Prompt fromCornflower: "She was an ordinary sort of woman living an ordinary sort of life."

She was an ordinary sort of woman living an ordinary sort of life. Every morning she got up and made the bed. She’d go into the kitchen and make the coffee. After she’d poured herself a cup, her first cup, she’d take two sips and go and take a shower. She should just pour it out then, you’d think after 20 odd years of the same routine she would but not. She’d leave the cup on the counter. When she’d come back from her shower her coffee would be cold, so she would pour it out and make another cup.
She did the laundry and the dishes, ran the sweeper and cleaned the bathroom, paid the bills and worked in the yard. The ordinary things that women do in their daily lives, tending to home and hearth and family. No grand adventures, no glamorous parties, nothing really to take note of. Nothing really except for, perhaps, the occasional sky diving, parasailing, hang gliding and bungee jumping.
Her family didn’t know about any of it, they would have been most surprised to find out. After all, honestly, she was just an ordinary woman. It had all started one afternoon when she couldn’t stand to iron one more shirt. She’d looked at the pile of laundry sitting in the corner, smelled the roast cooking in the crockpot, saw the dirty glasses in the sink and thought she would just jump off the roof. That’s where it began. She decided that if she was going to jump off a roof, she may as well jump off a bridge and so she drove the 47 miles to Brighton’s Point. She paid the man $150, usually its only $125 for two jumps but she hadn’t made reservations and she wasn’t about to quibble over it. She jumped off the bridge not once but twice and felt more alive then she had in 20 years.
That night at dinner the kids talked about school, David talked about work and she smiled and nodded and never said a word about her leap. Thus began the secret adventures of this ordinary housewife. She was careful, very careful to always pay in cash and to throw away any and all receipts. There was no record anywhere of her little excursions “off the deep end.”

Sarah's prompt: "we keep walking"

I push against the window but it won’t budge. Pacing the room I am certain that there must be a way of escape. Surely, somehow, this time, I can escape. I try the door again but clearly it’s locked. The bathroom window is too small and the window in here painted shut.
I go to the desk and start to randomly search through the drawers. Maybe I can find something, anything to work it loose. I hear footsteps in the hall so I shut the drawer as quickly and quietly as possible and then one step and as the door starts to open I’m on the bed.
He comes in and leaves a plate with some overcooked scrambled eggs and toast, and a cup of coffee on the nightstand. Barely looking at me as he puts it down, he turns and walks out, I hear the lock click into place.
I should refuse to eat. The food and the coffee maybe drugged but it feels like I’ve been locked away forever so I eat it. The coffee is terrible but I drink it down as well. I wait, just in case he comes back. The routine is never the same so I can’t really count on it.
I fall asleep, my days and nights have become a jumble and I’ve no idea what day of the week or even what month it is. I don’t even know how long they’ve kept me in this particular location. We move often, always at night, sometimes just down a street and around a corner, other times we drive for hours. There is no rhyme or reason to any of it and I don’t even really know why they are holding me or if they’ve asked for any sort of ransom.
I should have never gotten on the bus. I should not have been traveling alone. I should have left word somewhere with someone when I began to suspect that I was being followed but I didn’t know for certain. I don’t tend to be an alarmist and what would they have said anyway when I said I had a vague feeling I was being followed. Probably thought I was just some silly, stupid American girl.
I knew though, someone had followed me when I took the train from Gatewick Airport. Someone had followed me when I had taken the double decker bus tour through London. Someone had been through my stuff at the hotel. Someone had been walking through Kensington Gardens the night before they kidnapped me. I had heard the footsteps stopping and starting as I walked along in the dark.
I hear a bit of commotion in the hall and then they come in. There are three of them, the tall one explains that we are going out and will walk down the street and round the corner. There is a burgundy van there and I’m to get in quietly.
“I will shoot you if you make me.” He says in a low threatening voice.
We walk outside. It is dusk and there is no one around. We walk down the street and around the corner, But standing next to the van are three young men, laughing and talking and I know that my captors can sense that I’ve grown tired of all of this. So instead of leading me to the van. The tall one puts his arm around me and we keep walking all the way around the block and back into the house. They lock me back in the room and I wait and wonder what would have happened if I had screamed or tried to run.

13 weeks

It would seem that having given up all hope of recovery, and accepting the fact that greater happiness, longer life and his one true love was not to be found he settled into a place of acceptance. The doctors had said three weeks, maybe four. But that was a little over 7 weeks ago. He had no energy at all and so movement much beyond the house was almost impossible. But, he had decided that if this was to be all there was and the likelihood of a tomorrow unlikely, then he was going to do what he wanted in the space and time he was in.
At the end the second week, he got online with Amazon and ordered 20 movies he’d thought looked interesting and ordered them to be delivered overnight. He slept day or night as he chose, watched movies, read, played mah jong on the computer, played his piano and did puzzles. He ordered in two and three times a day, paying the delivery boys exorbitant tips. After the second or third time they’d come to the house he found they were willing to make a quick trip for him to pick up some ice cream or a pie.
He found that everyone he knew quit calling, he figured they were afraid that when they did call he might be dead or die talking to them so he didn’t expect them to call and wasn’t necessarily unhappy when they didn’t.
When week 11 rolled around he decided that perhaps he should start enjoying the late spring evenings and so began to sit on the porch and watch the sunset, it was something he hadn’t done in 10 years and he wondered, as he sat there the third night, why he had ever stopped. Mrs. Michelson, next door, saw him sitting on the porch about a week later and said she’d just made some fresh peach jam and asked if he would like some. As he sat there a little while later, eating fresh hot biscuits and her jam he thought, this is heaven.
It was a week or so later that he woke in the night, he could feel his chest tightening and he wondered if perhaps this was the end. He thought about the thirteen weeks. 10 more than they had said, it seemed almost a lifetime ago. He was different now. He had given up the failures that had haunted him all his life. In the end it didn’t matter that he hadn’t gone to law school as his father had hoped. There was nothing that he could do to meet his parents expectations and so he’d let those expectations slip away unnoticed. He had lived a simple, ordinary life, not marked with greatness or accomplishment. The dark clouds of disappointment,feelings of insecurity and the inability to be whatever it was they, or he, thought he was supposed to be had left the building long about the second week and so, as he heard his own breathing growing weaker and more shallow, he found that he had in fact made peace with himself and he was grateful. He was grateful because he knew that God had granted him this time of wholeness to come even in what one would have thought his deepest darkest hour. His walk through the valley, and he realized that in this time of being without the companionship of others that he had not ever felt alone.

