Do I Know You?

She saw him again yesterday. She was standing in line at the bank and could see the cars in line in the drive through. He was in the second car from the window. A red Mazda Miata. Which she thought didn't seem like the kind of car he would drive. 

But of course she really had no idea what kind of car he should drive. 

She didn't know him, afterall. 

He just was a face in a crowd. 

But one that was always in the crowd. Always. She couldn't remember a time he wasn't around. 

From the time she was a child in elementary school. He wasn't in her class. She saw him passing in the hallway. When she was in high school he played for the opposing team at a Friday night football game.When she sang in choir he was competing at State, on stage right before her choir was ready to go on. When she headed to the East Coast for college he was at Freshman orientation. When she came home for Midwinter break he was coming in to the airport as she was leaving. She saw him at the movies. At concerts. Standing in line at the grocery store. And now here at the bank.

One time he looked really sad and she almost asked him if he was okay. But then remembered, she didn't know him. But she still almost asked. Like she almost told him he looked great in that shade of green and he should wear it more often. 

She wondered if he recognized her. If he told his friends that he'd seen her again. That she was getting a Coke when he was getting popcorn. That he'd almost asked what movie she was seeing but then remembered that he didn't really know her.

Though she had never seen him with friends. Or a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. He was always alone. 

But then again, so was she. 

Not that she was always alone, but that she was always alone when she saw him. Or that only she recognized him. That was probably more accurate. It wasn't like she was with a group of friends and everyone said, "Look! It's that guy!" or "Don't look but he's here!" Nobody but her seemed to even notice him. Or at least nobody talked about it. 

But then again, neither did she. 

Only once had she ever mentioned it, seeing him over and over again. One friend said he was probably her destiny and she should talk to him. One friend said clearly he had something important to tell her and she should ask. And yet another said there were only 6 faces in the whole world so it probably wasn't him at all but just that face. 

Six? Really? That seemed like too few. But she did agree that a lot of people look alike. There were actors she watched that she thought were really busy and always making movies only to find out that it was two different people. Still busy, but not two movies a year busy.

But it was the only time she had mentioned it. They had all been a little high at the time and nobody seemed to remember her talking about it. Or at least thought it was important once they were sober. 

He moved to the front of the drive through and she couldn't see him anymore. 

She knew she'd see him again though. She always did. 

(Prompt was "Write a story about a character that looks eerily familiar." This might be the first time I took a creepy prompt and De-creeped it.  Or did I?) 

Look At This Photograph...

 She stared at the photo on the wall.

“Where was this taken?”

Dale gave her a confused look, “In Acapulco.”

“It’s really lovely. I like the balance of the shot. The cliffs are off center enough to make you feel like maybe they aren’t really there.”

“I’m glad you like it. Considering you took it.”

“What? I did not. I’ve never even been to Acapulco.”

“You have. We went a lot back in the 90s. It was one of our favorite vacation spots.”

“No. It’s too dangerous in Mexico. We would never have gone there. They hate Americans and wouldn’t even let us cross the border if we tried.”

“What are you talking about? You can go to Mexico. You can vacation there. They don’t hate Americans.”

She just shook her head and moved to the next picture. “Are you going to try and convince me I took this one too?”

“No, clearly you didn’t take that one. You are in that one. We hired a photographer for these family shots.” Dale gestured at a series of photographs. Each with a different configuration of people in them.

“Whose family?”

“Ours.” He started to point out people, “This is your mother, this is your sister, our son, our daughter-in-law, our grandchildren.”

“Where is the picture of my daughter?”

“Your daughter? Do you mean Becca? Here, your daughter-in-law.”

“No, my daughter. I have a daughter. I know I do.”

Dale shook his head slowly, “We don’t have a daughter. We have a son, and a daughter-in-law.”

She scowled then squinted at the pictures, “And you say I’m in this one?”

“Yes, this is you.”

She looked at her face in the photo, “I’m quite attractive, aren’t I?”

He laughed, “Yes, I think so. Obviously.”

“Why obviously? Attractiveness is subjective. You might not find me attractive.”

“I’m your husband. So clearly, I find you attractive.”

“My husband? Really? Oh, I thought you were doing that condescending we.”

“No, I am your husband, this is our family. Yours and mine.”

