War on the Front Lawn

The seven stinging aggressors 

should beware the burning 
of gasoline retaliation.

For Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Eleven prompt. Our challenge was to tell a tale in eleven words. I decided to use my yellow jacket encounter as inspiration.

Writing on Cue

The Lightning and the Lightning Bug wants us to write uninterrupted for ten solid minutes. Didn't think I was up to the challenge, but I managed. Will you join us? Click the link below! 

9:03pm

Ten minutes of uninterrupted writing? You’d think that’d be easy, and for some, it probably is, but for me…the classic overthinker…this exercise has been torturous. I’ve thought about it while showering. While lying in bed at night. While eating my fruit roll-up for breakfast. While grooming my four cats. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and I’ve officially given up thinking at this point in favor of getting something…anything down on paper.

I’ve realized something over the last few days. I suck at “just writing.” I need a purpose. I need an idea. I need direction. Sitting down and writing just to write? Nope, that’s just not me and that kind of makes me ashamed. I should be able to write on command, right? Yeah, not so much. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I need just the right amount of inspiration mixed with just the right amount of motivation mixed with just the right amount of wine, then I’m set. But until I hit that “just right” point? I can’t just write.

When I thought of this prompt on Sunday, I thought, “yay! Something I can actually participate in.” Because honestly, I’ve been running short on the inspiration department lately when it comes to prompts and writing. I just don’t get inspired like I used to; then again, I figure I’m just going through a dry spell. Happens to the best of us, right?

Well, I’m sick of dipping my quill into a dry inkwell. It’s time to get that inspiration back…even if it means just writing for ten minutes about absolutely nothing other than writing, which is probably boring for anyone but me.

I picked up my novel again over the weekend. And by “picked up,” I mean I opened the Word document it was hiding in and actually started looking it over. I even wrote a few paragraphs tonight. 250 words to be exact. Which is 250 more words than I’ve written for it in nearly six months. Sad but true. Like my new determination to walk off my jiggly beer gut and live a healthier lifestyle, I’m also determined to write this damn novel.

That means spending less time surfing facebook and twitter and looking at cute pictures of cats on the internet, but it must be done. I have a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it.

It feels like it’s already written in my head anyway; I just have to find a way to get it down on paper, and I will. I’m determined. If it takes 5,000 nights of 250 word spurts, then that’s what it takes. Becky Garrett wants to be heard; she’s sick of living only in my head.

Well, my last minute is winding down. I guess I can write on cue after all.

9:13pm

My Valentine to Blogs

via

Dear Blogs,

I began my affair with you over a year ago now; hard to believe so much, and yet so little, time has passed since that fateful day.

I was a cynical and suspicious fledgling writer. You were foreign to me, a vague concept in a transforming world taken over by social media. I had toyed around with you before, teasing with the idea of starting a relationship with you, but something always stopped me. The fact that I didn’t quite understand you? Perhaps. A lack of courage? Most definitely.

Blogging meant putting myself out there in a way I never had before. It meant sharing feelings I had never shared. It meant revealing a dream, to myself and to others, that I didn’t quite believe in.

I was a chicken. In typical Katie-form, I wondered what everyone would think, agonized on how others might see me. I worried that I wasn’t a good enough writer. I doubted that I had anything to say that people would want to read. But I didn’t let any of that stop me. I saw value in writing a blog. I saw that it might help me improve my writing, that it might help me gain a little confidence.

You’ve given me that confidence; you’ve helped me to improve. Because of you, I now write almost daily, and looking back on posts even from as little as a year ago, I see how I’ve grown. Selfishly, I would jump into this relationship a thousand times again and never regret a moment for how you’ve changed me, for the insight you’ve given me on myself.

But you’ve been so much more than even that. Through you, I’ve made dozens of friends, friends whom I cherish and have made true connections with. I stupidly forget this gift you’ve given me sometimes, the gift of friendship and insight and connection. I tend to overlook these little things that make you so great.

Little things like reading an extraordinary and touching story, bravely shared through friendship and love.

Little things like laughs shared for a great causes and a unique wit, both of which will leave you wishing you could get together with those fellow bloggers and go out for drinks, in a totally non-stalker way.

Little things like communities and friendships built on common interests and transcending barriers like age and location to provide support and encouragement in so many ways.

Little things that let us all know we aren’t alone, in our thoughts and ideas, in our fears and insecurities. For every experience or feeling I have, you’ve shown me there’s someone else out there with a similar experience and almost the exact same feeling.

Little things like witnessing unbelievable passion and love through the eyes of a mother, who said without fear just what I’ve wanted to say all along.

Little things like learning about someone else’s culture or viewpoint, learning that something we may have judged before or misunderstood isn’t so different from us after all.

Little things like witnessing the brilliance of a writer as she grows and fearlessly dives in, reaching out for a dream that is reaching right back for her.

These little things all make up my experiences as a blogger, as a lover of blogs. They are why you make me smile, work harder, and devote much of my free-time to my passion. I couldn’t possibly list the many people and words who have touched me through you, but I did want to devote at least a few of my own words to the difference you’ve made in me and in my life, my perspective, and my  writing.

Thank you, blogs, for being so much more than I ever thought you were.

With love,

Katie

What are some of the things that make you love blogs and blogging?

