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: Bicycle
Prompt: Fantasy
“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.
5 Min Fiction: Memory - Heat
Memory: Heat
It was Bakersfield hot. Hot like you wish you could take off your skin and lie around in your bones. When sitting inside your house was hotter than being out under a tree. Where a swamp cooler would blow air that felt like, it was fresh, from a lava tube. Days like that, all you could do was hope someone would let you play under their trees.
I remember Jess’s front yard. It was more than a yard. From my apartment dwelling viewpoint it was a park. There were two trees, one that stunk of magnolias and the other that ripped at our fingers when we would climb it. On those hot Bakersfield days we prayed, thanking God for her dad’s ability to flood the street with a single sprinkler. This day, her dad left the sprinkler underneath the tree that enjoyed our bloody, raw fingertips. Jess and I found a new enjoyment. Tied to the tree was a tire swing. It was there for as long as I could remember, but on sweltering 105 degree days it would make our thighs smell of liquid rubber. “Thank god for that sprinkler,” we would say. Our feet would hit the water first, toes pointed to the sky. Drops of joy kissed our feet then dribbled back towards our hips.
We moved the sprinkler closer to the tree in hopes that more than our feet would be refreshed. Delicately, Jess or I would maneuver the sprinkler head closer. It took several attempts to act natural while moving the spewing, silver plated nozzle. Her dad would come out and yell, “Don’t move my sprinkler,” in a long southern draw that sounded of biscuits, gravy and chitins. But it was accomplished; the water drenched the tire swing. Beads would build up in the grooves of the tread and trickled down into the inner well of the tire. Before long we realized, we could fill the inside with water. We would push each other. The rope would rip our fingers raw as the dirty water sloshed around our sides.
The heat must have made us delirious because on that day we decided to claim that tree as ours. We were prepared to fight anyone who tried to take our water, tree, or swing. It wasn’t long before the boys came out of the house. And like all brothers, they wanted to have more fun than we were having. But they were not prepared for us, the two best friends who could read each other’s mind.
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.
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.”
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-
More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts
350 Words: Death in a claw foot tub
The faucet leaks, gentle ripples of warmth touch my skin, a body limp. Eyes gazing upwards to the ceiling, counting cracks along the white peeling paint anything to keep the tears back. Lessons learned long ago. No emotion. Not even when alone. Fingers tingle as they hang over the lip of the claw foot tub. My hands are numb. My heart is cold. Feelings of being ripped apart crawl up my legs, not even the warmth of the water can keep it away. Eyes glaze, my head dips, and worlds collide.
Cold, otherworldly fingers touch my face. They are mine but they’re unfamiliar. My forehead sears with pain. Such cold hands on my face, hot with anger. Hot with pain. Hot with tears.
Tears? How? I can't feel.
My mind focuses realizing, counting cracks only took me away from the pain. The pain didn't stop. I didn't stop. Fingers wipe away tears as quickly as they come yet they fall into the water. I gasp for air. How can anyone make me feel this way? How is it these limbs, this skin, this life feel so dead? Feelings I can't comprehend and yet I look out my bloodshot, puffy eyes to see a shell. It looks like me but I am lost.
The water is cold.
I turn to my side as my breathing trembles and shivers. Arms wrap around my chest as I try to stay warm. Trying to shield my heart or burry it deeper. Whichever brings the warmth I want, what I need. The water lapping softly, there’s no comfort now. I sob. Her words reverberate in my ear, "I've never met him. I have no clue who he is. I don't know why you believed me."
Writing prompt: what would have happened if...
This is a little experiment. The prompt was for the first line, “what would have happened if he skipped breakfast, just once?” But instead I thought this would be fun, make the prompt the last line. I hope you enjoy!
What if
“I won a million dollars,” he shouted waving the lotto ticket in the air. His smile so big the bystanders on the other side of the street can see the glimmer off his teeth. David jumped up and down like a mad man. He couldn’t believe he won, he never won anything. And in fact he didn’t, because just before he neglected to tip the cabbie.
