Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are asked to write something creative in 100 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
He walks on the beach with his dog, just as he always does. They have a routine. He tosses the ball, the dog brings it back. Itβs all very natural and civilized.
Except for this night.
When the dog returns, he has a purse hanging from his mouth. He drops the purse and runs back to where he found it.
Looking in the purse, he sees a cell phone. Hers. The last call dialed was to him. He chases the dog; there’s a body sprawled on the rocks near the water.
Written for Weekly Writing Prompt #363 where we are asked to write something in exactly 42 words, incorporating the word “cabinet”. This is my story in 42 words.
When the landlord came calling for the rent, she pleaded for more time.
He refused and viciously slapped her across the face.
She fell against the cabinet and a rage grew in her like never before.
Did you ever find yourself in a situation that was so intense, everything around you ceased to exist? Itβs an extraordinary feeling, one thatβs difficult to explain without using every adverb and adjective and superlative in the English language.
The date was October 5, 1995 β a most inauspicious day β and yet I remember every detail of the events of that evening almost 30 years ago. At the time I was quite active in my church as a choir member, leader of song, and director of the childrenβs choir. Our adult choir was one of the best in the county and we were selected by Cardinal OβConnor of New York to sing for His Holiness Pope John Paul II during his visit to St. Josephβs Seminary in Yonkers, New York. When the Cardinal requests someoneβs services, it is an honor and should be treated as such.
For those of you old enough to remember Pope John Paul II, he was universally beloved and is now Saint John Paul II after his beatification on May 1, 2011. He possessed a spirituality that is rare among men, a divine nature of love, peace, kindness and forgiveness.
On that October day in β95, in the evening after vespers, it was arranged for John Paul II to have a walkabout around the grounds of the seminary. It was then that I had the greatest honor of my life .β¦ to meet His Holiness and to receive his blessing. The moment I placed my hand in his and looked into his most serene and forgiving blue eyes, I knew I was in the presence of a divine being. There is no other way to describe how I felt other than to say it was rapturous; I had never felt that way before or since.
I have led a charmed life when it comes to meeting famous people β¦. just a matter of being in the right place at the right time β¦. but there is nothing that will ever surpass this encounter.
Time and events have a way of changing our perspective and I am no longer a member of the Catholic Church; however, my break from Catholicism has not and never will change the events of October 5, 1995 nor how I felt that day. It is something that will remain with me until my final days on earth.
I was lost, a bit frightened and filled with regretfor not making a note of the address. A hazy moon began to make her appearance in the evening sky, leaving the tiny Palermo street awash in a warm orange glow. Squinting in the darkness, I saw what appeared to be a tunnel at the end of the street; there was no way I was going to walk into the black unknown. Slowly I inched closer and discovered the tunnel was actually a stairway. Just as I quickened my pace, an arm shot out of a hidden doorway and pulled me inside, pinning me against a wall. A deep voice I knew intimately whispered in honeyed Sicilian tones “PicchΓ¬ ci haiu misu tantu tempu, amuri miu? Ti vogghiu beni!”ΒΊ Passionate kisses drifted down my neck. Breathless, I murmured “I’m here now, my love. Show me.”
Kiss me now, my love, In the warm glow of the moon You possess my heart
Written in response to The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to be creative in 250 words or less by using the photo you see below. This is my story.
NB. My story is another perspective prompted by C.E. Ayrβs intriguing response to this weekβs Unicorn Challenge. Please check out C.E.βs story here and/or here. I hope you enjoy my version and his.
Contrary to popular opinion, sometimes these things really do just happen β at least thatβs how it was for me.
My husband was out for the day … the monthly visit with his son from his first marriage. I never fault him this time alone; itβs good for him and it gives me the chance to spend a day in my favorite book store.
One day while on my way home, I paused to watch the swans; from the bridge I saw a man emerge from his boat. As if drawn by my presence, he glanced up at me and waved. I waved back. Then the most unexpected thing happened: he beckoned me. I went down to greet him and that was the beginning of our affair.
Now I live for my husbandβs monthly visits with his son.
This month my husbandβs son is backpacking with friends and there is no visit. He busies himself with tennis and darts at the pub. Desperate to meet my lover, I bailed on our tennis game, pretending to be sick, and my husband went off alone to find a partner.
The afternoon with my lover was heavenly; half-way home I turned around and returned to the boat.
How could I know my husband had paused on the bridge to watch the swans and saw me leave the boat?
How could my husband know that while he was plotting his jealous revenge, I had returned to the boat and was inside when he torched it?
