Moving On?

I found another scene starter, so I decided to see where it led. I hope you enjoy...

Only I would get lost in traffic on my way to my new job. To be honest, I’d worked this job so long that I didn’t remember when I started. It just felt like a new job since the company recently moved to a bigger office building that happened to be on the side of town.

Deep down, I knew I should have driven the route a couple of times over the weekend. I ignored those promptings, woke up at my normal time on Monday morning, and headed out. With carefully printed directions clutched tightly in my left hand, I guided my car through early morning traffic with confidence that would quickly fade. As I circled the block for the third time, my eyes finally rested on small sign declaring that parking waited to my left. I sighed and circled the block again because I didn’t have time to get over.

When I finally stepped out of my car, I longed to stop for a moment to take a deep sigh of relief, but I was already late. My heels clicked on the recently poured cement with determination. My hands clenched around the couple of files in my hand as I raced toward the elevator. A tall man smiled understandingly as he held the door for me. He looked as if he was about to say something, so I pointed my eyes to the ground.

He remained behind as I stepped out onto the tenth floor. A piece of paper on a display board warned me of wet paint, so I made myself as small as possible as I made my way toward the open door at the end of the hallway. Stepping through the door, I was relieved that no eyes turned toward me. My relief quickly faded away as I made my way to where my new cubicle should be. As I passed by Carolyn’s cubicle, I stopped and stared. A short, balding man named Jeffrey leaned over his keyboard, peering at his monitor with watery eyes. I felt my mouth drop open a little as I surveyed the room and my eyes returned to Jeffrey’s cubicle.

“Sarabeth, why are you just standing there?” A tall blond woman with rich blue eyes paused beside me.

“My desk should be right here, between Carolyn and Jeffrey.” I barely looked up at her long enough to recognize her.

“There isn’t an empty desk there. Find yours.” Valerie frowned disapprovingly before turning away.

Sighing, I turned toward a bank of offices. My director’s name graced the opaque glass of the door closest to me. I stepped inside without knocking. My director glanced up.

“What are you doing in here?” His rough voice didn’t display annoyance, just weariness.

“I don’t have a desk.”

“What?” He pulled a file from a pile on his desk and began to sift through its contents.

“Is this your subtle way of telling me that I’m fired?” I forced a laugh.

“Of course not.” He didn’t look up from the papers on his desk.

I waited for him to say something more as he thumbed through a sheaf of pages thicker than my thumb. 

“Well, that is odd. It looks like we lost your paper work. I’ll have to see what I can do.”

It turned out that all he could do was find me a small desk in the corner of the mailroom. I’ve been assured many times that as soon as someone quits, I will have a real desk of my own. I can’t say I haven’t pondered helping someone reach the decision to retire, but I admit that I haven’t done anything about it yet. Yet…

Christmas Rendezvous

This present to my faithful readers was inspired by a writing prompt from my friend Sheila. I hope you enjoy it and remember to make your holiday and every day special.

The darkened house flooded with light, one room at a time. Tessa stepped from room to room, turning on lights and inspecting every possible hiding place. She looked behind curtains, under tables, in closets, and even checked behind the couch. When her eyes revealed nothing, she turned to her other senses.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head to the side. The soft sound of her own breathing entered her ears first. The sound of her fingers drumming on the bare mantle followed. She stopped self-consciously, closing her eyes and listening more intently for sounds outside herself.  Only the soft plop of a leaky faucet a few doors down broke the near silence.

She let out the air trapped in her lungs with a heavy sigh and opened her eyes. Looking around the room once more, she tiptoed back to the open door. She surveyed the empty hallway one more time before tiptoeing from room to room one more time. Her shoulders slumped as she resigned herself to the fact that her boyfriend hadn’t made time for their rendezvous.

Faltering steps carried her down the stairs. The click of her heels echoed across the foyer. She paused for a last glance around the rooms visible from this vantage point.

“I can’t believe he isn’t here.” Her soft voice echoed through the spacious room.

She placed one hand on the doorknob, pulling her coat closer around her with the other. As the door opened, snowflakes swirled in to meet her. And then she saw the ukuleles. Without thinking, she closed the door, shutting out the cold. In three quick steps, she stood before three gleaming ukuleles. Lifting one crafted from dark wood, she strummed the strings gently.

“You called?” John stepped from behind one of the floor length red, velvet curtains that hung on either side of the door.

“Why were you hiding from me?” Setting the ukulele down to cross her arms, Tessa put on her fiercest look.

“I wasn’t hiding. This was.” His grin softened her, but the box resting on his outstretched hand melted her completely.

Before she could speak, he was on one knee before her. “Will you share this Christmas and all of those to come with me… As my wife?”

She paused, wanting to refuse him because he had worried her so, but one word escaped her lips in a raspy whisper.

“Yes.”

“What was that?” He half rose, tilting his head a little.

She leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Yes.”

He smiled and slipped the ring onto her finger before pulling her into his arms. When he finally let her go, he picked up the ukulele. As his fingers strummed the strings, John began to sing. Tessa added her soft harmonies to his, filling the foyer with the echoing refrain of “Silent Night.”

The Power of Fish

I expanded the topic that I was given for this piece. What do you think?

