Tag: Fiction

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

A Writer’s Prompt– Future Earth

Posted on by jennrae

*This is inspired by James Mascia’s writing prompt book Other Worlds

 

The sun glinted off the cracked lens on the top of a knitted basket. She went to pick it up, the seller grabbed her wrist harshly. “What do you got to trade for that, kid? No touchy til I see it.” The man’s voice sounded hoarse and threatening, his grip on her wrist tightened slightly.

“You expect me to buy without a closer look? What kinda fool do you take me for?”

“Not everything that glitters is gold, miss. Let’s see it.”

She sighs. She pulls out her pockets, counts the little coin she has, and other odds and ends that she has found on her travels. A spool of yellow thread, a needle, a couple plastic things, including a plastic soldier with a menacing expression and a helmet.

“You got nothing. Just as I thought.” The man spits at her feet, an ugly wad of brownish gunk.

“Let me go, then. You got me, I just wanted a look see, no harm. Honest.”

“Hmm. No harm indeed.” She saw his eyes cloud over briefly, mulling something over or in reverie perhaps. “Well?” She said giving her arm a jerk. He finally lets go, she rubs her sore wrist giving him a dirty look.

“How old are ya girl?”

“Old enough.”

“To remember what? Clean air, clean water? A time before the return of the great diseases? The ones we thought we had licked. Boy, were we wrong. They are sneaky things, super bugs. They find a way to beat the vaccines, boom, all our technology and fancy dew-dads, they don’t do us no good. All for nothing.”

“So we are done here?” Her green eyes flashed defiance. She was young, how young hard to say. Mal-nourishment had a way of making someone tinier than they ought to be. Plus, looking younger than one was could be an advantage. She was used to being underestimated and had to grow up fast in this cold world.

“You got any kin left? Where are you from?”

“Why do you care, mister?”

“I had a daughter once, and a wife, and even a brother. Brother died in the war with China. Daughter and wife, well, TB got em. So, here we are. Alone, selling what we find on the road. I got an old cart and a mule. and I just venture looking for treasure and to trade stories with other survivors. Hoping to find some information. You see, I had another daughter, that was taken away, years ago, when we were all confined, in the TB ward, she was taken from me. All I have left of that one is this.” He holds up between his thumb and forefinger a tiny blue button.

“How old was she? When you last saw her?”

“She was about three, almost three years old. She would be somewhere around 13 I reckon, now.”

“Well, she ain’t me, Mister. I am older than that. Besides, I know where my family is. They are all under the dirt someplace or other. Some died here, others over there. I have been traveling for a ways now. And, I lost a lot along the way. Been alone a couple years. But, now I am out of anything to trade, except of course my labor. I can trade that well enough, if someone needs something fixed, or a rabbit caught. I have gotten good at rabbit and rat catching.”

“Are you offering your services? Whatcha want the glasses for?”

“Makes it easier to make a fire, I broke my last lens.”

“You aren’t near sighted then. Can you see that sign over yonder?”

She squints in the direction the man points. It is a hand painted sign an old woman is holding. “Looks like, maybe, I’m not sure. Have you seen…so and so, or something.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Here. A gesture of good will. I will accept your services, by the way, because, my last traveling companion took ill and died. I think I may be a carrier of the TB. But, then, if you have lasted this long, you may be as well. Besides, I can see no fear in your eyes. You are ready to die, aren’t you?” The man’s eyes glint in the sunshine, a smile crosses his face as though being ready to die is a novel concept.

“Been fighting to live for so long. Maybe  I have had it all wrong this whole time. Maybe accepting the final destination. Maybe that is the point. Maybe there is some wisdom you can teach me yet.”

She catches the glasses, shoving them on her face, still squinting.”You talk a lot of nonsense, stranger. If you got some food, I would appreciate another good will gesture. Been a while since I caught a rat. And well, I could use the strength to catch another.”

The man motions behind his cart where he has a little fire going and a cast iron pot boiling some kind of vegetable soup. He grabs a hunk of bread breaks it in half, handing her one piece, offering her a metal bowl and spoon. A small rickety table with a couple of beat up travel chairs with a faded green fabric material sat nearby. “Normally I charge for a seat at my table, but considering you are going to be my companion here, I will offer you a seat for free.”

“How kind of you.” She eats the bread with one hand, sloppily dishing out the soup with the other hurriedly. She sits down with a thud, and proceeds to devour the bowl.

“Don’t rush. You gotta make it last. Savor it. Otherwise you will get a tummy ache.”

The girl glares at him. “Don’t tell me how to eat. I know how to eat.”

The man smiles sadly. “Of course. You know everything. This is your world. This is what you know. All of this, its your castle, your home.”

“I am going to stop talking to you. You are crazy.” The man chuckles. “Perhaps. I very well may be crazy. I am caught between worlds. Remembering what was, and existing here. I feel like I was in heaven, but now I am in purgatory, waiting, to finally go to hell.” His eyes go all distant and  the girl refocuses on the soup.

She didn’t care what was actually in it at this point, she just had to eat something to stop the growling gnawing inside of her. The constant need to satiate her hunger was the driving force behind her day to day life. It was the reason to keep going, the reason she found to keep going in order to not think or remember the faces of the others.

