Monday, November 25, 2013

The Best Scent

      Many an afternoon was spent in the old college library surrounded by books.  Senior year she spent most of her time there studying.  Once fate brought them together, they went there often with friends to study and complete papers for class.  They sat side by side at the same table with friends each working on their own work.  Stealing glances, holding hands under the table, neither getting much work done as they only had eyes for each other in the early days of their relationship.  The chemistry between them was electric and palpable.  Their friends joked that they should get a room.  They shyly glanced at each other and giggled mischievously whenever this was suggested and continued to keep up pretenses of work.

      One day after reading the same sentence for the umpteenth time she took his hand.  Their eyes met, and they knew they must…if only this once.  Their need for each other was too great.  They hurried deep into the stacks, back into the bowels of the library where few ever tread.  Back to where the light was dimmed and the older volumes were kept.  Once there they embraced.  With a shared smile, their lips found each other as they seemed to melted into one.  The outside world faded and all that was left was the two of them, the heat that radiated off of them, and the urgent lust that demanded to be satisfied.  Their caresses held urgency as they lost themselves in each other.  There was always that chance they would be discovered which fueled their passion even more.  In that one moment, they were the only two people that existed.  They could have been anywhere even on a beach at sunset.

        Ten years later they are happily married and she visits the library weekly with their daughter for story time.  Even now, the smell of old books reddens her cheeks and makes her deliciously hot.  Only her husband knows what went on in the stacks all those years ago.  Only he knows how the smell of old books still affects her.    Those long ago moments surrounded by old books were the single most erotic moment of her life.   It is a memory her fantasies have been based on ever since.  

This is a fictional tale written for the Write Tribe Wednesday writing prompt "the smell of old books".

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Wreath

       At Christmas, she hung the 
beloved illuminated wreath in 
the living room as tradition. 
 When she died, he hung the 
wreath.  Now the tradition 
continues and their daughter 
hangs the wreath in memory.

        This was written for the Trifecta challenge where we were asked to choose a word and use it three times in 33 words. However, it must be either a verb, noun or adjective and the form of the word cannot change, it must appear exactly the same three times. The chosen word was to be highlighted within the piece. 

Thursday, November 21, 2013

The Companion


          I don't need a babysitter!  It isn’t called that when you reach my age but that is exactly what it is in my opinion.  After I broke my hip last spring my children insisted on hiring a companion for me.   As if I can’t take care of myself!  As if I am lonely!  It is ridiculous!!  I am a grown man!  I don’t need any help.

        She arrived today bright and early with enough stuff to fill my whole house for her one room.   Mary Poppins she is not!  My kids know I am not happy about this turn of events but once the doctor took their side, what could I say?  She is here to help me they say.  They claim I am forgetful.  They say I could fall again. I refuse to admit they are right.

            All settled in she is sitting in my living room watching some God awful daytime soap while folding my laundry.  What is the world coming to?  Out in the kitchen I decided I would warm up some soup.  While looking out the kitchen window I see my neighbor is outside pruning their hedge.  I will go say hello hurrying out.  In my haste I stumbled over a pesky tree root and went straight down.  I hear the smoke alarm going off.  The next thing I know she is at my side helping me up.  I am shaken, but fine.  I completely forgot about the soup which is now burnt beyond recognition.  I notice she has opened a window to air the house.

         With a smile, she fluffs my pillow, switches on the television after cleaning up the mess I made.  Moments later she presents me with a steaming, hot bowl of soup, crackers, a glass of iced tea, and the television remote on a tray.  We chat and laugh.  Disaster was averted.  I am safe and finally grateful she is here realizing I need her after all.

This is a fictional story written for the Trifecta week 104 writing prompt. 
 We were to write a post of 33-333 words using the word "companion" and utilizing the third definition:
a. one that is connected.
b. one employed to live with and serve another.