βWhere you been, girl? You got anythin’ goinβ on in that head of yours besides them nonsense rhymes? Your Maβs been cookinβ all day and she sure coulda used your help with them black-eyed peas but you was nowhere to be found. You best not-a been hanginβ βround that good-for-nuthinβ boy again, girl. If I told you once, I told you a thousand times … keep away from him! Thereβs somethinβ not right with that boy! Heβll bring nuthinβ but misery. You start messinβ around with him and youβre gonna live to regret it. Then try and find yourself a decent husband! No man I know wants used goods! Now stop makin’ excuses, girl! Iβm your Pa and I know when youβre lyinβ β¦ just like you was lyinβ about not bein’ out by the river. You know how I know that? βCause somebody done seen ya. I see by the look in your eyes that itβs true. Yeah, you was seen by that new preacher man. And that ainβt all, girl. He said you was with that troublemaker and you had your heads together like you was plottin’ somethin’ real private-like. I swear, girl, you ainβt got a lick a sense between ya. Stop this dang foolishness βcause itβs gonna lead to no good! Cβmon now, girl … dinnerβs waitin‘. Anna, your cookin’ is fit for a king! What you goin’ on about, woman?Jesus! I seen that boy just yesterday. Now, whyβd he go do a fool thing like that!β
NB: Bobbie Gentry remarked that the message in Ode To Billie Joe revolved around the “nonchalant way” the family discussed Billie Joeβs suicide. She also said she included the verse about something being thrown off the bridge because it established a relationship between Billie Joe and the daughter, providing “a possible motivation for his suicide after meeting with her“. Gentry told The New York Times in 1969: “I had my own idea what was thrown off the bridge while I was writing it, but it’s not that important. Actually it was something symbolic. But I’ve never told anyone what it was.β The last time Bobbie Gentry appeared in public was at the Academy of Country Music Awards on April 30, 1982, almost 42 years ago to the day. Since that time, she has not recorded, performed or been interviewed. A 2016 news report stated that Gentry lives a secluded lifestyle in Los Angeles; she has refused to speak to reporters about Ode To Billie Joe or to give interviews. Β
The waiter silently glided up to my table carrying a silver tray with an empty glass, a decanter of ice cubes and a bottle of chilled limoncello. I watched as he expertly filled my glass halfway with ice, then with ease poured the moonglow yellow nectar over the cubes. I watched, mesmerized, as the oro liquido trickled down the inside of the glass and gently caressed the ice. A little twist of the wrist and he was done.
Not making eye contact, I thanked the waiter and told him to leave the bottle. He obliged.
I reached into my breast pocket and retrieved my silver cigarette case. Selecting a Muratti, I tapped it three times on the case and placed it between my lips. There was an ashtray and a book of matches on the table, compliments of the hotel; I lit my cigarette and inhaled deeply. I always got a rush from the feel of the slow burn of that first drag. I exhaled slowly watching the smoke rings break away and drift off.
Raising the glass of limoncello, I took a healthy sip and swirled it around in my mouth, savoring the refreshing lemony sweetness as I swallowed. I immediately began to feel a calm wash over me and I took another generous pull; it was unexpectedly heady. Placing the glass on the table, my hand remained suspended in midair as I spied the cursive inscription on my cigarette case:
To Nigel From Camilla Christmas, 2010
Plain, boring and emotionless …. exactly like Camilla was to me …. and I to her, no doubt. I quickly realized I hadn’t thought about her since that afternoon, since the accident. Even if there was anything left, which was doubtful considering the height of the cliffs and the number of times her frail body hit the rocks before disappearing into the choppy Mediterranean, there was no reason to assume it was anything but an accident. And that’s exactly what it was …. difficult to prove, though, if certain facts came to light
I put the cigarette case back into my pocket and thought about my next move. I refilled my glass, lit another Muratti and stared at the lights from the ships on the water. The longer I sat the more comfortable I became with my plan of action. It was imperative that nothing be rushed, not even a whiff of anything unusual lingering in the air.
Tomorrow I will leave Agrigento as planned. After lunch I’ll check out of the hotel; if anyone asks about Camilla, she had personal business to attend to. The concierge will arrange for my rental to be out front. Camilla preferred to travel light; it will be easy to add her bag to mine.
The waiter floated to my table, filled my glass with the last bit of limoncello, nodded politely and left, taking the empty bottle with him. I felt all traces of tension leave my body.
Otis sensed it before Sam even heard it β tires crunching through the snow slowly approaching the dinerβs driveway. The black lab growled, knowing instinctively it wasnβt Deb and the kids; it was much too early. They werenβt due back until around 10:00. Besides, Otis would have recognized the sound of Debβs Jeep.
But there was one definitive reason why Otis knew it wasnβt Deb and the kids returning from their ski trip; Deb never drove in the dark with her lights off.
The instant Sam heard the vehicle, a knot started forming in his gut. βItβs ok, boyβ he whispered soothingly to Otis while reaching for the service revolver he kept hidden in the cupboard and slipped it into the pocket of his Washington Wizards sweatshirt. Sam squinted in the darkness at the LED clock on the dinerβs microwave β 5:10AM β too early, even for diehard customers. Tapping at his other pocket, Sam was reassured knowing his cell phone was there.
Careful not to knock over anything that would make noise, Sam quickly strode to the window and with one finger eased back the curtain ever so slightly. In the bleak pre-dawn hours he could barely make out the shape of a hulking SUV parked outside the diner. This was not just a business to Sam and Deb; the spacious second floor was home to them and their kids. If anyone tried to break in or cause harm, Sam took it very personally.
Otis growled again; Sam hushed the skittish dog and together they crept back to the counter and slid behind it. Sam fingered the gun in his pocket; he was ready if it came to that.
Footsteps on the front stairs were followed by a quick rap on the window. Otis was more nervous than ever and Sam spoke softly to him while slipping him a treat to keep him quiet. One more rap on the window, then the front door handle jiggled. Then jiggled again, this time with attitude. Sam decided he needed to go on the offensive.