The others that hadn’t kept going, the ones that fell before the sickness or the bombs or both. She had to survive for those that couldn’t. Someday, she could tell their stories to others, if there was a day where one could tell stories again and live to see a brighter day. Where one could safely sit and dream and not worry about hunger, and death, and destruction. It was her turn to go distant.

She could hear the man’s snores, as he fell asleep in his chair. She could hear foot steps and animals rustling in the grass. This was life now. Tiny moments among tiny moments, not knowing when the end might come, only that it would one day.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #15- Ocean Tears

Posted on by jennrae

Bonus Day 1

Sinking Ship

You realize the boat is sinking, but that’s not the worst thing that could happen. The worst

thing happened last night.

 

I bailed water as fast as my frozen fingers would allow with the metal bucket. The rain bashed me in the face taking my hair and putting it in my eyes. I knew the boat was sinking and fast. But that was not the worst thing I had to deal with at the moment. I was in the middle of the ocean, and pirates had boarded us last night leaving us with nothing but a gunshot wound to the stomach for my poor lover.

 

I had no phone, I had no food, and I had no way to hail anyone. They took all our supplies and I had to watch as my love continued to bleed out all over our cabin using my first aid kit to try and stop the flow.

 

I knew they had shot the controls and the radio. Perhaps they damaged the boat in some other way. We hadn’t had a lot but it was foolish perhaps to think we could safely traverse this area of the ocean alone. It was the adventure of a lifetime and we had both left our families behind and all the scandal that goes with that.

 

I remember the pirates with masks hiding their features speaking in some kind of French language that I could only understand a little of. They looked African, but from which country I had no idea. They made demands swinging guns around with urgency but we did not understand. And then they shot Greg. I put my hands up shakily shaking my head not knowing what they wanted from us.

 

They rummaged through our cabin knocking things to the floor noisily, taking the food and whatever else seemed to have value, and then they disabled our communications and shot up the boat. Meanwhile, I tried to make Greg comfortable. I hefted him onto the bed the best I could while he groaned in pain. “I’m so sorry.” I felt his brow, his face was so pale. So much blood.

 

I shoved all the bandages I could into the wound and used the first aid tape not knowing what else to do. I put pressure on it with my hands, I watched him pass out, looking strangely peaceful. I heard more gunshots and then some splashing and finally silence.

 

They were gone. It was just the two of us and the ocean. Suddenly my feet felt icy and wet. I looked down at the water streaming in slowly. “No, this cannot be happening.” I left Greg and went to the radio. Completely gutted. Flares taken as well. I knelt and prayed not knowing what else to do. Finally, with the water growing in a pool, I grabbed the bucket. I took to bailing as much as I could, feeling the tightness in my arms after a while but ignoring it. I had to keep going. I did not know how else to keep going.

 

I check on Greg, he is asleep; blood is still seeping into the bandages. Tears come to my eyes unbidden. I don’t have time to cry. I need to somehow signal someone. I grab the lighter out of his pocket and find some papers on our desk, I take it to the deck and that is when the storm starts to lash me and I realize there is no way I can start a fire as the rain is too intense. The wind rips the paper out of my hands scattering it away, I feel the lighter drop to the deck and disappear leaving me with the metal bucket in one hand. I can taste the salt water or maybe it was my tears mixed with the rain? I start yelling at the storm, at God and at myself.

 

I recall how we were eating breakfast and planning what port we would go to next on our adventure, not a care in the world. I could watch Greg eat an orange all day and be perfectly happy. He made it seem almost sensual. We shared a look and smiled. We felt the boat shift we saw the other vessel approach but didn’t think much of it. Boats pass by each other on occasion it wasn’t until we heard the shouting and saw the guns that things turned ugly. If I could go back in time and warn myself I would say, “Get to the radio, call for help!”

 

The pirates took our cell phones first, holding us at gunpoint while they did so. This wasn’t their first ambush apparently. And most likely wouldn’t be their last. I think of my soon to be ex husband and the kids. Would they even know or find out what happened to us out here? Would I see their faces? I only meant to go away for a year or so. Not forever, no,not forever.

 

I dropped the bucket, my hands going completely numb. I listened to the rain and wind and waves crash against the boat tossing us around like a toy. I feel the water creep up to my knees, feel it splash me, and soak me making me feel so very cold. I grab the railing, but I can’t feel a thing. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. I shiver and try to think of the happy moments I had before all this. If I am to die out here I want my last thoughts to be happy. I feel the boat start to sink at last. One side starts to lower and I let go feeling the water rush over me and into me.

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #14 – The Meeting

Posted on by jennrae

Day 14

Matchup!

Write a story featuring a Ouija board, a search engine, and a self-help book.

 

I sat in a circle all of us with our Camp Fire Girl vests on sharing ghost stories and gossip, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. The meeting was officially over, minutes recorded but there was always that little bit of time at the end before the parents came and picked us up.  This meeting was at Susie’s house and her house was one of those old meandering type of houses.

