{#60 word count: 60. A gypsy places the most ridiculous of curses on you}
Of course I would make fun of her nose. Anybody who had eyes in their head would. It was truly hideous.
So the old woman with the bulbous nose and curly gray hair woven with tattered ribbons pointed a gnarled finger at me and said I would never finish another sentence. Now, isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever
😂😂😂 I especially like this one. Take that, you bunch of whiners who always want MORE 🤣🤣🤣
Because one writing challenge isn’t enough. I’m gonna try to run two as long as I can stand it. Seeing as I’m starting this one over a week late, we’ll see if I get burned out before I ever get caught up.
For these prompts, I’m choosing to take a more realistic approach. Of course, being only one word, they are much easier to manipulate than the almost full scenarios the other challenge presents me with. I promise to do the best I can to entertain you.
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It was one of those days I didn’t want to get out of bed. I just knew if my feet touched the floor, I was either gonna throw up, cry, or fall down.
But things had to be done, so I slowly peeled the covers back, relishing the feel of cool air on my clammy skin, and began to ease out. I kept a hand on the bed for reassurance and I crept, gingerly now, along the side towards the bathroom. When I got to the corner of the big tester bed that had been in my family since they came over on the Mayflower (not REALLY, but just about), I gripped the post and breathed deeply through my nose.
“You are not sick, you are not sick,” I chanted. I squinched my toes against the dark plank scuffed hardwood. “You are not sick, you are not sick,” I repeated.
And just then, my dog, having sensed my presence being alert and upright (again, not REALLY), jounced into the room and jammed his cold nose in my hand. The unexpected movement made my stomach lurch and I gave an involuntary gag.
NOT ON THE RUG!!!! My mind screamed. I didn’t want to have to worry about cleaning it. Just one more thing to do on a day that all I was prepared for was drinking Bloody Marys and watching Lifetime movies.
I made it to my bathroom, but just barely. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to party hardy. I didn’t even drink THAT much. I’m sure it was the combination of dancing around the fire and jostling all that ranch dressing and sausage balls around that got me in this shape. Nobody else seemed that worse for the wear, I noticed, as they staggered in for coffee. We gathered around the island, adding heaping teaspoons of sugar and sloshes of cream. I didn’t want anything but salt and ice water. And fast.
I didn’t want to think about sunlight, exercise, food, or excessive noise. And I certainly didn’t want to think about any more alcohol. Somebody had turned on the TV in the den and The Hangover was playing, which just made me that much sicker. But it also made me reflect that things could always be worse. I wasn’t sunburned on a roof in an unfamiliar city. There was no Japanese man trying to kill me. I didn’t get any crazy tattoos and I still had all my teeth. There was no tiger in the bathroom.
I collapsed on the floor. I wanted as few things touching me as possible. My head felt so swollen that I could feel my individual hair follicles. Traci stepped over me with a bowl of rice krispies. I could smell their sweetness. I groaned and turned on my side.
I must have slept because when I woke up I had a trashcan for company, and a bowl of ice cubes with a washcloth laying on top. The girls had left a note on the counter to say they were going to get salads at the cafe and would be out back by the pool.
I dared a glimpse outside. There they all were, frolicking without a care in the world. I just wanted to draw the curtains and crawl back in bed. But then the vicious cycle would repeat itself. Maybe a good plunge in the pool was what I needed, anyway.
So I found a towel, donned my sunglasses, and stepped onto the deck.
“She lives!” they toasted. I plucked a cucumber from Tina’s salad.
“Barely,” I croaked, and lowered myself onto the concrete, dangling my calves & feet in the sparkling water.
“Margarita?” Bethany asked, grinning devilishly over a glass filled with the frozen pink concoction.
I never was one to say no. I lifted it and took a drink.
And here we went again.
{#463. You’re in witness relocation when at your job for a grocery store in this faraway place, someone recognizes you}
My life isn’t stressful anymore. I don’t have to wonder who I’ll find on my couch at three o’clock in the morning, or check my backseat before getting in my car. I don’t have to thoroughly inspect seals on containers and examine my food before eating out in restaurants. I no longer have to avoid busy intersections or make excuses to always ride alone. I’m not forced to have a backup plan with alternate routes to get from point A to point B these days.
