Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge will not produce its birth certificate, no matter how many times you ask. This week's word is "Family", and my story is called, "Home Sweet Home"
I opened the door. It was raining. She was soaked to the skin, her light blue dress almost transparent. "I'm sorry," she said, and coughed once. Her arms were folded across her chest. I reached out and pulled her inside by her elbows. I shut the door firmly.
She coughed again. "I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry I-"
"No," I interrupted. "It's fine. You don't have to apologize."
"I don't have anywhere to go," she said.
"I know," I said. "You can stay. It's fine. Really. Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in."
Monday, May 02, 2011
Tornado Relief Challenge: Who'll Stop The Rain?
Daniel has begun a flash fiction challenge, 1000 words, based on the theme of rain. Here's my entry, "Who'll Stop The Rain".
Kayla Bennett was up before her alarm. She had laid out her full uniform- underwear, socks, shorts, top, shin guards- the whole thing. She was up, changing in the dark, assembling herself, rushing into the bathroom to brush her teeth in case her mom decided to check. She came down the stairs, stepping carefully so her cleats didn't make any noise.
She came through the kitchen, her mother already at the table, staring down into a steaming cup of coffee. "Oh, honey," she said. "It's raining. No game today." She sounded really disappointed, even though Kayla secretly felt like her mom hated soccer, all the chaos and the driving and the waiting.
"It's going to stop," Kayla said.
"I don't think it is, baby."
"It will."
Kayla walked past her mother and into the living room, looking out the giant picture window. Her younger sister Kara was already there, ragged blanket in one fist, staring dumbly at the TV from one corner of the couch. Kayla looked outside. It was a dark, angry rain, pouring out of a cement gray sky. Kayla knew it wasn't going to stop, just like that blonde woman said on the news last night. She could hear the narrator on the TV talking about how bananas were yellow. Kara was always the first one up, but she, like her mom, needed a little time to warm up before she was ready to talk.
Kayla stood very close to the window and looked up, hoping for a break in the clouds, a line of sun that would signal a possible game today. The sky gave her no hope, a uniform gray with rolling black bubbles. It looked angry. Evil. She stared at it, willing it to split, commanding the clouds to part. She sighed, looking down at the tips of her cleats against the wall. Stupid rain.
Kara was beside her now, looking up at her, her tiny fingers playing with the hem of Kayla's soccer shorts. Kara was always fascinated by the satiny finish.
"Rainin," Kara said. She was annoying at times, but she was so cute it was hard to stay mad. Kayla looked down at her disordered hair and wide eyes.
"Yeah."
"Gonna play today?" That was unlikely, Kayla admitted to herself. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and even if it were to break right now, Kayla thought, the field would take hours to dry. She'd play in the rain- she'd play in anything. But nobody else would.
"No, Kar."
"Why you got your 'form on?," she asked.
"I was hoping it would stop raining."
Kara looked outside, her tiny face screwed tight with a look of concentration. "Stop, rain!" she commanded.
"Thanks, Kar. I don't think that will work." That was sweet of her.
Kara went back to the couch, resuming her previous post. Soccer was really the only thing she was good at, the only thing that made her special. She wasn't the prettiest girl in her school, or the nicest, or the smartest. Kara got all kinds of attention, being the baby, and Katherine...she got attention for another reason. Soccer, especially if Katherine and Kara stayed home, was her time to shine, her time when Mom and Dad looked only at her.
She kicked the base of the wall, very softly. The toe of the cleat made a satisfying thunk. She kicked it a little harder, delighting in the solid sound it made.
"Don't do that," Katherine said behind her. "Dad'll make you clean it if you make a mark." Her older sister had come in to the living room, phone in hand, texting madly. Kayla watched her walk, almost waddle, her belly now sticking out so far her sleep pants, black ones with moons and stars on them, were constantly slipping, leaving a crescent of pale, tight skin. Kayla shivered with the weirdness of that. She could hardly imagine there was a whole person inside her sister's body. Kayla stopped kicking.
Katherine sat on the opposite end of the couch, her belly resting between her legs. Kara looked at one sister, then the other.
"Baby come today?," Kara asked. She asked this every day.
"I don't know," Katherine said dismissively. "Maybe."
Kayla heard her father's low voice in the kitchen. A moment later, he came out, already wearing a Red Sox cap along with a gray shirt and blue sweats. "I don't think there's a game today, Punkin," he began, looking at Kayla with wrinkled eyes.
"I know," Kayla said, a little louder than she intended. She stalked out of the room, not caring how loud her cleats sounded. She walked through the now empty kitchen, and started up the stairs, hauling her uniform top off as she went. She opened the door to her room, then shut it hard behind her. Acting mad seemed to only make her angrier as she stripped off the uniform piece by piece, setting the shoes and shin guards down but hurling the pants, shirt, socks, and underwear around the room. Finally, her momentum spent and a little bit ashamed, Kayla Bennett crawled under her covers again, unwilling to face another long Saturday as the third kid.
Kayla Bennett was up before her alarm. She had laid out her full uniform- underwear, socks, shorts, top, shin guards- the whole thing. She was up, changing in the dark, assembling herself, rushing into the bathroom to brush her teeth in case her mom decided to check. She came down the stairs, stepping carefully so her cleats didn't make any noise.
She came through the kitchen, her mother already at the table, staring down into a steaming cup of coffee. "Oh, honey," she said. "It's raining. No game today." She sounded really disappointed, even though Kayla secretly felt like her mom hated soccer, all the chaos and the driving and the waiting.
"It's going to stop," Kayla said.
"I don't think it is, baby."
"It will."
Kayla walked past her mother and into the living room, looking out the giant picture window. Her younger sister Kara was already there, ragged blanket in one fist, staring dumbly at the TV from one corner of the couch. Kayla looked outside. It was a dark, angry rain, pouring out of a cement gray sky. Kayla knew it wasn't going to stop, just like that blonde woman said on the news last night. She could hear the narrator on the TV talking about how bananas were yellow. Kara was always the first one up, but she, like her mom, needed a little time to warm up before she was ready to talk.
Kayla stood very close to the window and looked up, hoping for a break in the clouds, a line of sun that would signal a possible game today. The sky gave her no hope, a uniform gray with rolling black bubbles. It looked angry. Evil. She stared at it, willing it to split, commanding the clouds to part. She sighed, looking down at the tips of her cleats against the wall. Stupid rain.
Kara was beside her now, looking up at her, her tiny fingers playing with the hem of Kayla's soccer shorts. Kara was always fascinated by the satiny finish.
"Rainin," Kara said. She was annoying at times, but she was so cute it was hard to stay mad. Kayla looked down at her disordered hair and wide eyes.
