Category: Writing

Posted in Life, Uncategorized, Writing

What would you tell your younger self?

Posted on by jennrae

Writers Prompt.What would I tell my younger self?

This one is easy. Don’t be stupid. Think before you act. Don’t stay with an a hole. Don’t let an a hole move in with you. Don’t be distracted by a holes. Don’t marry Dave. He’s immature and will spend all his money at Shari’s restaurant. Always.

Finish a degree…accounting communications. Just stick with it til it’s done. See: don’t be distracted. Don’t leave a nice guy for an a hole.

Believe in yourself. Don’t do anything against your values to seem edgy or cool to others. It never ends well and it never works. Be you. Stay strong. Don’t be an a hole. You’re better than that. 🙂

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #9 On Innocence

Posted on by jennrae

Obit for Your Favorite Character Write an obituary for your favorite fictional character (literary, television, etc.), including  how the death occurred.

This is hard because my favorite fictional character is one of my own. But it is like a bad inside joke if I were to use him because no one would know who I was referring to, nor would they have a reason to care. Of other people’s characters I have always had a soft spot for Sandor Clegane, but honestly no one would write an obituary for him. In fact, a lot of people probably would just assume he is dead.  Maybe I can do King Arthur. Everyone knows who he is, and I love me some Thomas Mallory.

I think my favorite in those stories would be Sir Percival though. I can relate to Percival. He is minding his own business when knights happen upon him and he gets swept up in becoming a squire and then becoming one of Arthur’s knights, and eventually he looks for the Holy Grail.  There are three main searchers and only one can grasp the grail. The one that can is Galahad who is almost a stand in for Jesus. He is the son of Lancelot and so pure of heart and just so perfect, he is like a prodigy who can do no wrong. In short, he is boring as hell.  Then there is his papa, Lancelot. He is world weary, no longer innocent; he has had his torrid affair with Guinevere, and betrayed his best friend. He is basically too immoral, too worldly to see the grail. He ends up trying to atone and becomes a hermit.  Percival is interesting because he is an innocent, he genuinely believes the world is a good place, has not had any affairs, and has not done anything bad. But the argument goes that if he was tempted he might, he is too naïve or stupid to be corrupt, whereas Galahad has been tested and is pure by conviction.

Now, I don’t think Percival is stupid. I think Percival is child like in his innocence, and because of this he gets darn close to the grail. But doesn’t get it, because he gets tested and just falls short. But he is close. And the fact he isn’t perfect, like the rest of us on this planet, makes him the most sympathetic of the three. He sees the grail, which is more than Lancelot. But does not get to touch it like Galahad.

Still not feeling the obituary. But I suppose in medieval times an obit would be rather simple. It would be in Latin engraved on a stone saying, ‘Here lies Percival, one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. He was great, and innocent, but not pure enough. He fell short but he tried till the bitter end. We should all be so lucky to see something so rare and to die with our childlike innocence intact and not corrupted by the world. His legacy will be his deeds as a knight and the search for the Holy Grail. He was an explorer and an idealist. May his name never be forgotten or the role he played in the journey.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #8 This old house?

Posted on by jennrae

Full Disclosure

They toured the house with the real estate agent.

“We love it,” he said. “Is there anything we should know about the house’s past?”

The agent looked down.

 

The agent straightened his tie, examining his shoes looking thoughtful. “Well, there is a reason for the price of this place. As you know it is two stories with 4 bedrooms overlooking a scenic garden in a great neighborhood. So, of course, you have to be asking yourselves why. This home has a lot of history. It is an old house. Some of it good some maybe not. I am sure you will hear some of the stories. Rest assured a lot of it is urban legend and not true at all. This house has great bones, and a lot of restoration work has all ready been done. It is a no brainer. A steal.”

I looked at my wife, and she looked at me puzzled. “So, what are these stories?”

The agent tried to laugh nonchalantly, waving his hand like it was all nonsense. “Oh, it isn’t anything too crazy. Nothing like the movies.  Nothing too extreme. There have been rumors of this house being a temporary hospice during hard times for the sick and dying. Tuberculosis I think? Some history and rumors of multiple suicides having taken place here. Especially the balcony on the second story. Kids like to tell stories of ghosts, the usual nonsense. There was supposedly back in the 1800s a family who kept a mentally ill relative locked in one of the rooms instead of institutionalizing them. But I have found no records indicating that actually happened.

“You know how it is, the oldest house on the block, kids like to make stuff up.  An old lady used to live here, and she kept to herself and I think had a bunch of cats. You know the stereotype.  It’s all silly of course. The house has been vacant while undergoing renovations and the owner doesn’t live around here. Inherited the place from the old lady, his Aunt.  There were I’m sure many happy moments here too, and a lot of the rumors like I said, I have found no proof of. It was just the usual tales told of an old house. “He laughed kind of nervously.

“Hey, can we confer in private a moment? If you don’t mind?” I say to the real estate agent. “Of course, I’ll just be right out there. Go ahead and wander around. “I saw him step out onto the front step, and take a cigarette out of his pocket, and walk out a little ways to light it.  I walked with Beth into the kitchen area. Vintage cabinets, old style tile floor; it was part of the house’s appeal.  Some things would have to be replaced of course, but the goal was to keep it in a vintage style, to retain its character.  “So, Beth, what do you think? We could maybe lower our offer a little, you know, because of the history. It could help pay for some of the retouches. Plus, I am thinking we might have to replace the roof. We’ll see after the inspection of course.”

