I write in my head when I'm laying in bed. It does me no good then. My mind races from idea to idea and if I get up to write them down it would only prolong my chronic insomnia. Some of the ideas are fleeting, others develop into a full story line which is almost always forgotten when I am able to sit down to write again.
That novel I started several years ago? I still think it has potential. I have no idea where my notebook with my writing went. I thought I was organized, but clearly I am not. I've heard that the state of your living space reflects your mental space and mine is cluttered.
It's easy to make excuses for myself. My brother-in-law died last month and the truth of that has brought to the surface issues we all have to face. I want to spend my time on this earth enjoying my family, not doing chores. But chores still need to be done. Circumstances and even tragedy can be spun to give myself excuses why I don't do things. I call bullshit on myself.
Nonetheless, it doesn't seem to spark my drive.
I'm fat and lazy and seem to have lost my writing mojo, if I ever had any. Life seems both too short and too long. I'm both living a dream and thwarting my chances at really living my dream.
When do you know you're not taking enough chances? When is loving your family and being grateful for what you have just being too safe?
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Voice Mail
It was the third time she'd called him. She took deep breaths, taking in essential oxygen in hopes it would calm her. Seems that deep breath stuff is crap. It didn't work, only making her slightly light-headed along with the irritation that bordered ominously on the irate.
His voice mail message was flippant. By now, she had it memorized.
Hey! I'm me and you're you! I'm sure you know what to do!
A shriek that sort of resembled a bark escaped from her throat. Was it possible to move from love to hate so quickly? His voice used to feel velvet on her ears. Now, it felt like cat's claws.
It was obvious she needed to formulate a new plan.
Her eyes traveled to the portrait of him, still on the side table in her sparse apartment. The 8x10 size of the portrait had always seemed a little obsessive in the little space. She laughed then. The popped collar and the spiked hair was a bit too 80s for a boy of their time. He'd given her the frame with the print inside for Valentine's day. She tried to remember the year. Too long ago, whenever it was. The frame was ridiculous, though at the time she'd thought it was endearing. Thinking about it now, it seemed kind of disgusting. He'd stuck chewed gum of various colors then covered them all with sealant. The sealant seemed an extra sweet touch that, at the very least, removed the stickiness from the gum.
Her smile turned to a sneer. His idiocy seemed to ignite her anger.
She left one final voice mail.
His voice mail message was flippant. By now, she had it memorized.
Hey! I'm me and you're you! I'm sure you know what to do!
A shriek that sort of resembled a bark escaped from her throat. Was it possible to move from love to hate so quickly? His voice used to feel velvet on her ears. Now, it felt like cat's claws.
It was obvious she needed to formulate a new plan.
Her eyes traveled to the portrait of him, still on the side table in her sparse apartment. The 8x10 size of the portrait had always seemed a little obsessive in the little space. She laughed then. The popped collar and the spiked hair was a bit too 80s for a boy of their time. He'd given her the frame with the print inside for Valentine's day. She tried to remember the year. Too long ago, whenever it was. The frame was ridiculous, though at the time she'd thought it was endearing. Thinking about it now, it seemed kind of disgusting. He'd stuck chewed gum of various colors then covered them all with sealant. The sealant seemed an extra sweet touch that, at the very least, removed the stickiness from the gum.
Her smile turned to a sneer. His idiocy seemed to ignite her anger.
She left one final voice mail.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Fiction With a Warning: One Decision
****This post may be disturbing to some readers. (Especially those sensitive to violence)****
Insert spacers so those who wish to avoid this post can do so.
I don't think any less of you.
Hope you don't think any less of me.
This is fiction. But...
*********************
It was just one decision and it took seconds to make.
It was crowded and the air hung thick with smoke, the kind of smoke that makes your eyes burn when they finally receive fresh air. The male to female ratio tipped heavily on the male side and the women, if you could call them that (and that would depend on your current age and perspective whether girls and boys would be more appropriate terms), were enjoying the attention and free libations that sort of ratio invited. Music twanged and the few with actual dancing skills were seeking out the few of the opposite sex with actual dancing skills.
It was the kind of bar that appealed to a wide demographic. Cheap beer specials brought out anyone from college students to grandparents. It was deceptively friendly.
She had enjoyed her fair share of free beer and booze. She hardly noticed when the same man bought her a second shot and moved to the table behind her and her friend. She and her friend hung out there the same day every week. It was familiar, the staff knew them and treated them accordingly. It was a honky tonk kind of Cheers, where everyone knew their names and their drinks.
The laughs came easy and the girls tried to hold in the first visit to the restroom as long as possible. "Once you break the seal..." they joked. Their acquaintances, while well-meaning, contributed to unwise decisions.
The two were best friends, similar in many ways (it turned out to be the ways that mattered then), yet brought up in two different worlds. They were at a time of life that they needed one another emotionally. They were growing into women together. They were together in spirit even when they weren't together, anticipating the next adventure they would conquer.
They looked out for one another. They teased one another. They understood one another. They were a partnership before some people made the word mean something different.
************
So it was unusual for them to leave separately. And they shouldn't have. But when one must return home and the other seems reluctant to leave the party, arrangements can be made hastily without consideration of consequences.
****
She felt uneasy the moment he turned into an unfamiliar apartment complex. She reminded him she didn't live here and gave him her address again but he laughed and said he needed to get something from his apartment. Her head was spinning by that point so she followed him blindly into the building, hoping she wouldn't hurl on the sidewalk.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was a typical bachelor's place, complete with bare walls and hand-me-down furniture. It seemed clean enough and she decided to sit on the sofa before she fell over. He was somewhere in the apartment, she heard him rummaging in the refridgerator and the clink of what she assumed was a beer bottle. Seconds later she heard the toilet flush.
It occurred to her that he didn't seem to be there to gather anything and he seemed to be settling into his apartment rather than getting ready to depart again. At the same time, the room was spinning against her wishes. She tried to stand but fell back on the sofa.
It was then, even in her incapacitated state, she realized she may have ingested more than alcohol.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was a typical bachelor's place, complete with bare walls and hand-me-down furniture. It seemed clean enough and she decided to sit on the sofa before she fell over. He was somewhere in the apartment, she heard him rummaging in the refridgerator and the clink of what she assumed was a beer bottle. Seconds later she heard the toilet flush.
It occurred to her that he didn't seem to be there to gather anything and he seemed to be settling into his apartment rather than getting ready to depart again. At the same time, the room was spinning against her wishes. She tried to stand but fell back on the sofa.
It was then, even in her incapacitated state, she realized she may have ingested more than alcohol.
Then he was there. Sneering. Or maybe smiling. His face had blurred beyond recognition. Then he was holding a half-empty bottle of beer and unzipping his pants with the other hand. It was clear she wouldn't be arriving home anytime soon.
She protested. He laughed and called her a tease. She hit. He held her hands down with surprising ease. She gave in, thinking she deserved this. She'd consented to this situation. She hated herself.
Her insides burned with the dryness. She thought of her friend and hoped she'd made it home okay. She thought of her own stupidity.
She fought to stay alert and simultaneously wondered why she wanted to be awake for it. He grunted and she thought of a hog.
It was an eternity in 10 minutes. Maybe five.
She protested. He laughed and called her a tease. She hit. He held her hands down with surprising ease. She gave in, thinking she deserved this. She'd consented to this situation. She hated herself.
Her insides burned with the dryness. She thought of her friend and hoped she'd made it home okay. She thought of her own stupidity.
She fought to stay alert and simultaneously wondered why she wanted to be awake for it. He grunted and she thought of a hog.
It was an eternity in 10 minutes. Maybe five.
*************
It was months before she would admit to herself what had happened. To label it. The "R" word was frightening, dirty. It made her feel disgusting and ugly. She had already felt ugly. She'd spent an hour or more in the shower that morning when he finally took her home. Once she labeled it she stuffed it deep inside her and tried to avoid it.
She drowned it in beer and wine and booze (but never Jaeggermeister, never again Jaeggermeister). She imagined she saw him in bars everywhere she went. She was wreckless with her heart and her body and her emotions. She punished herself almost daily for making the wrong choice even though she knew that others would say it wasn't her fault.
She drowned it in beer and wine and booze (but never Jaeggermeister, never again Jaeggermeister). She imagined she saw him in bars everywhere she went. She was wreckless with her heart and her body and her emotions. She punished herself almost daily for making the wrong choice even though she knew that others would say it wasn't her fault.
