Drought

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt:  #333 - Drought

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Drought

It was arid,

and my soul had withered.  

The rain would not come

and thirst robbed my spirit.

When the deluge came

it thundered down in icy spikes,

pummelled my body

until it woke.

Beneath the waves,

I choked my pain

until it ceased to thrash

and buck.

Buoyant once more,

I float along the river—

the pennies washed from my eyes—

and I see you once again. 

A Moment on the Lips

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

An old prompt from the Sunday Scribblings archives.
The prompt: A moment on the lips.

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A Moment on the Lips

“We can’t.” Her whisper is urgent, but she doesn’t move.

His lips curve up as he nuzzles her throat. “Yes we can.” He skims a calloused hand up her waist, brushes against her breast before cupping her face. “I just want a taste.” He tugs on her bottom lip. “For just a moment.”

Every cell in her body wants it. Needs it. Needs him. But she wonders if a moment on the lips is worth the risk of losing everything.

New Day

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's Prompt: New

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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.

You are here

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt: #289 You are here

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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.

Plan B

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.


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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.”

Muse

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Prompt #282: Muse

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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.

Cake

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

This week's prompt: Cake

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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.

Clean

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings
Today's word: Clean

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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.

The Mentor

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

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The Mentor

“You need to tilt like this,” he says, as he re-positions my hand. I adjust the slant of my knife and it slices more easily. I nod my understanding.

“Cleaning up afterwards is just as important,” he continues. “Perhaps more so.”

I wipe the sharp knife, taking particular care to clean the custom bone handle. He smiles at me and nods his approval. I look up at the man who has taken me under his wing, the man who has treated me like a son.

“Are you sure you want to retire?” I ask him for the hundredth time.

He claps me on the shoulder. “It’s time.”

I nod as though I understand. I don’t, but I know he doesn’t want to talk about it. Although this man is a legend—hated and loved by so many—he is modest and will not acknowledge his achievements. His pale grey eyes stare back at me. I can see the pride in them. He has selected me to carry on his work. I only hope I will not shame him.

We look down at my handiwork and I wait for his criticism. Nerves dance up and down my back. He makes some indistinguishable noises, then smiles.

“It’s beautiful work, son.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and I try to hide my grin. “I think you’re ready.”

My head snaps up and I stare into his smiling face. “Really?”

He laughs. “Really.”

He picks up the bone-handled knife—the knife he has used for twelve long years—and presses it into my hands.

“This is yours now.”

Never one for sentiment or ceremony, he breaks the moment before it becomes emotional.

“Let’s get rid of the body, then we’ll find someone for your first solo.”

Delicious

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

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Delicious

Her auburn curls whirled around her freckled cheeks, teased by the breeze, as she stepped off the school bus. Adjusting her backpack over her right shoulder, she glanced around, searching. He knew she was looking for her friends, but he couldn’t deny that he hoped she was looking for him. Several deep conversations over tuna sandwiches in the cafeteria discussing school gossip surely must mean something.

Her eyes danced from face to face, then came to rest on his. His heart raced as his dark eyes locked with those enormous blue orbs. Her cheeks pinked and she glanced down, then looked back up at him, gave him a shy smile. He grinned back.

She made her way toward him, wading through the crowd. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wondering if he looked cooler standing more on his left leg. He tried standing with one hand in his pocket, then out, finally opting to hold his books with both hands.

She stood in front of him, peering up through her thick lashes. She wore a light dusting of pale blue eye shadow today. Yesterday, it was brown.

“Hi.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth; what he now recognized as a nervous habit.

“Hey.”

The bell rang its five minute warning.

She shrugged. “I should get to class.” He nodded.

She stood up on her toes and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. “Bye!” And she was gone, swallowed by the swarm of students on their way to home room.

He ran his tongue across his top lip and tasted her cherry lip gloss. Delicious!

The Interview

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

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The Interview

"Are you going to marry my dad?" Sarah didn't look up when she asked this pointed question. She continued coloring with the yellow crayon, her tongue firmly planted between her teeth, as though she had asked if we were going to the zoo tomorrow. Not knowing what to answer, I went with what I thought was the safest response.

