Better Late?

I probably should have let this in drift away, especially since I've missed the deadline by a few days. But, for some reason it wouldn't let me go. For March Wordsmiths Unlimited.

M O R N

It is this kind of day, dappled sky, calm wind, and placid water that Lexi has grown to despise. It is this kind of day that finds Lexi fighting to maintain the tenuous grasp on her all-togetherness. When she woke to find the mocking cheeriness, she repelled a strong desire to return to bed, cover her head, and wait out the storm of bright, sort of sunshiny day.

Bring on the dark clouds, rolling winds and waves.

Having no choice but to face this day, Lexi lumbered from her bed with combat boot-like clumsiness. She made her way to the bathroom. Once there, a look in the mirror revealed the horror that was the night before. Gin held the starring spot with tonic playing a bit part. And though the horror that is too many gin and tonics was playing out on her face, Lexi decided that a few more would have minimized the assault of this mocking sky. Frigid water to the face did little to jar the memory from Lexi's mind. The shock of the water did little to silence those chirping...whatever brand of bird she heard chattering away just outside the bathroom window.

Bring on the dark clouds, rolling winds and waves.

Lexi blamed the day, the drink, the dark moodiness on the channel 7 weather girl, rather, woman. The cheerful young woman waxed poetic about perfect boating weather. The moment Lexi heard that forecast yesterday, the rest of the day threatened to spiral woefully out of control. A will of steel kept her from throwing in the towel at work. She was, however, on the verge of biting off the head of every project manager who crossed her path. She was able to contain pressure bulge through the commute home. But once home...heeeerrreeee's Gin and Tonic!

One drink turned into two, two turned into ten. Still, throughout the night, Lexi couldn't erase the audio running in a constant loop "this is not the answer, Lexi" chirped Roxanne's disapproving voice. Each loop brought another sip. Lexi eschewed the audio's message, rationalizing Roxanne's absence justified continuing. "You're not here anymore. I can do what I damn well please", Lexi screamed to the air.

Roxanne left Lexi on a morning much like the one the channel 7 weather woman predicted, much like the one that was in fact, here. The perfect boating weather had done Lexi in. Roxanne and Lexi had planned a boating outing boating weather day. A filled cooler full of soda, drinking water, sandwiches, and salad sat in the foyer for the next two days. After Roxanne’s exit Lexi was unable to move it, or herself, for that matter.

There was no discussion, no re-course just silence and rotting lettuce.

Now, on this day that was so much like that day, there is the aftermath of too much gin and not enough tonic.

Lexi spied her image in the mirror wishing for dark skies, rolling winds and waves for the third time this morning.

Woman's Work

For September's Wordsmith's Challenge: Woman's Work

The drink order was delivered without benefit of eye contact from the morose waitress. The absence of that little bit of familiarity and camaraderie would normally upset this customer. Not today, today is not a normal day. The customer, Dusty, was in a funky mood and the plan was to drink her way to a more agreeable mood, fast.

Dusty Lickliter’s funky mood was caused by her termination. She was fired from the job she loved as the number one taste tester for the Kook-ee Candies and Confections Company. For three years Dusty poured her heart and soul into this job. She never missed a day and she applied for extra hours whenever she could.

Proposed all-day-sucker flavors always warranted extra hours.

There would be no more extra hours though. Dusty was fired. No reason to get up in the morning. Gone was the sniffing and licking ritual that defined tasting. Gone was Lickliter’s joy except for that which she hoped would be found at the bottom of this drink. Well, truth be told, many drinks.

Deep into drink number four, Dusty began to accept that her termination was justified. She recalled the day the Pink Pulse samples were delivered to her cubicle.

Pink Pulse, a new hard candy flavor sensation, was slated for a vigorous round of tasting. Dusty gave it all she had. She sniffed and licked the Pink for five days before finally awarding the flavor four tongues up, the highest praise a hard candy could achieve. Pink Pulse went into production almost immediately, based exclusively on Dusty Lickliter’s trusty tasting skills.

The Pink bombed.

Kook-ee Candiies and Confections lost millions. While the business survived the fall-out, Dusty was not so lucky. She was out, a taster without a purpose. Her tongue was once considered the best little licker in town. That’s all kaput now.

Though content to drown her sorrows in as many of the tasty concoctions the morose but pretty waitress of the garishly decorated restaurant / bar could bring her, Dusty was pleased to have been able to walk home under her own steam.