She knew. She'd made the choice.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Excerpt Book 2
Dan fell in to step beside her.
“Where are you heading this time?” she asked. Dan's parents always flew him and his brother’s whole family to whatever remote tropical place they were vacationing for the winter that year.“Costa Rica,” he smiled. “You want to come?”
“Yeah.” She said it with just a touch of sarcasm so he wouldn’t think she was serious. The truth was, she’d like to go somewhere, anywhere, but her finances were such that it was impossible.
Her parents had called a few weeks earlier, as they always did, to ask her if she wanted to come “home” for Christmas. They all knew that neither she, nor they could afford such sentiment so it was always asked with the understanding that she should and would decline.
“I don’t know how you stand to stay here all winter every winter,” Dan teased. “You must be part snowman.”
“No. Ice woman.” She wondered how much of that was the truth.
“Well, have a good one,” Dan mumbled and hugged her awkwardly. As Dan pulled back she saw Professor Knight waiting for the path to clear.
Dan sauntered away without noticing him and without a backward glance.
Professor Knight cleared his throat and turned down an adjacent corridor. Something compelled Elise to follow, consciously increasing her pace so they were soon walking side by side.
“A little elf delivering her goodies I see.” It wasn’t a question and wasn’t particularly conversational either.
Elise chose to ignore the tone. “Just some small things for the office staff,” she said, though he didn’t seem to care.
“The office is the other way.”
“Oh I know. I thought I’d grab a bite before I left,” she said. She wondered if the professor would be going away for the holidays like the rest of the college, then wondered why she wondered.
They reached the cafeteria and parted ways; she veered right, toward the salad bar, while he headed for the sub shop.
Elise took her time building her salad and pretended to agonize over deciding which soup she wanted. She always chose creamy chicken and wild rice, but no one else needed to know that. She watched from the corner of her eye to see where the professor seated himself, then made her purchases and crossed to the same corner of the room.
The cafeteria was still surprisingly full for the last day of the semester. Several students still had one more final to complete before they were released for the winter break. Most sat at tables with 2 or 3 of their friends, chatting comfortably with a textbook open in front of them. The last-ditch attempts at studying were for show more than for purpose.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
An Ordinary Day For Most
It is snowing. (Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't, it doesn't really matter.) It is the tiny, dry pinging kind of snow that bites at your face if you brave the outdoors. It's the kind that doesn't take much strength to remove, but still makes you groan at the idea.
She's stayed inside as much as she can. There are chores that must be done regardless of the weather or her own mood. She rarely allows herself the luxury of a good cry. The few times it has happened have been in the late-night hours after her boy is tucked in bed and deep in slumber. She values strength. Strength of emotion, strength of character, strength of body.
There is a fire flickering softly. The boy toddles toward it occasionally, curious at the dance of orange and red. She calls after him, distracting him from harm. The fire is meant as much to take the chill from her heart as it is to warm the room.
The boy is determined to explore every inch of the room, touching things and stopping just for a moment to see if his mother is watching him. She notices only intermittently. He smiles when she admonishes him for touching the same forbidden object he's touched four times before she noticed. She sighs with exhaustion, not realizing he is testing her and looking for her attention.
She is distracted. She loves her boy beyond imagination and can only see his father when she looks at him. She wonders when her husband will be home again to help her teach this precocious boy. She is strong but not invincible. What does she know of little boys beyond her brothers? She finds some comfort knowing that she at least has brothers. Boys are still a bit mysterious. Motherhood is different than she pictured.
She keeps the tiny, shrunken letters in a pocket in her skirt. She doesn't know what else to do with them. They are optimistic, confident, breezy. They paint a picture very different from her world. She feels none of these. Her boy points to the one photo she keeps out. "Dada?" She merely nods at the daily inquiry. She knows she should probably do more but she can't.
The fire needs more wood. She has some dry in the house, but it will run out. She leaves the boy with a quick preemptive reprimand, bundles herself and goes to the shed to gather more firewood. She's thankful for the family who have stockpiled firewood on her behalf. She's strong, but she'd rather not split wood. On her way back from the shed she notices the lights of a car in the distance. It's not dark, but the snow has reduced visibility enough that the few out driving (and she wonders who is out driving in this?) turn on their headlights in the futile attempt to see more than a few feet ahead.
Head down, arms laden with wood, she trudges toward the house knowing her boy is probably getting into mischief, also knowing she can't waste time bundling him too and bringing him with her. Once inside, she finds him sitting on the bench just inside the door. "Hi Mama!" he smiles brightly.
He follows her progress to the fireplace and the stack of wood nearby. "Help you?" he asks in typical toddler fashion. She absently hands him a small log from the top of her stack. She's become a veteran at handling a stack and balancing just right. He beams with pride as he places it on the pile.
The knock on the door barely registers between the clatter of stacking the dry wood.
"Whas that?" the boy's eyes are huge.
Relieved of her wooden burden, she approaches the door. She's not expecting company. There is a twinge. She's not sure what the twinge means.
Opening the door, she's confused at the sight of the young man before her.
"I'm sorry Ma'am..." is all that she remembers hearing.
Gone. Gone. Gone. DEAD.
When she closes the door she collapses in tears, her boy frantically wiping them away.
**************
This is a romanticized, fictionalized version of my grandmother's day of learning that my grandfather (my dad's father) was killed in WWII. I dedicate this to my dad and to all the other veterans out there...and those we have lost.
She's stayed inside as much as she can. There are chores that must be done regardless of the weather or her own mood. She rarely allows herself the luxury of a good cry. The few times it has happened have been in the late-night hours after her boy is tucked in bed and deep in slumber. She values strength. Strength of emotion, strength of character, strength of body.
There is a fire flickering softly. The boy toddles toward it occasionally, curious at the dance of orange and red. She calls after him, distracting him from harm. The fire is meant as much to take the chill from her heart as it is to warm the room.
The boy is determined to explore every inch of the room, touching things and stopping just for a moment to see if his mother is watching him. She notices only intermittently. He smiles when she admonishes him for touching the same forbidden object he's touched four times before she noticed. She sighs with exhaustion, not realizing he is testing her and looking for her attention.
She is distracted. She loves her boy beyond imagination and can only see his father when she looks at him. She wonders when her husband will be home again to help her teach this precocious boy. She is strong but not invincible. What does she know of little boys beyond her brothers? She finds some comfort knowing that she at least has brothers. Boys are still a bit mysterious. Motherhood is different than she pictured.
She keeps the tiny, shrunken letters in a pocket in her skirt. She doesn't know what else to do with them. They are optimistic, confident, breezy. They paint a picture very different from her world. She feels none of these. Her boy points to the one photo she keeps out. "Dada?" She merely nods at the daily inquiry. She knows she should probably do more but she can't.
The fire needs more wood. She has some dry in the house, but it will run out. She leaves the boy with a quick preemptive reprimand, bundles herself and goes to the shed to gather more firewood. She's thankful for the family who have stockpiled firewood on her behalf. She's strong, but she'd rather not split wood. On her way back from the shed she notices the lights of a car in the distance. It's not dark, but the snow has reduced visibility enough that the few out driving (and she wonders who is out driving in this?) turn on their headlights in the futile attempt to see more than a few feet ahead.
Head down, arms laden with wood, she trudges toward the house knowing her boy is probably getting into mischief, also knowing she can't waste time bundling him too and bringing him with her. Once inside, she finds him sitting on the bench just inside the door. "Hi Mama!" he smiles brightly.
He follows her progress to the fireplace and the stack of wood nearby. "Help you?" he asks in typical toddler fashion. She absently hands him a small log from the top of her stack. She's become a veteran at handling a stack and balancing just right. He beams with pride as he places it on the pile.
The knock on the door barely registers between the clatter of stacking the dry wood.
"Whas that?" the boy's eyes are huge.
Relieved of her wooden burden, she approaches the door. She's not expecting company. There is a twinge. She's not sure what the twinge means.
Opening the door, she's confused at the sight of the young man before her.
"I'm sorry Ma'am..." is all that she remembers hearing.
Gone. Gone. Gone. DEAD.
When she closes the door she collapses in tears, her boy frantically wiping them away.
**************
This is a romanticized, fictionalized version of my grandmother's day of learning that my grandfather (my dad's father) was killed in WWII. I dedicate this to my dad and to all the other veterans out there...and those we have lost.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Threshold
She hesitated for a moment at the door. Once she walked through that doorway things would be forever changed. Her memories would be altered, her future uncertain.
