: “Then, he’d have had to follow suit and you could have taken the last three tricks.” 

“Oh yeah, Suggsie? If you’re so good, why don’t you come down here and show everyone how it’s done?”  

Suggs smiled, slapped Jason on the shoulder and almost put him through the floor. 

“Nah, big man. I’ll just wait for you to do it.” 

The room burst open with laughter, which was quickly hushed when Thomas noticed movement outside. 

“What’s that?” he said. 

Hundreds of Afghanis walked down the main street through town. Their clothes were covered in mud and their faces looked worn. It was like they’d been caught in a dust storm and then tossed into a mud pit. 

No one approached their house. 

“Looks like maybe a bunch of workers coming home at the end of the day,” said Suggs.

Outside, a light rain began to fall.  

“I don’t know,” said Thomas. “Everyone all at once?” 

“I’m calling it in,” said Steve Erlich. “Better safe than sorry.” 

Everyone agreed. 

Thomas was able to register that Cheri had spoken, but he did not know what she said, so he asked her to repeat herself. 

“Looks like those steaks have been cooking for a while, hon. Want to call it done?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.” 

He moved the steaks from the grill to the large resting plate, then called out to the crowd. 

“DINNER!” 

Everyone dug in, filling plates with burgers, hot dogs, various casseroles, fruits, veggies, and, of course, Thomas Brown’s signature steaks. A bit well done, but still tasty. 

Afterward, Thomas and his band mates made their way to the stage just as the daylight began to darken near the Burley Circle row house amphitheater. 

Thomas tightened the screws on his Sabian cymbals when he noticed the Kid standing  just offstage. 

“Can you just let me have this?” he asked. “I just want to play music with my friends and enjoy the party. I want to forget about that house, those guys, that day. Can you please just go away and let me have this?” 

The Kid stood just offstage, saying nothing. 

Thomas sighed. “Fine,” He said. 

The band started playing and the crowd stood up and swayed. Even with the Kid watching just offstage, Thomas smiled. Nothing beats that Emo crap like good, old fashioned rock.

They played AC/DC, Metallica, The Who, The Rolling Stones, and more. Every song built on the other to produce a crescendo of energy that ran through the crowd and lit up the night sky. Everyone in the neighborhood, along with people from several other neighborhoods was there to enjoy the show. Even the cops, who had shown up in response to noise complaints from nosy Karens sprinkled in the community, eschewed their duties and cheered with their community as Thomas’s band brought the evening to a wonderful climax. 

Thomas started into the heavy slow, bass drum kick of Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks,” when The Kid came forward and touched his arm. The drumming continued but Thomas’s mind trailed back.

A series of long, slow, heavy knocks on the door of the house at the base of the mountains broke the peace of the card game. The drizzle of rain outside had increased to a downpour. The crowd of people had all gone to their respective houses. Steve’s communication with the command office let them know that replacements were on their way and would likely arrive in a few hours. A few hours and this particular mission would be over. 

But then, there was the knock. 

Suggs approached the door, tried to look out into the night. With the raid, there wasn’t much to be seen. 

“What is it?” Steve asked. 

“Shh.” 

“Who’s there?” 

“Shut up.” 

The door knocked again. This time, it sounded like heavy boot knocking against the door, a thick drumbeat that put them all on edge.

“We got any night vision?” Suggs asked.

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Back there. Back in the kitchen.”

“Why your dumb ass leave it back there?” 

“I don’t know,” Jason said. 


“Brown,” Suggs said. 

“Sir?” 

“Go get it.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Thomas Brown walked toward the kitchen, and had just made it through the door when the front door blew open. Thomas turned around to see a kid walk in. He was about ten or eleven. He wore a white tunic with a red cap, and was strapped with enough explosives to level several houses. 

Thomas screamed, “NOOOO!” 

The kid made eye contact with Thomas for just a second, and then the world tore apart around them. 

Thomas Brown woke up several hours later on a helicopter. They were flying him back to base. 

“What happened?”

“Suicide bomber. Got everyone but you. Even a few townsfolk standing outside, too.” 

“Why not me?”

“The blast threw you back into the kitchen. Most of the shrapnel hit the wall. For some reason, they made that wall really strong. Saved your life.” 

“Suggs? Jason? Steve? The rest?” 

“All gone, son.” 

“And the kid. How did he make it?” 

“What kid?” 


“That Kid. Right there. Sitting in the back, staring at us. How did he make it?” 

“There’s no one here, but me and you, son. No one but me and you.” 

Thomas stared at the Kid. The Kid stared back, saying nothing. 

“Why me?” Thomas  said. “Why me?” He broke down and sobbed. 

There was silence around him as he sobbed. The band had stopped playing, the audience had grown quiet. Everyone looked at him with sad, questioning eyes. 

Cheri ran onstage and hugged her husband. SHe helped him down from his drumkit. 

“He’s alright,” she said, “He’ll be fine.” 

The audience cheered. The band began tearing down their equipment. Cheri st Thomas down in a lounger a few feet away and handed him a beer. 

“You need to see Dr. Feldman this week,” she said. “And I’ll ride with you wherever you need to ride to get past this. You hear me, Tom? I’m with you the whole way.” 

“I hear you.” 

“You need anything?” 

“Just a few minutes,” he said. Cheri went off to help clean up dishes from dinner as the party continued around them. 

The Kid sat down next to Thomas. 

“You know. I’ve hated you for a long time. Each time you show up, I hate you for killing my friends. I hate you or NOT killing me.” Thomas took a drink from his beer and looked at the night sky. 

“But it wasn’t your fault. You were a kid. I could tell from your eyes, you were terrified. No one else saw it. But I saw it, and I knew. You were terrified.” 

Thomas looked at the kid. The kid looked at Thomas. 


“It wasn’t your fault, kid.” 

“It wasn’t your fault, either, Thomas,” The kid said. 

“It feels that way, sometimes. A lot of the time.” 

“I know,” The kid said “But it wasn’t your fault, either.” 

Thomas looked up to the stars again and wept, quietly, this time. 

A while later, the crowd had diminished. The few families that were left gathered around the picnic table in Thomas Brown’s backyard. Everyone told stories. 

“I’m tired of these same, old games,” one fo the men said. “Anyone got a new game we can play?” 

“I have an idea,” Thomas said “It’s a card game. It’s a lot like Spades. Euchre, Hearts, and Rummy, too. You need three decks, though.” 

“Why not just play Euchre with one deck,” one of the wives said. “Seems simpler.” 

“That’s what I thought, but trust me. You’ll see how much fun it is once you learn.” 

Thomas dealt the cards, and the Annual Burley Circle Memorial Day Celebration continued for a while longer. After one or two hands, Thomas smiled.  

The Day of Peace – Rob Cely

Rob Cely is great at asking questions that make you think. In today’s Memorial Day short story, Rob wonders what might happen if we make peace our ultimate and only goal. How much of a cost might we pay? And are we blind to the consequences.

Check out “The Day of Peace” by Rob Cely

Resolved, by Jamie D Greening

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fondue Writer’s Free Fiction party is starting up again, and what better way to lead us all off than to have our resident literarian (is “literarian” even a word? I think so! Let’s go with it), Jamie D Greening, start us off with a poem.

Check out Resolved, a wonderful Memorial Day poem from Literarian and all-around good guy, Jamie D Greening.