Best Laid Plans: WCPNW Anthologies, #5

By Writers Cooperative of the Pacific Northwest

Best laid plans gone awry.

All our lists, notes, and detailed plans fall away when chaos visits us. Our best and worst experiences create the tales of our lives.

This gathering of stories from the Writers Cooperative's creative geniuses gives a glimpse of life's surprise twists.

Dive in and enjoy this varied collection today!

 

Reviews for other WCPNW Anthologies:

★★★★★ "What I really enjoyed about this book is how all the stories felt as if they were another continuation of the previous story. Part of but separate. Truly enjoyable. Looking forward to ready the next book."

★★★★★ "Old fashioned spooky fun! Recommend especially for young adults."

★★★★★ "I enjoyed the variety of stories, and that none were hideously gory. Don't let the "about the town" intro dissuade you! I hadn't expected humor or a sexy edge, which some of them had, so that was fun, too."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Cooperative of the Pacific North
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224092888

Book preview

This book is dedicated to all whose Best Laid Plans were cut short and are no longer with us.

Contents

Foreword

About Susan Brown

The Pandemic Lemonade Stand

My Best Laid Plans

About Roland Trenary

Seven Days in New York City

Born a Twig, Die a Log

About Cydney Gillis

The Way Down

About Toni Kief

It is the Trip not the Destination

Trip To Paris

About Bobbie Kaald

Ink: Chapter 1

Ink: Chapter 2

Ink: Chapter 3

About Linda Jordan

Best Laid Plants

About Hugh Mannfield

The Dawn Song

Baggy Buttskin and the Squirrel King

About Susan Old

Don’t Let Her Be a Writer

Bet On a Star

About Stephanie Larkin

Flight of Fancy

Return on Investment

About Christine Gustavson-Udd

A Hopeful Five-Year Plan

About Steve Mathisen

Oogie’s New Foolproof Plan

The Surprise

About E. G. Sergoyan

The Lucky Coins

About Robin Ridenour

A Doggone Fiasco

Afterword

About the Writers Cooperative of the Pacific Northwest

Foreword

"But Mousie, you are not alone

In proving that foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes (plans) of mice and men

Go oft astray (oft go awry)

And leave us nothing but grief and pain

Instead of promised joy!"

From To A Mouse, by Robert Burns

break-rule-screen.png

Best Laid Plans is not just the title of this anthology but has become the story of all of our lives since early 2020. We have all had to abandon or make changes to many of our plans. For some the changes were life-altering, for some less extreme but we have all been touched to some degree.

At the start of 2020, the Writers Cooperative of the Pacific Northwest had a different anthology in the works with a very different theme. It is a collection of stories based on the Seven Deadly Sins which is also the title of the anthology.

As the seriousness of the pandemic became apparent, we decided that perhaps we could bring something with a lighter tone to our reads. The theme that would encapsulate the changes in all our lives seemed obvious, Best Laid Plans. We quickly changed gears and the authors in the group set to work to create new stories that would represent the switch to the new normal the world was experiencing and hopefully bring a smile to our readers.

We will return to working on the Seven Deadly Sins anthology and bring that to you in the near future. You can check for updates on our website http://writers-coop.com/ where you can also sign up for our newsletter.

We hope you enjoy these stories and perhaps discover a new favorite author.

About Susan Brown

Susan Brown’s books ripple with strong characters and fast action – whether in fantasy, teen adventure, or romances (written with Anne Stephenson as Stephanie Browning). Dragons, bullies, and falling in love, plus all the ins and outs of contemporary life can be found in Susan Brown’s novels!

http://www.susanbrownwrites.com

The Pandemic Lemonade Stand

by Susan Brown

When you’re a single mom during a pandemic, every day you don’t kill yourself or your kid is a win.

My work-from-home job has petered down to about 16 hours a week, my ex has completely lost his job (read, I’m sorry, babe; I can’t send a check...but you and James will be okay, won’t you?), and on every phone call my mom and dad complain bitterly that their annual cruise has been cancelled. (They imagine The Love Boat; I envision Plague Ship From Hell. Different generations.)

They send enough money to keep me and James in groceries, Duplo blocks, and the occasional box of wine, so I tell myself I shouldn’t mind so much. Everyone has little weirdnesses that get bigger under all this stress.

But the weather has finally turned decent, so I get out the paddle pool and hose, and sit on our tiny front lawn with James splashing and shrieking in the water. I try to read a book, but James is four and sometimes gets enthusiastic about things he sees and runs for them.

I can’t say I blame him. Most days are kind of boring. No one ever comes out of the houses on either side of us, but across the street is our own private soap opera. David and Melanie Nolan fight loudly, then kiss and make up publicly. Makes me cringe.

Mrs. Greer walks her yappy mutt, Queen Bee, up and down the block about fourteen times a day until QB poops on the front lawn of Mr. Gorgeous' house. He comes out and asks her politely to not let QB do her business on his lawn. Mrs. Greer gestures helplessly, chatters at length about how she can’t manage her peanut of a dog, and thanks Mr. Gorgeous profusely as he cleans it up – again. QB barks at him as though he’s stealing her only treasure, but cuddles worshipfully under his hand when he pets her.

