From our kitchen window I can see my little girl Nell playing with her new best friend Elena. Since moving to Atlanta two months ago, the girls have become inseparable. They are both four years old and about the same height but that’s where the physical similarities end.
Nell is a green-eyed lanky Irish redhead covered in a profusion of freckles while Elena is a slightly plump Spanish beauty with brown doe eyes, smooth tanned skin and lustrous black hair.
As I stand at the kitchen sink I can see the girls frolicking in the yard with Elena’s puppy, Pongo. Their energy is boundless as they dash back and forth from the swings to the trampoline to their bikes. They like to play a funny game where little Pongo is a scary monster chasing them around the yard …. and Pongo is always happy to oblige.
Moving around the kitchen doing my chores, I can hear Elena counting, followed by an excited “ready or not….here I come”, then the hysterical giggles as Nell’s secret (but usual!) hiding place is discovered.
The yard is fenced in and I’m completely aware of the girls and what they’re doing …. most of the time. Occasionally they’ll wander into a concealed corner of the garden to pick wild flowers for me and Elena’s mom. Even though I can’t see them, I can clearly hear their conspiratorial mumblings as they go from one blossom to the other.
“Buttercups, Daisies and Lillies of the Valley” whispered Elena.
All was quiet and I presumed the girls would come dashing into the kitchen and present me with a freshly-picked bouquet; instead Pongo bounded in, yipping and yapping like crazy …. an omen that all is not as it should be. To my relief, there’s no sign of anything unusual in the dining room. The front door is locked and my handbag is still resting on the desk where I left it. To my amazement, on the crisp white tablecloth sat a short blue glass vase brimming with Daisies, Buttercups, Lillies of the Valley and ivy. It was breathtaking.
I stood there admiring the green, white and golden cluster when suddenly I heard woeful whimpering and sobbing nearby. Pongo gave a little tug on the end of the tablecloth and there, huddled closely, were Nell and Elena, their little bodies covered in itchy red rashes. Only then did I realize the vine in the vase with flowers was poison ivy!
“Come with me, my sweet girls. It’s nothing a little calamine lotion won’t fix. Thank you for the flowers …. the most beautiful I’ve ever seen! Won’t daddy be surprised when he comes home tonight!” I said, smiling and chuckling to myself.
And tomorrow we will rid the garden of all the pretty shiny ivy.
It’s time for The Unicorn Challenge! Jenne has provided the photo below and asks that we respond with a story not to exceed 250 words. Here is my 250-word response.
Russell was tired of my excuses, my insecurities, my hang-ups and what he called “That Sicilian thing that’s 2000 years old”, which would have had more gravitas if I didn’t know it came straight from “Godfather 2″. He was breaking up with me and I was laughing in his face.
He was right, of course. I was a lousy girlfriend and I certainly wouldn’t make him a good wife. I didn’t like sex with him; some of the things he tried to do went on forever and brought me no satisfaction. I was disgusted by what he wanted me to do.
Russell stormed out. Good riddance. That’s when I decided to follow my dream and move to Sicily. Travel arrangements went smoothly and, having spoken previously with the people where I’d be staying, I knew getting accommodations would not be a problem.
My plans came together quickly. I packed a carry-on; more than that I wouldn’t need. In the morning I called for a taxi. Four hours later I was flying across the Atlantic on my way to the town of Erice. The place where I was staying was ancient, located on the top of Mount Erice, far from the useless worries of life. No cares, no distractions.
The bus dropped me off at Sorelle Povere*. My knock on the door was answered by a smiling older woman.
As a former children’s choir director, I often rewrote the lyrics to favorite songs.
My days as a lyricist ended after being chastised by a pastor who accused me of ‘lacking imagination’ by using the same melody and ‘simplychanging the words‘.
Denise at GirlieOnThe Edge has challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word ‘game’. In six sentences, this is my response to that challenge
If you’re wondering what “capadoste” means, it’s Italian slang for thickheaded” and all will be revealed as I continue with my store which goes like this: A while back …. and by “a while” I’m guessing close to 56 years now …. my husband (who was my boyfriend at the time) and I would get together most Friday nights with our friends at somebody or other’s house where we’d do a whole bunch of nothing, like sitting around watching TV, playing cards, shooting the breeze, listening to music, smoking and drinking.
Now, before we go any further, I need to emphasize the fact that I’m a lousy drinker and it doesn’t take more than one drink to get me tipsy, something I was well aware of but joined in the fun anyway because I didn’t want to be a ‘party pooper’; it was guaranteed that any night out that involved drinking always ended with me puking my guts out on the way home, Bill walking me to the front door where my father would be waiting up for me, saying goodnight then collapsing in my bed while my room whirled around like a spinning wheel.
Well, as you can imaging, these get-togethers with friends started getting old pretty fast until somebody mentioned a new gamehe played recently and asked if we wanted to hear about it, which, of course, we did; some of you out there in “Reader Land” may already be familiar with this pastime with playing pieces consisting of nothing more than a glass, paper napkins, a rubber band and a dime …. “The Dime Game”!
The game was really easy, anyone could play it, we all did and the rules went like this: drape a paper napkin over an empty glass, securing it in place with a rubber band, then place the dime in the very center of the napkin (couldn’t be simpler, really, but that’s just the set up) …. playing the game was significantly more difficult.
Since everyone smoked something or other back then, the idea was to take your lit whatever, burn a hole on the top surface of the napkin (praying it would stay small and not ignite the entire napkin), then the next player does the same thing; the goal of the game was to keep the napkin as intact as possible without the dime falling into the glass which resulted in the person who made the dime fall having to chug a shot glass of whatever libation was being served that night (and it wasn’t alcohol-free) so you know what that meant for me!
As a lover of board games, card games and party games, I was a total sucker for “The Dime Game” and like the idiot I was, I played every time, got sloshed after two shots and was done for while everyone else was having fun; you’d think a lesson like that would have been learned rather quickly and to that I have only one thing to say …. “Capadoste!”
Three years ago my darling Nina, my life-force, my soulmate, was killed in a ghastly accident while riding her bicycle to the library. I’d offered her a lift but she declined; Nina hated my motorcycle, calling it a deathtrap.
I remember the call, the ambulance and police, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room, the surgeon’s voice .… his words that torment me day after day after day. My wife is dead, our all-too-short marriage erased.
I am lost, blindly wandering Gehenna. I shut myself off from everything. Well-meaning friends brought Nina’s bicycle to the studio where she taught ballet. I heard it’s a lovely memorial but I can’t bring myself to go by.
It’s time for me to leave, escape the painful memories and the desperation. Our friends stopped calling long ago and there’s nothing left to do. It’s time for me to go.
I remove my wedding band and place it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
“Will my motorcycle start up?” I wonder “Or has it died, too?” I grab my helmet and walk to the garage. My bike stands in the corner, covered by a tarp now buried under three years of regret and bitterness. I strap on my gloves, open the garage door and climb on my bike.
