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.
Thursday, 26 February 2015
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 25 February 2015
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 20 February 2015
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 19 February 2015
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 17 February 2015
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 16 February 2015
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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