Sea of Flesh: A Collection of Short Stories from a Slightly Off-Balanced Mind

By Tom Hougen

Book Description


My muse is one strange entity. He, she, it, only seems to visit me while Im in the shower. At times it can be months without a visitation. Then, boom, there it is throwing idea after idea at me, cramming every nook and cranny of my brain with story line after story line. Its like it has been storing up these little inspirations and then amuses itself by seeing if it can get my head to explode. Thank goodness the shower curtain is there to muffle the noise.
This collection is the result of one of these encounters. The only connection the eighteen stories have is that theyre all done in the flesh (well, except for the two dealing with the other side and the one that goes from one flesh to another).
For the most part they have humor. There are two that deal with a more serious side though. But thats life.
Sorry, but, non are X-rated. At the most, R.
The ages of the characters run from the young to the aged. From depressed to loving life. From dimwitted to got-it-together. From honest to not-so-much.
The main thing with this collection is to read and enjoy. To possibly escape from the day and relax, if only for a moment or two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462819966

Tom Hougen

Tom Hougen was born in 1953 in the small mill town of Toledo, Oregon. Early in his life he traveled extensively with his family throughout southeast Asia. After graduating from high school in Ukiah, California, and being trained as an aircraft mechanic and commercial diver, he returned to the central coast of Oregon. For over twenty-five years he has worked in the hospitality industry and lives in Lincoln City, Oregon with is wife of twenty-two years and their two children.

Book preview

SAUCED

T HE SPAGHETTI SAUCE simmered

in the large pan atop the old wood-burning stove. Bubbles popped continually, sending little splatters of red in all directions. Lena paid no mind to the crimson shower coating the cooking surface and the pots sitting next to the concoction. What she didn’t get cleaned up would just blend into the black film covering the antique stove and kettles. A coating built up from years of splattering sauces, gravies and innumerable succulent meals created by its original, and still, owner.

A ding from the 50’s style timer told Lena the banana bread she’d been baking for tomorrow’s toast was ready. Tassels of graying hair fell from her normally well-kept bun to hang alongside her wrinkled but ageless face, as she placed the loaf next to the fresh baked French bread already on the cooling rack. The gentle fall breeze, coming through the open window next to the rack, would send the delectable kitchen aromas throughout the old Victorian cottage.

Lena knew a portion of the teasing odors would escape the confines of the house and make their way over to her neighbors. This would drive the widow Martin’s ten-year-old son nuts. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be knocking at her back door.

Well, Prudence, how long do you think it will take Timmy to get over here today? Lena asked her brindled bulldog.

Prudence’s only answer was a toothy little grin and a faintly uttered warble as she scooted closer to her mistress. She didn’t care if little Timmy came over or not. Her main concern at this time was in conning Lena out of some morsels of freshly-baked goods.

Now, Prudence, Lena said, shaking an arthritic shaped finger. You know you’re not supposed to have any of this stuff. You know what it does to your digestion . . . Oh, just one small dab won’t hurt.

Prudence accepted the sauce-covered meatball with drooling gusto. She didn’t give a hoot what it would do to her digestion. Or to the fact that in about two hours the air around her would be unbreathable by human standards. She only knew what she wanted, and wanted now.

After a couple of quick swallows and a licking of her chops, the bulldog was exploring the surrounding linoleum for any crumbs that might have eluded her lips and tongue. Her interrogation of the well-worn, but clean, floor was interrupted by a knock. Prudence knew it would be Timmy from next door.

Lena didn’t mind Timmy coming over. In fact she rather enjoyed it. She’d been lonely since George, her husband of forty-five years, had departed this world a decade ago. Timmy reminded her somewhat of her husband in his younger years. Besides, Timmy’s mother was all alone in the raising of the lad and sometimes had to work late. So the informal arrangement was a good thing for all.

Come in, Timmy, Lena called towards the door.

Within seconds the door was open and in strolled little Timmy Martin, about five feet tall and more than a bit on the plump side.

Good afternoon, Miss Lena, Timmy said in a high squeaky voice.

Good afternoon to you, Timmy, Lena replied.

