Abyss

When you open your eyes you will find yourself suspended over a vast abyss of darkness, darkness that is floating up now to surround you.


This is inspired by a prompt from Write on Edge that asks you to compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters. Your text must elicit or express fear.

A Meeting...

Darkly handsome lab tech Nate meets heartbroken Jaya when he draws her blood. Captivated, he takes her home to Nashville where she heals.#blood

This piece was inspired by a prompt from Write on Edge that asks you to write your story as a tweet - 140 characters.

Frantic

We had to leave immediately.  That was my first thought when the blood poured out of me - chunks of red fell to the floor, splattering on the bathroom wall.

We had to go to the hospital.  

I was nine months pregnant but this wasn't just a typical bloody show.  This hadn't happened with my other two pregnancies.

That was 10 minutes ago.  I put down the cordless phone, still anxiously heaving even after my conversation with the doctor.

My baby.  Are you alright? Please be alright.  God, I can't lose this baby.  I just can't.  

We were going.

I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the bedroom.  I caught my husband carrying the sleepy older boy from the bedroom towards the front door.

"Rhys is already in the car," he said quietly, referring to our middle son and stepped out the front door.

Butterflies flew frantically in my stomach.  Worry sat like lead on my shoulders.

I cut off all the lights and rushed out into the night, closing the door behind me.

*

Driving through the darkness of Boulder towards the hospital, I could see the outline of the mountains.  My husband driving fast but not too fast.  A still quietness like a blanket draped the car.  The two boys in the back of the car were groggy.

"Mommy, where we going?" the almost 5 year old asked sleepily.

There was a knot in my throat.  I couldn't speak.  I just held my hand to my belly and prayed.

"We're going to the hospital," my husband said.  "We're going to check on the baby."

Baby, please move.  Just move.  The words moved through my head repeatedly, urgently after I finished my prayer, as I pressed my hand against my belly.

"We're almost there," he stated quietly to me, tension surrounding each word.

Yes, almost there.

 Hold on, baby.  Hold on. 

*

19  hours later, I stared at my newborn son sleeping quietly in the hospital crib, oblivious to the racket his two older brothers were making.    My husband stood up from the chair he sat in and looked at me, nodding.

He addressed the boys.  "Okay, you guys ready to go home?"

The 2 and 1/2 year old was still rolling around frenetically on the queen size hospital bed as the 5 year old jumped up and down on the end.  I laid on one side, bracing myself.

Craziness.

I shook my head, then looked back at my husband.

This was going to be our life now.  Everywhere we went.  This crazy.

And then we realized we were already home.

This non-fiction piece was inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Club  which asks to begin your story with the words “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

Cola Goodness Revisited

This is a rewrite of Cola Goodness...


She's a nut, my partner, Sophie.  Doesn't she know that stuff can burn a hole through a car hood?  Imagine what it's doing to her stomach.  


I sit across from her at McDonald's.  Lunch time.   She already had two cans of Coke this morning - who drinks Coke in the mornings?  Now she is drinking it from a Supersize cup. 


"I'm surprised you don't have holes in your stomach from where the acid is burning.  Or holes in your teeth, " I say, looking pointedly at her drink.

"What?"  She rolls her eyes.  "It's just Coke.  Besides, this is it for me today."

"Okay." I give her a doubtful look.  She makes that empty promise to herself daily.  

"It is!"


*


Two hours later, we walk towards the car on our way back  from viewing a crime scene.  We pass a bodega.  I make a detour towards it.  I could use a KitKat.


"I'm just going to grab something," I say. "You want anything?"


"A Coke."  Of course.  


I raise my eyebrows.  "I thought the Supersize was it for the day." 


She grimaces.  "This is an exception.  That body was gruesome.  Need a pick-me-up"


"Every body is gruesome."


"Thank goodness for Coke," she says and winks. 


I shake my head and walk in. 


*


Two hours later, back at the precinct, we both sit our desks, stumped.  This current case baffles us.  


"Should we just go to the board?" she asks. 


"Yeah," I say. "Maybe that will trigger something."  


We both stand. 


Sophie takes a sip from her lunchtime Supersized Coke cup.  She shakes it.  It's empty.  


"I'll be back," she says.  I look at her, then at her cup. 


"You want anything?  Another Kit-Kat? It'll be your third one today."  She looks at me pointedly. 


