🍪 Cookie Logic
By: Rolli, Https, Ko-Fi.Com Rolliwrites
Tags: Short Story, Life, Fiction, Fiction Friday, Love

The quickest way to DanceLand — no one had cars in those days — was through the cemetery. There were no lights in the cemetery, so we had to watch our step.

Young eyes adapt quickly — a lucky thing, or we would’ve (and nearly did) run into an angel, a six foot stone angel brooding over a pair of graves. These were standard husband-wife graves of the time — not headstones, but long beds of granite.

“I saw a set of these once,” said Violet, “where the one died — the wife, I think — the day after the husband. Isn’t that strange?”

“It’s tradition,” said Cookie.

“Damn!” I said. I’d stubbed my toe on something.

“When I die,” Violet went on, “I’d like to be cremated, and kept on a shelf. It’s just a lot less fuss.”

“Well, I don’t want any fuss either,” I said. “I’d just like to be mummified. And a pyramid placed on top of me.”

In a few minutes, we were standing with our noses pressed against the windows of DanceLand.

Five or six dozen young men and women were inside, half of them dancing, all of them older than us by a few years.

“Just look at them,” I said.

“They’re so refined,” said Violet.

“You could dip them in tea,” said Cookie.

“Pardon me,” said a deep voice.

We turned around.

Three men were waiting to get inside. Airmen, with blue uniforms. And mustaches.

We stepped aside. As they brushed past us, they tipped their hats.

The first one, the one who’d spoken, had a thick mustache and a sunburnt face. The second was freckled, with green eyes and a rich orange mustache. The third — he must have been six foot five or six — had biggest mustache. When he smiled, it shot him in the ears. He fired a warning shot as he walked past.

Just before it closed, I grabbed the door.

“Ready, girls?” I said.

“But … what will we do in there?” said Violet, who hadn’t had quite enough sherry.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Dance,” I said. “And act refined.”

Cookie said, “I prefer dancing.” She pushed past us, through the door.

“Maybe — ” said Violet. But I grabbed her hand and dragged her inside.

The airmen were standing around the bar. Their hats were off, now. Their hair was soft-looking, thick. We stood there admiring them. Suddenly, we were dancing with them. That sort of thing happens, when you’re young.

The one disadvantage of mustaches is the scratching.

An hour or two later, we were all outside, chatting.

“You live around here?” said the Sunburnt One.

“We’re the daughters of the Reverend Malley, the Rector of St. Peter’s Anglican Church,” said Violet.

I looked at Violet with a new appreciation.

The men raised their mustaches.

“Then it would be our pleasure,” said the Big One, kissing my hand, “to escort you home.”

Whether or not one touches a book or spends a minute in front of a blackboard, the teenage years are the educational years. I’ve been around the world. I’ve been to Cambridge. But I haven’t learned a thing, I don’t think, since I was sixteen.

Curious: the further we moved from DanceLand, the fewer buttons we had left on our dresses. Young men are magicians. By the time we reached the graveyard gate, I doubt we had a button between us.

I think Violet was the first to run. Soon we were all running — the girls from the men, among the graves.

Cookie went in one direction, Violet in another. I kicked off my shoes — I should’ve pitched them at the dogs — and dashed down the middle of the cemetery. Who chased who I can’t say. I tripped a half-dozen times. But picked myself up each time, and kept going. It was the English thing to do.

I’d just stood up again, when —

“Here,” whispered someone. Violet. “Over here.”

I slowed down. I changed course a little. I knocked my shoulder on something. I could hardly make it out.

It was the wing of the stone angel.

A hand grabbed my own.

“Like this,” Violet whispered.

She lay down on either the husband or the wife grave. Flat on her back.

I lay down next to her. Not logical, I suppose. That was just how the men wanted us. But Violet… She wasn’t an idea person, exactly — really, she had no imagination — but she had a kind of instinct. When you were losing your wits about something, she’d say something, and it was absolutely the right thing, the only thing to do, always.

So when Violet lay down that night, I lay down too. When she folded her arms over her chest, I folded mine. When she gazed up at the night sky, I also gazed up. It was obvious — and so of course it worked.

The men circled the graves and the angel two or three times. But they didn’t see us. They argued for a minute. Then wandered off, singing.

Violet and I counted stars until “When the Lights Go on Again” faded out, and the cemetery was as quiet as it had a right to be.

“Cookie,” we whispered, wandering about.

“Over here!” said a voice, repeatedly.

We poked around but the voice didn’t get any louder.

“Can you come to us?” I said, at last.

“No!” said Cookie.

“Why not?” said Violet.

No answer. We kept searching.

By accident, I’m sure, we found her. We were near the western edge of the cemetery when our friend’s voice — much louder, now — said, “Stop!”

We stopped.

“Look down!”

We looked down.

There was a shadow on the ground. Something twinkled in the middle of it. Eyes. Cookie’s.

“Took you long enough,” she said, from the bottom of an open grave.

“We looked everywhere,” said Violet.

“You should’ve looked here first,” said Cookie.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“Just help me out,” was all she said.

Well, Violet and I got down on our knees. We each took and arm, and pulled. Cookie popped out of the grave, like hot toast. Then we all sat down, breathing hard.

Cookie put her arms around our shoulders.

“Let’s try brandy next time,” she said.

That’s Cookie Logic for you.

Author’s Note №1

This story will earn no money (Medium recently all-but-demonetized poetry, cartoons, flash fiction and other short articles). Please consider buying me a coffee. More coffee=more stories for you to enjoy.

Author’s Note №2

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter “S.” “S” stands for Sea-Wave, my 2016 novella about a nonverbal girl who’s abducted by an enigmatic old man.

Author’s Note №3

My new one-man Medium magazine is called — Rolli. Subscribe today.

Author’s Note №4

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