Once a month, we stop practicing and invite you to show off your best work.
This might be for you if:
- You want to be published (in print)
- You want to improve your writing
- You enjoy a little competition
- You like the Write Practice
How's that sound?
Photo by Zabara Alexander
Show Off Your Best Work
Here’s how this writing competition works.
You will submit a longer piece, between 500 and 1250 words, based around this month’s theme: Love (in honor of Valentines day). You can submit as many pieces as you want. After one week, on February 10, 2012, submissions will close and we will pick the winner.
Here’s the exciting part. If your piece is chosen, I will work with you on making it the best it can be. We’ll work on making your images shine, your prose sparkle, your dialogue sing, and your grammar… not suck.
Then, at the end of the month, we’ll publish it on the Write Practice where hundreds of people will get to read you at your very best. For example, read last month’s winner, Lisa Burgess' story The Driver.
It gets better though.
We’re going to do this every month for the next year, and in December 2012, we plan to collect all twelve of these pieces and publish them in a book. Real paper, real cover, real ink. So if your piece is chosen, you will be able to consider yourself a published author.
Ready to start?
SHOW OFF: RULES
The Theme: Write your best love story.
Guidelines
- It should be a finished work. A complete story.
- Non-fictional and fictional pieces are both accepted.
- I’m looking for pieces between 500-1250 words. I will read every word, so please, nothing over 1250 words.
- You can post your completed piece in the comments of this post. You can post as many times as you want!
- The deadline is Friday, February 10 to post your piece. That’s a week, but start today!
And, of course, if you submit your work, you agree to let me publish your piece exclusively on the Write Practice and in a physical book.
Best of luck!
If you like The Write Practice, could you do us a huge favor and review our book, 14 Prompts, on Amazon? We would appreciate your help so much. Just follow the link to 14 Prompts and leave your review. Thanks!
How are Gordon and Iris?
This blogging stuff isn’t all glamor, paparazzi, and big bucks. There are long hours required to prepare the random lineup of gibberish that pours forth. On Friday night I was up late wrestling with some “widgets,” trying to wrench them into place in the blog layout. By 1 AM, I was beat, but I tamed the widget.
After letting the dogs out one last time, my head hit the pillow by 1:30 Am, and I was prepared for a deep siesta basking in my blogging success.
At 2:20 AM the Dude woke to Mrs. Dude exclaiming “My water just broke…or I peed all over myself.” Indeed it was her water, and the boy was preparing to make his entrance.
We laid in bed to gather our thoughts, and determined that it was a good idea to rest for a bit to build strength for the marathon delivery we were anticipating. Within minutes contractions were starting, but we couldn’t get a consistent reading on the timing, so we figured we were relatively early in the process. We decided we’d labor at home until about 6:30 AM.
Rest really was a naïve plan considering the excitement that was beginning to collect. So, the Dude set out to pack an overnight bag, and the Mrs. hit the bath to relax as much as possible.
The contractions began to intensify, but continued to lack consistency; jumping from 5 to 10 minutes and back again. As the intensity grew, Mrs. Dude launched into what would appear to most as a rigorous yogic ritual, but was actually every laboring position known to those that know a lot of labor positions.
Positions didn’t last for more than a minute or two, but each new position met its intended purpose and provided a tiny bit of comfort, more likely distraction, that helped the Mrs. make it through one contraction and on to another.
By 4:00 AM, we started to get the feeling that the intensity was increasing quicker than we expected, and Mrs. Dude was questioning whether her laboring techniques would provide the comfort needed to manage a lengthy labor.
Filling the role of concerned Birth Partner, I pressed the Mrs. for information in a meager attempt to understand the process and where we were. However, I quickly learned that the Mrs. appreciates quiet suggestions and reassurance rather than inquiries. She answered the Dude’s questioning with a question: “Why do these contractions come every time you talk? I’m not blaming you, but I do feel I need to point it out.” Ah ha, point taken; no more questions.
At about 4:30 AM, we called in our labor coach; known as Nina to the Princess and Mom to Mrs. Dude. Nina arrived at about 5:30 AM. Just in time to assist the Dude in removing the Mrs. from her second bath. Mrs. Dude was questioning the laboring techniques and hoping we didn’t wait too long to leave for the hospital. The Dude and Nina provided assurance that she was doing great and we had plenty of time.
We hit the car, and within minutes, the cry of “I need to push!” was echoing through the baby chariot. It was on! I hit the gas, and we urged Mrs. Dude to take short breaths and try not to push. It was an urgent situation, but in the back of our minds it felt like we had time. We exceeded the posted speed limit by a bit, passed a cop who was either sleeping or couldn’t catch us, hit every green light, and made it to the hospital safe and sound.
Mrs. Dude hurried out of the car and through the doors. Her hands slammed on the reception desk followed by “I need to push,” as her head swung down to cope with the growing pressure. The attendant looked up at me and calmly, almost sarcastically, asked, “are we going to have a baby?” I reiterated that we need to hurry and push. Luckily, Mrs. Dude was ahead of the plan and already preregistered, so we just needed to provide some basic information to be admitted. If only the Dude could remember basic information.
“What’s the name?” The Dude provides the maiden name, which elicits a screeching correction from Mrs. Dude.
“What’s the date of birth?” In a moment of clarity, the Dude chooses to ask the Mrs. for the correct answer. Also, not the best approach, but slightly better than an incorrect answer.
The attendants are now somewhat curious about the couple they have before them. A mom-to-be clearly about the welcome a bambino, and some dude who doesn’t seem to know the mom too well. Which leads to the final inquiry in the line of questioning; “Are you married?” Ah, finally an easy one! The Dude knows the answer to this. “Yes, we’re married,” which of course the attendant follows with “Are you sure?”
Great, I’m being mocked at 5:45 AM at the Emergency Room reception desk as my wife writhes in pain about to push out my child onto the cold laminate floor and strangle me at the same time. Thanks Nurse Crotchet; can we proceed now?
Did the stress get to me? Possibly, but I pulled the same routine at Walgreens picking up prescriptions the next day. Didn’t Einstein say he didn’t want to remember things he could look up…or something like that? Perhaps I’m following in his shoes…I need a general info card for my wallet.
A nurse arrives, and we move past the Gatekeeper/Chris Rock. Mrs. Dude is in the token wheelchair, and the Dude is steering her around corners like Dale Jr. at Daytona (that’s for all my NASCAR loving readers!). As we round the last corner before hitting the delivery room, a cheerful nurse pops out in front of us and asks in a bubbly voice “Are we about to have a baby?” Within a fraction of a second the bubbles evaporated from her voice and she was hit by the serious stick. Mrs. Dude’s face said it all, and if that wasn’t enough the stern “I’m going to push” drilled the point home…the boy was ready to arrive, now!
With the exception of Mrs. Dude, everyone involved in the process seemed to assume we had plenty of time…but we didn’t. Mrs. Dude was on a bed in record time, and the nurses were prepping at a rapid pace. The initial measurements gave us all the information we needed. The baby was here; there would be no further waiting.
Mrs. Dude was amazing throughout the entire process. Calm, assertive, and strong.
The nurses worked to slow the progression to give the Dr. more time to arrive, but nature was calling, and the Mrs. needed to push. Nina stepped in and explained that nature doesn’t always work on the Doctor’s schedule. Mrs. Dude started to actively push, and the nurses moved into position to catch the freight train speeding down the birth canal.
The first push offered enough relief to allow Mrs. Dude to collect the breath she’d been using to fight off the pressure to push. A sense of calm eased over her face, and the Mrs. asked “How are Gordon and Iris?” The room was a bit confused. Nina and I vaguely understood because we’d seen Mrs. Dude’s “shop talk” before, but the nurses were lost in confusion. Mrs. Dude asked again, “How are Gordon and Iris? Your dog and cat?” The nurse in the catcher’s position brightened as she realized the topic of discussion, and the Mrs. explained that she worked at the animal hospital and knew the nurse’s Dog, Gordon, and cat, Iris.
Why this question came to mind, I don’t know, but the simplicity of it in such complex situation was striking. The world was moving by us in a flash, our baby boy was about to be born, and Mrs. Dude could gather her wits among all of the confusion and pain and not only recognize a client, recall the names of her two animals, but also care enough to ask!
Add it to the list of reasons the Mrs. is easy to love.
The delivery continued for the next two minutes without a hitch, and we welcomed the boy child with open arms at 6:00 AM on the dot. Within 15 minutes of arriving at the hospital Little Dude was in our hands…three and a half hours after the water broke and 20 minutes before the Doctor arrived.
What an amazing experience, what an amazing wife, and what an amazing boy!
Welcome to the world Little Dude.
Congrats on being the very first entry, Mr. Dude. 🙂
Dude! That was hysterical! I think the banter between you and the attendant was the best part. And you get points for acknowledging the profound amazingness of your wife. My husbands admiration was the most rewarding part of childbirth, second only to having a precious baby after an intense labor.
Mr. Dude, I liked your story. I too was in your position, once with my wife and another time with a woman who was a total stranger. I’ll explain.
My wife and I had a similar experience as the one you describe, and like you, at the end of it we were blessed with a son.
My second one, the one which I’m sure you’re wondering about, was when I was a Police officer. A woman flagged me down one evening and told me her water broke. There was no time to call for an ambulance, so she just jumped into the back seat and I was off. As police officers we’re trained not to get excited or let emotion get in the way of our jobs. However, when I lifted the microphone to tell the dispatcher what I was doing, all that came out were grunts and half words as I drove through the city to the hospital. It wasn’t until after the ER attendants removed my passenger from the car that I was able to call in the dispatch. I heard them laughing in the background when the dispatcher acknowleded my call.
Good story Mr. Dude. Someday you’ll let your son read what you wrote and you can both have a good chuckle.
Hey Joe
I have a quesiton. Do you want us to comment on other people’s stories or would you rather we wait until the judging is over?
Hi Marianne.
You can comment if you want, but I usually don’t give feedback to contest entries until the end. Last month there were so many entries I didn’t have time to give feedback at all! But either way, it won’t hurt or help how the piece will be judged. Does that make sense?
That makes sense Joe. I think I’ll get my entry in first and then comment. That’s my plan for contests! You are so generous to do this for all of us.
Sounds good. Of course, Marianne 🙂
I remember the times. The times when I was happy. When the fighting hadn’t been so real. Just a dream I had to live every once in awhile. Those were the days. I was so young. Innocent and uncorrupted by this world. Though most of the visions were faint. I remember one thing about the images that flash quickly through my mind of my childhood. Can Ya guess?
I hope you did. It was you. The thing that made me forget about the raging wars just outside our hearts. Every time you talked to me… you made me smile, and I remember doing the same. I hate the fact that I was torn away. Ignorance made my mind do it. I left not knowing what I was doing. Onto another Warring Campaign with the world. Now alone. Not sheltered by simple thoughts of love or friendship. A soldier of the mind I was to become… Hardened by stone and steel.
Turning I blocked and parried blows the enemy threw at me. Never remembering the past. No. Not enough time for that. Only inspiration I have is to Survive! But… Finally. Like all good defenses, they have a weakness… as do I. Soon the world found these soft spots in my mind and heart and drove me to my knees in mere seconds. Sand gritting at my knees. My hands burning with pain as it scrapped against the gravel and flames. This was it… Survival of the Fittest, or so I thought.
I was left crying. Wondering. Why? Why did I have to suffer this fate of pure heartbrokenness? After all the things I had done for this life I now crafted… It was simply being destroyed by failed love. No wise man, no warrior of the strength could have warned me of this pain. Unbearable… or so I thought. Soon I felt a hand. Offered to me by sweet girl… Bet cha can’t guess.
I placed my hand in yours after a few seconds of useless doubt. Soon together I was being raised back up to my stature of warrior. Most people would laugh at the thought of a broken man like me can be brought back up in merely a week of simple messages. You truly did the impossible, you gave a hopeless man like me… well hope.
I was the strongest I ever was! Fighting temptations and wars I never thought before I could defeat. I was fueled by one of the most powerful resources offered to a Soldier. Love. Pushing onward I found a way to prevail against every odd. Whether they be overwhelming or impossible. I was a conqueror of mind and heart. My own mind and heart. I now was at peace, and my reward was to spend a great single day with the one I had grown so close to in just a week or so.
After all these years, you hadn’t changed. Still my friend through it all. Nothing could go wrong. Again… So I thought. That next day. When I awoke I remember the wonderful day before, and what was to come. I sat for awhile just thinking. Pondering just what you may have dreamed about last night. Maybe heaven, maybe your friends, or maybe… just maybe you dreamed of me. I hoped for that the most that moment. Then let it go, simply for the fact that you were my dream. My dream come true.
Soon a storm brewed overhead. My horizon fogged by clouds and rain. Lighting was the only thing that lit my way. Through the ripping and painful wind I pushed through and through. Wondering where you had gone. Finally I saw the door to your home in my heart and found it wide open. Rushing inside I looked about to find only an empty room with a note on the floor. Picking it up, my tears soon mixed with the raindrops on my face. You had gone away. To fight your own war.
After all the tears had been wept and after all my mind had been calmed of the storming emotions. I sighed in relief. For the fact that even though you had left for a war and left me to cry. You didn’t mean to hurt me. No you were still my friend, and that’s what I had to accept. Smiling I saluted a fellow warrior. Your cause of fighting was more noble than mine. You fight for the Lord and God Himself. When selfishly I fought for myself.
I soon signed up for the same war you were fighting. Never did I think I would be so weak after all the time away from the frontlines of battle. Even to make it worst I was fighting out of my element. I was a new recruit, but a Veteran all the same. Taking up arms I did my best, but soon I realized that the enemy I would be facing was much more stronger than he was before in my previous encounters with his armies. Heaven only held the power to carry me farther and help me prevail over this, but foolishly I remembered my personal victories and turned to a familiar retreat.
Trudging on a rough and spiny path I looked for that so valuable resource you once provided me with. Where were you? Looking through the dead and weak I found only people like myself. Hopeless and Powerless. Soon though I looked higher than the lowly rank I was searching and saw you in a higher and stronger seat of power. How could I be so stupid? You were surely going to be a Officer of this army as soon as you raised your heart against the darkness that so easily overwhelmed me not so long ago. I had found you again. Here I go. My final chance at a definite victory! Or so I thought…
Climbing to your seat I fell to my knees. I used my poetry. Loving words, and all that my heart truly felt for you, but… you had lost the feelings. Only infatuation was what was felt those days spent together in mind and in life. I was shot down quickly by this thought. The little hope that I had left was blown away in a serious wind. Drove to my knees I felt that same gritty pain of the sand on my bruised knees again. My hands numbing now from the pain I remember oh too well.
Soon though. To my upmost surprise you offered your soft hand again to my own. Lifting me up you said this so clearly, “I’m still your friend. No matter what.” Coughing out some dust and smiling a broken smile I now realized. Whether you love me the same or not. You are my friend and I will not let that go to waste! Standing now. I drew my weapon, my Words. Then I readied my shield, my Mind.
I now realized as much as I want to fight that war again. To fight to be by your side. To be the one you think about at night before you lay down your head. I cannot. For fighting those battles would mean for the unthinkable to happen. That would mean fighting one of my dearest friends that has done nothing but love me for who I am. Trying again would be an Act of War. No… Never Again.
I’m so excited! I can’t decide on a story; I have so many ideas. (Like how I used a semicolon there instead of splicing my comma?) I was afraid you would go with the Love theme but now I find instead of dreading the whole sappy love story romance thing I’m looking forward to finding a creative angle!
Beck, I can’t speak for Joe, but your semicolon use makes my heart sing as if it were skipping down a garden lane in a Disney movie. Looking forward to see what you come up with!
Haha! Thanks Liz! I’m trying to mend my ways but I’m afraid I have a lot of work to do on my grammar usage! I’m thankful for the opportunity The Write practice provides for that improvement.
Awesome. I’m looking forward to it 🙂
This will be my first time joining a show-off contest. I’m super excited! 🙂
Me too, JB 🙂
Love it!
He said.
“Do you love me, Bill?” she asked.
Oh shit. I’ve got to answer her right now. No pause. I pause, and she’ll conclude that I don’t love her. Which is correct, but why do I have to confirm that right now? We get along real well. Great sex. If I pause more than a millisecond, I won’t get any tonight, and maybe not for a week. If I say that I love her, it’ll be a big lie, and who knows what the next question will be. Why don’t we get married? Hell no, why spoil it? Damn, just like a woman. She can’t have anything in between. I’ve got to say something, right now.
“I think the world of you,” Bill said.
“What does that mean? Does that mean that you love me?”
Damn. She didn’t buy it. Don’t pause. Don’t pause. Say something right back. Don’t lie. Something better, something stronger. I know. I’ll smile and put my arm around her shoulders.
Bill smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Well?”
I knew it. She wants the damn words. Smile and touching is not enough. Maybe a question back. Yeah. Stall. Maybe she’ll let it go.
“What do you think, honey?”
“I think you’re not answering the question.”
Damn, she’s good. I knew this was coming. I should have been prepared. Now I’ve got to think of something in one half a second.
“I’ve never been closer to another woman.”
“I could be tied with another woman?”
Now she’s torturing me. She’s doing this on purpose. She knows I can’t say it, even if it were true. She’s clever. What have I done to deserve this?
“I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Felt what way?”
This is so unfair. Women want a declaration of love, men want sex. That’s it. That’s the difference. I should just tell her the truth. She deserves it.
“I love your tits.”
“There now, that wasn’t so bad.” She smiled at Bill. “What do you want for supper tonight?”
Huh?
Laughed out loud… the vacuous vixen! Good luck!
I…didn’t expect that ending. ha ha!
Great job! I liked it!
I Thought It Was Love
It is hot. Too hot to be in this heavy silk dress with stays poking my sides. The dress is strapless, yet my shoulders are as clammy as the rest of me. All of the humidity in the world has settled itself in this room at the back of the church, the “cry room” that becomes the “bride room” for weddings. There is a vinyl curtain on the inside that I have closed but I can peek out at the people gathered to witness my marriage, our marriage, the wedding of the soon to be “Mr. and Mrs. Eric Morrow.” Why is it that the church looks so big, that everyone looks so far away down the long aisle? I want to lay my face down on the cold marble floor or reach in the Baptismal font and with both hands, and splash my face with the cool water.
This cry room/bridal room is also the room I sat in when the priests started hearing face-to-face confessions in eighth grade. I sat with Father Beiler, an ancient Jesuit with soft white hair. I don’t remember that he ever gave me penance, but along with my absolution, I was always given a small pipe cleaner animal that he shaped while listening to my lies. Maybe the animal was to remind me of the sins I didn’t confess to: stealing bottles of wine from Teresie Hawkins parent’s house we found hidden in the stereo cabinet; letting Paul Conatta touch me under my sweater after the basketball game; carving BITCH on Anna Fitzgerald’s desk. I would take the little horse or donkey or dog and stick it in my uniform blouse, feeling it poke and prick me and remind me that I was bad and lied to a priest, another sin I would never confess. I would keep it in my blouse until I got home and give it to my little sister Dee-Dee who collected a shelf of my miniature pipe cleaner sins.
My mom taps on the door and says it is time for the bridesmaids to line up. I don’t hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D yet, which is supposed to be to be the cue that the ceremony is beginning. Why did I let Dee-Dee talk me into sage green? My bridesmaid’s are an uneven hedge at the back of the church and I decide green should be saved for awnings and lawn chairs.
I am alone in the cry room with my bouquet. It is heavy with closed rosebuds and the stems are wound tightly with green ribbon. A tiny white pin pokes my hand and I move it, which causes the ribbon to loosen. I lick the tiny drop of blood that threatens to fall on the dress. It tastes cool like relief.
If Father Beiler were here now, would I lie or confess my real sins, my biggest one yet? “Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am about to marry a man I don’t love.”
My mom leads me out of the room and while she straitens my train, my father takes my face in both of his hands and kisses my cheek. He slips his arm through my elbow and we stand at the end of the aisle. I look at all of the faces as we seem to float above the white cloth path to the altar. I see a row of the girls I work with at the agency. They are dressed like they are going to a nightclub. Pictures are snapping and the music is echoing in the church. My stomach tightens at the strong sweet smell of peonies and perfume. We are almost at the altar. The bridesmaids are smiling at me and crying at the same time, Dee-Dee blinking quickly to keep the tears from ruining her make-up. My nieces, the flower girls, are waving. I want to wave back, turn around and walk out.
I let myself look to the right and I see Eric. His cheeks look freshly scrubbed, red like a child’s after a hot bath. He takes a step forward to shake my dad’s hand. Instead, my dad pulls him close and hugs him. My family has fallen in love with Eric. As my father goes to lift my veil, he yanks too hard and the veil starts to pull off. My flowers are loose, my veil is loose and all eyes are on me as I try not to let everything unravel.
My father puts my hand into Eric’s and both our palms are wet. I look up at him and I know I will marry him. Eric leads me up the stairs of the altar and we sit down to listen readings with our backs to the church. As my Godmother reads One Corinthians, the words “Love is patient, love is kind” are the background as I bone strait, calculating how long it is proper to stay married before I ask for a divorce.
Love the bright touches of memory, so easily woven that I was mesmerized, making the end a total surprise. Great, Kate!
that was awesome! i like that girl.
Funny as it might seem, guys, some ladies just like to know that their tits are appreciated…lol
Nooo, that was supposed to be a reply to the story below!!! I’m not a perv. I swear…how embarrassing…
Games
I found her outside a coffeeshop, our coffeeshop, the one where we met, feet propped up on a chair, dark circles looming under her eyes, big like quarters, cigarette in hand. The sight surprised me, as I’d never seen her smoke before. She must have been truly addicted to brave the weather. It was Februrary, the coldest in my memory.
I pulled the chair out from under her feet, taking back what should have been mine. “I thought you didn’t smoke, Serena.” I sat and pulled my coat up around my ears, a feeble attempt at sheilding myself from the wind.
As I spoke her name, I realized how fitting it was, she had no idea. Serena. Like siren. Men heard their call, went mad with desire, dashed their ships on the rocks. All they brought was destruction.
“I don’t,” she said, her gaze like the cigarette smoke she blew out, going all around me, but never right at me.
“Obviously,” I replied, shaking my head at her contradiction. It was at her very core, she was contrary by nature. Saying she doesn’t smoke while smoking. Yelling at drivers who cut her off, then merging without looking. Saying she loved me, then disappearing for days at a time.
“Do you have any idea what day it is?” I seriously doubted she’d remember, or more importantly that she’d care. I could tell in the last few weeks she’d stopped caring about most everything, especially me.
“Tuesday.”
I tried not to show how angry that made me. We had always made Valentine’s Day special. We loved it more than Christmas. We used to plan it for weeks, which restaurant, where to go dancing after. I always loved the look on her face as we exchanged gifts, as she said “I love you.” But today had gone unnoticed, left forgotten along with me and our life together.
“Where have you been?” I had to ask, even though a small part of me was dreading her answer.
She glared at me, eyes full of fire, the only part of her face betraying her emotion. “Who are you, my mother?”
“No, I’m your boyfriend, in case you’ve forgotten.” Her voice had been like poison, but so was mine. She should know how it felt.
“Boyfriend,” she muttered, low and cruel before taking a drag on her cigarette. “Aren’t we a little old for labels like ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend?’”
It hurt me, right to the core, but I didn’t let her see. I remembered a time when her eyes lit up when she introduced me. “This is my boyfriend.” There was a time we belonged to each other, once. Now she belonged to no one, not even herself. But I. . . I was still hers.
I wondered what kept me there, why I stayed. I should have left ages ago, I knew that. I was fed up; her coldness, her absence, the way she could destroy me with a single look. But then I remembered her eyes full of light and warmth, the way she cried at sad movies, her hand on my shoulder when my father died.
She had been gone longer this time. Four days, but I hadn’t worried as much as I should have. I stared openly, trying to figure out where she’d been, waiting to see if she’d own up to anything. But she was a wall, impenetrable.
Then I saw it, the red, blotchy bruise on her neck, and I knew where she’d been. My heart turned to stone, cold, dead, just like hers was, and in that instant I couldn’t recall just how much I loved her. I could play her game. I reached across the table and pulled out one of her cigarettes. I saw her face as I lit it, took a puff, and I smiled inside.
“I thought you didn’t smoke, Jude,” she told me.
“I don’t,” I said, my gaze like the cigarette smoke I blew out.
Good story Leah. I liked the vision of “…her gaze like the cigarette smoke she blew out, going all around me, but never right at me.” That now only says so much, it shows a lot about Serena’s attitude. Well done!
I love the circular ending! Well done!
My favorite so far! Very well written! 🙂
Serena is very well painted.
Joe, I just found the listed tutorials. I’ll be using them often. I was wondering if you could write a post on the use of “that.” I sometimes think that I use “that” much too often. ie.
I knew that it was time to check the turorials to improve my writing skills. Or should I have left out that “that?”
I do use that too too much I think. I put the thats in and take them out endlessly. It’s a big time waster for me.
I’ve noticed it in my own writing, too. I second that request.
Hi Angelo! Glad you found the tutorials. Lots of good stuff in there.
Liz did write briefly about the use of “that” here:
https://thewritepractice.com/who-which-that%E2%80%94or-how-not-to-ruin-a-sentence/
Let me know if it answers your questions or not. And yes, you should have left out the that. 🙂
This is my first post of any kind to a writing site. Much feedback is appreciated!
THE DOG
“What’s going to happen to the dog?”
The police officer rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said softly. He often got questions like this from curious passer-by. The focus was never on the fact that a man and a woman, after years of domestic dispute calls, had finally killed their marriage and each other. Society had been numb to that sort of cruelty by years of violent video games and movies. They always focused on the random details:
-When did this happen?
-Was there a lot of blood?
-What’s going to happen to the dog?
He walked away from the pedestrian barrier on the street and returned to the front porch to speak to the chief. “Did the ambulance pick them up?” His hands were shaking as he tried to casually put them into his pockets.
“Yeah. Forensics is canvassing the area now to see if there was any history of drug use. Doesn’t look like it though. These people just hated each other. Marc, I know this is the first murder you’ve been to…are you ok?”
“I’ll be alright,” said Marc. “Where’s the dog?”
The chief gave him a perplexed look. “In her crate, in the garage. I’ve gotta warn you though, on the other calls to this house, animal abuse seemed apparent, or at least likely. Neglect for sure, according to what Forensics has found. I’d be careful.”
Marc cut through the bushes on the way to the open garage. Next to the Range Rover was a traveler’s crate, like one you would use to bring an animal to the vet. Marc guessed it was the same one that most patrol cars kept in the trunk, in case of stray animal calls. Inside the crate was a black lab, maybe six years old. She hadn’t stopped whimpering and barking since the police had arrived, and Marc guessed that earlier she had been making noise that was drowned out by the gunshots and screams of her owners. Marc eased his body down and put his hand on the door. The dog eagerly licked his hand, and Marc smiled for the first time that night.
“Cute dog, ain’t she?” Marc hadn’t noticed the chief walk up behind him. “Listen, Marc, you’ve been here for five hours now. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? The dog will be fine.”
Marc hesitated. “Chief, I know what happens to these dogs when they go to the Humane Society. At her age, no one is going to want her, and…” After the senseless violence tonight, he didn’t want to give death another vindication by putting his thoughts into words. The chief gave a half smile, causing his moustache to tilt oddly.
“Why don’t you take her? I’m sure the girls would love her.”
Marc’s heart leaped. Finally, he felt like he could do something positive in this hopeless situation. With a pang of guilt at taking an item from the crime scene (although all the evidence they needed was in the dead bodies on the living room floor), he took a pink leash off a hook on the garage wall and clipped it to the collar while the chief held the dog. “Does she have a name, Chief?” asked Marc.
The chief looked at the collar, but didn’t find any ID tags. “No idea. We could look it up by the names of the owners, but to make matters easier, I think we can call this a stray you picked up on your way home.”
Marc smiled as he walked towards his patrol car. “Thanks, Dad.”
The chief smiled back. “Give the girls kisses for me.”
The dog jumped in the passenger’s seat and pawed at the window button, as if she knew what she was doing. Marc laughed and could hardly open the window from his side before the dog poked her head out. With the dog’s tail thumping between the clutch and the center console, Marc began the drive back to his house.
When he pulled into the driveway, his clock read 4:30AM. In an hour, his wife would be up, showered, dressed, and preparing lunches for their two young daughters. With startling regularity, she managed to keep them on track, keep the house going, and emitted a positive atmosphere that visitors sensed as soon as they walked in. He knew that his career choice certainly wasn’t easy for her. When he rose from his sleep to answer the call from his father, her eyes showed a pain that her voice would never betray. “I love you,” she had said with a kiss. This had played over and over in his head as he surveyed the crime scene. With all the love between him and his wife, he couldn’t imagine how two people could pile so much pain and hurt on each other.
He knew how much his wife loved him. While he wasn’t as good at showing it as she was, he knew he swept her off her feet far more than any of his friends did for their wives. This was a fact that he was proud of; it was something he learned from the care and love his father showed his mother for the fifty years they were married. He knew that if Jessie ever got cancer, he would be by her side every second, just as his father had done for his mother.
One thing she had always wanted was a dog. Marc, on the other hand, hated dogs. He was always polite about the subject and heard her out, but the answer always came out to “No.” But now, things were different. Looking into that dog’s big brown eyes, seeing all the years of probable abuse and hurt reflected in them, he had decided right then and there that the answer would, from now on, always be “Yes.” If there’s one thing that police work shows you, it’s the worst of society. People do horrible things to each other, and you wonder if there’s something wrong with humanity or if you’re just naive. Then you go home to a woman like Jessie and, if only for a moment, the world is ok. To Marc, it seemed silly to allow such a word as “No” to inhibit the happiness.
To the dog, it seemed silly to sit in the car any longer. She was wagging her tail, licking Marc’s face, and was so excited she was shaking. It was as if she knew the great life that awaited her, if only she was let out of the car!
Marc laughed again, a feeling he loved. He rubbed behind the dog’s ears and unclicked his seatbelt.
“Let’s go inside, Love.”
I know the situation you write about well. I hope there is some non-fiction aspect to this story and there really was a dog saved.
Excellent! I like the way your characters unfolded and how you shared just enough information at the right time. The connection of the dog and it’s need for love and the comparison of the two marriages was great! Well done!
Nicely done Troy! I liked these lines best:
To Marc, it seemed silly to allow such a word as “No” to inhibit the happiness.
To the dog, it seemed silly to sit in the car any longer.
Very wise and then very dog.
I was smiling at the end and could definitely feel the love.
It was my first too– scary and exciting right? Since you asked for feedback my only offering is I don’t think you needed Marc to be related so closely to the chief. It adds a small-town feel to the story but also gives it a degree of kitch that detracts. Just my two cents- take it for what it is worth.
Congrats on taking the leap with such a great piece!
