Security Guard

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.

The Mirror

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 Notebook

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice
Today's prompt: Notebook

* * *

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.

Garlic

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice
Today's prompt: Garlic. Marc even said we'd get bonus points for writing something without vampires. Not easy for a Buffy fan!

* * *

Garlic

“It needs more garlic.”

“I don’t think so,” said Andrea, taking the wooden spoon from John.

“Nonna’s sauce has more garlic,” he insisted.

He peered over her shoulder as she stirred the thick red mixture. The scent was intoxicating. Fresh plum tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, Spanish onions and, of course, garlic, bubbled together in an erotic dance.

John pulled his wife’s hair back, exposing the slender column of her neck, pressed a kiss just below her ear. Andrea slapped at him and made a half-hearted attempt to shove him away.

“Stop it! Your family is going to be here soon and I have to finish the sauce.”

“The sauce is fine. Just add more garlic.”

“It doesn’t need more garlic!”

“I’ve been eating my grandmother’s sauce since I can remember. Trust me—it needs more garlic.”

Andrea slammed the spoon down on the counter. Red specks dotted the pristine backsplash. She whirled on him.

“Am I a bad cook?”

“What?” Shit, this was one of those questions with no right answer. “Of course you’re a good cook.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a vain attempt to sooth. She shrugged him off and turned back to the stove as the doorbell rang.

From the kitchen, she listened as his family came in, their voices raised in greeting. She pictured the confusion at the door while cheeks were kissed and hands were shook. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked to the entrance to greet her in-laws. John’s grandmother stood in the centre of the fray. Barely five feet tall, she had a stocky build that spoke of confidence and strength. There was no question she was the head of the family.

Nonna held out her arms in a warm greeting and Andrea moved forward to accept the embrace, immediately soothed by the warmth.

“Come inside,” said Andrea, leading them to the living room. Once she was satisfied that everyone was comfortable and had a drink, she excused herself to check on dinner. Moments later, John was at her side.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. She shrugged her shoulder, not yet ready to forgive him.

“I’m not your grandmother,” she said, trying to control her anger. She didn’t want to argue in front of his family. “I can cook just as well as she can. Maybe my sauce doesn’t taste the same, but it’s mine. And it’s good. Damn good!” She stabbed a thumb into her chest and John captured her hand, bringing it up to kiss it, knowing he risked a jab with an angry fist.

“I never said you weren’t a good cook. I only pointed out that the sauce could use a little more garlic.” He cut off her retort with a kiss, pouring himself into it, tangling his hands in her curls. Breathless, she pulled back.

“That’s not an apology,” she said, arranging her hair, though she admitted it was a good start.

“How’s this?” He cupped her face and as his head dipped down, Andrea caught a flash over his shoulder.

“That’s enough now.” Nonna batted at John’s arm, shooing both of them away. Andrea reddened, mortified that the family matriarch had caught them making out. Nonna plucked up the wooden spoon, dipped it into the pot and tasted. She gave an approving nod.

“You take your wife away and make friends again,” she said, dismissing them with a wave.

John tugged Andrea across the kitchen, prepared to give her a proper apology in the foyer, away from prying family eyes. They looked back as Nonna began to peel and chop a number of garlic bulbs. Andrea glanced up at John who made a brave attempt at fixing a blank look on his face.

“It needed more garlic,” he said.

“Shut up.”

One Last Time

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Today's prompt ... Four lines of prose about: one last time

* * *

One Last Time

“This probably isn’t a good idea,” he said, as he nudged the door open and let me squeeze by him into the empty foyer.

I knew it wasn’t, but this was our first home—we moved in the day we were married—and we had raised a family here. As my hand brushed the etchings behind the pantry door that marked the height of each child on every birthday until they were thirteen, a tear trickled down my cheek.

“I just wanted to see it one last time.”

Accident ~ a haiku

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

It's Two Haiku Tuesday at DWP. Today's prompt: Accidents.


* * *


some say accident
but you, my lovely daughter
were a nice surprise



~


a mistake you say
yet you continue to strike
sorry’s not enough

The Robin

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

I was delighted when I saw Marc's prompt was The Robin. Spring is my favourite time of year and I'm so excited when I see my first robin. It's like a message from the gods: "Fear not, child, the sun cometh."