What I have is a home in Bear Lake, Idaho, nearly cut off from the world. I work a routine job at the local Stop-n-Sav just to fill some hours in my stretched out days. I could be anyone I wanted to be, but who I wanted to be was a hermit. And the government didn’t mind at all. They were thankful to have someone that wouldn’t cost a bundle and that wouldn’t be a headache. Bear Lake isn’t much of a tourist destination, and certainly wouldn’t be for the colleagues I had in my past life. They’re all the glitzy glam of Vegas or West Palm Beach. Here we have mountains, but not the pristine slopes you would find in Vail or Denver. We have the lake, but it’s hardly destination worthy. No, we’re mainly for families that find Yellowstone overwhelming and overpriced, or the couples who just desire a slower place for a week or two. We put on no airs, we make no production. Except for the Raspberry Festival in August every year, that is. I’ve been here four years now, and with each passing day I feel more like I’ve never lived anywhere else.
I belong to a quilting circle and a garden club, I volunteer at the Ladies’ Auxiliary in nearby Chester. I read to kids at the library once a month, and I deliver flowers from my gardens to the local nursing home in the summer. I feel that my life is full, and never stagnant, as my ex-husband would scoff and snort.
On this particular Thursday, I was decorating a child’s cake with the latest fad, unicorns all colors of the rainbow. I knew the icing would taste terrible, but I also knew the children wouldn’t care. I piped some electric blue onto one of their manes and looked up to see a woman of middle age flipping through the book on the counter. I peeled off my latex gloves and went to her.
When her eyes met mine, I knew the meaning of “my blood ran cold”. It had happened once before, when I put the man I thought I had loved behind bars for life. Maybe to death. I stopped following his trial the minute I set foot on the plane that would carry me as far from his iron-clad clutch as possible.
“Steff?” She asked, her eyes wide.
I had choices. My name was no longer Stefanie. I was no longer the bottle blond I had been since high school. But my accent would betray me, as my eyes already had. I wore readers with clear glass most of the time, but had been careless today. It wouldn’t have mattered. Here was the girl I had shared a locker with, had shared hairbrushes with, had shared secrets, men, and lies.
I could run. I could go out the back door, dropping my apron as I went. I could pretend I was a doppelganger, and didn’t know who she was. I could play it off like I had just happened to wind up in this two-bit town on a whim. Or I could learn what I could and pack and run tonight, if not sooner.
“Oh my God, how have you been?” I all but squealed, already resorting to my old method of interaction, running around the counter to give her a squeeze. I noticed she still had her nails done, and they were lacquered a blood red. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. I tried not to visibly shrink back. Also, too late, I thought to look around and see who she had with her. No doubt Bruce, her personal bodyguard, would be nearby.
“He’s in the car,” she assured me. “Steff…..what the hell?”
I begged her with my eyes. “Don’t ask. Life is so different. I just had to…”
And I fled.
No time for my purse. I hit the sequence of buttons on my watch that would signal Washington that I was in danger, and I took to the woods as fast as my legs would carry me. It would be two hours before they would be able to pick me up and I had better make damn certain nobody else could find me before then.
{#48 Word count 100. Write a eulogy for a famous fictional character. Only reveal who it is at the end}
She was the hottest trick in shoe leather, all the beaus of the county after her. And no wonder, with a seventeen inch waist! But she married Mister Charles Hamilton to provoke her true heart’s desire. Shortly thereafter, widowed by the war, she moved to Atlanta to join her sister-in-law and aunt. She nursed injured soldiers at the hospital near the depot for a time and delivered her SIL’s baby with little to no help from her simpleminded darkie. She finally left Atlanta with her stolen mule once the Yankees began to burn it. She, her SIL, the newborn baby, and maid waited out the Union Troops under a bridge in a flood. Upon returning home she found that the farm had been seized by Union Troops and all their livestock and crops had been ransacked and stolen. Her mother dead, and her father gone batty, she was forced to be at once both the lady of the house and the overseer. She shot a Yankee deserter who broke into the house while her family picked cotton in the scorching hot red clay fields.
Flat broke, father now gone as well, she and her mammy fashioned a dress of curtains to beg for tax money for the farm from a wealthy gentleman she had befriended in Atlanta, but all was in vain. It was during this visit to the rebuilding city she met and married Mr. Frank Kennedy, shop keeper and lumbermill operator (and her sister’s long time beau). The farm, store, and lumbermill prospered under her direction. Mr. Kennedy, a member of the the KKK, was shot and killed, leaving her a widow once again. But not for long. Mr. Butler, a wealthy businessman from Charleston, asked for her hand in marriage just hours after the funeral.
