Like a River

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Love is like a river. Use all or part of it within your poem or prose.

I only used part. And only in the title. I invoked my poetic license.

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Like a River

For a time, it was heaven; what one imagines life is like if one’s back-split is located in the centre of a biblical sanctuary, landscaped by ethereal horticulturists.

Growth is now stagnant in the shadow of the eclipse; tulips and marigolds wilt in their beds, suffocated by choking weeds of Egyptian cotton. My own stem slumps beneath the weight of petals no longer stroked, their beauty long faded. The insect cares not to alight and I care not to self-pollinate.

I pray for a torrent to wash the ache, pray the old ship-builder will find me a mate. I covet the love I was meant to have; not this synthetic affection that dangles before me, only to be snatched away when my heart reaches.

It is fear that halts the quest for salvation, for I am certain of the journey's end. I shall remain alone in the raging current, my empty hands useless, unable to guide my vessel in the stinking mire.

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.

Farmer Frank

Today's muse: Thursday Tales

Today's prompt: Tale #74, picture prompt below.

Rules include: Minimum 55 words. Maximum 777 words.



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Farmer Frank

Frank Wilkinson’s chocolate lab, Buford, heard the rumble of the Ford’s engine long before it crunched the pebbles on his driveway. The dog lifted his head, slid his dark eyes over to Frank.

“Stay,” said Frank. Buford, dropped his head. “You just lay there. I’ll take care of this.”

Frank remained seated in his rocker as the car made it’s way up the long lane and stopped in front of the weathered porch. A man and woman stepped out.

The woman carried a fancy handbag, wore heeled shoes. Despite the heat, the man’s sleeves remained rolled down, buttoned at the cuff. He hadn’t yet loosened his tie.

City folk.

Too old, thought Frank, well into their thirties. It was better when they were teenagers.

“You lost?”

The man dropped his head a moment, his grin sheepish. “Yeah, I think we are.”

Frank got up from the rocker, took his time crossing the porch. “Where ya headin’?” He leaned against the weathered post at the top of the stairs, seemed to be settling in for a visit.

The man glanced back down the drive, pointing at nothing in particular. “We’re driving to Mason.”

“You visitin’ family there?”

“No,” said the man, “we’re looking at a house. My wife was transferred to the University. She’ll be teaching computer sciences. I’m teaching chemistry.”

Frank hesitated a moment while he processed that information. “I take it ya’ll don’t know much about milking cows.”

The man chuckled. “No, not much.”

“Too bad,” Frank muttered.

He gave them directions, waved off the man’s thanks. Made them promise to stop by for coffee another time, once they’d settled into their new home.

“Drive safe now.” Frank watched the car drive away, waited until it was nothing but a cloud of dust before he stepped off the porch to make his way to the old barn. Buford trotted beside him, his tongue lolling to one side, a stupid grin on his face.

As always, Buford took the lead at the barn door. The dog ambled through the barn, ignoring the indignant snorts of cows and goats. He glanced back when he arrived at the last stall.

“Right behind ya, boy.”

Frank followed the dog through the narrow space between the enormous stack of hay and the barn wall. Buford plopped down on his rump, his tail thumping in anticipation.

Frank waved his hand over a rusted nail hammered into the weathered board. The contented cluck of a hen could be heard in the distance, though no chickens were kept on the ranch. At Frank’s signal, Buford bounded through the narrow opening that appeared between the weathered boards of the barn, and raced down the concrete stairs, barking to announce his arrival.

Frank followed, his transformation already underway. Shoulders pulled back, spine straightened. Hands—once calloused and weathered, now smooth and manicured—ran through dishevelled locks, instantly grooming them into what his assistant called a Cowboy Banker look. She insisted it was sexy. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Frank’s gait was no longer a meandering stroll, but rather a militant march. He strode about the cavernous room, barking out orders in a commanding voice.

Andrea, his assistant, approached him, pressed a mug of black coffee in his hand. “Good morning, sir.” He took a sip, all but wept with gratitude. Andrea made damn good coffee.

In his office, Frank sank into the leather chair behind his desk.

Andrea wasted no time. “You have a meeting with Security at noon. The President will call at two-fifty to be briefed before the Iranian Consulate calls at three.”

He cut her off. “I may have found a recruit for Intelligence.”

Understanding he needed to talk, Andrea dropped into one of the club chairs in front of his desk.

“Who?”

He told her about the couple he met. Andrea knew it wasn’t uncommon to recruit a half, as they called it, but it was a scenario the Company avoided. Statistics on failed relationships aside, the security risk was a logistical nightmare. Andrea could see that Frank wanted to recruit the woman. “You know, Harold has been grumbling about retiring.”

“Harold?”

“Works with André in Chem.”

She watched Frank as he processed this information, could see the moment he came to the same conclusion. She gathered her notepad and walked over to the door. “I’ll call the White House, have them recruited as a couple, arrange for them to be briefed before training.”

Frank shook his head. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d go through your day drinking shitty coffee,” Andrea said, as she left the room.

Warning Signs

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: Tepid. There is nothing tepid about the message in my story so, needless to say, I decided not to use it.

Today's photo:




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Warning Signs

She didn’t expect the sign to bring help—it was too late for her. She only hoped to warn others; protect them from her life of bondage.

