She Knows

She knows she’s being watched.  He’s always there, feigning indifference while fully aware of every twitch her body makes. He stalks her.  He hunts her.  He waits until he’s allowed to kill her.

He’s thirty feet to her two o’clock, but looking would give him reason to act.  That’s the last thing she wants.  So she alternates between reading the book she picked up in the terminal and staring out the large panes of glass at luggage being unloaded from an airplane. She knows the best way to save herself is to appear like everything is normal.

To look normal, she stays on schedule.  The schedule that she keeps on her phone and computers has been hacked into.  She’s sure of it.  Even on the rare occasion she manages to slip her tail, he always shows back up again at her next scheduled location.

By nature, she is a planner; laying everything out in painstaking detail, entering it all into her computer’s calendar.  She can’t just run on a whim with no idea where to go, no money, and worst of all, no plan for this new future.

But, she will run.  She has to.  First, she makes plans, all in her head this time, how to successfully get away, survive or at least not die some horrible death only made worse by her obscenely active imagination.  An imagination that has made her successful in life, she's now sure will kill her before he gets the chance to.

“Flight 1183, San Francisco to Chicago now boarding First Class.  Please present your boarding pass to our attendant at the gate.”

It’s her flight. Sliding her book into her bag, she pulls out her boarding pass, rising from the black padded row of seats.  She casually strolls - counting breaths in her head to help keep her pace steady – making her way towards the gate.

He mirrors her, closing the gap to twenty feet.  She keeps her body angled so she can still see him in her peripheral vision.  Without her book or the planes to stare at, she feels naked.

Normal. Normal! Normally, I would be on my phone before boarding.  With that thought, she pulls her out phone, tapping in a quick text to her friend.

* About to board. Will call u after landing. C u soon! *

Times up.  Business Class is called and she has no choice now.  Walking across institutional charcoal carpet, she hands the attendant her boarding pass.  She inhales as deeply as she can without appearing to need it.  Exhaling, she turns her back, walking towards her plane where she will be trapped for the next four hours, 35,000 feet in the air…with him.

It's been a long time since I shared a piece of fiction here.  I've jumped in with a prompt from Write on Edge...of course.  We had 450 words to write a story that takes place in an airport terminal.  I'm at 450 on the nose with a fiction piece that's a little different for me.  Hope you enjoy it.

December 31st

Sitting at the only table left out – the rest had been cleared for the party - was the silver coifed woman.  Her wooden chair, at the corner table, faced the bar’s interior, including the front door.  Eyes wandering, they never failed to stop briefly at the glass door with each meandering sweep.

Singing out from speakers on either side of the stage was what young people today considered music, though she didn’t.  Tonight, she was glad her advancing years had taken half her hearing.  Only two more hours to wait; if he didn’t show, she’d be back again next New Year’s Eve.

All those years ago, when her raven hair tumbled from her head till it bounced upon her shoulders, her indigo eyes were clear, and her ears never missed a pin drop, they’d had a wickedly wild affair.  She had never known a love could be as intense as its lust, until him.

He was a trademark tall, dark, and handsome.  He was smooth, charming, and utterly lovely.  Filling their days with the excitement of parties, the quiet of arm in arm strolls around the park, and all the murmurings of long nights in bed.

And he couldn’t stay, he’d said.  He had to go; he couldn’t explain why.  He told her wanted out, but was in too deep.  Logic screamed at her that whatever he was into couldn’t be good.  Intuitively, she knew he wouldn’t bring harm to her.

Forty years had passed since they parted.  They agreed to meet again, if he could get out.  He promised her, if he could, he would meet her at this bar, on New Year’s Eve.  So, Betty came.  December 31^st of every year, for the last forty years; she came, sat, and waited.

Anticipation filled the first five years of waiting.  Her eyes would never leave the entrance.  She eventually met a man she could love; she even married him.  Loving her husband, building a life with him brought her metered joy as they grew older together.  But, she never stopped coming to wait for her soul mate.

Midnight rang with its usual clamor.  The excitement in the room, conversely matched her own disappointment.  Rising, she shuffled her way out, struggling to stay on her feet amidst the hugging and kissing and jumping and dancing from the partiers.  Her waiter found her; offering her his arm, he escorted her out.

On the street, the night’s excitement was still pinging through the air.  With a heavy sigh, the weight that nearly buries her the last days of each year dissipates into the chilled night air.  Looking back through the bar’s glass door one more time, she says good-bye.

Come this new year’s December 31^st though, the silver coifed woman will be waiting in the bar, at her table, hoping for her heart to come back home.

This week, Write on Edge pulled a prompt out of the Red Writing Hood vault from The Red Dress Club days.  We were to pick four random numbers, 1-10, which would give us our character, setting, time, and situation.