“I don’t know. Suicides? People dying here? This place has everything but the Indian burial ground.  You aren’t put off by all that?”

“I never knew you were superstitious. I mean, really. It’s just like the agent said, stupid kids seeing a creepy old house with a creepy old lady living here by herself. Even if it briefly was a hospice, doesn’t that kinda add to the history? I mean, it has historical value.”

“Ugh, you are being such a professor right now. Some places give off vibes, feelings. You can sense it. This place, is grand beautiful, but there is a sadness here. I am not sure this is how we should start off our lives together. You got your new job, and I have my teaching gig, and this house is big enough for company and the future. But it is a big investment. This place will need serious upkeep. Take some serious money to maintain. “

“There’s the practical girl I remember.” I say smiling trying to lift her mood. “He said we could wander. Maybe before we decide we should look around again. Maybe I can get these vibes you are talking about.” She rolls her eyes at me and sighs. It has been a long trip out here and I admit I fell in love with this house online and had already made my mind up.  She was the one I had to convince. She preferred the last house which was a simple three bedroom next to the school where she was to work. Convenient, but boring. Normal. I didn’t want convenient or normal.

We walk up the old staircase together hearing every creak of the wood and the floor as we go up. The banister was immaculate, and shiny from regular maintenance and oil.  “This is craftsmanship.” I say out loud appreciatively.  We go to the second story and open doors along a hall way that overlooked below.

“The rooms are sizable.” Beth adds nodding in approval. A lot of old houses have small rooms. It was the standard back then so finding sizable rooms in an old house was rare and a sign that the owner had a substantial income to have it so. It was also possible over the years that one of the owners had knocked a wall down or two and combined two small rooms into a large one. I had seen that done as well.

“Did I hear some approval in your voice?” I say in mock shock. She swats at me playfully. I finally see a glimmer in her eye. Maybe the house is winning her over.  We go into the master bedroom. “Walk in closet. Good.” She says opening the closet door.  French doors open onto a large balcony. “The balcony,” I say matter-of-factually.

“The balcony. Hmm.” She echoes brow furrowed in concern.  I open the French doors carefully examining the beauty of the old frames.  I take her hand and walk out on the balcony.  She follows reluctantly. “He didn’t say anything was in disrepair. I’m sure it is safe, come on.”  She frowns.

“You know Joe, I don’t want to go out here. It is kinda chilly. You feel the wind. I didn’t dress for this.” I take off my coat, and put it around her. “There. Now you’re okay. Come on look at the view. You aren’t still thinking about those silly stories are you? I am sure no one jumped off of here. Come on.” I pull her hand toward me and she takes a few more steps out onto the balcony hugging onto my coat with her other hand.  I feel her hand grip mine tensely. I don’t like this. Can we go back? I wanted to see the size of the master bathroom. That could be a deal breaker for me.”

I shake my head. “Come on, I think you should face your fears. I want to prove to you how silly this is.” I yanked her hand and prodded her to the railing with me.  She was stiff, and uncomfortable. I knew she wasn’t a fan of heights but I had no idea that it was this bad.

“This railing looks so old.  How do you know it can take much weight? This place hasn’t been inspected yet. “

“Just needs a fresh coat of paint is all. Nothing to it. See?” And I press my weight against the railing, her face drains of color and her hand tenses again.  “Let’s go back inside.”

“No, I am going to show you how silly you are being.” I took her and pushed her to the railing next to me.  She resisted and then I felt her lunge forward as her shoe got caught on a nail. It was in that horrible moment I felt the wood groan and break and I was left with a coat and one small shoe on the balcony. Wood splintered and she was gone. It was only a second. I looked over the railing and she was on the ground broken and pale. The agent had run up to her talking on the phone. I stood there holding my coat looking down at that scene from above, confused by what I was seeing.  The agent was yelling at me to get down while talking to what I presume was a 911 operative.  I couldn’t move. I just stayed there looking at the broken wood and the small shoe. Such a small shoe, I thought absently, still holding the coat in one hand like I was holding it out to someone that wasn’t there.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #7 Timing

Posted on by jennrae

Day 7

Back From the Future

A knock at the door catches you off guard. Upon answering it, you’re greeted by a man who

says he’s from the future—and he can prove it. More important, he says he has information

that will save your life.

 

“What? Go away. It’s my day off. No work today! Ugh.” I stumble out of bed, bleary eyed, rubbing my face, grabbing a random shirt and jeans, throwing them on, go to the bathroom run a brush through the tangled mess of long thick hair, all the while the insistent knocking at the door continues unabated.

“I’m coming. I’m coming, okay? It can’t be that important. I glance at a wall clock. 6 Am. Maybe the neighbor locked herself out again. It has happened before. I go to the coffee machine, going through the motions like an automaton to get it started then reluctantly shuffle to the door. I look through the peep hole. Kind of early for Jehovah’s, I think sleepily yawning. I see a young man in a suit. But he doesn’t seem to be carrying a bible or a pamphlet.  I squint. Have I seen him before?

“Who is it? No solicitors. I even posted a sign.”  I see the person looking anxiously at the door, and glancing at a watch on his wrist. It was a weird looking watch. Maybe one of those smart watches? I couldn’t keep up with the latest tech if I tried.

