photograph part 2

prompt: black and white photos

Tears are streaming down my father's face now,  dripping off the loose skin around his jaw and chin.
 I stare in shock. I have never seen my father cry. Not even at my mother's funeral.

 "Your mother made me promise to live after she died, but she was the light of my life. With her     gone, the light was gone and it just felt so dark and pointless. But she made me promise, so I did what I had to do to go on. That is why I burned all the photos. I couldn't go on with them around. I couldn't see her face and not remember what I had, and what I'd lost. I couldn't look at them and not shake my fist at God for taking her instead of me.  It should have been me.".

  The silence is punctuated by a cough and sputter.  His head is bowed.

   I stand abruptly, grabbing a feather duster from a nearby shelf and busy myself with tidying books and papers, fighting back tears.  This is not the man I grew up with. This frail, trembling, shaking leaf of a man with tears in his eyes and regret in his voice is not the hard and cruel man I knew all of my life.

  Bumping my knee on a slightly opened drawer, I try without success to close it.  My hands run across a dove tail joint crafted with precision by my father's own hands. I marvel at how sturdy it still is after all these years. It's one of the many projects he worked on in my childhood spending hours and days in his workshop. He's chasing his demons, my mother once told me, losing them in the wood shavings. Almost all of the furniture in this room had been handcrafted by him, piece by piece.

My hand stills as I open the drawer to see what is keeping it from closing.  Inside is a doll's bed, with the most intricately beautiful scrolls and details carved into the head and foot board. It was the one my father had given me for my 6th birthday.  He had spent hours carving intricate patterns into it, sanding and staining it to perfection.  It perfectly matched the head and footboard of my own bed which had awed and delighted me .  I played for hours, tucking my little dolly into the bed like my mommy always did for me. That night after my birthday dinner I saw my father watching me and I ran and threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly.  We played together all evening and I remember falling asleep on the couch. It was such a happy night.

The next day all I can remember is waking in the hospital. The doctors were talking to my mother who was crying in hushed tones. And my Daddy was gone. He went away for a very long time.  Neither my mother or father would speak of what happened that night, and I could not remember, but nothing was ever the same after that.

For most of my life I hid the hurt that came from his spurning of me.  Every once in a while I would catch him looking at me with so much love and sadness in his eyes, but I never could find the courage to ask him why he shut me out.  He was always intensely private and rarely spoke of the past. The war had changed him my mother told me, and as far as I knew the only soft spot her ever had was for her.
He had all but disowned me when I got pregnant out of wedlock and I vowed I'd never speak to him again. His first stroke two years ago had changed all that, and somehow had changed him as well.  I watched him lavish the love and gentleness on my daughter that he had never had for me, and it made me even angrier. I refused to do beyond what I felt was my duty to care for him. I'd buy him groceries and stock his fridge with meals, I'd fill his prescriptions for his medications but that was it.   This... this was new territory. It was a father I had never known.

He places his hand lightly on my arm. The skin, covered in age spots, is so thin it is almost translucent. I can see the blue and purple spider web of veins under the skin.
Moments tick by.  Can I forget all of those years when he turned his back on me.
 He has never shown me love or affection, why now?
Awkward silence fills the room.
But if not now, when? I can see every time I look into his rheumy eyes that his time left is not long. My thoughts war inside me. Finally, I give in and cover his hand with my own.

" I have made mistakes. I am a foolish man. She was the best of me you know. She was what got me through the war, and all the years after. I guess I forgot how to live when she died. I wanted to die too. I didn't see any point in living. But when I look at your little Elizabeth I know I was wrong. I see so much of your mother in her." He struggles with another wheezy breath, looking up at me with his eyes full of tears.

 "I know I wasn't the father you needed. I wasn't there for you. I didn't know how to be . It's no excuse, I know, but I am trying to change, even now in the twilight of my years. Forgive me Anna. Forgive an old and foolish man. "

Now tears are pouring down my face and I hug him tightly for the first time since I was a little girl.

chocolat

Smooth and cool and dark
Powdery silk
Solid yet changing and yielding beneath my fingertips
Changing form in the heat of my hands
creamy and sweet
trickling down my throat
sweet nectar of the gods
I am in ecstasy
my eyes close
a moan fights its way up my throat
it makes me almost purr with pleasure
so delicious and so sinful
I love you as I hate you
I should stop but I can't get enough
you awaken all my senses
your scent fills me with longing
I am powerless to resist
is it moments or hours until the deed is done
only the slightest hint of bitterness and regret left on my tongue
I held out for so long
but you called my name in a way so inviting
your power over me grows stronger yet
I surrender to your dark delight
but I will curse you in the morning
chocolat

Hanging Tree

prompt: song Hanging tree

 The sun shines bright and glorious, the start of a new day. Sweat is already beginning to trickle down the small of my back as I shoulder the big empty basket and make my way out to the cotton field.
  Lily the newest slave girl got caught stealing bread from the big house, and now we all bein  punished. Now we got to double the amount of cotton coming in from the fields.  Most others been kissing their teeth an giving her dirty looks when she walks by but not me. I feel nuthin but sorrow for the child. She's such a scrawny thing, got nuthin on her body to support her. Probably whoever sold her didn't feed her hardly nuthin, poor child was starving.
  As I walk by her I see her cotton shift sticking to the lashes still bleeding on her back, but I know she got off easy. She still walkin .
   By mid-afternoon my basket is almost full. I hear my man's familiar whistle. Somehow he has managed to sneak away from his field.  At the sight of his strong broad shoulders and arms my heart jumps a little.
The salt from my sweat drips off my forehead and into my eye, stinging. I wipe it away impatiently with the back of my hand and suddenly he is beside me, the oaky scent of him and his sweat fill my nostrils.
He grabs me from behind playfully and for a moment I relax. I can feel the strong muscles beneath his shirt, grown in the hot sun and forced manual labour day after day. I feel safe for just a moment, and I breathe him in deeply.
He whispers in my ear, " Meet me tonight at midnight at the hanging tree"
and then just as quickly as he arrived, he is gone.
My heart sets to pounding. He is setting to run away, I know. He's been asking me for a long time now.
I force myself to continue picking fluffs of cotton thinking about how to tell John what I've known for some time. I got to find a way to get a message to him.
We been dreaming of running away, running north where we can buy our freedom. John's got money from work he did years back from a kind, rich white man who was passing through. John fixed his wagon and the man gave him more money than I ever known a black man to have.  So we be dreaming of running to a better life.

Can't meet you Johnny, not anymore I whisper into the hot haze. Things is different now. We'll be hanging instead of running. Maybe that would be better. No.  He'll be waiting at midnight. I miss him already. I pray he don't get caught.

I straighten for a minute to ease the constant burning in my back from being stooped over for hours. Then I feel the little flutter and kick. My hand instinctively rises to my belly. I smile for a moment before the fear kicks in. What life are you going to live little one, when our best hope is the hanging tree.

Window

prompt:  line from a poem " When the Heart is cut, do not clutch it."