The Proposal
Garth sat in front of Chandra. He gently placed his hands on her face and pulled her toward him for a tender kiss. “I love you,” he whispered over her lips, pulling back just far enough for his lips to be out of reach of hers. This wasn’t the first time he had professed his love for her in the two months since they started dating.
Chandra loved this very romantic attention and reached for another kiss rather than requite his proclamation of love. Her heart was ready to accept and requite his love, her body ached for more of the fabulous sensations his kisses were causing, but her brain stubbornly remained stoic in its attempt to protect her from certain heart break.
Garth knew Chandra loved him, he absolutely knew it! He just had to get her to say it so that she would know it too, so that her brain could accept what her heart was telling her. He kissed her again, then whispered over her lips, “I….” When she remained silent, Garth leaned in and kissed her again, tenderly with only a temptation of passion, then said, “I….” again trying to draw the words out.
This time Chandra answered, “I…” and waited for another fantastically moving kiss.
Garth eagerly complied and then said, “love….” He smiled just inches away from her face, as he continued to gently hold it, waiting for her to say the word.
“love…..” she hesitantly repeated, but eagerly anticipating another kiss. What’s happening!? her brain screamed. Only what needs to happen, her heart happily sang back.
Garth once again kissed Chandra and then whispered, “you” which Chandra repeated without hesitation this time. She had just barely gotten the word out of her mouth when he took siege of it kissing her deeply. Her insides completely melted by the wave of passion cascading every cell in her body.
Garth pulled back slightly and whispered over her lips, “I love you.” This time Chandra requited without hesitation. Garth, excited that he had drawn the words out of her, that she was finally accepting what she had felt for him all this time, kissed her again so deeply Chandra knew she would have melted to the floor were it not for the fact that they were sitting down.
He pulled back and let go of her face so that he could look at her. He wanted, he needed, to see the love shining in her eyes as she finally, definitively admitted what he knew she had felt all this time. He stared into her eyes and slowly, confidently said, “I love you.” Garth’s heart swelled as he saw the glow on her face and watched her hazel eyes start to turn a light shade of blue as she requited his love. Now is the time, he told himself.
Chandra stifled a small yawn, trying to hide how tired she truly was. She had been up late with homework the night before and still had to be in to work to open the store this morning. Her body clock was starting to ring in her pumpkin hour and for once she truly hated her early schedule. Chandra wanted to stay in this moment with Garth forever. Her heart had won out over her head and she was so full of love and joy and tingly sensations that she didn’t want to ever end.
Garth couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. His angel loved him, admitted not just to him, but to herself, that she loved him. “Let’s get you home,” he whispered and stood up next to her. Garth put out a beckoning hand and she took it smiling up at him. He led her out of the building to the parking lot where he stopped suddenly.
Chandra, confused, turned and stood in front of Garth. As she did he slowly let go of her hand. He didn’t want her to feel pressured in her answer but he had to ask her a question, a very special question, and he had to do it now, even in this most unromantic setting. She looked up at him questioningly. Staring down into her eyes now, Garth shouted, “Will you marry me?”
Chandra staggered back slightly. She hadn’t expected a proposal, not at that volume, and certainly not standing in the middle of the parking lot. Stunned though she was, before her brain had time to deliberate over the question, “Yes!” she shouted from the heart, matching Garth’s excitement.
Garth let out a happy gasp. He was in love with a perfect angel, she was in love with him too, and now they would be together forever. He wrapped his arms around her and bent down to kiss her passionately. “Now, let’s get you home,” Garth said as he released her lips. Letting go of her with just one arm he walked her home. They walked the short distance in silence though both were beaming as brightly as the full moon that lit their path across the field back to her parents’ house.
Garth did not come in. He knew he had to let her go get some sleep. Standing on the doorstep he wrapped his other arm around her, bent down and kissed her tenderly, then whispered, “I love you, Mrs. Bryce.”
Chandra could feel her heart nearly leap out of her chest she was so in love with this incredible, gorgeous man that was promising his life to her. “I love you, too,” she whispered blushing softly. She sighed as she watched him walk back across the field toward his barracks.
Chandra had a well-timed yawn as she walked inside the house. Her parents were in the living room watching TV. She called goodnight to them almost halfway down the hallway to her bedroom. Chandra changed for bed and sleepily climbed in. She let out a happy sigh as she snuggled into her pillow. “Mrs. Garth Bryce,” she happily whispered to herself as she closed her eyes and dreamed of their wedding day.
Garth made it back to his barracks in record time. She said yes! his mind kept shouting over and over. He knew she loved him, but wouldn’t let himself believe she would actually say yes. He hoped she would, he wanted, needed, her to, but it was too much to just expect that she would.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Wesley asked Garth as soon as he saw the look on the young man’s face. “You asked her to marry you, didn’t you?” Garth simply nodded at his friend as he got undressed. “She said yes?” Wesley didn’t want to assume. Garth grinned from ear to ear as he climbed into his bunk. “So when’s the happy day?”
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Garth said thoughtfully before laying down. “It can’t be too soon for me, though. Tomorrow works!” he winked at his friend. “Better check her schedule first I imagine.” Garth laughed at his friend’s shocked look then rolled over signaling the end of their conversation. Garth went to sleep that night happily thinking of his beautiful angel and the day that she would be taking his name and be his forever.
For some reason my format did not copy over when I posted here. I am very sorry for the confusion this may cause. If I knew how to delete the post and repost I would.
Hi, this is my first time posting! I really enjoy reading the blog. Thanks!
In Your Dreams
Michael had always been a deep sleeper. As a kid he never fought with his parents to stay up half an hour longer, to watch ten more minutes of TV, or play until it got dark during daylight savings. He was in bed by seven o’clock, fast asleep by seven-ten. Michael loved going to sleep. There were rituals to be gone through that he took very seriously. The bedside lamp had to be just the right wattage (not too bright, not too dim); his pyjamas had to be warm, but not stifling, and no fluorescent colours. Soft blues and sleepy whites were the best. The sheets had to be clean, and they had to make that comforting, rustling sound when you climbed into them. Michael was very particular about his sheets. Sometimes he would wash them himself (they had to be washed at least twice a week to keep that nice rustle) when his Mum was too busy. Everything had to be perfect when you were setting the stage for sleep. And for dreams.
Dreaming was better than watching TV. It was better than reading, or playing make-believe games with other kids. It was better than computer games, even the ones where you got to make your own character. In his dreams, Michael was immersed in the story. He was the story. He would walk with dinosaurs through deep rainforests, fly into space on the back of a dragon, swim in the deepest oceans with whales and ancient aquatic mammals. He would meet football players and movie stars and become their best friends. Michael’s dreams were so vivid he would sleepwalk – finding his way, unconscious, into the kitchen to cook pasta for James Bond, or into the backyard to play hockey with Wayne Gretski. Not all of Michael’s dreams were so much fun. Once he dreamed he had befriended a lion, but it had been hit by a car and died. Michael sobbed in his sleep, so loud that his parents woke. They worried about him; they even took him to a sleep specialist. But Michael wasn’t worried. Dreams were the best part of his day – even the sad ones.
Michael grew up, still dreaming. He moved out of home and into his own apartment, with his own bed and his own sheets that he washed three times a week. He got a job in an office supply store – nothing too demanding, nothing too exciting. He went on dreaming. When Michael turned thirty his parents started hinting about marriage, and kids, and a ‘normal life’. He tried to ignore them, but they got into his dreams. Their nagging disrupted his sleep; they replaced dragons and lions and cheering soccer stadiums with their greying hair and shaking heads. Michael didn’t know what to do.
And then one night, after tossing and turning for hours, Michael fell into a frustrated sleep and dreamed of Rosie. Rosie had pale skin and dark hair. She was beautiful, and friendly, and in Michael’s dream she loved him. She gave him her phone number. And when Michael woke up he discovered he had written it on a square of paper beside his bed.
He sent a message, just for fun. Just to see who would reply. ‘Hi Rosie, it’s Michael. We met last night. I’m in love with you. Will you marry me?’
Ten minutes later, as Michael was getting out of the shower, his phone beeped at him.
‘Hi Michael, I’m in love with you, too. Yes!’
A week later Michael and Rosie were married. She wasn’t exactly like she had been in his dream – not quite as beautiful, and not quite as friendly. But she had dark hair and pale skin, and she said she loved him. Michael’s parents thought it was weird, but they stopped nagging him. Rosie moved in with Michael, and life went on.
Then one night Michael dreamed that Rosie had cheated on him. The dream was so vivid he woke up in tears and sweat. Rosie rolled over beside him.
‘It was just a dream,’ she said, ‘forget about it.’ But Michael couldn’t. Each time he closed his eyes and started to fall into the warm abyss the same dream would float back up at him. He was afraid to sleep. Michael grew tired. Bags formed under his eyes. The people he worked with said things like ‘man, you don’t look good.’
He left Rosie a week later. She yelled at him, and threw his sheets out the window. Michael said he was sorry, but he couldn’t sleep. He found a new apartment, with a new bed, and washed his sheets. He set the light just right and climbed into a pair of duck-egg blue pyjamas. He lay down and closed his eyes.
He fell into a desert, where the sand stretched out for miles around him. There was nothing but sand. He waited. He imagined dragons, flying fish, Lady Gaga. But nothing appeared. There was no sound – no music, no crickets. Finally, he looked at the sky.
Every star had Rosie’s eyes.
He woke up.
Loving Verola:
Drawing a shaky breath I pull myself up quickly from the damp pillow. Damp from tears or a cold sweat I’m not sure. I know why I’m awake, it’s the same reason I’ve awoken the past several nights. A little voice, crying out from far away, had penetrated my dreams.
Untangling my legs from the blankets I swing them over the side of the bed and feel with bare feet for my slippers. Moving quietly, I search for the door in the darkness so as not to disturb my husband. I stop for a long, cool drink of water in the kitchen, and then settle into my favorite red arm chair in the living room. Moonlight, filtering through the room’s large bay window, spills itself in a puddle at my feet.
Wrapping up in a faded afghan my mother gave to me years ago I lay my head back and close my eyes. I allow the images, smells, and sounds of sorrow to overtake my memory. It’s a daily haunting that throbs in my heart. The tiny, dirty face I’ve come to love fills my mind.
Verola was born another woman’s child in a country so foreign to me it could be another world. At birth she was transferred to an orphanage. The reason she wasn’t allowed to go home with her mother? She was born with an extra chromosome, she has Down syndrome. Parents in this eastern European country are routinely encouraged to leave their newborns at the hospital to be placed in orphanages and mental institutions.
I’ve wondered if her mother had even held her, had looked into her daughters face. Did she leave the hospital brokenhearted, or indifferent? Was she aware of the fate that awaited her child? I couldn’t imagine anyone knowing what those places were like and still choosing to leave their baby behind. I had seen the orphanage, I knew.
Suffering circles the orphanage where Verola dwells like a buzzard that’s caught the scent of death. At eleven years old she is smaller than my three year old daughter, due to extreme neglect and malnutrition. I remember the first time I saw her. After mounds of paperwork and weeks of waiting, fund-raising and a long plane trip, I had arrived at the orphanage with my heart in my throat.
Standing outside the crumbling walls I gathered all of my courage. I would have felt more confident had my husband been beside me. Instead, I was accompanied by our adoption lawyer, and while kind she was not the partner I was longing for as I stepped into the unknown.
Nothing could prepare me for what I would find there. The fuzzy image from the adoption portfolio was lying before me in a dirty, rusted crib. Skin and bone held onto her soul like a fragile caged bird. The smell of the place was overwhelming. I wanted to hold her but I was afraid I would hurt her; she was so thin. Unused to stimulation she pulled away from my touch, but her large blue eyes turned toward my face as I spoke to her.
The compassion for this needy human was real. But could I love her as my own? I was afraid, what if I couldn’t pass this test. Gently scooping her into my arms I held back the tears. I sat by a window with her in my lap, cradled like a baby. She fussed and whined fearfully. As I quietly began to sing hymns from my childhood she grew still and turned to look at me. Rocking her head back and forth as I sang she let out a chortle, almost a laugh, of pleasure. I shouldn’t have worried, love was growing and intertwining her heart with mine.
It wasn’t long before she was fussy, having had more stimulation in half an hour than she had received in months. I visited her every day for a week. And then the day came when I had to leave. I had to walk away and leave her caged in her prison of loneliness and despair. My initial visit was finished. Now it was time for me to go back and wait until the final paperwork was completed and approved so that I could return to bring her home.
How could I walk away? My heart had been on a journey for months to get to this place. I was invested, she was my concern, her welfare mattered. The thought wrenched at my heart; in that moment I knew I was her mother.
The strange call of a screech owl jolts me from my remembering. Cold and stiff, I stretch, unfolding my legs. Before heading back to bed I visit my daughter’s room and then my son’s. Kissing my curly headed princess and her big brother I feel the ache of our missing child.
Easing myself back under the warm linens, my body lays down in bed. But my heart lies beating thousands of miles away, in a dirty crib, inside a crumbling orphanage with my daughter. Never has love cost me so much. As velvety sleep slips across my mind I smile in the darkness. In a few weeks our daughter will be at home, not just in my heart, but in our family.
Well written Beck. I felt the love in your story.
Thank you!
You capture the pain and beauty of love. Very real. (Is this non-fiction?)
Thank you Steph. It’s a synthesis of real life and imagination, as most fiction is. My longing is to adopt a child from Eastern Europe with Down syndrome. As I began to research I read inspiring accounts of families adopting needy children and became more aware of the great need and the precious victories. I often dream of neglected orphans and wake up in the night to pray for them. Actually I recently watched an NBC documentary on Serbia’s orphanages by Ann Curry, the images haunt me and I’m in the early stages of planning a trip to help care for them.
Beck, I am working with my children on their lifebooks this afternoon and I came across a poem I had written for my daughter while we were waiting to travel. I wrote it while flying kites with my other children. I was trying so hard to be “present” with them but feeling so hollow at the same time. Anyway, it reminded me of your entry and I thought you might enjoy. Hope you don’t mind that I am posting it here :-). And again, best wishes to you in building your family. -Steph
If I could
I would cast out my heart,
bouncing,
on a dandelion meadow
and up a kite’s string
to catch a swift wind.
And it would soar,
east,
until it fluttered to a rest
on the side of your white metal crib.
Upon landing,
it would burst open,
bathing you
in my warm affections
and in the tears that
I cry,
missing you.
Ack! My apologies for the crazy formatting. Maybe Joe can help? Didn’t mean to be such a cyber-space-hog!
Thank you for sharing Steph, what a sweet poem of expectation and desire! It feels so hopeful, while being full of longing!
It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Steph. Love the poem.
Oh, Beck. This is beautiful. Brought tears to my eyes.
Thank you Eileen, I cried as I wrote it, I’m glad you felt the emotion and love!
The longing and strength that love provides is alive and well in your story. I wish you much luck in your endeavor to provide the love you hold inside for a child who
will one day become your own.
Thank you Angelo, I think that kind of love makes us and the people around us better people. I appreciate your kind comments.
The Proposal
Garth sat in front of Chandra. He gently placed his hands on her face and pulled her toward him for a tender kiss. “I love you,” he whispered over her lips, pulling back just far enough for his lips to be out of reach of hers. This wasn’t the first time he had professed his love for her in the two months since they started dating.
Chandra loved this very romantic attention and reached for another kiss rather than requite his proclamation of love. Her heart was ready to accept and requite his love, her body ached for more of the fabulous sensations his kisses were causing, but her brain stubbornly remained stoic in its attempt to protect her from certain heart break.
Garth knew Chandra loved him, he absolutely knew it! He just had to get her to say it so that she would know it too, so that her brain could accept what her heart was telling her. He kissed her again, then whispered over her lips, “I….” When she remained silent, Garth leaned in and kissed her again, tenderly with only a temptation of passion, then said, “I….” again trying to draw the words out.
This time Chandra answered, “I…” and waited for another fantastically moving kiss.
Garth eagerly complied and then said, “love….” He smiled just inches away from her face, as he continued to gently hold it, waiting for her to say the word.
“love…..” she hesitantly repeated, but eagerly anticipating another kiss. What’s happening!? her brain screamed. Only what needs to happen, her heart happily sang back.
Garth once again kissed Chandra and then whispered, “you” which Chandra repeated without hesitation this time. She had just barely gotten the word out of her mouth when he took siege of it kissing her deeply. Her insides completely melted by the wave of passion cascading every cell in her body.
Garth pulled back slightly and whispered over her lips, “I love you.” This time Chandra requited without hesitation. Garth, excited that he had drawn the words out of her, that she was finally accepting what she had felt for him all this time, kissed her again so deeply Chandra knew she would have melted to the floor were it not for the fact that they were sitting down.
He pulled back and let go of her face so that he could look at her. He wanted, he needed, to see the love shining in her eyes as she finally, definitively admitted what he knew she had felt all this time. He stared into her eyes and slowly, confidently said, “I love you.” Garth’s heart swelled as he saw the glow on her face and watched her hazel eyes start to turn a light shade of blue as she requited his love. Now is the time, he told himself.
Chandra stifled a small yawn, trying to hide how tired she truly was. She had been up late with homework the night before and still had to be in to work to open the store this morning. Her body clock was starting to ring in her pumpkin hour and for once she truly hated her early schedule. Chandra wanted to stay in this moment with Garth forever. Her heart had won out over her head and she was so full of love and joy and tingly sensations that she didn’t want to ever end.
Garth couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. His angel loved him, admitted not just to him, but to herself, that she loved him. “Let’s get you home,” he whispered and stood up next to her. Garth put out a beckoning hand and she took it smiling up at him. He led her out of the building to the parking lot where he stopped suddenly.
Chandra, confused, turned and stood in front of Garth. As she did he slowly let go of her hand. He didn’t want her to feel pressured in her answer but he had to ask her a question, a very special question, and he had to do it now, even in this most unromantic setting. She looked up at him questioningly. Staring down into her eyes now, Garth shouted, “Will you marry me?”
Chandra staggered back slightly. She hadn’t expected a proposal, not at that volume, and certainly not standing in the middle of the parking lot. Stunned though she was, before her brain had time to deliberate over the question, “Yes!” she shouted from the heart, matching Garth’s excitement.
Garth let out a happy gasp. He was in love with a perfect angel, she was in love with him too, and now they would be together forever. He wrapped his arms around her and bent down to kiss her passionately. “Now, let’s get you home,” Garth said as he released her lips. Letting go of her with just one arm he walked her home. They walked the short distance in silence though both were beaming as brightly as the full moon that lit their path across the field back to her parents’ house.
Garth did not come in. He knew he had to let her go get some sleep. Standing on the doorstep he wrapped his other arm around her, bent down and kissed her tenderly, then whispered, “I love you, Mrs. Bryce.”
Chandra could feel her heart nearly leap out of her chest she was so in love with this incredible, gorgeous man that was promising his life to her. “I love you, too,” she whispered blushing softly. She sighed as she watched him walk back across the field toward his barracks.
Chandra had a well-timed yawn as she walked inside the house. Her parents were in the living room watching TV. She called goodnight to them almost halfway down the hallway to her bedroom. Chandra changed for bed and sleepily climbed in. She let out a happy sigh as she snuggled into her pillow. “Mrs. Garth Bryce,” she happily whispered to herself as she closed her eyes and dreamed of their wedding day.
Garth made it back to his barracks in record time. She said yes! his mind kept shouting over and over. He knew she loved him, but wouldn’t let himself believe she would actually say yes. He hoped she would, he wanted, needed, her to, but it was too much to just expect that she would.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Wesley asked Garth as soon as he saw the look on the young man’s face. “You asked her to marry you, didn’t you?” Garth simply nodded at his friend as he got undressed. “She said yes?” Wesley didn’t want to assume. Garth grinned from ear to ear as he climbed into his bunk. “So when’s the happy day?”
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Garth said thoughtfully before laying down. “It can’t be too soon for me, though. Tomorrow works!” he winked at his friend. “Better check her schedule first I imagine.” Garth laughed at his friend’s shocked look then rolled over signaling the end of their conversation. Garth went to sleep that night happily thinking of his beautiful angel and the day that she would be taking his name and be his forever.
It still did not post with paragraph indentations, but at least I was able to put a line break between paragraphs. It is much easier on the eyes to read now.
Thanks for your help Joe! I’m really very excited as this will be the first I have put any of my writings out there in the public domain for all to read. Getting honest feedback from strangers is much better than patronizing feedback from friends and relatives!
My pleasure, Dawn. Good luck in the contest!
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION — The Characters are pure inventions with no relation on this earth.
The last time, the last thing, the final memory is what you get from the people you loved once they’re gone. But what if it’s not what you want? All of my life I’ve had nightmares. Recurring nightmares like faded bad memories. I don’t know where they come from, I think they’re from a time before I was six. I can’t be sure they’re real. I was ten when the nightmares started.
…
Shortly after bed from a deep sleep I heard my mom crying and then screaming. It was a terrible sound. When I opened the bedroom door I could see my dad had my mom by her hair, he was pushing and pulling her around the room. She screamed at me to get out.
Some years later I would look back at this time as being the very first moments I could remember. I don’t recall being five, or being four, or being any other age before this. I was six. Later in life I didn’t feel any age at all — I was just myself.
#
Because of the mood in the house I wondered what it was that I did. I soon found out it wasn’t me, it was something else. The outside world found it’s way into our living-room that day. On the television there were scenes of flags at half mast, scenes of thousands of people standing alongside the road watching a horse-drawn-flag-draped-casket creeping slowly towards a huge church. My dad didn’t move from his chair but once or twice that day. I couldn’t go outside, I had to stay in watching with the rest of the family. I had to sit on the floor. I always did. My brother and sister too. It was a funeral, not just any funeral; someone named John F. Kennedy’s funeral. My Dad loved President Kennedy.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity Dad got up with his announcement.
“Everybody outside!”
Outside? My dad never went outside with the family. He would always go off by himself. In the morning he would go to work, come home, sit in front of the television while his six-pack sat on the coffee table waiting to be emptied. On the weekends he would take off in his dented up old truck. My Dad loved that truck.
My brother, sister and I made it out to the front yard. We stood waiting under the old tree with the swing that no-one used.
“Alright, line up over here.”
“Johnny, what are you doing?”
“We are going to salute the great John F. Kennedy. Get out here and line up in the yard.”
My mom stayed in the house.
“Kids, wait here.”
We waited for a few seconds until my dad returned with his flag, the one he got from the war. He proudly held it up in our front yard, for the whole world to see, standing at attention. I watched him carefully. Normally, I’d never look directly at him, I was afraid he would notice me. But just for a moment that day I caught his eyes looking into mine. His eyes were steely blue, almost grey. He had a way of looking right through me — piercing my heart with the knowledge that he could break it with a glance. But that day he was happy, and I was happy. He showed us how to salute his flag, and how to observe a moment of silence. He showed us how to fold his flag, and he told us how you could never let it touch the ground. My Dad loved that flag.
I could tell my brother and sister were waiting for our dad to lose interest in this front yard fiasco. My dad always lost interest in things, and in us. All of my dad’s projects were half finished and left for dead. You could see his projects in the garage, in the back yard, in the house — everywhere, all unfinished.
A few minutes later my dad was in his dented up old truck headed for his favorite bar. The Flowing Well. I never understood why he didn’t just walk down there, we could see the back door of the bar from the house. I always knew when he was in there, he would park in the back. My mom made me go get him sometimes, tell him it was time for dinner. I would stand at the back door and wait for someone to come out or to go in. Everyone knew my dad and when they noticed me they would yell out, “John, your boy’s here, time for dinner.” Laughter would erupt from inside … sometimes my dad would come out and sometimes I went home empty handed. My Dad loved that bar.
#
By the time I was ten things were different. My dad was long gone because of the divorce. I never saw him after that. My sister went off with some hippy guy; I haven’t seen her since. Greg — my brother — enlisted in the army the very week he turned eighteen. He went in with his best friend, Tommy. I remember it was a Saturday in January. Later that year while playing over at Danny’s house, (Tommy’s little brother), I noticed that he had bunches of letters from Tommy. I read them all. Greg never wrote to us.
…
Those days, the television once again became very important. Vietnam was in full swing. My mom sat glued to the television hoping for something, I didn’t know what. Maybe she thought she would see a sign of Greg. The reporters would talk about how many Vietcong we killed and then we would hear something about how many of our soldiers died. The media loved keeping score.
My mom drank a lot, and yelled a lot.
“Bobby, take this note down to the liquor store and bring me these things.” She gave me a dollar and said I could get some candy with the change.
‘Please allow my son Bobby to purchase, with this signed note, one small bottle of Vodka and one pack of non-filtered cigarettes.’ It was signed at the bottom.
I feared going to the liquor store where the grouchy old man told me never to come back after the time he caught me stealing kite string, even though he gave me a whipping. I had to go, my mom’s whipping’s were worse. Luckily, the old man wasn’t there and it was easy to get in and out with my red licorice, vodka, and smokes.
Walking home turning the corner I could see a green car parked in front of my house, the same car that took Greg when he went off to the army. Halfway home I stopped, and waited. Two men in army uniforms came down our driveway, got into their car and drove in my direction. As they passed me, the driver looked into my eyes. I could see the darkness.
…
I ran to the porch. The gunshot from the back of the house was loud, it was clear, and I could feel it in my chest. My mom loved my brother.
I knew what happened, I didn’t go in. Instead I went the other way, I went down the street to the bar, to the backdoor and waited for someone to come out or to go in. I never saw my mom after that. I loved my mom.
THe ENd
Well you did it again Angelo! An excellently crafted story that left me wanting to know more about the couple. I could almost hear music in the restaurant and the sounds of distant traffic as they walked. Well done!
Thanks!
I agree Beck. This is the first story here I’ve seen set so far in the past. Great story Rmllns!
This is a very sad story. I hope it’s really fiction. During my years as a police officer I saw many lives shattered because of alcohol and other addictions, as well as not being able to withstand tragedy.
Good story.
Yes … fiction … not sure why I wrote it … probably doesn’t fit the definition here.
very, very sensitive with keen eyes for details and plumb in the category of ‘show don’t tell’ stories. Good work of imagination.
Here’s my story for the Love prompt.
An Evening Stroll in the City
By: Angelo Dalpiaz
Karen churned with emotional trepidation as she sat across from Trey in the candlelit booth of what had become their favorite restaurant. Her hopes had soared when Trey suggested coming here to celebrate Saint Valentine’s Day, but now Trey seemed unfocused; he was just not himself. Had she placed more emphasis on this special day—and their special place—than she should have? The thought squelched her hope that maybe Trey was finally ready to commit.
The fragrance of warm garlic and olive oil infused the air as Trey watched the candle flame dance in Karen’s brown eyes. He took a deep breath. “You look beautiful tonight, Karen.” He let his breath out slowly. The ring he had put in his pocket before leaving home pressed into his thigh as confusion clouded his thoughts.
“What is it, Trey?” Karen knitted her brow and reached across the table and took his hand. “It’s like your someplace else. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, no, I, ah, well, I wanted to…”
“Yes?” Her wide smile betrayed her renewed hopefulness.
“I, ah…” The waiter appeared at the table snapping Trey’s thoughts.
“Buona sera,” he smiled at the couple.
They didn’t need a menu. “Antipasto, lasagna, and bread,” Karen said.
Trey ordered the same meal. “And another glass of wine, please.”
The waiter scribbled on his pad and nodded before walking away. Karen turned to Trey. “So, you were almost saying…?” She smiled expectantly.
“Nothing really,” he smiled thinly. “It can wait.” He looked up at the water colors of Venice, Rome, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa stretching above them on the dimly lit wall. “Maybe someday we can go to Italy and see those places.”
Karen followed his gaze. “That would be a special trip, to celebrate a special occasion.” Hope stretched her smile again.
Trey fell silent as he watched the dim light shimmer in the flowing blond curls swirling to her shoulders. He looked into her eyes. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.” Karen lowered her eyes and watched her reflection floating in her glass of wine.
***
Frustration rose inside of Trey as he lightly drummed his fingertips against the table top. He knew he loved Karen, but then, he also knew that was part of the problem. He had been hurt before…badly. His first marriage had ended when he learned about his wife’s long-term affair—with his best friend. He didn’t want to experience that again.
But he knew Karen was different, she loved him. At least he thought she did. But he had foolishly believed Susan loved him too, and look at what happened. He knew that holding Karen responsible for Susan’s actions was unfair, and he knew it was this confusion that kept him from true happiness. If only he could get past his insecurities and forget the past.
After dinner they shared a dessert of Tiramisu, and then they took a walk along Fifth Avenue.
Warmed by two glasses of wine, Karen nestled against Trey and rested her head against his shoulder. The throngs of tourists that crowded the city during the day were now tucked away in their hotels; leaving the darkening city to lovers again. A kaleidoscope of aromas rose from food carts lining the curb. The fragrance of roasted peppers, warm curry, and Jasmine rice mingled and sweetened the cool air.
They stopped and bought ice cream from a vender and laughed when it dripped onto their chins. “Hold still a second.” Trey wiped Karen’s chin with a paper napkin, then kissed her chilled lips.
They walked on and Trey put his hand in his pocket and felt the smooth edge of the diamond press into his finger; confusion pooled in his thoughts. He considered putting off the question for another night and wondered if giving himself more time to think would make a difference.
“Oh, look, Trey,” Karen pointed to a vender filling a shelf with trinkets and other wares. “Aren’t those Mytryoshkas dolls?”
“Yes, I think they are.”
They watched a tall, thin merchant lining up a row of gaily painted dolls along a shelf laden with toys and porcelain figurines. Karen browsed around the shop as Trey picked up a doll for closer inspection; the brightly painted face stared back at him.
Twisting the two halves in opposite directions, the doll squeaked apart, revealing another doll nestled inside. He twisted the next doll open, and then the next, and the next, until all five dolls, each one smaller than the other, stood in a row.
Trey palmed the diamond ring concealed in his pocket, indecision filled him again. As the dolls stared back at him, he realized he was just like those dolls; he kept so much about himself hidden inside—in layers. Hidden beneath his outer shell of confidence he concealed his insecurity about Karen’s feelings for him. Beneath that was hidden his confusion about what he really wanted. A deeper layer hid the fear of pain a broken relationship would cause. In a layer beneath that, in his heart, he was secure in the knowledge that he truly loved Karen. The diamond ring pressed into the skin of his warm palm.
Trey held the smallest doll in his hand. The Mytryoshka’s heart—the most important part of anyone, he thought. Slowly, he felt his confusion being pushed aside by the realization that it was what he carried in his heart that mattered most. If he wanted to be happy again he knew he would have to take a chance.
He bet on happiness.
Dropping the ring inside the small, hollow doll, he twisted it back together, then placed it inside the next larger doll, then placed each successive doll inside the next, until it stood alone, its many layers hidden once more. He found the vender and paid for the doll.
