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.