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!

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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?

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Forward March

TweeEEeet. TweeEEeet. Tweet Tweet Tweet.

The Drum Major’s whistle blew.  Forward march.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

The blue polyester pants, white shirt, and hat complete with plume might not have been something to get excited about, but being part of the marching band was.

The notes coming from my flute were not something to advertise, but band geeks were.

Dad drove me down from our family vacation in the Sierras so I wouldn’t miss a day of Band Camp before school started.  And back up the mountains afterwards.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

Marching and competing in parades in the seventh grade.

Moving just before the eighth grade to a Middle School with no Marching Band, where the lack of close knit band geeks could be felt.

Began marching again in high school.  Marching in Half Time shows.  Marching on Main Street in Disneyland, once a year.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

The school colors, red and black, were a step up, but the polyester flare kick pants were not.

The notes blowing through my flute still weren’t anything exciting.  Practice might have helped with that.  Novel concept.  But, Marching Band coloring high school memories was.

Not much of a joiner in high school, Marching Band helped me stay in step.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

 

Natalie of Mama Track, is guest hosting this week's RemembeRED prompt "to write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word 'rhythm'" at The Red Dress Club.

My mind immediately marked in double time to my five years of Marching Band at two schools.  Did you feel the rhythm?

Did you play an instrument as a kidlet?  Do you play one as an adult?

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.

Action!

Ask someone today whether they watch TV or not and there are a zillion qualifications.

Do they watch traditional television programming, on an actual television?  Do they watch it in real time or DVR it?  Do they watch TV shows on Hulu or Netflix?  Do they watch webisodes on a favorite website?  Do they watch interviews, demos, music videos, documentaries, and/or one of the million other offerings on YouTube?

And where do they watch it?  Do they stream ‘TV’ to their computers, iPods, cell phones, or to their televisions via Xbox or Wii gaming systems?

Today, watching ‘TV’ has a multitude of different meanings.  But, when I was a kidlet, it meant watching television programming, on an actual television.

I’ve heard that Sesame Street and The Electric Company were my thing when I was little.  And I remember watching the Smurfs with my brother, Three’s Company with my mother, and a whole host of shows with my brother and Dad that gave me a taste for what is typically considered guys’ kind of entertainment.

No, not that kind of male entertainment!  You know, fast cars, jets, helicopters, chase scenes, thrillers, action and adventure!  There was Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, Airwolf, MacGyver, and TheA-Team and I loved them all.

I loved the Dukes’ chase scenes and the hilarious characters. (And being that I was young and unaware of all its political incorrectness, it still holds a fond place in my heart.)

Thought K.I.T.T., the talking car was so cool and then, for a time, when my Mom drove a car that talked to us, I thought we were pretty cool too.

Airwolf?  Come on, a badass helicopter that ascends from the inside of a mountain and flies off into action…what’s not to love?!

MacGyver.  He fixes things.  He blows things up.  He creates tools to escape certain impending doom, just in the nick of time.  He creates all that awesomeness out of nothing more than the lint in his pocket and a stray hair.  Yup, MacGyver rocks.

And then there’s the A-Team.  It’s impossible to not smile at big tough B.A. Baracus who needs a sedative to fly…a strong one.  There was Face, who thought he was all that and then some.  Hannibal who pulled everything together.  And with whackadoodle Murdock, the team was complete for whatever mission needed to be pulled off.

Yes, there’s a huge amount of cheese factor in these shows from the ‘80s.  But, as a kid, they were fast moving, kept me entertained and essentially rocked.  They gave me a love for a kind of entertainment that I may have not liked otherwise.

Those shows carried over to movies and I remember watching Bond, James Bond, with Dad too.  And now I love “television” shows like 24, though I streamed the whole series from Netflix on my laptop.  And Hubs and I never have to compromise when it comes to movies because while I do love a good chick flick, Action Adventure and Thrillers (and science fiction, but that’s a whole other post!) are not genres I shy away from.

I know I saw a lot of other things when I was a kid, but those shows are what stick out to me when I think of television during those years.  They are spokes on a wheel and I'm so thankful that I have such a variety of spokes to be entertained by, whether by 'TV', movie, book, music, or live show.

