Madison's Avenue - Deleted Excerpt

Today's muse:

As many of you know, I am writing my first novel (working title: Madison's Avenue).

A few months ago, I finished the first draft and I am now editing. I deleted Chapter One and most of Chapter Two.

Since it is no longer in the book, not even incorporated into back story, I thought I would tease my faithful followers with an excerpt.

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Madison's Avenue (deleted excerpt)

“She’s asking for you, Miss Fields.”

Madison didn’t look up, but continued to stare down at her coffee. At least that’s what the vending machine said it was. It tasted more like dishwater. Looked like it, too.

It was a far cry from her usual vanilla latte.

A thin scum of artificial creamer floated on the gray liquid, creating an impenetrable barrier, as if it were protecting the coffee from consumption. No need to worry about that, she thought with a snort.

“Miss Fields?”

Madison turned her head. A young woman in pink scrubs, her hair tied back in a swinging golden tail, smiled in encouragement.

“You should go see her.” The nurse gestured to the room behind her. The young woman walked away, her rubber-soled shoes making a soft shooshing sound on the terrazzo floor.

Madison scrubbed her hands over her face, pushed manicured fingers through her wild mane and let the dark curls fall back around her shoulders. She sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a rush, and practiced a smile.

It felt fake. Nana would see right through it. She always did. It wasn’t easy to pull one over on the old broad.

Madison smiled then; something she hadn’t done for many days now. Old broad, she thought. Nana would appreciate that, would even laugh. God it would be great to hear her laugh again.

Madison walked over to her grandmother’s room, hesitated outside the door. She brushed her hands over her tailored suit, smoothed away non-existent wrinkles.

It was amazing how much things had changed in just a few weeks.

“Game face,” she muttered and pushed through the door, forced her lips to curve in what she hoped was a convincing smile.

The frail woman that lay in the bed was not the one she remembered; definitely not the one that had raised her. Regina Fields was a strong, formidable woman who lived life with a passion that left many half her age weary just watching; miles away from the thin facsimile who was losing a vicious battle against cancer.

“There’s nothing more we can do,” the doctor had said when Madison sat with him in his office. “It’s aggressive and has spread beyond what we can control. All we can do is make her comfortable.”

She had stared over the doctor’s head, at the framed diplomas that covered the walls. All those degrees, and there was nothing he could do.

“How long?” She remembered her voice had sounded tinny.

“A few months.”

A few months. Well, Madison thought, as she stepped into her grandmother’s room, he was right about that.

Gifted

Today's muse:

I attended my writing circle’s monthly breakfast meeting on Saturday. Due to family commitments, this is something I haven’t been able to do for quite some time. It was inspiring and I realized how much I miss meeting with such a gifted group of people.

The format has changed somewhat since the last time I attended. There is now a writing prompt…after all, I would expect nothing less from a writing group.

Saturday’s writing prompt at the WCDR breakfast: five minutes to write a postcard story.

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Gifted

He brought her a gift—he always brought a gift; as if the weekly tithe would dispel her anger and forgive his sins.

It was expensive, as were all his gifts, but the dainty pendant lay cold between her small breasts.

He fingered the gold cross she now wore, his hands travelling lower. “Do you like it?”

The fog of bourbon smothered her as his mouth crushed hers and she fought the bile that rode high in her throat.

“I like it,” she whispered.

The lie, she told herself, was a small price to pay to be daddy’s little girl.

Resolved

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's prompts are: gorgeous, jittery, outrageous

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Resolved

It’s a new year and I have no reason to believe that anything will change from the last one. In fact, I expect it to be worse. Not because you will share it with me, but because I will let you.

There was a time you thought I was gorgeous, when a single touch from you made me jittery with need. Now, I sleep alone—as do you—and I comfort myself with outrageous fantasies of another man’s hands and mouth worshipping me.

I believe that we create our own destiny, and if I want to leave, I know I can. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I would survive, I would move on.

The thing of it is, the first divorce almost killed me—or rather, my thoughts did. The despair I felt dragged me into a dark cave that took years to crawl from. My thoughts are not exactly warm and fuzzy these days, but I know one thing: it would piss you off more if I lived, than not.

And that’s what keeps me going.

To Whom it May Concern

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words are: combative, represent, sluggish

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To Whom It May Concern

Dear Lover:

Dear Husband:

Dear Friend:

Dear Stranger:

Every question I ask, every suggestion I make, is met with a combative response from you. When did our marriage become so hostile?

I don’t question it’s my fault. It always is; I know this and I’m the first to admit it. Though I try to fix it, you won’t have anything to do with the solution. Your response is nothing more than a sluggish grunt at best; most often you ignore me.