It is pouring rain; I have no idea where I am going. It doesn’t matter; I’ve stopped caring. Now I need to stop the heartache.
7:30 AM Friday, Drew texting: “Hey, sorry! I know it’s early. Got any plans this weekend?”
[OMG! My heart starts racing. My biggest crush in forever is asking me if I have plans this weekend. OK, get a grip. I don’t want to appear too anxious; after all, we’ve never actually dated – just the occasional coffee and walks in the park with our dogs, Arlo and Dexter.]
[Alright. A sufficient amount of time has passed.]
7:40 AM, me texting: “This weekend? Um …. I don’t think so. What’s up?”
[Just the right tone. Cool and calm …. which I’m neither at the moment. Gotta love texting. It’s so impassive when necessary.]
7:42 AM, Drew texting: “I scored two ticketsto Springsteen for Saturday night in …. are you ready for this? Vegas!”
[Vegas! I love Vegas! I love Springsteen! I’m practically hyperventilating. Settle down and take a deep breath. Remember …. cool and calm.]
7:44 AM, me texting: “Wow! That’s fabulous! Let me just check my calendar.BRB“
[Exit text, count to 30.]
7:46 AM, me texting: “Hey Drew, my weekend’s open.”
7:47 AM, Drew texting: “Excellent! Even Arlo’s excited!And Amy, listen …. it’s an overnight trip; we’ll begetting back late Sunday. I don’t want to push you. Are you cool with this?”
[Am I cool with this?? It IS a bit sudden but I have to admit it’s what I want. Go for it.]
7:50 AM, me texting: “I won’t lie, Drew …. it is kinda sudden but I’m ready; it’ll be fun.“
7:52 AM, Drew texting:“This is gonna be an amazing weekend, Amy. I’m so happy you said ‘yes’.See you at yourplace tomorrow morning at 8:00.The flight’s at 11:00.”
7:54 AM, me texting: “Perfect!See you then.”
My head’s spinning. This is really happening! So much to do before tomorrow! Skip lunch today and go to Victoria’s Secret. Get a bikini wax on the way home from work. Pack tonight.
I couldn’t concentrate at work and excitement kept me awake most of the night; I finally gave up at 5:30. Time for coffee and a shower.
A quick glance at the clock …. ten minutes before Drew gets here. I place my carry-on bag on the bed, toss in my toothbrush and zip it up.
The sudden shrill ring of the doorbell startles me. Forcing myself not to lunge for the door, I pace myself, smile and casually open it to see Drew smiling back at me, one arm cradling Arlo, his other arm around the shoulder of a stunning brunette in tight jeans and a Springsteen tank top. My smile freezes in place.
“Hi, Amy! This is Charlotte. I’m so glad you can take careof Arlo this weekend; we’re really looking forward to this trip. Anyway, the routine is the same as the last time you watched Arlo. We’ll pick him up Sunday night.Thanks, Amy. Sorry about the short notice. You’re a real pal!”
Taking the pup, I manage a “Have a great time” and watch Drew and Charlotte walk down the hall and head for the elevator. They are laughing in that carefree way. Slowly I close the door, my stupid grin gone as I snuggle Arlo.
When I first started writing on WordPress, I printed out every story I wrote along with its accompanying graphic.
I filled five of the largest 3-ring binders I could find at Staples.
I was so enthralled with the fact that I was actually a “published author”! I felt my work needed to be immortalized in plastic.
For what? My 15 minutes of fame? To prove I existed and to share my brilliant thoughts with the world? To have something to pass on to my children and their children’s children?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Then the stark reality hit me: who cares? No child of mine is going to want these tomes cluttering their shelves; besides, they’ll never find the time to sit down and read them. They’ll get tossed in a basket next to the recliner, with all the other good intentions. Soon they’ll be relegated to the basement or worse, the attic …. the black hole in every home.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why not self-publish on Amazon, Nancy, and have pretty books to keep on your shelf (or in a box) instead of unwieldy, unattractive 3-ring binders?” Honestly, I know me and it won’t get done. I just don’t give a rat’s ass and those pretty books will end up as kindling or more ‘stuff’ to be disposed of when I croak.
I suppose I can have them buried with me so I’ll have something to read as I become one with the earth. That’s a thought.
And so I made the call. Sometime during the summer of 2023 I stopped printing out my stories. I now have a little more free time not to mention plenty of ink for my printer.
Anyone interested in five 3-ring binders of my stories? They’re going cheap.
“Hold it right there, Everett! I’ll not be fooled again by the likes of you! My own twin brother! Who ever thought it would come to this? You always hated me, didn’t you, Everett? Even as a child you were a malicious, jealous little bastard, like the day you started the fire in the gatehouse. You knew I’d be nearby working the horses and the first to see the smoke. And what happened? I got blamed for the fire! Everything I ever had, you wanted. You stole my darling Clarissa just weeks before we were to be married, then you forced yourself on her, all the while pretending you were me. She could never forgive me. She left town, a bitter, broken woman. My reputation was ruined and the only woman I ever loved was gone because of you. Now it’s down to our inheritance. You just couldn’t be satisfied with half, could you? You had to have it all. You think I don’t know it was you who took a shot at me the day we were out hunting with Father and Uncle Wyatt? Good thing for me you missed your mark that day. Well, I’ll not miss mine, you rotten, scheming son of a bitch. That’s right, this is the end, brother. I’m going to enjoy watching you beg for mercy. Good riddance, Everett. See you in hell.”
“And …. Cut! Great job as always, Bobby. That’s a wrap. This one’s got “AcademyAward” written all over it!”
It’s a fiver today, including prompt words from FOWC with Fandango and Weekly Prompts Wednesday.
“Debonair, sophisticated and charming” sighed Alice Carter. “I just love that movie. Cary Grant is so good-looking and classy. They don’t make movies like that anymore, you know?”
“And that Ingrid Bergman is some beauty, too” replied Alice’s husband Ralph. “Those smoldering eyes, high cheekbones, graceful neck – a real looker, that one.”
“And so chic, too, Ralph. You always knew a real lady when you saw one. Well, I better start dinner. I’m making your favorite – sausage and potato casserole.”
“I hope you made a lemon meringue pie for dessert.”
“Of course! Have we ever celebrated your birthday without your favorite pie? I know what you like, Ralph.”
“No, we have not, Alice. The kitchen is your milieu and no one makes a lemon meringue pie like you, my little chickadee!” Alice blushed with delight; Ralph’s compliments were rare these days.
Returning to the den after starting dinner, Alice found Ralph was watching the weatherchannel. “My goodness! That weather girl’s pants are awfully tight! They’re a bit unseemly for TV, I think. Don’t you agree, Ralph?“
“Oh, I don’t think so at all, Alice. She’s got a lovely figure; she probably works out every day. I’m sure her parents instilled in her an excellent work ethic. You know, I remember reading in some countries the TV weather girls are topless.”
