Vicissitudes of a Life #atozchallenge #dreamer
I had rapid fire thoughts surge through my head.
- Princesses never have power in fantasy stories; they always look good and have a “ga ga” prince
- focus – poison
- Get Blue!!!
- Get Blue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- I never dream in colour
- When I wake up I am going to write a bestseller because this dream is too rich
- mommy
“Look mama.” I heard that nauseatingly sweet voice of that little girl.
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” I wanted to say a bit too unkindly for a kid in a dream. “Ok little girl look at what? I’ll play along.”
“Yes dear her lips are a very odd blue colour. I hope that doesn’t mean the end is near.” Why does she sound like Mrs. Cleaver?
“At least the mother is a realist.Wait. It’s my end that she is referring to. Get that Prussian Blue – ASAP!!”
The next moment the princess sat up. I mean I sat up. I don’t have any idea what is happening. (Needless to say I have no idea if these are thoughts or I am speaking.)
“Thank you so for your help little girl.” (did I say that?)
“All I did was to wish you to be well.” The little girl smiled a little too sweetly for my liking.
“Yes you did.” A beautiful smile crested the princess’ face like dawn after a storm. It was radiant and commanding. “I must go back now. There is a war to stop and a Viceroy’s son to marry.”
“Is that all?” I thought sarcastically.
“Goodbye” the little girl said secretly holding a handful of blue.
“Ahh” I sighed “that’s the way I like a dream to end. A little girl with blue pills, a very assertive princess, and the dreamer discovering that she is mentally unbalanced.”
The next moment I, she was walking through an unusual forest. “Toto we are not in Kansas…”
Shake it off normal person ”I have need of you as you have need of me. Your knowledge from the other world will keep me alive. In exchange, I will one day return you to your world…”
“That’s one assertive princess” I sighed.
…much later having come to my senses
“I’m glad daddy taught me how to look out for myself. (you may not know it prin…cessss but my daddy was a Navy Seal he could kick butt).” I thought.
Out loud I said “Lead the way princess – Carpe Diem.”
She chuckled “You do realize this is not a dream sequence!”
“Yes – time to prepare for a wedding” (back atcha princess)
“It is time I take charge of my dream” I thought as my mind and body shifted to high alert. “Afterall there are people out there trying to kill “my” princess.”
*****Warning*****
When princesses in dreams start talking back to you realize you are in for a big change!!!!
******
This is the forth of a short story series that I think I will condense, edit then re-post “Dreamer” “Jolted Asleep” and ” The Hidden Element”
The beautiful water color that has been the front piece of my “dream” series was painted by the talented Arna Baartz.
Thank you to the A to Z challenge that has given me the chance to pull out archived work and get some feedback on some of my WIP. All of the moderators deserve a month off to dream of next year’s A to Z!!!!
The Hidden Element #atozchallenge #dreamer #shortstory
Though my hands couldn’t help my mind was in full motion.
“Hmm poisons. If only…”
Then it happened my mind scrolled to a symposium I had sat in with a woman who was an expert on poisons. She had an interesting story really. She was a physician who had done an internship in Mozambique. She had purchased jewelry for friends and family. When one of her friends got deathly ill, she realized it had been the jewelry; a beautiful seed that had a residue of the poison inside the shell. It had gotten into a small cut she had on her neck. Something so beautiful could unknowingly kill. So Doc started doing her research on innocuous things that could be poisonous to her patients.
I started thinking about things I had done, things I had eaten. The strangest thing happened. My mind went into a chamber – beautiful with velvet hangings on stone walls. I looked down at my hands; they were covered with rings. My bejeweled hand and wrist alone was worth millions of dollars. I heard an odd language; I understood what the servant was saying.
“You must rest princess tomorrow you must meet meet with Viceroy’s son. They say he is very handsome.”
I did NOT want to get married but my country was on the edge of a war.
“Yes you are right. Please bring me something to eat in an hour.”
I woke to food laid out but no Awala. “She must be busy preparing my garments for tomorrow.”
I ate slowly. The food had an odd taste. Must be my imagination.
My mind was trying to configure the taste or smell.
“Olepheride” Where did that name come from? It wasn’t part of our element table. But it was an element in the alternate world. A slow deadly poison with no antidote in ”that” world. But apparently an antidote here.
“So how did I get here? I mean how did she get here?”
“Stop getting side-tracked. Focus!!!”
I rummaged through all the antidotes I had heard about in the symposium. I had chosen one for a story ; it sounded romantic – Prussian Blue. It was easy to take and you could take a fairly large amount of it. Blue paint pigments were also derived from it.
“Ha” I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Even if I had a handful of the capsules or paint, there would be no way to injest the stuff. I am afterall a lifeless princess. A kiss will not eradicate this problem.
“But…”
“No that’s crazy”
“what if???”
“No. Reason think logically.”
“This princess could have powers…”
(I hate it when I start dialoging with myself.)
“…. a princess with powers from another world”
sounds like your average dream sequence
“WHEN _AM __I _GOING _TO _WAKE_ UP???????????”
***
Please forgive the double book on the letter “P”. Todays 1st post I had auto posted a month ago before I configued this serial short story. In order to give each some room I will post the dreamer story in the late part of Wednesday. Part 1 “Dreamer” and Part 2 “Jolted Asleep” are part of this dream sequence a four part story that may resolve next week with the letter “V”
Happy A to Z all!!!!!
Many thanks to the very talented artist Arna Baartz for allowing me to use her watercolor as my “Dream girl”
Dreamer #atoz #flashfiction
Ever been in one of those dream loops that you can’t seem to get out of? This dream was a doozey. I mean epic…
I could hear voices all around me but I couldnt open my eyes and scream “this is a dream people go home!!!!”
******
“ Where did she come?” a little girl quietly asked her mommy.
“Shhh little one no one knows; it’s a mystery.”
“They say she’s a princess” a man said reverantly.
“Look at that tiara. Do you think it is real?”
She is from another land a man said who commanded authority. She was to be the queen of her world Raphalia. I must discover what can be done.
There was a hush
I wanted to snicker. “Come on guys this is my imagination speaking.”
A note mysteriously appeared in my hands.
“Princess Alyssa the clock is ticking. You have one year to live after the poison has entered your body. You will remain in a dream state until the cure is administered. Use your powers to seek aid.”
~Your servant until death
“Ok dream it is time to let me awaken” I said unsuccessfully.
This short story is written for the A to Z April writing challenge for the letter “D.” This story will be continued each Wednesday until the end of April.
I recently started following talented artist Arna Baartz. This watercolor “Water Girl” seems to speak of a watery, dreamlike state. You can see more of Arna’s work here. Thank you Arna for the opportunity to show off your work.
On The Edge #centusSaturday #shortstory
A light pierced the fog
“come to shelter “
turning toward darkness
my arms grew weary
groping in a mist of confusion
“come this way”
“but there is nothing to light the way”
changing direction
my feet stumble on a root
the cliff just inches behind me
slipping toward the edge…
I’m sorry I missed the first part of this prompt but I will attempt to hang the reader off the cliff for Jenny Matlock’s Centus Saturday
The Dance of Life (A Story)
I wasnt there but I felt your fear. We are mothers after all who have big, strong sons. Strong arms that will hold us when we are frail and weak.
We will never meet but I was there in the waiting room with you. I was holding your hand. I shed a tear. I wanted to yell at the doctors to hurry. I wanted to scrub in and help.
He swallowed a screw you told me through tear brimmed eyes.
“He was fixing the wall in our house when he inhaled it. When he started coughing painful spurts of blood we knew there was trouble. There are no doctors near our village. A friend drove us in his truck many miles to the hospital.”
