Monica Manning

Red Rose

2012-02-16T06:30:00.000-05:00

Today's muse:

As some of you may know, for more than twelve years, I worked in funeral service. I met exceptional people who taught me many things.

Stories like this are why I loved working in funeral service.

And stories like this are why I hated it.

* * *

Red Rose

Walter Pitman sat across from me, his hands clamped around a mug of coffee. He stared down at the table, though I’m sure he didn’t really see the hand-polished mahogany. Thin wisps of white hair were carefully combed back. His plaid shirt was buttoned at the collar.

He looks so lost, was all I could think.

I opened the white folder labelled with his wife’s name.

“Mr. Pitman?” I kept my voice soft, soothing.

He looked up at me, almost seemed surprised to see me sitting there. I curved my lips—not a smile, rather an expression of encouragement. It would, after all, be inappropriate to smile.

“I have a few questions to ask you, so that I can fill out the necessary government forms.”

He nodded, rotated his coffee cup.

“Did your wife have a middle name?”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Ruth. Martha Ruth.”

I wrote Mrs. Pitman’s name on the file, asked a few more questions: What was her maiden name? What was her birth date? Where was she born?

“Did she work outside of the home?” I asked him.

Mr. Pitman surprised me by nodding. His wife was eighty-seven. Hers was a generation of proud homemakers. I waited, my pen poised above the folder.

“She looked after me.” His eyes glistened but he managed a smile. “She took very good care of me.”

“I can see that she did.” I put down my pen, linked my hands together. This wasn't the time to write. It was time to listen.

“It’s just the two of us. We don’t have children.” He shrugged. “Some things are not meant to be.”

I said nothing, simply nodded my understanding.

“We have many nieces and nephews.” He grinned. “We spoil them.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“We travelled quite a bit.” Somewhat at ease now, he sipped his coffee. “Martha loved to travel. She always had to buy something, some little knick knack, to prove that we were there.”

“What kind of things did she like to buy?”

Mr. Pitman sat back in his chair. “Oh, you know, ceramic bowls, figurines…” His voice trailed off.

“Figurines?” I prompted.

He sat up again, shook his head. “She collected those figurines from the tea boxes. You know the ones?”

I nodded. “The Red Rose figurines. My mother collects them, too.”

He snorted. “I hate those damned things. Dust collectors is what they are.”

I bit back a smile. How many times had I heard my father grumble the same thing?

“She lined them up across the window ledge above the kitchen sink.” He waved his hands back and forth to demonstrate. “I got fed up one day and swept them all into a drawer. I didn’t say a word, mind you. Just went about my business. She didn’t say anything either.” He sipped his coffee. “But the next morning, they were all lined up across the window ledge.”

I smiled now.

“Before I went to bed that night, I put them all in the drawer.” Mr. Pitman thumped the table with his fist. “Next morning, they’re back.”

This time, I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. He laughed, too.

“This went on for years,” he said. “Every night I would stash them in the drawer and every bloody morning I’d wake up and they’d be lined up across the window ledge, as if they’d been there forever.”

His smile faded then and the back of my neck tingled. He cupped his mug with both hands.

“When she became sick,” he looked up at me, “I mean really sick, and I could no longer take care of her, she moved into the home.” His gazed shifted, and he stared over my shoulder at some distant memory. “For the last two weeks, every night before going to bed, I've put those damned figurines into the drawer. And every bloody morning, I've taken them out and lined them up on the window ledge.”

He cleared his throat. His moist, gray eyes shifted to mine. “She would have wanted that,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes she would.”

Surprise

2012-02-15T10:33:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: One Word

Today's word: clue

* * *

Surprise!

She is pleasant, doting, loving. And every night, he slices with words. Or—worse—silence. He pushes her away; pushes her down.

So, each night, she pleasures herself and dreams of a new home, a new condo, a new life. Alone. All hers.

And he has no clue that she plans to leave.

She Smiles

2012-02-13T23:07:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words (well, last Wednesday's words...I've been busy!): detach, jolt, surge.

* * *

She Smiles

With detached interest, she watches the guardrail whip by in her peripheral vision. What would happen, she wonders, if she gave the steering wheel a good yank to the left?

These days, she ponders this far too often. Dealing with the roller coaster ride is weighing her down. The surge of anger after an argument is replaced with mind-numbing fatigue, leaving her spent and depressed. She just wants to close her eyes and escape. Sleep.

Her fingers dance around the steering wheel, itch to give it a quick jerk. Just a small one. Nothing serious. She’d wake up in the hospital, and he’d be there when she opened her eyes. He’d tell her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, that he couldn’t live without her. It would be the jolt he needs to make him realize he was being an asshole.

The sound of crushing metal is deafening as her car careens into the concrete barrier. The vehicle rolls over and over, windshield glass explodes into a thousand diamonds. The roof collapses like a deflated soufflé.

Moments before the darkness takes her, she realizes the truth. He won’t miss her, he probably won’t even grieve. He’ll just be really pissed that she totalled the car.

And that thought curves her lips.

Reality Check

2012-01-30T18:16:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: bubble, lumber, wreck

* * *

Reality Check

The whole thing is a wreck, a fucking sham.

Once filled to bursting, I now lumber along, going through the motions, acting out my part. It is just a matter of time before the hollow façade bounces across a spike strip and collapses like a delicate soap bubble.

Reality will ooze like black grease, and I will smear it over my skin to camouflage. I will hide.

And he won’t find me.

Plastic

2012-01-23T22:52:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: downhill, sliver, freak

* * *

Plastic

Arguments used to be so simple. Breaking up meant taking my Barbies and storming out because you wouldn’t share your crayons.

It’s so much more complicated now. The Dream House is more of a nightmare.

Arguments are about communication—or, rather, lack thereof. How you don’t listen, how you don’t talk. But when you do, it’s rhetoric about my happiness, encouraging me to spend time with friends. Yet, when I go out with Midge and Skipper, you freak out.

Joy rushes out of the open convertible as it bullets downhill. I reach for slivers of love that escape, but my fingers just miss them.

Or perhaps I don’t want to stretch that far.

Strike Three

2012-01-13T14:34:00.001-05:00

Today's muse: Thursday Tales

Today's prompt is this awesome picture by Scott Speck:

* * *

Strike Three

There isn’t much light coming through—that haze just before dawn—and it takes a moment before I realize it’s because my eyes are closed. I try to open them, but can’t.

I press a hand to my face, tracing fingers around the contours of swollen eyes. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Panic rips through me, followed by searing pain. Hundreds of ice picks stab, tear at my limbs.

What the fuck happened?

It takes considerable effort, but I open my eyes a crack. I can’t see much, but I see enough to know that I’m lying on the floor, in the middle of…oh shit.

Now I remember.

Pieces drop into place, flash before me like a maniacal slide show. My body convulses as my mind replays his rage; feels, once again, his fists, his boots. The sound of crushing bones echoes in my ears.

I wonder if I can walk. I need to get up. Get the hell out of here. I sit up, hold down my stomach as the room tips, then rights itself. The door opens and closes with a soft click, and I realize it’s too late. As his footsteps bounce off the columns of the mausoleum, the final slide drops into my memory.

Kneeling over me, a leg on either side, hands pressed against my head, he lowers his mouth to my ear. Bile burns my throat when he presses his hard cock against my thigh.

“Wait here,” he whispers, swiping his tongue across my cheek. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get the baseball bat.”

New Day

2012-01-01T23:39:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's Prompt: New

* * *

New Day

When the sun sets and the moon is high, nightmares creep into my bedroom and drag me into the undertow, hold me down as I claw for air.

Each new day dawns, tangled in the threads of my dreamcatcher, childhood memories fading in the morning sun.

Promises, Promises

2011-12-28T22:11:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: demolish, resolution, transform

* * *

Promises, Promises

Milky blank pages of linen note paper stare back at me. After a moment’s pause, lips set in grim resolution, my Mont Blanc etches lines of promises.

Vow to decrease the numbers that have crept higher and higher on the scale. Pledge to explore my writing; finish the book—at least the first draft. Commit to leave work at a reasonable hour and reduce (if not eliminate) those retched twelve-hour days. Transform the tired, angry person I have become, into the content, peaceful woman I once was.

In a moment of clarity, the pen hovers above the expensive parchment, and I know what must be done. My hands curl around the paper and, in one violent motion, tear the pages into shreds, demolishing the words of promise.

Who am I kidding? The entire list will be moot by January third.

Small Town

2011-12-19T21:27:00.000-05:00

Small Town

There is a paved road that runs east off the highway, winds its way around a small lake, then veers north. If you drive long enough, it becomes a dirt road. Further along, a two-lane path. Eventually, it’s nothing more than two ruts in the dirt, camouflaged by tall grass.

It’s been years since anyone has driven through here. A shame really. It was a nice community. Corn grew higher than you could reach, everyone knew everyone, and the church was full every Sunday. The chug of tractors echoed across the fields, cows chewed lazily in the sun. Neighbours had a friendly wave when anyone drove by. The response was always a quick toot of the horn.

Prosperity died when the mine closed. One by one they left, moved to the Big City to start over. Or fail again.

Once a God-fearing community, it is now a desolate trail, reduced to a mosquito-infested swamp miles from any living being. It doesn’t appear on any map. No one talks about it.

It's perfect. This is where I’ll bury the body.

More Time

2011-12-18T22:33:00.000-05:00

More Time

Darkness drapes over me like a funeral pall. Wishes and dreams press down on my shoulders with surprising weight. They weren’t so heavy when they were filled with light and hope.

Voices call down the cavern, coax me from the mire. I ignore them, turn my face into my bent knees. Go away, I want to be alone.

I should crawl toward the light, drag myself up, but I don’t have the energy. Reaching for outstretched hands is exhausting. It’s easier to slap them away. Leave me here, wrapped in the darkness, pressed in the quiet. Just for a while.

I need a little more time.

Where are you?

2011-12-01T22:27:00.001-05:00

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Where are you?

* * *

Where are you?

They stayed up well after the moon was high; spent the night talking, laughing, crying.

“How did we get here?” Rhonda tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “We were in love once weren’t we?”

“Some part of us still is.” Jason took her hand. “And always will be. We just, I don’t know, took different paths.”

Rhonda nodded. If she was honest, she’d admit that she wasn’t happy either; hadn’t been for quite some time. “We’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course.” Jason brought his hand to her cheek. “We’ll always love each other, it’ll be different, that’s all.”

Rhonda forced a smile, flicked her tongue across her lips. “Maybe better.”

Jason leaned into her, his mouth hovering just above hers. “Much better.” He pulled the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, ran moist kisses across it and up her neck. “Much, much better.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His mouth teased as he murmured promises, drew her higher until she flew.

In retrospect, he should have just held her after, cuddled a little. Even gone another round. Instead, the afterglow of sex had his mouth flapping like a teenaged girl; admitting to Rhonda that the reason he’d been late almost every night for the last three months was because he was banging his secretary. He hadn’t worded it exactly that way—he was much more eloquent—but it didn’t matter.

Jason was now hunched behind a tower of boxes in the basement. Sweat had his t-shirt pasted to his back; his breathing was harsh and fast.

He’d never seen Rhonda that pissed before. She had lunged at him, screaming and clawing at him with those sharp nails she kept perfectly manicured. Jason tried to reason with her but she had raged like a maniac.

“Emily means nothing,” he’d insisted. She did have a great ass, though.

It was all a little grey now, but Jason wondered if he’d admitted that last part out loud. He must have. It explained why he was crouched behind a pile of old boxes, the click of the Colt’s hammer bouncing off the basement walls.

Rhonda’s sing-song voice rang out, turned his bowels to mush.

“Jaaaason. Wheeere aaaare yooooou?”

Name

2011-11-22T22:33:00.004-05:00

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Name. Is there a name that would fit you better than the name you were given? Explain.

* * *

Name

How well, I wonder, would the name “Mom” have fit?

I like to think it would have lifted my heart, made my face glow and my eyes dance in delight as my children called my name. Alas, that name was not meant for me.

Instead, the Fates chose another.

“Step-Mom”.

Resignation

2011-10-27T09:48:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: figment, inclined, vulnerable

* * *

Resignation

She thought the others exaggerated, embellished their tales of horror. He couldn’t possibly be that evil. Besides, she was no longer a vulnerable twenty year-old struggling with her first job. She was a strong woman with more than twenty years of experience behind her. She could handle a demanding boss.

Larissa snorted. Oh, how wrong she’d been.

Lucas Fitzgerald was nice at first, praised her often. She felt quite smug that she was better than all the others.

“Stupid twit,” she muttered. “You should have seen through the smoke and mirrors, paid attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Well, she thought, it’s over now. She tilted the bottle of scotch to her lips, took a long pull of courage.

Human Resources brushed her off when she spoke to them. Just a figment of her imagination, they said.

“But he shouts all the time. Surely everyone else has heard him,” she argued.

“No one else has said anything,” they countered.

Larissa tipped the bottle again. Well, they’ll be talking now, she thought. She grinned at the wall behind his desk. Every framed face that grinned back was now modified with permanent black marker. Wild, curling moustaches and enormous devil horns now adorned each dignitary photographed beside the CEO. Some had voluminous breasts. A few had engorged penises. She knew it was childish, but it had felt so damn good scrawling the Sharpie across those smug faces.

She twisted her wrist, checked the time. Mr. Fitgerald was inclined to stop by the office late at night, rifle through her desk.

“Checking up on me. Making sure I’m doing my job.” Larissa spun around in his leather executive chair. “Let’s see what you discover today.”

She toyed with the Christmas gift he gave her last year. Mr. Fitzgerald had called from the airport as he waited for his flight to Barbados.

“I left you something on your desk.” He said it as though he’d left her the keys to a new BMW. “I expect you’ll put it to good use.”

The other assistants had received cheques from their bosses; some with a comma in their figures. But not Larissa. Lucas Fitzgerald found it necessary to give her a practical gift.

A click echoed down the hall as the double oak doors opened and closed. Larissa recognized the brisk militant march of her boss. She was surprised how calm she felt. She thought she would be more nervous terminating her employment.

As the door swung open, Larissa was pleased to see the look of anger on Lucas Fitzgerald’s face, watch it shift from fury to fear. By far, she thought, the best expression was that of shock as she plunged the stainless steel letter opener into his chest over and over like a jack hammer.

Breathless, sweating and more than a little giddy, Larissa, wiped the letter opener on his Armani suit.

“Thank you for the present, sir.” She stood up, adjusted her skirt. “I put it to good use.”

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt: #289 You are here

* * *

You are here

It’s annoying when you state the obvious. I don’t need you to tell me where I am; I am well aware of my location. I am neck deep in this quicksand and at any moment it will pull me under, destroy the bit of spirit I have left.

What I need is help out of this stinking hell hole, and a little guidance. Don’t tell me I’m here. What I need is for you tell me how get there, help me get away from all of this.

Quiet

2011-10-12T20:44:00.005-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: admire, follow, piece

* * *

Quiet

Swishy skirt, crisp white blouse and pearls at her throat; the closest she can be to the June she admires.

One more look around the living room she vacuumed twice today. Polished furniture gleams in the fading daylight. He’ll be home soon, it must be perfect, nothing out of order, everything in its place.

The intoxicating aroma of prime rib floats throughout the main floor. Rearrange the flowers on the table, centre the chairs, re-fold the napkins, press them once more.

Trembling hands smooth away nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, finger the pearls he gave her for their anniversary, the ones he said would remind her of him, that feel like his manicured hands around her throat.

She struggles to push aside fear. He’ll see it, use it, torment her with it, take away the one piece of her she has come to love. She won’t let him. She can’t.

“Coming sweetheart!” She follows newborn cries up the stairs. “There, there,” she croons, rocking away tears. He hates when you cry, just be quiet, please be quiet.

Baby tucked in one arm, she spins the tap, fills the tub with water, tests with an elbow. A gummed smile is her reward when she floats the cherub in the tepid pool. She laughs as chubby legs kick and splash.

Daddy’s pretty little girl, his perfect little angel, no more crying now, no more crying, no more, no.

Bathwater is still as glass now, except for the occasional tear that streaks down her cheek and ripples the water to blur precious blue eyes that stare back from beneath the surface.

All is quiet now. Quiet.

Last Night

2011-10-07T13:46:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: eject, impact, render

* * *

Last Night

The tile floor is cold against my bare ass. I don’t have the energy to pull the bathroom rug under me. It’s all I can do to hold my hair back, keep it from falling in the toilet.

My head rings like a kettle drum. What the hell happened last night?

I have a vague recollection of dinner. My stomach wants nothing more than to eject the tender prime rib. And the booze. The fucking booze just kept flowing, like Christ himself was standing at the bar and filling glasses with a wave of his hand. I can’t remember how many martinis I had before switching to rum and Coke.

I spew into the toilet. Obviously too many. I had pledged my undying faith to Jose Cuervo; we’re BFFs now. Arriba!

I spew again. Not much is coming out now. I’ve been at this for a while.

Last night comes back in snapshots. The managing partner’s speech after dinner; I remember now. He droned on about the financial impact of the merger, bonuses all around, yadda yadda yadda. Everyone clapped at the announcement, some wolf-whistled.

It was at that point that Martin put his hand on my leg, skimmed it beneath the short skirt. The journey up my thigh came to a halt when he reached the clasps of my garter.

“Jesus.” Martin angled his head, appeared to be listening to the speaker. He dropped his voice. “Meet me in the lobby. Bring your purse.”

He left as everyone applauded the final words of the speech. Chairs scraped, music blared and bodies swarmed onto the dance floor. I followed a few out of the ballroom, the handful who were going outside for a smoke. I didn’t want a smoke. I wanted to finish what Martin and I had started back at the office, before leaving for the staff banquet; when he’d pinned me against his desk, ravaged my mouth with his, squeezed one hungry nipple between thumb and forefinger.

It’s no wonder I drank so much. I should have known the drinks wouldn’t dampen the fire. Booze always makes me horny.

At a discreet distance, I followed Martin out the building, half a block up the street and into a taxi. He pressed me against the seat, pushed my knees apart.

“Go,” he said to the driver.

“Where?”

“I don’t care,” Martin snapped. “Just fucking drive.” His hand rushed up my leg, pushed thin silk aside and plunged.

Yes! Yes! My hands had a mind of their own at that point and craved to reciprocate. I don’t recall much after that, but I know only one of us was reflected in the cabbie’s rear-view mirror, rendered speechless, eyes closed, mouth curved in bliss. It wasn’t me.

I don’t remember dropping Martin off at his house, coming back home, getting into bed. I'm not even sure how I came to be crouched in front of the toilet, wearing nothing but a Bon Jovi t-shirt.

The scream of the telephone stabs like an ice pick. The answering machine kicks in. My cheerful voice rings through the apartment.

“Hi, it’s Charlotte! I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Have a great day!”

I dry heave. Am I really that fucking annoying?

“Hey, Charlotte.” Andrea’s voice floats through the speakers. “Why aren’t you at work? What happened last night? You left without saying goodbye. Some people are saying you left with Martin.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And his wife called to find out where he is. His wife, Charlotte! She says he didn’t come home last night. Everyone’s talking about it. You HAVE to call me and tell me what happened!”

Andrea hisses the last sentence into the phone. Then the buzz of a dead line.

I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. Oh fuck.

Like Fire

2011-10-02T23:54:00.000-04:00

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Pugnacious. Though I didn't use the word, it's implied.

Today's photo:

* * *

Like Fire

Love once burned white hot, their passion a Dali canvas. A decade later, it burns with fury, and their voices scream with the sirens.

Plan B

2011-09-25T21:24:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

The prompt: Sometimes the best laid plans don't work out. What do you do then? Move to Plan B.

* * *

Plan B

Jennifer straddled the toilet, peed onto the narrow strip. Why the hell did they make these things so damn small?