Author's Note: If you have the time, I encourage you to take the time to click on the links above. They are just a few of the many people and posts that have touched me as a writer and a blogger. I hope they can touch you in the same way. Oh, and this is by no means a complete list of the people and blogs who have influenced me and left me speechless. I wish I could name them all!

This was written for The Lightning and the Lightning Bug prompt: Valentine. 

Motherly Meltdown

I won’t lie. This week’s A Flicker of Inspiration prompt had me stumped. I don’t like it when prompts stump me. In fact, I get down-right annoyed when that happens. In typical badger fashion, I growled and groaned around the house this weekend, as I wracked my brain for a story to tell. 

The prompt challenged us to write an "It's Not What It Looks Like" scene. A scene where a colossal misunderstanding leads to something funny or drives the plot in some way.

I thought about it. And nothing came to mind.

Not a thing.  

And then, as it so often happens with these sorts of things, an idea fell into my lap. Thanks in part to some home improvements and my parents being over for the weekend. I’ll explain that at the end.

Behold, an actual response to the most challenging prompt I’ve faced:

Motherly Meltdown

It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. Not her baby. Not her sweet baby girl. Never.

But it was true. The evidence was in her hands.

Sarah’s body shook as she stared down at the tiny plastic bag. Tears filled her soft brown eyes, and she surrendered to the tragedy of it all as they began to fall in great drops, dampening the tiny bag and her shaking hands.

Emily had always been such a good child. Quiet, sweet, never a moment’s trouble to her or her father. She supposed she’d just been hiding this secret life from them all along. The sneaky little minx.

Sarah stood up abruptly, let the small bag of pot and clean pairs of panties she’d been putting in Emily’s underwear drawer fall to the floor. A glance around her daughter’s perfect purple room made her anger dissipate and the nausea creep in. Emily still had teddy bears for God’s sake. Show jumper trophies and ribbons lined the shelves along her ceiling. A poster of that ridiculous-looking Justin Beiber hung over her bed.

She was just a little girl. Fifteen-years-old. A baby.

And yet, not a little girl or baby anymore. If she could smoke pot, she was neither.  Sarah’s head spun as images of Emily danced before her eyes.

Emily as a black cat at Halloween, at every Halloween since she could crawl. “What do you want to be this year, baby?” “A black cat!” “Again? Hadn’t you rather be a princess or maybe even a witch?” “No, I wanna be a black cat!”

Emily as a graceless ballet dancer, wearing a plush airplane costume and sticking out hopelessly amongst her fellow dancers on stage.

Emily as a bookworm and excellent student, bringing home a report card with straight A’s and begging for ice cream as a reward.

Emily as a pot-smoking hipster with a lip ring and pink streaks in her hair….but wait, Sarah was getting ahead of herself. Still, the lip ring and pink streaks were sure to follow. After all, her daughter was a delinquent drug user now. There was no telling what would follow.

Suspension from school. Pregnancy. Jail time.

Emily’s life was over. And, thus, so was Sarah’s.

The other moms from Bunco would pass down their judgment harshly. She would be shunned from the Bunco table, cast off into a cruel, Bunco-less world.

Her church friends would pray for her, then shake their heads behind her back, tsk-tsking to themselves and wondering where she had gone so wrong. Hell was a certainty.

Nosey and vicious co-workers would lament about Sarah’s situation in front of their boss. Bossman would then call her into his office on a Wednesday and tell her that she’s fired for being such a horrible mother and for having such a pot-smoker of a daughter.

The media was sure to get ahold of the story, and once they did, unwanted fame would follow. She would cry as Oprah admonished her actions on an ugly orange couch. She would wince as her name and face were flashed on Inside Edition and Entertainment Tonight.  The Bad Mother.

Sarah’s spiral into madness was reaching its crescendo, when Emily bee-bopped into the room. “Mom, hi!” Her voice was spunky, sweet, not at all what Sarah imagined the voice of a gruff, pot-smoking hippy would sound like. A second wave of nausea hit her, as another imagined nightly news headline scrolled through her broken mind:

Pothead Daughter of Ruined Mother Adopts Fourteen Pot-Bellied Pigs, Marries a Gang-Banger, and Moves to a Commune.

Oh, the horror!

Gathering all of her remaining composure, Sarah bent down, picked up the small bag of pot from among the pink panties strewn on the floor, and met her daughter’s beautiful blue eyes. But before she could open her mouth and begin the never-ending trail of curses that she would lay upon her daughter, Emily interrupted.

“You found Yuki’s catnip!” She chirped, snatching the bag from Sarah’s limp hand and running from the room in search of her obese tabby cat.

With jaw slack and mind still racing, relief trickled in, and Sarah sighed, comforted by the thought that she wouldn’t have to live in a Bunco-less world after all. 

As I said, this story was inspired by my parent’s visit to our house over the weekend. They helped us put up tile in our kitchen, and at one point, my Mama fumbled through my junk drawer (can't write those words without a shout out for Dawnie, you'll know what I mean :) oh, and VISIT HER BLOG, you won't regret it) looking for a marker to mark the tile with. In that junk drawer is a tiny bag of catnip that closely resembles another substance.

Thankfully, my Mama didn’t quite react like Sarah, but I did wonder what must have gone through her head at the first glance of that bag…

This was written for A Flicker of Inspiration prompt: "It's Not What It Looks Like." If you haven't already, check out this fun and engaging writing community by clicking the button below:

The Frenemy

Via

From the first moment I saw her, I didn’t like her. Mainly because she was everything I wasn’t. Confident. Brash. Impulsive. Petite. Her tiny stature and birdlike limbs made my plodding and gangly figure look like a giant next to a delicate flower.