A tall slender girl, barely distinguishable from a hundred other girls in long, blue robes and a mortarboard with a golden tassel dangling from its left side begins to speak. “The simplest things can make the greatest difference in your life…”

As a hush falls over the assemblage around me, the whole auditorium fades away and time moves backward.

Younger eyes carefully scrutinize the little girl across from me. Dark hair hangs in knotted clumps about her face. As her attempts to hide behind it fail, she leans over until her nose rests inches above the battered metal table. I clear my throat and sit down across from her with exaggerated slowness.

“My name is Larry. What’s yours?” I introduce myself in the softest tones my deep voice can produce.

The little girl flinches slightly, wrapping her hands around her shoulders protectively. A soft hum emanates from her throat as she rocks gently back and forth. Eventually, she soothes herself enough to drop her arms to her sides. Her hands slide under her thighs as her eyes continue to focus on the table that separates us.

I lean back in my chair, looking down at my elbows as I cross my arms across my chest. Silence stretches out before us. I determine to wait her out. She’ll talk to me eventually. Her determination proves stronger than mine. As my patience wanes, an idea strikes me.

I reach into my pocket, feeling around until a soft noise reassures me that I have found what I am looking for. The soft crinkle of plastic finally lures her eyes upward. They stop on the sliver of yellow poking out of my immense hand. One eyebrow lifts slightly as her lips twitch curiously.

I smile and pour a couple of small red shapes into my other hand. I place one on a napkin in front of her. The other, I raise to my own mouth. Her eyes follow this movement. As I suck gently on the gummy red candy, her eyes move from my lips to the napkin. After a moment, she flashes me a tentative smile. One hand slowly comes up over the table to pick up the tiny gummy fish. She draws it closer to her face, inspecting the grooves on its body for a second.

Her tongue pokes tentatively from her mouth as she moves the candy closer to her mouth. “Medicine?”

Startled, my question takes a moment to form though it is only one word. “What?”

“Tastes like cough syrup. Cherry cough syrup.” Crying has roughened her voice.

“It’s not medicine.” I set the bag down on the table and push it toward her.

She still hasn’t looked at my face, but her eyes scan the words on the package avidly. “Swedish fish?”

She looks up at my face now with dark eyes full of curiosity as I open my mouth to speak. “It’s candy. I promise. May I have another one?”

“Uh-huh.” She pulls one out and hands it to me before turning her attention back to the package in her hand.

As the fish disappear, she opens up to me. I get to know that her mother named her Maura before passing away. She has every right to be afraid of me with how she has been treated. Life has been unkind to her, and I feel I can change that.

Applause awakens me from my memory. I stand to join the applause. Graduates, their family, and their friends rise to mingle and rejoice. I seek out Maura, finding her waiting for me outside the double doors. She holds her cap in her hands nervously, smiling up at me as I approach.

“Hello, daddy.” She embraces me.

“I’m proud of you.” As she releases me, I hand her a small wrapped package.

She smiles up at me as her deft fingers pull the paper away. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Another small thing.” I smile as plastic crinkles.

She rips open the package and hands me a small gummy fish. I smile as my teeth sink into the sticky substance and a burst of cherry flavoring covers my tongue.

Bring Me to Life

Aside from being a rocking song by Evanescence (insert shameless advertising here), this seems to be what my characters scream at me the longer I work on my nanowrimo. Of course, once I begin doing so, I realize I need to review my previous work to make sure it all meshes. Clearly, I will never reach the finish line like this. This requires some drastic action on my part. I must remind myself again and again that...

...I will have a whole year to fix it if I break it because I don't remember every detail.
...I will be much more charming to live with if I meet my goal of 50,000 words though I linger under 25,000 and the month is already halfway over.
...my characters will have a more enriched life when my brain reveals exactly where they are going and why. I know I am not alone in realizing halfway through the second half of the story (3/4 of the way through) that those two characters, whom I thought were going to have a happily ever after, were never meant to be together in the first place.
...sometimes my characters have to speak for themselves. I need to stop trying to tell the readers, only me at this point, exactly how they are thinking or what they are about to do.
...someone out there really wants to see the finished product because they have faith it will be awesome.

Keep writing with me, reading with me, and most of all commiserating with me as I go searching for words in the mess of my mind.

Bake Your Muse a Doughtnut

Those who wish to create with paper, paint, words, stone, or any other art medium know musings about the muse. Today my musings distract me from the ever important task of typing more meaningful words. How have I coped?

1. I watched some television.
2. I chastised myself for not writing.
3. I forced out a hundred words.
4. I played in the leaves.
5. That led to playing with the compost.
6. I cleaned off leaf parts and dirt.
7. I baked doughnuts.
8. I am not hiding from the doughnuts.
9. I will type more words today.

Stay positive other journeyers on the path of nanowrimo.

A Little Inspiration

As I fight my way through word after word of this years nanowrimo challenge, I find myself searching for that spark that causes those words to flow. Most often, I realize that the problem is trying to force the words. We have all done it from time to time if we have an interest in writing. Sadly, the words aren't always there when we want them. I admit that sometimes it is a struggle to move the story forward, but I sometimes question the reasons why we write.

I believe that we should write because we love it. We should write because we have a story to tell. We should write to inspire others. We should write to inspire ourselves. We should even write because someone asks I to. Sharing is important when we write. After all, we should hide neither our light nor what we write under a bushel.