Sarah's prompt: velvet

The cape was velvet, midnight blue velvet. It fell just above her ankles with four silver, filigreed clasps, inlaid with mother of pearl to hold it closed. There were two deep pockets for her hands, trimmed in grey fox and black satin. The collar also was trimmed in grey fox and black satin.
Beneath her cape she wore a simple short sleeved satin dress. The color seeming to match the mother of pearl in the clasps, she was certain it would shimmer in the firelight of the great hall. She had left her black hair down, long and loose tucked behind her ears so the two small black pearl earrings, iridescent in their silvery greyness, could be seen.
This would be the last time she would see David Whiting before he sailed for France and she wanted to be certain he would remember her on his long voyage. They had been friends for a long time. Only in the most recent months had she come to look on him as something more than a friend, and she believed that perhaps, he felt the same way. When it seemed that he might be getting ready to speak to her father, David had received a letter from his uncle asking him to come to France on urgent business. This party would be the last time she would see him for several months.
When the carriage pulled up to the Whiting mansion, Emily could see that their many of the guests had arrived. The footman helped her down and Colonel Whiting met her at the door. He seemed delighted to see her. Emily had hoped to see David while she had her cape on and she was not disappointed for at that moment he entered the foyer. He stopped and looked at her. She was pleased with the obvious effect she was having on him for he stood there dumbstruck. Colonel Whiting helped her with her wrap and then fussed at his son to escort the “lovely Miss Montague” into the main hall.

Prompt from Twitterlit: "Let us begin at the beginning, at an event without which Diego de la Vega would not have been born."

She put the book down and looked at herself in the mirror. It’s all so romantic and wonderful when its words on the page, she thought. But real life, forbidden love, and looking down at her swollen belly, she sighed. The curtain was barely moving although the window was open all the way. She lay back on her pillow feeling little beads of sweat trickling down her back. It was so hot, and she was so big with this baby. Three more weeks, three more, and then what?
She hadn’t decided what her next move would be. She knew she had to make a decision. She could barely figure out how to take care of herself. How was she supposed to take care of herself and a baby? That being said, the couple who wanted to adopt her little boy seemed very nice. They could give him a nice home, lots of love, everything he needed and she could be on her way, as if nothing had happened.
She got up and slipped on her shoes and walked, well waddled really, down to the mailbox. Hoping against hope that maybe, today, there would be a letter from him. That he hadn’t forgotten about what they had and that he wanted her, her and the baby. There was nothing in her box and she slammed it angrily. If he would just write or come for her she wouldn’t have to choose.
That night she sat down and wrote him a letter, another letter. Maybe she would mail this one, this time. He didn’t know about the baby. He should know. But, if he didn’t want her knowing wouldn’t really make any difference would it? She heard rain beginning to hit the pavement outside. She stood up and walked to the window. Looking out into the dark sky she wondered how she had ended up in this place. She started to cry and then her water broke.
She threw the letter in the trash. She'd make the decision on her own. Like the decision to be with him. Like the decision to have the baby. She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake this time. She called her neighbor and was soon headed to the hospital. It was raining harder now.

Sarah's prompt: "first kiss"

She’d been imagining it for months …
maybe longer
soft,
tender,
sweet,
hot,
fierce,
passionate,
aching,
longing,
fulfilling,
completing,
utterly satisfying.

She’d resisted it for weeks …
maybe less
Longing glances,
hesitant touches,
weighted moments

He’d imagined it for months…
maybe longer
hoping,
wishing,
knowing

He’d waited on her for weeks…
maybe less
studying
listening
watching

Time passing,
day and night,
wind and rain.
Time together,
conversations dropping into nothingness,
expectant with what was to come.
The sun playing in her hair,
the light sparkling in his eyes.
Gentle touches at the door,
on the couch,
as they walked,
Fingers grazing as she handed him a glass,
as he handed her a book.

In her bed she imagined and whispered it to be so.
As he drove, eyes half shut against the day, he thought it into being.
Finally, beating sun, thundering surf, sandy beach, insistent touch.

first kiss

Prompt from Twitterlit: "Jeremy Marsh sat with the rest of the live studio audience feeling unusually conspiucous"

Jeremy Marsh sat with the rest of the live studio audience feeling unusually conspicuous. The 4th son in a family of 5 sons he had spent most of his life staying in the background. He wasn’t the tallest, strongest, fastest, smartest or even the handsomest. If he could be described as being the best of anything he was the steadiest. He stayed on course. He finished college. He worked hard. His apartment was neat an organized. What else would you expect from an engineer?
He hadn’t played sports in either high school or college, too many comparisons there with his older brothers. Instead he went out for the solo sort of things, skiing, surfing and rock-climbing. Going it alone, avoiding the spotlight and that’s how he had ended up here about to be in the spotlight.
It had been a typical Saturday. He’d left the house early, avoiding the crowds and had spent the better part of the morning climbing a couple of rocks up at Joshua Tree. He was about to call it a day, and then for some inexplicable reason decided to go for one more. On his way up he had seen signs of a mountain lion and then he had felt dust and rock falling on his head. He was cautious and had looked around. He didn’t see anything but he knew something was watching him. He continued his ascent and then he saw it. It was one of the biggest cats he had ever seen. It was crouched and watching something on a ledge just off to his right. Then he saw the auburn hair and when she turned, the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
He hadn’t done anything that anyone else in the same position would have done. He scared the cat away and saved the girl. They were calling him a hero. Well she had called him a hero and then the word kind of spread. So here he was waiting for them to call him up on stage to talk about his “daring rescue.” He wanted it all to just be over. Especially since the green eyed girl wasn’t speaking to him now. Wasn’t happily ever after supposed to come after the “daring rescue”?
Jeremy sighed and wished it was all over and he could just go home.

(This is part two of this post)

Sarah's prompt: The wall went up much too quickly

They had been friends forever, longer than that even. Hopscotch and jump rope had given way to boys and nail polish, then of course, dorm rooms and dream dates, and homes and husbands. They had been so close until the day. It was the day of the last unkind word. Looking back now she couldn’t remember exactly what the conversation had been about only that in the end they were both a little miffed.
The next day, neither one of them called the other, and it continued in that same fashion day after day. Unforgiveness and buried, but still remembered, old hurts began to make their way to the surface. The littlest slights, the greater jealousies all began to destroy the relationship. Perceptions of course were skewed and when one or the other did not receive a phone call they imagined that their friend did not wish their friendship any longer. Though their husbands tried to reason with them and encourage each of them to call the other, neither would. It was shortly after that, certainly not more than two months when Barry got his promotion and he and Sylvia moved away.
It was 12 years now and she missed her friend. Stacy sighed. The wall had gone up much too quickly. She found herself on the other side of it wishing she given in and called first. It was too late now, the fear of rejection was the great monster behind the wall and so day after day after day after day, when she sat down to drink her morning coffee she would reach for the phone and not call.

prompt from Twitterlit: "It was an uncertain spring."

