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Before the Storm (for WPW#13)

           There was a song playing on the radio – something about jet airliners. My mom liked it. She was singing along.

           Big ol’ jet airliner, don’t carry me too far away

           Yeah, she definitely liked that song. I could see her tapping out the beats, palms pounding against the worn black wheel.

           Now you take it, Don! Oh, oh big ol’ jet airliner…

           My dad didn’t finish the sentence, but I bet he was smiling in the front seat. My mom had a way of making people smile, even if they tried not to.

           The guitarist took it away instead, and rain fell while the windshield wipers swished. I felt happy, at ease watching the water droplets on my window gain a bit of weight before sliding down the glass to pool near the door. We were nearly home. As our Cherokee approached the last intersection, my dad told her speed up.

           Hurry, Anne, before the light changes. Let’s make it home before the storm hits  

           The light changed to yellow a second before she made our turn. The rest was a blur.

           Headlights – bright, glaring. My father’s shout. My mother’s short silenced scream. Broken glass, sheared metal, and the slick sent of gasoline. My mother’s limp hand, dangling from the overturned seat…blood.

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Ready, set, write!

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Josey

Drink in hand, she lives her life  through blurry filters. Dancing beneath barroom lights,   she loses her body before the last call.

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Listen to the rain. Learn something new. Keep writing. 

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Shut-in (for WPW#12)

           “Listen, girly, your m-mother’s out to get me.”

           Hugh’s neck disappears into a pair of lopsided shoulders as he hunches over to whisper this in my ear. His breath smells like rotten cheese and curdled milk, causing my nose to wrinkle. I sigh, taking two sizable steps back. We give Hugh travel packets of toothpaste every other week, but it’s obvious that he never puts them to use. His yellow teeth will always match his jaundiced eyes, however hard we advocate hygiene for the city’s homeless. Following Hugh’s wild gaze, I redirect my attention from the wisps of his white beard to the serving tables by the door. My mother stands behind the first one, ladling soup into Styrofoam bowls. Her oversized sweater meets the middle of her thighs, and I watch as she smiles at Melody, our youngest attendee, and her father Jeffery. They technically live in their friend’s attic on the lower west side, but a meal is a meal. And we reject no one.

           Clearing my throat, I humor Hugh’s conspiracy theory.

           “My mother wouldn’t let you grab a third bowl, huh?”

           Hugh opens his mouth and then shuts it, multiple times, like a land-locked fish. He finally finds his words. “That’s right! S-she’s out to get me. What’s she gunna do with all that extra soup?” Lacing his fingers together, Hugh begins to wring his hands. I can hear the pop and crack of each joint as he applies pressure.

           “Hugh, you know what we do with the extra food. I’ve told you before. We take it to St. Mary’s for their shut in, and that’s tomorrow night. You’ll have another opportunity to eat, don’t worry.”

           Every week, come winter, some of the city’s churches host shut-ins for the homeless. Hot meals are served, old mattresses are passed out, and empty basements are opened for those in need of a warm place to rest. St. Peter’s is my church, and we open our doors every Wednesday night. My mother always insists that we volunteer – cooking, serving, or sweeping out the basement for sleepers. We can fit about fifty bodies in there. And we usually do on nights like these. I shiver, hearing the wind runs its icy nails across the windowpanes to my left. Outside, it’s single digit weather. I suddenly feel glad that I’m here with Hugh, discussing soup distribution, rather than out there, letting the cold rip at my hair or pelt my face with frost.

           “But that’s t-tomorrow. I can’t wait till tomorrow,” Hugh wines. His lips begin to tremble, shiny with spit, and I can see the pitiful plea in his yellow eyes.

           Glancing around for my mother, I find her catting with a table of veterans. Mark, Andrew, and Carlos – Afghanistan soldiers deployed ten or eleven years ago. I hear them laugh at something my mother says. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she presents the three men with a small platter of brownies. They each grab one.

           Taking the first step towards her, I answer Hugh.

           “Let me see what I can do.” It’s too cold to deny extra servings of soup tonight.    

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Feel free to elongate the opening line of your scene, but it MUST start with “Listen, girly”

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Coffee - (n.) a tired writer’s medicine. 

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She Stands 

Come, feel mother’s face. It’s splintered, after all these years, weather beaten and worn. Yet, she stands.

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It Don’t Mean a Thing

Black lace and converse. It’s time to dance. Let’s   forget the bars and beer-battered floors for just this once. Hey! Put on jazz record. Play me a little   Duke Ellington, and I’ll teach you a thing or two about swing.