Eighteen was supposed to be a carefree age full of feelings of being invincible. Invincible becomes erased when your boyfriend of three whole years – a lifetime in high school – nearly dies in a car accident of his own making.
She was torn. She wanted to turn away and live the carefree life that she lived before but he beckoned; he she had known for more than half her life.
She pushed it open.
****
Wooo! Go me! Finally wrote a response to Slouchy's 100 word story challenge.
Eighteen was supposed to be a carefree age full of feelings of being invincible. Invincible becomes erased when your boyfriend of three whole years – a lifetime in high school – nearly dies in a car accident of his own making.
She was torn. She wanted to turn away and live the carefree life that she lived before but he beckoned; he she had known for more than half her life.
She pushed it open.
****
Wooo! Go me! Finally wrote a response to Slouchy's 100 word story challenge.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sensory Tale
You wake disoriented to a muted world in color and sound, as though someone has thrown a sheet of tulle over your eyes and covered your ears with his hands.
You shower, feeling cocooned in warmth, letting the water drizzle over your body for a few extra minutes.
Later, you stand outside, face up feeling the flakes peppering your skin and hanging on your eyelashes. You blink to melt one as another takes its place.
The silence is broken momentarily as a neighbor's tires hum and pop along the snow-covered road, the sounds grow louder then fade back into the quiet.
Maybe you lie down then, your arms and legs swish-swishing through the frozen blanket around you. You stop, surrounded by an angel, and stick out your tongue to catch just one flake. You can hear them hitting the trees, the ground, you...tiny pings as though grains of rice being poured into a measuring cup.
Inside again, you wrap your red fingers around the warm mug and take tentative sips of hot chocolate, warming again, inside out.
You shower, feeling cocooned in warmth, letting the water drizzle over your body for a few extra minutes.
Later, you stand outside, face up feeling the flakes peppering your skin and hanging on your eyelashes. You blink to melt one as another takes its place.
The silence is broken momentarily as a neighbor's tires hum and pop along the snow-covered road, the sounds grow louder then fade back into the quiet.
Maybe you lie down then, your arms and legs swish-swishing through the frozen blanket around you. You stop, surrounded by an angel, and stick out your tongue to catch just one flake. You can hear them hitting the trees, the ground, you...tiny pings as though grains of rice being poured into a measuring cup.
Inside again, you wrap your red fingers around the warm mug and take tentative sips of hot chocolate, warming again, inside out.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Mini-Story: Assumptions
She didn’t like him.
He was cocky and confident and nearing arrogant. He had a swagger to his walk that suggested he knew who he was. He wore black jeans that left little to the imagination and a coral t-shirt. It took a certain confidence for a man to wear pink.
She was terrified that she liked him.
He was terrified to talk to her.
She was quiet yet confident and nearing snobbish. She had a swing to her hips when she walked that suggested she was sure of herself and her looks. She wore a baggy t-shirt that left way too much to the imagination and dark blue jeans. He wanted to know what was beneath that t-shirt.
He wanted to know her.
He was cocky and confident and nearing arrogant. He had a swagger to his walk that suggested he knew who he was. He wore black jeans that left little to the imagination and a coral t-shirt. It took a certain confidence for a man to wear pink.
She was terrified that she liked him.
He was terrified to talk to her.
She was quiet yet confident and nearing snobbish. She had a swing to her hips when she walked that suggested she was sure of herself and her looks. She wore a baggy t-shirt that left way too much to the imagination and dark blue jeans. He wanted to know what was beneath that t-shirt.
He wanted to know her.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Fiction: The Best Laid Plans
She wasn't wearing any shoes. It wasn't so much a fashion statement (or lack of fashion statement) as it was laziness...or perhaps practicality. It was raining and shoes would have just gotten ruined.
Garrett was watching her from his living room window. He was trying not to watch but he was pulled to the window anyway. He felt slightly soiled, like her muddy feet, because he was watching her without her knowledge yet he continued to stare. She was his neighbor across the street, young and single and just the person he longed for in his life.
Lily was enjoying herself. The rain brought out the kid in her, and truth be told, the kid in her wasn't so long ago. She was splashing and dancing in the puddles, her Moonlight Madness toenails speckled with taupe mud, and hoping that her joy wasn't going unnoticed. She was a quiet person in general, but often she had the urge to be on stage with people watching her every move. She knew a quietly handsome man lived across the street and often fantasized about him watching her.
Lily had plans and a schedule for those plans. Married by 22, first baby by 23, sibling for that baby (opposite gender of course) by 25. It didn't occur to her to alter this plan even as she was without a steady boyfriend and nearly 21. Things always worked out for her. She had never been disappointed. Her mother told her she was even born on her due date, right on schedule.
She dipped her toes in a particularly large puddle and made a big show of pretending to find the water extraordinarily cold. She was a great actress in her eyes which naturally led her to believe that others were easily fooled by her.
Garrett chuckled to himself. It was as though she was dancing through the puddles just for him. He cleared his throat and his face sobered. It was obvious she was a tease. He didn't know why girls had to act that way.
He had plans and a schedule for those plans. Wait until dark, ring the girl's doorbell, get inside her house by 8. With any luck she'd be in his freezer by 9 and he wouldn't miss his racquetball game with his friend.
Garrett was watching her from his living room window. He was trying not to watch but he was pulled to the window anyway. He felt slightly soiled, like her muddy feet, because he was watching her without her knowledge yet he continued to stare. She was his neighbor across the street, young and single and just the person he longed for in his life.
Lily was enjoying herself. The rain brought out the kid in her, and truth be told, the kid in her wasn't so long ago. She was splashing and dancing in the puddles, her Moonlight Madness toenails speckled with taupe mud, and hoping that her joy wasn't going unnoticed. She was a quiet person in general, but often she had the urge to be on stage with people watching her every move. She knew a quietly handsome man lived across the street and often fantasized about him watching her.
Lily had plans and a schedule for those plans. Married by 22, first baby by 23, sibling for that baby (opposite gender of course) by 25. It didn't occur to her to alter this plan even as she was without a steady boyfriend and nearly 21. Things always worked out for her. She had never been disappointed. Her mother told her she was even born on her due date, right on schedule.
She dipped her toes in a particularly large puddle and made a big show of pretending to find the water extraordinarily cold. She was a great actress in her eyes which naturally led her to believe that others were easily fooled by her.
Garrett chuckled to himself. It was as though she was dancing through the puddles just for him. He cleared his throat and his face sobered. It was obvious she was a tease. He didn't know why girls had to act that way.
He had plans and a schedule for those plans. Wait until dark, ring the girl's doorbell, get inside her house by 8. With any luck she'd be in his freezer by 9 and he wouldn't miss his racquetball game with his friend.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Swing - Part Two
“Open it!” the women chorused.
Emma was one of those women who unwrap gifts carefully, as though they’ll be keeping the wrapping paper. She didn’t ever keep it, but she liked to ensure that the paper was still pretty before she threw it away. It was just another thing that drove her husband crazy.
She knew before she opened it that it was a bracelet identical to Lana’s. “I love it!” she exclaimed automatically. She did like Lana’s bracelet. On Lana. But leave it to Lana to be the only one who remembered Emma’s birthday. Lana was good people, good way down deep. Emma wished she, herself, was good at least halfway as deep.
“It’s. Cute.” Jane declared, slightly derisively. The rest of the women reserved their verbal judgments and instead made approving clucking sounds. Appropriately noncommittal, as they tended to be when Jane had ruled on a subject.
The “happy birthday” choir began and Emma beamed her thanks. She knew these women meant well, but they, perhaps with the exception of Lana, did not really care what happened to her. They were superficial friends. They said the things they thought they should and some of the things they knew they shouldn’t.
Emma allowed her mind to drift back to college. College was when her friends were really her friends. They were always in for the pound. She smiled to herself, remembering the time she’d given herself a black eye bouncing off a friend when she’d tried to pig pile her. She stifled a giggle and hoped the other women wouldn’t notice her merriment.
Talk drifted away from Emma toward the opinions of the wine and the state of everyone’s manicures. Emma began to feel claustrophobic.
“I’ll see you ladies next time!” Emma chirped, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. It really wasn’t the ladies’ fault. It was more the atmosphere of the friendship they’d developed. They were all supremely insecure and sensitive about their looks. Instead of being supportive, their friendships had turned into a competition.
“Hey you don’t look that old!” Jane commented, apparently attempting a compliment.
Emma wondered when she had started to settle for friends like these.