“Topless? Why, I never” Alice declared indignantly; Ralph switched the channel to the news.
Alice clucked her tongue. “Why aren’t there more delightful men on the news, men like that handsome Peter Jennings?”
“Because he’s dead” replied Ralph.
“How about Mike Wallace? He’s so dapper.”
“Also dead” Ralph reminded Alice.
“Look at that clown, Glenn Beck, wearing jeans and sneakers on a TV news show! Give him a beanie and he’d look just like one of those little rascal kids. What ever happened to that nice Matt Lauer?”
“Fired for overt misconduct and sexual harassment” replied Ralph.
“Good Lord! I don’t believe it! Well, what about Bill O’Reilly, Eric Bolling and Charlie Rose?”
“Fired, fired and, oh yeah .… fired. Alice, can I please have a moment of peace and quiet to watch the news?”
“Well, pardon me for living! No need to be rude, Ralph” she sniffed. “I’m going to check on the sausage casserole.”
When she returned Alice stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my God, Ralph! What on earth are you watching now?”
“It’s still the news, Alice. In fact, it’s called ‘The News Channel’. News all day, every day.”
“The ‘X Rated News Channel’, you mean! No wonder those poor men got fired. What red-blooded guy could resist floozies like that showing off their goods on national TV? They look like hookers! And look at you sitting there in your underwear all bug-eyed. Disgusting!” Alice harrumphed.
“Put a lid on it, Alice! You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. These women are professionals. They’re lawyers, professors and judges, not some bimbos with sketchy qualifications who just walked in off the street.”
“Yeah, they’re highly qualified alright …. as adult entertainers!” Alice snapped. “Take that one on the end with the dyed blonde hair and skirt so short I can practically see Niagara Falls! What happened …. did they run out of fabric? And the other one with the dark hair. Who is she …. one of the Kardashians? With those spike heels and implants, I’m sure she can get a job as a pole dancer!”
“Woah, woah, woah! That’s enough, Alice! Look, this here is Megyn Kelly. She has a law degree, is a journalist, an author and a world-famous political commentator as well as a news anchor. The dark-haired one is Kimberly Guilfoyle. She’s a political analyst, an attorney and former First Lady of San Francisco. Now she’s engaged to Donald Trump, Jr.”
“Well, big whoop!! If you think I’m impressed, Ralph, you’ve got another thing comin’. You’re delusional!”
“I don’t care what you think, Alice. I’m sure their families are very proud of them. Besides being absolutely stunning, they are brilliant. Now why don’t you just run back into the kitchen and let me enjoy my one indulgence.”
“Indulgence??” Alice countered. “So you admit it’s all about cheap thrills and nothing to do with the news. You’re such a pig, Ralph!”
“Alice, your ignorance is showing. Can we please stop talking about this? How’s that sausage coming, anyway? I’m starving!”
Alice saw red. “Here’s an idea for you, Ralph. Get Kimberly what’s-her-name to see to your sausage. I’m sure she’s highly qualified! And one more thing …. Happy Effin’ Birthday!”
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “kick”. I threw in 8 other prompts I had in my back pocket; this is my response.
Last week I had my bi-weekly (every two weeks) session with my pain management doctor; I always get a perverse kick out of the term ‘pain management’ and feel like I need to say something witty and clever (sarcastic) about it to the insentient people who work there, hereafter referred to as ‘the staff’.
“You know, the term ‘pain management‘ is all well and good however I’m really here in search of ‘pain termination‘”, I mention to the front desk receptionist who is characteristically unresponsive; my darling, unceasingly patient husband stands to the side with a sheepish yet accepting half-smile on his face (sometimes accompanied by a masterful eye-roll) knowing all to well there are times I cannot or simply will not control my Sicilian forked tongue, being the perspicacious and savvy sort that I am.
My doctor’s office is in a building with other doctors so there’s always a soft parade of wheelchairs and people with canes, crutches, walkers or other means of physical assistance going into the various offices; many have spouses/friends/caregivers accompanying them with dogeared paperbacks, sudoku puzzles or endlessly-beeping cell phones except for my husband and me who both have appointments with the same doctor for ‘management’ of our pain, he at 11:00 and me at 11:20, and so we accompany and entertain each other.
Akey is needed to unlock the door to the ‘Guest Restrooms’ which are located near the elevators; this is a majorinconvenience and I have issues with this arrangement since there’s not one but two ‘Staff Only’ restrooms in the doctor’s office which screams HYPOCRISY considering the patients are the ones who would benefit from having a restroom nearby and because the ‘staff’ sometimes uses the ‘guest’ restroom when they have their own damn restrooms (but we can’t use theirs), and since no one is actually resting in the ‘restroom’, let’s drop the euphemism and call it what it is – a toilet, FFS!
I persevere and consider the walk to the ‘Guest Restroom’ part of my daily exercise but rest assured – I am seething inside and secretly hope there’s a member of the ‘staff’ in the ‘Guest Restroom’ who might accidentally trip over someone’s cane; there are a lot of canes at ‘pain management’.
Speaking of canes, I bring along my boldnew walking stick; I don’t always need it but I think it makes me look erudite, sophisticated and elegant in a nonchalant sort of way, even though my knees are barking like angry junkyard dogs; looking good is half the battle.
Lisa is serving as host for today’s dVerse Prosery prompt. We are to write a piece of up to 144 words and include the line “But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face”. This is my response for Lisa’s dVerse Prosery prompt.
We were living in Tennessee with my Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz after my mam and pap were killed in the South Carrollton, Kentucky train wreck of 1917. Just five days before Christmas and our family was torn apart. My mam and Aunt Luella were sisters; mam’s death nearly destroyed Auntie.
Back in January we all had such high hopes for 1917. My cousin Henry, Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz’s firstborn, was set to graduate high school in June, the first one in the family with that distinction. Aunt Luella was so proud of Henry, she couldn’t help smiling thinking of Henry’s bright future.
But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face.
Henry enlisted in the army one month before graduation. He died in the Battle of Cambrai on Thanksgiving Day.
“It was a glorious day, greener than Killarney in spring. We were out for a stroll, the leaves sparkling with dew. You looked so beautiful, Maggie, you made my heart skip a beat. Bluer eyes than I’d ever seen and hair the aroma of fresh peaches. We stopped and I picked a wildflower. I don’t know how you did it but you twisted the stem and made a ring. That was the day we became ‘engaged’. You said we needed to walk under the branch that stretched out over the path to make it official. I held your hand and we walked to the middle of the little bridge. We stood there and I knew from that moment on we would always be together. That’s where I kissed you for the first time. We were very daring, you being an older woman and all. I was 11 and you were 13 but we knew then we were made for each other.”