“It’s important. I don’t have a lot of time. I have to talk to you. Your life depends on it.”

“My soul doesn’t need saving, Junior.” I say grumpily. I was having a pretty sweet dream when I was so rudely woken up. I couldn’t remember the details now. I just remembered it was nice.

“I am talking about your life.  Please, open the door and hear me out.”

I reluctantly unlocked the deadbolt, opening the door a bit, looking him over.

“May I come in? For just a moment?”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Eric. I don’t have much time. So I’ll make it quick.”

I sigh, against my better judgment I open the door further and wave for him to come in.

“You probably won’t believe this. But I am from the future. And, I can prove it.”

“Are you from some weird new age cult?”

“No. See this watch? It is going to move me to another timeline in about 2 minutes. It is my job to ensure the future of humanity. Well, there are many of us with this job, but I was sent to your time to save you, because if you die in the car accident you may get hurt in later today, then an important philosopher won’t be born, who starts a whole movement to advance technology so we can live on other planets. His writing becomes so important it starts a chain of events. But, when we sent someone back to save someone else, somehow that caused you to die in a car accident, so now we have to save you.”

“Okay. I think you are missing the point of the butterfly effect. I’ve seen the movie you know. You can’t keep going back messing with time, or you will have to continually go back fixing your mess.”

“You may be right. But, it is too late now. I have told you your fate. So, stay home today. Your boss is going to call in about 15 minutes to call you in to work at the restaurant. I need you to not answer.  No matter how many times it rings.”

“Is that all? I think I can manage that. “

The man boy had a serious look, eyes of concern that seemed phony.   “I’m sorry to do this, but you can’t tell anyone about me, either. “

“Like I would. People would think I was crazy.”

“That’s the spirit. Well, looks like I have to go to my next posting. Good luck.” And he was gone.  I shook my head. Maybe I wasn’t quite awake. I got one cup of coffee down and the phone began to ring insistently.  I was told not to answer it. I let it go to voicemail. Checked it to see if it really was my boss.

“Meg, Stan called in, I really need you to cover his shift. I know it’s your day off but it would mean a lot to me.” My boss sounded panicky and frazzled. I looked out the window at the trees and other apartment buildings. I watched the cars zipping down the road.  I just watched the traffic in a fog for awhile.  A couple hours went by; I ignored several rings and beeps from my cell phone. My boss wasn’t going to give up easy.

As the cars continued to zip by I saw a cat dash across the street and I saw a small blue Corolla slam on its brakes suddenly to avoid hitting the cat, the car behind it crashed into its rear and the Corolla ended up hitting a tree. Soon ambulances and police were there lights flashing, street completely blocked off.  I felt a chill, and put a sweater on, hugging myself.  Was I still dreaming? Again the phone started ringing. Finally I answered it, it was my mom. “Are you okay, Honey? I just heard of a multi car accident in your neighborhood and I thought of you. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Your boss was worried too.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Guess I was feeling under the weather, “I say lamely. I could never explain that morning.  I didn’t even know how to try.

Posted in Life, Uncategorized, Writing

What I Used to Be..

Posted on by jennrae

This last writing prompt was hard because I have never really tried my hand at poetry. And there is something inherently intimidating about trying your hand at something you haven’t done before. I have always handicapped myself unnecessarily with wondering whether I am good enough or not, whether I should bother trying or not. If I can’t attain perfection what’s the point?

But then I remind myself it isn’t always about the destination but the journey, I know how cliche, but it is how we learn and grow, how we become the people we are in this moment. I remember signing up for college at UW Tacoma to get my Bachelor’s in Communications. I failed, I let life distract me and get in the way of my goals. I had this dream of becoming an editor maybe even going to Manhattan, publisher’s row as they call it. I remember talking to my mom on the phone and she telling me I was wasting everyone’s time and money. I should give up, I won’t get the degree. To this day I am sorry I didn’t prove her wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t have it in me. It was I got lost along the way. I got wrapped up in the unnecessary drama of life.

I let someone force their way into my life and home and completely destroy me. He also told me I was worthless, a piece of garbage and undeserving of life, an utter failure. I think we do internalize what others say, especially if it mimics our insecurities as this did at the time. I was depressed I know now, and that’s why my grades slipped and I eventually dropped out with nothing to show for it except a mountain of student debt.

But, my mom, this guy, they were wrong about me. I was wrong about me. I know this now. They didn’t really know me, they knew what they thought of me, and I think mirrored their own insecurities onto me. They couldn’t do it. They wouldn’t do it. They would be wasting their time and money. I could have, had I been a stronger person. If I had learned to say no. If I had learned to stand taller, straighter and say, get the hell out of my head, i don’t need any naysayers. I can do whatever I damn well please, within reason. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but they all help to make up me. Who I am and who I will become. Being a life time learner means constant change and growth and never allowing oneself to become stagnant.

So if this poem isn’t a masterpiece, oh well. At least I tried my hand at it, and I didn’t give up. It was simple, and I did try my best and attempt at refining it in my clumsy way. Writing lifts me up to that higher place, where I can be at the mountaintops, where I can go to the moon in a rocket ship or sip coffee from a balcony in Sicily. I can do whatever I want when I am writing and it is nice to have some control when often in life your control is limited.

