Where are you?

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Where are you?

* * *

Where are you?

They stayed up well after the moon was high; spent the night talking, laughing, crying.

“How did we get here?” Rhonda tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “We were in love once weren’t we?”

“Some part of us still is.” Jason took her hand. “And always will be. We just, I don’t know, took different paths.”  

Rhonda nodded. If she was honest, she’d admit that she wasn’t happy either; hadn’t been for quite some time. “We’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course.” Jason brought his hand to her cheek. “We’ll always love each other, it’ll be different, that’s all.”

Rhonda forced a smile, flicked her tongue across her lips. “Maybe better.”

Jason leaned into her, his mouth hovering just above hers. “Much better.” He pulled the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, ran moist kisses across it and up her neck. “Much, much better.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His mouth teased as he murmured promises, drew her higher until she flew.

In retrospect, he should have just held her after, cuddled a little. Even gone another round. Instead, the afterglow of sex had his mouth flapping like a teenaged girl; admitting to Rhonda that the reason he’d been late almost every night for the last three months was because he was banging his secretary. He hadn’t worded it exactly that way—he was much more eloquent—but it didn’t matter.

Jason was now hunched behind a tower of boxes in the basement. Sweat had his t-shirt pasted to his back; his breathing was harsh and fast.

He’d never seen Rhonda that pissed before. She had lunged at him, screaming and clawing at him with those sharp nails she kept perfectly manicured. Jason tried to reason with her but she had raged like a maniac.

“Emily means nothing,” he’d insisted. She did have a great ass, though.

It was all a little grey now, but Jason wondered if he’d admitted that last part out loud. He must have. It explained why he was crouched behind a pile of old boxes, the click of the Colt’s hammer bouncing off the basement walls.

Rhonda’s sing-song voice rang out, turned his bowels to mush.

“Jaaaason. Wheeere aaaare yooooou?”

Name

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Name. Is there a name that would fit you better than the name you were given? Explain.


* * *

Name

How well, I wonder, would the name “Mom” have fit?

I like to think it would have lifted my heart, made my face glow and my eyes dance in delight as my children called my name. Alas, that name was not meant for me.

Instead, the Fates chose another.

“Step-Mom”.

Resignation

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: figment, inclined, vulnerable

* * *

Resignation

She thought the others exaggerated, embellished their tales of horror. He couldn’t possibly be that evil. Besides, she was no longer a vulnerable twenty year-old struggling with her first job. She was a strong woman with more than twenty years of experience behind her. She could handle a demanding boss.

Larissa snorted. Oh, how wrong she’d been.

Lucas Fitzgerald was nice at first, praised her often. She felt quite smug that she was better than all the others.

“Stupid twit,” she muttered. “You should have seen through the smoke and mirrors, paid attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Well, she thought, it’s over now. She tilted the bottle of scotch to her lips, took a long pull of courage.

Human Resources brushed her off when she spoke to them. Just a figment of her imagination, they said.

“But he shouts all the time. Surely everyone else has heard him,” she argued.

“No one else has said anything,” they countered.

Larissa tipped the bottle again. Well, they’ll be talking now, she thought. She grinned at the wall behind his desk. Every framed face that grinned back was now modified with permanent black marker. Wild, curling moustaches and enormous devil horns now adorned each dignitary photographed beside the CEO. Some had voluminous breasts. A few had engorged penises. She knew it was childish, but it had felt so damn good scrawling the Sharpie across those smug faces.

She twisted her wrist, checked the time. Mr. Fitgerald was inclined to stop by the office late at night, rifle through her desk.

“Checking up on me. Making sure I’m doing my job.” Larissa spun around in his leather executive chair. “Let’s see what you discover today.”

She toyed with the Christmas gift he gave her last year. Mr. Fitzgerald had called from the airport as he waited for his flight to Barbados.

“I left you something on your desk.” He said it as though he’d left her the keys to a new BMW. “I expect you’ll put it to good use.”

