••• The International Writers Magazine - Our 20th Year: As seen on email
|From: Allen Cook 6.5.19
Subject: Worst Vacation Ever
To: Sam Hawksmoor
It was a vacation from hell. It even started bad.
We were tightly packed into the car. I turned on the ignition about to leave at 6 AM for North Carolina, when Joyce (my wife) exclaimed, “ I can’t find my cell phone!” This device of the 21C Inquisition which was the source of all our emails, phone numbers, driving directions and ease of mind was nowhere to be found. But we just had the phone the night before?
I thought back. The night before I was at an Awards Ceremony in which I gave a hundred or so awards to local public school kids in a variety of areas such as Peacemaker, Try Harder, Academic Excellence, Go the Extra Step, Walks the Halls Quietly ( yes some of them sound and may be ridiculous). Later I found out that the photographer for the event hit the university president’s car and in a fit of rage she fired him (unfortunately, she was in the vehicle), after a hubbub of music, stars and dance, we finally got home to Bethel exhausted.
So we stopped off at an absolutely terrible Chinese restaurant, the Lovely Lotus, and had an absolutely shit-something or another that had loads of rice all over it. We then went home, fell into a sleepless sleep , afraid that we would over sleep. Next morning we then woke up and suddenly couldn’t find the phone.
Eventually after about two hours of desperate searching, we left for NC bereft.
Thus began a week that was.
Today, I was so relieved not to be on vacation that I actually cut my vacation short by a day.
The saga of our dreadful vacation continues. When we came back from NC the door to the kitchen was wide open. We forgot to shut it and the wind must have blown it open. For ten days we held an open house without us even being it the house!
Life is never easy.
Stay in touch.
PS: I am chagrined over your decision to make June the last active issue of Hackwriters. Nevertheless, I will always send you short stories for your edification. You must know that you are my inspiration for writing. Without your positive comments I would never have thought of putting fingers to the keyboard to do my Parkinson’s scribble.
Joan first met Patrick in a dumpster. This altercation had a lot to do with the neighborhood in which she lived.
Israel ( and further adventures of Patrick)
Although New Yorkers, who loved lox and bagels, Joan and Bob were goyim, not Jewish. By going to live in Israel they did not plan to make alliya (become Israelis.) Rather, they simply wanted to see first hand what was going on in the region.