Outside the restaurant the day had turned warmer. It was autumn in Minnesota, which presented its own conundrum figuring out what the weather would be each day. Emma tended to dress in layers to be prepared for the myriad of temps that could arise. She pulled off the light blue cardigan and enjoyed the feel of the sun on her bare arms.
She spied a park to her left and felt pulled toward it. Her mind played back a time in college when her girlfriends and her had played at a park and laughed hysterically without a malicious laugh in the bunch.
I need to live life better.
It was a thought that just popped into her head. She hadn’t realized that she had been surrounding herself with negative energy. Her husband and her had been talking about having a baby but none of the other women had any kids yet. A baby would mean a weight gain that couldn’t be denied. The other women would have to comment on her looks if she wasn’t a size 6 any longer.
Emma chose a swing closest to the slide. It was under the limb of an old oak tree that soared high into the sunlight. The limb curved over the swing set like the protective arm of a mother.
She sat on the swing and unconsciously began to pump her legs. What if she just did it? Tried to have a baby and made herself and her husband happy instead of worrying about what her friends thought?
Her legs whipping back and forth, the swing surged higher and higher until there was only one thing left to do. Jump.
Emma was one of those women who unwrap gifts carefully, as though they’ll be keeping the wrapping paper. She didn’t ever keep it, but she liked to ensure that the paper was still pretty before she threw it away. It was just another thing that drove her husband crazy.
She knew before she opened it that it was a bracelet identical to Lana’s. “I love it!” she exclaimed automatically. She did like Lana’s bracelet. On Lana. But leave it to Lana to be the only one who remembered Emma’s birthday. Lana was good people, good way down deep. Emma wished she, herself, was good at least halfway as deep.
“It’s. Cute.” Jane declared, slightly derisively. The rest of the women reserved their verbal judgments and instead made approving clucking sounds. Appropriately noncommittal, as they tended to be when Jane had ruled on a subject.
The “happy birthday” choir began and Emma beamed her thanks. She knew these women meant well, but they, perhaps with the exception of Lana, did not really care what happened to her. They were superficial friends. They said the things they thought they should and some of the things they knew they shouldn’t.
Emma allowed her mind to drift back to college. College was when her friends were really her friends. They were always in for the pound. She smiled to herself, remembering the time she’d given herself a black eye bouncing off a friend when she’d tried to pig pile her. She stifled a giggle and hoped the other women wouldn’t notice her merriment.
Talk drifted away from Emma toward the opinions of the wine and the state of everyone’s manicures. Emma began to feel claustrophobic.
“I’ll see you ladies next time!” Emma chirped, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. It really wasn’t the ladies’ fault. It was more the atmosphere of the friendship they’d developed. They were all supremely insecure and sensitive about their looks. Instead of being supportive, their friendships had turned into a competition.
“Hey you don’t look that old!” Jane commented, apparently attempting a compliment.
Emma wondered when she had started to settle for friends like these.
Outside the restaurant the day had turned warmer. It was autumn in Minnesota, which presented its own conundrum figuring out what the weather would be each day. Emma tended to dress in layers to be prepared for the myriad of temps that could arise. She pulled off the light blue cardigan and enjoyed the feel of the sun on her bare arms.
She spied a park to her left and felt pulled toward it. Her mind played back a time in college when her girlfriends and her had played at a park and laughed hysterically without a malicious laugh in the bunch.
I need to live life better.
It was a thought that just popped into her head. She hadn’t realized that she had been surrounding herself with negative energy. Her husband and her had been talking about having a baby but none of the other women had any kids yet. A baby would mean a weight gain that couldn’t be denied. The other women would have to comment on her looks if she wasn’t a size 6 any longer.
Emma chose a swing closest to the slide. It was under the limb of an old oak tree that soared high into the sunlight. The limb curved over the swing set like the protective arm of a mother.
She sat on the swing and unconsciously began to pump her legs. What if she just did it? Tried to have a baby and made herself and her husband happy instead of worrying about what her friends thought?
Her legs whipping back and forth, the swing surged higher and higher until there was only one thing left to do. Jump.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Swing - Part One
The third Sunday afternoon of the month was always the Ladies Lunch. That’s what the husbands decided to call it in one of the nicer terms. When they really felt like teasing they called it the Bitches Brunch. The ladies pretended that this moniker bothered them but most of them relished it and noted the lunch in their planners with the initials “b.b.”
The men imagined that the ladies sat around and bashed men, or more specifically, their husbands, while sipping white wine and nibbling on salads.
The ladies didn’t really do a lot of bashing during the lunches, however, although it would be a lie to say that it never occurred. Conversation topics usually ranged from hairstyles and monthly cycles to current events and finances. The more wine that flowed because “it was 5 o’clock somewhere” it was more likely that talk would swing away from the mundane.
This Sunday happened to also be Emma’s 30th birthday. She didn’t tell any of her friends of the significance of the date, but she secretly hoped that one of them somehow knew and would make a big deal out of it.
She was always doing things like that. Keeping information from people that she really wanted them to know. She was a walking contradiction most of the time, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but also craving attention. It was one of the things about her that drove her husband crazy.
“Jane!” the shriek of hello that erupted from Lana was like the scream of a mother hawk at an intruder in her nest.
Lana was a people pleaser. Whatever it took, whatever she thought people wanted, she delivered. On the rare occasions that she sported a backbone and disagreed with someone, her skin turned ashen and it was uncertain if she would remain upright on her 3-inch clearance-section heels.
Jane was notorious for deflecting any obvious plays for her attention. “Mona!” she cried, as though she could neither see nor hear Lana laying her affections at her feet. A quick hug and a wisp of a kiss on her cheek graced Mona with Jane’s acknowledgement.
Emma tried to not notice Lana’s fairly visible deflation at the rejection. “So Lana,” she cooed, “where did you get that bracelet? It’s gorgeous.”
Lana puffed back up. “You like it?” she beamed. “I’m so glad!” She rustled around in her purse. “Here.” She shoved a bright orange wrapped box toward Emma.
“What’s this?” Emma tried her best to look confused although the smile was impossible to conceal.
“Open it!” the women chorused.
(to be continued tomorrow)
The men imagined that the ladies sat around and bashed men, or more specifically, their husbands, while sipping white wine and nibbling on salads.
The ladies didn’t really do a lot of bashing during the lunches, however, although it would be a lie to say that it never occurred. Conversation topics usually ranged from hairstyles and monthly cycles to current events and finances. The more wine that flowed because “it was 5 o’clock somewhere” it was more likely that talk would swing away from the mundane.
This Sunday happened to also be Emma’s 30th birthday. She didn’t tell any of her friends of the significance of the date, but she secretly hoped that one of them somehow knew and would make a big deal out of it.
She was always doing things like that. Keeping information from people that she really wanted them to know. She was a walking contradiction most of the time, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but also craving attention. It was one of the things about her that drove her husband crazy.
“Jane!” the shriek of hello that erupted from Lana was like the scream of a mother hawk at an intruder in her nest.
Lana was a people pleaser. Whatever it took, whatever she thought people wanted, she delivered. On the rare occasions that she sported a backbone and disagreed with someone, her skin turned ashen and it was uncertain if she would remain upright on her 3-inch clearance-section heels.
Jane was notorious for deflecting any obvious plays for her attention. “Mona!” she cried, as though she could neither see nor hear Lana laying her affections at her feet. A quick hug and a wisp of a kiss on her cheek graced Mona with Jane’s acknowledgement.
Emma tried to not notice Lana’s fairly visible deflation at the rejection. “So Lana,” she cooed, “where did you get that bracelet? It’s gorgeous.”
Lana puffed back up. “You like it?” she beamed. “I’m so glad!” She rustled around in her purse. “Here.” She shoved a bright orange wrapped box toward Emma.
“What’s this?” Emma tried her best to look confused although the smile was impossible to conceal.
“Open it!” the women chorused.
(to be continued tomorrow)
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Aware
October is breast cancer awareness month, so I thought I'd republish this short story I wrote last December.
************************
“Another day, another mess,” sighed Katherine, stooping to vacuum what was left of her daughter’s snack. Some days were like this, when she wondered if this was all her life was, an unpaid maid.
Glancing around the room, she could see that her duties were just beginning. Her daughter’s school books littered the sofa. The pink blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her for her wedding shower lay on the floor. Her husband’s brief case and laptop stood open on the kitchen table, all of which was buried in an avalanche of papers. Dirty dishes filled the sink.
The cat had barfed in the middle of the room.