They honeymooned in New Orleans and then built the most ostentatious house Atlanta had ever seen. Soon they had a daughter, named after three queens but everyone called her simply Bonnie, after the Bonnie Blue Flag.
Sadly, their daughter was killed by a stubborn pony just shy of her fifth birthday.
The loss hit the Butlers hard. Mrs. Butler was still recuperating from a fall down the stairs and was ill prepared for the loss of her child, as well as a grieving husband. Mrs. Wilkes, after a late night, was able to convince Mr. Butler that the funeral must take place for the little girl he so doted on. But this took its toll on Melanie, and she soon passed away with her unborn child still inside her.
The Butlers divorced shortly thereafter due to irreconcilable differences. Scarlett went on to travel to Charleston and Savannah, then across the sea to Ireland, her father’s homeland. There, she bought a castle and town of her own. She gave birth to a daughter, Cat, on All Hallow’s Eve, with slanting green eyes, convincing the townspeople that she was possessed.
Rhett eventually found her and his daughter and carried them to safety, once again through flames as the people drove them from their home.
They lived happily ever after, sailing, shopping, and eating in famous cities and towns all around the world.
She perished after consuming some bad shellfish off the coast of Guernsey.
She is survived by her daughter Cat, and husband Rhett.
God rest this courageous woman’s soul.
Connect the dots
Of my little spots
And see my moss
On which I lay.
I am slimy
I am cold
I am fast
But I’m not bold.
I like the mud
Best of all
I’ll hide from hikers
Both great and small.
You must be quick
To see me there
Perched on a rock
Near my lair.
Some think snake
Others think frog
I am neither
Beneath my log.
If I had a shell
I could not squeeze
Between these roots
So if you please
Don’t pick me up
As I scurry away
Just admire my spots
And be on your way.
Please enjoy this picture by my good friend Timothy H. Fisher (aka The Hiking Fish) more than you enjoyed my bad poetry. Please hold my good friend Beth responsible for my bad poetry, as she gave me the prompt and I couldn’t think of a good story to tell. I only have two salamander stories, and neither are especially entertaining. One ends with dead, extremely smelly salamanders, anyway.
Please get more information about the Salamander Capital of the World here. No foolin’!! Home of Dolly Parton AND salamanders!!!
Please see Fish’s gallery at https://www.facebook.com/thfisherphotography/
He writes too!
{#262 The monologue of a serial killer before court on why he did it}
“It’s funny how you can see people, you know, and think how much better lookin’ they’d be dead. I mean, I get it, we’re supposed to wait on the wraith of God to strike ’em down, but I never was much none for patience….and this ol’ girl, she was on a bad road, y’know? In a bad way, doin’ bad things with bad people. And her little boy deserved better’n that, so I just waited one night, when she was comin’ up her walk, there, in them slutty shoes and that indecent dress you could see straight through, and she was a-rootin’ through ‘er bag for ‘er keys. And I was sittin’ there a-waitin’ crouched down real low-like beside them bushes and I just reached out and caught ‘er. She didn’t even get a chance to scream. That clothesline, hit was a good ‘un, paid six dollars for it up at the hardware…I knew it wouldn’t give till the job was done. Hit sure didn’ take long, neither. She had one of them real skinny necks you see on girls that do so many drugs. Her breath was right awful, though. I don’t know what she’d drunk or smoked but I tell you…woo! But hit didn’t take long. Didn’t take long. I drug her over to the road so that baby wouldn’t be the one to find her. She didn’t weigh hardly nothin’, her hair was all messed up and her makeup was all over her face but I didn’t care none. Live as a crack whore, die a crack whore.
“There was a time there, and I was sorry for what I did, yes, sir. I couldn’t hardly bear hit, I was a-goin’ to church and down on my knees a-prayin’ ever’ chance I got, but nothin’ would help. I’d done went too far. But I hadn’t got caught and they’s a lotta cleanin’ up to do in this town, yes sir, you wouldn’t know it, but a bunch of nasty people and drugs and I jest couldn’t stand it so my next one was this feller, wouldn’t worth nothin’, he was sellin’ to them kids over by the liberry- yes, ‘ats right! Right there by the po-lice station! They jest looked on, had bigger fish to fry, I reckon, so I thought I could take care of ‘im myself. So I did. I acted real cool like, like I was wantin’ to buy some, and we’s jest talkin’, like you & I is now, and I jest stuck ‘im. Put that blade right there in his side. Bout the time he realized what had happened, I eased it in his neck, right along here, and he was gone in a flash. Had to drag him a ways to the creek. Funny nobody really looks at two men when they just look poor. Nobody wants to see hit. But I took care of him, yessirree Bob.
