There’s Something in the Fog

90 days from now, according to old farmers’ wisdom, we’ll have a storm.
What ever.  That’s in December,  when we’ll all expect it anyway.  Now, I simply want to go outside.

Because the Fog lies thick and steadily all over the town.

And I just want to go out and walk in it.

Feel the wisp of clouds against my skin, shiver in the damp chill & snug my jacket up tighter as I walk.

And then, curl up under a fleece blanket with a mug of chai tea, and a good book, as I watch the Fog roll down my street,  making everything look magical & mysterious.

Alas… I’m just on a break at work, and my time’s up for daydreaming.

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The Morning After ~ Flash Fiction Refry

Georgia’s face screwed up into a grimace as she watched the men outside her window. When would they be done with the work next door? It was so gross, having that mess spread out all over the lawn.

And the gawkers! Freaking tourists, Georgia sniffed in disdain. They never had this many people driving down their street on any day, much less working-week days. They just came to drive slowly past, probably with their camera phones dangling from extended arms held out the car window for a souvenir snapshot of the spectacle.

Sure, take pictures, you freaking ghouls, Georgia thought to herself, take your damn pictures and get off my street!

And it wasn’t like any of them would really know what had happened at the house next door, anyway. Not like Georgia. She knew, but she wasn’t telling. Not like anyone would listen to her.

Granted, there had been a lot of screaming, in the wee hours of the dawn light, and then the noise from the gunfire, and the light and roaring sirens careening through the streets of their suburb… typical small community, right?

Yeah, whatever. Georgia turned to look down the street further, trying to see if she could find that one face… HIS face, in the crowd gathered below. As if she had a searchlight shining, there he was. Standing at least 3 people back from the front, trying to hide himself in the crowd of onlookers. But Georgia saw him, knew he was there. And knew what he’d done.

Bastard.

And as if he’d heard her speak aloud, his eyes rose to the window where she stood, searching, seeking. Georgia stepped quickly back from the glass, not wanting to have his eyes meet her own.

“I will tell them”, she spat out harshly, fists clenched in anguish and fury, “I will find a way to tell them what he did!”

Georgia glanced back out the window at the working men in the yard. They were almost finished, and were loading everything up in the back of the ambulance. Not that the ambulance was going to hurry, but it was procedure, Georgia guessed.

“Hey, Jerry! We’re ready to go, I think. We’ve just got this last one to put in the body bag, and we can let the coroner take over, hunh?” One of the paramedics called out to the other as he zipped up a black bag around Mr. Monty Smith, mercifully shutting him away from those awful onlookers. He wouldn’t have to deal with the humiliation of being on display for the neighbors anymore.

Too bad about the Smiths, Georgia thought wistfully, Tonya and Monty had just celebrated their 25th anniversary last week, and their son, Mark, had been home for a break from college for the festivities. She’d been invited to the party, and had enjoyed it immensely, even to going over to thank them and to offer her help to clean up. Well, the clean up would be the county’s problem now, Georgia mused.

Three body bags were loaded into the back of the ambulance as a lone paramedic finished working on the last victim. Georgia’s eyes glinted as she watched him zip up the bag and get it ready for transport.

I will find a way to tell them what he did.

And the body of Georgia Fenton was carefully lifted up and placed in the ambulance for the trip to the morgue.

But the spirit…. waited, and watched the county crew move onto the grass, hoses and black garbage bags in hand, cleaning up the lawn where the bloody carnage of the night before’s massacre waited for them.

The morning after could be a real bitch.

Old Yarns, and a New Thing!

Yeah, it’s late.  12:53 AM, to be precise.  But I wanted to post this before it toppled out the back of my head and was lost forever.

I have multiple flash fiction stories that I wrote on here, and on the other blogs I’ve had in the past… and I’m going to re-post them here again.

I’m actually missing the 1st year of posts on here, since I started posting in 2009… ah well.  No crying over the spilt water under the bridge.

I’ll post the flash fiction that I have in my laptop’s archives, and have done with it.

ALSO,

I’m happy to report… I’ve convinced OnlySon to be a guest blogger next Friday to write the Friday Flash Fiction!  So, stay tuned.  I’m not allowed to edit anything, mom, unless he changes his mind between here and then – at least maybe the grammar and spelling?

Please?  Maybe?

*crossing fingers*

So, stay put – I can’t wait to see what he comes up with!

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Flash Fiction Friday ~ The Sunday Paper

friday flash

Mom smashed all the dishes that day.

Even the good, “Gramma’s Sunday night, fried chicken dinner” dishes.

And once it was over, ragged tears, incoherent screaming, shards of porcelain and glass shattered everywhere on the kitchen tile floor…

Mom sat in the corner, knees pulled up tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them – and wept.  Huge, sobbing gasps of grief.  And in her hands, a wad full of paper, spotted with her blood, tiny cuts from the smashed dishes all over the backs of her hands.