Checking her receipts several days later, Dusty saw that the delectable concoction she’d been drinking that night was called Pretty in Pink.

If there were such a concept of ‘lucky color’, Dusty Lickliter has decided that the color pink is certainly out of the running as her charm.

In the Morning

This tale is my entry to this month's Wordsmiths exercise. The groans emanating from the bedroom, slicing into the serenity of Justine’s early morning ritual signaled the return of Rachel’s nightmares. Experience and the memory of a painfully bloody nose kept Justine from making her way to the bedroom. It was too soon. She must wait.

Justine does move to pour another cup of coffee. The steamy aroma taking her back to a similar morning eight months ago. She dropped a cup of coffee then, running full out to Rachel’s side the very first time she’d heard those groans.

Having cleaned up and settled down after being pummeled about the head and face when trying to rouse Rachel, Justine wanted to know if Rachel wanted to tell. Rachel didn’t want, but she did tell some.

“I was seven and my brothers were six and five. Mama’s friend, Papa Jack announced he was taking us to the carnival. Mama was working, so she didn’t go. We left in Papa Jack’s green truck and arrived at the carnival about 30 minutes later. It was cold. Too cold to be at the carnival, I thought. Other people must’ve thought so too, because there weren’t many people there. We jumped from the truck and half walked, half jogged about, unable to decide what to get on first. We were so excited. Papa Jack eventually suggested the Ferris wheel. Mama hadn’t let us try that ride before so we ran to go do that. Papa Jack paid the fee and the man operating the ride strapped us into baskets. I got to sit alone, since I was the biggest and oldest. It was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. I loved being up at top, being able to see the whole world. The boys weren’t even scared when it stopped and left us hanging in the air. Soon it was our turn to get off. The boys got off first and stayed together until I got down. I looked around for Papa Jack and didn’t see him anywhere. I called for him but he didn’t answer. The boys called and still nothing. The ride operator asked me if anything was wrong and I told him we couldn’t find our Papa Jack. He closed the ride and took us to an office. We sat for a long, long time with many grown-ups asking us our names and other questions. The boys started to cry. The carnival people gave us hot chocolate and peanuts. Sometime later the police came. We left with the police. “

It took a long time but Justine was finally able to get this part of the story from Rachel. The nightmares started two years after she left foster care. There is more, but Rachel won’t say. Though Justine has tried to find out what triggers the nightmares, more importantly she has had to learn how to soothe.

The coffee is nearly finished, soon it will be time to go to Rachel and hold her close

It Is What It Is

Once again Lauren spotted Lori standing in front of that painting. Lauren slid up behind Lori, wrapping her arms around Lori’s waist, planting her chin on Lori’s shoulders and trying to break through the reverie she imagined must be going on in Lori’s head. How could she stand and stare at this painting for hours?

Over and over again, Lauren fights to understand what Lori sees in the painting. The mystery has made her wary and sometimes weary.
Lauren shook off the doubts, leaned in closer and whispered into Lori’s ear, “darling.”

Not a muscle did Lori move. She barely took a breath. Lori stood stock still, cemented to the spot by some magical glue. Lauren kept hold of Lori’s waist as though to further anchor her to the spot. It seemed the thing to do, the only option available. Lauren looked at the painting summoning whatever data she’d gleaned from the Art History class taken so long ago. What is in this frame that is holding sweet, dear Lori hostage?

Lauren didn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. All she felt was confusion and overwhelming love for Lori. “Darling, what is it that you see. What are you feeling?”

A crowd began to form in the tiny gallery. Lauren, feeling self-conscious, began to fidget. “Baby, I think we should be moving on” she whispers to Lori. Lori became rigid, a statue staring at a painting. If it weren’t so nerve twisting Lauren would find it all somewhat comical. Lauren didn’t think she’d be able to stand here much longer, yet she clung even tighter to Lori’s waist trying to move her by sheer force of will. Still, Lori stood, staring.

Minutes felt like hours. Lauren began to feel swarmed by the crowd. It felt like she and Lori were on exhibit. It felt like the floor was shifting, the walls closing in, the air thinning. Lauren began to feel ill. One last plea went ignored like the others. Lauren was beside herself. She didn’t know what else to do. Lori was just transfixed and oblivious to everyone and everything but the painting. That stupid looking head with the freakishly weird expression and that nonsensical landscape has kidnapped her girlfriend. It was clear, Lori needed to be rescued.