“The next one wasn’t so easy. Nobody had fought me so far, see? It was like they knew they’s bad and had it comin’ and they’d just go along with me. But this feller, he’d seen times before, and he was a-kickin’ and a gougin’ and he liked to put my eye out. Hit was bloody for a week! But I’d seen him with some girls, you know. Girls. Little girls he didn’t have no business bein’ with so I thought, ‘ol buddy, I’ll take care of you and your ol’ nasty persuasions. Oh yeah. I did, but he didn’t like it none. Shore ’nuff. We’s out on that gov’ment prop-tee, out on the lake there, and I’d had my boat tied up, actin’ like I just come up to take a whiz and here he come, bangin’ through them woods like a Sasquatch, hollerin’ and goin’ on, tellin’ me to git the hell off his land. ‘Course, I wouldn’t gittin’ excited, I knew what was comin’ but he didn’t, and I just shot him, but I was low, and he kept a-comin’, screamin’ like he was a-dyin’, which I reckon he was-” (pauses to spit) “but I wanted to git it over with a-fore that little girl seen, and I knew she heard, that ol’ tarp wouldn’t nothin’ but to keep the squirrels out. He got to me and was a-wrestlin’ for my weapon, and I whooped him good and kicked his chin and that was that. I reckon that little girl run and got help. I hope she’s alright, and ain’t havin’ to have none of that ther-a-pee. She never told on me. She saw me, I know she did. She just wanted to git gone. I didn’t bother buryin’ him. I’d thought about draggin’ him over to the boat and out into the lake, I had some cinder blocks but I thought, eh, what the hell? They done gonna know he’s dead. And that little girl will wanna make sure he ain’t comin’ back for her nowhere but her nightmares. So I let him be. I wished the coyotes woulda got ‘im, though.”
Gets a far off look in his eye before he starts again.
“I worked alongside this ol’ boy….you could tell he thought he was better than ever’body else. He always had new tools and the best boots, you know. Oh, he kept his looks up, always eatin’ good and liftin’ weights…had him some nice guns and a right fine knife co-lection. He always looked real neat, you know, took pride in his appearance, had a fresh haircut ever’ Monday…well, his wife, she was a good woman, always cookin’ us treats, ‘specially ’round Christmas, you know. And she always remembered our names when she saw us, always had a smile on her face. She was just sweet as she could be, a good local girl. Well, that ol’ boy started runnin’ around on her and I jest couldn’t stand it. And it wasn’t even with some snazzy lookin’ lady, hit was this ol’ skanky girl none of us would have thought about tetchin’ with a ten-foot pole. She had a nasty mouth and a surly attitude, jest sick of life. You know, had some young’uns from diff’rent daddies, didn’t take care of none of ’em. That’s the worst, when the momma don’t even care bout takin’ care of her babies. That’s right sorry. So I took care of him. I just couldn’t stand by and know his wife was hurtin’ and him too stupid to even give a good Got Damn. He was up yonder, on the roof, and I was a-pointin’ out the smoke that the mill was puttin’ out, heavy that day, heavy enough that nobody was lookin’ at us, and I jest give ‘im a little shove, you know, and he just toppled on over. He didn’t even scream, but I heard his head pop when he hit the concrete and I thought hit was good enough for him, although I’da person’ly liked to’ve seen him suffer a little bit longer.
“Popped like a melon, hit did.
“I wanted to kill her too, but y’all got me first. She don’t deserve life, either. These people with these babies, that’s what really galls me. I shore am glad the Lord didn’t see fit for me to make none o’my own. I’da prolly killed a right smart more over my babies. Can’t stand no no-count niggers. And there’s white niggers, too, ‘fore you get all up in the air ’bout me sayin’ that word. Ever’body I killed had white skin. But they’s all worthless niggers.
“So, whatd’ya say about a little sweet tea ‘fore we git started? I’m right parched after all ‘is talkin’ you been makin’ me do….”
Day 3 of the rest of my life. And the rest of yours. I’m digging these prompts, I hope you are too.