“They told us the risk was great they couldn’t find the screw in the x-ray. The doctor knew something was there. they had to find it.”
I hugged her. There was a picture in my mind of a screw in your son. I prayed the doctor would find it my friend. If he were my son, you would do the same.
They found the screw after hours of exploring. “The rate of infection is high,” they said. After two weeks, the mother, my friend proudly showed me the screw tucked next to her heart. We danced around the screw – for life, for sons.
I wrote this note to the mama I will never meet:” I got the call before your son went into surgery; my friend a doctor was overseas. He was there when your son needed him. Our lives are different you are from a small village in Zimbabwe I am from a big city in the United Stated. We are one as mothers. I was so glad my doctor friend was there to help your son. I was there with you in prayer.”
The Winding Game (a short story)
“Mama says another ten times around sissy.”
“Is that all?”
“I know, I like doing this winding game with you too. What can we do to make it last?”
“We we could start over; she will never know.”
“As long as we have the right amount at the end,” the younger sister chimed in.
So the girls unravelled the colorful yarn and played the winding game for a long while.
“What have you been doing my darlings?” the mother said when she came into the room.
“We did exactly what you asked,” the girls said in unison.
The mother smiled knowing that the yarn had been much neater when they had started.
Mama knew what they had been doing. She and her sister had enjoyed the “winding game” when they were girls.
Visit Monday’s Child for more children’s prose, poetry, and short stories based on a picture prompt
The Bowie Knife Mystery (Part One)
“You found what?” Stewart said to the young man working the loading dock.
“A 10 or 12 inch bowie-knife wedged in the sidewall of your rear tire, Sir.”
He held back the profanity that was creeping to the surface. Stewart stomped off to his late-model, pearl white Lexus. “I didn’t need this today.”
“A doozy of a fight with Amanda and now this, ” he said under his breath. “What else can go wrong?”
The bowie was wedged perfectly to render the tire irreparable. “Great!” He wanted to kick the tire but there wasn’t enough air. Foul language spewed forth with pounds per square inch intensity.
“Here Donny ya want the knife?” he said pulling the knife from the tire.
“Sure sir.” Donny, knowing the blade was razor-sharp, wrapped it in a cloth he had in his back pocket . He waved as he walked back to the dock.
With his hand on his hip in disgust, Stu dialed AAA. He knew the number by heart. He walked around the car to see if there was any other evidence of vandalism.
“Yeah I came out to my car at work and someone has crammed a knife into my tire. Can you send someone to change the tire. I would change it myself but I’m in my Armani suit. Armani just doesn’t go to well with oil and grime .
“Certainly Mr. Cristoph. I can send someone over in the next half hour.”
“Thanks Brenda. I’m hoping this will be the last call for a while. Not used to having so many flats.”
“It’s fine – that’s what your AAA service is for.” He knew the smile in her voice as she hung up.
She had been a great couple month affair. “Too bad she met a nice, unmarried guy.” Stu was thinking. “Ah well.” His thoughts momentarily shifted to Valerie; an old girlfriend from long-ago.
***
He got the call from his secretary that the guy had come for his keys and was changing the tire. Stewart was peering out of his window, as he heard the repairman let out a scream.
“Now what?” Stewart wanted to bellow.
As the repairman turned to Stewart, he looked white as a sheet.
“What is … ” His voice caught as he saw the bloody body in the trunk. He recognized the clothing but that was all that was recognizable. He ran to the bushes and lost his breakfast. He started to tremble and fell to his knees. A crowd formed around the trunk.
Stewart heard a voice at the end of a tunnel. “Get back to your offices. Now!”
He recognized the stentorian voice. It was his partner Randy. He felt a strong hand clasp his shoulder. He hadn’t heard Randy whisper to the secretary -” please call the police.”
“Let’s get you to the office, Stu.”
“I don’t understand, I just don’t understand…” Stewart mumbled over and over. “I just saw her in the kitchen before I left this morning. She was going to work out and we talked about where we were going to have dinner.”
Randy kept him talking until he got to a chair. Stewart slumped into a despondent heap.
“Here drink this,” Tracy tenderly placed a cup of water in his hands.
“What is it? What is this? What is happening? What…”
“Sir, we are here for you. Please just rest.”
“There was a knife. What was the knife doing in the tire? What is my wife doing in my car. She’s supposed to be at the gym. Maybe that isn’t her. Call the gym, ask for Amanda Christoph. They all know her.” Stewart said babbling incoherently. “That’s right it’s someone else. It doesn’t look like her. Not at all. It only looks like her running shoes and pink work out top.”
Stewart looked with the glazed eyes of a madman. “It didn’t look like her did it Randy?”
“No Stu. You are right didn’t look like Amanda at all.”
He wasn’t lying. The body may have resembled any thirty year old woman. The head had been jaggedly cut off below the neck. It wasn’t with the body. A mangled, bloody mess was lying in the trunk of Stu’s Lexus. Randy felt like being sick as he thought about Amanda’s body.
“Tracy, get my wife on the phone and contact the gym for Stewart.”
“Yes sir,” Tracy wasn’t looking too well either.
Stewart looked up and saw flashing lights circling his Lexus. “Oh good,” he thought “someone has finally come to take care of the flat tire.” His head fell to the side.
Join The Tenth Daughter of Memory for many great stories as we try to write according to the prompt “Below Then Neck.”
Thanks to: A Fonticiella for that beautiful handled Bowie
*http://www.flickr.com/photos/afonticiella/4296416224/sizes/z/in/photostream/
Reserved for the Rich (Theme Thursday)
I looked upon the elegant display of food on china that you could see through.
Flowers had been brought in for the occasion from other parts of the world – after all it was the dead of winter.
I wanted just a taste of the finest food; to inhale roses and gardenias.
As the daughter of the lowest servant on the estate, I would be lucky to get a dry left -over bone.
The standard poodle, Rasputin, would get some of the best that was left – he might share with me.
We were friends-Rasputin was the only friend I had in the world.
He had saved me from falling off the third story banister when I was two or three.
He was my protector. He loved me almost as much as I loved him.
He hated all the pretense of the family he lived with.
He told me that one day as we were having tea.
He always shared the best with me.
At times, he would invite me to share his satin bed cushion for a nap.
He was old now; I was no longer small enough to curl up with him on his cushion.
I know he wished I might attend the event rather than serve.
I didn’t mind.
“She will have to do” one of the servants said as she dragged me toward the living quarters.
I wondered what they were planning.
There, laid out on a huge bed, was a pewter satin dress. My eyes got big as the women yanked off my black servant’s attire.
Someone tugged on black ,sheer, silk nylons. I had never felt anything so luxurious next to my skin.
They wrapped diamonds around my neck and put my dark hair up in a quick coiffure. Fortunately my hair was naturally curly so it pinned up easily and ringlets naturally fell around my neck.
Black gloves and black shoes were the last accoutrement.
“Voila,” one of my friends said as she brushed away unseen lint.
“She is a beautiful.”
“Wonder what the master will say?”
I wondered why the master would say anything.
As one of the women squirted perfume, she explained that the party was one woman short.
Some important friends with a younger son were attending and they had promised a partner for him for dinner.
Someone quickly explained table etiquette.
What they didn’t know is Rasputin had taught me at tea.
I had always pretended to be as grand as he was.
The night was long, hot, and tiring.
The young man a fat, prideful, bore.
But … the food was magnificent
and I got to inhale the flowers
to my heart’s content.
