Blame Heather
A Conversation Between Cathy and Her Brain
Brain: As she sat on the rusted bench near the waterfront, admiring Joey’s chestnuts, Jane...
Cathy: Whoa! What the hell is that?
B: It’s the micro we’re writing.
C: No, it isn’t! I don’t want to write about some guy’s nuts.
B: But we’re following Heather’s prompt. She said to write about a food eating contest that takes place on the waterfront.
C: Joey eats hotdogs. Chestnut is just his last name.
B: So, you want to write about his wiener?
C: What? No!
B: You’re a pussy
C: You’re an ass
About the Creator
Cathy holmes
Canadian family girl with a recently discovered love for writing. Other loves include animals and sports.
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She's Gone
“It will be okay, Dad.” Tara’s attempt to soothe her father fell on deaf ears. He could hear nothing but the ragged beats of his own heart and the medical transport vehicle driving away, as he watched his wife of sixty years leave their home for the last time.
By Cathy holmes3 years ago in Fiction
A Badge in the Smoke !
Dear Diary, 👋 Bye Bye David! Those were the last words Lena wrote before sliding the diary across the counter to the officials. She’d pressed the pen hard on that final line, then shut the book as if closing a door. She’d met David in the Hyatt Regency lobby during his medical conference. She was wiping the marble floor, eyes down, feeling the familiar ache of being alone in a place full of travelers. He’d asked for directions to the elevator, lingered, asked her name. Over the next three days they met in quiet corners — near the potted palms, at the service elevator — talking in low voices. He was polite, careful, always checking his watch. She felt seen, and also like she was living in the space between his words. When he left, he promised to write. They did, for a while, but the letters thinned out. Then ICE came to the hotel. Lena — whose real name was Christina Perraira — was taken across the border to Mexico. Rumors followed her: she’d escaped, she’d been taken by a cartel, a gang leader had offered her protection in exchange for favors, and she’d ended up in a trafficking case. No one could say which was true. Years passed. Christina lived under a new name, Ms. Alt, raising a child on her own. She never sent David an address. She kept the diary as proof that she had told him not to come. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone around her acted as if they knew it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained the rule; they just honored it. David never came. *Twenty-three years later, a different envelope arrived at Christina’s door.* Inside was not a letter, but a photocopy of David’s conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: “Lena: if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.” Below that, a second line in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” Christina stared at the badge. No return address, no signature. Just the badge, the two lines, and the faint imprint of a hotel key card tucked beneath it. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone who knew Lena—later Christina, later Ms. Alt—acted as if they understood it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained it; they just honored it. Christina settled in a small town across the border, working as a caregiver at St. Clare’s senior home. Her final abode was a modest room above the kitchen, with a window that looked onto the courtyard and a thin mattress she’d learned to make quickly between shifts. She kept Lena’s diary tucked under the mattress, the last page still reading “👋 bye bye David!” One rainy Thursday a new resident was admitted for terminal care: David. The name caught her breath, but she didn’t say anything. His file listed no family, only a contact number that went to voicemail. She was assigned to his floor. He was frail, his voice softer than she remembered, and he wore the same habit of checking his watch even though time meant little now. She bathed him, brought him tea, sat with him when the pain spiked. He never asked her name; she never offered it. On his third night, he slipped a folded paper into her palm while she adjusted his blanket. It was a photocopy of his old conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: _“Lena — if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.”Below that, in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” She recognized the handwriting instantly. The paper also had a hotel key card tucked inside. She stayed with him. He opened his eyes, looked at her face, and whispered, “Lena?” She nodded, tears slipping down. He reached for her hand; she held it. A few hours later, a kettle she’d left on the small kitchenette boiled dry, the coil overheated, and a small fire started. The smoke alarm wailed. Staff rushed in, got David out, but Christina went back for the diary under her mattress. The room filled with smoke before she could get out. They died the same night—David in the hallway on a gurney, Christina in her room above the kitchen. The diary was found charred at the edges, the final page still legible. The staff filed the incident, placed the diary in the home’s lost-and-found, and followed the rule without ever naming it: they didn’t try to trace who David had been to Lena/Christina. © conceptual right , March 30th, 2026 ✍️By Madhu Goteti P.S: A rose is a rose is a rose like a rule is a rule is a rule!
By Madhu Goteti 4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (23)
Haha 😂
Hahaha! This is great. Love the format. Oh, the conversations we have in our heads😂
That was fun, though I never saw the prompt 🤣
This is so funny! Now please write about his nuts 🤣
I'm just so glad to know that you're as sane as I am! 🤣🤣🤣🤣 This was hilarious!
🤣😆
😅 Now, now...Everyone calm down... Ok, who started this fight?
Lol!!! This had me laughing, for sure! Great work, my friend! 🤗
OMG!!!!
Haha 😂 This was great!
So, an A.I. style review- An ass starts an argument with a pussy over a Chestnut eating wieners. Taint that the truth? (Geez, now I’m turning red.) 😂🫢
Ha-ha! This all sort of dovetails into Dana Crandell's series about various body parts. Nicely done, Cathy!
Haha!! Hilarious!!! Great stuff!
This is fantastic! Way to go, Cathy!
Nailed it!! I told you somehow you'd make it hilarious!! You always do in the best of ways. I love how your brain thinks. Brilliant fun :)
I dunno what to say about this, but it seems like that if one's a pussy, and the other's an ass, they both must've gone completely nuts. Either way, let's just hope their hair's not a mess. *Badum tish*
OMG, that was awful in all the best ways! Well done! Although I don't know about it being Heather's fault...as a fellow East Coast native, I know that cheeky naughtiness is just a naturally occurring phenomenon. ;)
Okay, that was punny! 🌭
This perfectly and pointedly explores the meaning of the writing prompt with awesome slapjack humor. LOL!!!
Hahaha! Heather is often to blame! This was funny!
Now that was fun!
I truly adore your humor🫵🙃🎯
Ha🤣❗