Once in love with Amy

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: Once in love with Amy

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Once in love with Amy

He fantasized about it a lot; his calloused hands wrapped around her sensuous neck, squeezing until she was limp.

There would be nothing but silence after that. Oh, to be free of her incessant bickering, the fucking nagging.

She wasn’t always a bitch. He was once in love with Amy.

Always Watching

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: The Sky

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Always Watching

She glanced up at the sky, at the dark clouds heavy with storm.

Was he watching? she wondered.

Yes, she thought, he watched. He’d always watched her—touched her—no matter how small she’d tried to make herself.

He’d been dead twenty-five years and she still tried to be small.

Hungry?

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: Hungry?

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Hungry?

She wore an oversized tee that hung just below her hips. The thin fabric did nothing to hide dark circles that teased him. Beckoned.

She held a mug of coffee, traced her finger around the rim, ran her tongue across her upper lip. “Hungry?”

His cock twitched in response. “Starved.”

Cedar Chest

Today's muse: Based on a true story

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Cedar Chest

I was given a handmade cedar-lined, walnut hope chest by my first husband.

It was enormous and weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds.

I kept if for many years after our divorce, but there came a time when I no longer needed it. More important, I no longer wanted it.

When I remarried and moved into a new home, I decided to rid myself of the chest—start fresh. I thought about selling it, but it had a few battle scars and I didn’t think anyone would want to pay money for it. More than anything else, I just wanted to get rid of it. So my husband and I put this beast into a borrowed van and brought it to Goodwill.

We carried it inside the store and before we even set it on the floor, four women surrounded us and started asking questions.

When I told them it was handmade, they asked by who. I don’t know what made me blurt it out, but I said: “My Ex.”

There was a lot of tongue-clucking and a few muttered “bastard”, at which point, my husband edged away.

It was a busy Saturday morning and a steady stream of customers entered the store. Each one stopped to admire the chest, stroked the smooth finish.

For about fifteen minutes, I stood with several strangers, all of them women, circled around a wooden box that my ex-husband had made. They said kind words about his workmanship, and cussed his obvious lack of style to let such a wonderful woman leave his life.

I had walked into Goodwill with a heavy weight, but walked out feeling lighter than I had in years.

Madison's Avenue - Deleted Excerpt

Today's muse: I am trying to get back into my photography and have reinstated my blog at 365 Project. My dear friend, who is in charge of kicking my butt to continue writing and finishing Madison's Avenue, posted a photograph of an old key. Which reminded me that the muse for Madison's key is this:



This is the key to my inlaws's home. The moment I saw it, it invoked mystery and famly secrets. It was the starting point for Madison's Avenue. But, as any writer will tell you, the book (and Madison's character) took me along a different path and the key scene has been deleted.

This is how it used to read:

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Madison's Avenue - Deleted Excerpt

Madison wandered back into the living room. Wine glasses, tea cups and dessert plates scattered the room. She pulled the papers from the envelope, frowned at her grandmother’s sloped handwriting.

Madison,

You were small and scared when you came to live with us. It was a long time before you trusted. No surprise, given the terror you had lived through. Your grandfather and I raised you as though you were our own. Perhaps it was the fates giving us a second chance, to have something good come from such evil. I don’t know if we succeeded, but I do know that we are proud of you. We couldn’t ask for a more loving child.

It was a blessing that you couldn’t remember; we thought the life you had before was best forgotten. Now, I’m not so sure. Perhaps it is better that you understand your past and know that, despite everything, you are a strong woman. A survivor.

I cannot bear to know that you will not forgive me, forgive us, for keeping the truth from you. Even hiding behind these written words does not give me the strength to say what I need. Instead, I will do the only thing I can. I will send you home.

Open your heart and listen. Hear the whispers of the past and trust. Trust yourself, Maddy. I hope, one day, you will trust enough to forgive.

Love,
Nanna

The air whooshed out of Madison’s lungs, blood thundered in her ears. She tilted the envelope; a key, heavy and old, dropped into her hand, leered up at her like a toothless Carny.

Long-forgotten memories slammed into her: the stench of stale booze and cigarettes, his rough hands pressing her down into the worn mattress.

Madison stared at the key that opened her childhood home. How could Nana expect her to forgive?

Still a Rose

Still a Rose

Rose seldom made eye contact, talked to no one. She sat alone in a cubicle meant for four secretaries. She sat alone because no one wanted to share a space with her.

Rose’s name did not befit the aroma that hovered around her. It shrouded her like Pigpen’s dust cloud; omnipresent and foul. Everyone talked about her, but avoided engaging in any actual conversation with her. After all, it’s difficult to talk and hold your breath at the same time.

The complaints to Human Resources could no longer be ignored and Rose was walked out the door under the premise that her job was obsolete.