I have met many people who write for the wrong reasons. Sometimes I am one of them. Some of us seek fame. Some of us seek fortune. I've met those who write only what needs written to fit the pattern of what they like to read. I have met people who appear to write with the express purpose of using the same word over and over again. Sometimes reading the ramblings of people who don't write completely for the love of it is painful, so show a little love when you write.

Now why did I ramble about this today? I have been cranking out words for my nanowrimo. My sense of integrity tells me I can only count the words in the novel of the moment. Maybe next week I will share a snippet of that work with you. In the meantime, keep writing, keep reading, and keep enjoying the world around you.

Happy Halloween!?!?!?

Would I be a true ghoul if I neglected my loyal fans on this day of stories, legends, and tall tales? I don't believe I would. Enjoy!

Decorated with the expected array of fake spider webs and rubber bats, one porch loomed big in the minds of every child living on Prospect Street. We devoted as much time and thought to visiting old man Mueller’s porch on Halloween as we did to making sure Santa brought us the gifts we most desired, a few months later. Old man Mueller prided himself on showmanship. Decorations slowly accumulated, day by day, until the terrifying panorama completely unfolded on Halloween night. In other words, the whole month of October revolved around sneaking down the street to peek over the railing at the latest horror to spring from grave or coffin. Of course, our parents forbade us to bother old man Mueller until Halloween, so we could only get glances as we sped by in cars, unless we wanted to risk being stuck at home while everyone else was trick or treating.

My last year of life was no different. The day before Halloween, my friend Maggy and I stood outside my house as darkness fell. We took turns surreptitiously peeking at the living room windows of my ranch style house. When the curtain finally fell back against the window, we knew my mother had stopped watching us and adventure could begin.

“Did you get the flashlight?” Maggy peered over her shoulder at the living room window.

“Yes, but we won’t need it. His street is lit as well as ours.” I gestured at streetlights that cast glowing pools of on both sides of the street.

“You never know.” Maggy linked her arm in mine.

As our footsteps echoed through the empty street, I glanced over my shoulder one last time. The curtain didn’t stir. The door didn’t open. We were going to get away with it. As long as we hurried, we’d have plenty of time for a sneak peek at this year’s decorations without our parents knowing. The closer we got to our destination, the slower our footsteps became. Without conscious thought, we matched step after slow step with each other, almost as if the air on this street had turned to warm taffy.

“We’re almost there.” Maggy patted my hand reassuringly but her voice quivered.

“Yes, yes, we are.” My own voice vibrated.

“Some people say he isn’t really decorating for Halloween…” Maggy pauses to take in a gulp of air. 

“He’s just airing out his house to prepare for other ghouls to visit him.”

If the midsummer sun shone down on us, I would have laughed. In the dusky gloom of late October, however, a shiver rolled up and down my spine. Maggy giggled nervously, pressing closer to me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” False bravado steeled my voice, but she knew the answer I wanted.

“Of course.” She wouldn’t admit to fear either.

We took a few more tentative steps toward old man Mueller’s house. We paused to peer at the dark windows. A rusty, red Ford truck sat alone in the driveway. I pointed to the empty spot where a newer but no less rusty truck normally sat.

“He isn’t here.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Maggy grabbed my hand dragging more toward the stairs.

Even as I followed in her wake, caution prompted me to glance at the other houses on the street. Warm light glowed within many of the windows, but no curious eyes peered out into the darkness. Essentially alone, Maggy and I paused to peer at the tableau spread out before us.

Cobwebs hung from rusty nails that had pulled loose from the siding and any other protrusion large enough to support them. Realistic spiders that ranged from black widows to hairy wolf spiders nestled in the tangles of cotton with cold, glittering eyes. A coffin stood ajar next to the door with a green phosphorous glow portending the horror within. Styrofoam bones and latex limbs spattered in blood leaned against the lattice panels that wrapped around the porch. A long table rested against dirt-streaked windows. Amidst test tubes, cauldrons, and bottles and vials of organs, a mockery of the infant form looked up at me with cold, lifeless eyes. Reflected light from the street gleamed in those glass eyes swirled with crimson, giving them a demonic aspect that sent more shivers through me.

“That’s absolutely grotesque.” My breath barely accompanied the words that hissed between my lips.

“Touch it.” Maggy’s whisper tickled my ear.

I shook my head. She nudged me, pushing me closer to the table. I looked at her, sighing as she nodded her head at the doll. Tentatively, I reached out with my right hand. I extended my index finger to point at the doll’s head. My arm moved slower and slower the closer it got to the inanimate form. My finger hovered two inches from the ragged cloth wrapped around the baby’s abdomen unable to move forward any further.

The doll met me halfway. To my surprise and horror, its plastic arms slowly rotated. Tiny fingers molded to encircle my finger. The plastic felt like flesh, warm, supple flesh. Blood rushed to my ears. Maggy said something, but I couldn’t hear it. I turned to look at her. She was already disappearing down the steps.

The soft flesh of the baby’s hand turned to rough sandpaper. The muscles underneath rippled as its grip tightened, not just on my finger but my entire hand. The round childish cheeks began to melt away leaving a hardened angular face unveiled. The entire creature began to morph, growing older before my eyes. As it grew, it became even more grotesque. Its features twisted and wrinkled into the visage of my demise.