Really though, the cabbie didn’t need to be tipped. All he did was his job. Taking David from point A to point B. The cabbie shouted as the bike messengers zoomed by the parking lot of New York. David tapped his fingers on the door handle as he waited and wished he had a bike. It was firmly planted in his mind that there was no reason to tip the cabbie, if only he knew. Though, he wouldn’t be in the cab if it wasn’t for the man who ran into him in the subway.
“David, how the hell are you?”
“A little crunched on time,” David looked at his watch. He could still make it to work on foot if he stepped up his pace a bit.
“I haven’t seen you in forever. Bev, my wife, she just had our beautiful…” he trailed. David looked at his watch. Time ticked by as he stood politely and listened, obviously not a native. “To make a long story short, there was a fire. The dog died.”
“Man, I’m sorry. Hey, we’ll catch up soon. I’ve got to grab a cab.” David spouted as he took the steps to fresh air two at a time.
That of course, was the conversation he would have had if it weren’t for the fact that he missed the first train. He stood there cursing as the doors slid shut, an outward mockery of his tardiness, for all to see. Something nagged at him, as he stood, pacing amongst the other waiting passengers. He would not be in this situation if his wife wasn’t so hell bent on him having breakfast. She argued with him for so long, he skipped it and left angry.
Though, David is a good husband. He didn’t deviate from his routine. He got up kissed his wife. Ate her beautiful meal, and left for work on time. If only he knew what would have happened if he skipped breakfast, just once.
If you liked this you may like:
Writing exercise: Love Letter
Twitter prompt: Stripes
Writing prompt: Firefighter
Writing Exercise: Fear
This is a little exercise I found on Meredithsuewillis.com #37 A character (or you, if you are writing memoir) thinks about a fear. This could be something practical, like the upcoming results of a medical test, or something vague and indefinite... While I admit it's not that practical, it is my fear.
Fear
“I’m not going any further until you kill it.”
“I can’t even see it? Point to it.” My mom is examining the ceiling outside her entryway.
“If I point to it, it’ll look at me. It’ll see me. If it comes any closer I might scream.”
“Jeannie, I don’t see it. It’s either too small for it to hurt you or it’s gone.”
“No, it’s not gone. It’s right there. And he’s watching me. Stupid spider, yes, I see you.” Squinting my eyes, I look directly at him swinging gently by a single strand of his super strong silk. Every time I move, his body shimming around the web to follow me. He takes no notice of my mom as she tries to find him. His focus is solely on me.
“This is ridiculous. Jeannie, come in the house. We’ve been out here, in the cold, for almost ten minutes. I’m not going to get sick because you’re afraid of a spider.”
“It’s not just any spider.” I scoff, “he is the spider that scared the crap out of me in my car.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No? I can’t? How do you know he’s not? He’s got the same beady eyes. That stocking personality as I try to go around him.” I bend to my left trying to get around it. The spider shimmies on his silk, following my movements. “I’m telling you it’s the same spider.”
“Well if that’s the case,” she swipes her hand in the air unhooking the spider’s lifeline and throwing him to the ground. My mother stamps her foot down on him.
“You’ll never have to worry about him again. And I don’t have to worry about buying you another car.”
“I’m telling you when you have a spider reared on his hind legs ready to strike; you’d jump out of your car too.”
“Doubtful, if it was as small as this one. Though, I’d probably have the good sense to put on my parking break before diving into the bushes and letting my car run me over. Now come on, it’s cold. Your spider is dead. Come in the house.”
Twitter Prompt: Stripes
This is a belated twitter prompt from not_a_zartac via twitter. I actually took two of her prompts stripes and tie and merged them in. I do love writing from a prompt.
Stripes
He looks down at his tie. The alternating pink and grey stripes make him sick. Letting out a sigh he blinks at himself in the mirror. His lip curls in disgust. Admittedly he looks good, the suit hangs perfectly. But it’s not him. “Do you like it?” Maria asks from the other room. He takes a deep breath before answering.