I sit by the window waiting for Michael's car to pull into the driveway.
The gentle breeze blows the last few red leaves off the large maple tree. I watch them one by one, counting them as they flutter to the ground.
The sun yawns it's way west ward bowing politely to the creeping darkness.
My eyes start to close. Only when they flutter open again do I realize I have nodded off.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, and my eyes focus on the pattern the frost has made on the window.  Intricate and beautiful almost as if it is etched in a lace pattern.  The driveway is sheet of ice shining brilliant in the morning sun, clear and unblemished. Laid perfectly over the black tarmac.
My very own skating rink.
My back begins to grow tight so I reach back and stretch. The noonday sun is blinding, so I decide to pull the shades down every so slightly. But first, I open the window a crack so I can hear the gentle rain patter and smell the dead grass coming back to life.  Birds fly down from the giant maple beginning to bud, quickly snatching up the worms inching their way across the dark asphalt expanse. The tulips have started blooming, but I can't share their chartreuse cheer.
The breeze has a hint of sun in it, blowing in the promise of warmer days.
I step back, one step, then two and sink back onto the couch but my eyes are ever forward keeping their constant vigil.
I can hear the pfft, pfft, pfft, of the neighbour's sprinklers watering their lawn and see the yellow, pink and blue childish scrawls of chalk on the still empty drive.
Then R.J. comes over, licks my face and whines. He looks at me with those soulful honest eyes and finally I give in.
He's not coming come.

a little bit of nonsensical sense.

prompt: chaining , start with a sentence. Every sentence that follows must use the last word in the sentence to begin the next one.
Sentence starter: A stone thrown in water causes a ripple.

A stone thrown in the water causes a ripple. Ripple, splash, still. Still I think you ought to speak. Speak your mind and listen to your heart. Heart, lungs, transplant.  Transplant that tree someplace where it will have plenty of room to grow. Grow herbs on your windowsill. Window sills are happy homes for plants. Plants and animals are vital to any ecosystem. Ecosystem failure results in death. Death affects all of us in some way. Way over yonder where the grass grows greener. Greener pastures lie ahead. Ahead of your time. Time stands still for no man. Man and woman were created equal before God. God only knows what she was thinking. Thinking is a dangerous past time. Past times for him were a foreign concept. Concept one was fleshed out in a series of photos. Photos give us visual reminders of what is in our memories. Memories can be happy or haunting. Haunting our home was the ghost of the previous occupant. Occupants only. Only the lonely. Lonely, but still happy. Happy days are here again.

Emily

prompt: Where did you find that?

"Where did you find that?" she squealed in delight.  "I've been searching everywhere," she said breathlessly as she came running over to him.
 She flung her arms around Peter and squeezed, unable to contain her joy.
A smile split his face as he watched his brother's expression sour. He held on a moment longer than necessary, breathing deeply. Her hair smelled like strawberries.
She let go and resumed her bubbly chatter. Then suddenly she grabbed him by the hand.
"You are going to make sure I don't lose this again. I'm putting it under lock and key."

She looked down at the emerald ring that had been her grandmother's; feeling the cool band on her palm. She had no idea when the chain that held the precious heirloom close to her heart had broken, but she had spent the last few hours combing the grounds in what she thought would be a fruitless search.
The area surrounding the cottage was covered in leaves and pine needles making it a task akin to looking for a needle in a haystack. She wouldn't risk losing it again.
Pulling on Peter's hand once again she began to make her way to the cottage.

Peter held the look of smug satisfaction on his face as he kept hold of her hand and left his brother by the shore.  Peter had known where it was all along because his gaze never wandered far from Emily.
Emily, sweet Emily, whose attention and affections had been centered almost exclusively on his brother. That is, until now.
One of the Everly brothers was going to marry Emily and he'd be damned if it wasn't him.

The Phoenix

One of these days she is going to break the chains that hold her, binding her.
She is gathering her strength and getting stronger every day.
She waits for the moment to make her escape.
Breaking free from her tomb.
Rising from the ashes.
Full of fire and strength.
Nothing can hold her down.
She spreads her wings in freedom.
Unashamed of her beauty.
She flies unhindered.
Free from captivity.
Soaring into the blackness of night
carrying within her the fire
to light the way through the darkness.

star gazer

prompt: use the words: indigo, tankard, dedication, mural and siderolite in one piece of writing

She fiddled with the telescope once more making sure that everything was just right, then sank back into the folds of the vinyl soccer mom chair that had accompanied her on so many of these expeditions.
She squirmed for a minute, adjusting the blanket around her legs, trying to find a comfortable position, but she knew one would not be found. You had to trade comfort for practicality she reasoned.

All that was left to do was wait for the sun to drop deeply below the horizon pulling with it a quickly darkening sky of indigos and blues.

Her dedication to succeeding as an astronomer was what drove her to brave the elements night after night and pushed her into most isolated areas where light pollution was minimal. Only there would the inky darkness be deep enough to provide the perfect backdrop for the astounding mural of bright burning gases.

The only thing missing was the tankard of beer Jason almost always brought with him on these late night observations.  Jason Martin, fellow astronomer and childhood best friend.
Discovering a siderolite on a family camping trip at the ripe age of eight had set them both onto their career paths. Together they had spent the better part of their lives studying the mysteries of the universe and what secrets it would yield from what it allowed to drop from the heavens.
They had travelled across the globe, observing and gathering data, mapping the stars and extrapolating about what might be out there in the great beyond. Except now, he had found himself a woman and soon after that came a baby.  Now his nights would be filled with late night feedings and diapers rather than tankards of ale and shooting stars.  Alone in the dark she felt the immensity of the sky above her. For the first time she felt how small and insignificant she was and wondered if it was all worth it.

Judgement day

prompt: a young man facing an executioner

    It has been more than three hundred days in the this stinking hell hole. I can see the stench radiating off of me.  My fingernails are long and blackened with filth from my cell.
   My beard is wild and matted with dirt and straw. My muscles -once firm and strong- have atrophied from lack of movement. My wrists are raw from the shackles they have been in for so long.
   Three hundred days awaiting my fate for preaching loyalty to God over king.
   My voice is gravelly with disuse.  I have waited quietly and patiently and endured my fair share of beatings while seeing the dead eyes of my fellow prison inmates staring back at me while I writhed in pain on the floor.
   The worst days were when I could hear the sing song voice of my betrothed, crying and begging the prison guards to let her see me, and hearing their raucous laughter and derogatory comments before sending her on her way.
   Three hundred days have passed since I have felt the silk of her creamy skin under my fingertips or smelled the lavender in her flax coloured hair.
   I have saved my last crust of bread for my little friend who is crawling from a dark corner, sniffing his way toward me.  It is our compromise, so he would cease nibbling on my fingers while I slept. This is our last supper together, and I think somehow he knows it.

   I hear the executioner coming for me now, ready to bring me to the gallows. He is all hard muscle and sinew. His stare is hard and unyielding. He unshackles me from the wall and pushes me forward but I stumble, my legs giving out from being bent for so long. He utters a long stream of curses and raises the whip ever at his side. Instinctively, I raise my hands to cover my face.
"Wait," I say.  "I have something for you".
I crawl to a dark corner and grasp around feebly until my hands find the glass vial.  I traded many favours and many meals to obtain this precious liquid. I can feel the hot, angry breath of the executioner on my neck. He is ready to beat me.
"Don't break it,"  I cry out.
I lean in close and whisper. "It is for your daughter. Just a drop at a time. It will ease her pain."

They are calling for me and my executioner yanks me to my feet by my chains. He pushes me roughly forward, but he is walking slowly and he doesn't strike me which is his normal practice.

"Peace brother," I say. "Be at peace. I have prayed for her, and the Lord told me He will heal her."
I shuffle forward, into the blinding light where death awaits me.  I feel his heavy hand on my shoulder, squeeze once.  His weeping face, full of a new hope is the last thing I see.