The cars whiz by and I wonder if there is any way I can get to know Mr. Gorgeous beyond a friendly wave. He’s clearly a nice guy and he’s...well...gorgeous. I’m sick of Netflix and Sesame Street and am enjoying this little bit of eye candy. Most of all, the idea of adult conversation makes me drool with longing.

Knowing that’s not a good look, I take James and head back inside for our daily not-doing-much activities. I’ve been making masks for the local school where James is the king of pre-kindergarten. At least he thinks he is – with all the noblesse oblige that goes with it.

Masks! he announces. With dinosoes and pincesses.

I think the way he misses the r is soooo cute. Like I said, pandemic weirdness.

I can’t afford the fabric, I tell him. When we cut up these old sheets, the masks will work great.

He scowls but he’s a really good kid with an even temper.

Watch some TV, I encourage with only a twinge of guilt. Survival, right?

My sewing machine whirs away while Elmo and gang gabble away and sing a little. James sings along with them and I have this flashing moment of happy.

Then, Mommy! he shrieks.

"What! What?" The characters are still doing their thing and I don’t smell smoke anywhere.

I want a lemonade stand. We’ll buy fabick.

Sure enough. The show has ended and another one has begun with some terminally cute kids making a lemonade stand with one of the letters written backwards to show it isn’t really a TV show set.

Lemonade, to buy fabick, James repeats.

I stare at him for a moment and then grin. Why not?

We get to work. An old card table will do for a stand. I write "Lemonade for Masks," on a big piece of cardboard (all letters pointing in the right direction) and give James markers, glue, and a little glitter to fancy it up. Then I pin a couple of finished masks on the board for illustration.

Real lemonade is out of my price range, but I call my mom and she chips in with enthusiasm.

He is such a smart little boy and you are wonderful! she croons. I miss you two so much.

I want to say, "More than your cruise?" but that seems mean so I keep my mouth shut except to thank her. Then I blink hard for a couple of minutes because I miss her too, in spite of the complaining.

A flying trip to the grocery store, suitably masked, and we are good to go. Lemonade, cups, gloves, and wipes. Masks we’ve got.

The next morning, we open for business. I’m surprised at how many people slow down, park, and come for a cup of lemonade. They throw their donations into a bowl and James grins at them. They can’t see his mouth but no one could miss his lit-up eyes. Everyone wants to talk. They stand a few feet away and chatter about the weather, the pandemic, and how cute the masks are.

The neighbors on one side, an Asian couple who hardly speak English, come out and put $5 in the cup while smiling and nodding. Mrs. Greer trips hesitantly across the street with QB yapping at everyone. She buys lemonade too, and lingers, telling me about how wonderful it is to see the neighbors.

QB poops on my lawn, but in the spirit of neighborhood, I pretend not to notice.

And then Mr. Gorgeous saunters across the street, bag and shovel in hand. With a wink at me, he picks up QB’s treasure and drops it into the bag. I nearly swoon. I mean, a man who crosses the street to clean up your yard, unasked? Is this perfection, or what?

Hi, Mistah Nelson! James calls out.

Hey there, James, he responds. What do we have here?

You know each other? I demand.

Sure thing, he says. I teach art at James’ school. You’ve got a great kid here.

Uh huh, I manage. If I’d known who you were, I’d have said hello now and then.

He shrugs. Usually everybody is so busy. At least we have time now. Silver lining, right?

And social distancing, I thought sadly.

But it worked out. Mike (Mr. Nelson) brought me some extra fabric. And then sat outside with us while I cut patterns. And then two weeks later, inside (at a safe distance of course). And then a little less distancing.

James loves him. I kind of like him myself.

We’ll see where this all ends up when the pandemic is over. In the meantime, we’re watching Netflix, making masks, and drinking a lot of lemonade.

Silver linings all the way.

My Best Laid Plans

by Susan Brown

I always thought I was the cozy little bungalow, white picket fence, with a soulful-eyed golden retriever waiting on the porch, kind of woman. Uh-huh. I would have been...if I hadn’t fallen for Matt...or Danny-boy...or Luca.

To begin at the beginning, picture me, a cute, freshly-graduated brunette with a smile, I thought said, "Come hither, but probably bellowed, Don’t even think about it!" So, the nice guys in our boring-as-heck suburb apparently didn’t think about it. I mean, I was twenty-one with a brand new diploma in tourism and restaurant management and not much else. I’d lived at home while I went to school. The commute was far enough that my go-crazy-in-college experience was mostly spent on the bus, with my older parents worrying that I might get mugged or worse.

I didn’t even make it to mugged, let alone worse.

My first job was in my aunt’s travel agency. She couldn’t pay me because the business was in its death throes; but she and my mom decided the experience was worth my poverty. And I still had to live at home under my parents’ lovingly crushing thumbs.