Photo: Burning Photo
*http://www.flickr.com/photos/photographyburns/4276733586/
The Parable of the Man with the Boxes
There was a man who had a life. It may not have been a good life or one filled with love – still it was a life. In that life was a wife and a child; they made life meaningful or so the story goes. One day a terrible wind came and took the wife away; then a car drove up and took the little girl. The man knew that his wife and his little girl were out there somewhere in the world; he just did not know where. The wind and the car had torn his heart and taken the things that were most precious to him.
The man vowed that nothing could hurt him, like the storm and the car, ever again. The memories of his wife and his child were too painful. He bought two boxes and put the memories of his wife in one box and the memories of his child in the second box. “I will visit these boxes when the memories are no longer painful,” he said. There were moments he wanted to hug the boxes – but he didn’t.
Time went on and the memories faded. The man carried the boxes with him but never opened them. He no longer needed the memories. He met another woman. “Instead of being alone this will be better,” he thought. Now he would be able to stack the boxes away without a thought. They had several children. He loved each of them; they made him smile with their youthful glee. Then one day a big man came and grabbed his wife. The children reluctantly followed like ducks in a row. “Goodbye daddy we love you, ” they called. He tried to see his children through a fog but the big man and the woman were replaced by Ogers. The ogres prevented him from seeing or talking to those he loved most. The pain was so great that he could feel his chest pulsating. He opened his chest, found his heart was crushed, and torn open.
The man bought five boxes this time. His wife he carefully laid in the first box. He kissed each child as he laid them down in another box. The lid of the last box waited to be replaced. He put his heart in the fifth box. “I will visit these boxes when the memories are no longer painful,” he said. There were moments that he wanted to hug the boxes that contained the memories of his children. Several times he heard his heart calling to him. “Please put me back- I am dying.” He resisted.
The man no longer cared what happened to him; no one cared about him or his memories. He was reckless. He laughed and said “this is the new me and those boxes can never hurt me again.” For a time he was put in a cage for his recklessness. Nothing could hurt him. Not really. Sometimes he would feel the tug of the scars where his heart had been but not often. There were other caged men who had torn their hearts out as well. They mocked misery. They scorned love, feelings, and life.
The man was released from his cage but was still treated like a caged man. He went from place to place carrying his boxes with him- never opening them. “If they want to hug me they must open the boxes themselves,” he would grumble. The boxes never did. They were boxes after all and never knew how to open themselves.
One of the boxes cried for help; it was one of the first boxes. He opened the box. Inside was his daughter added to the box were her two sons. They reached up their arms. He called down and said” I will help if I can.” For a time he would keep the box open and talk to the three in the box. He fed them, protected them, and was just taking them out of the box when his daughter called out ” close the box. Leave me alone! I don’t want you anymore. Where were you all the years I lived in the box and cried?” she chastised him. The two boys reluctantly watched their grandfather reluctantly close the lid. A big tear fell down the man’s cheek. If he heard her voice, he would peak inside. “Do you want help?” “No – go away!” He hated the lid and taped it down. He heard the boys and would talk to them through the box but little by little the box became silent.
At the same time, he had gained a friend. Though he was reluctant to call anyone a friend. The voice of a million letters had to prove herself. She liked things that he liked. They shared days on end about their love of music, art, poetry, philosophy. He started hearing sounds that he thought were gone from the world. A word he had struck from his mind surfaced –” Hope.” He talked – she listened. She talked – he listened. His hands were inspired to create again. He heard her laughter ; he started to laugh as well. He could feel the ocean breeze and soaked in the golden rays of the sun. He felt as though he was falling but he didn’t know where.
He tried to push this feeling away;then he would try to pull it towards him. His mind kept saying ‘there’s gotta be a catch…” His words could be angry. The voice of a million letters was still there. He saw the words plainly in front of him. “I love you!” He shook his head, “that feeling can never be mine again. ” He bought another box meaning to put the words in the box to save himself but he didn’t.
Months went by; he looked at the words. One by one he took the words “I love you” and held them. They were soft and kind. He felt a foreign beat, in his chest, that had been missing. His mind tried to jump in and say “there’s gotta be a catch…” He didn’t listen this time. He sent the words “I love you” back to her. He started to dream, to believe – so did she. The voice of a million letters was like a lifeline; he felt he could do anything as long as he held on to her. He could get used to being loved – maybe.
“It may be awhile” the voice of a million letters said “but I will be with you. My words depend on you.” He could be patient. He wanted to throw the empty box away but he didn’t. He wanted to throw all the boxes away but they were somehow attached to him now. There were some hard days. He needed a home and there was no place. The voice of a million letters would have given him a home but she had none. All she could give him was the three words. So he looked for some place for him and someday for her. A friend offered him a roof. He was grateful. So was his lifeline of words- she wanted him to be safe and warm.
She didn’t know what it was maybe it was the roof or maybe he couldn’t trust the three words. He changed. He started throwing words at her. Instead of laughter, there was a roar. The words were unkind and they meant to hurt. What he didn’t see is the words became arrows; when they reached her they pierced her. She cried out in pain. He couldn’t hear. He looked at the words “I love you” and threw them in the vacant box. He heard the mocking “I told you there’s gotta be a catch…”
The voice of a million words felt her heart hit a cold hard bottom of something like a dark pit. “Maybe he just needs time to get used to the roof,” she sighed. She washed the words ” love you” and placed them close to her. She would not give up. She could still be the friend he needed, maybe somehow still be hope. She knew about the boxes and knew he had suffered great pain. Then it happened – the thing that had brought them together, their creativity – their words of inspiration were thrown into the box with a thud. In some ways, that hurt more than her words of love being cast into the pit. “What more can he throw in that box?” she wondered. “Me” was the answer. So to prevent him from any more pain she threw herself into the box and pulled the lid closed tight. He would never even know she was gone. The voice of a million words would be gone and that would be that. He would go on with life like before. There would only be one difference; he would have eight boxes instead of seven that he would carry with him.
He was angry at the eighth box. He would hold it close then throw it far from him. One day he had enough. He decided the only way to rid himself of her was to despise her, to hate her, to blame her for the other boxes. He threw all his hate and anger at the eighth box. In a short time, the box no longer existed. No sound, no words -just emptiness.
What had he done? he asked himself as he picked up remnants of the eighth box and pulled them close. He started to remember back to the beginning.
One day a person asked him what were all the boxes that he carried with him.
“Memories. Boxes full of memories,” he said lovingly.
In the end, he realized the box he had destroyed had loved him. She had encouraged him to love the seven boxes; so much so that she gave herself up for him. He would always love her for helping him to remember. As he spoke to the seven boxes, he said the words he knew the voice of a million letters would have said.
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is a writing blog that creates a rich writing environment for serious writers. Come join us. The prompt this time was There’s Gotta Be a Catch
Thank you to MammaOca for the wonderful boxes
*http://www.flickr.com/photos/mammaoca2008/4344228722/sizes/m/in/photostream/
The meaning of brown…
“Je déteste le marron.” She screamed at her nanny. Her anger nearing taking over her usual calm demeanor.
“S’il vous plait – cheri…” The nanny begged her to calm down
The English nanny had no idea why this sweet little girl, who she was responsible for, had such an aversion to brown. When she had been called to this job, she had only been told that the parents had met with unexpected disaster. She discovered that the girl’s guardian the uncle was gone all of the time and wanted little or no contact with his niece.
“Why is he so cruel?” she would shout at the walls of his estate. His niece was like a flower wanting some love so that she could blossom. She was beautiful and smart to be sure. Like a tender shoot she was afraid of life. Often as she was nearing sleep, the nanny would scoop her up and hold her until she fell into a deep sleep. It was the only time they were allowed to be that close for propriety required that they keep the distance required between a servant and an heiress. This little flower was indeed an heiress. “Even heiresses need love.” she thought.