“Perfect,” Katherine muttered and went in search of the rug cleaner and a paper towel. Half-way to the cleaning cupboard the telephone rang.
“Hi Hon.” Her husband Jack’s rich baritone could always soothe the savage Katherine. Of course, his seemingly perpetual positive attitude helped immensely. “I forgot my brief case and my laptop!” he laughed. “George thinks I’m trying to get out of giving that presentation next week, as if I’d let all that work go to waste!”
George was Jack’s boss, technically, but he was also his friend. The two golfed together in the summer and were on a bowling team together in the winter. “The Knocking Ten-Pins” was the official bowling team name, but “Ten-Pins” was all that would fit on their shirts, much to George’s dismay. He’d been so impressed with himself, using a play on “Rocking” using “Knocking” instead. He hadn’t taken into account the length of the name.
Katherine laughed half-heartedly at Jack’s absent-mindedness.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “short-notice, but George gave us tickets to the Civic Theater tonight. I know how you like to see those productions…and free tickets. Didn’t you say Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight?”
Katherine mentally went through her to-do list before deciding to scrap it until tomorrow. What was one more day of filth? “Yes, Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight.”
Amy had been Karen’s best friend since they were five. Now both ten years old, they’d literally been friends for half their lives. Each girl was as welcome in the other’s home as she was in her own and often treated one another’s houses the same. Katherine thanked her lucky stars that the girls would be messing up her friend’s house tonight.
“That sounds great honey,” Katherine answered finally.“Okay, gotta run. Seeyoulaterloveyabye.” Jack hung up after his customary run-on goodbye.Now that Katherine had plans for the evening that involved more than putting on sweats and catching up on Survivor that left her with a new task -- finding something appropriate to wear tonight --more importantly, something appropriate that fit.
She hated to admit it, but a night out was still a novel experience in her life. She knew when Karen was a baby that she’d have few opportunities to break out of the mother role, but she hadn’t realized that this lack of a social life would extend into Karen’s pre-pubescent years.
Not that Jack hadn’t tried to get her to go out. He’d tried often but eventually grew too discouraged by Katherine’s many excuses to continue asking her regularly. Katherine made another mental note to start asking Jack out. They were in a rut and it was her fault.
“Civic Theater attire,” mumbled Katherine, peering into her closet. “Maybe the red dress.”She pulled out the knee-length sheath and held it in front of her. The last time she’d worn it, she’d gone to her cousin’s wedding. So that made it, she tried to calculate, five years old. It was still in style, which was the nice thing about having classic taste in clothing. She sucked in her breath and checked the size. A twelve. She threw the dress on the bed. There was no way she was fitting into that one.
“Black is good,” Katherine told herself confidently as she grabbed the flowing black blouse and pants set. This one was newer, bought in the last two years. She’d bought it for a friend’s funeral.
The thought forced Katherine to sit on the bed. “Mary.”
Mary had been younger than Katherine by three years. She’d been the kind of friend that made you feel like you were a great mother even though deep-down you knew you were screwing your kid up royally. Mary was upbeat, and real.Mary was dead. Six months after her breast cancer diagnosis and she was gone. Mary had told Katherine that she never did those breast self-exams that the doctors recommended because she’d been embarrassed about touching her own body, even in a medical way. Mary had been brought up in a strict Lutheran home with a pastor for a father and a severely repressed mother. Katherine remembered how Mary had chuckled bitterly as she mentioned her embarrassment. “Guess I should have copped a feel after all.”
A tear slipped down her cheek as Katherine checked the tag. This one would still fit. It was time for this outfit to see some happiness anyway.
Later, black outfit fitting perfectly and accessorized with her best jewelry, Katherine stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying some subtle makeup.“What on Earth is that?” Katherine asked her reflection, catching sight of a small hint of silver in her black mane.
A grey hair. Her first.
A giggle escaped her. Mary would have loved to hear that Katherine got her first grey hair the day she’d been thinking of her. Mary would have teased Katherine mercilessly.
Katherine decided to wear her silver proudly, if only for tonight, for Mary.
************************
“Another day, another mess,” sighed Katherine, stooping to vacuum what was left of her daughter’s snack. Some days were like this, when she wondered if this was all her life was, an unpaid maid.
Glancing around the room, she could see that her duties were just beginning. Her daughter’s school books littered the sofa. The pink blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her for her wedding shower lay on the floor. Her husband’s brief case and laptop stood open on the kitchen table, all of which was buried in an avalanche of papers. Dirty dishes filled the sink.
The cat had barfed in the middle of the room.
“Perfect,” Katherine muttered and went in search of the rug cleaner and a paper towel. Half-way to the cleaning cupboard the telephone rang.
“Hi Hon.” Her husband Jack’s rich baritone could always soothe the savage Katherine. Of course, his seemingly perpetual positive attitude helped immensely. “I forgot my brief case and my laptop!” he laughed. “George thinks I’m trying to get out of giving that presentation next week, as if I’d let all that work go to waste!”
George was Jack’s boss, technically, but he was also his friend. The two golfed together in the summer and were on a bowling team together in the winter. “The Knocking Ten-Pins” was the official bowling team name, but “Ten-Pins” was all that would fit on their shirts, much to George’s dismay. He’d been so impressed with himself, using a play on “Rocking” using “Knocking” instead. He hadn’t taken into account the length of the name.
Katherine laughed half-heartedly at Jack’s absent-mindedness.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “short-notice, but George gave us tickets to the Civic Theater tonight. I know how you like to see those productions…and free tickets. Didn’t you say Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight?”
Katherine mentally went through her to-do list before deciding to scrap it until tomorrow. What was one more day of filth? “Yes, Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight.”
Amy had been Karen’s best friend since they were five. Now both ten years old, they’d literally been friends for half their lives. Each girl was as welcome in the other’s home as she was in her own and often treated one another’s houses the same. Katherine thanked her lucky stars that the girls would be messing up her friend’s house tonight.
“That sounds great honey,” Katherine answered finally.“Okay, gotta run. Seeyoulaterloveyabye.” Jack hung up after his customary run-on goodbye.Now that Katherine had plans for the evening that involved more than putting on sweats and catching up on Survivor that left her with a new task -- finding something appropriate to wear tonight --more importantly, something appropriate that fit.
She hated to admit it, but a night out was still a novel experience in her life. She knew when Karen was a baby that she’d have few opportunities to break out of the mother role, but she hadn’t realized that this lack of a social life would extend into Karen’s pre-pubescent years.
Not that Jack hadn’t tried to get her to go out. He’d tried often but eventually grew too discouraged by Katherine’s many excuses to continue asking her regularly. Katherine made another mental note to start asking Jack out. They were in a rut and it was her fault.
“Civic Theater attire,” mumbled Katherine, peering into her closet. “Maybe the red dress.”She pulled out the knee-length sheath and held it in front of her. The last time she’d worn it, she’d gone to her cousin’s wedding. So that made it, she tried to calculate, five years old. It was still in style, which was the nice thing about having classic taste in clothing. She sucked in her breath and checked the size. A twelve. She threw the dress on the bed. There was no way she was fitting into that one.
“Black is good,” Katherine told herself confidently as she grabbed the flowing black blouse and pants set. This one was newer, bought in the last two years. She’d bought it for a friend’s funeral.
The thought forced Katherine to sit on the bed. “Mary.”
Mary had been younger than Katherine by three years. She’d been the kind of friend that made you feel like you were a great mother even though deep-down you knew you were screwing your kid up royally. Mary was upbeat, and real.Mary was dead. Six months after her breast cancer diagnosis and she was gone. Mary had told Katherine that she never did those breast self-exams that the doctors recommended because she’d been embarrassed about touching her own body, even in a medical way. Mary had been brought up in a strict Lutheran home with a pastor for a father and a severely repressed mother. Katherine remembered how Mary had chuckled bitterly as she mentioned her embarrassment. “Guess I should have copped a feel after all.”
A tear slipped down her cheek as Katherine checked the tag. This one would still fit. It was time for this outfit to see some happiness anyway.
Later, black outfit fitting perfectly and accessorized with her best jewelry, Katherine stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying some subtle makeup.“What on Earth is that?” Katherine asked her reflection, catching sight of a small hint of silver in her black mane.
A grey hair. Her first.
A giggle escaped her. Mary would have loved to hear that Katherine got her first grey hair the day she’d been thinking of her. Mary would have teased Katherine mercilessly.