{#240 You are taking medicine that you’ve been required to take for a year now. You notice that the label seems strange though, you peel it back to find something curious.}
6:00 a.m. A struggle. One eye open to mash the big silver button.
Sleep.
6:13 a.m.
Did you know you could set your snooze to more than nine minutes? You do now.
Although I could probably use at least another hour of REM, the team could use me. I rise, and is my custom, head for the medicine cabinet.
I should really invest in one of the those pill-a-day containers, because halfway through my first cup of coffee I’ll be wondering if I already took it. But of course I did. I do it first thing every day so I know I did.
My eyes are adjusting as I try to focus on my face in the mirror. Law, another zit. How come when you hit nineteen they don’t just up and disappear? Here I am, nearly twice that, and they’re still popping up unwanted on my chin. Or on my cheek. On the inside of the my nose. Those little bastards HURT.
I shake out my allergy pill, my vitamin, and my script. It’s a small thing, innocuous and round, I hardly give it a second glance or thought. I was put on them nearly a year ago for depression. Depression! Me! Explain that. My JOB is to go around, cheering people up, cheering people on. I’m a lifelong cheerleader…on antidepressants. Tell me what sense that makes. Furthermore, they’re a boring peach color. If I were designing antidepressants, they’d at least be a fun color! Like bright yellow. Or hot pink. And they’d have glitter! Hel-lo???
Marketing still has a long way to go if you ask me.
I swallow the pills and am brushing my teeth when I spy the bottle. I normally like to have all my bottles centered and facing forward, but I’m trying to get a handle on my OCD and the things that don’t matter. I had placed the bottle back sideways. And the label was becoming loose. I didn’t even know there was more to read. I thought it was just the front part. But it seemed that there was a whole secret page behind that. Like the jumbo spices from Sam’s. Took me forever to realize how to peel back the corner so I could get my meat/ water/ taco seasoning ratio correct. I was just haphazardly guessing for awhile there.
And I read:
“This drug may cause drowsiness. If you experience light-headedness or chest pain, consult a doctor. Do not take if allergic to bees or camel hair. Take with a big slug of Patron Silver if you experience difficulty getting it down. If you become pregnant, double your dosage.”
Camel hair? Double the dosage? What in the Sam Hill was this crap? I read on.
“Best if taken at the light of day with a cupcake and lemonade. Follow up by spinning in a circle three times and then do one round of the hokey-pokey. This medicine may entice you to join the circus, but it’s better than having a tail.”
WHAT.
A TAIL?????
I mean, that does hold certain advantages. If I had a tail, and it was a good tail, like a possum’s, I could carry things with it when my hands were full. If it were like a fox tail, it would be really beautiful and I could whisk and twirl it along behind—
What was I saying?? A TAIL?!?!
This had to be a joke. My doctor was my friend, I was taking a placebo, she just wanted to have some fun. The pharmacist too, they must be in cahoots.
But, wait.
I remembered hurting my rear end last year when I was being catapulted into the air and swung back around between the two guys when they dropped me. It was so hot and I was slick with sweat.
I thought I’d hurt my tailbone.
It was too early to call my doctor’s office but I had her cell number. And this qualified as an emergency if I’d ever known one.
Pick up, pick up, pick UP, I chanted as I punched at my phone.
She answered on the third ring, yelling at her boys. She has three, plus a husband. I think I would never stop yelling, just to get ahead.
“Jennifer? It’s Stacie. I, uh, well, you know I don’t pay attention very well…”
The screaming faded. I imagined her walking into a closet and sinking to the floor, hiding behind tennis rackets and winter coats.
“When were you going to tell me I was growing a tail?” I blurted out.
“Oh, Stace, I’m so sorry. Most people do better if we don’t tell them. Did you get bored and read the label?”
“Yes, and I will admit, it is highly entertaining.”
She chuckled. “Believe it or not, it is USDA approved.”
“I knew I didn’t need an antidepressant! I thought y’all thought I was crazy.”
“You have to admit, it’s easier to convince someone they need cheering up than they’re growing a tail.”
I sat down with a thump at my kitchen table. “Are there a lot of us?” I whispered.
“You were my first. There’s one in Memphis.”
“….what AM I, though? Am I just a human who didn’t completely evolve, or am I part fox or what?”
Please be a fox, please be a fox, I prayed. I didn’t want an ugly tail. I mean, if you’re gonna have a tail, make it a good one, right?
Silence.
“We’re not sure. You know every time we send off your blood work it comes back abnormal with unknown cells.”
