“Package for you!” Penny called out as she walked into the room.
“Kat!” She raised her voice to penetrate the guttural screeches pouring out of the TV. Her and her zombie shows. By now, Penny might have expected zombie noises to have become like white noise to her. But no. The soundtrack was as annoying now as it was when Kat first moved in.
Katrina paused her show. “What?” she shouted in return.
Penny dropped the flat Priority Mail package on her roommate’s lap and sat on the arm of the sofa, cringing at the image on the TV. “Why are zombies always so loud? It’s like the entertainment industry had a collective gathering and determined ‘THIS’ is the noise they make. Every show, every game, every movie you watch - they all sound alike. And it’s awful. I can’t believe you actually enjoy this crap.”
“Yeeha!” Kat wasn’t listening. As Penny spoke, she had pulled open the tear-tab to access the contents of the package. She knew exactly what this was. “My personalized plates! Woot-woot!” She gave a little dance as she sat, brandishing the pair of license plates that had just arrived.
“What? Let me see.” Kat gave a toothy grin as she handed one over to Penny, who rolled her eyes and dropped it back on the sofa. “Ugh. No! Just, no,” Penny said through laughter.
“Is there anything that is more ‘Me’?” Kat asked, holding up her new tag under her chin as if for a mug shot.
ZOM BKA7
As Penny rose to leave the room, she just shook her head. “’Zombie-Kat.’ Yeah, you’re right. That’s definitely very you.”
“You should watch with me sometime,” Kat sang out as she leaned across the back of the sofa, trying to tempt Penny to stay. “I could teach you the folklore of my kind!”
“No thank you. I can’t handle the noise.” She stopped, staring at the growling monster on screen, and grimaced. “Although, if you can answer my question about their noise, I’m interested.” The blank look she got in response told her Kat hadn’t heard the speech she gave as she delivered the mail. “You know, who decided they make that terrible noise? They all do, in everything you watch.”
Kat’s eyes got wide as her jaw dropped. Her head tilted in a variety of postures as she considered the various zombie-esque things she’d seen. “I – don’t – know.”
A wry smile settled onto Penny’s face as she taunted Kat. “You should write your next fan-fic about ‘silent’ zombies.”
Turning back to the TV, Kat said, “Maybe I will.” And un-paused the show.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme was "Audience Participation" (read about it, here). Each day was a new story based on suggestions from your comments. I WILL continue this on Fridays henceforward. I had a blast! I hope you did, too. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location, mood/genre... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, and write a new story every Friday.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "license plate", suggested by Donna Smith (of Mainely Write), given in comments on my "M" post (here.).
There was no sound. A soft breeze rustled the branches of the trees around the cabin, but that was it.
Bridget had heard that loneliness was a common complaint up in this wilderness, but she loved the outdoors. Always preferring nature to human companionship, she hadn't worried about loneliness gripping her. She’d rented this cabin for a month to get away from the noise of humanity.
Yukon Territory. Pretty. Remote. Wild nature. Beautiful in all its harsh isolation.
The guys who did that “Survivor” show should stage one up here. Then again, no. Leave it untouched. Let the bears and birds and beasts live their lives in peace. It was probably, on the whole, too dangerous to leave a bunch of strangers on their own with only their wits. Plus they’d have to pack too many clothes for the weather.
She sipped her coffee and rocked in her chair on the front porch. A week of solitude had passed, and maybe Bridget could begin to understand the concept of loneliness. More because it would be nice to share this moment with someone. And another human would be security when she went out on daily hikes. Still. Time spent in the company of oneself was always time well-spent. She was sure she had read that somewhere. Some famous person said it.
There were supposed to Polar Bears, but she hadn’t seen any yet. That was disappointing. Was she in the wrong season? Was it the climate change that kept them away? Hopefully they’d show up before the month was out.
Her coffee finished, Bridget went back inside, disappointed. She had such hopes every time she sat out on the porch of this cabin. The cabin was supposed to be well-positioned for observation of wildlife coming to the lake, but she couldn’t seem to time it right. Maybe she smelled wrong, or made weird noises, and the animals stayed away specifically because she was outside. Inside the kitchen, she washed out her coffee mug and watched the birds at the bird-feeder outside the kitchen window.
Birds at the bird-feeder, squirrels and gophers and other small ground animals. Not the Polar Bear viewing she’d bragged about to friends back home.
Gradually, as she watched out the window, she noticed movement further way, near the trees. What was it?
Bridget didn’t move, barely breathed, even though she was dying to run and grab her binoculars.
