Forgiveness Starts With This [FICTION]

Guilt nags at you. If you don’t find a way to appease it, it will drag you down into the depths of despair. I have just dipped my toes in those depths when I begin feeling absolution. I perform some small penance to help reboot my soul and then my life will be blessed once more.

I pause as I pass through the heavy, wooden double doors. They have seen hundred of years of sins and most of them worse than all of mine put together. So why do I feel so nervous to push them open and step into the interior of the church?

I make my way down the aisle, stopping before the curtain obscuring the confessional to take a deep breath. I step inside and the priest greets me with a soothing voice. I kneel on a worn cushion and begin slowly listing all the wrongs I have done since I last dared to step into a confessional five years before.

The priest clears his throat as I finish. “Those are not serious sins, my child, but they are still sins. For your penance, you need to hug ten strangers every day of the next week.”

“Really?” My eyes scan the confessional booth in case a hidden camera has been placed in the booth.

“Yes, my child. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and those ways are better understood when we understand those different from ourselves. May the Lord’s blessings be on you as you work toward forgiveness.”

And that is how I ended up with seven new friends this week. Ninety percent of the people I hugged were as terrified as I expected, but the other ten percent hugged me back and thanked me for reminding me that ours is a God of love and now we have each other to lean on.

~~I hope you remembered while you read this that this is a work of fiction. My church doesn’t encourage such behaviors and I honestly don’t know enough about other churches to attribute this penance to any of them. Sometimes, my fiction is stranger than truth, but couldn’t we all use the reminder to "be the good we want to see in the world"?~~

Home Sweet Home [FICTION]

I put the finishing touch of paint on the baseboard in the foyer and then survey the room with a speculative eye. I have done this in every room of the house: mudded, sanded, painted, and then second-guessed myself and gave each room the once over one more time. But now, I am finished. I am truly finished and my house is ready to sell. Of course, the sign has been up for a week now and we haven’t got a single bite. 

The doorbell rings and I throw open the door. A tiny old woman offers me a toothless grin from amongst the wrinkles that form her face. 

“Hello, dear,” she says as pale eyes dart around the foyer, taking in every detail.

“Are you here to look at the house?”

“Yes, dear.” She steps into the room, turning slowly to take in the foyer. “I just wanted to see it again one more time.”

“One more time?” I repeat.

“Yes, I lived here as a child.” She takes slow measured steps further into the house, pausing to run her hands along the brick of the fireplace in the living room. “We used to sit around the fire on cold nights and read stories or play games.”

I follow in silence as she continues through each room, offering occasional commentary that gives me insight to all the memories running through her head.

“Who chose this color. My mother had the most beautiful pink roses on the wallpaper in this room…and here, she had that wallpaper so many kitchens had back in that day with the onions and the herbs and lemons all over it.” Her slow steady steps bring us back to the foyer.

She puts a hand on the railing and climbs the stairs with painstaking care. I continue in her wake, prepared to catch her. She doesn’t talk on the stairs. In fact, she just shakes her head as she peeks into the bathroom. She pauses at the first bedroom door, staring at the knob.

“This used to be a white china knob. I used to stare at it for hours, thinking it was the most exquisite and expensive doorknob in the world, perfect for daddy’s little princess.” She pushes the door open without touching the new, metal knob.

She steps into the room and falls to her knees, turning around in circles slowly while her knees or the boards or both creak in protest. Her face crumples in pain and a single tear falls down her cheek. She beckons me forward and I kneel next to her, helping her stand up. She leans on my arm as we head toward the master bedroom. Once more she pauses at the door. This time she doesn’t look at the knob. Instead she scans my face for a moment before opening the door and stepping inside. More tears join the one already on her cheek as she looks toward the long wall.

“My mother and father kept their bed on that wall. They slept there every night until they didn’t.” She turns to look at me again, scanning my face before she goes on. “I woke up that night. Something had scared me. All I wanted was my mom to hold me, so I ran to her. She always woke up at least enough to pull me under the covers and hold me tight while she kissed my head. That is what I needed. That was what I wanted. That was what I expected.”