Yes, I did know that. And it used to bother me until a team of specialists were stumped and she finally just told me as long as I felt normal not to worry too much about it. And I hadn’t. Because I’m an optimist!!!
“I think I really am gonna need some of those antidepressants now. Tell me, are they sparkly???”
****I love these writing prompts. They let me be unequivocally weird and y’all can’t say that my brain is warped because the IDEA wasn’t mine, exactly. 😏
Greetings on this second day of January. Monday it was tropical, today it was frigid. Whatever. I work inside, what do I have to complain about?
Besides coming out of spin class and the sweat at my hairline forming ice crystals, that’s all. Other than that, though, all is well.
On this second challenge, I flipped a little further into the book. Seems I ruffled some feathers yesterday with not telling the whole story. Hey, the choice wasn’t mine!! Think about yours truly over here, wanting to tell about the rest of the gruesome night and I had to stop. This is why I don’t play by the rules. Rules generally suck.
You’ll be soothed by today’s. Instead of typing it all out, I’m just gonna show you what it says.
Wicked fun, right?
Since Beth was the first to give me feedback on yesterday’s, she got to choose the letters. She didn’t know what she was choosing letters for, and I obviously didn’t tell her what they stood for. This was my version of pulling them out of a hat.
Now I have to write quickly because it’s my bedtime. Spin took a lot out of me. Leave your worries and cares on the bike! Hey, I went almost ten miles in 45 minutes.
But this, this is my passion.
BSATD
{Or, as they are known here: hubcap, hair dryer, broken bottle, wallet, and dice
#105 You are a psychic. Your first client of the morning is strange. They seem off…with them they have a bag of five items they want you to get a reading off of. What visions do you get from each item? Who are they trying to contact?}
It was a slow day. Hot, too, so most people weren’t stirring in the Big Easy. It’s always hot here, and the plum colored velvet curtains that separated my reading room from the tourist friendly retail shop permitted even less air flow. Everything seemed especially close today. I shuffled my tarot cards and lifted my red hair off my neck. The fan moved around damp air. Stale air reeking of cigarettes, incense, sugar, and bourbon.
Bourbon on Bourbon Street at nine a.m. Imagine that.
The French Quarter was alive with the sounds of industrialism. Beer trucks’ back gates rolled open, kegs of beer rolled out. The brush of a broom across the ancient, pitted, stained, concrete. Musicians tooted their horns and sirens wailed, dimmer now. Dimmer.
The cathedral’s bells rang out. Ten, then. The clop of a mule, maybe Eleanor and Sam, with her sparkly purple hooves to match Sam’s sequined top hat.
New Orleans, how I love you.
I shut my eyes.
I didn’t think I slept at all, but when I opened my eyes a man had appeared. He was fidgeting at the curtains, unsure if he was invited, but not wanting to leave.
It’s never too late to turn back. Usually it’s young girls, piled in here with a heap of friends giggling and referencing Hocus Pocus. Then they get spooked by my Ouija board. I sometimes TRY to get them to leave. It’s hard to get a good picture of a person with so many milling around and snickering, making light of my profession. But I know how to shut them up and scare them off good. They probably run straight home to grab their rosaries. I would.
I smile, and beckon the twitchy man in. “Sit,” I instruct, sweeping my arm to the olive green velvet settee positioned across from my table.
He more like collapses, then sits up ramrod straight. “I wanna know…” He whispers. “I wanna know…everything.”
I chuckle. It’s impossible to know everything. I only get pieces and then have to weave those into something that resembles what this person could be made up of. People today, you need to listen to me: you CAN judge a book by it’s cover. Trust me.
“Love?”
He nodded so quickly it was like jerking a chain loose from a crevice.
“Lost love?”
“Not yet.”
It’s always love. Those who don’t have it, want it, and those who have it want to make sure they can keep it.
“But also…my toenails.”
His eyes darted around the small room. I could hear my assistant up front trying to sell healing crystals. I tried to channel to her to quit trying, she was wasting her time. You needn’t be a psychic to know that. Heck, I couldn’t even see them.
“Your toenails?” I repeated.
“Yes. And my elbows.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Anything else?”
“My son…”
“Is he with you?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here.”
I suppressed a sigh. But I was under the impression this gentleman needed help. He was sweaty, which is to be expected any time of day in New Orleans. He looked like a Wall Street Stockbroker that cracked. I would like to know more, despite my stern constitution not to get involved. That heightens certain senses but clouds others.