I am beyond caring about what people think of me but what matters to me is when I close my eyes, I know the person I am, and I care about what I think of me. Being true to myself and others and taking personal responsibility is the cornerstone of my life. That guy who was momentarily in my life also told me that the world was a dark and dreary place full of evil people and liars and that I wouldn’t stand a chance. I was too much of an idealist. My worldview wasn’t realistic.

I say I don’t want to live in that world, I would rather believe in a fantastical world than believe in his ugly dark world. Perceptions are part of reality and I choose to live in a brighter more beautiful world by choice. I choose to believe people are good at heart when I meet them. I choose to believe there is beauty truth and hope in the world. And, I believe I can attain perfection in a perfect moment at the perfect time. It is momentary, but when it happens you know, and it is the best feeling in the world. The striving is what counts. Keep striving, don’t give up. Knowing is half the battle, from GI Joe. Wisdom from a kid’s cartoon. But I have never forgotten it. Wisdom comes from everywhere.

 

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing prompt 6, a poem (ps im not a poet)

Posted on by jennrae

Alphabet Poem

Write a 26-line poem using all the letters of the alphabet. Have the first line start with the

letter “A,” the second “B,” the third “C,” etc.

 

Admiring the view of the sunrise, red star in bloom

Basking in the sunshine and rays of love caressing the skin

Casually examining the mountains reaching for the heavens with icy fingers

Dealing with the absence of a lover feeling the love of the freedom that comes with distance

Effortless beauty of blue skies and blue eyes

Finishing a cup of coffee slowly savoring the bitter taste of being alive

Gazing at the mountain tops examining the white tops of forever

Higher than the tallest trees but oh so far away from me

If only they were nearer I could climb higher and lift myself to a higher place

Journey of the mind’s eye into a paradise where sun meets moon and dances the night away

Knocking on heaven’s door and waiting to be let in

Leaving too soon and back to earth in a rocket ship of my own making

Moon in full glory shining down upon me but oh where has my sunshine gone?

Nowhere and no one to witness this pain of separation of something so simple and true

Only one view at a time cannot have heaven and hell on earth, only one rocket to the moon

Passionately awaiting the sun with its rays of warmth to fill my cold heart

Questioning existence and the point of it all, what if this is all there is?

Reveling in the aroma of coffee mixed with flowers blooming and the endless possibilities of an unwritten future

Striving for equilibrium and security but yearning for passionate adventure

True to ourselves first, others second place which will finish first?

Universal abundance and glory can be had in dreams easily enough

Vitality like sunshine and moonbeams combined to fill my being with true love and eternal hope

Wonder at the beauty of the world and how I could be a part of it all, one piece of a million to make up a whole dream

Existence based on love and loving others while being true to the self

Yelling at society and the rules imposed on the unwilling, individuals over the group can feel the world instead of suppression

Zealous in adventure and life and living and doing and being the sun and the moon

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing prompt#5 Moments in the rain

Posted on by jennrae

American Graffiti

You’re downtown, and see graffiti in an unlikely place—graffiti like you’ve never seen

before, concerning someone you know.

 

I left the small independent theater, hands in pockets, zipped up hoodie casually looking at the old brick buildings wondering just how old they were, knowing for certain they are much older than I.  Some of them had old advertisements, cigars, beer, and industrial signage of a bygone age. And then I saw it. At my eye level an obviously modern invading piece of graffiti. But it wasn’t some gang signage or random cussing. It was a work of art. It was covering the door of an old shut down book store, windows boarded up I could see dust and cobwebs on the edges and broken glass shards whether through violence or neglect it would be hard to say.

The graffiti itself was colorful, a caricature of a girl with big eyes, sad eyes and long hair. Done in reds blues and greens, it looked almost alive, reminding me of the waif in the logo of Les Miserables but older. This girl wasn’t a child. She looked very familiar, too familiar. But it couldn’t be her; she had left town years before to start a new life in LA, or New York, or someplace giant and epic. Anyplace but Tacoma. I could see her smile; I could see the sparkle in her eyes as she talked about her dreams and how she would be rich and famous and never come back. This town was too blue collar for her, too dirty, too real.

She needed castles in the air the way some needed air to breathe.  Reality was the dream killer, and reality was everywhere here, it was absorbed in the bricks in the old advertisements, in even the air, in the streets themselves.  What startles me more than the picture making me think of her, was that there were dates painted below in red, 1983- 2015. Of course I knew it must have just been a coincidence, a picture reminding me of her, reviving an old memory. It wasn’t actually about her. It couldn’t be. But I felt a chill go down my spine. The dates seemed like birth and death dates.  What else would make sense?  I searched my phone thinking perhaps I still had her number. She had probably changed it over the years, but on the odd chance that I could reach her, and put my mind at ease about these dates. Boy, was I being ridiculous. How could it be her? That made no sense.

I recall seeing her before she left; I gave her a ride to the greyhound, her bags packed with a one way ticket, short blonde hair dancing in the breeze, a silly hat on her head, askew, scarf around her neck and vintage blazer with jeans. Of course the jeans had holes in the knees. That was in at the time, although the hat was her own quirk. Her family was distant, she was a free spirit, and coming and going as she pleased and no one batted an eye or thought it crazy that she would quit her waitressing job one day, invest in a ticket and go to a town where she knew no one. It was just a Sherri thing to do. I remember the look in her striking green eyes, a look of just try and stop me, defiance, determination, and a youthful but hard look. I gave her a tight hug; I could feel her heart beating fast, adventure filling her lungs. I whispered in her ear, “Good luck. Break a leg, or whatever they say.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I’m not an actress. I want to model, remember?”