A bad case of the Mondays

prompt: I left behind my  _________


Toast is burnt.
Burnt badly enough to set the fire alarm in my tiny apartment off. The shower curtain is ripped and the curtain rod is bent, all because of my sudden panic.  Bent rod and ripped shower curtain not enough, I slip on the soaked tile floor and bang my forehead on the useless, storage free, porcelain sink during my hasty shower exit. The large lump on my forehead is now blooming into a throbbing, blue bruise. 10 minutes of fruitless effort have proven that no amount of makeup will hide it.

Breakfast is a blackened write off unless I want to chance the suspiciously chunky yogourt in fridge.
No amount of fanning will silence the deafeningly shrill beeps. My eardrums are vibrating.
Guy from apartment 614 now knows what my rear end looks like, after Mrs. Linwood's cat accompanied her to knock on my door for the eighth time to tell me the obvious. My fire alarm is blaring. Yes, I am aware. No, nothing is on fire. Yes, I've tried fanning it. Her demon possessed ball of fur jumps out of her arms, straight through my legs and into my apartment. Whilst stooping down to try to scoop him up with one hand, and keep my towel in place with the other- Mr. Apartment 614 got a hell of a morning show. And no, thank you, I don't need your help or your smug little smile.

My life is in absolute ruins and it's not even 10 am, all because I left my phone behind. No alarm to wake me from my tequila induced coma, no ability to call or text my work colleague to ask him to cover for me now that I'm running horrendously late for what was likely to be the most important meeting of my career, with our firm's most important clients. In all likely hood, this will mean I will be out of a job by the day's end.

Never mind explaining to the soon- to-be ex-boyfriend about the careless, alcohol inspired selfies at our local bar hangout, if ever my phone does surface. Even if our fight justified my leaving his place in a rage, I'm not sure I'm persuasive enough to talk my way out of the picture evidence that might surface from our fourth round of tequila shots.

Oh but I can't suppress the smile on my face.  Mr. Green-eyed-golden-haired-don't care if you slurp the milk out of your cereal bowl- or hate my mother - one night stand. You might have just been worth it.

Road trip

prompt: road trip

I could have told him right from the beginning that bringing her was a bad idea. I have a nose for these sorts of things. But man, oh man, love can make you do crazy things.
I mean, it took her like ten minutes to haul that suitcase full of God-only-knows-what out of the trunk of her car and get it into the flatbed.

I had already claimed shot gun - clearly- but not even that fact, nor the 10 years of our best-friendship versus the pathetic 6 months of their "relationship",  kept him from acquiescing to her whines about being car-sick if she couldn't sit in the front seat. So, faithful best friend gets shoved into the back.

Then, she has the gall to change the radio station (apparently not sharing our musical tastes), cranks the AC and forbids the windows be opened because of her "allergies".  Not ten minutes later she's completely asleep with her feet on the dash which anyone knows is completely against shot gun rules. Shotgun = co-pilot, drink and snack opener, navigator. You must be awake with the driver at all times.

 I can't say I was surprised when the inevitable blow up happened.  She huffed off to make a phone call at the last rest stop, crying the black mascara right off her face while asking someone to come pick her up and take her home.
I might have been a tad too happy to see her hair-sprayed coiffe, sitting atop that ten tonne suitcase, disappearing in the rearview mirror.

Sometimes these things can't be helped.

Now paradise is restored. G&R is blaring through the speakers, the windows are down, the sun is shining and I can already smell the ocean in the wind. Trust me, I've had my head out the window for the last hour, we're not far off.   Once I get my teeth on that rawhide bone this day will have ended a complete success.

Bicycle

prompt: things that used to be red but aren't anymore


I stare incredulously at the mangled pile of metal, at the wheel bent awkwardly and the spokes splaying in odd directions, and then white hot anger tears through me.

I don't even care  that he broke his arm and is howling his way to the emergency room right now. Of all the stupid things my brother has tried to do - this one tops them all.

The cicadas buzz in the afternoon heat and I have to shade my eyes from the searing glare of the sun.  I look up at the solarium roof and then back down at the shimmering ripples making their way across our pool.

Trying to ride my old bike off the solarium roof and into the pool requires a level of insanity (or stupidity I haven't quite decided which yet) that is almost incomprehensible to me.

I stare at the black smear that the rubber of the front wheel has made on the cement, right next to the edge of the pool.  He almost made it I think, and this makes me smile a little.

 My fingers run slowly over the bicycle's bent frame to a place where the black paint has been scratched away, revealing the candy apple red of it's former glory.

Bitterly, I think of the full year of slogging through all kinds of inclement weather I had to do before I had earned enough to buy that bike - my ticket to freedom.
I hauled my wagon full of papers around every corner of the neighbourhood. I braved even the crazy cat lady's front porch (that was always littered with cat scat) and Mr. Garrett's house (our neighbour who never seemed to get out of his bathrobe and underwear), just to earn enough to buy that bike.

 For three whole summers it had delivered me to the local creek -where  my best friend Shelly and I would spend hours jumping off the tire swing or paddling around on inner tubes . Sometimes we would spy on the boys from school who would swim in their underwear when they thought we weren't around. At least twice a week it ferried me to Bob's convenience store where we would buy as many sour keys as we could with the change we dug out of the couch, and suck on them until the sugar and sour rubbed our tongues raw. That bike had propelled me at top speed to Shelly's house the afternoon Jacob Keller broke my heart by kissing Amanda-goodie-two-shoes behind the school, and still worked perfectly even though I dropped it like a hot stone on the driveway as soon as I could see Shelly's front door.

Even after my legs has grown too long and gangly for it to comfortably transport me, I had a special reverence for this bike. But my brother could never understand or appreciate that .

Adding injury to insult not only did my brother not have to earn his bike, but on a whim he laid claim to my old bike, spray painting it black with an old aerosol can from the garage to make it his "stunt" bike.
Dad just laughed and said he'd make him a ramp for the driveway, so he could practice some tricks, and Mom just shrugged her shoulders and sighed the way she always does when she can't be bothered. The rules were always different for Robbie.

My dark brown -and- not- black hair is absorbing the sun the like solar panel waiting to buzz me full of energy and light. It is actually hot to the touch. I can't sit here anymore so I stand, then hop, over to my discarded flip flops because the ground is burning the soles of my feet. I lift the broken bike up,  taking care to keep the damaged tire off the ground and wheel it around to the side of the house, where I dump it unceremoniously. This will be it's resting place until its final internment at the town dump.

Rest in peace I whisper over it's crumpled remains.  And then I am white hot mad all over again.
My brother would probably already be demanding a new bike. It had no value to him, it was just another disposable form of entertainment.
It's just a bike I guess, but that damaged heap about summed up my life.

It's too hot to be this mad. A swim is in order. As soon as my body hits the cool water, I have an epiphany.  He'll have a cast. He won't be able to swim. Probably for the rest of the summer.
A smile creeps across my face even though I know it shouldn't.  I make a mental note to be in the pool when they get home.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.

dishwasher

prompt: something you do often

Just a flick of the wrist and warm steaming liquid sluices down over my hands and wrists into the stainless steel compartment below.
The bubbles escape, floating tantalizingly in the air, slowly dancing higher and higher until noiselessly they just eviscerate.
The aroma of tomato sauce lingers nearby as used dishes plunge into the sudsy water awaiting their cleansing.
My fingers dip down into the tepid bath scrubbing, scraping removing all traces of debris.
The bubbles crinkle together in protest as they are sloshed around the sink and then rinsed away. The dishes gleam in newly resplendant cleanliness and are are left to drip dry, awaiting their next adventure.