βWeβre closedβ he called out. βIf you need help, the police stationβs just down the road. I can call them.β
βNo need for that, champβ came a voice from the other side of the door. βI just ended my shift there. Saw a car leaving your parking lot and wanted to make sure everything was ok.β
βThanks, weβre fine.β Sam replied through the door. Something about the way this guy said βchampβ made the hair on his arms stand up.
βHey, itβs my job. Iβd feel better if you let me take a look aroundβ declared the guy outside.
βAnd Iβd feel better if you showed me some I.D. Just slip it under the door.β
βNo problem, champ.β A shiny laminated wallet-size rectangle slid across the floor.
Glancing to make sure the deadbolt on the front door was secure, Sam quickly retrieved the card and checked it out in the glow of his cell. The I.D. confirmed the guy was a trooper and the photo staring back proved what Sam feared β this guy was no stranger.
βSon of a bitch! Dan McGinty!β
The same Dan McGinty from New York. Sam could never forget his brother officer from their days in the NYPD. A dirty cop, that piece of scum almost got Sam and his partner Frank killed in an ambush. Their testimony at Danβs trial helped get a conviction but Frank would never walk again. What was McGinty doing out of jail and out here in the boonies? How the hell did he ever land a job as a state trooper? Sam had a really bad feeling about this.
Otis sprang to his feet, jolting Sam out of his momentary reverie. The black lab stared in the direction of the kitchen and growled loudly. And Sam knew. In the stillness of the early morning he heard that familiar voice behind him.
βHey, champ. Been a real long time.β
It was the last thing Sam heard before the room went black.
It was Friday night and my paycheck was burning a hole in my pocket. As it turns out, my on again/off again boyfriend, Jagger, was off again so I was free as the proverbial bird. Just as well; I was getting tired of the slouch anyway. But it was New Yearβs Eve 1946 and I didnβt want to be alone.
Anxious to hit the tables and ring in the new year, I got myself all dolled up in an outfit that was quite possibly illegal in 33 states β a lowcut slinky little black number with a high side slit, silk stockings with lacy garters and red satin stilettos. Maybe Iβd run into a high roller ready, willing and monetarily able to treat me to a bourbon, a thick juicy steak and a slice of pie a la mode.
I grabbed a taxi to the casino, the driver giving me the once-over in the rearview. I wasnβt interested in any two-bit palooka so I played it cool. Averting my eyes, I glanced out the window, snuggled deeper into my fur coat and lit a Chesterfield. The smoke encircled my head and my bright red lipstick left a perfect kiss around the filter.Β
When we arrived, I tossed a fiver at the cabbie and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The staccato of my heels alerted the man in black .β¦ Special Agent Sam Bishop.
βEvening, Candace. Youβre looking angelic, if you donβt mind my saying. I donβt suppose youβve heard from Jagger.β
When little Summer was just a few days old, her mother Laura started the tradition of sitting with her in the nursery to read stories before bed; in the corner of the nursery was an old floor lamp that used to belong to Lauraβs grandparents, Momma and Poppy, and it filled the nursery with a soft, soothing glow.
As a little girl, Laura spent a lot of time with Momma and Poppy and the three of them developed a deep and loving bond so when Momma and Poppy passed away, the one thing Laura asked for was the floor lamp which was in the bedroom of their house where little Laura napped; now, each night Laura would tell baby Summer all about her beloved Momma and Poppy.
This one particular night as Laura and Summer were sitting in the nursery, the glow from the floor lamp caught the babyβs attention and she was captivated by it, something Laura thought was a sweet connection, especially since the lamp originally belonged to Momma and Poppy, Summerβs great-grandparents, but then Laura noticed a pattern developing, a pattern that would repeat two or three times most nights at Summer’s bedtime where the baby would gaze calmly and quietly at the lamp, then slowly begin to coo, gurgle and giggle for a few minutes before becoming animated β smiling, eyes glowing, arms waving, laughing and babbling loudly β then back again to quietness but still very much attracted to and aware of the lamp …. even when the floor lamp was off, Summer was attracted to it.
One afternoon when Summer was around 3 years old, Laura heard her talking and laughing, just like she did when playing with her stuffed animals, and when Laura peeked into Summer’s room expecting to find her little girl on the bed, she was surprised to see her in the big over-stuffed chair where Laura read bedtime stories; the floor lamp was lit and Summer appeared to be having a happy and lively conversation β not with her stuffed animals but with the lamp.
When Laura asked Summer who she was so happily talking to, the little girl was quick to reply βMomma and Poppy, of course; canβt you see them, Mommy?β
Laura caught her breath for a moment but she was not completely shocked for she knew Momma and Poppyβs lamp was special β the very reason Laura wanted it in her own home, but she didnβt realize how special it was; Laura never tried to stop Summer from talking to the lamp for she truly believed the spirits of Momma and Poppy were presentand Summer’s conversations with them were real …. and who are we to say they werenβt. πͺ½
In the fall of 2017, Kevin Spacey’s life and his astronomical career in acting, writing, directing and production (and more) came crashing down with devastating swiftness and near Shakespearean consequences. The reason: sexual assault allegations from 30 years ago.
