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!

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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.



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RemembeRED: Title & Tagline

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On the Move

After living on two coasts, in four states, twelve towns, sixteen abodes, standing still, she regained her momentum.

Our memoir prompt at Write on Edge is "to come up with a title and tagline that captures your life, or a moment from your life."

Easy peasy, right?  Yeah, that's what I would have thought since microfiction and I are such fine friends.

But, micro memoir that's boiled down to a title & a tagline?  Not so much!  I wrote about a dozen or so, but this is the one I'm running with.

Color Wash

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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?

2011 One Little Word Wrap-Up

For the last two years, I've chosen One Little Word to guide me for the year.  As a fan of Ali Edwards, her thoughts on the effects of choosing just one word, resonated with me.  And so I began the process in the last days of 2009, choosing 'Live' for 2010 and 'Grow' for 2011.

As I began reflecting on this last year, I pleasantly discovered that I had accomplished several of my goals and did indeed, Grow in many ways.  Sharing some of the ways I've grown on here at Time Crafted, seems only appropriate since so many of you have given me both inspiration and support.

I began the year taking Ali Edwards' year long One Little Word workshop at Big Picture Classes.  And while it was great to see Andi, Siri, and other familiar, friendly faces, I mostly worked on this offline.

She's repeating the workshop for 2012 and I'm leaning towards signing up again.  It definitely helped me keep 'Grow' close at heart throughout the year.

One night on Twitter, @thienkim urged me to check out The Sketchbook Challenge.  Her enthusiasm was infectious and I was excited to create along.

Creating an art journal always seemed intimidating to me.  It might sound silly, but many creative bloggers and artists I visit, have mad crazy talent and I fretted about not measuring up...until I realized that the goal isn't to 'measure up', but rather to grow, try new things, learn new skills, and improve on what I already do.  So, I did.

After reading the creative writing goodness that Mandy weaves with her words, I wanted to get back into my own creative writing.  I missed it and knew that it had been far too long since I swam with crazy colored words.

I decided to start small and began with a microfiction meme.  It's the shortest of short fiction, written in 140 characters or less, including spaces & punctuation.  Turns out, microfiction is a whole mess o' fun!

Looking at where Mandy was sharing her fiction with, I headed over to The Red Dress Club, which is now Write on Edge, a virtual writing community.

I began writing and sharing my fiction with their Red Writing Hood prompts, as well as some memoir with their RemembeRED prompts.

And then I got brave.  In November, a group of writers within the Write on Edge community participated in NaNoWriMo and I joined in.

I didn't hit the word count, but I'm okay with my results.  If you want to know what I thought was so cool about the whole process, check out my really short post: NaNoWriMo in 8 Sentences.

When Bruna, @beeswithhoney, said she wanted to feature me on her Let's BEE Friends series, I was tickled pink.  And when Sarah, @MamaRiceCake, asked me to write a positive guest post for her, I went Dancing with Rainbows.  Mandy asked me to guest post on Makes Fun and I wrote the low down on The Little Red Bear.

And speaking of writing, one more area I wanted to grow was right here on the blog.  In this case, I wanted to literally grow...more posts, that is.  I didn't set a goal or a specific number to hit; simply that I wanted to post more than I had last year.  And with this post, I'm coming in with 51 more posts than in 2010.  Grow Goal, accomplished.

I spent most of 2010 knowing that I needed wanted needed to upgrade my Point & Shoot camera.  I had squeezed out every ounce I could from it and was itching for a DSLR.  In February last year, it was time to take the leap.  I bought a Nikon D3100 and while I'm still learning how the heck to use it in manual, photography is something I've grown to love since beginning this blogging journey.

2011 became the year of the virtual Book Clubs, starting with Andrea (a sweet Book Fairy) leading one on the SITS Girls site, which is now over on her site Great Thoughts. She selects great books and we wrap our reads up with fun monthly Twitter parties, tweeting with the books' authors, using the hashtag #Gr8Books.  You should join us!

This fall, @thienkim asked me to be a From Left to Write Contributor.  What's wonderfully unique about this book club is that we write posts inspired by the books we read.  As a result I was able to share Who Will Tell Your Story?, as well as a favorite artist of ours, Michel LeRoux.  Another unique bit is that the book selection here really varies, widening my viewpoints, and hopefully, others' too.

This was a looong post, I know.  If you're still here, give yourself a pat on the back, a taste of Nutella, a cuppa java, or an ice cold martini.  Thanks for hanging in there!

The One Little Word, Grow, has taken me on quite a journey this year!  How about you?  Do you chose just one little word to hold near your heart, to guide you, to focus you in your year ahead? 