“You’re mine, child.”

The words were carried on fetid breath. It said something more, but I was already swooning. I would never know what it said. I would never wake again.

More On Critiques

I have been so busy painting and sewing that I have not made the time to write lately. Soon the renovations will be over, but the holiday season will have me submerged before I can revel in that. I shall try to complete my most recent story suggestion by the end of the month. I say month not week because I shall be devoting the rest of the week to offering my input on other people's artistry. Yesterday morning, I printed out the aforementioned writings and made some observations about following the guidelines offered by whoever is running/ mediating/ hosting the group.

Usually, someone who takes on such an onerous task has some experience with these types of meetings. Anyone who decides to participate should respect this person enough to take their advice. As I grumbled at printed pages yesterday morning, I was reminded how important it is to follow the guidelines for font, header formatting, and line spacing. Why?

1. Having the same font, spacing, and and formatting assures that everyone submits approximately the same amount of material. If you don't have the time to read fifteen extra pages from one submitter, they probably don't have time to read an extra fifteen pages of your creative efforts, regardless of how good they are.

2. Page numbers help keep the pages in order. As I printed out multiple submissions with no page numbers, I found that I needed to make sure they remained in order since I like to print on both sides of a sheet of paper. Keep in mind that sometimes accidents happen, such as piles of paper falling on the floor.  A lack of page numbers wastes a lot of time in this instance.

3. Please include your name on the actual submission. When people prepare to critique Lewis Carroll's submission, they may not know it is Alice in Wonderland if you didn't include your name on the piece. This becomes more critical when you submit more than one short piece and another participant does the same.

4. Under no circumstances should you use fancy formatting. I actually printed that one out as it was to show the person how ridiculous it looked. Even if you are both using the same text editor, it doesn't always come across the way you intended.

In the high-tech age in which we live, every writer should be aware that they have to play by the rules of potential publishers. Shouldn't we practice following directions whenever we can?

Again With the Critiques

In my efforts to improve my writing and motivate myself, I joined a writing group. Most of the other members of the group give me helpful advice and commentary. As with any group, however, some of the participants fail to provide any useful information. This causes me to critique them in my head. I enjoy critiquing the people who critique me. Such behavior actually makes me aware of my own faults as an amateur editor. Though I have listed some of these before on my online journal, I want to list a few of my own thoughts for those participating in such a group.

1. No matter how much you want to say it, anything that equates to "I would never write this, so it isn't any good" is not useful. The other members of the group offer the best advice that they can give. You should do the same. If you begin reading each submission with an open mind, you might be surprised to find that other genres are just as interesting as the one you prefer.

2. In a similar vein, always telling someone that their writing is almost perfect because they share your genre doesn't help them. Do you really think it helps someone to tell them you love the story but not tell them what they can improve? We all have room for improvement.

3. Learn from the people in your group. Observe what techniques they use to critique your work and emulate those methods that help you. Don't be afraid to ask them for input on how you can offer better advice. For instance, poetry proves complicated for me because it is so subjective, so I tend to ask the poets what kind of feedback they desire.

4. If you don't plan to take the advice of your fellow writers, don't waste their time. At least one member of our group blows off the majority of what other people say to him. This doesn't help him grow. Conversely, I have seen some amazing improvement of one of the other members of our group because he actually applies the advice he receives.

Anyway, those are my beefs for today. Use them to make a hamburger if you wish.

You Be the Teacher

We all remember those themes we were given in English class. Our teacher would tell us to write about our favorite toy, our best friend, our summer vacation or what we want to be when we grow up. I feel I should give all my faithful readers a chance to challenge my creativity. Can I really make any topic worth reading about? I doubt it. For instance, who would want to read a story about fungal infection? Or selling a house? (Sadly, I have at least one friend who insists that this was a major theme of a story I was writing.) I am willing to give all and any ideas a fair chance inside my mind, so give me a topic and prepare to be entertained.

Did I Dream That?

This post may disappoint. It may also never be read. Without loyal followers who are willing to critique, laud, and question, does a blog such as this really have a purpose?

I ask myself that question on a regular basis. In fact, that question taunts me more than the nagging realization that I need to post here more often. So I put it to you again, dear readers, what will bring you back here?

I should assure you before you answer that I really am writing when I am not posting here. I just want to know how fine-tuned a piece must be before you'll consent to read and enjoy it. I also need to stop getting awesome story ideas when I am trying to put my brain in sleep mode, mainly because I tend to dream that I write these ideas down, only to find in the morning that I have neglected to do so.

So here are my questions. Answer them in the comments:

1. What do you hope to see here?
2. Are you afraid to start reading and appreciating because you're afraid you'll be let down by a sudden lack of posts? (I promise more posts when I have more readers. Just click the "Join this site" button and dare me to post more.)
3. How can I motivate you to keep coming back and bring your friends?
4. Of the stories already posted, which did you like best? Why?

Thanks so much for making this a blog to remember. Without you, there is no blog!

Dance Into Darkness

This is another of my flash fictions. I even edited it before posting, so enjoy!