“Hunh, I assumed I was a lesbian.”

“What? Why did you assume you were a lesbian?”

She ran her hand over her head, “Well, my hair is all shaved off and my whole wardrobe seems to consist of comfortable clothes.”

“I can assure you that you are not a lesbian. I am your husband. We’ve been married for almost 40 years.”

“And has it been a good marriage?”

“Yes, of course it has.”

“Has it? Really?”

“Yes, I mean of course there have been ups and downs, there is no way to have any sort of long-term relationship that doesn’t have its highs and lows but for the most part the good has outweighed the bad. We’ve been happy.”

“And are we happy now?”

Dale looked up at the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts. And to keep the tears that had formed in his eyes from spilling out. “We are struggling right now to find a new balance.”

“Would you like to be happy again?”

“Very much.”

“So why do you stay?”

“No, I mean, I’d like to be happy with you. I’d like to get back to a place where you were happy with me. I think we can get there again. It will just take time.”

“What happened? Why can’t I seem to remember the same things that you do?”

He hated this part. The part when she asked what happened. He didn’t want to explain it again and again. He liked the days when she woke up and mostly remembered who she was and who she had been. The days when she didn’t think the things that had been on the TV in the hospital were real. He really did need to complain again about the nurse who kept the TV set to Fox News while she was in a coma. That stuff did seep in.

“There was an accident. You were in a car crash and were thrown from the vehicle. You were unconscious and had a bad brain bleed when you were found. You spent a while in a medically induced coma. Physically you are mostly recovered now, a little stiffness when it rains. But mentally sometimes you forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything. Who you are. Who I am. Everything.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yes, sometimes you wake up and you’re fine. You remember almost everything.”

“Just almost?”

“Yes, the days leading up to the accident and the accident itself seem to be gone, but the doctor said that was normal. That the trauma from an accident that severe sometimes wipes out a block of time around it.”

“So, these are the highs and lows right now? The times I remember and the times I forget?”

“Yes.”

“Which is which?”

“What?”

“Which is the high and which is the low? The times I remember who you are or the times I forget?”

“That’s a strange thing to ask.”

“Maybe. Probably. I guess I don’t know what is weird and what isn’t. I think I’d like to take a nap now. Maybe the me that wakes up will be the one who remembers everything, and you can just forget this conversation happened.”

Dale smiled at her and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world for you to remember things. We’ll get there.”

She walked back to her room and closed the door. Sitting down she opened the drawer on her bedside table and pulled out the note she had found there this morning. “DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING HE SAYS! HE’S LYING TO YOU!” If only she could remember who wrote it.

 

 (Writing prompt: start your story with a character staring at a photograph they don’t remember taking)

Dedication...

She was going over her notes one more time. She probably didn't need to, but she was always very thorough and careful. You never knew what you'd miss if you got sloppy. When she was in school her instructors always commented on how perfect her chart notes were. Clear, concise and legible. Which wasn't the case for a lot of them. The jokes about doctor's handwriting being bad weren't always jokes, and some of her classmates seemed to think that it was a mandate. 

She had always been this way. Precise. Careful. She felt it was a sign of respect. Show the care that you wished others would show to you.

Thinking about school her brow furrowed as she remembered one particular lab partner. They had been assigned a cadaver to work on. A study body they called it. They would be dissecting their cadaver all year. Peeling back layers of skin to expose the fatty tissue then the muscle structures and finally the organs. Each cut needed to be precise, not too deep or you would ruin your next section, not too shallow or you would have to recut and could end up with jagged edges that, if you were in an operating room, would not sew together neatly and leave your patient with a nasty scar.

As they uncovered their body for the first time her lab partner had laughed. Her eyes snapped up from the body they were to be working on to her partner's face. "He wasn't very fit was he?" Her lab partner had said poking the abdomen of their study body. She hadn't said anything. Just continued to look at him until he settled down and took their work seriously. 

Later she was called into their instructor's office. She had apparently come across as unpleasant and they needed to discuss what made a good lab partner. She suggested that her partner was the one who should be in the office. She hadn't appreciated the disrespect he had shown. That the cadaver might now be their study body, but it had been a man. A man who thought their education was important enough that he donated his body to their studies. That was worthy of respect, not mockery. If they were going to learn to be good physicians they needed to learn to treat every patient with respect. And this was practice for that as well. In her opinion.