It was an uncertain spring, one day sunny and bright, the next bitterly cold with freezing rain. It seemed even the flowers in the front flowerbed were uncertain whether to open or not. She would walk out to the porch in the morning; she would look and was certain that any moment the daffodils would begin to wave their pretty little heads in the sun. When she came out in the afternoon the bud had closed up again and no yellow was to be seen on any of them.
The goats were the same. Maisie and Daisie had already had their kids but the rest of them, though it was clear that they had dropped still had not kidded. Goodness. What was she to do? Until all the goats and lambs had been born she was afraid to go to far from the farm and so she whiled away the hours with a little sewing and a lot of daydreaming.
She was fifteen this spring and she wanted to be in love. What she knew of love, the silly romantic kind, where he stares into your eyes and moons over you; and the practical kind where he helps to take out the trash and does some of the chores; the sweet young kind where he opens the door for you and brings you flowers, that was all she knew of love. Mama had been gone 5 springs now and she didn’t see young, loving couples or even old married couples except for church on Sunday and that didn’t happen as often as it should. Papa worked long hours at the factory, and there was the house, the little ones and the animals to tend to. Sometimes six days just weren’t enough to get it all done.
She had had to quit school after Mama died although depending on the schoolmarm, they sometimes came out and helped her with her reading and letter writing. She heard they were going to get a new schoolmaster next year. Mr. Henderson’s cousin was coming to town. She had met him the previous at the Henderson’s Christmas party. He seemed nice enough although a bit shy. She couldn’t imagine him keeping the twins in line, or any of the other boys if he didn’t get over the shyness fairly quickly.

Sarahs' prompt: "First she throws her watch away"

First she throws away her watch. There is no need for it here. The hour or minute is inconsequential in such a place. Even day or night, darkness and light, do not rule this world. She gets up and down to the rhythms set by another. She has no say, regardless of what she would or would not like to do, she must function according to the whims and caprice of this man. This is what she had wanted, wondered, hoped and dreamed about but she did not know that it would change so many things. She thought somehow she could do it all. But no, instead as she pours her tea and he calls her, she must leave it; only to return later and find it cold. She prepares dinner for them both and then he decides that he would prefer to sleep at that moment.
At times she feels like Katherine from The Taming of the Shrew, and the love of her life is Petruchio. For when she would call it night he insists that it is day and so she too must call the night day and the day night.
She finds that when she sets plans they constantly have to be broken or changed. "I'm sorry he decided to sleep for three hours this afternoon and I couldn't get away. He never does that." She is always, constantly, late. Even if she is ready on time at the last minute, something has to be changed or was forgotten. Or suddenly, for no reason whatsoever, he is out of sorts and it takes all of her to calm him. So honestly what good would a watch do?"
Her friends warn against it. “You can not allow him to control you like this,” they all say. "You'll be sorry if you let him sleep in your bed every night." But somehow for her it feels right; perhaps later she will try to regain control. Now however, he rules her days and her nights and through the exhaustion of it all, holding him close she knows that this is what she was meant for. She loves him so completely. So much more than anyone before, how could she have known? She kisses his soft sweet lips, breaths in his heaven scent and holds him close. She lies with him and as he sleeps, she stays awake and watches him breathe. She dreams of their tomorrows, so soon he will be walking and talking and they will have great adventures. Perhaps she will have need of a watch then, but not now, not here in this place. When that day comes who knows what she will throw away next.

Prompt from Twitterlit: "I love the flute because it’s the one instrument in the world where you can feel your own breath"

Sixth period band practice – the mayhem, the noise, the tomfoolery going on continuously in the percussion section. She couldn’t believe this was her last year. After graduation, then what? As far as she knew there wasn’t anything like band practice in the real world.
There was a new boy in the French horn section and he smiled at her as she sat down. She nodded in his direction and then turned her back to him as she placed her music on the stand, opened her flute case and began putting her flute together. Several times during class she could feel him looking at her but she didn’t turn around. She was fixed on her music.
It was like this for almost two weeks before he finally came over and introduced himself. He had grey eyes and a pleasant smile. They had moved her from Delaware. After class he walked her to her locker. He made some crack about band practice.
“No,” she said. “I love it. I feel so alive in there, in the midst of the music. It’s the only place you can be and hear the music all around you. Where you are a part of it all.” He looked at her intently, silently urging her to go on. “Of course its also because of my flute.”
“Your flute?” He asked.
“Well of course, “she said lowering her voice. “I love the flute because it’s the one instrument in the world where you can feel your own breath.”
Later that week he walked her home and asked her out. She said yes. The Monday after they went out, after practice he came and sat in the chair next to her.
“Can I hold your flute?” She looked at him, a questioning look on her face, as she handed him her instrument.
“Mmmm.” He said as he held it close to his face.
“What?”
“I can feel your breath.” He smiled and looked into her eyes. She had listened closely expecting a mocking tone, or irony in his voice but there was none.
Her fingers shaking a little she took her instrument back and put it in the case. They walked to her locker. He chatted as casually about stuff but she didn’t know what to say or feel so she just smiled and nodded.
The next day he sat down beside her after practice again. He put his hand out and she handed her instrument to him again. Again he brought it up to his face and smiled. Trembling even more than the day before, she took it back from him, cleaned it and put it in the case. Everyday that week he came to her and asked her for her flute.
Friday night they went out to a movie, had a pizza afterwards and then drove to the park. They got out of the car and walked over to a bench, looking up at the stairs they talked about this and that. It was a cool spring night and she hadn’t worn a jacket so she moved closer.
He looked into her eyes then, and very softly he said, “Did you bring your flute?’
She looked up at him startled. “What?” she started to say.
“I want to feel your breath,” he whispered and then he kissed her. Then she knew that she didn't need to have band practice to be surrounded by or be a part of the music.

Sarah's prompt: "You write long letters."

You write long letters, day after day; my dearest darling, my only love, and my one true heart. You chat about the inconsequential things: The daffodils may be blooming early this year. I bought a cake at the market today, lemon like you like. The important things: The Thompson’s had their baby on Tuesday. Mr. Wilson, the butcher at the market finally retired. Long letters written in perfect penmanship, on beautiful stationary, boxes and boxes of it on the shelf in the closet halls.
Everyday at four you make your tea and write your letters. I watch you as I clean the brass door knobs, sweep the carpet, clean the kitchen floor. For the last three years 5 days a week as I've worked here I’ve watched you, you smile or frown as you write. Putting bits and pieces of yourself down on the parchment paper. Sometimes scented and printed with little tea roses, sometimes plain as day but always very expensive. I’ve seen you in town at the stationers studying the paper, feeling it, weighing it in your hand.
Every afternoon, sometimes on the porch you’ll sit at the little white wicker table, or sometimes in the library if it’s rainy or cold outside, even every now and again in the little nook off the parlor, you’ll drink your tea and write your letters.
I've wondered about who you've written them to, some secret lover perhaps somewhere far away. I even pictured him reading them as he sits alone on some army cot in some jungle hut half a world away. Imagine my surprise then to find them. Boxes and boxes of beautifully written letters, hidden up in the attic, all waiting to be read by someone someday with bits and pieces of yourself tucked up inside of them.