I sigh.  Chocolate is not as bad as that carbonated poison.  I throw her a dollar.  


"Yeah, sure."  


She walks towards the vending machine.  


*


It's 11pm and I lay back on my bed.  What a day.  Just got home minutes ago.  Sophie and I needed to call it quits since we weren't making any new progress on the case.  


I sigh  and the taste of chocolate appears on my tongue.  


Aw, what the heck.  


I get off the bed and head into the kitchen to grab a KitKat from my stash up in the cabinet by the sink. 




This piece is inspired by a writing prompt at the Red Dress Club which asks us to go back in the archives of our blog, pick a fiction or nonfiction piece and do a complete overhaul.  

Memory

This is the continuation of Alex and Kayla's story.  It picks up from when we last saw them in Life. 


The glistening blue-green waves made huge arcs and crashed against the shore releasing bubbly whitish foam.  Repeatedly.

Kayla's backdrop, as she stood, relaxed and graceful, wrapped in white, her black Canon Rebel XS in her hand.  She rested it on her shoulder, leaning her cheek against the lens that pointed towards him.

Portrait perfect. His Kayla.  A musician becoming photographer.

Her beautiful skin shone smooth milk chocolate.  Her brown eyes gazed lovingly at him.  A light wind lifted a lock of light brown hair and held it still in the air for a moment before releasing.

Her soft, flowy top fluttered around her like fragile butterfly wings.  Boho chic.  She held his gazed as she straightened up.

"Okay, Sir Hotness.  Strike a pose."

He was her subject while she dabbled in this new love.   The only one allowed to photograph him free of charge, much to his manager's chagrin.

He blushed and stood tall, posturing in fake sexiness.

"I've got 5 minutes, lady and then I'm needed back on set," he growled, a smile on his face.

Her laughter echoed through him, sending waves of pleasure.

Standing tall as a sentinel, she aimed her black Canon at him, one brown hand adjusting the lens.

"One of People's top 50 Sexiest Men.  Watch out."

Her smile, crooked sexy.  His heart melted.

She faded.



Alex opened his eyes and slowly turned his head, which still laid on Kayla's hand.

Reality - he thought as Kayla laid in the hospital bed.

She was still in the coma.  She looked peaceful - her eyes still closed.    It'd been two weeks since he heard her voice.    The doctors were still unsure but hopeful.  His agent was pressuring him to return to work.  He needed too.  He was under contract.  But he couldn't leave her.

Not yet.

Tears pushed forth from behind his eyes.  Stinging liquid down his cheeks.

He kissed her hand softly and laid his head down on it again.  He closed his eyes, reaching again for that memory.

For that comfort.

This piece is inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks to write a short fiction or non-fiction piece inspired by any or all of the photo above. Word limit: 400 words

Concrit welcomed. 

  

These "Shoe" Things...

These things.

They are flat, with a spongy bottom,  round at the top, straight at the sides, and round again at the bottom.  They have black and white stripes on them, with a strap at the top, in the middle of each shoe to slip my Big Toe and that next toe around it.

The Daddy calls them "shoes".   Big Brother calls them "flip flops".

I hated them when The Parents first bought them for me.

"Your first official walking pair!" The Momma announced happily.

I wasn't happy.

These things were heavy.

Made me wobble when The Momma planted me on the flat place I like to walk on.  They went into each other and I tipped and fell over.  Hit my head.

They trapped my feet and kept them from going anywhere.  There's a strap on each of these things that wraps around the back of my feet to keep them in.  Stops me from pulling them off and throwing them at The Momma's head.

Bummer.




Now we're on this big road trip and The Momma puts these "shoes" on me each time we stop to take a break.

So painful.

But I don't like being in my car seat too long.  That's very painful.

And these "shoes"...

They are my way out of the car.  The Momma won't let me walk on the flat places without them.   So if I don't fight her when she puts them on me, I can get out of the car.

Yeah!



The Momma is pulling me from the big car.  Yes! Yes! Yes!

She carries me to the flat place in the bright sunshine, my "shoe" things knocking against her legs.  I wiggle my legs hard.  I want down.  To put my feet and these things on that flat place.

Love the flat places.  These "shoe" things grip my feet like gloves as I walk on the flat places.  My toes settle into the pressed-in spots that my toes have been making since The Momma put them on me at the start of this trip.