“It’s great.” He replies thinking how it would stand up to a weekend trek up the mountain. If the delicate stitching would handle the constant barrage of bushes snagging at him as he blazes through an unknown path. “Who is it?”
“Dolce, babe,” she says. He nods, no clue what that meant. “Wear the black loafers will you?” Turning to see they are already set out for him. He is a kept man and not sure what to think.
He wonders if these shoes are any more comfortable than his mountain boots. They aren’t.
Walking out he meets his wife, his beautiful, soft, delicate wife. She is why he wears a suite which he could care less about the label. Why he wears shoes she picks, all because of her softness. He stands up strait, puffing out his chest flaunting the last bit of masculinity he has. Her hand lifts to her mouth as she giggles. “My Superman.” She says.
He’ll never admit she is his kryptonite.
If you liked this you may like:
Twitter Prompt: Hati
Twitter Prompt: If he were any hungrier, he might have eaten her cat
Writing Prompt: Firefighters
Writing Prompt: Siblings
Part One
My brother painted me a picture. I hung it on my refrigerator. This would not be a peculiar statement if it wasn’t for the fact that my brother is 30. I am 27. Yet it’s funny how relationships change over time. The difference between siblings, the difference between friends, and the difference between casual encounters are all so peculiar the longer we tend to be around them. And now my brother’s watercolor, which may be childish—hangs on my refrigerator, proudly.
When we were young, there were many times that I hated him. I hated when he tried to burn my hair in high school. The times when tried to curl my hair with combs, and especially when I heard the words, “trust me I’m your brother.” However, as we grew up he was my closest sibling. There were two other older brothers, one deceased now and the other twice my age. However, Mike became the confidant within our family. Over many years, we have had long talks about life and the pursuit there of.
The first time our relationship changed happened actually the first time we partied together. If partying is what you would call it. It was my last weekend before moving away to college and my co-workers decided I needed a keg party. That party ended up being split. One party became two parties when the cops showed up and broke apart the original one. Most of my co-workers dispersed and reconvened in a church parking lot. Brilliant I know, but let’s face it when the nerds at RadioShack want to get drunk, they find a way. My brother and I on the other hand headed out to a friend’s apartment. Oddly enough, their parents lived next door to the first party. What can I say, it’s a small town.
Unfortunately my co-workers had the keg and Jesus was nowhere to be found. No not Jesus as in the son of God, but our very own miracle worker. When our Jesus showed up alcohol magically appeared. He was a saint. However, even saints have to take a night off—so we all pitched in five bucks, ten bucks, two bucks, whatever we had. In the capable hands of my brother, dressed in his signature black fedora, matching Dickies jacket, pants and shirt he headed out in the white Cadillac he loved so much.
I’m still amazed he didn’t get pulled over that night. He always had a toothpick in his mouth and sunglasses on. Yes he was that guy the one you avoided in the market because it was obviously so bright he had to wear his sunglasses, at night. Shorter than me, his personality was taller than anyone in the room. This is partially why I think I loved him so much; he was and is to this day the only person I’ve ever felt safe around. Though, with as much alcohol as he carried in the trunk that night, it would be hard, even for him to talk his way out of going to jail.
Jungle Juice, that name should say it all. The contents of the Cadillac trunk, which just so happens fit 12 full grown bodies—don’t ask—ended up being the makings of a great Jungle Juice. However, I didn’t know that my brother had secretly announced that it was ‘get Jeannie drunk’ night. Trust me, they did. I suppose it’s one of those rituals that friends have to go through. You know, to see if you are worthy of staying in the clan. Apparently I made it because the next conversation I with my brother—whom never really listened to my advice—was had with a heavy heart.
You grow up and sober up quickly when you watch your brother do a line of coke.
I’d always known he smoked pot on more than the regular occasion. Everyone in this town did. Really, that never bothered me so much, after all smoking one in the back yard with your dad, well— after that it becomes kind of passé. My brother deserved the freedom from life every so often. When living in the house we grew up in, it was almost a right. However, I watched him do that line of coke and immediately thought, ‘oh shit.’
