Written for Six Sentence Story where we are challenged to incorporate the prompt word “move” into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
He looked real good so I made my move and walked right up to him, kissing him long and hard on the lips. He pulled me close, groaning as his hands slid up my dress and I could tell he was more than happy to see me, if you get my drift.
“Listen, baby”, he said sotto voce, “I had a nice gig dealing at a casino up in Buffalo and I made some serious moola running a fool-proof scam; I’m dealing here tonight so if you and me were to double up, we could make a killing.”
It sounded dangerous and exciting. I nibbled his ear and reached between his legs, giving him an approving squeeze, and whispered “I’m in”.
“Work first, then I’ll show you how much I missed you” he promised as I knocked on the door; the peephole opened and immediately slid closed, then the door cracked an inch and we were quickly ushered into a back room heavy with the scent of leather, cigars and money.
Written for Six Sentence Story where this week we are challenged to use the word “faint” in a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s mine.
After the boating accident, I returned to New York but didn’t have the heart to stay in the condo where Kevin and I used to live; I drove to my parents’ beach house in Amagansett, leaving the apartment untouched, thinking to return one day when I summoned the courage.
Too many memories and sleepless nights at the beach house brought me no comfort or closure …. an impossibility since Kevin’s body was never recovered …. and I now found myself back in Manhattan staring up at the window of my old condo and seeing ghosts …. ghosts of Kevin.
An overwhelming force drew me closer and I slowly entered the building and climbed the stairs to the apartment we once shared. Approaching the door, I could hear faint music, laughter and the sound of familiar voices; a man and a woman were inside, unaware of my presence as I stood outside the door for what seemed a lifetime …. and in that passage of time I knew beyond a doubt who they were.
Blood pounding in my head, I raised my fist to knock on the door, then stepped back.
Written for Six Sentence Story where Denise encourages us to get creative in just six sentences incorporating the word “engagement”. Here’s my six.
The idea of my parents chaperoning me to the beach that night was mortifying but I figured I had to suck it up if there was a ghost of a chance of having any fun during this vacation in Surf City, so that night my mother, father and I went for a stroll on the beach, me hanging back about ten feet or so hoping the cool bonfire kids would think I was by myself; music was playing and marshmallows were roasting on long sticks …. everyone was tan and blonde and beautiful …. and that’s when I saw him …. he looked just like Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes from ’77 Sunset Strip’ and when he glanced up as we walked by and smiled, I fell hopelessly in love.
Thankfully, my parents quietly observed the group without their usual compulsion to make conversation and, satisfied what they saw wasn’t a remake of “Reefer Madness”, sat for a while high on a dune delighting in the reflection of the moon on the water; when it was time to go, the three of us walked back to the beach house …. but not before I had a chance to look over my shoulder and give Edd a little wave; he grinned and waved back (I was in heaven) and I knew I had to go to the next bonfire – alone.
I guess being out in the sun all day must have fried my parent’s brains because, when I nonchalantly asked them the next night if I could walk down to the bonfire by myself for a little while, they actually agreed; all I could think about was seeing Edd again and how relieved I felt that my older sister considered herself “too mature for ateeny-bopper beach party” and didn’t want to tag along.
The group was friendly and waved me over so, as casually as possible, I headed straight for Edd and sat down next to him and someone handed me a cold beer …. my first ever .… which I liked quite a bit; the kids were into Jan and Dean and The Beach Boys …. I was a Beatles girl but I wasn’t going to let that get in the way …. and by the end of the night, Edd and I were holding hands and agreed to meet again the following night.
That was the most blissful week of my young life …. lots of kissing and petting …. professions of love …. an “engagement ring” fashioned from a Bud Lite pull tab …. but we didn’t go beyond 2nd base; in all my 16 years, I’d never been as happy or excited to be with someone as I was with Edd.
At the end of the week we exchanged phone numbers and promised to call each other but that didn’t happened and it’s ok …. I never really thought it would …. I’m content with the memory; one thing I’m sure of is none of my friends will ever be able to say they spent a week making out on the beach with Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word, in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
“Mangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimento” – (“Eat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenico’s face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concetta’s chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concetta’s face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concetta’s mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughter’s mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear “Mai più, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!” – (“Never again, Concetta; obey your father!”)
This is a true account. Concetta was my mother, Domenico my grandfather. Contrary to what you may think, this is not a story about bullying, abuse or intolerance. This is a tale of another generation, another culture and, while it reads as extreme, I grew up with my grandfather and I can readily say that I adored him, as did my sister and mother. I knew him only as a hard-working, soft-spoken and kind-hearted family man. Do I condone this type of child-rearing? No. However …. 104 years ago, this is how things were donein my grandparent’s Sicilian home.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are asked to be creative in no more than six sentences using the word “light”. This is my story.
