Colour 101.2

Hand-to-god...true story.

Part two of three.

* * *

Colour 101.2

My high school art teacher was eccentric. That's a nice way of saying he was a lunatic.

I'm not being disrespectful. I adored him. As did most of his students. We still do. I think all artists should be a little crazy. Perhaps not to the extreme of hacking off your ear and mailing it to a hooker, but a little looney is good.

Mr. Blaise would wander around the classroom, winding his way around desks and students. He'd stop by my easel and exclaim, in his lisp: “The trees, the trees…they speak to me!”

It didn’t surprise me that he’d get a woody, as it were, over the trees. He was, after all, a crazy artist. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

But after discovering, quite by accident, that I am colour blind, I pulled out my high school art portfolio, and sifted through some old paintings. It was clear why Mr. Blaise was so excited about my work.

All my trees were painted varying shades of blue.

Turns out, I've been doing this since I was a kid. All the trees in my colouring books: blue. All the trees finger painted (wearing one of my dad's old work shirts as a smock) in Mrs. Van Dyke's Grade One class: blue.

I was stunned. Why hadn't anyone said anything?

I asked my mother why she and my dad didn't tell me I was colouring all my trees blue.

She gave me an absent pat on the head.

"We thought you were just being creative, dear."

Colour 101.1

Hand-to-god...true story.

Part one of three.

* * *

Colour 101.1

In the waiting room of my doctor's office, I flip through a magazine.

He's running late. I'm running bored.

I turn to an article about colour blindness. It details the various degrees and facets of colour blindness, pointing out the different colours affected.

Hmmm. Interesting.

Imagine, I wonder, going through life, not seeing what everyone else sees. I am at once filled with sorrow for these pathetic people. How sad, I think.

The article closes with an Ishihara color test—a number, comprised of a series of coloured dots, embedded within a background of more coloured dots.

“If you can distinguish the number nine in the dots,” the article explains, “you have normal colour vision and are not colour blind.”

I scan the picture. Then I take a closer look. I analyze. Take an even closer look.

“What are they talking about?” I'm confused. “There’s no number nine.”

I pause. I reread the explanation; particularly the bit about seeing and not seing the number.

“Oh."

I read it again. I digest that.

"Oh shit."

Pit Stop

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: edgy, iconic, lithe.

* * *

Sam wants to keep going, put a few more miles behind him, but guilt has won the battle.

Stupid Catholic upbringing.

His friends had told him about this place. It’s iconic, they’d said, you have to stop and stay a night, have a pint for us.

Shit.

After checking in, leaving his bags in his room, Sam finds the pub on the main floor. This better be worth it, he thinks, as he settles at the bar.

“What can I get you?”

He’s pulled into smokey eyes and pouty lips painted a luscious Fuck-Me red. His gaze dips down to the low vee of a black halter, then back up. His brain sizzles and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“It’s my birthday.”

The bartender smiles, tucks wavy auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, then it’s on the house. What’s your pleasure?”

Oh, he can think of several things right now. None of them are on tap.

“Guinness.”

She winks her approval, walks to the end of the bar to build his pint, hips swaying in invitation. He grins his appreciation, swivels to watch the band rocking it on stage. Bass pumps out of the speakers, edgy and raw, as bodies bump and grind against each other on the dance floor.

Red pushes a pint into his hand, brushes her fingers against his, flashes him an I-will-if-you-will smile before sashaying away.

Okay. Maybe this will be worth it.

He nurses his beer while she tends the bar. They flirt, each innuendo more implicit than the last, until they’re no longer exchanging suggestions but rather detailed descriptions of what each will do to the other.

“I have a room upstairs,” says Sam. “What time does your shift end?”

She calls over to one of the servers, unties her apron. “Hey, Andrea, cover for me.” She turns to him, flicks her head. “I’m on break.”

Sam fumbles with the key to his room, pushes the door open, kicks it shut behind him. Hungry, eager, they tear at each other’s clothes, claw and bite. Each mutters promises neither understand as they fall onto the bed.

His hands and mouth roam, search, tease, until her long, lithe body bucks beneath his while she chants his name and he pours into her.

Sam shifts so that she’s splayed on top of him.

“Sam,” she whispers. “I have to go.”

He groans, runs a calloused hand across her back. “Stay.”

She presses a kiss against his throat before rolling off. “I can’t.”

Naked, she walks around the room, gathering her clothes. After running a brush through her hair, she dresses, then leans over and presses a kiss on his mouth, leans in when he pushes his tongue between her lips. His hand slides under her skirt, cups her ass.

