Prompt: Bicycle

He stood in the doorway, eyes pleading for me to remember and I could not. Tom looked at us both, half smiling and half quizzical of the conversation. I had just gotten off my bicycle when this young man approached looking for something I could not give him, a memory of a moment I could not remember.
    “You have to remember,” he said.
    “I honestly don’t. I’m sorry.”
    “But…I’ve, for so long.”
Tom leaned back watching the scene unfold. His hand rested on his chin. The young man’s eyes darted to him and he shook his head as if to say, ‘its all yours.’ My eyes narrowed, Tom—my longest friend had somehow contrived this meeting for his own jest.
    “I wanted to be your roommate.”
    “Us? That’s wouldn’t look right. After all, we weren’t dating. And in all honestly, I barely know you.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out so harshly. That poor man’s body slumped as if I cut him at the knees.
    “Let us take a little walk,” Tom jumped in. “Do you mind terribly if I steal her away for a while Josh?”
    Josh shook his head ‘no’ and turned for the door. His hand rubbed the back of his neck and it made me feel horrible.
    “Jenna,” Tom smiled and held out his hand. I pulled my bicycle between us as we walked through the alleyway towards town. “You know he’s been in love with you for a while.”
    “He has not,” I replied. The sound of the chain on the bicycle clanked with each step. It filled the void of an awkward conversation.
    “He adores you. And you know it.”
    “Josh is adorable, I give you that. But I’ve never thought of him as more than just a friend.”
    “You have a funny way of treating your friends.”
    “Do I? At least I treat them all the same.”
    “Do you?” Tom tilted his head. “I don’t think you do.”
    “Tom, what can I say to him? I—there—why do you men always do this?”
    “Don’t blame me!”
    “Why? I’ve never been one of those women who pressure men into relationships. And now, now that I’m on my way out of here—all of them are trying to get me to stay. If they wanted more, why wait until now? Until I’m about to move?”
    “You’ll be in my old stomping grounds you know.”
    “Yes. Excellent way of changing the subject Tom.”
    Tom laughed, “Honestly not my intent. Please continue on your man bashing. You know how much I love it.”
    “Not what I meant,” I laughed. “Its just. The one I want doesn’t want me. And while the others are sufficient substitutes—”
    “Its not the same,” Tom cut in.
    “Exactly.”
    “So, go. Have fun. He’ll come around, and if not, at least you’ll have a story to tell at the end of the day. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. You know that better than most.”
    “But if he doesn’t figure it out. Do I just move on?”
Tom slowed to a stop. I turned and looked up to him. He smiled softly and bit his lip. His fingers brushed away the bangs that were in my eyes.
    “He has. Circumstances though, they are the universe’s answer to happiness, and unfortunately they conspire against his.”
    I can feel my cheeks fill with a rosy hue and my eyes gloss with tears wanting to spill forth, but I just blink feverishly trying to keep them at bay.
    “So, I move on?”
    “That is a conversation, I think, for another day.” He puts his hand on the bicycle seat, fingers resting slightly on mine and we continued walking.

Prompt: Fantasy

An Honest Conversation

“What’s your fantasy?” he asked from across the table. Music blared in her ear and she pretended not to hear him.

She knew the answer. She’d thought about it many nights when she looked around her home. Sometimes, when lying in bed she would look at the walls filled with books or at the paintings that she came to enjoy over the years and it would evolve in her consciousness. Her fantasy did not include exotic trips—she could and did that on her own. There were no occasional fancy of sexual partners or positions she wanted to try—she never had complaints about being boring in bed. Everything she wanted, she did. One thing however, always eluded her. It was something so simple and yet as much as she enjoyed seeing it happen to her friends she never thought it would happen to her. She kept it hidden, a seed of desire that made her sad sometimes. It was an increasingly humbling experience at holidays.

You may think the obvious answer, after that premise, is love. You’d be wrong. Love was something she did every day. How could that be a fantasy? She loved every one of her partners. The men in her life—not all of them bedfellows—she adored. Her family, from parents to nephews, and all the friends between, her heart rejoiced and ached because of the love she had for each. However, each passing year around the holidays, she noticed her fantasy growing dimmer and brighter at the same time. You see her fantasy was not simply to love someone, which seemed like such an easy thing to do; it was to share.

There was an ebb and flow she felt with time. Friends would partner off and leave the circle. And as time continued she wanted to share life with someone. A companion and friend. She wanted to share her library with that person. And eventually, share their knowledge with their child.

“What’s your fantasy?” he repeated.

She ran her finger around the top of the glass and pretended to think, as if the answer was not on the tip of her tongue.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she said, “I guess—if pressed—it would involve intimacy.” That was all she said, if she would have expressed her true fantasy there’d be no second drink and no chance to share.

Sunday Musing - Darkness

     I sat there looking out the window, rain cleared and sun drizzled over the horizons like beams of hope touching sorrow laden grass. I hadn’t noticed he'd walked in until the smell of spiced apricots tickled my nose. 

     “William,” I said softly. My eyes slid from the horizon to the floor. As much as I wanted to hide it—he always made me nervous. 