“It’s exactly as I remember. Tell me more, Tom. Put your arm around me. I’m so very cold.”
“Do you recollect the day we walked into the woods and discovered that cabin? I called it a ‘dilapidated shack’; you said it was “our dream’. We fixed that place up good, filling it with dreams. We raised our family there and welcomed our grandkids. Now our grands are getting married. Three generations of dreams, Maggie. Maggie? Oh, my sweetest love. Sleep now and dream forever.”
Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers has challenged us to write a 100-word story prompted by the photo below. Incorporating prompts from Weekly Prompts Wednesday and FOWC with Fandango, this is my response to Rochelle’s challenge.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has challenged us once again to write a Six Sentence Story and to include the word “stock”. This is my response.
Monday after school, me and my friends were in our usual hang out …. Caroni Brothers Grocery Store …. where we go for snacks, gum, you know – typical things 10 year old boys like – and, as usual, my mouth was watering for my favorite candy in the whole wide world, Tootsie Rolls, BUT I forgot my allowance and my friends didn’t have any extra money to loan me so I just walked around the store feeling glum when all the while those chocolatey Tootsie Rolls kept calling my name; before I could even think about what I was doing, I reached into the display box on the shelf, snatched a handful of Tootsies and bolted out the side door, but instead of running as fast and as far away from the store as I could, I tossed my candy into my backpack and sat on the ground leaning against the wall, relieved that I got away with it, when suddenly Mr. Caroni appeared outta nowhere, looming over me like a gorilla, and he reached into my backpack for my stash of Tootsie Rolls, shook his beefy fist and snarled something about cleaning him out lock, stock and barrel and to “get outta here, you mangy little thief, and never come back!”
That night I prayed Caroni’s would burn down – no such luck, by the way – and every day that week I gazed at the store with longing as my school bus passed by with one sickening thought haunting me: this coming Sunday morning, when me and my Dad are gonna take our weekly walk to Caroni’s for a loaf of Italian bread, a box of macaroni, a half-dozen cannoli and the newspaper; there’s no way I’m gonna be able to walk into that store and I’m thinking maybe I should just run away from home right now and never look back, but that would break my Mom’s heart.
Sunday arrived and Dad called out for me to “get a move on!”, all the while I’m making up excuses why I can’t go but he ain’t buying any of them; that’s it – dead man walking – and I dilly-dallied the whole way to the store, watching caterpillars, kicking pebbles, stopping to tie my shoelaces .… again …. until my Dad couldn’t take it anymore and shouted “C’mon, kiddo; what is this .… a funeral?” and I’m thinking “yeah, mine!” and before I knew it, I started crying and blubbering like my baby sister.
Squatting down and taking hold of my shoulders, Dad looked me square in the eye and asked “Ok, what’s going on?” and sobbing pathetically like a little sissy, I told Dad the whole sordid tale about me, Mr. Caroni and a handful of Tootsie Rolls; he took out his handkerchief, wiped my face, held it to my nose and said “Blow; listen, kiddo …. what you did was wrong and it’s obviously eating you up inside, but I’m afraid it’s not over because you still have to apologize to Mr. Caroni, which won’t be easy, but you have to do it …. and not a word about any of this to your Mom because this is a “guy thing” and it stays between us guys.”
We walked into the store, picked out our usual items and brought them up to the counter where my day wasted no time mincing words and said “Mr. Caroni, my son has something to say”; shaking in my shoes, I managed to look up at Mr. Caroni’s face and squeaked out “I’m sorry for taking those Tootsie Rolls, sir, and I’ll never steal anything from you ever again”and I extended my hand; an eternity seemed to go by but, to my shock and relief, Mr. Caroni took my little hand in his large meaty one, gave me one solid shake and nodded in agreement.
“Anything else?” Mr. Caroni asked, to which my dad replied “Just these” as he tossed a handful of my beloved Tootsie Rolls onto the counter; I’m sure glad my secret’s safe with Dad ’cause the last thing I wanna do is break my Mom’s heart.
There I was, sitting in my car taking a smoke break. Damn shame! We can’t smoke anywhere these days and that’s a perfect example of discrimination.
Anyway, I’m looking out the car window, and that’s when I spotted it …. a rubber glove on the ground. Disgusting!
Since I was parked just across from a nursing home, I figured that glove belonged to one of the employees there and that made me even angrier than I was. Imagine, a health facility employee tossing a glove away like that! I bet they throw their masks on the ground, too. Pigs!
What’s wrong with people? You’d think after 3+ years of Covid, they’d finally get it right and stop ditching their used gloves or masks on public property. I could never understand how someone, especially a health-care worker, could show such disrespect for other people. If I had seen whoever tossed that glove so indiscriminately, I would have said something.
Well, there’s only one thing to do …. I donned a glove, picked up the offensive litter and deposited it in the trash. Puffing on my smoke, I walked back to my car feeling very proud of myself.
Just then a pigeon landed on the trash can, picked out the glove and flew off only to drop the glove on the road. Well, I’ll be damned! It wasn’t a deliberate act of human negligence after all! I chuckled, my faith in mankind restored.
Flicking my cigarette butt out the window, I drove off.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story and include the word “task”. This is my response.
Not having practiced the piano at all that one week, I called my instructor who was waiting for me at the church and declared into the phone “Mrs. Ridgeway, it’s Nancy and I can’t make it to my lesson today because it’s raining”; I was quite proud of myself for coming up with such a creative and foolproof excuse.
In her clipped New England-accented voice, Mrs. Ridgeway replied “You’re not a sugar cube and won’t melt in the rain”, then went on to say “Surely you have an umbrella you can use”; I was quick to inform her that I had left my umbrella on the school bus, adding that no one was at home with me to lend me an umbrella and my mother didn’t approve of me walking unprotected in the rain to which my piano teacher replied “Well then, I’ll just come to your house for your lesson”.
You could have knocked me over with a feather because I certainly was not expecting that response and, true to her word, ten minutes later Mrs. Ridgeway appeared at my front door, ready for the task at hand; I dilly-dallied as long as I could looking for my book of Schirmer’s Library of Musical Classics – Selected Piano Masterpieces, setting up my metronome, cracking my knuckles and swinging my arms a la Ed Norton and shifting butt cheeks searching for the most comfortable position until Mrs. Ridgeway’s patience reached the breaking point and she barked “Enough!” which nearly made me jump off the piano bench in a panic.
Shaking like the last leaf on a branch in a windstorm, I opened my lesson book to the appropriate page and began playing Beethoven’s Für Elise while Mrs. Ridgeway sat next to me, staring over my shoulder and glaring; I played as though I was wearing boxing gloves and, being the master sleuth that she was, Mrs. Ridgeway saw right through my brilliant plot.