* * *


The Robin


The delicate balance of day and night shifts,
ever so gently.

The light shall now defeat the darkness
and conquer the moon.

Glorious fire shall reign
and all will praise its power.

And The Robin shall herald its return.

Renovations

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Renovations

Staring at the blue prints, I try to imagine his vision.

“It’s too boxy here,” he says, with a vague wave. “This all needs to come out.” He swishes his hand in a sweeping motion, as though this small gesture will magically fix everything.

I nod. He’s probably right, though I don’t think it’s possible. Isn’t some of that structural?

“And here,” he taps the paper. “We could add something here, just for aesthetics.” He makes a few marks with his pen. “See?”

“I just don’t know,” I say, not sure I want to commit to such an extensive overhaul.

I squint, trying to visualize what he’s trying to tell me.

“Is this all really necessary?” I don’t want to offend him. After all, he is the professional in this scenario.

He raises an eyebrow as if to say, Of course it is.

I back off, raise a hand to signal a truce.

“When I’m done,” he assures me, “you will wonder how you lived with it before.” He sees my hesitation. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

I sigh. “Alright.”

And shake hands with my plastic surgeon.

Grass Stains

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Four lines of prose.

* * *


Grass Stains

The guys at school were relentless, teasing him about the stains on his knees, though he tried night after night to wash them out. They made crass gestures as he walked by—thrusting motions with their hands at their mouths—often accompanied with obscene sucking noises. He kept his head high as he walked by them, his face carefully blank, void of emotion. They don’t understand, he whispered, as he knelt before the etched stone that marked his mother’s grave.

The Return

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


The Return

It had been weeks since he had walked through this door. Jake stood on the front porch and stared at the weathered wood. A few patches of paint remained—the only indication that the door had once been red.

Leaving had not been easy. Staying, he knew, would have been worse.

He couldn’t listen to the shouting anymore, witness his father’s maniacal tirades, watch his mother cower in terror. He knew, now, why she didn’t defend herself. She had known that if the man the law recognized as his father—though he never saw him as that—had nothing else to beat on, he would turn to her son. And Jake knew, deep in the pit of his soul, that it would mean more than just a beating.

The day he left was testament to that.

His mother, weakened in body and spirit, was slumped on the filthy kitchen floor, unable to defend herself.

“Get up, you lazy whore!” His hulking mass leaned into her, his face mere inches from hers. Spittle flew from his mouth onto her face. She didn’t even blink. “I ain’t finished with you yet, bitch. Get up or I’ll play with the boy.”

Her eyes flickered at the threat and she tried to move, but was unable. Her eyes, wide with fear, flew to Jake who stood trembling in the doorway. Jake remembered all to well watching his father’s head twist to leer at him. And Jake knew. Looking into those cold eyes, he knew. But he was 13 years old now—a man. His Mama might not be able to defend him any more, but he would take care of her now.

He steeled himself as his barrel-chested father staggered over to him. “C’mere, boy.” A pale tongue darted out to flick over cracked lips. Jake suppressed a shudder. As the beefy arms reached out. Jake squeezed by the hulking mass and lunged for the counter, groping for anything that would serve as a weapon. Jake’s hand wrapped around something cold and he clutched it with a vice-like grip. Whirling around, he turned to face his father and swung his arm. The older man howled in pain, his eyes staring at his son in surprise. He looked down at the dark stain that spread across his shoulder.

Jake either didn’t see it, or chose to ignore it. He continued to hack at his attacker, his vision blurred with rage. He slammed the knife into the soft flesh over and over. His arm pistoned like an oil drill. Crimson lava flowed like a river across the dirty kitchen floor.

“Jake.” It was a whisper, but the soft voice broke through his trance. He glanced over at his mother, who watched him. She sat on the floor, slouched against the cupboards. Her skirt was torn, exposing her right leg all the way up to her greyed panties. The other leg—a mere hump beneath the tattered skirt—was twisted at an impossible angle. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her swollen lips. “Jake,” she whispered again, pleading with her eyes.

Jake scurried over on his hands and knees, tracking blood and dirt across the floor. He pushed his mother’s dishevelled hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, leaving a scarlet smear across her cheek.

“Run,” she said.

Jake shook his head, glanced behind him at the bloody mess.