      “I want you to come away with me,” he said with such conviction. There was no quiver in his tone. When I looked to him, his face was soft; with crow’s feet, I loved so dear crinkled around his eyes. Hazel and green glimmered back at me and I remembered why I would give up almost anything. It was neither the way he stood with such sure footedness and confidence nor how his lips proclaimed sweet nothings into my ear. It was that one night—when darkness fell quicker than we thought it would and the stars shown down on us like fireflies caught in the jar of night. 

     His head in my lap, I stroked his hair and in the cover of night we spoke of things we feared. And as the darkness lengthened, the moon began to rise; the truth came out as you gazed upward with those eyes. Fears turned to secrets and then to whispers for only lovers to hear. It was the night I fell in love. The night inhibitions were lost. Our facades ripped away by the pale moon’s glow.

                “Of course,” I said and he stole a kiss.

Lost and found: starter paragraph

I found this start in a notebook. Oh, the brilliance of something like this hitting you while you’re out and about. This is why if you are a writer you should always have something in your bag to jot down notes. I’d love to take this starter paragraph and make it into something awesome. But I think that is for after my query letters are sent out.

“I swear this time I didn’t do it,” I said with a handful of wires in one hand and a CB handle in the other. Rob looks up at me from between the two suited men. I could tell he was worried. The men in black suits and skinny ties did nothing to hide their girth. My brother looked like a toddler between the two.

Mementos from ghosts

She sat looking at her desk. Memories of times past floated like ghost with little concept of time. Each memento on the dark oak held a special meaning to her, reasons why she now regretted her decision. A flower crown rests atop a carved wooden Buddha head. The flowers dried and entwined with leaves given to her at the same time as the Buddha. A village, so thankful for her work, the time she spent with them as she helped the political climate transition around them with as little effect as possible. They thanked her with one of the garden Buddha.

Rebecca smiled as she continued writing. Her mind wondering through the ghostly memories as her hand slowly moved across the slightly yellow parchment. Her eyes focused on a picture of her John, sweet, beautiful John standing next to his vintage motorcycle during their trek through Siam. His hair covering his eyes as his hand shielded his face from the brightness of the recently cleared forest. “We were so,” she thought but her hand continued moving, writing constantly in perfect lines of ink. Her eyes moved on to the gold locket which hung half open from a branch of a decretive tree. The pen stopped. She stopped. Trembling fingers traced down the side of the engraved gold until she twisted the images toward her. John’s blue eyes peered at her, opposite his image— their boy, Daniel. Rebecca picked up the pen and finished her letter.

“After such a loss, I am regrettably unable to fulfill my duties.”

---

If you have an image you'd like for me to write a bit of dribble for please feel free to email it to me hart(dot)jeannie(at)gmail(dot)com

First dance with a Pomegranete

She saw it sitting on the shelf. It was perfect. Shades of red speckled with pink spots as if hand painted by God. He dipped a paintbrush into the paint of life and threw it at his trees. So random, she thought, her hand ran along the curvature of the pomegranate. Its color accentuated by a soft, slow fade from bright red into the dark, fire burnt red. Hard, sharp pentacles jutted outward against her soft, delicate hand. She's never had one, not a real one. They've been blended into drinks and in folded into breads but she holds the pomegranate in her hand and realizes—Persephone had the right idea—this is lust.

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Magic"

Each step I took the sound of pine needles crunching echoed through the forest. The tall trees stretched upward like giants. My head trailed along the thick, cracked trunks until I felt I would fall backward. I breathed in, closed my eyes and listened to what mother earth created. Winds whispered as they wrapped themselves around my skin, a warm bath of love drawn by the mother herself. She rustled the boughs of Quaking Aspens that filled the underbrush with a blue and silver hue. Silver dollar leaves shook as they announced the Goddess presence, the sound of a creek side awakening. Ferns rippled, bending their bright green limbs gently to her waves of caresses. I was simply an observer in this dance between lovers.

She stopped, her whispered love faded. The meadow opened in front of me. I didn’t know what she wanted me to see. Her whispers maneuvered me to this spot where the grass grew in a chaotic jumble of colors. Green brush dotted with flowers only painters and poets could describe. Away from the cover of the giants the sun blazed down. I shielded my eyes as the grass turned a blinding white and back to their rich greens. The petite peddles tickled my hand as I walked into the unknown, desperately trying to connect with the force that guided me here.

It was there in the meadow, I found it, a connection with something more than myself. I sat amongst the grass, my hands in the earth. The dirt cold, clean, pure, I was rooted. I looked out from eyes which were no longer disconnected from my subconscious. A sway came over me, the rhythm of the grass vibrating with life, induced my mind to open and she returned. No longer a whisper mother earth lifted my hair, swirled it into the air like a tornado of happiness.

Earth’s winds blew, bending row after row of grass. She let her lover bow. Grasses pressed against my skin. Every kiss created a sparkle within my heart, they radiated outward until the sun was eclipsed by the otherworldly glow. The Goddess approved, my hair dropped to my shoulders. I breathed deeply and inhaled the life-force she bestowed. My fingers wiggled in the dirt, I knew it was time to uproot myself.

I lay on my back and looked at the luminous blue sky. My hand rested on my forehead, I could feel the coolness of dirt as it soaked into my skin. I didn’t want to wipe it away; I wanted to have this feeling forever. It was magic.