Arm-in-arm they continued to walk along the cracked sidewalk. It was getting late, the wheels of the venders carts groaned under the weight of their heavy loads as they were pushed along the curb.
Karen eyed the package in Trey’s hand. “What did you buy?”
He took the wooden doll out of the bag and gave it to Karen. “It’s one of those Russian dolls.”
“It’s pretty.”
“It’s for you.” They stopped in a pool of shimmering light falling from a street lamp and turned to each other. “It reminded me of myself so I bought it.”
She held it up in the light and smiled. “Don’t be silly…it doesn’t look anything like you.”
Trey’s blue eyes took in her smooth skin, her full lips, and then settled on her almond-shaped brown eyes. His finger slowly traced her chin. “Like me,” Trey said, “it hides things inside.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “When I looked inside that doll I understood what is most important to me. I love you.” He gently lifted her chin with his trembling fingers. “Now it’s your turn to look inside the doll.”
Karen twisted open each empty doll until she reached the smallest one…the heart. Twisting it open, the ring sparkled as bright as the stars in the night sky. Throwing her arms around Trey’s neck, she hugged him tight.
“Yes…yes…yes…” she cried against his cheek. “Yes!”
They kissed, then Trey took Karen’s hand and they walked out of the circle of light and into the cool darkness of the city night.
Word Count: 1245 {including title and author’s name}
Well you did it again Angelo! An excellently crafted story that left me wanting to know more about the couple. I could almost hear music in the restaurant and the sounds of distant traffic as they walked. Well done!
Thank you Beck. I love to write romance stories. I have a lot of experience with romance, I’ve been married to my high school sweetheart for 43 years on March 1st.
Beautiful story!
I’m hungry now!
Great entry. Loved the comparison you made between the small doll and the heart. Very nice
Where do we post our disclaimers??? Here is my love(?) story:
I Thought It Was Love
It is hot. Too hot to be in this heavy silk dress with stays poking my sides. The dress is strapless, yet my shoulders are as clammy as the rest of me. All of the humidity in the world has settled itself in this room at the back of the church, the “cry room” that becomes the “bride room” for weddings. There is a vinyl curtain on the inside that I have closed but I can peek out at the people gathered to witness my marriage, our marriage, the wedding of the soon to be “Mr. and Mrs. Eric Morrow.” Why is it that the church looks so big, that everyone looks so far away down the long aisle? I want to lay my face down on the cold marble floor or reach in the Baptismal font and with both hands, and splash my face with the cool water.
This cry room/bridal room is also the room I sat in when the priests started hearing face-to-face confessions in eighth grade. I sat with Father Beiler, an ancient Jesuit with soft white hair. I don’t remember that he ever gave me penance, but along with my absolution, I was always given a small pipe cleaner animal that he shaped while listening to my lies. Maybe the animal was to remind me of the sins I didn’t confess to: stealing bottles of wine from Teresie Hawkins parent’s house we found hidden in the stereo cabinet; letting Paul Conatta touch me under my sweater after the basketball game; carving BITCH on Anna Fitzgerald’s desk. I would take the little horse or donkey or dog and stick it in my uniform blouse, feeling it poke and prick me and remind me that I was bad and lied to a priest, another sin I would never confess. I would keep it in my blouse until I got home and give it to my little sister Dee-Dee who collected a shelf of my miniature pipe cleaner sins.
My mom taps on the door and says it is time for the bridesmaids to line up. I don’t hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D yet, which is supposed to be to be the cue that the ceremony is beginning. Why did I let Dee-Dee talk me into sage green? My bridesmaid’s are an uneven hedge at the back of the church and I decide green should be saved for awnings and lawn chairs.
I am alone in the cry room with my bouquet. It is heavy with closed rosebuds and the stems are wound tightly with green ribbon. A tiny white pin pokes my hand and I move it, which causes the ribbon to loosen. I lick the tiny drop of blood that threatens to fall on the dress. It tastes cool like relief.
If Father Beiler were here now, would I lie or confess my real sins, my biggest one yet? “Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am about to marry a man I don’t love.”
My mom leads me out of the room and while she straitens my train, my father takes my face in both of his hands and kisses my cheek. He slips his arm through my elbow and we stand at the end of the aisle. I look at all of the faces as we seem to float above the white cloth path to the altar. I see a row of the girls I work with at the agency. They are dressed like they are going to a nightclub. Pictures are snapping and the music is echoing in the church. My stomach tightens at the strong sweet smell of peonies and perfume. We are almost at the altar. The bridesmaids are smiling at me and crying at the same time, Dee-Dee blinking quickly to keep the tears from ruining her make-up. My nieces, the flower girls, are waving. I want to wave back, turn around and walk out.
I let myself look to the right and I see Eric. His cheeks look freshly scrubbed, red like a child’s after a hot bath. He takes a step forward to shake my dad’s hand. Instead, my dad pulls him close and hugs him. My family has fallen in love with Eric. As my father goes to lift my veil, he yanks too hard and the veil starts to pull off. My flowers are loose, my veil is loose and all eyes are on me as I try not to let everything unravel.
My father puts my hand into Eric’s and both our palms are wet. I look up at him and I know I will marry him. Eric leads me up the stairs of the altar and we sit down to listen readings with our backs to the church. As my Godmother reads One Corinthians, the words “Love is patient, love is kind” are the background as I bone strait, calculating how long it is proper to stay married before I ask for a divorce.
Wow, kateoldkate! I did not expect that last line. This was a great story.
My story for Valentine Day.
An Affair
————–
The new, thick, white table cloth was just the right size as I had hoped when I bought it last week at the Mall. It’s folds fell in elegant piles on all the four sides of the dining table, brushing the floor. Nothing would be visible under the table. I was prepared to chance it all in familiar surroundings. The chance meetings, the furtive touching of our finger tips, the pretended accidental putting of the crook of his right arm around my waist – as if extending support to steady me at the sudden faltering of my footsteps, the urgent gropings of each other whenever we found ourselves alone, I found it all too teen agey and giddy as if both of us were in the first flush –which, of course, we weren’t by a pretty long shot.
He was seated to my right, sipping his soup with the soup spoon held between his right thumb and forefinger, the upper edge of the soup plate held in his left hand tilting the plate towards himself, gathering the last few drops of the soup into his spoon; he didn’t like wasting even a morsel of food. Both his elbows were clearly visible by his sides. I slowly edged my bare right foot further to my right and gently, ever so gently, placed it on his sock less sandal clad left foot. I thrilled at the touch
of his bare flesh. He, as always, did not flinch and carried on talking shop with my husband, sitting opposite him, next to his teen aged daughter.
Love it … very unexpected …
Hi Rmullns,
Thanks. I feel tremendously encouraged.
*Disclaimer – not 500 words, but my poetry rarely is. Since it is a different format, I wanted to submit anyway. Here are two pieces. Enjoy!
Sunset in Eternity
A portrait of a sunset
seen in the iris of your eyes
gentle, breathtaking, calming my spirit
with amber hues speaking directly
into my consciousness
subduing wild instincts
with compassion and stopping time
with a mischievous blink,
for the sun will not set
as long as we are visitors in Eternity, its canvas
preserved in your gaze
allowing my presence
as long as I marvel at the beauty within
and forget the world around me,
illustrating my meaning
as your paintings interpret me
A Love Story for the Ages
As time has aged us
We assumed our roles faithfully
Creating our world while
Changing along the way.
You are not the girl I fell in love with
You are more…
Lover
Partner
Cherished friend.
Somewhere I lost myself
To become Yours
Living for your every heartbeat
Existing for your very breath.
Even though luster has worn to comfort
You still fill me with awe…
a glance
a smile
a childish laugh.
Looking back at our beginnings
Admiring how we’ve come so far
I never imagined a life this full
A romance this deep.
“A Love Story For The Ages” is love captured at it’s best. As a happily married wife of many years I can appreciate the sentiment so sweetly put!
Thanks Beck! My wife and I celebrated 11 years on Friday, and that was my gift to her.
Blossom
Dedicated to My Darling Husband, Rudy…
Darling, It is only you I have loved ever since our romance first blossomed.
Like the most exquisite thorn-ridged rose, every fine romance deserves to blossom into something more beautiful & ravishing…
beyond our wildest imaginations, our wildest dreams, and our wildest fantasies…
beginning with the spice of life as the main ingredient.
Rudy, my darling, it is only you who is worthy of the highest praise because you love me for who I am, and let me be who I am meant to be.
I dedicate this poem to you:
A Fairytale Dream Come True
I’ve loved you ever since… our fairytale romance first blossomed…..
Once upon a time in a fairytale so magical
there was a beautiful young princess
who lived in a castle nestled in the heart
of the most enchanted forest filled with emerald
green trees and autumn leaves of ruby,
amber brown, and yellow-orange with hues so golden.
This is not a story about a man with a golden
touch, or wizards and good witches with a magical
wand, or about a girl with a dog and ruby
red slippers. It’s a tale about a fairy princess
dreaming of a prince to capture her heart.
A whimsical fairy willing to share her heart,
she wears long braided curls in her golden
locks and has eyes of green like a pure emerald
stone. Her personality makes her a princess
so passionate and fair, her senses are so magical
and her lips of seduction are as red as a ruby.
Here comes her prince, he’s as rare as a ruby,
she yearns for him with every beat of her heart.
Her prince is the envy of every other princess.
Now is her moment, it is her golden
opportunity to share a wonderful and magical
life so precious, more precious than a stone of an emerald.
The prince’s chariot is adorned in gems of green emerald,
midnight blue sapphires, and the reddest stones of ruby.
He asks the princess to marry him with his own magical
words, to take his hand and his heart,
to be his bride and to live in a golden
palace where she will reside as his princess.
As she accepts his offer to be his princess,
he slides a ring on her finger aglow with an emerald,
with the band polished in 14 karat gold, so golden,
outlined with multiple stones in red ruby.
It’s a ring he designed for her right from his heart,
it’s a symbol of a lasting love so magical.
For this golden princess with eyes of emerald, lips of ruby and a magical heart,
dreams can come true as it did in this final chapter.
The prince and princess lived happily ever after…
And remember, darling… it is only you I have loved…
ever since our fairytale romance first blossomed.
-Lisa M. Andrade
As soon as Oscar’s name was called, I knew mine would quickly follow. It was our team’s final night in Guatemala and the children at the hogar took turns presenting us with our diplomas, our certificates of completion, a frame-able item that says we’re part of the family. I knew it would be Oscar’s job to deliver mine.
Five nights earlier, the children had gathered around the gringos asking us to sign their craft project for the evening—a vest made out of ordinary grocery bags. I felt like a celebrity as more and more grocery vests kept being shoved in my direction.
Watching me always sign my name with a heart over the “I” just for them, one bold little boy handed me his vest, stomped his foot, and declared, “sin corazón.” I repeated his request in the most heart-broken voice I could muster before signing his vest as requested, without the heart.
The next little boy wasn’t as bold. His expectant six year old eyes peered up at me expectantly as he whispered, “Con corazón.” I smiled as I gave him my heart in more way than one. He was the only one willing to go against the grain of being a little boy and say that hearts are ok. I admired Oscar, the boy whose name I could only remember because he shared it with my cat and wore the same cat vest every night.
The following day at dinner, there was some extra loud laughter and conversation happening on the boys’ side of The Great Divide that was the comedor. Eventually one of my male teammates braved the parted sea and slid onto the yellow bench next to me.
“That little boy over there wants me to tell you your hair is pretty,” he said.
I smiled towards the boys’ table. Oscar looked away. He looked back. I waved. His eyes darted away again. I sent a return affirmation and thanked the messenger.
For the remainder of our trip, I found Oscar working near me, staring at me, or trying not to stare at me. Most days our conversations were limited to “con corazón” but something special was happening. A six year old guatemalteco was falling in love with a nineteen year old estadounidence. And she was falling love back.
Our last night after Oscar finally worked up the courage to call my name, I approached the front of the room for my certificate. But first, a hug that definitely broke the “no purple” rule. In that moment, no one care. Especially not Oscar who refused to let go for a full two minutes. Especially not the gringa who wiped tears from her eyes as she returned to the bench that had recently been painted green.
Love crossed cultural lines were words fell short. Love broke man-made barriers to protect children (and adults) from heartbrokenness. Love ripped my heart to shreds and left a piece of it attached to the kitty vest of a little boy.
Free to Love
By Afia Lee
Word Count 1188
Leonard Cohen’s baritone voice stole into Zora’s unconsciousness, “I had to be crazy to love you…” drifted from the speaker next to her head. She floated in the blackness of unconsciousness. The lyrics taunted her back, “I had to let everything fall…” The blackness suspended her in warmth and peace. The sultry notes persisted until they seduced her back to where her head stabbed with pain and a warm moist trickle cascaded down her temple, “I had to be people I hated, I had to be nothing at all…” A sudden wave tightened her stomach sending a bitter liquid to the back of her throat. Her eyes throbbed in synchrony with the pounding in her head as she held them tightly shut. She waited for her equilibrium to return before she allowed the full onslaught from the outside world.
When Zora had arrived at Stephan’s apartment earlier that day, she paused at the door, her hand suspended above the knob. A twitch, really no more than a brief flutter in her chest paralyzed her. As if her bones had liquefied, she felt her knees buckle under the weight of her own body. “Zora, get a hold of yourself,” she whispered to herself. Stephan had promised that this time would be different and tonight was just the beginning.
Feeling her skeleton regain its form and a sudden burst of warmth rise from her toes, Zora stood, clutched the cool steel knob and opened the door.
“Happy Valentines Day, Baby.” Stephan closed the gap between Zora and the kitchen in four easy strides. As he overtook her, his arms closed around her forcing the air out of her chest with an audible gasp.
“Oh, sorry. I guess I’m just excited to see you. I just want everything to be right.” Zora tilted her cheek up as Stephan leaned down to rest a kiss on her cheek.
As she looked around the room, Zora noticed, for the first time that Stephan had attempted to decorate for the occasion. A gas station bouquet of flowers and drugstore box of candy in a cellophane covered heart-shaped box crowded the dinette. Two place settings displayed wilting greens, thick slabs of steak and two wine filled glasses. Zora wondered if Stephen remembered that to her, the crimson colored stuff was like poison that would send her to the bed for days; her head pulsating in agony.
Stephan slid one of the chairs out for Zora to sit in and then took his seat across from her. His gazed fixed on her and she shifted in her chair. That same gaze, that once triggered a flutter in her belly, now sent a shiver down her spine. Zora straightened in her chair, returning his gaze with her own determined probe.
“Is everything ok? You look uncomfortable.” The skin on Stephan’s face stretched and shiny. A vein in his temple pulsated.
“No, everything is fine. I’ve been doing really well lately and I’m in a good place. I’m just trying to take this, slowly. You know, take it all in.” The twitch jumped in Zora’s chest again, lingering a moment longer than before. She picked up her fork and started pushing soggy pieces of lettuce around her plate.
“What is there to take in? I told you that I had changed, that things were going to be different this time.” Stephan said, his voice now drowning out Leonard Cohen’s crooning in the background.
She hadn’t noticed the sultry notes before and coldness spread across her flesh. Her mother had put on a Cohen album on the nights that her father had come home loud and stinking of perfume and liquor. On those nights, screams and the clap of flesh against flesh silenced Cohen’s voice. Only when the front door slammed shut rattling the pictures on the walls did Zora and her sister leave the sanctuary of their closet to find their mother.
“Zora!” Stephan’s voice assaulted Zora’s ears and she looked up to meet his stare, at once icy and burning into her. “Look, I’m trying but you won’t even give me a chance. You never gave me a chance. How do you expect me to change if you’re just waiting for me to screw up?”
“Look Stephan, this didn’t start out right. Maybe tonight wasn’t a good idea. I’ve changed and…”
“And what?” Stephan shouted as he leapt out of his chair, stealthy as a jaguar. He paced the floor, each muscle sinewy rope bulging under his skin.
From the stereo, Cohen pleaded with Zora, “Show me the place where suffering began…” She rose from her chair, her feet steadied by the wood floor beneath her. She had been in this place with Stephan before, but she suddenly knew that this would be her last time here. She realized that she loved herself enough not to compromise her freedom or her life for an empty promise of love.
“Look, I’m going to leave, before something happens.”
“No, let’s just talk. We can make this work.” Stephan, who was now towering over Zora, pleaded, his hand a weight on her arm pinning her in place.
“No Stephan. We are done.” Zora’s arm started to throb under his hand, now a vice grip encircling her flesh.
“You really didn’t think that I would let go of you that easily did you. You know I love you and won’t live without you. Don’t make a mistake that you’ll regret?”
Her mind flooded with too many memories of her own screams and the sounds of his fists against her flesh, a mallet tenderizing raw meat. Heat surged from her toes to her face and venom coursed through her veins. Her own voice sounded foreign as she spewed. ”Everything about us has been a mistake.”
Stephan stepped back, an instantaneous expression of shock betraying the rage that quickly consumed him.
The sequence of events that followed tumbled around Zora’s head as she succumbed to the conscious world. Jumbled images, like balls in a pinball machine, collided in her head; a solid fist across her face, her head colliding with the table where Cohen’s lyrics oozed out of the speakers, then blackness.
As the waves in her stomach calmed, Zora allowed first one eye, then the other, to open. She saw Stephan sitting on the couch, his back to her, caressing the slick midnight barrel of the Glock service revolver that he kept on him whether or not he was on duty. Zora stood with the silent precision of a deer. She grabbed the steak knife that rested on the table next to an untouched piece of steak. She clutched the knife until her own drops of blood trickled down the glinting blade. The stench of beef filling her nostrils sending sickening ripples through her stomach once again. The wood floor creaked, betraying her silent approach and Stephan stood, the Glock in one hand and the magazine in another. Zora covered the distance between them in four easy strides and lodged the blade into Stephan’s neck.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“I am free,” Zora whispered as she lowered the phone and waited.
She pulled the pen cap on and off repeatedly as she talked. She kept her eyes fastened on the same place in the carpet. She resisted the urge to begin picking the dust and strings from the ground. Being a human vacuum would be more enjoyable than the conversation.
He worked very hard to keep his eyes focused on hers, even though he knew she’d never meet them. He kept his face straight and his mind focused. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear every gruesome detail of her sexual history. As much as she dreaded saying the words, he dreaded hearing them. It broken him to know everything she had experienced.
Sexual abuse. Rape. Repeatedly on both accounts. The intentional choice to give herself away to multiple partners, sometimes even in the same night.
She shook as she told him every detail, hating every moment of her history and of revealing them.
This was not what he’d expected for his life. Not what he expected for his future wife. He’d stayed pure, expecting her to be doing the same. Even though they had never met, he had gone to great lengths to protect what was rightfully hers. To know she did not have the same commitment by force and by choice broke him. A precious gift had been robbed from him.
Her voice grew weak and the tears were forming on the inside. She refused to cry but she was starting to lose control. She stabbed the cap of her pen into the palm of her hand hoping to divert some of the pain. The relief was only momentary. Her jittery fingers slipped and the pen cap fell to the ground. It bounced towards his foot. She froze. Her voice trailed off.
He reached down and picked up the blue piece of plastic. He held it out to her. She looked at it and looked away.
“Lindsey,” his whispered.
She gazed down at his feet.
“Linds, look at me,” he whispered again.
She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her chin would not lift. Her eyes were too interested in the way his shoelaces tied with three bunny ears.
He reached forward and grabbed her hand. “Lindsey, I love you. I want you. I’m sorry for everything you’ve experienced. It will not define our relationship. Let’s start fresh, you and me. Right now. Today. We’re in this together.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb. More followed. He gently pulled them both to their feet and together. He felt the wetness from her face soak through his shirt.
She was speechless. Even knowing everything about her, even knowing the hardships she’d endured, the struggles she’d faced, and the bad decisions she’d made. And still he loved her. Still he wanted her. She relaxed in his arms and accepted his embrace.
Their wedding night would be his first experience. She was practically professional. Yet for her too it would be a significant first, the first time love-making would truly involve love.
True love is a special gift with notes of forgiveness, generosity, and compassion mixed in. I love how you captured those qualities in your story.
Bits of Stardust
Her leg twitched slightly, brushing up against his. His hand rose and fell with her stomach, the cotton fibers an ocean of purple on which his palm floated. Her arm twitched again and punched his bicep involuntarily. She was a boxer in her sleep. He grinned at the sweet look on her face, her eyes fluttering wildly under the lids and her mouth slightly open. Her body expelled a cloud of deadly carbon dioxide gas through her jungle of bed head hair. His hand sunk into the ocean as her stomach dove.
His body rarely allowed him to sleep in late nowadays. He had woken near dawn, but could not bring himself to wake her. He had contented himself to lie beside her, she in his arms and him in hers.
The fabric of her pajamas ran across leg again, pushing aside his and grazing his leg hairs. He clenched his teeth and desperately tried to keep himself from crying out with laughter and flailing his whole body. He did not want to wake her. He tensed his body until the tickling stopped. God, why did he have to be so ticklish?
His other arm rested behind her head, his fingers just inches from her neck. They begged him to give them free reign on the open fields of skin. He reluctantly held them back, secretly longing to touch her soft skin. Caress the skin, the tiny hairs she hates to admit cover her body. Treat her as if God himself handcrafted her body and gave her to him to keep safe and unblemished. Make love to her skin with your hand.
The pressure of her body on his arm’s arteries caused his arm to scream for air. How could he remove his arm without disturbing her? Carefully, he slipped his arm free of its prison. Inch by inch, more of his arm cried out in thanks as it began to breathe freely again.
He was almost free, his wrist sliding through the tunnel of neck and pillow, when a piece of dust flew up his nose. Pressure built in his nasal cavity. His hand jerked slightly as he plugged his nose with the other. She stirred. For a moment, he sat there, heart pounding like a drum solo. She sighed. He took a short breath. She rolled over onto her side and off his hand. The sneeze faded away.
The boy sat with his book of blank pages and began to write. He wrote every day. Otherwise, his work would never be finished, and would still be unfinished when he returned to the dust of stars that made him.
After finishing, he gazed back over to her, peaceful and quiet. He saw the love in the look of her closed eyes.
He felt the familiar twinge in his chest. He had a headache.
He grabbed a cup and filled it with water from the bathroom sink. He brought it back and stood by the bed. A single ray of morning sunlight broke through the window shades. It crawled up the side of her head, just barely walking across her face. He held the cup too loosely in his hand and water spilled over the edge, onto her shoulder, chest and neck. He froze.
Her eyes blinked open once, twice, three times before she turned and saw him. A smile made of granny-smith apples and maple syrup played across her face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to her lips.
Women in charge were hot.
Dust and boxes, that’s all that was in the attic. Her cat meowed at the door. The girl, crippled by time’s embrace as she now was, opened the door to the room of forgotten memories. “What’s in here, Beethoven?”
The cat waltzed into the room as if he owned the place. He ran to a stack of boxes and began to rub his side against one of them. The woman reached for the box, but her hand shook with the effort and the box fell to the ground. “Beethoven, look at what you’ve made me do,” she said sarcastically. She bent to pick up the box, but stopped when Beethoven meowed again, impatiently.
The cat jumped into the hole between the boxes. “Beethoven!” She tried to move some of the boxes to get to the cat, but he jumped back out, an old book clasped in his mouth. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, silly cat!” Beethoven dropped the book at her feet and purred proudly.
The woman picked up the book. She had never seen it before. Curious, she opened to the first page. She recognized the meticulously handwritten print, though she had not seen it in many years. In her mind, she read his words in his deep, slow voice.
“Love is a story of two. Two actors perform on a stage, for all to see, but never know. Two members sit in the audience, whose minds’ council never uttered. No one else can understand their love story. They only see a shadow playing across their eyes and guess at its wonders. For the story contains no words, no great epics nor ballads, only memories of lost moments in a sea of emotion and forgotten dreams. Such is life; life, the story of love.”
The woman sat and read his thoughts from days in their youth, until they parted and he wrote on alone, but always for her. She read without pause, until the final page and the final passage.
“I grow weary, love, though I have enjoyed sharing our memories with you. I can barely write now, I must be growing old. Keep this book of no words. I wrote it for you, us, our memories. I’m moving to a new place soon. It’s considerably smaller than my apartment, but it’s in the country and there’s acres of grass for us to lay in. I would really like to see you. I know many leagues and years separate us, but I would like to see you again. I have missed you all these years.”
The woman choked on her own tears. She had seen him, many times in the past years; the first time on a trip to see her mother.
Hours later she knelt by his home. His tomb was not made of marble or gold, but of earth and the dust of stars. She laid a bit of mistletoe on the stone above him, mistletoe he had given her as a Christmas present so many lifetimes ago.
“Oh, look, love,” she said, “mistletoe.” She bent and kissed him, sucking on his lips until they were red and bruised.
She read the engraving at the bottom of the stone, which he wrote in a notebook of words he never meant to publish. “There is no life in this universe but that of stars, and we, in all our wanderings and pains, are no exception. We are all, every atom, every molecule, and every soul, not but stardust shining in the void of space, and some shine brighter than us all; glittering in every atom there ever was or ever shall be.”
She rose and atoms coalesced around her, embracing her, kissing her, making love to her skin. She melted into his fingers again. Two stars, made one, shining brighter than all the rest. No one but the universe saw them, and no else could understand.
“Never Too Late”
by Casey Kinnard
“You come here everyday, Jacob. I would have thought you‘d be tired of me by now,” Nora said, when her gentleman friend entered her living room. She set down her knitting and adjusted the afghan blanket that lay across her lap. Jacob came every afternoon at three o’clock to visit her. He hadn’t missed an afternoon in three years.
“Good afternoon, Nora,” Jacob said, ignoring the sharp tone of her welcome. “I brought you something new today.” He lifted the bag to show her. “There were pies at the bakery. I brought you two different kinds because I didn’t know which kind you would like best.”
“You are getting too old to be tottering down the block after sweets. Besides, I don’t like pies,” she said, with a sniff.
“Oh, well,” Jacob said, unperturbed. “I brought you the muffins that you like, too.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I’ll just go ahead and make the tea then,” Jacob said, taking his bag of bakery goods into the kitchen.
He went about the same ritual that he had begun when he began to visit Nora three years earlier. He set the water on the stove to boil and tidied up the kitchen. Nora could not move around so easily anymore. So he washed her few dishes and swept the floor. When the water boiled, he poured it into the tea pot over the leaves and readied the tray with cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and the muffins on a plate. The scorned boxes of pie went into the refrigerator.
Jacob brought the tray into the front room, and paused in the doorway. Nora had cleared away her knitting and put aside her old copies of Woman’s Day magazine that had been scattered across the coffee table. The afghan that had been on her lap lay folded over the back of the sofa, and she had removed her old, worn cardigan, so that he could see her pretty dress. His steps were slow and halting as he made his way to the coffee table. He didn’t want to drop the tray all over the floor in front of her.
When the tray was set down on the table, Nora leaned forward and began pouring out the tea into the cups. Jacob’s hands shook terribly whenever he did it. Her hands, though liver-spotted and marked with the fine lines of age, were still strong and able. She stirred two rounded scoops of sugar into his tea, just as he liked it.
Jacob had known Nora since they were classmates in grammar school together. He never wanted to marry anyone but Nora, and he had spent his life waiting for her. He admitted to himself that it was his own slow foolishness that prevented him from asking Nora to marry him after they finished their schooling. When her first husband died he again waited too long, and by the time he got around to asking, she had married her second husband. Jacob found himself waiting once more.
Now, here he was eighty-one, and Nora, once more, a widow. Jacob was resolved that he couldn’t wait anymore. He didn’t want to live the remainder of his years alone. He gathered his courage.
“Can I ask you something?” Jacob said, after Nora finished pouring her own tea and began eating her muffin. She finished chewing the piece of muffin, and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“What is it?” she asked. Her manner was still prim and polite.
Jacob put his tea down on the table, the china cup clattering against its saucer. Immediately, he wished that he was still holding it, just to give his clumsy hands something to do. She was looking at him over her own tea. He swallowed hard.
“I wanted to know…” he said. His mouth was dry. He tried again. “Would you marry me, Nora?” he asked.
She lowered her cup to her knees, with a look of surprise. She didn’t say anything for such a long time that Jacob wondered if he should not have said anything at all. Despite himself, the back of his throat constricted as if he would cry. And just in case his eyes started to water, he looked down at the tea things again.
“Well, Jacob,” she said. “It took two husbands for you to get around to asking me.”
“I guess it has.”
“I was beginning to think that I was wrong that you felt that way about me.”
Jacob picked up his cup again and looked at Nora. She was smiling at him.
“Does that mean that you will marry me?” he asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. She cocked an eyebrow at him, and she made to straighten the afghan that was not on her lap. Jacob noticed the discreet movement of her hands and smiled to himself. It relieved him to know that he was not the only one that was nervous and just a little shy.
“I’m not a young woman anymore, and I am cranky,” she said.
“I know that, Nora, and you’ve always been cranky.”
“I like company, although I don’t get very much of it these days,” she continued. She poured another cup of tea for herself and gestured towards Jacob, asking if he wanted anymore. “You’ve been alone all your life. I’m not sure how you will like having someone like me around all the time, especially now that you are old and set in your ways.”
“I’ve wanted nothing except your company, Nora, all these years,” Jacob said quietly, peering down into his cup. “I just couldn’t ask you fast enough, was all.”
Nora fell silent. Her proud posture relaxed, and she leaned back against the sofa.
“I am sorry, Jacob.” And Jacob saw that she meant it.
“That’s all right. It’s not too late, yet, is it?”
“No,” Nora said. “I don’t think it is.”
“Will you marry me, Nora? I know it is so short notice. We can do it tomorrow, if you agree.” She was quiet again, contemplative. When Jacob glanced up at her, she had a small smile in the corner of her mouth, and he fancied that her eyes were damp.
“I will marry you,” she said. “I will marry you tomorrow, and I’ll let you make the arrangements.”
Jacob stood up from his chair and leaned over to kiss her cheek, that to him was still soft and young under his lips. She took his trembling hand in her own and squeezed it.
“Jacob,” she asked. “Could we have that pie now, after all?”
Bravo! Beautifully done. So gently told, with feeling and deliberation. As sad as Jacob’s missed opportunities are I loved the hope and resolution of the story.
Thank you!
I agree with Beck, and that simple gentleness kept me reading. You expressed the patience of love so well. Thank you!
Very sweet. The tenderness between them came through so clearly. Nice job.
You do a nice job of using the love story “format” that Joe wrote about yesterday. They had to be apart and that caused doubt between them; now they realize that they cannot live without each other. I wish them Happily Ever After 🙂 .