On October 29, 2017, actor Anthony Rapp alleged that Spacey, while appearing intoxicated, made a sexual advance toward him at a party in 1986, when Rapp was 14 and Spacey was 26. Spacey stated on Twitter that he did not remember the encounter, but that he owed Rapp “the sincerest apology for what would have been deeply inappropriate drunken behavior” if he had behaved as asserted.
Almost three years later, on September 9, 2020, Rapp sued Spacey for sexual assault, sexual battery and intentional infliction of emotional distress under the Child Victims Act.Β In the subsequent federal civil court proceeding, a jury found that Spacey did not molest Rapp and was found not liable on all counts, with Rapp subsequently ordered by the court to pay Spacey $39,089 in damages.
Fifteen other accusers emerged from the woodwork and jumped on the bandwagon alleging similar abuse. The Guardian was contacted by “a number of people” who alleged that Spacey “groped and behaved in an inappropriate way with young men” while he was artistic director of The Old Vic theatre.
On the same day as Rapp’s allegations against him, Kevin Spacey came out as gay when apologizing to Rapp. His decision to come out via his statement was criticized by gay celebrities as an attempt to change the subject and shift focus from Rapp’s accusation, for using his own drunkenness as an excuse for making a sexual advance on a minor and for implying a connection between homosexuality and child sexual abuse. Spacey expressed regret over the way he came out and said that it was “never his intention” to deflect from the allegations against him or conflate them with his sexual orientation.
Amid the allegations, filming was suspended on the sixth and final season ofΒ House of Cards starring Kevin Spacey. His livelihood, public acceptance, reputation, peace of mind and very existence was hanging by an excruciatingly slender thread.
As Rapp’s trial lawsuit against Spacey commenced in October 2022, it was revealed Rapp had given an inaccurate description of the apartment where he alleged the abuse took place.Β The judge dismissed the emotional-distress charges as a “duplicate” of the battery charges and a jury found Spacey not liable of all charges.
On May 26, 2022, Spacey was charged by the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) in the UK with four counts of sexual assault against three complainants which were said to have taken place between 2005 and 2013 in Gloucestershire and London. According to the CPS, it would be possible to formally charge Spacey only if he entered England or Wales either voluntarily or through an extradition request. In a statement to Good Morning America on May 31, 2022, Spacey said he would “voluntarily appear in the UKβ.
In his first British court appearance, on June 16, Spacey denied the allegations against him.Β On July 14, he pleaded not guilty to the charges in London.Β During the hearings, the complainant gave conflicting reports, false information regarding deleted text messages on his phone and eventually refused to answer any other questions, invoking the Fifth Amendment. On November 16, the CPS authorized an additional seven charges against Spacey, all related to a single complainant arising from incidents alleged to have occurred between 2001 and 2004.Β Three charges were dismissed before or during the trial, which began on June 28, 2023, and, on July 26, 2023, a jury found Kevin Spacey not guilty of the remaining nine charges.
Kevin Spacey has received countless accolades, including two Academy Awards, a BAFTA Award, a Golden Globe Award, a Tony Award and two Laurence Olivier Awards. He was named an honorary Commander and Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in 2010 and 2015, respectively.
Kevin Spaceyβs brother, Randy Fowler, has stated that their father was sexually, physically and emotionally abusive and that young Kevin shut down emotionally and became “very sly and smart” to avoid beatings. Spacey addressed the matter in October 2022, saying that his father was a white supremacist and a neo-Nazi who beat him regularly and called him derogatory names, including ‘faggot‘. Spacey stated that the abuse at the hands of his father caused him to become extremely private about his personal life which, in turn, resulted in him choosing not to come out as gay earlier in his life.
The following video aired prior to Kevin Spaceyβs hearings in the UK where he was found not guilty of all charges. There are other videos available for viewing on YouTube if you so desire. I went with this one, choosing to avoid the sleazy and salacious nature of βentertainment newsβ.
This next video is a clip from the movie βBeyond The Seaβ with Kevin Spacey portraying Bobby Darin. Spacey did all his own singing which is rather impressive. I could have gone with songs like βMack The Knifeβ or βBeyond The Seaβ but the name of this video tickled my funny bone.
Here is Kevin Spacey as Bobby Darin singing βDream Loverβ.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge, where we are asked to write something creative in 250 words or less byusing the photo below for inspiration. This is my story.
The moment we stepped out of our car, the temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees and a cold wind whipped my black-stockinged legs. We cringed at the frigid slap in the face and huddled deeper into our jackets as we climbed the steps to the church.
We found the seats reserved for us β¦. second pew directly off the center aisle. I clutched my husbandβs hand and felt his body quiver as he raggedly exhaled, desperately trying not to cry. The tears would come, but on his terms.
The pews on both sides of the church were filled with people celebrating a life and mourning a loss. Everything leading to this moment had been a maelstrom of emotions; there are very few things that shake us to our core like a sudden death.
A man appeared at our pew; I recognized him as the manager of the funeral home. He spoke softly to my husband and together they started to walk to the back of the church. I looked up at my husbandβs face and he gave me a sad smile.