The kind that were meant for ghost stories like Bloody Mary. There was a spooky old mirror in a quaint hall way that led to this little half bathroom. It was creepy because there just was no reason to have a bathroom there. It made me think of the Winchester house but less cool. No stairways with dead ends and upside down stairs. Just a weird old bathroom and an antique mirror.

“So, guys, what about trying to contact Bloody Mary? I mean, we could say her name like 100 times in front of the mirror. You know the mirror. The one near the end of the hall. Or, we could do something even creepier. We could use a Ouija board.”

“A what board? It isn’t satanic is it? My mom wouldn’t be okay with anything like that.” Isabelle looks worried, feeling her crucifix in her hand absently with one hand.

“I know,” says Becky. “I will look it up on Google with my smart phone. She pushes her glasses up her nose slightly punching keys lightly in her phone. “How do you spell it, Susie?”

“One moment,” Susie runs out of the room excitedly, arriving back a few moments later holding a board game in her hands. She sets it down carefully in the middle of the floor, while we stare at it.

“Wait, it is some kinda board game?” Isabelle sounds disappointed, wrinkling her nose.

“This ain’t no Monopoly. I can tell you that. My parents had a séance once. With lit candles and a bunch of people over. They made us kids go to bed, but I tell you, it was something. You could see the candle light dance and I heard strange voices.” We all leaned in a little, faces going “oooh” in unison.

Becky calmly looks at the board, typing in O-U-I-J-A in her phone.  “Awh, a game put out by Milton Bradley Parker Brothers that is typically used to try and contact spirits on the other side.”

“The other side of what?”

“Isabelle, the other side, where people go after they are dead. Like your dog, Rover. When he got hit by that car last summer?” Susie explained with a malicious glint in her blue eyes.  Susie enjoyed freaking Isabelle out. It was too easy.

Becky rummaged through her bag and pulled out a self help book titled ‘How to Deal with Fear of the Unknown.’  “My motto is always to come prepared.”

“Isn’t that the boy scout motto or something?” Isabelle says uncertainly accepting the book gingerly, looking a bit confused. “I hope my Aunt is here soon, “she eyes the clock uncertainly.

“So, what do you say girls? Wanna try it?”

“Bloody Mary was the daughter of Henry the Eighth and was known for her reign of terror against the Protestants.” Becky added helpfully still looking at her phone typing away.

I had sat quietly this whole time taking it all in.  “Sure, let’s do it.” I say suddenly feeling brazen. All this talk with little action was beginning to bore me. “You got candles and a lighter?”

Susie jumps up and runs into the other room again coming back with some birthday candles and some matches. “Hey, Suse, where’s your mom at?” I ask wondering why the rest of the house was so quiet.

“You know, I don’t know. Probably outside in the garden. Maybe she is watching my baby brother.” She made a disgusted face. “I hate babies.” She added as clarification. “I’ll like him better when he turns five and goes to school.”

Susie lights the candles on a little metal box, melting the bottoms so they stay upright. “ouch,” she sucks in a finger from holding one of them a little too long.  We watch the little flames dance, they won’t last long, these candles were pretty small. Susie carefully sets up a little card table and moves the tin on top of it, putting the board in the middle and we each pull up a chair from the other room, rickety mismatched chairs from random places.  She put the device in the middle and there was the alphabet all too familiar to us written in big letters across the board.

“So we have to spell out a question that gives a yes or no answer.” Susie sits down carefully watching the expressions of the other girls as they fidgeted in their seats. “Shouldn’t we turn the light off too?” I add wanting it to be as scary as possible.  Becky comes back in with some Mountain Dew. “Your mom wouldn’t mind, would she?” She looks toward Susie.

“Naw. “ Susie replies. “Now what should we ask?”

“I’m scared. I want to go home.”  Everyone glares at Isabelle; I roll my eyes, cracking the can of soda open with a loud crack that makes her wince. “Sorry,” I say unapologetic, shrugging my shoulders.

We go silent for a minute looking at each other and the board. Finally Susie says, “Let’s ask the spirit if it is Bloody Mary.”

“Considering we are not in England, any spirit here would be unlikely to be Mary. I suggest we ask a better question.” Susie glares at Becky, sticking her tongue out in annoyance.

“You got a better question, Becky? What do you think we should ask then?”

“We should ask it if it is a friendly or malevolent spirit.”

“What’s malevolent?” Isabelle stammers out, shaking.

We all look at her, and she is rubbing her crucifix in her hand looking nervous. “It means, real bad, real bad, Isabelle. Like mean, only worse.” I add smiling.

“Oh.” She says hiding her head in her hands. “Come on Auntie.”

“Let’s all hold hands.” Susie suggests and we all comply for once.  We then all put a hand on the little pointer device and spell out the question are you bad or not, because it is easier to spell than what Becky said.  We wait a moment that seems like forever with one hand on the pointer. Then it starts to move. I hear Isabelle whimper.  It goes slowly toward the Y. Then an E, then a S. Y-E-S.  “Yes, what? Yes you are bad? Or yes you are not bad? That was a crappy question.” I say annoyed.