How? What to do?

Lauren needed to regain her composure if she was going to rescue Lori. She was going to need all her wits to get them out of this pickle. She was going to……”Lori?” Lauren felt Lori move and then move again. The movements became quite herky jerky. Seconds before the sound emitted from Lori’s throat, Lauren knew she was laughing. Lori’s laughter had the swarming crowd receding, the floor settling and the walls returning to their posts. Lori’s laughter soothed the room.

Lori turned to face the love of her life, her eyes sparkling and her smile bright and asked between giggles, “have you seen that foot coming out of the head of that soldier? Isn’t that hilarious?”

November Wordsmiths exercise.

Pot Luck

Happy Wordsmiths Halloween exercise: Pot Luck

Maura was delighted to be alone, finally. She’d been waiting all day to get the kitchen all to herself. There was a lot of work to do if she was going to be ready for the pre- judging and she didn’t need the prying eyes of the other contestants peering over her shoulder. Maura thought a win here would set her apart from the rest of the students. Maybe Madame Cora would notice her, finally.

Madam Cora is the queen of culinary arts and Maura was in love with her.


Ingredients assembled, utensils aligned, Maura set about her work. She’d decided on three dishes, going for the maximum allowed. She told herself it wasn’t overkill. The banging overhead was annoying, but Maura was determined not let anything knock her off her stride. She was on a mission.


The cumin-spiced sirloin with tomatillo salsa was going to anchor Maura’s entries so she decided to concentrate most on this dish, which would be easier if that incessant banging would cease. Maura wondered who was upstairs making all the noise. She wondered if it was one of the other students trying to distract her. She’d show them, she refused to be rattled.


Maura put the ingredients for the salsa in the food processor and flipped the switch. Damn. Nothing, no juice, why? Maura flipped the switch a few more times and still, nothing. Maura walked over to the circuit box to check the fuses. Of course she didn’t know what the heck she was going to do when she got there. Food she knew, fuse boxes? Not so much.


Before Maura had to decide what to do about the fuses in the box, the lights went out. Believing she must now be the un-lucky recipient of some prank, Maura didn’t panic. She did get angry and anxious. All she wanted was to finish her meals and every delay, every diversion hurt.


The banging stopped. Maura was ecstatic because her head was near splitting from the noise. Maura hoped for the lights to return without incident. She wondered why the pranksters would stop before the prank was concluded. Still, she hoped.


In either case, Maura was determined to cook these jerks under the table, putting her closer to the lovely Madam Cora. Madam Cora, hazel eyes that mesmerize, tantaliz..Bang! Maura was shaken from her reverie by big clanging sounds. Just then the lights return allowing Maura to see the source of the noise. Pots strewn from the pantry had landed in the middle of the kitchen floor.


Maura, full with all the shenanigans, stomps over to the pots building intent to do bodily harm to the first of her horrid classmates to show their putrid face. The rage taking over every fiber blinds Maura to the reality. Her last thought was how the cold floor could feel so warm.


Madam Cora’s thoughts wandered that morning during class. The lovely green eyed Maura must be sleeping in this morning-sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Top of the World

This is the inspiration for September's Wordsmiths challenge. I bring you Top of the World. Only the view is spectacular. The rest of this hill could disappear and it I wouldn’t be phased one iota. Sometimes I dream of disappearing with it. Each ride up the desolate road I see his face in my mind’s eye. I scream and poof, I’m gone. He brought us here all those years ago, probably because of the view or maybe the road. Whatever the reason, he left short time later after landing us here at the top of the world, the end of the road.

We’ve been alone here since he left nearly four years ago. Only Doc Ryan still visits. Momma has warned everyone else off. She shoots. Well. Folks in the valley talk about the crazy old lady and her daughter who live up the hill. I don’t much care what they say about me I just want to leave this place. It was never really home. Momma won’t leave because she thinks he’s coming back. I think. Maybe she knows he isn’t and that’s why she stays. The view is spectacular.

We don’t have much, he didn’t leave much more than the clothes he wore when he pretended to work. I make my way down to the valley each day to work for some families who pay me a little to keep our dreariness away from their happy families. They feel good when they can pass on the extra cheese or a pint of milk. Momma won’t have that. She tosses their guilt to the winds when I haul it inside. I understand, still, the cheese would compliment the bread she bakes some afternoons.