Mandy and Elena are guest hosting The Red Dress Club with this RemebeRED prompt:  TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about a tv show from your past.

600 words or less, I came in (after whittling it down quite a bit) at 577.

I ended up having so much fun running down memory lane writing this!  What's playing on your television memory lane?

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.

Song

Time can be marked by the songs that beat in my heart.  And while there are oodles of Christmas songs that pass my lips throughout the year, as well as at the most obvious time and music that used to play on vinyl or cassette tape, now on CD or through a digital device, the songs that have etched themselves upon my soul, making them unforgettable, are Girl Scout songs.

The Brownie Smile Song will always remind me that “I’ve got something in my pocket” that’s a whole lot better than lint, lip balm, my cell, or a couple of coins.  It’s a smile “that belongs across my face.”

Gackgoom Went the Little Green Frog (some people call it Barrump), transports me back to a camping trip with my troop in upstate New York, where we all nearly froze at night until we layered on every single piece of clothing in our packs and put two girls to a sleeping bag.

Make New Friends travelled with me, across the country to the three different troops I was lucky enough to belong to.  Troop 667 was my final destination, where we went by camp names; I was Gizmo!  I sang more songs than I can count with this treasured troop.

Rise Up O’ Flame, Piece of Tin, Alice the Camel, send me soaring back…standing on a wooden stage, deeply inhaling campfire smoke, singing with my Senior troop, leading the Juniors in song.

Little Bunny Fu-Fu was great at campfire and it also made for wonderful animated fun with Fishey during the lunch hour at school.  It was funny how free a silly little Girl Scout song sung in school can make you feel;  aware that you are completely enjoying yourselves without a care as to how ‘cool’ or ‘uncool’ you look.

It’s important to sing Perty Daisy with a real strong twang, “It’s just a tattoo of a flower, so I look neat when I’m taking a shower.  It’s on the second toe of my left foot, stem and flower, but there’s no root (‘cause that wouldn’t look good)…” Perty Daisy is a favorite of both Fishey and I, though she has the tattoo to prove it.  Me?  I sang it till my voice was almost gone while potty training a kidlet a few years back!

Singing Girl Scout songs continued on with my kidlets from the moment they came home with us from the hospital.  On My Honor, sang over and over to calm or send a kidlet off to dreamland with.  And Little Birds sang with exuberance to elicit a giggle in the morning, while getting a wriggling munchkin dressed.

It didn’t matter if I was singing these songs to my son or my daughter.  The songs had become a piece of me to share and give to two beautiful pieces of my heart.

The songs are my past, my present, and still friends with many from Girl Scout troop days, will hopefully continue to be my future.

The Red Dress Club prompted us to write about what we know by heart from childhood.

I immediately thought of Girl Scout songs. While I tried flirting with other memories, those songs just kept singing louder and louder, until I gave in to them.

With a 500 words limit, I came in just under the wire with 499!

A Million Grains of Sand

Carrying blankets, towels, and a cooler loaded with sandwiches, soda and water, we hiked down the steep switch backed hill to our treasured spot.  Almost there.

Huge steel colored boulders were the last obstacle for us to climb over.  Reaching our hands out for one another, we steadied each other.  Truthfully, more often than not, it was me reaching out for his steady hand as I worked my way from one boulder to the next.  Almost there.

Moving from firm footing onto a million tiny grains, each step sinking a bit before pushing off, we propelled ourselves forward.  Giddiness would start to spill over as we approached the wave churned, smooth as silk driftwood in our path.  So many shapes, so many possibilities could be seen in those twisted pieces of wood.  Almost there.

A million warm grains crunching under each step as we approached our spot.  Laying out a blanket, we sprawled across it, kicked off our shoes and plunged our toes into the sun baked granules.  The warmth slowly travelled up through our covered feet, through our bodies, bit by bit, until the sun’s rays could be felt on our faces.  It was as if we were melting;  melting into each other, melting into the sun, melting into the golden, glittering sand beneath us.

The ocean pounded its waves past the rocky cliffs, into our cove.  Its rhythmic washing of the shore swelled in our ears.  An occasional seagull pierced through.  We were there.  We were in our cove, on our spot, filling ourselves with a peace we found each time we went.