Looking for the first four numbers I saw in my twitter stream, I chose, 7, 3, 1, 7 for an elderly woman, a party, winter, and reminiscing how things change.

It's official.  My muse is still not with me.  I'm not giving in though and attempting to write it out without said muse.

Typically, I hear the stories and characters chattering away in my head and I write from there.  But, there's something about a new year that shuts down those voices and immerses me in color, shapes, and textures, taking creativity in a different, more visual and tactile direction.  I suppose the real challenge is finding a way to intersect these two paths.  I'll keep working on it!

Tweet

Red Writing Hood - Waiting

Sitting between a woman in a suit and a man in sweats, holding his lunch in a crinkly plastic bag, she waited to be called.  The head of sandy hair in front of her belonged to a man, tapping out a rhythm on his book.  Several people looked his way, but his rhythm never faltered.

One at a time our names were called.  After a few quick questions, answers that were never quite as quick, the Judge either told them to sit, stay, or go on their merry way.

Young woman, after young woman exited; they were all excused from serving.  Whispers circulated; Tapping Man slowed his beat when the Judge spoke up.

“They’re all college students, in the middle of their semesters.  This case is a capital offense and expected to last at least five months, which would delay their ability to graduate by an entire year, creating undue hardship.  So, ‘no’, I’m not just excusing pretty young women.”  Chuckling, he returned his eyes to his list and the next person on it.

Tapping Man’s rhythm picked right back up, but the beats shifted more erratically.  The process of waiting to find out if she has to serve seemed more tiresome than actual jury service.  If selected, would they call her yet again when another eighteen months pass?

Silence was suddenly startling; it was Tapping Man’s turn.  Three abrupt pounds to his book signaled he was asked to stay.  Sitting, his rhythm resumed fiercely.

The institutional room was still quite full.  Tapping Man’s drumming was so incessant, she began pairing notes to it in her head while she waited.  She always waited; not many people had last names that came after Zavattoni.

Waiting might as well be taken as a middle name.  She was waiting, always waiting; waiting to take her path, waiting for her family’s path drenched in tradition to take her, waiting.

Eyeing her wrist’s new tattoo, she heard Tapping Man’s staccato end to his beats.  The Judge had reached the ‘T’s and had as many people as the lawyers needed for this round of jury selection.  Abruptly, they were excused.

Reaching the door to leave, the clerk recognized her, “Computer sure does like you.  Guess we’ll see you in another eighteen months, huh?”

Adrianna returned the clerk’s impish smile.  But, she was done waiting.  Walking out the door, she was sure she would not be back.

My fiction muse has been on vacation, it would seem.  Not quite sure she's back, but like Adrianna, I don't want to wait anymore.  When I realized the last bit of fiction I shared was at the beginning of December, I decided to just write.  Maybe she'll see me waving flags filled with color - begging her to return! lol

In the meantime, I've jumped back in with Write on Edge's prompt this week to use music to inspire a character or move a storyline.  It didn't need to be any specific piece of music, so I ran with the beat of Tapping Man's drumming fingers here. Does it work?

Adrianna is part of a close friendship of four kindred spirits and this takes place in the week after Loose Spring.



Tweet

Color Wash

Tweet

Turning onto the main drag we look for a place to park without great success.  Cars accessorized with different states’ plates, packed full of travelers gear, line both sides of the narrow lane.  Just as we reach the street’s far west end, we find a small space to slide our car into.

We step up onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk, his hand opened wide, inviting my own.  Grabbing it, we walk the familiar path eastward.  The sky, donning its morning slate cardigan hovers above us.  Salted air skims our skin; I drag it in deeply, filling my lungs with its pleasantly peaceful scent.

Trinket, tchotchke, souvenir shops with windows filled wave for our attention, but our eyes dial in our target up the small incline.  One step in front of the other, stepping aside for groups walking back down – some returning to their cars, some to the bluffs, some to take their cooped up pup for a walk – like a folk dance, native to this small spec of a town.

Without a word exchanged, we step into the first of our routine stops.  Pretty jewelry, nice paintings, some woodwork we stop to examine and the fat cat that’s always in the back gets a chin scratch.

Cross the street, up the white stairs, local artists’ work and one to chat with as we find a perfectly personal present to tuck away.

A few doors down, canvases steal our breath – our eyes fooled, rather than paint we see strokes of light.  Jokes about the necessity of kids’ college funds routinely punctuate the visit.  And with one last look we return to the crumbling sidewalk.

Pausing for a seafood lunch with a view we can see now that the coastal sky has shed her morning cardigan.  We chat, we eat, we agree that nothing we’ve seen sparks us both, yet.  Paying the overpriced tourist trap bill we readily signed up for, we walk up a block off the main drag.  No sidewalks, just road.  There are a handful more stops to make to make the day’s gallery walk complete.