In class, she would sit with her arms and legs crossed, leaned back in her desk, chin tilted defiantly. Professor nor student would dare disturb her, and if she spoke, everyone listened.

What made it all worse was how smart she was. Sharp and witty, nothing got past her. When she deigned to speak to the rest of us, her voice carried the short abrasiveness of a New York accent and seemed to demand that you pay attention and believe every word she said.

Nope, I didn’t like her one bit…until she started paying me a little attention. Typical. As a card-carrying People Pleaser, I craved the attention of those who were popular, important. And she was important…at least in my eyes.

She came into my life like a furious, brunette tornado, turning everything upside down in her wake and changing me forever.

 I don’t know why she would have liked me. I still can’t say that I understand it. I was shy, withdrawn, understated. Everything she wasn’t. Looking back now, I suppose it’s because every girl like her needs a girl like me. I was her sidekick, her devotee, her number one fan. I fed her confidence, and strangely enough, she fed mine.

We found common interests. Writing, theatre, cute English professors. We started taking the same classes, going to lunch together. It didn’t take long for us to become friends.

Our friendship was a whirlwind of new experiences for me. Parties, dates, bars. Long conversations that would wind into the night about her latest conquests. Men were as attracted by her as I was. She was elusive, an enigma that they all wanted.

I soon learned that she wasn’t as perfect as she seemed. Without fail, she always chose the wrong man. She seemed to have a knack for it. She’d fall for the married guy or the drug addict. The 18-year old jail bait. As smart as she was, she was clueless about relationships.  I was just as clueless and, on top of that, lacked her experience. When out on the prowl, we made quite the pair. She, over-the-top. Me, under-the-radar. But we always had each other.

Or we did for the duration of our two-year long friendship.

As our relationship developed, we realized that we shared more than the fact that we were fellow English majors and had a crush on a couple of our professors. We were both passionate, opinionated. Together, we were combustible. Our friendship came to a crashing halt soon after she moved back to New York.

It couldn’t have lasted. We were too much alike and too different. I wasn’t willing to be her tag-a-long, and she wasn’t willing to be my hero.

But for that tiny little island of common ground that we shared for those two precious years, I am grateful. And because I knew her, I am changed. 

Author's Note: This was written in response to The Flicker of Inspiration prompt "Common Ground." Check out some of the great posts linked up at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug.

Female friendships are definitely strange animals. Have you ever had a friendship where you were the hero or the tag-a-long? Have you ever had a frenemy? Why are female friendships sometimes so hard?

The Eighth Year

This post originally appeared as a guest post at one of my favorite blogs Narragansett No. 7, but I thought it was appropriate to share it here as part of "The Living Nightmare" Halloween prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. 

The Eighth Year

The sleeping patterns and habits of an eight-year old rarely make any kind of sense, and my sleeping habits were even more of an enigma than that of most eight-year olds. I know I gave my mom fits as a child. Constantly fighting sleep. Constantly crying out her name in the middle of the night. I can remember our mutual frustration in trying to figure out what was keeping me awake. Even so, sleeping didn’t become a major issue for me until my eighth year.

That eighth year was eventful. I remember a lot from my childhood then. I’ve been blessed (sometimes it’s a curse) with an active mind and can hold onto most memories well, and it seems that most of the memories from my childhood come from that turbulent and tumultuous year.

Daddy had just gotten laid off from his job. He is and will always be the hardest working man I’ve ever known, and during the time between his old job and what would become his new and better job, he did everything in his power to provide for our family.  As an eight-year old, I probably couldn’t fully appreciate the sacrifices that he and Mama were making during that time of struggle for our family, but looking back on it as an adult, I do. I realize just how much that period of my life shaped the person I am today, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the lessons learned then. To this day, I try to never take anything for granted.

When Daddy did land his new job, it was two hours away. Until we could all move to our new town, the family was separated, and the rock and protector of the house was missing. Thus began my sleeping woes. Or at least that’s where I think they began. I can still clearly see myself as if looking down from above. There I am, lying in my tiny twin bed, the ruffled and flowered bedspread covering my slight eight-year old form, an army of stuffed animals arranged around me in a protective ring. When it comes to the dark, I’m a chicken through and through. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared not the dark itself but what may be waiting in the dark, what the dark hides from me. The dozens of stuffed animals that I slept with as a child were a form of comfort to me, a symbolic means of protection from what was hidden in the dark.

Via

In addition to the stuffed animals standing sentry over me, I took the measure of pulling the sheets over my face when I slept. I still practiced this habit until I got married a few years ago. If I couldn't see the dark, then it couldn’t see me. To avoid looking into the darkness is the key. 

To this day, I avoid dark windows. When I look out into that cold expanse of darkness, I can’t help but feel that Something, somewhere is looking back at me. I have stood at windows for long stretches, staring hard into the night, looking for a glimpse of whatever is out there watching me through depthless eyes. Daring whatever it is to jump out and reveal itself. 

Lying in bed at night, the fear is of waking up and seeing Something or someone standing beside my bed, looking down at me. This particular fear is more acute, probably because it actually happened to me during my eventful eighth year. 