It only takes about ten seconds, the pharmacist told her. Ten seconds and her life would change. One line or two, it didn’t matter. The result would be the same. Things would change.

They would travel the world or they would raise a family. Learn new cultures or learn to parent. Both lives seemed filled with wonder and challenge, love and laughter. Peace and fulfillment.

Mark had assured her that either life was worth living and he’d gladly spend it with her. So they made plans; frightening plans, exciting plans.

Jennifer glanced down, her eyes darting between both windows, searching for one or two blue lines.

“Mark?”

Jennifer held up the test when he opened the bathroom door.

Mark met her eyes. “Plan B, then.”

She smiled. “Plan B.”

Lunch Date

2011-09-09T10:40:00.012-04:00

Today's muse: Romantic Friday Writers

Today's prompt: Lunch Date.

Story must be 300 - 400 words.

If your genre is romance (to read or write), then swing by Romantic Friday Writers. They also give you the option of accepting critiques, and the extent of said critiques.

Word count = 400 FCA

* * *

Lunch Date

It was Tuesday. That meant today’s special was shepherds pie. And shepherds pie guaranteed he’d be in for lunch.

Amanda Fischer wrapped an apron around her waist, pinned her name badge on her uniform, checked her appearance in the reflection of the pastry case. She walked the length of the front counter, topping up coffee cups.

“How are you today, Mr. Wendel?”

“I’d be better if you’d marry me.” This was Roger Wendel’s usual response.

“After fifty years of marriage, your wife would hunt me down if I snatched you away from her.”

Roger Wendel laughed, a loud barking snort that made Amanda smile. “You have that right.”

“I’ll have to ask her what her secret was to catch such a wonderful man.”

The elderly man waved her off, his cheeks crimson.

She was aware the moment Jason Everette walked in the door. Every woman in town was aware of him. Intense eyes, so dark it was difficult to distinguish the pupils, watched as though they could see right through you. It made a girl feel needy, thought Amanda, and just a little reckless.

Jason sat down at the counter next to Roger Wendel and pulled a laminated menu from the metal rack, pretended to read. He knew what he wanted, the reason he came for lunch every Tuesday—and most other days. It wasn’t the shepherds pie.

“The usual?” Amanda set a cup in front of him, poured coffee. She moved the sugar out of the way, knowing he took it black.

Jason’s lopsided grin brought out the dimple in his left cheek. It always made her heart hitch. “Am I that predictable?”

“A little.” Wasn’t it cute how his ears went pink when he blushed? “You’ve been coming in here for three weeks now. It doesn’t take long to notice a pattern.”

“I don’t like cooking for myself. It’s…” he moved a shoulder, an agitated gestured “…lonely.”

Roger Wendel made a show of clearing his throat. “A smart man would ask a woman over for dinner.” He stared at a point above the pastry case, speaking, it appeared, to no one in particular. “A smarter man would ask her to bring her famous apple crumble.” Roger slapped a few bills on the counter before leaving. “Just sayin’.”

The hollow in Jason’s cheek deepened. “Well?”

Outside, Amanda was calm, elegant. “Is seven ok?” Inside, she did the first-date dance.

Caged

2011-09-07T12:07:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: erode, heart, observe
(I sure hope ThomG allows for conjugation.)

* * *

Caged

So flawless is the disguise, even the deceiver is fooled. Believing the lie. Living it. Embracing it.

It is true what they say, that such pretence only damages self. It is beyond repair; crushed into so many pieces, the stars cannot count them. Glue does not hold, and the toxic fumes cannot smother the pain.

Visitors ignore the ‘do not feed’ sign and offer sustenance. Day after day, they tug their bawling spawn past the cage. Tiny fists release bright helium orbs to the skies, but the cheerful globes cannot penetrate the fog above. Their suffocating taunts seep through the iron bars and render me wordless.

Despite constant rocking, the spirit has atrophied. The only muscle left thriving is the heart; but some have observed its erosion and predict apocalypse on a biblical scale.

The locusts cannot come soon enough.

Lessons

2011-09-06T09:43:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Practice.

Today's photo:

* * *

Lessons

The bell of a new day rings, shrill as nails on a chalkboard. Obedience is a lesson she never seems to learn, despite the discipline. Each day she cowers in the corner, her dunce cap too heavy to bear, weighing down her pride. Mocking jeers seep into her rocking, fetal body.

She hides her face in bent knees. Though she’s had years of practice, she never mastered the art of deceit. Not like him. And if he sees her eyes he’ll know. He’ll know she plans to graduate today.

Sweet Dreams

2011-09-01T12:00:00.008-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: drag, mumble, penetrate

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Sweet Dreams

She raced down a dark alley; mile-high walls of concrete speared up on either side. Behind her, heavy footsteps followed, unhurried, knowing there was no escape. There never was.

Over and over she ran down this narrow lane, came upon the same door that was always locked. As she struggled with the handle, willing it to open, the footsteps came closer until they were right behind her. Arms—dozens of them, it seemed—wrapped around her, groping and probing. Stale rum and cheap cigars filled her nostrils. Her stomach lurched.

“Miranda.” Craig’s voice penetrated the terror that suffocated her. “Miranda. It’s just a dream, baby. Open your eyes. That’s it.”

When she pushed away, he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her and crooned, as he would a frightened child, until she stopped trembling.

As the fog lifted and the nightmare faded away, Miranda was aware that she was being held, that Craig stroked her hair.

“I’m ok now,” she said, and rolled away from him. Embarrassed and ashamed, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I should go home.”

“What? No way.” Craig hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her back, coaxed her to lie down. He propped himself up on one arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Miranda closed her eyes. “No.”

“You need to.”

“No I don’t. And certainly not to you.”

“Why not me?”

Because, thought Miranda, I’m falling for you and I don’t want you to walk away like Gregg did. I can’t survive that again.

“Miranda, I probably understand a lot more than you give me credit for.” Her eyes shifted to his. He brushed the short fringe across her forehead. “He’ll keep winning if you keep it locked up inside of you.”

She crumbled then, covered her face with both hands and let the tears flow. It was too good to be real, she thought. He was setting her up so he could kick her down, she was certain of it. Once he knew how fucked up she was, he’d walk away, never looking back.

Craig said nothing. He simply wrapped himself around her, pulled her close and spooned behind her. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

That small promise, the certainty of it, made her turn and face him.

“I should have told you this before.”

“So tell me now.” He pressed his lips on her forehead.

And she did.

Craig listened in silence, his only reaction was to close his eyes at times. When he did, Miranda could see his jaw working as he struggled with his anger, but he let her finish. She waited for him to leap out of bed, tell her it was all her fault, say he couldn’t be with someone who had so much baggage.

“I have never met anyone as strong as you.”

“What?”

“Most people would crawl into a dark cave and never come out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know. That’s what makes you strong.” He cupped her face, thumbed away the last tear. “Feel better?”

“Um. Yeah, actually, I do.” She felt light, like she was floating.

“Good. Think you can sleep now?”

Exhaustion hit her then. “Yeah.” She mumbled something incoherent as she snuggled into him.

He smiled as her eyes drooped. “Sweet dreams, Miranda.”

Craig was next to her when she woke, a protective arm around her. Miranda leaned into him. She was finally safe.

This is the end of Miranda's story...at least here. Stories, such as these, never really end. The nightmares never go away, they just become bearable.

Like a River

2011-08-30T10:56:00.008-04:00

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Love is like a river. Use all or part of it within your poem or prose.

I only used part. And only in the title. I invoked my poetic license.

* * *

Like a River

For a time, it was heaven; what one imagines life is like if one’s back-split is located in the centre of a biblical sanctuary, landscaped by ethereal horticulturists.

Growth is now stagnant in the shadow of the eclipse; tulips and marigolds wilt in their beds, suffocated by choking weeds of Egyptian cotton. My own stem slumps beneath the weight of petals no longer stroked, their beauty long faded. The insect cares not to alight and I care not to self-pollinate.

I pray for a torrent to wash the ache, pray the old ship-builder will find me a mate. I covet the love I was meant to have; not this synthetic affection that dangles before me, only to be snatched away when my heart reaches.

It is fear that halts the quest for salvation, for I am certain of the journey's end. I shall remain alone in the raging current, my empty hands useless, unable to guide my vessel in the stinking mire.

Muse

2011-08-29T23:02:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Prompt #282: Muse

* * *

Muse

She’d been gone a year, or so it seemed. In fact, it was less than a week. Five days. A fucking eternity.

“Back in a little while, baby.” She’d kissed him before leaving; a smoldering meeting of tongues that had left him needy.

Jake crushed out his cigarette, scrubbed his face with both hands. “Where the hell are you, Vera?”

He’d had nothing but Laphroaig and take-away Thai since she’d left. More of the former than the latter. It hadn’t helped. He needed Vera.

She’d always been there to guide him, help him push through his blocks to the next chapter. It was easy to have a female protagonist when Vera was there for him. She offered insight on the female psyche, suggesting language, tweaking nuances. And it was far easier to write a love scene when she was there beside him, whispering erotica in his ear, stroking him while he typed.

How could she abandon him at such a crucial point in his novel? What the hell was he going to tell his editor when he called?

Then the keys rattled in the front door. Like a loyal puppy, Jake’s head sprang up, his heart thundered in eager anticipation. Vera was home!

He sprang from the sofa, all but dumping his laptop on the floor. She’d hardly closed the door when he was upon her, pressing her against the wall, his mouth searching, tasting. She responded with greedy kisses, laughing at his impatience.

“Wait a minute, baby.” She held him back, cupped his face with her hands, pressed a light kiss on his cheek. “I can help you with your chapter now.”

It was then that he noticed the stains, the tears in her shirt.

“Jesus, Vera. Are you alright?” He took her hands in his. Always manicured, her nails were now crusted in dirt and…was that blood? “What the hell happened?”

“You needed help, baby.”

“What did you do?” Jake wondered if he really wanted to know the answer.

Vera pulled him toward the sofa, urged him to sit. She set his laptop on his knees, opened it up.

“I’ll tell you.” She set his fingers on the home keys and as she spoke, Jake typed his next bestseller.

Farmer Frank

2011-08-26T01:14:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Thursday Tales

Today's prompt: Tale #74, picture prompt below.

Rules include: Minimum 55 words. Maximum 777 words.

* * *

Farmer Frank

Frank Wilkinson’s chocolate lab, Buford, heard the rumble of the Ford’s engine long before it crunched the pebbles on his driveway. The dog lifted his head, slid his dark eyes over to Frank.

“Stay,” said Frank. Buford, dropped his head. “You just lay there. I’ll take care of this.”

Frank remained seated in his rocker as the car made it’s way up the long lane and stopped in front of the weathered porch. A man and woman stepped out.

The woman carried a fancy handbag, wore heeled shoes. Despite the heat, the man’s sleeves remained rolled down, buttoned at the cuff. He hadn’t yet loosened his tie.

City folk.

Too old, thought Frank, well into their thirties. It was better when they were teenagers.

“You lost?”

The man dropped his head a moment, his grin sheepish. “Yeah, I think we are.”

Frank got up from the rocker, took his time crossing the porch. “Where ya headin’?” He leaned against the weathered post at the top of the stairs, seemed to be settling in for a visit.

The man glanced back down the drive, pointing at nothing in particular. “We’re driving to Mason.”

“You visitin’ family there?”

“No,” said the man, “we’re looking at a house. My wife was transferred to the University. She’ll be teaching computer sciences. I’m teaching chemistry.”

Frank hesitated a moment while he processed that information. “I take it ya’ll don’t know much about milking cows.”

The man chuckled. “No, not much.”

“Too bad,” Frank muttered.

He gave them directions, waved off the man’s thanks. Made them promise to stop by for coffee another time, once they’d settled into their new home.

“Drive safe now.” Frank watched the car drive away, waited until it was nothing but a cloud of dust before he stepped off the porch to make his way to the old barn. Buford trotted beside him, his tongue lolling to one side, a stupid grin on his face.

As always, Buford took the lead at the barn door. The dog ambled through the barn, ignoring the indignant snorts of cows and goats. He glanced back when he arrived at the last stall.

“Right behind ya, boy.”

Frank followed the dog through the narrow space between the enormous stack of hay and the barn wall. Buford plopped down on his rump, his tail thumping in anticipation.

Frank waved his hand over a rusted nail hammered into the weathered board. The contented cluck of a hen could be heard in the distance, though no chickens were kept on the ranch. At Frank’s signal, Buford bounded through the narrow opening that appeared between the weathered boards of the barn, and raced down the concrete stairs, barking to announce his arrival.

Frank followed, his transformation already underway. Shoulders pulled back, spine straightened. Hands—once calloused and weathered, now smooth and manicured—ran through dishevelled locks, instantly grooming them into what his assistant called a Cowboy Banker look. She insisted it was sexy. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Frank’s gait was no longer a meandering stroll, but rather a militant march. He strode about the cavernous room, barking out orders in a commanding voice.

Andrea, his assistant, approached him, pressed a mug of black coffee in his hand. “Good morning, sir.” He took a sip, all but wept with gratitude. Andrea made damn good coffee.

In his office, Frank sank into the leather chair behind his desk.

Andrea wasted no time. “You have a meeting with Security at noon. The President will call at two-fifty to be briefed before the Iranian Consulate calls at three.”

He cut her off. “I may have found a recruit for Intelligence.”

Understanding he needed to talk, Andrea dropped into one of the club chairs in front of his desk.

“Who?”

He told her about the couple he met. Andrea knew it wasn’t uncommon to recruit a half, as they called it, but it was a scenario the Company avoided. Statistics on failed relationships aside, the security risk was a logistical nightmare. Andrea could see that Frank wanted to recruit the woman. “You know, Harold has been grumbling about retiring.”

“Harold?”

“Works with André in Chem.”

She watched Frank as he processed this information, could see the moment he came to the same conclusion. She gathered her notepad and walked over to the door. “I’ll call the White House, have them recruited as a couple, arrange for them to be briefed before training.”

Frank shook his head. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d go through your day drinking shitty coffee,” Andrea said, as she left the room.

Warning Signs

2011-08-21T21:54:00.007-04:00

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Tepid. There is nothing tepid about the message in my story so, needless to say, I decided not to use it.

Today's photo:

* * *

Warning Signs

She didn’t expect the sign to bring help—it was too late for her. She only hoped to warn others; protect them from her life of bondage.

Town Crier

2011-08-18T21:48:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Friday Flash 55

The rules: Write a story in 55 words. No more. No less.

And I liked the picture prompt he used, so I used it as well.

* * *

Town Crier

“That lavender lace wrap.” Jeremy Wilkinson’s tone was bland, as though he asked for a dozen penny nails.

To her credit, Mrs. Shaefer remained stone-faced as she wrapped the silk in delicate tissue. She knew perfectly well he wasn’t buying it for his wife.

The door hadn’t yet closed before she was whispering the tale.

Mute

2011-08-18T08:43:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: gasp, mute, viable

* * *

Mute

He questioned whether his skills were viable; then she gasped, and he smiled in triumph as his probing fingers rendered her mute.

Surprise

2011-08-05T16:13:00.008-04:00

Today's muse: Friday Flash 55

Write a story in 55 words. No more. No less.

* * *

Surprise

“I have something special for you.”

Lips like butterflies brush her ear. Sara bites back a moan. She wants him. God she wants him.

He brushes a thumb against the nub that strains against her thin tee. “Wait here,” he whispers, stepping away.

Sara nods, keeps her eyes closed until the door closes behind him.

Running Scared

2011-08-04T16:10:00.015-04:00

Today's muse: Thursday Tales

Today's prompt: Tale #71, based on this photograph
(which can be found at A Buzzing Mind... and a Passionate Heart)

* * *

Running Scared

The buzz of voices around him was like a swarm of angry wasps. Nate couldn’t understand a fucking word, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t find him here. At least he prayed she couldn’t.
Two flights, a train, and one terrifying bus ride. Confident with the distance he’d put between him and Fiona, Nate stopped to eat. Wait staff bustled by, carrying trays burdened with dishes he couldn’t name.

“English?”

Nate nodded at the girl who smiled at him. He tightened his grip on the small canvas bag he carried, pointed at a picture on the menu.

She angled her head. “Noodle with fish.”

That was fish? “Sure. Fine.”

She nodded and walked away, narrow hips swaying, her skirt skimming the top of toned thighs. His eyes followed until she disappeared behind the kitchen door.

There’s no time for that, boyo, he reminded himself. He had to keep moving, find a new location, some place to sit for a while. Not for long, of course. Couldn’t stay in one place too long. Maybe the Netherlands. Civilized, but seedy enough to disappear; hide from Fiona.

By now, she’d know he took the bag. He could picture her tearing through the house—screaming—her beautiful face now demonic, wild curls trailing behind her. Nate clutched the worn bag against his chest as the slim waitress brought his plate. He ate one-handed, shovelled the food into his mouth, not tasting what he swallowed.

Cash wasn’t a problem, he thought, patting the bag. He smiled as the plan unfolded in his head. Find a quiet café, get stoned, get laid. The idea of losing himself in warm, soft flesh made him smile. His cock twitched in response.

With a firm grip on the bag, Nate tossed a few bills next to his empty plate, pushed back from the table.

“Nate.” The voice purred next to his ear, warm breath teased his lobe.

Nate’s bowels liquefied as Fiona pressed the blade of a pearl-handled knife against his throat; one she carried in a special compartment in her purse.

“Missed you, baby.” She ran her moist tongue up his neck, purred his name as though she’d just climaxed.

Despite his terror, he was instantly hard. Ashamed with the knowledge that he’d always want her—need her—Nate closed his eyes in defeat. He felt Fiona’s lips curve in triumph as she reached around him, cupped his erection. Squeezed.

A feral moan was all Nate managed as he ejaculated and Fiona severed his carotid.

Rx

2011-08-03T18:10:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: appear, dose, pierce

* * *

Rx

It appears that love—doled out in stingy doses—only tears the heart, rather than heals.

Mercy is Strained

2011-07-21T08:36:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: early, jiggle, quality

* * *

Mercy is Strained

Early light crept like fingers through veneer blinds, teased her awake. Cheryl surfaced from the fog of sleep, wet and hungry. Jeremy’s steady, heavy breathing next to her stirred something she seldom felt in the morning. Mornings were for showers and teeth brushing, not sex.

She couldn’t explain why she wanted him—needed him—at this precise moment. It’s not as though he’d expressed any interest in her. Hadn’t for quite some time now. Jeremy insisted it wasn’t the extra pounds she’d put on since they’d exchanged vows. And she believed him; at least she told herself she did.

Back in the day, Jeremy couldn’t keep his hands off her. He’d catch her gaze, glance at a closed door, and Cheryl would lead the way. The lock to the office utility closet would hardly engage before her skirt was around her waist, panties thrust aside.

Need flared with the memory. Cheryl pressed against him, bare skin next to bare skin. The moonstone pendant (the only thing she wore to bed) jiggled between her breasts as she reached over, skimmed a hand over his hip, dipped down to grip…limp, lifeless.

She closed her eyes, mortified. Not even in his dreams did he want her; her pound of flesh rejected once again.

Portia was wrong, Cheryl thought, the quality of mercy is strained and it showers down in biting hail.

Soundlessly, she pulled away, lay back on her side of the bed, pressed her face into the pillow. She lay motionless until he woke and stepped into the shower an hour later.

Expiration

2011-07-19T22:50:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Expiration. What do you wish had an expiration date?

Obviously, it took me longer than the alotted one minute (more like twelve) so I didn't post it on Mister Linky over at The One Minute Writer. I just really liked this prompt and wanted to use it.

* * *

Expiration

She stood on the tiny three-legged stool reaching for the box on the top shelf.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Eric stood in the doorway of the walk-in closet. “I thought you were making dinner.”