Prompt from Twitterlit" It was a long walk to the end of the driveway."

It was a long walk to the end of the driveway. She had been short and cross with him and now she wished she could take back some of those harsh words. Really all she wanted him to say was that he needed her. But he was stubborn and macho and all though they both knew it, he refused to give in to her little game. He'd rather tough it out alone, thank you very much. What she should have said and should have known was that she loved him and then let it go.
She watched him from the living room window. She thought she saw him pause, as if to turn or perhaps he was waiting for her to stop him, but then he walked to his car. She watched him get in the car, he didn’t even look towards the house. She wanted to stop him, she really did but her pride or something like it wouldn’t let her. The mustang roared away from the house.
It was two long days until school and when Monday morning finally rolled around she couldn’t wait to get there. She was anxious and a little fearful but still she felt there was hope for them. He wasn’t there for homeroom, or for first period. She wondered if he was sick or just avoiding her. By lunch time she was starting to feel sick and getting tired of fending off questions about where he might be.
She sent him a text message but he didn’t respond. On her way home she called him but it went straight to voice mail. That irritated her and by the time she had gotten home she had actually started to get quite a little attitude.
When she got home she immediately went upstairs to check emails but of course nothing from him. She heard her mom’s car pull in the drive and went downstairs. As her mother came through the door with arms full of groceries they chatted about the day. When suddenly she stopped and looked at Misty.
“Did you know that Michael’s mom died Sunday morning? She was in a car accident on the way to church.” Suddenly she was so sad because she knew he needed her and she hadn't been there for him.

Today's prompt came from the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's: "She lived alone with a nameless cat."

The woman at the end of the hall rarely came out of her apartment. Well that might not be true, but I rarely saw her coming or going. She used to be somebody they said, you know somebody famous. But now she lived alone with a nameless cat. She had had some sort of breakdown. Perhaps the pressures of it all, or, like the rest of us, just the pressure of life, the totally unexpected things that suddenly happen to you, overwhelming you in that way that you can’t breathe or think and for some can’t quite recover from.
Our building was one of those apartments they threw up in this part of town in the early nineties. The kind where they used building materials so thin you could hear your neighbor spit when they were brushing their teeth. Although I almost never heard any noise coming from her apartment, on very rare occasions I would hear some bluesy instrumental music. If that happened, and as I mentioned it was rare, after the music stopped, it was almost always followed by the sound of things being thrown across a room, and sometimes breaking glass. That’s how I knew she had a cat, because I heard him on one of those evenings probably hissing or something as he dodged a glass.
The few times that I did see her she had on a pair of large sun glasses. She nodded in my direction but didn’t speak. She was tall, thin with long brown hair. Everytime I saw her She was dressed in jeans and sweaters, regardless of the weather. Often, if she was returning, she was carrying a take out bag from Sam Woo’s Chinese Kitchen.
I tried to tell my husband about her, but he would always ask, right in the middle of my telling him, who I was talking about. I think he thought I made her up.
This morning there was a small article in the daily paper, she had died. According to the neighbor two doors down. The postman had contacted the landlord because her mail hadn’t been picked up for days. The landlord had checked her apartment and had found her in her bed with an empty bottle of sleeping pills. Her big yellow cat lying next to her. Her apartment was filled with paintings, and sketches she had done. Apparently many of her paintings hung in local galleries.
The Times reported that her name was Rita something, she was survived by a sister in Illinois and that she had lived alone in her apartment with a nameless cat. I vaguely remember hearing that bluesy instrumental music coming from her apartment earlier in the week. I wondered if she was really somebody or just a somebody like a rest of us.

Today's prompt from Bluestalking reader: Old Friend From Far Away

I was late, again. I had been late leaving, had stayed too long and now it was late; much too late for me to be coming in on such a blustery cold evening. Before even taking off my coat, I turned the kettle on for a hot cup of tea to de-thaw myself. I tossed my gloves on the table. Tomorrow when I ‘m late again I won’t be able to find them. My scarf is now laying on the back of the couch. I had taken off my shoes at the door, so at least I’ll be able to find them. As I walked into the bedroom I took off my coat, jeans and shirt and pulled on a warm fuzzy pair of sweat pants and a sweater. That’s when I saw it. There in the corner blinking for my attention.
I walked over and pushed the button. After informing me that I had one new message, I heard a voice that I hadn’t heard in 16 years. An old friend from far away, who had called to see if I was that Carolina Wilson and was fairly sure after listening to my out of breath, rushing around message that he had surely found that Carolina Wilson. He was going to be in town for the next two days and could I call him at the following number. He was staying at the Marriot and would really love to see me.
I picked up the phone to immediately call him back when the kettle began to whistle. I looked up to see the clock which said 11:35 and thought it would probably be best if I waited until the morning to call him and put the phone down. As I went in to make my tea I thought of the past; who we were and how things used to be. I thought of what had happened and the time that had passed and wondered, worried really, if he would think I had become who I had hoped to be or if I was still a poser. I still felt like a poser. Deep down I had a suspicion that this life I had made was just a house of cards and someday, someone would reveal that I was not who I claimed to be. That I really didn’t have what it took.
I drank my tea and went to bed and tried to read but couldn’t stop thinking about him, or rather me and what he would think. I had read of his success, heard all the stories, good and bad. I missed the days and nights we used to share and wondered about him. What would bring him to this part of the country? Why hadn’t we reconnected years ago? Why does he want to see me?
It was almost early morning when I finally fell asleep and I awakened at 6:40 by the blaring of the alarm clock. Getting out of the bed I reached for the phone but thought it was probably too early so I went and took my shower, made some coffee, read the paper. When I looked up it was 8:42 and I was late for work. I flew out of the house, without my gloves or my scarf. Was late to the office, and of course all hell had broken loose even before I’d gotten there. The day flew by in a blur. I had thought of calling him a couple of times but had left the number on the nightstand.
I got home around 7:15 and there was a second message. He had dinner plans but hoped we could at least talk or hopefully meet before his flight the next morning. Could I call him and let him know if I would like to come over for a drink later, or meet for breakfast, his flight left at 9:30, so it would have to be early?
I wondered what to wear; I thought going over this evening would be really nice. I was really tired and thought I’d just lay down for a couple of minutes and then call him back. I woke up and looked at the clock, unbelievably it was 1:00. Maybe I could meet him at the hotel. I should try to get there at 7:00 so I set my alarm and worried myself back to sleep.
Of course I was late and when I got to the hotel he was gone. I was sad and yet a little secretly relieved. He would not be disappointed with me because he would not know how it had all turned out. I could go on pretending that I really was good at who I was and what I did.