The other assistants had received cheques from their bosses; some with a comma in their figures. But not Larissa. Lucas Fitzgerald found it necessary to give her a practical gift.

A click echoed down the hall as the double oak doors opened and closed. Larissa recognized the brisk militant march of her boss. She was surprised how calm she felt. She thought she would be more nervous terminating her employment.

As the door swung open, Larissa was pleased to see the look of anger on Lucas Fitzgerald’s face, watch it shift from fury to fear. By far, she thought, the best expression was that of shock as she plunged the stainless steel letter opener into his chest over and over like a jack hammer.

Breathless, sweating and more than a little giddy, Larissa, wiped the letter opener on his Armani suit.

“Thank you for the present, sir.” She stood up, adjusted her skirt. “I put it to good use.”

You are here

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt: #289 You are here

* * *

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.

Quiet

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: admire, follow, piece

* * *

Quiet

Swishy skirt, crisp white blouse and pearls at her throat; the closest she can be to the June she admires.

One more look around the living room she vacuumed twice today. Polished furniture gleams in the fading daylight. He’ll be home soon, it must be perfect, nothing out of order, everything in its place.

The intoxicating aroma of prime rib floats throughout the main floor. Rearrange the flowers on the table, centre the chairs, re-fold the napkins, press them once more.

Trembling hands smooth away nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, finger the pearls he gave her for their anniversary, the ones he said would remind her of him, that feel like his manicured hands around her throat.

She struggles to push aside fear. He’ll see it, use it, torment her with it, take away the one piece of her she has come to love. She won’t let him. She can’t.

“Coming sweetheart!” She follows newborn cries up the stairs. “There, there,” she croons, rocking away tears. He hates when you cry, just be quiet, please be quiet.

Baby tucked in one arm, she spins the tap, fills the tub with water, tests with an elbow. A gummed smile is her reward when she floats the cherub in the tepid pool. She laughs as chubby legs kick and splash.

Daddy’s pretty little girl, his perfect little angel, no more crying now, no more crying, no more, no.

Bathwater is still as glass now, except for the occasional tear that streaks down her cheek and ripples the water to blur precious blue eyes that stare back from beneath the surface.

All is quiet now. Quiet.

Last Night

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: eject, impact, render

* * *

Last Night

The tile floor is cold against my bare ass. I don’t have the energy to pull the bathroom rug under me. It’s all I can do to hold my hair back, keep it from falling in the toilet.

My head rings like a kettle drum. What the hell happened last night?

I have a vague recollection of dinner. My stomach wants nothing more than to eject the tender prime rib. And the booze. The fucking booze just kept flowing, like Christ himself was standing at the bar and filling glasses with a wave of his hand. I can’t remember how many martinis I had before switching to rum and Coke.

I spew into the toilet. Obviously too many. I had pledged my undying faith to Jose Cuervo; we’re BFFs now. Arriba!

I spew again. Not much is coming out now. I’ve been at this for a while.

Last night comes back in snapshots. The managing partner’s speech after dinner; I remember now. He droned on about the financial impact of the merger, bonuses all around, yadda yadda yadda. Everyone clapped at the announcement, some wolf-whistled.

It was at that point that Martin put his hand on my leg, skimmed it beneath the short skirt. The journey up my thigh came to a halt when he reached the clasps of my garter.

“Jesus.” Martin angled his head, appeared to be listening to the speaker. He dropped his voice. “Meet me in the lobby. Bring your purse.”

He left as everyone applauded the final words of the speech. Chairs scraped, music blared and bodies swarmed onto the dance floor. I followed a few out of the ballroom, the handful who were going outside for a smoke. I didn’t want a smoke. I wanted to finish what Martin and I had started back at the office, before leaving for the staff banquet; when he’d pinned me against his desk, ravaged my mouth with his, squeezed one hungry nipple between thumb and forefinger.

It’s no wonder I drank so much. I should have known the drinks wouldn’t dampen the fire. Booze always makes me horny.