Then she had stared at her instructor with the same expression she had used on her lab partner. 

That night over dinner her instructor would tell her husband that she had felt a chill when her student had looked at her like that. But that she had been right, disrespecting the body on their table was never okay. Even if the patient wasn't really there to hear it. 

She got a new lab partner.

Her work in cadaver lab was as pristine as her chart notes. Her cuts were clean and exact, they never had to redo a section or face the dreaded replacement organ needed due to a mangled attempt at a microsection. She was also a good lab partner, teaching him how to hold his scalpel at the correct angle, what pressure to apply, how to visualize not only what they were cutting but what was underneath. By the time the semester was over they were both on the fast track for the prime surgical rotation. He had asked her once how she was already so good at this, she hadn't lied to him. She had told him that she couldn't explain why, she just was. 

He had introduced her to the great love of her life. She had seen him around campus a few times. Quite a few times. Possibly she had even made sure she was going to be places where she would see him. He was handsome, but that wasn't all that drew her to him. It was something else. Something intangible. The way he moved, the way he commanded attention but without seeming to do anything to do so. He wasn't loud. He wasn't showy. He just was. And people turned toward him like he was the sun. She wanted to know what that was. That piece. That spark. But she would never have dared approach him. Not at school. Her studies were too important to her. 

One day she and her lab partner were having lunch between classes and he walked into the cafeteria. She noticed him, of course she noticed him, but looked away quickly. Her partner had smiled at her and then waved and shouted, "Z! Hey, Z!" She hadn't realized that she had been obvious in her attentions. She was embarassed that he had noticed, that she had given him something to notice. But it was too late. Z was headed their way. Z. No name attached, just the letter. She fleetingly thought about the alpha and omega. He might not have been the first but could he be the last?

It had been an instant connection. She was drawn in to his orbit just like everyone else seemed to be. But he also was drawn into hers. That was the difference. Something about her intrigued him. Made him want to seek her out in the lunchroom, in the library, waiting outside the lab. Eventually they became inseparable. 

She hadn't expected that. She hadn't really understood how to process that. How she would process that. 

Z was her type. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, fit but not muscle bound. Popular without being surrounded at all times. He had that it factor that she was drawn to. Over and over again. She had never expected to find it in someone on campus. And she absolutely hadn't expected to form this relationship. 

But she had. She loved him. He was different. She was different when she was with him. 

Mostly different.

But she was still herself too. The one she had always been. 

She sighed, time to stop reminiscing and get back to her notes. 

One more review and then she gowned up and entered the room where he was waiting. 

"Hello, Z, today we're going to try something different."

The man strapped to the bed turned his blue eyes toward her, "I'm not Z. I've told you over and over that's not my name. I don't know what you want, but it's not me. Please..."

"Shhh...it's okay, Z. It's normal to feel a little nervous before a session."

He started to cry. He knew at any moment he would be put under anesthesia only to wake up with another series of incisions. He wasn't sure how many more of her sessions she would do but he knew he wasn't going to survive. Eventually he would have nothing left to give her. 

She had been practicing her trade since she was 15. She could keep them alive, or kill them quickly. She had skinned them, dissected them, reassembled them after splitting every joint from their core. She was precise and neat and calm. 

She had a type. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, fit but not muscle bound. They all had to have that spark. The one she had spent a lifetime trying to find. What was it about them that called to her. She was going to find it. It was her life's work. 

But she was careful. Precise. She had a type, and her husband happened to match that type. If she had to find a thousand men who looked like Z to find that spark she would. Anything to keep her from looking inside her beloved for it. She snapped her gloves and said, "Shall we begin, Z?" If she had to make them Z she would. 

She would do anything to keep him alive. 

Short Story...

She had steeped the tea for two hours. Strained the water three times. Mixed in a cup of sugar. Reduced it on the stove for another hour to get an Earl Grey Tea syrup to use in her cupcakes. Every step took so long. Sure she could have just bought a box of cake mix and made those but with the thunderstorm raging outside she might as well do them the right way. Today she would bake, yesterday she had found the text messages and told him, "Get out of my house." This morning she had started to wonder if that had been a mistake, if she should have waited. But he would be back, he needed to get his things. And he couldn't resist her cupcakes. Taking the time to make them this way he would never taste the poison. 