Colette, typically looking away the second I snap a photo! Eyeroll!
We got a late start with spring cleaning in our yard, especially along the side of the house where our attached garage is located; even though the gardeners had cleared a lot of old shrubbery away for some new plants and bushes, it was just not meant to be after we were derailed by the sudden death of my husband’s twin brother on April 2 and me being sidelined since the first week of May by a major sinus infection (the heavy-duty antibiotics have left me “out of commission” and able to eat only extremely light meals or, at times, nothing at all).
In mid-May, we put in a couple of small white azaleas, relocated a baby rhododendron which wasn’t doing well in the far back corner of the yard and planted a bit of Blue Bugle and Lilies of the Valley for lightground cover (along the side of the house, not visible in this pic), but that’s as far as our broken spirits and depleted bodies would allow us go.
When Colette is here with us (Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday or Sunday) and the weather is good, she wants to be outside; hell, even if the weather isn’t good, she wants to be outside – a phenomenon about most children that escapes me as they (well, she definitely) seem to be impervious to heat or cold or rain or snow or wind – all the elements, times when Bill and I would prefer being inside nestled in our recliners with a lightweight blanket.
Speaking of nestled, we discovered that sparrows had made their nest in an old watering can in the corner of Colette’s playhouse; the mama and papa birds are very resourceful, building the new home in a location almost invisible to us, one which I discovered quite by accident when I heard a faint chirping noise coming from the playhouse and …. with my trusty flashlight in hand …. I went to take a peek but was immediately dive-bombed by a wildly protective kamikaze sparrow which, when it sped just inches by my head, had me believing it was a small bat …. terrifying!
Tuesday the temps soared to a scorching 86ºF – a leap from the mild low-70s of just the day before – so it was, according to Colette, the “perfect day for planting!” …. a concept I did not agree with thinking it was too hot and we would be in direct blazing sunlightfor the entire time …. but I did not object (mainly because the child could not be dissuaded and it was far less taxing than yet another round of the Disney edition of Monopoly); armed with our faithful spades, Bill with his macho shovel and pitchfork, we planted another azalea along the side of the house, then Colette and I pulled all the weeds and detritus from the two ancient cement planters on either side of the bench you see in the above photo, replacing all of what was growing in them as haphazardly as Albert Einstein’s hair with two bright pink kalanchoe plants, then stood back to proudly bask in the glory of our gardening prowess.
Of course, manual labor such as that demands a reward and certainly not a monetary one which would be looked upon with disdain and confusion by a 4-year-old whose idea of recompense consists solely of instant gratification in the form of ice cream – the I-don’t-give-a-hoot-how-messy-I-get kind – and after getting Colette situated in her pink fairy chair, pinning up her waist-length hair and snapping on the 15-year-old bib we originally used for our first grandchild, Mckenna, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with fudge-covered vanilla ice cream pops for Colette and Bill and a lemon ice for me; judging by the look on her face and the twinkling, totally satisfied lightin her eyes (photo below), Colette was over the moon with her sweet, sloppy treat and …. you know …. she was right after all about it being the “perfect day for planting!”
Strange sensations came over me and I felt disoriented; I was sweating but I had chills, my vision was blurry, my tongue seemed huge in my mouth …. about three times its normal size …. my head felt like it was under water and my equilibrium was off, making me stumble and lose my balance, walking into the furniture and reeling yet even though I desperately wanted this goddess standing before me, I was unable to reach her.
For no apparent reason, I suddenly remembered when I got home from work earlier that day, I found a new drink in the refrigerator …. 24 mini-cans of some beverage with exotic-sounding names such as Peach Bellini, Pineapple Mule, Mango Meringue, Grapefruit Paloma, Maui Sunset …. and it was totally bewildering to me that I could remember those names but not where I was, who I was, who this woman was and yet I knew for a fact that I drank a couple of those cans of delightful nectar; could be that’s what was messing with my head …. making me be so unsure about some things but entirely certain about others …. not unlike taking quaaludes (the authentic Rorer 714s, not some cheap bootleg shit), dropping acid and then popping amyl nitrate all at the same time like some who-do voodoo cocktail.
I could hear this luscious woman talking but I was unable to reach her, to press her mind-bendingly magnificent body next to mine; her words were garbled and all I could make out was the name “Alex” which was very strange because my name wasn’t Alex .… or maybe it was .… I wasn’t sure of anything except that I definitely downed several cans of exquisite ambrosia with exciting names.