"Yeah."
"Gonna play today?" That was unlikely, Kayla admitted to herself. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and even if it were to break right now, Kayla thought, the field would take hours to dry. She'd play in the rain- she'd play in anything. But nobody else would.
"No, Kar."
"Why you got your 'form on?," she asked.
"I was hoping it would stop raining."
Kara looked outside, her tiny face screwed tight with a look of concentration. "Stop, rain!" she commanded.
"Thanks, Kar. I don't think that will work." That was sweet of her.
Kara went back to the couch, resuming her previous post. Soccer was really the only thing she was good at, the only thing that made her special. She wasn't the prettiest girl in her school, or the nicest, or the smartest. Kara got all kinds of attention, being the baby, and Katherine...she got attention for another reason. Soccer, especially if Katherine and Kara stayed home, was her time to shine, her time when Mom and Dad looked only at her.
She kicked the base of the wall, very softly. The toe of the cleat made a satisfying thunk. She kicked it a little harder, delighting in the solid sound it made.
"Don't do that," Katherine said behind her. "Dad'll make you clean it if you make a mark." Her older sister had come in to the living room, phone in hand, texting madly. Kayla watched her walk, almost waddle, her belly now sticking out so far her sleep pants, black ones with moons and stars on them, were constantly slipping, leaving a crescent of pale, tight skin. Kayla shivered with the weirdness of that. She could hardly imagine there was a whole person inside her sister's body. Kayla stopped kicking.
Katherine sat on the opposite end of the couch, her belly resting between her legs. Kara looked at one sister, then the other.
"Baby come today?," Kara asked. She asked this every day.
"I don't know," Katherine said dismissively. "Maybe."
Kayla heard her father's low voice in the kitchen. A moment later, he came out, already wearing a Red Sox cap along with a gray shirt and blue sweats. "I don't think there's a game today, Punkin," he began, looking at Kayla with wrinkled eyes.
"I know," Kayla said, a little louder than she intended. She stalked out of the room, not caring how loud her cleats sounded. She walked through the now empty kitchen, and started up the stairs, hauling her uniform top off as she went. She opened the door to her room, then shut it hard behind her. Acting mad seemed to only make her angrier as she stripped off the uniform piece by piece, setting the shoes and shin guards down but hurling the pants, shirt, socks, and underwear around the room. Finally, her momentum spent and a little bit ashamed, Kayla Bennett crawled under her covers again, unwilling to face another long Saturday as the third kid.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "I Saw Her Standing There"
Chuck Wendig, the firey pen monkey with a heart of gold and testicles of aircraft aluminum, lost his dog recently, inviting his weekly challenge friends to pay tribute in the form of a story involving a good dog. I'm not a dog guy, which I know makes me basically lacking in my humanity, but there you go. I still had an idea, though, so here goes.
I saw her standing, leaning against the bar facing the rest of the room. She had on a red gown that hugged her curves. Bridesmaid dresses were a running joke, but she looked fine. I got a scotch and soda, then turned to stand near her, facing the same way. I tried to measure my distance, standing close enough to signal affection without assuming intimacy. Her brown hair fell in waves down her back, and her face, though pretty, looked pinched.
"Hi," she offered. Her voice sounded tight, like she wanted to follow her glass of wine with 8 or 10 more.
"Having fun?"
"No. I'm going to sit down," she said, and walked to a table. The band was piling onto the stage again.
I walked around the table and sat in the chair next to hers, turning it so I faced her. She had her legs crossed, one bare foot pointing at me.
"Shoes killing you?," I offered.
"You have no idea," she said.
"No, I don't look good in heels," I said. She chuckled.
"You one of his friends?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "College. We wrote on the school paper."
"I was Shannon's roommate junior and senior year."
"Aha. Was she as boring as Gary was?"
"Oh, God. When she met Gary, all she did was study. No drunken hookups."
"What about you?"
"What? Hookups? I had my share."
"I did my share, too," I added.
She put her feet together on the floor, her painted toes bright and cheerful. "Sorry," she began.
"No, it's fine," I said. "I understand. Those shoes look great, but not comfortable."
"I only wear shoes like that to weddings."
"Been going to a lot?"
"Oh, my God. This is the fourth this month. I was only a bridesmaid in this one, though."
"That's extra work, isn't it."
"God, yes. More work, more money."
"But you kind of have to do it, huh?"
"Yeah. It's hard to turn someone down for this."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were starting to swim. "Want a refill?"
"Yes, but no." Her voice wavered. "I do, but I think I should stop. I want to drink a lot, and I really shouldn't."
"Bad day, huh?," I offered.
"Well sort of," she began. "It was stressful, but it wasn't just this. It's just that, well...," her voice trailed off. Her chin wrinkled.
"You don't have to tell me," I offered, trying to give her a way out.
"It's my dog, Daisy. I took her to the vet and they called me this morning. There's nothing they can do."
"Oh, no," I said. "That's awful."
"I'm flying back home tomorrow morning, and I just don't know if I can handle it. She was a good dog. My mom got her for me when we moved, and she has been my best friend ever since. I complained about boys to her, I told her all my secrets, I went almost everywhere with her, and she never complained about anything, not once. Want to see her?"
"Of course," I said. She took her phone out of her purse to show me a mutt, looking at the lens eagerly, deciding whether or not the phone was something to eat. "She looks friendly," I offered.
"Oh, she is. She loves everybody...," she said, her voice breaking. "Dammit, I'll ruin my makeup."
"You look fine," I said. "But it has run a little," I added truthfully.
"I assumed. I'll go fix it in a minute. What really bugs me is...I mean," she said, "I'm not dumb. I knew she wouldn't live forever. I just always had it in my head that she was going to meet my first baby. That's just this idea I had. And now she won't. It's just not fair. She was good....I mean why her? Why now? She just started limping, I figured it might be arthritis maybe. But not this. Not cancer. "
She got quiet as the band started playing "American Girl". "Shannon loves this song. I haven't told Shannon. I haven't told anybody. Just you. And you couldn't care less."
"Of course I care. A death in the family is always traumatic."
"Thank you. Every time I bring her up in the office, they all say, 'Well, it's not like it's a baby.' And I'm like, 'I know.' But they don't understand. I haven't had a serious boyfriend since college, I don't know anyone in town! Daisy is my only friend! Who am I going to tell now?" Her full face was fixed and firm, her eyes holding mine as if she expected me to answer.
She stood up. "I'm going to go clean up. Thank you for listening to me. You can go circulate now."
"No, no," I insisted. "I've done about all the circulating I can stand."
"OK," she said. She swallowed her wine in one swallow. "I'll take that refill, then." She slid her shoes on and left.