Neither of us kids knew what to do with this keening woman, who, just yesterday, was the picture of maternal domesticity; and yet today, was reduced to a mass of frayed nerves and horrid weeping.

Finally, Jake tiptoed carefully through the minefield of broken dishware, and knelt down close to Mom,

“Mama?  What’s the matter, Mama?” Jake leaned in, barely whispering.

“Gone, all gone,” Mom lifted her head from her knees, excruciatingly slowly, as though it weighed too much to support.  “They’re all gone, there’s nothing left.”

“Yes, Mama, all the dishes are gone.  Why’d you break them, Mom?  Are you mad at something – is there something you need?”  my brother reached out to brush the bangs out of Mom’s eyes, but stopped just short of actually touching, not sure if he should.

“Gone… all gone” and Mom dropped her head back to her knees, dropping the papers she’d been holding to the floor.  Only they weren’t papers – but pictures.

“Jake,” a harsh whisper came from my own lips, ragged and halting, “Come to the living room, now, I’ve got to tell you something.”

Jake looked down at Mom’s hands, gasped and shot his eyes back to me, standing in the doorway, shock clear on his face.

“Come to the living room, Jake.  Now.”

Nodding his head, my brother rose and followed me into the next room, glancing once over his shoulder to where our mom still sat, slowly collapsing into the fetal position on the floor.

“Jake, Mom’s not talking about the dishes being gone,”  I shook my head in sudden understanding.

“What was that in her hand, Bex?  Were those our pictures on that paper?  Why would our pictures be on that paper, Bex?  And where’s Dad?  Shouldn’t he be here?  I mean, he came and picked us up after the game, brought us h–…”  Jake’s voice squeaked on the last word, raising a shaking hand to his mouth.

“Jake, Dad’s not here… and I don’t think we ever came home…”

We both stopped, turned, and watched… as Mom picked up this Sunday’s newspaper obituaries section… one picture standing out to us both… Me, Jake, and Dad…. smiling in black and white at the camera.

In the Interim

I took a pause.

Went off on a tangent.

Started another blog, dropped it, started yet another one, and dropped that one too – started a third… and a fourth… dropped the third, kept the fourth.

And I came home – here – to where my WordPress adventures all started.

There have been a lot of changes in my life… and a lot that stayed the same.

I don’t really want to rehash it here, so I’m simply having a GRAND RE-OPENING, now under old management.

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Come for the ribbon cutting… stay for the emergency alcohol preps!

Anyhoo… I’m going to be posting whenever I damn well feel like it, so hang on!

And – tomorrow?  There might even be fiction.

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The Human Fist

Not everything is peachy, not everything is keen. Some days are better than others, and some days just suck rocks.

And some days, there’s nothing obvious going on, but I take a breath. …

And realize I’m once again the Great Clenched Human Fist.

Every muscle feels locked in place, curled and tense, my chest tight with dread.

Not a crisis… but a million little things that add up to chronic, generalized anxiety. 

Meditation no longer helps the way it once did, and insomnia is a constant, unwelcome guest in my home.

I can’t wait for my annual checkup on Monday. My doctor only sees me once or twice a year, and I think she’s coming to dread those visits… time to visit about getting back on anti – anxiety meds… *sigh*

Goddess, some days I think I deserve to wear a cape, simply for getting through the day without ending up in the jacket with the silver buckles & self – hugging straps.

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The Quiet One

OnlySon is now 16, and proud of the fact that he’s taller than all the women in his life.OnlySon

Brat.

He’s smart, hilariously funny, and a seriously talented writer.  He wrote a short story for school last year, that stunned me with its intensity and intelligence.  Not that I don’t know the kid’s smart, but that I didn’t know he had that kind of story in him to write!

My son – also likes games.  Online, virtual, xbox, playstation and wii – he delves into these virtual worlds, and masters them.  Oh yeah, there have been plenty of “rage quits” as he calls them *snickering to myself as I write*, but he always goes back, doggedly, until he fixes the problem, solves the puzzle, or defeats the Boss monster.

And yet…

The school says that he is “lacking”.

Because he doesn’t like crowds.

He doesn’t have tons of friends.

He isn’t a “joiner” or much of a “team player”.

And?dare-to-be-different

Does my smart, funny, talented boy have to be a conformist to make it in this world?

Since when has a conformist STOOD OUT or MADE A STATEMENT?

It’s not in the sheep’s nature to veer off from the herd and be different…

And OnlySon is not a sheep.

I refuse to let the “professionals” pigeonhole my son into a category where he does not belong.

My son will break molds, forge his own paths, and he will NOT conform.

And I don’t have a problem with that.

Personally, I’ve always felt that to be normal – is to be boring.  Everyone has something about them that makes them unique, one of a kind, and they should celebrate that – not hide it.

I, too, am a purple alligator in a world full of sheep.

And there’s not a DAMNTHING wrong with that.

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