My
husband and I recently had the opportunity to tour the Margaret
Mitchell house, cleverly marketed as the birthplace of Gone with the
Wind. I’m not sure what I expected when I walked in there, but whatever it was, I was wrong.
We
paid the twelve bucks each to take the tour. I did not read the
brochure before, so I was unaware that although the building was three
story highs we would be seeing three rooms on the first floor. The
large gift shop was about the size of half the space that we would be
touring. About six of us lined up while a magenta haired woman took
center stage.
She
begins the tour by telling us who saved the building, which was once
apartment buildings, from destruction, about multiple fires, and how the
tile floor is the original tile floor. I would quickly learn that would
be one of the only things that was original. Well, except for a toilet,
but don’t get excited, it wasn’t Margaret’s toilet. No chance of
sitting down and channeling greatness. It belonged to an apartment on
the third floor.
She
then complained in great detail because the keys were not numbered
while searching for the one that would open Apartment Number One. My
mood quickly shifted for the worst.
The tour was of the apartment where
she lived while writing the book. The walls, I think were even new. A
living room, bed room, kitchen (smaller than most closets), and a
bathroom with the third floor toilet. All filled with antique furniture
purchased to give the appearance of what it would have looked like.
It
wasn’t the short tour that aggravated me. It was the woman. I’m not
sure that she has even read GWTW. She seemed so uneducated. She walked
from room to room speculating and making weird comments about the
photos. I was none too happy with my trusty tour guide.
When
we excited, I finally went off on my own. I walked over to a plaque on
the wall and began to read. And this was the place where everything
changed. Margaret Mitchell’s first fiancé went to war, but
never came home. Her first husband was a drunk and very abusive. She
married a second time. She said that before she wrote GWTW, she read up
everything she could get her hands on and feeling frustrated
she started her own book. Her famous quote was “In a weak moment, I
have written a book. “ (My closest friends will understand that.) And
lastly, when she finished chapters she would put them in manila
envelopes and send them to a friend who would read them. By the time I
finished reading this plaque, my face was soaked. Tears involuntarily
flowing down my face.
My husband, who was reading along with me, says,
“Wow, ya’ll have a lot in common.” And here, I thought I was nuts.
We
walked over to the movie memorabilia part of the house. I turned to my
husband and said, “If I ever make it big, let’s systematically burn and
destroy every house we have ever lived in.”
He laughed. He thought I was
kidding.
But
then Ann saved the day. I was standing in the gift shop holding a
cookbook titled “Gone with the Grits” with complete disgust, when a
southern woman’s twang filled the air. It was time for the 3:30 tour.
Her humor and knowledge struck me. We took the tour again. She knew so
much about the petite author, you would have thought they were old
friends. She gave us gossip, and was full of laughs. A real tribute to
the personality and quirkiness of Margaret Mitchell. By the end of the tour, I wanted to hug her neck.
I then went home and smiled at my own pile of manila envelopes filled with chapters.
After pulling together yesterday's post, I realized that I've always invented stories, ever since I was young. I remember in kindergarten I loved show-and-tell. I always chose tell. Maybe because I always forgot to bring a thing to show. Who can say? It's all a bit fuzzy now. I do remember the tells though.
One time I told the entire classroom that I had a twin sister named Mary. I had a very compelling story and a few of my classmates might have even believed me. I came to school the very next day, hair parted on the opposite side. That day I was Mary. It only improves the story, right?
But at show-and-tell that day, I had moved on. I had a new story, this one involving a great airplane ride into the jungle. My parents and I were going on a safari. But there were scary, bad men in the jungle. They were after us.
The little girl across from me, who was precisely the same age as I was, looked frightened. "Go on," she said.
Before I could finish, the boy next to me shouts out, "I was there and I saw it."
Imagine my shock. I swallowed, but went on. "Yes, and we ran very fast and leaped back into the jeep."
He smiled so large, so proud. I smiled as well. It was my first collaboration. Maybe ever the first Keep It Going story.
The teacher was amused, but needing to keep her classroom under control, pulled us aside. "From now on, for tell, we need to clarify if the story is true or make believe."