WILL USED TO BE IN LOVE
By Stephen Johnson
Forward-looking, as it was called, was not fortune telling. There was nothing mystical about it. It was merely an immersive, interactive experience in which the user observes how the world will look in a certain amount of years, based on observations of the world as it is and has been. It was a science, some declared, but with a disclaimer to the service that read, “predictions do not account for technological, astronomical, environmental or sociological anomalies,” others said the whole future-seeing business was entirely unreliable. But businessmen still used them to gauge markets, and the fashion savvy used them to stay ahead of trends, and all of this enough to gain the science of forward-looking credibility with Will. Thus it was with no suspicion that he entered a forward-looking studio when he did.
Will had come to the realization that going to a forward-looking studio was one of those things that everyone has to do at least once. He didn’t put much thought into choosing the one he did, but decided the time spontaneously while in passing. He doubted his decision only slightly when the owner of the studio, a man in his early thirties with hair giving more ground to his forehead than seemed appropriate, handed Will a pair of ridiculously red goggles and instructed him to put them on. Will did, and he felt ridiculous.
The future was surprisingly predictable on all accounts. Computers got smaller and faster. Cars got sleeker and shinier, but still didn’t fly. Nations still waged war for reasons that no one could fully and satisfactorily define. The global population still debated over impending disasters that threatened the future of humanity. Will was unimpressed. Until he saw himself, that is. And not only himself, but a girl as well. She had brown hair, electric blue eyes, and a smile that dominated every feature of her face. And she was smiling because of Will. And he was smiling because of her, because he loved her. They were deeply in love, more that Will had imagined two people could be in love. It was very beautiful.
Then the goggles came off.
“What did you think of the future?” the studio owner asked.
“It was…”
“Not so impressive?”
“It was different,” Will admitted. “I have a question about someone I saw in there.”
“All characters in the simulation are fictional,” the owner warned. “just some spice so people don’t think there was some kind of disaster or the rapture.”
“But it was a girl who was with me,” Will said. “It was pretty specific.”
“Forward-looking doesn’t – can’t go into specifics. Unless there is some new data. Every once in a while, the circumstances line up just right so that the probability of an individual becoming very important is greater than ninety percent.”
“There’s a ninety percent chance that I’ll be important?” Will asked incredulously.
“Or the girl. And then you’d be important for being with her. Did she look familiar? Was it the girl of your dreams?”
“Not at all. On either account.”
“She must have a very nice personality,” the owner mused.
“I didn’t say she was ugly,” said Will. “Just not who I–” that was getting a bit personal with a stranger, and he didn’t want to be that guy.
“Well our time is up,” the owner hinted without subtlety. “Best of luck to you with this girl. Maybe I’ll see you in the tabloids!” He stretched his lips into a cheery grin and waved Will out of the studio.
Over the next several days, when Will was out in public, he found himself looking for the girl with brown hair and electric blue eyes and that heart-breaking smile. There were plenty of girls with brown hair, fewer with blue eyes, though none had the same spark, and not one girl had that smile. He did not tell his friends about the future he saw, and did not refuse them as they helped him find the occasional date. Most of the girls that were interested in him, he would have been as interested as well, and most likely more so. But none were the girl he loved, so he politely declined further interaction.
It was more difficult with his neighbor, Allison Mayweather. He saw her almost every day, and had even made an effort to arrange a chance meeting from time to time. But she too was not the girl he loved, and so time accumulated into greater and greater increments, and Allison Mayweather became Allison Hardy, and Will remained alone but full of hope. After all, he had seen the girl he loved.
A passing decade held twenty-six dates which presented Will eleven women that were lovely and nice, seven that were just lovely, six that were just nice, and two that fit neither description. None were the girl that Will was looking for. He had even once, in confidence, described the girl he had seen to a trustworthy friend, but that extra pair of eyes still did not see what Will had seen before.
Finally it occurred to Will to visit the forward-looking studio again. He wanted to see the girl he loved, even if it wasn’t real, and he wanted to see her loving him.
Will waited as the studio owner, now with most of his hair given in to the advances of his forehead, finished with another customer. As he waited, he could not help but over-hear the conversation in the adjacent room.
“There was a girl in there,” the customer said.
“All characters are fictional,” the owner warned.
“She had brown hair, brilliant blue eyes, and an amazing smile!” the customer said.
“She sounds very nice,” the owner said.
She was nice, Will thought with a frigid shiver that didn’t quite leave his chest. That was his girl.
“We’ll be in love!” the customer said.
“Best of luck to you with the girl,” and the owner ushered the young man out of his studio.
By then Will was gone. He learned what he had come to know. The woman he loved had left him, and it no longer mattered what the future saw. And it broke his heart that he would never know what it was he would do to make her leave him.
That was awesome. Very readable. You cover so much ground in such a short space, great use of details, and what an ending.
This is my second try at the Valentine Day story contest.
The End and a Beginning
——————————
She glanced at her wrist watch. Her brows were puckered in anxiety. It was already 9 0’clock, she was running a minute or two late. Ashim would be fuming, slouched at the dining table, waiting to be served his breakfast – her lord and master.
‘It’s bloody 9, where is the goddamn breakfast?’ she heard him yell, as he saw her step into the apartment.
‘It is on the table since 8.30 if you would just care to look,’ she replied, ‘I just stepped out to get a packet of milk after putting Priya on the school bus.’
‘ OK, OK don’t you act a martyr,’ Ashim sneered, ‘Dropping Priya off at the bus stop indeed, you poor overworked women; this breakfast is stone cold, porridge is lumpy, toast soggy; you know this has to last me till lunch which, I’m sure, would be leftover garbage from last night’s dinner.”
She was used to this daily breakfast ritual. She ignored it. She had a request to make.
‘Ashim,do finish your breakfast and would you please drop me off at Institute on your way to office, I’m running a bit late today I’ve an important class to attend.’
She wasn’t expecting her request to be granted.
‘No way,’ she heard him say, ‘I don’t have time. You better take a rickshaw to the Metro station and catch a Metro to your Institute.’
The rickshaw dropped her at the station just as the train was pulling in. She flashed her Smart card at the Reader and rushed into the nearest compartment. She exhaled in relief. She felt somebody was trying to say something to her. She looked back.
‘Buenos diaz madam; good to see you traveling in the Metro like us ordinary folks.’ It was Rana, her class mate from the Institute.
‘Oh, hi Rana, nice to see you, ‘ she replied,’ were you greeting me in a foreign tongue?’
‘Just picked it up in my Spanish class, means good morning,’ she liked him, didn’t feel threatened in his company, brief as it was.
‘Wow I’m impressed, just two classes of Spanish and you are speaking the lingo. Tell me how do you say good night in Spanish?’ she teased.
‘Uh-uh, not sure, hold it, let me look it up in my copy,’ Rana stuttered as she saw him turning red.
‘OK forget it, it’s not important; tell me in the evening, after the class, it will be closer to night and then you can bid me Buenos Noches.’ she smiled.
‘Oh ya, that means good night. You knew it– why did you ask?’ Rana sounded perplexed.
‘Just teasing, I like the way you blush,’ She really liked his company.
‘That’s not how my sister puts it,’ he was on the defensive.
‘What does your sister call you when you blush, is she elder to you?’ she asked.
‘Just a year older.’he replied, ‘ she calls me beetroot Rana,’ he sounded shy and unsure of himself.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ she laughed, ‘that’s apt Beetroot Rana.’
‘What does you husband call you, when you blush,’ he sounded innocent. she was silent for a while before replying,
‘He calls me names. Names like witch, bitch and worse.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rana sounded shocked.
‘Don’t be,’ she replied,’ when I’m talking to you I sort of forget Ashim.’
‘I do miss you when you are not in the class miss.’ Rana said.
‘Don’t call me Miss or Misses, just call me Mita, ‘ she had lowered her voice.
1,239 words
THE POSTCARD
by Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez
I had left his apartment before he returned with breakfast, remembering the curve of his eye and the trembling. We discovered our unnamed loneliness in each other’s mouths, scars mapping out our pasts, calling out for forgiveness. He had kissed my eyelids while I pretended to sleep, nervous of the delicacy that pervaded everything. The air was damp after the rain; foggy like tenderness. With my chin in my scarf, hands in my pocket, I made way to the subway line while David, with croissants in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other was on the other side of the street. He didn’t ask me where I was going, understanding that he, too, had his own injuries to protect. I could’ve called out to him, but went down the steps into the belly of the city, an apparition in the dark entering an underpass. We injured each other this way: incredibly, without precision.
On good days, he read poetry to me in his blue-striped robe and plaid pyjamas, his hair uncombed, his hands grey as dusk. The poetry wasn’t any good. I couldn’t listen to any of it. I only paid attention to his eyes, how they escaped detachment, how the ink off the page relieved him of an unspoken grudge. My own detachment was put down to the coldness of my nature. He read his work, nibbling at his fingernail, peeking at me every so often – habits that irked me as irritating. He interpreted my silence as a response to his language, that it had become tiresome. He required a reason that I like his poems. In essence, he wanted me to fall in love.
But, we were bound together from the weight of our private fears eventually replaced by the alternative: eating cheap, frozen dinners alone; plugging into online dates; or worse, being set up by our overly-concerned mothers with homely people of latent perversions.
So, we ate together instead, at restaurants we’d pass by on Friday nights, risking bad service, loud music, and an inflated food bill because neither of us were compelled to cook nor refute each other’s religious arguments about the sinfulness of eating pork. We poured over menus, naming the trendiest, most expensive choices, if not the most safe or conservative. He enjoyed ordering the “Marinated duck confit with mandarin peel and seared foie gras,” while I frequented the “Butter-poached lobster with English pea and chantarelle risotto.” I suspected it was more than a matter of taste than it was a desire to say these items out loud.
We also spent hours tilting our heads to read the spines of eroding paperbacks at used book stores with names that had nothing to do with reading like Monkey’s Jaw or Helena’s Teacup. We cultivated ourselves through reverential silences at art galleries where the decorum required both seriousness and inquisitive worship.
Even our friends were ones we could agree on, or pretend to, for the sake of the other. They were mostly artists with peculiar opinions, but we dedicated ourselves to the theatrics of the city. They had exotic names, loud fashion, and even louder bravados that they used words like fabulous.
“Does he love you?,” Emma asked me once before a double date.
“I keep telling you, it isn’t like that. We sleep together, we eat together, we borrow each other’s toothbrush from time to time, that’s it.”
Yes, the etiquette of dating where I washed my hair, shaved my legs, tried on dresses in front of a mirror, and had a girlfriend over to give me cheerful advice was misinterpreted as romance.
Sometimes I sat without reading, doing nothing, in a room whose one window looked straight into a one-way street. The tears came easily caused by the depressant effect of the pills I had to take. David never questioned this, but accepted it as some kind of female hormone running its wild tangent. He often observed his own behaviour for signs of contagion, but there was none.
Instead, he bought me perfume rather than flowers after I insisted they were a wasteful extravagance, too temporary to be taken seriously, and could only be tolerated in the spring. In return, I bought him postcards. We held hands from time to time: when it was easy, when the moon was out, when one of us felt sad, or agreed to go for a walk without talking, touching each other’s bodies as a recollection, a mapping of sorts, a digression of a long conversation we’ve had once before.
We needed assurances like watching the snow fall, like our names being called out in lovemaking. He often looked down at me and told me I was beautiful. During sex he was less self-conscious and overtly sentimental. We had become scavengers of each other’s bodies, salvaging one another’s flaws and absences.
Yet, we had gotten to that point where I was no longer disciplined, shattering breakable objects during interrogations, contemplating my own death by blade, pill, or hanging. I had become on edge, so wounded that I resigned myself to swear at him to announce my recklessness, cutting my fingertips with a knife to keep count of each offence.
It was pictures of ex-girlfriends with big teeth, curly hair. They were real to me as transient ghosts in alleyways. In one photo, one leaned into him with her head on his shoulder, both hands clawing his forearm, gleeful as a cheerleader. I had to work up to them, each photograph, a horrible treasure, which allowed me to compare facial features, bust sizes, potential IQ levels, and skin complexion.
It wasn’t difficult for me to imagine him overwhelmed with nostalgia over a love song or how many times they had had fantastic, pungent sex. So, I preferred to imagine these women 50 pounds heavier with slight moustaches and strong lisps. If these images failed to encourage me, I imagined them dead. Revealing these photographs to me was David’s way to say we were merely survivors of other people and their failings. The satisfaction of memorized names and petty facts were scarcely worth it for evidence.
He always wanted things to happen sooner than they were supposed to, appealing to the unfamiliar. One incision and he had cut himself loose: unallowable, erased, hung up to dry, sent out to the boon docks. His face would’ve been cut out of photographs and albums burned if we had them. Instead, he left me keys, a note on foolscap paper, a white Gardenia in April – humiliation that said nothing. Somewhere there was an apology. I didn’t know who to ask. I didn’t know who to tell.
As I flip over the last postcard I will ever receive from him of a beach in Yucatán, Mexico, headlights of a passing car show through the window, moving first along one wall, then along the next wall, fading away.
Dear Sara,
The heat here is incredible! If it weren’t for your “Spanglish,” I’d be lost. The locals are somewhat weary of me, but eager to please and bugger off with all my money! How are you? How’s work? I heard from Emma and Alex that they’ll soon be taking the plunge…
His penmanship is skimpy, thin, exhilarated with small talk and exclamation marks. Slowly, I can feel him leave my body in waves, like a helpless gesture.
He had other things to do, other people to love. I did, too….
We had plans.
(c) Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez
***
Please consider this my entry to the “Show Off Writing Contest” for February 2012.
Thanks,
Zara
Email: zgarcia(dot)alvarez(at)gmail(dot)com
On Twitter: @ZaraAlexis
The Red String of Fate
By: Morgan Nolen
“There’s an old East Asian legend, according to this myth, the Gods tie an invisible red string around the little fingers of those that are destined to be soul mates and will one day marry each other.
The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.”
Elaina let go of her daughter’s hand and knelt down in front of her before handing her a pink backpack full of her belongings that she would need for a week away from home. She kissed her young daughter on the forehead and smiled. “Bye, Alice. Be good, okay?” Elaina stood up and crossed her arms over her chest as she watched Alice hurry over to Russell who was sitting on the couch. She sighed and turned her attention to the red headed woman standing in front of her and half smiled. “Thanks again, Mercy,” Elaina shifted her attention to the man on the couch and her smile faded, “and you too Russell. I’ll see you two next week. If anything happens you have my cell number.”
Mercy forced a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, if you’d actually, you know, pick up your phone for once. She’ll be fine, Elaina. We’ll see you next week.” Mercy watched as Elaina headed out of the apartment and sighed with relief when the elevator door closed. “Christ, that woman gets on my nerves sometimes.” She heard a low chuckle of amusement from behind her and turned to see Russell smiling at her and Alice sitting on his lap.
“She gets on everyone’s nerves sometimes,” Russell commented before ruffling the girl’s hair. “You want Alice to go put her things in her room?” Mercy nodded and watched as the child grabbed her bag and hurried off to the spare bedroom. “Is she always this quiet when she’s here?”
Mercy shrugged before sitting down next to Russell. “For about a day, but she’ll probably be talking nonstop by tomorrow or in a few hours, lord knows.” Mercy leaned back against the couch and sighed. “So, are you already bored even though it hasn’t even been an hour since Elaina left?” Russell laughed a little at the comment and shook his head.
“Even though we’re…I guess dating she doesn’t enjoy spending time with me so it’s really nothing new there. If you have plans though, I can leave it’s no–”
“Relax Russell, I was kidding. I’m sure Alice wants you here and it’s always nice to have company.” Mercy’s comment left the two in silence until they heard the sound of tiny footsteps running into the room. Alice plopped down on the couch between Mercy and Russell, with a smile on her face.
“Aunt Mercy, guess what?” Alice turned her attention to Mercy waiting for a response.
“What’s up, sweetie?” she asked, trying to entertain the girl.
“I packed my bag all by myself!” Mercy could tell that Alice was proud of herself and could only imagine the mess of clothes and toys that were shoved into the tiny backpack. Then she began to wonder if it was because Alice wanted to pack her own bag, or if it was because Elaina had forgotten like usual, but she couldn’t help but think Alice’s enthusiasm was adorable.
“Aww, I’m so proud of you!” Mercy responded and Russell laughed a little. “You’re getting to be such a big girl.” The grin on Alice’s face made both Mercy and Russell smile. There was nothing that compared to the innocence of a child, nothing. Mercy looked down at Alice’s wrist and noted a long red ribbon tied around it.
“What’s this for?” she asked and Alice looked down at the ribbon with an expression that said she had forgotten all about it. After a moment of looking at the string and remembering what it was from, Alice untied it from her wrist and stretched it out to it’s full length. The two watched Alice curiously as she gently took Mercy’s hand and tied one end of the ribbon around her pinky finger. Mercy gave a questioning look that Alice ignored as she turned to Russell and did the same to his pinky finger. Confused as to what Alice had just done, they realized they were both tied to the same red ribbon.
“Alice, why’d you tie our fingers to the string?” Russell asked and the grin on Alice’s face grew.
“Mama told me a story the other night. She said that the Gods tie a red ribbon around the fingers of the people who are supposed to be together forever and ever,” Alice paused and looked at Mercy before continuing. “Aunt Mercy, you and Russell are always together so maybe there’s a magical red string tied to both of your fingers like this!”
The minute Alice had explained that, Mercy remembered an old Asian legend she had heard on a trip to China. “That’s…the legend of the red string of fate,” Mercy added.
“Am I the only one who doesn’t get what’s going on?” Russell asked and Mercy giggled a little.
“It’s an old Asian legend. No surprise that Elaina told it to Alice. I heard it in China a long time ago. Like Alice said, they believe that their Gods tie a red string around the pinky fingers of those who are–” Mercy stopped mid sentenced and smiled to herself. Russell tilted his head in confusion and waited for her to continue. “The red string is supposed to tie together two people who are…meant to fall in love and be married no matter what the circumstances are. They say the string can tangle and can be stretched but…it will never break…that the two are forever meant to be together…” Alice nodded happily at the end of Mercy’s explanation and turned to Russell whose face was turning a light pink.
“Are you blushing?” Mercy asked, the amusement in her voice obvious. Russell quickly looked at Mercy and shook his head.
“What? No. I’m not,” he responded, trying to hide the smile on his face. Alice giggled before slipping the ribbon off of Mercy and Russell’s fingers and wrapped it back around her wrist.
“Alice, why don’t you go wash your hands so we can start making dinner?” Mercy asked and Alice nodded. She watched as the little girl ran off to the bathroom and then turned her attention back to Russell. She began to nervously play with the necklace she was wearing before looking down at the ground.
“Funny what little kids will believe…” Russell commented. “What a silly legend…” The two made eye contact with each other and quickly turned away with smiles on their faces.
“I think it’s cute,” Mercy finally added. “Anyway, you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner.” Russell’s expression softened and he nodded.
“I’d love that.”
Peace and Love, Baby
By Ann Oxford
Pastels dust has an intrinsic, but mysterious aura. And it made him gag. He shoved the window up. Its blackened rope was too frayed to hold it. Rivulets of sweat plopped to the floor where the splintered wood held little nestlings of pale chalks. The moisture would hold the colors until he swept. Why should he give it any thought. None of the artists who rented this studio gave a damn.
He had to find something to prop the window, keep it from crashing. He imagined, glass shards and jewel-like smithereens mixed with slivers of the old wood frame, only flecks of Hunter green paint remained in its grooves. Like he could afford to replace that now!
He had removed his damp tie-dye t-shirt. It was a rag with holes, anyway. Odd how they appeared only where his wife had tied off the parts dipped in acid yellow. He was glad it had disappeared. That particular yellow made him shiver like chewing ice chips. He didn’t know why. Well, he did, but it was best forgotten.
Might as well give up tonight, what with the noise from the street and the laundromat dryers below. The odor fake-scented dryer sheets, mingled with the weekend garbage caused him to back away. Bomb squadrons of insects were sure to follow.
He sank to the umber-stained mattress that lay askew over a rusty iron bed he’d found once in the alley. He ran his hands through the curls of his thick brown hair, forgetting about the charcoal and chalk. He grabbed at the t-shirt again and blotted it half-heartedly through his hair. Then slipped it over his head and pushed his arms into the holes where the sleeves had once been. What he really wanted to do was to scrub it over the painting — annihilate the whole GD mess. It would never be what he wanted it to be, anyway! He would never be what he wanted to be.
At dinner she called him lazy.
She was right. He knew it, but had managed to keep his mind closed to it. He should have a proper job. The one her dad offered long ago, of course. Especially now with Madeline. Little munchkin. His eyes filled with tears and his heart with love for his daughter.
“A second year associate art professor at a university never well known for it’s art department.” What was he thinking, she had added? He was desperate two years ago, that’s what happened. It was August and none of his applications to graduate school had panned out. His old mentor at Cranbrook called. “Gotta-jobs-forya-son,” Dash slurred into the phone.
He was skeptical. Was it real or just one of Dash’s alcoholic imaginations at work. “Iowa? Really, man?” He shook his head, remembering that incoherent conversation.
Yet the contract papers arrived by overnight. He signed them without thinking, without so much as a glance at the pay scale he’d be stuck in — for how long.
They had left everything, all crap anyway. Packed up only Madeline’s stuff, how do babies have that much stuff. They gave away the dog. At least they didn’t have to leave him to be put down at a shelter.
There’d be a faculty house. Furnished. Appliances included. They were hopeful, he remembered. And even though the house was a miserable sauna the night they arrived, they had made love. Was that the last time?
Maddie had been put to sleep with Gregory, her bunny. When his mother had sent the stuffed toy, it had been pale azure with a neon pink bow. Love had lost the bunny’s bow and turned him dust-gray. No matter. Gregory, at least, was still loved.
The banging on the metal studio door awakened him. A dream? Who the hell …?
He grabbed the door’s knob and, wrenching it open, nearly pulling the damn thing off it’s hinges. He felt a growl was rising in his throat.
There she stood. Every part of her shook. Tears had soaked the top of her blouse. They were still falling. Her very long red hair spilled haphazardly from various tortoise-shell butterflies. It must have been pretty when she had fixed it that way.
He couldn’t help it, he opened his arms to her. Held her, hoping to stop the shaking. A student in his drawing class. He hardly knew her, so why was she here?
During his first week teaching, she had defended and befriended him. She lived up the hill from the art complex. After admitting to watching him drive around and around in his lime green wrecker, looking for parking, she told him to take her parking space. She didn’t have a car, she said.
After that, it became easy to just drop in — for a cuppa, she called it, whenever he was finished for the evening. They always talked for hours. He found those conversations energizing. But in all that time, she rarely talked about herself, so he really knew nothing about her.
“What happened?” he tried to sound cool and soothing. A minute ago he had been ready to gnaw the throat out of whoever was hammering at his studio door. He looked down at her. “Tell me.”
“It was horrible!” she wailed, followed by more sobs.
“Are you hurt?”
She tossed her head from side to side, red strands flying into his face.
She inhaled. “No. But they’re like Nazi stormtroopers out there! Haven’t you seen them?”
“Nazi…? What the…? Sit down here.” He patted the mattress and looked around for his thermos. Luckily he hadn’t taken a sip from it all night. And it struck him as odd that he would think of that. “It’s tea, drink.” He knelt in front of her.
She put the Prussian blue thermos cup on the bed and tried to sip directly from the top. But she was still trembling, it was an after-shock. The tea joined her tears, down the front of her embroidered blouse.
Now he realized she was dressed up. Well dressed up hippy-style. Long skirt of thin Indian print cotton. It was a stew of deep russet, aubergine, with flicks of sepia countered by electric fuschia. The stained white cotton blouse had slipped over one shoulder. Embroidered red poppies held by dark green stems danced around the neckline. The whole look was very appealing, he’d been thinking, while trying to steady the thermos. He wondered how the pale sienna stain could be removed.
She bent unexpectedly to untie her left espadrille and they bumped heads.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Thanks for letting me in… I know you are working and that’s much more important. So I stood out there,” indicating the hallway with her thumb. “I did. I walked back and forth … telling myself to just go home …”
“It’s ok. When you’re ready, I’ll call you a taxi.” He stood, desperate to do something useful with his hands. Anything. Grab a charcoal chunk, a brush … He had to keep them busy and unable to do what they wanted to do!
“Or we could go to The Grainery. Truth be told I’d like to kill one of the bartenders there anyway,” she set the thermos on the floor.
He grabbed it. “You finished?”
She had stood up and examined the stain damage. “Or, maybe not. I look a fright! Do you have a bathroom?”
“Just a sink,” he indicated the back corner with the thermos. “Behind the screen.”
“Best I can do, I guess,” she tossed off as she stood, then hopped on her right foot from the bed, while trying to slip the espadrille on the other foot.
“What really happened?”
He heard water running. She shouted over the noise.
“Scott and I had dinner at my place. He had to go to work. I decided to go with him. I don’t walk downtown by myself anymore. Christi’s brother told us not to use the elevator in the parking ramp either. A lot of rapes there, I guess,” her words rushed as fast as the water.
“We got up the hill just in front of the bookstore, and I was talking to him, walking backwards, ya know, and BAM! Something- or one slammed into me. I turned and in my face, this black plastic riot mask with a Neanderthal police officer behind it.”
She came back to where he still stood. She put her hand in front of her face to act it out.
“BAM! I turned my head back to Scott — no Scott! The masked stormtrooper told me to turn around and go home. I’m so befuddled about where Scott has taken off too — I’m going to kill him — and so I just stood there. ‘I’m going to work.’ I shouted at the guy. ‘I’m wearing my work clothes and I’m going to be late. Please, sir, it’s just at the end of the block and around the corner.’ And like that, he stepped back and waved me through. Halfway to the corner, I got the courage to turn to look. I was the only person he let through. At that moment, I realized I was in front of your studio. And … fate?” She sat back on the bed, as if the telling had exhausted her.
“So— there were more protestors?”
“I guess. I somehow missed that coming up that side of the administration building. But there were lines and lines, about 5 or so across, of these riot guys. And they’re damn right scary! Come on, I need a beer!”
She took his hand, which now seemed disembodied, with it’s own mind and decidedly going in it’s own direction. It wandered up her arm to her neckline and pulled the line of poppies over her shoulder with his little finger.
She smiled and he sensed her floating closer.
That irresistible force that was she, he sang in his head.
She whispered. “I’ve been making wagers with myself. Just how long it would take you to get it.”
“What’s that?” God, her lips were close. And her answer came without their moving.
“I’m your muse.”
brought back old images of dank student days housing – and the tie-dye shirts that were so treasured in those days of living on the edge
Hi Ann,
First of all, I loved the story you submitted to The Write Practice’s writing contest. It was beautifully written and very interesting.
Unfortunately, it was a bit above our word count limit of 1250 words. I’m especially upset about that because it was so well written that I was planning on including it on my short list.
I just wanted to let you know briefly that I loved your story and am sorry we couldn’t take it. Good luck with your writing, and I hope you join us again next month!
Joe Bunting
joebunting.com
Here is my story for love prompt. Now off to reading all the beautiful submitted stories.
—
Wish You Were Here
One thousand ninety-five days ago she made a promise. Today she was going to break it. It had been a long time. “Just one more evening,” she told herself. One more – another promise – and it will be over. Smashed. Stomped out. Mourned over. Gone. Not necessarily in that order. And even though she knew it wouldn’t be easy she did not see any other option. It had to be stopped.
Every evening for the last three years she had spent in that café. Over these three years the place had not changed much. Same people visited. Same music played. And they still had the best cappuccino and cheesecakes in the area. She wanted to believe she was the same, too. Yet she knew she was not. Too much she had lost three years ago. Too many emotions she had put into this thirty-six months long journey. Exhausted, drained she tried to gain at least some strength but it only seemed to ooze away.
Looking back she tried to accept she could not waste her time waiting for someone who had promised to come back but never had. She tried to but she failed. Now she forced herself into a new way of life. No cappuccino. No cheesecake. No him.
She looked at the booth where they had used to sit every time they came here. It was the one in the corner. Nowadays the place was usually occupied by his friends. Once they had been her friends, too. Not anymore. Some of them noticed her and greeted with a nod. She didn’t respond. She just shifted her glance.
Coming to that café was like a ritual. It helped her live. It helped her wait. But she was hoping for something unfeasible. She was searching for something lost eons ago. One thousand ninety-five days ago to be precise. She tried to escape the truth. But can you escape emptiness? Can you persuade that void? Can you talk to that empty place at their table?
“I have to leave in the morning.” That’s what he had said back then. At that moment she hated him for leaving her. How could he? How dared he? She understood him, though. She knew he needed money. His mom still was recovering from the surgery. Those medical bills… they just wouldn’t stop coming. But signing up to go to war for some extra cash? It just did not feel right. She did not care how much money they were willing to pay. She only wanted him to stay.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said though. “I will come to our café every day at 6 pm. That is my promise. Just please be back to me.”
He wasn’t.
“And write to me. Even if it is one line, just write to me. I need to know you are fine.”
“I will,” he said.
He didn’t.
But stubborn as she was she entered that café each day at exactly 6 pm. She stayed long enough for a cup of cappuccino and a piece of cheesecake. Then she would sweep the room with her eyes one more time and leave.
Three years later and here she was. Done with coffee, cheesecakes and memories. Just one last cup. She kept on sipping her coffee when she heard the song. She tried to locate its source and finally realized it was the radio.
“Can you make it louder, please?” she asked the waitress.
The girl looked nervously around but nobody seemed to mind and she turned the radio up.
…Wish you were here…
She knew that song. She hummed the tune beneath her breath.
…Wish you were here
don’t you know the snow is
getting colder…
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
…and I miss you like hell
and I’m feeling blue…
She was singing.
The talking in the room ceased. Everyone was looking at her. Everything was brought to a standstill. But nobody wondered. Everyone in that café knew her story.
She kept on singing. The song talked to her. And she responded back to the song.
…I’ve got feelings for you
do you still feel the same…
Her voice betrayed her, she was trembling but she could not stop now. Her emotions had stayed silent for too long. Her pain had been living a very quiet life on the inside of her soul. Her mind had blocked that pain and turned off the sounds. But today it finally cried. It shouted at the top of its voice. And everyone in that room could hear these screams of pain, weeps of anger, roars of disappointment, wail of anguish.
…from the first time I laid my eyes on you
I felt the joy of living…
She glanced up, eyes dimmed with tears.
…I saw heaven in your eyes
In your eyes
The radio went silent long ago but she kept on singing.
…wish you were here…
…don’t you know…
…and I miss you like hell…
…and I …
Her voice broke. In the breathless silence of the room one could hear only her sobs. She choked back the tears and went on.
… I miss your laugh
I miss your smile
I miss everything about you…
Someone joined her in her pain. Probably the same guy who had nodded at her some time back. Now she realized it was Mark, his best friend. He looked at her and she instantly knew he felt the same. He understood.
…every second’s like a minute
every minute’s like a day…
And then both of them – together.