“I think it means, yes it is bad. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Isabelle lets go of the pointer abruptly and leaves the table almost tripping on her backpack. “Oh come on, Izzy, it is just a game for Christ’s sake.”  Susie shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Hey she spilled my soda.” Noticing the green fluid all over my things and the floor.  Suddenly a breeze gusts through and all the candles go out at once. “Uh, did someone leave a window open?”  I say, suddenly feeling creeped out, feeling all the little hairs on my arm stand on end.  “Susie?” I say when no one answers me.  “Hey guys, this isn’t funny. I know I was kinda mean to Isabelle. But so were all of you.”  Still silence.  I look around, feeling the sticky soda with my hands.

“Come on. Turn on the light so I can clean this up at least.”  I start to feel a little panicky. I feel sweat on my brow. “Guys? Guys!”  I feel the chair near me as I stand up, I can feel the table in front of me. “Where are you guys? Why don’t you answer?”

I feel the pointer but don’t feel anyone’s hands but my own.  I run into the tin with my hand and the candles are all knocked over and warped from the melted wax. I go away from the table feeling for the wall, looking for the door or the light switch.

I keep my hands on the wall, and eventually realize I am in the hallway.  I can feel the mirror. The old style frame. The cool glass. I went the wrong way. But I knew there was a light switch by the bathroom.  I kept feeling for the switch, and then I heard a noise.  I turned my head. I called out again, “Guys, this isn’t funny.” It was totally dark here.  And then I heard it.

Footsteps. Coming closer.  “Uh, Guys? Susie?” I say, voice trembling. My hands were shaking now. I felt cold. So very cold. I put my hand on the glass again. Still at the mirror. Where was that switch?

The footsteps were getting loud, the person was stomping. “Hey, whose there?” I shout.  No answer.  I feel a cold breeze again only this is more of a gust, it pushes me. My back is now against the mirror. I can feel the cold glass through my clothing.  I felt as though I could go through the wall. Like it was nothing. I suddenly felt trapped and truly afraid. I found myself looking out of the mirror into the dark hallway arms pulling me into the mirror, weird long dark arms. And then I was in the mirror looking out trying to call out to my friends but nothing would come out of my mouth except more darkness.

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #11 Strange Things

Posted on by jennrae

The Stranger

You’re walking home from work one night and taking shortcuts through a labyrinth of dark

city alleyways to meet someone on time. Suddenly, a stranger parts the shadows in front of

you, comes close and asks you to hold out your palm. You oblige.

 

I got off the bus reluctantly. I just left my shift at the video store and it was all ready getting dark.  I had agreed to meet a friend at a nearby bar just to say hi. I regret not saving up for a car. I hate walking in the dark. I had only lived in Tacoma for a couple months so there were still a lot of unknown territories and unknown places filled with unknown people with unknown motives. I was alone in the darkness seeing figures raiding the garbage in front of the McDonald’s. I jokingly called them zombies but now in the darkness it didn’t seem so funny.  In all truth it was a sad affair. They were homeless hungry people so terribly hungry that they would lick the used wrappers of an Egg McMuffin for sustenance and here I was making it into a joke.  I felt bad but at the same time a little scared because desperate people can do desperate things. I didn’t want to find out just how desperate they were.

So I heard the bus make its whoosh start up sound and creak away to its next destination up the hill. I started walking, mace in my pocket. I came from a small town, and so had a natural paranoia about the city. And this city wasn’t shiny like Seattle.  This was Tacoma, gritty real, dirty, urban, blue collar. People worked here, lived and died here. Sometimes in the streets sometimes elsewhere.  It had an appeal to it. It wasn’t phony. The city knew what it was. It’s industrial past glory was there for everyone to see; the old factory buildings, the constant jokes about the aroma of Tacoma. The Tacoma Dome, the largest wooden dome in the world or at least in North America was one of the highlights. It had the Glass museum with that fabulous bridge of blue rock candy thingies overlooking the busy highway. Sometimes I would get a bagel and eat there watching the traffic. All those people hurrying about not seeing the beauty. Just in a hurry to get someplace else.

Now I walked briskly past the zombies not looking them in the eye holding my coat tightly across my body.  Cars would occasionally slow down and the driver would call out, “Hey baby, why don’t you get in, I will give you a ride…” Cheesy wink and all. I said no thanks, and kept walking, making sure I wasn’t on the edge, within grabbing reach. I was a woman alone in a strange city full of strangers, trusting no one.   I walked by a policeman arguing with a Puyallup Indian man about how he can’t light the grass on fire, both arguing about rights and who can do what. I kept walking not wanting to get involved. It was none of my business if the fire was lit or not, if the man had a right to religious freedom or not, if it was public property or not.  I just kept walking.  I approach a local convenience store.  Maybe I would get a soda, or some gum. Nope, I saw the man put the metal gate out and turn his sign off. Must be past 10 o’ clock.  Oh well I think. It was getting pretty dark, my keychain had a flash light on it, but still I thought maybe I should cancel and go home, when out of the shadows a man approached me quietly, slowly.

“One moment. Miss Rae is it?”

“How do you know my name? “ I look around behind me; see the store owner was no longer in his window.  I was all alone.

“Hold out your palm.”

For reasons I did not understand I felt a strong compulsion to comply, and held out my hand, palm up.