Sarah's prompt "She suddenly seems smaller"

This morning she was on top of the world, bigger than life! New shoes, new clothes, life was good for a sixteen year old whose boyfriend was the captain of the football team! Queen of the castle, ruler of her destiny, confident and sassy. She chatted up her dad and managed to get another 10 spot from him to buy a cute pair of earrings she had seen at Claires. She had negotiated with her little brother and managed to get out of today’s chores.
She was bubbling and beautiful and nothing could stop her. Nothing. But of course that was before. Before that stupid selfish jock decided that he wanted someone else because she wouldn’t put out for him. Suddenly the new shoes and pretty clothes didn’t matter. Suddenly, even though she’d stood up for what she knew was right, suddenly; she had gone from the top of the social order to one of the lower castes of high school society - the rejected.
Yes, she was still brilliant and funny, and the cutest thing on two legs – which is what her grandfather said so it didn’t really count. All those things that were true this morning were still true this afternoon but as she comes through the door with tear streaks on her cheeks, carrying a bag of books that did more than weigh her down she suddenly seems smaller, like the little girl I had dropped off at kindergarten so many years ago.

Prompt from Twitterlit: "The sky is white"

Staring out the window I think, this must be what it is like to be colorblind. The fog has washed away every ounce of color. Snow covered the grass, the pavement is wet and looks black and gleaming. The twisted branches of the bushes and trees in the field are a dark grey, reaching towards the heavens. The sky is white, dense as the batting from grandma’s quilting. It all looks a bit like a slightly out of focus Ansel Adams print.
The fog had been edging its way across since before the dawn, swallowing up the neighbor’s farmhouse and barn. Next it boiled over the stonewall along the furthest edge of our property and the apple orchard was soon to be absorbed.
My hands are like ice, my heart like a stone and in the greyness of it all even the colors in the room seem to have bled out, now only a shadow of what they once were. I wonder, I wonder if it would be different if you were here. You always seemed to bring a brightness to the place you were occupying. But you are not here, and you will not be back. Word came this morning that you have been killed half a world away. I wonder if this fog is here because you are gone and I am imagining that in London it is foggy too. Perhaps someone there knows that it is because a little bit of color has died in this world. Surly anyone who spent anytime with you noticed the brilliance that shone about you. Colors were vivid and vibrant around you. Like an opal revealing a fire in the midst of a milky white stone.
I hear Mother stirring in her bedroom and wonder how she’ll take the news. She will see the fog and know, probably even before I tell her. We will miss you.

Prompt from Twitterlit: I write things down so I do not forget

Dozen eggs
a carton of milk
dog food
The water bill, march 8th
cable bill, march 8th
Ella’s birthday June 12th
Pick up the dry cleaning
Get a paper
Call the plumber
call my mother
Get the oil changed
Call Salvation Army for a pick up
Toothpaste
paper towels
shaving cream
The Johnson’s for dinner Friday, 6:30
Mail the tax stuff
Stop at the bank
Bring the library books back
Remember my umbrella
Call the dentist
Put out the trash
Pick up some flowers for Mrs. Anderson
Razor blades
lunch meat
loaf of bread
Remember to stop loving you

Sarah's prompt: then it wouldn't stop raining

It had been decided. We were going to go. Enough already, enough of waiting for another time, a better opportunity, it wasn’t going to get any easier so we just might as well take a shot and go for it.
There were just the two of us, we’d gotten this far twice before but at the last moment we had turned back. Stormy weather, difficult circumstances, unexpected terrain had made us decide on waiting for another day. Not this time, after reviewing the situation we decided to press on.
We had hoped for it, visualized it, fantasized it and dreamed it. Our bodies were ready. We had trained and prepared. We had discussed every aspect of it. Knowing full well that once we reached this point, our fail safe point it was do or die.
Oh sure I know what you’re thinking. So many people have done it and not made such a big deal about it. After all it wasn’t the highest, although it was the highest we had ever been. It certainly wasn’t the most difficult, although the most difficult we had experienced.
We had spent so much time and energy to get to this point. You couldn’t imagine. Honestly, four years in a row we’d come to this very spot only to turn back. But here we were, ready to go. We were going to climb to the Cascading Falls at Zion National Park. We were going to do it. This time. This final time.
We got out of the car, headed toward the trailhead and then, it started to rain. Oh well, Maybe we should just head back to the cabin. No, you said. And so we pressed on. Slipping and sliding and laughing our way, up and across, and down and around. And then it wouldn’t stop raining and we could see that it wasn’t going to stop. But we pressed on and were not disappointed when we rounded that last bend, climbed that final elevation, and kissed beside the falls.

Sarah's prompt: I left it behind

In the beginning it had been everything I’d wanted. Safe and secure, not fashionable perhaps, but it provided what I had longed for all my life. Dependable, enduring, at the time looking from the outside perhaps, a bit stodgy but I had wanted, no needed it. In a life of flitting and inconsistencies it filled the bill.
As time went by, like a pair of comfortable shoes, a soft warm cardigan or those favorite jeans, it was something easy to slip into, sheltered from the stormy battles of life. It was a soothing place, that certain chair, where, with a blanket and a hot cup of tea you could rest secure.
Then, one day, the bottom seemed to give way a bit. No longer comfortable it seemed to hold too tightly, dragging me down. The softness of it all, like too many cushions, began to feel suffocating.
The tedium of it all began to wear on me like a loud clock in a quiet hall. The days and nights began to drag on interminably, drawing the life out of me. The sameness and the cloying of it hung on me like the smell of mothballs. I saw the light beginning to fade as it crept in upon me, aging me.
I was helpless to fight it at first. It was where I was supposed to be, I reasoned. It had been my choice. But like the nagging of a creaking chair in the corner of the room, it haunted my days and nights. I saw the greyness and darkness beginning to enshroud the edges and I made a choice. I began to fight back in little ways. Careful not to upset the balance of things, flowers on the table, brighter music on the radio.
Uncomfortable at first, I began to see signs of that younger self peaking through. Hopes and dreams given up long before, quietly put away, like special toys hidden, at the bottom of closets to be saved for other children. I drew them out and put them back and drew them out again. Putting them on a shelf where I could see them and remind myself of what I had once imagined could be. Foolishness, silliness, I’d think to myself; I’d hear around me. But, those dreams unwilling to be left alone began to call to me. Come and play, it seemed they would say. Leave this other behind. These dreams are not for another. Come and play.
I did, hesitant at first. After all, honestly, it seems there are so many other things I should be tending to. But the dreams became more and more insistent. Finally a choice had to be made and finally like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis that had held her through the long winter, I left it behind. Exchanging reliable and staidess for possibilities.

prompt from Twitterlit: "He remembered her at once."