The worst part was when my best girl friend and I confronted him the next day; she had seen it too. He said no, he would never do that. There was no way in hell he would do that. But we just looked at him. That was the first time our relationship went past siblings and headed directly into a true brother and sister relationship. I can remember him dipping his head and trying to remember what happened that night. I tried to console him; I suppose console is the best word to use when you show someone a mirror of themselves as they start to descend down a path that is rickety.
That night he promised me he would never do hard drugs. The next day, being only 18 I moved to LA. Our relationship changed again, that story however, is for another day.
If you liked this you might enjoy:
Family Antics
Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections
Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds
Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections
Last night at Nick’s workshop (The Random Writers Workshop) he had us do an exercise in creative non-fiction. We needed to depict a moment in our lives when we talked to someone in another country. Quickly I jotted down a conversation I had with my longtime friend over the phone, while visiting my brother. Those of you who attended heard the quick conversation; well this is the complete story.
Enjoy!
Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections
My brother’s home teamed with life as we gathered for a not so random, ‘glad you’re visiting’ make shift party in honor of me. It could have been in honor of the sun rising, but I’d like to think it was because of me. A martini glass perched on my knee; I sat in my brother’s Papasan chair, discussing the intricacies of the documentary playing behind the hum of the guests. Michael and I had seen the George Harrison Tribute so many times it was a rare occurrence when something new, could be pointed out. Other people joined around us, sitting wherever a free space opened and they could cop a squat. Eventually the room calmed and the only noise was my brother and me bantering along with the tribute.
“This sitar player is awesome.” He pointed to the TV as if I didn’t notice the beautiful woman that just took the stage.
“I know. Seriously, she is the best female sitar player I’ve ever seen.” I replied while I sipped gingerly on my chocolate martini.
“You know its Ravi Shankar’s daughter right?” He asked and I rolled my eyes, I knew. Every time we watched it he pointed it out. Ravi Shankar was one of my hero’s. His sitar style so brilliant it would bring me to tears. So yes, I knew it was his daughter, the style was unmistakable. “And her sister is Nora Jones.” I remember feeling my eyes widen, memories flooding my mind. I did not, know that Nora Jones was her sister.
“Wait, Nora Jones? Nora Jones is her sister?”
“Yes,” Michael looked at me like I was crazy. He probably thought my Martini’s were finally going to my head.
“No—that’s not true.” I crinkled my nose and shook my head. “I would’ve known that.”
“Really, it’s the truth.” He said as others confirmed that my brother’s words were true.
“It can’t be, Zabs would have told me—Nora Jones is his cousin.” I said nonchalantly as I shook my head. Michael paused the DVD, turned to me and tapped his fingers on the remote.
“Jeannie. You mean to tell me. That Zabs is related to Ravi Shankar.”
“I don’t know, I mean he would have to be if Nora is his cousin. He told me his uncle was pretty musical. I didn’t ask any more questions.” I shrugged as now I felt the room looking at me. “Look there’s an easy way to figure this out.” I said as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, scrolled through the phone book and dialed. I know he won’t pick up; it’s much too late in Bangladesh. However, I heard a click and a cheerful voice connected on the other end.
“Jeans! I just thinking of you!” He said in the broken English I’ve learned to love over the years.
“Zabs—your uncle. He’s a musician right?” I asked quickly as the crowed glared at me.
“Yes why?”
“I’m sitting with my brother and he said the sitar player we’re watching is related to Nora Jones. Isn’t that your cousin?”
“Yes, my other cousin plays sitar.” He said so matter of factly. My cheeks burned as all these people listened to my conversation.
“Zabs, when you told me your uncle and his family were musical, you didn’t tell me he was RAVI FREEK’N SHANKAR!” He couldn’t see me, but my hand rose above my head and made wild gestures. It was quite possibly the most exciting news ever.
“Oh, Jeans! I’m sorry; I didn’t think it was important.”
