Promotion (But not for myself, for once)

Saints on Earth Fiona Johnson and Thomas Pluck have collected 30 stories that were submitted to a flash fiction challenge for an EBook that is being sold to raise money for children's charities. It's called "The Lost Children Anthology", I am very proud that one of my stories was included, and I would be pleased if you bought a copy here.

100 Word Challenge: Costume Shopping

Velvet Verbosity won't let anything slow her, or the 100 Word Challenge, down. This week's word is "Halloween", and this story is called "Costume Shopping".







"No," I said. Her deep brown eyes flashed. She stomped off, sure of my cluelessness.

She came back holding one. Nurse. Too short.

"No," I said. She threw a full force pout, turning away again.

Another choice. Vampire. Too low.

"No," I said. "But Daaaaaayaaaaad," she said, making it three syllables.

"No," I said again. She made an angry sound, then disappeared into the maelstrom. Everything was cut high, or dipped down too low. She was too young to understand the balance that had to be struck. Or was she?

Why did I agree to buy the costume this year?

Bleak House ( Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Mary Terrani challenged me with "Sometimes you have to let go of the one you love to find out if there is really something there" and I challenged Diane with "As children, your world is yours. That day [his father's death] taught me that it's really not your world. Somebody else is in control-fate, God, whatever it is. It is not your show. And the show can be brutal. -Tim Allen".
















"Ray?," she said. She always spoke softly, as if nothing she said was worth listening to.

Emmeline was at the other end of my couch, reading "Bleak House" again. Her precise dancer's feet were pulled up against her, her toes peeking out under the hem of her skirt. The polish was chipped and uneven. She had marked her place in the worn paperback and was looking at me over the top of it. Her eyes were engaging. I never wanted to stop looking at them.

I felt a sudden unease. I was grading papers, half listening to the broadcast of a Mariners game that I had turned down in deference to her reading. She had joined me for dinner, but had only picked at her food, muttering noncommittal replies to my questions. Something was up.

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you something."

Famous last words, I thought.

"Shoot."

"Something's been bothering me." You can say that again, I thought.

"Kate?"

"No, not Kate. Well, not really Kate. Kate's part of it, but Kate's part of everything. I still haven't made my peace with it, but I'm tired of fighting it." That reminded me of the old saying, "When they say it's not about the money, it's about the money."

"OK. What is it, Em?"

"You know I love you."

"Yes. And I love you, too."

"Yes, you do. After Wendy, you didn't have anybody before me, did you?"

"No, I didn't. You know this. What are you trying to say, Em?"

She looked down, focusing on her knees under the thin fabric of the skirt. She set the paperback down and wrapped her hands around her ankles.

"I'm scared, Ray. I'm scared that you're in love with being in love, instead of being in love with me. I love Kate, you know that. But I'm scared you love her more than you love anyone, because she's your last tie to Wendy. And damn it, I'm scared that I will always be second fiddle to the memories of someone who died."

I could hear the tears on the edge of her voice.

"Ray, you're it for me. I knew it from the moment you started talking to me about pens and paper, that very first day. I have not regretted a moment of time I have spent with you. I don't have a shadow of a doubt that I want to spend the rest of my life with you in one form or another."

"Neither do-," I began.

"Shut up," she said quickly. "Just shut up. You do. You do have doubts, and you know it. You can't commit to me. You can't. Not because you don't care about me, and not because you're a bad person. You can't commit because you already committed, in your heart, and she's gone, and I can't compete with a ghost."

She stood up, tears making tracks down the red blooms on her cheeks. She slid her bare feet into black flats that were waiting obediently on the floor.

"You've got to think about this, Ray. You have to think about whether you're ready to give yourself, all of yourself, to me. You have to think about what I mean to you. You have to decide what it is you want."

She picked up her book and started towards the door. I stood up.

"I won't be second place, Raymond. I won't. I'm ready to give myself to you. But I have to get something in return: all of you. I want you to take a break from me. I want you to really think about things. If we're ready, if this is real, we'll be stronger afterwards. If you think about it and you're not ready, I will accept that. But you need to make up your mind, because if I'm going to have a future with you, I need to know that I'm the only one."