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More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Secret"

     "Momma, I have a secret.” The girl’s curls bounced as her head bobbed back and forth. Blonde pig tails made her head look abnormally square. “But no one can know,” she said.
     “Sweetie, you can tell me. I promise not to say a word to anyone.” Her mother looked down at her blue eyed daughter, a color so rich even the ocean’s depth could not compare.
     The little girl started to sway back and forth as a devious smile crossed her face. Her pink dress swished softly as her hand caressed the hemline. “I don’t know mama.” She said. She shrugged her shoulders and bit her bottom lip. The dress moved upward as she shrugged exposing soft white knees, a porcelain doll with skin practically crafted to perfection.
     Her mother kneeled down, scrunched her nose and brushed it against her daughter’s. She smelled like clean skin and powder which made her mother grin for raising such a perfect replica of herself.
     “You can tell me anything baby.” Her mom said with conviction.
     She looked around and gestured for her mother to come in close. Those brilliant blue eyes twinkled as her mother moved in. The little girl cupped her hand around her mom’s ear, ready to impart her secret through a hushed whisper which tickled her mother’s skin.
     She grinned as her breath pushed through her dainty vocal cords, “It wasn’t the dog.”

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More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Gloves"

     I looked at those gloves. They stood for everything I hated. They were prim and proper. White and pure, everything I was not. But I sat and looked at them. The poof under me contoured my curves, my knees together and tight but ankles spread wide in protest. My thumb and forefinger pulled at my bottom lip. Would I go through with it? I thought. It was more than a thought then. I remembered how nothing was right. The dress was too tight, my heels too tall, and those gloves sat in front of me like a final mockery of everything I’d ever wanted to do with my life.
     “I can’t do it.” I said crossing my legs. “I just can’t.”
     “Mon cher, it’s not the time to have these thoughts.”
     “Daniel, you don’t understand.” I picked up the white gloves and held them, fingers caressed each silk hem. “Did you?”
     “Not for a second,” Daniel shook his head as his thick Louisiana accent floated from his lips like leaves from a Live Oak drifting on the bayou. “Cheri, it’s normal to be scared but de’s thoughts, they do you no good.”
     “There are so many things I won’t get to do.”
     “How you know that?”
     “I just do Daniel. He’s boring.” I placed the gloves in my lap. “What if I want to go to Paris? He’ll tell me he has to work.”
     “True, but Chari, you love him no?” Daniel dipped his head and looked at me with those green eyes, like moss under a shade tree.
     “I…” my cheeks flushed pink. I pulled the gloves up to my face letting the cool silk press against my hot skin.
     “You cannot fool me mon cheri.”
     I closed my eyes and I could see him standing there, the oak trees branches swaying in the breeze as the sun drizzled through the leaves. The table behind the priest filled with white roses and green moss. I could smell the earth as I watched my fiancée smile at me. Greens and browns swirled together bringing only him into focus. I opened my eyes. Daniel stood there and smiled.
     “How ‘bout we get you down that isle.”

-End-

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More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

Fiction Friday

Photo by Gerry

The car door is open. Dew gathers and falls from blades of grass which vibrate gently as the car hums with the electric propulsion system suspending it in air. Sunshine drizzles through the leaves of a dense orchard. Soft, rhythmic dinging pierces the morning haze.

Deep amongst the almond blossoms birds gather. Black and white striped feathers flap while brown eyes watch carefully. They look for signs of life. The Red Shouldered Hawk’s attention is sharp. Only one section in this grove, bathed in light as the morning sun rises higher, interests these birds of prey. Between the rows of bark, between the sunspots on the earth lies a hand straining forward.  His fingers convulse slightly as the blood drains from his body. Two gunshot wounds ooze as his heart pumps the life giving force out, staining the dirt red.

The hawks start to circle. Landing close they peck at spots which are easiest to break away from the flesh. Other birds smell the freshness of the meal. More gather to this feast.  They peck and tear until there is little left. A breeze passes through the almond orchard, ruffling the leaves and kicking dust into the air. It scares the birds of prey. They scatter like water to thrown rocks, leaving behind a corpse of wires and circuitry. Another mechanical murder, two days before the Magistrate is anointed.


***
I’ve been away for a while. I wish I could say it was something exotic like a vacation to Angkor Wat but no, I’ve been sick. I’m thinking of keeping Fridays as Fiction Fridays. I think it’s a bit fun and will allow me to do more writing related blogs during the week. What do you think? Good? Bad? Let me know in the comments.

Paris

Green leaves smelling of clean, fresh earth, dangling above us like strands of fine pearls glistening in the sunlight. Wisps of bright, warm light stings my eyes as a cool breeze crosses my cheek I raise my hand, shielding myself from the elements. The stone statues come into focus, carved perfection looming over us in romantic protection.

I feel Christopher stir. His head still on my abdomen, arm wrapped around my legs. This is what we were meant to do. Days as beautiful as these are for picnics under the trees. Parisian fountains to sing soft lullabies as they gurgle forth with refreshing wisdom.

Speed Writing part deux

At the Random Writers Workshop we were given a picture of a person. From that picture we had to write three different viewpoints of the character. We were given five minutes to write each one. Enjoy!