I drained my drink, then got two more. I had her pegged, watching her not participate in the chatter, assuming she felt she was above it. I could see now that she was more complicated than my simple judgement would allow. She came back out as the band was starting "I Saw Her Standing There". Her face was mostly clean now. I smiled softly, handing her another glass of wine.
"Thanks. Want to dance?"
"I don't...er...I...," I stuttered.
"Oh, come on," she said, slipping off her shoes. "Just follow me," she said. I did.
I saw her standing, leaning against the bar facing the rest of the room. She had on a red gown that hugged her curves. Bridesmaid dresses were a running joke, but she looked fine. I got a scotch and soda, then turned to stand near her, facing the same way. I tried to measure my distance, standing close enough to signal affection without assuming intimacy. Her brown hair fell in waves down her back, and her face, though pretty, looked pinched.
"Hi," she offered. Her voice sounded tight, like she wanted to follow her glass of wine with 8 or 10 more.
"Having fun?"
"No. I'm going to sit down," she said, and walked to a table. The band was piling onto the stage again.
I walked around the table and sat in the chair next to hers, turning it so I faced her. She had her legs crossed, one bare foot pointing at me.
"Shoes killing you?," I offered.
"You have no idea," she said.
"No, I don't look good in heels," I said. She chuckled.
"You one of his friends?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "College. We wrote on the school paper."
"I was Shannon's roommate junior and senior year."
"Aha. Was she as boring as Gary was?"
"Oh, God. When she met Gary, all she did was study. No drunken hookups."
"What about you?"
"What? Hookups? I had my share."
"I did my share, too," I added.
She put her feet together on the floor, her painted toes bright and cheerful. "Sorry," she began.
"No, it's fine," I said. "I understand. Those shoes look great, but not comfortable."
"I only wear shoes like that to weddings."
"Been going to a lot?"
"Oh, my God. This is the fourth this month. I was only a bridesmaid in this one, though."
"That's extra work, isn't it."
"God, yes. More work, more money."
"But you kind of have to do it, huh?"
"Yeah. It's hard to turn someone down for this."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were starting to swim. "Want a refill?"
"Yes, but no." Her voice wavered. "I do, but I think I should stop. I want to drink a lot, and I really shouldn't."
"Bad day, huh?," I offered.
"Well sort of," she began. "It was stressful, but it wasn't just this. It's just that, well...," her voice trailed off. Her chin wrinkled.
"You don't have to tell me," I offered, trying to give her a way out.
"It's my dog, Daisy. I took her to the vet and they called me this morning. There's nothing they can do."
"Oh, no," I said. "That's awful."
"I'm flying back home tomorrow morning, and I just don't know if I can handle it. She was a good dog. My mom got her for me when we moved, and she has been my best friend ever since. I complained about boys to her, I told her all my secrets, I went almost everywhere with her, and she never complained about anything, not once. Want to see her?"
"Of course," I said. She took her phone out of her purse to show me a mutt, looking at the lens eagerly, deciding whether or not the phone was something to eat. "She looks friendly," I offered.
"Oh, she is. She loves everybody...," she said, her voice breaking. "Dammit, I'll ruin my makeup."
"You look fine," I said. "But it has run a little," I added truthfully.
"I assumed. I'll go fix it in a minute. What really bugs me is...I mean," she said, "I'm not dumb. I knew she wouldn't live forever. I just always had it in my head that she was going to meet my first baby. That's just this idea I had. And now she won't. It's just not fair. She was good....I mean why her? Why now? She just started limping, I figured it might be arthritis maybe. But not this. Not cancer. "
She got quiet as the band started playing "American Girl". "Shannon loves this song. I haven't told Shannon. I haven't told anybody. Just you. And you couldn't care less."
"Of course I care. A death in the family is always traumatic."
"Thank you. Every time I bring her up in the office, they all say, 'Well, it's not like it's a baby.' And I'm like, 'I know.' But they don't understand. I haven't had a serious boyfriend since college, I don't know anyone in town! Daisy is my only friend! Who am I going to tell now?" Her full face was fixed and firm, her eyes holding mine as if she expected me to answer.
She stood up. "I'm going to go clean up. Thank you for listening to me. You can go circulate now."
"No, no," I insisted. "I've done about all the circulating I can stand."
"OK," she said. She swallowed her wine in one swallow. "I'll take that refill, then." She slid her shoes on and left.
I drained my drink, then got two more. I had her pegged, watching her not participate in the chatter, assuming she felt she was above it. I could see now that she was more complicated than my simple judgement would allow. She came back out as the band was starting "I Saw Her Standing There". Her face was mostly clean now. I smiled softly, handing her another glass of wine.
"Thanks. Want to dance?"
"I don't...er...I...," I stuttered.
"Oh, come on," she said, slipping off her shoes. "Just follow me," she said. I did.
IndieInk Writing Challenge: No Remorse
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week comes to me from Jan, who tells me "He ran on the beach, with the waves lapping at his aching legs. What is he running from?" (My challenge, "symmetry", goes to Cope.)
I woke up early, forcing myself onto my feet before I could change my mind. My bedroom was sparse, which was how I wanted it. No distractions. No remorse. No regrets. I pulled on running clothes and running shoes, trying to get myself out there before I fully realized what I was doing. I put my keys and my IPod into my pockets, then headed out the door, locking it behind me.
I stood stock still, looking as far as I could to one side, and then the other. The ocean was there, remote and implacable, roaring constantly, underscoring everything you said and did. It was time to get to work, I thought, it's not going to get any easier. Just do it. Start moving. It will never get any harder than it is the first day, and it will get easier. So just start.
I started the IPod, letting James Hetfield's angry bark motivate me. I went back to the first album, needing the uptempo rhythms and anger of a band ready to take on the world. It also reminded me of high school- when I used to come in the winter to hit the weights and stay strong, the coach who supervised us used to play this tape over and over. I walked down to the beach, starting along the hard sand, letting a brisk walk get me warm.
Caroline had started the fight again last night. Since the divorce, she became more controlling, complaining about every trip, every obligation that wasn't, in her view, necessary. She had a point- I had made plenty of money, with more to come before this contract ran out. There were beaches in North Carolina- I didn't have to come out here.
When the calendar turned, I had to get serious. I had to simplify, get clean and pure. I had to get away from them, from story time and runny noses and waiting with the other minivans at pickup time. I needed to train, focusing on nothing else, building uo the endurance i would need come August. Despite what Caroline says, I do love my girls. But they're draining.
I started a slow jog, my joints creaking as I moved. The fog was still lingering, clouding everything other than what was in front of me. I did this, flew away from aggravation and obligation to come out to Southern California to start working out by myself, getting into fighting shape for the season to come.
