“Wow, you sure walk fast.” Continue reading “Kick My Ass”
Love Potion
The store had been on Main Street for as long as anyone could remember. Signs proclaiming “Love Potions for Sale” and “Greatest Wishes Fulfilled” always got a chuckle from passers-by, but nobody ever admitted to actually going inside. Still, in good economies or bad, it has remained open for business. Continue reading “Love Potion”
Unspoken
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses.
– African-American lullaby
The woman walked slowly to the well. It was a hot, dry day, and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air. She was terribly thirsty; she wanted to run to the well and jump in just to feel the relief of the cool water on her skin, but she knew better. She kept a slow, steady pace to avoid expending too much energy.
As she walked, she looked down at her bare feet, cut and bruised. Dried blood, caked in rivulets, formed a mesmerizing pattern up and down her legs. Most of that blood was not hers, but she still felt her bile rise as she recalled that morning’s activities.
It was necessary, the shaman had told her. If she wanted a baby, there were rituals she had to undergo. Her body was not naturally fertile; the gods required a sacrifice to change her nature. She assumed he meant a monetary donation. She never expected she would have to give up a piece of her soul.
A gust of wind blew across the plain, kicking up dust in swirls. She closed her eyes to protect them from the grit. She wanted to cry, but there was no moisture left in her face.
When the wind died down, she opened her eyes. The well was much closer now, and she quickened her steps. When she arrived, she wasted no time lowering the bucket and retrieving the water. She drank fully, pausing only to wipe her mouth or splash her face. She didn’t want to waste time washing. She could do that later, at night, when she knew nobody was watching.
Once her immediate thirst was slaked, she peered into the darkness of the well.
“Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed down the vertical passage of stone that reached deeply into the earth.
She wanted so desperately for there to be an answer, but there was only silence. The blackness in the hole seemed to stretch on forever. It was mesmerizing; how easy it would be to fall in and never return.
She wrenched her eyes away from the well and looked up at the sky. The abrupt change of light made her squint. There was not a cloud in sight, and the endless blue above her was just as dizzying as the blackness below. She closed her eyes and thought of the reason she was here: her baby.
“They said you would not come to me unless you were satisfied that I was ready for you,” she started. The hot breeze returned and dried her tongue again, snatching the words from her mouth.
She took another drink from the bucket and tried again. “I have given up so much–” A stronger wind gusted and knocked the pail over, spilling water into the parched ground.
The shaman had warned her that the gods could be cantankerous. He had only given her one piece of advice: follow their instructions. If they don’t want you to speak, then don’t speak.
Kneeling by the well, she bowed her head and collected herself. If they don’t want me to speak, I won’t. But I will communicate with my baby. She gazed back down into the well and sent her thoughts into the inky blackness.
Dearest heart of my heart,
Before time was time, I was waiting for you. They tell me that I cannot have children, but I know they are wrong. I know you are my child, and that you are just waiting for me to call you into my heart. But I have been calling for years now. Have you forgotten about me?
Come out of the well of souls and join me in the world of men. I can give you blue skies and palomino ponies, sparkling oceans and jumping dolphins. You will experience love and loss and everything in between, and I promise you it will be worth it. For both of us.
I will continue to wait, my love, until you are ready for the world. I will always be here, my arms outstretched, until you find me. I love you.
She opened her arms and lifted her face to the sky. The wind picked up again, and she closed her eyes. Tears trickled through her eyelashes and down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. She kept her arms wide open as the wind swirled around her, threatening to knock her over.
She didn’t know how long she had been kneeling there, arms outstretched and eyes closed, but when she finally opened her eyes, the sun was low in the sky. She rose to her feet slowly; her arms and legs were shaking from having stayed in the same position for so long.
She knew it was time to return to the village. The gods had not answered her. The shaman had warned her this might happen, but she still felt a lump of disappointment building up in her throat.
And then she heard something behind her move. She turned around slowly, cautiously, and came face to face with a beautiful palomino pony.
She held her breath. She had never seen this pony before, not in her village or anywhere else.
The pony regarded her solemnly, then nodded its head several times before turning and galloping off towards the hills.