With dark hair and even darker eyes, she invites you to dance in darkness. You know such a dance offers so much more. Dark eyes glitter like onyx as dark lashes sweep down to cover them not once but twice. Take that hand, pull her close, hold her until the dance is done. How can she feel so warm? Cheeks catch fire. Hands ache to touch her more intimately. Your lips long to feel hers. You want to taste her, to see if she tastes like sugar.

Your hands move slowly. She does not resist. She smiles. The coquet laughs as she throws her head back. Her head tilts forward enough for your eyes to meet. Two pairs of lips meet and are locked together. Surely, she
should have stopped this by now. Ah, but the power is in your strong hands. Entrapment is caused by such fascination that your face is always before her. You inhale sharply as her hands caress your cheeks, drawing you deeper into the darkness.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice interrupts the visions before your eyes. Shame pervades the darkness. Light comes through. Eyes blink and then her face looms out of the darkness suffused with light. How can one face such concern? Reality compares harshly to the fantasy. Honesty can do no good here.

"I'm fine. Just fine."

Surely she believes. Yes, she believes. Or she doesn't and says nothing as her heart bleeds. It doesn't matter. The light fades out and darkness beckons again.

Any Excuse Will Do

In a fiction blog, any excuse for not having a new entry will do, won’t it?

As I sat down to write a tale to make the world weep, erratic knocking interrupted my thoughts. The story fled my mind. I rose to see what was causing such a commotion at such an early hour. I opened the door to find no one on the other side of the threshold. I leaned out to look up and down the narrow porch. I even peered at the bushes at the end of the driveway, but they were too scraggly to hide even the thinnest slip of a prankster.

I slowly regained solid ground and paused to look out the door a few seconds longer before I pulled it closed and slipped the deadbolt into place. The knocking resumed. Now it vibrated the floorboards under my feet. I looked down, bewildered. Dust bounced along the floor as the knocking continued. With swift strides, I crossed the floor to the door to the basement.

I paused in the doorway. The dank smell of mold wafted out to deter me, but curiosity beckoned me onward. I cringed as the first step creaked but found the courage to continue down each creaking step. The light from the single bare bulb blinded me as I flipped the switch on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the barren room. Only cobwebs and a few boxes against one wall broke the monotony of chipped concrete and bare rafters. In fact, no way existed for someone to bang on the ceiling. Not even a long-handled broom had been tossed aside in this room of stale air and neglect.

Satisfied, I turned back to the stairs. I took a deep breath before switching off the light. My footsteps pounded on the stairs to announce my return to the living room, yet I still heard a soft giggle as I stepped out into the brightness of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the bright light, the lights went out. I turned toward the light switch. A movement caught my eyes for a second before it disappeared. My attention was drawn to my desk by repetitive clicking.

A tiny little figure crouched over my keyboard. In the glow of the monitor, her frilly skirt sparkled. I could make out tiny flowers twined in the two braids that held her hair back from her thin face. She looked up at me long enough to smile devilishly as she clicked the delete button. Then she was soaring across the room on gossamer wings. I tried to catch her but she managed to slip through a window left ajar to allow the cool night air to wash over me as I worked.

I sat down at my computer, clicking frantically. She had successfully deleted all of my most recent works of fiction. I did not know why. I probably never will, but I knew my readers would not accept such an excuse. What can I do but slave over a better piece for next week?

Apple of His Eye

I mentioned that I had another take on the previous writing assignment. Enjoy!

Members of the plant kingdom were never meant to understand those of the animal kingdom. The flow of communication doesn’t work any better from the opposite side. The woman at the sink has certainly never asked if I like the bowl that I have been sitting in for the past couple of days. I’d surprise her if I thanked her for picking one of clear glass so I can observe the world around me. But I can’t say anything to her. I am only capable of observing her.

Warm golden hair tumbles past thin shoulders to her waist. Glistening slender fingers pause in midair as she tosses those golden locks back from her face. She begins to cry again. The tears never end, so what brings them on remains mysterious. The most peculiar aspect of the tears is how she smiles, shakes her head, and rests at least one hand on her belly every time one of these fits takes her. She does this now, paying no heed to the fact that dishwater still covers her hands.

Even if we don’t understand each other, it comforts me to know that someone understands her pain. The clearest case of cause and effect is that every time her sobs reach a point where she gasps for air, her husband comes running. Sometimes, the carpet on the stairs muffles his footsteps. Other times, each footfall resounds through the house as he races across the hardwood floor.

This time he responds from the direction of the living room. I bounce against the glass as his footsteps beat upon the floor. He pays no attention to the soap bubbles on her hands or the green and white plaid kitchen towel over her shoulder. He pulls her into his arms. She cuddles into his embrace and almost disappears in the circle of his muscular arms.

“Shh, darling. Everything is okay,” his voice soothes her.

“I’m sorry,” her words are muffled by his arm, “I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

“The doctor said it’s normal. It’ll be okay.”

“But I don’t want you to think you make me unhappy.”

“I know. I know,” his fingers gently run through her hair.

They remain entwined like this for some time without speaking. They communicate now through touch. Occasionally, she kisses his chest. He responds by leaning in to kiss the top of her head. Her sobs fade away.

“Better now?” He pulls her away gently so he can look into her tear-streaked face.

She nods gently and forces a smile, “Yes, go back to work. As you said, the doctor said it is normal.”

“You’re sure?” His hands loosen their grip on her shoulder.