“Run.” She gripped his wrist with surprising strength. “Run!”

And he did. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, knowing that it was his mother’s way of protecting him one last time.

He was tired of running now. He would face his demons and pay the heavy price for his salvation.

The house was run down now. Weeds choked the brown lawn, bare patches dotted the roof. It was clear no one had bothered to maintain the house. Perhaps no one wanted to live in a house that had a horrific history, where someone had been butchered. The fact that the monster deserved it meant nothing.

The hinges creaked in protest as Jake pushed the door open. The stench hit him like a wall, slammed into him with such force that he staggered back two steps. His stomach revolted and he retched his breakfast onto the decaying floor. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and took tentative steps toward the kitchen, already knowing what he was going to see.

Maggots crawled over one another, vying for position on the mound of liquefied flesh they consumed. The plaid shirt and faded jeans were the only things that identified the wriggling mass as once being human. Jake’s gaze darted over to where he knew his mother sat.

In some macabre form of respect, the maggots chose not to feed on her. Instead, she looked as she had when he had run from this home. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tucked lovingly behind her ear. Her eyes stared at him, unseeing, but the message they sent was clear.

“Welcome home, Jake.”

Cupid

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Cupid

He drew the arrow back, pulled it taut and gazed through the site. He shifted, adjusted for the wind and let the string go, sending the pointed missile flying.

Carole glanced up. Saw something bullet through the air. It appeared to be aimed right at her.

“What the...?” She squinted, cocked her head to one side. “Is that...?”

Her eyes widened as she realized what it was.

“Oh no you don’t!” And she dove into the bushes.

Carole crawled out, pulling twigs and leaves from her hair. She gaped at the arrow that now quivered in the ground in the exact place she had stood moments before. She glanced up at the sky.

A plump cherub shook his fist at her, his blonde curls bouncing about his round face. Carole yanked the arrow from the ground and waved it at him.

“Nice try buddy.”

Cookie Caper

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Cookie Caper

Reaching behind the box of granola and rice puffs, she pulled her emergency stash of double fudge cookies from the back of the cupboard. Selecting two chocolate sandwiches from the bag, she cradled them in her hand as though they were priceless Faberge eggs.

Halfway to her bedroom, she spun around and ran back to the kitchen to snatch four more cookies from the bag. “Screw it,” she muttered into the darkness, “the diet starts tomorrow.”

These Games We Play

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice.

Four-line poem.

* * *


These Games We Play

If I had known the outcome, would I have played;
would I have even followed the rules?

Or would I have cheated, like you did,
to ensure that I win and you lose?

A Night at the Movies

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


A Night at the Movies

“Butter on your popcorn, sir?” Frank shook his head at the pimple-faced teen behind the concession counter.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t have popcorn without butter.” His wife’s nasal voice attacked him.

“I don’t want butter,” he murmured.

“Fine!” Barbara snapped. “I do. I’ll have a large popcorn with butter. No…make it extra butter.” She sneered at Frank, knowing that paying for the extra butter would anger him.

He pulled a worn leather wallet from his coat pocket and, with great care, removed the bills to pay for their movie snacks. The smile that played on Frank’s lips went unnoticed by his wife as she walked away with her popcorn and soda.

As they walked down the hall toward the theatre, Barbara continued to berate him, preaching about popcorn etiquette. The woman just never let up; her harping was a constant assault. Nothing satisfied her, least of all Frank. Five short years of marriage felt like fifty. From the moment they were married, Frank knew it was a mistake. Even at the wedding reception, she had lectured him on how he held his fork. She was happiest when she was humiliating him. Frank sat in silence and ate his dry popcorn while his wife badgered him. Her tirade ended only when the lights dimmed and the film began to play.

Barbara’s choice of movie was an art film, which he was certain she selected simply to annoy him. With little dialogue in the picture, the stillness of the movie theatre was punctuated by the crunching of popcorn as moviegoers shovelled handfuls of fluffy kernels into their cavernous mouths. Frank sat motionless in his seat, staring blindly at the screen throughout the entire film, listening to the deafening sound of snapping corn echo off the walls.

The movie had barely finished when he gathered his empty popcorn bucket and drink cup. Without looking at Barbara, he muttered, “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Frank took his time walking along the corridor, gazing at the colourful posters of movies that played in other theatres—movies he would have preferred to see. From the corner of his eye, he watched the staff open the doors to the theatre in preparation for the exodus.