Angrier than my sister the day she discovered I had ripped off all the heads on her Barbie dolls, Mrs. Ridgeway exclaimed I had wasted her valuable time and she doubled my lessons for the next week which would have been tolerable if she hadn’t reported to my mother who got so mad because of my lack of responsibility, she withheld my allowance for the next two weeks and took away my TV privileges …. even Dr. Kildare.
This is what Für Elise is supposed to sound like; you’ll notice Lang Lang is not wearing boxing gloves (but I bet he’d sound just as good even if he was).
The incomparable Jackie Gleason and Art Carney in a clip from the Honeymooners – Suwanee River. How could I possibly resist?
The prompt for JusJoJan January 2, 2024 is brought to us by my friend Willow; the prompt word is “Gregorian”. Here is my submission.
The Abbot rushed toward the chapel, his robes kicking up dust all around him. He had never heard sounds like that before; he had to get to the bottom of this mystery.
The chanting continued, increasing in volume. Finally the Abbot reached the room and threw open the doors to the chapel. Immediately the startled monks stopped singing, all eyes on the Abbot. One look and everyone could tell he was furious.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his eyes sweeping the faces of all the monks in the chapel. “Someone answer me! I demand to know why you are not chanting in the traditional manner. Who gave you permission to do this!”
With great trepidation, one brave monk stepped forward. With eyes lowered he spoke softly. “Abbot, forgive me, but while you were attending the funeral of your beloved mother, word was received from His Holiness, Pope Gregory, that all chants are to be sung in this manner. In his honor, the chants are called Gregorian.”
His Holiness! The Abbot was momentarily stunned by this information. He cleared his throat and replied “Of course! His Holiness. It must have slipped my mind while I was preoccupied with the funeral.”
The monks remained silent, all staring at the Abbot. At last he put everyone out of their discomfort by declaring “The new chants are indeed quite lovely. His Holiness is most wise. Carry on, my sons.” The Abbot quickly turned and left the monks to their chanting. A slight smile came to his face as he heard their beautiful voices singing the praises of God.
Linda G. Hill has challenged us with the first prompt for JusJoJan January 1st 2024: and the #1 prompt of the year is “train.” Here is my submission.
Every morning I take the train to work in lower Manhattan from Far Rockaway, New York and back home again in the evening. Along with a multitude of fellow commuters, I ride the underground transit system (affectionately known as ‘the subway”) for a total of three hours round trip. That’s a long time to observe the parade of weirdos entering and exiting the train.
Riding the subway for as long as I do, it’s easy to become familiar with my fellow passenger’s quirks and foibles – even assigning them made up names to go with their peccadilloes. And let me tell you – people are strange!
Far Rockaway is where the commute originates so I’m always guaranteed a seat. A couple I call Marge and Homer gets on the same train as me. I have determined from their heated conversations that they have been engaged for about six years. Marge is ready to get married; Homer’s not. She talks about her biological clock; he talks about nothing but his upcoming promotion at work. Then Marge reminds Homer he’s been saying the same thing for five years now and their discussion becomes more heated with every chug of the subway.
First stop: enter Malodorous Man. This guy is always guaranteed a seat in the corner all by himself. The fact that he desperately needs a shower would be enough to keep people away but he also brings his breakfast on the train – a raw onion which he peels and eats with gusto as one would an apple.
At our next stop Mr. Obsessive gets on. He immediately takes out a can of disinfectant and sprays it in the direction of Malodorous Man who indignantly shouts“Hey, I’m eatin’ here!”
Mr. Obsessive goes to HIS seat (where no one else dares sit because everyone knows it’s HIS seat), cleans it and begins his routine. First he unties his shoe laces making sure they are of equal length. Satisfied that they are, he reties his laces, then adjusts his socks so they reach the exact same height on both legs. He smooths his trousers, unbuttons and re-buttons his jacket, aligns the amount of shirt cuff visible from his jacket sleeves, straightens his tie and adjusts his hat repeatedly. Finally all is well in OCD Land.
At stop number three Malodorous Man departs and the Tattoo Twins get on, a teenage boy and girl covered from the neck down with multicolored tattoos. They lean against the door and start making out while Mr. Obsessive huffs in disapproval.
Totally out of character Marge suddenly declares to Homer that she’s “had enough” and moves to another seat next to Bob the Builder, a good-looking construction worker. Homer’s not happy about this; perhaps he’s noticed the same thing I have: whenever Bob the Builder enters the train he winks at Marge and pats his impressive tool belt. Bob and Marge begin a quiet conversation while Homer fumes.
Next stop and Mr. Obsessive fearfully sidles, past the Tattoo Twins who reach out and knock his perfect hat right off his head. Shocked by this unnecessary assault, Mr. Obsessive stares at the now unwearable hat, sniffs in disdain and scurries off the train.
Impulsively, a jilted Homer jumps up and punches Tattoo Boy in the nose who retaliates by shoving Homer backwards on his ass. A few passengers give Homer a thumbs up. Somewhat embarrassed yet proud of himself, Homer glances over at Marge for her approval. She, however, is too involved with Bob the Builder to notice. Homer tells Marge “it’s our stop” but she shakes her head and snuggles closer to Bob. Homer huffs off and looks back just as Marge fondles the tip of Bob’s hammer.
Welcome to the daily subway sideshow where everyone is strange except me – or am I?
To everyone reading this right now, all my friends on WordPress, I’d like to thank you for sticking with me, reading my posts, liking them and sharing your thoughts. Your comments mean a great deal to me; when I read them I know I have touched you in some way …. with laughter, fear, sorrow, hope, even anger. And you have touched me as well. I am very fortunate to have you in my life; thank you for being here day after day.
Thanks for appreciating the videos I attach to every post. That was just a lark I tried one day and I decided to stick with it. I think they really add something special to my stories. It’s fun looking for just the right ones and from reading your comments, I know you enjoy them.
And speaking of music, try to listen every day to whatever moves you at the moment. Music provides a total brain workout. Listening to music can reduce anxiety, blood pressure and pain as well as improve sleep quality, mood, mental alertness and memory – just what the doctor ordered!
My wish for you is that your new year be filled with peace and love. May you be safe, may you be compassionate, may you choose wisely, may you be happy while bringing happiness to others and may you be blessed with good health and good friends.
Now it’s time for something really cool. While the visual quality isn’t the greatest, the audio is out of sight! From 1998, this is “Happy New Year” with guitar legends BB King and David Gilmour and on piano, the incredible Jools Holland.
As far back as Rob could remember, he’d had a love affair with water. All his life, whatever the circumstances, he was drawn to water.
Whether it was to seek comfort or solace, an escape from a busy day, a place to be one with nature watching the sun rise or set – being by the water’s edge was a mainstay in Rob’s life.
Today, as he sat on the docks with his faithful sheepdog Petra, Rob was seeking an answer.