After what had already been a long night of going back and forth between her bedroom and mine, trying desperately to get me to go to sleep, Mama finally let me crawl into bed with her. The comfort and relief I felt when I snuggled up to her warm body was indescribable. You see, I had convinced myself as long as someone was in the room with me whatever was lurking in the dark would stay away. 

I was wrong.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I had before and have millions of times since, with the feeling that Something was watching me. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let a drop of the darkness in. I listened.  Mama's soft snores interrupted the silence of the night, but there was another noise, something I've never heard before or since. I don't think I can even describe it, other than it sounded heavy, as heavy and thick as the air in the room felt.

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a dark figure stood at the side of the bed, bent down over where Mama slept. It was watching her, and it knew that I was watching it. I felt its eyes transfer to me, and pure dread settled into my child's heart. I gasped. I snapped my eyes shut and scrambled to pull the thin sheet back over my face. I lay there for hours, too terrified to move, too paralyzed with fear to even wake my mother who lay sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the warmth of morning sunlight on my face. It chased the black void from the room and closed that gateway to Hell.

I still feel eyes watching me sometimes, resting upon me as I move through the darkness of our house, as I settle down to sleep at night. Over the years, I've grown more comfortable with these feelings. I have never seen a ghost, but I have experienced things, especially in my eighth year, that leave me knowing, without a doubt, that something else is out there, watching from the darkness.


  

No Mister Sandman

Author's Note: For this week's Flicker of Inspiration prompt, we were to be inspired by The Dark of Night. We could go scary or not, and of course, being Goth Girl, I chose scary. What follows is a character sketch. I've written about a character called The Dreamkeeper for a long time. He's a creature that hands out dreams at night, keeping them all tucked away in boxes in the clouds, each with a neat label and ribbon to identify it. He's always a very pleasant character. The character below is his exact opposite, and trust me, he's no Mr. Sandman. 

No Mister Sandman

In the dark of night, he waits. He waits for everything and for nothing all at once, hiding in the shadow in the corner of your room and waiting, always waiting. You’ll soon fall asleep, and then he’ll be at your bedside, leaning down at your sleeping face, stealing your thoughts as if they were the most precious of jewels.

And then, you sleep, and he waits no more.

In his limited amount of time, he snatches away your dreams. He eats them one by one, savoring each sumptuous bite. You won’t know he’s there, because in many ways he’s not. He’s just a figment of your imagination, a product of the darkness and too much spicy Thai. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

But we all know that he’s there, waiting in the darkness, eating up our dreams.

He replaces each dream with a nightmare, constructed with purpose, handmade just for you. In a few hours, you’ll wake with a start, eyes searching wildly in the darkness, mind desperately holding on to the last vestiges of memory from your nightmare.

Mercifully, he lets you forget most, but not all. Sadistically, he leaves threads of remembrance, a flash of the face of the man chasing you, a glimpse of the monster under your bed. These threads of memory are how you know he’s there. And though your gasping breath masks the sound of his frenetic giggles, you still know he’s there.

He’s always there, and when the lights go out, he appears, a soul with no purpose but to terrify you, to awaken your nightmares. He’s no Mr. Sandman, but he does bring you dreams, dark and terrifying dreams that will haunt you long after you wake.

He waits through the day and longs for the night, longs for that moment when your lids feel so heavy that you can’t fight sleep anymore. He lives for that moment, waits for it always.

In the dark of night, in the shadowy corner of your bedroom, he’s waiting. Won’t you go to sleep?

Do you still have nightmares?

We Will Remember: 9/11/2011

I was naïve, a brand new freshman in college with my entire life ahead of me and an afternoon anthropology class looming in my immediate future. I had just finished my early morning College Algebra class; its complicated formulas and mile-long equations were the biggest challenge in my life at that moment.

Four months had passed since my high school graduation, and I had taken the first steps towards making my childhood dreams come true. I was enrolled in the University of West Georgia, pursuing a degree in English, naïve, innocent, and enjoying the first few freedoms of college and being an adult.

The drive home from my morning class was an easy one. I cut through country roads to get back to Bremen in just under twenty minutes. I had a few hours to study and work on Algebra homework before having to go back. I had my radio tuned to my favorite station, fully expecting to enjoy a little music on my drive and to forget about the evilness of math for just a few moments. 

Instead, I was introduced to a new kind of evil.

The radio wasn’t playing music. Not any station. Frantic voices were detailing a frantic message. New York City was under attack. The United States was under attack.

I was naïve alright. I had been raised in a nation that was strong and proud, that didn’t have to worry about things like random attacks from foreign countries. I would never be so naïve about such things again. The bubble I’d lived in for so long had been popped.

Fear paralyzed me. What did this mean? Was my family in danger? Was this just the start of something more? The reports at this point were sketchy at best. No one seemed to know what was going on and that only scared me more. I remember calling my mom, begging her for an explanation of what was going on. In my experience, my parents always knew the answers, but this time, even she was confused and frightened. 

When I got home, I turned the television on and witnessed pure horror. I don’t have to describe what I saw because many of you saw the same thing. You watched along with me as the devastation unfolded before our eyes.

I wasn’t the only one with my entire life ahead of me on that warm September day. Thousands of others had their entire lives ahead of them as well, and their bright, beautiful futures were stolen from them without a thought.

Ten years have passed since that September day. The words that became a mantra during that trying time for our country ring true to this day: We Will Remember. And we have. We have remembered the bravery of so many of our fellow countrymen (and women).