After several moments, the woman made her way back to the village. Her heart was lighter, and her steps were quicker as they carried her home.
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with “blue skies and palomino ponies” and I challenged Webtrovert with “Cleaning up after a big party.”
Synopsis
After a couple weeks’ hiatus, I’m back in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. It’s good to be back, folks. This week’s prompt comes from Head Ant, who writes:
An opera is being written about your life. Summarize the first act.
I’ve put the challenge at the top this time because I wanted to explain a little bit about what I decided to do with this totally exciting and incredibly daunting task. An opera about my life?? How in the world would anyone be able to put my complicated life into approximately three hours? I mean, heck, Harry Potter’s life had to be told in almost 20 hours, and they left out huge chunks of plot from the book. Not that I’m anything like Harry Potter, but you know what I mean.
Most opera plots paint pictures in very large brush strokes. If you don’t believe me, just take a look at some of this year’s Twitter #operaplot contest submissions, where you have to summarize an entire opera plot in 140 characters or fewer.
The whole medium of opera necessitates skimpy plots because most of the stage time is taken up with arias about how a character is feeling. Often, action will take place off stage and explained in exposition by one of the characters as a storytelling tool to move the plot forward.
In addition, the characters portrayed in opera are usually larger-than-life archetypes who make stupid, stupid mistakes. It makes for great storytelling, but terrible living…and I decided at a very early age that I had had enough drama in my childhood to last a lifetime, so I tend to avoid the stupid, stupid mistakes as an adult. (Not that I don’t make mistakes, mind you; I just don’t make monumentally stupid, opera-worthy mistakes. At least I try not to).
With that in mind, I decided to create my own autobiographical opera synopsis in the style of Les contes d’Hoffmann, which is a collection of stories in which the poet E.T.A. Hoffmann is the protagonist. Each act is a fantastical tale that deals more in metaphor than reality. (This way I can also protect the identities of the innocent and not-so-innocent…but the overarching story is still autobiographical in nature)
I also decided that if I was going to create an opera synopsis, I couldn’t just stop at the first act; I had to finish it. Also, I decided my opera was going to be sung in Italian. Just because. Clearly I had way too much fun with this challenge!
My challenge went out to Penny, who will post her answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.
The Adventures of Supermaren: the opera
Cast
Maren – mezzo-soprano
Teresa, her friend – soprano
Gianmarco, a suitor – bass-baritone
Giotto, a lawyer – tenor
Stefano, his friend – tenor
Raimondo – baritone
Chorus – friends, party-goers, wedding guests
Dancers
The Puppeteer
Young Maren (child dancer)
The Mother
Puppets
Synopsis
Prologue: Ballet-Pantomime
The Mother and The Puppeteer dance a pas de deux. Young Maren enters, and The Puppeteer begins a puppet show for Young Maren. During the show, The Mother leaves, and the Puppets begin to play with Young Maren. At first she is delighted by the attention, but soon tires and looks for her mother. The Puppets do not allow her to leave. She begs The Puppeteer for release, but instead, he attacks her and forces her to dance a twisted variation of the first pas de deux. The Puppets carry her off the stage.
Act I
A Victorian Mansion.
Maren is in a tower, singing of her romantic ideal and wondering if there is someone out there to sweep her off her feet (“Chi sarà il mio principe?”). Her friend Teresa enters, with news that the guests are arriving for her birthday party, and that the very rich Gianmarco is expected to attend. They sing a duet about the potential of a rich mate (“Non mi dispiacerebbe”). They descend the stairs to find a party in full swing. Gianmarco arrives with his friends and immediately declares his love for Maren (“Non riesco a respirare”). While he is singing, however, The Puppeteer arrives and Maren becomes afraid. She is the only one who can see him. The Puppeteer begins moving Maren around the room, throwing her first at Gianmarco, then making her spurn him. Embarrassed, Gianmarco becomes angry and tells her how worthless she is. She begs him to understand, with a reprise of “Non riesco a respirare,” but The Puppeteer makes it so that she cannot sing the right words.