The thing is, the smell lingered.

A cleaning crew was called in to disinfect the area, scrub it down. They sprayed the carpet tiles around her desk, replaced her chair.

It still stank.

A second crew came in and ripped out her desk, even emptied her filing cabinets.

“Jesus, fuck!”

Eric took two steps back, dropped the garbage bag he had pulled from the last drawer.

“What?” Frank walked over, peered inside. The stench was overpowering and he gagged. “What the hell?”

Eric pulled his t-shirt over his nose, opened the bag to get a better view, though he immediately regretted that.

“What is that?”

“Not what." Frank swiped his hand over his mouth. "Who.”

Cover Up

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: Cover Up

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Cover Up

A trickle of snot leaked down her chin as she stared at him, wide-eyed, frightened. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry. Though he refused to acknowledge it, shame fought a losing battle against his arousal.

He tossed a blanket at her.

“Cover up,” he muttered. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”

The Interview

Today's muse:

I wrote The Fuchsia Bear back in 2009. It was one of my first posts. I have toyed with rewriting it many times, then came across a writing prompt from Sarah Selecky: write from the point of view of something that normally does not have a voice. Without question, I needed to rewrite my bear's story.

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The Interview

“Is this thing on?” I point at the winking red light.

“We’re rolling.” She wears her formal face, but I know she’s excited. She thinks her producer pulled some strings, but the truth is, Barbara is the only one I would talk to.

I shift my plastic eyes to hers. “Where do you want me to start?”

“We all know how it ended.” She flashes her famous You-Can-Trust-Me Smile. “I want to know how it began. Tell me how you met Emily.”

I clear my throat and wonder if I can get through this without getting emotional. “Her parents introduced us.” I pick at the purple fur on my arm. Once soft and shiny, it is now matted and dull with age. “We slept together that first night.”

Barbara glances at the camera, sends the viewing audience a knowing smile. “And, I understand, every night after.”

It is difficult to hold back the grin. “Yeah, but most nights I slept propped against the pillows.” I drop my voice as if the entire world won’t hear me. “She kicked a lot back then.”

“But it wasn’t always like that.”

“No, it wasn’t. On the nights I did sleep next to her, Emily kept one arm wrapped around my throat in a stranglehold so tight I could hardly breathe.”

“And you still managed to wake up on the floor every morning.”

Whether it’s habit or loyalty, I defend the only girl I have ever loved. “It wasn’t because she didn’t care.”

“No, of course not.” Sarcasm is thick in that short sentence. “Yet, you weren’t exclusive.”

“There were others,” I admit. “At least once a week, one of them would share our bed.”

“You never felt threatened?”

I shrug. “The others looked up to me—still do. Mostly because I know everything. And I mean everything.” I lean forward, rest my elbows on stubby legs. “The moment she got home, Emily would run up to our room and debrief me on her day. She trusted me with classified data; the kind of information that can’t be passed on to just anyone.”

“Give us an example.”

I smile. “I can’t give you specifics. Let’s just say she kept detailed dossiers on those who didn’t play well with others, and lengthy reports on what went down at recess. I know where it’s all hidden. It would humiliate a lot of people if those things were made public.”

“What other secrets did she ask you to keep?”

I shake my head. “Come on, Barbara. You know I can’t tell you that.” It doesn’t surprise me that she tried. Everyone does. “It’s part of the Code.”

“SCOT.”

“That’s right,” I confirm. “The Silent Code of Teddies.”

“Surely some bears break the code.”

“None that have lived to tell the tale.”

Barbara stares at me, her eyes wide. “You don’t mean…”

I cut her off with a wave of my paw. “How would you feel,” I ask her, “if your bear shared your secrets?”

She straightens in her chair. “I don’t have a bear.” Her eyes dart around, refusing to meet mine.

“Barbara.” I wait until she looks at me. “Barbara, we both know you have a bear.”

“I was a child.”

“He still knows your wishes. You have a lifelong bond that will never break. He still knows when you hurt.” I lean forward. “He still cries when you do.”

She stares at me, her eyes bright with hope and need. “He does?” No longer a world-renowned reporter with a voice of steel, she is now eight years old and needs to cuddle.

“Yes, Barbara, and he always will.”

She looks down at her papers and I know she is collecting herself. I do what I know her bear would do and I wait in silence.

When she is ready, she looks up. “We may edit that part.”

I shrug. “As you wish.” But I know when she reviews the tape, she’ll leave it in. She’ll leave it in because it’s good for ratings. More important, she’ll leave it in for her bear.

Composed now, Barbara carries on.

“Tell me about your amputation.”