A large shadow ambled out from the trees, striding toward the edge of the lake. A moose! Bridget grinned so broadly she was afraid a laugh was going to burst out. Although she was behind glass, she didn’t dare make a noise that might be heard by an animal’s alert ears.
The birds fluttered away from the feeder, but she wasn’t watching them anymore. It was so beautiful! So big and – well, it wasn’t elegant, Bridget thought. But the slow way it moved, so self-assured as if it owned this property and all other animals should bow to it. Yes. There was something majestic in the bearing of the big, burly, lopsided looking beast.
Bridget sighed, her vision blurred by sudden tears pooling in her eyes. This was her moment. She had three more weeks to get pictures or zoom in with binoculars. It was a private moment that would live nowhere but her memory. And there was nothing lonely about that at all.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later. (Even after AtoZ.)
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "moose", suggested by J Lenni Dorner (of Operation Awesome), given in comments on my "K" post (here)
As I watched the blood pooling around me and the gaping hole in my gut, I tried not to move. Not to draw attention to my position, lying on the floor, half-propped against the bar behind me. She didn't come here for me. I was collateral. Somehow, Mad Max had pissed this broad off in a big way. She wasn't familiar to me on sight, though. She'd stormed into the grubby bar, guns in hand, blasting wildly. It was late. Late enough that all the good people of the world were at home in their beds. Only us seven were here - the Sweet Seven, we called ourselves ironically. Us and the bartender. Maybe he ducked behind the bar in time. I could feel my breath sucking in and out in shallow sips, as pain surged through me on each inhale. I was gripping my wound, not knowing whether that would help. On TV, people always said "apply pressure". That seems wrong. Like I'm just pushing more blood out. Looking around from my low angle, I ignore the dirt and spilled pretzels, the sticky puddles of beer and other liquids. Mirroring my position on the far side of the pool table, Spike catches my eye, pain and worry mixed on his face. His shirt's bloody like mine. Whoever she was, she wasn't shutting up. Her screams and accusations aimed at Mad Max entered my ears as from a great distance. Like my brain couldn't focus on the sound. My pulse was pounding in my eardrums too loudly for me to make sense of her words. I didn't need sense. I needed help. Spike did, too. Axle and Big Dave got the brunt of her first shots as she'd stormed in. Axle wasn't moving. Big Dave was out of my line of sight, but I bet he didn't make it either. No idea what happened to Gunnar and Pete. It didn't matter. I could feel my face contorting as if tears wanted to release my pain, and I recognized that feeling on Spike's face across from me. We were paying for whatever sins Max had committed. Not our fault. Not really. Not unless you count the fact that we all encouraged each other in late night trouble-making. No matter what one of us suggested, the others all backed it up. It was code. It's how we ended up here, a bunch of high school drop-outs, acting cool for each other, low-lifes living at the Golden Shovel all hours of the night, boozing it up and thinking we were living large. Not for long. I could feel the fog in my head taking over, and my hands wouldn't hold any pressure to my gut any longer. Not my problem. Not for long. None of us would make it through the night. We would all pay for Max's sins.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later. (Even after AtoZ.)
Today's post was inspired by the poem-prompt "We Real Cool" (read it here), suggested by Namratha (of Namy Says So), given in comments on my "M" post (here)
"It's not fancy, but it's dry," Joe pointed out as they entered the broad doorway. It was a pointless thing to say. It wasn't raining or wet outside. They could sleep under the stars and stay just as dry, with less of a stench, probably. A roof and walls protected them from more than just the weather, though.
He helped his fiance waddle into the room. She wasn't walking very well. It had been a difficult journey, but one they'd had no choice to make. "Ah, ah - AH!" She moaned with every step, and he could see on her face that she was in more pain than she'd been letting on.
"Oh no. Not now. Now?" What on earth would they do? The trip was hard enough already, and now this. "How long?"
"Not long at all. Find something." A choked breath squeezed out. "Someplace safe to put him." Joe nodded, and began searching the stable. They'd been given a dim lantern, and he moved quickly, trying not to leave her in the dark too long.
"A trough! It's the perfect size - wide enough, but narrow enough to be snug." He searched her face for approval.
Mary let out a prolonged groan. "Well ... A trough ..." A series of short, sharp breaths, and she continued, "May be the right size, but - AUGH! - But what will we do with all the water in it?" She reclined as best she could. "Joe, I love you, but please look for another option. Quick!"
"Right." The animals' water trough would serve in a pinch, but Mary had a point. They'd have to dump out the water in order to use it. She would never do that to the lovely people who were putting them up for the night. Joe went back into one of the stalls and returned moments later, triumphant.