She was only 5 feet 2; I didn’t have the heart to tell her most models were tall. I didn’t want to be the one to bring her castle crashing down to earth. I figured life had a way of doing that on its own. I thought I was being a good friend, and maybe more, but she was never in reality enough to catch. She was more like a ghost, if you caught her in a moment, she would fade out the next. She couldn’t be nailed down. Maybe that was part of the appeal. You couldn’t own her; you could only hope she shared a moment with you.

I tried to write her over the years, but the letters always came back return to sender, no such address. I guess she moved a lot, which sounds like her. I must have tried calling. I believe I usually got her chipper voice mail, “Hi this is Sherri! I will get back to you when I can, Love ya!” She shined a little on everyone. Maybe she was just a little too bright for this world. Maybe she made it into her castle after all. I found her old number, I never deleted it. Maybe I had let hope live on in the recesses of my mind. Maybe this was all much ado about nothing. I hit the button, waiting for a ring.

“I’m sorry but the number you called has been disconnected…”  My heart sank. I looked back into the strangely hypnotic sad eyes. Was she ever sad? Why would I think of her being sad? I tried and I could only recall one time.  I walked up to her at school and she was sitting on a bench looking pensive. I sat down casually next to her, and said “Hey.”

She looked up, tears in her eyes. She showed me a paper about something. It started to rain, and I remember the big splotches on the news print. I guess it was an article about something, someone? Why couldn’t I remember? I recall the rain mixing with her mascara, making it dribble down her face making her face even sadder.  I offered her my coat; she didn’t have one on for some reason. Her bag was slouching next to her. Books just peeking out the top. “What’s this about? I said, taking her chin and lifting it slightly so I could see into those eyes. Greenish blue, you could get lost in them and not come back.

“It’s over. My life’s over.”

“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

She paused, crumpled the paper, and threw it in a nearby garbage bin.  She sniffled, and breathed out dramatically. “It’s okay. I’m sure I am being silly. We should go in now before I’m late to class.” She got up, picked up her bag, and walked away from me. I was left there in the rain wondering what that was about. Now, I will never know. I do not know why I didn’t follow her. Why didn’t I follow?

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt 4,Office Work

Posted on by jennrae

Sent to the Wrong Printer

You’re at work and you print something personal (and sensitive). Unfortunately, you’ve sent

it to the wrong printer and, by the time you realize it, somebody else has already scooped

it up.

 

The sound of the laser printer winding down and the swish of a paper swiftly being grabbed startled me from my reverie. I looked at my computer suddenly spilling coffee on my mouse pad. Oh crap! I looked and sure enough my embarrassingly bad diatribe venting about the futility of reaching out to a co worker crush went to the manager’s printer. More physical evidence of wasting work time on personal endeavors because I was bored; great just great, that was exactly what I needed.  The gray walls of cubicles surrounded me, my little local printer sat empty and quiet. I looked at the printer options on my screen, yep; the manager got my embarrassing letter not meant for anyone’s eyes but mine in his hand as I sit here with coffee on my desk. How to explain this? I look around the cubicle assessing my possessions thinking about the time it would take to pack up my things and do the walk of shame out of the office.

I reluctantly get up to get a paper towel. Might as well pick up my mess. The next victim to be placed here might appreciate it. I all ready was feeling sorry for my replacement when my phone rang in its shrill obtrusive way. Here we go, I sigh resigned.

“Minerva Abrams, how can I help you?”

“In my office, now.”

“Oh, okay, so, what’s this about, Doug?” I say trying to pour the innocence in my voice like honey. They say the people on the other end of a phone call can hear if you smile when you’re talking to them, I was smiling, hopefully that will count for something.

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

Yeah, don’t think that fooled him at all. Was my name on the document? Was he computer savvy enough to figure out it had come from my machine? Maybe I can pass it off as somebody else? I picked up my current portfolio of sales prospects that I was to cold call later today and a notepad. Got to look professional even if I feel like a fraud. Fake it till you make it, right?

I breathe in deeply, and let out a breath slowly, trying to be calm and collected. I want to walk in confident, and worry free, strong steps in imperial high heels. If I got to go, I want to go out like I came in with my head high, at least on the outside, on the inside I can be mortified and small as long as no one else sees. Appearances are everything. I am sure in a week everyone will know every embarrassing detail. But today, right now, I can escape the shame.

I take confident strides high heels thudding on thin carpet passing rows of cubicles that all look the same, some people looking up, others not. I walk by the secretary with the flowers on her desk, and a smug smirk on her face, her eyes saying, “uh oh, you really did it now. Hehe.” I think to myself, what goes around comes around, you smug #@#*&*@.