This week, The Red Dress Club, prompted us to write a memory of sand.  I instantly thought of the cove that my husband & I frequented when we were dating.  It was like a little piece of heaven.  It's a hike to get down to it and between that and the fact that there are strong rip tides there, we don't take the kidlets there and consequently, haven't been in quite awhile.  Thankfully though, the memories of it have not dimmed.




This post suffered from the Great Blogger Debacle 2011 and lost all of its lovely comments, which makes me sad.  But, I cannot think of a better way to happy up this post and myself than to link up with super sweet Bruna of Bees With Honey!  Let's Bee Friends! :>

And wouldn't you know it, but looks like Blogger has returned the comments a week later!  Happy to have the comments back and even happier to connect with some of Bruna's readers! Thanks for stopping in! :>

Time

Walking past the glass store front, my eyes caught hold of my new Louboutin shoes. Shoes: better than a martini, better than chocolate, and most definitely better than Steve and his election.

I quickly slid my shopping bags under my desk, all except one. Pulling out the tissue wrapped box, I opened it to see my new Michael Kors watch. It’s classic and simply beautiful. I was smiling when I looked up and saw Suzanne staring at me.

“Isn’t this perfect?”

“What? A watch? That’s what you left for? That’s why I had to cancel my date tonight? A watch? So, is that to remind you what time you are supposed to be back here for a lunch you were never supposed to take today?”

“Suz, I never promised I’d cover for you. I think I would remember that. I had a date myself today. It was going to be divine. Except…” There was no way I was going to admit Steve cancelled on me.

“Except what, Liz? Except that you did promise to cover for me today. Except that I only asked you a week ago and reminded you yesterday. Except that it’s my anniversary tonight and now I have to go stand in line to vote instead.” Suzanne’s face was changing colors again.

And then suddenly, it wasn’t. She was reading something on her computer. Well, whatever it is, at least she’s distracted. I wrapped my new watch around my left wrist and settled in to finish today’s work so I could get out of here.

Martinis with the girls tonight sounds about right. Maybe we’ll hit that new restaurant everyone’s raving about.

Suzanne brusquely pushed back her chair and walked to Dianne’s office. She can’t really be that pissed at me. What is this, the third grade and she’s off to tell on me?

I kept trying to focus on my work. I couldn’t help but look up and see Suz, through the glass walls of our boss’s office. She was smiling, a lot. Someone really ought to tell her she looks like a horse, showing that many teeth. Maybe I’ll do her a favor and let her know later.

It wasn't long before Suz returned to her desk looking like she had swallowed that proverbial canary. She didn’t say a word.

I was curious. “Suz, do you wanna come out with me and the girls tonight?”

She rolled her eyes.

Ugh. What now?!

“No, I have a date tonight…and we’re celebrating.”

“Thought you said you had to cancel that?” Though why anyone would cancel a date to stand in a long line and vote is beyond me.

“Well, I did when you bailed, but Dianne just told me I could wrap things up and get out of here early. So, I’m off to vote and then to celebrate with Jeff.”

“Okay."  I still didn’t understand. Dianne rarely let us take off early, unless she was out of town and didn’t know any better.  "Happy Anniversary!”

“Thanks, Liz. I’ll see you in the morning!”

I went back to work when Dianne stopped by my desk and quickly explained Suz’s cat grin. She gave the promotion that we were both up for to Suzanne. And just to make this day even worse, I realized I would be reporting to her.

I glanced down at my watch, hoping the day was over already. It was still beautiful, but apparently lacked the ability to alter time. And there was no cab waiting to whisk me off.


In case you haven't already read it, the first part of this story, Lunch Date, was written for another Red Writing Hood prompt about a person who drives you crazy.

I was kind of surprised to write more about these fictional characters, especially from Liz's perspective.  But, when I saw the prompt to write about an argument, it just seemed natural to pick up where Liz and Suzanne left off.  Liz is the kind of gal who would drive me up the wall, but she seems to have gotten in my head a bit.

In Concert

Sunlight dances through the canopy of woven branches,

Partnering dust motes as they flit and float by,

Tapping its toes on the carpeted forest floor.

Underfoot, rust colored needles, grind with each sneakered step.