She puts me down and my legs move, and my feet move and the "shoe" things move with my feet.

Not so heavy anymore as I step from side to side, making wide arcs with them.   Their spongy bottom cushions my feet from the hard blows of my stomping.

They keep me steady as I learn to use these feet.

These feet.  That's another story.


But not so bad.  These "shoes".

This piece is inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Club that asked you to write about a character and his/her shoes.  The above-mentioned character is my darling 16 month old son.   If he could write, this is what he would share.  He's getting used to those oval things with the back straps thanks to our recent road trip to California. 


Concrit welcomed. 

Life...

In this piece, I revisit characters from an earlier piece I wrote.  The following continues from where that piece left off.  


-----


A painful breath in.  A throbbing ache in her head.  Silence all around.

A memory.  Car rushing towards them.  Rolling over.  A hard thud, then stillness.

Cameron slumped in the passenger seat beside her.  Desperate panic rushed through her then.

God, let him be alright. 


Despair.

Oh, Alex.  I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to get your precious son hurt.  Not on my watch.  


Tears filled her eyes.

I love your son.  As much as I love you. 


She tried to move, but couldn't.  Took another breath in and then the pain in her head went sharp.  Darkness rushed in like an ocean wave.

*

A knot of worry the size of the Earth lodged itself in his chest.  Alex was about to shoot a scene when the call came for him.

"Alex?"  That was his manager who drove the car they sat in now.

He shook his head.  He didn't have a voice.

The car stopped in front of the hospital.

*

Twenty minutes later, Alex sat in the stark hospital room.

"Alex, do you want anything?"  His manager again.

He shook his head again.  Still no voice.

He couldn't muster one when the doctor spoke to him a few minutes ago, either.

Thoughts ran wild with worry in his head, but still...no voice.

He stared at the still woman lying before him, tears in his eyes.   His son was going to be okay, thank God, but Kayla, lying still in her beauty, they weren't sure.

Life. So precious.  So fleeting. 


That morning, Kayla was vibrant - full of life as he hugged her close and kissed her lips.  Now, here she was, barely holding onto it.

Alex leaned down and hugged her tight, pressing his cheek against hers, his lips against hers.

Kayla, baby, hang on.  Hang on.  


Live. 




This piece is inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks you to write a flash fiction piece inspired by the word "Life".

Concrit welcomed. 

Who I Am

This is piece centers around the main character in a mystery novel that I am working on: 


I stare hard at my face in the mirror. Scruitinizing it.  My light yellow skin with the wide, dark eyes and smattering of freckles across my nose. My origins are from New Orleans.  I'm the only son to an artist father and now dead mother.


Yet, I still don't know...who I am.

What I am.

And why the blood follows me home.  On my clothes.  On my skin.

And why I don't remember how the blood got there even though I can guess.  It's like I blackout for a few hours and wake up to shock of red covering me.



I'm killing or involved in a killing.  Of what? Or who?  My heart lurches at the thought.

There have been a string of murders with the same MO happening throughout New Orleans in the last several months. They say a serial killer is on the loose.

I cringe.  Could it be me?

I've tried psychologists, psychotherapists, even a hypnotist.  I fear what will be revealed during those sessions but the burning desire to know who I am trumps that fear.

You see, I'm tired of coming home in the early morning hours, exhausted, clothes stained with blood.  I'm tired of the constant scrubbing I have to do to get the blood off my clothes.

I hate living like this.  With this horrific unknown.

The blood.  Incriminating evidence.  Of what, though?  I want to know.   It's killing me.



I stare at my reflection in the mirror, then place my fedora on my head.

Oh, the irony.  I'm a private investigator and I can't even figure out the mystery that is me.

Until I do, I have to live with this nightmare.


I sigh sadly, turn and walk out the door.


This piece was inspired by a writing prompt from the red dress club which asks us to tell us what our character wants. 

Picture Proud

I stood waiting in anticipation.  I knew what was coming.  The parents around me were restless in their excitement. The air in the classroom was electric.  I stared at the white curtain in the back of the classroom that separated the classroom from the coatroom.

Just a few more minutes...

The curtain fluttered and then was pushed aside.  Eleven kindergartners filed out in a row, nervous smiles on their faces.  My 6 year old was the fourth one out.  He wore a goofy smile and bounced a little as he walked. I aimed my camera and captured the moment.