He remembered her at once. From across the room he studied her. Her hair was longer, and he didn’t remember the honey colored highlights. Those must be new. But the chin, ah yes, he knew that chin. Any time they had disagreed that pointed little chin had stuck out in defiance. Her eyes still shone with a passion. It hadn’t really mattered what they had talked about, she was always passionate about it; one way or another. He thought at first it had been because she was young but he quickly discovered that it was her nature. Those eyes, he remembered how they glowed in the candlelight like a cat.
Her hands moved continuously as she talked. If you held them she couldn’t speak. He loved those hands. He remembered holding them in the car, down by the river when they had been able to be alone, even in bed they had held hands. It had been almost 15 years but you couldn’t tell. Although she had put on a couple of pounds they had managed to enhance her curves. She didn’t have wrinkles. A few laugh lines perhaps, but that was because she was always laughing.
He wondered if she would know him. He had put on more than a few pounds. He now had a beard and mustache and all of it was full of grey. He wondered if she would remember. That passion, the fun, the joy they had shared. It had been short lived. He was her professor for one semester. The affair had lasted a mere six weeks. She had left the University after that. She had ruined him in those six weeks. He had stayed married for another 10 years after that but it was she that had occupied his thoughts, his dreams. His wife had said that he was always occupied with his work, but it had been her, always her.
When he stopped the introspection and looked up she was gone. He glanced around the room but didn’t see her. He panicked in that moment, to have been so close and lost her again. Then, he smelled her perfume as he turned she was smiling up at him.
“Hello Charlie, you’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.” Her eyes glowing in the candlelight.

Sarah's prompt: She hadn't expected the door to open so easily

DANGER
BEWARE
STAY BACK
NOT AN ENTRANCE
ALARM WILL SOUND
DO NOT ENTER
CAUTION
She looked all around. It didn’t look dangerous. It didn’t appear to be unsafe. It was just a path. A little rocky perhaps, but rather innocuous. Hmmm. She took a step, well now, for all the warnings no alarm sounded. She took another. It seemed to be a perfectly delightful path. She looked ahead to where it wound through a wood. Were those flowers?
She looked behind her.
TURN BACK
WRONG WAY
DANGER
She looked ahead of her. She could hear a stream. It must be just around that bend. She began to wander done the path. The voices in her head screaming at her.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?
YOU KNOW BETTER?
She began to hum to herself to try to shut them out. As she walked she even began to try to reason with them.
I don’t really see anything the matter. I can turn back anytime I’d like. I’m just going to walk this way, just a little further. Maybe just to that tree to see what’s beyond. I can stop. I’m not going to take this path to the end, which would be foolish. I’ll just walk a little while.
She found the stream and it was delightful. Birds singing, water bubbling flowers blooming. She sat down on the grass to enjoy it all.
You cannot stay here! You know you must go back. Soon it will be too late! You are in danger! Said the voice in her head.
Well it certainly doesn’t look dangerous. What harm can come from just spending a few minutes laying in the soft grass, feeling the wind caress my face, taking my time and enjoying myself?
“Hello.”
Startled I sit up. “What are you doing here?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“I saw your car at the end of the road”
“Oh,” I laughed. “Weren’t you warned off by all the signs?”
“Not me, I like to live dangerously. I didn’t expect to find you here, however.”
“Well,” I paused. What was I doing here? “I pass this way quite often; I’ve even stopped at the end of the road a few times. I decided to get out and take a look. I’m not planning on going too far down the path.” I look back but I can’t see me car and I’m surprised to see how far it seems I’ve come already.
“I see,” he replies. We sit there quietly for a few minutes. I see him looking at me.
“What?”
“Nothing, really, I was just noticing the sun shimmering off the water catching the highlights in your hair.” I smile. I start to get up. “Going back?”
“No, ummm, I thought I’d walk a little further. Not too far, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You know, maybe just to that next bend.”
“Mind if I come along?” He asks as he stands up.
“No, I don’t mind. I rather hoped you would.” I laughed a little self conscious now.
As I look down I see in the dirt, little stones with letters on them.
D
A
N
G
E
R
How very odd. As I look along the edge of the path there are little signs as well. STOP……DANGER …… TURN BACK…. Ridiculous I think to myself, nothing dangerous here. Although the Alice in Wonderland feel to it all does not escape me.
We walk and laugh and talk and I realize that we’ve gone further than I expected to and its later than I knew. I’m suddenly very thirsty and tired. Up ahead on the path is a little cabin. It seems rather deserted.
“Do you think anyone lives there?” I ask.
“No, I doubt it.”
“I wonder if its open, I’m awfully thirsty.”
Suddenly I see the signs again, everywhere. STOP ….DO NOT ENTER …. DANGER
We walk up the path, flowers and ferns growing everywhere. The sound of rapidly flowing water can be heard but just beyond and rather far away. I turn to find him just at my shoulder. We pause at the door.
“Should we go in?” I almost whisper.
“Sure, why not?”
Suddenly they are falling, falling, falling. As the boiling water of the swollen river comes closer and closer she realizes she hadn't expected the door to open so easily.

Sarah's prompt: what are you waiting for?

Eyes closed, holding my breath.
“What are you waiting for? Blow out the candles.” I open my eyes; a candle flickering in the dark, the wax is starting to drip. One wish now, one wish when I cut the cake. Okay, I’m ready… wait, okay, here goes.
“What did you wish?” Laughter from across the room.
“She wishes her boss would get another job and start driving someone else crazy!”
“I know. She wants the new mustang convertible totally decked out.”
“A week in the bahama’s”
“A good nights sleep.”
“Are you going to cut the cake?”
Eyes closed, holding my breath. Okay, I’m ready.
Later on everyone leaving and I look up and see one shining star. Three wishes in one night what a lucky girl. Eyes closed, holding my breath.
Fast forward, day, weeks, months, years later. Lying under a pale moonlit sky, beside tropical warm waters alone with you.
“Remember that night so long ago, this is what I wished for. I’ve been waiting for it all my life.”