“Sam,” she groans against him. “I really have to go.”

She smooths her skirt, adjusts her halter, walks across the room and opens the door.

“Wait.”

She turns.

“You didn’t give me your name.”

She smiles. “Happy Birthday, Sam,” she says, as she closes the door.

The Pressure's On

I seldom write anything personal on this blog. This is where I vent in fiction, kill off the people I dislike.

But, perhaps this type of therapy isn't working. I've been home from work on stress leave for four weeks now. Numerous tests have shown my heart is healthy, despite the chest pains. It's stress, said my doctor. Stress is a powerful thing.

Don't I know it.

So, though I argued with him, he put his foot down and said a blood pressure reading of one-fifty-four over one hundred is not good. He's probably right. After all, he's the one with the degree.

Rest, he said. Take some time to regroup and get some perspective.

Fine.

I go back to work tomorrow (today is a holiday in Ontario, and a few other provinces). I'm not sure how I feel about going back to work. Part of the issue is the hours I work which, I admit, is my own doing. I'm a firm believer in the adage: "If you want something done right, do it yourself." The problem is, in my office, this is often the case.

We do have people to help with the overflow, but I often have to redo the work, which defeats the purpose. It's not simply a matter of the work not being done to my standards (I can let that one go...most of the time), but the work is not done correctly. Which reflects on me, and my bosses.

I realize it's not about the work, it's a matter of health now. High blood pressure is a warning. I know this. I worked in funeral service for more than twelve years and I'm married to an undertaker. I know the end result. I've seen it many times.

So, new plan, starting tomorrow:

Limit my work day to eight hours.
Concentrate on finishing the first draft of Madison's Avenue.
As co-founder of The DRCC, organize the annual spring and winter craft shows.
Help look after my aging inlaws on the weekend.

And now that I've put that in writing, it still sounds daunting. The only difference to my normal routine is that I've cut my work day down to eight from the usual ten or twelve.

Maybe that will help. Maybe it won't.

How does the saying go? What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

Well, if I make it to my forty-seventh birthday, I'll be a fucking Amazon.

Hear me roar.

Standing Proud

Standing Proud

I have erectile dysfunction. There, I said it.

It’s surprising really, since I don’t have the appropriate appendage for such an affliction, what with being a girl, and all. Nonetheless, it seems I can’t get it up and need help doing so.

I’m not sure when it began, but apparently I’ve had this issue for years.

I am promised that my lack of performance will be the demise of my marriage. If I take their recommended medication, my self esteem will increase, my sex life will improve and my partner will be satisfied.

I didn't know he wasn't before, but who am I to say? After all, I can't get it up.

Well, I can't go through life, limp and hang-dogged, so to speak. So I'll just reply to one of these emails and see if I can't perk things up a bit...

Mental Health Day

Mental Health Day

There were days—occurring with increasing frequency, she admitted—that she could barely muster the energy to shut off the screeching alarm, let alone get out of bed. Going to work was unthinkable. The medication didn’t seem to help, though she’d been taking it for months now.

She shifted under the covers, searching for that cool spot that would sooth her, if even for a moment.

In her mind, she practiced the message she’d leave at the office, working out today’s excuse for calling in sick.

I wonder, she thought, as the cold metal warmed in her hand, who will finish typing that proposal.

A Walk in the Woods

A Walk in the Woods

Blades of sunlight slash through the trees, brilliant swords that light our way as we stroll in the woods behind our house. Though our conversation is rather mundane—work, house, kids—the intimacy is there.

My breath catches when you reach over to brush my hair back, cup a hand behind my neck and rub your thumb along my cheek. My eyes try to tell you how much I ache to hold you again.

I know I can’t see you every day, and I know I won’t see you forever, but I will walk through our woods and hope that I see you again. Until then, I will visit you here and lay flowers by your stone and tell you I miss you.

Every day.

Beautiful Me

I know I've been away from this blog and I apologize to my faithful followers. I appreciate your patience while I focus my energy on finishing the first draft of Madison's Avenue. My goal is to complete the first draft by April, so it won't be much longer.

To relieve my guilt, I will cheat and post some old pieces I've been anxious to edit. And some pieces I've dug up on a long-forgotten memory stick.

* * *

Beautiful Me

"You either have looks or you have brains; few people have both."

This was something my mother often told me when I was younger. Though it was never said, I knew she meant I was gifted with both. She’s my mother—she’s supposed to say things like that, even though we both knew she was lying.