“That’s better.”  The man drops a beautiful sapphire amulet into my hand. The chain looked old, and heavy, the stone shone in the streetlight, looking black in the darkness except for the gleam of the light which was almost like a beacon in the darkness.

“Are you a friend of Amy’s?” I ask weakly, thinking maybe this had something to do with my friend.

“You won’t be meeting her tonight. Take this home right away. And do not mention this to anyone.”

Now I am thinking this is some criminal enterprise.  An item from a burglary perhaps? I nod to the man. He tips his hat, a greasy baseball cap and goes back into the alleyway, blending into the shadows.  I am left alone on the streets hearing an occasional car and the scurrying of something or someone nearby.  I decide to cross the street and start running, my heart pounding. I just want to go home.  I live in a small building that has a card key required to enter. I swipe it wait for the beep, let myself in, shut the door and race to my room.

This building is old, maybe from the twenties. You could feel it in the creaking of the floor boards, see it in the small rooms. It was an old hotel so the place was a hallway of doors. Old fashioned arched doorways and hints of yesteryear in the wall paper and the feel of the place.

I thought to myself if this place was haunted, I would not be shocked, but that was part of the appeal. It had a hidden ethereal beauty. Like a lot of Tacoma it had a past, and looked back more than forward but it had a history that couldn’t be replicated.  I saw other buildings being torn down and replaced by new condos. Gentrification. It was encroaching, and someday might swallow my beautiful old haunted hotel.  Almost made me cry to think of it. How would the well-to-do condo dwellers deal with the zombies? Would they have them relocated, or locked up? Shoved up the hill into Hill Top? I am sure that community would love that.

Everyone just wants a safe place to raise their kids. I recall the empty yard where the girl was abducted and killed up there. The bus would go by and I could see the memorial grow.  White picket fence and all, and it couldn’t keep the girl safe.  In her own backyard.

I generally bused straight through Hill Top. It was a largely African American community; MLK Street went straight through there.  No doubt in my mind the condo dwellers would push the zombies up there. Not their neighborhood, not their problem. I felt an overwhelming sadness in my heart. For the poor little black girl I didn’t know. For the Zombies who had lived normal lives once, had families, mothers, and fathers. I even felt bad for the condo dwellers, at the same time hoping they would be haunted by the people they were displacing.

People are made out of energy; it cannot be destroyed, merely transferred or moved elsewhere. It has to go somewhere.  It was very common to run into someone on the street or the bus that would be talking to people that weren’t there.  At first I thought I had entered another dimension where Schizophrenia was more commonplace than the flu. But no, it was that Western State Mental Hospital in Stillicum, right next to Tacoma, couldn’t maintain and take care of a lot of its denizens, so the harmless ones were released to fend for themselves. And they ended up on the streets and the buses.

Surely these people had families once, were members of society? At first they were scary like the zombies. But after awhile, I wasn’t afraid anymore.  I realized that what they were experiencing was as real to them as my reality was to me. The old lady who stared at me on the bus. I thought she was staring at me.  When she got off the bus, she started yelling at her invisible friend. That was who she was glaring at. Not me.  I wonder if her friend’s name was Harvey the White Rabbit? Whoever it was, she was angry with it.  And there was the lady who sat on the bus bench rocking back and forth with a radiant smile on her face. I always wondered what she saw that was so amazing. Her reality must be spectacular. She always looked like she was next to heaven. I wouldn’t want to leave that for this reality either I don’t think.

I shut my door, bolting it. I turned on the light and looked around my studio apartment. I sat on a kitchen stool carefully untangling the necklace.  In the light the blue was more noticeable, but it was still a very dark blue, looking at it was how I imagined it would feel like to peer into a black hole. I could feel my soul getting sucked in. The chain had a silvery color to it, and old fashioned silver filigree surrounded the stone which was an oval shape. It was large and heavy. Heavier than the eye felt it should be. Like something magical.  I felt a wave of paranoia strike me, I got up and checked all the windows, rechecked the door.  I even looked under the bed. I was still all alone. What was I going to do with this?

This had to be worth a fortune. I looked at Pooka the Goldfish conspiratorially. He was rescued from the video store, someone dumped him off in one of those Petco bags, and it was warm and filthy. I thought for sure he was a goner. But, even though I knew nothing about fish, and put the poor guy in Tacoma City water, he flourished, and came back to life. It is amazing what a little love can do; especially to the downtrodden and abandoned.

It occurred to me that I completely stood up Amy and this wasn’t the first time. I was a horrible friend. Easily distracted, and painfully anti-social.  I should text her, or maybe even call her. Eh, not now. I had to find a place to put this thing. It almost felt like someone handed me a stolen loaded gun used in a crime. This necklace felt like that, full of dangerous energy.  I do not know why or how, but it was all I could think of. Pooka jumped up and hit the metal grate I was using as a lid for his glass bowl which made a distinct ding. He was telling me, “Feed me.” Only goldfish I knew that demanded food.  I absently put some flakes in and went back to the necklace. I glanced at my phone.  3 missed calls, and a text. “Where are you? Not Again. GGRRR.” Yeah, Amy was used to my unreliableness.