I was happy for that. Now, I knew that it was possible to tell a tall tale and it not be a lie. Let the story live on.
A year after the first installment, I am finally getting around to writing the second. Some of the details are a bit foggy, but I did my best to recreate them. READ THE FIRST INSTALLMENT HERE.
"Outside?" Brian asked, eyebrows punctuating the word.
"Yes, outside," I replied. "The weather is beautiful. A walk
would be nice. Isn't that the whole reason we moved so close to the
square?"
"Well, yea, but you normally dig in your heals anytime I suggest an
adventure of this nature."
"I know. But today I feel different. Don't question it. Let's go."
The meds were doing their job. It had been nearly a month since I started
taking them. My fear was starting to subside. For the first time in over three
years, I craved being near people. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see what was
out there in the big scary world.
He stood, no longer questioning, and began ushering the children to their bedrooms
to get dressed.
“Cartoons!” they protested.
“Simmer down. They will be here when we get back,” he retorted. “However,
who knows how long your mom’s mood will last.”
He had been very supportive through it all, watching me shift from scared of
my shadow to extrovert back to recluse during our eight years together. The
last few years I had been adventurous, but the adventures were left to the
characters that whispered in my head and became words on page.
The doctor’s visit and medication came after a sudden realization that my
fraidicatness was not just hurting myself, but also my children. My four and
eight year old stayed inside most of the time, because I was terrified of what
was out there lurking for them. Irrational fears that paralyzed our lives--not just mine.
I recognized the fear. The last time it was present, my daughter was a
fresh, fragile bundle of joy. I knew it could be overcome, and I knew that I
could pull myself back out of this. I just needed a little jumpstart.
We stepped outside, the sun’s rays hugging our skin.
“I’m hungry,” the boy whined upon making the first turn out of the
neighborhood.
“Then we will eat,” I replied; now at least finding direction in this
impulse decision.
“Can we go to Raging Burrito?” asked my oldest daughter, pushing her chestnut
hair from her face.
“That sounds like a great idea,” added Dad.
We walked the distance to the restaurant. We ordered, we ate, and we drank.
The waitress had just rested our second round of margaritas on the table when
the children became restless.
“Uh, it’s frozen—I can’t kill it,” I said, my voice mirroring my youngest at
his worst. I was beginning to regret this decision.
“Miss, can we have the check and two to-go cups for our waters?” Brian asked
the waitress.
As she walked away, I asked, “Why would we take our waters?
He winked at me.
“Oh.”
He poured the pomegranate and mango margaritas into the styrofoam and helped
wrangle the kids. We stepped back out into the sunshine, our eyes readjusting
and our brains swimming a bit in our skulls.
When we had only walked a few feet, we heard it.
“Shh, listen, kids,” said Brian.
“Is that?”
“Yep.”
I wanted to run towards it. A large crowd formed around a dance studio. I
could hear the twang of the berimbau, but I couldn’t see it. We pushed up
closer to the crowd.The spirit of the berimbau
was pulling us.
Inside the studio, we saw the circle of capoeiristas. The watchers were
tightly packed in the wide-spread glass doors, half wondering what they were
watching and the other half glad to see it once more.
My son tried his best to see, his height barring him from full sight. A
tattooed man wearing the all-white uniform, covered in grass stains saw this
and smiled at me, eyes asking permission, and then reaching for the hand of my
youngest.
A caramel skinned girl, with a long ebony braid, and the most honest, open
face I’d ever seen turned her back on the circle for a moment and walked over
to us. She took the hand of my son and led him to the circle. He followed,
smile hugging his ears.
The circle opened, making room for the boy who was half the size of the next
smallest—a boy about nine with a faux-hawk.They invited him to play. Having watched their movements and trying to
mirror them, my son cartwheeled right into the center alongside of the tall
skinny man, who appeared to be their leader. He
moved his limbs similarly to theirs, and managed to duck a kick and throw one
of his own.
My son beamed as he walked back towards me.
The tattooed man still standing next to me, extended a colorful flyer
towards my clasped hands. “We have kids’ classes.”
I remembered my wish from my first encounter with capoeira. If I had only found this when I was younger.