Birds trill and chat, branches whoosh and crack,

Insects whizz, whir, and chirp, water trickles by.

An orchestrated concert erupts from the forests’ walls,

A sweet serene hush unites their song.

Together, they create a comforting softness that blankets a soul.

I wrap myself in its memories, its peace, its tranquility

And simply breathe.

It's RemembeRED time again!  This week we were prompted to write about a sound or scent that brings you right back to your past.

I've spent time camping on both sides of this country (from the Cascades to the Adirondacks and back to the Seirras) and some of my favorite individual memories are from those trips.  But, the feeling I get inside the forest is always the same regardless of who I'm with, what I'm doing, or which forest I'm in.  And so that's the direction I took for this.

We had a 700 word limit.  And while I am usually quite a wordy gal, I'm here with 88...hope I put them to good use! :>

Lunch Date

Is there someone who drives you crazy?

Someone who really gets under your skin.

Now, write a first-person piece - as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you.

This can be completely fictional or you can base it on a real-life person.

Word limit is 600.

I whipped out my compact, tucked a few uncooperative hairs back into place, deftly applied my crimson lipstick, and made sure none had strayed to my freshly bleached teeth.  Perfect.

After working my magic, I had finally secured a lunch date with Steve.  He earned top scores down my list:  six figure salary, check;  tall, dark, and handsome, check;  comes from a well known family, check;  and so on.  He was going to be mine and he didn't even know it yet.

"Alright, Liz. I'm off. I'll be back in an hour."

"What?" I wasn't sure what my coworker, Suzanne, was talking about.

"I'm leaving for an hour.  You promised to cover for me, remember?"

"I did?"  I couldn't have.  "I'm not available today, Suz.  Can you just move it to tomorrow?  I can cover for you then."

"Tomorrow?  Liz?"

She looked confused.  What was she doing again?  Ugh.

"Suz, I'm leaving for lunch in fifteen minutes.  I can't cover for you today.  But, tomorrow would be fine for me."  Putting my makeup back into my purse, I began tidying my desk, getting ready to meet Steve.

"Liz.  I can't go tomorrow.  The elections are today.  I have a full schedule tonight and this is my only opportunity to go vote."

"Oh."  I wasn't sure what to say.  There was no way I was going to miss seeing Steve.

"Maybe Carol or Lynn can cover you."  I slid the heels that I had kicked off under my desk back on, continuing to get ready.

"No, Liz.  They can't.  I already asked them."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out."  I stood up, slid my arms through my coat's lined sleeves, and grabbed my bag.

Suzanne opened her mouth.  I assumed it was to say something, but she looked like she was catching flies.

"Good luck, Suz!"

I glanced back just once, to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything and saw Suzanne's face.  It was the same shade as my lipstick.  I turned my head away and rolled my eyes, irritated with her.

While waiting for a cab, my irritation faded as I thought about Steve.  I could see this developing into something quickly.  We'd have to get through the holidays that are always awkward in any new relationship, but then I saw us dancing on New Years, skiing the slopes in January, a romantic Valentine's weekend on the coast, and on into an event filled spring.

I was so lost in my envisioned life with Steve that I almost didn't hear my phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Liz.  I need to cancel.  My day has filled up fast and now is the only chance I'll have to go vote."

"Vote?"

“Yes, it’s a pain to hit the polls. But, the absentee deadline slipped my mind while out of the country last month.  I'll call you next week to reschedule, if you'd like."

If I'd like?  I tried to pull myself together.  "Yes, Steve.  I would very much like to reschedule next week."

"I'll give you a ring."

I was about to say my farewells when he hung up.  He has to vote?  The elections?  Seriously, what's all the fuss?

I didn't get it and was more than a little irritated.  Somewhere in the back of my head, I could sort of hear Suz's voice telling me that she needed to go vote.  But, that only made me more annoyed.

I would deal with her later.  I was in serious need of retail therapy.  Just then, a cab pulled up.  And I hopped in.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

I thought this was kind of tricky.  I kept wanting to interject the other person's emotions, thoughts, and perspectives.  For me, it was hard to write first person about someone who is so completely unaware, someone who is consumed by her appearance, someone who is working down a superficial checklist for the perfect man (particularly as a Mama raising a wee girl!), someone who is oblivious to others' needs, and someone who is completely self absorbed.