Her father had been the CEO of an international company having something to do with computers, something about clouds, she had been told. All she knew about computers was how to send an e-mail to her daughter in Yorkshire.
“Why is brown such a frightful color to my dear?” She would wonder day after day. She dared not ask her charge. If the uncle were around, she would ask him. One day a post came to the niece. It was short but at least it was addressed to her. “Ma petite niece est vous bien? Votre Oncle.” The nanny was glad for the note; now she had an address. His niece started writing little notes of regard back. She didn’t get anything more in writing but her uncle started sending gifts. The favorite gift was a black and white puppy – fortunately not brown.
The nanny finally got up the nerve to write a short card. ” I have been so grateful for the dear little gifts you have sent to your niece. She loves each one more dearly than the last. I know this might be prying but each time your niece sees the color brown she loses herself in emotion. Do you know why so I might help her?” The uncle sent a note to the nanny. It was addressed to her in bold print. She could tell he was a man who was self- assured. The inside of the envelope revealed something different. In a hand that appeared, less than bold, she read “My sister had the most beautiful long, chestnut-brown hair; her eyes were brown with golden flecks. She looked like a goddess in silks made of reddish brown. She was marron.” The nanny could see a water mark like a drop had fallen over the word marron. “I loved my sister more than life. Her laughter caused the sun to rise. When she was sad, rain fell. Her husband and all who knew her adored her. Her little one will be her double when she grows into womanhood. Will I ever be able to look upon her without dying from the pain of this great loss? If only it had been me.”
At his last words, the nanny’s head fell into her hands. She cried remembering the death of her own mama. “Oh life is so cruel!”, she stomped her feet. She had new resolve to destroy anything that was brown. To dress her darling in blues and pinks; never in her mother’s favorite marron. The little niece would grow up knowing as much love as the nanny could find in her heart to give.
There are always many wonderful short stories over at Theme Thursday. The prompt this week was brown. Enjoy!!!
Thank you to popsicle for the brown eyes:
*http://www.flickr.com/photos/p0psicle/2463416317/sizes/m/in/photostream
It all makes sense (short story)
I woke up from a deep sleep to the same thing “nothing.” I guess I should be thankful; I have a job and a room of my own. But most many days it is difficult to wake up to being blind. Have you ever wondered what the color yellow looks like? I can feel yellow, I can taste yellow, but I can never see yellow. When you hear the triumphant screech of a hawk that has seized its prey do you appreciate the swooping motion he makes as he dances in the sky? I can hear the dance – I will never see it.
I hate hearing. My ears taunt me with a knowing that my eyes will never experience. My teachers applauded the senses.
“your ears will hear better, you fingers will feel more intently as if to compensate for the loss of one of your senses.
“Easy for you to say teach you have all of your senses intact.”
“Tap,tap, tap.” my finely tuned ears can hear the white and red stick that acts as a replacement for my eyes. Not that I know what red or white looks like.
“Good Morning,” my ears hear an unfamiliar, melodic, perfectly tuned voice. “Good Morning Miss, ” hoping she can’t sense the insincerity in my greeting. She does something unexpected; she grabs my arm but she’s not steering me like most feel inclined to do out of pity. “I am new here; please show me to my desk.” I rarely am asked to help people. Obviously because everyone believes I am helpless. The smile on my face is now genuine as I deliver her to her spot. “Have a nice morning miss.” “It would be so nice to have lunch with a familiar face.” “Gladly. I’ll see you at the lunch hour.” I had never used those words before “I’ll see you.” For some reason I felt as though I might “see her.”
We could have talked way past the allocated lunch hour. She was so energetic, interesting, full of life. I imagined the way she looked. Tall, long hair, beautiful eyes, radiant smile, gorgeous. We established a routine. We met each morning outside, had lunch, parted for the day outside of the office. I didnt’ want to be too forward so I waited until Friday to see if she wanted to get drinks after work. She acted as though she had no other plans, no other friends, and made me a priority. It was nice to feel important to one person. We danced by the moonlight. I was grateful for my acute sense of touch; her body felt so good in my arms. Friday became a weekend of lunch, dinner and brunch.
Monday through Friday she found a fresh flower on her desk each morning from me.
One morning I heard a few of the ladies gabbing, “Oh how sweet for both of them.”
“Yes the perfect couple. Fortunately he will never know.”
“What “won’t I ever know? ” I wondered.
I was now grateful for my finely tuned ears. I knew her voice. Though she was cubicles away I could hear her sigh or murmur.
I never thought it would happen but I was falling in love. I believe she was too. After a night of wine, good food, and dancing; she asked me in to her place. I held her, we kissed, my hands wandered, our bodies became intertwined under white gauze and moonlight.
Heaven must have been singing that night for I truly was. I woke the next morning with her head on my shoulder. My fingers had been so alert to her shape that it seemed as though I could make out her shape and see black tresses cascade about my shoulder.
“Is this what love is like when you are tricked and you see images with your mind?” I smiled.
As we walked to work that morning, I experienced the colors of the rainbow raining down on my heart. Blues, greens, reds, pinks, purples, and yes yellows bombarded my senses. I walked her to her desk and beheld something not from my mind, or my ears, or my fingers. I saw the biggest chocolaty eyes peer up at me accompanied by a radiant smile. For the first time I saw!
The doctor examined my eyes and said, “It’s a miracle. Be careful as you adjust to this new sense and enjoy.”
My ears were still acute as they heard the women “I wonder how long it will last now that he can see. Once he sees how ugly the scars, from the fire, have made her, I wonder how long he will be able to bear it?”
That night as I touched the scars that my fingers knew so well.
I pulled her face toward mine, “the light has shown me how beautiful you are. I never want to let you go.”
Join me and read the other wonderful short stories on Theme Thursday. Our prompt was Light.
Thanks Velo Steve for the great Rainbow (perfect)
It was over (part three)
Charles sits back reading a magazine and holds a bear when a frame (like a movie reel) flashes through his mind.
There she is , Mae, his beautiful little sister. His breath catches; he loves her so much. He sees her run into the house at 456 Ivy Court. He quietly peers into her room as his father forces his body into hers. “Daddy don’t you are hurting me,” she shrieks and clutches her bear close. “Don’t hurt my bear; I will do anything daddy,” she says as her father pulls the bear and rips off an arm. “She’s dying,” Charles moans as he sees Mae lying in her blood. Charles runs at his father with the first knife he finds – a fillet knife.
“Stop you stupid fool. A fillet knife would barely scratch me.” His father chuckles.
The next frame slows and shows Mae lying in her bed hardly moving. “She’s still alive,” Charles sighs with relief. He brings her food and treats – nothing. He realizes what he needs to do for Mae. Shaking out the last of his coins from his piggy bank Charles goes to the store to buy Mae a new bear.
“Is there any way someone could sew a heart on the bear? It’s for my sister to replace a bear that got hurt.”
The lady at the counter with tender eyes took the fabric the boy offered and sewed on a heart. Her eyes sparkled as she threw her arms around her brother’s neck.
“I know momma sent an angel to bring me this bear. I love you Charlie.” Mae kept her bear close. Charles Sr. marries several months later.
The next frame pans in to the campus of the University of Tennessee in Memphis where Charles Sedgewick Sr. is an acclaimed writer and literature professor.
“I am proud of you Charles – first in your class. I hope Mae does as well when she goes away to college this coming fall.” Charles’ father pats the grad firmly on the back as he smiles.