I no longer laugh with you. I don’t share my day. I don’t ask about yours. Have you even noticed? The rare times I let down my guard and dare to share a morsel of my life, you either ignore me, or worse—so much worse—you feign interest.

So I withdraw. This letter represents my white flag. I surrender. You win. I am too tired to fight this war.

And if anyone asks, I will only give my name, rank and serial number.

Jane Doe. Broken Wife. Zero.

For Matthew

Today's muse: After twelve years in funeral service and being married to an undertaker, the death of a friend still hurts.

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For Matthew

I was told today that a friend chose to take his own life on Friday.

Admittedly, we’re not close friends. After all, if we were, I would have known before today. In my heart, I know there is little I could have done to prevent this, but it still saddens me. Matthew was a vibrant spirit, always smiling, always laughing. I keep thinking I could have talked to him, I could have listened.

He pronounced my name the way my father does, and I knew then, he was a fellow French Canadian. From that moment, our conversations were in French.

Tall and lanky, he had sandy hair that hung past his shoulders, usually pulled back in a neat tail. I saw him shortly after he cut it all off, saddened that he’d lost his Surfer Dude look. Coincidentally, just days before, I had also cut off all mine. When we saw each other, we laughed and had a great conversation about how liberated we now were, which quickly evolved into a serious discussion on shampoo volume and conditioner. Most conversations deviated to trash talk and harmless flirting, though we both knew I wasn’t his type.

I know the colours aren’t as bright today, and I don’t imagine they will be for a while, but I know the next time I see a rainbow, it will be Matthew, telling me all is well.

While he was with us, he may have felt pain, and perhaps his scars never quite healed, but I am confident he is happy in Summerland and look forward to seeing him again, when it is my time.

Paper Flowers

Today's muse:

I am a legal secretary with a large law firm. One of the reasons I like working here is that the firm promotes the creativity of its employees. For instance, Re: the magazine is published twice a year, available to all employees worldwide as well as our clients. The publication showcases the diversity of talent within our firm: philanthropists, world travellers, photographers and writers.

Issue 4 had a writing competition. Using the three words provided (earth, spring, paper), write exactly one hundred words (no more, no less...we are a law firm, after all).

My submission, Paper Flowers, is the featured story in Issue 5.

Click on the link to view the full publication (I think the editor selected the perfect picture to accompany it) and read other published prose.

Re:, Issue 5, page 54

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Paper Flowers

Evelyn Fischer visits her son every day; shows up each morning with a basket of fresh flowers and her best trowel. As she tends his tiny garden, Evelyn updates Nathan with family news.

Prattling on about his daughter’s new tooth and his son’s school recital, she yanks out weeds that seem to spring up overnight. She digs shallow craters in the moist earth, then selects new buds from her basket and replaces every bloom.

I asked her once why she wastes her time planting paper flowers.

Her milky, grey eyes shifted to mine.

“Because they can’t die,” she said.

Red Handed

I've been sitting on this for a while. I can't even remember what the prompt was, but I'm sure it was related to a bad day.

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Red Handed 

He took the scenic route home, stopped at three different pharmacies and one liquor store. As an afterthought, Nate pulled into the convenience store next to his complex. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he needed one tonight.

That and a fucking drink.

Balancing too many paper bags filled with bottles, he managed to unlock the door to his unit, let the door click shut behind him. Without taking off his shoes, Nate went to the kitchen, set the bags on the counter.

With meticulous care, he lined up every bottle on the counter, adjusting them so their labels faced forward, arranged in size from Jack Daniels to prescription cylinder.

He wasn’t a religious man, but he was well aware that taking a life had repercussions. If you believed the Christians—and he couldn’t say he did—you had to know that if you weren’t punished in this life, there would be hell to pay in the next.

Well, he wouldn’t be the only one punished, that was for damn sure. After all, he wasn’t the one found in a compromising position.

Last night, he’d stood frozen in the doorway of his bedroom—their bedroom—unable to speak, unable to move. He watched the scene unfold before him, as though his eyes were propped open in some horrid aversion therapy. If only Beethoven’s Ninth were playing, it would have drowned out the sickening slap of skin against skin.

Instead, he was transfixed, eyes locked on the two of them: Amanda with her face pressed into the feather pillow, perfect round ass up in the air, and Phil—his best friend since middle school—ramming into her from behind.

Nate twisted open the child-proof pill bottles, cracked open the bottles of whiskey. He threw back a shot of Jack.

Better. Downed another. Much better.

He poured the pills out onto the kitchen table, pushed them around, making intricate designs. Taking another shot of JD, he rubbed one between his fingers, enjoyed how the smooth tablet rolled back and forth. Pulling apart the capsule, he let the powder trickle onto the table into a tiny rose-hued anthill. Too small, he thought, so he broke open a few more.