Prompt from Twitterlit: "It never snowed in Minnesota during the month of July"

That’s what the lady at the Chamber of Commerce had said somewhat laughingly when I had called to get some information about the area. I had believed her but I could see it didn’t need to since clearly there would probably still be snow on the ground in July. I had arrived on October 11th and it had snowed on and off since then. The only time it didn’t seem to be snowing was when it was too cold to snow (and who knew it could be too cold to snow.)
I had been looking for a change of pace and thought four seasons, evenings by a warm fireplace, winter walks amidst branches covered with ice and snow sounded ideal. But you can’t walk outside when it’s -15 and a break from the bleak, grey cloudy cold would be nice. From what the locals say this has been a particularly bad year or maybe the outdoors is reflecting my mood.
I told friends and family that a new location would help me to move forward. The truth was I was only looking to hibernate and get away from concerned glances. Now only my yellow lab gave me those looks. I don’t really think she’s fond of our living here. In Alabama I’d take her for long walks along the Cahaba River.
I’m missing it today myself. With temperatures going all the way up to possibly ten degrees here, the low 60’s and a day along the rocky shoals of the Cahaba sounds ideal. But of course it wasn’t the weather or the river that had me running for my life and my sanity. I looked at the calendar. March 10th was three days away and I wanted to be as far from Alabama State Penitentiary as possible.
I had done everything I could to get my life back on track after they had finally put him in prison. I had had a real bad time of it too but just when things had seemed to start to return to normal we had been informed that due to mitigating circumstance instead of 18 years to life was a possibility that they were going to release Bobby Lee Baker after only 2 ½ years in jail. I ran than. I packed up, closed, sold or threw away everything I had. I had been diligent to cover my tracks. Bank accounts were closed. I even started going by my middle name.
After I decided on a place I made sure I was the one who would contact family and friends and only on payphones. Technology was not my friend as it would most certainly lead him to me. So I did not use the internet. There was no myspace for me, no online banking, no email.
I was nervous, anxious and ready to run. I had an escape plan if I needed it and I was thinking I might use it just to be doing something. I knew he would be looking for me when he got out. It had been my testimony that had been the most specific and the most damning. Two months after we’d received the news that he might be getting out I received an envelope with the return address from the penitentiary. Three words on an otherwise blank sheet of paper, “It’s not over.”

Sarah's prompt: a late night phone call

It took a minute. I’d been asleep for a while. Probably two hours. At first I thought the ringing was in my dream. But no, I was awake now, and I could hear the phone in the other room. I hurried out of bed, stumbling over the dog.
Probably bad news, I hope everything’s ok, but phone calls late at night tended to be back bad news. Bad news, or wrong numbers.
“Hello?”
Thirty minutes later my husband comes into the room.
“Who is it?” I mouth her name but of course he has no idea what I’m saying. “Who?” Slightly louder with my hand over the receiver. “What does she want?” I wave him away. I hear him grumbling as he gets back into bed.
An hour later the dog comes into the living room. I have am empty cup of tea in one hand, the receiver still stuck to my head, I’m covered with an afghan and continue to murmur into the phone.
“Uh huh…. Oh yea…. Of course…Uh huh”
I let the dog out. Turn the thermostat higher. Turn the kettle back on. An hour later I climb back into bed.
“Everything ok?”
“Yea … you know … drama.”

Sarah's prompt: everyone says you're perfect

Everyone says you’re perfect.
But they don’t hear the little stutter when you start to tell a lie.
But they don’t know about the little scar on your chin.
But they don’t see the messes you leave.
But they can’t see the emotions that lay just below the surface.
They don’t see you flinch when you’ve been hurt.
They don’t see the muscles in your face tighten when you hold back the angry words.
They don’t know so many things …but they adore you for what you do, for what you appear to be.

I know you’re not perfect – I know about the lying, the drinking, the fighting, the depression. I know about the messes, the scars, the things that make you human. I know and I love you because you are real, fallible, unreliable, absurdly amusing at inappropriate times. I love you in your humanness and when they are done adoring you remember to come back to this place where there is no adoration and applause. There is just me wanting you, needing you, knowing you, loving you.

Prompt from Twitterlit: "As she lay trembling in the damp grass she realized growing up was not an option for her"

She always thought she would be one of the beautiful people. She had been born with the right lineage. Where she went, security and paparazzi went – always. From the very youngest of age, people rose when she walked in the room. At 17 she holidayed with the Princes of Wales in the Alps. The young Princesses of Monaco sent their jet for her so she could join them for New Year’s. She was going to be one of those young royals that everyone shook their heads about. She had plans to date actors, be careless, spend too much money, drive too fast.
But as she lay trembling in the damp grass, under a clump of trees, below a dark moonless sky, praying that whoever had done this had gone, while her home burned to the ground, she realized growing up was not an option for her. Terror had come to her little country. She was uncertain if her parents were still alive, she had heard gun shots down the hall. She had locked her door. Shut the lights. Climbed out the window and run to this spot. She had heard the explosion and seen the flames go shooting through the roofs.
She was afraid, more afraid than she had been in her whole life. She didn’t know who had done this, who to trust. So she stayed there. She wasn’t certain what time it was but she was certain morning was still a long way off. She heard the sound of the fire trucks. Once they were on the scene she would reveal herself. She would be careful who she trusted.
She suddenly felt the weight of it all and wished that it could all go back to what it had been just a few short hours ago as her parents lectured her about her duty to her country, her responsibility as a royal. A few short hours ago as she planned a trip to New York with the daughter of the Prince of Brunei.
Everything, everything was different. If her parents were dead she would be the reigning monarch and though most of the governing was done by her parliament – funny that – her parliament. She would have great burden and responsibility to call her nation – hers – to fight against all those who would try to bring anarchy to the order that had held this country together for centuries.

Sarah's prompt: Childhood games

“Boys don’t like it when a girl beats them.” My father would say, trying to temper my competitive edge. It didn’t work though. What was the point of even playing if you weren’t going to try to win, or at least try to help your team win? So I played the neighborhood ball games. Baseball in the spring and summer, football and basketball in the fall, I played them even after the other girls in the neighborhood stopped playing.
I liked Mike. He lived next door. That’s why I kept playing of course. I didn’t let him win although his team usually won. He got a sports scholarship and of course became a doctor but never asked me out.
Then there was the fireman I dated. Well, I dated for a little while. Right up until the day the guys were playing basketball. They were short a player and I offered to play but he said no. Wanted me to sit with the other girls and cheer them on, maybe bring him a beer when he was thirsty.
After they lost and were standing around talking I walked over and picked up the basketball and took a shot – swish. Everywhere I threw it from – swish It was great. By the time I set up for that last one, all conversation had stopped – swish. They had lost you understand. One of the guys said maybe next time – what was his name – should sit and cheer on the time and they should let me play. Yea that was the end of that relationship.
Hide and seek, now there’s a game. I’ve been playing it all my life. I keep seeking and that one guy, the one who doesn’t mind losing at childhood games, he keeps hiding. One of these days though, I’m going to find him. Then I’ll win!