Katherine decided to wear her silver proudly, if only for tonight, for Mary.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Silver
“Another day, another mess,” sighed Katherine, stooping to vacuum what was left of her daughter’s snack. Some days were like this, when she wondered if this was all her life was, an unpaid maid.
Glancing around the room, she could see that her duties were just beginning. Her daughter’s school books littered the sofa. The pink blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her for her wedding shower lay on the floor. Her husband’s brief case and laptop stood open on the kitchen table, all of which was buried in an avalanche of papers. Dirty dishes filled the sink.
The cat had barfed in the middle of the room.
“Perfect,” Katherine muttered and went in search of the rug cleaner and a paper towel. Half-way to the cleaning cupboard the telephone rang.
“Hi Hon.” Her husband Jack’s rich baritone could always soothe the savage Katherine. Of course, his seemingly perpetual positive attitude helped immensely. “I forgot my brief case and my laptop!” he laughed. “George thinks I’m trying to get out of giving that presentation next week, as if I’d let all that work go to waste!”
George was Jack’s boss, technically, but he was also his friend. The two golfed together in the summer and were on a bowling team together in the winter. “The Knocking Ten-Pins” was the official bowling team name, but “Ten-Pins” was all that would fit on their shirts, much to George’s dismay. He’d been so impressed with himself, using a play on “Rocking” using “Knocking” instead. He hadn’t taken into account the length of the name.
Katherine laughed half-heartedly at Jack’s absent-mindedness.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “short-notice, but George gave us tickets to the Civic Theater tonight. I know how you like to see those productions…and free tickets. Didn’t you say Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight?”
Katherine mentally went through her to-do list before deciding to scrap it until tomorrow. What was one more day of filth? “Yes, Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight.”
Amy had been Karen’s best friend since they were five. Now both ten years old, they’d literally been friends for half their lives. Each girl was as welcome in the other’s home as she was in her own and often treated one another’s houses the same. Katherine thanked her lucky stars that the girls would be messing up her friend’s house tonight.
“That sounds great honey,” Katherine answered finally.
“Okay, gotta run. Seeyoulaterloveyabye.” Jack hung up after his customary run-on goodbye.
Now that Katherine had plans for the evening that involved more than putting on sweats and catching up on Survivor that left her with a new task -- finding something appropriate to wear tonight --more importantly, something appropriate that fit.
She hated to admit it, but a night out was still a novel experience in her life. She knew when Karen was a baby that she’d have few opportunities to break out of the mother role, but she hadn’t realized that this lack of a social life would extend into Karen’s pre-pubescent years.
Not that Jack hadn’t tried to get her to go out. He’d tried often but eventually grew too discouraged by Katherine’s many excuses to continue asking her regularly. Katherine made another mental note to start asking Jack out. They were in a rut and it was her fault.
“Civic Theater attire,” mumbled Katherine, peering into her closet. “Maybe the red dress.”
She pulled out the knee-length sheath and held it in front of her. The last time she’d worn it, she’d gone to her cousin’s wedding. So that made it, she tried to calculate, five years old. It was still in style, which was the nice thing about having classic taste in clothing. She sucked in her breath and checked the size. A twelve. She threw the dress on the bed. There was no way she was fitting into that one.
“Black is good,” Katherine told herself confidently as she grabbed the flowing black blouse and pants set. This one was newer, bought in the last two years. She’d bought it for a friend’s funeral.
The thought forced Katherine to sit on the bed. “Mary.”
Mary had been younger than Katherine by three years. She’d been the kind of friend that made you feel like you were a great mother even though deep-down you knew you were screwing your kid up royally. Mary was upbeat, and real.
Mary was dead. Six months after her breast cancer diagnosis and she was gone. Mary had told Katherine that she never did those breast self-exams that the doctors recommended because she’d been embarrassed about touching her own body, even in a medical way. Mary had been brought up in a strict Lutheran home with a pastor for a father and a severely repressed mother. Katherine remembered how Mary had chuckled bitterly as she mentioned her embarrassment. “Guess I should have copped a feel after all.”
A tear slipped down her cheek as Katherine checked the tag. This one would still fit. It was time for this outfit to see some happiness anyway.
Later, black outfit fitting perfectly and accessorized with her best jewelry, Katherine stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying some subtle makeup.
“What on Earth is that?” Katherine asked her reflection, catching sight of a small hint of silver in her black mane.
A grey hair. Her first.
A giggle escaped her. Mary would have loved to hear that Katherine got her first grey hair the day she’d been thinking of her. Mary would have teased Katherine mercilessly.
Katherine decided to wear her silver proudly, if only for tonight, for Mary.
-----------------------------------
This is my own fictitious take on the Blog Exchange prompt of Gold and/or Silver since I wasn't ever able to connect with my Blog Exchange partner this month! Check out what the other participants wrote here.
Glancing around the room, she could see that her duties were just beginning. Her daughter’s school books littered the sofa. The pink blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her for her wedding shower lay on the floor. Her husband’s brief case and laptop stood open on the kitchen table, all of which was buried in an avalanche of papers. Dirty dishes filled the sink.
The cat had barfed in the middle of the room.
“Perfect,” Katherine muttered and went in search of the rug cleaner and a paper towel. Half-way to the cleaning cupboard the telephone rang.
“Hi Hon.” Her husband Jack’s rich baritone could always soothe the savage Katherine. Of course, his seemingly perpetual positive attitude helped immensely. “I forgot my brief case and my laptop!” he laughed. “George thinks I’m trying to get out of giving that presentation next week, as if I’d let all that work go to waste!”
George was Jack’s boss, technically, but he was also his friend. The two golfed together in the summer and were on a bowling team together in the winter. “The Knocking Ten-Pins” was the official bowling team name, but “Ten-Pins” was all that would fit on their shirts, much to George’s dismay. He’d been so impressed with himself, using a play on “Rocking” using “Knocking” instead. He hadn’t taken into account the length of the name.
Katherine laughed half-heartedly at Jack’s absent-mindedness.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “short-notice, but George gave us tickets to the Civic Theater tonight. I know how you like to see those productions…and free tickets. Didn’t you say Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight?”
Katherine mentally went through her to-do list before deciding to scrap it until tomorrow. What was one more day of filth? “Yes, Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight.”
Amy had been Karen’s best friend since they were five. Now both ten years old, they’d literally been friends for half their lives. Each girl was as welcome in the other’s home as she was in her own and often treated one another’s houses the same. Katherine thanked her lucky stars that the girls would be messing up her friend’s house tonight.
“That sounds great honey,” Katherine answered finally.
“Okay, gotta run. Seeyoulaterloveyabye.” Jack hung up after his customary run-on goodbye.
Now that Katherine had plans for the evening that involved more than putting on sweats and catching up on Survivor that left her with a new task -- finding something appropriate to wear tonight --more importantly, something appropriate that fit.
She hated to admit it, but a night out was still a novel experience in her life. She knew when Karen was a baby that she’d have few opportunities to break out of the mother role, but she hadn’t realized that this lack of a social life would extend into Karen’s pre-pubescent years.
Not that Jack hadn’t tried to get her to go out. He’d tried often but eventually grew too discouraged by Katherine’s many excuses to continue asking her regularly. Katherine made another mental note to start asking Jack out. They were in a rut and it was her fault.
“Civic Theater attire,” mumbled Katherine, peering into her closet. “Maybe the red dress.”
She pulled out the knee-length sheath and held it in front of her. The last time she’d worn it, she’d gone to her cousin’s wedding. So that made it, she tried to calculate, five years old. It was still in style, which was the nice thing about having classic taste in clothing. She sucked in her breath and checked the size. A twelve. She threw the dress on the bed. There was no way she was fitting into that one.
“Black is good,” Katherine told herself confidently as she grabbed the flowing black blouse and pants set. This one was newer, bought in the last two years. She’d bought it for a friend’s funeral.
The thought forced Katherine to sit on the bed. “Mary.”
Mary had been younger than Katherine by three years. She’d been the kind of friend that made you feel like you were a great mother even though deep-down you knew you were screwing your kid up royally. Mary was upbeat, and real.
Mary was dead. Six months after her breast cancer diagnosis and she was gone. Mary had told Katherine that she never did those breast self-exams that the doctors recommended because she’d been embarrassed about touching her own body, even in a medical way. Mary had been brought up in a strict Lutheran home with a pastor for a father and a severely repressed mother. Katherine remembered how Mary had chuckled bitterly as she mentioned her embarrassment. “Guess I should have copped a feel after all.”