Looking over at the lad, Lena noted to herself the remarkable resemblance of Timmy’s build and voice to her late husband. Especially with the late afternoon sun coming through the window and casting a golden glow over his body.

You’re a crazy old woman, Lena Krakow, she said to herself. You’re lonely and letting your imagination run wild.

How are you doing today?

Just fine, ma’am.

Is your mother working late today?

I think she might be.

Would you like to have supper with me? Lena asked, knowing what the answer would be.

Yes, Miss Lena, I would like to, very much.

Well, good. I would like to have your company this evening. That’s if you like spaghetti.

Yes, ma’am, I surely do.

Good, why don’t you go out to my garden and pick some lettuce for the salad.

Yes, ma’am, Timmy said with a big grin, grabbing a small basket as he headed out the door and down to the garden.

Timmy always enjoyed being in Miss Lena’s garden. It was full of many mysterious fruits and vegetables. The foliage was thick and green. And even in the midsummer hot spells, the garden was cool.

It wasn’t long before Timmy made his way back though Lena’s kitchen door, his basket full of more than just lettuce.

What did you bring me, young Master Timmy?

I got lettuce, and radishes, and carrots and this, Timmy said holding up a zucchini in front of his face.

Oooo, isn’t that a beauty? How did you know I liked zucchini in my salad?

I don’t know, I just thought you would.

You know my late husband, George, was the only one that ever knew I liked zucchini in my salad.

Really?

Yes, really. You know, Timmy, you remind me a lot of my George.

Really? What was your husband like?

Well, as I said, you remind me of him, especially when he was young. Same build, same voice, same look in the sun light. But enough of that, I’m just a crazy old woman. Let’s make the salad and get the noodles a cookin’.

You’re not crazy, Miss Lena.

Thank you, Timmy. Can you put what you picked in the sink and we’ll wash them up.

Timmy placed the contents of the basket in the freestanding cast iron sink.

Looking over at the wood-burning stove, he thought how strange it was that Lena was using the old stove when she had an electric stove that looked as though it was brand new.

Miss Lena, Timmy asked as he ran water over the vegetables. Why don’t you use that new stove?

Oh, I never have liked that newfangled thing, Lena answered, never looking up from the pot of boiling water she was placing the handful of noodles in.

But it looks brand spanking new.

No, it’s not new. My George bought it for me just before he passed.

Tell me, Miss Lena, how did your husband die?

You know, Timmy, I’ve told you the story before.

I know, but you’ve never told me the whole story. Momma told me that my daddy and your husband died at the same time.

Well, let’s not fret about it now. I’m hungry as I’m sure you are and the vittles are almost ready. Here, help me set the table.

Lena and Timmy set the Desert Rose plates and fine Roger’s flatware on the round oak table. Lena cut up the lettuce and vegetables, then added her own homemade Italian dressing to the salad and placed it on the table. In the center of the antique table Lena put a loaf of the fresh-baked French bread and the pot containing the spaghetti and noodles.

Come, Timmy, supper is ready. But first, wash your hands. You never can tell what critters you may have picked up in the garden along with the vegetables.

*     *     *

Lena watched the lad wash his hands and visions of her George started dancing through her seventy-five-year-young brain. Memories of when they were young kids playing down by the duck pond. Of when they were first married in nineteen hundred and five and scraped together just enough money to buy the farm. Mind pictures of their only child, Sara. Still born and laid to rest up on the hill where now George, or what remained of George, also lay. And afterwards, when she was told she’d never be able to have another child, she never being quite the same.

*     *     *

Okay, Timmy, I’m sure your hands are clean enough. Goodness, you used plenty of soap.

Yes, Miss Lena, I always use lots of soap when I wash my hands. Soap is good.

Yes, Timmy, I’m sure it is. Now sit down and I’ll dish you up a plate of spaghetti. In the mean time you can get started on your salad.

Yes, ma’am.

Dishing up the spaghetti, memories came to her of that night eleven years ago when George had surprised her with the new electric stove.

*     *     *

Lena my dear, George said, grinning ear to ear, as he greeted her on their front porch, I have a surprise for you.