Holding on to the back of the sofa to keep myself from falling, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and I gasped; I did a doubletake because even though my vision was definitely wonky, it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t see that I had suddenly transformed into a very attractive black man much like Michael B. Jordan when just half an hour ago I was my usual George Costanza look-alike!
Then without warning the woman’s voice started morphing and began to sound familiar, kind of like my wife Alexis and when I looked up into the mirror I was no longer Michael B. Jordan …. I was back to my old self, plain old Fred Johnson …. and when I looked over at the woman, that voluptuous blonde with the perfect 44 double Ds had been replaced with my short, squatty wife of 37 years; well, that sucked and I quickly determined the only thing I could do was to drink more of those tasty beverages in mini-cans and pray my gorgeous fantasy girl would return but when I yanked open the door of the fridge, I was alarmed to see there was no more voodoo juice left and my heart sank because, as always, I couldn’t control my damn self, I had downed all the mini-cans of ecstasy and now it was just me and short, squatty Alexis.
It doesn’t happen very often but last Sunday was a rare babysitting day for us; our usual days to watch our 4-year-old granddaughter Colette are Tuesday and Thursday but both our son and daughter-in-law (Colette’s mom & dad) had to work over the weekend. That was a rarity for them as well, but one is a librarian and the other a doctor and with both the library and the hospital open every day of the week, they sometimes pull a weekend shift but seldom do their rotations coincide as they did last Sunday.
My husband Bill has been having good and bad days this month, thinking about and missing his twin brother who died suddenly on April 2, so our son has been extra considerate, asking if watching Colette at this time is too much of an imposition; we answer without hesitation “Not at all …. in fact, just the opposite!”
Colette is always fun to be with but recently she has been a true blessing and a much-needed distraction …. a tonic, a balm for our sad and broken hearts, a healing magical concoction of love, joy, sunshine and humor blended with a combination of innocent wisdom and an intuitive nature that defies her tender age.
We were looking through some old photo albums with Colette …. snapshots of Bill and his brother as babies, as kids growing up on City Island, our wedding photos …. and even though Colette knew Bill’s brother and saw them together many times, seeing those photos left an impression on her, especially the ones of Bill and Jim when they were babies; it’s true, you know, that when our kids and grandkids are little and they look at us, they only see us as we are and have no idea we were ever any younger than we are right now.
One particularly sweet photo of Bill and Jim brought tears to my husband’s eyes and though he tried to hide his tears, they spilled through his fingers causing Colette to ask why he was so sad and we explained that Uncle Jim was gone, that he had left us to be with God in heaven; she thought for a second, put her little hand on Bill’s and said “Well, that’s ok, Grampy; don’t worry because God will take good care of him and it’s all going to be ok.”
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 Laura’s 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 baby’s attention and she was captivated by it, something Laura thought was a sweet connection, especially since the lamp originally belonged to Momma and Poppy, Summer’s 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 – smiling, eyes glowing, arms waving, laughing and babbling loudly – 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 – 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 “Momma and Poppy, of course; can’t you see them, Mommy?”
Laura caught her breath for a moment but she was not completely shocked for she knew Momma and Poppy’s lamp was special – the very reason Laura wanted it in her own home, but she didn’t 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 weren’t. 🪽
Written for Six Sentence Story #309; the required word is “core”
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 .… every day and into the night …. 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 – no, his job is of a different nature, his instruments weapons meant to inflict the most pain a human could endure – 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, don’t look at me like that …. I’m just the storyteller telling the story of John Black who’s a bad seed, the devil’s spawn, a blot on the escutcheon, a moldering apple, rotten to the core.
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 isn’t 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 couldn’t 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 father’s; 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 .… items of sentimental value …. 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, “Dear Ali, I remember how much you loved these and I wanted you to have them, maybe one day for your own little girl” ~ Love, Dad.
Puzzlement creased Allison’s forehead as she gently pushed away the bubble wrap to discover one of her favorite toys – 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.
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 “Damn thing’s busted!”
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 ‘nowhere man’.
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 shouldn’t patronize him; when Ruth apologized and told Fred she was going into the kitchen to make dinner, he snapped at her saying it didn’t matter because he wasn’t hungry anyway.
In the kitchen Ruth wept silently; it was like this ever since Fred’s 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 couldn’t 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 .… at least for the moment.
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 can’t accept is me .… 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 doesn’t give a shit what I look like as long as I have the money to pay him.