A tear slipped down her cheek as Katherine checked the tag. This one would still fit. It was time for this outfit to see some happiness anyway.
Later, black outfit fitting perfectly and accessorized with her best jewelry, Katherine stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying some subtle makeup.
“What on Earth is that?” Katherine asked her reflection, catching sight of a small hint of silver in her black mane.
A grey hair. Her first.
A giggle escaped her. Mary would have loved to hear that Katherine got her first grey hair the day she’d been thinking of her. Mary would have teased Katherine mercilessly.
Katherine decided to wear her silver proudly, if only for tonight, for Mary.
-----------------------------------
This is my own fictitious take on the Blog Exchange prompt of Gold and/or Silver since I wasn't ever able to connect with my Blog Exchange partner this month! Check out what the other participants wrote here.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
First or Third?
I enjoy reading. I hadn't read a lot lately, up until a month or two ago it had been taking me several months to get through a book. Now I'm back in the reading habit, especially since I've been having trouble sleeping at night. I've read probably 5 books, almost 6, in the last month or so.
I've been noticing that every book I've read has been written in the third person perspective. Not one written in first person. Why is that?
Is first person too personal for most people to read? I suppose if the subject matter of the book is highly emotional or disturbing it would make the reader feel too close to the subject matter to read in first person. Or is it just easier to write in third person for most authors?
So there you have some of the things that I wonder when I'm laying in bed not sleeping.
I've been noticing that every book I've read has been written in the third person perspective. Not one written in first person. Why is that?
Is first person too personal for most people to read? I suppose if the subject matter of the book is highly emotional or disturbing it would make the reader feel too close to the subject matter to read in first person. Or is it just easier to write in third person for most authors?
So there you have some of the things that I wonder when I'm laying in bed not sleeping.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Mother of all Memes...The story continues...
Mrs. Chicken at Chicken and Cheese started a collaborative fictional story early this week and already the story is getting really good. I'm game for a challenge, especially if it's a writing challenge so I threw my hat in the ring to participate. If you think you'd like to try your hand, shoot her a comment!
Here's the story thus far (with authors noted):
(by Mrs. Chicken @ Chicken and Cheese)
I thought I saw him at the grocery store. It was raining that afternoon, and he had an umbrella. The red and white triangles that made up his portable shelter partly obscured his face, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Those eyes. Huge, blue and empty.
When he left me I remember searching their vast cerulean expanse for some sign, some flicker of love. It rained that day, too. Why does it rain when you lose someone you love? My tears left him unmoved. I don’t know why that surprised me.
The baby kicked in my cart and I let my gaze fall on her face. Her father’s eyes stared back at me. Green eyes, warm and full of life.“Mamma?” she said. “Mamma!”
(by Binky @ 24/7)
The question-turned-exclamation jarred me out of my reverie. There was pressure in my temples and behind the hazel tint of my colored contact lenses. "Mamma's here," I cooed. My voice was a manufactured kind of soothing. I leaned in and brushed a kiss over Bethany's forehead, where a drop of rainwater hung like the tiniest Swarovski pendant. Its chain was made of fine blond locks.
"What do you think, baby girl?" I asked as I pulled her into my arms. "Is it time to go home?" Her searching legs and center of gravity found all the right contours as she settled atop the jut of my hip. I tugged at her coat until the hood framed her face, then I stepped into the rain. A small deluge of water streamed off the curve of the lowercase "o" on the Save-A-Lot sign and landed at the back of my neck. I could feel the tag from my shirt sticking sharp and soggy to my skin.
I sighed against Bethany's face and tried to avoid the bigger puddles on our way to my twenty year old Civic, which was miraculously close. One row over and three cars ahead, I saw a familiar red and white umbrella spanning the gap between an open door and the driver's seat of a rusty 4Runner that had to be as old as my own piece of junk. The guy I'd mistaken for Paul sat sideways and watched the rain as he talked into a cell phone.
(by Tony @ Creative-Type Dad)
Hastily reaching into my purse holding Bethany firmly, I could faintly hear the sound of his voice. His mumbled words were almost too reminiscent of Paul’s. The way he laughed as he said “Gouda” into his plastic phone brought back imagery of the two of us, sitting together last winter on the living room floor, sipping Merlot watching “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”. Occasionally Paul would jokingly burst out vocabulary in his comedic English accent – expressions like “Don Perignon!” and “Caviar Dreams!” oh, how I loved Caviar and that faux bear skin rug.
With keys finally in hand, stumbling to open the rusty car door, I could sense this stranger's stare against my cheek. His phone chatter abruptly ended and I could hear the sounds of squeaking cowboy boots crushing the wet pavement.
(by Occidental Girl @ The Occidental Tourist)
My mind was suddenly full of so many thoughts vying for my attention at the same time that I couldn't think straight.
It can't be him, I thought, no way. What would I say? What do I look like? What am I wearing???
The answers came in rapid succession: It could be him, it's okay if it's him because I'm not angry anymore; I could talk about my fulfilling life that I've enjoyed since knowing him, like this beautiful child I created with someone else, without him; I look like shit but since I'm too hard on myself in general, I probably look just fine; men - especially Paul - don't notice what women are wearing unless it's nothing at all. Then, they notice.
When you coincidentally encounter someone you loved once, a long time ago, the traitorous mind tends to retrieve only the good memories and leave the battles and frustrations out of it. This leaves us to wonder what in the world we ever thought was wrong and maybe it was a mistake to end the relationship. After all, doesn't every relationship have ups and downs? Ours certainly did. It was passionate, without a doubt, but in every area: the loving AND the fighting. It was when the fighting overtook the loving that we fell apart. I wonder if he ever thought about all of that, even now. Paul didn't seem to notice many thing unless they were stark - naked or otherwise.
And yet, here he was - maybe - coming over to talk after all this time.
I took a deep breath, then turned around.
(by Meg @ Mainely-Megin):
"Hey." He practically whispered.
Oh. My. God."
Hi." Was it relief or despair?
"I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"No, I..." Not Paul. Not Paul. Not Paul. Who the hell was it?
"Peter Johnston, I sat behind you in statistics freshman year."
Peter freakin' Johnston. I felt my pulse in my neck, and I focused my breathing the way I had 15 short months ago in labor. Not Paul.
Peter held his umbrella over me and the squirmy Bethany. Idle chat. Wife, 3 kids, new job, just moved into town, wife hasn't met anyone yet. Not Paul. Not Paul. Peter was bursting with the need to share his happiness, which allowed him to simply see an old acquaintance, not someone's former lover plagued by mere memory.
"Dinner sounds great, I'd love to meet Lisa and the kids."
With the baby buckled in and my door as close to closed as it got, I watched Peter close his own door. The rain rushed down the window and distorted the images. It blended the head and brake lights of the cars winding their way through the parking lot.
(by Bethany @ mommy writer):
The seven-thirty hour, the one right after dinner, is always the worst. Waiting for Daniel to come home, feeding and changing Bethany for bedtime, cleaning the kitchen. It's a nuisance and a routine all the same.
That is, until Daniel comes stumbling into the back door in nothing short of drunkeness.
"Hi honey," he chirped balancing himself against the cracked linoleum counter kicking off his shoes, "Sorry I'm late."
When isn't he late?
"S'okay," I look up from the over-used skillet I'd been tackling with a worn Scotch pad for the last 15 minutes, "Had a good time tonight?"
Daniel only tripped past my shoulder to the spaghetti, waiting in the stained Tupperware and fixed himself a plate of dinner.
It's just as well. I didn't have the energy to congratulate him on an obvious vaccuum sale. Not today. The office post-sale drinks in celebration are too habitual, if not an excuse. And it isn't as if he'd just made a commission worth writing home about. It was more like we'd be able to splurge on groceries. Or buy Bethany the expensive diapers.
"This is good," he chewed, spilling sauce to the edges of his lips. The edges I used to adore when he spent more time smiling.
"Bethany went to bed easily tonight," I said more to myself than Daniel. "For once anyway."
Daniel shoveled another tangle of noodles into his mouth. He was either too drunk to realize I was trying engage him in conversation, or plain ignoring me.
I rinsed the pot and placed it beside the sink where the drying rack should be, the one I was too lazy to take from the bottom cupboard. Patting my hands on the stretched blue jeans that hugged my legs for the last two days, I pecked my husband on the forehead and walked towards the bedroom.
Just before leaving the hallway, I called back to him, "Your nemisis, Peter Johnston is back in town. We're having dinner with him, wife, and kids this weekend."