The sunrises brought heat and heaping spoonfuls of anger and isolation. Still, sunrises are the best. Momma rises with the sun, ending the nights of anguish. She talks in her sleep, speaking of the dreams she had as a girl, fretting over the dreams she had for her own girl. Momma trusts me not to leave her alone on this hill, with the spectacular view. Yet, I think she wishes I would. Somebody should have their dreams come true she says in her sleep.

This morning I decided that momma’s dream talk is right. Dreams should come true. Doc Ryan said I could drop by anytime I needed to talk or just to sit and think. She said a body needs quiet time. After the last family I went over to Doc’s. She welcomed me with hot tea and a hearty soup. We talked for hours sipping tea, admiring the glowing embers of the roaring fire in her hearth.

Edging up the hill at sunrise I felt the change. The top of the world, the end of the road was too still. Momma’s note explained nothing, but everything was clear. The cook stove was warm and all his clothes were gone. I found the rifle at the edge of the yard. It too was warm. I looked up at the view to confirm, yes, still spectacular.

Jolly

It is a million degrees below zero, I could be writing about the cold, but I'm not. The Bears are slinking back into town singing the refrain of all big game losers, 'there's always next year!' and I could be writing about that, but I'm not. My son will be 25 this week and certainly I could write about that, and I will later this week. Today is the day for this month's challenge inspired by Bent Fabric, who by her own admission, doesn't "do jolly."

The jimjams had a hold of Jillian, or Jilly as she prefers to be called. She’d been too nervous to sleep after the messenger left, so she got up. Looking into the bathroom mirror and seeing the dark circles under her light-blue, almost gray eyes and the frazzled brown hair it was hard to understand why Qmax thought Jilly would make the perfect heroine to deliver jollies to a jolly-less world.

The first order of business was to assemble a costume. Unsure as to how she was going to jolly up the world, Jilly thought that a costume, at least, would be in order. Qmax didn’t mention it, but Jilly was sure she would agree. The costume Jilly envisioned would be presentable and indestructible.

Washing the weariness from her face and mind, Jilly thought her black wrangler jeans would work, they were indestructible and they fit perfectly. She would pair that with her green airwalk lace-up boots with the silver lining. She wished she had silver boots. Silver boots would be fabulous, but she’d have to settle for the silver lined boots. Jilly was stumped as to what to do about a top and then wondered if she’d need a cape. What could she use for a cape?

Jilly applied some gel to her frazzled mane. The much stronger gel Qmax left had Jilly’s nose twitching. Her head spinning from trying to think of how to jolly the world and the rest of her costume, combined to make her a little woozy and a little....aaahhhccchhhhooooo! Whew!

The big sneeze provided the answers to Jilly’s questions, for out of her nose blew the most beautiful sweater. A sweater of deep forest green, trimmed with silver threading that shimmered like sterling. There were silver glitter sprinkles and teeny tiny twinkle bells. The sweater even had wings. Oh. My.

Jilly almost fainted at the sight of such an extraordinary sweater.

This was fantastic! Jilly was beside herself with excitement. She quickly shed her pjs, trading them for the black wranglers, warm socks, the airwalk boots, a tee shirt and finally, her very own...her very own...Jilly pondered a name for the sweater and for the mission. Jilly surveyed herself in the mirror, twisting and turning to get better views. The teeny tiny twinkle bells making teeny tiny sounds like...jingles. Jingle Jangle!

Jingle Jangle Jollly! That’s it! Jilly would fly around the world sneezing out Jingle Jangle Jolly sweaters to all who needed some jolly. Who could resist the jollies after donning a Jingle Jangle sweater? Each sweater would be tailored to fit the recipient's personality to assure maximum jolly.

Jilly sent word to Qmax, assuring her that the Jingle Jangle sweater mission was up and about to be running, or rather flying. Jilly got out on the roof, stamped her boots twice and in a whoosh was off to her first jolly stop, Juneau. Jilly decided it was only fitting to sneeze jolly sweaters to *J* places first.

Surprise Surprise

This is the Wordsmiths challenge. The challenge is to finish the default story as shown here in red. My ending is below the picture.

A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep. It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door. It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it. Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events.

Bad enough to be wrested from my slumber, but to be faced with a bona fide mystery is just about as much as a body should be forced to bear. Sleep is now a dream. Not much left to do but to dig in to get to the bottom of this conundrum. But, first things first. Food.