We have remembered the courage displayed in simple ways, the kindness of stranger reaching out to stranger to offer comfort and compassion, a helping hand. We have remembered the lives lost, the souls taken away from us: a brother, a wife, a beloved child, a mother and father, a friend. We remember them because remembering them keeps them alive in our hearts; it means they didn’t die in vain.

We will always remember the attacks of September 11, 2001. We will remember them, and we will remember to never be naïve again, to never take for granted our freedom or our love of a proud and strong country.



This was in response to The Lightning and Lightning Bug Flicker on Inspiration Prompt: September. Come join us to link up and meet other great writers!

PS~ Happy Birthday to my wonderful husband Jeremy! Long before the attacks of September 11, 2001, September 11th was just his birthday.

Birds on a Wire

Well, here we are again. 

Yep. 

What should we do today?

I don't know. 

Should we fly over to that fence?

Sure.

Well, here we are.

Yep. 

Can't see as much from down here. 

Nope. 

But it is a little more comfortable than that wire. 

Yep. I guess so.

That crow sure is loud over there. You'd think he'd keep it down so that mockingbird couple doesn't come after him again. Some birds never learn.

Nope.

You think the mockingbirds will hatch a nest this year?

Don't know. Guess we'll find out soon enough.

After last year's disaster with that cat, you'd think they'd take a year off. 

Guess that's their business.

Maybe. I'd just like a little peace and quiet in the neighborhood for a change. With their constant chattering, I can barely concentrate on what I'm doing. 

Yep.

I sure wish that crow would shut up. Should we fly back to the wire do you think?

Up to you.

I like being able to see what's going on. You can't see anything from down here.

Nope.

Well, here we are.

Yep. 

You see anything we can eat? I'm kinda hungry.

Nope.

Is that a french fry in the middle of the road? Oh, I love french fries. Should we go down and get it?

Up to you.

I think we should. There haven't been many cars yet. I think we'll be safe.

Watch out!

Ah!

Let's go back!

Well, here we are.

Yep.

Guess we shouldn't have gone down after all. 

Nope. Probably not.

I just really like french fries.

Yep. Me too.

But I guess it's not worth it.

Nope. Probably not.

Betcha that crow will go after it. Mark my words. 

Yep. Guess he probably will.

Crows have all the nerve.

Yep. They sure are brave.

Brave!? Ha! They're just stupid. Flying down to the middle of the road to get some dumb french fry. Like they don't have any sense at all. No wonder the mockingbirds chase them.

Yep. Guess you're right.

Of course I'm right. I'm always right. So, what should we do today?

I don't know.

Should we fly over to that fence?

Sure.

Author's Note: Our task at Lightning and the Lightning Bug this week was to write a story using only dialogue. Come join us by linking up and checking out our fantastic community of fantastic writers!

 

How An Up-Do Nearly Sabotaged My Savannah Wedding

Savannah, Georgia. 
Oglethorpe Mall, JCPenney Salon.
October 13, 2007. 

10:30 am. 

My wedding will begin in three and a half hours. I will marry my best friend. I will begin the rest of my life, and I will by the happiest woman on the planet.

But first I have to get my hair did.

My mom and sister are with me; from my perch in the salon chair, I can see them through the mirror, flipping through magazines, feet bouncing to the beat of the bad 90s soundtrack piped in through the store speakers. My eyes travel back to my own reflection. What's-Her-Name is carefully curling tiny sections of my long brown hair; her brow is furrowed in concentration.

It's worth noting here that my hair is ridiculously thick. It's been compared to a horse's tale, and yes, that was probably meant as an insult. Every stylist I go to always has to remark on the thickness of my hair. Apparently, no one has hair thicker than mine.

Which is exactly why we made my appointment for my elaborate up-do three and a half hours before the wedding. Should be plenty of time.

11:30 am

What's-Her-Name is yanking at my hair with her pick thingy. It doesn't feel great. Despite my thick hair, my scalp is relatively sensitive. Her less-than-gentle ministrations have brought tears to my eyes, but I'm still feeling super positive and not even a smidgen nervous about my upcoming wedding. She's probably a third of the way through.

Through the mirror, I see my mom and sister, still flipping through magazines, still bouncing their feet. My eyes meet my mom's; she mouths, "are you okay?" And even though What's-Her-Name is trying to kill me my yanking my hair out one torturous strand at a time, I nod.

12:30pm


What's-Her-Name is taking a break. One of her regular clients needed emergency hair-color advice. I can't really blame What's-Her-Name; her client is local, someone who will actually return and use her services again in the future. I'm just an out-of-town bride with annoyingly thick hair.

Who is supposed to get married in an hour and a half and hasn't even started doing her makeup or gotten dressed or anything.

My hair is only half up.

I spin my chair around to face my mom. She's not a happy camper.

"We've gotta go."

This I know. She slaps down her magazine, marches off to find What's-Her-Name, and within fifteen minutes, we're outta there. My mom doesn't mess around.

Savannah, Georgia.
Courtyard by Marriott.
October 13, 2007.

1:00pm

Well, I don't have the up-do I had envisioned, but at least we've made it back to the hotel so I can get dressed and actually make it to my own wedding without being late.

Thirty minutes of make-up and scrambling into my J. Crew dress pass. In thirty more minutes, I'll marry my best friend.

Savannah, Georgia.
Whitefield Square.
October 13, 2007.