She was at my door. I couldn't talk, but it didn't matter because I didn't know what to say.

"When I'm ready to talk about this again, I'll call you."

She opened the door and left. The breeze from the hallway ruffled her skirt softly, and then the door shut. I was alone. I turned back to the spot where she was sitting, the cushions still faintly indented with her shape. I knew if I leaned down close, I could probably smell her sweat on the fabric. I didn't.

The Wait (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Courtney challenged me with "He has brought me this far, he won't leave me hanging" and I challenged Kevin Wilkes with "I know they say let it be, but it just don't work out that way."












He said he would be here.

He wasn't the only one. My father is in Schenectady, so I don't blame him for not being here. My mother said she'd be here, and I think she will be. She told me she would come right over. I'm sure there's traffic or something.

The room was high enough to be over the highway. The curtains had separated a bit, giving me a thin view of the bright highway. Cars were no longer flashing by, instead crawling slowly now as rush hour asserted itself.

Above my head, a pretty blonde in a smart looking suit was gesturing silently at maps with flashing red marks where the traffic was slow. I could turn up the sound, but I'd have to move to do that, so I quickly discarded that notion.

I looked around the room, with all the strange looking tubes and wires. Numbers flashed, raising slightly, then dipping again. I thought about asking what they meant. They would tell me, but I realized it would just be something else to worry about. I'd probably be better off not knowing.

He had been there from the start. (The mild pun made me smile slightly- the statement was literally true. He was there at the moment it happened, but neither of us knew that then.) I told him, and he was nothing but gracious about it. I had heard and read horror stories about denials and even violence, but he was calm. Slightly dazed, he sat and talked with me as long as I wanted, letting me cry. We talked, and talked, and talked- I told him what I wanted, and he agreed without hesitation. I would never stop appreciating that, how easily he allowed my wishes to reign supreme.

We knew we weren't in love. Certainly fond of one another, (fond enough to have done what was necessary, certainly) we quickly agreed that it would be best to remain friendly without forcing a romantic entanglement neither of us wanted. He called, and he texted, and he bought me lunch now and then. He listened when I talked, and drove me around sometimes when it was too uncomfortable and awkward to drive myself. He was supportive in every way I could have asked for. He had been a perfect, understanding, lovely friend all the way through it, and I knew he wasn't going to leave me now. He said he would be here when it was time, and I'm sure he will.

I looked around the room again. There were a few chairs, covered in a thick, plastic looking cushions. I imagined they probably got splashed with all sorts of fluids, so they probably wanted them easy to clean. Nothing absorbent. But the chairs made me a little sad, emphasizing, in my mind, that people were supposed to be here with me.

I wasn't really alone. Every once in a while, someone would hurry in dressed in blue or orange or bright, cheerful pink. They'd ask me how I was, if I needed a drink or a pillow. Some of them would write something down, or make an entry on a laptop they were carrying. I didn't ask for much, partially because there wasn't too much they could do, and partially because I knew they had other people just like me they were watching over.

It was hard, doing this like this. I knew people cared for me, and I knew they would be here soon enough to hold my hand and do what they could to help me through this. But they weren't here now, and a tiny, childish part of me demanded they get here now, and I was frustrated and almost teary because they weren't.

And it hurt.

I knew it was going to hurt. All the books said that, other women told you with knowing smiles that, and simple common sense told you that. And it did- a constant, sharp ache with intervals of unbelievable, searing agony that made me clench my teeth and breathe hard and shallow breaths. This pain was different in its intensity and scope from any pain I had ever known. It blazed, and roared, and felt like it would never end, until it finally did, fading into merely agonizing.

When you had regular pain from exertion or other miseries, it was more contained. You knew what hurt, you knew what you could do, if anything, to relieve it, and you knew, intellectually, that there was an endpoint. This pain was different. It was deeper, and wider, and seemed to involve every nerve cell, every fiber of your being. You would do anything to stop it, make any promise. But it stopped when it was good and ready.