We leisurely stroll back to the car.  Not a painting in hand, but the hours’ zen color washed across us.  It’s a favorite hue, bookmarked for our annual visit.  Carrying it with us, one town north, we step into the next color waiting to paint our day, staining our memories…hopefully, permanently.

2012 has put The Creative back in the driver's seat - but, so far that has been via journaling; (different for me) scrapbooking; inking, painting, doodling in my art journal; trying new GFCF recipes; and lots of photo editing.

The Creative, however, had not joined me in the word pool until I found a little { Magic } in a Ronald Dahl quote, earlier this week.  So, I'm tickled pink to finally be responding to a Write on Edge prompt this year!

The prompt is to write a piece, fiction or creative non-fiction, 400 words or less, sparked by "Flavor."  Whether that be a taste, spice, or the quality or character found in something is up to us.

This began as a fictional piece, but it's so colored by memory it definitely falls into the creative non-fiction category.  Can you feel the flavor of the memory?

Red Writing Hood: The Doorbell Rang

The doorbell rang, barely audible above clanging pots in the kitchen, “Jingle Bell Rock” humming from the living room stereo, and the family’s chatter.  Nevertheless, Aunt Suz heard it chime and hurried to answer it.

Still wiping her hands on the Christmas red kitchen towel, she opened her front door.

“Craig!  Merry Chr…” Her voice dissipated when the look on her husband’s friend’s face reached her.  Dressed in uniform with another officer, he motioned for her to step outside.  The kitchen towel slid through her still damp hands, drifting to the ground.

“Suzanne.  Are your parents inside?”

“Of course, it’s Christmas.  Almost everyone is already here.”

Everyone was already at the house, everyone except Aunt Suz’s sister and her family – everyone except my parents and me.

“We need you to come with us.”

“I can’t leave.  I have a ham in the oven, potatoes on the stove…I…”

“Suz.  We need to go.  We need you to come.”

In a daze, Aunt Suz quietly passed off Christmas dinner instructions to her sister-in-law; slinging on her ivory wool coat, she slipped out door and into the night.

Watching out the window as the officers drove her to the hospital in the next town over, she jerked in the frigid air that refused to fill her lungs with anything but dread.  She dug her nails into the icy vinyl backseat of the patrol car, deeper with every mile traveled.

The other officer swung the car to the curb at the entrance and Craig helped her climb out of from back.  She focused on putting one foot in front of the other with her husband’s friend guiding her by the arm.  The Emergency Room’s automatic doors whirred open, catching the soft white reflection drift down, they looked back; it had begun to snow.

It's fiction day at  Write on Edge!  And I'm writing with a new story and characters today.  We were prompted to:  use the holiday season to inspire you to write a piece beginning with “The doorbell rang” and ending with “snow began to fall.”


Tweet

Road Trip: Aunt Julie & Sara

Leaving the Bay and San Francisco’s June Gloom behind us, Sara fussed with the rented Prius’ radio, before finding my favorite station that I was wise enough to preset.

“You’ve got good taste in music, kid.”

It didn’t seem to matter whether we listened to music from my youth or what’s current now, we enjoyed both. Thank goodness. Nothing kills a road trip faster than different tastes in music in the same small car.

“So, we’ve got our requisite tourist stops: Disneyland, Venice, and the Chinese Theater. Oh, and the beach. Anything else you want to make sure we hit this week?”

“The County Museum of Art?  And I know we’re doing Disney, but can we also spend a day at Universal Studios? I’ve never been.”

“Now that is why you are so much fun to hang with, Sara. A local art museum and a theme park. Gotta hand it to you for enjoying opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“Ah, Aunt Julie, you know I aim to please!”  Her sarcasm nearly lost stifling a snicker.

Though she technically was one now, she’d always been like a little adult.  I was happy to play the role of ‘cool aunt’, but Sara was more like a little sister to me. I wanted to protect her as much as I wanted to ride a roller coaster with her - our arms high in the air, screaming the whole way ‘round.

Florence + The Machine began pumping out music with the voice that could sing an insurance claim and still wrap notes around us. Our hands collided reaching out to crank the volume up as we sang along with Florence while the pavement rolled under us.

It's time for Write on Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt!  This week we're taking our fictional characters out for a spin, or more specifically, a road trip.

I've grabbed my main character, Julianne, from my #NaNoWriMo writing and her niece for this trip!

The Eight O'clock Hour

Time seemed to tick faster each night.  I could see my reflection staring back at me in the wet window pane.  She looked confused, frightened.  Of course she did.  It had been happening for a whole week now and last night’s episode was just as terrifying as the first.  Glancing at the clock, I knew someone else would soon be haunting me.

When the first one came, a week ago, I blacked out.  I found myself wandering in the street, but have no idea how I got there.  Instead of fear, I felt curiosity surge through my veins, pulsating at every turn.  It didn’t make sense to me to be curious about the ground beneath me, the air flowing around me, or even more strange, my skin and teeth and toes.