He lived in a nice house and a had a great job, a group of good friends and lots of social activities. Rob and Petra were quite content. The only thing missing was a life companion. He had his share of relationships but two years ago someone special had entered his life. Rob now knew he was ready to make a commitment. She was the girl of his dreams – beautiful physically and in spirit, intelligent, outgoing and vivacious. She had a loyal and trusting heart and a lovely disposition. Rob had never felt such a connection before and he knew this was true love.
He spoke quietly to Petra:
“You know, girl. I feel like the time is right to finally settle down with my true love. It took me a while to realize how I felt but now I know there can’t be anyone more perfect for me. I’m truly happy and ready to pop the question.
What do you say, Petra, my sweet girl? Will you marry me?“
Another oldie while I’m being lazy this week! Some of you have read this; others have not. Here’s a freshened-up, rewritten story. Hope you enjoy this one! 🎁
“What the hell am I doing out on a night like this?” Finn grumbled to himself, his mood worsening with each soggy step he took. “Freezing rain, my feet are soaked and I don’t even want to go to this damn office holiday party!”
Finn had been keeping something secret for a while: no one at the place where he worked knew he was going to quit. He waited for his boss, Mr. Hardy, to leave with his secretary, then Finn placed a sealed envelope on the secretary’s desk. It was addressed to his boss and marked “Personal & Confidential”; inside the envelope was Finn’s letter of resignation.
He was sick of his dead-end job, always being passed over and stuck in a little cubicle all day. There had to be more to life than this and he was ready to find out!
Running into the little gift shop located in the lobby of his company’s building, Finn spotted a small lapis lazuli paperweight near the cash register and decided it would make a fine item for the secret gift swap. As he reached for it, his hand collided with a delicate feminine hand with sparkling mistletoe-green fingernails.
“Hold on, buster! That’s mine! I just left it on the counter while I went to get a gift bag.”
Turning his head, Finn encountered a familiar face; it was the receptionist at his office. He always thought she was pretty but tonight she looked particularly fetching.
“Hayden, isn’t it? Well, I’m sorry but the rule is if you put something down before paying for it, it’s fair game. Besides, I’m in a hurry and I don’t have time to look around for anything else.”
Hayden recognized Finn immediately. He reminded her of a dreamy Hugh Grant in his younger days – handsome and charming – just not at this particular moment.
“Finn, right? Well, I’m in a hurry, too. The office holiday party is starting and this is my selection for the gift swap. You’re probably here for the same reason.”
“Guilty as charged” Finn quipped. “Come on, Hayden. It’s been a crappy day. I just want to buy this thing, make an appearance at the party and get the hell out of there.”
“I feel the same way. These office celebrations are the worst! The last place I want to be is at that party but it’s mandatory. Nothing like ‘forced fun’!”
Finn had to chuckle at that.
“Look, Finn. There’s a bunch of other stuff right over there. Just go select something else. After all, I did see this first.”
“Oh, alright! It’s all yours!” Finn conceded and dashed off to find another gift.
He quickly spotted a rosewood ballpoint pen, grabbed a gift bag and returned to the register just as Hayden was finishing up her purchase. She gave Finn a little smile and headed out into the lobby. He couldn’t help noticing her shapely legs as she walked away, heels click-clacking on the marble floor. He watched till she was out of sight, then made his purchase.
Still waiting for the elevator, Hayden heard a familiar voice behind her declare, “So, we meet again”. She felt a slight rush knowing it was Finn.
“Or maybe you’re following me” Hayden replied coyly, hoping she wasn’t blushing.
She and Finn never really spoke at work but they always caught each other’s eye. Glancing at him Hayden was struck with how intensely blue his eyes were. At the same moment Finn was thinking how very kissable Hayden’s lips looked in the shimmering light of the lobby’s chandelier.
They stepped into the elevator, the only two occupants as it made its slow ascent.
“Mind if I ask why you’re dreading this party so much?” Finn inquired.
“That’s easy.” Hayden replied. “I hate my job! The people are unfriendly, all I do is answer the phone all day andgive directions to rude visitors. This was not my dream when I first came to New York. I’m bored to death and capable of so much more.” She glanced over her shoulder even though they were alone in the elevator, then asked conspiratorially “If I tell you something will you promise to keep it a secret?”
Finn nodded and gave her the ‘zipped lips’ sign.
“I’m quitting tomorrow” Hayden whispered.
“No kidding! So am I! I left a note on Mr. Hardy’s secretary’s desk just before I left today. I hate my job, too. Making a career out of working in a glass box 8 hours a day was never my plan. But mum’s the word, OK?” Finn whispered back covertly and they stared into each other’s eyes like kids making a pinky pledge.
“Any idea what you’re gonna do?” Finn asked.
“Not really” Hayden sighed “but I’ve always dreamed of running a bed and breakfast in Maine.”
“It’s gorgeous there” Finn replied wistfully. “We used to vacation at my grandparent’s lake house when I was a kid.”
The elevator door opened to the office party in full swing. Finn and Hayden rolled their eyes and deposited their little bags on the gift table. He went one way, she went the other but every now and then they found themselves looking for each other across the crowded, noisy room.
After a short time Hayden casually made her way to the elevator. She was just about to make her escape when she heard that familiar voice cry out “Hold the elevator!” and Finn rushed in breathlessly.
They stood side-by-side, both unsure of what to say. Then the inevitable happened.
“I was wondering…..” they said at the same time and laughed self-consciously.
“You first” prompted Hayden.
“I was thinking perhaps we could get a drink somewhere and talk” Finn suggested.
“My thoughts exactly” Hayden replied. And when they stepped outside they discovered the freezing rain had changed to snow. Finn thought the light dusting of snowflakes on Hayden’s hair looked enchanting.
Hayden smiled at Finn. “Maybe we can have that drink at my place” she suggested, her eyes twinkling. “We could light the fireplace, listen to some music …..”
“Sounds perfect” Finn replied softly and slipped his fingers between hers.
“Credited for my award-winning fruitcake” was probably the last thing I heard my speed date say before I zoned out, my head hitting the table with an impressive “thud”.
“DING!” went the timer and my arm automatically shot up as I shouted out “Check, please!” Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. “Yeah, I’m crazy alright for agreeing to go along with my friend Nadine’s cockamamie idea of speed dating the day after Christmas …. and she never even showed up!”
I looked up to see my next date arriving – an Elvis impersonator replete with spangled jumpsuit, a ton of hair and heavy cologne. Whoever invented the jumpsuit should be pummeled with one of Elvis’ belt buckles. “Well, hello there, little lady. I do believe fate has brought us together. You are the spittin’ image of my darlin’ Priscilla.”
“Oh Lord! Get me out of here!” my mind screamed. Quickly I jumped up.
“Hey, toots! Number 9! Whaddya think you’re doing? You can’t just break outta line like that!” shouted the hoody-wearing overseer with the pronounced nose. He pointed an accusatory finger at me looking every bit like Charon the Ferryman from the River Styx.
