Fearless #FamChallenge

Beloved Nephew and I are doing a writing challenge for a little while, to get the creative forces moving. This is my first installment.

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I’ve found myself wishing lately that I could live my life fearlessly, as I used to be able to…

To not have to worry about things constantly, to feel the constriction of anxiety wrapping itself around my chest and throat.

To be able to simply get up and go when I want to, where I want to, without fretting about how I’m going to get there, is it going to be crowded and dangerous, will I get lost, what if something does happen, then what?

I used to be able to live like that.

I sit here, shaking my head and ruefully laughing under my breath, remembering how crazy it seems now…

On a whim, I would pack up my daughters, toss overnight bags in my car, and we would drive 12 hours to Iowa.

Yes, on a whim.

We would make pit stops at the various “scenic stops” along the way, play, take pictures, get out of the car for a few minutes, chase each other around like hooligans…then back into the car, and down the road we’d go.

We always stayed with family at the other end, even if it was on a couch, or in a sleeping bag on the floor, but it didn’t matter to me, or to the girls, we all loved the away time, & getting to see Gramma, the aunts, uncles & cousins.

Visiting, I called it.

Escaping…is a little more accurate.

Luckily, gas was much cheaper back then, & my girls were happy little travelers, loving our “road trips”.  They ate healthy food from relatives with as much gusto as the junk food from gas stations. And would help clean up any mess they made with our stay before we left again.

Irresponsible, some would call it.

Free-spirited, others would say.

Young…is the terminology I use.

But, I’m not so young, anymore.

Still… I live alone now… And my weekends belong to just me once again. 

Maybe I need to “plan” a Fearless Weekend… And get the Hell out of Dodge.

Get in my pickup, pack an overnight bag, and drive…somewhere…other than here.

Hmm…

*wanders off humming to self and grinning from ear to ear*

Opposable #FlashFiction

“You’ll write what I want you to write, and that’s that, goddammit!”

Moira flinched as a meaty hand slammed the table in front of her, punctuating the sentence with a slap.

“No,” she breathed firmly, “I won’t. I’m not a smut writer, and I won’t start just because you’re threatening me. I write what I want, and kidnapping me won’t matter, you fucktard. You’ll never get what you want from me. Sick bastard.”

Moira could hear him grinding his teeth as he growled under his breath at her refusal, but she refused to cave in to his sicko demands.

She’d been here for just over 3 nights now, or 4 days…she couldn’t really tell. She knew she was underground in some kind of bomb shelter, since she could smell the musty, mildewy smell of old water on concrete, but he’d fixed the place up…almost nice.

Creepily so.

The walls were covered with faux wood panels, that had pictures and paintings hanging from them, to add some semblance of “windows”, even to having curtains hung around a few. It was – homey – and macabre, all at the same time.

The table at which she was now seated was real wood, a deep butcher’s block kitchen- style surface, ready to seat at least 6 people, but currently only holding her and an old manual typewriter, a fresh ream of paper, & a cup full of freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils.

Exactly like she’d told Author’s Gazette last month when she’d done that article about her writing habits, & her quirks about liking to have pencils on hand for the odd note-taking, twirling, putting up her hair in a bun when really getting serious, & chewing on the erasers when she got stuck on plot points.

“Alright. Well, you’ll stay here until you write what I want, then.”

************

“Are you going to write it yet?”

“No, go to hell, asshole.”

“Supper’s on the table.”

“Carrots and cheese sticks again?”

“Bologna tomorrow. You know you get meat once a week.”

“Fuck off”

“Write it.”

“Die.”

****************

“Maybe…maybe if I just… No, I can’t.  But…then he’d let me leave, right? Yeah, sure, after all this time…he’d just let me go. What, it’s been how long? How many weeks, months…ohh…god…so long…he’s never going to let me go…”

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“Write it”

“Never”

“WRITE IT!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

“THEN JUST DO IT ALREADY!”

“no”

“Then die”

“You first”

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“Crunch…crunch….crunch…..”

“carrots all gone…hehe hehe…”

********

“OH GOD! What did you do!!”

The blood dripped from the table, smeared along the walls, spelling out “Never” before slumping into an indecipherable scrawl near the bed where the dead woman lay. All her fingers bitten off, strewn about on the floor and tabletop.

“No, dammit! I never got my story!”

He flipped her over onto her back, furious, noticing as he did so, that she was smiling, with her own thumb, firmly wedged in her own mouth and throat.

Well…it was an opposable thumb, after all.


Guilty? Pleasure

Weekends are usually quiet for me, anymore. I don’t go out, unless it’s to Hellmart for groceries, & I don’t spend a lot of time on the phone. 

Well, not talking to others, anyway.

I did spend a lot of time with my phone this weekend…reading.

I’ve become quite addicted to my Kindle app.