Several minutes passed before one of the gangly teens entered the dark theatre. Frank heard shouting, then turned back to scrutinize a bright poster as several staff members ran into the theatre. A high pitched scream carried down the hall and a few people turned to look with mild interest. The manager came running and spoke in hushed tones with a uniformed boy who was quite agitated by the sight in the room.

“Everyone is just sitting in their seats, sir.” The lad’s breath came in short bursts as he recalled the scene. “They’re in their seats, all staring at the screen, with half-empty buckets of buttered popcorn in their laps.”

The manager squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you, Craig,” and he walked into the theatre.

“I think they’re all dead, sir,” Craig called after his supervisor.

A faint smile played across Frank’s face. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked out of the theatre alone.

Suit and Tie

I'm on vacation this week, but have post-dated some pieces.
Hope you enjoy them.

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

When I saw this prompt, I knew immediately what I wanted to write. It seemed even more appropriate that I post-dated it for this date, as we'll be leaving Mexico today and going home.

* * *


Suit and Tie

The charcoal gray suit was not something he wore often. In fact, he had worn it only twice before—when he married Fae, his beloved wife of 42 years and when his daughter wed the Jamieson boy.

Always clad in faded jeans and a flannel shirt, Bill Hitchings was admired and respected in his community. A successful farmer, he was always willing to help his neighbour, wanting nothing more in return than heartfelt thanks. Although he had passed the reins on to his capable daughter, he still insisted on tending the animals, not able to let go of what he loved. But as Bill always said, you can’t stop time and you can’t stop nature.

And now he looked awkward in his charcoal gray suit that Fae had insisted he wear. She heard murmurs that Bill would have looked more comfortable in his work clothes. She only smiled. Some occasions simply don’t call for jeans and plaid. And this was one of them.

After all, Bill was going home.

The Hands of Time

I'm on vacation this week, but have post-dated some pieces.
Hope you enjoy them.

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Although the prompt was actually "clocks",
I took the liberty of spinning it to "time" ...
I'm sure Marc will understand.

* * *


The Hands of Time

Incessant ticking
not only marks the pace, but
pushes time forward
compelling it to speed faster.

The countdown
has begun
and she frantically works
to halt detonation.

Not willing
to lose everything
she will fight
until the end.

Time will not win,
the reflection is promised,
and she dabs on
more moisturizer.

The Reapers

I'm on vacation this week, but have post-dated some pieces.
Hope you enjoy them.

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


The Reapers

It was written, centuries ago, that when all hope was lost, when the people of Sartalon-6 faced the darkness, a new entity would come forth to bring sustenance—to breath new life. The Elders had watched the skies, but no such being had come to their aide. There was no other choice but to send the Reapers to harvest what they could in order to cure the ailing population.

Leading the mission, Drevko had left his parents, promising his mother he would come home and make her well. She stared back at him with listless eyes and shrugged.

“It does not matter, Drevko,” she murmured. “I no longer care.”

And that was the crisis that faced his world. Hundreds of thousands of people with no will to feel even the tiniest emotion. No happiness, no love. Not even hatred or fear were given a passing glance. Men starved in the streets as commuters walked by them, staring blindly ahead. Elderly patients, pleading for attention, were ignored by caregivers who no longer felt compassion. Children, abandoned by parents who chased the almighty dollar, were left to forge new alliances with less desirable beings. It was common knowledge that, if left to its own devices, Sartalon-6 would self destruct.

Drevko thrust the lever forward, pushing the limits of his craft, determined not to fail. As he consulted his instruments, he was surprised to see he was off course. He made adjustments to the navigational system, but the craft did not respond. It was as though another force was pulling the entire fleet against their will.

Before he could command the others to prepare for defence, a planet came into view. Not a planet, he decided, but an everlasting expanse of lush land. Vast fields of thriving crops dotted the landscape. Enormous, snow-peaked mountains pierced the clear blue sky. Clear, sparkling waters meandered throughout.