She pauses, her voice grows hoarse as she fights back tears to continue. “She wouldn’t hold me that night. She wouldn’t hold me ever again. When I got into their room, I could see her in the moonlight. She was lying right here in the middle of the floor. I stepped forward to see if she was okay and I slipped in something. I found out later it was her blood. I called out for daddy to help me, but he didn’t. It took me a while to get up and go to him. He had the gun in his hand still, but he wasn’t moving…”

I recoil away from her as she reaches toward me and run from the room and her memories. Her wailing chases me down that stairs as I leave the front door for the last time. The realtor can handle the details of selling the house now.

~~~Not sure what got me in so a dark mood for this piece, but I hope it entertained you and got you ready for a weekend of fun.~~~

Falling For Strangers [FICTION]

I consider finding duller friends as I listen to the instructor detail all the safety precautions for tandem sky diving. They assure us that it is perfectly safe and that the instructors are all qualified. They even throw out reassuring statistics. Then they hand us a form to sign saying they aren’t responsible for injury or death and give us a peek into all the terrible things that could happen to us if something goes wrong. 

“You’re going to be okay.” I whisper to myself as we step out onto the runway and walk toward the plane.

We are a small group today, just three lucky jump newbies and three seasoned tandem jump superstars. My superstar pats my back reassuringly as we climb up into the tiny little plane.

“You’ll be alright, girl, I’ve got your back.” The voice reminds me of my grandfather, so I forget to be annoyed at being demeaned by the term ‘girl’.

I look at him for reassurance as the plane climbs into the air. He offers a thumbs up and a big smile and returns to adjusting his jumpsuit and harnesses. The he leans over to perform the same checks on my gear. Another thumbs up assures me we are set to jump.

“Listen to your instructors. They have done this a million times. They will keep you safe, just don’t worry. Enjoy the fall.”

As the other tandem pairs begin moving forward, I find myself firmly hooked to my instructor and stretching my legs to match his stride. Otherwise he will trip over me. He mumbles something and I lean in to hear him better.

“Woah! That’s sudden.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him raise a hand to his head.  “I don’t feel so good.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.” I inform him.

He laughs weakly though his face has paled considerably since we climbed into the plane. “We’ll be fine. I could do this blindfolded.” 

The second pair steps out of the airplane into empty air leaving the doorway open for us. I turn back to offer pleading eyes, knowing my words will get whipped away by the wind howling around the open door. His thumbs rises again before he gently pushes me forward.

He mouths, “Jump.”

I leap into midair, screaming at the top of my lungs. The instructor follows, but a few seconds after we leap into the big empty sky, I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes are closed. His face is slack. I am all alone and hurtling toward the earth with an extra couple hundred pounds strapped to my back to hurry my descent.

I scream into the wind. No one can hear me. No one can help me. The person who is supposed to keep me safe lays heavy against my back.

The main instructors step-by-step lecture of reassurance flashes through my mind. Something about a drogue parachute. The one with the blue cord. “Your instructor will ask you to deploy this little guy as soon as you leave the plane to slow things down a little and let you enjoy the ride.”

I bite back a scream and focus. I pull the cord. Expecting a huge jerk backward, I find myself slowing without feeling like my body is trying to rip free from the harness. We keep careening toward the earth. I take a breath, worrying it may be one of the last few I take.

My mind races through my best memories and biggest regrets as the earth draws ever closer. When the houses begin to resemble houses, my heart clenches. So this is how it ends. I sign up for a skydiving class at my friends’ encouragement and then never see them again.

Then a miracle happens. Something vibrates against one of my shoulders and the larger parachute unfolds behind us. I squeal in delight as I am jerked backward a little rougher than the first time. As our velocity settles down into a less terrifying fall, I feel the instructor begin to move around with more purpose. 

Soon his groggy voice echoes in my ear as he leans forward, “I have a feeling I owe you my life, girl. Thank you.”

He moves from gratitude to instruction, reminding me how to position myself as the ground approaches. Soon we are safely on the ground. He uncouples our harness and sinks to his knees on the ground. I swear he is about to kiss the grass, and I think I might follow suit.

“I have never been so glad to see so many weeds.” I mumble as I sink to my knees in the weed-infested grass.

~~I did a little research to make sure I was thinking correctly about how tandem skydiving works. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tandem_skydiving Apparently, your instructor really could pass out on you, but it is highly unlikely. I wasn’t brave enough to try this before, and now I really think I will leave it to my brother. He got the bravery in the family and the allergies, a fun combo.~~