I wrote several different variations of fiction for this prompt.  And every time, I wanted the other character(s) to shout out and even proverbially bonk this first person character on the head!  So, this was definitely a challenge!

Her Wind, Her Move ~ Red Writing Hood

A wiley wind whooshes in.  Crinkled, crackled leaves scoop up from the ground, spiraling in its frenzied turbine.  Brilliant fire filled hues chase each other, before crash landing as the wind floats the air current upwards.

She follows.  She found this wiley wind and is moved by it.  It mirrors the chaos she walked away from, but is unable to truly leave behind.  Being pulled in every different direction was almost her undoing.  And now, their voices still clamor in her head, battling each other, daring her to return.

The wiley wind rushes up and into a towering tree’s canopy of leaves, rustling leaf upon leaf upon branch upon leaf creating a symphony.  She listens.  She waits.  She looks to see where it will go next.  It’s pulled from the trees, surfs the open space, blows through a rickety old fence.  She follows.  She wonders where it will take her next.

It gets larger, louder, more frenzied.  Her head, swollen, full of voices competing for center stage, for control, matches this wiley wind’s frantic fevered pace.  She moves.  She checks.  She follows.

Abruptly, the wiley wind drops out of the sky, releasing the leaves, dirt, and dust it had picked up during its dance.  The voices quiet for a moment, looking to see what she will do with no more wiley wind to follow. 

She’s not sure of her next move.  She no longer has a partner to dance with.  She’s alone. 

With a rapid intake of air, she realizes just that, she is alone.  She made the heart wrenching decision to leave, to remove herself physically.  She left her job, her home, her neighborhood.  But she had held on tightly to those voices, the ones begging her to stay, the ones telling her to run, the ones screaming that she would never survive on her own.

She picks her crumpled body up off the ground, where that wiley wind had ended its dance and left her to make her next move.  Plucking a dry, crimson leaf from her wind whipped hair, she decides. 

She closes the door on all those voices, locks it tight, and listens to the silence.

She breathes.

She puts one foot forward, pushing off on her new path.

This piece is fiction for the Red Writing Hood from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, about a time that our character took a detour.

I thought nothing could ruin dinner faster...

Brussels sprouts, blech.  As far as I was concerned, the only thing worse than those little nasty cabbage like sprouts were lima beans.  Actually, lima beans still rank at the bottom of my list!

As a kid, Dad loved them.  I don’t think anyone else was much of a fan.  Though, my distaste for those gruesome balls of green was far greater, I think.

And what’s worse?  They were usually from the freezer. 

Oh wait, it gets worse still.  If they were served on my plate, I had to eat them, all of them.  My taste buds cried out in horror.

It’s not as if I was a kid with a limited palette.  While most kids’ favorite food item was from the more standard fair of pizza, tacos, or spaghetti, I loved seafood, a mean stir fry, and even shucked oysters on the rare occasion I visited family in Virginia.

But, brussels sprouts?  No. Thank. You.

Brussels sprouts were on my hit list back then and continued to reside there well into my thirties.

I was madly shopping for our 2010 Thanksgiving dinner and by my fourth grocery store, I still had not picked up a vegetable when I saw this gorgeous baseball bat sized stalk with dozens of green bulbs climbing it.  So struck by its beauty, it took me a few minutes to realize what it was.

I’d come upon those dreaded brussels sprouts, presented in its organic state and suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.  As much as the flaming orange, red, and yellow bell peppers sang out to me, or the comforting cry of our favorite friend, zucchini, called, or the green bean Thanksgiving standard whispered my name, I was deaf to all of them.  My eyes were locked on my target and would not deviate until I gave in.

I left wondering what on earth I was doing. Had I lost my mind?  Seriously, had I just ruined our Thanksgiving meal?  And my goodness, what would my husband think?  He couldn’t stand brussels sprouts just as much, if not more.  Considering he was cooking, I thought I was crazy not to factor his distaste for them into the equation!

To my surprise, he started laughing when I pulled out that big green, bulbous stick…I mean, stalk.  He quickly had the kids giggling as well.  And suddenly, he was game to give brussels sprouts one more try.