Snow Queen

prompt: a winter memory

Tall, dry, stalks of grass struggle upward from the thick blanket of snow.  The whole world is brighter and quieter, suddenly on mute from the freshly fallen snow.

The wind picks up and pushes the flakes -big and wet- into her eyes, sticking to her eyelashes and crowning her temporarily with its cold beauty. She fights her way forward but her progress is slow and laborious so finally she just sinks down into the nearest drift and looks up into the sky.

The snow is falling faster now and it blinds her so she closes her eyes. She remembers making snow angels as a child. There is a stillness and tranquility here. It is so peaceful. If only she could stay here forever, in this bed of snow and forget that tomorrow is full and burdened.

The wind whistles through the branches and the light whispers its way into a pink sunset. The birds flit from branch to branch getting ready to seek shelter for the night.

The cold is bitter now as the light gives way to darkness.
You cannot stay. It's freezing fingers wrap around her. You do not belong here.
Go home  it whispers,  go home.

kitchen bowl magic

prompt:  jello

Eyes wide with wonder looking intently at the pink powdered elixir.
Hot water steaming it's way into our bowl.
A sugary aroma wafting upwards.
Eager hands, stirring, stirring, stirring in the magic.
Cold water making the spell complete.
We plop in chunks of pineapple daring it to defy our incantations for jiggly delight.
Two hours is far too long to wait.
Impatient eyes peek into the bowels of the fridge.
Waiting and waiting.
Finally it's time to unveil the finished product.
Slurping, laughing delight.
Poking, prodding, dropping, squishing.
Sticky, substance smearing.
It's perfect! It's perfect!
We made it. We made it.
From powder to liquid to solid or something in between.
Defying logic and science and all in box for $ 1.49.

Photograph

prompt: photographs

Peals of laugh echo through the house for several minutes. I quietly pull groceries out of the brown paper bags and put them away in the cupboards . My little girl's sing song voice carries through to the kitchen.

"Grandpa, why don't you have any pictures in your house?"

The silence drags on for several moments growing heavy.

Finally a voice as thin and papery as his skin fills the room.

"Well lady-bug, pictures are to help you remember people and places but sometimes it's easier for Paw-paw to forget."

I watch them silently from the doorway.

She looks inquisitively up at him, her brown mop of hair falling into her eyes, which she brushes away impatiently. Her brow furrows in confusion. The question lingers in her eyes, but after a moment she reaches her tiny hand up to cup his cheek gently and then she hops down off his lap to play with her toys on the floor.

Anger and sorrow well up inside me and a hot tear burns  it's way down my cheek when he looks up.

"Lady bug, why don't you go play out back for bit." he says gently.

She happily obliges, skipping down the hall to the back door, humming softly to herself.

Without saying anything else, he points at his black, worn, leather Bible sitting on the coffee table.
With a huff I walked over, and hand it to him.

From within it's pages he pulls a faded black and white photograph.
It had been taken from the back seat of a cab.  The taxi driver is a young man wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.  His arm is thrown casually over the seat back, smiling shyly at the camera.

My father fingers a well worn corner but doesn't speak for a long time. Impatient and confused I make an attempt at speech but only something akin to a squeak comes out. I dare not try again or the floodgate of tears I am struggling to hold back will burst open.

Finally, he clears his throat, never taking his eyes off the photograph.

"This is the only photo left. I burned the rest."

At this, my tears come unbidden and uncontrollable.

"Your mother took this photo of me on the day we first met. She was my last fare before I went off shift that day," his eyes grow distant as he remembers.  "She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and I just couldn't stop looking at her in the rearview mirror. A pretty photographer who hopped into my cab and turned my world upside down."

My tears fast become sobs.  I have never heard my father talk about the day he met my mother.

"You think that I'm cruel for not calling you right away when she died, or for throwing away all of her things, and for burning all the photographs." his voice catches in his throat.

" But you don't understand. To have them around...I ...I couldn't function. Sometimes I would stop to look at her picture and I would lose an hour, or a day or a week. I'd get lost in my grief, lost in remembering. I would sit in the bedroom with the faintest smell of her perfume on a scarf she'd worn and I'd be completely undone."  His eyes sharpen and focus on me. " So I got rid of all of it, except for this."
He pauses to take a wheezy breath.
" I came from an era where love was strong and real. You took time to court and woo a lady and it could take years. But for us, it happened on this day. I was crazy for your mother right from the first time I laid eyes on her. I knew right then -that day- that if she'd have me, I'd marry her.  "

He touches the photograph again. "This is the closest I can come to remembering."

Under the light of the moon

prompt : photo of a grey swirling mass

Her nightgown swirled about her in the water like a grey apparition, the soft cotton rising above her waist exposing the pale, white marble of her thighs.
She lifted a hand and watched it float before her as if it were not connected to her at all.
The water rippled above her, kissed by the light of the moon. She felt herself floating within the cool darkness of the lake feeling peace wash over her. Her dark hair, loose, swirled around her face in slow motion. How quiet it was beneath the surface.
Then came a tremendous crash and the water pushed around her body violently. Suddenly arms were grabbing at her, strong and warm, making chaos of the darkness as they pulled her closer and closer to the surface.

He gasped for air as soon as they broke the surface and began pulling her with powerful strokes toward the shore.

A wild eyed dream

prompt: a wild eyed dream

The darkness clawed at her as she ran frantically, stumbling and tripping over tree roots and forest debris.
Panting heavily she stopped for a moment, leaning against the rough bark of an ancient oak trying to get her bearings. The trees all looked the same, familiar and foreboding. Where was the path?
She heard a twig snap behind her and fear strangled its way up her throat and set her feet  into motion once again. Branches reached out to snag her hair and nightgown as she scrambled up an embankment.
When she reached the top she could feel a warm liquid oozing at her feet, but she couldn't stop to figure out what it was. She had to find the path!
She stumbled forward thrashing through a sea of dead leaves and then finally the path appeared before her.  Sweat trickled down the small of her back as she willed herself forward.
Minute after agonizing minute she ran, hearing the crashing of footsteps following in the woods behind her. Finally, the forest opened up and the lake became visible, silver and shimmering in the moonlight.
With a cry of relief she began to wade into the crisp, cold water when suddenly she felt a hand clamp down hard on her shoulder.

She awoke with a cry, panting, covered in a cold sweat. Just a dream. A nightmare.
She tried to breath deeply and slow the rapid beating of her heart. Feeling an odd burning sensation in her feet,  she threw off the covers.
In the darkness she could smell the metallic tang of blood.  Her feet were cut and bleeding. A leaf was caught in the wild tangles of her dark hair and panic welled up within her again.
But it was just a dream she whispered in the darkness to herself. Just a dream.

Take me out to the ballgame

prompt: summer memory

Hearing the crunch and pop of gravel under the tires of the car brings me instantly back the the idyllic summers of my childhood.

Whether wide awake and bored, on the verge of tears, or in deep unconscious slumber, the sound of stones and gravel popping like popcorn against the car was the signal that we had turned off the searing hot, highway asphalt and onto country roads.  It was a call to alertness. The cottage is near.

That sound brings with it a flood of sensations.  Instantly I can feel the cool, clear lake water on my skin. I can hear the rhythmic lapping of the lake against the aluminum boats, and the clang of the boats bobbing next to the dock. I can see the slimy, moss covered stones at the edge of the lake. I feel the squish of the muddy lake floor between my toes.
I can savour the taste of half-burnt, half goey marshmallow served with a hint of tree bark on my tongue.  I can hear the crackling and popping of the fire, as logs shift and drop, sending a spray of orange embers heavenward.
I can feel the cool air as I raise my face from the heat of the flames to look up into the vast expanse of darkness, peppered with brilliant blazes of uncountable stars.
I breathe deeply wishing for the scent of moist leaves and pine trees and a wood burning fire but instead my nostrils are filled with the smell of a hot, broiled leather car interior.