From the character’s viewpoint
I’m a hard worker. Most of us in this sector are we have to be. My hair is long, longer than most of the other women in this village. It helps that I have the ability to say no in five different village dialects. Most are still surprised to see someone with such dark skin and yet still having a full head of hair. Many of the planet’s decedents are caramel in color, short and plump. I tend to tower over them, my frame slender but muscular. Sometimes though, I wonder with technology so advanced, they can fly me to this barren planet. Why can’t they pump water to the village?

From the character’s worst enemy’s viewpoint
I hate that she uses me. Thinking she’s better than everyone around her. As if that long ebony hair is something special. She comes with the rustic basket looking for my fish. Her nets plunge into my water with those slender arms. When she barks to her followers, she tries to show authority. It makes me gurgle with laughter. With one swift current I can take those long legs from under her, drowning that dark skinned creature, covering her bright clothes with my silt. Never again would the two legs drink from my well again.

From the viewpoint of someone who realizes they don’t know the character at all
I looked up to her. Her eyes were so bright with ideas. Deep brown jewels of wisdom that spout ways we can better ourselves. I could have watched her mouth forever as it moved with such fluidity. Dreams of irrigation, feeding our fields, thoughts rolled off her tongue. I thought I knew her. I knew of her, but did not know her. Reality set in. That muscular but slender figure, so strong, set her outside our people. She came from far away to try to help us and now she says, “We must pump the river.” I shake my head. Despite her lavish words of hope—she will never know our River God. And we really, don’t know her at all.

Novel Excerpt: Protests at MASBE

“Thanks Tom, the sight you see is a growing theme across the country. Many people are wondering what this new protest means. As you can see here, the MASBE Corporation is taking little note of the protests. We’ve tried to contact MASBE for a response but they have declined to make a statement. We are all curious what will happen at the press conference today at 8pm. The picketers seem to think the announcement will be one that will declare their sentiments true, peace or die.” The field reporter says as she stands in front of the picketers. They chant, “Peace or Die” as their signs, as varied as the crowd, move up and down. Participants walk along an unseen yet predetermined path, a circle of history.

Writing Prompt: Haiti

This prompt was tweeted to me by OddOneDesigns I do apologize if it is sad, but do we really need happy about the earthquake in Haiti yet? When OddOneDesigns tweeted it to me I immediately thought of children being separated from their mother and how they would have to instantly grow up. I hope you enjoy but also please help out Save the children through the banner below.

"Maman? Maman!! Where are you?" Emmanuel calls out frantically. He is only twelve. Never in his life has fear gripped him, until today. “Maman, please! Where are you?” He yells at the top of his lungs. The building in rubble: he stumbles over the fragments that used to be his home.

“Manny,” a girl’s voice rings forth from under rubble. “Manny, help me!”

“Mika? I can’t see you.” His eyes dart back and forth as he tries to listen for his sister’s voice. “Mika keep talking.”

“Manny, maman went to the store.” Emmanuel follows her voice to a pile of rubble. Looking up he notices the roof collapsed on top of their dining room.

“Mika are you okay? Are you hurt?” He says as he starts digging through the debris. Holding his breath as the dust from the concrete -- which he moved -- floated up, covering his skin in a thick white ash.

“Manny my leg hurts.” Emmanuel starts digging faster. He didn’t know what that meant. From the look of their home, he hoped that it was just pinned down. “Manny it hurts really bad.” She says and he knows at that moment it is more than just pinned. Her voice quivered which means she was trying really hard not to cry.

“Mika, listen to me.” He says in the best soothing brotherly voice he can. “Mika I’m almost to you. Be strong. Remember when we were playing football and you fell in the street?” Emmanuel pauses making sure she is listening. There was a sniffle; he was close to her.

“Yes,” she whimpers.

“You remembered how much you cried? And how much it hurt? What did I do to make you feel better?” He asks as his hands strain to move the chunks of fallen roof.

“You bought me ice cream.” She says after several moments of silence.

“Mika, if you’re brave and strong I will buy you ice cream for a month.” He promises as he starts to see the edges of the dining room table. He thinks to himself, ‘good girl, under the table that’s what they always tell us to do during an earthquake’.

“Promise?” her innocent voice ringing through the last few fragments which stand between her and her brother; a voice like a bird’s song on a clear, blue, spring day. Emmanuel forces the last few stones away as he reveals his six year old sister -- shivering with fear. She looks down to her foot which is under the rubble. “I didn’t get all the way under,” she says as her breaths grow shakier. He knows she is about to break into tears.


“It’s okay Mika. I’ll get you out.” He watches as she bites her lip and tears start making tracks on her ash covered face. Taking off his belt he wraps it around her leg. Watching American television reruns of ER – whether true or not – he didn’t want to move the stone and her loose blood. ER always tied something around a wound. Hands tremble, he pauses before moving the stone. ‘What if maman didn’t get to a safe place,’ he thought. Shaking his head he continues. There was no place for thoughts like that in his head right now. “Mika, I need you to look away,” Emmanuel moves to the large concrete fragment that is on her foot. “Don’t look back until I say. This might hurt but promise me you won’t look at me until I say. Yes?” Mika turns her head and closes her eyes tight as she nods yes. She screams as Emmanuel moves the stone. He was right to have the belt around her ankle. Her foot is limp, crushed, and raw. Quickly he removes his shirt and wraps it around the broken and bleeding flesh. Releasing the belt only for a moment, repositioning it, and then tightening it around his shirt: keeping it in place. “Mika, look at me.” Her brilliant brown eyes peered up to him -- eyes bloodshot with tears looking to him with the need to be reassured. “Mika we’ve got to get out of here. We need to find maman.” Mika nodded her head and tried to stand up. “No Mika, I don’t think you can walk. Here,” he offered his back to her, “wrap your arms around my neck I’ll carry you.”


