Da Goddess

So I totally tried to get around writing an actual entry for today’s PROMPT. That failed. And thus I am left to endeavor to create something wholly new and brilliant. That taskmaster, Deb, is so going to rue the day she got me hooked on her PROMPTuesday.

This week, we must use the words ancient, visionary, and coma in our writing. this better, Deb?) I think I can manage this one.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, lived an ancient dragon who was quite lonely. He was the last of the Prerhinobraxian dragons — you know, the ones with horns and stripes. Because he was so very unique, Simon (for that was his name) had a rather difficult time finding a good lady dragon with whom he could meet for the occasional village burning followed by a walk around the lake, and then, if she was so inclined, a little dragon nooky.

Alas, the one true lady dragon, Alicia, who was Simon’s oft desire was being held by a power-hungry bastard of a king in another far off realm. Now, being a captive was so difficult, so thoroughly depressing for Alicia that she lapsed into a coma. It was more an act of self-preservation than anything, because that’s what dragons do when faced with impossible periods of incarceration. Kind of like hibernation, but a little more drastic.

At first, Simon thought Alicia was just avoiding him. For the first ten years of her lack of response to his long distance supersonic dragon calls, he lamented that perhaps he’d failed to impress her sufficiently. This was followed by a few years of indiscreet visits to female dragons of poor repute. Finally, he decided he’d had enough of the empty couplings and opted for a more selective approach. Of course, because the other Prerhinobraxian dragons died off (or were murdered in cold blood by loathsome peasants looking to make names for themselves or for sheer sport), he was, indeed, quite forlorn.

Then, one day, Simon overheard a band of wandering minstrels (who narrowly missed becoming dinner) talking about the magnificent dragon held in the bastard of a king’s cave. Following the minstrels on their journey — which was more difficult than you might imagine for a dragon of any size, let alone Simon’s impressive proportions — our hopeful scaled and winged one made his way to the kingdom of the nasty ruler. Once there, just outside the castle, deep in the forest and up near the mountains, Simon tiptoed around the perimeter, hoping against hope he’d discover signs of the cave and his imprisoned beloved.

Now, this dragon was a smart cookie and a bit of a visionary as well, so it didn’t take long for him to discover a unique formation just beyond the river stream. An unusual outcropping of rocks were so out of place that he knew this was where Alicia was detained. There was, however, a full complement of guards on duty. This rescue was going to take some serious planning, especially if Simon could not awaken his dear one. Sure, he could have gone with a flashy firestorm and wiped out the whole lot of royal pains, but Simon had a feeling the place was booby trapped or that, perhaps, reinforcements weren’t too far off.

And so it was that a fortnight of careful planning led to a spectacular rescue, the details of which I’ve been sworn to secrecy (just in case Simon ever needs to employ the same tactics again). Suffice it to say, he was successful in the rescue of Alicia and their story ended happily (tragically for the guards).

Oh, about that nasty king? The dragons were prolific in breeding their own little army and the king was defeated in a manner befitting his horrid demeanor.

Now, really, I must go. I have baby dragons in the pantry who are creating a big mess. You have no idea how much trouble they can get into if left unattended for too long.

Just in time for my 25 year high school reunion, the Zit Meister has once again taken it upon himself to re-enter my life. It’s all part of his evil plan mark my face with as many pimples as possible and remind me that high school wasn’t always the grand time and place I remember it to be.

Well, screw him and the horse he rode in on.

I’m getting sun and zapping those blemishes with massive doses of Vitamin D3. That’ll teach him. Oh, who cares about the wrinkles! That’s one of the benefits of being fat. You don’t have as many wrinkles longer than skinny people. And that. Yeah, I had Mr. Blobbo visit me and add 50 pounds just so the former cheerleaders and popular girls could feel superior about their perfect bodies. (I’m such a giver.) But back to the zits. The wrinkles and leathery skin…whatever. And the eventual skin cancer? Let’s just say I’ll likely die before that kicks in. At least I’ll be looking healthy, right?