…when you’re far away…
She couldn’t shift her glance away from him. It took her by surprise that someone felt the same way as she did. That someone suffered the same loss. That someone didn’t feel ashamed of his tears.
That someone could sing with her.
…wish you were here…
…and I miss you like hell…
…the snow is getting colder…
…and I’m feeling blue…
…wish you were here…
And they felt he was there with them. They both felt it. Just for a moment he really was there. And they could express…
…their regrets…
…wish you were here…
…their blame…
…wish you were here…
…their plea…
…wish you were here…
…their memories…
…wish you were here…
When the song ended she smiled faintly at Mark. He smiled back indecisively. None of them noticed a lonesome figure at the entrance. Suddenly she lifted up her head and saw him. For a moment she thought it was another illusion of hers. Just a dream. She would wake up now and he wouldn’t be there. But then he walked right up to her and smiled looking straight into her eyes.
“Wish you were here,” she whispered.
“I am,” he said.
She touched his face as if she could not believe he was real. “Do they still make the best cappuccino here?” He smiled. That made him real enough, she decided.
One thousand ninety-five days ago she made a promise. Today she was going to break it. It was luck (or destiny?) that she did not have to.
That’s lovely. I think so many of us let songs shape our romantic life, or use music to tell us what to do or how to feel, that you have a real good idea for a successful story here Lena. Thanks for letting it be read.
Thank you Marianne. I agree that all of us have a certain soundtrack of our lives, made up of songs that carry some meaning for us. I tried to convey it in this story.
That’s really a good story…I truly loved it and was inside when reading it
This is my first time to enter a “Show Off” contest. I read and re-read my story and edited out the mistakes. Hopefully I do well.
———–
Love and Death
I watched her for a moment. I hid one of my presences in the shadows as she walked inside the room. The room was dark—the only source of light came from the pale light of the moon that shone through the glass window. What will she do this time I wonder? I heard the floorboards groan under her feet as she made her way to her bed. She sat herself, the light of the moon shining down on her like a spotlight, and she took out a bottle out of the pocket of her sweater.
One of my presences shifted in the shadows as I moved closer towards her. She must have felt me for I saw her shivered. She looked up and her eyes scanned the darkness of the room. No use hiding when you’ve already been found.
“That won’t work,” I said to her as one of my presences shifted and changed to a form she was familiar with. I stepped out of the darkness as a man. The shadows clung to me like a dark suit. I looked at her with gray colored eyes and I read her.
She wasn’t surprised or scared. No. She was already too accustomed to me to be shocked or to cower in fear. I saw her eyes. I saw no fear but indifference…and great weariness. She said no reply but instead went back to the bottle in her hand. She twisted open the metal cap and raised it to her lips. Then she paused. She knew what it would do to her. She knew and she was scared. I saw the fear swirling around her like mist.
“It’s a very nasty experience,” I continued on saying, “you will experience great pain. Its effects will last a good hour or so.”
“I know what it’ll do to me,” she said in a flat tone though I saw the tears forming in her eyes.
“And you also know that it won’t work,” I said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t…don’t touch me, please,” she said. I slowly pulled my hand away.
“I don’t understand why you’re trying to resist my gift.” She remained quiet. She raised the bottle again—her lips kissing the bottle’s cool mouth—and she drank the contents down.
The two of us waited. She lay on the bed in a fetal position and my human form stood over her like a huge shadow. Minutes crawled. On the other parts of the world, people died, and my presences were there, plucking the souls from the corpses. I did all of these while I watched as one of my presences coursed through her body.
Her eyes opened wide and she looked at me. The fear was growing thicker. It covered her body now like a blanket. Her body arched in a painful position and I continued to watch. Her mouth opened to let out a scream but no sound came out—it was an eerie sight. I longed to hold her in my arms but I knew I could do nothing but wait—wait for the poison to run its course.
“P–please,” she managed to utter. Her hand was reaching out for me as her body continued to convulse violently.
I shook my head. “You have to understand,” I softly tell her. “I cannot lose you.” I gently hold her hand with both of my hands. I felt the scars on her wrists. “You don’t know what it’s like. I was born from the death of Adam’s son. I have walked this planet for countless of years. I was alone. I deliver souls to their rest. But, what about me? I have no rest. Then, I found you.” I moved my hands from her hand to her face. I then leaned down and planted a light kiss on her forehead. “I found you and I won’t lose you. Don’t you see? If I deliver you to the other side then I will be left alone again. You have to understand.” I gave her another kiss, this time on the cheek. I tasted her tears and her fear and her pain.
I sat beside her as her body slowly relaxed. Outside, night was giving way to the coming of a new day. The spasms had disappeared though her body was still shaking as she cried. She sat up on her bed and I held her in my arms. “Someday,” I whisper to her, “you’ll learn to understand my love.”
ITS LOVE, RIGHT?
By BB Scott
The two 4×4 vehicles had left the frontier village of Maun early that morning, heading first east and then north towards the game reserve bordering the Okavango river. Shortly after leaving the village’s dusty outskirts, the tarmac abruptly turned into a deeply rutted track, cutting its twisting way east through the deep sand and Mopani trees. Jake glimpsed briefly in the rearview mirror, noticing that their friends were keeping up in the vehicle behind them. As he selected a more appropriate gear to negotiate the soft sand at the foot of a steep incline, Jake became aware of the quiet warning – the subtle, but definitive change in her mood. Pam just sat there, brooding in the passenger seat next to him, glowering through her window, not seeing anything.
She’s fine. She’s just thinking about that wood carving we saw in Maun. Just concentrate on not getting stuck in this sand.
Somehow he did not believe himself.
He glanced at his wrist. It was approaching midday, the hottest part of the day and they should stop to rest. The heat inside the vehicle was stifling. He turned the vents to aim the flow of all the cool air coming from the struggling air conditioner in her direction. Maybe this will make her feel better. If she had noticed it, she did not acknowledge it. Instantly he felt the perspiration trickle down his neck and he resented his kind action.
They labored through sand and dust for another mile, Jake keeping a watchful eye on the temperature gauge as he desperately tried to sense her mood. The vehicle bobbed and weaved forcibly, but he could do little to soften the jarring ride over the rough terrain. He glanced back to their son strapped in his booster seat on the back seat. The child’s growing fidgeting and soft moans has increased as boredom started settling in and soon his demands will become more vocal. Pam simply sat, either ignoring the child or pretending not to hear him.
“Let’s stop up there and stretch our legs” he suggested, pointing to a shady tree in the distance and ventured a quick look in her direction. She shot him a daggered look and with dread he realized he had left it too late. Her eyes, suddenly black with rage, alerted him to the dangerous shift in mood that has occurred. At that instant the child arched his back, straining against the stifling harness, and yelled out his frustration in a high-pitched scream that reverberated in the close confounds of the vehicle.
Pam lashed out with the speed of a viper, twisting back violently in her seat, the veins bulging blue in her neck as she strained to face the child in the back seat.
“Shut up!” she shouted with enough force to shock him into silence, his mouth open in a stalled cry as his wide eyes fixed in fear on his mother’s contorted face. She turned back to Jake, her mouth corners pulled down in contempt.
“Why do you always want to prove a point?” she seethed.
“Oh, please Pam, not now –” he tried in desperation, knowing how futile his efforts were.
“Stop this car! Stop! Now!” she exploded and started yanking at her door handle.
Desperately Jake scanned the soft sand for a suitable spot to stop. A small patch of hard sand just ahead looked about right and he aimed for it. With near insanity Pam tried to shoulder the door open and in desperate frustration she screamed out loudly, bashing her fists against the windows. Suddenly, realizing the door is locked, she yanked the door lever with such force that it snapped clear off in her hand. The door flew open and before Jake could grab her arm, she jumped from the moving vehicle. Jake yanked hard at the wheel away from her falling body and stamped on the brakes.
Pam crashed into the soft sand, and tumbled down a slight incline, arms flaying wildly. He jumped from the vehicle and rushed down to where she sat, blood trickling from a scrape on her knee. Adrenalin pumping, his ears singing from the sudden blood gushing through his head, Jake looked down at the pathetic body sitting in the hot sand.
You stupid woman! You could have killed yourself. The angry words formed on his lips, but he stopped himself in time, biting down hard. Bryce and Lindy will be here any moment … please don’t let them to see this.
She started crying uncontrollably, tears smearing tracks down her dusty cheeks. “I hate you,” she said softly as he kneeled down next to her, hesitantly removing a couple of dry leaves from her hair and clothes.
“Come Pam, let’s get back in the truck,” he pleaded softly, looking down the road as he made out the first sounds of Bryce’s truck laboring through the sand. Then a loud wail from the truck made him spin around in angst.
God, please let him be fine! I braked so hard.
Jake scrambled up the sandbank and anxiously pulled the back door open. Dry tears in his eyes, the child sat there, still safely strapped into his seat.
“Thank you Lord,” Jake whispered.
“You thirsty, big guy?”
Reaching over the back seat into the cooler box, his hand swirled the cold ice water in search for a cold apple juice. He jumped at the sudden loud slam of a door announcing Pam’s return to the vehicle. She buckled herself in with excessive force, missing the slot once or twice and crossed her arms melodramatically, her infuriated stare fixed onto something in the distance.
Jake exhaled softly and reached for his door. He looked down and his heart dropped. Both front wheels were buried deep into the soft, hot sand. They were hopelessly stuck and without some digging or help from Bryce’s truck, he would not be able to get them going again. A sharp beep on the horn announced their arrival. Jake started towards their vehicle, eager to intercept his friends before they could reach Pam. His friends jumped from their vehicle, cheering him on in jest for getting bogged down, waving cold beers.
“Oh no,” they exclaimed with laughter. “The camel man got stuck.”
The knowing smile on Bryce’s face as he playfully punched Jake on the shoulder telegraphed his next words.
“What do we have here, old chap?” he bellowed with laugher in his voice, but then he noticed the look in Jake’s eyes. Bryce sucked in his breath sharply and called out hastily.
“Let’s go girl, we can chit-chat at the camp tonight.”
Then, searching Jake’s face for answers, in a soft voice, he asked, “Everything OK?”
Jake’s shoulders dropped and shaking his head he said, “It’s just a black spell…it will soon pass.”
“Why do you take this man? How can you live with someone like that?
Jake stood, his gaze fixed on a struggling insect burrowing its way through the thick sand at his feet. Then he said softly, “I love her man…got to love her. It’s not her fault she’s bipolar.”
Word count: 1190
Sal’s Revenge
By Rachelle Eaton
Here’s the bus. Finally! But who–is that–“Joe?” Well, I should have known he would show up sooner or later.
“Sal! What are you doing here?”
“This is my stop. You know that. Why–”
“I thought you would still be at work. Listen. I have a problem.”
Oh, like I didn’t see that one coming. “You know I have no money.”
“Sally, Sally. Why do you always assume I need money? And don’t say because I always do. I don’t. For example, that one time last summer when I asked you to watch the cats. I just didn’t realize I was out of kitty litter, I was NOT expecting–”
“Ok, Joe. What is it?”
“Well. It’s kind of a long story.”
“Well, it’s kind of a long wait until the next bus comes, since you made me miss this one. Should we get some coffee?” A good excuse to thaw my fingers out.
“Your treat?”
“Apparently.”
I hate coffee, but the tea here is such a rip-off. With enough sugar and half’n’half I can drink it. Until they start charging extra for that, too. “Small coffee, and…”
“Large mocha, whole milk, and a banana muffin—you don’t mind? I didn’t have lunch.”
Treating my ex to the most expensive drink at the shop? Why would I mind?
“Six-thirty, please.”
At least chip in a buck or two. But then, you always were a moocher. “So what’s your problem?”
“Sal, you’ll–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You’ll never believe it. I came home yesterday, and all of my lawn ornaments were missing. I mean ALL of them.”
“No! Not the mooning troll, and the dog peeing on the fire hydrant, too? Why, oh why would anyone take those?”
“I’m serious, Sal—Sally, they were all gone. Just vanished, with the bare spots in the grass.”
“Alright. I admit it. I always had a secret desire to carry them around in my backseat, like the children we never had.” That’s right, roll your eyes! “Probably someone in the neighborhood got tired of your trash bringing down their property value. What do you want me to do about it? Stake out in the bushes with binoculars? I don’t even care.”
“I know. I know you never liked those things. But there’s something I never told you. All of those figurines were hollow. I specifically bought them that way, with a hole in the bottom, and I found rubber plugs that fit. They all had money in them! Close to two thousand dollars!”
“What?! What kind of idiot puts cash in lawn ornaments all over the yard? What were you thinking?” You weren’t. You never do.
“Sal, it was a great backup plan. Didn’t you ever wonder how I managed when you would lock me out? Grab some cash, hit the motel. I actually kind of looked forward to it.”
“But where did you get it? I never gave you that much cash.”
“Poker night. I’m a lot smarter than you want to believe.”
“Well, just win it again. I can’t see that you have to be worried about getting locked out anymore.”
“No, don’t you see what this means? Like you said, no one would want those things. Someone knows my secret!”
Oh, here we go. If it’s not money, it’s conspiracy theories. Even worse. But more entertaining, I suppose. “Joe, let’s think about this. So someone does know your secret. What’s the worst that can happen? They get your two grand. That already happened, and I think you need to just move on.”
“Sal. Someone is following me. They know everything I do. They could find my hidden key, they could steal my identity!”
“So get rid of the key! Shred your documents! There are simple solutions for your problems, Joe, including not being crazy, and leaving me out of it!”
“What if I lose the house?”
“Another simple solution! Deed it over to me!”
“Okay. Okay, I see how it is. I wanted to be nice, and give you a chance. If someone steals my identity, it affects you too, you know. The divorce isn’t final.”
“Is that a threat? I don’t see how it affects me. We closed all our joint accounts.”
“We’ll see, Sal. But I think you might regret this. Thanks for the coffee.”
No problem. Two thousand dollars can buy a lot of coffee. Now I wonder what tacky lawn ornaments go for on Ebay?
My first entry! Might be a stretch for the topic, but it’s worth a go.
Cherry Cheesecake
By Stacey James
“Milo,” my father hissed. “Stop texting and say hello to Mr. Sweeney.”
I looked up from my message to the most popular girl in the tenth grade, Carla Bloom. Didn’t he realize this was life or death? I sighed and pushed my cell phone into my pants pocket. This job is going to ruin my life.
My father scampered to open the door for the petite elderly man in brown trousers and a dark gray overcoat that could easily have been plucked from a rack at the Salvation Army. His face swanked more wrinkles than all of my mother’s great aunts combined.
“Good afternoon, Benny,” the old man chirped. A brisk February wind accompanied him into my father’s bakery, Benny’s Italian Pastries, blowing rose petals from the counter onto the floor. Groaning, I picked them up, noting his tattered black shoes.
I estimated that it would take him three minutes or more to shuffle across the floor to the counter in front of me. Plenty of time for me to have finished my text message to Carla.
My mother swooped in with a tray of fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate and placed them meticulously inside the glass pastry case. Sweet aromas of chocolate cake and cookies lingered in the air like a chocolate fog, heavy and delicious. My stomach growled, even after all these years of helping out in our family’s famous establishment I could not resist my parent’s pastries.
“It’s Tuesday. I have a piece of cherry cheesecake ready for you,” my father said, rubbing his hands together as he always did when he was pleased about something.
“Dandy!…I have a date. Cherry cheesecake is her favorite,” he boasted, running a craggy hand over silver strands of combed hair. Musky aftershave wafted my way.
“Yes.” My father gave me a nod in the direction of a small pink box with brown polka dots placed behind the cash register. A matching bow secured it closed. I noticed one fork taped inside.
“Hello, young fella.” Mr. Sweeney gave a toothy smile, eyeing me over his dark rimmed spectacles.
“Hello,” I said, wondering when this conversation would be over.
“That’s my son, Milo. He’s helping out after school to pay for his violin lessons.”
The old man’s eyebrows arched over blue eyes that reminded me of the powdered confetti my mother sprinkled on baby cakes when she knew the mother was expecting a boy.
“Dad, do we have to talk about that?” I glanced around, afraid my friends from school may overhear how I was being forced to take music lessons, although I’d been playing the violin since I was five; nearly ten years now.
“You any good?” Mr. Sweeney rolled his lips like he was contemplating something important.
I shrugged.
Mr. Sweeney paused, his eyes furrowed. “I’d like to hire you… if it’s okay with your father of course.”
We both glanced to my father, dressed in a white baker’s uniform, standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. “Of course.”
Mr. Sweeney gave me the details and wrote them down, along with twenty dollars.
“How much do I owe you for the cheesecake, young man?”
I started to reply, but my father placed his hand over the keys on our antique cash register. “No charge, Mr. Sweeney. You have a good time on your date.”
“I always do.” He winked as he shuffled back out the door clutching his package.
“Why did you give him that cake for free? Didn’t you say he was the richest man in New York City?” I gasped when the old man was gone.
“In some ways he is,” my father responded before leaving me alone in the front of the bakery.
Four days later was Valentine’s Day. As agreed, I met Mr. Sweeney in the park across the street from the bakery. The sun warmed the afternoon, which I appreciated because I had to play my violin for him and his date for an hour without stopping.
He cradled a bouquet of crimson roses in the crook of his arm, which he soon placed on the rustic wooden bench beside him. Then he took the slice of cheesecake- the same cherry as earlier in the week- and placed it in his lap. Then he just sat there, relishing the sights.
Bluebirds played like children in the branches overhead. A single squirrel sprinted up and down the cracked bark of a nearby oak tree, only pausing to look at me when I began to play my violin. Couples walked hand in hand along the crumbled brick pathways; smiling, laughing.
He remained alone. I wondered if he was embarrassed about the fact that his companion never joined him. If he were embarrassed, he never let it show. How can he be happy?
Mr. Sweeney eventually pulled out the fork and nibbled at his cheesecake. I thought about Carla Bloom while he painstakingly savored every morsel. Carla had promised to consider my offer to take her to the movies later, for Valentine’s Day. I fidgeted beneath my leather jacket, sweating despite the fact that it was February in New York.
I nearly applauded when it was time to leave the park. A quick glance at my watch indicated that I still had fifteen minutes in which to serenade Mr. Sweeney. I watched as he tossed his empty cheesecake box into the trashcan nearby before twitching his head for me to follow him. I obliged him, happy to move things along.
We walked separately for three blocks before he stopped at a black iron fence. He held up a hand for me to remain at the gate. I nodded and kept playing sweet melodies; love songs that I’d learned at my lessons.
Suddenly I realized where we were. My heart grew heavy at the same time my fingers grew wings; flying over the strings on my violin. I played music like it had meaning; purpose. People stared at me but I didn’t care. I was playing sweet music for Mr. Sweeney-and his date.
Later, when I arrived home, I found my father reading in the living room.
“How was your afternoon?” he inquired, removing his reading glasses.
“I enjoyed myself,” I told him. “But I have one question.” My father’s eyes met mine. I struggled with my words. “Why did you say that Mr. Sweeney was the richest man in New York City? When I walked him home, we went to a small one bedroom apartment near the river. It was loud and dirty. One chair and a small television. Mr. Sweeney said he was the richest man in New York City, but I think he’s the poorest man in New York City. We visited his wife in the cemetery.”
My father frowned. His sad eyes shrunk me. “Milo, my only son,” he said in a voice I’d never known him to use before; kitten soft. “Mr. Sweeney has lived the life that he wanted. He is rich.”
***
“Ten years later I can’t remember what Carla Bloom looks like,” I announced with a champagne glass in my hand yesterday, my wedding day. I touched glasses with my bride and felt her warm lips on mine. The reception crowd toasted with us. I searched the wedding table for my mother, lamenting the empty seat beside her. “But I do remember the way love felt those ten years ago. And, like Mr. Sweeney in the park, I intend to be the richest man in New York City.”
Thank you, Stacey, for this love story. I was able to be in each location and be warmed by its wisdom.
Precious. I loved the aroma in the bakery, the old man’s shoes and coat, and especially his eyes. He could have been my own dad. Great job Stacey.
Thank you Miss Lynna:) When I was done writing the story I had to drive to Publix to get a cannoli! Apparently I need to work on being able to separate myself from my scenes or I’ll need to start doing double time in the gym! This story was actually inspired by my grandparents who have been married for over 70 years now. I posted their picture on my blog today http://booksbystaceyjames.wordpress.com/ It is easy to write about something when you have such an awesome inspiration!
Such a warm story, full of wisdom and life. I like the colorful description of Mr. Sweeney, what a character. I also like meeting of youth and age, it gives perspective and poetry to situations.
Thanks Miss Beck. This story was inspired by my grandparents and I posted their photo & a little info about them today on my blog http://booksbystaceyjames.wordpress.com/ They were married for over 70 years! I am planning on reading all the entries later & notice you have 2 and you have some really spectacular reviews- can’t wait to read them:)
How wonderful I look forward to visiting your blog to learn more about them. My story is completely fictional but I did sneak a little bit of my grandparents in there.
I like the way you transition time in this story. From the 15 year old working in his father’s bakery, to a man at his wedding, his father now gone.
Thank you, Angelo, I wasn’t sure I could pull off that time transition, thank you for letting me know I succeeded:) By the way-I spend half my year on the East coast of Florida:) The other half in Maine- but the weather today requires me to think of which state I am actually in (freeze warnings again tonight!).
Under an Eastern Sky, by Marie Gettel-Gilmartin
Each Monday night, in the small Japanese city of Wakayama, I visited my colorful Scottish friend Cath. We had both recently arrived in Japan, although we followed different paths to get there. After graduating with an English degree, I jumped at the chance to work abroad. I taught at the local women’s college. Cath taught through the British English Teaching (BET) Programme. She frequently spoke of her colleague, Mike, who taught at Kinki University in Osaka. Cath described him as funny, bright, kind—and too nice for her.
My Anglophile housemate, Elizabeth, had decided—before she had met him—that Mike was her soulmate. She eagerly anticipated Cath’s Robert Burns Night in January. Fitting with tradition, Cath asked guests to read a poem. Mike had brought an R-rated Burns poem, “Brose and Butter.” By the time Mike read his poem, we had talked about our mutual love of Jane Austen. His charm and easy wit delighted me. Later on, he gave me a friendly peck on the cheek. Our conversation clearly upset Elizabeth, who afterward informed me that “those British are hard to warm up to.”
Three months passed, and Cath put her mind to matchmaking. I asked Cath to invite Mike to a party I was hosting. As the party approached, I became excited and nervous, with a growing instinct that my life was about to change.
I will never forget the moment Mike walked in, fresh from a cherry blossom party. He wore a leather jacket and a copper bracelet. I felt immediately drawn to him. He kissed me on the cheek and walked into my heart.
After the Japanese, British, and American guests ate, the dancing began. Mike and I found each other, and his lips met mine. We left to take a walk and stopped frequently to kiss. When we finally returned to the party, everyone had left.
In those first heady days of romance, I was drawn to Mike’s beautiful accent, curly hair, twinkling eyes, warm smile, and the way he made me laugh and relax. I loved the way he kissed me in view of Wakayama’s housewives and the romantic electricity infused into every activity.
A few days later, Mike left me in a state of euphoria to return to Osaka. He was expecting a visit from a friend who fancied him. He didn’t want to tell her about us for fear of hurting her feelings, so over the next month, we corresponded by mail. As soon as his first letter arrived, I knew I had a keeper. His funny, romantic letters left me limp with happiness and adored. When I finally saw him again in Osaka, I felt astonished at my luck to have such a bright, witty, caring man waiting to see ME! Over the ensuing months, we spent every weekend together.
I planned to return to Oregon that summer, but I extended my stay another year. After we traveled to Hong Kong and Macau, I went home for a visit and moved to Osaka in the fall. Although I shared an apartment with a friend, Mike and I spent as much time together as possible and traveled around Japan, Malaysia, and Singapore. Two years extended into three, and our relationship continued to blossom. Although we both enjoyed Japan, life was easier for Mike than for me. As a young American feminist, I chafed against the patriarchal culture, even though I was exempt from many of the restrictions on Japanese women. By the time we left Japan, I was ready for our next adventure but uncertain what life held for us.
We embarked on a three-month journey through Asia. Mike’s airline ticket terminated in London and mine ended in Oregon. I avoided asking questions about the future, because I wanted him to assert how he felt.
Commencing in glittering Hong Kong, we traveled to the charming colonial city of Macau and ate curried crab. We met Mike’s sister in Singapore. In Indonesia, we ate street food, toured batik galleries, stayed on the beach in a fishing village, became annoyed by the Aussies in Bali, and soaked up green, artistic Ubud. Traveling through India by train, we gloried at the wonder of the Taj Mahal, visited palaces and forts, fended off ear cleaners, and took a painful camel safari. And on the roof of a former maharajah’s palace in the middle of a lake, Mike asked me to marry him and I accepted…with relief. I was prepared to propose to him before we parted ways…so at last we had a plan.
Our parting at the Delhi airport was horrible—the nasty security guard would not let him accompany me to the gate. I cried halfway across the ocean. Three long months passed with letters, phone calls, and wedding preparations.
When Mike finally landed on U.S. soil, a grumpy government employee in Minneapolis nearly kept him from me. As the son of a diplomat, Mike had a lifetime visa, but we had not realized he needed a fiancé visa. In a perfect Catch 22, a fiancé visa lasted only three months, but we had five months until our wedding. The INS officer telephoned and grilled first me and then my mother about my relationship with Mike. He searched through Mike’s suitcases, reading my love letters and searching for clues that he was an English interloper. By then I was hysterical, waiting by the phone to hear whether he’d be allowed into the country. Just before Mike was about to miss his connection, the INS officer called to announce he would let Mike proceed to Oregon. The convincing piece of evidence we were not merely marrying for the green card was a calendar I had made as a Christmas gift for Mike. Our reunion at the Portland airport was infused with relief, gratitude, and joy.
Now 22 years later, our marriage has grown stronger through the storms. In 1996, our first son was born extremely prematurely at 24 weeks at one pound, six ounces, and 11 inches long. He spent 117 long, agonizing days in the NICU and survived several life-threatening crises. Many marriages crumble under this type of pressure, but our relationship grew deeper as we clung to each other through tears and hope. Later, I experienced four miscarriages before we finally had another son—full term this time. Then after we thought our family was complete, I got pregnant at 41. We just celebrated the 25th anniversary of our first meeting by having our own Robert Burns Night. Our family and friends joined us to read poems and taste whiskey.
After my commitment 22 years ago to support us so Mike could write, I continue to be the breadwinner and Mike is our three sons’ primary caregiver. Our boys know that moms can be the ones who leave the house to work, while dads can be amazing, caring, and fun caretakers. Mike writes fiction when he can squeeze it in, and after 22 years of plugging away, he just landed an agent.
Sometimes it’s hard to give our marriage the attention it deserves, as children, careers, and outside activities occupy so much time. On those rare occasions when we can focus on each other, I realize—anew—how blessed I am to be married to this loving, creative, and passionate man. I look forward to our next opportunity to get away, when we can rekindle our romance and recall those first few star-struck days under an eastern sky.
You grabbed my attention right away when you mentioned Japan! I’ve been blessed enough to have had the opportunity to live in Japan for eight years. I’ve been back in the states for nearly nine years now, but still feel homesick for Japan.
Yes, me too–we haven’t been back since we left in ’89. Where did you live?
I was in Iwakuni with my family in ’79 – ’80 then in Atsugi with my husband and our family in ’93 – ’96 and again in ’99 – ’03. Both our boys were babies each time we moved to Japan and school age when we returned. They call Japan home since it was for them during their most impressionable, formative years.
INS read your love letters? How awful.
Yes, along with my husband’s diary! The INS agent was extremely invasive and snoopy. It was awful.
The Same as Ash
by Alexandra Sue Burton
He splayed the cloth over the table. It was the same as the sky, today, which presented signs of heavy rains. He could even discern the musty, salty smell of the rains, which was unusual for him. He did not have a keen sense of smell, but then he didn’t rely on it as most people did.
The apples were of all different flavors, and he loved arranging them on the table. He had the ability to predict the taste of each one before it was eaten, yet few bought from him. It was evil, the people said. It was witchcraft.
He knew that Kandee was coming long before she yelled in greeting. She waved her hand high above her head, and he called out to her. “You are moving your hand.” She laughed and twirled in circles. “You are turning very quickly.” She brought her hand up to the middle of her face. “You are touching your nose.”
“Your gift is amazing!” She shouted. She came swiftly up the hill, bypassing all the other vendors that were setting up their wares.
“And you smoothed your hair,” he said soberly.
She nodded, pleased and amazed that he had noticed.
“Your hair is the same as the sun,” he said. Instinctively she reached up to touch her hair. “No, it is not warm to feel.” He corrected. “It is warm to see.”
She nodded again and picked up an apple, but her smile fell a bit. “I come every day, but I still do not understand.”
“Your smile is the same as that sweet apple.”
“Tell me more, please.” She whispered. I can learn.”
“Your skin is the same as the sand. Your eyes are the same as the water. The same as a sky full of sun…your hand has been burned in the fire!” He gently leaned across the table to take her blackened hand in his. The fingers were raw and blistered. He kissed it softly. “It is the same as ash. How did you burn it?”
Tears began to spill over her cheeks. “I wanted to see it,” she said. “I wanted to see the fire.”
“You cannot see with your hands, Kandee.”
She turned the apple over in her good palm. Brought it up to her lips and rubbed them against the surface. “But I don’t know any other way.”
“I told you…”
“I know, I know.” She sobbed. “I come each day and you teach me. You see with your eyes, with your eyes. I open them and shut them. I try to wiggle them about. It does nothing! There is nothing. You are the only one who can see with your eyes.”
“You are beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful to know, and beautiful to see.”
“No one believes you, that you can see with your eyes. My father is a doctor. He says it is not possible that one could know things, such as you do. Eyes are to rid the body of spiritual infections, through tears. He believes you lie, use trickery and magic. He wants you burned for witchcraft.”
“Well, he hasn’t killed me yet.”
They were quiet. Kandee reached up and touched his face, found his eyes.
“I will learn,” she pleaded. “I will see tomorrow morning.”
He released her burned hand and smiled sadly. Softly, “No, Kandee, you won’t.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Tomorrow I will know what your hair is the same as and what your eyes are the same as.”
Her hands will still cupping his face, and she could feel him shake his head. “My hair is the same as wet soil,” he told her. “My eyes are the same as a stormy sky.”
“But tomorrow, I will know,” she cried. “I will! I will! Tomorrow I will see as you do. Tomorrow I will know your face.” She dropped her hands and gave his fingers a squeeze, then hurried away back down the hill.
He sat behind his table and saw the sky roll and change like the sea. No one came to buy. They never did in the rains. They never did anyway.