“Yes, love,” her toes straighten as she stretches up to kiss him on the cheek.

He smiles. Two sets of hands slowly slide back down to their respective sides. They gaze at each other for a moment more. Then the spell breaks. She turns back to the mountain of dishes in the sink. Two wet handprints cause the shirt to cling to his back as he turns away. She hums softly as she finishes the dishes.

She finishes drying her hands on the kitchen towel over her shoulder before reaching toward me. Slender fingers circle around my round form. Warm breath moistens my skin. She rubs me vigorously with the damp towel before biting into my skin. The air rushes in to my exposed flesh. A part of me is slowly merging with her as she chews noisily. In two places at once, I finally feel that I have offered her comfort. Members of the plant kingdom can comfort those of the animal kingdom after all.

Apple of Her Eye

I promised an entry today, and an entry will be had. This was another story idea that I received in my inbox. After writing this little snippet, I had another idea as to how to address the topic, so I may be revisiting it next week. So here is one way to address the world through the "eyes" of an apple.

I could have become something to be remembered. When you grow to fruition on a small farm, you expect to make more of your life. You expect to be found. You want to be appreciated for your uniqueness. You desire an existence that will leave a mark on the world. Sadly, some of us are not equipped to make our own dreams come true.

My luck placed me in such a situation. Bad luck cannot be fought nor conquered. It must be accepted. It must be obeyed. Whether you realize it or not, you are always obeying your luck whether it is good or bad. I wish I could tell this to the woman who placed me in this bowl. I am the only one of my kind, forced to share my accommodations with a bunch of long skinny guys with thick yellow skins and a couple of perfectly round midgets with bumpy orange flesh. She really should have known I deserved better companions than this, but she didn’t.

She doesn’t even remember I am here. Most of the time, she seems more interested in what is behind the white doors of the large plastic box on the other side of the room. Creams and meats always have more appeal than apples and oranges. She’ll regret it someday, but I shall not be here to see her regret.

I take solace in knowing the duration of this torture will be short. My rosy flesh already softens as I ponder my surroundings. The juicy white flesh underneath begins to brown. My flavor will never be enjoyed. My last moments will probably be spent rotting away in a black plastic bag, but I will know that I could have been so much more if I had attracted the attention of someone who really saw me as the apple of her eye.

As you can see, this apple doesn't have the best view of the world around him. See you next week.

A Chance to Wish

Too deep? Not deep enough?

Sunlight falls into the stream where wishes can be granted once a
year, but only once in a lifetime for each wisher. The stream of tears
trickles endlessly down the face of the land, washing away the filth
that has accumulated over the year. Now the wishers come to lay their
desires before the well of these tears.

Among the wishers is one who holds back. Her golden curls fall in
front of her face, covering the scars upon her cheeks. Those in front
of her move aside as if they feel her need is greater than theirs as
she walks to the waters edge. She dips a finger tentatively in the
water and raises it to her cheek, dabbing a single drop on each before
bowing her head and letting her own tears slide down her cheeks to
drip into the pool. Then she rises and walks away.

They watch her go. Those she passes on her way from the water examine
her face. Everyone awaits the miracle. They all expect to see her
scarred face returned to a former beauty. Their desires are not her
own, for she smiles as she looks at them. Her scars shall go nowhere,
but her heart shall be full. She shall love and for every ounce of
love she gives, love will be returned to her.

Thus she shall be loved by those who truly see her. The waters
diminish and fade away. The scars still grace her cheeks. Those who
made their wishes glory in their wealth, health, and wisdom. Time
makes wealth disappear, health fail again, and robs wisdom from fading
minds, but one's love is renewed each year as the spring wells up
again. Her face is marred but her heart beats with a beauty that draws
in anyone who is touched by it.

Dirty Secrets

I think there is more of this story that wants to be told, but we shall see. I was thinking about how sometimes when we care about people, we try to help them even when the help they need is clearly outside our ability to provide, particularly when it is emotional or spiritual help that they need.

Sunlight breaks through the clouds, pouring out light and warmth for the first time in weeks. The playground is empty except for two figures that stand just inside the gate. The man and woman stand surveying the swing set and jungle gym as if deciding which to visit first. As the beams of the sun reach them, the woman looks up, sending a tangle of golden curls back from her round cheeks. Full lips part to let forth the hint of a smile and she loosens the arms, which were locked across her chest.

Sensing her movement, the man turns to her. His eyes sparkle with admiration at the face hidden behind her hair. One of his hands, which until now hung limply at his side, slowly rises upward as if he would touch her cheek. As she turns to face him, his hand falls away. She does not notice the motion of his hand. Her eyes scan his face so intently that she can see nothing else.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Her voice gives away her anxiety about his answer.

“Let’s climb on the jungle gym,” he evades her question but reaches for her hand.

She lets him take it. He leads her to the jungle gym and places her hand on the gleaming metal of the ladder. Her hand shies away from the cold metal as dark eyes question him.

“Go ahead,” he nods to the ladder and flashes her a smile.

Her grip tightens on the metal bar. Her heart flutters. She looks away from him, turning her attention to the short climb that will take her up to the monkey bars. He watches her in silence, his eyes scanning the length of her body now that her head is turned away. She can feel his eyes and her face flushes as she puts one hand on the first monkey bar. Her eyes remain on the ground as she raises her other hand to take the next bar and pull herself forward.