“I just wanted to check something.”

Janice stepped down and walked past him, an antique hat box tucked under her arm.

Eric glanced at his watch. “Can’t you do it after dinner? I’m hungry.”

“It will only take a minute.” Janice opened the box, rummaged through the contents.

“What is so damned important that you have to check it now?”

Janice continued to sift through the hat box.

“Don’t ignore me, woman.”

“One minute. I think this is…yes!”

She snatched a piece of paper from the box, waved it in the air.

“What the hell is that?” Eric walked toward her, but Janice held out her hand.

“Wait!”

Hands trembling, Janice unfolded the paper. Her lips moved in silence as she read the parchment; eyes darted back and forth, moved lower and lower. As she came to the bottom of the page, her lips twitched, then curved into a grin.

She held the page up so he could read it. She waited until the look of puzzlement passed and his eyes widened with understanding.

“There’s an expiry date,” she said, waving the page at him. She flicked her finger as though she swatted at an annoying mosquito.

“I’m outta here.” Tossing the paper at him, she stormed out of the bedroom.

He heard the front door slam before their marriage certificate floated to the floor.

Security Guard

2011-07-09T20:52:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Marc's prompt: Four lines of prose about 'the security guard'.

* * *

Security Guard

I have to take off my shoes and socks to count how many years we’ve been together, it’s been so damn long; an eternity some days. You’ve broken almost every promise we made before god and man, though I don’t think god was really listening that day, so maybe it doesn’t count. What pains me most is that you promised to take care of me, protect me, never hurt me.

You let your guard down.

To Do List

2011-06-21T21:46:00.005-04:00

Today's muse: The One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Make a list (of whatever you want.)

* * *

To Do List

Sleep in.
Eat a breakfast of poached eggs on rye toast with strong black coffee.
Enjoy a quiet commute to work.
Arrive at work to find no emails awaiting my immediate attention.
Finish all my filing.
Indulge in a long lunch.
Return to work to find a note from the boss telling me to go home early.
Revel in a quiet commute home.
Walk into the house to discover elves have cleaned.
Sit down to a gourmet dinner.
Enjoy a steaming bubble bath and glass of wine.
Lay in bed and doze off, realizing the exact opposite happened.
Repeat tomorrow.

Slipping Through

2011-06-11T22:17:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: The title to ABBA's song, Slipping through my fingers.

* * *

Slipping Through

Back then, we walked side by side, our pace matched. We laughed and talked, finished each others sentences.

We held hands, fingers linked, palms pressed.

Lately, you walk ahead, leaving me behind, seldom looking back. I can’t laugh anymore; you don’t care enough to listen.

I’m trying to hold tight, but I feel you slipping through my fingers.

House of Cards

2011-06-06T20:41:00.007-04:00

Wands, no longer shelter, but now an unsteady foundation, tremble from the weight above. The Pentacles insist it is not about money, but the Cups and Swords are all reversed and I cannot change the signs.

The Empress stands on her head, her wand dangling from her hand. Her smug look says she knows. Knows I have failed.

Again.

The Lovers remain apart. They don’t even attempt to link hands. The Moon, once my friend, now taunts me.

The Fool, blind to it all, brazenly walks off the cliff, beckoning like the pied piper. I yearn to follow him, to plunge into the unknown.

End it all.

Let the house crumble, I say, leave the Sun forever buried. The only card left to play is the Tower. And still, I cannot leap with the others.

Instead, I will let the inferno consume, until there is nothing but ash.

Dreams and Nightmares

2011-06-03T09:46:00.008-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: grin, jumble, naked

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Dreams and Nightmares

Craig stood in the doorway wearing loose jeans and a snug, white t-shirt. One hand rested on his hip, the other held the door open. His face held no expression and he made no move to let her in. Miranda began to think this was a bad idea. Maybe she’d read the cues wrong.

“Are you…are you going to ask me in?”

“What? Oh. Sure.” Craig stepped aside.

She brushed by him, dropped her shoes inside the door that opened into the living space of the small, tidy apartment. Craig inhaled her scent; the woodsy, vanilla aroma he’d come to associate with her. Chocolate chip cookies baking on a campfire. Somehow, it was both comforting and erotic.

Miranda set the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Should I have called first?”

“No. This is fine. How was the wedding?” He needed to make small talk. If he didn’t, he’d devour her.

“It was beautiful. Really beautiful.” Miranda wandered around the apartment, picking up photographs of his family. The fresh faces of his daughters smiled back at her.

“Were there a lot of people?”

“Too many.”

Craig shoved his hands in his pockets. “What happened when you saw him?”

Miranda turned to him, wrapped her arms around her waist. “Not what I expected.”

Craig pursed his lips, nodded, cursed himself for waiting. It was too late. He blew it.

“I was surprised, actually.” Miranda took a step toward him. “Maybe the marriage didn’t work, but there was all the time before that. When things were good. You know what I mean?”

He didn’t know where the pain came from, but he ached so much he could hardly breathe. “Yeah. I know.”

She was a whisper away from him now, peering up with those innocent eyes that teased, her fragrance swirling around him.

“And when I realized it, you were the first person I wanted to tell.”

He actually groaned. Why was she torturing him like this? “You wanted to tell me?”

Miranda nodded, a wicked grin playing on her lips. She moved in, pressed against him. “I wanted to tell you…” her lips moved against his as she spoke “…when I saw him, I only thought of you.” She traced her tongue across his jaw. The evening stubble was rough and made her skin hum. “I only thought of being with you. Like this.”

It took only a moment for those words to register, for Craig to realize she’d come here to seduce him and not to tell him she was going back with that idiot. He spun her around and pressed her against the wall. Words jumbled as they devoured, promised, pleaded, cursed.

In a practiced move, he lowered the zipper of her dress and let the fabric fall to the floor. Beneath was a lacy strapless bra and a tiny swatch of red lace at her crotch.

The thrill of power shot through Miranda when he sucked in his breath. She ran a manicured thumb across his lips. “You’re drooling,” she teased. “Let me get that.” She flicked her tongue at the corner of his mouth.

When he pulled her up, she wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to his bedroom, lay her down on the bed. As she scooted up towards the pillows, he crawled on all fours above her, his eyes following every movement, every curve.

It wasn’t the need ripping through her that made her heart stop. It was the look in his eyes; desire that promised and threatened. She couldn’t say which excited her more.

She reached for him, pulled him down so he stretched out on top of her. Miranda tried to flip him over so they would reverse positions, so she could take control—it was how she felt most comfortable. But Craig resisted. He pressed her back into the bed, cupped her face with his hands.

“Let me.”

His hands explored, softly, tenderly; his mouth teased. The roaring in her ears masked the mewling sounds she made as his tongue danced. Miranda floated higher and higher, her hips bucking, pleading, as she soared over the edge.

Craig skimmed his hands over her hips, trailed wet kisses up her belly, cupped his hands around her breasts, nuzzled her neck. He breathed promises into her ear, suckled on her lobe. Her breathing was heavy now, and the needy mewling sounds she made drove him wild. He skimmed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and linked his fingers with hers, pulled them up over her head.

He felt her stiffen, saw her eyes go wide as saucers and the terror snap through them like lightening. Anger warred inside him as he fought against the need to maim the bastard who’d made a passionate woman cringe like a beaten child.

He held both of her hands in one of his, her fists angry bunches beneath his palm. She bucked her hips, not in passion as before, but in anger and fear.

“Please don’t do this, Craig.” Her voice broke as she pleaded. It tore him apart.

He cupped her face with his free hand. “I won’t hurt you.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Look at me, Miranda.” He held her, waited until her eyes locked onto his. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m not him, baby.”

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Nodded. A singled tear leaked down her cheek and he kissed it away, flicked his tongue over the salty wetness. It pained him when she shuddered, but he pushed through it.

He brushed his lips along the softness below her ear, nipped at the delicate skin on her neck, one hand still restraining hers. As he nuzzled her throat, whispered her name over and over, her fingers unclenched, clasped with his. To test, he trailed his hands down her arms, over her breasts, then back up. It pleased him when she clutched them and pulled her arms higher with his, arched up in need. The climb was achingly sweet, and he dove with her when she plunged off the wall she’d begun to break down.

Afterwards, her head rose and fell with his breathing as it lay on his chest.

“Thank you for that.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

Miranda giggled. “That’s not what I meant.”

Craig brushed his hand across her hair. “I know what you meant.” He pressed a kiss on her head. “Will you stay?”

She lifted her head and tried to read the meaning behind the question. Just tonight, or longer? Forever, crossed her mind. She hesitated only a moment before she broke her own rule.

“I’ll stay.”

Later, when she woke naked and kicking, shoving at the terror that chased her each night in her dreams, she wondered if Craig regretted asking her.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Yearning

2011-05-19T10:45:00.007-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: damp, incensed, skid

* * *

Yearning

Not visible to the casual observer, it is protected with a damp, crimson layer of silk-like fibre. Throbbing when excited—more so when pained—it has writhed in agony for quite some time now. Napoleon was only half right, she thought. There may only be two forces in the world, but this time, the sword had won. She just didn’t have enough left in her to fight.

Elbows on the table, face resting in cupped hands, hair curtains her rage in a mahogany waterfall. Still incensed by last night’s argument, her chest heaves as she tries to control her breathing.

“Are there more pickles in the basement pantry?”

She’d asked the simple question, waved the empty jar for emphasis, the brine sloshing perilously close to the opening. She’d used the last one for her tuna salad sandwich and asked because she knew he’d know if there was. Why go downstairs if there weren’t any? She’d just add it to the grocery list.

She watched the emotions flicker across his face. Annoyance followed by anger. Which somehow evolved to fury.

He slammed his drink down, the iced tea splashing over the side and onto the counter. She wondered the glass didn’t shatter.

“Fine. I’ll go down and see.”

“I didn’t ask you to go down to the pantry. I asked if you knew whether there were any more pickles.”

“No. Don’t worry about it.” Sarcasm, thick and hot, invaded the room, rolled off him in waves. “I’ll fucking stop everything and go down to see if there are goddamn pickles in the pantry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. Her voice was diminished, as though it cowered, but she wouldn’t let it waver. “I said I’d go down.”

If she’d been standing any closer, he would have shoved her away. Instead, his hand hit empty air and he stomped down the stairs, cussing the entire time.

She continued to make her tuna salad sandwich, adding mayonnaise, a diced kosher pickle (the last one) and Dijon mustard. She spread a thick layer of the tuna mixture on buttered eight-grain bread, topped it with a second slice, pressed down lightly to secure the sandwich.

He marched back into the kitchen, slammed the jar onto the counter.

“There’s your fucking pickles. Can I go and enjoy the rest of my evening now?”

Her face void of expression, she lifted her sandwich. “Sure.” She took a bite. Chewed.

As he stormed off, she was sure she heard him mutter: “Fucking bitch”.

All for a lousy jar of pickles. She’d been putting in ten- and twelve-hour days for months now. That tuna sandwich was her lunch. Eaten at ten o’clock at night. And he was bitching about her asking whether there was a goddamn jar of pickles in the pantry? She hadn’t asked him to go down and get the thing, she’d just asked if there were any.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, huffed out the air she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

The whole thing was falling apart like a fragile snow globe; only it was delicate egg shells that rained upon her, carpeting her diminished world, forcing her to pick her way across them day after day. Her feet were blistered and continued to bleed.

She wanted to tear out the one thing that had truly betrayed her, the one piece of her that she’d hoped would protect her core, her spirit. But once again, it had let her down.

She should yank it from her chest and skid it across the oak table; a dark—nearly black—smear in its wake. It would topple off the edge, land on the floor with a wet plop. She’d leave it there to putrefy, let the stink of decomp permeate the kitchen, the main floor, the whole fucking house.

Maybe the stench would drive him away. And he’d leave.

Oh, the things her heart yearned.

Console

2011-05-11T15:31:00.001-04:00

Today's muse: I went a little nuts today and used three of my favourite muses (musi?).

Three Word Wednesday.
Today's words: brandish, forbid, manage.

Carry on Tuesday.
This week's prompt: The opening lines from Phillida and Coridon.

One Word, So Little Time.
Today's (actually, yesterday's) word: console. And given the title role, so to speak.

* * *

Console

Tangled in immoral haze,
Flesh and soul, lustful ways.
Wakeful nights and dreamy days;
To console, she bows and prays.

The mind and heart, each one vies,
Lusts for yon forbidden prize.
Spirit withers, passion dies;
Once the queen, no longer wise.

Brandished to the stormy skies,
Blackened soul weaves web of lies.
Releasing all that she denies,
Begs the gods to hear her cries.

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Water streams as body sways,
Manages to halt decay.

Overused

2011-05-10T14:54:00.002-04:00

Today's muse: The One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Overused.

* * *

Overused

He never told her.

“It’s cliché,” he said. “Everyone says it, but do they really mean it?”

“You would have meant it,” she murmured. The hollow thud of dirt on mahogany echoed throughout the cemetery.

“And I would have believed you. If only you’d said it. Just once.”

Cake

2011-05-06T10:10:00.001-04:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

This week's prompt: Cake

* * *

Cake

Moist and sinfully rich, he cannot deny the greedy pleasure of consuming the heavenly sweetness. It’s not a matter of merely wanting—it is an all-consuming need that he cannot conquer. A raspy moan rolls out as his tongue emerges for the first taste; a tentative flick, like a question.

He wants to take his time, enjoy the flavour, savour the moment, but his hunger overrides all pretence at delicacy. He plunges to devour the salty syrup, crazed with the need to possess, to have and eat.

Panting, heart racing, he waits a few moments, then dips down to feast again.

Killing Time

2011-05-05T13:42:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: grace, jitter, thin

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Killing Time

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Craig cupped some nut mix from the bowl on the counter, popped a few in his mouth. The crowded bar flowed around them as though they were in a cocoon.

“It’s been almost a year. But, lucky me, I get to see him again in a few weeks.” Miranda gestured with her cocktail sword of impaled olives as she spoke. “A friend is getting married and I’m one of the bridesmaids. He’s invited. Friend of the groom.”

“And you’re still going?”

“She’s my friend. I can’t let her down. Besides,” Miranda smiled, her lips curling in a slow, wicked grin, “I’ve been working out with my trainer and I look fucking hot! He’s going to be sorry.”

Craig laughed, raised his glass in a toast. “To looking fucking hot.”

He felt sorry for her ex. She’d be all dolled up for the wedding—professional hair and makeup—and wearing that dress she’d showed him last week. She had picked it up from the salon and brought it back to the office to show the girls. He’d walked into the staff lounge as she held it up to show it off. Small, black and low cut, his mouth watered at its limp form on the hanger. Miranda may only be a friend, but he’d spent several nights imagining what she’d look like in it.

The poor bastard was going to be sorry he let her go, Craig thought. Then again, he didn’t deserve her. Miranda hadn’t told him everything, but Craig could tell there was a lot more to it than she let on. It pained him the way she cringed when he made a sudden move, as though she expected him to hit her. Jesus, what had that bastard done to her?

“If you feel like talking after, give me a call. No matter how late it is.”

Miranda set down her martini. “You’d let me wake you up just to talk?”

Craig shrugged. “I’ll probably be awake anyway. It’s what friends do, right?”

Miranda looked away while he signalled the server for another round of drinks. Right. Friends. That is all they were. It didn’t matter that she wanted more. It couldn’t. He was still married, technically. And he had kids. She wouldn’t be the deciding factor on whether his marriage flourished or failed.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”

“The offer stands. Any time.”

* * *

Miranda shook hands and air kissed more than a hundred people in the receiving line; her cheeks were numb from smiling. She wondered how politicians did it. While chatting with Wendy’s Great Aunt Olivia, Miranda heard a hiss next to her.

“He’s here!”

Her smile didn’t falter as she nudged the elderly woman down the line. But when Miranda’s eyes moved toward the hall entrance, the thin smile wavered. Gregg was handsome in a tailored suit, his hair, just a little too long, curled around his neck. She tried to gauge her feelings, whether she still cared for him, as the other bridesmaids had predicted.

“All those old feelings might come back,” they’d said.

It wasn’t a concept that Miranda dismissed. She admitted it was possible. So with an open mind, she watched Gregg greet the groomsmen, shake hands and clap shoulders. She waited while he had a shot of cognac with the groom, smiled when he hugged Wendy. He kissed the bridesmaid, Wendy’s sister, then shared a private joke with Sandra. When he took Miranda’s hand, she was the epitome of grace and poise, smiling as though she were greeting royalty. He kissed both cheeks, mumbled something incoherent, and moved on to the junior bridesmaid beside her.

That’s it? He’d walked by her as though she were a stranger. It was a moment before she realized that’s exactly what he’d thought. He turned back to her, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he took her hand.

“Miranda?”

She laughed. “Who did you think it was?”

“I didn’t recognize you. You look…” Gregg’s eyes raked up and down, took in the minimalist dress, her new cropped hair style, the toned body. “You look great.”

Yeah, I do, she thought. “Thanks.” The person next to Gregg cleared his throat. “You’re holding up the line,” said Miranda, and she withdrew her hand from his.

Something flickered in his eyes. Regret, shame, remorse. She didn’t know. And she didn’t care. In that moment, she had her answer. There was absolutely nothing left in her for Gregg.

When he’d moved on, and walked into the main hall away from the reception table, three heads turned to her.

“Well?”

Miranda smiled. “Not one little jitter.”

* * *

Elated, Miranda could think of only one person she wanted to share this news with. It was late when she arrived at Craig’s apartment unannounced. He had said he’d be up anyway. And wasn’t a visit better than a phone call?

Craig glanced at his watch when he heard the soft tap on the door. He expected to see Mrs. Fischer from 24D asking for help with something in her unit, though it occurred to him that it was a little late for handy work.

When he opened the door, the air rushed out of him and he was instantly hard.

Miranda stood in the doorway in the little black number. He wondered how she’d poured herself into it. Her short, spiky hair was teased with gold glitter and her eyes, painted up like a gypsy, still managed to have an air of innocence. Spiked heels dangled in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

“Busy?”

All Craig could think was, “Melissa was right. Miranda is going to kill me.”

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Kittens

2011-05-04T09:36:00.012-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Alright. I'm late. I mean REALLY late! This is from last week's prompt and ThomG has already posted this week's words. Ack!

~~Today's~~ Last week's words: foolish, mercy, relish.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Kittens

The days were long, the work load stressful and she only seemed to socialize with co-workers—coffee in the café and late take-out dinners in the staff lounge.

Miranda was in heaven and relished every moment.

The Hamerston team was a close family, sharing their personal highs and lows, revelling in joyous occasions and grieving in others. She understood how tight the group was when she spent her first weekend at the office.

Armed with a lengthy agenda, and a loaded briefcase, Miranda walked into her office and settled in for the day. Her face void of makeup (except for a swipe of mascara), comfortable in a pair of snug yoga pants and a fitted T, she sat at her desk and pulled her hair back in a long tail. She spent the morning keying in numbers to the database she’d created, flipping through files to confirm the status of furniture orders, and reviewing resumes—flagging the few she thought Rob McBride should interview.

Needing a break, Miranda pushed back from her desk and stood up to pace her office, rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks. She did a few stretches, lunged into a warrior pose. More relaxed, she tossed her empty take-out coffee cup in the garbage and grabbed her Hamerston mug from her desk, made her way to the café. Her hips swayed to the dance tune stuck in her head, her long, dark ponytail swinging with the beat.

Her face reddened the moment she walked into the café.

“Hey, Miranda! Sit down. Join us. Have a bite.”

The oval table was littered with coffee cups, containers of apple and orange juice, and enormous platters of bagels, croissants, donuts and fresh fruit. Sitting around the feast were Steven Abrahms, Melissa Wilkinson, and Craig Matthews. Steve and Craig wore suits. Melissa was more casual in dark trousers and a crisp white blouse that still managed to look couture. No one was dressed like Miranda.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here today. It is Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure,” said Steve, around a mouthful of bagel.