It was too late for me, but he could have it. He could love it. I could
love it through him.
I bent down to the boy, “Would you like to learn how to do that?”
“Yes!”
“Can I try it too?” asked my daughter, eyes sparkling at my side.
We gathered down the time, the place, and all the other information that
would bring this beautiful art form into our lives. So what if it was only vicariously through our
children?
I still had no idea what transformation lied ahead. No idea what we would
all become. That a simple, extended Brazilian hand would later give me a new
name, a new identity, and a new life. This was the baby step. A simple stroll
in the sunshine.
Share any thoughts, perspectives, etc. I'd love to hear from you.
Some background on this piece. I am
embarking on a journey of studying the culture, social movement, and
communication of Capoeira. In order to move forward, I felt it was
important to look back. I hope to role out additional pieces based on my
past with this beautiful art form that has grabbed a hold of me and
changed my life.
Back in 2005, my husband and I, along with our three-year old little girl, were exploring Blue Star in San Antonio. Blue Star is an artist community that opens its doors to the town on the first Friday of every month. We went from space to space exploring all the Indie Art, introducing our princess to paintings, sculptures, photography, and many other beautiful expressions of the heart and brain.
When we stepped out of one of the buildings, our ears perked up to a combination of drums and another very strange yet beautiful musical instrument. Brian had heard it before, but my ears were virgin to the pulsing twang and hypnotic beats. We gravitated immediately to a circle of souls, clapping along to the music. There were lyrics, but they were unfamiliar to me. Not English, not Spanish.
As we stepped closer, I saw the circle's center. The crowd watched as two flexible bodies moved together in harmony. It resembled a fight, but nearly looked choreographed to prevent injury to each other. A dance?
"What is this?" I asked the person beside me.
"Capoeira," he replied.
I nodded, the syllables lost on me.
I watched in amazement. The circle continued to shift. The bodies dressed in all white took turns in the center--dancing, performing acrobatics, and moving instinctively with each other. This circle, a cultural melting pot, was stirred by all shades and tones of skin color. Men, women, teenagers, and even a few small children took their turns. They each brought their own spice, flavoring the flow of energy pulsing through the crowd. My mouth remained in the largest grin. My eyes could not open any wider.
The person next to me tapped my shoulder and exaggerated his hand gestures. He wanted me to clap. He didn't say a word. He only moved his hands in front of me, and I knew what he wanted. I was no longer just a spectator; I was part of the musical circle -- if only by providing more percussion with my hands.
We stood and continued to watch. There was a spirit here. I could feel it. It was climbing in through my skin and beating along with my heart.
I shifted to gain a better view. Soon, I stood behind a girl playing one of the odd instruments with the peculiar sound. It was a long wooden bow with a single string. Attached was a gourd, similar to what my grandmother had hollowed into a birdhouse on her farm. The girl held the gourd against her belly, tapping the metal string with a skinny rod. I would later learn the name for this magical instrument -- berimbau.
I had never in my life witnessed something so beautiful, so raw, and so primitive. I wish I would have been exposed to this earlier, I thought. My, I would love my body to move in such a way.
Little did I know what was in store.
Share any thoughts, perspectives, etc. I'd love to hear from you.
Some background on this piece. I am embarking on a journey of studying the culture, social movement, and communication of Capoeira. In order to move forward, I felt it was important to look back. I hope to role out additional pieces based on my past with this beautiful art form that has grabbed a hold of me and changed my life.
I hope you all had as much fun with this contest as I did. I believe this is going to be a regular occurrence here on Eyes 2 Page. From where I was sitting, it was so exciting watching the story unfold.
Before I announce the winners to the Keep It Going Contest, I have an award to give out.
The Sunshine Award came to me via Laurel at Laurel’s Leaves. (Thank you!), and I want to pass it along to a few people that bring a little sunshine into my life with their wonderful blogs.
Congrats to each of you! Email me by clicking on the envelope, and let me know which you would prefer.
This was so much fun. Thanks to everyone who played along. I added an ending to the story, and have posted the story in its entirety for your enjoyment. Lots of talent went into the story below!
Did you have fun with this contest? Any suggestions for a better name? Suggestions to make the contest even more fun?