A flash of light draws her eyes away from the ground. She looks up to see he is smiling at her with a camera held out far enough to view the screen on the back. She smiles back without thinking and the flash goes off again. He extends his hand with the thumb pointed up.

“Looking good, girl,” his voice is laced with more lust than admiration.

She blushes and turns her head again, focusing more intently on the other end of the monkey bars. When she reaches the last bar, he is already there, holding out his hands to help her down.

“Are we going to talk now?” Her words dissolve into a squeal of surprise as he grabs her by the waist.

He lifts her with ease swinging her away from the jungle gym as if she weighs nothing. As her feet touch the ground again, she lets out the breath she was holding in a long sigh. She turns to walk toward the swings, hiding her face from him with a curtain of hair. He hesitates a moment before following her lead.

“So we should talk,” his voice is so low she has to turn back toward him to catch the words.

“Yes. You’ve said that,” she sits on the swing pushing off until metal squeals on metal.

“Have you ever been in love?” He asks the question shyly, watching her intently.

“Yes, I have.”

Her response seems to hit him like a slap. He takes a step backward.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know you were in love?” He recovers his composure.

“I just did. I felt it.” She shrugs her shoulders, watching him intently as questions wheel through her mind.

“And what changed that?”

“We wanted different things.” She forces the words out through the tightness in her chest.

“I’m not like you. I don’t know that I have ever been in love.” He lowers himself into a half crouch so he 

can look into her eyes as she answers him.

“Well, I can’t tell you if you have been in love.” Her words are pinched by the irritation that overtakes her as a flush creeps into her cheeks again.

“Don’t get mad. I just wanted you to know where we stand.” He steps closer to her, looking down at her with more to say written in his eyes.

She waits. She knows that look, but she can’t place it. So many thoughts rush into her head, but none that she would dare share with him. None of her thoughts are what he wants or needs to hear.

“So you told me once that you had made mistakes…” His words trail off to leave his unasked question hanging ominously in the air between them.

Her eyes narrow and her hands tighten on the chains as she stops swinging. “We have all made mistakes in the past…”

“I mean, mistakes that got you into trouble.”

“Yes, when I was younger.”

“So how did you get through it?”

“I changed who I was and what I wanted and worked to become a better person with some help from people who love me.” Her voice is low but her eyes bore into his.

“That’s it?” Disappointment mars his face as he starts to sneer.

“I didn’t say it worked out overnight.”

“So what kinds of things did you do to get in trouble?” His eyes light up as he asks this question and kneels before her in the dirt close enough to touch her knee with his hand, but he doesn’t reach toward her though his hand twitches.

“It doesn’t help either of us to talk about it. It’s the past.”

“Well, if you didn’t enjoy what you were doing…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” she stands up and steps away from him.

“Come on. Don’t be like that. I need you to talk to me. You said you’d help me.” He gets up off of his knees, towering over her.

“You don’t need help or you would be talking to your brother.”  She brushes past him only to find his hands on her shoulders.

He turns her to face him. “But I like it. How can I stop doing things that I enjoy so much?”

“Asking me to talk about my mistakes won’t help you. You have to want to stop.”

“How can I want to? Can you tell me that?” The pitch of his voice belies the forced smile on his face.

She shakes free of his grip, frowning at him. “I reached a point where doing what I knew was wrong made me cry. Things I used to enjoy made me feel sick.”

“What kinds of things?” He probes for more details.

Her eyes widen, “You don’t want help, you want to swap stories.”

“But it would help me,” he holds out his hands imploringly.

“Knowing my dirty secrets can’t possibly help you,” she backs away from him now.

“But aren’t they fun to share?”

“How about you tell me more of your dirty little secrets…” A wry smile punctuates her words but as he opens his mouth to speak, she turns and walks away.

He stands watching with his mouth still agape, but no words come forth to call her back. He knows she 

is gone. He always knew she would be but he had hoped it would not be so soon. It can’t be. He runs to catch up with her, but she has already reached her car.

“Wait,” he calls out to her, but she ignores him.

Her hands are clenched on the steering wheel as she backs away from him. He throws a punch at the passenger door, reveling in the crunch of bone on metal. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even look toward the sound. She leaves him to nurse his wounded hand and watch her taillights disappear in the distance.

Invisible...No More

This is just another snippet (flash fiction) from my mind in days gone by...

They can't see you. Don't worry. You're invisible, completely beyond their sight. Sightless eyes can not see what they can not understand. So there you sit, so calm and quiet. You listen to every word they say. You've been listening for years. Your own words are lost until someone else regurgitates them later. So why don't you do anything about it?

Ah, yes, that's perfect. Even if they can't see you, surely they'll see the gun. Maybe they will finally notice you before it's too late and the spiral brings you to the bottom. It's a perfect day to be seen. Look at how lush the green grass looks. Look at all those women pushing strollers with that glow on their face that only mothers have.

There he--right where you knew he would be. He has his back against the tree, leaning ever so slightly as he watches them all walk by. His eyes follow even if his head doesn't. That doesn't matter because if he doesn't see you at last, well...