Melissa handed him a napkin as she rolled her eyes at Miranda. “Jim and Steve have a meeting today. Jim’s upstairs,” she explained when Miranda scanned the room. “Eva—she’s upstairs as well—thought she’d drop in to see if they needed any help. Me, I don’t live far from here, so I came in for brunch. And Craig…” Eva looked over at him.

Craig shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

Truth was, he’d overheard Miranda tell McBride that she was coming in and he’d hoped to have the chance to talk with her. Maybe finish the conversation they were having yesterday. It wasn’t about anything, really. Just general life matters: his kids, her parents, his ex, and hers. There was something about the way she danced around his questions that made him want to find out more. It wasn’t that she avoided answering, it was more that she managed to change the subject, deflect the queries like a boomerang. He wanted to know more. And why. Why those chocolate eyes went dark when she was flustered and why she wouldn’t open up to him.

“There’s also a few people over in marketing who took their food to go. There’s plenty still. Why don’t you sit down?” Craig pulled out a chair next to him. “Fill up your mug and join us.”

She didn’t get it. It was Saturday, for chrissake. What the hell were they all doing here? And most of them didn’t even need to be. She didn’t want to sit down with them. She just wanted to go back to her office and maybe crawl into the hole that she hoped would miraculously swallow her up when she got there. What had possessed her to dress like a bum? If she’d known Craig would be here, she would have taken a little more care in her wardrobe, put on some makeup. Did her hair for god’s sake!

As much as she wanted to slink out of the kitchen, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head lecturing that it was rude to decline such a thoughtful invitation. Resigned, Miranda filled her mug and sat next to Craig. Her stomach was jumpy and she was sure she wouldn’t keep any food down.

That was soon set aside by Steve’s question. “So, what colour was your first bicycle, Miranda?”

She stared at him, certain he was making fun of her. But when he met her gaze with honest, questioning eyes, she knew he wasn’t.

“Red.” Miranda took a sip of her coffee, let herself fall back to that birthday. “Red tricycle, white seat. And white streamers that fluttered in the wind when I pedalled really fast.”

Melissa nodded, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, closed her eyes. “Mine was blue. With red and white streamers. Very patriotic.”

“My dad decorated mine with camouflage decals. I was going to war with my tryke.” Steve laughed at the memory.

Everyone shared childhood stories, besting each other with tales of broken bones and punishments meted out by strict parents. Miranda now understood the familial bond that held the team together. As voices talked over one another, she realized the tension she’d felt when she first joined the firm had lifted. She was accepted, considered part of the family.

“I hate to break up the party,” Miranda said, glancing at her watch, “but I really have to get some reports out for Rob.”

“We’re going out for drinks later. Want to join us?” Melissa began stacking plates and cups.

“Oh. Um, sure. Who’s going?” God, could she sound more high school?

“All of us. Eva bought a new outfit and she wants to show it off. And the gang from Finance is meeting us there.”

Despite willing them not to, Miranda’s eyes slid over to Craig’s. His stare was intense and she felt her cheeks burn. She pictured sitting next to him in a cramped bar, music pounding in the background, the smell of stale beer in the air mixed with the woodsy scent of his cologne.

“I’ll think about it. Thanks for inviting me.” She picked up her coffee mug and backed away from the table. “I gotta…” She made a vague gesture towards the door, spun around and walked out, cursing herself all the way to her office.

“Think she’ll come?” Melissa wrung out a dish cloth and wiped down the table.

“Who knows.” Steve pushed back from the table. “She keeps to herself a lot.”

“Not really. You just have to get her talking.” Craig regretted saying it before the sentence was complete.

Melissa stopped wiping the table. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing.” Craig sipped his coffee to avoid their stares. “Nothing!”

“Son,” said Steve, “if you don’t put the moves on that girl, you’re more foolish than I thought.”

“She’ll kill him under thirty minutes,” said Melissa.

“Probably.”

“Hey!” Craig threw his arms out. “Sitting right here!”

“You have to be blind not to see her.”

“I see her,” Craig mumbled.

“Well? Why aren’t you hitting on that? You get her under the sheets and you’ll be begging for mercy, I guarantee it. It’s always the quiet ones.” Steve nodded sagely, took a sip of his coffee.

Craig shot out of his chair. “Don’t talk about Miranda like that.”

Melissa reached out her hand, palm up. “Told ya.”

“Shit.” Steve reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and slapped it into Melissa’s open hand.

“Fuck you guys.” It was said with heat, but Craig was smiling. “I don’t know what it is about her.”

Melissa sank into a chair, cupped her chin in her hands. “She does have that abandoned kitten thing going.”

“That’s why I don’t get it.” Craig walked over to the sink, dumped his cold coffee. He flipped open the dishwasher and set his mug on the top rack. “Normally, I hate cats.”

“But this one,” he thought as he wandered out of the cafe, “this one, I want to follow me home.”

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Game Rules

2011-05-02T16:09:00.003-04:00

Game Rules

It’s like being picked last for the team; not thin enough, not pretty enough, not loved enough.

I want so much to play, but you keep pushing me to the back of the line. It’s not fair to expect me to follow the rules when you won’t share the play book with me. I’ve tried to play like all the others—the ones you compare me to without saying it—but it doesn’t seem to make you happy. And it only makes me weep.

I don’t think I want to play anymore. The problem is, I don’t know how to quit you.

Patience is a Virtue

2011-04-24T16:08:00.019-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

This is an old prompt from TWW. The words then were: feign, imply, virtue

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Patience is a Virtue

“When you have a moment, Miranda, come into my office.” Rob McBride flicked his head toward the door. Miranda knew he meant now, not when she actually had a moment.

He had already turned away before she nodded her consent. Miranda eyed the reports waiting to be typed out. “I guess I’m working late. Again.”

She walked into Rob’s office.

“Close the door.”

This was serious. Rob seldom closed his door.

“Sit.”

Miranda dropped into the leather chair across from his desk, crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve had several meetings with Hamerston.”

Miranda nodded. Hamerston was the competition. She assumed Rob was just telling them to stop poaching.

“They made me a pretty sweet offer. The hire bonus is more than enticing and I’m guaranteed a retirement package. I’m not getting any younger, Miranda, I have to think about the future.”

Miranda felt sick. Rob was leaving. One of the few men she could trust, and he was leaving her.

“I gave notice a few weeks ago, so head office could find a temporary replacement. No one at this branch knows yet. Management is sending out a notice on Monday. I’ll be at Hamerston when you come back from vacation.”

Miranda departed tomorrow to spend two weeks with her girlfriends in Mexico. Wendy had called on Monday to announce that Sarah could get last-minute tickets for Manzanillo at a good price. Despite the short notice, Rob had insisted she go. Now she knew why.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She wouldn’t cry. And to be sure, she clamped the inside of her bottom lip until she tasted rust. “Were you just going to leave without saying goodbye?”

“I’m telling you now, Miranda.”

She couldn’t look at him. She was angry and hurt. It was like being abandoned.

“It’s not going to be the same without you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“What else would I say? You taught me everything, took me into your home, treated me like family. Am I ever going to see you again?”

Rob cocked his lips in a crooked grin. “I prepared something for you.”

He pulled an envelope from his top drawer, slipped out a folded page. Miranda took it and read through the three short paragraphs, glanced down below the closing line.

“What the hell is this?”

“I need your signature.”

“This is a letter of resignation, Rob. My letter of resignation, to be specific.”

“Don’t make me fire you, Miranda.”

What the hell was going on? She was just finding her balance and now her world was being snatched out from under her.

“I thought you were happy with my work.”

Rob threw his head back and laughed his baritone bark.

“I’m taking you with me. Your vacation is your notice. I already talked to HR about it. They owe you at least three weeks—plus what you didn’t take last year—so I negotiated for you and they’re giving you your two weeks as vacation and paying you out the other weeks.”

Miranda stared at him, unaware her mouth had dropped open.

“And a good severance package, of course. The deposit will be in your account by the time you come back. Hamerston has agreed on your salary.” He named a figure that was much higher than her current salary. “Plus six weeks’ vacation.”

“Rob…”

He waved his hand, cutting her off.

“Hamerston is opening a new division, under a different name. They want me to be President. I need my wing man.” Rob grinned as he corrected himself. “Wing girl . I was thinking VP.”

“Jesus, Rob.”

“You deserve it. You do all the reports now, it’ll mean you’ll have more control over what gets approved and not. I want you to decorate the new offices, too.”

Miranda’s smile was slow and wide as she chewed over the concept. The possibilities were endless. She knew at once it was the right choice.

“This is gonna be fun.” She jumped up and crossed his office, bent down and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Rob. I won’t let you down.”

Rob blushed, waved his hand toward the door. “Get out of here. Go get tanned. I’ll see you when you get back.”

* * *

Miranda arrived at Hamerston on her first day wearing a wrap-around dress that snugged in at her waist; the dark Jersey clung, showing off more than her tan. When she'd glanced in the full-length mirror at home, she sent thanks to her trainer. Steve was a tyrant, but he was good. Oh, yeah, damn good.

As Miranda toured her new workplace, her smile was wide and easy, implying she was well-rested after vacation. Truth was, coming back from two glorious weeks of sun was not easy. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day without several fruity drinks and a couple of siestas.

Alone in her office, cheeks numb, hands sore from shaking so many palms, she dropped into her chair. Congratulating herself for not passing out from exhaustion and withdrawal, she allowed a small air punch.

This was it. She could feel it.

Miranda tapped away on her computer, making notes on the ideas that had come to her while she’d wandered the building: protocol she wanted to implement, concepts she thought she’d like to change. She’d have to set up some time to sit down with Rob, show him her proposal.

Out of habit, Miranda reached out, but felt nothing but empty air.

“Right. No coffee.” She pushed back from her desk and wandered down the hall to where she thought she saw the café, the aroma of brewed beans guiding her.

She opened cupboards until she found the mugs; each one stamped with the gold Hamerston logo. She pulled the carafe from the coffee machine and sniffed.

“It’s fresh. I just made it.”

Miranda froze. She recognized that voice. The deep timber shot right through her.

“It smells fresh. And strong.” She didn’t turn around while she poured, needing the time to regroup.

He came up behind her, just to her left and leaned up to open the cupboard, pulled down a mug.

“Pardon me.” His voice rumbled in her ear. God he smelled good.

He bumped his shoulder against hers and coffee sloshed over Miranda’s cup. She snatched a cloth from the sink to mop up the spill. His hand covered hers, immobilizing it.

“It’s my fault. Let me do it.”

Miranda met the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams for months. They crinkled as he smiled.

“Remember me? Craig Matthews.”

Miranda feigned indifference as she pulled her hand away. If she left it there, it would incinerate.

“Oh sure. You met with McBride once.” You wore a dark blazer and tan pants and you made my mouth water.

“You remember.” Craig did, too. The sight of her wearing that snug skirt, swinging that tight ass, would be forever burned in his mind. And when she’d bent over to dial the phone, her blouse had hung open revealing lavender lace.

Craig rinsed the cloth, folded it neatly over the tap. He turned back and held those chocolate orbs, wide like a doe and just as skittish. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, never releasing her gaze. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, reminding himself that patience was not only a virtue, but also a reward. Somehow, he knew this one would be worth the wait.

“Welcome to the team, Miranda. It’s good to have you on board.”

Miranda stood alone in the café, gripping the counter for balance. Blood pounded in her hears as she wandered back to her office, trailing her hand on the wall for support.

She sat in her chair for ten minutes before she realized she’d left her coffee back in the café.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

As Fate Would Have It

2011-04-22T21:32:00.002-04:00

As Fate Would Have It

Silver glided across the lawn, trees undulated in a soft breeze. In the pale light of the waning moon, she beckoned the Crone. Skyclad, she wore no makeup, no jewellery; only the pentagram tattooed above her left buttock.

She considered performing this ritual last week, but chose to call on the Mother’s energy instead. Asking for anything during a full moon was asking for trouble, as far as she was concerned. Rather than feeling invigorated (as she normally did, when she drew down the moon) she was left with a yearning need—a sexual craving—she couldn’t expel.

It was time to be rid of it.

Without a formal ritual prepared, she relied on her heart, opened it up, pleaded with Hecate to hear her.

“I don’t ask for what I don’t deserve,” she said. “I leave it to you to decide what should be done. I only ask for guidance and strength.”

Hair spilled down her bare back like a raven waterfall as she bowed back, tipped her head to the sky, spread her arms in submission. Afraid to acknowledge what she truly wanted, what she desired most—what might make her happy—she left it to the Fates to rule. She pushed her soul out to the Universe, bared it for the Goddess. The questions she was afraid to have answered, the intense desire she couldn’t control, the lust that raged like a balefire. It all pulsed from her, rolled out in waves.

Twined with it all was her wish. A craving she didn’t understand; desire that filled her, made her lifeblood pound through her, woke her in the night.

She closed her circle, released her spiritual guides with thanks. Her voice wavered as she chanted the words she’d said so many times before. Tears threatened, but she fought them back. This was different. She wasn’t in control this time. Was she ever?

“As…you will, so mote it be.”

She didn’t know what made her say it, to relinquish her will, but it was done.

In the silvered yard, she hung her head in shame, wrapped her arms around her bare breasts. She didn’t know what the outcome would be. She only hoped it would be right.

Cookies and Cream

2011-04-20T11:17:00.008-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: cleanse, knead, melt.
Well, there's only one thing to write about with those words. Not to mention I'm a little focused right now...I've hit a love scene in Madison's Avenue. First detailed one I've written and far too racy to publish on this blog.

* * *

Cookies and Cream

Lined along the counter like sentries were the ingredients for her prized oatmeal-raisin cookies; a family recipe passed from grandmother to daughter to granddaughter. A light dusting of flour covered the marble countertop. Cooling on the metal rack were five dozen cookies for Nathan’s pre-school bake sale. The last batch was in the oven.

Humming a little off-key, Emily washed mixing bowls, wooden spoons and measuring cups in scalding, sudsy water. Baking was cathartic. Energy coursed through her, spinning her into hyper-mode. While the cookies baked, she scrubbed the counter, cleaned out the refrigerator, and re-organized the cereal cupboard. Did she really have four different kinds of Cheerios?

Not only did the kitchen sparkle, but Emily was no longer angry with Sam. Well, not as much. She knew it was petty, but she wasn’t one to forgive easily. Sometimes she needed to stay mad for a while. The argument was ridiculous, but she wasn’t about to let it go. She’d spent hours preparing a romantic dinner for their five-year anniversary and he’d come home late. Hadn’t even called to tell her he was stuck in a meeting. How hard was it to pick up the damn phone and make a quick call? Or send a text?

Emily slammed a bamboo spoon into the sink, sending up a geyser of suds. Maybe she was still a little angry. She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. She inhaled a deep, cleansing breath through her nose, pushed it out through her mouth. In again. Out again. Once more. In. Out.

The timer on the oven rang.

Emily wiped her hands on a dish towel, scooped up a pair of mitts. She pulled down the oven door, leaned back to avoid the rush of steam; made a mental note to call the spa and make an appointment for a facial. She leaned into the heat to pull the clay baking sheet from the oven.

This glorious sight is what greeted Sam when he came home. Cut-off jeans that revealed a firm heart-shaped bottom. God bless yoga. He let Emily set the hot tray on the counter before he crossed the kitchen, reaching her in three long strides.

Pressing against her back, he wrapped an arm around her waist, brought the other in front of her to present the flowers he bought.

“I’m sorry.” Thick with emotion, his voice caught and he pulled her closer.

Emily melted into him, forgiveness offered but unspoken.

Sam tossed the bouquet onto the counter as he swept her long curls off to one side. He kneaded her shoulders, pressed his thumbs into the hard knots, shamed with the knowledge they were his doing. Intimately familiar with her trigger points, he nuzzled into the back of her neck, whispered detailed promises. Her feral groan shot through him and he thrust against her.

“When is Nathan coming home from school?”

“What?” Her brain was fogged, blood pounded in her ears.

“Nathan.” Sam trailed his tongue behind her ear, suckled on the lobe. “Our son. Nathan. Home. When?”

“Oh. Um. He’s not.” A coherent word wasn’t possible while Sam’s hands explored, possessed. “Playdate. Until four.”

“Perfect.” Sam spun her around, cupped her ass and pulled her up so she could wrap her legs around him. “We’ve got an hour.” And he carried her up to the bedroom.

Forgotten on the counter, the bake sale cookies cooled next to the mercy flowers, while passion delivered forgiveness upstairs.

Summit

2011-04-12T21:51:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: The One Minute Writer

* * *

Summit

They all said the trek would be worth it; a journey to liberate her soul. There was no question the view was spectacular. She was sure she could touch the clouds. Emerald carpet sprawled beneath a cobalt sea. Serenity embraced her, washed away the burden she shouldered. Why, then, did she still want to jump?

Ballerina

2011-04-04T13:19:00.002-04:00

Today's muse: The Dark Place

* * *

Ballerina

The pirouettes are feeble now, my delicate porcelain arms are chipped. Parasites have chewed my tutu, leaving me exposed.

It is bright and shrill when the cover is lifted. I want to dance again, but the music won’t play. Painted eyes streak down sallow cheeks, splash onto the pedestal below. Brackish waste wraps around the coils, halting movement, corroding life.

The blessed darkness is what I yearn, and I succumb to its will when the lid closes down on me.

The Mirror

2011-03-20T22:44:00.002-04:00

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *

The Mirror

The angry slash of terror and pain,
is indistinct from the other crack.
It’s not the blood line that worries her,
but the hollow eyes that stare back.

The White Knight

2011-03-18T23:52:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: breeze, mellow, tickle

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

The White Knight

Miranda’s desk was always tidy. Beside the telephone sat a notepad stamped with the company logo, a Mont Blanc perched on top, angled corner to corner. Reference books along one side of the desk were lined up with military precision. A computer was centered on the desk return, the monitor angled at the perfect eye level to reduce neck strain.

The hectic week had put filing at a low priority. Three—very neat, very organized—piles of reports and correspondence were arranged in front of the row of books.

At the end of the day, Miranda logged off her computer, adjusted the notepad a fraction of an inch and removed her suit jacket, hanging it neatly on the back of her chair.

“It’s Friday, Miranda. Go home.” Robert McBride strolled down the hall toward his office, a coffee in one hand, a manila folder in the other. His peppered hair stuck out at odd angles which, Miranda knew, meant he’d been running his fingers through it all day.

“I want to tackle the filing. If I stay and do it now, I know I’ll sleep better tonight.”

Rob shook his head. Miranda was the first person in the office each morning and the last to leave at night. She had joined the team more than a year ago and Rob had forged an immediate bond with her. They worked in tandem, seldom needing more than a few words to express ideas, somehow anticipating the other’s needs. His own grown sons were long gone from home and he’d taken Miranda under his wing, like a surrogate daughter. Several times a month, she joined him and his wife for Sunday dinner.

“Go home and enjoy the weekend. Forget about the filing. It’ll be here on Monday.”

“That’s why I want to do it now.” Miranda turned up the cuffs of her silk blouse and eyed the filing. “The paper seems to breed overnight. There’s always twice as much in the morning.”

It wouldn’t take long; she estimated thirty minutes—forty, tops—to breeze through it. If she stayed late and got it done now, it wouldn’t be nagging at her the entire weekend and she could enjoy herself.

Rob knew it was futile to argue. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee if you want some.” He wandered back into his office, already absorbed in the contents of the folder.