2:00pm


I'm pretty sure Daddy broke several traffic laws, but he gets me to my Savannah square in one piece. Savannah has 21 squares in total, each unique and rich in history. But Whitefield Square is our's. For the time it will take us to get married, it belongs solely to us and the ghosts of its past.

Jeremy and members of our family are already standing in the gazebo in the center of the square when I arrive. I feel like a princess at the ball. As I approach, I see the man that I will marry, and I fall in love again.

It's a warm October day. I'm in the most beautiful city in the South. And I'm getting married to my best friend. Sure, my hair is only half-up, but it's perfect. Everything's just perfect.

This post was written in response to the Flicker of Inspiration Prompt: I Wanna Marry You. Come join us over at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for fun writing prompts and fellowship!

The Runaway

The tiny yellow butterfly landed on the young man’s single outstretched finger. He dared not move in fear he might frighten it away. He kept his eyes trained on the creature, on its sheer beauty and innocence. It distracted him for a moment from the destruction around him.

His world had gone gray, and this little flash of color was something for him to hold onto…even for just a little while.

“Hello.”

The whisper was so slight that at first he wondered if he’d dreamed it.

“Hello, mister.” This time he was sure of what he’d heard.

Careful not to disturb the tiny butterfly, he craned his neck, eyes moving over the field around him searching for some sign of movement, for the source of the whisper.

Nothing. For the first time in months, he was immersed in silence.

Except for that slight whisper. That quiet voice…

A chill ran down his spine as he realized he was completely alone. He looked back at the butterfly and tried to ignore the sensation of being watched.

It wasn’t long until he heard the whisper again, except that this time it was more insistent. “Mister, are you ignoring me?”

He jumped up from his position on the ground. Butterfly be damned. And it did fly away, only to return moments later to flit in front of his face.

Could it be?

He blinked at it, wondered for a moment if he had in fact his lost his mind. Had he waited too late to get out? Had he finally arrived at the doorstep of madness?

“You’re not crazy,” the butterfly said. “You’re just a coward.”

The young man stared as the butterfly landed again on his outstretched hand.

The war had gotten to him, the gunshots and blood, dead comrades and bombing, all of it had finally taken their toll. He’d escaped from it too late; his mind was gone.

“You’re not crazy,” the butterfly repeated, exasperation coloring its tone. “You’re just a coward.”

The insect was so tiny, and its voice matched it perfectly: slight, incredibly quiet, and yet, the words it spoke resounded loudly in the young man’s mind, as if they’d been screamed at him.

His defensiveness kicked in, and he swatted a hand at the pesky insect. “I’m not a coward!”

The butterfly easily dodged the swipe and came back to fly in front of the soldier’s face. “Cowards run away.”

It was true. He had run away, left his friends--his fellow soldiers--behind without a thought. “I’m not a coward.” He repeated quietly. This time his words held less conviction, as if maybe he doubted them.

“Fear does not make anyone a coward, but quitting does.” The butterfly hovered for a moment, then flew silently away towards the sound of a whistling train in the distance, leaving the young man with nothing but his guilt for company.

Somehow he knew without seeing that the train was one full of Jewish people on their way to some horrible fate, a fate in which being able to fight would be a luxury. He knew also that the people on that train were full of fear just like him, but unlike him, they had no means of escape. Quitting and running away weren’t options for them.

It made him ashamed.

It made him turn back.






Author's Note: This piece of fiction was written in response to The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Flicker of Inspiration prompt. This week's prompt was the picture below, taken by my lovely and talented friend Whitney:

This Rain of Life

It rained last night. I think I know before I even wake up, or maybe I’ve just dreamed it. For the last few weeks, I’ve dreamed of it nightly, only to wake time and again to the bitter disappointment of yet another dry day.

Papa worries about the rain, and so must I as well. He paces back and forth across the field in some kind of attempt to summon the rain gods, and I follow closely behind him, trying to match each step with my much smaller stride. I see the worry in his eyes below the brim of his straw hat, as he stares from the sky to the ground and back again.

We measure time and success by the whim of the rain, and now as I struggle to come awake, I believe I can nearly smell the scent of rain, and the hope that comes alive in me so suddenly is overwhelming and bittersweet.

As I crawl out of bed, I rub the sleep from my eyes and swear that I can smell rain. I run to the window, push back the thin curtain, and see the ground still wet from the overnight showers. The shout I give wakes the entire house, and before long, we’re all out on the front porch, marveling at the puddles in the yard and the beauty of our red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water.

The gift of the rain will save our crops for another few days, maybe even a week. Soon enough, we’ll be hoping for it again, praying and worrying because so much depends upon this, this rain of life.

But for now, we celebrate.

via

Join us at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for writing prompts and fellowship! 

For this week's prompt, I'd like you to be inspired by the poem below by William Carlos Williams. "The Red Wheelbarrow" has long been a poem that holds an air of mystery and intrigue for me. For it to be so few words, I feel it tells a complex tale with a lot hidden just below the surface. Take any word, image, or feeling evoked from "The Red Wheelbarrow" and turn it into your masterpiece. Oh, and like Williams, let's do things short and sweet. Write your piece in 300 or fewer words.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Dear Me Who's Yet To Be

Dear Me Who's Yet to Be:

I have some simple advice for you that I want you to heed. Some advice that I believe will make your life in the glorious future much more life-full and much more glorious. Get ready. Here it comes:

GET OUT MORE.