I, however, made the grave error of musing to my husband that she never did clarify which of these gifts were bestowed upon me.

Big mistake!

To this day, whenever I do something stupid (and believe me when I say that happens a lot) he turns to me, with his Serious Face, and says "You are so beautiful."

For Rent

Today's muse:

Not too long ago, I attended a Writescape retreat. It was a wonderful opportunity to focus on my book, which is why I've been away from this blog for so long. I've been spending all my free time writing, and have made great progress on Madison's Avenue. I'm on target to complete the first draft by April.

While on retreat, I attended a few workshops. One of the workshops prompted this piece.

* * *

For Rent

The landlord drops the keys into my hand.

“First and last,” she says, holding out her hand.

“Is it still what we discussed?”

Mrs. Gibson nods, thrusts her hand at me. I pass her a roll of bills wrapped with a red elastic band. She drops it into the front pocket of her apron and leaves, closing the door behind her.

She asked no questions, made no comment on my application. I like her.

The unit is tiny—not much larger than a small hotel room. A thin layer of dirt coats the worn wood floor. It is unmarred but for the isosceles groove that links door to bed to bathroom.

I follow the rut to the bed, ignore the dubious stains on the bare mattress. Peering beneath, I am comforted by the unblemished carpet of dust. No one else has hidden anything under the bed. It will be safe.

Two hinges drilled into the frame of the narrow closet to my right suggest that a door once protected its contents, but as most of my possessions will be stored under the bed, a door is pointless.

I take the rut to the bathroom, pause at the door. The white floor tile is pristine, chrome taps sparkle, and the shower curtain is free of soap-scum. Dainty lace curtains flutter at the narrow window above the sink—the only window in the entire unit.

I glance behind me at the dingy room, then back to the bathroom. I’m thankful that Joe sublet this unit. He was right: the bathroom cleans up quite well. No prints, no trace, no evidence.

I complete the triangle and follow the narrow groove to the door, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. I should pay Mrs. Gibson a little more for rent. After all, she doesn’t ask questions. And for guys like Joe and me, that quality in a landlord is priceless.

Last Chance

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: battle, fluid, harvest

* * *

Last Chance

In one fluid motion, she sweeps the soft pink blanket off the tiny mattress and tosses it on the floor.

Tears are ruthlessly pushed away as she packs stuffed toys and delicate dresses. She battles the urge to gather it all in her arms, drop to the floor and rock the life she’ll never hold.

It’s over now. The last harvest has failed.

Dressed Up

Today's muse: You can always tell when I'm writing an erotic scene in Madison's Avenue. The pent-up energy needs to be unleashed.

* * *

Dressed Up

The doorbell chimes a melody he recognizes, but can’t quite name. Drew grins as the notes fade out.

“It suits her.”

He runs calloused fingers through sun-kissed hair, wonders if he should have gone for a trim before picking up Andrea. He shrugs it off. It’s just a picnic with friends. It won’t matter that he’s needed a cut for more than two weeks now.

His hand drops when she opens the door, his palm instantly damp.

Andrea smiles—that seductive subtle curve of lips that always has need coiling deep inside him. The smile gets him every time. It’s shy and beguiling; it’s innocent and seductive. Most days, the smile alone is enough to leave him wanting. But today…god…today she’s wearing a long floral dress that drapes down to her bare feet. The bodice is nothing more than two narrow triangles of fabric wrapped around her neck, cupping her breasts in reverence.

“Hi.” Drew manages to keep his smile casual, his tone light, though his mouth has dried up and the blood rushing in his ears is deafening. “Ready?”

Andrea steps back and waves him in. “I just need to get my sandals.”

Drew sags against the wall when she turns away. Sweet Jesus.

Andrea comes back down the hallway, ivory sandals dangling from her fingers.

Drew clears his throat. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

She stops just steps away from him, looks down at her dress, then back up at him. “Yeah. Why?”

“You can’t wear that to the picnic.” He shakes his head, as though the matter is closed.

“Pardon me?” Blue eyes flash with rage and she tosses back her hair. “There’s nothing wrong with this dress.”

Drew puffs out a breath. “Maybe not, but you can’t wear it. I won’t let you.”

It’s like watching the wind whip into a funnel cloud, he thinks. Her back stiffens and she throws her shoulders back. Her breasts strain against the fabric, begging for attention. He knows too well how they fill his hands.

“You have incredible nerve telling me what to wear.”

Before she can fold her arms across her chest, Drew spins her around and presses her against the wall, pins her arms above her head with one hand. Andrea bucks against him, bares her teeth like a wild animal.

