Orange

I decided to copy Gunfighter's idea of posting my blog exchange post on my own blog the next day. So here it is. (And it is fiction, by the way.)

Vacation is usually less-than relaxing when you have young kids. This time, however, I turned my vacation into work and invited my parents to vacation with us, with the ulterior motive of having babysitters at the ready.

My parents were willing participants in my conspiracy since the sun rises and falls with their grandchildren. Lucky for me they enjoy being with my kids and have much more patience for the normal cantankerous attitudes of five- and three-year-olds.

Also, lucky for me, the writer’s block that had been plaguing me lately seems to have lifted and I have been pounding out sentence after glorious sentence into the wee hours of the morning. I’ve spent the last two years writing about people I have come to think of friends but never has their story flowed from my fingertips as swiftly as the current has this week.

Perhaps it is the lapping of the lake at the shoreline. Perhaps it is the peacefulness of my children sleeping off their exhaustion after spending twelve hours outside swimming and fishing. Perhaps it was just time to find out what happens to my friends.

I wander to the kitchen and find the bottle of Riesling that I had placed in the refrigerator last night to chill. The crystal flute chings pleasantly as I remove it from the cupboard. I locate the corkscrew with some difficulty and turn it in the cork.

Glancing out the window as I pour the wine, I see my kids and my parents gathered around the campfire. They are all laughing at some secret joke and I feel a twinge of sadness that I am missing it.

Flute in hand, I leave the kitchen and return to the den. My computer screen is beckoning to me brightly. I circle the table like a tom stalking his conquest. Finally, I swoop in, setting my glass beside the keyboard. With a deep breath, I plunge forward.

“THE END.”

The words sit on the screen innocently, but they are full of meaning. Taking a deep breath, I reach for my flute and toast the screen before taking a long swallow.

I feel taller as I walk toward my family. I feel powerful and free.

My kids run to greet me and we fall into a lounge chair together. Their hair smells woodsy and smoky and wonderful.

The fire flickers before me like a finicky feline tongue, tentatively tasting its dinner. I smile as the sun sinks below the horizon, vanishing into amber and scarlet and orange.