Yes, I was going to get paid, regardless of how I performed. There was something else at work, though- I was starting to measure myself against the greats, and no amount of money would help me there. I had done something that very few had ever done- ascended to the very top of my field, becoming among the very best in the world.
I broke into a genuine run, finding a nice rhythm against the dark sand, the sea pounding at my feet, the drumming thundering in my ears. I know the girls would rather I be there to pick them up after violin practice. But I wanted to show them that when you have a chance to do something, you do it, as hard as you can for as long as you can. You make sure it gets everything you have while you're young enough to give it. You do it, the only thing you've ever been any good at, for as long as they will let you.
I woke up early, forcing myself onto my feet before I could change my mind. My bedroom was sparse, which was how I wanted it. No distractions. No remorse. No regrets. I pulled on running clothes and running shoes, trying to get myself out there before I fully realized what I was doing. I put my keys and my IPod into my pockets, then headed out the door, locking it behind me.
I stood stock still, looking as far as I could to one side, and then the other. The ocean was there, remote and implacable, roaring constantly, underscoring everything you said and did. It was time to get to work, I thought, it's not going to get any easier. Just do it. Start moving. It will never get any harder than it is the first day, and it will get easier. So just start.
I started the IPod, letting James Hetfield's angry bark motivate me. I went back to the first album, needing the uptempo rhythms and anger of a band ready to take on the world. It also reminded me of high school- when I used to come in the winter to hit the weights and stay strong, the coach who supervised us used to play this tape over and over. I walked down to the beach, starting along the hard sand, letting a brisk walk get me warm.
Caroline had started the fight again last night. Since the divorce, she became more controlling, complaining about every trip, every obligation that wasn't, in her view, necessary. She had a point- I had made plenty of money, with more to come before this contract ran out. There were beaches in North Carolina- I didn't have to come out here.
When the calendar turned, I had to get serious. I had to simplify, get clean and pure. I had to get away from them, from story time and runny noses and waiting with the other minivans at pickup time. I needed to train, focusing on nothing else, building uo the endurance i would need come August. Despite what Caroline says, I do love my girls. But they're draining.
I started a slow jog, my joints creaking as I moved. The fog was still lingering, clouding everything other than what was in front of me. I did this, flew away from aggravation and obligation to come out to Southern California to start working out by myself, getting into fighting shape for the season to come.
Yes, I was going to get paid, regardless of how I performed. There was something else at work, though- I was starting to measure myself against the greats, and no amount of money would help me there. I had done something that very few had ever done- ascended to the very top of my field, becoming among the very best in the world.
I broke into a genuine run, finding a nice rhythm against the dark sand, the sea pounding at my feet, the drumming thundering in my ears. I know the girls would rather I be there to pick them up after violin practice. But I wanted to show them that when you have a chance to do something, you do it, as hard as you can for as long as you can. You make sure it gets everything you have while you're young enough to give it. You do it, the only thing you've ever been any good at, for as long as they will let you.
Friday, April 29, 2011
No Flash For You!
My good friends at the 52/250 Flash have published another round of stories on the theme "home sweet home". I do not have a story this week, but it's well worth your time to read it despite, or perhaps because of, that.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Price Check
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge recieves no Federal tax dollars. This week's word is "bathed" and my story is called "Price Check".
"Look," Karen wanted to say, nominally In Charge but really just In Charge Of Taking Blame, her face bathed in dirty blond hair from a rapidly unwinding bun, "my older kid thinks she's going to run away with her middle school boyfriend, my younger one thinks he's going to grow up to train Pokemon, and my new boyfriend hasn't called me in four weeks. My back hurts, my knees ache, and I can't afford my rent. So forgive me if I'm not paralyzed with guilt over the fact that Tide rang up at $5.99."
"Look," Karen wanted to say, nominally In Charge but really just In Charge Of Taking Blame, her face bathed in dirty blond hair from a rapidly unwinding bun, "my older kid thinks she's going to run away with her middle school boyfriend, my younger one thinks he's going to grow up to train Pokemon, and my new boyfriend hasn't called me in four weeks. My back hurts, my knees ache, and I can't afford my rent. So forgive me if I'm not paralyzed with guilt over the fact that Tide rang up at $5.99."
Monday, April 25, 2011
From This Month's Esquire
This month's Esquire magazine (Jeff Daniels is on the cover) contains a real throat punch of an essay from Cleveland writer John Hyduk which says more about me than I probably want you to know. I'd link to it here, but it appears to be magazine only. It's well worth the price, though.
This was the paragraph that spoke the loudest to me:
"You tote a lot more to work in a lunch pail than Ring Dings. You pack alimony and autism diagnoses and car notes and the rest of the workingman's grind. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. Also braces, a better school, and a down payment on that spring field trip. And you chew whatever has been dumped on your plate in silence. You don't go into therapy. You go to work."
This was the paragraph that spoke the loudest to me:
"You tote a lot more to work in a lunch pail than Ring Dings. You pack alimony and autism diagnoses and car notes and the rest of the workingman's grind. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. Also braces, a better school, and a down payment on that spring field trip. And you chew whatever has been dumped on your plate in silence. You don't go into therapy. You go to work."
Sunday, April 24, 2011
You'd Think I'd Be At Home With Rejection By Now....From The Rejection Files
Another 250 word story hurled back across the transom this morning. The theme was "Home Sweet Home", and the title was "Not So Nice"
She looks at him.
"I'm back," she says.
He looks at her.
"Great," he says. "How was your trip?"
She lugs one bag past him and down towards their room. Fantastic, she thinks.
"Oh, same old thing," she says. "Dull conferences. Boring speakers."
He follows with her other bag. A lot of clothes for five days, he thinks.
"Meet anyone fun?", he asks.
More than fun, she thinks.
"Nope. Just a lot of pay per view movies," she asks.
If you only knew who I was watching the movies with, she thinks.
"That's too bad," he says.
You didn't seduce a lecturer this time?, he thinks.
"What about you? What did you do?, " she says.
As if I didn't know, she thinks.
"Oh, just a lot of TV, playing on the computer, that stuff," he says.
If you only knew about the sweaty commingling we did while her kids were in school, he thinks.
"It's nice to be home," she says.
Not as nice as it would be to have followed Paul back to Seattle, she thinks.
"It's nice to have you here," he says.
Not as nice as it would be to have one more stolen afternoon with Sherry, he thinks.
"What do you want to do tonight," he says.
"Nothing," she says.
"Same here," he says.
She looks at him.
"I'm back," she says.
He looks at her.
"Great," he says. "How was your trip?"
She lugs one bag past him and down towards their room. Fantastic, she thinks.
"Oh, same old thing," she says. "Dull conferences. Boring speakers."