Opening my eyes the reality sets in. I'm not at the cottage after all. Instead it's the parking lot of  the local baseball diamond. Next to me is an anxious eight year old ready to put his softball through the window. It's game time.

The first time

prompt: the first time I ever...

The first time I ever kissed a boy was in the stairwell at school during lunch recess.

We were a big deal in 5th grade and if the cutest guy in school wanted me to be his girl, who was I to say no.

I was so nervous I could feel my palms sweating all morning and my legs began to tremble as soon as the lunch bell rang.

I made my way shakily down the stairs armed with a bathroom pass and an excuse should the lunch monitor stop to interrogate me. Thankfully I make it to the stairwell without fuss or fanfare except for my heart hammering in my chest.

For a moment, I don't see him and my heart sinks knowing that I've been stood up. But then suddenly he is behind me flashing his trademark grin.

I should be happy but instead I'm queasy and I'm not quite sure what to do with my hands.
I notice a freckle on his nose that I've never seen before just as our teeth scrape together and his lips move sloppily over mine.
I realize I should probably close my eyes but it feels so surreal.

A moment later the deed is done and a grin is splitting his face.  I'm a bit dizzy but I smile back.

"I'll walk you back to class." he says, but the heat of his hand on the small of my back is too much.
"No thanks." I stammer. "I'll see you after school."

   My best friend's squeals echo somewhere far away when she asks if he did it.
"Yes." I manage.  " I... I think so."

The haze still hasn't cleared.

  " I've had my first kiss ever." I whisper as the realization sinks in.
I look at her with my face burning and turning bright red.

I've had my first kiss ever.

Lost at sea

prompt: when I awoke the next morning

   When I awoke the next morning I lay there watching the dust motes dance lazily in the sunlight  streaming through the half opened shades.
   My eyes move slowly over the blue t-shirt laying in a puddle beside the bed, before I start to drift back to sleep.
For those first few moments I feel okay - maybe even good - though worn out for reasons that flutter somewhere out of reach, on the edges of my mind.
Peter will wear that t-shirt even if it's all wrinkled I think.
It is then that my eyes fly open with a violent start, zeroing in on the faded blue cotton.
Reality comes crashing in- unavoidably apparent - as if it were written into the shirt's fibres.
He is gone.
Peter is gone but his faded blue t-shirt, worn almost to shreds, remains.
A piece of clothing so ratty and stained that I tried countless times to get rid of it. He called it "vintage" and I called it "disgusting".
It lays there on the floor, shapeless, without the large and muscular frame to fill it.
It still smells faintly of him,  comforting and familiar.
That smell drives me to my knees as I hold to my face and let it soak up my tears for hours until finally exhaustion claims me.
This is how I spend almost every night and morning for months after Peter's death.
Forgetting or trying to forget and then remembering over and over again that Peter is lost to me forever.
I cling to his shirt like it is a life preserver, and I am lost at sea.

Mrs. Potter

prompt: Imagine something broken, write your piece based on that broken piece's perspective.

   It is beyond all imagination!! I have been in this family for six generations, passed down from mother to daughter.
   I have proudly attended weddings, births and memorialized deaths.  I have witnessed overtures of love and intended courtship and I have kept vigil by the bedsides of countless ill and infirm.
Who but I have borne witness to as many histories in this family? Faithfully I have played my part, bringing joy and beauty. The craftsmanship that I display is a long forgotten art in this new era of cheaply manufactured and easily disposed of goods.

 To be treated in such an insolent manner is an insult beyond what I can bear! Children these days! They are not disciplined the way they once were. Now-a-days children rather than parents rule the roost and this disastrous turn of events is the result.
     In my day, children were to be seen and not heard, and they were never, ever  permitted any kind of horseplay in the house.  Such behaviour would be cured by a good strapping, but these days they are not even allowed out of the house, and they know not of any discipline. Rather, they are sent to their rooms which is a virtual amusement park of toys. It serves as a reward rather than a punishment!

  After being passed down through countless generations-  surviving wars and long journeys across oceans to vast new lands- to be felled by a child's toy gun simply adds injury to insult.
And no, Master William, no matter how hard you try, that deplorable white substance you are gooping all over my fine porcelain pieces will not repair me!
I have seen the end of my usefulness! Take what's left of me to your mother at once!
Oh the tears! The tears pouring forth. Poor Master William, do not fret. All is not lost.
Never mind. Never mind. I am only an object.

Apartment 602

prompt: the quietest time in your life

He sat amidst the boxes in the fading light in the apartment for what felt like an eternity.
It was only when he mustered the strength to get up and flick the light on that he realized what a cheap dim bulb it was, hanging there completely bare.

There was no where to sit so he lay down in the middle of the floor listening for something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Cars honked and sirens wailed in the streets far below.  He could hear the television blaring some foreign language program in the adjacent apartment, and from somewhere  above he thought he could hear  the faint strains of a guitar.

Just beyond the slightly alarming brown water stain on the ceiling he spied several perfectly round black marks. He wondered for a moment what they were, and then remembered the broom he had found beside the door, waiting to once again thump the ceiling in protest.
It made him wonder about the tenant living above him. Probably some frustrated musician composing over-wrought love songs at three a.m. while forgetting about the tub that they were filling until the bubble bath was covering the floor and making it's way into his apartment via the light fixtures.
Perhaps in a few weeks he too, would be banging the broom handle on the ceiling in frustration.

The apartment wasn't exactly quiet, but something was missing.
The absence of some sound was like an itch in his brain that just wouldn't go away.
Then it dawned on him.
Ordinarily at this point Beckie would have been chattering about what to have for dinner, and what boxes to open first, and if he had noticed what the girl in the lobby was wearing - an assault rifle of words, thoughts and opinions coming at him in a torrent.
But, for the first time in years she was not there to fill the silent spaces he couldn't face - with her life and laughter and wholeness.
And he had chosen it.
He could blame no one but himself.
He anguished.
The silence was deafening and he wasn't sure he could bear it.

Fiery one

prompt: naturally

His name meant fiery one, and though they did not know it at the time it suited him perfectly.

Everything he did from childhood on he did with a fierceness and determination that begot his name.
Harnassing that fire,  that was the challenge.  Many years of flying fists and eyes that blazed with an unquenchable defiance passed before he learned the strength to keep it under control.
He lived briefly and burned brightly.
He loved passionately and left his mark on the world.
People attributed it to him as almost a righteousness, but in the end, he simply did what came naturally.

Empty

prompt: empty

The sounds that once filled the small spaces of this place echo now so loudly that it has become strange and foreign.

I bend and pick up a stray sock and an action figure left behind, as I wander through the bereft landscape that once held so many memories.

With only the colours on the wall and a handful of dings and scuffs as evidence that we once lived here, I am left with a hollow feeling. Cold and unfamiliar.

The empty that now resides here cannot speak of the endless nights rocking and nursing fussy babies, or testify to the doors slammed in anger or remember the eager feet running up and down the stairs in excitement.

The empty bears no knowledge of  the songs and stories at bedtime, the smell of cookies fresh from the oven or the birthday candles blown out in earnest.