Gianmarco laughs cruelly at her antics and says that two can play at that game; he picks a random woman, kisses her in front of everyone, and announces that the party will continue at his house. Laughing and cheering, the crowd follows him out the door, leaving Maren alone.
Act II
A library.
Giotto and his friend Stefano are arguing over a legal point and having a great time with their debate. Maren enters, singing sadly, with The Puppeteer not far behind her. Giotto asks who she is. Stefano replies that she is a singer who has been cursed to be unlucky in love. Giotto then asks who the man is behind Maren, and Stefano does not know what he is talking about.
Curious, Giotto approaches Maren and the two start a conversation about their love of books (“I libri possono cantare”). Giotto points out The Puppeteer behind Maren, and she becomes frightened. When Giotto addresses The Puppeteer directly, he does not answer, but gestures menacingly at Giotto. Giotto encourages Maren to confront The Puppeteer, using some of the most powerful words in the world: Shakespeare’s Hamlet (“Difenderci, O angeli e ministri della grazia!”). Defeated, The Puppeteer disappears and Maren is released from his clutches.
Filled with gratitude, Maren declares her love for Giotto, who sadly informs her that her love can never be requited because he only has eyes for Stefano. He leaves her, quoting the holiest of books, Winnie the Pooh: “You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
Act III
A Renaissance Faire.
Maren and Teresa sing bawdy songs about how they don’t need a prince anymore: just someone who will please them. Raimondo, who has been watching them sing, stands up and applauds. He will please Maren quite well, he boasts, and takes her into his arms. As he does so, The Puppeteer appears, and attempts to capture Maren once again. But she is no longer afraid of The Puppeteer, and she joins hands with Raimondo and Teresa to banish him once and for all (“Basta, basta!”). Defeated by the power of love, The Puppeteer loses all his magic, and his Puppets, now freed, surround him an devour him.
Epilogue
Maren and Raimondo are married, and for a wedding gift, he gives her a red cape and tells her that she has the power, through her words, to reach others who have been abused or held captive by their own fears. As she puts on her cape, Maren pledges her love to Raimondo and they declare that they shall conquer the evils of the world together, to the cheers of the throng (“Evviva, evviva!”).
Here are some of my own submissions to the #operaplot contest (no, I didn’t win):
- Exiled prince meets tyrannical queen who decapitates her suitors. Of course he’s got to have her now. Typical. [Turandot]
- Don’t you hate it when your boss is after your daughter and you try to assassinate him but you kill your daughter instead? [Rigoletto]
- Bad-ass dude is taken down through paranoia by a disgruntled worker. Though strangled, his wife sings for a while before dying. [Otello]
- Hey girls: saved by a hot guy in a swan boat? Do you want to marry him? Then listen carefully: DON’T ASK HIM WHERE HE’S FROM. [Lohengrin]
- Ugly monster gets bullied by children, grows up to be an existentialist. [Grendel]
- If you love someone, stab her in Act IV. [Carmen]
Scrabbled
[Part 1] [Part 2]
“I know you’re keeping something from me.”
Rhonda looked up, startled.
“Admit it,” Rob said. “You can’t hide something like this forever.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rhonda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was getting big. Too big to be sitting at the dining room table, too big to look sexy, and far too big to have any patience for games like this.
“You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You have the Q.”
Rhonda’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly as she gazed down at the Scrabble board between them. She had been so careful not to have any further contact with Charlie since she had found out about the pregnancy. Almost every night she had lain awake, wondering if she had made the right choice. Her heart still raced at the thought of Charlie. The baby kicked in response.
She looked back up at Rob. “How could you possibly know?” She shuffled her tiles around, eyeing the openings on the board.
“The power of deduction.” Rob looked so pleased with himself. “There’s no Q on the board, I don’t have it, and there are only three tiles left.”
“How do you know the Q isn’t one of those three?”
“I don’t. I’m just pretty sure you have it. You have that look in your eyes like you’re going to score big. Besides, I left something wide open for you if you do have a Q.”
“Oh, you’re trying to go easy on me now?”
“Never!”