Hahahahaha! Silly Zit Meister thought he had me in his clutches. Wrong wrong wrong! Nope. Got it covered. If my other method for blemish healing doesn’t work, I’m going to the toothpaste plan. (Get this, if you put a teeny dab of toothpaste on a zit overnight for a couple of days, it goes away. Mostly.) ZM had no idea who he was dealing with. I’m gonna kick his ass from here to the moon (and all its craters…get it?). I’ll dispense Proactiv, Oxy-10, Noxema, and toothpaste to all the over-18 crowd. No more adult acne! I’ll create a legion of acne-fighting moms! We’ll be armed with Buf-Pufs and masks. We’ll share our secrets in underground cafes in the dead of night (or just after we send the kids to school since that’s, more realistically, the only time we have free). It’ll be big, I tell ya. HUGE! (Definitely larger than the three pimples I’m sporting.)

Viva la benzoyl peroxide!

So, who’s evil and taking over the world now, eh, Zit Meister? You picked the wrong woman to piss off this time. Mwahahahahahahahaha!

(Did that work out okay for prompt, Deb?)

Packing and moving is at the top of Deb’s list right now, about which she’s none too thrilled. I can’t say as I blame her. While there’s a certain cleansing aspect of moving (shedding the old, embracing the new), it’s really a big ol’ pain in the ass most of the time. I don’t know anyone who relishes the thought of packing up a whole household and uprooting one’s family. I feel for military families who end up doing this every couple of years.

Anyhow, in Debbie’s PROMPT this week, she gets all fuzzy and touchy-feely, us: “If you could live one year of your life over again in the identical way, which year would it be and why?”

My answer is this:

I’d live them all over again, however they unfold. I don’t think anything would be exactly the same nor do I think I’d want it to be. There’s no percentage in looking back and wishing for the “good old days” simply because nothing is ever as good as we remember it being. Our memories are faulty at best. There are always parts of the past we forget, either because we must (out of preservation of self) or because it works to our advantage to not remember (saving face — our personal walk of shame best not discussed). Plus, you have to consider that going backwards prevents us from going forward. Sounds so cliché, doesn’t it? But think about it. To live it all over again, exactly as you’ve done means that you’ve either learned nothing and are bound to repeat mistakes, and/or to deny who you are, how far you’ve come.

Despite all the mistakes I’ve made in life, I’d like to think given the opportunity to relive a part of my life that I’d make a few different choices. Nothing major, mind you. Just little things like not allowing a former best friend take care of my daughter (and neglect her in favor of drinking), not allowing certain people entrée to my life, my world (some introduced to me by that same former best friend). Otherwise, how could I really want to change much? Whatever big decisions I’ve made have brought my children into being, have allowed me the opportunities I’ve had to see and do things I’d not have had to chance to see and do otherwise.

That sounds like a lot of doublespeak, doesn’t it?

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I don’t spend a lot of time looking back. I can’t change anything I’ve done in the past nor can I really change how I remember things happening. The past is what it is and it’s best left where it is (same principle that applies to ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, ex-husbands, ex-friends). All you can do is look forward, taking with you what you’ve learned along the way.

It may not make sense to anyone else, but it makes all the sense in the world to me.

The words have gone from my pen
The ink remains
But it’s as if my pen has run dry
Free of well-crafted phrases
And clever word play

The words have gone from my pen
The ink remains

I wonder if I lit a fire beneath the tip
Would that loosen the grip the pen has on my words?
Or would ink simply pour forth in a messy way?
Would the words fight me if they were still there?
Would they resent being exposed to the elements too soon?

Perhaps I’m the one hiding behind the plastic and ink
It’s my creative well that has come up dry
My words have flown free from my brain, my lips, my fingertips
The alphabet world in which I played so happily
Is now a rusted and broken slide, a swing dangling by one chain

The words have gone from my pen
My pen has run dry

Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that excuse.

Back in time to participate in this week’s Prompt. Thankfully, I just read Wicked and phrase Deb asked us to use fits with something I had brewing in my head.