"I've got it!" He held up a small wooden box, elevated conveniently on criss-cross legs. It was full of hay. "What about this?" He showed the manger to Mary, who smiled through her obvious pain.
"It'll do." She panted briefly as he set it down near where she was reclining, then she had a second thought. "Maybe leave some of the hay in the stall? So the animal can - AUGH!" Joe got the point. He scooped out the top third of hay and went back to place it on the floor of the stall. Animals could eat off the floor, but if they'd dumped the water out of the trough, it would just be gone.
"Joseph!" Mary screamed. "It's coming!"
The innkeeper's wife showed up at that moment with a clean blanket. She had noticed their situation when they knocked on the door earlier, so impatient to rest for the night that they'd taken the animal stall out back. Joe looked helplessly at the older woman, who stepped in between him and his betrothed, thrusting the blanket into his hands. "Here, let me," she said, and got down on her knees by Mary to assist with the birth.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later. (Even after AtoZ.)
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "trough", suggested by Jz (of A Reluctant Bitch), given in comments on my "P" post (here)
Diary of a rainy day.
6:30 am. It has clearly rained last night: the ground is a little wet. But it's not raining now. Just a bit cloudy. By 7:30 I'm on my way to the market, taking advantage of the break in rain. It's my favorite kind of day. The grey of the sky makes all the colors pop. That plus the sheen of recent rain lingering on surfaces, and it's a feast for the eyes.
I pause in the middle of the bridge over the river, breathing deep, photographing my favorite vista. It's not really a river. More like a small tributary of the river, a tiny branch within a larger river delta. I never learned its name. A sign in Vietnamese suggests to me that this might be the "Song Do", but maybe that's the name of the bridge.
The air smells sweet. Green. Fresh.
One more picture, including the verdigris cupola of the one Catholic church in town, not close, but visible further down the winding river. The river itself is a murky greenish-brown, churned up by the recent rain. Water palms and coconut palms line both sides of the river, verdant in all their green glory, vibrant amid the grey above. My favorite kind of day.
Continuing walking to the open air market, I begin to feel the air heavy on my skin. I've never understood the concept "but it's a dry heat." Heat is heat. Dry is dry. The tropics are luscious with humidity and I love it. In the American Midwest, my skin was always dry and required repeated moisturizing, especially during the winter months. Not here. Definitely not on a day like today, when the air itself is saturated with potential rain, veritably vibrating with anticipation for the clouds above to release their droplets so the vapor in the air can join the party and fall to the earth. My favorite kind of day.
8:00 am, and I'm on my way home from the market, laden with a variety of fresh fruits, vegetables and meat for the next couple days. Buying everything fresh means never keeping any food for more than two days, maybe three. I have one mango, one dragon fruit, two passionfruit, a large carrot, 1/4kilo of green beans, an eggplant, two onions, a bulb of garlic, two chicken breasts, and a fishcake cylinder.
Fishcake sounds gross, but it has become one of our very favorites - cut up and fried into scrambled eggs, or just fried like a burger and cut into pieces to eat on slices of cucumber. It's one of the fresh foods that can last several days in the fridge.
 |
| The view from my desk. |
9 am. A light drizzle. Fine by me. I'm happily ensconced at my computer, with all the windows and doors in the house open to let in the fresh air. Outside my office window the Birds-of-Paradise branches act as an umbrella preventing rain from spattering inside. The "plick-plick-plick" of water droplets landing on the broad leaves foreshadows heavier rain to come.
9:30 a.m. As expected, a heavy downpour. I sit by the front door, recording the sound and sight of tropical rain to share with friends and family on facebook. This downpour won't last. It'll change between drizzle, nothing, and downpour all day. My favorite kind of day.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later. (Even after AtoZ.)
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "verdant", suggested by Jz (of A Reluctant Bitch), given in comments on my "U" post (here) I must admit, I broke my own rule, and this is more truth than fiction. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!
"Yeah, and then I saw that guy off on his way. You know, helping people is what it's about." Uncle Ken was relaying his most recent adventure in getting intentionally lost. He did that a lot - turn the wrong way on purpose just to see what might happen and who he might meet on the way. Mind you, it made him late for Thanksgiving dinner, and then he was surprised we were already eating. Like it was our fault he prized his random adventures over family events.
The kids loved his stories, but I'd had enough of his know-it-all, show-off style. The story itself was never an issue, but his manner set my teeth on edge.
Sure enough, after dinner, as we were all lounging around watching football - or, for the teenagers, texting or gaming on phones - my niece Emily innocently laid her phone in her lap, leaned back into the sofa and said, "Ugh, I'm so tired. I think the tryptophan is kicking in."