There’s that old twitch in my left eye, an unwelcome reminder that a killer headache and nausea are about to overtake me if I don’t eat some Skittles, a much more socially acceptable term than that hushed-up, dirty little name that makes all the so-called ‘well-adjusted’ people cringe as though in the presence of a leper; fucking hypocrites who gleefully suck up their gummies and hemp oil and legalized medical marijuana while sipping on their “superb organic Pouilly-Fiussé”.
My hands are shaking in equal amounts of excitement and desperation as I check out what my guy has delivered today – reds, blues and yellows – 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, I’ve read the headlinesand the fine print warnings – I’m not an idiot, you know, and that makes me laugh out loud!
Let’s see what’s in the magician’s box to fix this sallow complexion …. 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 I’m now back .… returned from the dead, if you will …. 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 I’m faced with the recurring stalemate – 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; “Fuck it, I’m already dressed” I think as I pop a red and slam the door behind me.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is once again challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “ace”. This is my story.
The other night as I was getting undressed and ready for bed, I pulled off my sock and saw something on the sole that looked like a bit of fuzz or a piece of string but upon closer inspection I realized it was something imprinted on the bottom of the sock itself; since I can’t see a thing without my glasses, I thought it was the letter A for the company name which is Ace USA but I soon found out it was the letter L, obviously for LEFT.
“What are the odds!” I declared to myself, rather tickled by the fact that I put the LEFT sock on my left foot without even checking the bottom of the sock, but when I took off the other sock, fully expecting to see the letter R indicating the RIGHT sock, I was confounded when I saw another L!
“Just my luck” I again proclaimed to myself, somewhat annoyed that I would be the one to get a defective pair of socks, with two LEFT socks and no RIGHT sock!
I promised myself that in the morning I would call Ace USA and encourage them to correct their oversight by sending me two RIGHT socks, one as a mate for one of the LEFT socks and the other as a mate for the other LEFT sock, leaving me with two perfectly functioning pairs of socks.
The next morning I called Ace USA, explained my problem to Eleanor in customer services and requested two RIGHT socks to match my two LEFT socks; well, I’m sure you can imagine what a good laugh I had when Eleanor sweetly explained that the L on the bottom of my socks did not stand for LEFT but rather for LARGE.
Now I find myself rethinking that box in the front closet full of defective mittens.
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 – my very life depended on it.
I had no idea how long I’d been there – 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 … we were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field … 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 couldn’t resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.
I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams – 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 girl’s 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 girl’s 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?
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 ….eerily quiet …. 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 I’m 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 mother’s 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 is Enrico Caruso singing “Mamma mia, che vo’sapé” (“My mother, what did you know?”)
This recording was made in September 1920, less than a year before Caruso’s 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.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has offered up another challenge for us – to write a Six Sentence Story using the word ‘craft’; this is my story in six sentences.
It’s quite a view and a little odd that I daydream about living there; I have no idea where “there” is as I only saw a poster one day as I rode by on a crowded bus on my way to work but ever since then I’ve been obsessed with getting out of this hectic, dreary city and moving to that lovely building by the brilliant harbor as I imagine the sun glistening off the ocean every morning and the stars performing a water ballet of harbor lights at night.
I can hear the street vendors calling out to tourists passing by to taste this or buy that …. children playing tag, their carefree laughter so delightful …. old women selling glimmering conch and abalone shells by the dock and people stopping by their little tables for small sandy pouches tied with string the color of lapis lazuli nights …. the baristas at the outdoor cafes brewing fresh coffee from their burlap bags of roasted arabica beans and the baker across the way bringing out sweet fruit tarts and golden pistachio and walnut pies dripping with honey.
There’s a small hazy smoke shop nestled between two larger buildings and men stop by for hand-rolled unfiltered cigarettes and skinny cigars; young, beautiful women and men eye each other across the tables in the antique bookstore, perhaps searching for romance as well as an aged yellowed copy of sonnets and poems.
The orange fishing boat has just returned and her haul was a good one; the little craft is heavy with various fish and the crew expertly fillet the catch while mothers with babies strapped to their backs patiently wait for the fish to be wrapped in brown paper and handed to them for tonight’s dinner.
Somewhere in the distance a church bell chimes and dogs bark at the passing ships; the intoxicating salty aroma of the sea rises up to my room and I fling open the windows to welcome another glorious new day, taking a deep breath as the warmth of the sun caresses my face.
The raspy, tired voice of the overworked bus driver yells out “Fulton Street” and snaps me back to reality, my exquisite daydream temporarily shattered as I exit the bus and head for work reminding myself that someday I will find my way to that cream colored building with the terra cotta roof on the glistening harbor; it’s quite a view, isn’t it?
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.
The Elephant's Trunk 