I felt it starting. There were tremors, little movements, twinges and spasms on top of the constant aching pain that was constantly underneath. After that warning, I didn't have a chance to move, or cry out, or do anything before it started. It was a grabbing, squeezing band of pain that started up high with a depth and intensity that made me suck in a breath. It squeezed, and the hurt blossomed and spread and made me arch my back slightly, peering up at the harsh florescent lighting above the bed. I prayed, something I hadn't done since I was 7. Of course, it didn't stop.

It was an ocean of pain, and I felt like I was struggling for air, drowning in the sensation. There wasn't any end to it. I knew it had to eventually stop, but while you're in it, it feels like hurting is all you will ever know. Nothing is comfortable, no position relieves it. It gets to a point where I can barely remember what good is. It seems like I was born in pain, and I honestly wished, for a moment, I would die if that meant it would stop.

I registered someone coming in the room, and saw a lime green top under a kind, pleasant smile. "Contraction, honey?"

I couldn't speak.

"I know it's bad, sweetheart."

Her cool hand found mine, which was slick with sweat. I writhed, hearing nonsense sounds coming out of my own mouth.

"Just breathe. It will be over soon enough."

It felt like it was going to last forever, until suddenly it wasn't. The bands were releasing, the waves of agony receding slowly. I opened my eyes wide, the woman in green, her hair pulled back away from her face, holding my hand.

"The first time is hard. It gets easier."

Finally able to speak, I muttered, " You did this more than once? "

She chuckled. "Yes, dear. Four times."

My mother came around the corner, already talking a mile a minute. "Traffic was a nightmare, but I'm here now, and I...oh!" She saw the woman in green, my hand still in hers. "I'm Evalyn's mother," she said, straightening up.

"Well, we just had a bad one, but things are progressing. I'll go get Dr. Paultz," she said, moving towards the door.

"Jimmy said he'll be along," my mother told me.

I knew that. I knew that this could be endured, that my mother had done it, that woman in green had, my friend Kerry had. Lots of people had, billions of them. It didn't make it hurt less, but it reminded me, again, that I would survive it.

"I know," I said.

Terrible Minds Challenge: Nobody Understands Anybody

If life is a highway, Chuck Wendig runs a disreputable dive bar right off of the exit ramp. This week's flash fiction challenge involves three of the following five words (cockroach, bottle, box, tax, fountain) plus a vampire in some way, shape, or form. My story is called "Nobody Understands Anybody".





It was a pleasantly warm fall day, the sort of day that makes you think nature is trying to pull a fast one. I came out of the lobby, emerging from the fake reflected warmth into the honest sunshine, wanting to eat my yogurt and fruit sitting on the gorgeous stone fountain that made the front of our building, an ordinary insurance company in Nowhere, New Jersey, look a little bit like a location in a James Bond movie.

It was a popular destination for those of us who couldn't afford to dash to Chipotle every day- spend 20 minutes or so eating, then walk or just sit, absorbing some rays and looking at people before returning to the fluorescent world of spreadsheets and budgets and phone calls. I saw lanky Tom, who worked in my department, talking on his phone in a hissed whisper. I sat down near him, but not too near, opening my yogurt and decidedly not listening.

"Look, I have to go," he said. "Yes. I know. I'm sorry. Yes. OK. We can talk about it when I get home. Yes. OK. Fine."

He looked puzzled for a moment, then lowered the phone from his ear, shaking his head slowly. His dark hair was mussed, like he had been running his hands through it.

"Hey, Tom," I said.

"Hey, Jules," he said. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"We all have those moments," I said, trying to sound cheery. "I guess I don't have to ask how you are."

He barked out a laugh. "No, no you don't."

I looked at him, in stained Dockers and a dress shirt that was starting to come untucked. I wanted to take care of him, like you would a lost dog.

"Is it Caroline?"

He took a long sip from a bottle of Orangina.

"It's Caroline, it's the baby, it's this place, it's everything. I really don't know how to deal with it." He looked pained. He was staring down at the ground. I watched the sunlight hit the little fake gem on top of my shoe.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I wish there was something I could do to help."