If you liked this you may like:
Family Antics
Her laugh broke the silence
Creating yourself as a character
Writing Prompt: Firefighters
Last Wednesday Nick gave us a prompt for homework via the Random Writers Workshop. It was simply, come up with two characters based off of the following scenario: Fire captain pulls his crew back thinking the fire won't jump the road. A woman on the crew tries to get him to realize that it's potentially dangerous.
#
An angry beast
“Pull that line back.” Todd barked at the remaining firefighters. “Get out of there!” He looked frantically back and forth counting his men. The smoke and heat played with his vision, he was one shy of a full crew. “MICHELLE! Get your ass back here!” He yelled at the petite mirage like figure which stood much too close to the flames.
“Capt’n,” her voice strained as the beast roared. “We’ve got to make that break larger.” She looked up at the flames which seemed to lick the trees across the narrow road. Sweat gathered in the wrinkles of her forehead. Enough battles with this beast and so many like it made her realize it wasn’t a matter of if the fire jumped, but when.
“Fuck Michelle, do what I say.” His brow furrowed. Thin lips pursed. Square jaw locked. “We’ve got to move back. I shouldn’t have to explain it to you.”
“If that fire jumps all our work,” Michelle paused and looked back. She understood it was not the time to be pensive but there was no reasonable explanation why they had to pull back. Just a little larger that’s all it would take to make sure it would stay in place. Todd’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.
“Get on the fucking rig.” He growled. Michelle looked up, she was not impressed. For all that he was, the man he portrayed himself to be – he was still just a boy trying to prove himself. Todd looked down at her. His fire gear dangled precariously as the conversation turned - like the fire - into something much more. “You will do what I tell you.” She smirked; it was no longer about the fire. It was about her.
Michelle had long known about his views towards women. The whispers from the firefighter’s wives as they sat together during BBQ’s; stories of anger unleashed. They justified his actions. “You would have to be angry after seeing as much as he has,” they said. “If she was right for him, they wouldn’t fight as much as they do,” they said. It was horse shit. Anyone that angry at the world, constantly on edge and ready to fight had been that way their entire life. Still, the boy trying to be a man directed it to the only one he thought wouldn’t fight back – a woman.
“Why? Because you said so? Fuck Todd listen to me.” She hated cursing, but out here it was the only way she could get through to them. “Open your god damn eyes,” Michelle pointed to the trees across the road. They had started to singe. Her frazzled brown hair stuck to the sides of her face as sweat trickled down giving her an otherworldly glow – a glimpse into what would happen if they stopped: death. “We can contain it. Here. Now,” her nostrils flared she would not back down from this. Todd was half her age he had to see the wisdom in what she said.
“If you don’t get on that rig,” Todd’s words came out like poison. One brow cocked as he smiled; a twisted, sadistic smile. “I will leave you. And the headline will read, ‘Woman firefighter died when flames jumped.’ Not if but when. You think I don’t know they’ll jump? My men are tired. We’ve stalled long enough anymore, and accidents will happen. So. Get, on the fucking rig.” She took a step back. The reflection of the fire burned in his eyes. He knew this fire would jump. It was a matter of time, but he knew. Michelle walked to the rig, it was no use. She saw all she needed to know in his eyes. The hatred he had was not towards women but towards the living, breathing beast of a fire. He was angry because he couldn’t beat it – a failed battle of human strength.
© 2010 - Jeannie Hart
If you liked this you may like:
Creating yourself as a character
Character Naming
San Francisco
Essay: family antics
I've been working hard on my Novel this week hence no updates. I have several prompts to catch up on next week. I have not forgotten about you twitter prompts! I did however, want to post this bit of fiction, bit of reality, bit of history that inspired me. The prompt came from WritingFix.com Don't forget to follow me on Twitter if you like my writing or even just my antics. :D Enjoy!