Dana sent me a list the other day:

Write a scene in a novel, using these words:
1. Cupcakes
2.Wonder
3.Earl Grey Tea
4."Get out of my house."
5.Thunderstorm

I smarted off that that wasn't from a novel that was just a paragraph. And apparently my head has been thinking...hmmm...ever since. So today you got the paragraph.

And of course it was poison and death. I mean Dana knew when she sent it that it wouldn't be Betty Crocker. And the last two items to include in your scene kind of lead you that way anyway. Or at least me.

I haven't really gotten back into the swing with fiction lately. I can feel the starts back in my head though. I'm hopeful that some salt water and sun will get them to the surface. I'm also thinking about doing poetry month for April again. That was one of the hardest challenges I've ever done with my writing. It really makes me think in different ways. I'm not a great poet, but I'm not a great fiction writer either and I do that anyway. 

Skippy, you can just take a month and work with your horses. 

I'm not sure I'll do it, but I'm tossing the idea around. 

This next week in Hawaii is going to be time for all of the ideas to settle and form and get tossed around and resettle. We have fewer things planned than normal so a lot more time to sit and watch the waves. And to swim. And to feel the whale song in my chest. 

Let's hope it's as rejuvenating as I want it to be. 

Not Giving Up...

So if there are any of you that are watching Drag Race Canada and aren't caught up on this season you should back out now so you don't get any spoilers. Not sure if there are any of you out there, but you know how I feel about spoilers so I want to make sure. 

Okay, good?

Good.

So like three episodes ago Kimora Amour told all the other Queens that she was ready to go home. That she had done everything should could and there was just no more to give. 

The other Queens were really upset with her. They kept telling her not to give up. And she was trying to make it clear to them that she wasn't giving up, she was just done. There was a difference. And I really understood what she was trying to say. Maybe it's due to age, the other Queens are all younger and still doing that "Meet My Potential" drive. Kimora is a little older. She is happy with her life and where she is. That striving part of her time is done. 

I'm older than she is and I really feel that. Which I know sounds odd in a way since I'm always coming up with little games and challenges and goals to keep reaching for things but...

I know who I am. I know what my limits are in certain areas. I know where I want to be. And sometimes I realize that what I was reaching for doesn't actually serve me. So I stop. It's not giving up. Or giving in. Or settling. It's knowing who you are. Knowing what is important to you. Knowing what is worth your time. And continually butting up against a wall you are not going to break down doesn't serve you.

And honestly at some point you realize that if breaking down that wall had really been all that important to you, you'd have done it when you were younger and still full of striving energy. 

I reached that this year with my writing. You know back in like September I decided I wasn't going to submit anything this year. I didn't submit last year, 2020 was not a year that needed more rejection. And 2021 was just shaping up to be a year that wasn't lending itself to a lot of quality fiction and maybe fiction all together was off my radar. 

And as soon as I let that go I had a little flourish of inspiration and I wrote a few pieces and then a new contest that seemed pretty tailormade for my fun zone dropped into my lap. (Things that sound dirty, but aren't) So I went ahead and entered. Which put me down one for contest submissions and one for other submissions. And the contest that I entered had multiple heats. The second part starts this weekend. Same sort of format, they give you a genre, an action and a word that must be used in the story and you have 24 hours to craft a micro fiction (250 words) story. So I was counting that second round as my second contest submission. 

Except I didn't make it out of round one. 

Got the news last night. There were 48 people in my group, the Top Ten advanced. I wasn't one of the top ten. There were five honorable mentions as well. I wasn't one of those. Forty eight stories, fifteen got kudos, thirty percent of the stories submitted were good enough. I was not in that 30%. It stung last night. A lot. 

I mean, I can absolutely justify it to myself on one hand. Even when I submitted I said I didn't like it. I thought it wasn't my best work at all. But, honestly? I thought even not being my best work I'd at least make it out of round one. The genre was not one I ever write. The prompts made it really difficult. But at least everyone was in the same boat right? Except clearly some of us were in a different storm...