I knock on Doug’s door with authority the secretary looking at me open mouthed looking surprised and horrified that I bypassed her.  I saw her pick up the phone to let him know I was there, even though he called me to come over, and I am sure knew it was me.  I stood up straight as he opened the door and motioned for me to take a seat with a white paper in his hand. I couldn’t see the writing on it, and wasn’t sure if it was my infamous letter or another paper.  I bravely perched myself on the edge of the chair, not sure I would be sitting for long. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, blood pumping in my ears. Please, God, just get this over with, this other shoe is taking forever to drop! I breathe again deeply as he takes a seat across from me after shutting the door. I hear the door click shut. Yep, this is serious. He only shuts the door when you are in trouble. I try to keep a brave face, but feel it slipping a bit as the toll of pretending to be brave is getting harder and harder every passing moment.

“Minerva, I have a paper in my hand that I believe may have come from your computer.” Crap, I think silently, so much for him being computer illiterate.

“Oh really? How can you be sure?”

“Well, let’s see. You want me to read it aloud, or are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“What is this about? I haven’t the foggiest.” The foggiest? Really? My mind has obviously melted. Who says that? I look down, nervous. He has found me out for sure.

“Okay. You want to play this game.  All right then. Here we go, you tell me when you want me to stop, okay? ‘ To whom it may concern: I am tired of your games. You are friendly and flirty one day, and ignore me the next. My mom says I’ll be an old maid because I’m still unmarried at 30 but I keep hoping you will ask for my number, and ride off in the sunset. I am so angry at you right now for not asking me and for offering lunch that one day and then forgetting about it while I sat at I heart Burgers all by myself like some pathetic person eating all by myself like an idiot. Oh and the person next to me keeps forgetting to wear deodorant and it is totally gross. And why does Sharon keep getting roses? She is such an ugly pig and terrible at her job.’ There’s more, a lot more, in a similar vein.  It also goes on to say ‘management here sucks and Doug has no idea how to work a computer if it was unplugged he would call in tech support. Ps the tech support guy is kinda cute too.’ I think almost everyone is mentioned here, except you of course, and Al the maintenance guy who works at night. So, I am guessing despite my lack of computer skills, that this is yours. Am I correct, or do you want me to call tech support and get it officially confirmed?”

I squirmed in my seat, “Well, so what happens now? I am sorry for that, it shouldn’t have ever happened.”

“You don’t say? Well, this isn’t the first time I have caught you using company time unwisely. What do you think I should do?”

“hmm. Let me off with a warning? Got it. Won’t happen again, sir.” I give my winning smile. He looks concerned, brow furrowed, looking at me like he wasn’t sure what to do with me like I was a two headed giraffe with purple spots.

“So, who is this unfortunate guy you are so mad at?”

“Don’t worry, it isn’t you, Doug.” Maybe I should’ve lied, might have helped my case. My darn mouth going faster than my brain again, oh well. Time to take your medicine. I am tempted to close my eyes and just wait for the hammer to fall.

“Tell you what, Minerva, I understand how these office romances can start, and I know it can be frustrating working here calling people who don’t want to receive your calls. It isn’t a fun job, and I know it can be boring. I am willing to give this to you on one condition.”

My eyes open wide, hmm, what’s this? “Really? Say it, and I will do it.”

“You need to go up to this guy on your lunch break, or after work, not on work time, and tell him how you feel. Not on work time, understand? On work time, you will be working, or I will have to take other measures. I know this will be embarrassing for you, and possibly painful, oh, and don’t ever, ever do this again, okay?”

“Okay. But why are you being so nice?”

“Let’s just say I might have a regret or two. But first, do we have a deal?”

“Does Sharon know all about this, because I know she talks and I don’t think I can come back here with everyone snickering.”

“Sharon always acts like she knows more than she does. I do not share confidential information with her. That would be very unprofessional.” Doug smiled and held the paper out to me and I grabbed it from him hastily. In that moment I realized maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. If he took some computer classes he might even be an okay manager.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt 3 The Donut Shop Mystery

Posted on by jennrae

One Day you come into work and find a cookie mysteriously placed on your desk. Grateful

to whoever left this anonymous cookie, you eat it. The next morning you come in and find

another cookie. This continues for months until one Day a different object is left—and this

time there’s a note.

 

“Hmmm. What’s this? A note on the desk. It is sealed, doesn’t say who it is from? Hmm. Could this be from the same person leaving the mysterious oatmeal cookies with white chocolate chips and dried cranberries? My favorite. A close call between the classic peanut butter cookie to be sure. There is a small locket by the note. One of those old time classic heart lockets that you can swing open the face and put a little picture, a super small picture in if you have one that small. I open it slowly looking around to see who was nearby. Maybe the cookies weren’t for me? Maybe I was eating something meant for someone else? But the whole secret admirer thing was way more romantic and titillating than a mistaken identity. Besides, no one had said, hey what are you doing eating my cookies?

Curious, I looked into the tiny locket. It had initials in it, no picture though. It simply said E.B. I looked at the sealed note. Plain envelope, no mention of who it is for, or whom it is from. The seal was a smiley sticker, a simple sticker that was yellow with a silly face, tongue hanging out with silly eyes. It was placed in the middle, it would be easy to open and reseal, I thought to myself. Curiosity killed the cat, good thing I’m not a cat…seems almost like the type of seal one would use for a child’s card.

I looked around one more time, and carefully peeled back the smiley face, and opened the envelope, inside was a small piece of thin parchment like paper. In delicate handwriting, cursive scrawl not typed, was a simple letter. I took it out, and looked at the words wondering who was leaving this here and why. The letter simply said, “ Dear whoever has been enjoying my cookies,

I hope I added some spice to a boring work day. Meet me for coffee at 2pm at the Donut Shop. Don’t be late, and bring this letter.”