I hear a sudden loud knock at the door. I jump, put the necklace into my pocket and approach the door slowly, looking out the peephole.  It was late, and it was a secured entry apartment building, so who could it be? A neighbor out of milk maybe?

I see the stranger with his baseball cap and tan trench coat.  He had an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, and a steely blank expression in his grey eyes. He looked mean in the hall light. I liked him better in the dark.

“Who is it?” I say trying to project calm into my voice.

“I think you know. You have the item? I’d like it back now.” The man glanced toward the front door of the apartment building with concern and agitation.  “Can we hurry this up? I got someplace I got to be.”

I looked at the man through the peephole, and I knew what he wanted, and I knew he wanted in. I stared at him a while, watched as he got angrier and more anxious. He started pounding on my door demanding entry with a sudden urgency. Then I heard the door to the building open. I heard steps come down the hall. I saw the man go a pale white. All the blood draining from his face.  The next thing I saw I will never forget. It was like the man disappeared before my eyes and I heard a whoosh like the bus going by and he was gone.

The lights flickered for a moment like a giant power surge just happened. I felt something inside me go cold. My left hand was in my pocket, feeling the necklace.  I looked out the peephole again. Everything seemed quiet. I didn’t see the other person nor did I hear steps leaving. Strange. I slowly opened the door after unbolting it. I peeked out into the hallway. I saw an unlit cigarette lying on the floor. Nothing else remained.  I shut my door and re locked it. My heart pounding I pushed the couch against the door, adding as much furniture as I could move. I had to feel safe. Whatever that was it wasn’t going to come in here.

I finally laid down on the bed feeling exhausted. I woke up to my alarm the next day still in my work clothes, looking around at my trashed apartment. Everything was shoved against the door. I felt my hand in my pocket. I felt my other pocket. I checked my jacket. The necklace was gone. But there was no way anyone could have gotten in here.  I retraced my steps. I started moving things back in case it slipped out while I was moving things. I heard a knock at my door again. I looked out the peephole over my couch which was still blocking the door. It was the manager looking concerned. “I am getting complaints about moving furniture in the night, and loud noises. Are you okay in there?”

“Has someone been in here? I mean, this is a secure building right?”

“Miss Rae, you know this is a secure building. You have a key. Sometimes people will let people in when I tell them not to, but otherwise, yes it is. Now what is going on in there?”

“Oh nothing,” I tell her. I couldn’t trust her, I decided. She had a key to the apartment, maybe she took the necklace for all I know. She looks worried but finally leaves. My phone starts ringing; my cell phone also starts going off. I just start yelling stop, stop calling me! I look at the time. It is work; I am supposed to be at work. What is wrong with me? Where did the time go? I have to move this couch out of the way.  I go to move the couch and remember the necklace. Where did it go? Why can’t I find it? I start looking for the necklace again, moving the furniture. It must be here somewhere.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt # 13 The Break Down

Posted on by jennrae

Day 13

Breaking Down

A tire blows out as you’re in the car with someone on the verge of his/her own breakdown.

Stuck in a small town, you’re about to do something you haven’t done in years.

 

The tire suddenly went bang. I turned on my turn signal and pulled over to the side of the road.  Henry was in the passenger seat brow furrowed. He had never been mechanically inclined. Another reason my parents never approved of our marriage. The old Toyota had been reliable for a long time. But like all things, there is the day when things suddenly happen. And this explosion had been overdue. Much like Henry’s mood. The grey clouds had been gathering for quite some time.

We decided on this road trip to get away from our troubles.  We had tried so many things. To rekindle the fire to keep the momentum going.  The tire going bang woke me out of my trance like state. Suddenly I had to call AAA and wait.  We were out on the highway, literally the middle of nowhere. The nearest town was unpronounceable.  Lilliwaup or Dosewallips  or something or other. We were trying to get to the ocean.  We were trying to get to somewhere else to find ourselves again.  We were trying.

We were happy once I thought. Before reality hit. Before things became hard. Before we lost what we never really had. Hope for the future.  The promise of a bright future, a career for Henry, a baby for me. Both lost and gone in a moment. Like the tire. But not so easily replaced.

I get out after making the call. Who knew how long we had. The door shuts suddenly loud on the quiet roadside. We were far removed from civilization as we knew it. He said nothing.  “Let’s go for a walk.” I say, reaching out.  He barely looked up.  “Come on, Henry.” I plead, wondering where he was at.

He slowly gets out of the car; I hear the door slam decidedly. It sounded so final his brow still furrowed.  Was it really too late for us? It had only been a couple short years but it seemed like we were all ready very different people.  “ I feel like I don’t know you anymore. Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Maybe I don’t see the point of talking. Talking doesn’t solve anything. Everything is still going to be waiting for us when we come back. All the bills, empty house. Empty crib, more and more bills. “

“I don’t understand why you agreed to this road trip if it was pointless.” My voice became shrill and sharp like a harpy.  I hated how he made me turn into this angry shrill thing. I hated what I had become. Where did the optimism go? Where did we go?