He follows with her other bag. A lot of clothes for five days, he thinks.
"Meet anyone fun?", he asks.
More than fun, she thinks.
"Nope. Just a lot of pay per view movies," she asks.
If you only knew who I was watching the movies with, she thinks.
"That's too bad," he says.
You didn't seduce a lecturer this time?, he thinks.
"What about you? What did you do?, " she says.
As if I didn't know, she thinks.
"Oh, just a lot of TV, playing on the computer, that stuff," he says.
If you only knew about the sweaty commingling we did while her kids were in school, he thinks.
"It's nice to be home," she says.
Not as nice as it would be to have followed Paul back to Seattle, she thinks.
"It's nice to have you here," he says.
Not as nice as it would be to have one more stolen afternoon with Sherry, he thinks.
"What do you want to do tonight," he says.
"Nothing," she says.
"Same here," he says.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "Hold Your Ground"
This week's Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes to me from Stefan, who asks me to watch this and write whatever comes to mind upon hearing the music. (My challenge is taken up here.)
Now, I don't claim to understand anyone's brain, least of all my own. And what has happened, so far, during these challenges is that an image comes to me, full born, and insists that I write about it, the moment I see the challenge item. I don't know where this came from, but it's here, and it won't go away until I write about it. So here goes.
I call it "Hold Your Ground".
I had finally talked Annie into it when they came looking for me. Her father's tavern had become my home away from home, and she didn't resist my flirtations quite as robustly as she did some others. I was at loose ends, performing manual labor for enough coin to keep me in bread and beer since my father's descent into madness left me without a trade. Annie had finally yielded and allowed me to step into the narrow back room with her, and she was gasping, her red hair brushing the black timbers of the wall, as my hand went under her skirt. I was so intent on my goal I didn't hear the hammering on the door, or the pounding feet as the patrons made their bid for freedom out the back door.
The King needed soldiers, and any man who could not account for himself was at risk of being swept into His Majesty's legions. A grinning sergeant found me, my face buried in Annie's soft neck, and hauled me away from her with a laugh. It was all a blur after that- camp, marching and saluting and shooting and marching some more, then packed into a stinking infernal vessel for the crossing- nothing but storm tossed misery and death for seeming ages- dry biscuits and stale water and disease, followed by endless days with nothing in sight but evil sea. We lost almost a quarter our number before finally reaching port.
The pleasure of reaching land again was outweighed by the weight of terror that came across us immediately. The colonists hated us, and those who were in fact supporting His Majesty's rule were terrified into silence by terrorist mobs. I had told myself it would be a simple thing- march about for a while, perhaps exchange a few rounds, then come home a war hero with grossly inflated tales. A veteran of the Colonial War, fit to marry Annie and raise a litter of little ones in her father's tavern.
We quickly learned it wasn't so simple. All the close order drill and formation work came apart in the field, as the colonists would rarely form in line of battle, instead resorting to Indian fighting- remaining behind trees and hedges, picking off officers at will, sowing confusion. We thrashed them when we could find them, but the price was high- men torn to pieces by shot and shell, slaughtered by Indian allies, civilians telling tales of plunder and rape that we answered in kind against their people, which only made them angrier and more defiant. I began the campaign angry at the American colonists, sure that a firm hand, and a few hangings, would return these Englishmen to their King's side. My hoped for heroism evolved into a simple wish to survive.
The action I actually saw was made worse by the stories we heard third hand- the Fleet was coming, then they weren't, then we had them pinned down, then they were free of our clutches, marauding against our supply lines, then word of clashes in distant places reached us, Saratoga and Trenton and Brandywine, starting us wondering how long it would be until we could put them to heel. Or at least, how long before we would be reinforced and allowed to return home. I had seen men drop on either side of me, the whine of the ball followed by an expulsion of air, a spreading red stain, and someone who had broken bread with me that morning was a crumpled pile of rags and bones, as dead as Charlemagne. I had seen wretched scenes, rebel mobs putting homes to the torch because their owners were insufficiently disloyal, and comrades of mine having their way with colonist women, no one among us willing to object. Things had become desperate swiftly.
I wasn't an officer. Tactics or strategy of any sort were far above my station. But I could do sums, and I could tell we were outgunned on this day, the sun already pounding our backs as we sweated, lined up, bayonets prepared. My unit was about to be overrun, but I stood my ground, because I would be executed if I ran, because I wanted Annie to be proud of me, because I wanted to represent England and the rule of law. I stood there, looking over the vastly larger numbers of enemy with their motley flags and irregular dress, estimating how many each of us would have to gun down for us to win the day, and coming to a disturbingly high number. I gripped my weapon tightly, sweat making tracks through the grime on my face, wishing I had run and hid when they came for me, wanting only to survive and see Annie again, and being really sure for the first time that I wouldn't.
Now, I don't claim to understand anyone's brain, least of all my own. And what has happened, so far, during these challenges is that an image comes to me, full born, and insists that I write about it, the moment I see the challenge item. I don't know where this came from, but it's here, and it won't go away until I write about it. So here goes.
I call it "Hold Your Ground".
I had finally talked Annie into it when they came looking for me. Her father's tavern had become my home away from home, and she didn't resist my flirtations quite as robustly as she did some others. I was at loose ends, performing manual labor for enough coin to keep me in bread and beer since my father's descent into madness left me without a trade. Annie had finally yielded and allowed me to step into the narrow back room with her, and she was gasping, her red hair brushing the black timbers of the wall, as my hand went under her skirt. I was so intent on my goal I didn't hear the hammering on the door, or the pounding feet as the patrons made their bid for freedom out the back door.
The King needed soldiers, and any man who could not account for himself was at risk of being swept into His Majesty's legions. A grinning sergeant found me, my face buried in Annie's soft neck, and hauled me away from her with a laugh. It was all a blur after that- camp, marching and saluting and shooting and marching some more, then packed into a stinking infernal vessel for the crossing- nothing but storm tossed misery and death for seeming ages- dry biscuits and stale water and disease, followed by endless days with nothing in sight but evil sea. We lost almost a quarter our number before finally reaching port.
The pleasure of reaching land again was outweighed by the weight of terror that came across us immediately. The colonists hated us, and those who were in fact supporting His Majesty's rule were terrified into silence by terrorist mobs. I had told myself it would be a simple thing- march about for a while, perhaps exchange a few rounds, then come home a war hero with grossly inflated tales. A veteran of the Colonial War, fit to marry Annie and raise a litter of little ones in her father's tavern.