He looked up at me, his face full of hope.

"Me too, Jules."

He finished his drink and got up to put it in the trash. His walk was slow and unsteady. He seemed unable to look anyone in the eye.

I waited for him to sit back down. "Being a Dad really sucks the life out of you, huh?"

He laughed again, harshly, indicating the opposite of laughter. "Yeah."

He paused, then continued.

"It's so taxing- there are a hundred problems that you don't know the answers to, and she doesn't know either, and the kid, the kid is just constantly unhappy, and you don't know why. I love them, I love them to death, but it's like they are these vampires, just draining you of your essence. You feel like a total failure, all the time, and I'm not sleeping well, and then she calls me today and starts yelling about how I bought the wrong wipes, and now she's out of them, and she's too tired to go to the store, and..."

He stopped again. It sounded like he was swallowing back a sob.

"I just had this thought, this image, of just taking the whole box of wipes and just throwing them at her. And you know I'm not like that. I'm not that kind of person. It really feels like I'm losing it, Jules."

I didn't know what to say. I had met his wife at the Christmas party, a short, dark woman who looked me over with suspicion. It was off putting, because I hadn't done anything yet.

"You're not like that, Tom. It's just a thought. It's like that comedian says, if you haven't contemplated murder, you haven't really been in love. I'm sure you're just going through the same thing every new parent does. You'll be OK."

"I hope you're right," he said, his voice tight. I could picture holding him, letting his tears fall onto the shoulders of my jacket. I felt this compelling need to comfort him, to tell him that I would listen, that I wouldn't yell. I had never thought about him romantically, but suddenly, there on the edge of the fountain in the sun, I pictured him telling me about it over a drink, and then following me home to my tiny, sad apartment. I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't that sort of person. But I could see it.

He cleared his throat and stood up. "I'm going to take a walk," he said. "I need to clear my head."

"OK, Tom. I'll see you back inside."

"OK, Jules."

I watched him walk away. He seemed broken. It was so sad that his wife didn't understand him. Or maybe it was Tom who didn't understand her? I scraped the last bit of yogurt from the bottom of the container. Maybe nobody understands anybody.

"I Like Ponies" (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Diane challenged me with "I'm the lie living for you so you can hide" and I challenged Kurt with "If you love someone, set them free".






The house was too warm- the combination of the oven and the bodily warmth making the house a steamy mess. The kids, fueled by appetizers and sugared drinks, still buzzed around with boundless energy, occasionally checked on by half drunk parents and uncles and grandparents. The meal had been prepared and dishes washed, and we were in the uncertain part of the afternoon where those with long drives thought about sucking down some coffee and finding their coats.

My niece Emily appeared at my knee, tugging at my pant leg. She looked at me, eyes wide. Her voice had the edge of a whine in it- all the younger kids were whipping past the point of no return, where every thwarted wish and denied treat results in tears and recriminations. .

"Auntie Lauren? Color with me?"

How could I say no?

"Of course, sweetheart."

She had a box of fat Crayolas and a store brand sketchpad in her tiny fists. We found adjoining seats at the table opposite her mother, who was pecking away on an IPhone.

"Mommy, Auntie Lauren gonna draw with me."

"That's great, honey," my sister said, in a distracted tone that told me she wasn't listening.

Emily unfolded the book, a great expanse of blank, off white paper.

"Draw a horse," she commanded, and I did. It was one thing I really could do well.

"That's a really good horse," she said, and began intensely coloring one of the legs in blue. "Now draw a yellow one." I did as she said.

"Mommy never draws with me," she said, face scrunched in concentration as she intensely worked on the horse's leg..

"Your mommy used to draw all the time," I said, distractedly. "When she was younger."

"Now a purple one," Emily commanded. I complied.

"But Mommy had to grow up," my sister said under her breath. I caught the dig. Years of training meant I didn't miss the flash of a switchblade when it was meant for me.

"Auntie Lauren's a grownup," Emily protested.