Hmm. Should I go to the the Donut Shop at 2pm? What if it is a crazy stalker type? What if it is a person who is into something violent and I get kidnapped and kept in a basement for years? Okay, how often does that sort of thing happen? But, what if this is one of those times? Arrgh, who is EB?

I knew what I would have to do. I would have to discreetly go to the Donut Shop which was located across the street from my workplace. The person is either a co worker playing a prank, highly likely, or a secret admirer who is also most likely a coworker playing a prank. Or, an unknown creepy stalker guy who has been watching me come and go from the Donut Shop.  But then how would he get this stuff in here? Only employees have access back here? Nothing to do but go and find out.

I pull my long black wool coat close to me in a virtual self hug as I leave the office carefully. I say good bye to people at their cubicles who grunt without looking up as I walk out at the unusual time of ten til 2pm. I walk with purse clutched tightly in one hand, other hand in a pocket with a small canister of mace. You know, just in case. I hit the button to use the crosswalk, traffic lulls to a stop to the loud beeping of the pedestrian green light, and I walk with purpose, one foot in front of the other, like I have all the time in the world, attempting to project calmness, confidence, like I don’t have a care in the world. Just going to go grab a coffee, and possibly some coffee cake, and enjoy a break out of the office. I’m not meeting a random stranger from an anonymous note that would be foolish in this day and age. Downright reckless! Nope, not me!

I open the door slowly, here the tinkle of the door bell move as I did so. Looked into the eyes of a bored cashier by a long counter, her eyes lidded and glancing at me while texting someone on her phone. I look around at the tables, see people scattered here and there. Someone was sitting in the corner, with a newspaper over their face, all by themselves.  They had a long coat on and a hat, like some old time detective from a Bogart movie. The newspaper hid the face, but from the body language of the crossed leg and the build, I would say this was a man, old or young hard to say. I looked at the other tables, because I didn’t know who this person was. I still had the chance to change my mind and leave the shop. The cashier was still texting, and hadn’t said hi.

I went to an empty table, pulled out a chair and sat down, placing my purse on the floor next to me, glancing at a paper menu on the table. Drip coffee 1.99, refills 50 cents. Donuts 2.49 each, or 5 for a dozen. I get the letter out, resealed with its smiley face, and put it visibly on the table thinking the person might take it as a cue to come over and reveal themselves. The man in the corner adjusts the paper noisily, moves his legs as well, but doesn’t get up. Hmm. If not him, then who is it? I look around casually, or trying to make it appear casual, noting other people sipping coffee and reading or talking. No one especially stood out as suspicious except the weird guy in the corner. The cashier comes over noticing me for the first time and says, “Hon, you know what you want?” What a question! I don’t even know what’s going on here, let alone what I want.

I say simply, “A cup of coffee and a small piece of coffee cake. I’m on my break from work.” She gives me a look like if you think that will make me hurry you are mistaken, and walks back to the counter. The man puts his paper down now, and I take a peek to see if it is someone I know. The face doesn’t seem too familiar, but it does seem like I’ve seen it somewhere before.

“Excuse me,” I say loudly, “Sir, are you waiting for someone?”

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone, actually.” He says voice kind of gravelly. Sounds like maybe a smoker. Maybe early 50s.

“Does it have anything to do with this?” I hold up the note in its smiley envelope. His face turns into a smile and he walks over. “Can it really be you? My little Junebug?”

“What? I want to know what this is about? “

The man seems sad all of a sudden, and I see a tear form in his eye. “I have missed you so much. I haven’t seen you since you were 5 years old, and you moved away. Your mother wouldn’t tell me where you were, disconnected your number.  I have tried everything to find you for so long. I had all but given up hope when I saw your name in the paper for helping out that family through your work. I knew it had to be you even though the last name was different. I hoped it was you, but I was scared about what you would think of me, what you had been told possibly. I am sorry. I didn’t know how to reach out the right way. So, I had the waitress here send cookies over and she agreed to leave the note and locket for me.”

“Who are you supposed to be again?” I said incredulous.

“I’m your father. I know your Mom remarried, and you probably don’t remember me. I was working all the time back then, and I didn’t spend enough time with you. But surely, you remember?” The man looked hurt, and confused.

“What was your daughter’s name? Who do you think I am?”

“June. My little Junebug.”

Suddenly it all made sense. June was the person who used to have my desk. She had moved on to another office, into management I think. I had inherited a lot of pens and things left behind from her, but this had to be the saddest of them all.

“I’m so sorry. But I am not June. I am Tina. I think she used to have my desk.” I added lamely, holding the note out to the man. “Thanks for the cookies though.” I smiled awkwardly, looking at my watch. “Oh, looks like my break is over, good luck with the search.” I picked up my purse, left a couple dollars on the table for the cashier who was back looking at her phone, and briskly walked out of there. Darn. Mistaken identity after all.

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt Boot Camp #1..Breaking up with Writer’s Block.

Posted on by jennrae

“Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me …I am going to commit to writing every single day whether I feel especially inspired or not.  I have spent way too much time giving myself excuses for not writing getting caught up in drama and little things and entertainment that is created by others. I am a creator and it is time for me to create rather than consume.  I need to brush the dust out of the brain to edit my novel properly.  I need to do some fresh writing.