We opted to roast them as we had yet to miss with that method.  And just in case they were as hideous as we remembered, he fried up a couple strips of bacon to crumble on top.  He rationalized that everything is better with bacon.

Thanksgiving day, everyone watched the sprouts come off the stalk, one by one, as if it was a grand new spectator sport.  Those of us in the peanut gallery had many a how-to opinion to offer.  And then they were off the stalk, halved, misted with olive oil, sprinkled with a wee bit of salt, and into the oven they went.

Sitting down to the dining table for dinner with a beautiful turkey, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, the most scrumptious dressing, and those roasted brussels sprouts.  I was apprehensive, to say the least.

We grownups, having been tainted by nasty balls of green on our plates as kids, had to put on brave faces to try our first bites.  But, the kids, who had been so excited by our new brussels sprout adventure, they dove straight in.

Eyes widened.  Could this really be?  Our surprise was palpable.  And our conclusion was drawn with that first cautious bite.

Move over artichoke!  Move over zucchini!  Move over bell peppers, cauliflower, Japanese eggplant, spinach, crooked neck squash, and all varieties of tomato!

Move on over and make room for another favorite vegetable to join the ranks!

Brussels sprouts.  No bacon needed.  Who knew?!

Thanksgiving 2010 Brussels Sprouts

Roasting them was the key for us and bacon never again necessary!

This tale o' brussels sprout was in response to the RemembeRED prompt to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable, from The Red Dress Club.

Her Face

Through a thick fog she reached out her hand, looking for her brother.  She knew she was in bed, that she wasn’t home, and that she wanted to wrap her hand around her brother’s five digits.

Every other detail was lost in that thick hazy fog.

And she was too tired to find her way through it.  Sleep took her again.

For the next few days, she continued to enter and retreat from the haze.  Meanwhile, she’d been cut open, put back together, stitched and stapled up.  Sleep continued to take her frequently.

Eventually, she began to emerge from the fog for longer periods of time.  And what seemed like randomly scattered pieces, began connecting, creating pictures for her….of what brought her there, why the fog had been so heavy, and where she needed to go.

There was one picture she didn’t want to see.  So many visitors had come to see her, while she lay on that institutional hospital bed, and she saw their faces when they first entered her room.  They all had the same smile, while their eyes sang a different tune.  And upon their arrival and departure, they all kissed her on the same spot on the left side of her forehead. 

She can’t remember when or who first told her that her face hit the windshield, but she knew she was avoiding a mirror.

And then the first time she was able to leave her bed, she hobbled by something reflective on the wall and automatically glanced up.  She didn’t know what she saw.

Working her way back into the hospital bed, she realized what that was.

A week after an eighteen wheeler, two trailer big rig had gobbled her little car up for breakfast, she saw her face for the first time and like a waterfall, her salted tears broke the banks and gushed down her cheeks.

A nurse comforted her.  The nurse thought she was upset about what her face looked like, the scars that would inevitably remain.

But, that’s not what upset her.  She had seen the red, swollen, stitched up face in the mirror and she didn’t recognize it.

Her flash of a glance in the mirror had only revealed the right side of her face, the part of her face that had gone through the windshield.

With a relief filled gasp, she looked at her new face again in a mirror, this time seeing the cut and uncut pieces and portions.  She saw her twenty-one year old self again.  She breathed.

A social worker at the hospital had suggested a makeup artist to learn how to cover her healing face and new scars.  But, she wasn’t interested.  She rarely wore makeup before this; she didn’t understand why she should have to wear makeup after.

While attempting to pay for toilet paper, shampoo, and Kleenex one day a couple months later, she was reminded why.

The clerk asked her, “What the hell happened to your face?!”

Years later, she’s kicked herself that she wasn’t more quick witted to ask him, “What the hell happened to your mouth?!”

But, immediately she realized why she was urged to use makeup to cover her scars.  She realized it wasn’t about making herself look ‘good’ for herself; it was about making other people comfortable.

After that, it was rather easy for her to be comfortable with her choice to simply accept her scars as part of her new face.

And that anyone who had a problem with a face marked with a few of her challenges, need not look.