And with that, here we go:

I’m continually living somewhere between Here and There. I shuffle between worlds of my own imagining and that created by others. It’s not a bad way to be if one’s an artist, I suppose, but it certainly doesn’t make it easy on those around me. So, is it any wonder that a fight erupted between me and another, the sort of fight that causes one to go flying through the streets like a trail of fiery rage that quickly burns out of sight?

It all began innocently enough. There I was, minding my own business, working on a project that simply had to be finished on time when the client stormed into my studio. She was one of THOSE. You know, the kind of woman who has too much money and time on her hands, and far too little taste or any sense of reality. Okay, I could relate to the last bit, but the rest was beyond my comprehension. As was the idea of treating anyone in the manner she chose to treat me that day. From the moment she commissioned me to create not only a stunning family portrait (consisting of her sour face and those of her equally lemon-sucking offspring and a husband who appeared terribly constipated), she also wanted me to design a family crest for her, I knew she was trouble. It was written all over her face. Privilege and entitlement were her designer “labels” of choice. But being a painter and possessing the ability to use my imagination amply, I worked diligently for the last several months, adding smiles where there were none originally, bringing an air of class where there was but a snobby, wrinkled nose. There were constant “consults” from the client, as well as frequent requests for changes to the painting as well as the crest. I needed the money and she had plenty of it, though it often crossed my mind that I was in over my head.

“I want the children to be taller so they don’t seem so…diminutive,” she sniffed.

“How much taller would you like Muffy and Chas? After all, I can only stretch a four and six year old so much before they begin to look…odd.” I replied.

“Well, I certainly can’t be made to appear any shorter! Heaven forbid someone should see me as anything less than statuesque!” She really and truly said that to me. At 5’4″, she was scarcely statuesque. She’d also requested a more regal bearing. Oh well, it was her fantasy. My own involved wrapping my hands around her carefully reconstructed (read: wattle-removed) neck and constricting quickly.

The crest itself underwent multiple morphs as her interests and her husband’s portfolio changed. Every color of the rainbow served as the background at some point. And the placement of each symbol was altered so many times it was impossible to count the reams of sketch paper involved. However, since the client was paying and the client was always supposed to be right, I went along with her requests.

That is, until today. As she stood before me, threatening to sue me, threatening to withhold further payment, my head began to pound. I tried to find an escape hatch to whisk me off to There, but the only ones I found were double bolted from the other side. As her pitch went higher and higher, my face began to burn and the urge to throttle her grew stronger.

When she reached the point where she asked me to scrap everything I’d done thus far and start anew, I’d reached critical mass. Eruption was imminent. Destruction not far behind.

Had I not desperately needed the two remaining payments, had I not already turned down other commissions, had I only trusted my initial gut reaction and said no in the first place, I wouldn’t be on the verge of becoming a cartoon character with a lobster red face and steam coming out of my ears. But I hadn’t and I was one word away from ricocheting like a crazed pinball through the studio.

“You incompetent fool! You idiot! Hack! I insist,” she began, following those words quickly enough with a string of expletives…and that was it. She crossed the line.

Suddenly, I was the Wicked Witch of the West. Yes, how trite, I know. But really, that’s how I felt and there really isn’t any better example of fury, is there? I imagined fireballs zinging from my fingertips, my eyes burning red with rage, and my body shaking with an intense hatred I’d never felt in my life.

“Get. out. NOW.”

She stood, stammering, “but, but, I need this done in time for the party!”

“Get. out. Before I unleash the hounds of Hell on you.”

“How dare you! Do you know to whom you speak?” she bellowed.

“I know you’re nothing but an ungrateful and unreasonable biddy, incapable of tact or kindness. Leave. LEAVE! LEEEEEEEAVE!” I screamed. I half expected her to wither under my glare, but she just stood there, mouth flapping like some bloated and dying fish. “GET OUT!”

“You miserable beast, you! You’ll never work in this town again! I’ll make sure your name is…”

“GOOOOOOOOOO!” And in one long stride, I was across the room, going after her, grabbing her arm, spinning her around, pushing her out of the room. With a final slam, the door shook and the small window shattered. Through it, I could see her face hardened with hostility, her mouth still agape.