As the fleet landed, one by one, the crew members stepped onto the foreign terrain, looking to Drevko for guidance. Then all eyes turned as a man and woman approached. The dark-haired man was dressed in flowing aqua robes, a large pendant hung from his neck. She—resplendent in a full lavender gown—gazed at the newcomers with interest. A small red crystal winked at her throat. Although they did not wear the usual trappings of hierarchy, and no escorts were in sight, it was clear that this couple held power. Perhaps, Drevko mused, beyond the authority given to a ruler.

“Your search has brought you to us.” The man’s voice was smooth and immediately calmed the anxious Reapers. “We have what you seek.”

“Even we do not know what we seek. How can you?”

The woman gave a knowing smile, inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You do not believe.” It was a statement, rather than a question.

“Believe what?”

“There is only one thing that can restore compassion to your people.” As he spoke, the man lifted his hands to hold his palms facing upward; the woman followed suit. A strange golden light seemed to shimmer around them, envelope them.

Before Drevko could remember his upbringing and the protocol he should follow, the others dropped to their knees and bowed in reverence. The goddess raised an eyebrow, her eyes dancing with merriment.

“You do not bow before a god?”

Drevko fell to the ground. “I’m sorry, My Lady.” The goddess laughed, a light tinkling sound.

“I do not chastise you. Your apology is not necessary.”

Drevko looked up, mesmerized by her dazzling beauty now that she allowed it to fully radiate.

“My child.” The god’s voice rumbled gently. “You must bring faith back to your people.”

“But...My Lord, my people worship many gods.”

“Ah.” The god raised his hand. “It is not only faith in the gods that your people need. It is faith in all things.” Drevko’s face clearly displayed his confusion, murmurs spread among the Reapers. With infinite patience, the god continued.

“You must have faith in the heavens and the earth. You must have faith in love and kindness. Above all, you must have faith in others as well as in yourself. Only in this way can humanity flourish.”

Drevko, with the others, hung his head in shame. He vowed to take the message from the gods back to his people—to slash through the darkness with this light of hope.

“I am a little surprised, though,” mused the god, “that you, who call yourselves Reapers, know nothing of this.”

“My Lord?”

The god sighed. “You reap what you sow, my child.”

Following

I'm on vacation this week, but have post-dated some pieces.
Hope you enjoy them.

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice


* * *


Following

The fog was beginning to dissipate. He couldn’t quite see it yet, but Trevor could sense it. Things were a little too clear. It all seemed better without the harsh light of day.

She emerged from the fog. Curls as black as midnight swirled around her shoulders, her hips swayed in a seductive rhythm. The pale shift she wore hugged her curves, promised tantalizing delights beneath it. She gave him a coy smile, tilting her head down to gaze at him through her lashes.

As he reached out to play with the end of a stray curl, she covered his hand with hers. The contact sent a shock through him, made Trevor’s heart beat unevenly. Her steady gaze held him; the smoky eyes seemed to look right into his soul. They knew what he wanted, knew what he had to have.

He knew he shouldn’t. A respected business man in his community—a husband and father—Trevor was above these hedonistic urges. But that first taste had been intoxicating and had only left him wanting more. This mistress gave him something no one else could. With her, he could escape the burden of responsibility, if only for a few hours. He was weary of the faux smiles of his colleagues. Disappointed with his spoiled children who scoffed at any discipline. Bored by his impassive wife who lay lifeless while he made love to her. He longed to hold someone close in the darkness of night, to have limbs wrapped around him in wild abandon, cry out his name in release.

He looked up at the full lips that curved in invitation. Her hand caressed his jaw as she whispered temptation in his ear. Walking away, she glanced over her shoulder, crooked a finger at him to follow. There was no hesitation in his step as he chased her mocking laugh.

And as the needle pressed into his arm, he thanked the raven beauty as she coursed through his veins. He would sleep with her again...if only for a few hours.

Outline ~ Two Haikus

Today's muse:
It's Two Haiku Tuesday over at Daily Writing Practice
The prompt: Outline

* * *


Outline

gentle soul of love
exudes peace and harmony
bright aura sparkles



Outline

dancing eyes and smile
now ever remembered as:
a white chalk outline

Laughing all the Way

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Laughing all the Way

Eight years ago we stood
face to face
and promised to cherish and love.

Eight years ago we stood
hand in hand
before friends and God above.

Eight years later we're still
face to face
and cherish our love every day.

Eight years later we're still
hand in hand
and laughing all the way.