Wrong Direction

Another Thursday offering for your viewing pleasure.

“Matilda’s graduation party awaits.” I rolled my eyes as I reached for the doorknob.

“That’s nice, dear. Have fun.” With eyes still trained on her knitting, my mother waved me out the door.

I sighed and pulled my keys from my pocket. My mother’s constant need to know my exact location and activities could have kept me from feeling obligated to go out on such a terrible night, but her knitting enthralled her. As I opened the door, cold air wafted past me. Rain poured down in sheets that caused the world outside to twist and waver. I hesitated.

“Jane, close the door. It’s cold out there.” My mother still didn’t bother to look up from the scarf forming on her lap.

I stepped out into the chilly night air, pulling the door closed with an unsatisfying thud. Quick footsteps brought me to the edge of the porch as another gust of wind caught the pouring rain and showered it across my face. I raced down the stairs and across the river running down the asphalt driveway.

I barely gave myself time to open the door before squeezing though the opening. Wiping beads of water from my forehead, I turned over the engine and leaned over to reach into the glove box. My hand closed on a leather case. My brow wrinkled.

“I swore I left this unzipped.” I muttered pulling the case free so I could unzip it and pull loose the GPS.

“Turn left onto Spruce Street.” A falsetto British voice directed as I finished entering the address I got from the guidance counselor when I realized Matilda had forgot to give it to me.

I checked to make sure the lights were on and slipped the car into reverse. As I backed away from the house, I glanced at the door. My mother’s silhouette didn’t fill the doorway.  She hadn’t changed her mind and the party still awaited me. I flipped on the windshield wipers.

I practiced my most sincere smile as I navigated through the dreary night. I glanced at the GPS from time to time for reassurance that I approached my destination. Finally I pulled onto a narrow street with tightly packed row houses. The emotionless voice informed me that I had reached my destination.

“This can’t be right.” I reached for the GPS.

As I stared at the rectangle of light, someone rapped lightly on the window. Startled, I dropped the GPS, watching it fall to the floor before turning toward my window. Silhouetted against the streetlights, a familiar figure leaned closer to the window to rap again.

“Jane, we need to talk.” He shouted to be heard over the roar of the engine and the pounding of rain.

“Mr. Johanson?” I rolled down the window just a crack, so he could hear my surprised whisper.

“Is it okay if I get in the car?” Despite the umbrella he held over his head, water soaked him from shoes to mustache.

“Of course.” I flipped on my hazard lights on as he circled in front of the car.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he scooped the GPS off of the floor and handed it to me. “Were you invited to Matilda’s party?”

“You don’t have to act so surprised. She invited you, didn’t she?” He ran one finger nervously along his mustache as he spoke.

“Yes, but I…”

“You shouldn’t trust girls like that.” He interrupted.

“But we’ve been…”

“Friends for a couple of months now? All of a sudden?” The implication behind his words was clear.

“She said she wanted some new friends for her senior year.” I crossed my arms, leaning away from him.

“I really wish that was true, Jane.” His finger fell away from his mustache, so he could clasp his hands in his lap.

I waited, watching him. Without knowing what he was about to say, my stomach twisted into knots. I shook my head at my own concerns. How bad could it be?

“I overheard Matilda and her friends talking about a movie they saw. The main character was tormented by some of her so-called friends. They thought it would be cool to play that prank on one someone. It was the same day, you asked me for Matilda’s address and told me you’d be invited to her party. I put two and two together…”

“…and got four.” I interrupted.

My stomach deflated as if I had been kicked. My heart beat faster as my hands gripped the steering wheel. My vision blurred as I fought back tears. I pulled gasping breaths into my lungs, willing away the tears.

Mr. Johanson waited patiently for me to calm down before continuing. “That’s why I gave you my address, so I could tell you and send you home.”

“You couldn’t just tell me when I was in your office?”

“You looked so happy. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d figure it out before I needed to say anything.” He paused to give me a moment to take in his explanation. “I hoped you wouldn’t show up tonight.”

“But I did.” Almost inaudible words found their way out of my mouth.

“You did, but they’ll never know that.” He reached out to pat me on the shoulder.

A smile began to cross my face. “So as far as they know, the joke is on them?”

“Exactly. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you at graduation.” In one swift motion he opened the car door and his umbrella.

He stepped out of the car, closing the door gently before turning away. I watched him merge with the sheets of rain, becoming a jagged silhouette under the streetlights. A load lifted from my shoulders as I idly hit the hazard button again and shifted the car into gear. I even managed a soft laugh by the time I pulled into my own driveway and chased raindrops across the short distance between the car and the 

porch. As I stepped inside, my mother looked up from her knitting. Her face wrinkled in consternation.