This is the moment Emmanuel became a man, at twelve, his sister dangling precariously on his back while he traverses the ruins of a town. No boy should have to do this. To tell his sister to bury her eyes into his back as they pass bodies.
Feeling her tears run down as they continue through the devastation. Churches toppled over and spilling into the streets, roads littered with fragments of homes, lives thrown askew as he walks among a handful of the living. They walk in the same direction – hopefully in the direction of help. Emmanuel sees a woman on the side of the road, her hands in the air as she screams; her son at her knees, limp and lifeless. He walks on wondering if his maman is grieving for her children, or if she is already dead. A tear escapes his eye as he realizes he may never see his mother again.

Finally up ahead there is hope. A small medical clinic is taking names of the injured. Emmanuel’s pace quickens as he sees the line starting to grow. Maneuvering his way through the crowd he makes it to the front of the line quickly. There sits a man in a ball cap and polo shirt – despite his appearance Emmanuel sees the same worry and frustration that is on everyone’s face. “Name?”

“Emmanuel and Mika Jean-Baptiste”

“age?”

“Twelve and six,” Emmanuel says as the man looks up from the sign in sheet. He didn’t realize how young they were.

“Emmanuel, where is your maman?” The man asks in a soft voice. Emmanuel stares over the man’s head, if he looks into his eyes he might break.

“I don’t know.”

Writing prompt: death

Her head lies on my lap, my eyes watering realizing that these might be the last moments I will ever spend with her. I stroke her hair as her chest staggers and fights for breath. “Why did you have to do that? Why?” Tears start to flow freely now, it’s uncontrollable. The fleeting thoughts of hope wander in and out of my mind as her eyes close. ‘Maybe she is just resting,’ I think, trying desperately to fool myself that this is not happening. Exhaling her final breath, her chest stops moving. “No, NO, no, no, no, no, no!” I lift her body to me. Her short hair scratches my cheek as they soak up my tears. “You can’t do this to me. I need you,” my voice quivers as the words drop from my lips. “You’ve been with me for so long. I don’t know how I can do this without you.”

A hand rest on my shoulder, it is heavy with remorse. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – I mean I didn’t see her.” It is a man’s voice: soft and respectful. I sniffle as my arms wrap around her neck, this is my only friend. She had been with me for so long that time has faded into just a spinning reel of memories. Joyful memories filled with laughter and long days; memories of perfect sunsets growing up under the large oak tree in the front yard. Some days she would be my pillow, and other days I would be hers.

Cheeks pink: mad bumps dot my face as I turn up to the man— which in my eyes is a murder. “You didn’t see her? That’s all you have to say?” My eyes burn with anger they don’t look at him, but they burrow through him like the sun through the atmosphere: unrelenting. I turn to her once more stroking her head like a lover.

“I’m sorry; I don’t know what else I can say. I’m just so, so sorry.” His voice drops. His head drops. There is nothing he can say that will make the situation any better and he knows that.

My breath quickens heart heavy and full of grief but I know these things happen. I just didn’t think it would happen to her. Turning to the man, the accidental murderer I tell him, “It was my fault, I should have held her leash tighter. She’s never darted into traffic before. I thought she would be fine. We are still new to the city. I, I, thought,” my eyes close as I stand up. Letting my lifelong friend, my companion, my Labrador lay motionless on the pavement. She didn’t look hurt; there was no blood, no mangled body, just the breathless form that was my dog. “I thought as long as she was with me, she would be okay.”

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

Prompt: Answering Machine

My hand sits motionless over the small blinking box; trembling as the message continues. The voice, crackling sounding otherworldly as it comes through the archaic speaker. This answering machine has seen better days. A crinkled forehead with squinted eyes, I concentrate on the words spoken. The only clue that something is wrong is my hovering hand that dare not move. I can feel my cat rub against my leg but my mind is racing hardly noticing the soft purrs issued forth. ‘It’s not possible.’ I think, ‘there is no way that message could be left on an answering machine.’ Rewinding and pressing the play button I listen to it once more.

“Some days, some days you are the most brilliant woman in the world. There are days I just want to wrap my arms around you and make sure that the whole world fades away. Then there are days like yesterday.” He pauses, and releases a deep sigh. “Days like yesterday, where you make me feel this small. Not that you can see my hand gestures but it’s small, very small. It’s as if you enjoy making me feel like I crap. You frustrate me so freak’n much that I lose my words around you.” Another long pause as I hear traffic behind him. Of course he would find the only working telephone booth in London. “I just, I just, god damn it---I just love you.” My jaw drops and I realize those were the words I heard. My hand trembles, if those words were what I heard the first time then what’s next must be true as well. “Wow, I love you,” his words softened, the background noises becoming more apparent; the sound of traffic rushing past. Horrible sounds of screeching tires – no doubt from the fog. I stand and listen. I know what is about to happen and there’s nothing I can do but to listen. Wheels skipping as he speaks in the phone, “I love you, I want to.” The shattering of glass: deafening.