~~~This year for my birthday, I am giving myself a better organized file system. This could mean more gifts for you throughout the year because it has made me painfully aware that not only am I hoarding digital books on iBooks and Kindle, but I am hoarding story ideas in my brain and on my hard drive (and probably a million backups, for all you geeks who are concerned about whether or not I am losing my edge.)~~~

State of the Writing Address [FICTION]

 “I have gathered you here today to assure you that though this year has not been as filled with words as we had hoped it would be, I am here for you. And I need you to be here for me. I need the post-its to keep taking my story ideas and helping me stick them in at the right places. I need the paperclips to hold random pages together, so I don’t create more disorder. I need the pens to let their ink flow freely, so we can keep getting down those ideas that somehow only come when the pen hits the paper. And paper, I know you think I don’t need you now that I have so many electronic devices to take down my words, but sometimes only your white brilliance can coax out the most illusive words. Have faith in me, my tools, my friends. We will write the great American novel together.”

And in keeping with the obvious mental break that caused me to rally my writing troops with a well-intentioned speech, they all step forward to respond. First they rap on the desk. Then they offer me assurance. Since they don’t have mouths, they step forward, so I know who is addressing me. Each one offers their own form of encouragement and swears themselves to the cause of more and better pieces of fiction to flood the world with joy. So next time you read my words and find amusement therein, remember to thank the tools of the trade, no matter how archaic they may seem.

~~I know. This one seems to have been inspired by an acid trip or way too little sleep, but it was a suggested writing prompt. Feel free to throw your own ideas my way or shower me with commendations, cash, cake, and cookies.~~

Unexpected Subject

Mara and I resolved to take up photography in the new year. Unfortunately, the new year had other ideas. At first, I couldn’t find my camera. When I finally decided to give in and buy a new one, I suddenly had unexpected expenses that put me in the red. I compromised and started using the camera on my phone. Looking at my artistic shots usually left me wanting more, but Mara wasn’t having much more luck, even though she did splurge on a fancy new camera, one that required the use of film.

“Oh, Goldie, you can borrow my camera. You need the practice developing film. Some people still appreciate that extra attention to detail.”

I roll my eyes at her sudden expertise, but I can’t say no to the loan of her camera. Hopefully, I can get some better shots. 

“I need it back tomorrow. Maybe you can show me what you’ve got when you drop it off.”

“Of course,” I smile at her with a clenched jaw.

Motivated to take the best pictures ever by Mara’s implied challenge, I make my way to the park during my lunch hour. With the midday sun shining down on wooden benches, trees vibrant with leaves, and the usual lunchtime visitors from old couples enjoying their retirement to kids playing on the colorful park equipment, I expect to find a beautiful subject for the camera’s perceptive eye.

A suspicious look from one of the mothers leads me to believe I should focus on still life instead of the adorable tots. The trees can’t possibly suspect me of devious intentions since I don’t have an axe. The older couples seem about as averse to having their pictures taken, so I continue to snap shots of inanimate objects until my phone reminds me that I should head back to work. At least it is good for something—giving me an excuse for what I believe are disappointing snapshots. I glance down and see that I have six shots left. I snap a few pictures of a tree and another couple of an ornate bench. The last, I use for one last creative shot of the water fountain.

Deciding not to accept Mara’s assessment that I need to practice developing film, I drop them off at the one hour photo lab in my favorite big box store. I still have a half hour left when I finish grabbing some essentials, so I treat myself to a pretzel and lemonade from the snack shack. I eat slowly, savoring every bite as I flip through my new magazine.

I don’t get a chance to look at the photos before I head over to Mara’s house to return the camera. Thus I find myself peeping over her shoulder as she flips through them, clucking her disapproval at most of my artistic angles, while offering the same assessment to others simply by narrowing her eyes. Then she reaches my quick roll-ending shots.

“You have a thing for this guy?” She asks.

“What guy?” I have become distracted by one of her neighbors whose dogs are dragging her down the street. “I didn’t take pictures of any guy.”

“This guy. He must be important. He is the only person you have pictures of.” She splays out my last photos.

I lean over to get a closer look. “I swear there wasn’t a guy when I took any of those photos. And I would have noticed that guy.”

“Yeah. He’s weirdly hot.” Mara says.

“I was thinking weirdly overdressed,” I respond, taking two of the photos from her hand.