In the morning he returned and splayed the cloth over the table. Today he would tell Kandee that the sky was the color of her eyes. She would like that, she would laugh. He would tell her that her laugh was like a blossoming flower, and she would believe him. He carefully arranged the apples and then watched for the sun of Kandee’s hair to rise over the crest of the hill.
Instead, he saw smoke. Three men with long unkempt hair and shaggy beards climbed toward him, torches raised high over their heads. He knew they were coming. He could leave.
When they reached his table they groped for him and held him fast.
“My daughter has burned herself,” one of the men croaked angrily.
I will see tomorrow morning. Tomorrow I will know your face. I will!
“And now you will burn as well.”
No, Kandee, you won’t.
“Half way there!” Dillon said to Isabella.
It was a three-mile hike to the primitive cabin he had rented. But it was reached with neither one out of breath, as they were as fit as they were frisky.
Dillon unlocked the push-button combination lock, opening the door widely so his sweetheart could see inside. Sautéed mushrooms, onions, and beef medallions, wafted across the room to greet them. There was garlic bread on the air as well. It was a smell that would make even a vegetarian desire to consume it.
“In you go, Love,” Dillon said as he did a version of Vann White with his out stretched arm.
He followed her into the cabin carefully stripping off the backpack he hefted. He did not want to topple the double layer white chocolate cake with whip cream frosting nor the container of raspberry sauce that the waitress at Café La Monde packed for him.
“This note here … on counter says the, ‘dinner will be ready in …” she turned her wrist inward bringing the face of her watch into view, “… 45 minutes,’” Isabella said softly.
“Great. That will give us time to settle in,” Dillon said as he walked to where his bride was standing.
He reached up allowing his index finger to draw an invisible line at the base of her neck where her shirt had stopped. A shiver traveled across her skin, all of the skin covering her body. Isabella sighed.
“Let me get that for you,” he said as he slid his hands under the straps of her backpack.
He allowed his hands to travel slowly down the exposed flesh on her arms until he reached her tingling fingertips. He halted there, trying to catch his own breath. He knew it was best to step away. He did. He silently walked to the other side of the counter where two bulbous wine glasses and a bottle of wine waited, leaving her to tingle on her own.
He slowly picked up the shinny twisted piece of metal. He looked her squarely in the eyes, touching the tip of the metal to the imitation cork. He turned the bottle smoothly, slowly, allowing the gentle rotation to draw the metal into the cork. They both smiled widely at each other.
He slowly broke eye contact and smiled as he read the label silently, — Yellow Tale Shiraz, just as he had requested. The pop of the cork echoed in the small cabin. He poured the crimson liquid into the glasses, filling them half full.
“Let’s go sit out on the porch until the supper is done,” he said as his hand cupped the wine glasses.
“Isn’t there something we need to do to finish dinner?” Isabella asked.
“Nope, it’s all taken care of,” he crossed the plank floor to the back door, coyly looking over his shoulder to make sure she was coming too.
She was. She unlocked and opened the left side of the French doors. They settled in the redwood Adirondack chairs.
He handed her one of the glasses. Simultaneously they brought the glasses to their lips, tilting them until the red liquid entered their mouths. Isabella held the liquid in her mouth, letting her body’s heat warm the liquid. She did not swallow; she paused to allow her tongue to play in the warming fluid. Her taste buds registered the hearty, spicy flavors.
She slowly allowed the wine run down her throat.
They relaxed in the solitude. She began tracing hearts on his forearm. Goose bumps began to form on both of them. As the level of the crimson liquid decreased in the glasses the heat rose in their bodies.
He stood straddling her. He bent over nibbled on her ear, allowing his lips to trail across to her lips. He quickly revisited her lips. He kissed her slowly, deeply. Gently he pulled on her hand encouraging her to rise up out of her chair. He did not step back, thus leaving her little room. Their chests, pelvises, and thighs touched causing a tingling sensation to spark through their bodies, like electricity. She moaned as her body tingled against his growing hardness. The connection only lasted a few moments because he turned and led her inside to the bedroom.
He began caressing her arms, then his hands went up to her air, he took the plastic crab clip out of her hair. Her auburn locks were unleashed; they fell to their full length, bouncing just above her waistband.
“I love your hair,” Dillon said softly, “especially when the sun filters through it.”
She returned the tantalizing stimulation by running her hands over his well-developed pictorials.
I wish this soft cotton t-shirt did not block my access, she thought as she allowed her hands to travel slowly, gently down to his waistband where they reversed, but not without taking the cotton with them. Her rewards began as her fingers intermittently brushed his bare torso.
He willfully raised his arms. She halted bringing her lips to his chest. Her light kisses increased his desire. He finished removing his shirt, because he could no longer take being blindfolded to that which caused him this pleasure. They gently allowed their bodies to press against each other. The heat was building again. But he too was tired of cotton barriers. He helped her remove her shirt. Button by button was his plan.
He started at the top button that hovered above her cleavage, but stopped and took in the air he needed. His pleasure at the sight of her full breasts partially encased in lace was felt on her leg as he became fully erect. She smiled at his reactions.
“Do you want me to do that and you just sit and watch?” she asked.
“No … nnnnoooo,” he hummed. “I want to do this for you dear.” He began to expose all of her upper body, “Oh how I want to do this for you.”
Once freed her from her shirt he quickly felt the need to get her out of her pants. She laid back on the bed as he began working on her belt buckle, button, and zipper. He smoothly slid his hands between the blue cotton and her skin. She raised her hips making it easier for him to get them off of her. He hesitated momentarily as his hands moved across unseen lace, but not for long. He took her socks off too. He was nearly hypnotized at by her smooth soft bronze skin. As he caressed her with his eyes she raised up to help him out of his jeans before he joined her on the bed.
“Do you really want to keep these on?” Isabelle coyly asked with her fingers tugging lightly at his waistband.
“No and I don’t want yours on either,” he replied softly. They quickly began to help each other out of their underwear.
Their bodies were drawn back together like magnets. Then they melted together in poetic harmony. They began to move in opposing unison almost immediately. Within minutes both fought to get air into their lungs, but it was not just the higher altitude that caused their gasps. It was the other mountain they topped together.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispered after a few minutes of blissful silence, as they lay intertwined with fingers and hands still exploring.
“Oh yes, and desert before dinner too,” she purred. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. There is more to come.”
For whatever reason, I don’t trust him.
Katie I had the same reaction and I don’t know why! The location perhaps? He just seems so… calculated. Was it intentional Kathleen?
Innocence
By Dawn B.
“I love you Mrs. Bryce,” Andrew said at the conclusion of writing time. He was very careful to make sure he said ‘Mrs.’ not ‘Miss’ when he called her name as did all of her students.
This year, beginning on day one, Chandra decided to make a point of telling her students that she wasn’t a ‘Miss’, or a ‘Ms’, but rather a ‘Mrs’. “I’ve been married well long enough to have certainly earned that title.” Her joke went right over the heads of all of her seven year old students; except for Andrew, David and Sarah. In the days of the school year that followed, these three students seemed to be the only ones truly hanging on Chandra’s every word. She could tell what kind of home life they had by the mature grasp of the spoken language they held.
Why was Chandra so adamant about being called ‘Mrs.’? She even made the same quip at Open House to the parents this year who all sniggered, some embarrassed that their child’s teacher would be so bold as brass as to make such a joke. Her long marriage was not given to her on a silver plater by any means. Her husband had put her patience, courage, and self-reliance through the paces during his twenty years in the military service. She fought long and hard to keep the family together and running smoothly, most times single handedly. No, her long marriage was now something to be worn, as a badge of honor: a true testament to her resolve of finishing what she had started so many years ago, whether she liked it or not.
Chandra, still bent over a notebook at her desk, seemed to not hear him so Andrew repeated himself, a little louder this time, “I love you Mrs. Bryce.”
The words, though sweetly, innocently intended by the speaker cut her deeply. She desperately wanted to requite his statement but the words always froze in her throat, unable to be spoken.
Why couldn’t she say “I love you” to her students? Yes she loved them, every school day from eight to three, but these were not her children. They belonged to other people. Parents who loved them far more deeply than she ever could, but not more than she wanted to be able to love them. She knew her students were only hers to teach, not to raise: she had already raised her own two children. She didn’t connect with all of her students, no teacher ever does, but most of them she adored very much in some way or another. She just couldn’t tell them she loved them as she’s heard other teachers in these primary grades do so often and it ate at her insides to not be able to requite such a simple, innocently spoken phrase to the cherubs left in her charge each school day.
Andrew was the shortest in her class this year. His feet swung, not even reaching the floor when he sat at his desk, but he didn’t seem to mind. Andrew always had a pleasant smile on his face and music in his voice. His eyes twinkled whenever he shared something with the class or with Chandra directly. His smile as he spoke so light heartedly lit up the classroom and made Chandra smile too. She loved the way he said her name, “Mrs. Bryce!” in an admonishing way whenever she caught him off guard with a well-timed quip during her lessons.
Not wanting to be out done by any of the students, least of all his best friend, David then piped up, “I love you Mrs. Bryce.” even louder than Andrew’s second proclamation. David was of average build for a seven year old. Though he fit well in the chair behind his desk he seldom had his feet firmly planted on the floor. David was impulsively active. Chandra saw the same traits in David as she did her youngest son and though it frustrated her to have to constantly redirect her student’s focus throughout the school day, she couldn’t help but be terribly fond of him.
Sarah heard Andrew and David’s proclamations and she smiled up at Chandra, waiting to see what her teacher would do or say next. She always looked up to her teacher as a role model and tried to emulate her actions, speech patterns, and sometimes even the way Chandra dressed. Her mother had specifically requested that Sarah be placed in Chandra’s class and each day it was more and more clear to Sarah why. “Mrs. Bryce loves writing!” Chandra heard Sarah say to her mother one day after school early in the year. “She said I can be an author too.” Sarah was quiet in class most of the time. She loved reading and she loved writing. Finally she had a teacher who loved these two subjects as much as she did.
Chandra finally looked up from her lesson plans, having double checked to make sure she knew well what strategy the students needed to work on in reading today. Taking her reading glasses off and laying them on her desk, Chandra smiled widely at her students, preparing to begin the lesson. Her face softened and her eyes twinkled as she gazed upon David and Andrew. “You are both such sweethearts,” she told them both quietly with a gentle pat on their heads.
The two boys smiled as they chests grew large with pride. No, she did not tell them she loved them too, not in so many words at least, but their teacher acknowledged their innocent affection and returned it in her own special way.
The Final 5000
by: Stewart C.
The fatigue crept up on me at mile twenty three. The race wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be up until this point. I only had five thousand meters to go. Just a little 5K. I’ve done plenty of those but this time my muscles were starting to rebel against me. The wall had a firm grip on me. It was squeezing the life out of me. It was relentless and merciless. It wanted me to give up but I had to remember why I was doing this, why I had to finish. I was doing it for her. The girl I met on the trail that day.
I remember the first time I saw her. I had just finished a short jog. She stood just off the path near the tree line. Her hands were on her knees and she was breathing heavily. Her long brown hair, wrapped in a pony tail, hung off of her shoulder as sweat rolled down her face. Her skin was golden brown from spending so much time in the sun during those long afternoon runs. The sweat made her skin sparkle as if she were covered in glittering gold make up. “Hello.”, I said. “Hi” , she replied as she smiled. That perfect smile.
Her smile leveled me. I was never a believer in love at first sight until then. When she smiled and looked at me with those big green eyes, I knew her. I knew our future together. It was like everything I read in fairy tales. The planets aligned and everything became clear. We rarely spent a moment apart after that day. Her favorite activity became our favorite activity. We ran every other day. Instead of romantic dinners and trips to the movies, our love blossomed on the trails and on the track. We ran races together on Saturdays and sometimes made them weekend getaways. I loved her passion and dedication. I fell in love with those cute little things that she did out of habit. The way she always placed her running shoes by the fireplace; one shoe on top of the other. I loved how she did that funny stretch. The one I could never seem to master. She would often help me with it and would laugh at me as I grimaced. She always found it funny that I was incapable of taking the pain. “It won’t hurt forever.” she laughed.
Forever. That’s how long I felt like I’ve been running this race. With two miles to go, the pain turned to numbness. My legs were quitting on me. Every step was a battle. The urge to stop was strong. I was afraid that my will wasn’t strong enough. I started to doubt my myself. I began questioning why I signed up for this but at mile twenty four I was reminded of why I did. Of all the thoughts in my mind, one stood out. I made a vow to her. Just like the one we made to each other ten years ago. The memory in my head that kept me going past mile twenty four was our wedding day.
She never looked more beautiful than that day. That dress fit her slender frame perfectly. Her golden skin made the white fabric pop. Her vail flowed down her back and cascaded across the floor behind her. Her eyes sparkled like a sunset on a calm ocean. She lit up the room as she stood in the entrance of the chapel. Every eye was on her. How could they not be? As she walked down the aisle every head followed her. She had everyone’s attention; she commanded it without asking. She walked down the aisle with the posture of a seasoned runner. Her gait was flawless. It was smooth and regal. Shoulders back, chin up. When she took my hand at the alter, my legs turned to rubber.
At mile twenty five, my legs went from feeling like rubber to feeling like cement. Every joint from the chest down had seized. It took everything I had to take another step. My feet were blistered and my arms churned as is if I were throwing myself forward. The crowds grew more dense at this point. They waved and held signs for family members and friends. They rang bells. They shouted and clapped. I could see her face among them. I could hear her shouting my name and waving but my mind was playing tricks on me. I desperately wanted her to be there but it wasn’t meant to be.
The doctors discovered the tumor just after our ninth anniversary. A routine check up turned into an unthinkable future. As the months passed she slowly withered away. Her once strong, slender frame became fragile and weak but her resolve never wained. She fought it every day, right down to the end. In that hospital bed she whispered, “Make me a promise.” Her voice was weak. Unable to speak, I nodded. She managed a faint smile. “Finish.” she said. With those words, her race was over. With her hand in mine, I felt the life leave her body.
During the following months, the days and nights ran together. It was difficult to get out of bed in the mornings without her. My only escape from the grief was running. I ran to get away. At the same time I ran to be with her. I felt she was with me, running right next to me, like during our earlier days. It wasn’t until I noticed her neatly placed running shoes by the fireplace that I remembered her final request. It was more than a request. It was closure. Permission to start over. Her final word rang in my ears, “Finish”.
The finish line was my only goal. It was visible from less than a half mile away. I could see the banner waving in the wind. The crowds were tightly packed along the sidewalk. I could see their reactions but I heard nothing. I shut them out. With three hundred yards to go, I remembered her words, “It won’t hurt forever.” They rang true. As I neared closer to the finish, the pain receded. I felt new life in my legs. My lungs felt strong, utilizing every ounce of oxygen that I inhaled. Two hundred yards to go. My feet moved faster. Faster than when I started. One hundred yards. Every muscle was doing its job. Like a seasoned runner, I was running with a purpose. Shoulders back, chin up. Fifty yards. The crowd was a blur. Twenty yards. Ten yards.
After crossing the finish line, my hands went directly to my knees. Sweat dripped from my head. As I glanced around at the other runners, I could see we shared the same feelings. They walked around victoriously; arms in the air. They celebrated with loved ones. The ones who were there with them, encouraging them along the way. It was then that I knew someone was encouraging me. She ran beside me at mile twenty three. She gave me the strength to finish. In my heart, she was with me at the finish line, telling me how proud she was of me. She congratulated me for finishing what we started together by flashing her beautiful smile. That perfect smile.
Defining Love
The veterinarian removed the stethoscope earpieces and looked at me over the ridge of the horse’s spine.
“Did you know that a woman’s heart rate will sync to twice her horse’s heart rate within a minute of being with her horse?” she said. “That’s why we women love our horses so much. Men, it takes them two to three minutes to sync, and some of them never do.”
At that moment, my daughter passed by leading her pony, Snapple, shoulder-to-shoulder. Both girl and pony looked oblivious to everything except the nearness of each other.
“Case in point,” I said.
#
I woke at 5:30 the next morning. I flipped over and forced myself back to sleep.
At 6:30, I did the same thing.
At 7:45, I finally got out of bed. I had given my mare, Bambi, as long as I could humanely justify. Before departing the evening before, the vet had given her pain medication. There was still a chance she would recover, though the odds were slim. It was time to go see what had transpired over the night.
#
Bambi had said goodbye to me the night before when she left the ear-scratching and neck massage – the only comforts I had left to offer her – to stand alone in the back pasture, next to the woods. I expected to find her there that morning, dead.
Instead, when I pulled up to the barn, I saw her chestnut ears pricked above the near fence. I drove closer to find her standing in the corner. The alpha-mare, Autumn, guarded Bambi, with her head draped over her withers. Snapple, the pony, stood beneath her neck, as though she were holding her up. Another mare guarded the rear, and the three horses in the adjoining pasture had circled on the other side of the fence.
A deathwatch, I thought.
Bambi nickered at me. They don’t nicker because they love you, I reminded myself, reciting the words I had recently read in a book about equine behavior. It is just their way of announcing the arrival of food to their herd-mates.
I squeezed into the herd. Bambi was grinding her teeth and rocking her hind end in pain. Clinically, I felt for her pulse. Elevated. Then I looked under her tail for a sign that she had evacuated her bowels over the night. Clean. I put my ear to her distended side. I could only hear my own pulse echoing against her hollow core.
Her gut was still twisted. No digestion could happen. Her stomach would burst soon. I pulled her whiskered lips back to study her gums. No toxic line moving up her gum line yet. There was time to end this humanely. I went back to the van and called the vet.
“Give her that last dose of painkiller now,” the vet said. “It will help keep her comfortable until I get there.”
Bambi took her final bitter dose and stood with her head in my arms. I held her and scratched behind her ears. At least she was relaxing, I consoled myself. She was a mess from rolling – horses do that when they have a bellyache – and I considered taking her out and grooming her one last time. But the boss mare was agitated with my presence.
No matter how much you think your horse loves you, they will always prefer their herd, I remembered from the equine behavior book. I realized that I was being selfish, and I said to Autumn, the boss mare, “You need to be with her, too, don’t you girl?”
The vet was an hour away; there would be time for my good-byes. I needed to go cry myself out again anyway. I left the horses to each other and emptied my heart alone in the warm van.
#
I heard a horse squeal. Through my tears and the fogged-up windshield, I saw Autumn biting at Bambi, driving her away from the herd. Bambi offered a few weak kicks in protest but had no choice but to stumble toward the forest at the back of the pasture where the trees were sugar coated with the morning’s frost.
Oh, God, I thought. I can’t take letting her get beat up like this. I pulled on my mittens and grabbed her leadrope. It was time to bring her into the barn to wait for the vet.
But what I witnessed next wasn’t meanness at all. Once she got Bambi away from the herd, Autumn drove her at a steady walk, back and forth, along the fence line. When Bambi couldn’t walk any farther, Autumn stopped next to her and massaged the base of her neck with her teeth, the surest sign of equine affection. When Bambi’s knees would start to buckle or if she stood still for too long, Autumn’s bites became more insistent until she started walking again.
Curious little Snapple tried to join them, and Autumn drove her away. She seemed to want Bambi to herself. The only time she left Bambi’s side was when Snapple dropped to roll in the snow. She trotted over immediately and made the pony stand up. There were going to be no downed horses on her watch. Then she resumed her routine with Bambi. Walk, rest, comfort. Walk, rest, comfort.
More words from the horse book sounded in the back of my head: Scientific analyses of the equine brain indicate a deep capacity for memory and response, but not for emotion. Any emotions they feel are simple, like rage and happiness and confusion.
Yet here I was, alone that morning and witnessing what appeared to be a complex display of emotions. Concern. Protection. Desperation. Love. After all, what is love if not the deepest desire to hold another soul dear and present, even against all odds?
#
When the vet finally arrived, Bambi was fully alert and eating hay. An examination indicated that her vital signs were returning to normal and that her intestine had untwisted. And she even dropped a horse apple for us to prove the point.
Autumn and the herd had done for Bambi what I could not, what the vet could not. Their love had seen her through.
#
Not all love stories have a happy ending. Our worst fears were realized when Bambi retwisted her gut the next morning. The miracles were all used up. Three days later, my brave and gentle mare died.
In the end, love was not enough. But did that make the love that enmeshed us all – horses and people alike – any less real? The horse book would say I’m a delusional, anthropomorphic fool. I say it is time to write a new book.
Steph, that was lovely. I’ve always been convinced that animals are capable of love.
Oh I hate it when things happen to animals. It makes me so sad when mine are sick and can’t talk to me. This story is positive too though. I’m going to show it to my sister who still rides a lot.
I like, “it’s time to write a new book,” so true. What a sad story, it’s so hard to see animals we love suffer. Apparently even other animals have a hard time with it, so touching.
A sad story, but it proves the book wrong. Even animals have feelings we don’t know about yet.
— Chocolate lovers —
[SHE] was a chocolate lover. She enjoyed chocolate since she first tasted it when she was a child, and she’s been in a long romance with it since then.
She even studied to become a pastry chef and specialized in making desserts with all kinds of chocolate.
[SHE] never tried to work for a big restaurant, because she was afraid that it would give her desserts a too commercial flavor. That’s why she founded her own baker’s shop in her little town.
[SHE] felt lonely, specially because valentine’s day was coming, but she was too dedicated to her chocolate desserts that she didn’t have time to find someone special. She also had bad experiences with Valentine’s days. One time, her boyfriend broke up with her the day before. She caught another boyfriend making out with her friend the next year. “At least this won’t happend to me this year” she thought.
One day, a guy came in to her shop to buy some chocolate. Regularly, people came in to buy chocolate with smiles on their faces, feeling good and thinking about how they will enjoy the pieces, but this guy looked tottally different. He looked afraid, like he was buying poison instead. And that expression caught [SHE]’s attention.
His name was [HE], and he was an athlete who practices for the marathon. He never liked chocolate, because when he was a child, some kids made him a practical joke involving chocolate, and he became resented to it.
[SHE] approached him and asked him “what kind of chocolate would you like to buy?”, and [HE] replied “i really don’t want to buy any kind, it’s just that i need to”.
Weird answer, she thought, and she became even more curious about the strange behavior.
[SHE] told him “people don’t buy chocolate because they need to, people buy it because they want to”. Next, she said “chocolate is not for satisfying your appetite, but to give you pleasure”. [HE] noticed she was crazy about chocolate.
“What’s so good about chocolate that you like it so much?”, [HE] asked.
“What’s not to like?”, [SHE] replied. “It’s like it came from heaven”, she said with an expression like she was eating some.
[HE] became interested in her, and started to ask questions about chocolate. [SHE] talked a lot about chocolate, and dare him to eat a little piece.
Suddenly, she remembered his answer “it’s just that i need to”, and she asked him about why does he need chocolate.
“It’s part of my new training sessions. My coach is from Zurich, and he has trained a lot of champions in his country. He told me that i would have a better performance by eating chocolate before every training session. I’m skeptical about it, but i want to classify to the finals, and i’m willing to do anything, even if it means to eat some chocolate”.
She picked a piece of her best chocolates and gave him a try. When he took the first bite he thought it wasn’t that bad. He tried a different chocolate, “This one’s even better. I’ll buy a couple of this and will come back when i don’t have any”. [SHE] felt attracted to him and told him that he could come back any time, and even gave him her phone number, just in case of a chocolate-emergency.
He came back every day for the next week, until valentine’s day.
That day, [SHE] waited for him to come and buy his daily chocolate, and she had an special chocolate shaped as a running shoe. “He’s going to like it”, she thought with a little smile.
She waited for hours and he didn’t came.
When she was ready to close her shop, a delivery boy came in with a bouquet of roses, and with a note that said:
“Hi, it’s me [HE].
You taught me a lot of things about chocolate, about the different kinds, about the process of making it, and the benefits for my health.
But while i was learning those things, something started to grow inside, and it wasn’t my belly for eating all that chocolate, lol.
I learned how to love chocolate, but i also learned how to love you. You are my chocolate lover, which means that i would like to be with you because i want to, not because i need to.”
“It was a beautiful note, but still he didn’t came. How dare him to write such beautiful things and don’t come personally to deliver it”. She was mad at him.
Two weeks passed since Valentine’s day when [HE] returned to her shop. She didn’t know how to react. She had feelings for him, for the way he acted and she liked to be called ‘chocolate lover’. But she was mad because another Valentine’s day was runined in her life.
He carried a package with him. He tried to explain where he has been, but she didn’t want to listen. [SHE] asked [HE] to leave, and he did, but he left the package in the display counter.
She approach to open the package, and she found this note:
“A very special chocolate for a very special woman”
When she opened it, it was a very rare kind of chocolate from Zurich. She tried to get that kind of chocolate before but it was too expensive to bring it from foreign countries.
She realized that he did something special for him, and hastly went outside the shop and tried to see him, with no success. “Which way did you go?”
Valentine’s day was in the past, all the decoration was removed from the streets. Everything was gone except a little heart with an arrow across it. The arrow was pointing into one direction, and she thought “How crazy am i to follow a heart with an arrow?”, but she followed it anyway.
She was walking down the street where the heart was pointing when [HE] came out of a flower shop with a bouquet just like the one he sent on Valentine’s day.
She gasped and told him “I’m sorry. I let my past influence my present, and possibly ruined my future with you”, and he replied “This flowers are for you!”. She looked surprise, and asked him “How… did you… know… we would meet?”. And he said “Love always lead us into the right direction”. They finally kissed over that street, and while walking back, they took the heart with the arrow back to the shop where they met.
Delightful!!
Aww! That’s sweet and so inventive.
In Honor of My Love
You haunted me in the months before we came together. You were married. I was not. I was your boss. It was obvious that you were interested in getting into bed with me. Sweetly, you made reasons why we should have lunch together to discuss business. I went along knowing where it was heading, and trying to play marriage counselor to get you and your husband back together and probably to be sure that it was over in my own sub conscience.
You convinced me how badly your situation was. I, a “rescuer” from birth I believe, became “all in.” I helped you reason what you should do from a place as unbiased as I could muster. Some of the advice you followed, until you made your way to my home. Was it my mistake to let you in?
Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you. I knew you already felt that way. We kissed. It was passionate. No one had ever touched the depths of me like this. We became intimate and proclaimed our love to each other aloud.
After too many visits to my house, your husband came and stood on my front porch while he knew you were inside and slit his wrists. It was a very dramatic scene and temporarily, it worked. Nevertheless, you could not keep away. I left the state to get perspective arriving in New York. Not long after I left, contact was made between us with over nine-hundred miles between our states. You wanted to come to me and “escape” his persistent and watchful eye. You wanted to end the marriage. I caved in and began to draw you closer to me, instead of trying to send you back.
You made it by bus through two states, until he caught up with it in Pennsylvania (having left West Virginia). He pulled you off forcefully and pressed you into the car driving you back to where you no longer wanted to be as you told it to me later. You contacted me as soon as you were able. How could he think he could keep your heart by force?
Plan “B” was initiated. You would drive to a southern state. I was moving to Louisiana. We would meet in North Carolina at a pre-destined motel. I didn’t expect you would be there, but there you were. I had traveled with my brothers and sister-in-law in a convoy of a U-haul and three vehicles. You traveled there alone in your own vehicle. Wow! You were there! How sweet that undisturbed reunion. My family nodded in an “I told you so” fashion. You were my first true love. I felt it through every part of my body and every feeling I could have. I had never known the feeling before, nor since. We aimed our convoy to Louisiana with an additional vehicle.
We traveled to New Orleans where we made our first home. We never heard from your husband. Your parents called me the devil for breaking up your marriage. Our life together was rough at first. I sold my car to buy time until I found a job; living on basic food groups (mostly instant potatoes). We were poor at first, but happy. We were in our early 20’s, life was good, and we survived on love and commitment to each other. After a couple of months, we were both working and life was improving for us. We moved to a nicer place and made a home. It was obvious to everyone we were very much in love.
Our jobs and friends brought us into becoming part of the community. I became friends with some co-workers and one became my best friend. That friend became “our” friend. That relationship became our downfall. I was blind-sided when after 3 years together and believing you were happy, you told me you were leaving and leaving me to be with “our friend.” Was this the way your ex-husband felt — gutted without warning?
Our community of friends and co-workers knew how much I still loved you. Months after being with my “friend,” you left to go back to West Virginia to your parents. My friends called that you were going to the airport to fly out to West Virginia. It would take you about forty-five minutes. It would take me about an hour unless I drove like a maniac.
I rushed to the airport to find out if you were okay and sure of the decision. I rushed there to let you know I still was in love with you and didn’t want you to go. I rushed there to find out if you were leaving on a visit and coming back to my now ex-friend. Under it all, I rushed there to convince you that you were supposed to be with me…forever.
But we never connected. Your plane was going off the airstrip as I got onto the concourse. It was awful feeling defeated, and lost, and without you. Six years passed. I tried to establish a relationship with another woman. She somehow knew I was not over you. She tried to call you on my behalf because I explained you would not take the first couple of calls and I was not going to act like your ex-husband and try to force what was not freely given. She was at her parents’ house and I already knew how they felt about me.
When she got you on the phone, you responded that you thought it was some kind of trick and hung up on her. I was devastated all over again. Another failed relationship and another year went by. Eventually, I hid you from the senses of others. I involved myself in another relationship that failed, and another, and another. I still felt you, but you were gone to me now, forever. My feelings became numb. Love as a word became meaningless. I loved only the comfort that came with being in a settled relationship. I involved myself for the initial passion and sexual gratification, but emotionally, I no longer could be present. Eventually, after counseling, I did find someone that I could say I loved again, but never to the depths of you.
So if you are still out there, through all the changes of your life and my own, just know that you were loved once by me so completely, you affected the core of my life. I hope that on this Valentine’s Day, you are with someone who loves you at least as much and that you found the happiness you were unable to before.
The Woman in White
Brian Wu
The two tigers roared softly as they roamed back and forth in their metal cage. They too were anxious. Sitting in my wooden chair, I still had quite a sweat going on. It didn’t help that the weather was warm and muggy with a slight overcast. I kept my suit on in the heat, waiting until they told me to leave the upstairs room of the back house. I could hear the commotion outside of people shuffling to their seats and the small chatter among friends, new and old. It would have been awfully lonely but I was lucky to have my closest friends with me in that room, tucked away and hidden from the crowd. We stayed in that room for what seemed like hours with one large fan keeping us relatively dry. I could only imagine what was going on in the other room, the one with my future wife.
I tried to breathe normally but the air kept seeming to come up just short of what I needed. I would heave my chest and try to grasp as much as air as I could before I would let out a large exhale. I looked out the window and I knew we really did choose the most amazing venue. From the second floor, I could see the courtyard where our friends and family were being seated. I could see the main house on the level above, massive with its white walls and red brick ceiling. The fountain out front of the house was the only thing more wet than my undershirt. The water from the fountain flowed out into an elegant pool with flowers floating sweetly. The lush of the green trees and plants reminded me that along with the heat, we were still in the midst of summer. I could just barely make out the tiger cages that sat next to the other animals, a quick stroll away from where we were all gathering now. The parrot and birds chirped in the background apparently anticipating the coming sounds from the stereo system.