At a discreet distance, I followed Martin out the building, half a block up the street and into a taxi. He pressed me against the seat, pushed my knees apart.

“Go,” he said to the driver.

“Where?”

“I don’t care,” Martin snapped. “Just fucking drive.” His hand rushed up my leg, pushed thin silk aside and plunged.

Yes! Yes! My hands had a mind of their own at that point and craved to reciprocate. I don’t recall much after that, but I know only one of us was reflected in the cabbie’s rear-view mirror, rendered speechless, eyes closed, mouth curved in bliss. It wasn’t me.

I don’t remember dropping Martin off at his house, coming back home, getting into bed. I'm not even sure how I came to be crouched in front of the toilet, wearing nothing but a Bon Jovi t-shirt.

The scream of the telephone stabs like an ice pick. The answering machine kicks in. My cheerful voice rings through the apartment.

“Hi, it’s Charlotte! I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Have a great day!”

I dry heave. Am I really that fucking annoying?

“Hey, Charlotte.” Andrea’s voice floats through the speakers. “Why aren’t you at work? What happened last night? You left without saying goodbye. Some people are saying you left with Martin.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And his wife called to find out where he is. His wife, Charlotte! She says he didn’t come home last night. Everyone’s talking about it. You HAVE to call me and tell me what happened!”

Andrea hisses the last sentence into the phone. Then the buzz of a dead line.

I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. Oh fuck.

Like Fire

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Pugnacious. Though I didn't use the word, it's implied.

Today's photo:



* * *

Like Fire

Love once burned white hot, their passion a Dali canvas. A decade later, it burns with fury, and their voices scream with the sirens.

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.


* * *

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.”

Lunch Date

Lunch Date

It was Tuesday. That meant today’s special was shepherds pie. And shepherds pie guaranteed he’d be in for lunch.

Amanda Fischer wrapped an apron around her waist, pinned her name badge on her uniform, checked her appearance in the reflection of the pastry case. She walked the length of the front counter, topping up coffee cups.

“How are you today, Mr. Wendel?”

“I’d be better if you’d marry me.” This was Roger Wendel’s usual response.

“After fifty years of marriage, your wife would hunt me down if I snatched you away from her.”

Roger Wendel laughed, a loud barking snort that made Amanda smile. “You have that right.”

“I’ll have to ask her what her secret was to catch such a wonderful man.”

The elderly man waved her off, his cheeks crimson.

She was aware the moment Jason Everette walked in the door. Every woman in town was aware of him. Intense eyes, so dark it was difficult to distinguish the pupils, watched as though they could see right through you. It made a girl feel needy, thought Amanda, and just a little reckless.

Jason sat down at the counter next to Roger Wendel and pulled a laminated menu from the metal rack, pretended to read. He knew what he wanted, the reason he came for lunch every Tuesday—and most other days. It wasn’t the shepherds pie.

“The usual?” Amanda set a cup in front of him, poured coffee. She moved the sugar out of the way, knowing he took it black.

Jason’s lopsided grin brought out the dimple in his left cheek. It always made her heart hitch. “Am I that predictable?”

“A little.” Wasn’t it cute how his ears went pink when he blushed? “You’ve been coming in here for three weeks now. It doesn’t take long to notice a pattern.”

“I don’t like cooking for myself. It’s…” he moved a shoulder, an agitated gestured “…lonely.”

Roger Wendel made a show of clearing his throat. “A smart man would ask a woman over for dinner.” He stared at a point above the pastry case, speaking, it appeared, to no one in particular. “A smarter man would ask her to bring her famous apple crumble.” Roger slapped a few bills on the counter before leaving. “Just sayin’.”

The hollow in Jason’s cheek deepened. “Well?”

Outside, Amanda was calm, elegant. “Is seven ok?” Inside, she did the first-date dance.

Caged

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: erode, heart, observe
(I sure hope ThomG allows for conjugation.)

* * *

Caged

So flawless is the disguise, even the deceiver is fooled. Believing the lie. Living it. Embracing it.