For four hours, seven strange nights in a row, I became someone, something else.  Each night left me understanding only slightly more.

As darkness descends, the eight o’clock hour will soon arrive.  I’ll be locked inside, allowed to see, hear, smell, touch, but never speak as someone or something takes me.

It's all about 8:00, am or pm, at Write on Edge this week; 200 words or less.  And I'm bringing the hour to you with a new fictional character.  While I love watching scifi, I've never written any...until now.

Meet Me on the Mountain

Maggie:           U going 2 hit moguls w me this time? I’ve got ur lift tickets & my season pass. Meet me @ cabin so we can hit slopes 2gether! lmk if u need me 2 bring anything else!

Adrianna:        Thx Mags!

Lauren:            I’ve got Cass & rental. Heading 4 mountains now!

Cassie:             Seriously need 2 invest n electric sock company. Gonna freeze my a** off!

Maggie:           LOL! No ur not. Ur gonna b huddled n front of fire n lodge w warm cocktail all day, prob flirtin ur a** off!

Lauren:            Bwahahaha!

Adrianna:        See if he’s got a friend this time, will u?!

Cassie:             Hmm…like a 2 for 1. Will do!

Last week, Write on Edge prompted us to write a text with a 160 word limit.  I got really hung up on the text message part of it and chose to write it as a piece of microfiction, still within the word limit.

This week, Write on Edge has prompted us to write a piece where athleticism plays a role.  Glossing over the text message part of the prompt last week has been irking me.  And being irked for a whole week is kind of ridiculous.

So, to let my subconscious rest, I decided to tackle this week's prompt that had a 400 word limit within last week's format, coming in at 111 words and putting out that annoying irking whisper in my head!

What do you think?

Flipped

Coated in sunshine, she surfed the sea’s surface ‘til a rogue wave flipped the craft. The pleasure boat was now her tomb as the icy blackness consumed her.

Could not get my muse to play any music last night.  First thing this morning, before my lids fully opened, this popped into my head.

Our prompt, at Write on Edge, has us writing microfiction with a 160 character limit that 'elicit's or expresses fear'.  What do you think?

Loose Spring

Adrianna slouched down in the gold backed chair, neatly tied off in rosy taffeta, watching her younger sister twirl on the dance floor with her new husband; swirls of soft white whispered around their feet as he turned her this way and that.  And she always followed.

Tradition and family were what her mother lived for and Adrianna’s lack of a husband was a sore spot.  She loved her family; pleasing them had always been a priority before.  Watching her family dance, she could see the cogs of time turning, each sprocket playing its part to keep everything moving smoothly.  But, she felt like she was a spring sprung loose.

Abruptly, she skirted her way to the door, colliding with her baby brother.

“Adrianna!  Where you goin’?!”

“There’s somewhere I have to be.  Cover for me, ‘kay Matty?”

She didn’t wait for Matteo to respond.  Instead, she picked up her pace while he stared on.

She didn’t dare slow down, not when she left the hotel, not when she reached her car, not when she sped through downtown, not even when she whipped her black Jetta into the back lot, behind her destination.

Pushing through the covered glass door, setting the bell to ringing, she entered, determined to dance to her own music.

Pulling a worn, folded up printout from her small pink satin bridesmaid purse she handed it to the artist.  She sat, watching as a permanent reminder of what she wanted was etched and inked into the inside of her wrist.

Source

Living life the way the rest of her siblings are, getting married, birthing a half dozen babies each, was not for her.  She was ready to walk her own path.

It's all about the tattoo this week at Write on Edge.  And while Adrianna might not be the only one of the four with a tat, this is her first.

If you're new here, I sometimes share a little fiction and Adrianna is one of four women with a kindred friendship.  If you have been reading along, you might have caught glimpses of her in Home and Time to Tell.

We had a 300 word limit for this round of writing.  Initially, I went way over, so I've edited out a lot.  Did I pull off this flash fiction, though it's part of a larger story?

A Haven

Maggie ran her hands down the southwest corner of her beach house, flaking brittle weathered paint off as she stroked.  Her breath caught, touching the tiny frame that housed lifetimes within its walls.

Grams bought it when Maggie was only five years old.  Memories of playing on the jewel toned circular woven rug centered in the Great Room while a crimson fire roared in front of her brought a smile to her lips.

Her lids fell closed, she breathed in the spicy sweet cinnamon hanging in the air as Grams baked in the miniature kitchen.  Pots clanging, a thick wooden spoon stirring the bottom of the pot, scraping up all the bits; fresh nutmeg, grasped between paint stained fingers roughly running across the grater, dusting her latest concoction below; and Grams' off-key singing, all echoing off the mahogany wood floors and unadorned windows, circling and swirling around her.