“I’m not taking off the dress.”

Dammit she’s hot when she’s pissed off. “You don’t have to.”

“Damn straight I don’t.”

Drew frees a hungry breast from its halter, kneads the hard nipple between his thumb and finger.

“I’ll take it off for you.” His lips curve in a smug smile when Andrea goes still. “If you wear this, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. But you’ll have to change fast,” he says, as he pulls her dress up around her waist. His lips nibble on the soft skin below her ear, the spot he knows drives her crazy. “We don’t want to be late for the picnic.”

Andrea unties the halter, lets the dress slither to a puddle around her ankles. “What picnic?”

The Vessel of Ropav - Chapter 1

Today's muse:

As mentioned previously, I started writing this fantasy story, but have lost my vision, so it's shelved. But since I posted another excerpt, I thought maybe I could post what I've written so far and see how everyone feels. Who knows...maybe it will inspire me to finish.

And by the way...has anyone noticed the name of the Vessel?

* * *

The Vessel of Ropav - Chapter 1

“The bidding will commence at £12,000.”

A low hum drifted through the crowd as everyone speculated on the value of what was, in essence, a nondescript piece. A small, clay chalice with rough etchings, shaped somewhat like a pear. It was ugly, really.

When the vase was delivered to the auction house, there was great skepticism among the staff. No one knew what this urn was or whether it had any value. Upon analysis, it was determined that it dated to at least the time of the pharaohs but no one could decipher the cryptic symbols. They appeared to be hieroglyphics, but no translation was completed. Oddly, the National Museum was not interested in acquiring it, insisting it had no historical value. The board of directors of the auction house finally agreed to sell it, confident someone would want to own it—even if it was nothing more than a decorative conversation piece.

The auctioneer repeated the starting bid, somewhat desperate when there was no reaction. “£12,000 for this...vase.” He struggled to name the ancient urn. “This piece was recovered from a pharaoh’s tomb.”

A paddle at the back of the room rose above the heads. The auctioneer, delighted that someone had at last bid, jabbed a finger at the man and shouted “£12,000! Do we have twelve-five?”

No one moved.

The old man at the back of the room inclined his head in acknowledgement and lowered his paddle. A dark wool coat hung across his thin shoulders, a black homburg perched on his thinning, gray hair. On his weathered face, angry red scars competed for attention with deep wrinkles. No one noticed the excitement dancing in his eyes.

For too many years, Ethan Chamberlain had chased this sacred piece across five continents. His quest had taken him to the most inhospitable countries, on decrepit ships that threatened to sink at any moment, and airplanes that defied science by remaining airborne. He had been hospitalized more times than he chose to remember, often surprising medical staff with his survival.

“Going once ... going twice ...”

An elegant woman, a sheet of auburn hair cascading down her back, raised her paddle in the air. Angered, Ethan raised his own before the auctioneer could acknowledge the woman’s bid. Several heads turned to stare, but he kept his eyes on the vessel. He had never come this close and he knew he never would again. He would not fail. Could not.

Worlds depended on it.

As the price was acknowledged, another paddle was raised. Then another. And yet another. The auctioneer was surprised, yet excited, at the interest shown in this otherwise unknown piece.

The value escalated quickly as bidders volleyed prices, each one vying for ownership of a relic they knew nothing about. Ethan sat back and watched. He would wait for the right moment.

A buzz rippled through the crowd as the price reached £500,000. An enormous woman in the second row raised her paddle. Sausage fingers clasped the handle as she waved it in the air, her arm undulating like a flag in the breeze. The auctioneer’s excitement was tangible and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he called for additional bids.

“Six. Do I hear six? £600,000 for this ...”

Enough! In the back row, Ethan’s hand rose high in the air.

“One million.”

Silence descended on the room like a heavy pall and every face turned to look at him, awed by this brazen breach of protocol.

“Well! I…” the large woman protested. Not that she was about to outbid the strange man—a million pounds for heaven’s sake!—but it was the principle of the thing.

Ethan Chamberlain continued to stare at the vessel, his face impassive, contrary to the joy that blazed within.

No one in the room knew the chalice was fashioned by gods. No one knew it would bring unspeakable power to the owner. No one knew how to fill it.

Except Ethan Chamberlain. He knew. He knew this and more.

When the auctioneer slammed his gavel, Ethan rose, ignoring the overt stares of those around him, as he hurried out of the room to make arrangements for payment.

And arrangements for the ceremony that would fill the Vessel of Ropav on the night of the new moon.