We quickly learned it wasn't so simple. All the close order drill and formation work came apart in the field, as the colonists would rarely form in line of battle, instead resorting to Indian fighting- remaining behind trees and hedges, picking off officers at will, sowing confusion. We thrashed them when we could find them, but the price was high- men torn to pieces by shot and shell, slaughtered by Indian allies, civilians telling tales of plunder and rape that we answered in kind against their people, which only made them angrier and more defiant. I began the campaign angry at the American colonists, sure that a firm hand, and a few hangings, would return these Englishmen to their King's side. My hoped for heroism evolved into a simple wish to survive.
The action I actually saw was made worse by the stories we heard third hand- the Fleet was coming, then they weren't, then we had them pinned down, then they were free of our clutches, marauding against our supply lines, then word of clashes in distant places reached us, Saratoga and Trenton and Brandywine, starting us wondering how long it would be until we could put them to heel. Or at least, how long before we would be reinforced and allowed to return home. I had seen men drop on either side of me, the whine of the ball followed by an expulsion of air, a spreading red stain, and someone who had broken bread with me that morning was a crumpled pile of rags and bones, as dead as Charlemagne. I had seen wretched scenes, rebel mobs putting homes to the torch because their owners were insufficiently disloyal, and comrades of mine having their way with colonist women, no one among us willing to object. Things had become desperate swiftly.
I wasn't an officer. Tactics or strategy of any sort were far above my station. But I could do sums, and I could tell we were outgunned on this day, the sun already pounding our backs as we sweated, lined up, bayonets prepared. My unit was about to be overrun, but I stood my ground, because I would be executed if I ran, because I wanted Annie to be proud of me, because I wanted to represent England and the rule of law. I stood there, looking over the vastly larger numbers of enemy with their motley flags and irregular dress, estimating how many each of us would have to gun down for us to win the day, and coming to a disturbingly high number. I gripped my weapon tightly, sweat making tracks through the grime on my face, wishing I had run and hid when they came for me, wanting only to survive and see Annie again, and being really sure for the first time that I wouldn't.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Chuck Wendig's Three Sentence Challenge
The irascible Chuck Wendig has posted another weird and wonderful flash fiction challenge, this time to write a story in exactly three sentences.
This story has been on my mind, and it inspired the following effort.
They say I should just ignore them, that two faced, mean people and heartless comments and baseless rumors are just something I have to endure, or get around, or get over. They don't understand how hard it is, how much it hurts to see everyone, everywhere being happy, and popular, and content with the world and their place in it. I'll never know what they know, and when I'm gone, they can go on without me- it's just better for everyone that way.
This story has been on my mind, and it inspired the following effort.
They say I should just ignore them, that two faced, mean people and heartless comments and baseless rumors are just something I have to endure, or get around, or get over. They don't understand how hard it is, how much it hurts to see everyone, everywhere being happy, and popular, and content with the world and their place in it. I'll never know what they know, and when I'm gone, they can go on without me- it's just better for everyone that way.
100 Word Challenge: Frayed Ends Of Sanity
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge would like to make it clear that if nominated, it will not run, and if elected, it will not serve. The word is "distance", and my piece is called "Frayed Ends of Sanity".
When you're moving at high speed, it becomes a matter of proportion. You can't tell how fast you're going, because everything is out of scale with what you're familiar with. I was driving fast, propelled by caffeine and Metallica, not because I wanted to be there, but because the illusion of motion made me feel like I was doing something. The route was familiar, the factories and warehouses swelling around me, then fading away into leafy suburban sprawl just as quickly. I knew where I was going, even though I didn't know what I would do when I got there.
When you're moving at high speed, it becomes a matter of proportion. You can't tell how fast you're going, because everything is out of scale with what you're familiar with. I was driving fast, propelled by caffeine and Metallica, not because I wanted to be there, but because the illusion of motion made me feel like I was doing something. The route was familiar, the factories and warehouses swelling around me, then fading away into leafy suburban sprawl just as quickly. I knew where I was going, even though I didn't know what I would do when I got there.
It's Friday, and we're Flashing!
This week's 52/250 theme is "cold front", and my story, which I am sort of proud of, is called "Candy Cane"
Sunday, April 17, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "After These Messages"
It's Indie Ink Writing Challenge time again, cats and kittens! This time the lovely and talented Trish has asked me to "Write about Time". What follows is my response, which I am calling, "After These Messages". My challenge will be met with delightful strangeness by Miss Yvonne here.
"A junkie runs on junk Time and when he makes his importunate irruption into the Time of others, like all petitioners, he must wait."-William Burroughs, Naked Lunch
8:30, he said. 8:45 at the latest. I knew it was 7:29. I knew it was because I had just looked at the little reminder thing on the TV, in the corner there near the logo. I knew that it would seem slower if I kept looking at it, so I promised myself I wouldn't look at it anymore.
Like all promises, I broke it immediately. It was 7:30, which was good, because time had gone by, but it was also bad, because I knew it had just changed, and that would make the next change all that much slower to come. The best way to do it was to not look at the time, so you could be pleasantly surprised when you looked back at how much time had passed.
I tried to focus on what the girl was saying on the screen. I didn't pay for cable, but the guy who had lived here before had scammed his way to getting some free stuff, patching into the feed somehow, so who was I to question? I was barely making the rent- I wasn't going to ask any questions about free TV.
It was the traffic girl, a pretty, thin blonde. She had a wide brown belt on over a red dress. She wasn't gorgeous, but she smiled a lot and the camera liked her. How did you get to be a traffic girl, I wondered. Did you study traffic in college? Did you need to know anything about traffic, or did you just read stuff other people wrote?
The focus shifted to the weather- another blonde, this one seeming a little taller and thinner, wearing something purple, still beautiful and charming. I thought I had seen somewhere that weather people actually did their own work- it was full of computers and hard science, and some of the work was done for them, but they had to know what was going on.
I remembered when I knew what was going on.
They went to commercial, and I watched a woman in tan slacks and brown flats marvel at her new carpet, then another woman yelling about how wonderful Jiffy Lube was. I laid back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to will the time away. I heard them come back to the studio, the tiny Indian woman and the friendly older man telling me about last night's loss to the Mets, then segueing into another inner city shooting. I drifted off for a moment, figuring a short nap would kill some time for me.
I awoke with a start, right in the middle of a yogurt commercial. I didn't trust the tiny clock radio in the kitchenette- the power in this place was unreliable, so I never knew what time it was unless the TV was on.
I pulled myself up, feeling the room swim for a moment. I closed my eyes until it passed, listening for the familiar voices that would tell me the main program was back and I could get a reassuring time stamp in the corner. The need had been a distant, quiet presence in my head this morning, but it was yawning and stretching now, preparing to make my life hell until I fed it.