Maggie could feel herself in the room, over twenty years ago.  And she wondered what this tiny haven would hold, how many more memories she could sandwich inside, now that it was hers.

Write on Edge has prompted us to paint our setting this week, with a 200 word limit.

If this is your first time here or you haven't stopped in on a day that I'm sharing a little fiction, Maggie is one of four friends, along with Cassie, Adrianna, and Lauren.

If you are interested in more of their story, you can read about Cassie in R.S.V.P. & Kick Ass Shoes and Maggie in She Runs, Getting There & Home, and all four women in Time to Tell.

This takes place while the four women are at the beach house.

Red Writing Hood: She Runs

Write on Edge used two fabulous photos as writing prompts for Red Writing Hood this week.  I chose this pic for Maggie to run with, literally.

If this is your first time here or you haven't stopped in on a day that I'm sharing a little fiction, Maggie is one of four friends, along with Cassie, Adrianna, and Lauren.

If you are interested in more of their story, you can read about Cassie in R.S.V.P. & Kick Ass Shoes and Maggie in Getting There & Home, and all four women in Time to Tell.

This takes place in the year before Maggie returns to her friends.

Source: flickr.com via Karen on Pinterest

She Runs

Maggie perched on the edge of the bed, bent over, and laced up her running shoes.

"Margaret, come back to bed." Jack always used her whole name when he knew he was losing.

Glancing over her shoulder, her body pleaded with her to climb back in, but her mind was in control now. As intoxicating, blissfully mind-numbing as Jack's touch was, she needed air.

She made a break for it and slipped out of the room, leaving Jack chuckling to himself.

As the doorman opened the hotel's door, Maggie gasped at the cool wet air.  Zipping her vest up, she pushed off and ran into the saturated early morning.  Globes of light dotted the street and reflected on the wet concrete below.  She was thankful the night's street lamps were still on to light her way.

She didn't want to think where she was going; only wanted to push off, propel forward, and never look back.  She had been running like this for months, too many months.  This weekend, she was supposed to be meeting her friends at the beach house.

How the hell am I going to explain Jack?!

She had accepted the first assignment that came her way after Grams died.  She had taken care of Grams' immediate affairs, but everything else she left behind.  She left the house she had grown up in, while her grandmother raised her, their beloved beach house that they spent every chance they could get in, and her friends.

They would have been right there for her, if she'd asked.  When Lauren and Cassie had to go back to New York for work, Adrianna stayed on.  Adrianna would have held her up, if Maggie would have let her.

But, when the assignment came in, she snatched it up, catching the first flight to London and on to Afghanistan.  Maggie's favorite subjects to shoot were people affected by events outside of their control, whether those events were caused by man or environment.  She could see such truth through her camera's lens and what always amazed her was the spark of hope she saw in peoples' eyes.

Before Grams, she loved that spark like it was universal among humanity, showing how connected everyone is, regardless of circumstance.  After Grams, she was hoping to hold on to the spark like a lifeline to keep her moving forward.

She definitely found her lifeline; she just didn't know she would find it in another photographer, let alone an old colleague, Jack. 

In her head, she could hear Jack calling her back to the room and somewhere out in the mist, she could hear her friends calling, asking her to come home.  Not ready yet to answer either call, she ran faster, listening only to the slight splash as her feet landed on the wet ground and the squish of her shoes as she pushed off again.  This weekend would come too fast, too soon.  Maggie ran.

Red Writing Hood: Good Geek

Kirk may have set his sights on the second star to the right with a thousand trysts along the way, but I’m on a quest to find one molecular being to journey with.

Looking for intelligence, multi-dimensional thinking, a love of puzzles, games, adventure, science, a spark for fantasy, and a crew for annual voyages to Comic-Con and Disneyland.

Do Star Trek, Star Wars, Firefly, Farscape, Dr. Who, Whedon, Hawking, D&D, and EVE Online speak your language?  Do you skip the mall and click your way to New Egg, Think Geek, and Gamestop when holiday shopping?  I do!

If you embrace SciFi, rather than Syfy, I have new shiny game pads just waiting to be broken in.  Come find a cosmic connection, set your coordinates and byte me at: lovemeagoodgeek@gmail.com.

Write on Edge has asked us to write a personal ad, looking for love this week.  None of the characters I'm working with would place such an ad, so this is the perfect opportunity to introduce you to a new one: Corie!

While I do love me a good geek and my science fiction, I'm not a full fledged one (hence, fictional character). Though I do know enough to take this further into the Land o' Geek, I didn't want to loose the non-geeks and/or pop-geeks.  But, I had fun with it!  Think Corrie can make a cosmic connection?

Red Writing Hood: Time to Tell

Grabbing four plates from the vintage hodgepodge collection in the worn wooden cupboards, Maggie drifted through dreamlike memories of treasure hunting at yard sales with Grams while she set the table.