Enter Matt, the delivery guy. He was loose-limbed and good-looking in a sleazy, vague way. I later discovered the vague came from a surfeit of marijuana fumes. But he had blue eyes, and blonde hair, and a vintage Camaro (which was shortly repossessed). I fell for him big time. How could I not? He murmured compliments, winked, and asked me out for a beer. Providentially, my aunt got the flu, and I had a blissful two weeks of no oversight. I drank more than a few beers, succumbed ridiculously easily to Matt’s lures, and discovered what all the snickered jokes about sex actually meant. To say it was a let down was like saying hiking the Grand Canyon is an easy stroll.

My aunt returned by the time I’d booted Matt out of my life. I had a week or two of feeling faintly queasy myself, but I don’t know if that was the flu or just trying really, really hard to forget my first adult fling.

So, a few more months crawled by, and my aunt gave up and closed the business. I can’t even begin to describe how grateful I was to the gyrating economy. Somehow, I parlayed that lame experience into a real job with an international tour company. To my parent’s dismay, I had to work in the city. And I made enough money to rent a teeny-tiny studio apartment in a dingy but convenient neighborhood.

And OMG, but I loved it. I spent hours and hours choosing cheap, pretty curtains. I bought a new, boldly bright duvet to replace the cartoon quilt from my childhood. I adopted the habit of stopping by a coffee stand every morning to pick up a carefully concocted latte/mocha to carry to my desk. I cultivated an enthusiastically empathetic telephone voice that I used to coax anxious seniors into signing up for my company’s tours.

Within four months, I had earned the accolade of being the top salesperson in our office. It’s amazing what that warm, chirpy confidence can do for your life. I was clearly good at what I did. During the quiet moments on hold each day, I began to envision my life out there in the world. My bungalow became a high-end condo. My golden retriever became a blonde man of impressive physique who quietly adored me, shunning all others for the privilege of my scintillating company and a never-ending supply of Hagen Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.

Enter Danny-boy. Dan, the top guide for our Three City Italian Adventure of a Lifetime Tour, was short, lean, lively, and dark-haired. I promptly shifted my fantasies to accommodate this new possibility in romance. At least six of the seven women in the office (including the manager’s secretary, three years short of retirement) had insane crushes on him. We tilted our heads when he laughed and flirted in every way we knew how; we leaned over our desks as though we could somehow crawl closer; we wore our most appropriately low-cut shirts and agonized over make-up; we contemptuously dismissed the snarky disclaimer from woman #7 that Dan was a charming phony.

I went crazy, wanting to be with him. And I plotted the way to do it. I threw myself into sales until after eight more months, I earned the best sales award for the office, and in fact, in all the offices, locally and abroad.

The reward, the sweet reward, was an off-season free trip on any company tour I wanted. And I wanted Italy...meaning, I wanted Danny-boy.

With heart pounding and my mom’s tearful hand-wringing, I stepped onto the plane. First stop, Atlanta. (Did I mention that I was required to take the cheapest, and I mean cheapest, route to Venice?) Three layovers and 32 hours later, I staggered from the plane into the long, dark-paneled Venice airport.

All around me, people chattered in (I assume) Italian. The signs (surprise) were in Italian. My carefully-read phrasebook didn’t give me a clue. Shaking a little, I hauled my suitcase to the designated waiting area. No one there but a family with screeching kids, seated on the floor, eating a bagged lunch. No sign of Dan, no cheerfully welcoming tour banner, just a lot of Italian (and other) tourists who all seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going.

I fought back panic and tears. I was a smart woman who was not going to give in to the terror of being a stranger in a country where I didn’t speak the language and had no idea what to do.

Think, I commanded myself. What would I tell one of our tour-goers? Destination! I pawed through my bag and finally found a piece of paper with the name of the hotel. No contact information. No phone numbers. But...okay. I had money...a credit card...I could wave the name in front of someone who could take me to the hotel.

But Venice doesn’t have taxis at the airport. It has boats. Lots and lots of boats, ranging from big clunky bus types of boats to smelly little motorboats. And I couldn’t tell which ones were for hire, or where they went, or...or...

I retreated to the coffee shop, and with tears dripping all over my snuffly face, I pointed at some pastries and a sign that listed drinks. The barista laughed, threw up his hands, and told one of the others something in Italian. This guy shrugged and asked in accented English if I wanted caffé? I nodded, thrust money at them, and retreated to a corner that had a single chair and a lot of shadow. And I sobbed.

No one noticed or cared.

Until a hand touched my shoulder. I screamed and dropped the coffee.

"Dan!" I cried. My gratitude at being found made me clamp both hands onto his arm. I couldn’t let him disappear.

What are you doing here? he demanded, pulling back his arm. We’re behind schedule. Why didn’t you wait at the meet-up location?

No one was there!

He shrugged. I had some business to attend to. At that, a leggy, not even beautiful, woman came over and touched his arm. He didn’t pull away from her, just smiled, completely oblivious to my existence. He watched appreciatively as she sashayed away.

Feeling like a kicked golden, I dolefully followed Dan to the meet-up. As the first