I jump as I hear the engine rev. Tears stream down my cheeks as screams from passersby’s reverberate into my ears, down so deep – touching my brain and shaking loose emotions I never knew were there. Dropping to my knees my hands covering my face as I hear more voices, louder voices, voices trying to help, yelling voices saying, “get him out of the car! Bloody hell, get back.” A woman’s voice pierced through the crowd.

“Oh my god, there was someone in the booth.” I could picture her pointing at the booth as she screamed the words. Tears seeped through my fingers and land on my shirt soaking it through. The car engine finally cut---the silence so loud that the crackles of my answering machine hurt my ears. I strained to hear the words I knew were coming.

“Maria,” his voice breathy, raspy, and so faint, “Maria, I want to marry you.” My breaths shallow, heart racing as the crackles turn to static. Static lasting for a mere second before the disconnected signal rings and the machine stops.

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

Space Goats

You can thank Daniel for this prompt. I thought a brief dialog creation would be awesome for this prompt.

Space Goats
"Intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic."

"Seriously Steve, quit singing that song.” Todd said as he looked at Steve. “Every time we are launched from the space port you start singing. You can’t sing you know you can’t sing right?"

"You’re just jealous you don’t have my mad rapping skills." Steve rolled his eyes.

"Really? Really? That’s what I’m jealous about? Not for the fact that you’re sitting in the captain’s chair while I’m back here dealing with your back draft? Yes, I’m jealous of your rapping skills. That’s what I’m jealous of."

"Wow Todd, you really need to calm down. You remember what they did to you the last time you got all worked up about my rapping."

"And yet-- you STILL SING THAT SONG! You know what it does to me! I think you do it just so when we get there they have no choice but to tranq me!"

"Todd, cool it. Fine, I’ll stop. I didn’t know that I annoyed you so much."

"Of course you annoy me! Everyone in this place annoys me. I have no say over where I go what I do! All I want is to be on some slope somewhere eating grass and soaking up the sunshine, but no. I’m here. With you, with a rocket strapped to our tails and being hurled across space like a gigantic game of intergalactic ping pong. Why the heck are you laughing?"

"Intergalactic." Steve holds his breath trying not to laugh.

"Crap."

"INTERGALACTIC PLANETARY, PLANETARY INTERGALACTIC!"

"I swear, I WILL END YOU!"

©Jeannie Hart 2009

Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds

I sit at the light, singing at the top of my lungs—top down in my just washed, red mustang convertible. Looking to the left I smile at the driver. It’s a beautiful warm day; perfect for cruising. The sunshine warms my cheeks as only the Californian sun can. Eyes pressed close as I feel the rejuvenation take place—this moment, so sweet, so intoxicating, so brilliant.

I’m flying across the intersection. My hands holding my neck— keeping it from snapping back – I brace myself. ‘Oh God, what the hell,’ I think as the car spins once, twice, three times. Somehow I manage to pull the car over to the right. It’s really just a blur. Getting out I hear crying, I’m looking at my car: mangled, twisted, and abused. The driver I smiled at is helping me to the curb. My words can’t come out, they are so angry but they won’t come out. All I hear is crying. Looking down I see my leg is cut. Blood is running down my bruised skin. The cries are mine.

©Jeannie Hart

Breakdown

©2009 Jeannie Hart

Her eyes wide open as she lays motionless in the bed – knees to her chest, the world around her just background noise. The old, rotary style clock flips in front of her as the minutes pass by. She listens to the noises from the kitchen— they make her pull the white duvet closer to her chest. She realizes he is still here. Tears start dripping from the corners of her eyes as the wet spot on the crisp white pillow grows.

He stands in front of the stove. Moving quickly as he beats eggs, pours just a bit of milk, and moves them over to the hot pan. The messy, dirty blond hair that she always loved about him—flops in his face as he cooks. Silver pendent lamps shine down over the dark granite countertops, it’s still early. The sun not up yet. Looking out over the loft as he adds in onions and bell peppers, he realizes how cold the apartment is. Modern design has its price. The only warmth the kitchen, which is rarely used: unless he is there. Pulling out dishes from under the counter he moves the eggs to a plate. He pours orange juice into a small glass as he arranges a flower in another. Smiling he takes the small tray up the loft stairs and sets it down— next to her curled up body. Sitting on the edge of the bed he puts on his shoes. Reaching out to touch her shoulder only to recoil quickly and grab his watch and wallet that sits on the mirrored side table. His head dips as his words drop from his mouth; they are heavy and thud into the silence like a gunshot on a foggy day. “You don’t have to act like this.” His torso twists as he faces her, “be an adult. We’ve both seen this coming for a long time.” He exhales a sigh as he gets up and returns down the stairs.

Her hand wipes her cheek as he walks down the stairs. She can’t turn to face him, not like this. She can’t call out to him to tell him that she loves the way the room dissolves around him, how life fades when around him. Not with tears in her eyes and emotion on her lips. So she lays there listening, straining to hear his every move. The soft shuffle of his feet; he gathers his things, the door opening and closing behind him as her gut wrenches.