So last night I looked over the titles and wished I could see the stories. Wondering what those stories were like. The ones that made it out. And then I had a realization. I didn't really actually care. I mean I would look and I would either agree or disagree but it wouldn't change what I did. What I was able to do. What I want to do. I've reached the max for myself with writing. I'm not giving up. I'm just done running into the wall over and over. 

I do not have the energy or the self confidence (delusion?) to self publish. I don't want to spend the time necessary to push my work out there through all the socials and book stores and everything you have to do to try and sell books when you don't have a publishing house behind you. I'm not going to pay a vanity press to put out my stories when I have my own vanity publishing platform right here. I'm tired of submitting to contests and anthologies only to keep being told my stuff isn't good enough. I have my own inner critic for that.

I have a little bit of talent. I'm not going to say that I don't. I enjoy getting feedback from the 4 people who read my stuff and enjoy it. I'm super excited that I have four when I used to have three. That's like a 30% increase in audience size and that's pretty damn good. But I also know that as soon as I said I wasn't worried about it I had a rush of ideas and when I went back to focusing on what I "needed" to submit they were gone. I've had enough. 

I totally get Kimora. I know who I am. I know what I do well. I have no desire to keep trying to push out of a space where I'm actually happy and proud of what I do. 

So here you go, enjoy the last (as far as I can tell, you know me, I might completely change my mind some point in the future) submission from me. It's not really a Denise type story. It's not really something I was super pleased with. But dammit...I still think it was pretty good. 

The rules were 24 hours to write the story
Micro-fiction 250 words not including the title
Prompts were:
Genre: Action and/or Adventure
Action: Winning a bet
Word: Scrap

The Chase

 Passenger mirror. Windshield. Rearview mirror. Windshield. Driver side mirror. Windshield. She repeated the words to herself as her eyes scanned the road ahead and the road behind. Something she had learned from her father. Keep one part of your brain busy and another will notice things you wouldn’t have otherwise.

And there it was. How long had it been there? She made a mental checklist. Red Subaru. Two cars back. She changed lanes. The Subaru changed lanes as well.

Traffic was picking up now. She needed to get further ahead, trap the Subaru behind her. Passenger mirror. Windshield. Rearview mirror. She slowed and changed lanes again. Tucking in quickly.

Driver side mirror. Windshield. Passenger side. Subaru.

One more lane change, then a burst of speed. Rearview mirror. The Subaru was now 5 cars behind, but she could see the driver scanning the road, trying to find a gap to catch her.  Driver side mirror. Windshield. Rearview mirror. Windshield. Passenger side mirror.

She turned right and tucked into a long line of cars. She was stuck now, and so was the Subaru. Traffic stopped. Engines turned off. Rearview mirror. The door to the Subaru was open and the driver was walking toward her car. She reached into the glove box and fumbled around until she found what she needed.

As the Subaru driver slowly walked toward her window, she made a mark on the scrap of paper. The tally was 14-5.

“You win again.”

“Double or nothing for tomorrow’s school pickup?”

Sentimental Fool...

She sat in the back of her tent running her fingers over the locket. She was watching the shadows move trying to decide if it was close enough to sunset to pack up. She had been in this location for two days now and three was a bad idea. If you set up someplace for too long there were those who assumed that meant you had so much stuff it wasn't easy to pack it all. Which made you a target. 

Never make yourself a target.

She wanted to be ready to move as soon as the temperature dropped. Or right before. There were those that would risk the extra time as the sun was setting, knowing they could get the drop on those that hadn't started to move, that hadn't been ready for an attack during daylight. There used to be more daytime raids but now it was just too hot while the sun was up to risk being outside. You might be able to raid a camp, but if they held you off and kept you out in the sun you were toast. So to speak. 

It was a balancing act. Move as soon as you could, but not too early. Be ready for an attack but don't waste too much energy and time looking for one that might not come. Sleep during the day but not too deeply. Move at night but carefully. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't make yourself a target. This wasn't a world for soft things anymore. 

She ran her finger over the back of the locket one more time before tucking it away. At one point there had been a name engraved there but over the years her finger had worn it smooth. That was fine. There was no need for names anymore. There weren't enough people left to need them. There was just you and everyone else. 