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A Singer

Every night, she sings for a crowd full of strangers. With their hands in their pockets, close to their crotches, they listen to Italian words.  A romance language that means little to them, but everything to her.

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Up In Flames

We chose to burn our lives in the pit, for it’s easier to burn than it is to salvage.

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Consumption

The city is not a place you can see, but a place you can smell, one you can taste. Exhaust fumes and Bloody metal. We consume it before it consumes us.

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Churchyard 

So this is how it feels to be human.   Peering up, I knew at once. These trees could trap my waist in their slender branches and carry me under to a damper place.   Where roots mingle with polished wood and those before us can bloat, bursting at last.

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Two Hearts

            Ethan was standing too close. I couldn’t think straight.

           The scent of his cologne, all spices and woods, drifted down my throat and landed in my lungs. Looking at the outline of his muscles beneath that faded black shirt, I felt something heavy coil its way around my heart. The pinch of its squeeze made me gasp.      

            I needed to put some distance between the two of us. I had to. But before my brain could send the distress signals down my spine, Ethan tugged on my chin, forcing me to look up at his face. His eyes were like molten steel. Hard, soft, everything. They devoured my every feature, leaving a blazing blush that simmered across my cheeks. My breath caught, and I felt an unwelcome tightening in my chest.

           “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that there’s nothing between us. You know, as well as I do, that that would be a lie.”

           He hadn’t spoken harshly, but his words pierced my gut – sharp as the glass shards from my father’s broken bottles. I jerked my chin out of Ethan’s hold, attempting to step back, but he grabbed my wrists instead. Holding me in place, he slid forward. Our bodies were mere inches apart.

          “Ethan let me go!” I yelled, struggling to break away.

          “No. You need to listen to what I have to say.” He ground his syllables through clenched teeth. As I stared at the tiny chip in his front incisor, a perfect imperfection, I could practically hear his heartbeat compete with my own. “Dammit, Riley! Just hear me out!”

          I couldn’t stay in that room with him any longer. The celling was too low; the walls were too narrow. A cold panic seized my stomach, cascading through my lower half like a monsoon shower. I had to get out of there. I had to get away from him. Mustering every ounce of my diminishing will power, I put the biting venom into my next words.  

         “No, you listen to me. And let me be completely clear so there’s no confusion. There is nothing between us. Nothing. Despite what you’ve imagined, I feel nothing for you. The sooner you accept that, the better. You’re the one who’s fooling yourself.”

         He released his hands. They fell limply to his sides, near the pockets of his torn blue jeans, but I felt their ghost impression and the warmth of his palms long after he let me go. Ethan’s face twisted in pain, those beautiful grey eyes now shaded by knit brows. That hurt look almost crippled my resolve, but I kept speaking. I couldn’t loose the nerve. We could never be together. I was no good. I was trash. My father was right.

        “How you fabricated these mutual feelings is beyond me. You’re just wasting your time.” My legs began to tremble “You mean nothing to me and you never will. Now, did I make myself clear?”

         I held my breath, cursing the seconds that I had to wait until he spoke. Brushing strands of shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, Ethan pinned me to the wall with a steely look.  

         “You know . . . I won’t give up until I’ve stolen your heart. I don’t care how long it takes. I won’t give up.”

          He spoke those few words with such emotion and such sadness. I felt a knot begin to form in my throat, and I knew what would come next. But before I could show any sign of weakness, I left him with the one certainty that could be found in all this mess.

           “You can’t steal something that’s already lost.”  

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Hey y’all! So this was my first EVER attempt at steamy teen romance. So, of course, I had to make it a dramatic break up scene...

Share with me your questions, comments, or concerns. Thanks for reading!

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Cave In

             When I open my eyes, it is dark. I hear water dripping from somewhere above my head and something squeak to my right. I feel cold, but not scared. In the dark, I can imagine myself anywhere.

            Maybe a tropical island with my toes buried in the sand, or perhaps a cozy family room with a fireplace burning in the corner. Of course, I’d have to have marshmallows. You can’t have a perfectly good fire and not roast marshmallows. Rolling my head back, I feel scratchy bricks press against my skull. Or is it concrete? Oh, it doesn’t matter. 

            This time, engulfed by black, I imagine a large playground nestled in a park.

            The park is really very big, surrounded by trees on one side and by a meadow on the other. A playground separates the two, but all three seem to seep together in a beautiful painting of colors. This place is familiar, though I can’t remember visiting it before. But no matter. It looks happy, and the sun is shining, and I feel warm. Kids are running and giggling and having fun, playing their silly games while their mothers look on with love and affection.

           Did my mom ever look at me like that? I can’t remember.