At The Red Dress Club we were prompted to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it, with a 600 word limit.  The link up was on Friday, but exhaustion won against inspiration, until today. So I'm slipping this in before the link up closes.

Oh yea, and in case you are wondering, this piece is a true story; it's a piece of my story. :>

Gravity or Instinct, I Just Knew

Tuesday’s dinner was done and it was time to head out for a favorite weekly destination.  I still didn’t have my license, so I climbed into Mom’s black Integra and she drove me to the local elementary school for my Girl Scout meeting in the library.

The glowing sun was still up, but lowering in the sky, casting long light shadows across the campus.  I always felt peaceful walking towards the library from the parking lot.  Having moved many times, this was my third troop in two states and full of great girls. 

While I only joined this particular Cadette troop in the eighth grade, they had been together for several years already.  And most of us had bridged up to Seniors, when we graduated from junior high to high school.

It wasn’t like another gathering of school friends, later in the day.  Several of the girls, did go to the public high school with me, but there were also girls from the private Catholic school’s all girl campus in a neighboring town, girls from the other public high school in town, and more girls who attended the boarding school at the base of the mountain nearby as local day students.  We were quite a mix and yet, schools didn’t separate us, rather our Girl Scout troop united us.

This particular Tuesday evening, one of the girls from one of those other schools brought her best friend to a meeting, just to show and share what Girl Scouts was all about.  I couldn’t tell you what she was wearing or what she was doing, other than smiling while her eyes darted around as she took all of us in, when this new girl walked into her first Girl Scout meeting.  But I can tell you this, I knew we would be friends. 

Every neuron in my head, every molecule in my heart knew we would connect.  I could feel the strong tug of an unseen force propelling me towards her, like the ocean’s tide, compelled by the moon’s gravity.  And a split second after our introduction, I put my arm through hers, knowing she must have thought I was a total loon, and started marching her across the institutional carpet, through the small library, introducing her to everyone else.

My response was purely instinctual when I linked my arm through hers.  Twenty years later, she’s like a sister to me.

I am writing along with RemembeRED, from The Red Dress Club for this first time.  We were prompted to:  "Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.  Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self."

If you are a regular here, you might be able to guess that this girl, now woman, is one of my Four Musketeers, who responds to the camp name, Snoopy!  And don't worry, I didn't steal her from her best friend, who responds to the camp name Woodstock, because she's also a Four Musketeer! :>

Our Spot

It was Our Spot, this cove we laid claim to.

We often arrived before the billowing fog had rolled back.  Content to pass cooler morning hours, our bodies formed a human pretzel, salted by the ocean’s spray.  Warmth radiated from every cell.

When the cloudless sky opened up, we picnicked, painted stories in the sand, scoured and scavenged hidden gems along the shore.  A retreating tide created even more adventures to be shared.  Hands stretched out to help each other scale the slippery, water-logged boulders.  Teeming with sea critters, there was so much vibrant life to explore.  Excitement, sheer giddiness captured us every time, each of us racing to show the other our next discovery.

Somehow, in the mere moments we weren’t absorbed by one another, I took pleasure breathing in the kaleidoscope before me.  Sure, it was absurd to try to name and number every shade Our Spot’s surroundings offered.  Though while being cradled by the sand, toasted by the sun, it was a trite little game I liked to play in my mind.  Easily distracted from my counting, I was always mesmerized by the varied palette of greens, blues, and grays that paraded across the sky, descending to prance upon the ocean’s skin, playfully reflected back in my mate’s eyes…where I always got lost.  I never did grasp a final count.

For three short years, we returned to our cove as often as the chaos of everyday life would allow, always wishing we could stay longer…one more breath of salty air to drag deeply in, one more chance to wriggle our toes in the toasty warm sand, one more treasure hunt, one more wave of water washing up the wet sand, swirling madly around our ankles.

We must have missed the riptide warning that Sunday.  How we could have missed a blazing red sign, I’m still not quite sure.

We never did want to leave our cove, Our Spot.  And now, we never will.

This post is Fiction, a part of the Red Writing Hood, and though I've read fantastic fiction from The Red Dress Club's members before, this is my first time writing along!  This week's prompt:

Water gives life. It also takes it away.