There was a heavy silence in the church, mourners sitting side-by-side lost in a fog of grief. Had someone played us the cruelest joke?
As one, the pallbearers heaved the casket onto their shoulders and the organ began to play. That’s when I saw my husband walking behind his brotherβs coffin, our widowed sister-in-law on his arm, and there were tears.
After the wake, a few of us went back to our sister-in-lawβs house. A question tap-danced in my brain: now that my husbandβs brother was dead, was his widow still our sister-in-law or will she eventually be erased from the familial slate, ties severed, connections lost?
The room which they call βthe officeβ was a confusion of books, photo albums and memorabilia piled high like Babel.
Flipping through yellowed snapshots, we spotted her, the widow, in every image β¦. halcyon days when we all spoke the language of youth and happiness β¦. and my question was answered.
Written for Six Sentence Story #309; the required word is βcoreβ
John Black always keeps his tools in the finest condition, each one hanging on the rack with incredible precision like soldiers standing at attention, lined up by size depending on his needs, clean, sharp and at the ready at all times.
There are saws that could cut down the largest tree and mallets strong enough to pound huge spikes into boulders, screwdrivers and files of every shape and size, pliers to yank out the longest of nails and wrenches to loosen joints rusted together, planes that could shave off the thinnest slice of wood and blades that could cut through the toughest leather.
John Black scrubs his tools clean after each use so they are gleaming, polished and waiting for his next job, whenever that might be .β¦ every day and into the night β¦. and he is ready, a busy man who never waits to be called, a man who easily finds his own clientele.
John Black is not a carpenter or a plumber, not a roofer or a mason, not a mechanic or a custodian β no, his job is of a different nature, his instruments weapons meant to inflict the most pain a human could endure β for you see, John Black is a psychopath, a stalker of the innocent, a torturer, a murderer; oh, yes, his tools serve him well, sate his sadistic needs and, being an unassuming man, his victims are so very easy to find.
John Black lives nowhere yet everywhere, next to your sister or your daughter or your mother or you, so keep your doors locked and never go out alone, even to check your mailbox or collect your newspaper or to bring in the cat, for he is ever vigilant, constantly at the ready, waiting patiently to show you in the minutest of detail what every last one of his tools can do in the hands of a master.
Come now, donβt look at me like that β¦. Iβm just the storyteller telling the story of John Black whoβs a bad seed, the devilβs spawn, a blot on the escutcheon, a moldering apple, rotten to the core.
Written for the dVerse Prosery Prompt by Amy Woolard: βWhat does it matter that the stars we see are already deadβ
βWhat does it matter that the stars we see are already dead? What does that even mean, Margie?β
βOh, Nell. If I have to explain it to you, it loses its gravitas, its pathos, doesnβt it?β
βGravitas? Pathos? Iβm sorry .β¦ when were you named chief cook, bottlewasher and poet laureate?β
Margie gave her friend a dismissive eye roll before turning her back, busying herself with little scraps of paper on her desk.
There was a time the two were like sisters, cherishing a bond they never found with anyone else. Now they barely recognized each other; their conversations were stilted to the point of being painful.
And it all came down to Nicole, a newcomer in their exclusive inner circle …. a renaissance woman and Margie thought she hung the moon.
βI miss us, Margieβ
Intense silence. Spoken words were never as wounding.
Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #358 ~ Superscript
Just like something out of the evening news.
Did the attractive young woman, a former nurse and mother of one toddler, actually feed her little boy bleach or was it just a dreadful accident?
How could any jury not believe the clean-faced white woman in the proper skirt and blouse as she tearfully recounted the events of that horrific morning?
But they did believe her and only the most perceptible viewer in the courtroom or the living room caught the slightest cold-blooded superscript curl of her top left lip.
Bill stood at his open closet mumbling and cursing under his breath as he pulled out one pair of pants after the other. He was in a mood that has no definition or perhaps many definitions, none of them good. He was searching for something to wear for the funeral of his twin brother, Jim, who died suddenly on April 2. Had it been anyone elseβs funeral, Bill would have just pulled out a suitable pair of pants and a dress shirt, but this was his brother and he said he needed his black suit. He couldnβt find it in the closet and he was getting angry but, of course, the errant suit was not the cause for his consternation. I walked to the closet and spotted the suit immediately. Handing it to Bill, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. As I ironed his shirt I could hear him crying softly. βWhyβd you have to go and die, Jim?β
Bill & Jim at their childhood home, City Island, The Bronx, NY circa 1950
My husband encouraged me to write today; I didn’t want to …. I felt like I should sit by his side, hold his hand, cry with him but his tears and his grief have not hit home yet.
One minute he’s walking around the house in a daze, the next he’s playing LEGOs with our 4 year old granddaughter. It’s good for her to be here; she’s keeping him distracted.
You see, my darling husband Bill’s twin brother Jim died today around 12:30pm. His wife Lynne went upstairs to their bedroom and found him on the floor. She tried desperately to breathe life into him but he was gone. Just like that, alive one minute and dead the next.
Losing a sibling is so hard; losing an identical twin is unfathomable. I am Bill’s wife but his twin brother was his other half and I say that with nothing but love in my heart. They shared their mother’s womb, their crib, their playpen, their bedroom, their car. They went to school together, worked in the same marina together for many summers. Bill graduated Iona College first in his class; Jim was second. They even failed the army physical together!