Family Antics
There were noises coming from the next room. Jessica looked at me, her blonde hair bouncing as her head swiveled towards me. We heard footsteps running down the hall and we both knew something was going on. She opened her bedroom door where we see my brother Michael trying to sneak into her brother Jason’s room. He paused, looked at us, looked down the hall and back to us. “You can’t tell anyone.” He said as his eyes narrowed. I looked at Jessica and smiled, I knew this was going to be fun.
“Promise,” we said in unison. He motioned for us to follow. We creped down the short hallway; our footsteps masked by the carpet below. Michael looked back and forth making sure that there were no parents around. I was in awe; my older brother was including me in one of his escapades. There, at the age of twelve I knew this was going to be brilliant, or extremely stupid. He slid behind the door, his hand held up for us to wait. Eventually it motioned for us to follow and follow we did.
“We have to get this mattress out the window.” Michael said as he opened the standard size, 60’s home window. Jessica and I looked at each other confused but unquestioning as we headed to the end of the twin bed. Stripped of all the garments it was naked and awkward, springs poked upward as we angled it towards the window. Jonathan, Jessica’s other brother popped up just outside. Michael grinned, “where’s Barbara?”
“She’s in the garage,” Jonathan looked all around making sure the coast was clear. “She won’t be there for long. She’s folding.” Michael turned to Jessica and me then motioned for us to push. The old used mattress folded easily in half as we pushed it through the window. It snagged midway through. Michael panicked as he heard the garage door slam shut. Barbra was in the house.
“Jeannie, you need to keep her out.” I shook my head; this was not in the contract. I was not the patsy. “Do it, trust me.” The famous words that every child hears before something terrible is about to happen. I nodded my head and snuck out the door.
“Barbara, I’m hungry.” I said in hopes she would stay in the kitchen while my brother and Jessica got the mattress through the window.
“Would you like me to make you a sandwich,” Jessica’s mom said as I stood blocking her way out. I nodded once more and she started to pull seemingly random items from the cupboards. I heard a bang from the backroom; looked back hoping that was the last of it. Barbara paused, shook her head and continued with the knife. I saw Jessica’s head pop out of the last bedroom door on the left. Her hand waved vigorously to get my attention. My eyes shifted and she mouthed the words ‘come on’. I nodded my head in acknowledgment.
“On second thought, maybe I should wait until dinner.” I said as I run out of the kitchen not waiting for her response.
“Jeannie you will not believe what’s about to happen.” Jessica spouted as excited as a puppy waiting for a new owner. Michael stood outside the window as we closed the door behind us.
“Come on. Out the window if you want to watch.” He said as we jumped up on the desk. It was positioned perfectly for us to hop out. There in the expansive back yard were three twin mattresses on top of each other. I looked at Jessica, she looked at me and we both looked up. Jason--her oldest brother--sat on a bike; on the roof. I was right. This was going to brilliant.
© 2010 Jeannie Hart
If you liked this you may like:
Wine Tasting
If he was any hungrier...
Her laugh broke the silence
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
Writing Prompt: Wine Tasting
I fanned myself with the brochure. For some reason I didn’t think California would be so hot. The group clustered around a large oak barrel as the Master wine maker, or whatever they called him spouted the, ‘brilliance’ and ‘bouquet’ of this vintage. Still, as I fanned myself – I couldn’t believe that I was roped into taking this wine tasting tour.
“Silvia, you have got to try this. It tastes like the sun kissed meadow after a spring rain,” one of the cohorts said to the woman behind me. All I could think about was how gross that sounded. Who would want to taste a meadow? Eventually we made it to the tasting room. My best friend at my side: nodding and crinkling her brow as if she understood the explanations given to the group. Apparently I did not keep my distaste hidden. My eyes roll when the ‘Master’ started talking about strong starts and quick finishes which prompted her elbow into my ribs while I opened my mouth to reply.
“Ouch.” I threw an evil glance to her. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I knew what you were going to say.”
“I doubt you could know what I was about to say.” I snort. “All I was going to say was that a strong start and a quick finish.”
“Sounds just like every man you know.” She interrupts my sentence.