I inhaled deeply, again smelling the sweet mix of beignets and bourbon.
“You paid out front?”
He produced the gold dubloon we used for the thirty minute $200 fee.
And then another one.
A full hour with this whacked out stockbroker wannabe? Great. And I brought salad for lunch. Clearly this was a shrimp po boy kind of day.
“Let’s begin,” I said, putting my cards away, and reaching for his hand. The tablecloth bunched up as he grudgingly produced it, palm up.
“I brought some stuff if you wanna look at it. It may help you.”
This is fairly common, especially with those who are out to contact dead relatives and friends. Everyone wants security of heaven but they’re sure living like hell here. I try to stay out of it, they’re paying me to tell them what they want to hear.
Except I don’t think this guy was. He came for truth.
My favorite kind.
“Dave?” I asked him and he raised his eyes above the glasses that had slipped down his nose.
“How’d you know?”
I smiled serenely, then couldn’t stand myself. I smiled wider, showing my teeth. “I didn’t. You just look like a Dave. A Dave that’s had a very long Wednesday, although it’s only Tuesday.”
He hung his head. I don’t know why for.
“Should I get the bag?”
“Hold on.”
I had just picked up something in his lines, quite by accident.
He had beautiful hands. Not the hands of a piano player, but the hands of a man who worked using an expensive MontBlanc pen, not a concrete saw.
I squeezed his right hand between mine. It was clammy. My hands stuck to his momentarily. I resisted the urge to use my antibacterial gel.
He sat up as if awakening from a frightening dream. “My bag. I have it. You need it.”
And he dropped my hand and dashed back through the curtain. He returned in a flash with a burlap sack. Of course. Why carry a regular backpack? Let’s be as conspicuously weird as possible. Which, I will remind you, is no small feat for NOLA. I saw a unicorn riding on the back of a yellow and lime green scooter last week. Who buys a yellow and lime green scooter, I ask you? I guess people who want to haul around unicorns.
And no, I hadn’t been drinking. And Mardi Gras wasn’t for eight more weeks! You expect that kind of thing then. Most of the time we’re just kinda mellow.
Back to the sack.
He dumped the contents out all at once across my mahogany table. I tried not to narrow my eyes and visibly cringe. The table was old and it had plenty enough character markings to go around. That’s why I used the tablecloth.
And why would someone bring a hubcap? Is this a joke? Was I going to have to try and commune with a car???
The next item I noticed was the wallet. Scarred like my table, someone had carried it for a long time. Brown leather worn so much it appeared polished, curved at the corners and still holding the bloated shape from too many oil change cards and crumpled dollar bills. It had belonged to a scallywag, this I knew.
…a hairdryer? He can’t be serious. This guy has gone round the bend.
The next item would have been simple enough if it weren’t so unnatural. A bottle. But not a beer bottle. A gorgeous moss green glass bottle that had been tumbling around on the bottom of the the ocean for at least a century. The bottom was gone, but it still set upright, giving the impression that everything was still fine and dandy.
Lastly, three dice. They had rolled to a stop next to the bottle, bunched together like peas in a pod, like they were afraid of becoming separated.
I took a deep breath and looked again at each item in turn.
“I’ve gotten shoes before, but this is my first hubcap,” I told Twitchy Dave. “It symbolizes travel, of course, but being round, a continuous journey. Perhaps one that will end where it started. It’s a long one, or you would have, too, brought me a shoe.”
His shoulders slumped.
“And this isn’t from the car you are interested in. This is just a hubcap. The dice, though, and the wallet, they were warmed by a man you loathe. A man who has problems, the least of which are gambling. A man who stole your girl and therefore, your heart. I think it’s been gone a long time. And Dave, she wasn’t ever yours to hold. She is like a butterfly, moving toward the next thing, and while she is beautiful now, the next step of her short metamorphosis is death. She isn’t long for this world, Dave.”
I paused. This was hard to say, and probably impossible for him to hear. I wouldn’t care for it, myself.
“You got his wallet but it was empty. It didn’t even hold answers. So you came to me. The perfume bottle from the sea, she cherished it from the moment she discovered it lying on that deserted beach you sailed to. She sat it on her vanity and it was glad to be loved again. It will always be an empty vessel, like her heart. She can’t hold love. It cannot hold potions. It is only a thing of beauty for those that want to see it. Many would throw it away because it is damaged, but she loved it in spite of that, just as you loved her.