Miranda played with the dial on the portable radio until she found a station playing mellow tunes. Her hips swayed with the music and she hummed off-key as she tackled the first pile. Each stack was organized according to client, making quick work of the filing. As she addressed the second pile, the front door of the office chirped, announcing a visitor. She glanced at her watch. It was well past closing and she knew, with the exception of Rob, everyone was gone for the day. By habit, she set a smile on her face and turned to greet the arrival. It was only ingrained professionalism that kept her lips turned up.

He wore a dark chocolate blazer, paired with a butter yellow shirt, the starched collar undone. Tan pants accentuated narrow hips and a trim waist. Dark, penetrating eyes smiled at her, even if his mouth didn’t.

“I’m here to see Rob McBride.”

She’d never seen him before, yet he looked familiar. No, it was more that he felt familiar.

“Do you have an appointment?” There was nothing noted in her calendar.

He nodded. “He’s expecting me. My name is Craig Matthews.”

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward a pair of wing chairs as she reached for the telephone. “I’ll let Mr. McBride know you’re here.”

Before she lifted the receiver, Rob came out of his office.

“Craig! How are you?”

Hands clasped in greeting, shoulders were clapped. Though Rob was much older, the mutual respect between the two was obvious.

“Come into my cell.” The two men disappeared into Rob’s office and the door closed with a soft click.

Miranda’s legs were shaking and there was an odd tickle in her stomach. She sank into her chair, dropped her head into her hands. Jesus, Rand, get a grip. He’s just a guy. And a stranger at that. OK, he was a cute stranger with an intense stare that seemed to look right into your soul, but she still didn’t know him. And yet, he felt familiar. She couldn’t remember meeting him, but somehow she knew she had.

The office door swung open and Rob strolled out. “Help me bring some coffee and cookies in.”

Miranda sprang out of her chair and followed him down the hall to the staff room. Rob poured coffee into an ornate carafe and set two cups with saucers on a silver tray while Miranda arranged cookies on a china plate.

“You didn’t tell me you had an appointment.” She hoped her voice sounded casual.

“Craig? I thought you’d be gone by now, so I didn’t mention it.” Rob arranged a sugar bowl and creamer on the tray, pulled napkins from a drawer and handed them to Miranda. “He’s interviewing me for his thesis.”

“Oh.” Miranda fanned the napkins on the tray, set spoons on the saucers.

“Why don’t you just ask?” Rob wasn’t quite successful at hiding his smirk.

Miranda fixed an expression of innocence on her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rob laughed, a loud baritone bark that always made her smile. As was his habit, he ruffled the top of her head as though she were a toddler. She made an annoyed face, but the gesture always thrilled her.

“Forget it, kiddo. He’s married.”

Miranda’s heart sank. Figures.

Rob picked up the tray and pushed open the café door with his hip.

“But rumour has it that the marriage is on the rocks.” With an exaggerated look of disinterest, Rob swung out of the room with the coffee and cookies.

Well, thought Miranda, wasn’t that interesting.

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Lady of the Night

2011-03-17T15:12:00.004-04:00

Lady of the Night

She dreamed about him again last night, woke up tingling and wet. She stared at the ceiling for a long time. Not because she couldn’t go back to sleep, but because when she closed her eyes, all she could see was his face; those ebony eyes, the lascivious grin. And when her eyes closed for too long, she was swept back into the other world, where it was just the two of them, twined as one. Soft and hard, fast and slow, again and again.

Her eyes snapped open, blood thundered in her ears. She could still feel his hands on her, exploring, possessing. She pressed a palm against her forehead, willed her breathing to slow.

It shamed her that she felt no remorse for her wanton nocturnal behaviour while reality lay beside her.

Down the Hole

2011-03-14T12:18:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Thursday Thunks
Yeah, I know. Today is Monday. Whataya gonna do about it?
Cut me some slack. I just found this muse.

Prompt #2:
Sometimes we want to grow wings and fly. What's the farthest you've fallen?

* * *

Down the Hole

Vignettes rush by, faster and faster, as I freefall. A few talkies, but most are silent. Soundless mouths flapping.

It’s not a film that will win an Oscar, or even be nominated, so dreary are these scenes. I will never stand before the crowd holding the heavy statuette, droning on like a winner for best Trumpet Editing, unaware that no one really gives a shit.

I no longer want to be Alice. Let the Queen take my head. I’m already late for my date and I know I will be punished.

I wonder if the bottom will break this rabbit's fall.

Exorcising Ghosts

2011-03-11T21:04:00.007-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: dainty, haunting, tantalize

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Exorcising Ghosts

“You need to get back out there. Go out on same dates. Have fun.”

This sage advice was doled out in large quantities on a daily basis. Miranda knew her friends meant well, but it was irritating. She didn’t want to have a relationship. She just needed to scratch an itch that she couldn’t seem to reach on her own, no matter how often she tried.

“Just come up to the cottage for the long weekend. There’ll be a bunch of people there, it’ll be really casual.”

Beneath the shade of a blue, white and gold Corona umbrella, Sherry sat across from Miranda, taking dainty sips from her margarita. One tanned leg swung over the other, a pink flip flop dangled from fuchsia toes.

Miranda gulped her Guinness, flicked her tongue across the foam on her lip. She didn’t think she could muster the energy to wear a happy face for three days straight. However, the thought of a weekend of sun and surf was more than a little appealing. She hadn’t had a vacation in almost a year. She’d thrown herself into a new job after the separation and was enjoying the hard work, but she knew it was time for a break.

“Who’s going?”

Sherry grinned. “Matt will be there.”

“I already told you I don’t want you to set me up.” Miranda had heard enough about Matt to know he’d be a tantalizing diversion, but she didn’t want the complication.

“I know,” said Sherry, “but there’ll be other people there. You don’t even have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

Miranda sipped her beer. “Fine. I’ll go, but I’m not bunking with your brother-in-law. I don’t even know him.”

Sherry’s gaze was intent on something behind Miranda. “That’s about to change.”

“Ladies!” Sherry’s husband, Walter, grinned at them. He turned to Miranda. “This is my brother Matt.”

Miranda glowered at Sherry, mouthed bitch, before she turned to Matt.

“Hey.”

Matt smiled and dropped into the seat next to her.

“Are you as pissed at Sherry as I am?”

Miranda’s lips curled up. “Probably more.”

Matt nodded. “I hear ya.” He signalled the server. “Two pints of Guinness. Want another one?” He pointed at Miranda’s empty glass. When she shook her head, he raised two fingers. The server nodded and walked away.

Matt twisted in his chair to face Miranda, threw an arm over the back rest. “I say we just tell her to piss off.”

Miranda laughed. She was starting to like this guy. His chocolate eyes pulled her in, closed off everything around them. Her body hummed and she was certain he’d scratch very well.

That was seven weeks ago. Seven weeks of movies, dinner, dancing and sex. Pretty good sex, too. God she felt limber.

Matt sat in the passenger seat and played with the stereo, while Miranda drove. They agreed her car was more practical to drive than his pickup. Not to mention, much more comfortable. Walter and Sherry followed behind them. After spending every weekend at the cottage this summer, locking down for the winter was disheartening. Thick steaks and a couple of cases of beer were nestled in the trunk; an end-of-season celebration to dispel the gloom.

Matt reached into the back seat and came back with a joint.

“Don’t light that in my car.”

“Come on, babe. It never bothered you before.”

“I don’t care that you smoke, just don’t do it in my car.”

Matt shrugged and tucked the stick behind his ear. “We’re almost there anyway.”

When they arrived, they made quick work of unloading the cars. After dumping the suitcases in the assigned bedrooms, Matt and Walter were sent out to the veranda to start the barbeque.

The night sky was clear and the full moon glowed like a beacon. Beer flowed and the sweet smell of cannabis hung in the air. It was well past midnight when everyone said goodnight.

Miranda turned down the bed and changed into an oversized t-shirt. Matt stripped down to nothing and crawled under the covers. He reached over and pulled Miranda close.

“Pot always makes me horny.”

“I know it does, but Sherry and Walt are in the next room and these walls are paper thin.”

Matt nuzzled into her neck. “Then you’ll have to be quiet.”

Miranda chuckled. “No. We’ll have to wait until we’re home.”

“I don’t think so.”

Matt pulled her against him, his erection stabbing her leg. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him back.

“I’m serious. I can’t. Not tonight.”

Matt leered. “Come on babe.” His words slurred as he spoke. “Just a quickie. I promise it won’t take long.”

“Oh, that’s charming.”

“Come on, you know what I mean. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Forget it, Matt. I can’t do it when I know they can hear us next door. They can probably hear us right now.”

“Who cares.” He rolled over on top of her, kneed her legs apart. “Just let me slip it in for a minute.”

Panic washed over her. She knew he was much stronger couldn’t fight him off for long.

“Please, Matt. Don’t do this.”

“Try and stop me.” He pinned her down, yanked her shirt up and cupped her breast, squeezed until she cried out in pain.

Miranda stilled. Her mind flew back to that haunting moment with Darryl and, for half a second, she contemplated laying still. Just let him use me and get it over with.

As quickly as she thought it, something surged through her. She couldn’t say if it was anger or fear. Perhaps it was pride. Power coursed through her and she shoved at him, throwing him off. She leapt off the bed, shoved down the t-shirt to cover her bare bottom.

“Don’t ever do that again.” She was surprised her voice didn’t waver.

Miranda pulled on her discarded jeans, slipped on her shoes. She tossed her bra and panties into her duffel bag, thankful she hadn’t unpacked.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.” She knew this was her chance to break the cycle. She wasn’t going to let someone else dominate her. Never again.

“Come on, babe. Don’t be like that.” Matt rolled off the bed and came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and cupped her breasts. He pressed himself against her, rubbed his cock against her ass. She shivered, repulsed by his hardness.

Miranda whirled around, pulled her arm back and let her fist fly into his cheek. Matt staggered back, his hands on his face. She ignored the pain that radiated through her hand and up her arm.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

“You haven’t seen crazy yet.”

Miranda hoisted the bag over her shoulder, snatched her keys from the dresser and stormed out of the cottage, not bothering to close the door behind her. She yanked open the car door, tossed the bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel.

Clutch. Key. First gear. Her tires spit gravel as she peeled out of the driveway.

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Silent but Deadly

2011-03-09T09:24:00.012-05:00

Today's muse: Stony River

Susan Carleton, at Stony River, is not having a good day. Not only is she living through a snow blizzard and ice storm, but the proverbial straw sent everything crashing when the power went off. Poor thing! We're all thinking of you, Susan!

The up side (at least for all us Microfiction Monday Junkies) is that Susan posts the picture she'll use the next week. Today's prompt is from her post of last week.

The prompt for Microfiction Monday #73:

* * *

Silent but Deadly

Both deaf and anosmic, photographer, Jeremiah Walsh, was unaware his subjects’ stern looks were a direct result of his heavy fibre diet.

The Originals

2011-03-03T18:54:00.002-05:00

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *

The Originals

Cloudless, pure as water, the azure sky is so beautiful, I find it difficult to draw breath beyond my heart which has, somehow, relocated to my throat. Or perhaps that is my soul.

“How can anyone look at that and not believe in some form of über being?”

Beside me, my lover nods. “I know.”

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be god. It can be whatever you choose to believe in.”

Adam turns his whiskey-coloured eyes to mine.

“You think there’s someone else, other than god?”

I shrug. “Who knows, right? There could be. It’s not like we’ve really seen him, you know. We just keep hearing his voice.”

Adam ponders this a moment, his guilty eyes darting upwards to the clear sky.

“I don’t know, Eve. I mean, if you don’t believe in god…”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe in god. I’m just saying that not everyone has to believe in THE god. What if we’re wrong? We could be wrong, you know. There could be someone else who’s really god and we’re being tricked.”

I have an epiphany and role over on my side to face Adam, my head propped on my hand.

“Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a whole bunch of them, all hanging out up there…” I jerk my thumb to the sky…“and it’s like some huge corporation with a president and a bunch of vice-presidents and some office managers.”

Adam squints at me. I know he thinks I’m crazy, but what if I’m right?

“Well…” Adam draws out the word as he ponders my theory. “If—and I’m not saying I agree—but if that voice we keep hearing isn’t god, then who is it?”

I shrug, fall back on my back, let the sun caress my naked skin.

“I don’t know, Adam.”

Then, from high above us, we hear it. The Voice.

“Pssst.”

We look up, squinting against the sun that sparkles through the leaves.

Since I can remember, I have heard The Voice. Its ethereal timber is soothing. The Voice talks to me, guides me, asks me to follow. I have unwavering faith as to its owner. I know only god can give me such peace.

“It’s him,” Adam whispers.

“I know it’s him,” I hiss back.

“Pssst.”

Adam arches an eyebrow at me. I return a subtle nod. Adam clears his throat.

“Yes?”

The Voice responds: “Have you guys tried this fruit?”

Null and Void

2011-03-02T18:23:00.005-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: affinity, fidget, mention.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Null and Void

The one-bedroom apartment wasn’t large, particularly when you compared it to the sprawling four-bedroom house she had with Gregg. But the cozy unit was hers.

Hers and Pedro’s.

As Miranda sat at the kitchen table, piecing together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, Pedro wound his lean body around her legs, pawing at her knee on every third rotation.

“You want to come up, don’t you?”

As though he understood, Pedro plopped his bottom down and sat very proper, raising one paw in a gesture of friendship. Or perhaps it was pleading.

“Now how can I resist that?”

Miranda picked up the grey tabby and set him on her lap. He immediately settled in, resting a paw on the table. Pedro moved his head back and forth, analyzing the puzzle, assessing all the pieces. After a moment, he reached up and swatted at a piece.

“This one?” Miranda picked up the piece, squinted at the grey, red and purple kaleidoscope of colour stamped on it. She looked over at the box cover, her eyes scanning the picture—a country cottage front porch, with wicker chairs, baskets of flowers and a tea set.

The tea set. It had a floral pattern on it and—would you look at that—Pedro’s piece fit.

“Good eye, buddy. Why don’t you stay up here and help me.”

The shrill cry of the portable phone sent Pedro leaping from her lap. Miranda was smiling as she answered.

Her lips turned down a moment later.

“This is Anna Giuseppe from the Archdiocese. I have an application for marital annulment from your husband, Gregg.”

Miranda fidgeted on the padded dining room chair that had suddenly become as unforgiving as a church pew. “And what do you want from me?”

“The Archdiocese wants to hear your side.”

“I see.”

“You were married on…” Miranda heard pages flipping. “Oh my. Less than a year.”

“Yes.”

Miranda heard the challenge in her own voice, but couldn’t stop it. Anna Giuseppe could be as smug as she wanted, but that shrivelled up old bat had no idea the difference a marriage certificate made, how much that flimsy piece of paper had changed everything. Miranda’s signature had barely dried before Gregg’s affinity for psychological torture rose to the surface like foul pond scum.

Anna gave a small, fake cough. “Your husband has cited grounds for the request.”

Miranda hated that Gregg was still called her husband. He wasn’t her husband anymore. Was he ever? Did a ten-month marriage even qualify him for that title?

“And what are the grounds?” It surprised her that he’d confessed. Then again, she imagined he’d be quite proud at how he’d tamed the little missus, beating her into submission with demeaning words.

“It says here…” more flipping of pages “…that you were emotionally unprepared for marriage.”

“Excuse me?” Not his abuse, she realized, but rather her own tormented life was grounds for pardon by the church.

“Your husband stated that due to childhood trauma, you were unprepared for a marital commitment.”

Miranda fought against the ringing in her ears, the pressure in her lungs. That fucking asshole had taken her words of confession, words that tore her soul apart, and hurled them back at her like daggers.

“Did he describe my childhood?”

“He did.” Anna Giuseppe flipped more pages and read, her voice cold and mechanical. “Incest. Rape. Abuse.” Her voice was so matter-of-fact that Miranda was surprised she didn’t end the list with ‘blah, blah, blah’.

With an odd feeling of calm, Miranda leaned back against the wooden chair, her eyes wandering over the half-made puzzle. “It sounds like you have all the evidence you need. Why are you calling me?”

“The Archdiocese would like confirmation of these allegations.”

Miranda was willing to bet the old crone only wanted some juicy gossip to share with her friends over coffee.

“Will the annulment be completed without my testimony?”

“Yes it will. But the Archdiocese still needs…”

“I don’t think the Archdiocese needs anything from me.” Miranda leaned forward as she spied a puzzle piece she’d been searching for. She picked it up and set it in place with a few taps. She’d been looking for that one for a while.

“You and I both know,” Miranda continued, “that the Archdiocese has already determined who is at fault in this matter and since it’s an old boys’ club, I’m guessing it’s not me.”

“Well,” sputtered Anna, “I don’t know that…”

“That’s just it, isn’t it, Mrs. Giuseppe? You don’t know. And if you’re lucky, you never will. When you gossip about this to all your friends after Mass on Sunday, be sure to tell them how lucky they are as well.”

Anna Giuseppe had the grace to sound chastised. “The Church can help you, Miranda.”

“The Church’s meddling is why we’re having this conversation, Mrs. Giuseppe. You have already pointed out that the annulment will be processed without my testimony. Gregg can have the Church’s blessing. He doesn’t need mine.”

“In order for you to marry in the Catholic Church again, you must consent to the annulment.”

Miranda laughed at that. Laughed until she cried. “I can assure you, Mrs. Giuseppe, that I won’t be getting married in the Catholic Church again.”

There was an audible gasp on the other end of the line. “Well, then, I thank you for your time.”

At the sound of the dial tone, Miranda pressed the end-of-call button.

“Don’t mention it.”

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

The Shoemaker's Children

2011-02-28T10:00:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Stony River

The prompt for Microfiction Monday #72:

* * *

The Shoemaker's Children

Video data, demonstrating the antics of rogue faeries, provided ample evidence to acquit the Shoemaker on charges of negligence.

The Bench

2011-02-24T13:13:00.005-05:00

Today's muse: One Word

Today's word: Bench

* * *

The Bench

Near the water fountain, in the west end of the park, children laughed and frolicked while puppies gambolled and yipped.

The young couple resting on the park bench didn’t move.

Stretched out across the wooden seat, she lay with her head on his lap, her eyes staring up at him, a mischievous smile on her lips. Though slack, his left arm lay across her shoulders in a protective hold; his right arm extended across the back rest.

“A shame,” said Bill. “They look happy.”

Frank nodded. “Damn shame.”

As he wandered over to the bench, unwrapping a new roll of yellow tape, Bill called over his shoulder.

“Better call the coroner.”

The Echos

2011-02-20T23:01:00.004-05:00

Today's muse: Stony River

The prompt for Microfiction Monday #71:

* * *

The Echos

Though she tried with all her might, the deafening echo of her stomping feet couldn’t drown the voices that ruled in her mind.

Full Disclosure

2011-02-18T09:57:00.010-05:00

Today's muse:

Miranda's story continues. If you haven't been following along, you may want to start at the beginning.

* * *

Full Disclosure

The marriage classes were a joke. They’d been living together for over two years. Did the church really think they were still virgins? It was all Miranda could do to keep from laughing at some of the questions the other couples asked. How does someone reach their mid-twenties and still remain so naive?

She had to remind herself that just because she’d never enjoyed the luxury of innocence, didn’t mean that others hadn’t.

At the back of the small room, she fidgeted on the hard plastic chair, her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t want to take the stupid classes, but Gregg insisted they marry in the Catholic church, so she played along. She drew the line at going to confession the week before the wedding. She’d already been down that path and wasn’t about to travel it again. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she could confess directly to the source.

Whispered conversations halted as the guest speaker entered the cramped room. A bald, paunched man stood before them and announced his lecture.

“We’ll be talking about divorce today.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. She’d spent the last four weeks listening to discussions on communication between spouses, insight on raising children within the parameters of the church and—the best one, she thought—a lecture on the Rhythm Method of birth control with a distinct undercurrent of abstinence. And now they wanted to tell us how to pack it all in, she thought. Fucking hypocrites.