“Matilda called. I told her you were on your way.”

“I decided not to go. We aren’t that close of friends anyway.”

“Hmm.” My mother’s head shook as she offered this observation. Then she shrugged. “It's their loss then. Go dry off. We can watch a movie.”

I nodded and headed for the stairs, mumbling to myself with a slight smile. “The joke really is on them.”

A Cracked Life

One of my readers posted a story prompt and blogger thought it was spam. After many months, I discovered it and decided to take action. This piece should be interesting and witty. Did it meet those goals? You be the judge. Feel free to comment below and invite your friends to follow this blog so one lucky winner can score some free cookies. I need to bake as well as write.

Anxious to cut all ties to his own shame at betraying his vows, my ex-husband paid movers to pack up my possessions and move them to my new apartment. I returned home to find the locks had been changed. A note pinned to the door informed me that my keys would work on my new front door. He even enclosed a map so I wouldn’t get lost.

Shaking my head, I crumpled up the letter and envelope. I clutched the directions in my other hand like a lifeline as I stumbled back to my car. I took a deep breath to calm myself before opening the door. Another deep inhalation calmed me enough to drive to my new home.

As I turned the corner onto my new street, my mouth fell open. The houses that lined this street reflected wealth. Manicured lawns stretch from perfectly edged sidewalks to precisely trimmed bushes. Large porches held wooden chairs and large flags snapped crisply in a light breeze.

I drove slowly, taking in the whole of my new world. The only other people on the street were a few elderly couples chatting on one lawn and another older man walking a tiny dog with more hair than body. My mouth closed into a tight line as I approached the moving truck parked on the right side of the street.

My new home looked as out of place as I knew I would feel here. Unkempt bushes sprawled across the front of the house. The front lawn resembled a wheat field. The movers broke a path through the waving stalks to heft items from the truck to the house with sagging siding and a missing railing leading up to the porch. I followed the broken path, joining them as they placed the last box on the hardwood floor of the living room.

One of them muttered something as he brushed past me. I didn’t register the words. He didn’t seem to mind. The other remained silent as he pressed himself flat against the doorframe to avoid touching me. I smiled wryly at this, amused by the realization that most men would behave this way toward me now.

Trying to keep my mind from following that train of thought, I began shifting and unpacking boxes. The sun sank behind the horizon before I finally took a moment to breath. With most of the boxes unpacked and placed on the meager furniture that my ex sent with my possessions, nothing remained to distract me.

I stumbled to the couch on putty legs, sinking into the flat cushions. From this vantage point, I could see the great expanse of my sparsely decorated living room. The couch and an equally battered chair sat side by side on one side of the coffee table. An end table sat on the opposite end of the couch. No other furniture cluttered the room, so I faced a blank wall.

Mostly blank. A long, jagged crack arced across the beige surface of aged paint and older plaster. As my weary eyes struggled to stay open, the crack frowned at me. It opened up as if to speak, but no words came out. Wearily, I leaned forward to listen better. Still no words reached my ears.

The thoughts in my mind raced faster and faster as the crack widened into a long oval. Images flashed across the opening that made me smile before they made me cry. Framed inside the jagged oval, my fondest memories with my ex husband from our first meeting to our marriage to the last time I remember feeling that he wasn’t lying when he said he loved me.

The oval widened into a circle and new images appeared. Images of where I once thought I would be now. Children I would never have looked at me with my husband’s dark brown eyes. My husband held my hand as we walked on a beach for our thirtieth anniversary. The tears began to flow, smearing the images until the circle shrank to an oval and stretched back into a simple crack on an empty wall.

The thoughts in my mind slowed. Soon the cacophony of thought and emotion died down. I could hear a single sentence flowing from synapse to synapse.

When the past and the present meet, that is where I die. The crack in the wall laughs at the words that flow through my mind.

“My new house is perfect. It’s cracked like me.” I laughed harshly for a moment before tears washed down my face again.

Loving Legacy

Someone asked “Who Is Bella?”  For me, Bella epitomizes the timelessness of what an independent, loving woman could be in multiple existences. I have written her into medieval worlds, modern ones, even the realm of gods and goddesses. Now I offer you a chance to analyze Bella’s potential response to the impending end of her existence in a modern life.

Three weeks. Just three weeks. What can I do with just three weeks?