They were on polar opposites of the political page and their taste in women couldn’t have been more different but in every other way, they were as one. Of course they looked the same and talked the same, they had the same laugh, the same sense of humor. They loved watching hockey and going fishing together. Now that will never happen again.
If you look at the last photo on the bottom of the page you’ll see them, two little suntanned towheads sitting side by side fishing with their older brother, dad and grandfather. Now everyone in that boat is gone except for my husband, Bill.
All I’m thinking about right now is what a great time Jim and Lynne had last week. They spent the whole week in North Carolina with their son, his wife and two teenage grandchildren. They texted photos of everyone on the boardwalk, arms around each other, looking incredibly happy.
Bill and Jim. The Twins. The Richy Twins. When people saw one, they saw the other. Now there’s only one and nothing from this moment on will ever be the same.
The smell of old cooking oil reheated too many times stuck in his throat and clung to every inch of the Chinese food takeout joint. He hated being here, his uncomfortable demeanor only making him feel ridiculously out of place. And why were there only two tables in the whole shop when there was clearly room for more. He felt naked, center stage, all eyes on him yet no one paid him any attention.
How the hell did he let himself get roped into this? His granddaughter, a 15 year old package of rebellion and maladjustment, talked him into a dinner out. He didnβt like eating anywhere but at home but he realized in the fourteen years since she was in his care, heβd never taken his granddaughter out to eat, not even for an ice cream.
He wondered if he resented her. In truth it was his daughter, the girlβs mother, he resented for running off like she did and leaving her year old tot with him. What kind of mother does that? One just a kid herself, stuck with an unwanted baby and a desperate need to be a teenager. Well, she took off one night and never came back.
Now, here he sat, waiting for this willful girl who was too much like her mother for her own good to return from the toilet. Sheβd been in there far too long and he sat staring at his past knowing sheβd run off, leaving him alone again.
Allison arrived home to discover, propped up against her front door, a mysterious package addressed to her but with no return address; in these dangerous times, opening a strange package with no identification is a reckless thing to do and Allison isnβt the type to take chances, no matter how curious she was about this unexpected delivery.
Unlocking the front door, Allison gave the package one last glance and went inside but she couldnβt think of anything other than the box on her porch and eventually gave up, heading back out; the more she looked at the box, the more one sticking point nagged at her: the print on the hand-written shipping label looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, Allison realized the handwriting was her fatherβs; a thousand thoughts flew through her mind as she tried to figure out what he could have sent her, finally coming to the conclusion that her dad must have packed away a few items for her which belonged to her late mother .β¦ items of sentimental value β¦. before he sold the old family house and settled into a senior living facility.
No longer wary, Allison excitedly picked up the package and brought it into the kitchen where she placed it on the counter and with a knife carefully followed the taped-up folds until she was able to open the box; resting atop the packing material was a small envelope with her name on it written in the same handwriting as the shipping label and inside the envelope was a note which read, βDear Ali, I remember how much you loved these and I wanted you to have them, maybe one day for your own little girlβ ~ Love, Dad.
Puzzlement creased Allisonβs forehead as she gently pushed away the bubble wrap to discover one of her favorite toys β a miniature playground set complete with working swings, a seesaw, monkey bars, a slide and sandbox; there was even the little family with their pet dog which she had named Tess.
Now all smiles, Allison carried the pieces into the sunroom and placed them on the side table next to her chair near the window; they looked so happy and gay with the sun shining on them and Allison sighed, not at all surprised to feel a tear running down her cheek.
Written for Ronovanwrites Ovi Poetry Challenge 40: Tragedy Ovi Rules: 4-line stanza, 8 syllables or less per line, first 3 lines rhyme,4th line must not rhyme. Additional stanzas keep the same rhyming pattern but do not rhyme each other.
Homeless living on the street Children with no food to eat People crying in defeat We are stuck in a hopeless mess.
Politicians always lying Innocents in war are dying Talk of peace but no oneβs trying It all seems so fucking futile.
Playgrounds teeming with poison drugs Computer hackers spreading bugs Protestors being shot with slugs Has every person gone insane?
No clean water left to drink Can you smell that awful stink Our universe is on the brink The tragedies of a mad world.
Ruth looked up from her book and stared at her husband Fred as he fiddled with his iPod; at one time, he knew every little detail about that thing but now the device totally confused him and in frustration Fred cursed as he threw the iPod across the room yelling βDamn thingβs busted!β
Ruth sighed and retrieved the iPod, placing it on the table between their recliners and glanced sadly at Fred who sat in his chair looking straight ahead; Ruth asked herself “Where is my husband of 55 years?” because for her it was like he was gone, replaced by this βnowhere manβ.
In an attempt to help Fred settle down, Ruth calmly suggested they look at the iPod together after dinner to figure out what was wrong but that only seemed to anger Fred even more and he shouted back at Ruth that he was not a child and she shouldnβt patronize him; when Ruth apologized and told Fred she was going into the kitchen to make dinner, he snapped at her saying it didnβt matter because he wasnβt hungry anyway.