I shoved passed him, walking out into the cold December night. “You are such a pathetic loser” I murmured to myself. “Another wasted night and this time during the holidays! Wonder if there’s anything to do other than just go home?”
Looking around I noticed a movie theater down the street. “Well, better than nothing.” As I got closer I saw the movie was “A Hard Day’s Night” and it was about to start. Cool! I got my ticket and bought some popcorn. There were clusters of people sitting here and there so I chose a secluded seat in the back. I liked sitting by myself, away from weirdos.
Just as the theater lights dimmed, some guy walked in and sat right next to me. “Jeez!” I’m thinking, rolling my eyes. “Of all the seats, you had to choose that one!”
Looking straight ahead, eating my popcorn, I assess the situation. I never know what to do at times like this. Do I change seats and risk him saying something nasty? Do I stay put and pretend everything’s normal? What if he’s a pervert?
“This is all your fault, Nadine” I whispered.
“Excuse me. Did you say something?” asked the guy next to me.
The charming English accent caught my attention; I turned my head slightly in its direction. In my excitement, I immediately began choking as I inhaled a puff of popcorn. The guy sitting just inches from me was a carbon copy of my one true love – George Harrison.
“Are you ok?” he asked. “Here, have some water.”
Finally able to breath and talk again, I said “I’m awfully sorry! You shocked me. Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like George Harrison?”
“All the time. It’s a curse. And has anyone ever told you you look exactly like Priscilla Presley?”
“All the time; it’s a curse.”
We both sighed heavily in resigned commiseration and turned our attention to the movie. We laughed through the whole thing, totally enjoying ourselves and lost in the moment; there was definitely a connection between us. When it was over we left together and decided to get a drink to celebrate the holidays.
We walk to a swinging little bar and who happens to be there? None other than “No-Show Nadine”!
Spotting me and my guy from the movie theater, she came running over, gushing like a schoolgirl. “Oh my God! Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like George Harrison? Giving ‘George’ the once-over, she drooled. “Mighty slim pickings here tonight. Wanna dance, handsome? Olivia won’t mind, will ya, hon?”
Wanting nothing more at that moment than to escape Nadine, ‘George’ grabbed my hand and we ran from the club, laughing and tripping over ourselves just like in the movie.
It’s our final edition of “In The Groove: Sounds Of The Season” and we’re celebrating the holidays with something George would definitely dig! Please stop by and join in the fun! https://rhythmsection.blog/
Yesterday my MC had just emailed his estranged wife andwas hoping for a reply, a Christmas miracle. Here’s where we left off. Let’s continue:
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※
Push send and cross my fingers that Annie hasn’t changed her email address. Going to bed and will say a prayer for a Christmas miracle…..
I woke up early again today; it’s Christmas morning. I’m anxious and afraid to check my email. Can I bring myself to read beyond the first couple of words? Instead, I decide to wait just a bit and pour myself a cup of coffee. I sit looking out the window as the woodpeckers hop from branch to branch finding their way home.
Did Annie get my email? Will she answer me? I guess I can put off the inevitable for only so long. I decide to check my computer; nothing. My heart is shattered and I crumble onto the chair . What a fool I was to wait so long to reach out to her.
It’s early afternoon now and the luscious aroma of roasting turkey is wafting through every room in the house; I can’t bear the thought of eating Christmas dinner alone. When everything is done cooking, I’ll pack up all the food and bring it to the soup kitchen; at least someone will reap the benefits of my stupidity.
I clean up, get dressed and pour myself a glass of wine. Perhaps I’ll sit by the tree and listen to some Christmas music while the turkey finishes doing its thing. The happy tunes coming from the radio do not match my mood and then, as if by simply willing it to happen, a melancholy song starts up. I never thought I would be spending Christmas like this …. alone, broken-hearted and in tears.
I hastily wipe at my eyes with the back of my hands and turn off the radio. No more music today. Time to see how the dinner is coming along. On my way into the kitchen, I glance out the window at the woodpeckers. Standing by the once useless wheelbarrow, suitcase in hand, is my Annie. She gives me a slow, sweet smile and a little wave.
Without stopping to think “Is this real?”, I flew down the stairs and out the back door. Thank you, God, for second chances.
It’s time once again for The Unicorn Challenge. Our mission: to write a story in 250 words or less in response to the photo prompt. This is my story and I’m sticking to it. 🦖 🎄 🦕
When our son was still in elementary school, he demonstrated a great ability and clever imagination for art. He had a penchant for cartoon characters of his own creation which he drew on his book covers and all over his school notebooks.
My husband and I encouraged his artwork and we kept him well-stocked in supplies, including a drafting table, paints and copious amounts of drawing pads. His main character was a T-rex called “Monstroid” …. a Jurassic lawman who was not above getting down and dirty.
When our son was about twelve years old, he asked permission to paint Monstroid on his bedroom wall. I had no problem with that; I’d rather he paint his own wall than someone else’s. Thirty-something years ago, graffiti was considered vandalism, not the street art it has become today.
The story of Monstroid grew in my son’s head, along with other dinosaurs, friend and foe alike. It got to the point where every wall in his room was covered with his creations; dinosaurs grazed on one wall while epic prehistoric battle scenes appeared on another wall. I didn’t mind; the boy was hurting no one and I would never suppress his natural ability for art …. just as I would never squash our other son’s talent for music.
Our son is now a television cameraman – another form of art. However, he never lost his love of painting and Monstroid is alive and well on the bedroom walls of each of his three kids.
It’s six for A Six today, all coming together to form one story: One prompt for GirlieOnTheEdge’s Six Sentence Story, four Fandango’s One Word Challenge prompts and one photo prompt from Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. Yes Siree Bob, that makes six! 🎄 🦌 🎅🏼 🦌 🎄
It was a long time ago, probably 30 years now, but I remember that night like it was yesterday, as if someone had taken a permanent marker and etched the whole event on my brain for all eternity; at the time I was quite active in my church, so much so that I somehow managed to get myself elected president of the parish council, a situation I found myself in because it’s a tremendous challenge for me to say “no” and, as a result, I end up getting involved in projects I’d rather not be doing.
My committee and I were decorating the rectory meeting room and setting the tables for the parish council’s Christmas dinner when I realized the wine I bought for the function had gone missing; now, I am a very organized person, certainly no scatterbrain, and when I found there was no room whatsoever in the refrigerator or freezer for the bottles of wine, I placed them in a covered box in the garage attached to the rectory knowing they would stay safe and cold, so how they could have disappeared was a total mystery.
Faced with the inability of turning water into wine and with no time to go to the store, I decided to check the rectory storage room hoping to find wine left over from a previous dinner and I was rewarded with an entire case of red wine sitting on a shelf in the corner just waiting for me; well, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I saw this new-found wine as divine intervention and placed two bottles on each table, quite pleased with myself for having saved the night at the last minute.