I leave the box on the hall table and head for the kitchen. I need to fix a meal. A meal fit for a queen. Hey! Queen. Maybe this box is from Sharia. She does stuff like this all the time. As I grab the eggs, butter, milk, onions, spinach and olives the Sharia angle intensifies. Then fizzles. Sharia’s in Egypt. The box didn’t look Egyptian. It looks more like Asia.

Cooking always calms. Heavy, there is heft. It doesn’t seem to come from the box. The wood, not that I know anything about wood, but the wood seems delicate. The weight must be from the contents. What could it be inside and how am I going to get there? More importantly, who left it at my door? Ahh, this omelet looks perfect.

The omelet, muffins, juice and coffee make a perfect thinking feast. I decide to go get the box so I could study it while I eat. Padding back through the house, I stop mid-stride when I’m struck by the fact that the box is not on the table. Not on the table? Now where did it go? How did it go? I continue on, get down to look underneath the table. No. Not there. I look all around the table, even open the door and look outside. No. Not anywhere. What in the hell is going on?

I hear a noise, coming from the bedroom. What? Who? How? I hear myself stammering. Just then, Neta peeks out from the doorway. The look in her eye says, "come here". How does she do that?

Walking towards her, I start to ask, without the stammer, what? And how? She leads me further into the bedroom and hands me the box. She says, "I thought I’d help you open your gift." I tried to explain that I didn’t see anyway in the box and that I had breakfast on the table. We could eat, while we figured a way inside. I was trying to explain this through a series of the deepest, wettest kisses I’d experienced in quite some time. I still had the box in my hands so things progressed somewhat awkwardly.

"Neta", I manage just as I was dropping the box, "could we maybe...?"
She grabbed the box, settling it on the bed. Neta sat me next to the box and proceeded to show me that yes, we could.

The next afternoon, just minutes after I heard front door lock the click, I realized we’d never had the omelet and I was starving.

Smiling on my way to the kitchen, I saw that Neta had taken the box.

Hindsight

Here is my entry, in response to wordsmiths November challenge. This photo was the inspiration.

I give you Hindsight.

Walking with resolute sedulity for days, no, only a few hours, Trace came upon what appeared to be an old church. There was a steeple, now fallen. Stepping inside what might have been a sanctuary, Trace was taken aback.

This space, filled with overgrown sedum, ferns and other unidentifiable plant life was instantly scary. In that instant she regretted the decision to leave the car. In that instant she wanted to turn and run. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Trace was tired. She was hungry. As scary as this place was, here she would stay, at least until she could regain some strength, recover some insight, try to understand why Jamie reacted with such hysterics. Jamie’s response to Trace’s news about wanting to move to Massachusetts was bizarre, to say the least. Trace had no idea that Jamie would become so agitated. She had no idea that she would become, homicidal. Yes, homicidal, Trace believed that Jamie was trying to kill her. The fight was more than a fight, Jamie was out of control. She was unstable. She was strong.

Trace got enough leverage to break Jamie’s grip. She pushed Jamie hard enough, to give herself time to run. Trace put some space between them and was able to make it to the door before Jamie recovered. Luckily, her keys were in her pocket. Trace got to the car just as Jamie appeared on the stoop. The car started on the first try, thanking God, Trace took off tires spinning, rubber squealing.

Driving with no destination in queue, Trace’s mind spun as fast as the tires. A million questions riddled her brain; the whats and whys bouncing around with fervor. She discovered she was driving out of town, now on a single lane road. She’d not been lucid enough to take note of signs nor the tank. Running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, she got out and started to walk.

Finding herself in this sanctuary, which she’s decided isn’t so scary anymore. Trace decides it is an old church, but it doesn’t appear it was being used as a church. The furniture suggests some other purpose. Trace decided this place would serve as her sanctuary. She would rest and get her bearings. Trace fashioned a bench out of some of the broken furniture, patting herself on the back for having the foresight to bring some provisions from the car, primarily the blanket.

Thinking about the ads she’d answered which eventually led her to Jamie, Trace thought, oh, Jamie! What happened? Why had the mention of Massachusetts triggered such vitriolic responses? Such violence? Trace slowed her breathing trying to relax. Putting the episode aside, Trace would sleep thinking onward to the hike toward the next town and how the solitude of this sanctuary was giving her strength.

There was company on Trace's road. The company knew Trace would sleep and how she slept.

The company hovered, crowding Trace’s fleeing thought
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