Gregg took her hand as they walked back to the car after class. He cupped her ass as he reached around to open the door. She grinned, knowing the outcome of that subtle gesture. For some obscure reason, the marriage classes were the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Gregg had barely set the lock on the front door of the house before Miranda was pawing at him, tugging off his shirt, undoing his jeans. He spun her around, pressed her against the door, trailed moist kisses across her throat. Heat shot through her and she clung to him.

“Upstairs. Now.” The words panted out, barely audible.

They raced up the stairs, tugging at clothing, and stumbled into the bedroom. She fell back on the bed, her hair splayed out, skirt hiked up her thighs. He hovered over her, the gleam in his eyes a mixture of love and desire.

“I can’t get enough of you.”

He bent down, pressed his lips against hers. Soft, at first, then more urgent, demanding. He clasped her hands, their fingers interlocked, and pulled her arms over her head, pressed her into the mattress.

He nuzzled her neck. “I want you.”

She wasn’t with him anymore. In that instant, when he thrust her hands up and stole the power from her, she snapped back to fifteen, with Darryl, who forced, took and broke. She couldn’t see Gregg at all, she could only see Darryl, whose face then morphed into her grandfather’s, his wrinkled face leering and laughing, alcohol-sodden breath washing over her.

“Off!” She shoved at Gregg. “Get off me!”

“What the fuck?!” Gregg rolled off the bed, hiked up his jeans, leaving them undone. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, Rand!”

Miranda pushed her skirt down, wrapped her open blouse across her chest and curled up on the bed. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her face into the duvet, fought for composure but it wouldn’t come. She’d never had a flashback before, at least not during sex.

“You’re sorry? Sorry?! You can’t just stop it like that.”

No, she thought, she couldn’t stop it. Never could. Never would. She was a fool to think otherwise.

“I have to tell you something.” Curled into a tight ball, staring at the pile of decorative pillows at the head of the bed, she told Gregg everything. Drained of all emotion, her voice raspy, she was surprised to feel better having let it all out. She remembered one of the guest speakers at the marriage class had said communication was paramount, that it would be their salvation. He was right. She could move forward now, knowing she had someone to lean on.

After a long silence, Gregg finally spoke. “I can’t deal with this right now.” Miranda closed her eyes as the bedroom door clicked shut.

Later, she’d wonder whether she would have bared her soul if she knew he’d twist it against her.

Miranda's story continues...

In a Blink

2011-02-17T11:58:00.002-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: blink, kind, occasion

* * *

In a Blink

Kind and tender—gentle to a fault—it always took her by surprise when, on occasion, he would morph in a blink, release the demon hidden deep within.

Just a Kiss

2011-02-16T09:34:00.013-05:00

Today's muse:

Miranda's story continues. If you haven't been following along, you may want to start at the beginning.

* * *

Just a Kiss

The coffee table was littered with cashews, potato chips and two bottles of wine—one empty. An oblong ceramic platter displayed three different cheeses and an assortment of crackers. Actors mimed their scenes on the muted television.

Gathered with her two best friends for one last bash as a single woman, Miranda sat cross-legged on the floor in Wendy’s apartment, her hands cupped around a glass of chardonnay. Her long dark curls were pulled back with an elastic, away from the green masque now smeared over her face.

“A week today,” said Wendy, sprawled on the sofa, her own face smothered in an oatmeal paste, cucumber slices on her eyelids. She balanced a bowl on her stomach from which she selected Cheezies, popping them blindly in her mouth with unerring accuracy.

“Then it’s all over.” Sandra blew on her wet nails, waved them to dry. Having opted for the Camomile facial, they all agreed she looked like a cheery sunburst.

Miranda laughed at her friends. “Marriage doesn’t mean it’s over.” She sipped her wine, let it dance over her tongue.

“I hear that love-making is non-existent after.” Wendy popped another Cheezie into her mouth.

Sandra made an affirmative noise as she sipped her wine. “It’s true. Love-making goes out the window.”

“Well then,” said Miranda, “I guess we’re safe. We don’t make love.”

Sandra choked back her wine. Wendy sat up, sending cucumber slices to the floor.

“What?!”

Miranda shrugged. “We don’t make love.”

“You’re twenty-three years old. You’ve been living with Gregg for over two years. And you’ve never made love?” Wendy looked over at Sandra who only shrugged.

“We fuck like rabbits, we just don’t make love.”

Sandra hooted with laughter. Wendy fell back onto the sofa, threw a Cheezie at Miranda. “You had me going there for a minute. I mean, how can you sleep in the same bed with Gregg and not make love.”

“I told you,” said Miranda, topping up her glass of wine. “We don’t make love.”

Sandra blew at her nails, waved off this minor detail. “Making love. Screwing. Same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

Maybe the wine was getting to her, but there was one thing Miranda knew: sex had absolutely nothing to do with love. After everything she’d suffered through, struggling with the darkness to reach the light, she’d been shoved back into the vortex by the first man she’d trusted. Her grandfather may not have crossed that line, but Darryl made sure he broke through it, shattered it beyond repair. It took ages to breach the surface, to breath again. Oxygen manifested in the form of Gregg. And because she could trust him, she would marry him.

Wendy sensed something in her friend’s voice. Setting aside the bowl, she sat up and picked the cucumber slices off the floor, stacked them neatly on a cocktail napkin.

“How can you say that? You’re getting married. You can’t have sex without love.”

Miranda shrugged. “The two are mutually exclusive for me. I can’t—won’t—have sex with someone I don’t trust. I mean, you’re naked for god’s sake. You’re pretty vulnerable. But the act itself? It’s purely physical. A way to release pressure. There’s no love involved.”

She popped a cashew in her mouth. An awkward silence filled the room. Wendy sipped her wine.

“Is it good? I mean, are you satisfied?”

Miranda grinned. “Honey, there are days I can’t wipe the smile off my face.”

They laughed then, talking over one another, the fallout of Miranda’s bomb drifting away; though the mushroom cloud hovered around her.

As her friends chatted about the wedding and exchanged Hollywood gossip, Miranda sipped her wine and wondered if Gregg could feel the gap between them, the distance she maintained. Did he even notice she couldn’t kiss him when they fucked?

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Catharsis

2011-02-15T22:56:00.002-05:00

Memories spewed like vomit, oozed from pores she thought she’d clogged so long ago. But rather than break the fever, the words only festered into puss-filled boils.

“You have to break some time,” she muttered, pressing the angry red lumps. “You just have to.”

The Assignment

2011-02-10T17:53:00.016-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: dare, essence, practical.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.
And now, it continues...

* * *

The Assignment

At the front of the classroom, wearing his practical Mr.-Rogers-cardigan-with-the-corduroy-elbow-patches, Deacon Phillips lectured the class.

“Senior year,” he promised, “will be different.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. Notorious for questioning just about everything her religion teacher preached, she was already convinced that the Catholic curriculum in this final year of high school would be the same as the last four: propaganda meant to put the fear of God in the hearts and loins of young adults.

Thing was, once the devil took you, your loins never quivered again—in fear, or otherwise.

Deacon Phillips turned to the chalk board and scrawled one word in his looping penmanship.

Explore.

A hum rippled through the classroom. A few heads turned, eyebrows raised in silent question. No one spoke.

“Explore.” Deacon Phillips waved his hand at the board. “Explore what?"

He walked to the front of his desk and leaned back, tucked his hands in his trouser pockets.

“What do you want to explore, Angela?”

In the front row, Angela Giovanni twitched in her seat, blushed a deep crimson. “Sir?”

“What do you want to know? What do you need to know to make it in the real world?”

In the back row, in the farthest corner, Miranda uncrossed her arms and leaned forward on her desk. This was getting interesting.

“You’re all of age now,” said Deacon Phillips. “You’re adults. You need to be treated like adults, not kids. Adults have grown-up conversations about grown-up things. In-depth discussions that explore opinions and feelings. So this year, in this class, we’re going to explore.” He underlined the word on the board with three violent slashes. “In essence, we’re going to talk about whatever you want.”

A few students snickered. Dean Phillips stared them down, then pointed at John Walsh.

“What do you want to talk about, John?”

John had the good grace to hang his head and stare at his desk in silence.

“Come on, people. I know you talk. You talk all the time. I hear what you say. You may not think I do, but I hear everything. I don’t judge. You’re entitled to think and feel what you want.”

He paced across the front of the class, met each and every pair of eyes. He seemed to hold Miranda’s for an eternity, daring her to speak. It was as though he could read her thoughts. No one wanted to talk about the same thing as her, she was pretty damn sure about that.

Walking back towards his desk, the Deacon stopped in the centre of the front row.

“What about you, Angela? What do you want to talk about?”

Angela was dumbstruck and only shook her head.

“What about sex? Do you want to talk about sex?” He waved his arms to encompass the group. “Does anyone in the class want to talk about sex?”

It didn’t seem possible, but Angela’s blush deepened three shades and she let out a high-pitched squeak. At the back of the class, Miranda dug her nails into her clenched hands with such force, it wouldn’t have surprised her to see blood ooze between her fingers.

Despite Deacon Phillip’s astounding question, the classroom was silent; except for the quiet humming of the fluorescent lights.

“How many of you use condoms?”

Not surprising, no one moved. Who the hell was going to admit that in a Catholic high school, and to a deacon, no less?

The Deacon sighed, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Alright. Let me start over.” He sat back against his desk, crossed his ankles. “We’re going to be talking about really personal things this year. Important stuff. You have to trust each other to keep it confidential. You’ll also be learning a lot. You can share what you learn with others, but no one repeats information using names.” He paused a moment. “We agree—every single one of us, including me—that we don’t repeat anything personal.”

A few heads nodded.

“When we talk about how to use condoms, how to put them on, you don’t go and laugh about how so-and-so didn’t know how to. You didn’t always know how to either.”

There was absolute silence in the classroom. Even the lights seemed to stop humming.

“There is no grade given for religion in your final year, but you’re required to take it and we’re required to teach it. So we try to make it interesting.” Deacon Phillips glanced at the black and white wall clock. “This class will have but one assignment this year. Over the next two weeks, I want you to pick a topic you want to explore. You will have all year to work on this. If you want to present it to the class, you will be given that opportunity. If you want to hand it in to me to review, I’m happy to look at it. In theory, you don’t even need to complete this assignment.” He shrugged. “I won’t know if you’ve done it. But you will.”

He paused, allowed everyone to digest that.

“Explore who you are, ladies and gentlemen. Explore who you once were, who you are now and who you want to be. Hopefully, you’ll figure out a way to get there.”

The bell rang then. There was a moment’s pause before everyone gathered their books and filed out of the room. There wasn’t the usual cacophony of voices or the mad exodus. It was a sombre group leaving church after a funeral service, everyone absorbed in their private thoughts.

Deacon Phillips scribbled a few notes in his ledger, tucked folders into his briefcase. When he glanced up, he saw Miranda sitting at her desk, in the far corner of the room.

“Miranda? Did you want to speak with me?”

Nodding, she threw her bag over her shoulder, and wound her way through the desks to the front of the class.

“I know what I want to explore.” As soon as he announced the assignment, she knew. Somehow she knew it would help with the nightmares.

“You don’t have to decide for another two weeks.”

Miranda nodded again. “But I already know. I need…I want to explore this.”

Deacon Phillips sat back and waited. Miranda hugged her bag against her like a life preserver, took a deep breath.

“Incest.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move a muscle. His pupils didn’t even dilate.

“Good choice. Let me know if you need any help.”

His tone was dismissive, almost indifferent. Perhaps that’s what Miranda needed. Not the pitying look or the empty platitudes, but acceptance, plain and simple. She turned to leave the classroom, her mind already pondering French class.

“Miranda.”

She stopped at the door, her hand on the chrome handle. She didn’t turn, but waited for him to speak.

“I hope it helps.”

Yeah, she thought, me too.

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Reports

2011-01-27T15:16:00.004-05:00

Today's muse: One Word, So Little Time

Today's word: Reports

* * *

Reports

His last letter was so joyful, filled with anticipation, sheer excitement to hold the child he’d yet to meet; but the paper she held in her hand—that trembled in her grief—confirmed he never would.

Not Forgotten

2011-01-26T11:45:00.007-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: conniption, janky, scooch.

I know that ThomG meant to challenge us, and I struggled with 'janky' (gave him grief for it on Twitter), but I hope that my use of his prompts doesn't sound forced.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.
And now, it continues, with a flashback to the beginning...

* * *

Not Forgotten

In a darkened classroom of St. Phillip’s Elementary School, Miranda crouched on the cold terrazzo floor, her arms wrapped around her knees.

The other teenagers participating in the church-sponsored retreat, all of them strangers, were off in other classrooms, now designated as living room, dining room and den—their makeshift home for the duration of the weekend. Laughing voices carried through the halls as everyone exchanged tales of their recent outing: a visit to the local nursing home to bring cheer to the elderly.

For Miranda, it was something of a breakthrough.

Pressed into the darkest corner, she let the tears stream down her face. She couldn’t fight them, didn’t have the energy. The memories she’d somehow suppressed all these years pummelled her, swirled in a Technicolor strobe effect. She slammed her back into the classroom wall, over and over, as though she could jar the memories out of her, make them stop. God, she just wanted to make them stop.

That’s how Jason found her. Huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth.

At first, he thought she was having some sort of conniption, perhaps an epilepsy attack. Then he heard the crooning, a sort of soft keening.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.”

She just kept chanting it over and over, her voice janky as she slammed into the wall with each word.

Moving on instinct, he slipped into the room and slid down to the floor beside her. He would have put his arm around her to soothe, but she scooched away from him, seemed to withdraw even more. So, he sat with her in the dark. In silence. Mirroring her pose, Jason hooked his arms around his legs, pressed his head into his knees and rocked in sync with her.

First, the crooning subsided, then the rocking stopped. Soon, the only sound from her was the occasional sniffle and grunt as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Miranda rested her cheek against her knees, her large brown eyes staring.

“I hadn’t remembered any of that…any of it…until now.” She squeezed her eyes shut. A tear leaked down her cheek.

He had no clue what she was talking about, only knew she needed to get it out. “The mind is a powerful thing. Sometimes it shuts out what you can’t process until you’re ready.” He’d read that somewhere in his psych class.

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re probably a lot stronger than you think. Wanna tell me what happened?”

He took it as a good sign that she unfolded herself then, stretched out her legs, though she kept her arms hugged around her body. She gazed up at the ceiling.

“He grabbed my ass.”

“Who?”

“One of the old guys at the nursing home. He was going to play cards with some of the other folks and I helped him put on his sweater. He thanked me by grabbing my ass.” Her voice caught. “He squeezed it and gave it a little shake.”

Jason was silent. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he knew there was more. Somehow, he knew there was more.

“It’s what my grandfather did to me. Until I was twelve. I don’t know how, but I’d forgotten all of that, all these years. I’m fifteen and I buried it somewhere deep inside all this time. Kept it locked away until…until that old man put his hands on me.”

She let out a huff, allowed the vignette of horrors to simply wash over her. “It started when I was four. We were alone. He took my hand and rubbed it against his…”

She made a vague gesture and Jason nodded his understanding. He wouldn’t make her say it.

“It was warm and hard and wet. I ran away, hid in my room and cried. But I never told my mom.” She shook her head in wonder, amazed by that. “I think I thought she wouldn’t believe me.”

Miranda took in a shaky breath. Jason sat beside her in silence, never touching her. His presence seemed to comfort, give her strength to purge.

“Every time my grandparents visited, or we’d visit them, he’d arrange it somehow so that we’d be alone. It was worse every time. My entire childhood was shredded. And I’d forgotten that. All of it.”

Her moist, sad eyes slid over to his and held him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget again.”

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

The Basement

2011-01-25T16:57:00.002-05:00

Today's muse: One Word, So Little Time

Today's word: basement.

* * *

Basement

The closet is where most people keep theirs, but Andrea hides hers in the basement; problem is, it's getting pretty rancid down there.

Eternity

2011-01-24T09:51:00.011-05:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's muse: Eternity.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here. And now, it continues...

* * *

Eternity

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

It wasn’t her sin, but Miranda didn’t know what else to do. She knew God had all the answers; faith was not something she lacked.

“What is it, my child?” Father Andrew prompted her when she hesitated.

Even her parents didn’t know. She couldn’t tell them. Wouldn’t. It would destroy the family. She could live with the memories that haunted her dreams, but there was a small matter that pulled at her.

“Father.” Miranda closed her eyes, prayed for strength. “Father, when bad people die, are they forgiven no matter what they did?”

“If a person repents—is truly sorry for their sins—then, yes, they are forgiven and will join our Lord in Heaven.”

Miranda nodded in the darkness of the confessional. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“What if they did something that is unforgiveable?”

“Miranda, what have you done that is so unforgiveable?”

She wasn’t surprised when Father Andrew addressed her by name. There were no secrets in a small town. Well, very few.

“It’s not me, Father. It’s…someone I know. He made me…he did bad things. Very bad things.”

Father Andrew was silent, his silhouette a blur behind the mesh partition. The thin padding on the kneeler offered little support and Miranda’s knees began to ache.

Father Andrew coughed. “Forgiveness must come, not only from God, Miranda, but must come from us.”

“I don’t understand, Father.”

“You must forgive as well.”

She must forgive? She must forgive the sins of the one who destroyed her childhood, who forever changed how she viewed relationships, shattered her ability to trust a man—be with a man?

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Fingers of ice crept over her heart, the pulsing beat slowed, life-giving fluid all but stopped.

“God will forgive if He is asked for forgiveness. It is those who cannot forgive who will face eternal damnation.”

“What?!” Miranda was outraged. “Are you telling me that because I cannot forgive my grandfather for destroying my life, that I’m the one who’s going to hell? And that slime is going to be welcomed into Heaven with open arms?”

“Miranda, the church teaches us that forgiveness is most blessed. In forgiving, we receive the Holy Spirit.”

“The church teaches this?! The church!” Miranda’s voice was shrill. “Fuck the church, Father. The God I believe in would not treat me like that.”

To his credit, Father Andrew didn’t flinch at the vulgarity. He merely shrugged his indifference.

“That is how it is, Miranda. If you do not forgive, it is you who will be damned for eternity. No one else. Only you.”

She opened her mouth, clamped it shut again. The tiny cubicle smelled like wet hay. She stared through the partition at Father Andrew’s blurred profile, his head bowed in prayer. Or was it shame? He should be shamed, she thought. How could he believe that bullshit?

“I want you to pass on a message, Father.” Miranda’s voice was soft.

Father Andrew’s silhouette leaned closer.

“Tell your god I’m leaving his church. The God I know wouldn’t try to sell this crap.”

Without looking back, she left the confessional and walked out of the church.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Good Ol' Reg

2011-01-21T16:16:00.008-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: descent, kill, surreal

* * *

Good Ol' Reg

The soft scent of carnations and roses tangled with the antiseptic stench that clung to his body. Miranda stared down at her grandfather, his hands casually folded, as though he waited for an elevator. The undertaker had arranged Reginald Porter’s left hand over the right, concealing the stubs of two fingers hacked off by a lawnmower blade back in seventy-two.

Miranda’s mother, Laura, dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “He looks good, doesn’t he?”

Yeah, Miranda thought, he sure does. He looks damn good dead.

Reg wore the only decent suit he owned: shit-brown polyester, paired with a wide-collar peach shirt and a paisley salmon tie. It smelled like mothballs.

The whole thing was surreal, Miranda thought. She’d prayed for this day since she was four—killed him many times over in her fantasies—and it was finally here. Family and friends mingled in the visitation suite, laughed and swapped stories about Good Ol’ Reg. What the fuck was so good about him? They talked about him like he was a goddamned hero. She knew the truth, though. Reg was no hero. He was a villain; a sociopath who fed on stolen innocence.