Barrel to his head, he can't miss you. His eyes widen for a second. He goes to speak. Oh, who cares? The trigger resists, but it's resistance is not enough. BANG! Those eyes go dark and whatever words finally wished to come are gone. The only problem is that now you're not invisible. You knew this would happen though and you just smile to yourself as the cold metal caresses your wrists and you are led away.

Coming Into the New

I found this hanging around and decided to open it up for discussion since my other masterpiece still needs some work and a middle. Enjoy!

She recreated herself, found the time, borrowed the money, and slipped
away. The highway became solace. The fall passed away. Cities come and
go like mist in the morning. No one knows her here. Winter comes.
Frozen hearts can not melt without warmth. She cannot tell them. They
see nothing but her smile, her legs, the fact that she is a woman
alone.

They come to her. Words fall like roses at her feet. They woo her for
a moment, wanting to be entrapped by her, feel whatever passion has
set her adrift. She seems to want the same.

One man takes her arm, leads her to the dance floor. They dance close.
She laughs at him. He has her charmed. Success guaranteed. He pulls
her closer. They fall together toward the door.

They tumble upstairs to stand outside her door. He moves in. His
strong arms are wrapped around her waist. Suddenly, she lashes out.
She is crying. She is screaming. He can not understand. It is his
perception of this madwoman's beauty he questions as he backs away.

She is alone now. Sagging against the door, tears flow. Only her own
arms come up to wrap around her shoulders.  The moment passes. She
finds strength again. The keys jingle as she opens the door and slips
inside.

She stares sightlessly into the darkened room, breathing in the smells
of bodies mingling and stale smoke that cling to the wallpaper.
Crossing the floor swiftly, she flings open the window. Winter air
stirs the scents together with exhaust fumes and wood smoke. Cars pass
on the highway, taking people into the new.

Her eyes gaze out at this her new life. She has no bonds, no
obligations, nothing to hold her down. The same tears sting at her
eyes. The same ache fills her heart. She has the same desire to be
seen for who she is. So this is coming into the new, moving on to the
next stop on the highway hoping at last to find a place to be seen and
respected the way she always was.

The Visitor: Introductions

I fear this entry is a little dry, but it seems to be heading somewhere interesting, doesn't it? In case you are new to the game, this is a continuation of last weeks offering. As always, enjoy!

Tendrils of sunlight caress my eyelids, slowly pulling me out of the dark depths of my dreams. It warms my cheeks as my eyelids flutter open. Different warmth radiates through my left hand. As I lift my hand, it meets with resistance. I turn my head with great difficulty. A long night of sleeping upright in an armchair has taken its toll on my aged muscles. At last I tilt my head far enough that I can see what is holding down my hand. The creature from last night has curled his long legs and arms around my arm in order to rest his head on my hand.

“Let go of me.”

I lift my hand with more determination. Despite his weight, I manage to raise my hand up high enough to shake him free. His furry hands tickle my hand as they slide along my skin. He lands on the floor with a plop. He groggily shakes his head causing the hair on his jowls to stand out from his long nose. I see two of his eyelids slide away from his eyes so that he can peer at me through the third set which creates an opaque shield against the bright light of morning.

‘Is it time for waking?’ The voice bores into my head again.

“Yes. Stop doing that,” I growl.

‘If I stop doing this, I cannot communicate with you,’ he blinks his second layer of eyes at me.

“You have a mouth. You seem to know my language. Just speak.”

‘You don’t understand. I don’t know your language. You do.’ Those large eyes seem to peer into my soul as if to make me understand.

“But you are communicating your thoughts in English.”

‘No,’ his nose twitches as he speaks, ‘Your mind is translating. That is why you are so tired. You haven’t evolved enough to do that efficiently yet.’

I blink my eyes, buying time to process what he just conveyed to me, “So my own mind can translate what you are saying.”

‘It converts my thoughts to the closest equivalent in your speech, yes.’

“And we aren’t evolved enough to do this, but you still want to visit our planet. Why?”

‘We received some of your,’ the voice pauses to seek out the right words, ‘radio transmissions. It took us many years to begin to understand them. Even then, we did not understand completely. Later, we began to receive…pictures in motion. These confused us more. They depicted what you call love, fear, humor, and other…emotions. We do not understand them. We need you to help us understand.’

The words seem to weigh heavily on me as they drain my energy. I do not understand the question. He seems to be aware of this.

‘We just want to understand these emotions. We do not have an equivalent concept. Perhaps we lost it as our minds advanced. Will you help me?’

“I will see what I can do. I am not used to teaching concepts such as those. I used to teach chemistry at the university, but I could quantify, explain, and show data to my students. Emotions are very subjective.”

‘I was sent because I am an adept learner. My people and I will be most grateful.”

He leans in as he speaks to me. His nose almost touches mine as he peers into my eyes unblinking.

“Okay, I’ll do my best,” I hope my answer will make him draw back from my face as his breath has a strange aroma.

‘That is good,’ he leans back to look at my whole face, ‘Shall I call you professor?’

“I’m not a professor anymore. If we’re going to be spending time together, you should call me Wendell. I am more curious about what your name is.”

‘We do not have names as you do. You will have to give me a name if you want me to have one.’

“I’ll call you Ralph then,” I smile at my own joke since he makes me think of a bunch of parts that some wild animal might throw up.

He seems to contemplate this moniker for only a moment, ‘Then I shall be Ralph.’