The beginning of many sad frames move through. Charles receives a phone call from Mae. He can see her sitting on her pink fluffy comforter in the dorm at the University of Louisiana.
“He is the man I have been hoping for. I know he loves me. I love him more than life. He is handsome and smart like daddy. He says one word to me and I melt.”
He got the call several months later; his sister was pregnant and the professor was married. “Mae I will be there for you honey,” he angrily hung up the phone. He convinced Mae to meet with the professor one more time. He told her it was best to say goodbye in a romantic setting. The Hotel Monteloene was perfect. Mae’s professor was found dead the morning after.
Charles could feel the weight from the next frames as he gave up his dream to be department head to take care of Mae and his niece. Mae was able to live on the money the professor had put into her bank account. Charles, Mae, and Rosie moved to Seattle where Charles took an adjunct professor position at the University of Washington in Seattle. Mae registered for classes. She never loved another man like she did Greg but Mae had a soft spot for lit professors. This one was dark and handsome like the others. He was a poet and spent hours weaving words through Mae’s heart.
“Mae you inspire me. We should be together.” She sighed hoping at last she had found true love. She had until her professor found out about Rosie.
“I could never love another man’s child.” His face reflected consternation.
She begged for a last night at The Edgewater for “old times sake.”
Charles sees the frame of wear on Mae’s face as she flees rejection. The frames whiz by as he sees Boston and professors, San Francisco and the historic Fairmont, Chicago,and an utter waste of time. Faces of police and questions and Mae fleeing one last time.
Then there is the frame of home in Memphis. Rosie going to school the first day.
“You look so like your mommy Rosie.”
He looks in the mirror and sees a man who resembles his father. He see’s Mae crying in her old room
”Men have failed me,” she wails as her father wraps his arms around her.
Charles in jealousy glares. He longed to be the one to comfort Mae. She had forgotten that day long ago; her father had not. When Charles walks in and sees Mae kissing her father, he loses it.
Kyle read a morning report and was on the next plane to Memphis. He knew who the killer was; he had actually talked to this professor about the murders. An APB was out for a man named Charles Sedgewick, tall, dark, blue eyes…
The overhead speaker squawked:
“Last call for flight 645 departing for Rio de Janeiro.” A stooping, blond man with glasses with a young girl gets up and walks down the jet way. As he gazes at the tarmac, he hears his sister’s voice “it was over before it had begun Charlie…” A tear slips unnoticed down his cheek.
Thanks to the Tenth Daughter of Memory for a great prompt – “The Morning After”
It was over … (part 2) Short Story
The morning papers read:
MORNING AFTER MURDERER STILL ON THE LOOSE
Kyle Berringer a detective with CPD read a few lines of the paper and wrote his notes.
“Another murder … in Chicago. This makes the fifth of what appears to be a series of murders. The first in New Orleans, the second in Seattle, third in Boston, fourth in San Francisco, and now Chicago.”
He continued to read:
“Sources have few clues other than: a fillet knife driven through the heart of a man in his forties, dark hair, a professor at the University of Illinois, body found at The Elysian, room 465. No prints, no sign of anyone with the victim at or around time of death, breaking and entering ruled out.”
The detective scratched his head. All the murders were in big cities, a year apart, the men were prominent professors at leading universities, it was always an upscale room with the number combinations of 4, 5 and 6. Up until now the police had thought the pattern was a coincidence. They realized now that this was a serial killer profile.
“How observant,” Kyle mumbled.
He wanted to add, “how did these incompetent cops manage to let this killer get this far?”
Kyle looked back at the growing file:
Profile One – Gregory Denison – a handsome professor from the University of Louisiana in New Orleans, dark hair and eyes, in his early forties. He was said to have had a fling with a college co-ed. The co-ed went missing; several weeks later the professor was found in room 645 at the Hotel Monteleone ( a four star hotel) with a fillet knife in his heart.
“So why didn’t they pursue the angle of the estranged lover?” Kyle wondered.
Profile Two: Andrew Wasdahl – a handsome, dark haired professor from the University of Washington in Seattle.
” Hmm could have been the first guy’s twin.”
One year from the anniversary of the first murder, room 456 at the Edgewater. Single – had a policy of never getting involved with students. Everything else the same down to time of death.
Profile Three: William Proctor prof at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. No known relationships with female students. Room 654 The Ritz Carlton. Yep this killer was OCD.
“I can see a pattern; can anyone else?” Kyle said sarcastically.
Profile Four: Wesly Lewis professor at University of San Francisco. This guy was extremely well-off. No known love affairs, room 546, The Fairmont.
“Any sign of extortion guys??? Good taste in hotels. Killer must know upscale hotels would offer more privacy. How does the killer get these guys into the hotel when they live in town? Might be a woman. Possibly a team? Too late to check to see if another room was used. They could have used two.
“What was the motive?” Kyle wondered. “No sign of money being taken from the victim’s wallet. Crime of passion? No that doesn’t make sense. The murders are all over the country. Revenge? Or some sick twisted hatred for good looking, Literature professors – Hmmm. Serial killers rarely work with others though he or she may have used someone along the way.
“Well we have a year to determine the pattern and stop this guy,” Kyle dragged his fingers through his hair in disgust.
Several Months later:
MORNING AFTER MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN??
Memphis Hilton reports the death of an elderly professor with a fillet knife plunged into his heart. In a nearby room, a young woman is also found with the traditional fillet knife plunged thru her heart and the teddy bear that she is clutching.
Kyle reads:” Based on the DNA test findings the man and the woman are relatives. Further investigation reveals victims are Charles Sedgewick Sr. and Mae Sedgewick – father and daughter. Police are searching for the son and brother for questioning. Charles Sedgewick dark, handsome, in his late thirties, adjunct professor of Literature at various Universities.
Detective Berringer believes the murders might be over but is curious about the motive…
Thank you for the Shot of the Historic Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/misterskeleton/4358847512)
Thanks to the The Tenth Daughter of Memory for the writing prompt “The Morning After.” If you like excellent reading go read the other TTDOM stories.
It was over … (Part 1 – Short Story)
“It was over before it had begun… ” Mae awoke to these words banging against her head where had she heard them before??? She had to close her eyes to reach deep. Several frozen frames shot by rapidly until they stopped at…
There was the frame of a girl climbing up in a tree. Scabs on her knees; her hair in a tangled mess. “I will save you princess,” she called into the air. In her make -believe turret was a teddy bear with a satin dress. “Away with you ogres” she looked down in disgust at the ogres dressed like leaves.
Suddenly, she was yanked from her fairy tale by her older brother Charles.
“Get down here quick. He’s asking for ya.”
“I’m playing,” she pouted.
“I know sis,” he said as he smoothed the dirt from her beautiful cheek. “We don’t want him mad.”
The reel spun to another frame.
“Mommy, I will always remember this day and my special gift.” Mae smiled as she hugged her mommy and her new teddy bear. A tear fell from her eye; that was the last memory she had of her mother alive.
The frame moved. She was in her first year at the University of Louisiana. He was older; A professor, like her father. He assured her of his love for her. That he was struck by her beauty. “We will be together someday soon I promise princess,” he said as he stroked her brow and gently touched her lips. He was her first lover; she poured all her desire to be loved and adored into this talented man.
Then frames whizzed past other men who all seemed to resemble each other. Were they all brothers? “No they were all professors,” she sighed.
Then a frame with two people: Charlie her beloved brother who took good care of her. Too bad they were related he would have been a faithful lover. Rosie, a little blue eyes rosey cheeked little girl who always brought her mommy rose petals and smiles.