She blinks. The clock flipping forward through time and yet she stays still. Propping herself up on her elbows she can feel the sun dancing on her feet. Glancing over—her eggs cold—she realizes, he walked out. The plate flies across the room. She yells as she throws the tray against the wall. Tears stream down her face as the perfect bed that they bought together is ripped apart. Pulling covers, throwing pillows, trashing the things they cared about. Her back against the wall, she slides down – pooling into the emotions that all women have but cannot show.

Preview: Human Invasion - A Novel

Human Invasion has been in revision for almost a full year. However, as the revisions close and the novel starts to become more of a realization. It’s time for it to see some light. So this is just a glimpse at my hard work from the last year. Enjoy!

©Jeannie Hart 2008

Economic Crash of 2008
Fallout from the stock market crash was far worse than anyone anticipated. The housing market slowly pushed to a rupture point, which there was no return. The Nation, the great United States of America, thought that greed coupled with an apparent abundance of the American Dream could allow for a bigger and better slice to be taken from the people. Each piece carved out from this diminishing pie cracked the foundation – those whom strived to keep up with the everyday – to the brink. Until finally it was impossible to ignore the realization; the United States as everyone knew, loved, and remembered was about to change for the worse. The table many leaned so heavily on was breaking.

The Nation’s Quiet Fall
The market continued to plummet. A gain here, losses there, but the market kept falling. Newscasters claimed stock markets go through ‘these sort of cycles.’ Blank, rehearsed stares as they talk to the camera. Crack. The President stepped forth - a calm voice amidst the storm - assuring the nervous population that this recession would go no further. Crack. The recession spiraled downward, each crack becoming wider, deeper and more unstable. But it was only after the President’s 3rd inauguration, did the people realize how far they had fallen. Somewhere the power of democracy vanished. They did not view the bailouts for what they were – a ploy to beg, buy and borrow confidence. Democracy died to the sound of an increasingly desperate chant, ‘yes we can.’ Crack.

Universal Healthcare
It took several years for people to understand how universal health care crippled the nation. Though, there were those who saw it coming. They tried their best to warn the nation about the unknown effects of daily mandatory ‘vitamins’ – what were these vitamins for - they questioned.

The President stood, gathered around by bright-eyed, naive young adults with hope and change dangling off their lips. All eyes upon him: as he danced around the Town Hall. He explained in a calm, soothing voice that was almost hypnotic. “If we,” he paused as he walked around the room. “If we are healthier, if we exercise the way we should, if we eat right and get the appropriate vitamins, universal healthcare is not only a benefit to us as a nation – it is a benefit to the future of our nation. Our children and their children's children will reclaim this country through the science of preventative medicine.” Smiling, he held up a simple oval pill; a ready-made image for a glossy print advertisement.”

There were always protesters on street corners when these meetings were held, not many, but enough to grab the passerby’s attention. Signs, which read, ‘Universal Health Care is Death,’ or ‘Drugs – What affect?’ However, there were no horn honks, just dirty looks from drivers as they pretended to look the other way. People wanted to be healthier. They couldn’t be richer, at least in days like this, so a compromise was struck: their health guaranteed. They wanted that miracle pill which would increase their lifespan; making them happier, and hopefully better. That, unfortunately, was not what they received.

T7 was the artificial protein, which bonded the mandatory vitamin components together. It was brand new, created by the MBI Corporation. Put into production with limited but successful testing. Three years later, a daily dose of T7 was found to cause stillbirths, miscarriages, and abnormal growths resulting in the vast majority becoming sterile.

The people were outraged.

The nation unwittingly played into the President’s hand – handing more power to him, as they’d now lost wealth and health. He was the only one who could right the wrongs of the MBI Corporation. Focus could no longer be shifted away from the fractured and failing foundation. The people had to be appeased; a nation had to be renewed. The announcement was quick and concise. No pomp and circumstance as genocide took place.

“Change is in the air.” He said with a solemn tone as the address was televised nationally. “The only way we can move forward – to address these challenging times is to focus on our foundation, you – the people. Starting tomorrow we are withdrawing all troops from abroad, saving billions in operating costs and bringing our nation’s greatest resources back to us. Yes, we are bringing our troops home.” The President walked off stage and returned behind his curtain. Minions scurried about making preparations for the public relations blitz surrounding the pomp and circumstance of bringing home so many men and women from abroad. Appearances would be deceiving. These heroes were coming home for only one purpose, to help clean the nation and save it from us.

Ripple Effects
Meanwhile, people did everything they could to keep up the appearance of a good, solid, quality lifestyle. Though, in the light of the fallen stock market, a devalued dollar worth less than the paper it was printed on, a housing market that burst, and a misbegotten implementation of universal health care, hope became just another four-letter word. Some struggled to keep just above the rising tide of desperation; they did not want to see the nation fail. They continued soldiering on as the tide kept rising. The President’s word that things would be okay, that hope – always dangled in front of a populace hungry for the promise of a better day - kept them paddling, seeing refuge just on the horizon. However, one by one people started to sink beneath the dark waters. Their strength alone could only keep them buoyant for so long. So many mass layoffs overtook businesses that entire towns and cities became vacant, ghost towns of suburbia. Families started to migrate into fast-growing shantytowns that popped up seemingly overnight. These were homes to those out of money and out of hope. People watched from the squalor that smelt of despair, disease, and desperation as the President spouted ‘how much they’ve accomplished, although the road ahead was still difficult.’ Yet, people in these makeshift towns all wondered how much more they could endure. Universal health care rendered them sterile from drugs or reproductively challenged through government-manufactured hybrid food – genetically altered to increase yield and have a longer shelf life. It seemed a small price to pay for a cheaper costing food which was not naturally grown, but kept the population fed.