Get off your lazy butt and get out. Enjoy life. Enjoy human interaction. Enjoy things like movies and shopping and eating lunch with your hubby. Sure, you're a homebody. Sure, you like to cook and spend time with your cats and garden and clean house...okay, not so much on that last one...but come on! You enjoy your home life, yes, but you know what you might enjoy more?! GETTING OUT.

Because here's the deal. In the past, you probably haven't gotten out much. Nope, I know this because I am living in the past, and it's true. You and hubby-man stay in a lot. You read. You write. You do homey things. But you don't get out. And when you do get out, you do crazy things. Like try to get in a car full of strangers that's totally not your car. Or talk gibberish to the Bath and Body Works check-out lady who probably thinks your insane. Or try to drive over a curb in a parking lot because you just wanted to "pull through" instead of taking the time and energy to put the car in reverse and exit the parking lot in any normal sort of human way. Things like that.

Seriously, my friend, this is your past, and it could be your future, too, unless you learn from your past and from me and GET OUT MORE. Among the living. So that when you do get out, you won't make a fool of yourself in front of everyone you encounter. Consider it practice.

Good luck and Godspeed.

Me



This week's Flicker of Inspiration prompt had us writing a letter to a future version of ourselves.

Two Mississippi

Lightning flashed. The young woman watched as the terrified little boy burst through the front door of her home. She wasn’t startled. She’d grown used to children trespassing without any regard to her. She always appreciated the company.

So, as the boy ducked under her dining room table, she just watched him unnoticed from the corner of the room.

He was terrified. She could see the fear in his young eyes; she recognized it, because she’d seen it in the eyes of the many other children who’d come to her house to visit. She hated the fear, mourned it, for she knew it drove them away.

But this fear was different. The boy hadn’t spotted her yet, so it didn’t originate from her presence. This made her curious, made her wonder.

Thunder clapped overhead, and the boy crowded further under the table. She couldn’t help but smile at his discomfort; it was so childlike, so innocent. A simple fear of storms, a fear she’d faced during her lifetime as well. If only things were so simple now.

Above the sound of the storm, she could hear the back door banging against its frame. She could tell that the boy could hear it, too, because he kept glancing nervously towards the back of the house.

He still hadn’t noticed her, and she was torn about whether she even wanted him to or not. The past taught her that when her presence was discovered they would always leave. And she didn’t want this boy to leave like all the others.

As she watched and wished, the boy thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a yellow cats-eye marble. He kissed it quickly, and then stuck it back into the pocket of his shorts.

When she saw the marble, she knew why she was so drawn to this boy, so curious about him. She knew that his visit to her home was not accident but fate. She knew, because she had an identical yellow cats-eye marble in the pocket of her own faded dress. She kept it with her always, a lucky charm, a protective token, a reminder of the life she’d had.

The boy was a kindred spirit; she just knew it. And at that moment, this kindred spirit was gathering up all his courage and crawling out from under the table. The curiosity about the banging door had got the best of him, and he was going to investigate.

She managed to stay out of his line of vision as he slowly made his way across the room and towards the kitchen. His hand stayed in his pocket, and she knew he was worrying his marble, just as she’d done herself hundreds of times before.

When he finally worked up the nerve to push open the kitchen door, he gasped and then hesitated for only the briefest of moments. She held her breath, anticipating his next move and hoping he’d stay.

But he didn’t. The back door moving in time with the wind was the last straw. The boy’s fear took over, and he spun around, nearly falling over himself in his struggle to get out of the house.

The young woman sighed, moved across the room to the front window so that she could watch his departure. As he ran off into the storm, she lifted a hand to the window and smiled. She wasn’t sad that he’d left, and she didn’t feel lonely. No, in fact, she felt better than she’d felt in a long time. Because the boy with the yellow marble might be gone now, but she knew, without a doubt, that he’d be back.

Author's Note: This is a rewrite of my short story "One Mississippi," which was born from a Lightning and Lightning Bug photo prompt. I've wanted to revisit this story from a different perspective and was glad to be able to do so in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt. 

By the way, "One Mississippi" is currently published in Volume #35 of Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal. Be sure to check it out!

Jonquils

via

A row of Jonquils outlined the spot where the house used to stand. They provided a stark contrast of life against the death hovering around the property, a property that seemed nearly like a graveyard with sentimental tokens of bouquets and other trinkets sprinkled over it as a sign of respect to the dead. Behind the bright burst of flowers, in the right hand corner of the property, a chimney stood tall, the sentinel over all that used to be and now was not, a grave marker signaling another dearly departed soul.

The child skipped through the overgrown grass of what used to be a front yard, his mother following closely behind, calling out to him to slow down or he would fall. They looked like an ordinary enough family. Complete with a father in a neatly pressed suit standing apart from his wife and child, surveying the acreage of the lot.

The old man watched the little family from his perch on his front porch. His wife often warned him that if he kept sitting in that rocking chair on that porch day after day that he would grow roots and be stuck forever. The old man didn’t care too much about what his wife said; his last simple joy of watching the traffic pass in front of his house was not something he was willing to give up easily.

He’d watched countless other families look at the property across the highway from his own. He’d watched them swoop in like vultures onto the great deal the land was always offered at. The lot was a prime one. Flat, lots of trees, a little creek running along the back. The perfect spot to build a perfect house with a perfect picket fence, a perfect home for a perfect family. Just like the one that had stood there so many years ago.