Despite her discomfort, Rhonda found her lips curling up into a smile. Playing Scrabble with Rob was one of the perks of their newfound intimacy. They still had their differences — sometimes they could really get under each other’s skin — but since she had announced her delicate condition, he went out of his way to spend quality time with her. He would rub her feet, cook meals for her, and even take her shopping. But the best part of it all were these game nights. She had forgotten how smart Rob was, how well-matched they were mentally.
With an over-exaggerated sigh, she pulled out a Q and laid it on the board, and followed it with an A and an I, to make the word “QAID,” attached perpendicularly to the first letter of Rob’s recent addition: DUMB. Their scores were so close that she worried about wasting the 10-point letter on a non-doubling or -tripling space, but as Rob had pointed out, there were only three tiles left. He could easily go out during the next turn, and then she’d be stuck with 10 points to subtract from her score. She’d always hated losing at Scrabble, and losing with a large point margin was unacceptable.
Rob broke out in a grin. “Just as I had suspected.”
“I fell right into your trap, eh?”
“Exactly.”
Rob’s phone rang, and she frowned at him as he pulled it out of his pocket. He gave her an apologetic look, but he still answered, putting it up to his ear and turning away from her.
She reached into the bag and pulled out the last three tiles, placing them on her tile rack. As she rearranged her letters, the baby kicked again. Who knew that a baby would bring the life back into their marriage? She thought things between them had essentially died before she had seduced him that night. Now they were treating each other with respect again. They were even having sex again, on a regular basis, and it was good. Not as good as it was with Charlie, a small voice in her head insisted. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge that voice. It’s good enough, she told that voice. More than I deserve.
Rob hung up the phone and looked at it quizzically.
“Who was that? And did you tell whoever it was that you were busy losing spectacularly to your wife?”
Rob was silent for a few seconds. “Remember how I told you about that strange guy at the party?”
“The mystery crasher with the fancy mask? My girlfriends still can’t stop talking about him.” She kept a smile on her face, but looked at him warily. From her friends’ description, she could only guess that Charlie had crashed the party. She never saw him that night, however, and since his emails and texts stopped abruptly after the party, she figured his encounter with Rob that night made him realize that she’d never leave her husband. At least that’s what she had hoped.
“That’s the one. He wants to see me.”
Rhonda felt a huge lump growing in her throat. “How did he get your number?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does he want to talk about?”
“He didn’t say.” He put his phone back in his pocket and looked straight at her. Deliberately.
“Be careful, Rob,” she said slowly, hoping her voice didn’t belie her nervousness. “Now that you’re running for office, everybody wants you to do them a favor.”
He shrugged. “It’s probably guy stuff. He’s a pretty decent dude; I wouldn’t mind helping him out.” As if to change the subject, he pulled out his tiles and laid them on the board, spelling TRUST. It was a triple word score, over which he wasted no time gloating.
She glanced at her tiles and gasped as she saw the letters arranged in the word that would give her the win. Charlie’s call had stolen the levity from the evening, and all she wanted now was to get as far away from Rob as possible. She needed time to think, to figure out a plan, some way to keep Charlie quiet.
Forcing her lips into a big smile, she made a show of slowly placing the rest of her tiles on the board. “I think you’ll find that your best efforts were in vain, babe,” she said just a little too happily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom for the 40th time today.”
Rob watched her leave, his brows furrowing slightly at her behavior. He looked down at the board and frowned even more as he saw Rhonda’s seven-letter winning word: SECRECY.
This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from rishaaa, who gave me this prompt:
She’d always hated losing at Scrabble.
I decided to continue the story of Rhonda, Rob, and Charlie. If you haven’t read the previous posts and you’re a little confused, start here and then continue here.
You can find Dee’s response to my prompt here before the end of the week.
Masked Man Fallacy
[For Part 1 of this story, click here.]
“Wait, who was that masked man?”
Charlie ducked into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had crashed this party on an impulse and hadn’t really thought out any kind of plan. All he knew was that he had to see Rhonda.
He pulled off his mask to take a look at it. Who knew that such a little thing would attract so much attention? Yes, he’d made his own mask, because he had known that this party was supposed to be some sort of masquerade. But he’d imagined something along the lines of Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut, so he had created a papier-mâché Venetian mask with a certain amount of detail, including gold leaf and Swarovski crystals. He thought he would be able to blend in with the crowd.