Prompt from Twitterlit: "I found the note taped to my door when I got home from work"

Whatever does it mean? There taped to my door was a handwritten note. “Elsa, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can’t we talk about this, please? Meet me at Luigi’s at 7:30! I can explain. David.”
Who is Elsa? That was the first question that popped into my head. Why is there a note on my door for her? And, of course, most importantly, what did David do? Obviously he must be some sort of idiot, can’t even get the right door.
Struggling with the groceries and my purse, I somehow managed to get into my apartment. Stumbling into the room, oranges falling to the floor, I nearly tripped over Salt and Pepper, my two cats, mewling because I was late and they were obviously feeling neglected, and were wanting dinner. As I make my way into the kitchen and pull out a couple of cans of cat food , I glance at the clock, 6:45. That David is going to be disappointed when his Elsa doesn’t show up. Well it serves him right. Idiot! Why do I even care?
Picking up the remote from the bar I turn on the television and then make my way to the bedroom. I slip into a pair of sweats and my Brown Alumni sweatshirt. Salt is wending her way around my ankles, appropriately appreciative having filled her belly. I reach down and rub between her ears. Then I run a brush through my hair, put on a pair of slouchy socks and head back to the refrigerator. Dinner.
I pull out a frozen burrito and unwrap it and put it on a paper plate. Opening the microwave I look at the clock, 7:02. Poor guy, he must have seriously been distraught to put that note on the wrong door. But, hmmm, I don’t think there’s an Elsa on this floor. Pretty sure not. The apartment next door is empty. 205 has those two actor guys in it. There’s that old Jewish woman in 203. 202 has that old bald guy and 201 is the young married couple with that baby that cries all the time. There’s only three apartments upstairs and two of them are empty. The third has that couple of Nigeria, I think or somewhere like that. Wow, I wonder if he got the entire building wrong. No wonder he’s having problems.
I take one bite of my over cooked burrito and throw the rest in the trash. Maybe I should go down to Luigi’s and tell this guy he’s left his note on the wrong door. I could order take out. That’s ridiculous. It’s none of my business. He could just call her cell phone and talk to her. It’s really not any thing for me to concern myself about. Besides, by the time I change and walk down to Luigi’s it will be past 7:30.
Pepper comes over and laying on his back starts tapping my leg with his front paws. When I try to pet him he bats at my hand. Stupid cat! 7:10. I flip through the channels.
I get up and walk back into my bedroom. Honestly, I need to go out and get something to eat. There’s nothing here. If I happen to pass by Luigi’s and see this David, who I probably wouldn’t recognize anyway and who will probably be gone by the time I get there. I’ll give him his note and tell him he had the wrong apartment. I like the food at Luigi’s. Sweats off, I pull on a pair of black jeans and a red sweater.
Salt and Pepper are looking at me in a reproachful way. As if to say, how can you be leaving us, again?
I slip on my jacket and put my driver’s license and ATM card in my back pocket. Pick up the note. I’m just going to get some cannelloni and I’ll be back. That’s all I’m doing. Just going out for a little something to eat.

Prompt from Twitterlit: "The price of wishes had officially gone up."

“Well how much then?” I asked.
The old man just shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe it. But it seems that because of the shortage and all, well you know, it’s practically tripled in the last two months alone.”
I sat down heavily in the wooden chair next to him. Adding up what I thought I had in my purse. I was certain I wouldn’t have enough. It had been almost 14 years since I’d been to see him the last time and although I thought I had accounted for the increase in the economy I wasn’t sure I would come close to what I needed.
He looked down at me for a moment and then his face brightened. “I remember you. It’s been forever since you were here the last time. You were the one with the odd request.”
“Odd request?” I asked in a somewhat haughty tone.
“Well you have to admit not everyone comes in here to buy one shining star.” He said. He did remember. He smiled at me again. “So, how did that work out for you anyway?”
“It worked out well.” I replied. “But really I do need another wish and I was wondering if you took credit?”
“Nope, can’t take credit. People are always coming in here saying that want this or that or the other and then changing their minds after they’ve gotten it. Then they don’t want to pay. We’re a cash only business deary.” He pulled out his writing pad. “So what’ll it be this time?”
“Well, I know it sounds silly but I’d like another please.” I said rather quietly.
“Another? Another what?”
“I’d like another shining star. I need it very desperately for the third of June.”
He rubbed his chin, flipped the calendar open. “I don’t know, it will certainly cost you. Let me see,” He opened a cabinet behind him and took out an old grey binder. “It looks like it will be about $2,000 for it.”
“What? It was only $120 last time.” I said in a rather loud and exasperated tone.
“Yes, well it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” I sighed and he looked at me. “So what do you want this one for?”
I started to cry. “I need to remind him of the last time. I think he’s found another and I need to remind him of what we meant to each other. I need it to be that one shining star.”
“Alright my love, what have you got?”
Wiping my hand across my cheek, “I’ve $820,” I answered.
“Ok we’ll do it, $820, and a kiss on the old man’s cheek.” I handed him my cash and leaned over to give him a quick peck.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Good luck my dear,” He said as I slipped out the door.

Sarah's prompt: What you didn't say

What you didn’t say was that you would be the one true love of my life. What you didn’t say was that you would know my heart. What you didn’t say was that it would never end. What you didn’t say was where it would lead us. What you didn’t say was how it would turn out. What you didn’t say was that it would all come at great cost. What you didn’t say was that it would all be worth it. What you didn’t say is that you would want me close. What you didn’t say was that once we started it would be impossible to stop. What you didn’t say was that you could make me laugh. What you didn’t say was that you would make me cry. What you didn’t say was you would wait for me. What you didn’t say was I would want you too. What you didn’t say was I could hold your heart. What you didn’t say was you would want me too.
What you did say was …. "Hello beautiful." and I believed you.

Sarah's prompt: different chairs I have loved

It was gold and it swiveled and rocked. I sat in it day after day after day after day. It was my own fault. Well his too. We had spoiled them and so they wouldn’t go to sleep unless you rocked them. They never wanted to go to sleep so you had to rock them for a long time, a really, really long time. So from the time he was born until finally when she turned about 3, I suppose, I rocked them. I rocked them to sleep for naps and I rocked them to sleep at night and because they often woke during the night I rocked them through the night.
It was early American and a hideous color of dirty beigy, brown. It was overstuffed and came with a large ottoman. It was perfect to read in or snuggle down with a hot cup of tea and everybody fought over it when we were watching TV.
It was brown, reclined, and rocked and we got it from a dead woman. It was ugly but very comfy and when Elli came to live with us and wouldn’t sleep I spent night after night after night rocking her – some people never learn.
It big enough for two (or more) to sit on and comes with a gynormous ottoman and pillows. Perfect for snuggling down in to watch TV or read or rest – I’ve even spent a night or two sleeping on it when Elli was fussy.
Seems the chairs in my life come in waves – rockers in chairs with ottomans out, and now the other way around.