But in the empty I realize that this place was just a shell, a place that facilitated the thing we call home. The empty teaches me that home will travel with us where ever we go. It is not confined to these four walls.  We will fill it with our laughter and our tears, with our joys and triumphs and failures.

It is empty so that someone else may fill it up again.

Mirror

prompt: mirrors, looking glass, hall of mirrors

It was a hardship to get up in the morning and to look at the additional lines the years had drawn on her face. Even on a good day it was difficult, but lately it had proved too much of a hardship.

He had come up to her in this very place, wrenched her around, and asked with a snarl who it was she was getting dressed up for.

Her hands trembled as she turned off the tap. This was the mirror she had to stare into, watching the fear and loathing reflected in her own eyes as he pushed her down and violated her once again.

Her daughter could not understand why she couldn't stand on the edge of the tub to see her pretty dress the way she used to.
She couldn't understand why this mirror - the only mirror in the house that was adhered to a wall- had to be covered at all times.
She asked often why all the other mirrors in the house had been removed.

She couldn't tell the sweet innocence that was her daughter that if she looked into the mirror and saw her own fear, she might lose all courage. And she needed that courage to make the most difficult decision of her life.

How would she ever find a way to tell the heart that grew under her own, that they had to leave.

All that her daughter had ever known and loved was here.

But she knew if she didn't summon the courage to leave now, she never would.

She pulled the sheet down off the mirror and looked at the pale, shaking, waste of woman, full of fear staring back at her.

Then she picked up the rock she had brought in from the garden and threw it, smashing her reflection into a thousand unrecognizable pieces.

milkweed

prompt: milkweed

The sun lights on her strawberry blonde hair as she plunks herself unceremoniously amidst a clump of dandelions. Her chubby fist closes around one stem, pulling mightily.  Her blue- brown eyes sparkle in triumph when she finally wrestles one free.

"Look mama. Flower!" she cries, with the delight only a small child could have over such a noxious weed.
The smell of grass permeates her clothes and she carries the smell of the sun and wind in her hair.
At all once she wraps her arms around my neck to pull me into a voracious hug.

I close my eyes trying not to think of anything else as I soak in the warmth and smell of her.
When I open my eyes again a wisp of milkweed seed tumbles gently through the air nearby. I watch in awe as the breeze pushes it closer and closer, until finally it catches on one of her curls.

I pluck it gently and place it into my open palm.
It is the wrong season for milkweed which makes me wonder how long and far it had travelled on the breeze.
Delicate yet resilient.

"Make a wish." I whisper.

I watch as her eyes squeeze shut in earnest, her long blonde lashes fanning her face.

What is is wishing for  I wonder as I feel the silk and seed blow away.

Where will the wind take this fragile, tenacious gift now.

Empty nest

prompt: Have you forgotten?

She was a tornado of activity, bustling about the house, cleaning, packing, taping, talking on the phone, issuing orders, wiping down surfaces.

I'm smart enough to steer clear and find my father hiding in his workroom in the basement.
As soon as the bottom step creaks his voice booms out,

" I can't seem to find the screwdriver Iris. I'll be up as soon as I find it. Won't be able to get that shelf together without it."

This is a blatant lie, I know. My father keeps his tools and workroom organized with military precision.

" Middle drawer..."  I call out, stifling a laugh.

He pokes his head out the door with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Where you always keep all the screwdrivers." I admonish, raising an eyebrow.

We manage to stay out of harm's way for a full twenty minutes, finishing a package of Oreos between us before we are discovered.

"JON! Your sugar is going to be through the roof!" my mother is screeching in reprimand, with a look that we know means trouble will follow later.

Dad just sighes.  "Flavourless potatoes and rabbit food it is."

"You don't get potatoes on your diet."  Her voice is flat and all business.

Poor Dad lookes like he got sucker punched.

Mom then turns her hurricane of energy toward me.

"Have you forgotten that we are leaving in a hour? Have you packed your toothbrush? Important papers? Your birth certificate?  What about your phone charger, your laptop accessories and printer paper? What about a sweater? Do you have a sweater, you'll freeze to death in that t-shirt."

"Mom! It's university not the antarctic, I'm going to be fine!"  This was expected but still exasperating.

I watch Dad backing away mouthing  'Take me with yoouu'  as my mother finally lets the tears flow unhindered.

"My baby." she cries.

Tremble

prompt : trembling hands

In the darkness her hands trembled as she clutched the prize close to her chest. Stealthily tiptoeing back to her room, she was careful to avoid the creak in the middle of the hall.
Only after quietly shutting her door and listening for the deep baritone of her father's snores did she allow herself to exhale.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she could scarcely get the safety cap twisted open.  She twisted and twisted but it wouldn't give.
Finally, it popped open with such force that all the pills cascaded onto the carpet.
She dropped to her knees with the sinking realization that in her haste and fear of being discovered she had picked up the wrong bottle.

With disgust she fingered the cylindrical red and yellow pills. Antibiotics. That would do her no good.  The oxycontin was what she was after. It was the only thing that numbed her mind enough to keep the demons that always haunted her at bay.  They always brought with them the nightmares that made her re-live the accident that claimed her mother's life, broke her father's femur in three places but had left her perfectly, physically intact and whole.

Night after night when she could no longer keep her eyes open she would find herself screaming in the darkness, suspended upside down  in her seat, crying her mother's name.

Everyone kept saying that time would heal, but they didn't live inside her head.  Her only escape, the only thing that made the nights bearable was the dizzying sweet bliss she felt after popping her father's pain meds.
But she had chosen wrong. Tonight she would have to face the demons and nightmares alone.

Les Oeufs

prompt: write about a scene that involves scrambled eggs


 I push the yellow chunks of congealed rubber masquerading as food around on my green plastic plate.
It's the one with the funny dent in the side because one day it fell to the bottom of the dishwasher and touched the drying element and melted a little.
I hate this plate. And I hate scrambled eggs. She always makes me scrambled eggs when she's sad, and lately that is a lot. Pretty much all the time.
She's sobbing into her plate of scrambled eggs right now.
I wonder if her salty tears will make hers taste better. I'm not allowed salt on mine.  It's not good for me she says, but I can't see how this blubbery, revolting gloop can be good no matter what you do or do not put on them.

The phone rings and I know this is my chance.  I look around frantically for a place to hide what's on my plate. She's crying again. Good. Well, not that she's crying but this buys me more time. She's not paying attention.
Then it hits me.  An epiphany! A moment of sheer brilliance. The first in this 5 year old's life.
I call for Vader. He whines and I hear the clip of his nails on the cracked linoleum floor.
Without taking my eyes off her sobbing into the phone, I slide my plate to one side and with an unceremonious splat they are on the floor.
If she notices it can be claimed an accident. If not... 5 , 4, 3, 2, 1.
I glance down quickly.  Vader looks at me whilst licking his own snout and then pushes his wet nose into my lap, whining for more.
YES! Victory!

Mother finally gets off the phone and looks at my empty plate, then squeals with joy.
"You finished it! Good boy! You'll be so strong. And you ate it so fast!  Do you love them? Here, let me make you some more."
My heart sinks as she begins to clatter around the kitchen- happy for once- but making another gelatinous mess.  I don't have the heart to tell her I don't want anymore. I don't want any. EVER.

My saving grace is that Vader, faithful best friend, has stayed by my side.  We develop a rhythm as I slide fistfuls of mother's awful scrambled eggs under the table and into his eagerly awaiting mouth, every time she turns away from me. He in turn learns to quit whining and put his head down on the floor quickly, pretending to only be lounging by my feet. A warm and furry footstool.
Yes I remember the day that Dad left.  I learned a lot that day. I learned that cooking was my mother's best distraction even though the only thing she could make was scrambled eggs. I learned how much I hated scrambled eggs. And I learned that Vader loves them.  I learned that Dad wasn't coming back, but I knew we were going to be okay. We had eggs, Vader and each other and that was enough.