Lauren brought over the food she’d been creating; hot steam with enticing aromas wafted up, filling the room.  Speeding to the other end of the beach house, Cassie almost ran Adrianna over; along with the drinks she was making for all of them.

Looking in the mirror, Cassie was near tears.  The morning sickness had decreased dramatically over the last week.  But, one deep breath swirling in what would normally be delicious scents as she rose from the couch she had been resting on and she couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough.

Telling these women that she was pregnant wasn’t something she was quite ready to do.  Cassie felt the squeeze of her reality changing.  She knew they would support her; of that, she had absolutely no doubt.  Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t make the confession any easier.

Facing that reality, she cleaned up and joined her friends at the table, just as Adrianna set a martini down in front of her.

“What’s up, Cass?” Adrianna asked, but all six of their eyes were layered with questions.

“My stomach’s off a bit.”

Lauren was next, “Hmm…you don’t look sick. But, you don’t exactly look right either.  I thought you were just tired, but…”

“Cassandra.  Tell us.”  Adrianna wavered between concerned and annoyed.  Their friendship had been through the grinder this last year.  Maggie had all but disappeared and Cassie had been quieter than usual for the last few months.

She momentarily closed her eyes, resolving herself not to cry.  Opening them, she blurted it out.

“I’m pregnant.”

Stunned silence fell on the table.  Cassie counted her heartbeats.  When her eyes began to gloss over, she knew either she spilled it or she would loose the fingertip grip on her resolve.

“It’s his.  Don’t.  Please, don’t.  I know.  I didn’t know then. I loved him.  At least I loved the man I thought he was.  For eight months, I couldn’t get enough of him.  It was like I was drunk on him.  Turns out I was stupid drunk…”

Maggie was quick to defend Cassie.  “You’re not stupid.  So your emotions carried you away.  It happens.”

“Mags, I was stupid.  You all warned me, so many times.  If I had looked closer, I might have seen what was apparently writing on the wall.  Scratch that, it was freakin’ written in the sky!  I ignored it all.  I…he….”

“So, you’re not still with him?”  Lauren wanted answers.  “What about the baby?”

“I’m not sure yet.  I’m almost through my first trimester now.  And no, we’re not together anymore.  He…”  She choked on the words.  It was so humiliating.

Lauren wasn’t letting go.  Cassie couldn’t blame her.  “So, does he know?  Is he going to help?  He has a responsibility.”

“No.  He doesn’t know.  I haven’t spoken to him since…  He doesn’t know.  I’m pretty sure he won’t want to participate at all.”

“Why not?”  Maggie was puzzled.

“Her.  They’re getting married.”

All three of them began firing questions, wanting to know the dirty details she had been leaving out for the last half a year.  Her eyes started swimming again.

Adrianna came to her rescue.  “Since you can’t have this, I’m stealing it.”  With a wink, Adrianna began sipping on Cassie’s martini.

Lauren’s narrowed eyes kept firing silent questions at Cassie.

Maggie sighed, “We have all weekend.  I’m sure there’s a lot for all of us to catch up on.”

While she suspected Maggie had her own confessions to share, she was thankful for the temporary reprieve. 

 Write on Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club) has us focusing on transitions for Red Writing Hood this time.  They've prompted us to:  "write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical."

If you are interested in more of their story, you can read about Cassie in R.S.V.P. & Kick Ass Shoes and Maggie in Getting There & Home.  This piece takes place right after Home.

And today, all four of the gals are here:  Adrianna, Lauren, Maggie & Cassie.  I thought this was the perfect time to come back to Cassie's pregnancy and her Time to Tell!  Hope you enjoyed it! :>

Microfiction Fun a la Red Writing Hood

Write on Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club) has us writing just a wee bit of microfiction this week.  "Write a story of your choice. The catch? Write it as a tweet. Use only 140 characters – including spaces."

Clutching his arm, he fell. Walt's wife dialed 911, but he was gone. Holding his hand, saying good-bye she found his winning lottery ticket.

(140 characters, including spaces & punctuation, on the nose!)


I haven't written microfiction in months and it was so much fun to play with a story inside of 140 characters again.  If you can tweet, you can write along with us this week.  Can't wait to see what uber short tales are told!

Home

We had to leave immediately. Never letting go of the phone, Maggie raced to her jeep. Cassie, right on her heels, called out for Adrianna and Lauren.  Her friends could barely climb in before she slammed it in reverse.

"Breathe, Maggie."

She gripped the wheel harder.

"What the hell is going on?  What’s wrong?!"

All she could focus on was the road in front of her.  Maggie knew she was on the edge.  She had to get there before she fell over.

"Mags???"

Her friends gave in for a bit, but she could feel their eyes on her, waiting for her.  She needed to focus on the road ahead.  She needed to get there.

Nearly an hour later, she pulled off the freeway and began following the familiar roads, arriving at the town’s small hospital.