*Gasp! Horror! Blasphemy!*

No, seriously.

I feel as though I’ve let my book-loving nerdy side down by reading books on my phone.

But I can’t stop. 

I think I burned up my battery 10 times this weekend, tearing through a whole series of digital books.

Yes, I still love read honest-to-goddess real paper books. 

But, I’m now paying for Kindle Unlimited….

And I’m not ashamed.

Well… Not really.

(For you, Youngerdaughter)

Vintage Poetry #2

After dealing with a migraine today, it’s time for me to pass on some of the love.

Cue the old poetry…

Mirror Image 

You sit there

Talking to me

But I don’t hear what

You’re saying

I’m looking 

In your eyes

Seeing my own pain

Reflected there

You’re telling me

Something about

How you never promised me

A rose garden

I never

Asked for one

All I wanted

Was that you

Be honest

With me

Tell me what

You feel

I’ll understand

I

Won’t break

I promise.

*funny how present life seems to imitate the past, ain’t it?*

One Tear for Me

Just cry one tear for me

Then I’ll be on my way

Please tell me that you loved me

At least you did one day

It matters to me now

What you have to say

Even if it won’t

When I am old and gray

I could have loved you deeply

But you just walked away

Before I had a chance

To say what I had to say

So just cry one tear for me

My love

Then I’ll be on my way.

-4/8/87

*damnedest thing, how these still sound so familiar*

Mannequins

Here I stand

At the window

Looking in.

My hands pressed against

The glass

My breath making fog

On its surface.

Let me in, I say

I tap on the glass

But they don’t see

Or hear

Their backs are turned

And then, so is mine

I turn and see her

Standing there

With her hands pressed

Against the glass

As mine had been

I know that I

Am no longer alone.

We back away from the window

“They’re only mannequins”

She says

I noticed that too

We walk away together

Knowing that they are only

Window dressing

While we have the whole world

To ourselves.

-4/14/89

*this was for my best friend, who showed me how much bigger the world was, when all I saw was a small town*

*and here’s the last one I plan to publish here, as this has reminded me why I haven’t posted these before…*

Think of Me

Every time you see a happy child

Think of me

When you see something free and wild

Think of me

When you read a story

With a happy end

Or get a letter from

Your best friend

See my smiling face

Happy for you

Think of me.

When you’re lost and alone

And you want to go home

Think of me

If you’re sad or you’re blue

Know I’m thinking of you

When you see the sun come out…

Think of me.

-1/30/89

Fini

Vintage Poetry #1

*Oh.my.god.  I’d forgotten how sappy & simple some of my old poetry was… Oy.

Ok, here goes…*

You & Me

Your eyes touch mine

And I smile

Your hand holds mine

And I’m warm

Your arm encircles me

And I’m safe

There’s no way I can

Come to harm

You smile 

And my heart skips a beat

You laugh

And my world is complete

I wake

To find it’s but a dream.

(12-15-87)

*I was still in high school…so sue me. I was emo before it was a thing.*

Little Roses

Little roses

Pale and pink

Overflowing

In the sink

Clip and snip

Trim and prune

It’s time for them

To die, too soon

Buds not opening

Never showing

The rare, rich beauty

Of the rose inside

Their cries of pain

Go unheard

On display

Like small, caged birds

Cry, little roses

Tears of pink

To overflow

And fill the sink.

(12-16-87)

*yeah…I’m not posting some of these…they’re decidedly too…wow, was I a sap as a kid, or what? I can tell a lot of them were written to try to gain approval from others, & never should’ve seen the light of paper…I’ll be burning some of them later in effigy

And the last emo thing for the night…(posting this one with my eyes closed, I think)*

Tear Song

Sing a song of suicide

A pocket full of lies

Four and twenty sorrows

Form in my eyes

When my song is over

They begin to sing

Wasn’t that a funny way

To go and meet the King?

(1-8-88)

*See? Emo as all get-out. Did you sing along after catching the tune it was written to?

Geez.

Maybe this little parade down memory lane wasn’t the grandest idea… Or, maybe it was, as a way to get me to finally get rid of some of this paper trash!  We’ll see how far down the rabbit hole I go with this, or if I give it up as a badly spent penny…*

Vintage Poetry

I’m going to start sharing some of my old poetry here that I’ve kept over the years in various notebooks.

Some of it’s crap.

Some of it’s obvious & laughable.

Some of it is poignant & descriptive of whatever I was living through at the time.

It was all heartfelt when it was written, but not all of it was headfelt – in other words, all emotion no cognition.

Whether you like it or hate it, laugh or ponder, ignore or read diligently, I feel the time is right to share this.

After all these years, it’s now considered Vintage, and as such is immune to time’s lack of empathy.

Enjoy, or not, it matters little. I simply want to put it out there. 

Thanks for playing, we have some lovely parting gifts for you at the door…