Saipan

prompt: the best summer of my life


Sitting up on a tattered blanket I watch the pink start to blush over the horizon. This is what I woke up in the cool grey of early dawn  to see.

Below me in the bay the water stretches out in undulating shades of the most brilliant aquas, turquoise, greens and sapphire blues.
I am almost lulled back to sleep by the constant crashing of the ocean against the rocks, but I wait patiently and will myself to stay awake.
It is not long before my patience is rewarded as the sky bursts into a brilliant display of pinks, reds, oranges and yellows.
I turn my face upward as if tilting my head up might help me soak in more of the indescribable beauty.
It's breathtaking.
And yet, there is no fuss or fanfare, no pronouncement of this awesome splendour. The sun just silently crests upward, climbing slowly into the sky to start a new day.
It feels like something that ought to be accompanied by a chorus of angels singing.
Instead there is a calm and quiet that sweeps through me.
I have seen the sun rise before, but here -  sitting on the edge of a cliff  on a tiny island in the middle of the pacific ocean - the morning has a glory all it's own.
It is different somehow.
I pick up my pencil stub and sketch pad knowing I have the whole day stretching before me. This day  followed by many more days with nothing more to do than sketch,  swim and soak in this new and wondrous place.
This is going to be the best summer of my life.

Magic Kingdom - Part 2

prompt: your character is not able to talk

My name is Michael though the child does not know that.  She calls me the big, shiny man. She doesn't always see me, but smiles so brightly when she does.

She did not see me when I tried to warn her today. I felt the evil presence as soon as we came to this place. Amy is my charge, but I cannot force her to see me or hear me, nor can I directly change or force people to change or stop their actions. I am restricted in my powers in this realm.

The humans have been given the gift of free will, though most abuse it. I can only be seen by those who choose to see me and I can only compel or implore humans who believe to act.
Today was a dangerous day.
Too many distractions.
Too many unbelievers.
I have never felt more helpless.
There was a sea of people but no one sensitive enough to see or hear me.
I tried to warn the mother but she was too upset and distracted with other things.
Thankfully, the boy at the gate listened. I whispered in his ear.

Look for her red shoes. 
They don't match her dress.
Look she is crying.
That lady is hurting her.
Don't let them leave.
Stop them.

And though he sometimes ignores me and thinks that he is crazy, he listened.
He stopped them.
Amy will be safe now.
My job here is done for now, but the battle in the spiritual realms is just beginning.
The evil spirit that compelled that woman to try to steal my charge is very unhappy that I thwarted his plans.
I shall have to find my legion and prepare them for battle now.
I am Michael.
Servant of the Most High.
No plan against the Almighty shall prevail.

Magic Kingdom - Part 1

prompt: Your character is lost

It's been the bestest, worstest day ever.
I saw a shiny flash and I thought I saw him, the big shiny man and I was going to wave to him, but then I saw a man holding lots of big balloons. The man asked me if I'd like a princess one, but the red one is the one I wanted. It was the same colour as my brand new running shoes that I got just for this trip. Mommy said I needed comfy shoes for lots of walking, but I love them because they make me super fast.
 I wanted that balloon so badly but Mummy said no and was upset because Tilly ate too much candy and throwed up and now Mommy is doing her angry eyes at Daddy.
  The man with the balloons started to walk away, and I ran after him to tell him to wait because maybe I could ask Daddy but then he was walking too fast and I couldn't catch him.
  Then I was all alone and I couldn't see Mommy or Daddy and I got so scared and started crying even though Daddy says big girls don't cry.
   My tummy was getting hungry and I was sitting in the corner for a long, long time but Mommy and Daddy didn't come.  Then a really nice lady who smelled like flowers found me and asked me if I lost my Mommy and I told her yes.
   She said we would find her together and I was so happy because she said first she was going to make me into a pretty princess. She took me to the smelly, yucky washrooms.
  She said I had to take off my hat and wear this long pretty princess hair. She put my braids inside it and it was scratchy. Then she gave me a pink princess dress to wear.  She was changing me but I was scared because Mommy always says not to touch the toilets because they're too dirty.
The dress was scratchy too.  I don't like dresses but the nice lady said if I wore it I could be in a special show with Mickey Mouse and I really want to meet Mickey Mouse.  He's my favourite.
She throwed my overalls in the garbage and I was a little sad because they were my very bestest, comfiest overalls.
I started to cry because I missed Mommy again, but then the nice lady told me Mommy would come see me in the show with Mickey Mouse and then she gave me the biggest lollipop ever even though I didn't eat my supper yet.
When we started to get to the place where the show was supposed to be the nice lady started pulling on my arm too hard.  She said we had to hurry or we would miss the show. It hurted so I started crying. And she said we would have to go in her car but I was scared Mommy wouldn't find us. She said all Mommies and Daddies know where the show is and they would come and find me, but I knowed we forgot Tilly's carseat and Mommy was mad at Daddy when we took the special bus here. So how could they come and find us? So I cried even harder and the nice lady was not so nice anymore. She hurted my arm even more and kept telling me to shut up. And I know Mommy says we're not allowed to say shut up because that's a bad word.
Then a boy stopped us at the front and asked if I was ok and I said no, because the lady hurted my arm and I missed my Mommy.
Then it was scary because lots of people came and a police lady and a policeman came to talk to me. I was in a room for a long, long time and the policeman said it was ok if I kept the lollipop but I didn't want Mommy to be mad at me so I hid it in the couch.
Then after a long, long time Mommy did come and she was crying so much. I couldn't tell if she was mad or sad. She hugged me for a long time and I felt bad and told her about the lollipop and then she laughed and said it was ok, she would buy me another lollipop to take home and eat after my dinner, but I was so tired I didn't even want it anymore.
So that's why today was the bestest, worstest day ever.

Guilty pleasures

prompt: pomegranates

Ruby red, bursts of juice on my tongue.  Sweet tang met with a hard and unyielding core.

Pomegranates. There is supposed to be a perfect way to peel them. Under water? Or is it halving them and then running them under water? Or halving them in the water? I can never remember.

Either way it's too much work. Even though I love them, most times I pass them by because I don't have the time it takes to liberate them from their encasement.  Too much time and effort.
But seeing them in their red, resplendent glory at the supermarket, and knowing that I am celebrating my first weekend off in.... well... in.... possibly ever, I decided to mark the occasion with this delicious decadence.

I'm taking a moment to savour the bursts of flavour on my tongue, having leisurely rescued them by carefully peeling each kernel clean and free.

I can't help but sigh from the pleasure of it.

But am I really supposed to swallow the seeds? Are they really even seeds? Some bizarre old wive's tale that my mother used to scare me with about swallowing seeds is filling me with an irrational panic that something terrible will grow inside me.
It's ridiculous but I feel it all the same.

Should I have another one? It's fruit. Fruit is fine? Shouldn't do too much damage to the waist line. The seeds are so small. Plus they're full of anti-oxidants, so, that balances out the sugar.  What do anti-oxidants even do? I don't even think I know, but I know it's good for you somehow. I'm sure I read that somewhere. I should look up that article.

I roll a pale white seed between my thumb and index finger. I stopped swallowing them. Just in case. Can't be too careful.