After staring at the scant pile, he decided on using all the pills. He wanted it to be quick. And final.

He poured the powder into the bottle of Wild Turkey. Any discoloration would be masked by the amber liquid. Not that it mattered, of course. There’s no question it would be consumed. He swept the empty capsules into his hand, took them to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. Less chance of resuscitation if they couldn’t find the source. He tossed the empty cylinders into the trash and dropped the bag down the garbage chute.

He was just about to pour himself another shot of Jack when he heard the front door open.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Amanda?”

She stood in the doorway, the strap of her dress hanging off one shoulder, her lips curved up in invitation. “Can we talk?”

Not waiting for an answer, she pushed the door closed, brushed past him and breezed into the kitchen. She turned a pouty look at him. “You were partying without me?”

“Isn’t that what you were doing last night?”

She ran a finger down his chest. “Don’t be like that.” Her tongue flicked out, ran across her top lip. She hummed as her eyes dipped down to his mouth. “We can party together now.” She brushed against him and he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Any other time, he’d have her spread on the kitchen table by now.

He gripped her arm. “Leave, Amanda.”

She spun away, the coy smile still playing on her painted lips. “Let’s have a drink.” She picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey. “You know this is my favourite.”

“It’s not for you.”

Her perfectly shaped brow arched up. “Really?” She glanced around the kitchen. “You’re expecting someone else?”

No, he wasn’t, but that wasn’t the point. “Just leave, Amanda. I want to drink alone.”

“Oh, baby. You don’t need to be alone. I had a moment of weakness. Let me show you how sorry I am.” She pressed against him and his traitorous cock responded. Her grin was triumphant. “See, everyone wants to party.”

She nipped at his jaw then stepped away to unscrew the bottle. She poured a shot, lifted it. “Cheers.”

“Amanda, don’t.” He was sure he said the words out loud, was certain he lunged forward to smack the glass out of her hand.

Instead, her eyes grew wide with shock and comprehension when she tossed back the shot, then she slumped to the floor.

Well, he thought, that was much easier than planned.

Closed Doors

I'm spending most of my time finishing my novel, and I feel guilty that I haven't been writing here. I thought if I started a new series, it will motivate me.

Alex's series is inspired by a true, on-going story (not mine). I don't know how it will end (neither does Alex*), but I hope I can write a happy ending for her.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

* * *

Closed Doors

Glancing at her watch, Alex noted she had two hours before she had to pick up the boys from school. They both had basketball practice tonight, then she was dropping off Jason for a sleepover at Wayne’s, and taking Simon to stay over at Ethan’s.

Finally a quiet night, she thought as she unloaded the dryer, just her and Ken.

And maybe—oh, please god—they’d have sex. She couldn’t remember the last time Ken had been interested. Then again, it’s not like he was home much.

He stayed late most evenings, went into the office on the weekend. His job was demanding, but money was tight, so the raise that came with this new position was a welcome relief. Maybe they’d stop arguing about money. Then again, they’d been arguing so damn long, she didn’t know if they knew how to play nice.

She folded gym shorts, paired sweat socks. She could remember a faraway time when they were each other’s best friend. They stayed up late just holding hands, knew what the other was thinking.

What happened? she wondered.

Ken had called to this morning to say he wanted to talk. Good. So did she. The kids would be finishing high school soon. They could start planning their retirement to Arizona, buy that RV they wanted, just spend some time getting to know each other again. They would snuggle on the sofa, plan their future. And things would be better. She knew it would. It always was.

Alex swung the laundry basket onto her hip, went upstairs. She was in Jason’s room when she heard the front door open then close.

“In here,” she called out.

When Ken stood in the doorway, she looked up at him, her face already smiling, looking forward to a romantic weekend.

Her lips sagged when he didn’t smile back.

“What?” she said. The moment the word left her mouth, she regretted saying them. Later, she’d ask herself what would have happened if she hadn’t asked?

Ken reached out, gripped the door handle until his knuckles turned white.

“I want a divorce,” he said.

Without giving her a chance to reply, he closed the door behind him.

Alex stood in their oldest son’s bedroom, a pair of balled socks in one hand. Through the deafening thunder in her ears, she heard the front door slam shut.

Vegas

Today's muse:

Just came back from Vegas. It's beautiful and sad; a study in spiritual contrast.

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Vegas

The bright lights of The Strip focus on nubile women who undulate and weave among firm, muscled men; spotlighting tight bodies that press against one another in unbridled invitation.