(Heather @ Cool Zebras)
I paused for a moment just inside the bedroom door. Ahhh. There is was, the choked sputter of breath, then silence.
I allowed my thoughts to wander while I pulled on my well-worn flannel nightie.
Peter and Daniel had been at odds since they were five. Preschool battles over who got the first cracker evolved into teenage hostilities on the basketball court. B Squad basketball at that. If there was something they could compare, you could bet there would be a pissing contest about it.
I’d avoided both of them in high school.
I continued my bedtime routine and tried to ignore the clink of bottles from the kitchen. I pulled at the corners of each eye and slipped out my contacts. Even to me my eyes looked tired, my skin drawn. It has been too long since I’ve dyed my roots.
The woman in the mirror looked sad, but then one corner of my mouth started to twitch.
I loved that Peter had no idea that I married Daniel.
_____________________________
It's your turn Christy!
On Deck:
Michelle
Mrs. Maladjusted
Kristi
Desitin's Child
Tater And Tot
Word Girl
Here's the story thus far (with authors noted):
(by Mrs. Chicken @ Chicken and Cheese)
I thought I saw him at the grocery store. It was raining that afternoon, and he had an umbrella. The red and white triangles that made up his portable shelter partly obscured his face, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Those eyes. Huge, blue and empty.
When he left me I remember searching their vast cerulean expanse for some sign, some flicker of love. It rained that day, too. Why does it rain when you lose someone you love? My tears left him unmoved. I don’t know why that surprised me.
The baby kicked in my cart and I let my gaze fall on her face. Her father’s eyes stared back at me. Green eyes, warm and full of life.“Mamma?” she said. “Mamma!”
(by Binky @ 24/7)
The question-turned-exclamation jarred me out of my reverie. There was pressure in my temples and behind the hazel tint of my colored contact lenses. "Mamma's here," I cooed. My voice was a manufactured kind of soothing. I leaned in and brushed a kiss over Bethany's forehead, where a drop of rainwater hung like the tiniest Swarovski pendant. Its chain was made of fine blond locks.
"What do you think, baby girl?" I asked as I pulled her into my arms. "Is it time to go home?" Her searching legs and center of gravity found all the right contours as she settled atop the jut of my hip. I tugged at her coat until the hood framed her face, then I stepped into the rain. A small deluge of water streamed off the curve of the lowercase "o" on the Save-A-Lot sign and landed at the back of my neck. I could feel the tag from my shirt sticking sharp and soggy to my skin.
I sighed against Bethany's face and tried to avoid the bigger puddles on our way to my twenty year old Civic, which was miraculously close. One row over and three cars ahead, I saw a familiar red and white umbrella spanning the gap between an open door and the driver's seat of a rusty 4Runner that had to be as old as my own piece of junk. The guy I'd mistaken for Paul sat sideways and watched the rain as he talked into a cell phone.
(by Tony @ Creative-Type Dad)
Hastily reaching into my purse holding Bethany firmly, I could faintly hear the sound of his voice. His mumbled words were almost too reminiscent of Paul’s. The way he laughed as he said “Gouda” into his plastic phone brought back imagery of the two of us, sitting together last winter on the living room floor, sipping Merlot watching “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”. Occasionally Paul would jokingly burst out vocabulary in his comedic English accent – expressions like “Don Perignon!” and “Caviar Dreams!” oh, how I loved Caviar and that faux bear skin rug.
With keys finally in hand, stumbling to open the rusty car door, I could sense this stranger's stare against my cheek. His phone chatter abruptly ended and I could hear the sounds of squeaking cowboy boots crushing the wet pavement.
(by Occidental Girl @ The Occidental Tourist)
My mind was suddenly full of so many thoughts vying for my attention at the same time that I couldn't think straight.
It can't be him, I thought, no way. What would I say? What do I look like? What am I wearing???
The answers came in rapid succession: It could be him, it's okay if it's him because I'm not angry anymore; I could talk about my fulfilling life that I've enjoyed since knowing him, like this beautiful child I created with someone else, without him; I look like shit but since I'm too hard on myself in general, I probably look just fine; men - especially Paul - don't notice what women are wearing unless it's nothing at all. Then, they notice.
When you coincidentally encounter someone you loved once, a long time ago, the traitorous mind tends to retrieve only the good memories and leave the battles and frustrations out of it. This leaves us to wonder what in the world we ever thought was wrong and maybe it was a mistake to end the relationship. After all, doesn't every relationship have ups and downs? Ours certainly did. It was passionate, without a doubt, but in every area: the loving AND the fighting. It was when the fighting overtook the loving that we fell apart. I wonder if he ever thought about all of that, even now. Paul didn't seem to notice many thing unless they were stark - naked or otherwise.
And yet, here he was - maybe - coming over to talk after all this time.
I took a deep breath, then turned around.
(by Meg @ Mainely-Megin):
"Hey." He practically whispered.
Oh. My. God."
Hi." Was it relief or despair?
"I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"No, I..." Not Paul. Not Paul. Not Paul. Who the hell was it?
"Peter Johnston, I sat behind you in statistics freshman year."
Peter freakin' Johnston. I felt my pulse in my neck, and I focused my breathing the way I had 15 short months ago in labor. Not Paul.
Peter held his umbrella over me and the squirmy Bethany. Idle chat. Wife, 3 kids, new job, just moved into town, wife hasn't met anyone yet. Not Paul. Not Paul. Peter was bursting with the need to share his happiness, which allowed him to simply see an old acquaintance, not someone's former lover plagued by mere memory.
"Dinner sounds great, I'd love to meet Lisa and the kids."
With the baby buckled in and my door as close to closed as it got, I watched Peter close his own door. The rain rushed down the window and distorted the images. It blended the head and brake lights of the cars winding their way through the parking lot.
(by Bethany @ mommy writer):
The seven-thirty hour, the one right after dinner, is always the worst. Waiting for Daniel to come home, feeding and changing Bethany for bedtime, cleaning the kitchen. It's a nuisance and a routine all the same.
That is, until Daniel comes stumbling into the back door in nothing short of drunkeness.
"Hi honey," he chirped balancing himself against the cracked linoleum counter kicking off his shoes, "Sorry I'm late."
When isn't he late?
"S'okay," I look up from the over-used skillet I'd been tackling with a worn Scotch pad for the last 15 minutes, "Had a good time tonight?"
Daniel only tripped past my shoulder to the spaghetti, waiting in the stained Tupperware and fixed himself a plate of dinner.
It's just as well. I didn't have the energy to congratulate him on an obvious vaccuum sale. Not today. The office post-sale drinks in celebration are too habitual, if not an excuse. And it isn't as if he'd just made a commission worth writing home about. It was more like we'd be able to splurge on groceries. Or buy Bethany the expensive diapers.
"This is good," he chewed, spilling sauce to the edges of his lips. The edges I used to adore when he spent more time smiling.
"Bethany went to bed easily tonight," I said more to myself than Daniel. "For once anyway."
Daniel shoveled another tangle of noodles into his mouth. He was either too drunk to realize I was trying engage him in conversation, or plain ignoring me.
I rinsed the pot and placed it beside the sink where the drying rack should be, the one I was too lazy to take from the bottom cupboard. Patting my hands on the stretched blue jeans that hugged my legs for the last two days, I pecked my husband on the forehead and walked towards the bedroom.
Just before leaving the hallway, I called back to him, "Your nemisis, Peter Johnston is back in town. We're having dinner with him, wife, and kids this weekend."
(Heather @ Cool Zebras)
I paused for a moment just inside the bedroom door. Ahhh. There is was, the choked sputter of breath, then silence.
I allowed my thoughts to wander while I pulled on my well-worn flannel nightie.
Peter and Daniel had been at odds since they were five. Preschool battles over who got the first cracker evolved into teenage hostilities on the basketball court. B Squad basketball at that. If there was something they could compare, you could bet there would be a pissing contest about it.
I’d avoided both of them in high school.
I continued my bedtime routine and tried to ignore the clink of bottles from the kitchen. I pulled at the corners of each eye and slipped out my contacts. Even to me my eyes looked tired, my skin drawn. It has been too long since I’ve dyed my roots.
The woman in the mirror looked sad, but then one corner of my mouth started to twitch.
I loved that Peter had no idea that I married Daniel.
_____________________________
It's your turn Christy!
On Deck:
Michelle
Mrs. Maladjusted
Kristi
Desitin's Child
Tater And Tot
Word Girl
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