It wasn't an ache, although I certainly hurt. It wasn't nausea, although I had that, too. It was a clear, distinct lack- the absolute absence of something. I can't explain it to you if you haven't felt it. It's like being really thirsty, or needing to pee- except the solution to either one of those is readily available.
I heard the broadcast resume, and forced myself to look. 8:17. It was frustratingly close. I imagined him driving into my neighborhood, looking for a place to park, my stuff wrapped up tight inside his windbreaker pocket. I looked at the money, wrinkled twenties on the arm of the couch. I resisted the urge to count it again.
I willed him closer, wished for the lights to be green in front of him. I pictured him zooming up my street, seeing a gap and sliding his car into it. I felt like I could feel the distance between him and I shrinking by the second. I knew where my stuff was, thinking about getting it out to get ready, but I didn't want to seem eager.
If you seemed too anxious to get it, he might make you wait, or he might start charging you more. You had to act calm, like you didn't care whether or not you got any. You had to act like you didn't need it, even when your guts were churning and your muscles felt watery and weak with need.
My brain was screaming at me, telling me I needed it now, to forget about how it looked, that nothing mattered except getting it inside me as quick as I could. I pictured the way the stuff looked, orange and clear plastic, the spoon with the blackened bottom, the lighter.
I thought about flicking it to check, but if I knew if I did that, it would be constant, flick, flick, flick, flick, until I used up the fuel and would end up walking, painfully, slowly walking down to the store on the corner where he would charge me 3 bucks for a 79 cent lighter that he knew I couldn't do without.
I looked at the TV again, that pretty Indian woman explaining to me how the church was dealing with more allegations, more lawsuits. Her voice was even, accentless and flat like all the rest of them. It was racist to assume she ever had an accent- she could have grown up anywhere.
Still, I wondered if she had an accent. Did journalism training knock it out of her? Or did she train herself not to use it, but home for Christmas, around family, did she slip back into more natural speech patterns? What was she like? Was she single? Married? A parent?
8:32, I noticed. He would be here any moment, I decided. He was probably parking now, coming up to my door, walking up the cracked cement to buzz my apartment. I wanted to go look, make sure he wasn't buzzing already, make sure the buzzer hadn't failed during the night. I made myself wait, knowing that the strain of standing by the window would weaken my resolve, making me look weak and desperate to him.
I was remembering how good it felt, how you didn't feel good so much as finally feel even when it hit you. You felt normal, like you could get up and go to work and be a regular person now that the raging furnace of need was stoked. It made you feel functional, like you had been wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day and then finally took them off.
When the buzzer sounded, I nearly cried with relief.
"A junkie runs on junk Time and when he makes his importunate irruption into the Time of others, like all petitioners, he must wait."-William Burroughs, Naked Lunch
8:30, he said. 8:45 at the latest. I knew it was 7:29. I knew it was because I had just looked at the little reminder thing on the TV, in the corner there near the logo. I knew that it would seem slower if I kept looking at it, so I promised myself I wouldn't look at it anymore.
Like all promises, I broke it immediately. It was 7:30, which was good, because time had gone by, but it was also bad, because I knew it had just changed, and that would make the next change all that much slower to come. The best way to do it was to not look at the time, so you could be pleasantly surprised when you looked back at how much time had passed.
I tried to focus on what the girl was saying on the screen. I didn't pay for cable, but the guy who had lived here before had scammed his way to getting some free stuff, patching into the feed somehow, so who was I to question? I was barely making the rent- I wasn't going to ask any questions about free TV.
It was the traffic girl, a pretty, thin blonde. She had a wide brown belt on over a red dress. She wasn't gorgeous, but she smiled a lot and the camera liked her. How did you get to be a traffic girl, I wondered. Did you study traffic in college? Did you need to know anything about traffic, or did you just read stuff other people wrote?
The focus shifted to the weather- another blonde, this one seeming a little taller and thinner, wearing something purple, still beautiful and charming. I thought I had seen somewhere that weather people actually did their own work- it was full of computers and hard science, and some of the work was done for them, but they had to know what was going on.
I remembered when I knew what was going on.
They went to commercial, and I watched a woman in tan slacks and brown flats marvel at her new carpet, then another woman yelling about how wonderful Jiffy Lube was. I laid back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to will the time away. I heard them come back to the studio, the tiny Indian woman and the friendly older man telling me about last night's loss to the Mets, then segueing into another inner city shooting. I drifted off for a moment, figuring a short nap would kill some time for me.
I awoke with a start, right in the middle of a yogurt commercial. I didn't trust the tiny clock radio in the kitchenette- the power in this place was unreliable, so I never knew what time it was unless the TV was on.
I pulled myself up, feeling the room swim for a moment. I closed my eyes until it passed, listening for the familiar voices that would tell me the main program was back and I could get a reassuring time stamp in the corner. The need had been a distant, quiet presence in my head this morning, but it was yawning and stretching now, preparing to make my life hell until I fed it.
It wasn't an ache, although I certainly hurt. It wasn't nausea, although I had that, too. It was a clear, distinct lack- the absolute absence of something. I can't explain it to you if you haven't felt it. It's like being really thirsty, or needing to pee- except the solution to either one of those is readily available.
I heard the broadcast resume, and forced myself to look. 8:17. It was frustratingly close. I imagined him driving into my neighborhood, looking for a place to park, my stuff wrapped up tight inside his windbreaker pocket. I looked at the money, wrinkled twenties on the arm of the couch. I resisted the urge to count it again.
I willed him closer, wished for the lights to be green in front of him. I pictured him zooming up my street, seeing a gap and sliding his car into it. I felt like I could feel the distance between him and I shrinking by the second. I knew where my stuff was, thinking about getting it out to get ready, but I didn't want to seem eager.
If you seemed too anxious to get it, he might make you wait, or he might start charging you more. You had to act calm, like you didn't care whether or not you got any. You had to act like you didn't need it, even when your guts were churning and your muscles felt watery and weak with need.
My brain was screaming at me, telling me I needed it now, to forget about how it looked, that nothing mattered except getting it inside me as quick as I could. I pictured the way the stuff looked, orange and clear plastic, the spoon with the blackened bottom, the lighter.
I thought about flicking it to check, but if I knew if I did that, it would be constant, flick, flick, flick, flick, until I used up the fuel and would end up walking, painfully, slowly walking down to the store on the corner where he would charge me 3 bucks for a 79 cent lighter that he knew I couldn't do without.
I looked at the TV again, that pretty Indian woman explaining to me how the church was dealing with more allegations, more lawsuits. Her voice was even, accentless and flat like all the rest of them. It was racist to assume she ever had an accent- she could have grown up anywhere.