Word count: 325 words

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Blood Haiku Collection

Three haiku written for Haiku Heights #309

life forces promise
first solitary drop found
a rite of passage

without blood flowing
unconscious unresponsive
empty lifeless shells

carnage at the scene
an incriminating clue
points to the guilty

Monday, November 18, 2013

Only One Knows All

     “Give me 5 seconds and I will tell you everything I know!” my Dad often randomly proclaimed with a grin.  Surprised, everyone would stop and stare.    A brief moment of silence would elapse, a giggle would escape, and then life would continue.  

       In all the years my Dad proclaimed this, he never once elaborated.  He moved through life confident seeming to know all and in complete control of his destiny.  One day he suffered a stroke.  It was as if God mocked “So, you think you know it all?”  He learned only one knows all and sadly it wasn’t him.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013


          My favorite time of the day is between the hours of 3 and 4 in the afternoon when the school buses finally bring my children home from school.  Twice a day I make the familiar trek to the bus stop.  In the morning to insure they get on the bus safely and back again in the afternoon to welcome them home.  Both kids greet me with smiles, hugs, and kisses with my son hitting me with a running tackle as he flies off the bus like a projectile missile into my waiting arms. 

        The walk home is filled with constant chatter that doesn’t cease until all the excitement from their days at school has been revealed.  We gather around the kitchen table eating snacks and doing any homework that was sent home with them.  Laughter is contagious and the kids share their days with me with such enthusiasm.  I hear who did what where and who said this and that.  I hear about what they had for lunch.  What tasted good and what sucked and was regulated to the cafeteria garbage can.  We relax and enjoy each other’s company.  They ask about my day, read my posts, and offer encouragement.  We vote on what’s for supper, and then I fix it.

         The house is quiet while they are away.  Except for the occasional barking of my dogs when someone walks past the house, the furnace kicking on and off, and the quiet tapping of my fingers across the keys as I write my latest post, the house stays relatively quiet.  Every once in a while whoever is in charge of setting off the storm sirens set them off for effect.  Since I live near the pole where the siren comes from my dogs go completely bat shit crazy.  They line up on the back of the couch looking out the front window barking and howling for the duration of the siren.  Sometimes I howl with them.  Other times I yell at them to shut the hell up.  Occasionally I will crank the volume of my favorite music full blast as I work methodically away and sometimes I will watch television while I work, but lately I revel in the silence that surrounds me punctuated with the quiet snores of sleeping dogs.  When they come home, it is as if the house and I come alive once again.  There is nothing better than hanging out in the afternoon.  What about you, what is your favorite time of the day?

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Monday, November 11, 2013

Never Forget

       Years ago, the telegram was delivered on the 8th of June.  When it was delivered fear gripped my heart.   I knew before reading it that Joe was gone.  I did not want to believe.    Not my Joe.  We were to be married when he returned and start our new life.  My dream was gone.  My heart is still broken.  I will never forget.

       All he ever wanted was to be soldier.  All he ever wanted was to defend and insure the dream.  He died making the dream a reality.  Now we live in peace as he rests.  Because of his ultimate sacrifice we honor and remember him and countless others like him especially today.  He gave his life for our safety.  For that, we remember and honor those who gave so much.  Today I remember, and even though my heart breaks, I give thanks for the freedom and the ultimate sacrifice he made to keep me safe. 

This is my response to Trifecta’s weekly prompt 103 , which was to write a piece between 33 and 333 words using the following word/definition:
Remember (verb):  3 a :  to keep in mind for attention or consideration <remembers friends at Christmas>; b :  REWARD <was remembered in the will>

This is a fictional story.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Goddess of Money

People work hard for me and then save me.

Others get me, flaunt me, and throw me away on frivolous things.

While many worship me, few realize I’m not the key to happiness.

This post is in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge - Week Ninety-three.