What is it?

Not yet, my sweets. First you must close your eyes and let me guide you into the house.

Okay, George, I’ll close them but you’ve got to give me some hints of what the surprise is all about.

Not until you see it.

It’s not quite our anniversary yet.

It has nothing to do with our anniversary.

Then what?

Just hush yourself and wait, George told his wife, guiding her through the front door, the parlor, then the dining room, and finally into the kitchen.

Are we almost there? Where are you taking me?

Just a moment longer. Here, sit down in this chair. Come on, just sit down. I promise I won’t pull the chair out from under you.

Okay, okay, I’ll sit. I know we’re in the kitchen, I can smell it. And my butt knows this chair.

Just one second longer, George commanded, making his way from his wife to his surprise. No peeking!

I’m not peeking. Just hurry up!

Now, on the count of three you can open your eyes. One . . . Two . . . Three, tah dah!

Opening her eyes, Lena jumped to her feet, clapped her hands over her mouth and took a deep breath when she saw before her a gleaming white modern electric cook stove.

Oh, George, it’s beautiful, she said. But why?

Well, my pet, I’ve watched you slave over that old wood-fired contraption for almost forty-five years and figured it was high time I made life a little easier for you.

But, George, the cost.

Now don’t fret about that. I’ve got it all figured out.

Oh George, I don’t know what to say.

You don’t have to say anything. Just enjoy.

You crazy old man, I love you, Lena said, throwing her arms around her husband’s neck and kissing him over and over again.

*     *     *

Now Timmy, make sure you put your napkin on your lap. It’s high time you start learning some proper manners.

Yes, ma’am.

And sit up straight, don’t slouch . . . That’s better. My George always had a bad habit of slouching. I was never able to break him of it.

Again, Lena’s mind wandered as she watched her dining companion eat.

*     *     *

My dear, George said looking lovingly at his wife who was seated on the chesterfield, crocheting. We need to talk.

Of coarse, dear, Lena answered. We can talk but why the concerned look on your face? What could be so bad?

George sat down next to Lena, took the needles and thread from her hand, and placed them on the coffee table. Taking her hands in his, he continued with a nervousness in his voice, Lena, my dear.

Yes, George.

It’s about that stove.

You didn’t steal it, did you?

No, no, nothing like that. But I wish it was that simple, he said, now starting to shake."

You’re okay, aren’t you? Your not dying? Lena asked, now shaking herself and feeling her heart rate increase.

No, I’m not dying. I’m as healthy as I’ve ever been, he answered, now feeling his own heart beat speed up. Everything around him seemed to go out of focus and disappear as he turned all of his attention and effort towards his wife.

It’s about the stove and why I got it for you.

Lena sat motionless, feeling the sweat from her husband’s hands mix with her own.

Tell me, dear. What can be so terrible?

George sat for a moment without making a sound, except for the resonance of his breathing as he tried his best to control his deteriorating emotions, then continued, I’ve done a very bad thing. I’m so afraid you will never forgive me for what I’ve done.

Oh, George, whatever it was I’m sure we’ll work our way through it, she answered with tears now streaming down her cheeks to match his. We’ve gotten through bad times before. Tell me, what did you do that you think was so bad?

I . . . I . . . , he stammered before taking a deep breath. A breath deeper than he’d ever taken before in his life. Then exhaling, he blurted out, I had an affair.

Oh, no, not you, George, Lena said, partially withdrawing her hands from his. Who, when?

About two weeks ago, when you were at your sisters, he answered feeling the pressure build in his ears, almost cutting off all perception of sound.

Who was it, George? Who? she demanded.

After a moment of silence, he answered, Julia, Julia Martin.

Who?

Julia. Oh, God, Lena, I wish I hadn’t. I wish it had never happened. Please, oh please, don’t throw me out! It was just one time!

Lena jerked her hands away from George’s grip, stood, and walked to the opposite side of the room.

Why, George? Tell me why.

"I don’t know. I guess I’d had a few too many that day. Julia and Jim had had a fight and when he went off to town to buy seed, she came over to talk to you. But you weren’t home. I talked her into coming in the house and sitting down. Then, I guess, I talked her into having a shot or two to calm her nerves.