She used to open the locket and touch the photo inside. But the grit in the air and the grime on her fingers started to erase the photo. To protect it she had closed the two hearts into one and stopped opening it at all. That was fine. She had looked at it so often all she had to do was close her eyes to recall every detail. The slight turn of the head, the crooked grin, the smile in the eyes. She didn't need to open the locket to see the picture. 

She shook off her sleeping bag. The layer of grit that settled on it during the day was impressive. She tried not to think about how much of that was in her lungs now. She knew that even through the layers of protection on her face there was a constant seeping of grit in every breath she took. There was dirt in her nose. Dirt in her mouth. Dirt in her eyes and in her ears. Eventually she would be buried alive from the inside out. 

But not today. Today she was still alive and ready to move.

Her hand automatically reached for the locket again. It had turned into a talisman. A worry stone. A reminder to keep moving. It was hard to remember a time when there were things like lockets and earrings and bracelets and brightly colored clothes and shoes, impractical things that you had just because they were beautiful. There were people who made a living just making beautiful things. And people would buy them and fill their houses with them. And they all thought those things were so important. 

Those that learned quickly about what was really valuable were the ones that were still alive. Good strong shoes. Layers of clothing that could keep you warm while you moved at night, but could be shed during the day to try and cool off. Anything that could block the grit. Goggles were best but sunglasses were better than nothing. A tent that you could seal. A strong back pack. And a strong back. 

Camping stores were looted early. Doomsday preppers were next. Nothing made you a bigger target in the beginning than your neighbors knowing you had a cellar full of food and supplies. Those guns you thought would save you? Good luck keeping the grit out of them. There were as likely to explode in your hand as they were to actually shoot the bullet at someone. It was like the Dirty Harry movie she remembered. Do you feel lucky? If you were hungry enough you took the chance. The grit evened the playing field. The preppers who had made sealed basements to protect from nuclear fall out thought they would be safe. But once their generators filled with grit and stopped working their underground bunkers turned into ovens. It was come out or cook to death. And as soon as they opened the door to come out they found there were people waiting for them. 

Or maybe not for them, but for their supplies. 

Never make yourself a target. 

The shadows lengthened and she decided it was time to go. She put on the welder's helmet she preferred to wear during the last moments of sunlight and struck her tent tent quickly. She loaded the last of her supplies into her back pack and took a look around before leaving. No footprints. Nobody had been sneaking around. Or at least nobody had gotten close enough for danger. That was a good sign. 

She scanned the horizon looking for signs of life. If she could find another campsite tonight that would be good. She was running low on a few items.

It was easier to find things at the beginning. Stores weren't completely picked over, or buried in grit. There were things left behind in houses that could be put to use. Curtains and bedsheets usually. The water in the toilet tank was sometimes still there. One glorious time a large ice chest full of water. Apparently it had been full of ice and beer. Judging from the bottles scattered around the living room and the state of his body she had guessed he had drunk all of the beer and then hadn't been able to protect himself from what came next. But it was just a guess. She had come later and seen the carnage. Bad day for him, good luck for her. 

She had made that water last, filling those empty beer bottles and capping them with wax plugs from some candles she had found. Then she had used one of the bottles as a weapon to protect the rest from someone else. She had been careless and taken a drink in the open. She had made herself a target. 

Never make yourself a target.

Survival was a trick. A game. Everyone had to play differently. Those that could protect themselves did. Those that couldn't, needed to learn how to move fast and light. To stay out of sight as much as possible and to move when it was time to move. Even those that would fight needed to learn when not to. When the numbers weren't in your favor. Or the size disadvantage was too great. You became a quick judge of character or you died. 

And sometimes you died in horrific ways. Worse than suffocating from the grit filling your lungs. Worse than starving to death slowly. Worse than the delirium that could overtake you in a matter of moments in the the midday heat. Worse than hoping the gun you found would work for just one more shot. 

You could die because you hadn't yet learned that no thing was worth your life. You could die because you didn't understand that survival was all that mattered. Travel light, travel fast, never make yourself a target.

You could die clutching a heart shaped locket that meant so much to you that you went back for it when you should have run fast and far. 

There was no place for soft things in this world. Not anymore. 

Face the Music...

"Have you ever considered going blonde?"

She turned to face him completely so he could see the full eye roll. "No."

"I mean, not that your hair isn't fine the way it is, but you know..."