Nothing was going the way he had expected. Rhonda, ever sensible, knew that most of her guests could not be bothered to come up with their own masks, so she had set up a table outside the ballroom with brightly-colored half-masks, some on strings and others on sticks, but none of them decorated. His elaborate design stuck out like a diamond in a plate of sand; he was instantly surrounded by people who wanted to know more about his mask, his art, and most especially, his name. Frustrated, he had fled the ballroom and now found himself alone in the hallway.
The door next to him opened rather rapidly, and a tall man in a plain white mask, clearly agitated, brushed past him on his way to the veranda. Curious, Charlie followed him outside.
“Do you have a light?” The man already had a cigarette in his mouth, but was shaking his empty lighter despondently.
Charlie pulled out a cardboard matchbook from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.
“Thanks.” The man tried to strike the a couple of matches, but the striking surface was very worn, and he ended up breaking off the heads each time.
“Here, let me do it,” Charlie offered. He deftly folded the matchbook cover backwards, pulled the match through, and it instantly ignited. Relieved, the man leaned forward to light his cigarette and took a few puffs in silence.
“I owe you, man,” the man said. “My wife has been trying to get me to quit. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“It doesn’t look easy at all.” Charlie had already pulled out his own cigarette and held it up as a salute before he put it in his mouth. “I’m sure I’ll quit eventually…just not now.”
The man chuckled and held out his hand. “I’m Rob,” he said.
Charlie grasped it warmly. “Charlie.”
“So,” Rob asked as he sat down in a wicker chair, “who did you come here with?”
“Well…” Charlie hesitated to reveal the whole truth to his new friend. “I showed up alone, but I was hoping to go home with someone, if you know what I mean,” he said with a crooked smile.
Rob smiled. “Uh-oh. Who’s the lady? Maybe I can smooth the way for you.”
“I don’t want to tell you her name, in case I don’t get so lucky,” Charlie hedged.
“Oh, come on. Most of the women here love me,” Rob said with a smile.
Charlie sighed. Maybe it was time to tell someone how he felt. “She and I were together for a while. It was great. No, it was more than great: it was smokin’ hot. I’ve never felt that way before. But for no reason, she just stopped calling. She won’t answer my texts or my emails. It’s been six weeks, and I know I should just get the hint and move on, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I…er…heard she was going to be here, and so I came.”
“Maybe she found someone else.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt it, though. What we had was unique. Earth-shattering.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rob said as he finished off his cigarette, grinding the butt on the concrete of the veranda. “All I can say is hold on to that feeling. My wife and I lost almost all interest in each other for a while and then out of the blue that feeling came back with a vengeance. Now she’s pregnant and I don’t know she feels for me from day to day. All I know is that if I don’t quit smoking before the baby comes, she might kick me out of the house.”
Charlie smiled and shook his head as he took a final drag off his own cigarette.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me her name? I am married to the hostess, after all.”
Charlie stopped breathing. “You’re Rob…Holmes?”
“I figured you knew I was that Rob.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Charlie fumbled around for words as he pointed to Rob’s mask. I’m in love with your wife.
“Huh,” Rob said as he removed his mask. “I didn’t realize how difficult it was to recognize someone without seeing the top half of their face.”
“Rob? Where are you?” Rhonda’s voice came from the hallway.
Charlie turned around quickly and started putting on his own mask.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rob sounded mildly amused.
He turned back around to face Rob, his mask secure on his face once again. “Do me one favor, man. Don’t tell her I’m here. She’s…kind of close to this girl, and I don’t want her to interfere.”
Rob looked at him quizzically, but then smiled. “No problem. I told you I owed you.” They shook hands, and Rob went back into the house as Charlie slipped into the shadows.
This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from xtinabosco, who gave me this prompt:
A masked man
I decided to use it to continue the story of Rhonda, Charlie, and Rob, since I got so much positive feedback. Let me know if you want me to continue the story, or if you’ve had enough of the drama…
You can read Jamelah’s response to my prompt here by the end of the week.