My head spins. My heart pushes against the walls of my chest until my breath catches. The blood pounding in my ears washes over me like waves crashing on the shore of these last three weeks of my life. I can see the doctor’s lips moving as he consoles me or explains my options, but I hear only the oddly comforting sound of the ocean of death coming to bring me home.

Finally, he realizes. His lips stop moving. He comes around the desk and offers me his arm. I shake my head and stand to go. My mind races faster. I have three weeks. I have twenty-one days. I don’t want to waste a second. I may have just enough time to complete ten more tasks before I die, but what tasks should I choose?

I spend my first day writing down everything I ever wanted to do. I rule out anything that would take more than a couple of days. I won’t learn to paint. A guitar will not know the caress of my fingertips. The world will not have time to be healed by words from my lips. Some of my ideas prove so shallow that I don’t even write them out completely before crossing them off. What am I left with?

Start a chain reaction of acts of love.

Only this goal made it to my final list. I have one simple task left to complete before I die, but how do I do it?

I’ve seen the movies where someone does something nice for someone else and the second person promises to return the favor by doing the same for someone. I’ve even participated in events to promote small acts of kindness. I’ve seen the good that they can do, but that small bit of light in the world wouldn’t leave the legacy that I desire.

As I stare down at the words written by my own trembling hand, I feel tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I should have done more. I should have started sooner. I shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to make a difference. I cross my arms on the desk, letting my head rest on them as my chest heaves around sobs I cannot control.

Wearied by my emotional struggle, I must have fallen asleep at my desk. Upon waking, I brush my hand against my face to find the list clinging to my check. Clutching it in my hand, I stare out the window at a dark sky. In the distance, I see a billboard with a scantily clad woman promising that I can find true happiness inside a blue bottle of perfume.

I stand up slowly, feeling the weakness in my legs as I shuffle toward the window to close the blinds. As the world outside disappears, a thought races through my brain. I shamble back to my desk, flipping on a small green-globed lamp. Under its soft glow, my shaking hands lift the telephone book and flip through the pages. Finding the page I need, I pick up the phone.

Four phone calls later, I realize that I have been standing for a half hour. My legs have locked in place and my hips feel as if someone has stabbed them with an ice pick. I gently lower myself to the chair, rolling it over to my bed, so I can crawl under the covers.

When I wake again, someone has summoned the doctor. He fusses over me, muttering that I shouldn’t be progressing this fast. A thin man with a hint of a mustache stands behind him with a briefcase in hand and a worried look on his face.

“Bella, I’ve told you to take it easy. There is no reason to make your last few weeks more painful.” The doctor picks up a prescription bottle from my bedside table, peering through the orange plastic discerningly at the pain medication he prescribed. “Have you been taking these?”

“I told you I wouldn’t.” I look past him toward the other man. “Mr. Wenzel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doctor snorts impatiently before shaking his head and hurrying out the door. I can hear him talking to my home health nurse, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to hear them to know his lecture involves me taking my medication by whatever means are necessary.

I turn my attention completely to Mr. Wenzel, who nervously adjusts his tie. “You brought the paperwork I asked for?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ryder said you’d know where to sign.”

I nod, reaching for the papers. Instead of handing them to me, he opens the briefcase to extract them and then sits the briefcase on my lap.

“You can write on this, ma’am.” He offers distractedly as his eyes skim the sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Is there a problem?” My arm wearily sinks to my side.

“No, ma’am. I’m just wondering why you would set up a trust like this.”

“I’m dying. I don’t want other people to waste their lives when they could be leaving a legacy of love.”

“So, this trust essentially loans money to people who are pursuing causes that help other people. Then they pay money back into the trust to be used for the same purpose.”

“That sounds about right. It’s the best I can do on short notice.” I smile at him as I extend my arm again.

He places the papers in front of me. “I hope it does what you want it to do, ma’am. You should read through it and make sure it is what you want.”

I smile weakly. My eyes are already scanning through the heavy language on the first page. A near eternity of reading passes before I finally sign my name to the last page.

“I wish I had done this sooner. I’d like to see if it makes a difference.”

Mr. Wenzel opens his mouth to speak, but dizziness carries me away from the sound of his voice into a troubled sleep. My dreams revolve around the fate of my trust. I will never know if it made a difference.

Moral: Begin building your legacy now so you have a chance to see what the outcome of your actions will be.

Only Young Once

Clearly, I have cookies on the brain. I hope this entry is up to the high standards of my readers though I did try to give it a more youthful tone.

My mother tells me that I should be young while I can. That I think too deeply for a young girl. I even use words that other kids in my class haven’t learned yet. I just smile when she reminds me of this. I feel just as young as every other girl in my class and more light-hearted than some.