The music started and I knew it was just a few minutes until it was my turn to stand front and center of the stage. My few seconds of fame before all eyes shifted to the main attraction. I stood up, said a little prayer with my friends, straightened my suit out and could barely contain my emotion. I told my groomsmen, “I know I’m going to cry.” I took those first few steps, trying to contain my mixed feelings of anxiety,excitement, and nervousness. The small brick pathway that led to the front of the stage left little room for error. When I reached the stage and saw so many of my friends and family waving to me and cheering me own, my nerves seemed to calm just a little. My groomsmen lined up behind me and across from us lined the bridesmaids. We all waited eagerly, and as quickly as the music changed my eyes jumped to find the woman in white standing across the bridge to the courtyard. Immediately, the tears began flowing down my face and I wept uncontrollable. My father handed me a handkerchief to wipe my tears away even as I continued to laugh and cry with joy. She seemed to walk ever so gracefully towards me and I felt so blessed to have her standing by my side. Moments later, I knew we would be forever intertwined, ready for whatever adventures life will throw at us — but at least not until we got some pictures with the tigers.
Please use this version.
The two tigers roared softly as they roamed back and forth in their metal cage only a quarter mile from my room. They too were anxious. Sitting in my wooden chair, I had quite a sweat going on. It didn’t help that the weather was warm and muggy with a slight overcast. I kept my suit on in the heat, waiting until they told me to leave the upstairs room at the back of the house.
I heard the commotion outside of people shuffling to their seats and the small chatter among friends, new and old. It would have been awfully lonely but I was lucky to have my closest friends with me in that room, tucked away and hidden from the crowd. We stayed in the room for what seemed like hours with one large fan keeping us relatively dry. I could only imagine what was going on in the other room, the one with my future wife.
I tried to breathe normally but the air kept coming up just short of what I needed. I would heave my chest and try to grasp as much as air as I could before letting out a large exhale. I looked out the window and I knew we really did choose the most amazing venue.
From the second floor, I could see the courtyard where our friends and family were taking their seats. I saw the main house on the hill above me, massive with its white walls and red brick ceiling. The fountain in front of the house was the only thing more wet than my undershirt. The water from the fountain flowed out into an elegant pool with flowers floating serenely. The lush of the green trees and plants reminded me we were still in the midst of summer. I could just barely make out the tiger cages sitting next to the other animals, a quick stroll away from where we were gathering now. I could hear the parrot and birds on the venue grounds chirping in the background right as the welcoming music died down.
The ceremony music started and I knew it was just a few minutes until it was my turn to stand front and center on the stage. My few seconds of fame before all eyes shifted to the main attraction. I stood up, said a little prayer with my friends, straightened my suit and restrained my emotions. I told my groomsmen, “I know I’m going to cry.” I took those first few steps, trying to contain my mixed feelings of anxiety, excitement, and nervousness. The small brick pathway leading to the front of the stage left little room for error. When I reached the stage and saw so many of my friends and family waving to me and cheering me own, my nerves seemed to calm just a little. My groomsmen lined up behind me and across from us lined the bridesmaids. We all waited eagerly, and as quickly as the music changed, my eyes jumped to find the woman in white standing across the bridge to the courtyard. Immediately, the tears began flowing down my face and I wept uncontrollably. My father handed me a handkerchief to wipe my tears away even as I continued to laugh and cry with joy. My bride walked ever so gracefully towards me and I felt so blessed to have her standing by my side. Moments later, I knew we would be forever intertwined, ready for whatever adventures life will throw at us — but not until we got pictures with the tigers.
This is very interesting mostly because I can picture the whole thing (and you picked quite a scene to describe), but I can’t figure out why the tigers are there. For some reason my favorite words here are “small chatter”. That is an odd mix of words that conveys a sound that is very common in social situations.
Hi thanks for the comments. I guess I didn’t really explain that but in. essence the venue had them and being so close to them was amazing. I wanted to focus on their beauty and mystery. Thanks for pointing that out. I’m still learning!
A Place Just for You, by Unisse Chua
Snow fell continuously in the morning of the day before Christmas and people rubbed their hands together to keep warm as they walk out in the streets to finish their last minute Christmas Eve shopping.
Jake looked out his apartment window and watched each snowflake fall down his window ledge. He started to count each one as they fell but he lost count at around fifty.
A vibrating sound came from his bedside table. He hesitated to move from his position but the sound did not stop and it started to irritate him. Jake picked up the phone and tapped the green Answer button without bothering to check who the caller was.
“Guess who?” a girl’s voice came from the receiver. Jake removed the phone from his ear and checked the caller ID. An unregistered number flashed on the screen and Jake sighed as he listened again. “Oh, come on Jake. You seriously don’t recognize my voice anymore?”
The voice was strangely familiar but Jake felt like he did not want to remember whose voice it was. “Veronica,” he whispered, the name coming out from nowhere.
“Yes!” the girl exclaimed. “Guess where I am.”
Jake sighed and said, “I’m not in the mood to play guessing games right now.”
“Since when did you become such a kill joy, Jake?” Since the day you left me, he thought but resisted the urge to say it to her out loud.
“Fine. I’m currently at the airport. I’m back in LA!” Veronica sounded happy but Jake didn’t know how to react to the sudden news that his ex-fiancé was back in the city. He couldn’t reply.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Yeah. I did.”
“I was wondering when you’d be free. You know, to catch up?” The sound of a car door closing shut and the muffled voice of Veronica telling the cab driver the address of Jake’s apartment – the apartment he bought for the two of them – echoed in his ear.
“Where are you staying?” Jake asked, pretending he didn’t hear her say the address.
“I was hoping I could crash at your place. Amy said you still lived there and she can’t really have me over right now because her in-laws are in town. I hope you don’t mind.”
Yes, I do mind.
“No. It’s fine. The spare room in the apartment is all yours.”
“Great, thanks!” She paused. “I’ll probably get there in half an hour or so.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you then?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Bye!” And the line went dead. “Bye,” Jake whispered.
He placed the phone back on the bedside table and stared at his apartment. Unwashed clothes scattered all over the floor, beer bottles filled the table – basically, his whole apartment was a mess and he had less than half an hour to get the whole place cleaned up.
Jake sighed and started picking up his clothes from the floor and throwing them into a laundry bag. Beer bottles and other food containers went into garbage bags. After he could finally see the floor, he checked his watch and saw that he only had a five more minutes before the thirty minutes was up.
He opened door to the master’s bedroom. The room was definitely cleaner than the rest of the apartment except for the fact that dust was building up. He never slept in that room and had always kept it locked – to keep away the thoughts and memories linked to that room.
The doorbell chimed and Jake snapped back to the present. “Coming,” he called out, closing the door of the bedroom. He kicked a few more trash out of the way as he made his way to the front door.
Standing in his doorway was Veronica with a smile that went up to her ears. “Hey!” she greeted as she hugged him. She hugged him so tight that he thought his ribs were going to be crushed.
“Hey,” he managed to say as she loosened the hug, but arms still wrapped around his waist.
“Did you gain weight?” she asked, although Jake could hear a bit of humor in her question.
“Ha, ha. Really sweet, Ronnie.”
“What? I was just asking!”
“I didn’t gain weight.”
For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. “So,” she started, “are you going to let me in or not?”
“You have to let go of me first,” he joked. She let go and squeezed beside him, letting herself in the apartment. “It’s messier than I remember.”
“I really didn’t have a chance to clean up with such short notice.”
She laughed, “I’m sorry but I also didn’t remember you as a messy person.”
He didn’t say anything. Veronica opened the spare bedroom and saw that it was already in use. “I thought you said I can have the spare room?”
“Yeah, I did. The spare’s the other one. I’m using this one.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything. She could guess why he didn’t use the bigger room with a king size bed and she was partly the one to blame why such a good apartment was now a bachelor pad instead of a cosy family home.
“How long will you stay?” Jake asked.
“Until I find a permanent place to stay here in LA,” she replied as she wheeled her suitcase into the room she’ll be using.
He was surprised to hear her say the word ‘permanent’. “You’re not going back to London?” he continued to ask, curious as to why she came back.
“No,” she answered simply. She wasn’t ready to tell him the truth: the reason why she came back home and the reason why she lied about not being able to stay at Amy’s.
“How come?”
“I’ll tell you later. I need a bath first,” she answered, dodging his question.
But as Veronica tried to close the door on him, he took her by the wrist and said, “You can stay here for as long as you want…” he trailed off.
“Thanks,” she replied but Jake still did not let go of her.
He looked her straight in the eye and finished what he wanted to say. “You don’t have to look for another place to stay.” He breathed out. “This is your place too.”
Worth a Thousand Words
By Sammy Bennett
As usual, I was running late. I opened the sock drawer quickly, only to find no socks in it. I let out a sigh and looked out the open bedroom door into the hallway where the laundry basket full of dirty clothes sat.
“Honey, have you washed any of my socks yet?” I asked, hoping she could hear me through the bathroom door and over the sound of the shower.
There was no reply. I reached into the back of the drawer.
“Nothing”, I said under my breath as I felt around. Unexpectedly, my hand brushed something. It definitely wasn’t a sock; a piece of paper maybe? I pulled it out of the drawer as I began to ask Aleah about my socks again. I didn’t finish my question.
What I held in my hand surprised me. It was a wallet sized photograph. Normally, it occupied a place in my wallet, but I feared that it would fall out, so I moved it to a safer place. I had forgotten that the safer place I moved it to was my sock drawer. Three weeks ago, when I saw that it was missing from my wallet, I assumed that I had lost it.
The photograph was of a young girl, no more than twelve years old. She sat on a white bicycle in the middle of a road. Pink streamers came off of pink handle bars. A giant grin rested on the girls face, suggesting that she knew something that I desperately wanted to know. And it was true.
“Who are you? Twenty years of carrying you around and I still don’t know who you are”, I said as I sat down on the bed, still staring at the picture. Time had taken its toll. The image had begun to fade, and the white bike was beginning to gain a yellow tint to it. The twenty years had not faded my memory of it though. As I sat there, the moment I came across it returned perfectly to my mind.
I was thirteen. Earlier that day I found out that I was doing poorly in my math class. It was all I could think about on the bus ride home from school. All the other children were talking and laughing, but I was sulking alone in the back of the bus.
When all of us children were let off of the bus, the others ran off to their homes. I walked behind them, slowly, my eyes focused on the ground under my shoes.
“How am I going to explain this to my parents?” I asked myself. “They’re going to-”
Something had caught my eye. Half covered by my shoe, was the photograph. If I had been like the rest of the kids that day, I would have missed it, but because I was walking slowly and looking at the ground, I managed to catch it, just barely.
I moved my foot off so I could see the whole image. There was nothing especially pretty about the girl, and yet, I couldn’t help but stare. There was something captivating about the photograph, about her. One minute passed. Then two. Then five. Yet for me, it seemed as if the whole world had stopped. The kids running home disappeared. The birds flying above my head vanished, along with the sidewalk itself. Everything ceased to exist except for the photograph and me.
When I finally bent down and picked it up, I did so with a gentle tenderness which would be expected of one picking up a newborn baby. I cupped the photo in my hands, trying to hold it as firmly as I could, and yet touch the photograph as little as possible, almost afraid that it might disintegrate in my hands.
As I stared at the girl, a feeling welled up inside of me like a geyser about to spew forth boiling water. It was a strange feeling; one which, expectedly at my age, I had never felt before. It was as if a small sun had been born in my chest, giving off warmth to the rest of my body, or as if a necessary component of being alive, which I had desperately longed for without knowing it, had finally slid into place. A smile crept onto my face, washing away the frown that had previously existed there.
There was almost a warmth to the photograph itself. Even when I slipped it into my pocket, I could still feel its warmth radiating through my clothes. The rest of the way home, I could not stop thinking about the girl in the photograph. It was burning a hole in both my pocket and my mind. Who is that girl, I wondered. But life never gave me the answer, so over the years I stopped asking.
I never forgot the photograph though. Even now, after all those years, I still remember it all as if it had just happened. Even now I could feel the warmth brought by the image so long ago returning to my chest. There was nothing quite like it.
The trance that the photograph had over me was broken as Aleah exited the bathroom saying, “What were you asking?”
Her tone suggested that she had asked that question several times already. I tried to remember what I had asked. I had no luck. All that was on my mind was the girl in the photograph.
Aleah walked over to where I was sitting on the bed, awaiting my question. When she looked at what I was holding, she immediately stopped. Her eyes began to open wide, fixed on the photograph.
“Where did you get that?” she asked slowly.
“I found it when I was thirteen,” I said with a smile, still looking at the photograph. “I’ve had it with me ever since. I never actually met the girl, but I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her.”
Aleah didn’t say a word.
“Why?” I asked, looking up at her.
Her face was one of utter shock and disbelief, not at me, but at the photograph. There was only silence coming from her open mouth. When she finally spoke, it was as if her words made the whole world stop. The children’s laughter in the hallway vanished. The water dripping from the shower head disappeared, as did the dresser and the bed. Everything ceased to exist except for Aleah, the photograph, and me. Her words, though, were clear; her voice was filled with wonder and amazement and what she said brought back the feeling I once felt, long ago.
“I lost that picture when I was twelve.”
Worth a Thousand Words
By Sammy Bennett
As usual, I was running late. I opened the sock drawer quickly, only to find no socks in it. I let out a sigh and looked out the open bedroom door into the hallway where the laundry basket full of dirty clothes sat.
“Honey, have you washed any of my socks yet?” I asked, hoping she could hear me through the bathroom door and over the sound of the shower.
There was no reply. I reached into the back of the drawer.
“Nothing”, I said under my breath as I felt around. Unexpectedly, my hand brushed something. It definitely wasn’t a sock; a piece of paper maybe? I pulled it out of the drawer as I began to ask Aleah about my socks again. I didn’t finish my question.
What I held in my hand surprised me. It was a wallet sized photograph. Normally, it occupied a place in my wallet, but I feared that it would fall out, so I moved it to a safer place. I had forgotten that the safer place I moved it to was my sock drawer. Three weeks ago, when I saw that it was missing from my wallet, I assumed that I had lost it.
The photograph was of a young girl, no more than twelve years old. She sat on a white bicycle in the middle of a road. Pink streamers came off of pink handle bars. A giant grin rested on the girls face, suggesting that she knew something that I desperately wanted to know. And it was true.
“Who are you? Twenty years of carrying you around and I still don’t know who you are”, I said as I sat down on the bed, still staring at the picture. Time had taken its toll. The image had begun to fade, and the white bike was beginning to gain a yellow tint to it. The twenty years had not faded my memory of it though. As I sat there, the moment I came across it returned perfectly to my mind.
I was thirteen. Earlier that day I found out that I was doing poorly in my math class. It was all I could think about on the bus ride home from school. All the other children were talking and laughing, but I was sulking alone in the back of the bus.
When all of us children were let off of the bus, the others ran off to their homes. I walked behind them, slowly, my eyes focused on the ground under my shoes.
“How am I going to explain this to my parents?” I asked myself. “They’re going to-”
Something had caught my eye. Half covered by my shoe, was the photograph. If I had been like the rest of the kids that day, I would have missed it, but because I was walking slowly and looking at the ground, I managed to catch it, just barely.
I moved my foot off so I could see the whole image. There was nothing especially pretty about the girl, and yet, I couldn’t help but stare. There was something captivating about the photograph, about her. One minute passed. Then two. Then five. Yet for me, it seemed as if the whole world had stopped. The kids running home disappeared. The birds flying above my head vanished, along with the sidewalk itself. Everything ceased to exist except for the photograph and me.
When I finally bent down and picked it up, I did so with a gentle tenderness which would be expected of one picking up a newborn baby. I cupped the photo in my hands, trying to hold it as firmly as I could, and yet touch the photograph as little as possible, almost afraid that it might disintegrate in my hands.
As I stared at the girl, a feeling welled up inside of me like a geyser about to spew forth boiling water. It was a strange feeling; one which, expectedly at my age, I had never felt before. It was as if a small sun had been born in my chest, giving off warmth to the rest of my body, or as if a necessary component of being alive, which I had desperately longed for without knowing it, had finally slid into place. A smile crept onto my face, washing away the frown that had previously existed there.
There was almost a warmth to the photograph itself. Even when I slipped it into my pocket, I could still feel its warmth radiating through my clothes. The rest of the way home, I could not stop thinking about the girl in the photograph. It was burning a hole in both my pocket and my mind. Who is that girl, I wondered. But life never gave me the answer, so over the years I stopped asking.
I never forgot the photograph though. Even now, after all those years, I still remember it all as if it had just happened. Even now I could feel the warmth brought by the image so long ago returning to my chest. There was nothing quite like it.
The trance that the photograph had over me was broken as Aleah exited the bathroom saying, “What were you asking?”
Her tone suggested that she had asked that question several times already. I tried to remember what I had asked. I had no luck. All that was on my mind was the girl in the photograph.
Aleah walked over to where I was sitting on the bed, awaiting my question. When she looked at what I was holding, she immediately stopped. Her eyes began to open wide, fixed on the photograph.
“Where did you get that?” she asked slowly.
“I found it when I was thirteen,” I said with a smile, still looking at the photograph. “I’ve had it with me ever since. I never actually met the girl, but I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her.”
Aleah didn’t say a word.
“Why?” I asked, looking up at her.
Her face was one of utter shock and disbelief, not at me, but at the photograph. There was only silence coming from her open mouth. When she finally spoke, it was as if her words made the whole world stop. The children’s laughter in the hallway vanished. The water dripping from the shower head disappeared, as did the dresser and the bed. Everything ceased to exist except for Aleah, the photograph, and me. Her words, though, were clear; her voice was filled with wonder and amazement and what she said brought back the feeling I once felt, long ago.
“I lost that picture when I was twelve.”
The third most dreadful thing is getting to the corner of the street in the peak of winter, or with minutes to go before a meeting, and my bus flies past, its backlights winking at me in menace.
The second most dreadful thing is running 60 metres towards the bustop, feeling the tickle of sweat down my sides, and watching my bus depart, the people inside ill-concerned about my heaving.
The most dreadful thing is doing the above, mistiming the bus, when standing next to me for the next 20 minutes, waiting with me, is someone or some people I am intentionally running from.
***
I squeezed my mother’s shoulders against mine, told her I had an early start at work the next day and turned swiftly hoping the wind in my hair would inspire her to think I was somewhat beautiful. I spotted the 171 to Camberwell and picked up my knees as I learnt to do in secondary school track and field. Again I imagined my mother admiring my form and gracefulness.
But the 171 bus took off just as I closed my palm to knock on the sliding doors.
‘I could have told you you wouldn’t make it,’ my mother appears behind me a second later, with a smile cutting into the right side of her face, letting out threatening poufs of laughter from her vibrating chest.
‘Oh for goodness sake mother, I was very bloody close. If you hadn’t ordered that desert…’
‘You mean the one you refused to pay for?’
‘Yes the one you chose because it was the most expensive, along with the appetisers, and barely-pronounceable main course. I don’t know what you think I do to make enough money to feed the queen you think you are,’ I said, searching the map at the bus stop for any quicker alternatives.
‘That’s right, you are a bank teller. My uncle was a bank teller, back in the days when…’
‘You told me, when it was a respectable job. When it paid enough for him to put turkey and lamb on the dinner table for his nine children. Spare me mother.’ I looked at my watch. Only five minutes had passed.
‘You are still so stubborn,’ said my mother. The rest of her words I didn’t hear as I jumped on the next bus. It took me far from home, but I was desperate to escape. I watched my mother’s face as the bus pulled off, one of her eyes full of intensity, the other of pity. I let the wave of disapproval hit the bus window and fall to the road, not feeling it in the slightest.
***
After using the last drop of brainpower to interpret mimes, that were highly obscure, I was walking toward the bus stop with my friend and her boyfriend to catch the 436. I didn’t mention that it was a massive waste of my time and that an ache had settled around the peak of my scull, intensifying with every silently moving white glove. Her boyfriend however, wasn’t afraid to give his opinion of my friend’s acting.
‘I just think you should reconsider what you want to spend your free time doing,’ he said, poking a smile at her, asking for a giggle.
‘You’re such an ass. With a small brain that can’t fathom anything more complex than packet noodles.’ She slid her arm around my elbow and walked ahead with me, assuming I was on her side.
‘Babe, calm down, I’m just saying it isn’t your forte.’ He tried to pull us apart by hooking his arm around her neck and leaning in to kiss her. But she kicked him in his shin and held me tighter.
‘Who are you to say what my forte is? I had to pull teeth to get you to come see me, and the one time you do you crap all over my efforts!’ She mimed to him, making a fist and swinging it, with her elbow bent, back and forth toward her rear end.
‘Again, I have no clue what you are doing. Give it up.’
She sniffled, a tear ran down her cheek and she began to shake. I went to say something consoling to her when I noticed the 436 sped past. I released myself from her grip and ran toward the bus, briefly putting my hand to my ear, my small finger pointed down and my thumb up. They both knew it meant I would call her later. I heard him make a snide comparison between hers and my miming skills.
Their screaming got even louder as they approached the bus stop, which I was still at, after missing the bus by a second. They didn’t stop arguing for the next 20 minutes. My headache escalated to the point where their words became gibberish.
***
I was at the bus stop again after a long day of running errands. All I wished was to blink and be warm in my bed. For once I got to the bus stop before the bus arrived.
‘Hey, do you remember me?’ A voice from behind startled me.
I turned around to see a man who had come to the bank many months before to open a joint account. I recognise him from the way he focused his eyes on mine, moving from one to the other so that he spent equal amounts of time on both of my eyes. His hair was a richer brown, and chap-stick fresh on his pink lips. He never came back to complete the application for the account.
‘If you were wondering, I no longer needed the account. My fiancé and I broke up.’
I felt to squeal, but forced a frown instead.
‘Anyway, how are you?’ He moved closer.
Our conversation evolved, and flowed. He laughed at my jokes, and touched my arm many a time. He commented on the ‘sincerity of my smile’ and my ‘gorgeous eyes’. I blushed, but kept myself from floating in glee.
We were talking about our common love of surprising reduced-price supermarket finds when I saw my bus pull up. I thought for a second about jumping on, but looked back into his eyes before he could recognise that it was my bus that I was intentionally missing.
The third most wonderful thing is the characteristic of life that makes you repeatedly do things you dislike.
The second most wonderful thing is to experience something pleasantly surprising exactly where you expect the most dreadful thing to occur.
The most wonderful thing of all, was meeting the love of my life, who would become my husband, at the bus stop.
Apologies, the Title is ‘Dreadfully Wonderful’.
Thank you Joe Bunting. I am enjoying reading all of the entries!
You’re quite welcome, Bianca! Thank YOU for participating 🙂
That was really good. I like how the scenes all revolve around the bus stop and the way the story comes around, full-circle, at the end.
That was so creative. A love hate relationship that ends well is satisfying!
Love the visual … “It’s backlights winking at me in menace”
True story?
No 🙂 It is all fiction.
Love Stronger Than Death
Jakes mind swirled with anxiety and regret. As he lay in the fresh dew of the morning, surrounded by light and warmth, his thoughts were only of the previous nights events and of his wife Amy and daughter Francine.
The warning came across the radio on Thursday during lunch. Jake had arrived back from the neighbors farm just minutes earlier to see that Amy was preparing lunch. She had her hair tied tight in a bun and wore a polka-dot apron over her pale green sun dress that paralleled her deep brown eyes perfectly. Jake, though always attracted to his wife, especially liked when she wore her hair up. Walking quietly across the kitchen floor he took Amy in his arms and kissed the back of her neck.
“Jake you’ll make me spill the salad dressing everywhere” Amy said with a giggle.
“Now go wash up and take a seat at the table.”
Francine came rushing in wearing the most adorable princess outfit complete with tiara and scepter.
In that moment Jake’s heart leapt, his love for these two girls was so immense and he knew that even death would never tear the bond they had. Amy was sworn to him in marriage, a vow they kept very seriously and did all they could to keep from wandering. Jake and Amy wanted the best for each other and their practices made possible a level of communication and intimacy they both valued deeply. Francine was the benefit of this love, just a few days over 6 years old she had her mothers looks and her fathers ability to make Amy laugh. One thing people knew about the Woodley’s, they loved each other fiercely.
As Jake returned to sit at the table the song on the radio was interrupted by the mayor’s voice and instantly Jake knew this would mean something troubling.
“Hello residents of Maple Springs, this is Mayor Tom Archibald. We have received notice today that the wildfire that has been progressing forward over the last 5 days has shifted direction this morning and is now headed east towards our village. It is with great sadness that I come to you today and ask each of you to pack anything you value and leave the village by no later then tomorrow. The fire is expected to reach the edge of town on Saturday, please make all possible attempts to leave as soon as possible. Thank you and God speed.”
Francine spoke first. “Do we have to leave daddy, will the fire come for our house too?”
Jake froze unable to make a decision. “I’m not sure Amy, mommy and I will talk about it and see what the best decision is.”
When lunch was over Francine ran off to continue her castle tea party. Amy and Jake remained at the table to discuss the plan.
“Amy I think we may be safe in staying. The fire trail with the wind direction will bring it down the northern town limit, about five miles away from our property. We could wait until the last minute and head south west, just pack up what we need to and drive away if the wind shifts on Saturday.”
“If you think that is wise Jake I will stay by your side, but you have to promise that we will leave at the first sign of danger.
“We will Amy, why don’t you go and pack up some clothes for you and Francine. I’ll go make sure the truck has enough gas to make it to the next state and load up some water and canned food into the cargo boxes.”
As Amy made her way to the bedrooms Jake went to the office and checked the reports on the fire, his conclusions were correct at this point, the fire would miss their property by a few miles and with a natural fire break on all sides of the farm he had no concern of it jumping to his house from nearby trees.
That night they all slept in deep rest, but Jake was troubled by the mayors words, he couldn’t help but think about the need to leave. Just after midnight he went back to the office and turned on the computer. A new report was available and Jake was shaken by it. Wind speed had picked up and shifted to the south, the fire was now approaching in a direction that would take out all the businesses in town and over eighty percent of the homes. Maple Springs would be destroyed, yet his property was still looking to be safe.
Jake sat at the bedside for a moment and starred at Amy. His skin shivered and quickly filled with goose bumps. The love he had for her was so deep, it had transformed him from a tough young man who dreamed of living on the land to who he was now, husband and father, a man who would give his life for his girls. And with that thought he lay down and fell asleep.
When morning came the road outside was already filled with families leaving town. The Johnston’s drove past but slammed on the breaks at the last minute. Noticing Jake and Amy had not packed the truck they rushed to the front door.
“Jake you better get moving, the wind shifted again. Fire’s gonna be here by noon, coming right up this road now.” Frank got Jakes attention quickly with those words and then was back in his van driving up the road.
Checking the reports again Jake knew he had a few hours to spare so he meticulously packed all they would need and made sure that Amy and Francine were packed as well.
11:53 and they were headed for the highway.
Jake looked over and Amy appeared peaceful. “Love you baby” he remarked. She returned a smile and wink, her way of saying I love you too.
As Jake turned onto the highway he saw the smoke in the distance, maybe nine miles ahead and was filled with fear. Going back through town to head south would run them into the fire, he could only drive North and hope the fire break along the highway held. As they approached the line he could feel the heat of the flames but the break was holding for now.
Two miles later however, Jakes world came crashing down.
Fire had swept across the highway, looking back he knew they were trapped. The only hope was to head for the lake and wait it out in the water. Four hundreds meters to the west they found safety.
Into the water as the fire approached they waited out the night, but something was wrong with Jake. He held Francine all night as she slept and the fire passed by, comforting Amy in every moment. As they emerged in the morning and headed to the field Jake collapsed. He had stepped on a rusty nail in the water and stood on it all night. The toxins entered his blood stream and he was quickly overcome.
“How could I be so ignorant?” Jake thought as he trembled.
Laying in the fresh dew beside him Amy and Francine had survived, Jake had been ignorant. As he breathed his last Amy held him tight and Francine cried for her daddy while laying on his chest.
I love you they both cried out. Jake smiled, winked then fell away, forever wrapped in their love.
Nice narrative!
Quick death …
Thank you! And yes I wanted the story line to wrap up neatly with an ending that was believable but yet a stretch to the possibility.
I was wondering if one really could die from a rusty nail that quickly. You made me think.
Depends on the background of the individual. Health concerns are always a factor in simple injuries and a nail, when unmoved from a foot, could cause significant bleeding, blood poisoning and a few other issues. 16 hours (just past noon on the Saturday to Sunday morning) can prove to be a long time to stand on a nail.
“Wait. Be patient. It will happen when you’re mended and aren’t looking.” Yin whispered.
She sighed at herself and took the first sip of her beloved morning coffee, relishing the warmth and swallowing the bitterness. She could almost feel her heart beating out the mantra: wait. wait. Wait. There was something off kilter about the tone. A little hiccup in the rhythm that reminder her that her soul self wasn’t quite healed.
“Damn. It has been a year.” she cursed to the emptiness of the living room at large.
And then with self-mocking dryness, “Fuck you Peter O’Connor.”
The words were uttered to break the spell of the moment. A cathartic release of aggression without anger. The next words clipped out as wrote as the last.
“Why do you have to be so fucking amazing?”
Her fuzzy feet padded off to the bedroom to get dressed and make something better of her day. Regretfully yanking off her comfortable sweats she decided on pick-me-up scanty black and built the rest of her ensemble over what no one else would see.
“You are strong and capable. You don’t need anyone else.” coached Yang.
“Leave yourself open to new love.” Yin said softly couching her kicker of “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to snuggle with?”
Sometimes she would listen to one, sometimes the other. If only it were as simple as the black and white depicted, the small dots opening up to words from either positive or negative. But no, just like the symbol, they blended and melded, each containing part of the other yet having their distinct qualities. Neither voice was ever wholly right or wrong and thus the epic battle of jabs, counterpoints, digressions, encouragement, chastisements and bickering continued in her head ad nauseum.
A sigh escaped again and she decided that today she needed the bustle of the coffeeshop to distract her from the internal one-act. The only change this required to her daily uniform of jeans-T-hoodie was actual shoes and she chose new vibrams over well-worn TOMS.
“You might want to just check yourself in a mirror,” said Yin.
“Right,” she said.
She was pleased to note that she didn’t have anything in her teeth or stuck to her face so she could have skipped the check. Red hair fell loosely down around her shoulders and she fingered the elastic on her wrist but decided she would at least walk out the door with it down. This met with Yin’s approval. Her eyes danced around her face for a few seconds and then she turned from the mirror.