Town Crier

Today's muse: Friday Flash 55

The rules: Write a story in 55 words. No more. No less.

And I liked the picture prompt he used, so I used it as well.




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Town Crier

“That lavender lace wrap.” Jeremy Wilkinson’s tone was bland, as though he asked for a dozen penny nails.

To her credit, Mrs. Shaefer remained stone-faced as she wrapped the silk in delicate tissue. She knew perfectly well he wasn’t buying it for his wife.

The door hadn’t yet closed before she was whispering the tale.

Mute

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: gasp, mute, viable

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Mute

He questioned whether his skills were viable; then she gasped, and he smiled in triumph as his probing fingers rendered her mute.

Surprise

Today's muse: Friday Flash 55

Write a story in 55 words. No more. No less.

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Surprise

“I have something special for you.”

Lips like butterflies brush her ear. Sara bites back a moan. She wants him. God she wants him.

He brushes a thumb against the nub that strains against her thin tee. “Wait here,” he whispers, stepping away.

Sara nods, keeps her eyes closed until the door closes behind him.

Rx

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: appear, dose, pierce

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Rx

It appears that love—doled out in stingy doses—only tears the heart, rather than heals.

Mercy is Strained

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: early, jiggle, quality

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Mercy is Strained

Early light crept like fingers through veneer blinds, teased her awake. Cheryl surfaced from the fog of sleep, wet and hungry. Jeremy’s steady, heavy breathing next to her stirred something she seldom felt in the morning. Mornings were for showers and teeth brushing, not sex.

She couldn’t explain why she wanted him—needed him—at this precise moment. It’s not as though he’d expressed any interest in her. Hadn’t for quite some time now. Jeremy insisted it wasn’t the extra pounds she’d put on since they’d exchanged vows. And she believed him; at least she told herself she did.

Back in the day, Jeremy couldn’t keep his hands off her. He’d catch her gaze, glance at a closed door, and Cheryl would lead the way. The lock to the office utility closet would hardly engage before her skirt was around her waist, panties thrust aside.

Need flared with the memory. Cheryl pressed against him, bare skin next to bare skin. The moonstone pendant (the only thing she wore to bed) jiggled between her breasts as she reached over, skimmed a hand over his hip, dipped down to grip…limp, lifeless.

She closed her eyes, mortified. Not even in his dreams did he want her; her pound of flesh rejected once again.

Portia was wrong, Cheryl thought, the quality of mercy is strained and it showers down in biting hail.

Soundlessly, she pulled away, lay back on her side of the bed, pressed her face into the pillow. She lay motionless until he woke and stepped into the shower an hour later.

Expiration

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Expiration. What do you wish had an expiration date?

Obviously, it took me longer than the alotted one minute (more like twelve) so I didn't post it on Mister Linky over at The One Minute Writer. I just really liked this prompt and wanted to use it.

* * *

Expiration

She stood on the tiny three-legged stool reaching for the box on the top shelf.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Eric stood in the doorway of the walk-in closet. “I thought you were making dinner.”

“I just wanted to check something.”

Janice stepped down and walked past him, an antique hat box tucked under her arm.

Eric glanced at his watch. “Can’t you do it after dinner? I’m hungry.”

“It will only take a minute.” Janice opened the box, rummaged through the contents.

“What is so damned important that you have to check it now?”

Janice continued to sift through the hat box.

“Don’t ignore me, woman.”

“One minute. I think this is…yes!”

She snatched a piece of paper from the box, waved it in the air.

“What the hell is that?” Eric walked toward her, but Janice held out her hand.

“Wait!”

Hands trembling, Janice unfolded the paper. Her lips moved in silence as she read the parchment; eyes darted back and forth, moved lower and lower. As she came to the bottom of the page, her lips twitched, then curved into a grin.

She held the page up so he could read it. She waited until the look of puzzlement passed and his eyes widened with understanding.

“There’s an expiry date,” she said, waving the page at him. She flicked her finger as though she swatted at an annoying mosquito.

“I’m outta here.” Tossing the paper at him, she stormed out of the bedroom.

He heard the front door slam before their marriage certificate floated to the floor.

Security Guard

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Marc's prompt: Four lines of prose about 'the security guard'.

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Security Guard

I have to take off my shoes and socks to count how many years we’ve been together, it’s been so damn long; an eternity some days. You’ve broken almost every promise we made before god and man, though I don’t think god was really listening that day, so maybe it doesn’t count. What pains me most is that you promised to take care of me, protect me, never hurt me.

You let your guard down.

To Do List

Today's muse: The One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Make a list (of whatever you want.)

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To Do List

Sleep in.
Eat a breakfast of poached eggs on rye toast with strong black coffee.
Enjoy a quiet commute to work.
Arrive at work to find no emails awaiting my immediate attention.
Finish all my filing.
Indulge in a long lunch.
Return to work to find a note from the boss telling me to go home early.
Revel in a quiet commute home.
Walk into the house to discover elves have cleaned.
Sit down to a gourmet dinner.
Enjoy a steaming bubble bath and glass of wine.
Lay in bed and doze off, realizing the exact opposite happened.
Repeat tomorrow.