Uncle Ken leaned over from the wing-back chair he'd occupied, and launched into know-it-all mode. "Actually, Emily, that's a myth. You'd have to eat a LOT of turkey to get enough tryptophan to have any effect. The sleepiness is more likely due to eating such a carb-heavy meal..." He droned on about the science of blood sugar and insulin while I sat silently reading and rolled my eyes.
Emily looked at him with the skepticism of a 16 year old, but didn't interrupt him. When he finished and leaned back looking smug, she cut her eyes to me. I shrugged. "Eh. Don't worry about it, Em."
Turning to my uncle, I asked, "Ken, why do always have to be so glib about everything? Can't you ever have a normal conversation?"
Eight year old Hunter was sitting on the floor listening absently and turned to me. "Clip? What do you mean 'clip'?"
I smiled at him. "Not 'clip'. Glib. It means your Great Uncle is a smooth talker who doesn't really say anything."
Hunter frowned and looked back down at his toy truck. Uncle Ken looked at me scornfully, then smirked and said, "Actually, Hunter, 'glib' is a word that is used..." At that point I rolled my eyes and left the room. Uncle Ken was just too much for me to take today.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later. (Even after AtoZ.)
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "glib", suggested by Jz (of A Reluctant Bitch), given in comments on my "K" post (here) Special thanks to Brett (of Transformed Non-conformist) for help with glib dialog!
"Miranda, honey, happy birthday!" Miranda opened her eyes and looked up into her mother's smiling face. "Time to get up. Waffles today for the birthday girl!"
After her mom left, closing the door behind her, Miranda stayed in bed and felt her chest under the covers. She turned 13 today, and still had no boobs. She was the flattest girl in her class. All she wanted for her birthday was a little boost in that department, but it was silly to think it would happen overnight. Still, every morning she felt herself to see if she had grown in her sleep.
Letting out a groan, Miranda got up and started getting ready for school, putting tissues in her training bra to create the illusion of something growing there. She pulled on a pair of jeans, and as she reached for a t-shirt, suddenly excitement filled her face - her jersey!
For her birthday, she had asked for just one thing: A pink, Tennessee Titans football jersey. That was Gavin's favorite team, and a sure way to get his attention. She didn't care about football, but since they sold the jerseys in girls' sizes and cute colors, she could at least pretend to support his team. Maybe they could have a conversation about it. That would make it a perfect birthday.
Pulling on a plain grey tee, Miranda raced downstairs, to get to her presents so she could wear the new shirt she knew her parents must have gotten her. They had to. She only asked for one thing, how could they not?
"That was quick! The next waffle is yours." Her mom leaned in to give Miranda a kiss. As she scrunched Miranda in a one-arm hug, Miranda's face fell. There were no presents at her spot on the table, just her little sister mushing around a bowl of cereal.
"Um, aren't we doing presents with breakfast?" They always did birthday presents with breakfast, and cake with supper.
"I'm sorry, Sweetie, Dad had to go in to the office early today. You can open presents with cake tonight." Plopping a hot waffle onto a plate, she handed it to Miranda and said, "Happy birthday!"
Miranda just looked at the waffle on the plate. No jersey. No adorable conversation with Gavin about the Titans. Probably Kayley would make her life miserable today, parading around the halls in her bra and a tight shirt showing off her breasts to all the boys.
***
Wearing an older, teal shirt with butterflies on it, Miranda walked into school, hoping to see her best friend Beth and complain about her parents' utter ignorance of everything she needed to have a good birthday. Beth wasn't in homeroom. She was sick today. Great. Her birthday got better and better.
Mr. Harmon dropped a pop-quiz on them in History class, too. Better and better! By lunchtime, sarcasm was dripping off every sentence coming from Miranda's mouth. Her friends sat with her at their usual table. They tried saying "Happy birthday" and got a tirade from Miranda, so the rest of lunch was quiet.
When Miranda left school at the end of the day, she decided the best thing about the day was that Kayley and her perfect chest had not spoken to her at all. She hadn't seen her talking to Gavin either, so that was something. "Happy birthday to me," she muttered as she walked in the door of her house.
***
Miranda forced a smile when her parents and sister sang "Happy birthday" after supper and she blew out candles. Her mom noticed a look of disappointment on her face when she opened a box and lifted out the exact jersey she'd requested. "Miranda, isn't that the right one?"
"Yes, Mom." Miranda spat the words in exasperation.
"So what's wrong?"