I hear the clock ticking. I stare at my pink stained fingers, marring my perfect french manicure.
I start drumming my fingers on the table. How old is this table? I hardly ever use it. It looks brand new. I wonder how much it would sell for online?

Not having another one. Save it for tomorrow maybe. I should maybe run off the calories on the treadmill.  But it's fruit sugar, and that's okay sugar. I think. What is it called again? Fructose right? I should google it.  I wonder how many calories are in one pomegranate? Phone's dead. Don't want to get the laptop out of my work bag, because then I'll be tempted to check email. And I'm not working this weekend. Nope. Not doing it.

The clock is still ticking.
What am I going to do now?  Only 47 hours left to fill.

Blame it on Jack

prompt: Make a lie so believable


In the dank, sour smelling, graffiti covered men's room he took a long look at the dark circles under his eyes, and knew this time it had to be good.

  He sauntered back out into the dimly lit bar where the music was blaring too loudly and air reeked of desperation and loneliness.
   Casting about he surveyed his choices.  Tiffany - a regular- with her bleached blonde hair and bubble gum pink lipstick caught his eye and gave him a wink before hopping off her bar stool and into the arms of a burly man covered in tattoos.  He watched them slow dance to several God awful country songs. She turned in his arms pushing her tight posterior into him, grinding away, though the song didn't call for any such dance move.  The t-shirt she had poured herself into was sized for a toddler and barely made it to her midriff.  The words PUSSY ROCKS emblazoned the front of her well endowed chest and the man she was dancing with seemed inclined to agree.
Andrew had found his mark.
To his right, a kid who used to do the paper route on his street was nursing a beer with his eyes glued to Tiffany's every movement.  There were a few other patrons looking desolately into their drinks but no one who would remember him. This place was far enough from home for him to be anonymous.
Sliding his wallet out of his expensive Armani suit pants, Andrew pulled out a twenty and nudged the kid.  Sliding the bill over he had to almost shout to be heard. He needed an alibi and this kid was going to be it.  After a minute of shouting over the music the kid just shook his head and started to laugh.
 " No way Pops. 2 bills and I might consider it, but not for less."
Did that insolent little prick just call him pops?
  " A hundred, and I won't tell Arty you're only 18."  Andrew countered nodding to the bartender who was busy playing a game on his phone.
   The kid still wasn't biting.  "And I'll put in a good word for you with Tiffany."
That sealed it.
Taking a deep breath Andrew made his way over to the dance floor.
" Hey Tiff, can I have the next dance?"
" Oh hey sugar. I'm a little busy."
Carefully eyeing the menacing skull tattoo covering the big muscular forearm draped around Tiffany's waist, he knew he was in for a world of hurt.
Giving Tiffany his best smouldering look he said loud enough for both of them to hear.
"What you do want with a loser like him, when you could be with a quality man like me. I know how to treat a lady. Drop this guy and let me buy you a drink."
The last thing he remembered was smelling the man's boozy breath before he was out cold.

An hour later, he was home surveying a swollen, red, already purpling shiner in the bathroom mirror and he actually felt sorry for himself.
He could hear his wife's voice in the bedroom chirping into the phone about calling the police and recounting his false story about a mugging.

He knew it had to be good, and this time he'd really out done himself.  He'd done them both a favour he reasoned as his wife was momentarily distracted from her grief, and he had escaped the purgatory of enduring the funeral and eulogizing of the mother-in-law he'd hated for the better part of the last 25 years.
It had been a pretty good bender this time around.  He'd become pretty good at hiding it, and left the worst of his binges to late nights at the law firm when most had gone home, and he could make the excuse of having to work over time on a case. He often would just sleep it off on the couch in his office and kept a fresh suit hung on the back of his door for just such occasions.
This time though, he'd lost an entire day, and woke in the back seat of his car with his mouth feeling like an old cotton rag, complimented by an excruciating headache, and no recollection of where he'd been or how he got there.

He thought a mugging was pretty decent cover,  had the bruises to prove it, and a witness to back him up if necessary.
He told his wife he was too embarrassed to go to the police because he should have known better than to try to fight the guy for a measly hundred bucks and then have his butt handed to him.  He should have gone to the hospital but passed out in the car and missed the funeral. Probably just a minor concussion he told her, and his eyes had even managed to well up with tears. He was so sorry he missed the funeral.
She fussed over him and all had been forgiven.
He looked at himself in the mirror, running a hand over the stubble covering his jaw and then smiled. He was a sly devil, and he had gotten away with it.  He remembered that the empty bottle of Jack Daniels was still rolling around somewhere in the car, and made a mental note to get rid of it later. That bottle. That damn bottle was the devil. This was not his fault at all. He did feel sorry for himself.
He heard the jangle of his belt buckle and knew the wife was probably setting his pants aside for the dry cleaners.
 Panic tore through him as he realized that his wallet was still in his pants pocket.
He'd really outdone himself this time.

 

Water baby

prompt : the first time you went swimming

She's a water baby, I remember hearing my father say. She loves the water.

I think it must be true I muse, given that my first proper introduction to the lake consisted of my aunt throwing me off the end of the dock where she and her sister had been sunning and enjoying a few brewskies.

Their cackles echoed across the lake as I sputtered and flailed and could taste the moss that grew slimy on the rocks at the shoreline and around the edges of the dock.

Only moments before I had been standing in shallows of the beach, minding my business trying to find a crayfish that I had spied the day before.
Then suddenly I was hauled out and thrown off the end of the dock for my first swimming lesson.

"Sink or swim honey!" one of my aunts called out.

A few moments of panic and dread filled me, followed by a belly full of water and then swim I did.
Loving the lake even as it trickled down my throat and threatened to fill my lungs. Even as it came pouring out of my nose.

Cool, cold, fresh it didn't take me to it's murky depths. And when I stopped flailing it embraced me and lapped around my shoulders as I felt it pass through my fingers.

My father's hands strong and warm held me lightly for a while, and I watched the sun dapple brightly in ever changing streaks across the top of the water.  Gently he flipped me onto my back and I relaxed looking into a cloudless blue sky.  Slowly I felt his hands let go and I remained floating, bobbing in the gentle ebb of waves like a bright pink buoy.
I could stay like this forever.

Isabelle

 prompt : polly juice 

Her long, pale, fingers delicate and elegant touched the top of the vial before her.
Feeling the cool glass beneath her fingers she carefully weighed her options.

One sip, the old crone had whispered. One sip and a life forever changed.

She thought of the freedom that would come and what it would be like to cut loose the corset that strangled the very breath from her tiny figure and kept her tightly bound in movement and in life.

Oh to have the power to choose her destiny, to choose what to do with her life. Whom to love, whom to marry, where to live and how to devote her energy.

She fingered the delicate, white lace trimming her emerald gown.  Her father was so fond of this dress. It was the perfect compliment to her creamy pale skin and fiery red hair he had told her.
She both loved and hated him for this compliment.

Oh to be a woman. What a curse! With only the power to choose the colour of her dress and what ribbon to run through her hair - to be a commodity, a piece of property to be traded at the whim of powerful men.

She ought to have been born a man. She could change so much in this kingdom!
Her father at least loved her enough to listen to her ideas and even implemented many of them. But not so with her soon- to- be husband.
In her first and only meeting with him- when their betrothal was arranged- he made clear with leering eyes and wandering hands that she would serve one purpose and one purpose only.

And so,  on the eve before her fate was sealed, she stood in this old witch's home holding in her hand a potion to change that fate.  One that would give her the place that ought to have been given to her by birth if only.... if only she had been born a man.