“Get out of here, you old cow! Get!” Bile was rising in my throat as I rushed the door. I saw her cringe and knew I’d won this battle. She cringed, then ran as fast as her tight skirt and designer heels allowed, face pinched and unsure of what to do. I got the feeling no one had ever said no to her, never told her off.

My anger continued to boil and bubble over. I grabbed my car keys and flung the door open, charging down the stairs. The client saw me and I’m sure she thought I was in hot pursuit. Fortunately for her, I just wanted out. Out of the building, away from her, away from the toxic environment she’d created in my studio, my haven.

She screamed, “Leave me alone, you bitch! Help! HELP! Someone help me!”

“Shut up! Get the hell out of my way!” I reached the bottom of the stairs, gripped the handle of the door, and stepped into There…

All I could think of when I read the word ” was Spongebob. I know, I know. It’s a sickness. No, it’s worse than that. It’s called “kids”. When you have kids who were present for the debut of the Sponge and all the friendly undersea critters, you become familiar with it, too. (It sure as hell was better than Barney and thank God it was pre-Dora!)

Anyway, Deb wants us to use our imagination this week and describe something we’ve never experienced. Uh…okay. I guess.

So here I am, suitcase and camera, passport and ID in hand, standing alone at the airport. My flight for London leaves in just under and hour and the butterflies have found me. I’m heading off on a trip around the world. I have no idea when I’ll be heading home. All I know is there’s a world to be seen and I’m getting paid to see it for other people.

Everything’s different, but I’m still the same I realize, finally in my plane seat. “Will I be the same when I return?” I wonder as the wheels lift off the runway. Only one way to know for certain: I have to go. And I do…

There’s some challenge this week to answer questions relating to the seven deadly (or at least slightly injurious sins) and we’re supposed to lie in our answers. Or not. Or maybe we’re supposed to answer some truthfully and others fallaciously and then gather around the blogfire at the end of the week to figure out what was true, what was false, and who had us most convinced. Or something. lie to me”, Deb says. But I hear Jonny Lang singing it faintly in the background…as if he’s serenading her from the shower.

More truth than anything in here. The couple of lies…you’ll spy them easily enough.

Pride
What is your biggest contribution to the world?
My two children who have such big, kind hearts. I cannot take sole responsibility for them, but I can take some credit and pride in helping to have created them.

I’d like to think on a more personal level that I have tried to be a good, honest friend, helpful where I could be helpful, caring without conditions, and as patient as possible when situations go wrong.

Envy
What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?
Amongst my photography cohorts? Marriage. And gear. Silly, isn’t it? Amongst the nurses I know? Their jobs and healthy backs. Others? Slimmer bodies, brighter smiles, perkier breasts, tighter tummies and bottoms, hot husbands…any number of things that may or may not make their lives any better but that I remember having once at some point in life, wishing I had again.

Gluttony
What did you eat last night?
Totinos frozen pizzas followed by popcorn (during Mythbusters in which they tested a popcorn myth).

Lust
What really lights your fire?
Jonny Lang singing to Deb me from the shower. Maybe not. I know the drummer. I’ve been to a concert. That ain’t gonna happen.

Someone who is absolutely into me more than they are into anything else in their life. They would rather be with me than light up a cigarette, open a beer, turn on the TV. That can all come later, but not before he has had his fill of me.

The way he looks into my eyes, seeing a myriad of colors at play in them. The way he places his hand on mine or around my shoulder. The way he knows exactly what words to say to trigger my smile and delight. The kiss that lingers and tempts. The ability to make me forget the craziness of the day for a while as we make the most of our uninterrupted time together. The escape we provide for each other.

Anger
What is the last thing that really pissed you off?
I don’t believe I can answer that honestly at the moment without creating an international incident.

Greed
Name something you hoard and keep from others.
Secrets. Trust funds. Love. Lottery winnings. Good stories. Take your pick. Only a couple are true.

Sloth
What’s the laziest thing you ever did?
I went a week and a half without showering because I didn’t feel like driving over to my mom’s house to get a shower while ours was out. It wasn’t pretty. Baby wipes only go so far.

It’s not exactly the most revealing post ever, but I have reasons.