"Yes, she is," her mother said, and then stood up, putting the phone to her ear. She was overdressed, like she always was, slacks that probably cost more than my car payment over her long legs. She always had to be the best dressed, best equipped, best everything.

"Yes, Carl, I know it's Thanksgiving, but listen," she said, stepping through the sliding door onto the porch and closing it behind her, giving us a rush of chilly air.

"Mommy's always working," Emily said sadly.

"I know honey," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Mommy works hard so you can have nice things."

"Color in the yellow one," Emily ordered. I picked up the yellow crayon and began to fill it in. I thought about my big sister, ordering me sternly to never compromise, never give in as I watched her leave for college. She went as an artsy rebel and returned a buttoned up, Ann Taylor clad zombie, talking about gross profit margins and ROI. I was stunned by the change, but all she would say for explanation is that "someone has to be the adult around here."

"Why did Mommy stop drawing?," Emily asked as her mother reentered the dining room, the blast of wind ruffling her silk blouse.

"Mommy had to get a real job," my sister said. "Someone has to watch out for Grandma. You can't spend your whole life drawing ponies."

I let that go, picturing a softball skidding into the dirt, low and outside.

"Your Mom made different choices," I said to Emily, trying to paper over the crack. "People do different things, that's all."

"I like ponies," Emily said.

Once more, from the top...

"Yesterday it was my birthday-
I hung one more year on the line-
I should be depressed-
My life's a mess-
But I'm having a good time."

-Paul Simon, "Have A Good Time"

100 Word Challenge: 2:35AM

The Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge is willing to hit the ball to the right side to move the runner over. This week's word is "Satisfied", and though my faulty brain came up with it too late to make the list, here's my entry, "2:35 AM". It is based on one of the many Steve Jobs stories making the rounds these days.








I clawed my way out of deep sleep. I looked at my phone with one eye. Calls at 2:35 AM aren't good news. I stabbed at the answer button.

"Yeah?," I said. Manners end at around 11 PM.

"It's John," the voice said. My never satisfied, omnipresent boss. He sounded wired.

"What's up, chief?"

"I had an idea. There are three screws under the battery on the prototype."

There were. He was never wrong. "Yeah, there are. Why?"

"Let's make it two."

"But John, nobody takes the battery out. Nobody will know!"

"I'll know."

"Buckets of Rain" (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Tobie challenged me with "No, this can't be happening. It's too early!" and I challenged Caroline with "Overdrawn".






I had to keep him away from Caroline. I always did. It had been a long time for me, and this one seemed like a catch. I just had to somehow keep him from seeing her too soon, and keep him from making the obvious choice. .

When Alyssa's cousin moved in two towns away from me, I couldn't say no. He passed all the standard tests- attractive enough, not visibly crazy, dresses nice, smells okay. We had a coffee, then a dinner the next weekend, then another, and we seemed to have a rapport. Tonight, he got some theater tickets, with the end of the evening left deliberately left vague.

I had planned it all out, home from work at 6, then upstairs to change and dress, then downstairs at 7:30 so I could meet him in the driveway before he got to the front door at 8. The only thing I absolutely did not want was to bring him inside to be introduced around. He knew I still lived at home until I finished school- I had been clear about that part. And my parents were my parents- embarrassing and awkward, but nothing we couldn't laugh about in our seats before the play. It was Caroline I had to keep away from.

Caroline was my 19 year old sister, and she was gorgeous. That's not the fake praise of a person who loves her sister, but instead it's an honest to God observation. Sure, we looked alike, and when pressed, I might admit I'm not terrible looking. But I was the rough draft- Caroline was the paper you handed in. Men rode their bicycles into utility poles when she walked by, and I lost more boyfriends than I could count, either mentally or physically, when they got a look at her. She was otherworldly, a goddess carved from stone and made of silk, and everyone knew it.

I was walking back and forth in front of my mirror, tiny little mincing steps to make sure I could walk in my ensemble and that I hadn't left anything uneven or off kilter, when I heard my mother's voice, intentionally loud, probably for my benefit, "Why, David! We didn't expect you until 8 or so!"