The old man remembered that home. Remembered the family that had lived there, and died there, so many years before. The house had caught fire late one summer night. The whole family was inside, unable to escape the smoke and flames, unable to escape that perfect home.  

Maybe this would be the family to bring that home back to life. The old man hoped so. He hoped this family wouldn’t notice the heavy air that hung over where the house used to stand. He hoped that they wouldn’t sense what those countless other families had sensed and refuse to build a house on such evil land.

The old man hoped that this young couple and their little boy would buy this empty lot with its bright jonquils and lonely chimney and build their dream house upon its ground. They would build their family, build a perfect spot to have front yard picnics and backyard barbecues, build a foundation for a lifetime of cherished memories and moments. He hoped they would build that perfect house with its perfect promises, so that he could tear them all down.

From his perch on his front porch, rocking calmly and quietly, he would watch those dreams burn. Because no one ever suspects the little old man across the street, nothing more than a nosy fool. Nothing less than a murderer. 

This was written in response to the Lightning and Lightning Bug prompt: Houses. Or the lack thereof.

The Goose Who Didn't Go

The goose who didn’t go

Refused to fly away

She didn’t care for flying

And wanted just to stay.

Her sisters and her brothers

Flew into a sky of gray

But for this goose a different fate

Awaited her that day.

I wasn’t like all the others. I wasn’t ready to leave home, to explore the great, vast world. I was perfectly comfortable in my own little nest on my own familiar pond.

I watched them all leave, day after day, seeking the thrills and adventures of a life in flight, but I didn’t envy their journey. I didn’t even consider their path in life for myself. I was destined for something altogether different, and while I might not have known what it was at the time, I was sure that it was great.

Mother and Father worried over me. They honked and fussed, kept insisting that I try to fly, that I give my wings a chance. But I knew my own heart, and I knew I couldn’t leave my pond, at least not until I learned what my true purpose was.

I didn’t have to wait long. My fellow fledglings had already left the pond, soaring south as our instincts demanded. Only a few members of my flock remained. Mother and Father were growing desperate, but I was steadfast in my wishes; I insisted that they go on without me.

You’ll freeze! You’ll starve! You’ll be eaten by a fox! Mother exclaimed frantically; her desperation made her honks high-pitched and pitiful. I tried to ignore the twinge of guilt I felt. You’ll freeze, and your wings will fall off, and then where will you be!!??

I wondered where she thought I’d be if I left. Just like all the rest. Another goose living a goose life, flying south and back and south and back. I wanted something different. I wanted something new. I tried to make her understand this for what would be the last time. She and Father argued until they could argue no more. Their stubborn gosling was just a stubborn goose, and there was no helping it. They left me standing on the shore of our pond; they refused to look back or even say goodbye.

On this the day I didn’t go, I felt a little lonely. I stood on the shore for what seemed like an eternity, watching the spot where Mother and Father and all the others had disappeared into a vast sky, a sky that didn’t beckon me or call my name. I waddled around the banks, snapping at the random beetle bug, sifting through the grass for seed. It was while I was sifting through the grass that I met my true purpose and began to understand why I didn’t feel the call of flight.

I poked my bill through the thick grass of the bank. Something smelled interesting in that specific spot, so I stuck my bill in again just for another moment.

Ow!

The squeak was so soft I might have missed it altogether if it hadn’t been accompanied by a quick swat to my bill. I took a couple of steps back and flapped my wings in the most threatening of ways. Whatever lay hidden deep in the grass didn’t move a muscle. I waddled a bit closer. Hello?

My greeting was met by a low growling sound. Don’t come any closer.

I stretched my neck, peered deeper into that thick grass. Some black fur was nestled in the tall stems, a peak of white.  Who are you?  I asked quietly. All kinds of creatures lived near the pond, but I knew I’d never seen one with black and white fur before. I vainly wished another goose was there to help figure out this curious critter.

The growling sound was replaced by a pitiful mew. I’m no one. I’ve lost who I am.

Lost who you are? How was that even possible? This creature was very strange indeed. I honked a platitude and nosed in closer. Two perfect black ears poked out from the top of the grass, glowing yellow eyes followed. For a moment, I grew a little frightened. Perhaps this was one of those fox things Mother had warned me about.

Then the rest of its head appeared. If this was a fox, it was far too cute to be threatening. Its golden eyes blinked at me. You’re a goose.

Yes, I am, and what are you?

I used to be a kitten, but I’ve lost my mother, so I’m not sure what I am anymore. The creature…er, kitten dropped its head sadly. Suddenly, I realized the reason I didn’t want to fly away with the others. I discovered my purpose in this strange being with its black and white fur and soft, mewing voice. I think I had been waiting on it.

I straightened out my neck, smoothed down my wings and tried to look peaceful and comforting. Well, I used to be a goose, but I didn’t fly away, so I’m not sure what I am either. Maybe we can figure out what we are together.

And so we did. 

via

Author's Note: This was written for the Lightning and Lightning Bug prompt: I Need a Vacation. We were instructed to write a story about a vacation or a journey. As usual, I tried to take my response in an unexpected direction. So I wrote about the lack of a journey that led to a journey. 


By the way I'm guest-posting over at Narragansett No. 7 today. I reveal a dark and dirty secret...be sure to check it out!

An Unspeakable Evil, aka Fan Fiction