“She’s not beautiful, Dave. Her soul is black and jagged, and you can’t save her. You thought you had, but she strayed. The hair dryer is for the hot wind of the desert, she didn’t need it where she was going to and so she left it. You see it as a token she will come home. She won’t come home as the person you thought you knew. Let her go, David. She’s gone from you now.”
He wept. I held his lovely hands. I longed to push his hair back from his forehead and kiss his scar, just as his mother had done when he was eight and wrecked his bike.
“Your son is finding his way, he is the one who will come back to you. It will take a long time, longer than you have patience for. And you may no longer want him when he does.”
“I don’t know what to say about your elbows and toenails ailment. Maybe just take some vitamins?”
He smiled ruefully. “I just wanted to see how far you would go.”
“I’ll go all the way, honey, but that’s as far as this sight takes me.”
I watched his face transform. He had wanted the truth, and the truth set him free. I gathered the three tremoring dice. Could he feel them? Did he know? I out them in a stainless steel box to keep their energy apart from the other objects.
“Keep the dice,” I told him, folding the box in his hand. “Keep the bottle only if you love it, and know WHY you love it. Don’t love it because she did, because she didn’t know true love. She knew outward beauty, but she did not know love.”
“I’m throwing the hair dryer and hubcap out, and the wallet needs to be burned. Just know the dice have some power that can be transferred to you. Know their power, and keep them close. They could be your greatest possession.”
I handed him a lacy hankerchief to dry his face. “Our time is up. Use what’s left well. Go out, drink some Scotch, eat a plate of oysters. Enjoy some jazz and go back to Washington. Put your life back on track. New Orleans is a nice place to visit, but you don’t need to stay long here. Your healing will come, but this city will break your heart.”
And so he went on his way. He would never be one I would come across again, but I could see him. I could conjure him in my mind and then I could glimpse his profile if I cared to turn on C-SPAN. He was well.
She lay at the bottom of the the ocean, clutching a bottle that wasn’t broken, but had been filled with a nasty concoction of poison to get her there. She hadn’t thought of Dave since she left him; she only wanted her next fix. Her thoughts solely focused on what it would take to get it.
And when I woke up from my nap, the sea glass bottle with the broken bottom sat at eye level next to my crystal ball on the shelf behind me, looking perfect.
Happy New Year!!!
2019. Hmm.
I’m challenging myself to write more this year. Last year I set a goal of reading more, which I achieved, but not the number of books I wanted to read (75, I only got to 63). I took up a digital farming game back in the summer and unfortunately my reading fell by the wayside.
Anyway, a couple of years ago, I got a Kindle book: 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts. I was skimming through it recently and found out they are, indeed, awesome. I’m starting haphazardly at the 9% mark and will be flitting around to wherever suits me. Or I might get all brave and do a blind selection. Anyway, this particular prompt that piqued my interest is in the Flash Fiction section. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, so I’m learning already! Flash fiction is either a word count maximum or a maximum time you’re allowed to write on the subject. Or I guess both! It sounds truly challenging for me, as I tend to get carried away, but perfect for the first day of the year when we’re all laying around after foundering on shrimp & cheese grits, cornbread, and collard greens.
I still have all my decorations to put away. Except the big tree. It was dead as a hammer so I took care of it Sunday.
So hopefully this will get me back in the comfortable capacity I once wrote in. I hope you are entertained as always, and hopefully you will be able to watch me grow as I learn to write on command. Or as much of instruction I will ever take.
So we begin, this first day of the rest of our lives.
Or, as laypeople would call it, January 1st, 2019.
{Duration: One Minute (!!!)
There’s a countdown towards midnight of the New Year. Something happens at the stroke of 12. What is it?}
It was thirty seconds till midnight and we weren’t doing anything special. I think the dog was asleep. Firecrackers were already being set off by the overzealous, or maybe the drunk. And then…. something else.
A scream, splintering wood, and I knew the scream was mine when my ability to do it was taken away by two rough, hairy hands.
So at the start of everyone else’s beginning, there was my end.
…You can’t do much in a minute.
Would y’all prefer I don’t tell you the prompt and just let you read? Feedback please!
I am humbled and grateful you took the time to read this, and for those of you who have always encouraged me to write more, I am especially thankful to you. I hope the coming year will bring you everything you pray for, and plenty of things you don’t.