I froze, and my heart stopped.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I left early to make sure I could find your house, and it turns out it was much easier than I thought."

My mother laughed, a high, fake sound. "That's fine. Come on in! Kelly will be right down."

I heard him step inside. I prayed Caroline was in the kitchen, or in the back yard, or on the phone. I looked myself over one final time, figuring this will have to do. I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairs.

"So what do you do, David?"

"I'm an insurance adjuster," he said. "Not the most popular industry right now."

"But someone has to do it."

"Very true," he said. "I'm glad you see it that way."

They took a couple of steps inside. "This is my other daughter, Caroline," she said.

"Hi," Caroline said.

It's all over, I thought. She never meant to, but something happened when they saw her. She may never touch them, but I lose them just the same.

"Hello," he said.

"So how did you meet our Kelly?," my mother interjected.

I gritted my teeth. God, Mom, stop it. I could picture his eyes roaming over Caroline, her long legs, her carelessly tossed hair, her pouty lips.

"She's my cousin's friend."

"Aha. How about that? Kelly's father worked with my brother Jack! Good things often happen that way."

"Indeed," he said. Jesus, I thought. I was making my way down the stairs, treading as carefully as I could.

"Have you known each other long?"

"A month or so," he said. "I've only been in town 6 weeks. I was transferred from Fresno."

"How nice for you! I'm so happy you two met!" So you can get this one out of my hair, she probably wanted to add.

My shoes emerged into view. "There she is!" my mother said, relieved. "Have fun, you two!" I took a long look at Caroline, who was back to watching Jeopardy and checking her phone. I looked at David, who was looking at me. I let a deep breath out.

We said our pleasantries, and we left. My shoes crunched on the gravel walkway.

"So that's them," I said.

"They're sweet," he said.

"What did you think of Caroline?," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she has...a way of becoming the center of attention, let's say."

David opened the passenger door of his car, holding it open for me. His belt buckle gleamed faintly where a streetlight hit it. It was starting to rain a little bit. "She is a pretty girl," he mused slowly. "But I'm not holding the door for her."

I got in the car.

RIP Steve Jobs

My email to remembersteve@apple.com:

I don't think it overstates one bit to say that the passing of Steve Jobs is the loss of our Picasso, our Rembrandt, our daVinci. I can't say that Apple or Jobs did everything right- I could take issue with their DRM or the treatment of workers in China. But I can say that my life would be worse without Apple products, and people almost everywhere can say the same. Steve Jobs changed the world, and not a lot of people get to say that. Rest In Peace.

- Posted using BlogPress

Self Promotion Is Exhausting Work, But Someone Has To Do It. I Guess.

Matt Potter has again showed his kindness and generosity in accepting a brief piece of mine, "Right", in his Museum Of Awesome, the indisputably "Pure Slush", located here.

Self Promotion Is A Thankless Job

Showing here is a story of mine, "The Secret", which was chosen as one of the best stories of 52/250's fourth quarter.


- Posted using BlogPress

Many Paths (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sherree challenged me with Oscar Wilde's "The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of life," and I challenged Princess Dardar with "Just my imagination/running away with me".











Kelly waited for the moment to be right. She knew she had to call him. She had to tell him. He needed to know, deserved to know. But she didn't want to tell him. Her stomach roiled with tension. Her mouth felt dry, so she took another draw on the takeout iced tea she had bought on the way home. She watched the condensation on the outside of the cup, which was emblazoned with an appeal to come and work for the restaurant. The cup had pictures of smiling multicultural people on it, which she suspected wasn't entirely the truth. The people there never looked happy.

She looked out through the windshield. There was a fence there, covered over with shrubs and other greenery. She knew that the other side of the fence was a softball diamond, where the girls' softball team practiced during the spring and early summer. Kelly tried to remember what it felt like to be carefree, to be worried about fielding, running, and throwing, things which feel so minor now. Nothing's minor, though, she reminded herself, while you're going through it.