The story…
Janet paced back and forth, wearing out the pile on the speckled berber rug. Tommy should have arrived over two hours ago. He was supposed to be in, out, and back in her arms. The bags were packed, the car was gassed, and the GPS was programmed.
“What’s taking so long?” she said aloud, releasing the blinds. The new crease in the thin plastic strip showed her impatience.
She turned on the television, finding the local news. Forcing herself to sit down, she stared, praying that the newscaster would not tell her something that her cell phone had not.
Her skin nearly touched the ceiling when the doorbell rang.
She leaped from the couch. Not bothering with the peephole, she swung open the door.
“What are you doing here?” Janet asked.
---A.J. Frey
Standing poised at the entrance was the tenacious and diplomatic Sonya Reed. Beautiful and wealthy with clothes to match. Smart as a whip, and just as flexible; in bedside manners as well as politics.
"I haven't come at a bad time have I?" Sonya asked. Her devious, plastic smile suggested she knew the answer to her own question. Sonya’s commanding demeanor was so powerful she needn’t even ask to be let in; she simply wafted through the doorway like a casual breeze, took off her gloves and tossed them onto Janet’s shoulder.
Sonya sauntered into the room, casually surveying the bags lying around the sofa. “Where are you headed?” She asked.
Janet slowly closed the door, her eyes fixed on Sonya.
“Vacation?” Sonya asked, still strutting around the sofa, pretending to not notice Janet walking toward the bags. “You know, with all the money Tommy’s going to get from that deal with Martin you two could travel anywhere you like, couldn’t you?”
Janet laid Sonya’s gloves on the arm of the sofa. She was so nervous she almost laughed. “Yeah—I—I guess we could.” There was a pistol stowed away in the open bag closest to Sonya. Janet feared she had already seen it, but wasn’t certain enough to give up trying to conceal the weapon. She carelessly grabbed a few random items off the coffee table (coasters, magazines, a remote) and moved toward the bag, trying to look as though she intended to pack the items away.
Sonya turned, nonchalant, meeting Janet’s eyes with her own. “You should.”
The tension in the room is unbearable. Janet maintains her gaze, as she reaches into the bag slowly.
Sonya's eyes avert down to the bag, attracted by the shine of the barrel of a Glock 17 being pulled out.
"What are you doing?"
Janet's grip is unsteady, but she raises the gun and points it at Sonya. "I don't have the patience for your bullshit right now, Sonya. This deal is going to change our lives."
Sonya smiles, "What, are you going to shoot me?"
The door opens behind Sonya, and Janet reacts impulsively, answering her question. Sonya's body drops, as Tommy stops in his tracks.
"Nothing. I... Ugh..." She looked down at the gun. Had she actually pulled the trigger? She certainly hadn't meant to. Oh, boy. Now what was she going to do?
Sonya stirred, slowly opening her eyes.
"Oh, thank God. You passed out," Janet said, offering her hand to help Sonya to her feet.
Sonya slapped her hand away and glanced over at Tommy. "You get it?"
He nodded.
"Perfect. Now, let's get the hell out of here."
Janet's heart sunk. "What's going on?"
Sonya laughed. "She has no clue? You've been a bad boy, Tommy. I thought you were going to tell her."
He shrugged. "Never got the chance."
Janet fisted her hands on her hips. "Tell me what?"
Tommy faltered, his eyes flickering toward the gun just long enough to declare his guilt.
Janet’s gaze narrowed and she shook her head. The puzzle pieces began to click together in her mind so obviously that she cursed herself for not having seen it before. Of course. It had been Tommy and Sonya all along. Why would she ever have thought that he would choose her over someone so dangerous, so seductive? Someone who oozed confidence and sexuality. Someone who… was still alive.
“Damnit.” Janet raised the gun toward Sonya. The relief that she had not shot her quickly soured into regret.
“Jan, it’s -“ Tommy began. Janet kept the gun trained on the smirking woman and thought she read sadness in Tommy’s eyes.
“It’s Elise, sweetheart,” Sonya cut in. Janet felt the foundation within her begin to crack. Tommy’s warning glance at the woman was not lost on her.