One thing led to another and before we knew it we were in bed together . . . Oh, Lena, can you ever forgive me?

Lena stood and stared at her husband in cold silence.

Please, Lena, say something. If you never forgive me I’d understand, but please find it in your heart. Just don’t throw me out.

George! Lena said, stiffening up and staring at the quivering mass of a man that was now kneeling before her. You are a bastard. A dirty bastard . . . Yes someday I may forgive you, but until then I want you out of my house. You can go sleep in the slaughterhouse for all I care, just go. Now!

But, Lena.

Out, now!

*     *     *

Miss Lena? Are you okay?

What, Timmy? Oh, yes. I’m fine. I was just daydreaming, I guess. Elbows off the table please. It’s not proper. Did you get any milk, darling?

Not yet, ma’am.

Here, let me get you some.

Getting up from the table, Lena walked over to the Frigidare and retrieved a glass bottle of milk. Looking back at little Timmy, her mind wandered again.

*     *     *

Lena had just finished three glasses of wine before turning in. Three times the normal amount. It had been a lonely month since she’d thrown her husband out. He’d fixed himself up a place to stay in the slaughterhouse until she decided to forgive him, or not. In that month she hadn’t said a word to him nor helped him in any of the farm chores.

Even when his 1100 pound boar had gotten out, she didn’t help. She found herself instead hoping the thing would turn on George and do him in. The animal had always been dangerous. She never figured out why he had bought it in the first place. He’d said it was for breeding stock. She thought it was more for proving his manhood. Whatever the reason, George got it back in the pen and Lena found herself disappointed.

Getting into bed, Lena thought she heard a commotion outside. At first, she was going to just let George deal with whatever it was, but decided to check it out anyway.

Opening the kitchen door and stepping out onto the porch, she saw Jim Martin’s pickup parked next to the slaughterhouse. Maybe, she thought, "Jim came over to help George make sausage."

Thinking it was awfully late to be doing that, she headed across the yard towards the building. The door was open. From within, she heard shouting and arguing. Even though she was still angry at her husband, she figured it was best if she found out what was happening.

Getting closer to the open door, she could hear the Jim yelling at George and he begging forgiveness.

You dirty old pervert!

Please, Jim, please. It just happened. Don’t blame Julia. We were both drunk. I talked her into it.

I ought to cut your dick off and stuff it down your throat!

Please don’t hurt me, Jim. It’s been bad enough that Lena is still mad at me. She’s even been talking to a lawyer about getting a divorce. Believe me, I’m paying for it. Really I am. Hell, she didn’t even help me when the boar got out. The damn thing almost killed me.

Too bad it didn’t. It would have saved me the trouble.

Please, Jim, put the meat hook down. Don’t kill me.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t, you drunk son-of-a-bitch?

Think of your wife and that baby that’s on the way. If you kill me they’ll haul you off and you’ll never see them again.

There’s no witnesses, and if they never find your sorry carcass, how will they know I had anything to do with it?

No, Jim, no! Put the hook down, please.

Lena stepped through the doorway just as the meat hook in Jim’s massive hand came down on George’s head. George had bent down, in an attempt to protect himself and the curved point struck the back of his skull, sinking deep into his cerebellum.

Jim shook George’s quivering body off the weapon and stuck again. This time the hook sank into the chest of his target. Releasing his grip on the hook, he let the now lifeless body slump to the concrete floor.

Hearing a noise behind him, Jim turned to see Lena standing there staring at him, then the inanimate mass of flesh at his feet.

*     *     *

Miss Lena, are you sure you’re okay?

"What? Oh, I’m sorry, Timmy. You’ve got to forgive an old lady. Sometimes when one gets old, one day dreams of their younger life.

Now, finish your supper. Your mother will most likely be coming by soon and we’ve got to get the dishes cleaned up before you leave.

*     *     *

Lena and Jim stood and stared at each other for a moment. Then Lena broke the spell.

Well, that boar could have spared us both the trouble.

"Damn, Lena, I didn’t want you