The next five minutes I walked back and forth, behind seated parents, snapping pictures, trying to get good ones, trying to be subtle, barely containing the excitement within me.  My 6 year old stood in the middle of the line of kindergartners.  One of the bigger kids as the 20 preschoolers lined up on either side of the group of eleven.

It was then that they started singing.  Sweet voices mingled with moving hands and feet as they performed three songs.  Their teacher sat on the floor in front, conducting the group with her hands raised towards them.  The smile on my 6 year old's face went from ear to ear.

After the songs ended, the preschoolers each took a small bouquet of flowers and handed a bunch to a kindergartner.  I snapped the picture of two hands exchanging flowers as a preschooler gave her bouquet to my son.

Minutes later, I stationed myself near the front behind the teacher.  I watched with bated breath as she called the 6 year old's name and gave him a special crystal necklace symbolizing "light" and "vision", and then shook his hand afterwards.  I snapped the picture of his shy smile as she congratulated him.

She moved on to the next child and I gripped my camera hard, watching my son, me, still with pride.


Ten minutes later, the kindergarten continuation ceremony was over.  My son ran over to his Dad who crouched down to his level and gave him a Huge hug.

"I'm so proud of you!" the Husband said.

My heart swelled then.  I didn't get that picture but the image of my boy hugging his Dad hard and smiling with pride will forever stay with me.

It's frozen in my memory.


This piece is written in response to a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks the writer to remember a graduation.  

Evidence of My Father

Three cigarettes laid in the ash tray.  The first thing I saw when I skipped into my mother's bedroom on a sunny morning.

Three cigarettes laid flat with their ends burnt dark to ash.   They belonged to my father.   My father who was not married to my mother but to another woman and who lived twenty minutes away from us with her and her daughter. My father who often came by, usually after I went to bed at night.

He did again last night. They thought I didn't know.

I laid in my bed in my room in the dark.  I heard the doorbell ring, the door opening, my mother's warm greeting and my father's equally warm baritone.  A bark.  My father's black german shepherd, Lady, was here too.  My father's constant companion.

Footsteps down the hallway and ending in the living room.  My mother's continued into the kitchen as she pulled out food and drinks for them both.  Then the constant talking.

I threw back my covers and got quietly out of bed.  I tiptoed to my open door and peeked out.  I would see the back of my father's grayish curly afro and Lady lying beside his chair.  I'd lean against the doorway and watch him for awhile.  When my eyelids started drooping, then I hurried back to bed.

I laid in between the sheets listening to the sound of their voices until I fell asleep.

These morning-afters.  Happened alot.  What was left were those white Kool cigarettes with their burnt ends buried deep in a pile of gray ash in a clear ashtray sitting on the floor by my mother's bed.

Evidence of my father being here.


This post is in response to a RemembeRED prompt for The Red Dress Club that asked the writer to Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see the above image of the cigarettes in an ashtray.

Alabama Time

My memory is a series of memories, hazily blended together...


Of the first time, me - at 7 years old - left the city and ventured down south to Alabama with my best friend, Agi and her mother, Jessie for a few days.  Me, crying as the Amtrak train left New York City's Penn Station and my mother behind.  It was the first time I had ever been away from her.

The hot, summer sun and dusty open land as we stepped off the train in Alabama.  The heat wrapped itself on my bare arms as we walked out of the train station to the car.

A cacaphony of 'Bama accents from brownskinned cousins of my best friend and her mother as the cluster of arms wrapped around us in greeting.  And Ma Dear, the grandaunt to Jessie and the matriarch of the family, petite and round,  bringing up the rear, welcoming us to her home in Talladega.

There was me, in the backyard of Ma Dear's with Agi and the rest of the cousins,  being sprayed by a hose,  barefoot, in my favorite green tank top and shorts combo - the one with the apple on the front.  Hands snatching at the green hose, each one wanting to take their turn spraying.

There was me, walking the tracks with Agi and a few of the cousins on a Sunday morning trying to catch up with the rest of the family at church.  The dark metal steel of track was hard under my feet as we moved along and I stared out at the miles of light brown, dusty dirt road  that ran along both sides of the track for miles ahead of us.

Me, sitting outside on the porch steps and looking up at the twinkling stars in a black-as-night sky, as the dark quiet settled around me. A quiet so foreign to me, a little girl from the city.  Shifting in the bed I shared with Agi, listening to the crickets talk outside our window.  Looking up at the weathered walls that Ma Dear called home.