"I...I don't know."

Sarah put her crayon down and scrutinized me. "Hasn't he asked you yet?" She seemed quite surprised; as though the fact that her father hadn't asked me to marry him yet was an affront to her young heart.

I shook my head. Sarah sighed, picked up her crayon and continued coloring.

Until this very moment, the fact that Aaron hadn't asked me to marry him was not something that crossed my mind. After all, we had only been dating little more than a year. And there was Sarah to think of. I wasn't surprised to find myself in love with Aaron. He is a wonderful man and a fabulous father. What really surprised me was to find I absolutely adored his eight year-old. Sarah is funny and clever and I enjoy every moment I spend with her.

Being a mother was never something I dreamed of. My own mother was distant, to say the least. Once I could wash and dress myself, she left me on my own, preferring to go out with a string of men she insisted I call Uncle. I vowed, at a very young age, that I wouldn't become like her. It seemed the best way to avoid this was to never have children.

Then Aaron came along. After our fourth date, he introduced me to his daughter. We bonded instantly. She easily accepted me as an addition to her life and I began to question my decision on motherhood.

Now I sat across from her at Aaron's kitchen table, coloring in caricatures of farm animals with a meticulous hand, as though I was creating the next masterpiece. Move over Dali, I thought, as I studied my picture.

"Let's say he does ask you." I sighed. Sarah obviously was still on the marriage issue. "What will you say?"

Good question, I thought. Yet another one I didn't know the answer to. I stared at Sarah as she diligently colored her own picture. Everything seemed so simple to her. Typical of all children, she seemed to take on life with fearless abandon. Not like me, I mused, who seemed to hide from any challenge, afraid of failure. Maybe that was my hesitation. Not of failing myself, but of failing this innocent child before me. How was I supposed to be a mother when I'd never had one?

"You'll have to say something," Sarah stated, her tone matter-of-fact. The whole thing seemed so normal to her. Why couldn't it be for me? It occurred to me that Sarah had the right attitude. Perhaps I should take my cue from her.

"What do you think I should say?" I asked, not sure whether I wanted to hear a truthful answer.

"Do you love him?" She asked as though we were choosing between two sweaters. Do you like blue? If you like blue, then you should get this sweater. If you love him, then it's obvious you should marry him.

"I do love your dad." Is this something you're supposed to admit to an eight year-old?

Sarah nodded smartly. "Then you should say yes," as though this decided everything.

"What if he doesn't love me?" I held my breath. Of course he did, he told me did. But maybe Sarah knew something I didn't. After all, as she pointed out, he hadn't asked yet.

Sarah rolled her eyes and snorted. "Of course he loves you. He talks about you all the time." I digested that bit of information and allowed myself a small smile.

"Besides," she continued, "I love you too. If you marry daddy, that'll make you my mom." She looked up then to see my reaction. I would be her mom. I thought about that and it made my heart pound in a way it never had before. I wasn't afraid—I was excited. I could be a mom. Something I had avoided for so long, at once I knew I wanted to experience. I smiled at Sarah.

"You'd want me to be your mom?"

She nodded. "Of course. It's like you are already. We just need to make it legal. Then we can all have the same name. Like a real family."

I laughed. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Sarah jumped off her chair and ran over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck.

"It would be great! Now we just have to get dad to ask you."

"I think you already asked her." Sarah and I both looked up as we heard Aaron's voice. I could feel my face redden. How long had he been standing there, listening to our conversation? I was mortified and stared at the floor. I couldn't look at him.

"Daddy!" Sarah ran over to Aaron and threw herself around his legs. "Ask Sarah to marry you," she said in a loud whisper. Aaron looked over at me and raised his eyebrows in question. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands, wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

"Do you think she'll say yes?" Aaron asked.

"Oh yes, daddy!" Sarah's confident reply had me smiling. I lowered my hands and looked over at him. He looked down at Sarah and winked. She gasped, then squealed with delight and, taking his hand, led him over to me.