There’s some challenge this week to answer questions relating to the seven deadly (or at least slightly injurious sins) and we’re supposed to lie in our answers. Or not. Or maybe we’re supposed to answer some truthfully and others fallaciously and then gather around the blogfire at the end of the week to figure out what was true, what was false, and who had us most convinced. Or something. lie to me”, Deb says. But I hear Jonny Lang singing it faintly in the background…as if he’s serenading her from the shower.

Pride
What is your biggest contribution to the world?

Envy

What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?

Gluttony

What did you eat last night?

Lust

What really lights your fire?

Anger

What is the last thing that really pissed you off?

Greed

Name something you hoard and keep from others.

Sloth

What’s the laziest thing you ever did?

My answers will take a while to prepare.

I’ve tempted to publish this blank and leave it at that….especially since I’ve twice tried to sprain my ankle while sitting on the divan (okay, fine…sofa or, couch, or chaise, even a damn fainting couch if you must). The thing is, I’m in a precarious position where ankle injury is prevalent. I think it best to leave mine blank for now while I figure out which furniture likes me better.

Go ahead and share yours while you’re waiting. Have some coffee, tea, cookies, scone whilst you wait and create and share. I’ll just jerk about as my brain overload is and sending random movements to legs and arms and apparently my mouth, too.

I absolutely Debbie for being on her tippy toes and working toward a huge decision. It’s daunting and exciting all at the same time. I know this because I’ve been there. More than once. And let me tell you…

Back in Early 1990, I decided to uproot myself and haul my still-cute-ass to Colorado. I had a friend who’d just moved there and whom I’d just visited for a week. I decided I could and should take a chance and move. I had no kids, no spouse, no house, nothing really to hold me back. And you know what? I did it! I totally loaded up my truck and moved to Colorado.

My little sister was my co-pilot. We had an interesting drive from San Diego to Phoenix. We had an even more interesting drive from Phoenix to Scottsdale Flagstaff (which included almost flying off the snowy road into a ravine, but we never told my mom about that). At one point, we were in Winslow, Arizona. Despite freezing sleet, I got out of the truck and went and stood on a corner for 2 minutes. That’s all I could handle. Back in the car, we headed into the white out. The freeway closed right behind us.

Somehow or another, we made it into New Mexico and witnessed one of the most breathtaking sunrises I’ve ever seen. Our drive through New Mexico was quick and uneventful. We entered Colorado just as our nerves were fraying and we were lapsing into old childhood squabbles — over music, over smoking in the truck, over windows cracked open or not, etc.

When we pulled into Boulder, it was as if we could both breathe again. Off to the airport my sister went. She didn’t want to stick around any longer than she had to. I kind of don’t blame her. Oh, to have those moments back! I wish the trip had gone a bit differently, but it was what it was at the time. Anyhow, I was in Colorado.

I didn’t know what awaited me exactly, and for that, I’m glad. Not knowing made the surprise of my daughter that much more precious when she came a long a couple years later.

I didn’t know that my heart would break, but then be filled with even more love than I thought possible.

I didn’t know that I would discover just how much I loved and missed my family.

I didn’t know that I could handle the winters. I could and I did. Even with a newborn. Me! I did it! Crazy, but true. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.

Moving back to California was another big decision, but one that made sense at the time. And, if I hadn’t, my life would have been radically different. Just like if I hadn’t moved to Colorado.

So, Deb, take the chance! Embrace the new opportunities that await you in the suburbs or wherever. It’ll be different, but good. And just remember, inland doesn’t mean the ocean has disappeared.

I am just so late with everything this week, I should be put in a corner. Except no one puts Baby in the corner. Did I just call myself Baby? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Get over it. Until someone else comes up with some endearing name for me, I have to come up with them for myself.

There have been times in my life when I’ve been quite the prolific writer. I’ve written a couple of books, only to lose them to a terrible hard drive malfunction that left me cussing like a mad dog sailor on acid. I have no idea what that means, but my brain fires this stuff off and I just tippity type away.