"It's too late!" Her perfect birthday needed the perfect jersey as an ice-breaker for the perfect conversation with the perfect boy.
"Too late for what?"
"Ugh! You don't understand anything!" Miranda dropped the jersey into the open box it came from and stormed out of the kitchen and up to her bedroom. Her mom took a deep breath and shared a look with her husband, who smiled and said, "Yep. She's a teenager now."
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "13", suggested by Jamie (of Uniquely Maladjusted But Fun), given in comments on my O post (here).
I pulled a random book off the shelf in Great-Grandma's locked library. The key to the library had been handed down to me after her funeral. As the matriarch of the family, the bequests were spread thin. My part of the family heritage was a key. An odd inheritance, but G.G. was a wonderful, eccentric woman and I was excited to have a key to the locked room no one else could enter.
I looked at the faded gold-foil title on the book's spine: "Centuries of Sentries". Odd title. The aged leather was embossed with a flying dragon soaring across the bluish front cover. Odd imagery for a book of ancient guards.
The front cover was too heavy to lift one-handed, as if lined with lead on the inside. I set the tome spine-down on the big reading table, and let gravity aid me in lowering the front and back covers. Sure enough, the covers fell open with a BANG, as flames burst out from the middle pages! One short burst, then the fire vanished into thin air, but my fingertips were scorched. I blew on them, flicking my thumbs across the pads of my fingers. I could smell that the hair on my arms had been singed, too, although I didn't see it burn.
What kind of book was this? Now that it was open, I gingerly turned the yellowing pages to the front of the book.
Aha.
Here we go.
Title page.
CENTURIES OF SENTRIES
A Guide to Our Majestic Dragon Guardians
Dragons? Sentries? There was no publication or copyright date on the following pages, but the language and imagery implied the medieval period or earlier. I sank into the chair placed in front of the reading table and turned page after page. The book had sketches of various types of dragons, and outlined the genealogy of some of the - apparently - notable sentries who had guarded against powerful foes.
As the sun dipped low and the room darkened, suddenly the oil lamps hanging from the walls of this room lit up of their own accord. Startled, I looked around. I had lost all sense of time as I read in this library. What was my G.G. up to? Why had she granted me the key to this room that had been a mystery to all of us when we were kids running through her big, old house during family events?
I knew I'd need to spend considerable time searching through the books and papers held within these walls, if I was ever going to find any answers.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "an ancient book about dragons", suggested by J Lenni Dorner (of Operation Awesome), given in comments on my Q post (here).
“Honey?” Tabitha called out from bed. When she had groped across the bed in the early sunlight and felt his absence, her eyes popped open. Eddie never got up first. There was no light under the bathroom door. Sitting up, she called louder.
“Eddie? Honey!” And she was up, pulling on her long silk bathrobe. Where was he? Two steps across the room, Tabitha felt regret smack her across the face. “Ohhh…” The sound escaped like a groan and tapered off. “That fight.”
When they got home from dinner with friends last night, a calm discussion about the varying political views expressed had turned into personal attacks. It devolved into commentary on reproductive health and a blast about having or not having children. Tabitha sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her forehead. Did it matter? It was just conversation. Heated conversation, but still.
She looked at the clock. 6:30. He was up a full hour before normal. Caressing the rumpled bedclothes on his side of the mattress, she remembered they’d gone to bed without saying “I love you.” She listened to the weight of the silence, took a deep breath, and stood. Maybe he was downstairs. They should talk about that fight. She’d make breakfast, turn on the coffee, they’d realize all was well. Megan and Ben just got them riled up last night. That’s all.
At the bottom of the stairs, she noticed the front door wasn’t fully closed. Had he gone out? She opened it and stepped outside, clutching her robe tight against the cool spring breeze. “Eddie?” There was no paper lying beside the hedge, so he must have gotten it already. Turning to go back inside, she noticed his SUV was missing from the driveway.
“What…” He LEFT? She raced upstairs and flung open the closet, rifling through hangers, trying vainly to determine if anything was gone. She couldn’t tell. She pulled open dresser drawers, yanking one so hard it came loose and crashed to the floor, scattering T-shirts and boxers in a broad pile.
“No.” Tabitha was in a panic. “No! It was a simple fight. None of it matters!” She was in a tailspin.
“Coffee.” Coffee to clear her mind, to help her think clearly. She headed back downstairs, treading lightly on weak legs. Downstairs, her knees sorted themselves out so she wasn’t a walking earthquake as she filled the carafe and dumped it into the reservoir of the coffee maker. Last night’s chocolate mousse sat on the counter with a spoon in it, condensation forming on the cool bowl. He'd been in here.