“Sonya, don’t-“
“Why not?” the woman mused. Janet knew that Sonya was ruthless, but to be that careless in the line of fire? Then she saw it. The slight bulge under her armpits. The faintest squaring of her fitted shirt. She was wearing a bulletproof vest. Janet knew immediately that she was out of her league.
“She’s alive, kitten.” The words rolled out of Sonya’s scarlet tinged lips lazily and Janet hated her. Detested her. But now, she needed her. Because now this woman stood between her and her only child, a child that had been dead to her for the past two years.
What did it matter now? She raised the gun again and pointed it at her baby’s Daddy. Tommy had no intention of turning over the money. Worse, he had no love for the child she’d willing sacrificed to his scheme. Her beautiful daughter Elise, used so carelessly in a game of cat and mouse with her father, Argus Frump. Her evil step mom in on the swindle all along.
Janet’s hand shook with her sobs. “But where is Elise? How do I get her back?”
Tommy frowned. “Back? We signed the adoption papers a week ago. It’s a done deal. Your Dad gets Elise, we get the money -”
“We; as in Tommy and I,” Sonya purred. “Stroke of genius that was, my love, offering his grandchild in place of the daughter he disinherited. Once he changed his will for his brother to be her payee, there was no sense my killing him.”
“But you signed the pre-nupt knowing you’d never get a dime, Sonya.”
“You can’t really believe I was in love with your balding, pouchy gutted father.” She licked her botox filled lips and puffed out her silicon filled chest. “It’s been Tommy and me all along. Who knew old Argus would really cut his only daughter from his will.”
“Tacky, babe,” Tommy warned. “Don’t give away all our secrets.”
Sonya's face hardened. “Now put that gun down, you silly twit. Or, we’ll release the video of you shooting me onto U-tube.”
Those words are muffled by the sound of a gunshot. Tommy's face loses its expression, and his shirt turns red in the center. His body drops to the floor, due to a fatal, center-mass shot.
"Tommy!" Sonya screams, and drops to her knees, in what appears to be agony. "Don't you die on me! Not without telling me where the money is!" She hits him, out of anger, and realizes that it is not just her and Janet in the room. She looks to her left, to meet the business end of a second Glock 17.
"You ok, baby girl?"
"I'm fine, dad."
"Good, your daughter is downstairs, with my money, and Tessa. Why don't you go to the car, while I take care of this."
"Thanks, dad."
"Sonya, dear, I just don't think this is going to work out between us."
“Dad, let me,” said Janet, her eyes showing the full betrayal that her heart felt. “Please.”
Argus handed the pistol to his daughter. Without the beat of a heart, Janet pointed it directly at Sonya’s head and fired, sparks of flint and blood cascading in the air. She didn’t repeat the mistake from earlier. This woman was out of her life for good.
“Come on,” said Argus, gripping the doorknob.
Janet paused for a moment, finally given the gift of clarity. “Elise is really downstairs?” she asked.
“Yes, baby girl. Let’s go see her.”
“Couldn’t crack the safe without me, could you?”
Dear old dad’s face fell. “What?”
“You need me to get the money.”
He stared eye to eye with the barrel of his own gun. It was vibrating nervously in his daughter’s hands. “Jan, hun, it’s not like that.”
“Oh, really. How is it? You made me believe she was dead. You and that bitch of a wife conspired against me. You stole everything from me. And when you realized that she was betraying you with Tommy, you needed me once more.”
“No, baby, you’re wrong. Yes, I did some bad things. But, I love you. I came here to save you.” He stepped towards her, arms stretched and one hand heading straight for the pistol.
Janet was done trusting. She was done being betrayed. She steadied her hand. “Bullshit, Dad, you came to save yourself.” And she fired.
She shoved the gun in her bag, and then tossed the straps over her shoulder. She took the stairs two at a time. Her heart swelled when she saw the car. Elise was sitting in the back seat, kicking her feet. She stayed focused.
“Where’s Argus?” asked Tessa.
“He’s upstairs. He needs some help. I had my hands full.” She dropped the bag on the pavement beside the red sedan. “Why don’t you run up and see what you can do?”