“What? Are you referring to this?” I run a paw across faded pink yarn stitched into the right side of my head and snort out a laugh. “She chewed my ear off. It’s no big deal.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

Barbara sends me a dubious look.

I cross my legs. “Bears don’t feel pain the same way humans do. It’s part of our training.”

“Training?”

“Fluff Camp,” I explain. “Six intense months before we’re shipped for retail.”

“What does your training cover?”

“We’re expected to be fluent in at least three languages, including Newborn. We also take psychology and learn to deal with sleep deprivation. And, of course, there’s etiquette.”

“Etiquette?”

“It’s important to know how to dress for and behave at special occasions.”

“Such as?”

I smile as memories whip by. “Emily used to throw these extravagant tea parties and I went to every single one. Who wouldn’t? I mean, everyone was there: Kenny and Barb, the Rangers, some of the Care Gang. Emily’s parties were always formal.” I let out a quiet laugh. “And she’d make me wear that gaudy, orange hat. It clashed with my fur, but it made her happy when I wore it.”

“You changed for her. Were you resentful?”

“There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that girl. Everyone said we’d grow apart, but that never happened. In fact, we became closer the longer we were together. We’d spend hours together in our room discussing everything.” I tick off the topics on my three-fingered paw. “The pain of love, the torture of betrayal, how our friendship helped each other heal.”

“And she still left.”

I drop my short arms and sigh. “Yes. She left.” I shift in the chair, my worn feet just touching the edge of the seat. “Things have changed in the last few months. There was a time when my days were filled with her laughter and tears, her songs and stories. But lately, my days are empty, passed in solitude, lying prone on our floral bedspread. Alone.” I swallow the lump that blocks my breathing. “Lonely.”

The crew is silent. The only sound in the room is the quiet hum of the camera.

After a few moments, Barbara gives a small cough. “When did she leave?”

“Last week.” My throat is tight. Dammit, I don’t want to cry. “She left for college on Friday.” I feel hollow, as though the very stuffing that lets me live is now wrenched from my fuchsia body and I am nothing but a dishevelled casing.

I look up at Barbara. “I’m not naïve. I know how this ends. I’ll be boxed and sent to a charity to live with other abandoned stuffies. We’ll remember the days when we were loved, boast of lavish play dates, each tale more embellished than the last.” My mouth stitching curves up in a rueful smile and another thread pulls loose. “No one will talk about the end.”

I look into the camera. “But in the dark hours, when the lights are asleep, and I am not, I will remember how she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me close while she dreamt.”

Barbara’s eyes are bright and wet. “You don’t forget, do you?”

“No. Never.” I press a worn paw against my purple chest, just above my polyester heart. “And we pray you never forget us.”

Madison's Avenue - Excerpt

Today's muse: A.B. Funkhauser, author of Heuer Lost and Found, tagged me on Facebook in the 777 game: post seven lines from page 7 or 77 from your current WIP. Here are seven lines from MADISON'S AVENUE (chapter 5, page 77).

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Madison's Avenue - Excerpt

The smell slammed into her, and she cupped her hand to her mouth to keep from retching. Not the usual smell of cigarettes, this was different—this was the metallic tang of blood.

It’s a dream, just a dream. The knowledge of that pierced through the haze and she remembered that Dr. Eagen had told her she could walk away from her dreams, make the choice to change the ending.

She knew where she was and what was about to happen. Everything inside her told her to run. Then she heard her name.

Sugar Beach

Today's muse: This photograph, titled "At the Sugar Beach", by Summerfield.

(You can view her photography at her 365 Project Site.)







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Sugar Beach

“Get up.”

Charlie Fischer’s hiss was barely audible above the crash of waves, but Earl Ashton heard it well enough.

“I just need to get this shot.” Earl did not bother to hide the sigh in his voice. Less than an hour ago, the sand was pristine, smooth as glass and now…well, now it was a complete clusterfuck.

“Forget it. You won’t get a good shot now.” Charlie scrubbed a meaty hand over his face. At least the bride and groom had a few decent pictures.

Earl peered through the lens. “I have to try.” More than a hundred people had trampled over the beach front. How the hell was he supposed to get a good shot? “They shouldn’t have let a rookie look after this site.”

“Don’t I know it.” Charlie glanced over at the guests who were waiting just beyond camera range. “They don’t seem to be phased by it, though.”

Earl shrugged, snapped another picture before standing up. He brushed pale sand from his suit—a suit he had purchased only last week; his fourth suit in two months. “Weddings are boring. This…” he swung his arm in a wide arc, then peered through his camera. “They’ll be talking about this for years.” He focused on the white chairs. Click. The pink umbrellas. Click.

“We’ll need pictures of all the guests.”

“Yeah.” Earl sighed. “I hate that part. They never cooperate.”