"You have to get down on one knee," she instructed. Aaron, bent down and leaned over to Sarah.

"Now what?" he whispered.

"Do you have a ring?" Aaron shook his head, glancing at me with an apology in his eyes. He shrugged. Sarah waved away this problem.

"We can pretend."

I grinned at Aaron as he took my hand and placed an invisible ring on my finger. "Will you marry me, Janet?" I opened my mouth to reply, but Sarah cut in with her own proposal.

"And be my mom?" I laughed. No proposal, I decided, was more romantic.

"I will." Aaron and Sarah grabbed me in a fierce hug. I smiled at Aaron as I rested my cheek on Sarah's head. I was going to be a wife. And a mom.

Sarah pulled back to look at us.

"Can I have a brother or sister?"

Shame

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

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Shame

Although I no longer think of you every day, I do think of you often. And wonder.

If I had made another decision, 27 years ago, would things be different? Better or worse? Over the years, I have convinced myself that my life is much better than it would have been, but I'm not always sure.

My life was just beginning. I had so many dreams and you were going to change everything—be in the way. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't hold onto you. And yet, I couldn't let you be with anyone else. Perhaps that was selfish. Someone else would have loved you just as much...maybe more.

I am not shamed by what I have done. That's not what keeps me awake at night and what wakes me from restless dreams. I do not apologize for my actions—for ending your life before it even began.

I do not regret my choice. And for that, I am shameful.

Junk

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

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Junk

"Do you need to keep this?" The exasperation in her voice was obvious as she held up a metal toy truck. Only one wheel remained and most of the red paint had been replaced with rust. Phil glanced over and sighed.

"No." The word was dragged out—a mournful surrender.

"Look," she began, "you can't keep everything. Our old junk is starting to take over the house. We need to purge." Jennifer tossed the truck into a nearby box designated as garbage.

Marrying a fellow pack rat had finally taken its toll. The basement had begun to look like a small-town flea market that sold only tattered out-of-date clothing, broken toys and worn furniture. Jennifer had already filled several boxes with her own memories. Dolls, stuffed animals; even her high school cheerleader uniform. Phil had argued the merits of keeping the uniform but—rolling her eyes—Jennifer had added it to the trash pile.

And now they purged Phil's mementos. Half-finished car models, armless action figures, moth-eaten Varsity sweatshirts. Was that a KISS poster?

Jennifer pulled a tackle box from a bookshelf, brushed the dust off. She wondered when Phil had last gone fishing. Before Jennifer could open the box, Phil snatched it away from her.

"I'm keeping this." His tone made it clear that this was not negotiable. Intrigued, Jennifer held her hands out.

"What's in the box, Phil?" She wiggled her fingers in a "hand it over" motion. Phil shook his head.

"This is my personal stuff." He held up a hand, palm facing his wife. "You can't have this."

Jennifer was only more intrigued. What was in the box that he needed to keep? What could possibly be so important? She raised her eyebrows and thrust her hands out.

"Hand it over."

Phil closed his eyes and sighed; knew it was fruitless to argue. Shaking his head, he reluctantly placed the box in her hands. Lifting the lid, she was surprised to find the metal box held nothing but paper. Dozens of squares, worn from repeated folding; cards with faded graphics. Frowning, she pulled a piece of paper from the stash and carefully unfolded it.

Jennifer's eyes filled with tears as she recognized her own handwriting. A letter written some 20 years earlier professed her undying teenage love. She opened cards and unfolded other letters—all written so many years ago and long-forgotten by her.

She looked over at her husband, dazed. Phil shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

"I kept every letter and card you've ever given me." It was said as though he challenged her to laugh at him. Instead, Jennifer wrapped her arms around his waist, overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that had filled her. "It's no big deal," he muttered, but pulled her close to him.

Jennifer lifted her head and met Phil's gaze. The corner of her lip turned up as she gave him a knowing look. "We'll keep the cheerleader outfit."