I can make that statement with certainty because I see it every day. One girl in particular has aged far beyond our years. The same gloom surrounds her that surrounds our neighbor Mrs. Cranston when she talks about friends and family that have passed away. Mother says it is sweet of me to visit the lonely, old lady next door. Sometimes, she even helps me bake cookies to share with Mrs. Cranston. Those mood-lifting cookies gave me the idea.

What idea? I want to share the joy of being young with the gloomy girl. If I can disperse the darkness around Lydie for just one day, I think she’ll remember how it feels to be young. I know giving her a full day is probably beyond my skill level, being that I am so young, only ten years old, but a smile should be easy to create.

So I find myself working hard in the hopes of just one smile. Bowls, measuring cups, storage canisters, and plastic bags cluster around my workspace. Flour covers most of the other surfaces of the kitchen. Even my face must be ghostly white judging by the surprised look on my mother’s face.

“Malinda, what…?” She can’t find the words, but I know the question.

“I’m making some cookies for a girl at school.”

“You should have asked.” Stern wrinkles crease her forehead and the corners of her mouth.

“But I wanted to make them myself.” I explain, mixing the thick batter one last time before setting the bowl down on the counter.

My mother surveys the ingredients for a second before she steps forward to dip one finger in the dough. As she brings it to her lips, she pauses. Her eyes scan the ingredients laid out on the table anxiously. Then she opens her mouth and takes a tentative bite of the dough. She closes her eyes, contemplating.

“That’s quite good.” She looks surprised. “Your friend is a lucky girl.”

I beam. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “I guess I can help clean up if you let me have a few cookies.”

I nod agreement, grabbing the cookie scoop and doling out the dough onto baking sheets. The oven dings just as the last glob of dough plops into place.

~

The next morning drags on as I wait for lunch. If I produce the cookies at any other time, the teacher will confiscate them or the other kids will clamor to get one. Anxiety builds in my chest and the depths of my stomach to the point that I know I won’t be able to eat my lunch.

Finally, we line up for lunch. The teacher’s shrewd eyes warn against any funny business as she glances back over her tail of children from time to time. The occasional giggle brings her eyes back to us, but any amusement quickly fades under such scrutiny. She opens the door to the cafeteria, ushering us into its expanse before taking her preferred spot along the wall. She leans against it as she keeps watch over us.

Every child must choose a seat carefully. Where we sit shows a lot about who we are. Usually, I sit with a few select friends, but they don’t notice when I walk past them and take one of the empty seats surrounding Lydie. She looks up startled then looks away.

“You don’t have to sit here.” Her voice cracks as she speaks.

“I want to.” I reassure her, placing my lunch box on the table with finality.

She looks up again as I sit down, questioning me with her eyes. “Why?”

“I made something for you.” I smile reassuringly.

She looks back at me suspiciously. Then her eyes dart around the room. Reassured that no one observes us, she turns her attention to my hands. Suddenly nervous, my hands fumble with the clasp. I breathe a sigh of relief as I finally undo it. Reaching inside, I produce a plastic bag full of cookies.

“No, thank you.” Her brooding frown deepens.

I return her frown, opening the bag. “We can share them.”

As I lift a cookie to my mouth, she watches hungrily. I push the bag across the table to her. She takes a cookie tentatively in between two fingers. Her nose wrinkles at the sweet aroma and she inhales deeply. As she takes the first bite, her eyes close. She sighs softly.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

She still hasn’t smiled, but some barrier inside her has melted. She begins to talk. We exchange questions and answers. I almost make her laugh a few times. She succeeds in causing me to giggle on more than one occasion. The cookies disappear slowly as we slide the bag back and forth across the table.

As she lifts the last chocolate chip cookie to her mouth, a smile finally breaks through. “Thanks for being my friend today.”

I smile back at her. “Thanks for letting me.” I pause for a second as emotions well up inside my chest. 

“Can I be your friend again tomorrow?”

She nods her head as tears flow down her cheeks.

25 Followers=Free Cookies

While the title of this post should say all that needs to be said, I feel that I should be more clear. When this blog acquires twenty-five followers, a drawing will be held. The person whose name gets drawn will receive a dozen delicious cookies. (Due to the fact that I don't add extra preservatives to my baked goods, followers who live overseas will not be eligible for this particular drawing as they would not feel rewarded to receive stale cookies. I felt I should state that to avoid breaking any hearts.)