Terrified, barely a whisper escaped her lips.

"Grams.  Grams’ heart.  They don’t think she’ll make it."

Adrianna was the first to jump out of the jeep, sprinting around to the driver’s side to fetch Maggie.  All four marched to the glass entrance.

A woman in scrubs approached the four, the news plainly on her face.  It wasn’t good.

Her grandmother was already gone.

* * * * * * *

It had been a year since that day.  A year.  Maggie continued to press down on her camera’s shutter, trying to move to the next frame, trying to move forward.

The beach house she and her grandmother built their best memories in was now hers.  It had taken her a year to be able to come back.

She’d spent the last year running…from her childhood house, her friends, this beach house, her memories.  Finally coming back now to face the people and places she’d left behind.

Her bare feet slipped through the sand as she trekked back up to the house and to her friends.

Her eyes scanned the room.  Lauren was already whipping up a gourmet meal in the tiny kitchen, Adrianna hummed out the notes to a new song while she cleaned, Cassie’s eyes were closed and her feet propped up on the well worn driftwood coffee table.

Maggie couldn’t help but breathe it in.  And she realized she was finally home.

The former Red Dress Club, now Write on Edge has a new prompt for us: write a piece that begins with “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

I changed the ending sentence a wee bit, but I was a good girl & checked in with one of our Write on Edge leaders, Cheryl of Mommy Pants! ;>

Cassie was first introduced in R.S.V.P. and then in Kick Ass Shoes.  Next, Maggie arrived in Getting There and this installment, Home, picks up right where Getting There left off.  Today, there's just a glimpse of the other two, Adrianna & Lauren, who make up this friendship of four.

Getting There...

Swinging her bag onto her shoulder, she grabbed her keys and booked it to catch the train.

Maggie left her car at Jack’s last night.  They had been celebrating a friend’s birthday.  The party was still in full swing when she scrambled to catch the last train to get her home.  She knew she had been in no condition to get behind the wheel and thankfully, still had a clear enough head to know staying the night would have been just as reckless.

It was early when she got back to Jack’s.  She quietly got behind the wheel, not really wanting to see exactly who had made the choice to stay last night.

Maggie was meeting her girlfriends for a weekend getaway.  It had been a whole year since they had all escaped for a weekend together.  It had been too long for her, but she knew she was a good part of the reason why.

A quick stop for her share of the food and the drive south sent the familiar terrain whipping by.

Maggie would have much preferred to daydream about where she might take her life next to pass the miles she still had to go.  Instead, she heard herself telling her friends that she was too busy to get away for a weekend with them all last year.  She knew her disappearance would either be the topic of conversation this weekend or a horribly huge elephant left to lumber around the room.

The smooth pavement transitioned to crunchy gravel which gave way to sand.  She cut her engine and climbed out of the jeep at her old beach house.  Leaving everything, but her camera, she walked around the house, sighing when she saw the peeling paint.  Painting would certainly be in her future.

Maggie was out on the beach, barefoot and snapping frame after frame of the sea lions bobbing through the waves when Cassie came up behind her.

Cass wrapped her arm around Maggie’s shoulder, not saying a word.

Maggie didn’t dare risk looking at her friend’s face, afraid of what she would see.

So sorry, Cass.

You’re here now, Mags.  I don’t care about the rest.  We’ve missed you.  We don’t work without you.

Still…..but yea, lesson learned.

Maggie couldn’t believe how easy Cassie was being on her.  She knew it was a gift, one worth taking.

Angela and Galit are our Guest Hosts at The Red Dress Club this week and are prompting us to "write a short fiction or non-fiction piece inspired by any or all of the photo below. Word limit: 400 words"

I have a little fiction & a new character to share with you, Maggie.  Cassie is the woman in my last two Red Writing Hood pieces, first in R.S.V.P. and then in Kick Ass Shoes.  I finally named her!  What do you think?

Photo Credit

Kick Ass Shoes

 Kir is guest hosting at The Red Dress Club this week and prompted us "to write about a topic very near and dear to many of us: shoes.

You were to write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character's. They can be real or symbolic."

This continues the R.S.V.P. fiction that I shared two weeks ago.  If you are interested in more of the story, you may want to read that first.

Kick Ass Shoes

With the same rashness that her whole relationship with him had been, she began trashing any object that reminded her of what had been.

The little box of trinkets on her dresser called her.  She debated whether to open it and take one last sprint down memory lane.  Her heart skipped a beat, her breath caught.

She moved on to “his” dresser drawer.  She scooped up the contents, unceremoniously dumping them into the large black trash bag waiting at her feet.  And she began to breathe again.

In her closet, she closed her eyes as she wadded up his favorite shirt, her favorite shirt.  A couple more items, ripped from the hangers, dived into the black bag.