“Oh, um – then you did know what I was going to say.”
© Jeannie Hart 2010
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
Writing Prompt: If he was any hungrier, he might have eaten her cat.
This prompt was tweeted to me by not_a_zatarc Seriously guys I love you for tweeting me prompts. Follow me on twitter and tweet prompts at me. See what I come up with your 142 character limit. Now on with the prompt!
"What do you think about this one?" She asked while holding up a red, obviously form fitting dress. He smiled, half crooked with bad thoughts running through his head. "You right, it doesn't say 'I am a sophisticated artist' it's more of a date night dress." She walks back into the bedroom making comments to herself that are only distinguishable to her. He looks down at his watch and rolls his eyes. His head hits the back of the couch. A black sleek cat with copper eyes stare up at him as it thrashes its tail. "What do you think of just a black outfit? Would that be better?" She yells from the bedroom.
"Does it really matter? I mean the only people you are going to see you already know." His wrist high in the air as he looks at the watch once more, it has now been three hours.
"You’re right; I need to wear something none of them have seen!" His hand runs down his face as he realized what he just did. He allowed her the opportunity to go back into her closet. A large sigh is exhaled as his head turns to the cat that sits next to him.
"I bet you see way to much don't you." He says softly towards the cat. The cat’s ears slick back as if to say, 'you have no idea'. "Yeah I figured."
"It will be just a few more minutes I promise." Her voice rang out. He nodded as if she could see him and then looked at his belly.
"It will be okay; she said it would be just a few more minutes." He patted his gurgling gut. "I know the last thing you ate was a cereal bar this morning. But you can make it. I have faith that you will make it." His gut growled in argument. The cat’s head cocked as the curious noise came from the belly. "Seriously, no back talking," he shook his finger at it as if it were a child that needed a stern talking to. It just growled louder in protest.
"How’s this?" She said as she waltzed through the doorway showing off the outfit picked for the night. His eyes widened as he knew that his words had to be chosen perfectly otherwise food might never enter his stomach.
"My god, you are beautiful!" He stood up and took her hand leading her towards the door. "Let's get to the restaurant. Lord knows if I were any hungrier, I might have eaten your cat."
© Jeannie Hart 2010
Writing prompt: Couples
The restaurant is busy. Hustle and bustle all around as the aging couple sit. Drinking coffee – they sip as he reads the times. She glances through a novel that would pass as a beach read. Fiddling with his round, gold rimmed glasses as the waitress taps her foot. She is impatient. She has no time for the slowness of a bygone era. There are mouths to feed at home. The more mouths to feed at home, the more people she needs to get in and out of this booth.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“You know give us two more seconds.” He says with a smile. He peeps over the rims of his glasses, batting his blue eyes. It used to work. However, now most people—-like the waitress—-roll their eyes and walk away.
©Jeannie Hart
Writing prompt: first line - her laugh broke the silence
Her laugh broke the silence. Head lifting back in a roar – unexpected, uncontainable laughter burst forth. Everyone turned their head looking at her like she was insane. The dark movie theater, filled to capacity was staring at her. A black and white, French movie droned on behind them. Light from the projector booth shined down on each face looking up at the bellowing voice. Her face turned red. If the lights were up, they would see several different shades of crimson wash over her. She smacked her boyfriend in the arm who just sat – grinning; Cheshire cat looking off into the sea of people. One by one the audience started refocusing on the art film noir that flickered in front of them. She recoiled back into her chair, burying her face into her hands— whispering to her boyfriend, "next time, wait to tell me that this movie stinks more than the fart you just let out."
©Jeannie Hart 2009
About the Author
Jeannie Hart is a published writer, who works in diverse fields of the industry. She has had pieces published through local and national websites, indie papers, and magazines.Currently Jeannie is revising her next novel ‘Road to Revolution’. And is in the process of drafting ‘Chicago is Dead’.
Ray Bradbury sums up her current writing situation nicely, "quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you're doomed."
More Followers
Good Reads