“It just won’t be the same without him.” Laura squeezed her daughter’s arm and wandered away, sniffing delicately into a balled up tissue.

No it won’t, thought Miranda. There’d be no more empty bottles hidden in the garage. She wouldn’t feel his breath against her ear, smell the stench of alcohol and chewing tobacco, shudder as his calloused hands groped and prodded.

It was all over now. Except for her nightly descent into the black abyss of memories.

That, she knew, would never end.

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

School Girl

2011-01-07T13:58:00.008-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: plausible, taint, willingly
(and I even used them in that order!)

* * *

School Girl

Sneaking out of St. Augustine’s School for Girls was not only plausible, she thought, it would be a walk in the park. Well, a walk across the manicured lawn, two-lane country road, then up the limestone lane to Father Henry’s Academy.

Rhonda swiped lip gloss over pouty lips, puckered a kiss at her reflection. Stepping back from the full-length mirror, she undid one more button of her crisp white blouse, exposing a hint of the leopard-print bra beneath. The hem of her navy skirt hung several inches above her knees, revealing well-toned legs. Years on the swim team had served her well.

She debated wearing the baby-girl cotton panties that Jason had asked her to wear, but knew he wouldn’t mind that she’d decided to go commando instead. It would be much easier. She didn’t want to waste time with a languid prelude fumbling with clothes. Tonight, she wanted hard and fast.

Rhonda knew it was ridiculous to risk the danger for a tryst with someone she could never be with. Not in public, anyway; it would taint her unblemished reputation. It was worth it, she thought. Need coiled through her, bringing a flush to her cheeks. Jason was so unlike her other suitors; he was attentive, nubile and—damn!—he had stamina.

He had approached her at the coffee shop, shuffling over to where she sat alone, tucked in a dark corner. Rhonda could see he was nervous and knew his friends would tease him about it later. Yet there he was, stuttering a little, the tips of his ears reddening. Her heart flopped at that moment and she cursed it for yearning for the one thing she couldn’t have. It was the same every time.

Someone of her stature couldn’t be seen with the likes of him. She had convinced herself that what she was doing wasn’t wrong. He’d come willingly to her bed, and he was, she told herself over and over, a student at another school. Their relationship didn’t breach protocol at either institution. Technically.

Still, she mused, if the Headmaster found out she was banging the students at Father Henry’s—tutoring them in valuable life lessons—he’d likely ask for her resignation as Professor of French Literature at St. Augustine's.

Silent Night

2010-12-22T09:41:00.002-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: educate, object, silence

* * *

Silent Night

The object of the conference was to educate the family members, explain the options available and potential outcome of the treatment; but the bleak future Dr. Fischer projected was met with complete silence.

The Utter Truth

2010-12-15T14:01:00.004-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: dabble, lean, utter

* * *

The Utter Truth

The brick was cold and rough against her back, but she pressed against it. Cheryl thought of it as penance, figured she deserved it. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, cursed her utter failure at that first dabble in love.

She thought Craig meant it when he’d used those words, whispered them in her ear, his breath hot against her neck. His voice, soft and hypnotic, sedated her nerves. After the initial jolt of pain, he took her flying, soaring with her through the night. After, she'd floated home, Craig’s murmured promises dancing in her heart.

Then Andrea called.

Cheryl could hardly breath as she listened to her best friend tell her that Craig’s buddies had laughed while he told them what a lame fuck she was, how he had to show her what to do.

She dropped the receiver; it bounced across the linoleum kitchen floor, ear to mouth to ear. She tore through the penthouse as Andrea’s voice dopplered out.

Cheryl squeezed her eyes against the memory, slammed her fist into the jagged brick, felt blood trickle down her fingers. She wiped it against her t-shirt, leaving a crimson skid mark across her chest.

“No one will notice,” she thought, as she leaned over the narrow ledge.

Poetic Justice

2010-12-14T22:59:00.010-05:00

Today's muse:

I was watching t.v. last night, my laptop balanced on my knees, and this idea drifted into my head.

* * *

Poetic Justice

Charlie dug through the wet soil in a fevered rage, spittle flying from his mouth.

“She actually had the nerve to say no. To deny me the pleasure I deserve.” A feral growl rumbled in his throat. “I’ll show her!”

He’d waited until she lay down in the living room with a glass of wine and a movie, before he skulked off to the bedroom. Methodical, he checked the walk-in closet, poking between dresses and pants. He peered behind the flowered chaise in the corner, even under the bureau. He found what he was looking for under the bed.

A pair of black Christian Louboutin shoes. Jackpot!

She’d come home from the vacation in Paris gushing about the shoes, raving about how slimming the ankle strap was. She’d preened in front of the mirror, twisting her foot one way then the other, checking out the look from every angle.

“What do you think?” she’d asked him. He admitted they did look good. He may have drooled a little.

But when he’d inched forward to get a closer look, she’d slapped him away.

“No, Charlie!”

What was the big deal? They were just shoes. She said they were expensive, but what did he care? If they were that precious, she shouldn’t have left them under the bed.

He lunged for the left shoe, tore off the ankle strap in one violent movement.

“Oh yeah, that felt good.”

He heard a noise from the living room and cocked his head, waiting for her footsteps down the hall. When he heard nothing, he continued with the systematic destruction of the sacred shoes. Satisfied that he’d inflicted enough damage, he thought it prudent that he hide the evidence. If she couldn’t find them, she couldn’t blame him. He carried the shoes down the hall, nudged open the back door and stepped out to the yard, where he dug the shallow grave.

Now, sitting at the edge of the pit, panting a bit, he dropped the mangled pair of red-soled shoes.

“Charlie?”

Oh shit.

“Charlie? Where are you?”

He whipped around, his eyes darting about, looking for a place to hide.

“There you are. What are you…”

He was sure she snarled. It was impressive, really. He didn’t think she had it in her. She looked down into the pit at her mangled shoes, the sexy ankle strap chewed beyond recognition except for the silver buckle.

She whirled on him, teeth bared, eyes boring into him. For the first time since he’d come to live with her, Charlie was scared. Something told him that a sloppy wet kiss wasn’t going to fix this one.

“Bad dog, Charlie! Bad Dog!”

The Christmas Decoration

2010-12-13T12:01:00.011-05:00

Today's muse: The One-Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Decoration. Write about a holiday decoration that holds particular meaning for you.

Note: The Christmas Decoration is based on fact. I did make a macaroni picture frame in Grade One. Mrs. Van Dyke spray painted it gold, attached a ribbon to the back, then told us to give it to our parents to hang on the tree. My mom hung my picture in the dining room where everyone could see it. I still have the picture frame somewhere, though many of the noodles have fallen off.

* * *

The Christmas Decoration (aka The Macaroni Lisa)

Rebecca fidgeted a little as she handed her mother the Christmas present. Folded and re-folded many times, the colourful wrapping was torn in several places, held together with numerous pieces of tape.

“I made it just for you, mommy.”

Rebecca held out the dismal parcel, as though it were a priceless Faberge egg, her face glowing with pride and just a little anxiety. Tricia took the parcel from her daughter’s hand.

“For me?”

Rebecca blushed, clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her feet.

With great care, Tricia pried open the gift, exposing the black and white picture of Becca she’d taken last week. Becca had posed like a little lady, sitting on the living room coffee table, her skirt fanned out about her legs, ankles crossed, hands held primly in her lap. Her angelic face held a serene smile that disguised the frog-chasing tomboy beneath.

“It’s lovely, sweetheart!”

So this was why the teacher wanted pictures of the kids and a supply of raw pasta.

Rebecca peered over the picture. “See the frame?”

“I do. It’s beautiful, Becca. You made this all by yourself?”

Rebecca nodded, grinning with pride. “I glued all the macaronis on one by one.” Rebecca poked at the raw noodles arranged in an intricate design. At the top of the oval cardboard frame was a farfalle noodle, just a little off-centre. A bright red ribbon was looped at the back for hanging.

“Mrs. Jenkins spray painted everyone’s frame gold. She wouldn’t let us use the spray paint.” It was clear that Rebecca was more than a little disappointed with that. “Then Mason licked his glue stick and he barfed all over the floor. It was gross.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Boys are stupid.”

Tricia bit her lip to keep from smiling. It wouldn’t be prudent to agree with such sage wisdom, nor did she think she needed to reprimand Rebecca for using the ‘S’ word at that moment.

“Are you gonna hang it on the tree?” Rebecca’s eyes were hopeful.

Tricia pursed her lips, thinking. Then she shook her head.

“I don’t think so, honey,” said Tricia, careful to maintain a straight face. “Becca, the tree is already decorated, and I don’t think that this picture really goes with the other decorations.”

Rebecca’s bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she nodded as though she understood, though it was clear she didn’t. Tricia cupped her hand beneath Rebecca’s chin and lifted her face so their eyes met.

“This picture…” Tricia turned the macaroni frame to face her daughter; Rebecca’s eyes darted over, then back to meet her mother’s. “This picture is too special to hang on some crummy old Christmas tree. This picture deserves a place of honour.”

Still not sure what that meant, Rebecca stood motionless as her mother crossed the room. Tricia removed the intricate wooden frame that hung over the corner table and replaced it with Rebecca’s macaroni picture.

Rebecca slipped her hand into her mother’s grasp and, as one, they stepped back to admire the art.

Not Waving but Drowning

2010-12-12T22:38:00.005-05:00

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Not waving but drowning

* * *

Not Waving but Drowning

“Hey, Mandy!”

Amanda looked up from her laptop into Jake’s smiling face. His grin brought out the dimple in his left cheek, made his dark eyes laugh.

“Hey, Jake.” She closed the computer in an effortless move and picked up her latte, careful to keep her expression blank.

“I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d stop in and grab a coffee.”

Amanda nodded. “Coffee’s good here.”

“Yeah, listen...” Awkward, Jake shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering...” Wondering what? he thought. Whether you were dating someone? If you’d forgive me for being such a jackass? If you’d take me back? Jesus, this was a lot harder than he’d imagined.

“Jake...”

He held up his hand. “No, wait. Let me say this. I know I screwed up. And I can’t change it, but I want to make it better. I need to make it right. Just...just give me a chance.”

It was all she wanted to hear, everything she’d fantasized about for months. God she missed him. And more than anything, she wanted to forgive him.

Amanda cupped her hands around the cardboard cup, twisted it around and around, let the warmth seep through her.

“Jake...” She shook her head. She didn’t know what to say.

Jake nodded. “I understand.”

Without another word, he left the cafe; the bell above the door jingled merrily. He stood on the sidewalk a moment, watching the traffic, then turned and looked back through the picture window. He met Amanda’s gaze, misery clouding his eyes.

Amanda raised a hand to stop him, ready to run out and throw herself at him, take everything back and start over.

Jake waved back at her, turned around and walked away.

“I wasn’t waving, asshole,” she muttered, “I was drowning.”

Midsummer Night

2010-12-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Carry on with Shakespeare's A Midsummer Nights Dream, "The course of true love never did run smooth".

* * *

Midsummer Night

The course of true love never did run smooth. Of course it didn’t, he thought, the goddamned road was always under construction. Crawford Mitchell guided his pickup along the deserted highway. Virgin pavement, smoothed only hours ago, spread before him, crooked a finger in seduction. He could hear it chant, telling him to drive farther, faster, harder.

It was nothing to move a few cones and ease the truck through. They didn’t even have some potbellied security moron watching the place.

“Idiots.”

The new bypass was scheduled to be opened next week at an elaborate ribbon cutting ceremony where the Mayor, Town Council and other flaccid dignitaries would gather to clap backs and shake weak hands.

“Dickheads.”

Crawford jabbed the volume control. Bass pulsed out of the radio, pummelled his chest. It made him feel alive. He dropped the accelerator and the truck rocketed across the deserted highway. He maintained the frenzied pace for several miles, then knocked it down, readied for the turn off south. The Shaldon exit was as far as they paved, though they were careful to spew empty promises of extending the pass to Millerton.

“Whatever.”

It didn’t really matter; Shaldon was far enough. As Crawford approached the exit, he glanced at the rear view mirror, comforted by the blackness behind him. He blew by Shaldon and slowed the pickup down so he could rock over the divide between pavement and gravel, manoeuvre around the dead end sign, and skid to a stop about two hundred yards beyond the pavement end.

He climbed out, wandered to the back and dropped the tailgate. He tore open the case of beer, selected a long neck, twisted the cap, let the spit and hiss release the tension he’d carried the last few months. After a long pull, he swiped his forearm across his mouth then walked back to the front of the truck, over to the dark gap illuminated by the headlights.

He dangled the half-full bottle between his knuckles, leaned over to peer down the crevice. As he thrust his free hand into his front pocket, he estimated the width, figured it was enough. He took another pull from the bottle, tipped his head back and emptied it down his throat. After a half glance behind him (you couldn’t be too sure, right?), he dropped the bottle down the fault.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Clunk.

“Sweet.”

Crawford looked around, took in the rolls of sod, the mounds of earth and smiled as a plan formed in his mind. Beautification of the city was important, wasn’t it? The Mayor was always shooting his mouth off about it. He’d give him beautification alright.

Crawford wandered to the back of the pickup, reached in and pulled out a spade. He’d smooth out some earth, roll out some sod. Shit, maybe he’d plant some god dammed flowers. No, he thought, a tree. A fucking tree.

Pleased with his plan, he reached into the truck bed, hooked a meaty hand around the delicate, limp wrist and pulled Fiona to the edge of the tailgate. He ran his hands over her golden hair, across her delicate jaw, trailed his fingers across her cold lips. God she had an amazing mouth.

He yanked Fiona out of the bed, let her flop onto the cold, hard ground. Hoisting the spade over his shoulder, he grabbed her arm and dragged her to the crevice, whistling quietly. He let her slump at the edge of the opening, spiked the shovel into the dirt, then gave her an annoyed shove with his foot.

One…Two…thunk.

“Bitch.”

Crawford shovelled dirt into the gaping maw, whistling louder now, while he contemplated details for the layout of the sod.

Blind Judgement

2010-12-08T10:35:00.007-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: judge, nightfall, safety

* * *

Blind Judgement

Through the picture window behind her, the crimson burst of nightfall glowed like a halo; a mythic contrast to the vixen before him.

Head held high, raven curls cascading down her back, she challenged him with her stare. Legs apart, a hand cocked on her leather-clad hip, she flicked her tongue across ruby lips and snapped the whip. The gunshot crack had him hard in an instant.

He couldn't judge, at that moment, whether he’d actually use the safety word.

Stone Burden

2010-12-07T11:53:00.009-05:00

Today's muse: Stony River

Micro Monday #60:

* * *

Stone Burden

Leaves flutter and birds croon but she hears none of it; she only stares at the granite and knows it’s too heavy to bear.

Contrition

2010-12-06T22:49:00.008-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: demise, effort, revival

* * *

Contrition

“Today’s offerings are very generous.”

Brother Andrew sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his elbows resting on the arms of the vintage chair, fingers steepled, resting against his lips. His blue eyes travelled along the long line of wicker baskets that brimmed with folded bills. It humbled him to witness the endless faith of his congregation.

“Brother Phillip.” Andrew addressed the man at the opposite end of the table.

“Yes, sir.”

“See that the day care on Miller Street receives the funding they need to upgrade their playground.” Phillip scribbled notes in his book.

“Brother Marcus,” Andrew continued.

“Sir?”

“Despite their efforts, it seems that Riverton Public School has failed to raise the necessary funds to update their gymnasium.” A sad murmur rippled through the group of men around the table.

Brother Andrew raised his hands bringing immediate silence. “See that they are looked after, won’t you?”

Brother Marcus nodded.

“Are there other matters to address?” Brother Andrew scanned the faces around the table. His gaze held nothing but care, an earnest desire to open his arms to the community he served.

“Sir?” A tentative voice spoke up.

He smiled. “Yes, Brother Walter?” Andrew’s deep, melodic voice put Walter at ease.

“The hospital, sir, it…”

Andrew raised his hand and Walter stopped, certain he had misspoke.

“My apologies, Brother Walter.” It was clear that Andrew was contrite, indeed remorseful. “I forgot that we agreed at our last meeting to assist with the expansion of the neo-natal wing.” Relieved, Brother Walter let out the breath he held.

“In fact,” Andrew continued, “with your financial background, perhaps it would be prudent for you to supervise this project.” Andrew stared up at the ceiling, as though contemplating this decision. “Yes. Yes, I think that would suit everyone.” He turned to Walter and smiled. “I have complete faith in you, Brother Walter.”

Flushed with pride, Walter grinned as the other Collectors offered their congratulations.

“Well then,” said Brother Andrew, tapping his hands on the table. “I think that brings our meeting to an end.”

In unison, every head around the table bowed, hands clasped in prayer.

“We offer our thanks, Lord,” said Andrew, his deep voice filling the room, soothing the loyal men who prayed with him. “We do only Your bidding, carry out the work You ask us to do. We serve in Your name.”

“In Your name,” echoed the voices around the table.

Chairs scraped the floor and voices boomed. As was the custom at the end of Sunday meetings, formalities were dropped and the banter was casual. There was discussion on lawn maintenance and golf tips. And, always, there was praise for Brother Andrew and the Tabernacle’s movement.

“Ask Sister Rebecca to come in,” Andrew called out, as the Collectors filed out of the room. “I need to dictate a letter to the Board of Directors and advise them of our prosperity.” The last man, a thin, aged soul, bowed his acknowledgement as he closed the door behind him.

Brother Andrew closed his eyes and smiled. The higher powers would be pleased that The Saviour’s Revival Tabernacle was doing so well. The community it supported flourished under his spiritual guidance. Perhaps it was time to pass the leadership to another—Brother Phillip would be a good choice—and move on to lead another flock.

Sister Rebecca entered the chamber. She wore the traditional blue robe of women in the congregation, her long hair pulled back in a demure knot. She sat at his right, her note pad balanced on her lap, pen poised for dictation.

“I’m ready, sir.” Sister Rebecca let the robe fall off her shoulders to expose the delicate chemise beneath.

As he bent his head to suckle on the pink nub straining beneath the thin silk, Brother Andrew dismissed the fleeting thought that this might mean the end of his church; not to mention the demise of his soul.

Happy Again

2010-11-18T12:55:00.002-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: clutch, delight, happy

* * *

Happy Again

The look on her face was raw delight as she snatched the solitaire from my hand and thrust it onto her third finger. She twisted her hand in the air, bouncing refracted colors off the living room wall. She laughed—a high-pitched squeal—then took my face in her hands and pressed a noisy kiss on my mouth.

“Yes!” she shouted, dancing around the sofa. “Yes! Yes!”

I thought my heart would burst.

Now, facing the stained glass windows, hushed voices behind me, my tuxedo compresses, squeezes air from my lungs. Misgivings rush at me in fast-forward; a Charlie Chaplin film of what my life will be, highlighting all the reasons this is a mistake. But I don’t have the balls to stop it. My heart pounds, chases sweat down my back. My bowels liquefy. I thrust my sweaty hand into my pocket, searching for a handkerchief to mop my face. Or hide it.

There is frantic movement in the pews behind me as a vicious game of Broken Telephone ripples through the crowd. At once, the voices are silent.

My best man clamps a hand on my shoulder. His voice breaks. “Hey, man…”

I shake my head. This is a happy moment and I don’t want him to mar it. I clutch the crumpled piece of paper in my pocket where my linen handkerchief should be. I don’t have to read it—I know what it says.

It makes me smile.

By Chocolate

2010-11-12T13:51:00.007-05:00

Today's muse:

I'm ashamed to say I can't remember where this prompt came from. I know the word was (or had something to do with) Chocolate, but I can't remember where I found it. If you recognize the prompt, please let me know where it came from and I'll add a link to that site.