In the kitchen Ruth wept silently; it was like this ever since Fredβs diagnosis of early onset dementia and now they squabbled over everything, especially things he used to do without so much as a second thought, like paying the bills, but these days he got lost walking to the bank on the corner.
Fred used to be very handy but now he couldnβt even set his alarm clock and when Ruth offered to sort out his meds for him, he lashed out saying he could do it himself but he mixed up the dosage and had a terrible reaction leaving him feeling hopeless and helpless.
Fred came into the kitchen and, without being told, went straight to the spot where Ruth stored her cutting boards and knives and started helping her prepare the salad, perfectly chopping vegetables and chatting amiably about a movie his friend Jack thought they might enjoy; the old Fred was back .β¦ at least for the moment.
Yesterday, as I was driving up into the gated parking lot of a medical facility, I was faced with a dilemma: from my position in the driverβs seat, I was unable to reach the OPEN BUTTON. I stretched as far as I could, with no luck. Finally, I opened my door just a bit, reached out and successfully pushed the button. I closed my door, drove through the now open gate and went in search of a parking spot.
I found a spot quickly and, since we were early, my husband and I stayed in the car for a few minutes chatting. When I reached for my purse, my heart sank and I felt sick to my stomach. My purse wasnβt where I always keep it β¦. tucked into the space between my seat and the driverβs door. Iβm sure you see where this is going. Yes, when I opened my car door to push the button which opens the security gate, I didnβt realize my purse had fallen out of the car!
Thank goodness I immediately figured out what happened and Bill took the short walk to the parking lot entrance to make sure my purse was still there. It was gone and when he returned empty handed, I almost pushed the panic button. Just like most women, my life is in my purse. Itβs not big but inside was my cell phone, my wallet with my ID, driverβs license, insurance cards, credit cards and cash. My car key, a pen, lip gloss and Advil are also inside the purse. Not a lot of things but very important things. In fact, some are vital.
I tried to stay calm as Bill went into the lobby of the building to check with the security guard at the front desk. Against all odds, he had my purse in a box beneath his desk; nothing was missing. Bill had to sign for it and when he brought my purse back to me in the parking lot, I thought I would cry with relief.
All this transpired in the course of 10 minutes. Incredible good fortune which could have gone south just as easily and I was reminded of the classic line by Blanche DuBois from βStreetcar Named Desireβ about the kindness of strangers. Whoever the person was who found my purse and turned it in to the front desk, I thank them with my whole being. They saved my life today and if that sounds like a ridiculous exaggeration, just think about what it would be like piecing everything together and then try not to push the panic button.
Alright, alright, alright! It’s time once again for a Six Sentence Story, this time incorporating the word ‘remote’. Here’s mine, with a few other prompts just for fun.
The reflection of my timeworn face in the bathroom mirror is harrowing, one I still canβt accept is me .β¦ someone who was always strikingly attractive, impeccably dressed with my designer labels neatly tucked away and out of sight; these days I see only one person on a regular basis and he doesnβt give a shit what I look like as long as I have the money to pay him.Β
My hands are shaking in equal amounts of excitement and desperation as I check out what my guy has delivered today β reds, blues and yellows β a difficult choice, to be sure, but the numerous voices in my head have made a unanimous decision: mellow yellow to match my jaundiced skintone and disposition; yes, Iβve read the headlinesand the fine print warnings β Iβm not an idiot, you know, and that makes me laugh out loud!
Letβs see whatβs in the magician’s box to fix this sallow complexion β¦. spackle-like primer to fill in the yawning crevices around my mouth, foundation with a bit of a dewy finish (or so the advertisements promise), creamy rosy blush for my cheeks, glossy brush-on plumper for luscious lips, pencil to fill in my threadbare brows, glittery highlighter to lessen the deep-set appearance of my eyes and layer upon layer of mascara on my straggly lashes.
Looking at my reflection once again, I see that Iβm now back .β¦ returned from the dead, if you will β¦. and I look sensational, provocative and sensual with just the right touch of promiscuousness, yet there are two burned-out, remote eyes blankly staring back at me.
I slip into my work clothes, ready for another night hitting the pavement, when I feel that familiar sensation and Iβm faced with the recurring stalemate β whether I should just take all the pretty candy, lie down and pray I never wake up or put myself back on the meat market to earn enough money for another bag of Skittles; βFuck it, Iβm already dressedβ I think as I pop a red and slam the door behind me.
Our host BjΓΆrn at dVerse Poets has asked us to write no more than 144 words, incorporating the highlighted line from Tomas TranstrΓΆmerβs poem βAfter Someoneβs Death.β
The night of my husbandβs funeral was the loneliest point in my life. After everyone went home, I was totally alone in the house I shared with Ned for 12 years. I donβt ever remember the house being so cold and quiet. Moonlight engulfed our bedroom yet emptiness was all around. I sat on Nedβs side of the bed and ran my hands over his pillow. It was shockingly cold and my mind drifted back to this morning in Arlington. Row upon row of neat marble headstones, Nedβs fallen brothers in arms, all the names swallowed up by the cold. Hugging his pillow tightly, I cried for the first time in three days. There was a gaping hole in my heart, in my life, and I knew I would never be the same. I donβt ever remember the house being so cold and quiet.