Tessa’s uncomfortable smile lifted her from her seat, and she ran up the steps. As soon as she hit the first step, Janet tossed her bags in the back, and bent down to kiss her daughter.
“Hey, gorgeous girl? Want to go to Disneyland?”
“Woohoo,” said the little girl, her blonde pigtails bouncing with excitement.
She kissed her daughter once more, climbed in the front seat, and left the rest behind.
Now that book one is finished, well as finished as it can be right now, it’s time to pick up and start a new project. You’ll notice on the sidebar that Craving Copper is currently at 15,000 words. This is the sequel to Iron Thirst, and it’s already been started. I was working on it before I decided to go back and revise Iron Thirst. It is the most logical choice.
Then there is a new idea. Something that I have been mentally chewing on. A complete departure from Iron Thirst. This is the idea that I was talking about last week. It is the one talking to me and pulling at me. The problem here is that it scares me. This book is going to take me down some dark paths, some very unfamiliar terrain. On one hand, I am excited. On the other, I am terrified. Even though it is the project that is talking to me, I’m not sure I am ready yet.
But more on the fun side. I’ll give you a dramatization of what’s been going on.
THE CONVERSATION
Craving Copper stands arms crossed, toes tapping, clearing his throat in exasperation.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I’ve been more than patient.”
“You have, and I appreciate that.”
“Do you? It’s hard to tell since you started a whole new book. One that has nothing to do with us.”
“I know, I know. It’s just--,” I stare at my toes unable to look into the eyes of the betrayed. “He’s the one talking to me. You haven’t really opened up.”
I can feel the anger radiating from him.“You do realize that the only reason why I shut up is so that you could go back and clear up the unfinished business with Iron Thirst. You said you’d be right back. You promised!” He actually stomped his feet matching each syllable.
Dear God, don’t let him cry. Wet pages are so hard to deal with. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten you. You are very important to me.”
Through wet eyes, he says, “But, shouldn’t you write about us right now. While all the voices are still so clear. Think of the tone.”
“I plan on writing about Fee and Blake and Bristow for a long time. I have ideas for at least two more books. Complete outlines.”
“So, are you bored with us?Is that it? Do you like this, this, Touch of Light better?”
Good grief. Books are just as sensitive and insecure as the writer. “All right, listen. Don’t be jealous of Touch of Light, I mean, that’s just a working title anyway. You have to take some responsibility for yourself.” He starts to interject, but I hold up my hand. “Let me finish. You can’t just blame it all on me. You shut down first. Say it was Iron Thirst, but you know as well as I do that if it was not perfect, you would never see the light of day.”
“So,” sniffles and wipes nose, “you’re saying that if I open up, if I talk—you’ll listen?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I owe you that.”
“Thank you.” He gives me a joyous hug.
So after a little tough love, we are all in agreement. We’ll see what happens.
Happy Halloween everyone! Here's a fun little short story. Ironically, no one died in my Halloween story unlike all of my other stories. Yea, I don't get me either.
BROWN AND ORANGE WRAPPERS
The orange haze from the strings of lights wrapped around the porch of the white house made Till’s lips swing upward. He tapped Nillie on the shoulder. “Let’s start with that one,” he said.
Nillie grinned at him and made a slight cooing noise. Till took that as a yes.
It was Till’s favorite time of the year, and this was the best neighborhood. They had to travel quite a ways, but it was worth it. The people on this street knew how to shop for candy.
Till loved the feel of the paint on his skin. The clumpy, gummy feeling was unusual to him, but he liked it. Nillie let the silky fabric of her dress run through her digits, and she smiled.
“Pretty,” she said.
Nillie’s toe of her boot caught on the bone of the plastic skeleton decorating the yard. Till reached out his hand, and helped his sister to steady herself. She laughed, but it didn’t sound sincere.
“It’s all right, Nillie. You’ll get the hang of it, and just wait until you taste the chocolate. Nothing in this universe is as good as chocolate,” he said with a smile that showed all of his teeth.
Till reached his finger out and pressed the illuminated white button. He heard the doorbell chime inside and waited. He spread his bag wide, his leg bouncing.