One shows him sitting on a bench, staring right into the camera like he is begging me to see him. The second shows him standing in the middle of the fountain, but he is dry and the sprays of water seem to fall right through him. His well-tailored suit makes me think of gangster movies for some reason.

Mara keeps staring at the pictures still in her hand. “Does this guy look familiar to you?”

“Yeah. I wonder why?”

“Maybe he is an actor?”

“Not with that scar. We’d remember something that distinctive.” 

She points to the left side of his face, which is turned away from the camera in every photo. Only her eagle eyes would pick up on the fact that his left eye tilts downward, pointing to a gash that appears to run from his eye down to his chin. She taps the photos against her lips as she thinks. I survey the pictures, pondering how I could have taken so many pictures of one man when I was trying so hard to avoid taking pictures of anyone, especially since I don’t recall seeing him at all.

“So what did he say when he saw you snapping his picture so much?” She asks at last.

“I swear there was no one in any of the pictures I took. Most people gave me the stink eye when they saw the camera and I wanted to avoid any problems.”

“So you didn’t take pictures of this fox?” She flashes me a picture. “He looks like he wanted you to though…”

“I guess.” I look into his face again, realizing that he has a soft smile, like he was smiling at the photographer, me.

The door swings open behind me and Mara and I both jump. She recovers quicker, slapping her brother as he takes the pictures from her hands.

“More of your work, sis?” He flips through the pictures, stopping on one of the pictures of the mysteriously appearing man. “Oh man, how did you colorize a picture of Tilted Ted?”

“Wait! What?” I exclaim, taking a closer look. “He does look like Tilted Ted.”

“But if it is…” Mara and I exchange looks, unwilling to voice that thought filling our minds—I somehow have pictures featuring a man who dies over fifty years ago.

~~This definitely feels like the beginning of a longer work. Will I ever find time for such endeavors? Maybe I should cut down on miscellaneous hobbies like bathing and cleaning my house? What say ye?~~

Another Day, Another… [FICTION]

As I drop my purse, I notice the small brown wax paper envelope on my desk. My eyes light up. I would recognize that clarion of cookies anywhere. Only my favorite local bakery has an envelope like that. 

“What a fabulous way to start the morning.” I glance around to see if I missed a note or card.

Even without knowing who such a delicious treat came from, I can’t resist it. Soon nothing remains but crumbs and wax paper. The rest of my day seems brighter just because I started the day with deliciousness.

This day-boosting surprise continues for about four months. I begin to expect that sweet start to my day. A couple of coworkers comment on my improved mood, so I rule them out as my generous benefactor. I try to ask my work wife what she thinks, but she shrugs it off and makes a lame joke about not looking a gift cookie in the mouth.

This morning, however, my cookie doesn’t await me. Instead of my beloved chocolate chip morning enhancer, a small box awaits me. It is too small for a cookie. It is brown though. It has no words to identify the contents. I pick it up to inspect closer and see an envelope underneath that almost blends in with my desk except for the big block letters spelling out my name in black ink.

I waver. The box or the note? How do I decide. I opt to open the box first. It contains a pedometer. I wrinkle my nose. After all those cookies, I probably need to get more steps, but I don’t want to be reminded.

I pick up the envelope. A a silver foil sticker holds it closed. I pull out the card and read with interest.

“Dear employee,

“Due to a recent change in ownership, the morale committee that previously provided a morning cookie to boost everyone’s mood has become The Wellness committee. We are providing you with this pedometer to help you keep track of your daily movement. We also wish to provide you for these tips for a healthier day.

“Use the bathroom furthest from your desk.

“Use your break to get in a quick walk instead of eating snacks in the break room.

“Get up from your desk and get the blood flowing at least once an hour.

“Remember that only you can make healthy choices for yourself.

“More great tips to come,

“The Wellness Committee”

I guess I should read those email blasts from the CEO more carefully after this and not be so secretive. I feel my morale sinking just a little to know that I wasn’t the only recipient of delicious cookies for breakfast.

~~Maybe I should start a cookie of the month club. Would anyone join? It would probably be expensive because postage alone cost me a dollar a cookie the last time I sent them. Granted they were larger cookies, but they weren’t those ginormous discs of sugar and butter that you get at a bakery…well, a good bakery.~~