What were my books about? The first was about a little girl, a mean sister who called her names, a lemonade stand, and a dream. The second was pretty much a “what if famous so-and-so were alive and living in my neighborhood” type thing. It was spawned after I nearly ran over someone who looked like a (then) recently deceased celebrity. But, those were stories told and lost and as hard as I’ve tried to rewrite the first one, it just didn’t flow, and now the idea just sits somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind. I’m okay with that.

That’s not what we’ve been asked to share this week, though. wants to know (come to think of it, she’s a pretty damn nosy woman, ain’t she?) what book we want to write someday. Not what we’ve written.

So what book would I write? Hmmm… How about what books would I write? I’m too diverse to be confined to just one book or just one genre! Fine, call it some creative ADHD or whatever, but that’s me.

Book 1: I want to write a book about the blues. While it would mostly be photos, I’d want to include stories about the artists, interviews I’ve done with them, how they’ve influenced my life. I want to create for new artists what Dick Waterman did for the artists he knew. Between Midnight and Day is my FAVORITE book of photographs, my favorite book on the blues, and just all around one of my favorite books.

Book 2: I want to write the funniest, most touching book on parenting ever written. I want to out Bombeck Bombeck. I want to make moms and dads both laugh and cry and nod while they read. I guess I better get started.

Book 3: I want to write a novel that will scare everyone. Not because it’s bloody and gorey and of the slasher variety, but because it’s what really happens to some children in this area. It’s based on a true story, with a lot of creative license taken. Just thinking about it makes me shiver and then cry.

Book 4: World Travel Photos and my adventures. The people I meet, the things I see, the way the world changes me.

Book 5: A children’s book that’s silly but gives kids something to carry with them through their whole lives.

Book 6: Mystery set in the deep south starring a lead character much like the one who became my first and dearest blog friend.

Book 7: I want to write a completely unbiased book on the Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch men and their families. Yeah, the whole famn damily as my mom used to say. We don’t get to hear too much about the people left at home. Or those who willingly married into the lifestyle. It’d be interesting.

Book 8: A sex manual. Quit laughing! You don’t know what I know. Or rather, I’m sure you don’t spend hours wondering what it is that I know, nor are you certain you want to find out. For you, this is not. But there is an audience for such a book.

And that, my friends, is what I intend to do someday. I’ll need a little cabin in the middle of nowhere, a cabana boy to tend to all my needs, good friends to occasionally drop in and make sure I’m still alive and to provide me with more fodder. And mostly, I need my muse to get up off her heavily sedated rump and start working with me.

Not asking for much. Just enough.

Angels come in all shapes and forms. Some are more potent than others. Some are mere spectres of the past. And some are simply dreams we can’t quite reach. A lot like ghosts, which I don’t consider bad. But it’s up to us to keep angels as they are and not allow them to turn dark (I hesitate to use the word “demon” because of that blasted movie in theaters at the moment, but if I must, well, just try to keep up and don’t make me go there). In other words, believe in your angels and don’t let their presence throw you into a tailspin. They’re here to help.

While chose one Stevie Nicks angel tune, I immediately thought of another, from the Tusk album, simply called “Angel“. Of course, that reminded me of her “Beautiful Child“, which, to me, is about longing and that one relationship that somehow takes you from the little girl love to real love, or what you hope is real love. (It reduces me to tears nearly every time.) I somehow always build a story about the tune in that it’s really about Stevie and Lindsey, or was it really about Stevie and Mick? It was just as confusing to me as my own first love was and how every relationship can be. Heartachingly maddening. And yet, you just keep seeking, reaching, trying because that’s what we humans do.

I guess it’s no wonder that yesterday’s haiku touched on this theme. (Oh, you don’t know about those? That’s okay. It’s just something I do.) And so, without shame, I copy myself and give you the haiku from yesterday to fulfill Deb’s fiendish assignment:

As your lips near mine
My brain goes into meltdown
Tongue tied wordless want

I think we’ve all pretty much been there at one time or another, no? And it was only in writing this post that I realized the first line of the haiku sounds remarkably like part of “Beautiful Child”.