 

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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.”


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RemembeRED: Crash

Crash.  The impact changed more bits and pieces than I can count.  Crash.  The tiny car I drove collided with an eighteen wheeler big rig, or so I’m told; I have no memory of it. 

Crash.    Waking in the ICU, only flickers and images of those three days remain.  Crash.  A week in acute care and a few realities set in.  People only kissing me on my upper left forehead – something was wrong with my face.  A cast had made a home on my leg.  Every part of my upper body cried out, if I tried to move.  A phone call from the CHP officer asking me if I remembered what happened – I didn’t.  Filling out his report, he told me I was not at fault.  Visitors, lots of visitors came in and out – family, friends, coworkers from my new job, and my new boss popping wheelies in my wheelchair at my bedside.  It hurt to laugh, but I smiled.

Crash.  Two weeks on the rehabilitation floor.  The mini gym on the lower level found me twice a day for Physical Therapy.  Once a day, I navigated through Occupational Therapy for simple tasks that weren’t quite as simple anymore.  While washing my thick curly hair without getting that cast wet was a necessity to learn, I argued with my therapist that burning my lacerated face to bake chocolate chip cookies to prove I could feed myself upon release was rather ridiculous as there was such a concept as a sandwich – simple and without the need for a hot oven scorching my face.  Crash.

Released from the hospital, still in a wheel chair and using crutches for stairs.  Crash.  Feeling years older than my young friends in college, even though we had celebrated the same number of birthdays, I took advantage of every physical therapy appointment over the next four months.

Crash.  I was twenty-one years old and almost every aspect of my life changed.  People always told me that I was lucky to be alive.  I always responded that I was lucky it wasn’t worse.

From a single crash came a completely new world.  While there’s some stuff I’d hand back in a heartbeat if I could, I’ve learned quite a hefty volume about myself and the world I live in.  I was looking forward to the future then and fifteen years later, I still am.

This week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge is a tad different.  They gave us the word "Crash" to write on for ten minutes, polish, and publish.  It's flash memoir!

Do you have ten minutes?  Come write with us!

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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.

I'm Diving In - Yikes!

Not quite sure if I've crossed the line to insanity, but if I haven't already, I'm sure I'll dance with it at some point this month!

Do you know about NaNoWriMo?  Are you participating this year?  Have you participated in the writing frenzy before?

I've seen the NaNoWriMo badges on blogs since before I began blogging myself.  And with a name like that you get to clickin' and your nearest friendly Google page to see what the heck it is.

So, what is it?  NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month.  It's run from Berkeley, California, though people participate around the globe.  And people write a 50,000 word fictional novel in one month.

I had told myself that there was no way I was going to dive in this year.  Maybe next year.  This year?  No.

Um, yea, that went over real well when the NaNo bug started whispering in my ear last week.  And when it had become a deafening roar by the end of the week - you know, just days before the event was set to start - I caved.

I quickly began jotting down story ideas in the car while waiting to pick my daughter up from school and found one that resonated enough, keeping me from running, screaming at the top of my lungs.

And then, I hopped online to figure out what the heck I was getting into.  Yes, I realize I might have approached this a little backwards.  Eh, just keeping life interesting!

While there are over 200,000 participants worldwide, there are a good sized handful of us from Write on Edge getting our novel writing on together.  We have a few veterans, including Cameron D. Garriepy, who is helping us all get our ducks in a row.  And there's quite a few of us NaNoWriMo newbies, like myself.

If you're participating this year, give me a holler & we can be writing buddies.  I'm timecrafted over there.  And if you're not, then please, by all means, send patience, inspiration, nimble fingers, and caffeine!!!

See you in the word pool!

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?

RemembeRED: Autumn's Gift

Eight years old, walking down my upstate New York street, hunting my next crispy leaf to pounce upon, enveloped by cool crisp air.

Eleven years old, cringing at what the Sacramento area called autumn with temperatures in the eighties, daring to venture into the nineties.

Thirteen years old, giving in to the obscene excuse for fall, I relish in the ever so slightly cooler temperatures of the Bay Area and my last year trick-or-treating in an on the fly costume.

Seventeen years old, the weather no longer marks the season; marching band, home game field shows, trying to not get hit in the head by a flag girl while wearing black, red, and white polyester.

Twenty-one years old, in a wheelchair, on crutches, time taken up not by school and work, but by physical therapy and doctor’s appointments.  Life shines differently and I remember the pure joy of crunching a tired brittle leaf underfoot.