Good southern morning breakfasts of biscuits and bacon and grits with butter in the center.  The shouts of the cousins as they called out to Ma Dear: "Ma Dear, where's my shoes?", "Ma Dear, when we headin' out?", "Ma Dear, ain't nothin' like your grits!  I just love them!"

"Ain't that the truth!" I'd say, my northern accent tinged with the southern, and the southern part would get stronger by the time the week ended.

Can't remember getting back on the train to go home but I do remember shouting and running into my mother's arms on that train platform, my grin huge and my sun-darkened face refreshed and happy as I brought the good memories of Alabama back home with me.



This was inspired by a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club that asked that we write a memoir piece inspired by this picture of a garden hose.

Joy - Stolen

You stole my joy...

Such a beautiful face - your olive skin, hazel eyes, charming smile,  you drew me in.  When you returned my interest, I was thrilled.  Our dinners in Manhattan, our weekend trips to the Cape, our walks in Central Park.

I was in heaven.  So happy.  My joy, the size of a glowing, effervescent sun, I could barely contain it.

A few months later we were rushing down the aisle of the old chapel down in Princeton - Mr. and Mrs.   I gripped your arm tightly as you held mine.

"You're mine's," you whispered, softly, seductively in my ear.  I shivered in anticipation.  I couldn't wait for that night.

Days later, lying on the bright white beach staring at sparkling turquoise blue water was divine.  My joy spread as wide as the bright horizon before me.  All was perfect in our little world.

And when we moved into our new old Victorian home with the wide steps off the front porch,
my joy pulsated.  I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Until rage like a fiery whirlwind appeared out of nowhere, your face a contorted mask.   I would see that face often.  It would stun me and bring tears to my eyes.

Each fist on my skin would pierce a hole in my joy and bring disillusionment.  The punches to my stomach, the shoves into doors, the bruises marking my pale skin, the blood on the floor.

Stinging pain followed after along with my muffled cries.   I didn't want to make you angry again.

After the tenth trip to the emergency room, I left you and my joy behind.  


The time with my parents afterwards at their comforting home was a balm to my emotional wounds yet depression overtook me, as the tears flowed.  Angry, I wanted my joy back.

So I threw myself into building the career that would make me happy -  got that job I worked with great passion for.  A little brightness like a spark flared through my darkness but the tears still flowed.

I took that dream cruise to the Caribbean with my best friends.  Spent days walking the white sandy beaches and nights relaxing to the sounds of steel drums.  Laughed a bit, but deep within me, the sadness still settled.

Months later,  I went after a life long goal and made the climb up Denali.  Majestic, breathtaking.  My first smile in a long time appeared on my lips.  But that night underneath the glittering stars a tear or two still made an appearance, though the throbbing in my heart began to slow to a dull ache.

Then one Saturday morning, while I sat on my window seat staring out at the trees across from my home,  I picked up a pen and started to write.  About all the things you did to me and all the hurts and pains I endured while with you and even a few of the good memories.  The tears rushed out and became deep, gut-wrenching sobs.  This writing and this crying went on until late in the evening until I truly let you go from my heart.


I wake the next day - today - pack a picnic basket and take off to the mountains near my home.  I sit by that spot I love near the rushing water of the creek surrounded by the  omnipresent Rocky Mountains.  I breathe in the clear air, pick up my pen and notebook and start to write.  I smile as my eyes tear up.

It's been almost two years.

Finally, I've found my joy.


This piece of fiction is based on a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks to write about a treasure that was stolen from you or your character, and what you did about it.


Concrit welcomed.

Hi, I'm Cynthia, Your Grumpy Barista at Vic's.

Hi, I'm Cynthia.  Yes, Cynthia, the coffee barista you see every time you drive through the Vic's Coffee drive-thru lane in South Boulder.  The one who gives you a frown whenever she sees you.


I start work every morning at 4:30am.  I come in at the same time as Rick,  the boss.  He has me do all the menial stuff like turn on the lights, sweep the floors, wipe off the tables, prep the coffee machines.   All while he fiddles with the cash register.  I get no help from him whatsoever.  I mean how many times can you rearrange money?