Though, I suppose, it would qualify for The Daily Writing Practice's prompt of "falling back". But I know that's not what it was. Sorry, Marc.

Update:

Thanks to Heather who reminded me that the prompt came from The One Minute Writer. In fact, as you'll see from my response below, I first found the prompt while browsing Heather's site.

* * *

By Chocolate

The Mixing Station towered eight stories above the warehouse floor. Measuring twenty by thirty feet, the floor of the platform was covered in anti-static rubber to protect the sensitive equipment that controlled the operations at Chocolate Bliss.

Alone, high above the main floor, Abigail Bedford went about her work, unsupervised. Not that she needed anyone telling her what to do. She'd been doing her job for more than forty years and could do it in her sleep, if she had to. Not that she'd sleep on the job, of course. She hadn't become Senior Chocolate Supervisor by sitting on her laurels, no sir.

Tired of listening to her pleas, Abigail’s father took her to work when she was only eleven, thinking that the tedious work of sweeping the floors at Chocolate Bliss, would soon show her that the hard life of a factory worker was something she could wait for, even avoid. Instead, from the moment she walked into the building, Abigail was mesmerized.

“There are fifty-two vats of chocolate,” Mr. Bedford explained as they walked between the enormous vats. “Each one measures three stories high and two hundred feet in diameter.”

Abigail tilted her head back to follow the dozens of ladders propped against each vat; ancient wooden rods that stretched all the way to the top. Factory workers, clad in faded and patched overalls, climbed the rickety rungs, boulders of cocoa balanced on their shoulders.

“When they get to the top,” Mr. Bedford said, “they drop the cocoa into the vat where it boils and melts.” Abigail watched a man, high above her, struggle to hoist an enormous chunk of cocoa over the ledge. It landed with a loud splash that echoed throughout the warehouse. As the day wore on, and the level of melted chocolate rose, Abigail noted the workers were sprayed with scalding chocolate, leaving angry red blisters on their faces and arms. Even at that young age, Abigail knew the position of Climber was perilous. By the time she was thirteen—old enough to climb the ladders herself—she had witnessed eight deaths.

Oddly, the high mortality rate didn’t seem to hinder moral at the factory. Queues of hopeful workers snaked for several blocks whenever the factory posted a notice for hire. The salary that Chocolate Bliss paid their employees far outweighed what came be to known as the inevitable end. In turn, loyal employees worked hard, increasing production year after year when other businesses around them failed. Indeed, Chocolate Bliss had survived two World Wars, The Great Depression and several recessions, its revenue growing exponentially every decade.

Now, decades later, Abigail had seen overall-clad workers replaced with chromed robots, supervised by a handful of human employees in crisp white lab coats. Though revenue was not what it was in the early years, Chocolate Bliss continued to be a major player on the stock exchange. Several past presidents had rung the opening bell; the current president, Reginald Bliss IV, honoured with the task just last week.

One of the monitors beeped an alarm and Abigail glanced at the message box open on the screen. Core temperature dropping. Not the least bit alarmed, Abigail made her way over to the computer, tapped in a few codes and made some adjustments. The computer made a satisfying beep and Abigail smiled. She adjusted her hair net and wandered back to the small overhang that jutted out from the high platform. The Lookout, as everyone called it, was directly over the one enormous vat of chocolate that had replaced the fifty or so smaller vats that once lined the warehouse. Large chunks of cocoa rolled down a chute to rest beside Abigail. She pressed a button that released the mechanism to eject the chocolate into the melted liquid below, where it landed with a loud splash. Chocolate geysered up a few inches shy of the Lookout.

Years ago, the smaller vats were filled by the end of each work day; emptied at night by the midnight crew. Now, the lone vat was filled to brimming every six months; emptied with a simple click of a button.

“Almost time,” Abigail thought, as she glanced at the gold watch on her wrist, presented to her several months ago at her retirement party, where Mr. Bliss gave a touching speech before sending her on a two-month European cruise. Her colleagues cheered, some cried.

“Don’t be sad,” Abigail repeated over and over to her friends as she hugged them. “It’s been wonderful working here and I couldn’t have asked for a more satisfying career. Bliss Chocolate has taken good care of me and my family and I couldn’t ask for more.”

Her peers nodded in understanding, for they all benefited from the company’s generosity.

Abigail checked the monitors one more time. Lines bounced across the screens and she made a few last-minute adjustments before stepping onto The Lookout. She gazed over the vast warehouse at her colleagues going about their duties; small white specks so far below her. A bell sounded somewhere in the distance and the tiny dots stopped moving. She thought she’d be afraid; instead, she was quite calm. As the bell sounded once more, Abigail turned around, her back to the edge of The Lookout. She could hear her understudy climbing the rungs to the platform, ready to take over the helm. Satisfied that everything was in order, Abigail closed her eyes, spread her arms out like wings and fell back.

She plummeted from The Lookout, landing with a soft splash into the warm chocolate. The core temperature had dropped enough that it wasn’t uncomfortable. Indeed, it was warm and comforting, like a hug, she thought. As the chocolate swallowed her, filled her ears and nose, Abigail’s only thoughts were of joy and peace.

In the executive offices, Reginald Bliss IV glanced at his computer. Reports were coming in from the Exchange, confirming another stellar year. Reg leaned back in his custom leather chair, folded his hands behind his head and smiled. The gods were once more appeased.

On the warehouse floor, the white dots resumed their work.

Buttered Popcorn

2010-11-09T08:56:00.003-05:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: abrupt, kernel, wield

* * *

Buttered Popcorn

Silence, abrupt and final, shrouds the tiny apartment as the last seed explodes. Lured by the bewitching aroma, Brenda wanders into the galley kitchen to find Evan (or did he say it was Ethan?) standing at the counter, wearing nothing but an imitation Rolex.

He pours the tiny cloud puffs into a clear bowl, snatches the few that scamper away. Brenda sneaks up behind him, presses against his back, trails her tongue across the eagle tattoo on his left shoulder. He murmurs his assent as she reaches around, delighted to find him ready. He presses a popped kernel into her mouth, muttering incoherent promises.

His prowess doesn’t quite have the effect he expected. Brenda wields the heavy corn popper high in the air and brings it down in a lethal blow.

“I said no butter.”

Into the Forest

2010-11-08T21:21:00.011-05:00

I found a new muse: Microfiction Monday over at Stony River.

Every Monday, Susan Carleton posts a photograph or illustration as our muse to write a 140 character short. Perfect for Twitter, I might add.

I realize the photo speaks to bunnies and kittens, but I'm in a dark place right now and my mind wandered to more lethal things.

Microfiction Monday #56:

* * *

Into the Forest

Eyes squeezed shut, hands clamped over her tiny ears, she cowers in the shadows of the forest and prays the screams don’t find her.

Annual Sacrifice

2010-10-31T23:05:00.005-04:00

Today's muse: What else would it be today?

* * *

Annual Sacrifice

Black and orange candles, etched with protective symbols, flickered throughout the house. Crouched in the corner of the front hall, her arms wrapped around her knees, Sandra rocked back and forth, chanting incoherently.

Darkness approached and with it, she knew, would come the same creatures who terrorized her home before. Threatened with violence if she offered no sacrifice, she proffered what she had, but it was never enough. Each terrifying monster was replaced with another and another and another, until she had no more to give.

Sandra’s head snapped up as the front porch creaked. Footsteps came closer and closer, then a vicious pounding on the front door. She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her hands over her ears to block out the demanding voices that shouted their threat.

“Trick or treat!”

Cause and Effect

2010-10-28T11:11:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words (well, the words from October 6, at least):
hint, lust, sheen

* * *

Cause and Effect

With the slightest hint, he could convey lust and desire; make her body tremble with a thin sheen of anticipation.

Just Messin' Around

2010-10-27T19:20:00.013-04:00

Today's muse: I’m more than a little disturbed by the increasing incidents of bullying.

Be forewarned: This is a dark piece and not for everyone.

* * *

Just Messin' Around

I killed Gerry Dodds.

Not with my own hands, o’ course, but I killed him. Gerry Dodds was this snot-nosed little shit who did nothin’ but whine and cry. Jesus, he pissed me off! He pissed everyone off.

Me and CeeCee, we was down by the ball diamond, hunched behind the bleachers, smokin’ a couple, when Dodds walks by. He’s got this humungous backpack and he keeps his head down cuz he knows if he makes eye contact, one of us is gonna slam him. So he keeps walkin’ by, like we’re not even there. It’s not like he don’t see us cuz CeeCee’s a pretty big guy and he kinda stands out, ya know?

“Hey!” CeeCee yells.

Gerry jumps about three fuckin’ feet in the air and I swear he shit himself. He looks over at us, then runs for it. I look at CeeCee. He looks at me. And we both shrug. Why the hell not, right? So we run after Dodds. It doesn’t take long before we catch up to him and shove him against the fence.

“Why the hell did you run?” CeeCee asks him.

Dodds is cryin’ and he’s got snot runnin’ all down his face. I roll my eyes and smack him. “Don’t be such a pussy,” I say.

I yank his backpack from him and dump it on the ground. There’s a bunch of books on math and shit and a few bills. I grab the bills and shove them in my pocket.

“Bring some more tomorrow.” I plant a solid right into his stomach and he doubles over and yacks on the sidewalk. CeeCee laughs like I just told the best god-dammed joke, and we walk away.

The whole school year went by pretty much like that. We smacked Dodds around a bit and he gave us money. No big deal really. I mean, we wasn’t gonna hurt him or nothin’, just mess around with him, ya know? Stupid fuck went and hanged himself anyway. I guess Dodds didn’t get that we was just messin’ around.

Mama Said

2010-10-15T11:29:00.011-04:00

Today's muse:

This was originally the prologue to the book I'm writing. I decided, instead, to use it later in the book as a flashback. Or, perhaps, I won't use it all. The book is still evolving. It is edited for the blog and won't likely be recognizable in the book, but I thought I'd put it out there and get some feedback.

* * *

Mama Said

“Run and hide,” Mama said, whenever he got this angry. So Erica crouched in the corner behind her mother’s tattered, second-hand dresses, pressed her hands against her tiny ears to silence the yelling. She knew he’d punish her if he found her.

It wasn’t unusual to hear them shout, but it was different this time. He was in a rage like she had never seen before. His deep voice, slurred with alcohol, shouted threats while Mama pleaded for him to leave.

Erica pressed her thin frame further into the corner, hugged her legs to her chest and rocked. She heard him throw things around the room and shout bad words. Something shattered—perhaps a glass—followed by a high scream. Then nothing but silence.

She held her breath and waited. There was quiet movement in the room—someone was moving things, straightening up. She knew it was Mama making a useless attempt at making their home seem normal. Erica crept from the corner to help.

The closet door squeaked as it eased open. He turned, his red-rimmed eyes wide in surprise. An enormous hulking man, he towered over her, a faded plaid shirt stretched over his belly. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of beer and stale cigarettes. A low growl vibrated in his throat as he lumbered over.

Erica’s eyes darted around the room in desperate search of Mama. At the edge of the bed, she caught the faded fabric of a familiar dress and followed the trail of flowered material until she saw Mama’s face.

A pool of blood stained the matted carpet around Mama’s hair. She met Erica’s stare and blinked, the effort clouding her eyes with pain. A crimson bubble formed at her mouth as she spoke. It was the last thing Erica remembered from that night.

“Run and hide,” Mama said.

Nightfall

2010-09-26T18:32:00.003-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday
Today's three words: gait, nudge, ripen

To add to the challenge, I went with a Twitter format and wrote a one sentence story.

* * *

Nightfall

As night falls and the full moon ripens, his gait moves from stride to limp, nudging his manly form into canine

Dinosaur

2010-09-24T14:50:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: The One-Minute Writer
Prompt: Write a brief bit of fiction using the prompt, "Dinosaur."

* * *

Dinosaur

Heavy breathing brushes the back of my neck and the tiny hairs stand upright in a fight or flight stance. A low growl rumbles from the terrifying creature behind me, but I don’t turn around. I tremble in fear; make squeaking noises, too frightened to scream.

The growling becomes louder and I know he will pounce at any moment. I must attack before he does, so I dig deep for courage, whirl around and throw my arms around his torso.

Four-year-old Nathan squeals in delight and we roll on the kitchen floor while Nathan growls through his giggles and I plead for my life through mine.

Help

2010-09-23T18:23:00.006-04:00

Today's muse: One Word
Today's word: Help

* * *

Help

“Hepp,” he says as he taps his left foot on the floor, his arms spread out like a giant T for balance. I look down and see Matthew’s undone shoelace laying limp on his tiny sneaker.

“Hepp!” he says again, this time with much more authority, impatient to get on with whatever important two-year-old task he has abandoned. I bite my lip to hide my smile and bend down to tie up the rogue lace.

“We need to work on your pronunciation,” I say, as he places a hand on each side of my head to steady himself.

When I finish tying his shoe, he presses a firm kiss on my cheek and whispers “yub yoo” then dashes off, no longer worried about tripping.

Clean

2010-09-22T12:10:00.010-04:00

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings
Today's word: Clean

* * *

Clean

Water, scalding hot, formed billowing clouds as it sluiced over her. Amanda stood with her hands against the tiled wall, her head bowed beneath the torrent, blonde hair drooped like string. Her skin, red and raw from scrubbing, bled in some places, but that was from him. The bruising was coming up, too, she noted.

She closed her eyes to avoid the angry, purple marks shaped, unmistakeably, like fingers; but when she did, all she could see was his face looming before her, feel the tearing and burning as he—

She dropped to her knees and retched.

Writescape Seminar - Active Voice Part 2

2010-09-22T08:00:00.000-04:00

Today's muse: Write to Win seminar with Ruth E. Walker and Dorothea Helms

Prompt: As I mentioned previously, the exercise was writing using active voice.

* * *

Fighting Dirty

Mickey fights real dirty, but like a girl. He pulls my hair and gouges with his vulture fingernails, leaving tiny, red crescent moons on my arms. The last time we went at it, he sank his teeth into my leg. It doesn’t really look like a bite scar cuz Mickey only had six teeth at the time. I tried telling on him, but Mom just rolled her eyes and wagged a finger in my face.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she said, “if you just shared the chocolate chip cookies with your baby brother.”

Swan Song

2010-09-21T08:31:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: Spook's Scribblings
Today's word: Song

* * *

Swan Song

Angela’s voice, melodic and clear, drifted through the quiet room. A tradition since Joshua was born, she looked forward to their evening ritual when she sang to him until his eyes fluttered and he faded off to sleep. Dressed in his race car footies, his plump face serene, he seemed to sleep now. She wanted to hear him laugh, tiny bubbles bursting from his gummed mouth. Instead, she comforted herself by singing to him one more time, knowing he had drifted away hours ago. She wondered if he could hear her from the clouds above and hoped, if nothing else, he would remember her swan song.

Writescape Seminar - Active Voice Part 1

2010-09-20T08:00:00.004-04:00

Today's muse: Write to Win seminar with Ruth E. Walker and Dorothea Helms

Prompt: Write using an active voice, beginning with "The rain poured down...".

This was a good exercise for me, as I tend to write in a passive voice. The other prompt was "Mickey fights real dirty", which I will use in a future piece. But for now ...

* * *

Rain

The rain poured down in fat drops, plopped onto the front step in almighty splashes. She fumbled with the key, spouted colourful words punctuated with kicks to the door. Raven hair, curled with such care this morning, now hung like burnt spaghetti in her eyes.

She’d kill him for locking her out like this.

Writescape Seminar - Show Don't Tell

2010-09-19T21:06:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Write to Win seminar with Ruth E. Walker and Dorothea Helms

Prompt: Write about an inanimate object in the room; show, don't tell.

* * *

Time

Round and bright, it shouts out its message to anyone who will turn to look, though no one does. Everyone is determined to ignore it. Long, black arms wave for attention, but remain immobile. Or so it seems.

At times, she thinks, they seem to spin round and round like a vortex, flashing numbers just to trip her concentration.

The Pebble

2010-09-15T21:55:00.007-04:00

Today's muse: Spook's Scribblings
Today's word: Pebble

* * *

The Pebble

Nathan selected a small, flat stone and, after hefting it in his hand to gauge its weight, sent it skimming across Middleton’s Pond. It skipped once, twice, three times, then did a belly flop, sending rings echoing across the water.

Footsteps approached from behind and he scanned the ground around him, just to be sure; it would be most embarrassing if anything was left behind. A tiny crimson drop caught his eye (the last one, Nathan was sure) and he bent low to pick up the pebble that had caught it. As the policemen approached, he sent it flying through the air with a casual thrust, as though he’d been whiling away the time for hours, just skipping rocks.

Well, he supposed, that was what he'd been doing—sort of.

Downhill Thrills

2010-09-06T17:00:00.009-04:00

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's three words: break, negative, surface

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Downhill Thrills

“See you at the bottom, turd!” Jamie shouted to his friend, Alan, before jumping onto his bike and roaring down the steep hill. He caught vignettes of scenery as they flashed by his peripheral vision: Alan’s dog racing beside him, Susan Vickerson waving at him from her front lawn, the construction sign that warned of large potholes ahead.

That last scene didn’t register fast enough and Jamie’s front tire dipped into the crater, bringing the back end up and catapulting him over the handlebars.

On the surface, spending the entire summer holidays with a leg bound in plaster sucked big time and put an enormous checkmark in the negative column. But Susan Vickerson came to visit him every day, bringing homemade brownies and rocking with him on the front porch swing well past sunset.

Jamie knew for certain that breaking his leg was worth it, just to taste that first kiss.

The Notebook

2010-08-27T12:40:00.002-04:00

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice
Today's prompt: Notebook

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The Notebook

The moment Nathan picked it up, he knew someone had been through it. Not because the seven rubber bands intricately wrapped around the leather-bound book were out of place—they weren’t. Each one was exactly where Nathan had placed it; wrapped around the length or width, straight or diagonal, based on the colour and thickness of each band.

It was the smell that gave it away. The weathered notebook was shrouded in it. That foul, pedestrian stench of oil and sweat that wrapped around his father and seeped into his pores, infested the old man’s soul. It was the smell of the common worker, something that mortified Nathan. He was above that lifestyle, knew that he was meant for better things. He was meant to run factories, not work in them. He would build empires and have hundreds of people working for him. If he could just get out of this goddamned town.

It wasn’t that he hated his father. Hell, he respected him! With nothing more than a grade eight education, John Wilkins had managed to crawl from the mire of poverty and build a respectable middle class life for his wife and son. The one thing John boasted of (to anyone who would listen) was the small fortune he managed to squander so he could send his son, Nathan, to school.

“My boy is going to university!” he would brag to his friends. Cause for celebration, indeed, as no one else in his family had finish high school.

John was mindful of telling his son how proud he was, always telling Nathan that he could do whatever he set his mind to; that marching to the top of the summit, eyes set on the future, was what he was meant to do.

Nathan looked down at the weathered notebook in his hand, the bands wrapped around it like a rainbow fortress. In it were detailed plans for his future: lists of people who would help him achieve his goal, dates of events for which the timing was crucial. Plans he’d shared with no one, for they wouldn’t understand.

Plans his father had read.

At first, Nathan was terrified. What if his father didn’t approve? After all, it wasn’t what they’d talked about. But, somehow, Nathan knew his father would support him. Was it not every parent’s dream to see their child surpass them? Year after year, Nathan watched his father come home, exhausted after a double shift, and drop on the living room sofa; layers of grime embedded beneath his fingernails that didn’t wash out, no matter how many times he scrubbed. All to see his only child succeed.

Now the old man knew. After reading Nathan’s notes, he knew that success was inevitable. Nathan smiled then, thought of how proud his father must be. With fierce determination, Nathan vowed he wouldn’t let his father down. He loved the old man so damned much. Too bad, really, that he’d have to kill him.