She thought briefly about starting the car and driving home, and calling him from there. But she had promised herself that she would tell him right away. No secrets, he told her. You can trust me, he said. She wanted to believe him, and she needed to believe him. But there was a tiny part of her that didn't believe anyone, an insistent voice that told her that she was essentially unloved, that anyone who claimed to love her was just waiting for the chance to let her down.

She had to call him, and call him now. She had warned him last night that she had to find out for sure, and she took the morning off from answering phones at Hoffman Auto Parts to find out. She could picture him at work, stacking up the juice boxes or the frozen food, hauling, lifting, twisting. He came home from work exhausted, hardly able to move, listening to her as she prattled on about what this friend was doing and when that friend was getting married and when this other friend was due. He didn't care, and she knew he didn't care, but he was patient enough, or smart enough, or exhausted enough, to just sit and listen to her.

He wasn't supposed to be on his phone at work, but he always assured her she could call if she needed to. He would find a quiet corner to talk with her unobserved for a minute or two so they could say what they had to say. She knew she needed to tell him now, just like she had promised herself, just like she had warned him she would. "No problem," he said, like he always did. Nothing she needed was ever a problem.

When she pictured his face, she felt herself seize up inside. His face, with its long angular lines and pointed jaw, the way it looked when she admitted fatigue or weakness or bouts of onrushing, overpowering sadness. It broke her heart, the way he just took her pain, absorbed it, just held her in their tiny apartment on their third hand couch until the shuddering stopped and she was out of tears. She had never shared so much of herself with anyone, and all he did was quietly shoulder it all, without fighting or complaining.

She knew she had to call him and tell him. She knew he would brood about it, revealing nothing, and then he would come home from work, and then she would come home to him, and she would cry, and he would hold her, rocking back and forth, taking in her pain like a paper towel soaking up a spill. They would talk, probably long into the night, and they would reach an accord, and he would let her do what she wanted. He always did.

She watched the water droplets making paths down the plastic of the takeout cup. She supposed it was little imperfections in the plastic that made the droplets take one path or another. She felt like one of those drops, heading downward, your path altered by things you couldn't see and can't control. She took another deep swallow of the iced tea, now watered down almost to nothing by the ice.

She had to call him. Either way, she said, I'll call you and tell you. "OK," was all he said, headed out the door, his mind already on pallets and boxes, merchandise to be put up or taken down. She felt deep, full tenderness for how much he did, how much he swallowed, how much he didn't say or didn't do. She had never been with anyone so sweet and caring. She loved him, but she had to do this.

She hit the button. She put the phone to her ear, listening to the ring. She tried to picture him, unloading pears or toilet paper, feeling his phone vibrate, moving quickly into the back room, finding a deserted corner next to canned green beans or soda.

"Babe?," he said.

"Yeah, it's me," she said. She let out a long sigh. She didn't know how to say it. Her eyes watered.

"Did they tell you?"

"Yeah." She swallowed. "I am."

"You are?"

"I am." She felt sick, like someone had just punched her.

She heard him let out a breath. "OK, babe. We'll talk about this tonight. OK?"

"Sure, hun. I love you."

"Love you too, babe."

"Bye."

"Bye."

She stared at the phone screen until it signalled that the call was disconnected. She had to get back to the shop, where Janet was patiently covering for her, and think of what to say to her. To her, and to him, and to everyone. She wanted to crawl into a corner and hide, to drive somewhere where nobody knew her name. But that wasn't fair to him, and to her friends, and to her mom, and to her sisters. And to someone else.

Write On Edge: Model Citizen

Write On Edge's prompt this week involves one of two pictures, showing here. My story is based on the second picture, called "Model Citizen".







It was kind of funny. They want to make the pictures natural looking, but in order to do that, they bring artificial lights, and fans, and probably 20 different people being paid by the hour to make sure I look natural. They do this by fiddling with every possible variable- the blush on my cheek, the amount of blonde in my hair, the shine on the tip of the 700 dollar shoe I'm supposed to be selling. There has to be some wind blowing, but not too much- bystanders in the background, but photogenic ones.

I've been doing it for so long it hardly fazes me anymore. Yes, fine, fiddle with that. Sure. No trouble. Turn 4 millimeters to my right? Of course. Sun's behind a cloud? Yes, I'll wait.