           I know that she smelled like spring, like April mornings do after a sturdy rain has quenched the flowers during the night. I don’t remember her name, or much of what she looked like, but she smelled like spring. I wonder if my mom sits somewhere in this park. I really hope so. I would love to meet her. To hug her and inhale her scent just one more time.

           A tumbling noise chases away my sweet revere, and the beautiful park disappears along with the playground and the smiling faces. Through the vast, empty darkness I spot a beam of light. It comes from the top of a tunnel. I hear voices and I hear shouts.

           “Come on, put your backs into it!”

           “Oh God, please, please, have mercy! Let him be okay, I beg you!”

           “They’ve been in there for far too long.”

           “How many do you think are still alive?”

           What a strange mix of sensations seize me at hearing these voices! Relief. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. The stream of light grows larger and larger as these outsiders sift jagged rocks away. I catch my first glimpse of what surrounds me. To my left lie the ruins of cars caught in the cave in. A silver minivan, roof crunched like foil. A red sedan, tipped on its side. I see a bloody arm. It’s sticking out from a pile rocks near my feet. There’s a teddy bear near my left shoe. A mangled bicycle rests next to a young man twisted in an unnatural position. His mouth is agape and filled with dust. My eyes scan the scene like a lifeless machine. I feel, nothing. I hear nothing.

           Not until strong arms pull me from the ground and grip my shoulders tight, shaking me not too gently, do I make any logical response. I crumple into these arms and gasp for air. I am drowning. I think rocks are filling my lungs. A wave of nausea hits my stomach like a freight train, and I heave the contents of my churning stomach. The arms suddenly release me, and my palms slap down against the cracked ground beneath me as I hunch over. My vision blurs, and the last thing that I remember before passing out is the sound of a woman crying. A heart-wrenching sob that haunts me to this day.

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I hope that everyone enjoyed this short and gripping excerpt! I had a tricky but fun time writing it (^L^)

Inspiration came a’knocking on my door when I tried to capture the mental state of a cave in victim. I wanted to combine lucidity of thought with bits of confusion surrounding the scene’s setting and the past. The park was my way of depicting flashbacks to childhood memories encountered by my character, and I also thought that it could stand as a materialized “gateway” to heaven. Again, I hope that you found this excerpt to be interesting read!   

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Favorite Flower (for WPW#11)

          Viola tricolor, heart’s ease, heart’s delight, love-in-idleness – Ally’s favorite flower.

            Ally knew every name, and she knew every myth. She knew all about Cupid’s terrible aim. She could tell you, without a single hiccup, how his arrant dart had stained the white flower purple when it missed a Roman votaress by an entire barrel of wine. Ally also knew about Shakespeare’s Puck and the misplacement of love potions into the eyes of unsuspecting lovers. She could go on and on for days, discussing meddling sprites and mere mortals with whoever would listen. Her knowledge impressed friends, teachers, and neighbors. Everyone really. After all, Ally was only eight years old – nearly nine, come New Years.

           If you wanted to point fingers, Ally’s mother was the one to blame. She was the one who would share these special stories with her daughter before bedtime. A botanist by trade, but a herbologist by heart, Ally’s mother loved a magical tale more than most. She would sit on her daughter’s bed, leather-bound book in hand, and read from the crinkled pages, running her hands over the lines as if they were spells capable of being cast. Watching this, Ally believed that her mother could do anything. Ally believed that her mother could concoct potions from Cupid’s pansies, like Puck, and shower drops of love over those who needed it most. Her mother was a sprite, a good fairy, unstoppable. Until the cancer hit – stage four, terminal.

           The diagnosis was given after the fall, after the month of hospital trips and mechanical tests that, even when explained, Ally could not understand. She understood measly bedtime stories, could memorize the origin myth and uses of her favorite wildflower, but she failed to comprehend these tests, however hard she tried. Ally watched her mother lose her magic, day by day. As masked doctors pumped their tonics up tubs stuck in her mother’s thinning arms, they stole the magic, every once of it. Ally no longer believed that her mother could accomplish anything. Cupid was a dump baby with wings and Shakespeare was a stupid man with ratty facial hair. She banished the bedtime stories from her mind. They were lies. Each and every pansy-filled, fairy-filled story, all lies.

           Ally chucked her mother’s books beneath her bed, and the delicate pages bent where they landed. Crying into her pillow, she let out a string of big snotty tears that soaked the cotton straight through. Half an hour passed. Then another. Then another. When the afternoon light began to fade over the horizon, Ally’s eyes flickered open. Wiping away the salty crust left behind by her tears, she crawled under her bed to be with the books. To be with her mother.

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On your marks, get set, write!