To give you the idea of the size of these cookies, the plate is sitting on top of four handmade, clothbound journals that measure 5 inches by 7 inches. (These journals, and many more, are for sale, so message me for more info.) Obviously, I will make fresh cookies when someone wins, so look left and click the button that says "Join this site".

Love Words

V-E-R-I-T-A-B-L-E

I smile as the last tile snaps into place. The computer beeps. My eyes seek out the bottom of the open window. Reassuring text, black on white, greets me.

Lady Scrabble, you amaze me.

I know. A blush creeps up my cheeks and I tilt my head to hide it from the screen.

I want to meet you.

The keys click hastily as I inhale sharply and formulate my response.  We already talked about this, Tile 

Master. I have a boyfriend.

And I have a girlfriend. Meet me anyway.

I can’t.

Think about it?

I close the window without replying. The more he asks, the greater my desire to see him. I know that I shouldn’t spend so much time playing Scrabble online with a stranger, but I will avow my innocence to anyone. We talk about the words and who won, usually me.

Lately, however, he has wanted more. We agreed not to share our real names, but he wants to meet me. We couldn’t call each other Lady Scrabble and Tile Master if we sat across from each other in a coffee shop, could we?

I turn the computer off without shutting it down properly and step away. To distract myself, I step into the kitchen and begin preparing dinner. The sound of my knife hitting the cutting board over and over reminds me of my fingers flying across the keyboard.

I want to meet you. The text floats before my eyes.

“We can’t. We can’t.” As the words echo through the air, I drop the knife to clamp my hands over my mouth.

As the soft aroma of sweet peppers washes over me, keys jingle outside the door. My large eyes turn 

toward the sound. I lower my hands, taking a deep breath to compose myself.  By the time the door swings open, a smile has forced its way across my lips.

“Harold, welcome home.” I almost gush as I dance across the distance between us to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey, sweetie.” He absently kisses my forehead. “What’s for dinner?”

“Stir fry?”

“Sounds good.” He drops his laptop bag on the coffee table and joins me in the kitchen.

My distracted behavior seems to rub off on him. Though we stand in the same room, so close that we brush up against each other, we could be on different planets. The wall between us grows thicker as we sit down to eat. We don’t even bother to make polite conversation.

Finally, Harold looks up from his empty plate and gazes at me so forlornly that I drop my fork. ‘What’s wrong?”

“Matilda…” He pauses. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I don’t want to hurt you…”

“But…” The pressure on my own heart begins to release.

“I think I’m falling in love with someone else.” He bites his lip, waiting for my reaction.

As a smile softly plays across my lips, confusion fills his eyes, so I rush to explain. “I’ve been feeling the same way.”

“Really? I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks, but…”

“You didn’t want to hurt me?”

“Yes. It’s not just that. I haven’t actually met her. It seems so foolish, but she makes me laugh and she’s so smart.”

Something tickles inside my brain. “So how do you know her?”

“We met online. I didn’t…”

I don’t let him finish, interrupting in a whisper. “Tile Master?”

“What did you say?” The distance between us melts away as he stands up and takes tentative steps toward me.

“Tile Master?” I repeat with more surety.

“Lady Scrabble?” He takes my hand in his.

Tears pour down my cheeks. I shake my head. He pulls me closer, hugging me so close that I can hear his heart hammering.

“I should have known. We really are fools.”

His heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm as we begin to laugh.

Reading Is Its Own Reward

I've been a reader since my earliest memories. Before I learned to read, I annoyed my brothers to teach me. I love books. I enjoy short stories. I have been known to read shampoo bottles when nothing else is available.

At some point, I realized that the stories inside my head wanted to be released. Some of them appear in the virtual pages of this very journal. While I don't need feedback, I desire it. This entry entreats all of my dear readers to give a little back.

Why?

I want my readers to enjoy what I write.
I want you to find a few moments of peace in a hectic day. Some weeks, you will laugh. Others, you will cry. I admit that sometimes I expect to leave you a little confused.
We all have room for improvement. I want to know what you think would make my posts more interesting to you.

What can you do?

Keep checking in.
Comment on my posts.
Follow this journal.
Invite your friends.
Make recommendations of subjects you'd like me to consider (fictionally, of course).

What will I do for you?

Keep posting interesting scenarios from my mind to amuse you.
Provide giveaways for major milestones. Of course, this requires more followers. Only followers of this blog will be eligible to receive prizes (which could be artistry such as handcrafted journals or tastiness such as a dozen cookies or, eventually, autographed copies of published works). Feel free to post other realistic prize ideas in the comments below.

Any thoughts, suggestions, responses?