It's a strange thing, being this object that all the action centers around. And that's what you are- an object. A pretty thing for them to hang their stuff on.

Helmut calls a break, so I take my leg down from the bench. I feel the muscles of my leg bunching uncomfortable, so I take a couple of tiny steps to try and make the feeling go away. The shoes aren't really comfortable, but that's not the point, is it?

There's a young woman, maybe 20 years old or so, staring at me open mouthed from behind the camera. I recognize the look. It's "I hate you for looking that good" mixed with "I wish I could look that good", about half and half. She's pretty enough, conventionally speaking- a nice, average looking girl body, with cute glasses and a short, spunky haircut. I looked at her skirt, her shoes, the way her blouse stretched tight across her body. I wondered what her life was like. Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go home and spitefully finish a pint of ice cream by herself?

I wished I knew, for a minute, what her life felt like. Not obsessing about skin tone, and angles, and blisters, and weight, and time.

"OK! Let's go everyone!," Helmut called out. I took a couple of tiny, teetering steps, back to the hard steel bench. The girl turned away and walked across the square. I watched her walk as the functionaries fussed and fluttered around the body. At least, I thought, with all her imperfections, she owns her body. I feel like I'm renting.

Flash Fiction Friday: "Lunch Break"

Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge this week where we are to write a story given one of two first lines. My entry is called "Lunch Break".











“You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man’s thoughts turn to love, but I think they’re wrong.”

Her colleague turned to her, egg salad sandwich in hand. "Well, I can tell you one thing- they certainly don't turn to thoughts of geometry."

She laughed, a high, soft sound. "Nobody's thoughts turn to that, Javier." She ate a spoonful of raspberry yogurt. At the other end of the table, the head of the history department, John Samuelson, ruffled the pages of his newspaper.

"Mine do," he said calmly. "Ptolemy's. Pythagoras'."

She chuckled again. "That's the only ones."

"So what do young men turn their thoughts to, then?" He took another bite of his sandwich.

"I've never been a young man," she said. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Oh, I agree with the poets. Love, definitely."

"Not sex? They are two different things, you know."

He looked at her strangely, like he had never seen her before.

"That's true. One has more letters."

"Always the geometer," she said, smiling. "Measuring the world."

"I don't know how else to describe it," he said to her. She was scraping her spoon along the bottom of the plastic yogurt container.

"The world? How about art? Music? Dance? Literature? There's more to life than theorems, Javier. You just said it- young men's thoughts turning to love. What do your ancient Greeks and your protractors have to say about that?"

"Oh, they had lots to say, you know that." He pointed to a framed picture on the wall, a Degas print. "Look at the curve of the dancer's calf, the arch of her back. There's geometry all around you. Math can be beautiful. You just have to know to look for it."

She stood up, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her print dress. He watched her in silence.

"All I know is, the young men in my classes are sex crazed. You hear them talk- it's all braggadocio about who they're going to do, who they did, who's doing what to who. No talk of love."

"News flash, Janine: they are men."

"We were never like that in our day."

Javier barked out a laugh. "You weren't, maybe. We were. All men are."

"Not all men. You're not like that."

"I grew up," he said, finishing his sandwich and crumpling up the plastic wrap. "But underneath? On some level? All men are like that."

She put her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to say?," she said, frowning.

The newspaper at the end of the table rustled shut. Samuelson spoke in a gravelly voice. "He's saying he wants to sleep with you."

The air was tense. "Do you?," she asked.

"Of course I do," Javier said. "I want to sleep with every woman I see, to some degree. I don't, because I'm married, and because it's wrong, and because my wife would cut my head off in my sleep if I did. But we all want to. Wanting to is just part of being men. As we get older, we just learn to hide it better."

"You make it sound like men are one step removed from animals," she said.

"I'm not positive it's a full step," he said.

"I don't understand men at all," she said, throwing her yogurt container away.

The bell sounded, meaning they had to go to their next class. "Don't worry. We don't understand ourselves, either," Samuelson said to her back.