Yet, as terrible as things were, the tide was about to rise, so fast, so overwhelmingly, that those who were already struggling were certainly going to drown. The government, the savior of the people was going to balance an unfavorable and embarrassing balance sheet.

Genocide
The troops came home. There was fanfare, streamers, and bunting. They came off planes, off ships, and out of trucks, and marched through towns – never stopping – waving enthusiastically at the crowds. The fanfare stopped. The parade route finished. The soldiers moved on. Into planes, boats and trucks, from one war to another, from democracy to marshal law overnight.

Communities teeming with life, brought together by the plight of humanity suddenly woke to notices of official condemnation. Leave or be forcibly removed, was the warning posted. A warning to all, that these places of refuge would be destroyed for the betterment of the country. Some fled, though most stayed. A residual sentiment of a bygone era, most people still clung to the belief that the government would never go so far.

They were wrong.

The truth revealed itself in a form as vicious as it was unexpected. It happened in waves. A shantytown surrounded by troops advising people to stay indoors. Those who were on the streets would be shot – no questions asked. Families huddled inside. Gunfire could be heard in the distance. At first it seemed random. An odd pop here and there, but the rate grew more consistent, more rapid and repetitive. Soldiers rushed in, opened each door looking around the room or rooms, gathered the huddled, scared families into a main area and opened fire on the wide-eyed humanity who had nothing more in common than a desire to live. The soldiers around the perimeter laughed and high-fived each other as they heard the screams mix with gunfire. These soldiers did not care who they were killing, just that the job was getting done – and seemed to be enjoying themselves in the execution of their task. As the gunfire turned into a steady stream of popping the people started to understand what was happening. They started to flee, or at least they tried. Squads of troops walked the streets and shot anyone who ran. They kept score with each other as if they were playing some sick twisted game. “42!” One officer yelled to his subordinate who immediately laughed for the accomplished. These soldiers killed with methodical precision. The officer raised his gun and started firing in the air. Others under his command did also, signaling the end of this stage of the operation. Troops around the edges of town stopped their chatter; the next wave was about to begin.

In every shantytown they moved through, the troops all stopped at the same point. 2/3rds of the way in they would pause, they enjoyed pausing. It was a simple pleasure to watch the people peep outside their doors, become afraid and then try to run for their lives. Townspeople who ran towards the soldiers received one bullet to the head; they were the lucky ones. Those who watched -- watched in horror as they were herded deeper into town. Herded by soldiers marching forward shooting their guns in the air randomly shooting at the crowd when they started to slow. It was like a massive feed ball in the middle of the ocean being circled by dolphins. Forcing the fish to become tighter and tighter as they nipped a bite here and there. Hundreds of townspeople pushed together, frightened, praying, and being trampled. Gunfire ceased, the troops smiled, and the ground started to shake.

Helicopters filled the air. Time stood still for the people. When it resumed it resumed with an agonizing slowness that made many loose complete control. Flames shot down like a meteor shower, rows of death that mowed anything that moved. Almost all humanity removed as little cameras controlled these bringers of death, stats on a screen miles away proving that this was only a little more than a game to someone. Those that survived the rain of fire did not survive for long, the ground troops made sure of that. As the day started drawing to a close, the troops started to retreat. Their job was done. The clean up crew was next.

Men in heat resistant suits walked through the town with flamethrowers, burning everything that was dead or dying. Homes, flimsy and failing were awash in flames licking their innards. Behind the flamethrowers were firemen who doused the fires with a ‘cleansing’ bath of water; cooling it down just enough so the bulldozers could carry out their task without being slowed down or damaged. A faint cry from a surviving baby echoed eerily through the winds of the town’s silenced streets, but not for long – as the bulldozers moved in to level everything, debris, mangled bodies, and those unlucky enough to still be breathing. Before the sun set, the once vibrant, but struggling shantytown was a mere bump on a charred, plowed-over landscape. The troops had moved on to the next town. Over and over, across every corner of the United States, this extermination-and-erasure process repeated.

The only people whom survived were those whom left as soon as the condemnation was posted. Those people had instincts about their peril. They spread the word, as the skies grew darker. This was the only forewarning, as those in the shantytowns did not have the luxury of cell phones or Internet access. All they could rely on was the face-to-face communication received from those whom witnessed the beginning, never the aftermath.

Life inside the nation was no longer the glistening, bright beacon of the world. It was now gangrene infested, imploding, and devoid of the hope so generously promised in years past.

Months turned to years as people finally started to adjust to the new realities. The burnt landscape reminded them everyday – if you did not fit in, if you did not comply, you will be swept away. Cars, trucks, buildings, or people, it didn’t matter. Vast swaths of land outside the well-controlled major metropolitan cities were charred and left in the open. A visible expression of what happens to those who voice discontent.