“Maybe I am tired of fighting. Maybe I had a brief glimmer of hope. Maybe I wanted to make you happy. But I think I have hit my limit. You want me to talk about it? Okay. How is this for talking about it? I am done. Done with all this.” He gestured at the trees, and wilderness around us.

“What are you saying?” I get concerned not sure if he is talking divorce, or something more. I detect edginess to his voice; a grief that scares me. I didn’t recognize this person in front of me. Was he always this way? Or did I somehow make him like this? Maybe we were slowly killing each other?

“What are you saying?”  I look at my phone. Maybe I should call someone? I was still waiting for AAA. “Come on let’s walk a bit. Maybe we are close to someplace we can eat, while we wait.” I note the marker the car is parked near, and grab hold of his hand and we start walking. He goes silent again, not answering my question.

I know something is wrong, perhaps something had been wrong for a long time and I was blind to it. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. The string of jobs he couldn’t keep. The sudden desire to sleep in, and go to bed early. The listlessness. You would have thought he lost the baby. I had to be strong for both of us. I had to figure out how to pay the bills.

The hospital bill was the hardest. A reminder of what could have been. What was hoped for? But, no I couldn’t crumble. I wasn’t allowed to crumble. I resented him for that. For not allowing me to be the victim. For being greedy with the grief. For forcing me to be strong. I wanted to fall apart too, I thought to myself.  It was unfair. I sounded like a spoiled child. A child, I sighed at my own thoughts.

I cannot escape reality for long. I heard the crumble of asphalt under my boots and it seemed so loud all of sudden. A flurry of quail exploded in the near bushes scared off by our walking. A café was up ahead, a sort of greasy spoon café that preyed on stuck and lost travelers the way a spider waits for flies.  We walk up to it in silence bringing our pain and loss following us like an ever present shadow that won’t go away.

A sign with western style lettering says ‘Please seat yourself’ and so we do. We take a couple bar stools at the long wooden counter. I answer for both of us, “A couple Dr Pepper’s please, and we are waiting on AAA.” The waitress looks at me like I’m crazy. “Nothing to eat, dear?” I see her glance at my morose husband who says nothing. “Maybe a slice of your apple pie,” I point on the menu. She nods in approval walks into the back and comes back with the sodas and two plates and a big slice of pie.

I take a bite gingerly. “Mm. This is really good. Go ahead, Henry. You should try some. This is more than I can eat.”

“Naw, you go ahead. I know you can eat for two.” That hits me like a slap in the face. I look at him in astonishment. “Uh, what?”

“You heard me. I’m done here.” He gets up and walks out. I watch him in confusion. Where could he possibly go? And why the cruelty? The pie turns to ash in my mouth. I find I can no longer eat it. I leave some cash on the counter and run out after him wanting a confrontation. Wanting to yell at him and hit him. I was beyond frustrated.

“Henry! Where are you going?” I look around. I don’t see him. Part of me wants to let him go. Sometimes I think it would be easier to start over than to fix the mess that we created. My cell starts buzzing, I answer. “Yes, flat tire. Yeah, I’ll be right there. I’m at this Café. Yeah. I’ll be right there.” They were at our car. Probably the only car in the area so not hard to find.  I look around but Henry seems to have disappeared. I yell, “Okay, this isn’t funny. I am going back to the car. AAA is there changing the tire.  You know, doing what you should be able to do. So, I hope you are going to the car and not sulking like some gawd damn baby.”

I regret it as soon as I say the word. It was too late, it had left my mouth. I stomped to the car angry at him the whole way. I signed the forms and the AAA guy thanked me and left.  I got in the car slamming the door as loud as I could, started the engine, turned on the radio as loud as I could handle. It was playing Adele with a ton of static. Not the greatest listening experience but I wanted to have the biggest tantrum ever.  I see a couple police cruisers drive up sirens on. I turn the radio off, and look at them and they look at me.

“Ma’am, we have a report of someone who was seen jumping off the cliff side. Did you see anything? We got a call from the Café up the road?”  The ocean was far down the road. We wanted to get to the ocean. Down the winding upward road, you could see it. The sparkling water so near yet so far away.

“Someone jumped? Down there?” I looked over the side of the road; there was a metal railing to protect cars from driving off.  I felt a sharp pain in my heart like a part of me died somewhere down there.  “I guess you better talk to the people at the café. I didn’t see anything here.”My voice was shaky but firm.  I watched as the police continued up the road.  I got ready to turn the car around. It was time to go back home.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt #10 The Dollar

Posted on by jennrae

I wandered the mall trying to find that elusive unique gift. You know that one that no one thought they really needed, but after they have it they can’t live without it? That unique I know you better than you know yourself type of gift. I roamed Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Kohl’s, and several little boutiques. Every time something called out to me, at the last second it just didn’t seem to fit.  I knew Charlee loved colors. Especially colors that made her think of spring. Fresh flowers and that sort of thing.

I was thinking maybe scarf, you can’t have too many of those and you didn’t have to worry about sizes. Or maybe a hat, or a belt. Or maybe a perfume? But, then maybe that is too personal. I could be way off on the scent and then I would experience that awkward, “You really shouldn’t have…” With the expression that says, yeah, like, you really shouldn’t have…” Literally, not tongue in cheek.