She opened the cabinet and brought down a coffee filter and the can of Folgers. Opening the lid… “Ah, crap.” There were a few loose coffee grounds in the bottom of the can, but not enough for one cup, let alone a whole pot. “Crap!” She was desperate for a mug of sanity.
Out of nowhere, tears filled her eyes as she scanned the kitchen. Without thought, she dug into the leftover mousse. Hunching over the bowl on the counter, Tabitha gave in to emotion, sobbing in huge waves until it was all out and she hung her head weakly, shaking with hyperventilation and a few whimpers.
The back door to the kitchen opened. “Sweetie? Tab, what’s wrong?” Eddie put an arm around her as she clung to him howling with relief.
“Eddie! Where were you?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to start the coffee for you and found that we’re out. I went to get some more.” He pointed at a bag he’d placed on the counter, then held up a to-go tray with two hot coffees and a bag of pastries. “Thought we should have some while we wait for our own to brew.”
“Huh? Hah! Hahaha!” Tabitha’s tears turned into laughter as she hugged her husband and took one of the to-go cups.
Eddie smiled, watching. As her laughter slowed, he touched her cheek. “I’m sorry about last night. Ben and Megan just got me going!”
“I know, honey, me too.”
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "mousse", suggested by J Lenni Dorner (of Operation Awesome), given in comments on my K post (here).
“Quit it, can’t you?” Megan asked. Blake was always on a quest, it seemed.
“I’ll quit when they do.” Megan sighed. She loved him, and she loved his drive, but all she had wanted was a relaxing walk on the beach. Wherever they walked, though, Blake’s inner crusade drove him. It was a beautiful thing, and one of the reasons she fell in love with him, but sometimes – just occasionally – she wished he could put his passion on hold.
He picked up another bottle from the tide line. “Isn’t all that garbage going to get heavy?” Megan asked.
“They’re empty water bottles. Not a lot of weight to them.” He crushed the bottle so it took up less space and dropped it into his plastic bag. “You could help, you know.”
“You’re right.” She nodded and looked around as they slowly strolled up the beach. “It’s just - it seems like a fuile task.”
“If people would quit trashing our oceans and beaches, I could quit doing this.”
Megan walked up to the dune line where she saw a pair of bottles lying under a shrub, and carried the bottles back to hand to Blake. “I don’t know why people are so careless. It’s not that hard to carry your trash to a can up the beach.” When he was on his own, Blake sometimes collected all kinds of trash to toss later. If they were together, he stuck to the left behind plastic water bottles, and they’d visit a recycling center on the way home.
“It’s laziness,” He said. “And ignorance. And apathy. Too lazy to carry trash an extra few feet. Too ignorant to recognize the harm they are doing. Too apathetic to care.”
“Do you really think these occasional walks make a difference?”
“They do for this stretch of beach.”
A little kid ran over from where he was building a sand castle next to his mother’s beach blanket. He handed them an empty water bottle and ran back. The mom raised her head from the blanket and waved. “Thanks!” She called out.
Megan smiled a little at that.
Blake looked at the empty bottle he'd been handed, bemused, and shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe we’re actually setting an example for little kids, too!”
Megan put an arm around his shoulder briefly as they continued walking and scanning for bottles. Cleaning up the beaches after the sloppy crowds wasn’t so bad if she could spend quality time with the man she loved.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "Left behind water bottles", suggested by Liz A. (of Laws of Gravity), given in comments on my "K" post (here)
Masan was the best maker of sutaris in his village. His wife and daughter collected jequirity beans daily, using half to make jewelry, and giving him half to turn into his poison cones. It was an underground business, as the sutaris were officially frowned upon. To the outer world – to the authorities, certainly – the family business was in bead jewelry. Only a few villagers knew that Masan’s family income was boosted exponentially by his poison business.
Everyone knew the jequirity beans were poisonous. Their bright red color made them popular for jewelry, but humans could not eat them. Children were cautioned from a young age to avoid the beans until they were old enough to know not to put them into their mouths.
One day, Masan’s daughter took ill. “I’m so sorry, my love, I cannot go out to collect the beans for us today,” his wife told him. “I must stay home and look after Mina. I fear she is developing a fever.”
“Watch her today. You brought me enough beans yesterday I can continue my work from those.”
The next day, Mina was worse. Masan had few beans left to work with, so he finished his work early. “How can I help Mina?” he asked his wife.
“She is burning to the touch. You must find a doctor to help her,” she told him as she sat at Mina’s bedside cooling her with damp cloths. Their village did not have anyone with medical experience, but there were a few traditional healers among the neighboring villages. Masan left to find one.