Still, I wondered if she had an accent. Did journalism training knock it out of her? Or did she train herself not to use it, but home for Christmas, around family, did she slip back into more natural speech patterns? What was she like? Was she single? Married? A parent?
8:32, I noticed. He would be here any moment, I decided. He was probably parking now, coming up to my door, walking up the cracked cement to buzz my apartment. I wanted to go look, make sure he wasn't buzzing already, make sure the buzzer hadn't failed during the night. I made myself wait, knowing that the strain of standing by the window would weaken my resolve, making me look weak and desperate to him.
I was remembering how good it felt, how you didn't feel good so much as finally feel even when it hit you. You felt normal, like you could get up and go to work and be a regular person now that the raging furnace of need was stoked. It made you feel functional, like you had been wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day and then finally took them off.
When the buzzer sounded, I nearly cried with relief.
Terrible Minds Challenge: "I Bet She Does"
The irascible penmonkey Chuck Wendig has thrown another flash fiction gauntlet down, this time to incorporate five words/concepts into a story of less than 1000 words. My entry is called "I bet she does".
It had been one of those mornings- I overslept, a common enough event. But it made me feel strange for the entire day, throwing me off stride. It wasn't the only thing- I had my period, which made me feel fatigued and a little insecure, and I was up early on a Saturday, which no amount of iced coffee on Earth could fix.
I was volunteering for Cuts For The Cure, a cancer charity where hairdressers gave out free haircuts, keeping the hair to make wigs for sick kids and collecting donations for research at the same time. I was there because my school said I had to in order to graduate, because my mom was the vice president of the charity, and because I cared about sick kids. What order those priorities came in varied as the day went along.
My job was to do basically what I was told, just like in the rest of life. I got drinks and snacks for everybody, explained to folks what was going on and how they could help. I smiled a lot, to the point where my cheeks started to hurt.
It was getting late, the shadows starting to grow long as the sun hid behind the Target we had set up in front of. The demand was starting to drop off, and I decided to start organizing the cash, separating the denominations to make the counting easier. As I was stacking the fives in a pile, preparing to put them into a rubber band, a shadow came over me.
I glued on my smile and looked up. My heart froze. It was a boy, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and an unruly mop of hair under a University of Michigan cap. I tried not to stammer, and failed utterly.
"Uh, er, um....hi!" I was hopeless.
"So what's happening?" I could picture his voice in my ear, a late night stolen phone call under the blankets.
"Uh, this is called Cuts for the Cure," I began, my speech evening out as I ran through the sentences I had gone through so many times over the long day. Even while I was talking, I was saying to myself, "Oh, God, OK. Stand straight. You don't have a figure like Karen's, so at least show him what you do have. Don't let your voice crack, don't giggle, just be cool, just....oh my God, he's so cute."
Karen was a friend who whined at me until I let her do her service hours with me. She was leaning back, talking with my mom's coworker Janette, her long legs crossed demurely at the ankle as Janette finished with a customer. I wanted to turn my head and tell her to look, but part of me hoped fervently she hadn't noticed him.
"My mom said I should get a haircut," he said, his voice warm and thrilling. Inside my head, a voice repeated shrilly, "he didn't say girlfriend! He didn't say girlfriend!"
"Come right this way," I said, guiding him over to my mother's empty chair. We exchanged a series of conspiring glances behind his head. "Don't blow this, Mom," I thought at her urgently. I walked backwards towards the unguarded money table, watching my mom begin to play with his locks while she brightly chattered. My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I reached the table. It was a text from Karen, just three letters.
omg!
At least I knew she saw him as I did.
ikr!
I didn't want to turn back to the money, but I knew I had to. After only a minute, I had the bills sorted out, finally turning around to see Karen, her long legs now perched at my mom's station, winding a long strand of hair around one finger. I felt uneasy, only compounded by my mother's comment on the way home, "Boy, your friend Karen sure liked that boy Josh, didn't she?"
I bet she does, I thought grimly.
It had been one of those mornings- I overslept, a common enough event. But it made me feel strange for the entire day, throwing me off stride. It wasn't the only thing- I had my period, which made me feel fatigued and a little insecure, and I was up early on a Saturday, which no amount of iced coffee on Earth could fix.
I was volunteering for Cuts For The Cure, a cancer charity where hairdressers gave out free haircuts, keeping the hair to make wigs for sick kids and collecting donations for research at the same time. I was there because my school said I had to in order to graduate, because my mom was the vice president of the charity, and because I cared about sick kids. What order those priorities came in varied as the day went along.
My job was to do basically what I was told, just like in the rest of life. I got drinks and snacks for everybody, explained to folks what was going on and how they could help. I smiled a lot, to the point where my cheeks started to hurt.
It was getting late, the shadows starting to grow long as the sun hid behind the Target we had set up in front of. The demand was starting to drop off, and I decided to start organizing the cash, separating the denominations to make the counting easier. As I was stacking the fives in a pile, preparing to put them into a rubber band, a shadow came over me.
I glued on my smile and looked up. My heart froze. It was a boy, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and an unruly mop of hair under a University of Michigan cap. I tried not to stammer, and failed utterly.
"Uh, er, um....hi!" I was hopeless.
"So what's happening?" I could picture his voice in my ear, a late night stolen phone call under the blankets.
"Uh, this is called Cuts for the Cure," I began, my speech evening out as I ran through the sentences I had gone through so many times over the long day. Even while I was talking, I was saying to myself, "Oh, God, OK. Stand straight. You don't have a figure like Karen's, so at least show him what you do have. Don't let your voice crack, don't giggle, just be cool, just....oh my God, he's so cute."
Karen was a friend who whined at me until I let her do her service hours with me. She was leaning back, talking with my mom's coworker Janette, her long legs crossed demurely at the ankle as Janette finished with a customer. I wanted to turn my head and tell her to look, but part of me hoped fervently she hadn't noticed him.
"My mom said I should get a haircut," he said, his voice warm and thrilling. Inside my head, a voice repeated shrilly, "he didn't say girlfriend! He didn't say girlfriend!"
"Come right this way," I said, guiding him over to my mother's empty chair. We exchanged a series of conspiring glances behind his head. "Don't blow this, Mom," I thought at her urgently. I walked backwards towards the unguarded money table, watching my mom begin to play with his locks while she brightly chattered. My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I reached the table. It was a text from Karen, just three letters.
omg!
At least I knew she saw him as I did.
ikr!
I didn't want to turn back to the money, but I knew I had to. After only a minute, I had the bills sorted out, finally turning around to see Karen, her long legs now perched at my mom's station, winding a long strand of hair around one finger. I felt uneasy, only compounded by my mother's comment on the way home, "Boy, your friend Karen sure liked that boy Josh, didn't she?"
I bet she does, I thought grimly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)