The delicate tinkle of laughter floats through the night sky and wraps around you, caresses and fondles, until you are giddy with need. The steady hum of voices is like a lover’s throaty promise against your ear. You ache to reach out, hold it close and pull it inside, ride it until you reach the summit.

Sex and greed is what most come to see. Vegas is careful to hold its lights away from the shadows. It never penetrates the fog where its homeless souls reside. Lined, leathered faces relay stories that no tour guide will sell. At one time, they strolled with the beautiful people; now they slither among the fallen, clutching handwritten cardboard signs that plead for money and salvation.

But it’s the eerie snap of cardboard that drags you back to reality, slams you down to earth and tears away the veil. The flick of fingers on photos: pictures of beautifully airbrushed women with breasts molded by gods, their taut nipples strategically covered with pretty stars.

Or not.

Mute Barkers, capture attention with a practiced snap that releases a high-pitched crack. From one man to another, the hand-over is discreet, with barely a knowing nod. And in the privacy of an over-priced hotel room, you flip through the stack, like coveted baseball cards, while the lights of The Strip taunt you through the hotel window.

Got it. Had it. Want it. Need it.

Townie

Today's muse:

I grew up in a small town. Though it now has a liquor store (maybe more than one), it was a dry town then. And we did have a contact who'd hook us up if we needed a two-four for a party. I'm pretty sure he was harmless. Then again, I did move away quite some time ago...

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Townie

It’s a dry town; the closest liquor store is a twenty-minute drive. Not at all conducive to spontaneous field parties. But if you know Mr. Fischer, and you slip him a carton of Belvedere, he’ll set you up with a two-four of Canadian. Even trade.

“Just don’t tell your dad,” he says every time, as he steals a glance over his shoulder, as though he expects to see someone’s father standing right behind him. “If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

The way Mr. Fischer talks, you’d think our tiny hamlet is populated with serial killers. Everyone is out to kill him.

“We won’t say a word, Mr. Fischer.” It’s the same promise from every one of us. After all, who are we going to tell? Old Man Fischer is our local LCBO.

He hooked me up with a bottle of white wine last month when I turned seventeen. It got me to second base with Angela Watson; probably would have made home plate if her dad hadn’t caught us.

I took her out to Miller’s Pond that night; took the paved road that runs east off the two-lane highway. It veers north and eventually becomes a dirt road. Just before you get to the pond, well before the road ends, there’s a narrow lane that disappears behind a thick stand of trees. I drove my Impala back there, barely had it in park before Angela crawled across the bench seat and straddled my lap.

Soft curves filled my hands, hard lips devoured mine. She rocked against me as the music screamed out of the speakers and our heat fogged the windows.

If I’d been thinking, if every drop of blood in my brain wasn’t then residing in my cock, I might have heard the car, might have noticed the headlights.

My door opened and Mr. Watson’s beefy hand grabbed Angela’s arm and yanked her out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the rage in his eyes, how he threatened me, threatened Angela, hell, he even threatened Old Man Fischer when he found out he was the one who’d supplied us with the booze.

Hey, come to think of it, I haven’t seen Mr. Fischer in a few days.

Like Vacation

True story!

As they say, truth is stranger than fiction. And my friends will attest that I'll talk to just about anyone.



Like Vacation

Standing at the café counter, waiting for my coffee and danish, I listen to the sound system play a catchy Gypsy Kings tune. It spirals me back to my recent Mexican vacation.  My hips take on a life of their own and cha-cha-cha to the music.

The man in line beside me laughs and I turn to him, cha-cha-cha-ing, eyes wide, big smile: “It’s just like being on vacation!”

His smile disappears and he growls: “No it is not!”

“You’re right,” I say, glancing at my watch, “it’s ten o'clock in the morning. If I was on vacation, I’d have a drink in my hand.”

He points his finger-gun at me. “Exactly!”

He appears angry as he scoops up his take-away coffee and marches off. I feel a wave of pity for him, until I see his hips sway.

He looks back and smiles.

Baile, señor! Baile!

Exercise

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Exercise

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Exercise
I look down at the digital numbers. I want to believe the scale is broken, but I know it’s not.

I sigh and leave the bathroom. I find my husband in the den, reclining on the sofa. “We need to start exercising,” I announce.

He bolts up. “What?” He has a look of horror on his face; as though I’ve just announced that I birthed a giraffe and I plan to name it Darryl. “Why?”

I pat my hips. “Are you kidding? Look at us. We need to start jogging.”

Jogging. Final answer.

He flicks his hand, lays back on the sofa. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Why in the world would anyone want to run if they weren’t being chased?”

Oh. Good point.

I sit beside him on the sofa. “Pass the chips.”