Same with dresses. So much could go wrong. I would save the receipt, no matter what I decided. No repeats of last year. The silence was deafening as she looked at the egg plant colored rain coat. Yeah, you shouldn’t have…thought I would ever, ever wear that. Lesson learned. Don’t go too quirky, don’t go too boring. Remember the beige sweater? Who could not like a neutral sweater? Apparently Charlee.  Another year I got her a coffee mug. Problem was, so did her best friend. The year of the coffee cups taught me to try to find something no one else would think of. But at the same time not to go too far off in left field. Remember the rain coat became my new mantra.

Finally I settle on this tiny shop next to the perfume store. It looked like As-Seen-On-TV mixed with random nick-knacks like hello kitty clocks and waving animal solar powered dealies. You’ve seen them in windows and on car windows. Dancing daisies and stuff like that.  I see one of the Felix the cat clocks give me the side eye as it was ticking reminding me I was running out of time.  I went to a corner that had fortune stuff, lucky bamboo shoots in little porcelain jars next to banzai plant kits. Hmm. She would probably kill that poor plant before the month was out. I couldn’t have that death on my conscious.

My eyes went to a little book shelf. One book stood out. It was a dark purple color, kind of a velveteen material. In gold lettering it said Be What You Want to Be. Hmm. Sounds self-help-like. But she likes that sort of thing. It looks good to have a few books like that lying around. Makes you seem like you are working on yourself.  It was risky though. What if the purple is too much like egg plant? What if she reads it and hates it, and then decides she hates me? I am terrible at this. So I decide to open the book and see what it says inside.  I flip through it. To my amazement, it is empty. So, it is a journal maybe? The future is unwritten sort of thing? I decide she would like the soft velvet cover; maybe it would inspire her to journal.

I pick it up and take it to the counter which was a long glass affair with random porcelain figurines inside.  Future thrift shop memorabilia I think. Isn’t that where all this stuff ends up in the end? If it doesn’t go straight to some giant land fill somewhere of forgotten treasures. I briefly am reminded of the land of forgotten toys from the old clay-mation holiday cartoon. Was it Rudolph or one of the others? The thought is gone as quickly as it came. Dancing Jack-in –the-Box and all the other misfit toys. Gone. Half remembered but not important enough to keep in the movie, or my memory.

I hand the cashier, a grey haired lady with thick glasses, a twenty dollar bill. She opens the register with a bell ring and gives me the change, a ten, a five, and two ones plus miscellaneous change.  She reminds me of the old lady on the packages of Grandma’s cookies. She just seems like that sort of old lady. I take my change and notice one of the ones has something written on it. I figure it is one of those “Follow George” from this website and don’t think much of it. I put them hurriedly in my pocket and leave the store. I go to my car, place the little lavender bag with the book on the passenger seat as I start the car up. I sigh, just enough time to get to the party. Charlee all ready hates it when I am late, and I am late most of the time. Time management is not my strength.

I pull up to the nice three bedroom house with perfectly manicured landscaping. A house I helped pay for but rarely spent time in. I could see the balloons from here and the other cars lining the drive way. Last but not least I hope. Purple is still her favorite color isn’t it? Kids grow up way too fast these days. It used to be so easy, My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake or something like that. Maybe it was Carebears and Rainbow Brite?  The years tend to run together now, and now I am unsure of my present.

I get out of the car, clutching the bag, oh crap. I didn’t wrap it. I’m an idiot. I rummage in my glove compartment, find a gift bag for just such emergencies and at the last second, maybe I should put money in the card I all ready bought and signed. I get out my change, and look at the one dollar bill again.  The words on the bill gave me a chill. I looked out my open car door uncertainly.  The bill said in carefully boxed letters, “I am watching you. If you want Charlee to get her present meet me at 4th and Pine. “It didn’t say when. The party was about to begin. I couldn’t help but wonder how this ended up on this bill. Charlee was a fairly unique name for a girl with an uncommon spelling. What would be the chances and how would the person know about the present?

I wrapped the present, and left it on the door step. I had to figure out what this was about. I looked around suspiciously.  Was I being watched? How was this possible? I shakily got back in my car, a beat up old Honda Civic from the nineties and backed out of the drive way. Charlee will hate me. But if there is a psycho following me I can’t have them around her. I should go to the police. There has to be a logical explanation. I drive to 4th and Pine Street. It is quiet. There is a small park there with a few derelict swing sets and playground equipment. It looks creepy empty. Like the pictures of the Chernobyl Ferris wheel years after the nuclear meltdown but not in such bad shape. Just frozen in time, waiting for the ghosts of children to come and play.

I had missed my share of birthday parties but never for such a bizarre reason. Usually I missed them because of work, or stupidity. Yes, stupidity. I always regretted it.  I sighed. I got out slowly looking around. I walked to the fence, checking my cell phone. I saw the missed call and text messages. ‘Where are you? Don’t you know how important this is to her?!?! Whats wrong with you???’ It was a valid question.  I kept one hand on it, so I could hit the emergency button. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but I had the uneasy feeling it was like Alice in Wonderland. And I had no idea how deep this rabbit hole was going to be.

 

 

 

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 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 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.