In the evening, he returned with a white-haired man wearing a cloth satchel across his body. The man examined Mina closely, finally telling the concerned parents, “It is just a fever. I can help. Where is your cook-fire?”
Masan led him into the small back room. He watched as this healer filled a saucepan with water. When he opened the satchel and brought out a pile of jequirity branches, Masan panicked. “No! Do not poison my daughter!” The man turned to look with compassion on Masan.
Slowly he spoke as he began separating the component parts of the branches. “You know what you know, and I know what I know.” Two piles were growing on the little table – one pile of jequirity leaves and one, of the beans he was separating from the branches. “Your business may be in poison, Masan, but my business is to heal. Will you trust an old man to help you?”
Masan’s jaw dropped to learn that his business was known to this man, but he wagged his head in a gesture signifying acquiescence. He watched the man bring the water to a boil and then add just the leaves to the saucepan. After a time, the healer poured a portion into a small clay cup. “Give this to Mina.” Gesturing to the remaining liquid in the pan, he advised Masan, “Give her another cup of this hot tea in the morning, another mid-day, and in the evening, until the fever breaks.”
Masan left to give the drink to his daughter. When he returned to the back room, the old man was gone, but he had left behind the pile of jequirity beans. Masan smiled. During the next day, as Mina’s fever dropped radically, Masan had new beans to work with.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "Jequirity Bean", suggested by Maria L. Berg (of Experience Writing), given in comments on my J post (here). Apologies for any factual inaccuracies. Writing Flash Fiction everyday doesn't leave me a lot of time for in-depth research, but it is true that the leaves have healing properties.
Ruth was walking through the historic "Old Town" district. The tour group she was traveling with was off on some other jaunt, bumping along in the large, air-conditioned tour bus, but Ruth wanted to really experience the ancient culture she was in. Tours were great for getting a trip organized, but since they would be two nights in this city, she made her own plans for this day. She'd rejoin them tomorrow when they headed up the coast to the next place.
She had taken a taxi from the hotel into the heart of Old Town, planning to spend the day on foot, visiting the old fort, the ancient port and its attendant shopping district. The architecture, the history, the smell of the salty air - Ruth much preferred seeing these things at her own pace, rather than follow a guide who would decide what they saw and for how long.
First stop, the Fort. She walked along the cobblestone streets of Old Town, down to the waterfront. The ancient building showed its age, along with some obviously modern renovations to keep the structure standing.
Ruth admired the crenelations atop the fortress in the center of the complex, taking several pictures as she walked past the entrance to the wall at the edge of the complex. Reaching the wall, she looked down to the waves crashing against the rip-rap at the base.
She breathed deep the luscious ocean breeze and exhaled an audible sigh. Heaven. One quick selfie with ocean and fortress in her background, and then she headed inside.
Inside the fort, Ruth took the obligatory photos of the museum pieces and historical placards, but found herself marveling more at the beauty of how age shows itself in stone and wood.
The smooth-worn wooden beams.
Efflorescence whitening masonry all over the outer walls.
Ancient footprints preserved in the stonework of the floor.
Age was beauty. It was a different kind of beauty, but the patterns of wear and tear made their marks as if Father Time was an artist creating a masterpiece that only he could make. Some of the younger members of the tour group tried to talk her out of going solo today. They thought an "old woman" shouldn't wander on her own. If they could see the beauty of this old fort, maybe they would recognize how mistaken they were.
Outside the fort, walking toward the port and shops, Ruth stopped for another selfie, this one with no scenic background, just an aging, efflorescent wall behind her. Age and beauty are not mutually exclusive.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "efflorescence", suggested by Nilanjana Bose (of Madly-in-Verse), given in comments on my M post (here).
The time bubble rolled forward.
"Too far, too far!" Abrastus shouted. "You idiot!" Maxim should never have been allowed behind the controls. Abrastus knew he cheated on his tests and did not have the knowledge or skill for such delicate maneuvering. He was, however, the nephew of Bartol, the Chrono-Master of the academy, and Abrastus was given no choice.
Abrastus shoved Maxim aside, hoping he could make the correction quickly enough to avoid total disaster. Maxim glowered at him from the side. "I barely crossed the timeline."
"The instruments are sensitive, which you would have known if you'd paid attention in class, or practiced in the simulator as you were supposed to."
"Whatever." He lounged against a side console, absently watching Abrastus caressing the controls while intently focused on the monitor. After a few moments, Maxim got impatient. "You know, Barty said I'M supposed to be running things today."