If that's not enough, after working the busy early morning rush hour from 7 to 9 at the front, he puts me at the window right after to relieve Sara to deal with the mid-morning drive-thru rush.  I mean, I'm not the only barista working here, right?


I'm gritting my teeth because I'm trying to keep my queasiness at bay which is why my mouth is set into this permanent frown.  You see, I'm ten weeks pregnant, and this morning sickness has been getting the best of me.


I'm not really trying to be rude. I'm  just an emotional basketcase.  I start off happy but then about three minutes later,  I want to scream, then cry, then scream again, then throw the huge coffee machine that is on the table next to me against the wall.  My boyfriend hasn't called me back since I told him about the baby four weeks ago.  This was supposed to be the guy who "loved" me.   What a jerk.  Sigh.  I didn't ask for this.


I'd curse at you right now for being so slow to hand me your money but then I get fired and I really need this job.


I barely reach out of the window to hand you your coffee.  Only because reaching out makes me want to  retch in the moment, and I can't have vomit all over the customers can I?  Rick would get on my case, and then wonder what was up with me.  I haven't told him yet that I'm pregnant.  I'm not looking forward to his response.  So you'll just have to basically lean all the way out your window to get your coffee.  Sorry.


My feet are killing me.  I'm so tired that I can barely stand.  It's why you find me sitting on a stool when you drive up to the window.  And why I grimace when I have to get up and serve you your coffee.   I try to smile but I can't.   But at least, I'm fast in getting you your white mocha.  So if nothing else, you get your coffee in under a minute.


Anyway, nice to see you again.  I mean it, even though I'm still frowning.  I'm trying not to throw up the blueberry muffin I ate ten minutes ago.   Can you drive away a little faster?  I only have a few seconds to sit down before someone else decides to drive up.


Thanks, and have a good day.  I can't wait until mine is over.


This is a somewhat piece of fiction inspired by the writing prompt  from the Red Dress Club where the assignment asks you to think of someone - it could be a fictional character, a public figure, someone you know - who gets under your skin, and write a piece from his or her perspective.




Concrit welcomed.

My Future

I rode up on an elevator with Tommy, my handsome stud of a boyfriend.  I straightened my blouse and fixed my skirt, then looked at him.  We shared a smile.   We arrived twenty minutes early and  feeling extremely turned on by each other,  we decided to make memorable use of the extra time in his Land Rover parked downstairs.  It was hot and amazingly intense,  just like the other times.  


We were on our way up to see a loft apartment.  This was my dream almost fulfilled. I'd settle in with Tommy in a cool urban loft apartment in my dream location and just work on my writing career. Tommy was a musician but his parents were well-off, and since he was their only boy, he was lavishly spoiled.   We would be together, not necessarily married. Who needed a piece of paper when you had love and heart connecting you?   This would be my future and I couldn't wait for it.


The elevator doors opened to a large room with dark wood floors, exposed brick walls and a long row of tall windows running across from one side to another.  The sun shone brightly in, lighting up the beautiful room which was decorated in rich brown and red tones.


A woman around my age walked up and greeted us.  "Hi, I'm Rebecca, the Strattons' assistant. Dominick and Theresa will back any minute.  They apologize for being late but asked me to show you the place in the meantime while we wait for them."



At the end of our tour, Dominick and Theresa still hadn't arrived, so Tommy and I talked with Rebecca while we waited.


"What are you guys doing this Sunday?" she asked.  Sunday would be Valentine's Day.


"Romantic stuff, " I said and looked at Tommy.  He grinned.


"Would you like to start off that romantic day with a morning celebrating love?" She went on to invite us to a church service hosted by the Performing Arts ministry of her church.




*


The service was amazing, the music top notch, the messages moving, the congregation filled with people whose made their living  in the arts yet did it with God in their lives.  My heart swelled.  I turned to Tommy.  My excited smile met his reluctant one.



We started studying the bible that Sunday.   Another cool dimension to add to our sparkling future together.


*

It is nine months later and I am preparing for my date that night.  I am living a new life and Tommy is not a part of it.  Our relationship ended three days before I was baptized and became a Christian. He couldn't commit to having a chaste relationship and I couldn't continue to have an adulterous one.   We rescinded our offer on the loft apartment and I moved into this small apartment with a new roommate.


I slip on my last earring when the doorbell rings.  When I open the door, a sweet, wholesome face topped with red hair smiles back at me.  Christopher.  My current boyfriend.