To my haiku dealer: damn you! It’s the new crack. To Deb: damn you! Same thing with PROMPTs! And for whoever can find me the entire Buckingham Nicks album on CD plus “Gold & Braid”, “Smiling Islands”, “Garbo”, and two minutes with Stevie Nicks? I will marry you.

It’s very hard for me to start writing anything related to Stevie Nicks or Fleetwood Mac because one word can easily become 7,000. And that’s a conservative estimate. All songs are connected for me. “Beautiful Child” connects seamlessly (in my mind) to “When I See You Again” (from Tango in the Night), which then has a story (and an edit from me — I heard that song take different form as it was being sung). And that story ultimately leads elsewhere. Like the time I could have sworn I saw Mick Fleetwood at Burger King in LAX. So, please believe me when I say y’all got off easily this time.

“Finish the story,” said. So I will.

RULES:

• Try to write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kick in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
• Aim for 250 words or less.
• Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
• Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

“What are you doing here?” I hadn’t thought to knock.

Aaron raised his head from the table. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “We need to talk.”

That didn’t sound promising. Nobody ever says “we need to talk” when it’s good news, do they? No. They start out with “oh my God! The best thing just happened to me” and are off and running for 15 minutes of your life that you’ll never get back. So Aaron’s head on the table, his ominous words, and the way he wouldn’t look at me told me more than I figured I could handle at this point. Still, I had to ask, “about what?”

“He knows.”

“Who knows what?” Stupid question. I felt a sinking feeling coming over me.

“Rino. He heard through the grapevine that Packer’s dead and he thinks you did it.”

“Shit. This isn’t good. I knew as soon as he heard that he’d think I was responsible.” Forget that sinking feeling. Drowning would have been a preferred demise compared to what could happen to me if Rino decided I was to blame. Whether or not I pulled the trigger would matter not to him. The simple fact was, Packer, my ex-husband and Rino’s nephew, was dead as a doornail and someone would have to pay.

“Aaron, you gotta get me out of here and someplace safe.” Icy panic sliced through my gut. I could barely think of anything other than escape. There’d be no reasoning with Rino and there’d be no rest until I was far, far away from here.

Aaron just looked at me, shaking his head, rising to his feet. “It’s too late. You know he’s watching already. You know he’d always be looking for you. There’d be no peace. You’re just going to have to face him and tell him what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything! You know that!”

“Callie, it doesn’t matter what I know or what you know. It only matters what Rino thinks and right about now, I’d be getting your shit together. There isn’t much time.”

There was nothing to do. My shit was together. In fact, it felt as if it were about to come hurling out of my mouth at supersonic speed. Any normal person would be in tears at this point, but all I could think about was what a big mistake it’d been for me to even get involved with that damn man and his insane family. But no. No tears were forthcoming, just the urge to vomit.

I sat down at the table and shook my head. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. This was all too much and I let my head fall to the table. Perhaps it was just a dream. Maybe if I closed my eyes for just a couple minutes it would all go away. I heard Aaron shuffle around the table and felt him behind me. I reached my hand up to my shoulder in hopes that he’d take it, comfort me, but instead, all I felt was cold, hard steel.

Tell me you still find wonder in this world
Whether in the laughter of a child
The sunlight on water
The rushing of waves onto sand
The way mountains rise up and reach for the sky
The angel soft tickle of fur on your hand
The way words and delicate notes mingle together in song
The dance between cello and mandolin
The way rhythm can change your heartbeat
The way the briefest touch of my hand can cause you to sigh
The way a kiss can incite passion
The simple look in my eyes as I gaze back at you
Tell me you believe in the power of love, the power of us
Tell me you believe anything is possible when we are together.

Old school entry time! We’re going back in time and doing a little Remember Whenning™ for this week.

The rules? We don’t need no stinkin’ rules! Okay, maybe one: write about your favorite toy as a child. “Write a vignette about playing with it. (What did you feel? Who were you with? Where did you live?)”

See? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

My story is rather short and simple. And it’s proof that I’m old. Really old. As in, in a couple weeks, I’ll qualify as ancient. At which time, I expect you all to ply me with cash, compliments, and gifts of all kinds. Forget “happy birthday” wishes! I want swag. And if I can’t have swag, I want money money money! (It’s the only way I’ll make it through the next month or so anyway if I don’t book some shoots.)

So, without further ado, I bring to you “Memories of an Old Hag”.

When I was just a kid, from about three until I was seven or eight, my favorite outdoor toy was far and away the Krazy Kar. At first, all I could do was go around in circles as I lacked the coordination to spin the giant wheels properly to propel me forward. Once I figured out the trick to forward movement, though, I was a little speed demon. Forget the kids with Big Wheels! That was easy. The Krazy Kar required skill beyond using your feet to push handy little pedals attached to the front wheel. That kind of stuff was for babies. No, if you wanted a challenge, you had a Krazy Kar. I mastered that thing and was just as fast as anyone with a Big Wheel or in a wagon. There was the benefit of having TWO large wheels moving you. The down side was the fact that they were arm-powered. Still, if you knew what you were doing, your little arms could do amazing things with the help of those giant disks. Flying past your friends who were pumping their little legs as fast as they could, you could practically hear the wind whooshing in your ears and you imagined a large path of dust rising up into the air as you went screaming by. I wasn’t ever the fastest kid in a foot race, but I could beat the pants off you in a Krazy Kar. And there was another special treat built in: skidding to a stop was a spectacle and a half as you spun around and around, faster, crazier, and better than anyone on a stupid old Big Wheel.

You may want to go read Deb’s comments to see what my favorite indoor toys were.

This week, my photos of the old caboose were to serve as inspiration for the PROMPT. Thank you, Deb, for finding the photos interesting and worthy enough to warrant such special treatment. You rock!

—-

“I miss lima beans,” he muttered. There was several months’ worth of growth on his face, which was looking rather gaunt. His hair was long and matted, and occasionally it would slide across his face, into his wildly darting eyes. “I MISS LIMA BEANS!” His guttural cry echoed through the deserted canyon, save for the birds that stirred after he shouted.

Smoke from his fire wafted into the weathered caboose, where he was protected from most of the elements. Wind, however, was another story. It seeped through the cracks of the dilapidated train car, kicked up the fine dust so prevalent in the canyon, it blew in the smoke from his fire, and it chilled him to the bone, even in the middle of the brutal desert summers. Being rail thin, he was always cold.

The charred bones of the chuckwalla crunched between his teeth. He’d been lucky last night, coming up on the unsuspecting lizard, which he roasted slowly over glowing coals. Now, as the early morning light filtered in, he drew his threadbare blanket around his shoulders while munching leftovers. He couldn’t help but think of how much better the meal would be with lima beans though.

His mind drifted back to another time, back when he was young and spry and definitely not living in the middle of nowhere in an abandoned caboose, sleeping on a rotting mattress he’d managed to drag out with the help of a long gone traveling companion. No, his memory allowed him to recall a time from his youth when Ma called him in for supper. A heaping plate of hot food was placed before him, including lima beans smothered with fresh-churned butter. Back then, he didn’t like the beans too much, but his mother could always talk him into eating them if she covered them with butter. As he got older, he continued to include them as part of his meals whenever he could, mostly to remember the woman who gave him life. After Ma died, he realized it wasn’t the butter he craved anymore, it was the beans. Now, without hope of seeing any in the near future, he found himself missing them more than ever. Ma didn’t register either. People had stopped mattering long ago.

A couple of faint plinks on the roof above him startled him out of his reverie. Then came the telltale hiss as a spring storm’s rain fell upon the fire. “So much for being warm,” he said to a little mouse in the corner. He blinked and the mouse was gone, if it was ever really there. He groaned a bit as he rose to his feet and pulled makeshift shutters on the few windows shut. The door at the rear of the car remained open a bit, in the hope that some creature seeking shelter from the storm would find its way inside, perhaps providing him another meal without any effort.

As he settled down in the corner on his mattress, he shivered and coughed. A prayer was said before he closed his eyes, not really caring whether or not he woke up again. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. If someone came by with some lima beans, he’d definitely want to wake up for those.