"Exactly. Under your control, we've run into a disaster instead of avoiding it, and I will make a full report on this." Under his breath, he muttered, "idiot, idiot, idiot."
The time bubbles had been erected in the distant past, to protect important or historical places. Chrono-drivers typically maintained each time bubble at a leisurely pace in keeping with actual time. They didn't interfere with generational modifications, renovations, or natural erosion, but when a crisis was known to be imminent, they could maneuver the bubble backwards and forwards in time, transporting the imperiled site around the disaster and maintaining it for future posterity. Chrono-management was a secret order, a noble honor, and this buffoon had just undone all the protective efforts of the past.
Finally Abrastus stepped back, sorrow in his eyes as he watched the monitor. He pulled Maxim into a position to watch the disaster unfold, then cuffed him on the ear. "Fool! The great Cathedral of Notre Dame is burning because of you!"
Maxim shied away from Abrastus' upraised arm, then stood straight and shrugged. "Doesn't look too bad."
"You are lucky I was here. At least I was able to save the base structure, but the entire roofing complex will need to be redone." Seeing the blank fascination in Maxim's eyes, he added. "Get off my bridge. I'll see to it you are expelled from the academy."
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by actual events in the news, as you may have guessed. I broke my own rule of using audience suggestion, but I promise to return to your suggestions tomorrow.
Abby had her swimsuit in the car. It was kind of pointless for her purposes, but she wanted it for after work. She worked in an office near the beach. There was a fast inlet down the road, with a high new bridge.
She was working late that Friday, noon until when-it-was-done. During the summer, seasonal help couldn’t always be relied on to take the time to process everything diligently at the end of the day. If she didn’t do the weekend close out, she often found herself fixing it the next day.
Today was as “normal” as one could have hoped but wrapping up still took a long time. The complaints were resolved, the revenue matched, and the seasonal staff left on time. That much was perfectly normal. She had even stayed longer to help the boss solve a lingering problem.
“You okay to lock up?”
“Sure thing, boss. Just let me double check my email and close out my computer. You go.”
Abby matched her actions to the words and was locking the office 10 minutes later. Nearly midnight. No moon graced the night, just a few winking stars against the pitch black sky. She drove the 3 miles to the bridge and pulled to park on the shoulder at the base of the bridge. Pausing in the driver’s seat, she felt her heart slump within. It hadn’t been a bad day. Few days were “bad”. They were all just so pointless. Ever since she could remember, Abby hadn’t felt like there was a point to anything. She had her fun, laughed with friends, moaned with pleasure at a tasty meal or passionate kiss, but each day was just a series of moments. Good, bad, or indifferent.
Even in grade school, Abby remembered going to bed thinking “Maybe tonight I’ll be taken.” Death wasn’t something she feared. It was just something different. As she grew up, she’d found that thinking and talking casually about death raised concerns in others, so she’d learned to keep her inner darkness deeply hidden. Inside, she felt as pitch black as the sky above.
Such a stigma talking about death when she wasn’t really “suicidal” resulted in her keeping her mouth shut so that no one might guess she thought about death. Of course, she still did think about it. Not every day, anymore.
Until recently.
Now it was an everyday thought again.
Even out for drinks with friends, laughing and building a buzz, it all felt fake. Everyone said “be yourself” but no one really wanted to hear the thoughts she thought. So she acted a part and did the things an adult human does. She had a job she was good at. She talked to her family regularly, went to church, paid her taxes.
No more.
Sitting in her little white sedan, she changed into her bathing suit. Not much point to it, except vanity, but she did it anyway. She left the car unlocked with the keys tucked under the floor mat, and climbed the stairs that rose alongside the bridge, right next to the inlet. There was no traffic. Midnight was quiet.
She knew when the tide would change, that point when the deep waters would be churning and roiling, creating whirlpools as water rushed in and out. She had timed her day well. Climbing over the railing, she allowed herself to fall forward.
A natural survival instinct kicks in when anyone is in a position of not being able to take in air, and Abby was no exception. As she felt herself pulled deeper, her strength finally gave out. As the swirling waters embraced her form, she was finally at peace.
Thank you for visiting my #AtoZChallenge! My theme is "Audience Participation" (read about it, here) and now it is your turn. Each day will be a new story based on suggestions from your comments. Suggest anything: a word, scenario, character, location... I will be keeping a list of suggestions, so if yours isn't used tomorrow, it may show up later.
Today's post was inspired by the prompt "pitch", suggested by Anna Tan (of Deeply Shallow), given in comments on my "L" post (here)