She pulled herself up and wondered what it had all meant. What was her life, why was her life? She didn’t know who she was anymore. “Really?” Why was there so much heartache and pain? How could she survive another day?
The last frame was more ominous. It was a girl laying with her bear. On closer inspection, it was a woman who was “girl-like.” A knife driven through the heart of the bear and the woman.
Thanks to Dom H for the Teddy Bear with the Heart
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/domhuk/197869000/)
Open Her Eyes #shortstory #microfiction
She had a dream every night; it was a sweet dream. She would be caught in the ferocity of the sea or the quiet majesty of the mountains. Strong arms would wrap themselves around her.
A soft whisper, “I have found you ” would penetrate her heart.
He would turn her so she was facing him. With one finger he would tilt her face to the heavens. His lips would caress her forehead, graze her nose, and rest on her moist lips. His touch would send signals through the core of her body. She would return his warm touch with her own soft nuzzling. Her tongue would lightly graze the edges of his lips …
The dream always ended there.
When she awoke there were the remnants of tears on her cheeks.
“It’s always the same. The worst dream is better than my my best reality. Why do I need to ever awaken?”
“Who is this man? What does he want from me; what can I give to him?”
The next night she was on the back of a horse; a man on another horse would race toward her swinging her into his arms as the horse lunged forward. The rider would urge his horse to graze as he opened her eyes to the beauty of the dew laced meadow. His hands would comb through her dark hair causing a surge of ecstasy. His lips would always rest on hers; his hands would hold her possessively. Her eyes would search the contours of his face for something wrong; it was ~ perfect.
The words “I love you” would be balanced on his lips but not quite uttered before the dream dispersed.
Her heart, during the day, would try to break from the absence of this man in her dreams. Would she ever find this man she yearned for in reality? Would she feel the warm pressure of his lips against hers? Was she cursed by a man who loved her in a dream? She started to fight the dream to yell at the dream.
“I will not succumb to you any longer. You cause pain in the waking hours and only whisper promises of ecstacy in the night glow. Go away!”
And so they drifted away. The dreams became more of a thought. The dreamer walked in a daily cold, stark reality.
“What have I done?” she mourned. “Now my waking and my sleeping bring pain. Is death the only freedom from this?”
She went to sleep that night trying to evoke the dream. It was a vapor not willing to be recalled.
One day she allowed herself to dance in a meadow she had discovered. Hours seemed to pass. She laid on her blanket; the warmth of the day lulled her into a dreamless sleep. She smelled the flowers, she heard the breeze, she felt his touch. She laid in her reverie and soaked in the essence of him. It was back; he was back. Not wanting to rush her dream; she laid quietly enjoying his presence. She felt his lips, she smelled more than flowers – manliness; he tasted, hmm, salty and moist.
Her senses had allowed her to go further than ever in her dream. For fear of losing, she willed herself to never in this lifetime wake up. He tilted her head and opened her eyes. She gazed into his face delighted that he seemed so real. It had been so long since they had been together, if only in a dream.
As his lips descended on hers, he murmured “I have found you at last. Love me -don’t ever drift away into a dream again.”
She opened her eyes, she touched his lips, she felt his strong hands.
“You are a very vivid dream today – good sir.”
“As are you fair lady, but today I believe we have awakened from our reverie and found something more permanent.”
“Today will you leave this dream world and awaken to a life with me?”
She was afraid; she did not know love outside of her dream nor did she know this man apart from her dream. She must hold tighter to her dream ; it was trying to trick her and pull them apart.
He held a lifeless form of beauty in his arms. Long dark hair cascaded over his arms, lips parted beautifully waiting for the kiss he dare not take in case that would remove her last breath. He willed her to revive and be his in the world on the other side of their dreams.
“HELP ME” was his anguished cry. He hoped against hope that someone from the dream world or reality world would have the key to his happiness – to hers.
He went on a quest with his beautiful dream looking for the world where they both could be together.
This Story was originally submitted for: Theme Thursday .
That’s the Way the Ball Bounces
She grabbed the basketball from her center and flung it hard at the guard. Jenna was a senior and had her whole life ahead of her. Captain of the Varsity Basketball team, 4.0 student, Junior miss, and she had the hottest boyfriend who also was a basketball player.
So why was she so pissed today? Her best friend had heard a rumour that her boyfriend was cheating on her. “No way. it’s not possible,” she said as she stormed out of the dressing room before practice. But more than one person had witnessed him kissing Mel. Obviously practice was a waste. She tried to keep her thoughts about Mel to herself; they needed each other to finish off their 14-1 season.
Mel and Jenna had never been close but they balanced each other as team mates. Sadly that was about to change. When Jenna called Mike that night, she could sense the tension in his voice.
“I’d rather hear it from you,” she said kindly.
They had been best friends much longer than they had dated.
” I kissed Mel this weekend. There is no excuse and I would understand if you wanted to break up with me.”
“How did it happen” Jenna was trying to help Mike get past it. If there was a way to patch things up, she would because she cared.
“Jenna I don’t know exactly. It was dark. She playfully came up behind me and grabbed me. All of a sudden it wasnt playful as her hair brushed against my cheek ; then it was her lips. It was one kiss I regret. Mel means nothing. You and I have been best friends. If we go back to a friendship, I would be happy -Jen.
“Maybe it would be good if we got together and talked. I want our friendship to survive this Mike.”
“I do too – thanks.”
A tear fell from her eye. Mel had set Mike up. But why? The next few days she tried to find out why. Who was this girl Mel. she didn’t seem mean. Then she caught it. Well at least she thought she had. Mel had also applied to Stanford University and gotten a rejection the same weekend that Jenna got her acceptance. Jenna of course was thrilled and shared her news around campus. Mel was gonna be stuck going to a State University. “Oh joy – what prestige. Jenna had heard Mel one day.” But what Jenna heard as she rounded a corner was even more of an eye opener.
“I’m gonna meet some poor loser at San Francisco State instead of meeting a rich stud at Stanford. My parents have always pushed me to marry someone rich and Stanford was my ticket to rich.”
Jenna wasn’t rich but her family was financially set. Her dad could afford to send her to a good school, and buy her a reliable car, and give Jenna a clothing allowance. Not the BMer her best friend had but still. Jenna was content. She realized that Mel was a bitter person.
The next day they were practicing for the regional finals. Some girls had scholarships riding on the game. Mel was not helping the team get in the groove. The practice ended and coach grabbed Jenna for a bottled water.
“What is up with the dynamics? It’s been off.”
“Well personally I think it is one team member – I have been working with her and tipping her, but she seems to be souring the team. She has nothing riding on the game.”
“Well without some edge we may go down Jenna.”
“I would like permission to mix the team up a bit – I’m concerned that one of our team mates is creating some problems.”
“I support your decision; the team has been off. I hate to bench a senior at this level but I agree.”
As the team was being given the last-minute assignments, Coach called number 59 for the bench. Stacy was furious as she plopped her butt down on the bleacher. Jenna slapped Mel on the back and said,” this is for a win girlfriend” as she gave her a high five.
Jenna had fortunately discovered that Stacey, who could have been Mel’s double especially in the dark, was trying to ruin Mel’s life for something that had happened when they were freshmen. Jenna was so glad that she had found Stacy ‘s plan to ruin Mel in the locker room. It kinda fell into her lap.
As Jenna came out of the game for water, she smiled at Stacy “Sorry -that’s the way the ball bounces.”