When the priests arrived for the party, they looked around the room in approval, nodding and smiling, but that was short lived when I suddenly saw one priest, Fr. Bob, heading my way and he didn’t look happy which made me wonder what was causing his consternation; now, in my defense, I am not a member of the clergy and have no way of knowing these things but the wine I found in the storage room was not just any ordinary, run-of-the-mill wine – no siree – it was blessed communion wine, meant solely for the purpose of Holy Communion and definitely not for a party, albeit a church Christmas party!
When Fr. Bob asked me (rather belligerently, I might add) how I could have made such a careless mistake, my mind went blankand everything I tried to say ended up sounding like a lame excuse; what was supposed to be a great accomplishment for me as parish council president turned into the most mortifying experience of my life and just when I thought the evening could not get any worse, it did.
The man I hired (from a so-called “reputable” agency) to play Santa Claus went AWOL, leaving his sleigh and a slightly inebriated-looking reindeer abandoned in the snow-covered backyard of the rectory; after a search of the grounds, Santa was found in the monsignor’s car in the garage, drunk as a skunk, passed out in the back seat and clutching my missing bottles of wine …. and if you give me a Bible, I will place my right hand on it and swear that everything you just read is entirely true (except the part about the tipsy reindeer; I added that because I simply couldn’t ignore the adorable graphic accompanying this story).
Waves of glorious flaxen hair rippled over her shoulders, swaying and bouncing with every high-heeled, leggy stride she took.
Never one to shy away from attention, especially that of the male population, she confidently waltzed down Fifth Avenue toward Saks, stunning in red Jimmy Choo thigh-high boots, a snow-white fur coat, and a single strand of pearls.
Admiring looks didn’t intimidate her; they titillated her, challenged her to be more daring and quite a bit risqué. It was all a game and she loved to play.
As she strolled the avenue, stopping to look at the exceptional Christmas displays in the store windows, she noticed the reflection of a man leaning drowsily against a parked car. Accustomed to men looking her way, she thought nothing of it at first but found herself glancing at his image more often than usual. Sliding her Ray Bans a little down her nose, she gave this mystery man’s reflection a furtive peek. Intriguing.
Repositioning her glasses, she continued window shopping, collecting all the longing glances cast her way and storing them in her bag like so many colorful Christmas lights. Every so often she’d linger at a quaint little shop or gallery, acutely aware of her mystery man shadowing her along the way. Now this was starting to get interesting. Slowly she removed her shades and gave his reflection a long look.
Why not? Slipping her sunglasses on, she turned around to a vision that caught her breath …. from head to toe the epitome of elegance and charm. Raven hair, tanned skin, black cashmere coat draped over his arm, charcoal grey pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, black and silver Art Deco tie and Italian shoes …. not black but the exact color of his suit. Nice touch; the paragon of haute couture.
She smiled. He smiled. She turned slowly, giving him ample time to fall into place beside her.
She continued walking, no longer followed by a mysterious shadow but side-by-side with an intriguing companion. Together they would take the road wherever it led them.
And so the time came to pass that the young woman was too heavy with child to continue the journey. They had traveled many miles with still more land to cross and she knew her time had arrived to deliver her babe.
She told her husband she could endure no more of this pilgrimage and, reluctantly he agreed; while it was important for them to return to their hometown, the safety and comfort of his wife and their unborn baby were of the utmost concern. But they were strangers in a strange land and knew no one. The husband stopped at the first house they saw.
The couple waited patiently, the young woman suffering in silence as her baby wrestled inside her, anxious to make an appearance. Finally, the owner of the house answered the door and, holding up a lantern for a better view, quickly assessed the situation. He knew this young couple needed his help.
Quietly the homeowner informed the husband that he had no room in his house for them; the disappointment on the face of the husband was obvious, even in the darkness of the late hour. The young woman tried to maintain some propriety but could no longer stifle her pains of labor and let out a deep, low moan. Both men knew the time for her to be delivered was imminent.
The homeowner hesitated only a second, then led them to a lowly cellar. Apologizing, he offered them this place and they gratefully accepted…..
The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is to include the words “to me”. This is my response.
Whenever there’s an upset in my life, I ask myself the same question: “How could this be happening to me again?”
Sometimes I wonder if I’m a total sap to give myself entirely to a friendship and at some point end up getting hurt. I don’t know …. maybe I’m delusional but I expect people to treat me the same as I treat them. Perhaps “expect” is too strong a word; after all, do I really have the right to expect people to behave a certain way just because I think they should?
Someone once told me my expectations are unrealistic and that I can’t “will” someone to act or react a certain way simply because I want them to. Perhaps he was right. I think about his words when I feel hurt or angry.
So, yes, I was hurt once again by a friend going behind my back and lying to me. This leaves me wondering if I bring this sort of behavior on myself or if I’m just unfortunate with some of the friendships I have made?
One thing I simply cannot tolerate is lying. I have a personal pact with myself never to tell lies. I know people lie all the time; is it too much to ask those near and dear not to lie to me?
Writing about this recent hurt is cleansing and I have decided I will put it behind me. What gives me some small amount of satisfaction is the fact that the person who lied to me knows that I know. This friend certainly went to a lot of trouble to cover all the tracks but they weren’t 100% successful. First of all, I am nobody’s fool and I catch on fast. Secondly, when you involve a third party into the plot, things can go horribly wrong very quickly. And last, my friend slipped up by making a comment online which I saw through immediately; as I said, I am nobody’s fool. The plotting and scheming behind my back compounded with the lie is particularly vicious; it was entirely intentional. You can’t get much lower than that.
Well, while I am going through this cleansing period, I am not above admitting that I hope the liar(s) are squirming and feeling guilty about stabbing me in the back. This was a grievous act on their part; could an admission and an apology be on the way?
There’s nothing quite as poignant as the sight of a dying swan, when her beauty wanes like that of faded silken cloth.
A life of such magnificence she leads, dressed in only the most majestic and royal of attire, bestowed so easily by nature while other breeds look so ordinary in comparison.
Confident in her beauty, she floats like a downy queen; she renders no judgement on the world nor assumes a superior attitude. Hers is a graceful, peaceful existence.
She rises above the tumult and silently, in a sweetly romantic character, will she take to heart a mate for all her life. No other and never another will she need, for they are soulmates of the seas.
With wings and elegant necks entwined, they swim the waters together, no fear, no discord. In unison they fly with wings of angels, ever one with the other.
The finches and skylarks in admiration glance down from the trees and sing to the beauty of the swans.
Their love comes to fruition; their cygnets hatch like tiny balls of feathered fluff.
But now the song of the swan is almost over, come full cycle but far too soon for her mate has fallen victim to the fisherman’s nets and weights and has been dragged unceremoniously to the depths of the lake.
Now she is alone with only a broken heart until the time comes for her to rest and in silence she will close her eyes for one long and final sleep.
The Elephant's Trunk 