It is true what they say, that such pretence only damages self. It is beyond repair; crushed into so many pieces, the stars cannot count them. Glue does not hold, and the toxic fumes cannot smother the pain.

Visitors ignore the ‘do not feed’ sign and offer sustenance. Day after day, they tug their bawling spawn past the cage. Tiny fists release bright helium orbs to the skies, but the cheerful globes cannot penetrate the fog above. Their suffocating taunts seep through the iron bars and render me wordless.

Despite constant rocking, the spirit has atrophied. The only muscle left thriving is the heart; but some have observed its erosion and predict apocalypse on a biblical scale.

The locusts cannot come soon enough.

Lessons

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Practice.

Today's photo:



* * *

Lessons

The bell of a new day rings, shrill as nails on a chalkboard. Obedience is a lesson she never seems to learn, despite the discipline. Each day she cowers in the corner, her dunce cap too heavy to bear, weighing down her pride. Mocking jeers seep into her rocking, fetal body.

She hides her face in bent knees. Though she’s had years of practice, she never mastered the art of deceit. Not like him. And if he sees her eyes he’ll know. He’ll know she plans to graduate today.

Sweet Dreams

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: drag, mumble, penetrate



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Sweet Dreams

She raced down a dark alley; mile-high walls of concrete speared up on either side. Behind her, heavy footsteps followed, unhurried, knowing there was no escape. There never was.

Over and over she ran down this narrow lane, came upon the same door that was always locked. As she struggled with the handle, willing it to open, the footsteps came closer until they were right behind her. Arms—dozens of them, it seemed—wrapped around her, groping and probing. Stale rum and cheap cigars filled her nostrils. Her stomach lurched.

“Miranda.” Craig’s voice penetrated the terror that suffocated her. “Miranda. It’s just a dream, baby. Open your eyes. That’s it.”

When she pushed away, he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her and crooned, as he would a frightened child, until she stopped trembling.

As the fog lifted and the nightmare faded away, Miranda was aware that she was being held, that Craig stroked her hair.

“I’m ok now,” she said, and rolled away from him. Embarrassed and ashamed, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I should go home.”

“What? No way.” Craig hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her back, coaxed her to lie down. He propped himself up on one arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Miranda closed her eyes. “No.”

“You need to.”

“No I don’t. And certainly not to you.”

“Why not me?”

Because, thought Miranda, I’m falling for you and I don’t want you to walk away like Gregg did. I can’t survive that again.

“Miranda, I probably understand a lot more than you give me credit for.” Her eyes shifted to his. He brushed the short fringe across her forehead. “He’ll keep winning if you keep it locked up inside of you.”

She crumbled then, covered her face with both hands and let the tears flow. It was too good to be real, she thought. He was setting her up so he could kick her down, she was certain of it. Once he knew how fucked up she was, he’d walk away, never looking back.

Craig said nothing. He simply wrapped himself around her, pulled her close and spooned behind her. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

That small promise, the certainty of it, made her turn and face him.

“I should have told you this before.”

“So tell me now.” He pressed his lips on her forehead.

And she did.

Craig listened in silence, his only reaction was to close his eyes at times. When he did, Miranda could see his jaw working as he struggled with his anger, but he let her finish. She waited for him to leap out of bed, tell her it was all her fault, say he couldn’t be with someone who had so much baggage.

“I have never met anyone as strong as you.”

“What?”

“Most people would crawl into a dark cave and never come out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know. That’s what makes you strong.” He cupped her face, thumbed away the last tear. “Feel better?”

“Um. Yeah, actually, I do.” She felt light, like she was floating.

“Good. Think you can sleep now?”

Exhaustion hit her then. “Yeah.” She mumbled something incoherent as she snuggled into him.

He smiled as her eyes drooped. “Sweet dreams, Miranda.”

Craig was next to her when she woke, a protective arm around her. Miranda leaned into him. She was finally safe.



This is the end of Miranda's story...at least here. Stories, such as these, never really end. The nightmares never go away, they just become bearable.