Charlie glanced over at him. “Should they? I mean, it’s a happy occasion. They’re here to have fun. They don’t want to stand still while we snap pictures.” He leaned over a snow-white chair, squinted against the bright sun. “Hey, Earl, did you get a shot of this?”

Earl wandered over to stand next to his partner, leaned in to look at the red droplet on the wooden arm of an Adirondack.

“Shit.” He focused, snapped two pictures, stood up. “Why don’t you clear out the guests so we can remove the body.”

Numbers

Today's muse:

We had a health fair at work on Thursday. It was, to say the least, enlightening.

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Numbers

The cuff squeezes my bicep, compresses like a vice. As the blood pressure monitor whirs, Cheryl—one of the nurses on the Health Fair Team—notes the results of my glucose and cholesterol tests.

As she writes, and the machine chugs along, I stare out the thirty-eighth-floor window of my office tower and recall that about two years ago, my doctor insisted I go on stress leave. Back then, my blood pressure was one-sixty over ninety; considerably lower than when I went to the hospital just a few months prior to that with chest pain. After some serious discussion, we agreed to try rest and meditation, rather than medication. And I managed to bring my blood pressure down to one-fifty over ninety.

Although most of my stresses remain looped around my throat like a noose, I have managed to reduce a couple of them. I feel pretty good—I don’t feel any different than I did when I was hooked up to wires and a heart monitor while I jogged on a treadmill and took the stress test. So I’m pretty confident that my results will be reasonable, if not good.

When the machine beeps, Cheryl glances at the numbers then looks at me.

“Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

“What? No! Why?!”

“I’m giving you the choice to let me call.” She points at the machine. “Your numbers are high. Your systolic is one-seventy-seven. If it was one-eighty, I wouldn’t give you the choice. I would just call.”

Jesus!

“You should make an appointment to see your doctor. Get some meds to get it under control.”

I nod. Yes. I should. But I don’t have time. And isn’t that the problem…that there’s never any time? Time to finish my work at the office, though I average a ten-hour day. Time to look after my in-laws who have dementia and Alzheimer’s and won’t be with us much longer. Time to visit my family who live a five-hour-drive away. Time to finish the novel I desperately want to write. Time to dedicate to my small business that I have neglected.

Time to take care of myself.

“I’ll make an appointment,” I promise her.

And I do. My appointment is next Friday. In the meantime, I have taken my blood pressure twice since seeing Cheryl. The readings continue to be high. One-seventy-four over one-fifteen. One-seventy-five over one-seventeen.

I have done some research and these numbers are not good. In fact, they’re pretty bad. And now I’m afraid to see my doctor.

I’m afraid that he’ll put me on mandatory stress leave, and I’m not prepared to leave my desk for more than the vacation that I have planned for next week. I’m afraid to let down my boss and my co-workers, leave them short-staffed when our office has just announced a new protocol for no coverage while staff is away.

But, mostly, I’m afraid that everything I have read is true, and I won’t even get to see my doctor.

Wing Man

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: absorbed, deeply, frantic

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Wing Man

“Do you see that woman? Next to the newspaper stand?” Frank points with his chin across the street.

Gerald nods. Of course he sees her. Who wouldn’t? Legs that seem to stretch up to her throat, tits that beg to be cupped by his hands.

Absorbed in his fantasy, he imagines brushing his thumbs across hard nipples, her head dropping back on a moan. “You think she’s the one?”

He tilts his head, tries to picture her in something other than the yoga pants, snug tee and worn runners. She’d look good in a halter dress and heels.

Frank folds his arms across his chest. “She’s an accountant. Works at one of the top firms.”

Gerald does not question how his friend knows this. Frank is a god when it comes to picking out women. It’s why he asked him to be his Wing Man. After all, when you’re looking for your next mark, you don’t want to waste a lot of time. Get it done and done fast.

Gerald watches her trot in place as she waits for the light. It’s not just about looks—though she has it in spades—it’s about personality and a willingness to…shall we say…play along. And Frank is gifted when it comes to pinpointing this important trait.

Gerald watches his next conquest jog across the street, zigzagging through pedestrian traffic. She makes eye contact when she passes them. Her full lips curve up in greeting as she continues on her run.

Oh, yeah, he thinks, she’s the one.

“You think she’ll be into it?”

Frank snorts out a laugh. “Come on, man. How long have we been doing this?”

“Two years, five months, two days and…” Gerald glances at his watch. ”Eleven hours.”

“You are deeply disturbed, my friend.” Frank shakes his head at Gerald’s laugh. “You scare me sometimes.”

Gerald ignores the frantic pounding of his heart, slips his hand into his pocket, fingers the cold steel of the knife. His cock twitches as his thumb rides along the blade.

“Just imagine how frightened she will be.”