Love, or Good Intentions
Pregnant.
Rhonda placed the pee stick gingerly on the sink counter, staring warily at the evidence that had appeared moments ago. She took a deep breath and tried not to cry.
Pregnant.
She lifted her gaze from the sink to the mirror. So this is what a pregnant woman looks like, she thought. She leaned in and peered more closely, trying to find something different, that glow that people keep talking about. She didn’t really see anything particularly different.
She took off her robe and stared down at her belly. She definitely wasn’t showing yet, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s not like she had the tight, svelte figure she’d had in college anymore.
Sighing, she turned on the shower faucet and grimaced as the frigid water hit her arm. It was January, and she knew it would take several minutes for the hot water to make its way up three floors into the bathroom. She shut the shower door and let the water run while she ran a comb through her hair.
Funny, she’d always wanted children. When Rob had proposed to her back in college, he had told her that he’d wanted kids, too. “As many as we can make, babe,” he’d said as they lay in his dorm room, naked and sweaty and tangled.
God, he was so desirable then. And she was so young.
Steam rose from the shower and began to fog the mirror. Rhonda stepped into the shower and adjusted the temperature as the warm water pummeled the top of her head. She stood there for a minute, doing nothing but letting the water run down her face in rivulets, washing away the tears that she could no longer hold back.
Pregnant.
She lathered up her bath sponge and started scrubbing her body, covering her neck, her breasts, her belly, and every other part of her where hands and mouth had been. She didn’t want to wash him away. She traced the path that his mouth had taken, feeling that familiar heat building up deep in her core. She would need that heat to sustain her now.
More tears came now, this time in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. I thought I couldn’t have kids. I thought I was safe.
She and Rob had come to the realization several years ago that they had only married to appease their parents. They thought they had loved each other; turns out they’d just had good intentions. Divorce, however, was out of the question. Rob was going to run for a Senate seat, and Rhonda’s position as a development director for a big charity was contingent on her social standing. No, it was better in the long run, they decided, to stay together.
And then she’d met Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, young Charlie, with long blonde hair and washboard abs. He was a playboy — oh, she was well aware of that fact! — but he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him. In public, they acted cool and casual; in private, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
She picked up her razor and began to shave her legs. In long, deliberate strokes, she pulled the blade up her calf, careful to reach the more difficult curves behind her knee.
Maybe this is good, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get away from Rob, from my life, from everything. It could be a fresh start.
But Charlie? To say he was a free spirit was putting it lightly. A self-proclaimed starving artist, Charlie never held down a job for longer than six months. Sometimes his only meal for the day would be a $5 burrito from the Mexican place down the street; he preferred to spend his money in bars every night. Not exactly the ideal father figure.
She flinched as her razor nicked her thigh. Blood welled up and was quickly diluted by the water. Shaking her head, she rinsed the razor and put it away.
What would Rob say? What would he do?
Oh God, what would he do?
She spent one more minute in the warm shower, rinsing all proof of Charlie’s touch and her grief down the drain.
Well, not ALL proof. She touched her belly.
Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself briskly with a towel. Even though the steam had warmed the bathroom, it was still cold in the house, and the water on her body was making her shiver.
Or maybe she was shivering because she knew what she had to do.
Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed her naked body with moisturizer, that scented stuff that Rob liked so much. She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind her ears for good measure. The smell made her gag.
It must be the hormones, she told herself.
She picked up the pregnancy test and looked at it one more time before throwing it into the trash. She closed up the trash bag and set it aside for the housekeeper to throw out later. She knew Rob wouldn’t be rooting around in the trash, not if he didn’t suspect anything.
Donning her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He was in bed, she knew, but probably not asleep.
She had to do it now. While she still had the courage.
“Hey, babe.”
Rob looked up from the book he was reading. They hadn’t called each other that since college.
“I…um…” she opened her robe and let it slide off her body slowly.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he did not protest as Rhonda crawled on top of him and began to undress him.
[Click here to continue to Part 2]
This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came to me from the fabulous Jason Hughes, who gave me this prompt:
Love is more than good intentions.