“They’re coming,” he said, hearing the shuffle of shoes on wooden floors.
The tall man leaned against the door with the silver bowl resting on his hip. Nillie seemed to find her shoes more interesting than anything else.
“Open your bag,” Till said, tugging on the white plastic.
She just looked up at him, lost. The tall man dropped a few pieces of candy into Till’s bag. He sat it down and helped Nillie. She smiled when she saw the brown and orange wrappers inside of her bag.
“Thank you,” she said.
Till felt proud. She would get it.
They continued down the street, and admired the pumpkins' flickering faces, the white gauze ghosts flapping in the wind, and the eerie sounds of the cackling animated witches. House by house, the bags filled until finally Nillie was dragging hers. The plastic sliding along the asphalt let Till know the night was nearly over. Mom would be looking for them soon.
Till slid his fingers between Nillie’s. “It’s time to go.”
“Want candy,” Nillie pouted.
Till laughed. His poor sister didn’t realize the bag she was lugging was full of the stuff. He reached into his bag and grabbed a shiny brown treat. He unwrapped the tiny bar and held it towards her mouth. She opened wide, and he dropped it inside.
The smacking noises, followed by hums of approval, flowed from Nillie. She smiled wide, and her teeth were an oozy brown. Till laughed. She continued to smack until the chocolate was all gone.
“We have to go, Nillie. Mom will be mad if we are late.”
She nodded.
They began their trek though the moonlit woods, pine straw crunching beneath their feet. The green lights ahead let them know they were close. He clinched Nillie’s hand a little tighter.
“Have fun?" asked Mom.
“Got candy,” said Nillie, trying to lift the heavily weighted bag in the air.
Mom and Till laughed at the cute bouncy thing that was so excited about her stash.
“How about you, Till?” asked Mom.
“Lots of fun. Can we bring two bags next year?’
“I worry more about your arms falling off,” laughed Mom. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Climb aboard.”
The three pairs of shoes belonging to Mom, Nillie, and Till shuffled up the silver ramp. Once inside, the airy hydraulic sound began, lifting if from Earth’s floor to the closed position. They all took their seats as the roaring ignition process started. Their bodies jolted as the ship lifted into the air.
Once among the stars, Till turns to his mom, “Next year, Mom, I want to be a cowboy.”
I wrote this short story specifically for a writing contest on The Public Query Slushpile. The writing prompt was watching paint dry.
CANARY YELLOW
Erin Carmichael has wanted to finish her basement for the longest time. Roger had bought the materials and started the process but never finished it. The last step was to close off the walls, covering the itchy pink insulation, and paint it. The kind gentleman at Ace Hardware said that a latex semi-gloss would be the ideal paint for the job.
She stood back to admire her handy work. It was a vibrant shade. Canary yellow. It was Roger’s least favorite color. She begged him so many times to let her paint the kitchen the exact same shade, but Roger wouldn’t hear of it. And when Roger put his foot down, she knew better than to argue.
She opened up all the doors and placed a small box fan in the middle of the room to allow the paint to dry a little faster. The sound of the fan circulating brought her back to her childhood. Erin and her older sister, Janet, loved to talk into the box fan they had in their room. It made their voices sound so distorted, and it was the best way to tell ghost stories. That was before Erin knew what real fear felt like. Now she could easily walk into a pitch black bathroom at night, look into the mirror, and try to conjure the ghost of Bloody Mary. Wouldn’t faze her a bit.
Erin sat down in her blue housecoat and slippers with a glass of wine staring at the bright yellow wall. Minutes ticked away, and the wet shine dimmed. She poured herself another glass and walked over to place her finger on the wall. The paint was still gummy. A little imprint remained where she had touched.
She sat back down in her chair for two more glasses of her favorite Merlot. Roger despised wine. He only drank beer. “Wine was for people that thought they were better than everyone,” he would say.
Once more she walked over to touch the wall to check the consistency. It was no longer sticky. Pride fell upon her in a rain of confetti. She had accomplished two grand things today. She now had her beautiful finished basement. And Roger will never hit her again. He will stay forever wrapped in yellow. Next on her to do list, call and report him missing.