"Hi," I say breathlessly.  He holds the most beautiful bouquet of deep red roses.  He doesn't kiss me, just hugs me instead.   The shared kiss on the lips we are saving for that special moment.   There will be wedding bells in my future and my being dressed in white will be more than just a tradition.  It will actually mean something.  


As he hands me the roses, I smile.   Little did I know the future that awaited me that day almost a year ago when I stepped into that loft.

 

This is a fictional piece inspired by a writing prompt from the Red Dress Club where you were  to write - fiction or non-fiction - about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?

Mud Mounds

Grace steps out onto the back patio, then sighs.


Ugh! So gross.


She stares at a mound of dark brown mud mixed with green and red play dough. It sits right in the middle of her terracotta colored tile patio.

How many times has she told Christopher not to build his mud mounds on the patio? Keep the mud and dirt where it belongs, in the grass. In the amount of time and effort it takes her boy to fill his bucket full of dirt from the grassy part of the yard and haul it over to the patio, he could build two mounds out in the grassy area. A whole little mud town, even.


Grace shakes her head. How her little five year old loves mud. How she hates it. It is gross. She hates how the brown stuff can get everywhere: in the cracks in the tiles of the patio, in the corners of the rooms throughout the house, underneath fingernails – mostly Christopher’s. It drives her nuts. But for Christopher, mud is the best thing ever. He usually wears the biggest grin when pushing his fingers through the wet, almost black mushy stuff.


She thinks of that grin now. Wide, toothy, his rosy lips stretched wide. Beautiful. How she loves that grin. She smiles. It has been a long while since she had seen that grin. Months. She stares at the horrible, misshapen dark mound – bumpy and gooey in its consistency.

Since last summer, she thought.


Since before the cancer, and the chemo. The diagnosis came in early Fall and the months that followed were scary, stressful and lethargic ones. Ones where Christopher couldn’t go out to play most days because he was sick and just tired from the chemo. Days where he could barely get out of bed or hold his cup of water to drink. Playing in the backyard and making muddy mounds was definitely out of the question.


It has been nine months and summer is about to begin again. The rounds of chemo treatments have ended, and the prognosis is good. So far, no cancer left in his little body. In remission. The best words Grace had ever heard in her life.


She stares at the brown mound. The misshapen, gunky blob is beautiful, she realizes. So beautiful. The creation of a boy who had the energy to make it again, who could play outside once more.


The memory of Chris carrying the two small containers of play dough out into the backyard appears before her eyes. Watching him then, she knew what he was about to make. She could imagine that wide, toothy grin of his on his face as he made his new mound.


This mound. Normally, she would quickly scrape it up with the outside dustpan and deposit it back onto the grass. But not today. Today, this beautiful mound, a precious sign of her son being healthy again, would stay.


Grace turns and walks back into the house.


This post is a work of fiction based on a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club where we were asked to write a piece about something ugly - and finding the beauty in it.

This Bronx Girl - Present Day

"Thank you for this lunch, in Jesus' name. Amen!" Rhys, my 3 year old says quickly and loudly.

"Good, eat up!" I say as I grab a small bowl of cheerios and put it in front of the 11 month old who is sitting in his baby seat. I sit down in front of the computer and take a sip of the coffee that I bought this morning from a coffee drive-thru on the way back home. I put it on the desk and click on the mouse. The pages from my novel appear on the screen and I begin reading through them, correcting grammatical errors, rearranging sentences. I look to the hard copy that is my novel which is sitting on the desk beside the keyboard, then back to the screen with a laser like focus, working to block out the sounds from The Sid the Science Kid t.v. show that my son is watching.

I take a sip of coffee from time to time. Really good - my white chocolate mocha with a pump of raspberry.

A high-pitched scream fills the air. I turn around and see the bowl, empty of cheerios turned over on the floor. I get up quickly and grab the bowl, filling it with cheerios again. I put it back in front of the screaming baby and sit back down in front of the computer again. A couple of minutes later, I click "Save" on the screen and breathe a sigh. I click on the next open document. A list of the names of parents who ordered magazine subscriptions through the boys' school. I was in charge of organizing this project.