You can find Katri’s answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.
Slow Dance
“We need to find you a boyfriend.”
It was the fall of 1986. Earlier that year, the space shuttle Challenger had disintegrated 73 seconds after launch, and Halley’s comet had reached its perihelion. I was 11 years old, going on 12, and had just started the seventh grade. My gangly limbs seemed to grow faster than my body. I wore braces and glasses, and my frizzy brown hair had a mind of its own. Never mind the fact that I played first violin in the orchestra, attended GATE accelerated classes, and couldn’t get enough of Piers Anthony’s Xanth novels. You guessed it: I was a nerd.
“Who, me?” I glanced at my new friend. Rose and her father had moved into a house down the street a few months earlier. She went to Hoover Middle School, just like me, but she was far more sophisticated than I. We ran in completely different social circles at school, but when we were at our houses, away from school, we got along just fine.
“Yes, you. Don’t you want one?” She held up her hand to her face, palm facing me, and began gently blowing on her newly-painted blue fingernails.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I picked out a bubble-gum pink polish from her collection and began to paint my own fingernails. I always kept my fingernails short to play violin, and I was dismayed to notice that my stubby-fingered manicure paled in comparison to her graceful, slender digits.
“What kind of boy do you want? I can get you anyone,” she boasted.
“Uh…I don’t know.” My mind lept to Richard, my first crush, but I quickly tossed out the idea. I had come on a little strong the previous year, and now he wasn’t talking to me anymore. Okay, so I’d named my pet rabbit after him and drawn lots of pictures of him in my notebook. In hindsight, maybe that was a little creepy.
The only other boy I really knew was Gabe, a scrawny pipsqueak of a kid who was in my English class. He had a ready smile for anyone and liked to make fun of our English teacher, which made me giggle, but…well…he wasn’t exactly dreamy.
“Well, let’s see…” she paused, mulling over what must have been her extensive mental Rolodex of single boys. “Do you want a virgin or a non-virgin?”
The question took me aback. Were you supposed to pick out boyfriends as if they were bottles of olive oil at the grocery store? “I…er…”
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “I think you’d be better off with a virgin. That way he won’t pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
This kind of conversation was a little beyond my comprehension. I had only just begun to read ‘Teen magazine, which touched on issues of sexuality, but only in an abstinence-friendly kind of way. I had not much contemplated being kissed, much less that there might be something else to do after the kiss.
But I could tell Rose was determined to set me up. “Um. Okay,” I said, as I watched her frosty glossed lips curve upwards into a smile.
“Fantastic! I know just the guy.”
At homeroom the next day, the tinny voice over the loudspeaker announced that Hoover would be holding its annual winter dance in two weeks. Rose looked over her shoulder at me and mouthed, “This is perfect.” Embarrassed, I looked down at my textbook and pretended to be studying math.
At this point in time, the entirety of my romantic world view was informed by Judy Blume books and movies like Sixteen Candles. All I knew was that a dance would mean that I might meet that special someone, and I would have to dance with him. Maybe even slow dance. How would this even work? Was Rose going to invite this boy to our school dance? Was he going to pick me up and take me there on his bike? Or would we have to take the bus? What if I didn’t like him? What was I going to wear?
Endless questions swirled in my mind for the next two weeks. Rose was swept up in her own preparations and had no time to talk to me, even after school. And then, the morning of the dance, Rose slipped me a note in homeroom. I opened it to find these three hastily-scrawled words:
“HE’S NOT COMING.”
Crestfallen, I glanced at Rose, who was studiously avoiding my gaze. I thought I should feel sadder, but somehow I was okay with not meeting this mystery boy. Truth be told, I had been a little frightened of meeting him.
I decided to go to the dance and just hang out with my friends.
The winter dance was held at the gym of the school, just as you might expect. There were some balloons and streamers decorating the walls, but it still looked and smelled like the gym. The lights were dimmed and a DJ was set up on one side of the room. Kids were mingling, but not very many were dancing. Everyone seemed a little too scared to actually get on the dance floor.