Buddhist cosmology tells of Trāyastriṃśa, or the Heaven of Thirty-Three gods, which rule over the human realm. The challenge this weekend is to write exactly 33 words about a god of your own devising that shares heaven with the other thirty-two gods.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Fleeing From the Pain

This fictional story was written for Write Tribe's "Hemingway this Wednesday" writing prompt.  I chose the quote “You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.”  taken from Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" to build my story 

        It was hard to believe a month had passed since the funeral.  She still expected to round a corner and see her husband sitting in his favorite chair watching the football game or out in the garage tinkering.  She would call his name and then remember, he would never answer her again.  He was dead and gone from her forever.   Not a moment went by that she didn’t think of him.  Not a day went by that she didn’t long for him.  There was always something new to tell him.  The most mundane things really, still something she would have always told him about.  Her heart ached, and the pain was palpable.

         Jack was only 50 when he died.  Not really old at all.  He had his whole life ahead of him when he was diagnosed with cancer.  Though afraid, he had fought valiantly and assured her he was going nowhere.   He would win this battle.  Only he hadn’t.  The cancer had won and left her a widow at 48 with her whole life stretching before her in an empty chasm of loneliness.  She had thrown herself into her work.    She worked tirelessly long hours.  She never slept anymore and rarely ate enough to keep a bird alive.  She knew family and friends worried about her and talked about her behind her back.  She didn’t care.  Jack was gone and her life was over.  The home they shared seemed too big to her now.  She wandered around looking for Jack remembering everything constantly in tears.

           She encouraged the kids to return to their lives.  Go back to college she told her youngest.  You have your own family she told her oldest.  Don’t worry about me she told them both.  I will be just fine, she assured them all.  It wasn’t until almost another month passed when she decided to sell the home they shared and start a new life for herself in a new city.    She packed up her memories and moved closer to where her children now lived.  The only problem was that despite the fact that the new house was lovely and she loved the area, she realized she still loved and desperately missed Jack and their old life.  No, he had never been to this place but his spirit followed her in her mind and heart.  She still longed for him.  He was a vital part of her and always would be.  They had shared a happy life together and now that was over.  He was gone, and she was still here.

          She soon realized she couldn’t run or hide from her grief and memories. They followed her everywhere she went.  She soon understood that you can’t get away from yourself by moving one place to another.  Only the passage of time would heal her broken heart and soothe the pain felt from Jack’s death.  Moving to a new home or city is simply geography and the heartache followed her and was just as strong there as at home.

         Her life would go on without him.  She would make new memories on her own and follow the path God had for her.  In time she would find happiness again while she carried the memory of Jack deep in her heart forever.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Where I Write

    My writing space is in a cozy corner of my living room situated right next to the flat screen television.  I have my desktop computer on top of a big, ole desk.  Right in front of the keyboard is the only bare place where the light colored wood can be seen.  The picture you see at the right is of my desk the day I got my computer and was forced to clean the clutter off to set it up.  Needless to say, the neat and clean look didn't last long.

     I am ashamed to admit that the rest of my desk is in semi-organized chaos.  Cluttered with papers reminding me of this and that, writing prompts, times to pick my kids of from school, bills that should be paid but haven’t been yet, and since Halloween my stash of left over Halloween candy.

     There are pictures of my husband and me and a multitude of pens.  I have a red binder that holds all my completed zentangles that were fortunate to escape the clutches of the trash bin.  You will find a spray bottle filled with alcohol to clean the smudges from my glasses, assorted screwdrivers, and my tomato pin cushion.  While I straighten it up on occasion, most of the time it is as I have described.  It is said that a cluttered desk is the sign of a genius.  If that is the case, I must be right up there with Einstein!

     A hair brush, hand sanitizer, and two rocks that were gifts with etchings of a Boston terrier dog and a sleeping cat surround my keyboard.  It is a mess plain and simple, but it is my mess and believe it or not some of my best ideas are born in this cluttered, cozy place.  I have a good idea where everything I need is even if I have to search a bit to find it.