My Lovely Shadow
I was taking a late lunch so that I could enjoy the park alone. Today I left my ipad at work and grabbed the suspense novel Vigilante by Claude Bouchard. It was a page turner unfortunately my work didn’t allow me to turn many pages. As intent as I was in Vigilante, I looked up sensing a shift in the light. I was Thinking it may be a storm looming ahead. Then I saw you; I didn’t see you but rather an image of you. You were no storm cloud. I could have been dreaming but I wasn’t. How could a shadow be so beautiful? Flowing skirt, long tresses of hair caught in the breeze. You could have been young or old. It didn’t matter if you had wrinkles or freckles; for I was entranced by something about you. An inner glow, soft and elusive. Like a specter that might lure it’s victim, I felt magnetically pulled to follow – I did.
The light played with your form but could never displace it’s perfection. If only I could paint the colors that were intertwined with your image – greens, one moment, blues, pinks, yellows the next.
I wanted to shout “don’t leave me behind- I must hold you just one time!”
At that moment, you darted beneath the trees; your shadow – my shadow was gone. I was startled as I stopped and looked up – there in front of me was the form, the illusion. No longer a shadow. Warmth and sunshine emanated from your being. Men would have gladly paid homage to behold one of your smiles. Though I have a post doctoral degree, I could not summon the words that I needed to say to revere your essence. I smiled and then uttered a simple “hello.” You generously offered a “hello” in return. You were dressed in a blue that made your eyes look like gems set in a perfect face. The breeze was palying with your long, wavy. My eyes wanted to linger on your lips but were drawn to the shape under a filmy blue. Ahhhh -Intoxicating warmth flowed in the air. My head was spinning and I was trying to regain composure and focus on your face. Why? Tell me what is so bad about loving a shadow? I reached out my hand and you clasped it. Soft and confident was that grasp.
And so began a different type of page turner; the journey with my lovely shadow.
Claude Bouchard is a fantastic writer and has a series of page turners on the market.The first in a series is entitled Vigilante. For more information go to Claude’s Website bigceebee.webs.comor Amazon.com…. http://bit.ly/6ptvht
and so ladies and gentlemen this is another in a series of prompts by Theme Thursday. Please read more in blue.
Never Mix Business with Pleasure
It was another late night at the office. I had to get that damned report done and on the President’s desk by 8 am. He always had these last-minute jobs for me. But he had dangled the carrot – the promotion, the bigger office, the fat raise. The coffee was the way I liked it cup for cup. One cup of the finest grounds from my favorite coffee place, and one cup filtered water – black. Forget the sweeteners and the sickly sweet additives. Black coffee was for the serious coffee drinker.
I was finishing up the last touches of my fifty page report when my mind started slipping into a day dream (night dream to be exact.) I was reflecting back on how I got to this place and time. I could feel the impressive resume, on expensive vellum, in my hands. I could see the lettering bold and professional: MBA from Stanford University, the long list of internships at Fortune 500 companies… I debated between the black suit and the blue suit. In the end, the black suit with the blue silk blouse and the four-inch black pumps won out. I’d had plenty of practice with the perfect look courtesy my hair dresser not Stanford University. I wasn’t one of those prudes with the tightly pulled back hair.There is nothing wrong with looking pretty for an interview and I did. My hair and makeup spoke business but a little flirty and the perfect accents: diamond stud earrings, gold necklace, diamond tennis bracelet. At the last-minute, I unbuttoned another two buttons on my blouse. Why? I do not know.
The interview was perfect. When the VP of Ops asked me what my favorite wine was, I was taken aback (in my mind) but without the slightest hesitation answered “Merlot.” “Hmm he said that happens to be mine as well. If you get the job, you wouldn’t want to join me at The Park for dinner on Friday?” “That would be charming,” I smiled just a bit of a twinkle in my eye. No one told me about this part of the interview process at Stanford. Should a figured.
Dinner at The Park was classy; the Merlot was excellent. When he asked me back to his place, I politely said, “no!” I had to draw the line some where; after all sleeping with the boss was not part of business 101.
I shook my head wearily finishing the report. The report was neatly placed on my boss’ desk. As I drove back to my place, I tried to gather my thoughts and dream of the bigger office. I quietly shut the kitchen door behind me. As I climbed into bed, I slid my arms around him. “The report is on your desk.”
“Coffee maker and coffee is in your new office. Merlot for tomorrow night- pool side. Clothing optional,” he murmured with a sleepy kiss.
We had both agreed, early on in our relationship, not to mix business with pleasure. We never did.
Always great short stories at The 10th Daughter of Memory
Thanks for the wine photo: Yashima
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/yashima/131232874/)
It Fit Well in Her Hands
The Leica camera fit well in her hands. It was so sleek compared to her old Brownie. She was an amateur photographer studying photo journalism. She’d been told the Leica would be a good camera to start her career with. She couldn’t afford a new camera; her aunt, while touring in Europe, picked up the camera for a song. Things in Europe after the war were still tight; each country picking up the pieces the best they knew how.
Though she had no manual, Terese instinctively knew how to use the camera. “Now if I can shoot something that I can get in a newspaper – any newspaper.’ There were so many times she wished she had been a man. So far she had been sent out to shoot a modeling session, back stage when the ballet came into town, a business grand opening. She wanted to be in the ‘seedy’ parts of town when “all hell broke loose.”
As she stroked her Leica, she dreamed of getting the perfect shot that would grace the cover of Newsweek and gain her notoriety. Something she was noticing; she was getting her photography in her university’s paper weekly and the Examiner had a few of her best – not on the front page. Not yet.
“We will do this won’t we?” – She said sweetly to her Leica.
She always felt her Leica had a personality of its own; she included it in her plans.
A magazine contacted her editor and asked if they could use several of her shots from a story she had covered about demonstrations. Then it happened – she was shopping in the Haight district when there was a huge drug bust. She captured the police and the hippies in a tangle. ‘Too bad you can’t capture odors’, she thought. “The air reeked of pot.” Newsweek wanted the story; she, alone, had the full story in pictures. It wasn’t the cover of Newsweek. Not yet.
She was developing some of her pictures from a recent tour of historical houses and buildings in San Francisco. She always developed her own photos. If she messed up, no one to blame but herself. “These aren’t mine,” she fumed as she looked at pictures of people standing in a line. “They aren’t even this era. Where did these come from?” Her curiosity got the best of her as she developed the negatives.
The pictures, a dozen of them, told a story of people wearing ragged clothes and stars on their sleeves. Hundreds were lined up, along the edge of a ditch, in a forested area. Cars were on the edge, of the scene, with swastikas on the car doors. She gasped “genocide.” When she was finished, she hung up the pictures on her drying line to tell the story. One of the pictures was the face of a man as blood spurted from his head. He didn’t have a star on his sleeve but he was wearing a badge. She couldn’t read what it said. She blew up the picture. It had a name: Thomas Dewy- London Times. “Could this have been the original owner of her Leica?” she thought as a cold shiver embraced her- leaving none too soon.
This was not the last time her haunted Leica gave her pictures of the atrocities of WWII; in the end she was able to help chronicle the terrible scenes of the Holocaust with the help of her endeared friend. Teresa not only got her dream of a cover shot on Newsweek; she always seemed to have the best shots of “history in the making.”
When her husband bought her a brand new Olympus for her birthday, she smiled warmly then patted the Leica around her neck. She didn’t need a new camera – Not yet.
Little did she know, when she was starting out, that her Leica Thambar 90mm would become a rare collector’s item. Only three thousand of them in the world. Her little Leica was rarer; a one of a kind camera.
This week’s theme is camera. For more great stories go to Theme Thursday
Photo from Leica Gallery
(http://us.leica-camera.com/culture/history)
Tainted by Passion (Theme Thursday)
Her lips quivered with a desire for him.