I did a little bit of bobbing up and down to the beat from where I was standing, but mostly I looked around to see what everyone else was doing. Rose was in the corner with her circle of friends, laughing loudly. Only two of my nerd friends were there, and they weren’t dancing, so I felt a little exposed.
I saw Richard on the dance floor. I waved at him, and he half-smiled and turned away.
I swallowed and felt my cheeks getting hot.
“Hey, how are you?” a voice said behind me.
I turned around. It was Gabe. Skinny Gabe with his crooked teeth. He was smiling at me.
“I’m okay, I guess.”
“I can’t tell if you are dancing. Are you dancing?”
“I don’t know.” I smiled and shrugged as I bobbed to the music. “This isn’t dancing?”
All of a sudden, the song ended, and the next song that came on was “Open Arms” by Journey. The piano/synth introduction played out as many of the kids fled the dance floor. Gabe held out his arms. “Do you want to dance with me?”
“Um. Okay.” I took his hands.
It was awkward. We didn’t know where to put our hands as we swayed to the music. Gabe kept making jokes about how silly the other kids on the dance floor looked, and I tried not to think that we looked just as silly. I didn’t really feel like leaning in to him the way they did in the movies, and he didn’t make any moves to pull me close.
After the music ended, he waved goodbye to me and went to talk to some of his other friends. I joined my nerdy friends at the side of the room, and the dance was over soon afterwards.
Gabe never stopped smiling at me in class, but he never made any attempts to go out with me either. I think neither of us was ready for that kind of commitment, but we both wanted the experience of dancing a slow dance. And I don’t know about him, but I’m glad I got to do it with someone that I trusted.
This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Runaway Sentence, who gave me this prompt:
open arms. not the journey song. unless you insist. ah, it’s up to you.
Most of what I wrote here is autobiographical. I had to change up some of the time frame to help with the storytelling, but essentially it’s all true.
You can read FlamingNyx’s response to my prompt here before the end of the week.
Wakening
In the warm unfurling of the morning, after the first alarm has sounded to begin the day, we have nine minutes to traverse the road back from Morpheus’ realm to this world. We are two spoons lying lazily in a web of comfort, teasing each other with giddy giggles. I am always quick to start my busy day, but he reaches his arm around me and stops me from going anywhere. He is helping me, he says. Helping me go back to sleep, I think.
This is the warm comfort of our everydayness that brings me home each night. The magnetic happiness that pulls my heart to his.
The second alarm sounds. His day and mine begin when our feet hit the floor; clinging desperately to our nine-minute curling-upness, we play horizontal footsie to prevent each other from getting too close to the edge of the bed. More smiles. Kisses. We know we must get up, but we still do all we can to stop the clock from advancing.
We do not know if today’s daywork will be drudgerous or adventureful, nor do we care; all we know is that we have safe haven in our nine-minute infinity.
My Indie Ink Writing Challenge prompt this week came from Rachel in the OC, who wrote:
You close your eyes and the first word that pops into your head that describes your last lover is:______. What emotion does that invoke in you? Write about the word and the emotion.
My last lover was my husband (and still is). I have many words that pop into my head when I think of him, so I decided to just riff on a feeling that I get when I’m around him. I hope I was able to get the idea across.
My challenge will be answered by Melissa before the end of the week.
Linen
Today is my wedding anniversary. I’ve been married for four years, and it seems like only yesterday we were in Hawaii exchanging vows in front of our friends and family (and the curious peacock who decided to wander in during the ceremony).
My husband gave me some fun and silly gifts (like brains in a jar and TARDIS soap to name just a couple items), because we don’t really think the whole “traditional” Linen Anniversary is our cup of tea.
Of course I didn’t get anything for him, which I suppose makes me a very bad wife. I played with the idea of writing a poem for him, but A) I’m not a very good poet, and B) I have a feeling he wouldn’t like it too much if I got all mushy about him online. I did write him into this week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge, and he knows that as long as we’re together, we could be saving the world or even ruling it (he’s working on that one).
So suffice to say I’m very happy to be married to you, my dear, and I think I’ll stick around for more.
(Today is also the 9th wedding anniversary of my best friend, Terry, who graciously allowed me to share her special day.)