Twenty-four years old, then twenty-seven years old, barely on the cusp of the Bay Area, surrounded by leaves that actually change; as they burn crimson upon the vineyards’ vines.

Thirty years old, sharing my favorite autumn gift, I race my first born for the best leaves.

Thirty-three years old, I have to be quick, there are two supersonic kidlets chasing those fallen crispy critters now.

Thirty-six years old, joining my daughter’s class at the pumpkin patch, scouting out a Rapunzel costume for her, something scary for him this year – a first, digging out my husband’s frightful Uncle Charlie mask, stocking organic pumpkin puree for a GFCF baked delight, all the while keeping a watchful eye out for falling leaves waiting for someone to complete their life cycle, making them crinkle, crack, crunch under a shoe, injecting joy into my soul.

I adore autumn! And at Write on Edge, that's just what we're writing about today.

If you're curious why I love Autumn so much, I have gorgeous crimson leaves, pumpkins (scroll to the bottom to see the Yoda I carved) and more pumpkins (again, my Star Wars carving is the last pic), some yummy GFCF pumpkin bread, and of course, football!

I hope your fall is a fantastic one and a might bit cooler than the hot weather we're having...again!  But, even with the high temps, I'm relishing all the other signs that fall is here:  pumpkins, the grapes being harvested from the vines, leaves beginning to change color and soon I'll be crunching away as they drift to the ground.

What does fall mean for you?

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! :>

RemembeRED: When do you want me to come?

Sporting a white polo top, a short straight kelly green skirt, and white Keds, she hobbled up the small hill from the parking lot on crutches with the sun rising behind her.

That was twenty-four years ago that I met the little blonde who would become my best friend and one of my treasured Four Musketeers.  The memory wasn't stored intentionally, but back then I remembered just about every living photograph I saw.  Today, I'm glad the memory is so accessibly stored in my mind.

Looking in from the outside, we probably shouldn't be best friends.  She's blonde, I'm brunette.  She's sporty, I'm not.  She's a joiner, I'm not.  Even though she has two cats, she's a dog person.  Cats are my fur peeps.  They're great listeners, cute, don't stink, and a heck of lot cheaper than therapy.  She follows recipes, I always change things up.  She's fond of measuring, I'm not.  She rocks it in the math department, I party with words.  She checks in on Facebook, you'll more often hear me on Twitter.

And yet, twenty-four years later, whether via phone, Twitter, Facebook, an IM chat, or old school email, we never go long without hearing from the other.

A few years ago, I was more elated than usual to see her name in my email's inbox.

Exhaustion ran through every cell after having my second kidlet, particularly the days immediately following her dramatic entry.

And my husband's best friend was getting married in just a few short weeks, out of town.  He was the Best Man.  He had to be there.

Hesitation tried to hide in his eyes.  I still couldn't drive, I had a preschooler, newborn, was severely anemic, and exhausted.  It was his best friend, he needed to go.  I told him to go.

Attempting to not sound desperate, I sent out emails looking for help.  My inbox held my best friend's reply with only one question, "When do you want me to come?"

Friday, after work, she arrived.  Donning chocolate capris, cream top with coffee tinted trimming at her neck, she walked in my front door, promptly taking my daughter into her arms to meet her for the first time.

Sunshine filled the sky as she drove us out to Mom's the next morning, to drop my son off for an overnight there.  She again climbed behind the wheel to drive my newborn and I around to crafty destinations before we headed back home.

She easily transferred my slumbering daughter to her arms and sent me to my room to take a nap.

A nap?  The concept was foreign to me.  I took all of two twenty minute naps with my first baby in my arms, not because I was SuperMama, but simply because he woke up every other time I had tried.  A nap?  My baby girl was a few weeks old and I had yet to catch some shut eye during the sun's hours.  A nap?  Yes, I needed one.

Without a worry wandering in my head, I not only lay down, but quickly drifted into a dreamless solid sleep.  Waking in a dark room, my nap had lasted much longer than twenty minutes.  Climbing out of bed, I made my way out to check on my friend and my girl.

She was still contentedly in my best friend's arms, waiting quietly, patiently for me to feed her.

My friend's only question, "When do you want me to come?"  Seven simple words were like a choir singing out, filling a room with both joy and peace in the same breath.

This week, Write on Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club) prompted us to "write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else."

And just for the record, I love my husband's best friend & his wife. And yes, they both invited me to join my husband at their wedding, but it was in a very hot area, with little shade and we knew I wouldn't have lasted.  I'm glad Hubs could go, support his friend, and have a great time without worrying about me! :>