"Mommy, more milk please." That is Rhys. Several minutes later, after giving the second cup of milk to my boy along with another helping of cheese crackers, I close up the school document and click on the remaining document that is open on the computer screen. After a quick read-through and some copying and pasting the document into an email, I send it - these book reviews - to my magazine editor. Finally, those are done.

I glance at the clock on the computer and turned toward Rhys who now sits on the floor playing with his tanker truck.

"Time to go buddy," I say to him. "We have to pick up your brother."

"Nooo," he wails.

"Yes," I say and sigh. The battle begins as I watch the baby toss his blue bowl across the room. There is fifteen minutes of chasing the 3 year old, putting on his socks, shoes and jacket, grabbing the baby, changing his diaper, giving him snuggles and then placing him in his brown car seat, me looking for my shoes, looking for the car keys, which always seem to disappear, and once finding them, sighing, grabbing the diaper bag, then opening the front door and bringing both boys outside to the car.

Now I'm driving along rural roads, past the cows in the open field on the left, and the farmer's market on the right with a sign attached to a fence, stating that they sell organic tomatoes. I make that right turn at Baseline Rd. and drive along towards my son's school and the Rocky Mountain range in the West, noticing the snow-covered peaks and reveling in their majesty.

This prompt is inspired by a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks "when meeting someone for the first time, what do you want them to know about you? Describe a scene that shows your true self."

Critiques welcomed.

Goodbye Yellow and Green...So Long You Quack of a Duck...

boulder craigslist>for sale/wanted>miscellaneous items

UNIVERSITY OF OREGON STUFF - $0 (NORTH BOULDER)

_________________________________________________________________________

For all you local University of Oregon students and alums and anyone else for that matter who loves yellow, green, ducks or any of these three things in combination:

Yours for whoever wants it. Heck, it's for anyone or ones who are willing to come by and dig through four large boxes of University of Oregon stuff on short notice. The cost: FREE. Yours for the taking. Please, take it. Just do it by midnight tomorrow because The Hubby comes home the following day from a business trip. Oooh...Sorry, a little TMI.

We've got flags with big Os; pom-poms in yellow and green, green or just plain yellow; old game season tickets (laminated so they can be used as bookmarks); baseball caps for almost every one of the Division I sports that the University of Oregon has - reads something like "Oregon ______" - you fill in the blank (i.e. baseball, football, track), we got it; headbands; buffs - like the ones they wear on the TV show "Survivor" except the word "Oregon" is spelled out all over them in a shade of highlighter yellow; license plate frames; T-shirts - long-sleeved, short-sleeved, no-sleeved, with words and pictures, words only, pictures only or just one letter - you guessed it: "O"; hoodies and sweatshirts along the same lines of those T-Shirts; golf balls; Christmas ornaments and even cuff links! Really, cufflinks in the shape of the big green "O". Can go with whatever white (or highlighter yellow) dress shirt that you or your Significant Other owns.

All must go. Our home is beginning to look like an episode of the A & E show: Hoarders, except our stuff is all yellow and green with the letter O sprinkled all over it. It's spilling from our closets, our cabinets, our bookshelves and from behind our couches. I'm tripping over green and yellow things..oh gosh, there I go again - TMI - sorry!

An added plus: the stuff is vintage, dating back to the early 90's, when The Hubby first started at said esteemed University. You will find every last bit of anything wearable, stickable, postable, storable and hangable that has the Oregon logo, mascot and colors (dark green and highlighter yellow).

All must go. And fast. No, really fast, like by tomorrow night. Did I mention this already? These items must go because I would like to live in a home where the main theme is not a big O or Puddles the Duck (really, that truly is the name of the school's mascot - I kid you not).

I will set the boxes out on the porch. I've even thrown in about 15 of those stuffed duck mascots in various sizes that the kids have received from their grandparents from the time they were each born into this world. Trust me, they don't need them. They've been significantly brainwashed and more than likely, could stitch up another stuffed duck from memory while sleeping.

Interested parties, please respond via email at "sufferingwifeoforegonduckfan@yahoo.com"

Free me of the yellow and green. Please. Please. I beg of you.

Disclaimer (for the Oregon duck fans in my life): This post does not express the views of the writer. It's a writing prompt for goodness sakes, brought to you by Red Writing Hood in which we were asked to imagine you’ve just had a fight with a friend, a co-worker, husband, significant other, child – you get the picture. You’re mad. It’s time for revenge.

What would you sell?
Write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig’s List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.