When she grabbed his hiking boots, left behind from their camping trip, she saw her own tennis shoes.  Sitting back on her heels, she realized how much those shoes screamed what had been going on, what she had been oblivious to.  They had gone camping rather than to L.A. with their friends because she was a secret to those friends.  He had lived two lives.  Though at the time, she was only aware of the one.

Her tennis shoes joined his hiking boots in the trash bag.  She also slipped off her cute black shoes, the ones she’d bought for their first ‘official’ date and they had to go.  She slid on a pair of kick ass cherry red heels while her mouth hinted at a smile.

In the kitchen, she chucked the beer bottle opener into the bag.  It landed with a satisfying clunk against something else, some other memory that she was done with.  The glassware he gave her shattered as she tossed it in.  Not wanting even a single speck of a memory to be left behind, she grabbed another bag and doubled up. Those slivers of glass, shreds of her life she had handed over to him couldn’t be allowed to escape.

As she moved into the bathroom, it became easier to keep moving forward.  Deodorant, shaving gel, razor, and toothbrush all found a new home in the black bag.  Her anger was fading with each tossed object.  She was giddy, almost dizzy with giddiness.  Each item, each memory gone from sight made her feel free and even a bit braver.

She grasped that bravery and headed back to her dresser to take on the box of trinkets.  With a light creak, she gingerly lifted the lid.  She was dizzy alright.  Steadying herself, she picked up the movie tickets and bagged them with the other memories.  A flash drive loaded with their music, a charm, a stone from that camping trip, a piece of driftwood, letters tied off with a red string all went, one after another, into the doubled black trash bag.  She was almost done, almost ready to kick all of her memories of him to the curb.

She picked up the silly little bracelet he had made with shiny foil gum wrappers.  Her breath caught again.  The room spun.  And she was dashing for the bathroom.

She didn’t make it in time and her red heels suffered the consequences.  The shoes that reminded her of who she had been before him suffered the consequences of forgetting for just a moment that there was one memory of him she couldn’t be free of.  The memory that was growing inside of her would make sure of that.

Cleaning up the mess, she threw her cherry red shoes into the black bag and quickly scooped the trinket box up off the dresser and dropped the whole thing in as well.  She slipped on a pair of sensible shoes and carried the black trash bag full of memories outside.

She hoped that one day she would be ready to wear a new pair of kick ass shoes.

R.S.V.P.

The pain shrieking from her heart made her think she should be dialing 911, but she had just spoken with the lab, confirming what that damn little white stick told her two days ago.  The vice grip she had on the phone wouldn’t allow her to dial the doctor to set up an appointment, let alone...him.

Once vibrant visions of their life together streaked by, the ones she had created when she thought he was hers.  She had mapped out a future with him by her side; a future full of travel to exotic destinations, adventures to journey on together, and though she wasn’t sold on the idea, his idea, even a family…down the road, later.

Her girlfriends told her not to.  They told her so many times, in so many ways that eventually, she stopped sharing her plans.  She told herself not sharing with the women she called sisters, was the only piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

It didn’t take long before her girlfriends were all proven right and she knew what she had created weren’t plans for the future, but simply fantasies.  Why hadn’t she seen this coming?  Where exactly did she leave her common sense behind?  It was as if inhaling one fantastically soul penetrating breath of him sent every bit of what made her who she was flying off a jagged cliff.

She didn’t recognize who she had become and is completely unsure of what she is now.  Stripped bare, she had nothing left inside - nothing - except some small being growing that was to forever remind her of when she completely took leave of herself.

Will this little being remind her of him?  Every day?  Will it remind her of herself?  How can that even be a possibility.  She has no idea who she is, barely remembers who she was before.

As fast as she had breathed him in, she saw herself at the lake with her girlfriends.  Fifteen years old and unabashed, fearless, completely free, jumping off the rocky cliffs into the water below, smiles never leaving their faces.

With whatever strength her cells still harbored, she grasped and held on.

Extricating herself from the crumpled mess she had become on the floor, she pries the phone from her clenched hand, grabs the paper she had scribbled the recommended obstetrician’s number on, and a pen.

A few deep, ragged breaths drawn in and she boldly marks Decline with Regret.  Regret doesn’t begin to cover it, but there’s no way she’s going to finish sacrificing herself by watching him walk down the aisle to marry her.

She shoves the R.S.V.P. card from the scathing invitation into its stamped envelope.  Carrying it out to the nearest mail drop, she pulls out her cell and dials the obstetrician, taking the first step of this next journey in this unfamiliar new life.

I haven't posted any fiction in a couple months and decided to dive back in with The Red Dress Club this week.  One of my favorite writers, Mandy and new to me, Elena are guest hosting this week and prompted us with:  "You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad.  What does it say?  How does it affect you or your character?  What is done with it?"

600 words or less, I came in at 477.