He was gone but the memories were not.
She re-lived the moment over and over.
“Why did he go?” She would cry in her dreams.
‘We were suited for each other from the start.”
The passion they shared was life-giving.
Everything they did had a spark.
It was true – they loved the same things.
It had started as a friendship.
Hand and hand they explored the world together -
looking at life with the eyes of a child.
Each day a new adventure- exciting and fresh.
***
A door swung open one day.
He saw the light in her eyes;
she felt the strength in his arms.
She loved hearing him call her name;
he loved her endeared caress.
They loved living each moment passionately together.
Each experience more treasured than the last.
***
Then it happened on a cold wet night -
playing the odds on a dark mountain road.
White lights blinded him;
they hit the curve and lost control.
“Baby you’re wearing this tonight,” he had said as he buckled her in.
That night while she was snugly bound in his car;
he was flung into a void.
He breathed his last;
she breathed her last of real life too.
She saw his fiery eyes that spring morning
when their son took their first breath.
****
Our theme is White. For other excellent White short stories go to Theme Thursday
The Cheap Shot
She was driving down the PCH in her red Mercedes C230. Her mind in fast forward. The walls were closing in on her. It would soon be over as she knew it. Wasn’t it already over? This was it – her last hurrah before the house was foreclosed on, the Ethan Allen furniture toted away to pay off some debts, and she was alone with nothing.
This wasn’t her fault. She didn’t spend extravagantly. Her husband had pulled in a million over the past five years. Well -until the recession. Then BAM – nothing. Creditors starting sucking them dry. He borrowed against everything, including the life insurance policy, until there was no place else to get money. So he did what any red-blooded American would do, he blew his brains out. She wished there had been one living cell left in his body when she found him – she would have kicked it and cursed it.
“Why are you leaving me with this?” she screamed at his dead body.
She was tempted to roll his body down the steep driveway. Instead she stalked out of the house and called his best friend. The only friend they had left in the world.
Because of her husband’s “untimely” death, the bank had given her a few more weeks before foreclosure. The clock was ticking until she would be out on the street. She had applied for jobs. No one was hiring linguistics experts these days. Before she got married, she had worked for the United Nations; they definitely weren’t hiring.
All she had left was her engagement ring. She sold the diamond for seven thousand dollars. A steal as it was a $15,000 diamond when her husband had purchased it. She was taking the money to Vegas. Her husband had always said she was good at counting cards and always joked about taking her to Vegas and cleaning up if they ever were down on their luck.
“Cheap shot Honey! I’m going at this all alone. I don’t have any idea how to do this. We could be doing this together.”
She hated being inside. She was a California girl. Her life was directed by the sun. Today or tonight her fate was going to to be directed by fake lighting and fake people. Her game- Twenty One. The stakes – her life.
The Theme “Living like There’s No Tomorrow”- hosted by The Tenth Daughter of Memory
I Can’t Be Crazy!!!
Alicia had heard enough. This couldn’t be. All she had been told was a lie.
“Wasn’t it?” she thought.
My life as a mom and wife can’t be over.
She would need to be drugged until they could find help. How could this be? Just yesterday, she had delivered her baby boy or so it seemed. The doctors hadn’t said anything then. Wouldn’t they have known? She fought back despair. After all wasn’t despair another form of mental illness?
“Alicia – think! What do you recall the symptoms would be: erratic behavior, emotional, angry, can’t make wise decisions. What is the rest ? I must be crazy. That sounds like me. But- did they ever consider postpartum depression?”
For one moment she had a reasonable thought. Then -”Alicia you are talking to yourself. You are nuts!!!”
Alicia knew her husband and his new assistant would never give her drugs and keep the children away if she wasn’t crazy. Sonya, his assistant, was so sweet.
“Young and pretty- like I was as a young wife.”
There was still that hesitation.A stronger more rational thought.
“Alicia don’t take the medicine! If they make you, force it back up.” She had to know.
*****
“Alicia, honey, here is your medicine.”
“Oh good, thank you- I was waiting. I think it’s helping. Could you get me some juice? It helps with the after- taste.”
While Sonya was gone, Alicia slipped the pills in an empty envelope.
“Oh thank you. I was able to get them down but this will help with the taste in my throat. I’m tired – I’ll take a nap.”
***
A week or two went by. Alicia felt better; her terrible headaches were gone. She didn’t feel like staying in bed round -the -clock though she did so it looked like she was taking the medication.
“Hello Katie. I’m sorry I haven’t returned you calls. I need you to do me a favor. I’ve not been well. I”m feeling so much better. I was wondering if we could go shopping tomorrow. My husband is overly concerned -please don’t let him convince you I can’t. I think the best thing for me is to get out.”
“Hello Tracy. It was so kind of you to offer to have the children come over. Would you be able to have them tomorrow – and the baby? My husband feels it would be good for them to have a play date. Oh they will love it. Would you mind calling and telling my husband’s assistant your plan. Thank you so much.”
***
It was a bright sunny day, children were playing, two friends were shopping, an employer and his beautiful assistant discussed when they would live like there was no tomorrow…
For more stories visit The Tenth Daughter of Memory – theme “Live Like There is No Tomorrow”
Beat the Dawn 160
Sprinkle dust dear
it really needs to be done
but mother she begs
it’s doesn’t seem time
soon the light will come on
and your shine on the moon
needs to beat the dawn
****
for more stories in 160 go to Monkey Man
thanks to the Alenses for the delightful dawn photo
Between the Sheets (10th Daughter of Memory)
She got the call. “Yes.” She said as she hung up the phone.
This was going to be a great summer before college after all.
Stacy had applied for numerous jobs this summer and all of them had fallen through. This had been the one she had set her heart on from the beginning, but it had been a long shot. She was a female and not as old as they would have liked. It was her navigational skills that landed the job working for a doctor and his wife.
Stacy had grown up in a family of seamen. Her great-grandfather had been the captain of a President’s yacht, her grandfather had captained the yachts of several wealthy families, and dad had his own yacht. Small, yes, but the prettiest fifty feet of schooner you had ever seen.
Stacy learned to skipper a boat at 8. She sailed solo at 12. She had sailed the Bahamas, from LA to Hawaii ,up and down both coasts. Her goal was to sail the world ,solo, someday.
The experience she would get, on this voyage, would be sailing more of the South Pacific. They would first sail to Hawaii and then she would help the retired couple sail to Tahiti.
The trip from a navigational standpoint was a breeze. No glitches the newly installed system was working perfectly. Stacy was having some trouble keeping clear from the doctor’s son though. Peter was almost 17. He was too much for her – tall, blond, blue-eyed, athletic build, deep voice… A major distraction. This was her job- not the love boat! Moments they were alone, taking care of the yacht, were getting to be too flirty.
“Would one kiss be sooo bad,” she thought.
She shook her head. “Great-grandfather would never approve.”
Multiple cold salt water showers a day were her only solution. This was going to be a long summer- she could tell.
One night, as she was on night watch, she was having trouble with the Jib. The jib sheet had gotten caught on something; the slapping noise from the jib might wake the crew. As she moved fore to release the sheet, she felt something brush against her.
She heard that deep smooth voice. “Having trouble with the sheets this evening? Let me help you.”
He grabbed hold of the fouled sheet thus freeing the jib. That quick he pulled her toward his chest. What was a girl to do under a starry night with a handsome sailor?
At the end of the summer, she pondered “wonder if great -grandfather ever had a voyage like this between the sheets.”
Thanks to the 1oth Daughter of Memory for another great prompt
Thanks to Supafly for the photo