The left corner of her mouth cinched up a notch in response to Yang’s reminder of a long ago compliment bestowed by a friend, “I just think you are so brave to go out without wearing makeup.”
“Yeup. Brave girl. That’s me,” she said aloud trying to drown the ritualistic retort from Yin.
“Pshaw, brave. You’re lazy. You should really slap on some eyeliner–”
She snapped the door closed on the thought and double checked that it was locked before jogging down the front steps.
“I’ve got a large red-eye for Cory,” called the barista.
“Thank you Tracy” she replied, deeply inhaling the tangy espresso aroma through white plastic on the way to the back corner.
Sitting down at her computer with liquid fuel and best intentions for getting some real work done she faced her daily conundrum: to launch instant messenger or not.
“Yes,” said Yang, “you’re not afraid. You’re so over it.”
“No,” said Yin, “Protect yourself. You need to heal so you can really move on.”
Mouse finger hovered over the speech icon until her thumb finally dropped. With a little click she was open.
Earbuds in place and emails falling victim to her efficiency and ruthless determination to get to zero, she was just getting amped by the “Star Wars” theme when she heard the little pop that she most wanted and most greatly feared.
“Hey Sparks”
She knew what it would say before she clicked over. She counted to 10 and hated the hiccup she felt in every beat.
“Breathe,” said Yin.
Pushing out the air with a woosh she didn’t know she had in her, she typed out the “‘Zup Doc?” he was expecting.
She hesitated and took a sip of coffee, attempting to appease Yin with the little bone of delayed gratification but knowing that it didn’t matter much and the warnings and reproofs were just picking ups steam.
“Excuse me but are you using that outlet?”
“Huh?”
She looked up, absently pulling one headphone from her ear. “Oh” was uttered in three-part harmony.
“I said ‘are you using that outlet?’ My battery is just about dead… And I…”
Silence. Oh blissful not thinking silence as she just watched the words play out of his mouth.
“Sorry I didn’t mean to bother you…” his voice trailed off under her intensely vacant gaze.
“Say something witty and cute! Smile.” Yin said.
“Dude, play it cool,” Yang cooed.
“Damn” she said.
He looked at her and cocked his head slightly. “It’s not a big deal. I can–”
“No! Sorry. My mind was just…elsewhere completely. Please, take the outlet. Is your cord…?”
“Here, yeah. You sure?”
“Totally. Um, do you need a place to sit though?”
“Oh, right, yeah that too. I promise to not disturb you any more,” he said with a smile and ever so slight mocking tone. Yin found it endearing and Yang was mum — the perfect wingman.
“Oh sure you’ll completely interrupt John Williams but then you’ll be quiet.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise and his gaze shifted to her screen briefly.
“Pandora?” he asked.
“No,” she said smirking, “I’m Cory.”
With a grin that crinkled crowsfeet he said “I’m Spotify.”
She laughed.
“Yes,” said Yin.
“Yes,” said Yang.
“A pleasure. So do your friends call you spot?” she asked. It was his turn to laugh lightly, a sound she resolved to coax some more. As he sat and launched into a diatribe about how Kindergarden was so boring because every book was about himself, she nudged her screen out of her sightline.
His promise to not disturb was long forgotten over minutes and hours of wordplay. She had little silence to hear anyone, anything, any voice but his. When he went to get refills she realized with a blush that her cheeks hurt. Her muscles were out of practice at wearing a grin for so long.
“Get it girl.” said Yang.
“What about…” said Yin.
She reached over and hit a decided Command-Q then turned the screen completely towards the wall. She stared at the dim apple and let Yin and Yang bicker about whether she was ok, healed, wise, stupid, delusional or not until he set a cup in front of her with a flourish.
She sighed.
“Everything ok?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her gaze refocusing to skip over her laptop back to the blissful, quiet refuge of his eyes, “I just love coffee.”
I love this. I actually picture Yin and Yang, although I know they don’t really have forms. You make them alive.
Thank you, Marianne. I’m glad I wasn’t the only one to see them!
Your portrayal of Yin and Yang is well done, and made for an interesting story.
It had been hard to live after Heather left, although Heath was glad she was gone. He hated seeing her things in places that were now empty, like her red plastic alarm clock on the beside table, her clothes draped over the blue chair that stood beside the table, her bevy of hats and scarfs on the hatstand, and her books on the coffee table, books that were often hidden beneath napkins and coffee cups and plates holding toast crusts. He hated looking at his clean house. Clean was good, Heather was bad. He needed to remember that.
He met a girl on the web. She would be the one for him, not messy, not lazy, not constantly tardy, he thought, as he made reservations at the best seafood restaurant in Norfolk. He hoped she wouldn’t laugh too loudly although they hadn’t asked about how loudly one laughed on the questionnaire for the dating website. He wasn’t a stickler, but he liked some sort of order for goodness sake.
He dressed for his date with Isabelle thinking of her picture, round blue eyes, a white blouse, pearls; and the thought of her achievements an MBA from UVA and Vice President of the Norfolk Junior League. She couldn’t possibly laugh too loud. Maybe because he was thinking of laughs, Heather butted in, again, with her dark straight brows, and even darker angry eyes. He closed to door behind him on his way out and locked it, shutting the smell of Heather’s potpourri that still lingered in the house in with her memory.
The restaurant was on the beach with a view of the bay which was deserted except for a few noisy gulls that screamed and dove at the cold surf, but rarely seemed to grab a fish. Heath and Isabelle were dining early so there were few people in the restaurant making it easy to spot Isabelle when she came in. She stood by the host’s podium which was unoccupied waiting to be seated.
Heather wouldn’t have waited for the host, thought Heath. She would have just walked over to the table and sat down, and maybe ever grabbed a menu from the podium while passing. The host finally appeared and showed Isabelle to the table.
Isabelle was elegant, she sat straight with her hands in her lap, her eyes on Heath’s face. Isabelle was smart, she ordered in French, and had read the most recent issues of “The Atlantic”. Isabelle was interested in things that Heath liked, she could taste the currents in the Pinot Noir, and she understood why the Yankees were having problems. But while his mind was tallying up Isabelle’s pluses, he kept thinking that Heather talked more, and was easier to talk to. Heather had always been easy to talk to. Heather would have laughed at the gulls reeling in the wind and diving for fishes, with the delighted laugh of a child. He pointed the soaring birds out to Isabelle.
“Gulls,” she said. “They are so messy.”
After dinner Isabelle agreed to go dancing, and Heath felt that things were going well. They went to Sergio’s down by the coal peers to listen to a blues band or two. It was crowded with people eating, drinking, and dancing. It had that feeling of a celebration, a sweaty lump of humanity having a good time.
“I think we’re a little overdressed,” said Isabelle.
“It’s okay, nobody pays any attention to that here,” said Heath.
“You’ve been here before?” said Isabelle over the first few notes from the tenor sax.
“Sure, I wouldn’t take you to a place if I hadn’t checked it out first,” said Heath and he held a chair for her at the last available table.
As it turned out Isabelle wasn’t much for dancing in a crowd or for drinking beer, which was all Sergio’s sold, so they decided to call it a day, and do something later in the week.
“Something quiet maybe,” said Isabelle.
‘This is how it should go,’ Heath thought.
In the parking lot, which was paved with crushed oyster shells, Heath saw a girl in blue jeans, an oversized sweater, an a huge scarf. Was she smoking a pipe? ‘Gross!’ thought Heath and he imagined a Heather kiss flavored with smoking tobacco. His car was in that direction, so they couldn’t avoid passing the girl with the pipe who was looking more and more like Heather. As they walked closer, Heath got the horrible feeling that Heather would be mad and hurt if she saw him with Isabelle, even though Heather had left him without even giving him a chance to “loosen up” like he needed to do in her opinion. He was walking right into Heather’s angry, hurt glare and he couldn’t do anything about it. She turned directly toward him. Not Heather, it wasn’t her.
Heath’s heart calmed to a normal beat as he took Isabelle home, kissed her goodnight, and headed for his own empty house. He didn’t turn on the lights but went right to bed. He felt like sleeping forever. He immediately fell asleep, and who showed up but Heather again.
She was sitting in the blue chair just other side of the nightstand. She was bending toward him, and what was she saying? Was it something about being sorry, about wanting to try again. Did she say she would try not to be messy?
He opened his eyes. She was still there, talking.
“I think I might be in love with you Heath, maybe. I’m not really sure, but I think so. Don’t you think we should stay together a little while longer?”
He sat up rubbed his eye, and looked at her again.
“Yes,” he said.
She came to the bed and as they embraced he smelled the distinct odor of smoking tobacco. He paused.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want me to move back in?” she said, and she looked at him with a birdlike tilt to her head, with eyes so dark that you couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris began.
“Yes, I do want you to, yes,” he said.
You did a great job with the love story “format”, too! I like how you showed us why they were apart through your characterizations. And the Heath-Heather connection is a nice touch. I’m rooting for them to make it work.
Thanks Steph.
Great story Marianne. We all seem to think we need our lovers to be clones of ourselves, but in reality opposite attraction makes life much more interesting.
I think maybe people are opposites in many ways at the beginning but meld somehow as they mature, some differences remain, but when you live with someone long enough either you cope with and learn from the differences or you split up.
You had me with “Clean was good, Heather was bad.” Your curmudgeonly tone is great for Heath and I too was rooting for him and Heather at the end. Nicely done.
His lust-filled eyes followed her across the room. After all these years, she could still get his motor running. It didn’t matter that she’d put on a few pounds, or that her hair had started to gray; when his wife walked into the bedroom wearing only her wedding band, he still responded the same way he did on their wedding night. All systems go.
He gazed as the morning sunlight peeked through the bedroom window revealing her one remaining breast and the neighboring scar that had been there since her battle with breast cancer. He chuckled as he thought how it looked as if her naked body was winking at him.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, revealing her insecurity.
“I was just gazing at your beauty, dear. It makes me laugh with delight,” he said quickly.
“Oh, shut up and put your clothes back on. We don’t have time for that. You promised me we’d go shopping for new shoes. And you also promised not to complain about it.”
“You’re right. It’s my Valentine’s present to you, a day of grumpy-free shopping. We’ll save the love making for later,” he said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes at him. “You men have a one track mind.”
“Yes we do, and you know you love it,” he said, grabbing her before she could get her blouse buttoned. He reached his hands inside her blouse and gave her a big hug.
“Stop it, your hands are cold!” she scolded, trying to get a way.
“You know you love it,” he teased and kept his embrace. She finally relented and hugged him back. Their eyes fixated on one another for a few seconds, then she started to turn away. He reached up and lovingly turned her head back towards his.
“We’re gonna be late,” she reminded him.
“Late for what? Shoes?”
“It’s a four hour sale this morning only.”
“Shoe sale be damned! I’ll pay the extra five dollars just to get to make love to you right now,” he bargained, only halfway joking.
“Oh, be serious,” she said with a grin.
“I love you, honey,” he said.
“Love you too, honey, now let’s go.”
The two of them finished getting ready and headed out to the mall. They drove in silence most of the way; not because they had nothing to say to one another, but because they didn’t need to say anything at the moment. They were both content just being with one another.
As they turned right onto the highway, they noticed the fire trucks at the Motel 6. An overnight fire had destroyed the place.
“Oh, look at that,” she exclaimed. “I hope nobody was hurt.”
He said nothing. She watched the firemen pulling hoses and cleaning up from the fire. News vans lined the side of the road. When they finally got passed the scene, she turned back towards him and noticed tears running down his cheeks. She started to ask him what was wrong, but then it came to her. She turned and faced forward without saying a word. It wasn’t until he parked the car at the mall that either one of them spoke.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. Actually I’m more than okay,” he answered. “I’ve been praying for ten years for that place to burn to the ground.”
“You have? I thought you were over it.”
“I was, but I have to admit that every time I drove past that motel, it brought back such awful memories. I had prayed that God would either burn it down or destroy it with a tornado. I guess he answered my prayer. So how are you?”
She looked away because she didn’t want him to see her crying. “I’m okay too. I certainly hope no one got hurt in the fire, but I’m glad to see the place destroyed as well. It represented a painful time in our marriage.”
The two of them sat in silence in the car. The windows began to fog over from their breathing. He reached up and wiped the windshield with the arm of his jacket. She reached over and grabbed his arm and held his hand up to her chest.
“I’m sorry about the affair,” she said.
“I am too, honey.”
“Thanks for forgiving me.”
“Thanks for forgiving me as well. We were both at fault. But I’m grateful that we stuck it out and saved our marriage.”
“Me too,” she said. She reached up and kissed his wet cheek. He put his arms around her and kissed her with more passion than he knew existed after 31 years of marriage. The drizzle turned to snow, but they didn’t know it.
Oh that’s sweet!! I’m glad they stayed together.
It’s good that their wish had been granted and the evidence of one mistake that could ruin their marriage was destroyed. I am also glad they stayed together.
This was so much fun I wrote a second entry!
A Hidden Love
1247 words
Stella’s grandmother had passed away last week after a sudden heart attack. She had died on the one year anniversary of Grandpa’s death, unwilling to live without him any longer. Stella had agreed to help her mother sort through the remnants of her grandparent’s sixty eight year marriage. She had come alone today, wanting to say one last goodbye while the house was undisturbed.
Honoring the stillness of the house Stella softly climbed the old wooden staircase to the master bedroom. Touching the jewelry and odds and ends on the dressing table, thumbing through the worn Bible, enjoying the smell of Windsong and baby powder that lingered in the air made her grandma’s absence seem unreal. In the top drawer of the bedside table she found an intriguing key. It was old fashioned and covered in a rich patina. What did it belong to? Rolling it over in her fingers she slipped it into her pocket, maybe she would find it’s counterpart.
She moved on through the house and found herself outside the spare bedroom. Her hand paused, hesitating just a moment, on the heavy brass door nob. As she silently swung the door open the smell of warm cedar and lavender sachets met her nose, bringing back childhood memories. Dust glittered, dancing in the air across a stream of sunlight. How many nights had she spent counting the tiny bouquets of pink wallpaper roses before she fell asleep?
The spare room’s closet beckoned, all sorts of treasures she’d loved to play with as a girl lay hidden there. Tenderly Stella opened the door and flipped the switch to illuminate the dark corners of the small space. Stepping inside she could smell the layer of dust that covered everything.
With a sentimental smile her fingertips brushed the lace of her grandmothers tiny wedding dress. Even if Stella had wanted to use it she couldn’t, at 5 foot 6 she stood half a foot taller than her diminutive grandmother had. Remembering the contrast of her grandparent’s stature she chuckled under her breath. People had always noted their sizes, her grandfather’s 6 foot 3 frame had dwarfed his wife’s much smaller one. Grandma had said she was 5 feet, but Stella doubted it.
Looking up at the assortment of boxes on a shelf above the dress her eye fell on an old mahogany chest, about the size of a shoe box, closed with a lock. Her heart jumped, maybe the key would fit. She slipped the key from her pocket and into the key hole. A sharp click answered her question. Lifting the box to the floor, she sat cross legged before it.
Inside was an assortment of papers, mostly old letters but also the occasional handbill or invitation. With a delicious shiver of mystery, Stella lifted the first of the letters out. Should she read them, they were her grandmother’s private papers and had been locked away? Curiosity got the better of her and Stella pushed the doubt aside as she unfolded the yellowed paper.
The letter was written in her grandmother’s familiar hand and signed with her nickname, May, short for Margaret. Dated November,1942, Stella quickly calculated, it would have been two months after her grandma’s wedding, making her a girl of just 19. She turned her eyes back to the fine script, “My darling Edward…” Edward, grandpa’s name was John! Who was this darling Edward?
With her heart racing, Stella quickly read her grandmother’s words; a swirl of jumbled emotions chased across the page. She finished reading and quickly snatched up another and then another letter, reading words penned by a girl she’d never met but who had turned into the grown up woman she’d always loved. Tears blurred her vision as she read the anguish and longing. Mixed throughout her grandmother’s letters were Edward’s responses. After reading a handful of the correspondence she had pieced the story together.
May and Edward were high school sweethearts. After graduation Edward had joined the navy, but the couple planned to marry the next year, following May’s graduation. Before they could carry out their plans the unthinkable happened. Pearl Harbor was bombed and Edward was listed among the killed. May grieved along with many of the nations other heartbroken women. She also went to work and set her jaw bravely toward the future.
John had been part of the couple’s circle of friends; a farm boy, sweet and steady, he provided stability and comfort for May. Within several months the couple was married. John was unable to join the military due to deafness in his left ear caused by a childhood infection. Shockingly six weeks after their wedding May learned Edward was still alive. A serious head injury, the confusion of war, and a mix up in paperwork had kept Edward lost all that time.
Tortured by the discovery and her situation, May had written Edward, begging him to tell her what to do. Not wanting to hurt John but in love with Edward she left the decision to him. It was an impossible situation. They wrote for several weeks and apparently even met once. In the end Edward wrote, “I must be a man true to my conviction, or I’m no man at all. How could I honor a woman not rightfully mine and be true to vows I’m not free to make. I’ll love you best by loving you not at all. You are no longer mine to love, though it rips the very heart out of my chest to say so.”
There were only a few more letters, spaced months and even a couple of years apart. The last letter was written by May, four years after she had first written to Edward. It was clear she had come to terms with her life and was finally letting go. In it she requested all of her letters be returned. She closed saying, “A heart never forgets the first bloom of love, opening adoringly to the sun, and I shall never forget you. But love is funny and I’ve learned there are many kinds. I’m contented, my life is full and satisfied. I release you, and know you release me as well, with good will and a heart full of prayer for a happy life.”
Edward had obviously sent her the letters. Perhaps, even though she had said goodbye, the memory was too precious to completely destroy, and so they had been tucked away. In the bottom of the box was a picture of May and Edward standing on her front porch. Her dark head rested on his shoulder; she beamed a smile that enveloped her entire face. Edward’s golden hair shone and his broad shoulders filled out his dress uniform. He was handsome and his fresh face looked proud.
Stella leaned her head back against the closet wall and let out a heavy sigh. The secret she had discovered was sad but it wasn’t heavy and dark, it painted the memory of her grandparent’s love with beauty. She had seen the way her grandparent’s looked at each other, with a twinkle of affection. She remembered the hundreds of little ways she had observed her grandma express her love. Words spoken by her grandma the week her grandfather died floated to her mind, “I loved that man Stella, he won my heart and paid for it in tenderness. No woman has ever had a better husband, he was a gift I didn’t deserve.”
This story makes me want to cry. I think the hardest thing one could do would be letting go of someone they loved, willingly. But by the mercy of God we can love in more than one way, and love more then one person. My midwife told me once that love does not divide, it multiplies.
My Mom used to say the same thing Casey, that love multiplies, and I think it’s true. I also think it’s true that love grows, changes and is redefined. I feel that sacrificial love is the best kind. Really it’s the true definition of love, my life for yours. Thanks for reading and commenting! (By the way, I’m glad it made you want to cry, I’ve always said I’d rather make people cry than laugh when I write!)
Well, you succeeded in producing tears from me. That was a beautiful, heartfelt story. I agree with Marianne – it should be a novel.
Thank you for your kind words! I’m working on a novel called “Sisters” at the moment. I actually wondered if I could adapt the story and fit it into the back story of one of the characters!
What a touching story. For some reason the character that I’m drawn to is John who isn’t major but who I feel is saddest because he is second fiddle. I think this could be a novel.
Thanks Marianne! I thought about developing John more but I wanted his silent strength to speak for itself. While certainly the underdog, he was confident in his love of May, which gently won her over, and in the long run it’s his love she treasures.
I thought about writing more of the story, I wanted to find out more about them and that always comes for me as I write!
It is a beautiful story. I hope that Edward could love again and be happy as May had been with her husband. Life can seem unfair sometimes but in the end we have to learn to love what we have got. But it is always so tough to let go of what we thought to be the most important thing in life.
Thank you Lena. As I wrote I wondered about Edward myself , had he found love again? I decided to leave it a mystery. I also wanted to convey the way we change, as does our expression, experience and value of love. Life is messy and never fair but inside of that great moments of honor and joy are possible! Thanks for commenting on my story!
The Key!
Fantastic!
Thank you! I thought later I should have called the story They Key to Love!
What a beautiful story!
Thank you Angelo!
What a lovely, sweet story. Thanks for sharing another entry.
Thank you. Actually I would have shared a third if I’d had time, I had so many ideas!
“On Behalf of Love” by Tara Boyce.
I “fell” in love for the first time in eighth grade. I fell for a blond-haired blue-eyed boy who was seven months younger than me, which embarrassed me a little, I am now ashamed to admit.
Every day, after Mark and I said goodbye to each other after P.E, I’d return home to my lonely room, turn on my CD player and listen to Beach Boys’ “Don’t Worry Baby” over and over again, staring at my purple ceiling.
On the last day of the school year, I walked Mark out to his bus. He had just signed my yearbook, which had made me laugh and love him even more because he wrote, “Your future’s so bright, I’ve gotta wear shades.” I laughed all the way to the bus, although I knew this would be the last time we would see each other for a long time. (But perhaps, in moments like these, all you want to see is the sun shining in the middle of the open sky, the bus still so many feet away, and the way you both shine together in the sun, listening to each other’s pauses.)
We took our time, letting others go on the bus before him until we could stall not longer. As he walked up the steps to the bus, my heart bounced wildly–hearts really do bounce and jump and wobble–and I cried out, “Wait! I have to tell you something.” He looked at me and I said, “I have to tell you something,” again, though I didn’t know what.
“A secret,” I said, then kissed his cheek. Then I ran away.
My legs, my lungs cheered as I ran because I had finally shown Mark Speck that even though I was older, even though I was Mormon and he was Catholic, even though I was going away to high school and he was staying behind, I still, I still was crazy about him! and there was no way I wasn’t gonna prove it.
–
Between two kids on the sidewalk by the bus; between hand-written letters or emails or phone calls; between steps on a hidden or seen path at night or in the daytime; between a husband and a wife of six or sixty months…or sixty years and counting: Love stories happen all the time around us, between us.
I am still learning more about love as I grow older–how it changes shape and color the older (yet newer) it gets. Kisses on the cheek are no longer a secret for me and I no longer feel the need to run away from them. (I married Ryan who taught me I didn’t want to.) I also no longer feel like puking when I’m “away” from love, though I still miss Ryan when he’s away. But I want him to come back and I know he will and I think that’s worth celebrating.
The more I watch and the more I love, I see and feel love as more than those big first moments–the first kiss on the cheek, the first date, the first proposal, and someday, the first child that you both (you both!) created together and isn’t it all extraordinary? Those moments are real and forever memorable; but I also see love in those small moments that happen not just once, in a first, but again and again, whether or not anyone is looking, whether or not we are looking to see who is loving us.
–
A few Sundays ago, I watched a bishop’s wife walk up to the pulpit and say that she had had a hard month, though she didn’t know why; she just had to come up, even if it meant leaving her three red heads wrestling in the bench. She said she loved her husband and that she didn’t know how he did all that he did, but that she loved him for it.
I saw the way her husband looked at her, as shy and quiet as he is, the way he looked up at her because he was sitting and she was standing and telling everyone that she loved him, even though they both knew she was telling him. (He had given all her children their red hair.) I saw the way his face flushed the color of his hair, not with embarrassment, but with what looked like a sort of desperation because how could he ever do any of it without her?
When she finished, her husband stood up, perhaps too quickly, to hug her before she walked past. He hugged her there for a long moment in front of all of us.
But that’s not the love story, this is: He would have meant it even if we weren’t watching.
–
It is Valentine’s Day and rumor has it, we celebrate this day because of an old Saint Valentine. They say he secretly performed marriages for young soldiers, who were unable to marry because marriage was outlawed. Some say that he sent the first “valentine” to the daughter of his jailer–because she would visit him in his prison cell. “From your Valentine,” he supposedly wrote her, right before he was sentenced to death.
The most romantic part: the girl visited him. Most likely over and over again.
The truth is we don’t know the real Saint Valentine, what he did or why we celebrate him or romance and with so many flowers and chocolates. But every year I find myself choosing to believe the rumors, not because I want to give or get presents or because I love any reason to celebrate. But because I believe in celebrating what we are each made of and what I believe we are each made for: each other.
I’m thinking again of the girl who visited Saint Valentine, perhaps early in the morning when he was feeling most alone. Perhaps he saw her not through rose-tinted glasses, but through iron bars, there, across the stone floor, kneeling and whispering that no matter what happened to him, God knew him, she knew him, and he was meant to be remembered and he would be.
And I am thinking now: Aren’t we all?
–
I had a dream about rain all over the back wooden porch of the first home I remember living in.
There were many of us there, although I only remember a few: my best friend MacKenzie, who I grew up with, and my two friends I met my freshman year in college, Juliana and Courtney. We were wearing my favorite colors—yellows, reds, oranges.
There were bright blue buckets all over the porch, all around us, filling up with rain. And when the buckets started to overflow, started to burst over, we all laughed, then got on our backs and opened our mouths to the sky.
We lay there on our backs for a long time, drinking and drinking, filling until we were full and then full again.
When I awoke, I leaned over in the dark and reached for my notebook (I didn’t want to wake Ryan). I wrote down what I could remember of that small moment of candescence, of what it felt like to lie there, face-up and open.
I rolled over and hugged Ryan, then rolled back onto my back. I stared at the black ceiling for a few minutes, thinking.
Not why, not when, but how: to ever-fill, to ever-be-filled, to ever-drink in, to ever-quench?
Only love can do that.
Made it just in time 🙂
Haha, I was a typing fury myself! I’m in central time so I kept watching the clock and calculating hoping all that writing wouldn’t be in vain! You really cut it close Taratuulikki!
Nice. I know. Time changes always make things interesting.
Wow, I just got shivers down my spine from reading that. Definitely a winner. So inspiring and hopeful. I needed to read that. 🙂
Congratulations Tara! It’s a good thing you made that deadline!
What a beautiful story… thank you for sharing this with us all. And congratulations!
I know I missed the deadline. Inspiration didn’t hit me until yesterday. So here it is anyway, for the practice and any feedback…
Mike sat on the edge of the cliff. He could feel the cold roughness of the granite beneath him. This was his favourite thinking place. Peaceful. A beautiful view across the wooded valley. The sun was just setting, painting the sky and clouds fiery colours. But his attention was not on the sunset today.
His eye was drawn to the jagged rocks far below, at the base of the cliff. He contemplated how it would only take one quick lunge forward and it would be over in seconds. No more pain. Not even from the impact. It would be so fast his brain would not register any pain. The easy way out. The selfish way. But that wouldn’t be fair to the kids. They had done nothing to deserve this.
How had it even started? Something trivial, as usual. Just an excuse to let out pent up emotions. They had been enjoying a nice family dinner. It had started small, dark clouds gathering, the storm building steadily. Finally, she threw her plate at him. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall. She stormed out. The bedroom door slammed.
Without saying a word, he got up and cleaned up the mess. He didn’t want the kids to cut themselves on the broken china. Didn’t want to see the pain on their faces. Then he left, wandering aimlessly, finally ending up here.
Dysfunctional. Borderline personality disorder. Transient psychotic episodes. Such clinical terms. So abstract. They gave no sense of the pain behind them, the lives ruined. He tried not to blame her. He knew her past, how terrible it had been. Could he have even survived it? Probably not.
It wasn’t just her, either. He knew he was emotionally distant. An automatic defence mechanism. He had survived his own childhood by shutting down his emotions, shutting people out, isolating himself.
He had thought originally that they could help each other, could put their pasts behind them and move forward. And at times it seemed they had. Their marriage wasn’t all bad. They had some good times together. But never completely happy. The undercurrent was always there, waiting for the chance to pull them under again. All it took was one misstep.
He couldn’t remember for sure how many times they had separated, had reached their limits of endurance. Was it three? Maybe four? It all seemed a blur. Each time, when they saw how it hurt the kids, they had reconciled. But there was more to it. He was afraid to leave the kids with her. She could never hurt them when she was rational, he knew. But he feared her dark moods, what she might be capable of at her worst. And who was he to talk of dark moods? He knew he didn’t have what it took to be a single father. And so he felt trapped, no way out of this marriage that was destroying all of them.
Did he even love her? He knew he had at one point. He could still recall the feelings. When their daughter had been born, and later their son. Each of their milestones. But it seemed like a another lifetime now. Or scenes from a movie. It felt unreal. Reality now was the frequent battles, punctuated only by uncomfortable pauses, knowing each was just the calm before the next storm.
What else was there to do? Once more unto the breach. He sighed, lifted himself up, and began walking home though the darkness. All he could feel was darkness.
I could hide behind the South African rime change, or something… but please consider a comment or two about…
Love in a Time of Measles, by Clint Archer.
I always wondered if there was a worse title for a love story than Márquez’s “Love in a Time of Cholera.” But now I get it.
Kids are a breeding ground for infectious disease. The playground is a veritable petri-dish of viruses, bacteria, and various other contagions. Sometimes when my children snuggle up with their lubricated upper lips to kiss me goodnight, I wish I was wearing one of those sealed helmets Dustin Hoffman wore in the movie Outbreak.
This Valentine’s Day my wife and spent a snotty, quarantined night at home with our infected offspring. Not exactly what Hallmark had in mind. We were both a bit put out by the anticlimax, sealed by cancelled reservations and a cowardly babysitter. But at least we had our health… sort of.
Though our three spotty, slimy littlies looked like they were auditioning for the role of a pizza topping, we were both unaffected by the plague. Immunity instills a flaming sense of invincibility. I can understand why people join the diplomatic corps.
Between intermittent vista to the bathroom with our viral wards in tow, my wife and I shared stories of our own childhood encounters with germ warfare. It occurred to us both that the reason we were now immune was due to the seemingly sadistic forethought of our mothers.
My imperviousness to measles of all stripes, chicken pox, mumps, and pretty much every other disease, came from an old-school type of inoculation: the “Please sneeze on my kid” exposure system.
When my mom heard that a child at school had been booked off for say, chicken pox she would urgently, and with some unmasked glee, schedule a play-date with patient zero.
Her theory was: Get all the sicknesses out of the way when you’re young, and then when your kids get it, you are healthy enough to look after them. It’s brilliant, in a macabre, sadistic kind of way.
But it was only this Valentine’s Day that the realization became lucid, like opening your eyes after the conjunctivitis has subsided. My mom got me sick because she loved me. It couldn’t possibly have been beneficial for her to have me whining like a delirious addict (I couldn’t recover gracefully from any malady). She was serving me and her future grandkids in an act of unpleasant altruism.
On this near miss at a romantic evening, my wife and I could enjoy the benefits of our parents love for us, and pay it forward to our own whiny clan. I guess Kleenex says as much about love as chocolate. I learned a little about love in the time of measles.
Hi Clint,
So sorry but the contest is now closed. I enjoyed your story though!
are you doing another contest this year?
Good question, Rita. We will, but I’m not sure when. Stay in touch!