Jenne, our delightful host at The Unicorn Challenge, has once again asked us to write something creative in no more than 250 words based on how the photo below inspires us. This is my response.
The pathway to my future seemed incredibly long and I could easily imagine myself escaping down a side aisle. What kind of thought was that for a bride on her wedding day?
βWell, we got lucky, sweetheart; the rain held off. Emme, are you ready? The musicians are waiting for my signal.β
I turned to face my father. βDaddyβ was all I managed to eke out before the tears started. I hadnβt called my father Daddy in years.
Dad motioned for the music to keep playing and magically produced a handkerchief. βWhatβs going on, kiddo?β
βThis doesnβt feel right, Dad. Iβm about to marry Gregory because of a promise I made to Mom.β
βEmme, if you want to back out, Iβll stand by whatever decision you make. But itβs best for everyone if you do it now, not after youβre married.β
βBut you spent so much money to make this day perfect.β
Dad put his hands on my shoulders. βDamn the money and damn the promises. All I want is for you to be happy. If you think this is a mistake, say the word. My car is parked right outside.β
βWhat about Gregory?β I asked biting my bottom lip.
βIβll talk to him privately, Emme. Donβt worry about that.β
I looked at my father and quickly nodded. He reached into his pocket and handed me the keys to his car.
βGo on now. I have some explaining to do.βHe kissed my cheek and took off down the path.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has once again challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story using the prompt word “nail”. This is my story.
When I first saw him I thought I was hallucinating (was this a real person or a fear-induced illusion?) and I knew I had to remain perfectly still and quiet β my very life depended on it.
I had no idea how long Iβd been there β certainly long enough for my skin to have turned red, my mouth parched, my lips cracked and I remember being stung and bitten by insects and digging my nailsinto the palms of my hands to keep from crying out, but I recall now β¦ we were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field β¦ we had been following a stream and unknowingly wandered far from home when I caught sight of a bush hidden deep in a shady area; the plant was heavy with ripe blackberries and I couldnβt resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.
I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams β not the usual giddy, playful squeals of young girls but awful shrieks of terror and I started to run back only to see my three sisters encircled by a group of Indians, hulking and menacing men, blocking the girlβs attempts to flee; they wore breechcloths across their midsection, moccasins and no shirts, their faces painted and their heads shaved except for a center strip of upright long hair and I knew immediately they were the dreaded Mohawk.
They tugged the girlβs long blonde hair, poked them with sticks and tore at their starched white dresses.
I wanted to shout out but was too afraid and I hid while my sweet little sisters were raped and raped and raped.
At 15, I was the eldest and I was supposed to protect them; how could I be such a coward?
Rochelle, our gracious host at Friday Fictioneers, has challenged us to write a story of 100 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Photo Copyright Alicia Jamtaas
Too many arguments, too many years of spiteful words. Sheβd had enough.
He walked into their bedroom where she was packing. βHow can you do this, like it was nothing?β
βLike it was nothing? Do you really think this is easy, like tossing out yesterdayβs leftovers?β
βTwenty-three years, Beth. You canβt throw that away.β
βWould you just let it be, Sam, and go to work.β
βIβll see you when I get home, Beth.β
βObliviousβ she murmured.
Of course she was gone when he returned. Nothing left but remains of the day.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is asking us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “pass”. This is my six sentence story.
The house is quiet tonight β¦.eerily quiet β¦. for all the lights are off and only the glow of candles shines dimly through the curtained windows, performing a ballet of shadows on the walls and ceiling; every so often a door softly opens, barely perceptible murmurings are audible, then the door gently closes as intermittent muted sobbing creeps up from the parlor.
I sit on my bed huddled under a blanket, a tiny flashlight flickering a pale yellow beam on my diary as I jot down my memories of the day; I must be quiet because my mother will be very upset with me if she discovers Iβm still awake at this late hour.
My window is open just enough to let in some fresh air and the distinct smell of cigarette smoke wafts up into my room; I peek out to see my motherβs uncles sitting on the back steps silently smoking their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes, their black armbands starkly visible against their plain starched white shirts.
I tip-toe across the length of my bedroom, praying the old wooden floorboards beneath the well-worn rug will not creak and ever so slowly I turn the glass doorknob; the hallway is dark but I can detect a muted light downstairs and I scurry nearer to the staircase railing for a better look as I sit there hugging my knees asking myself if I should creep downstairs and take a peek.
A few hours earlier the ambience of the house was much different, still subdued but active as delivery men came and went and acquaintances passed through the hallway into the parlor to pay their respects while my mother and the other women labored in the kitchen like mute worker bees, preparing trays of food for the constant flow of visitors, and my father, along with my uncles, positioned the many floral arrangements throughout the parlor; we children sat quietly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically subdued, occasionally glancing toward the walnut casket resting atop a platform in the center of the room and quickly look away.
Around 6:00 we were quietly whisked away into the dining room where we silently ate our supper, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil; it had been a long and sorrowful day, the longest day in our young lives, for the family matriarch, my great-grandmother had died.
This recording was made in September 1920, less than a year before Carusoβs death. His health was failing and the recording equipment was, by our standards, primitive. Despite all that, the power and beauty of his voice remain unmatched.
The Elephant's Trunk 