I did more writing when I didn’t have a car. It is funny how when you are riding public transit or waiting for the next bus to come you feel the need to fill the void of that ten to fifteen minutes, but if you are comfortable at home it is just as easy to pop in a movie or binge watch Breaking Bad. There is something about being in between places that forces me to be creative and perhaps my life has become too predictable, too ordinary.  There aren’t enough gaps for stories to thrive. My time is scheduled, over booked, except for writing. Writing is my passion, my key to being centered and fulfilled and not making time for it often leads me to feeling listless or aimless.

For that reason among others, you have to go Writer’s Block. I have spent way too much time, money and energy on you and wasted precious time I can never get back. I know of no one else who has 4 novels sitting on their floor since 2001. And over a dozen short stories but none written this year. I want to do NANOWRIMO this year, no excuses. No maybe next year. What if I were to die in a freak accident next year? I want no more regrets.  I don’t want to look back wondering where all my time went. Wondering if I am leaving any contribution to society or any mark on this world. Anything for my son to be proud of? I am a descendant of Mark Twain, or his father anyway, and how many people can say that? I am sure there are some, but not many.  I have a writer’s legacy, I have been writing since I was 6. I went to the Cougar writing conference at 11. I got to see Peninsula College back then. I had a lot of encouragement from teachers.

I drew horses and unicorns and dreamed a lot. I made histories, names, and genealogies of fictional families, races, creatures.  Where did that go? I used to put myself to sleep by going through my own fictional soap opera called Zennis. Still haven’t written that story, and it is one door among a long hallway of dimensions waiting for me to explore;  so many stories lying dormant, waiting for my pen to bring them to life, to share the stories with others. I miss having a writer’s group, perhaps I should find a new one. It helped me to stay focused, to make time. Timed writes were helpful too, really allowed me to see other settings and forced me to think of other ideas I may not have without that pressure and limitation.

So, I am going to commit to myself, to get up at 5 am, and write until around 5 30 so that I can write without distractions and it is a time I can write on a daily basis since I often get up at 5 30 to get ready for work, it will force me to fit it in. If I am feeling truly inspired I will have a notepad with me and will write later. I used to keep one by my bed because some of my favorite stories actually came from dreams and if you don’t write them down immediately little details disappear, and sometimes whole planets and languages are just gone. And the only thing I can remember is that it was really cool. That makes me sad because I know it was a moment in time and the story is gone forever never to return.

When I was deep into writing my novel for the first time I fell in love with the characters, I lived and breathed with them, felt bad when they were hurt. They felt like real people. I was obsessed and focused and there were never enough hours in the day. I would get home from work and write until I went to bed, got up early so I could write before work, go to work, come back home and write some more. It got so intense; my husband at the time actually became jealous of my novel because I spent more time writing it than talking to him.  He passionately hated my novel, but would brag to others that I had written it.  It is hard for people to understand the total concentration required; the shutting off of everything but this one thing for hours. It seems crazy, like a neurosis. Maybe it is something a creative person could understand but a more traditional sort might have trouble with. Perhaps writers are crazy.

When you, Writer’s Block come in, it is like the fountain has been shut off, and no matter how hard I turn the knob nothing happens. It is like my heart has been removed, but I don’t die, but I am not alive either. It is a horrible stagnant feeling. But most often it just is a sign that I have drifted too far from my authentic self or got caught up in the minutiae of everyday existence.  The day to day grind kills dreams. Too much time worrying about bills, and tasks and what other people are doing or not doing, it removes me further from what I should be doing. It is easy to get caught in this trap, this nonexistent existence.  This killing of time, destroying worlds by not writing them down. Not creating history that will never be real but may really affect someone and speak to a deeper meaning or purpose.

I still feel that Science- Fiction especially lends itself to exploring deep issues with humanity and the world. It is like the ultimate what if scenario, the ultimate sand box experience. You put in hypothetical’s and explore what may happen under specific conditions. Fantasy often lends itself to exploring archetypes and history and the heroic quest. It explores something deeply primal and necessary, the human story.  It looks back while Science-Fiction looks forward. I love them best but have dabbled in suspense/horror as well. It can also explore the human condition and I love a twisted ending.

Part of the joy I get from the short story is the twist or the epiphany you get at the end. It is that sensation that the light has been turned on and now everything makes sense. I like that feeling and I like putting it together. A novel takes a different kind of approach. I knew how I wanted it to start, and I knew how it would end, but the middle only had a few incidents mapped out. A lot of little events became important along the way, and I found myself going on the path less taken often. So often that the novel is a mess, and perhaps a more experienced writer would have recognized the danger signs and know how and when to reign the beast in.  Now it is a massive intimidating behemoth that I am perpetually rewriting.

Sometimes I think I should give up on this dream, and start afresh. But it is hard; I keep finding myself wanting to do justice to those characters I spent so much time with.  I feel I almost owe it to them to get their story published. Their existence depends on people being able to get to know them like I have, and it is my duty as a writer to make them real, and allow people to care about them. So, Writer’s Block, I have no more time in my life for you, pack your bags, you have over stayed your welcome. There is the door, good bye and if I see you again, don’t expect a long stay.