She gave a small laugh. "Yes, I know. But no, I have never been tempted. I like my brown hair and I know what I'd look like blonde so..."

This time he gave a small laugh. "Okay fair enough."

He washed another dish and handed it to her. 

"So, umm...do you think that Rachel is..."

She was tempted to let him struggle. Let him feel awkward as he asked her a question that wasn't really a question for her at all. But she had told Rachel she would be nice.

"Go ahead. I'm not going to be insulted."

"Do you think Rachel is like you?"

Oh well maybe a little insulted. And maybe not totally nice. "Like me? Wonderful? Intelligent?"

He had the good graces to at least look a little embarassed. "Well I know she's like that. But...you know what I mean."

"Is she bi? No, I don't think so. She's always said she's straight so I have to believe that."

"Oh you're bi? I thought you were just a lesbian."

"Just a lesbian..."

"Well you know what I mean. She told me you might bring your new girlfriend to dinner so I just assumed."

"Yes, I'm dating a woman right now. Doesn't change anything else. But as far as I know Rachel is males exclusively. But you could always ask her."

"There really isn't a way to ask that without sounding like I'm looking for a three way."

This time she laughed loudly. "Yeah, I guess it does seem like that doesn't it? Well unless she brings it up then, I'd just assume that she's strictly hetero."

"Does that bother you?"

She dried her hands on the dishtowel. "Why would it?"

"Well I mean, you guys have been friends for a long time. Does it bother you that she doesn't..."

She smirked, "That she doesn't find me attractive?"

He smiled, "Fair enough."

She stepped back and looked at him. "Have you ever considered growing some facial hair? Like a goatee or a beard or anything?"

"I hadn't. But maybe..."

Rachel came into the kitchen as her best friend and her new boyfriend shared a laugh over the washed dishes. 

"You guys are the best! Thank you for doing that!"

"Are you kidding? Dinner was wonderful. Cleaning up was the least we could do. And besides, it gave us a little time to get to know each other."

"I know! You were talking to intently you didn't even notice the picture I took. I posted it on my Insta with the hashtag, new kitchen help." 

"You posted it?"

"I did. Look..." Rachel opened her phone to show them the picture and got distracted by the notifications.

*Oh my god! I didn't know Julie had a brother!*

*How cute they are! They look exactly alike!*

*Wow, you can tell they are related for sure!*

*Twins or just close in age?*

Rachel read all of the comments then looked from her best friend to her boyfriend and back. 

"Well...that's awkward."

(The prompt was Your best friend is excited for you to meet their new beau. They've talked them up so much that you're actually nervous to meet them. When you finally see them you have to catch your breath...you'd recognize that face anywhere.)

No Refunds...No Exchanges...

The first thought she had when she woke up was that she loved her house. And she should. She had designed it from first shovel full of dirt to last piece of furniture placed. It was her perfect sanctuary. 

She had gotten the land for a steal. The man who had owned it was desperate and she had cash on hand. The architect who helped her design it had done so for free as long as he could use it as advertising. She had allowed the interior designer to use photos for his website as well, even though she had only used him for his discount and had done all of the designing on her own. When all was said and done her custom built and designed house had cost less than anyone could have imagined. 

But that was the way her life worked. 

She was extremely lucky. Always. Things just worked out for her.

From the very small things, always a parking space opening just as she pulled up. To the very large things, the job she wanted was hers for the asking and with a larger salary than they had originally intended to offer. 

Her friends would hate her and how easy things were for her if she weren't so generous and kind. She was always the first to help when needed. She had provided refuge in her walls for anyone who had needed it. She had donated to countless fundraisers and charitable events. She wasn't selfish at all. So it was impossible to hold a grudge at how easily things came for her. 

Usually. 

Or at least for any length of time. 

She was content in her life. 

And she really loved her house.

That's what she was thinking when the knock on the door came. 

She should have been more startled. After all it was her bedroom door and she was home alone. But it wasn't the first time this had happened. It had been a long time since the last visit, probably 30 years, but it wasn't a thing you forgot. 

"Is it you?" she called out when she heard the knock. 

"Yeah." came the almost shy sounding reply. 

"Well come on in then."

The door opened slowly and he made his way into her room. The door frame had to flex to allow his bulk and her room itself had to expand to allow him to fit. But when you were dealing with the Devil himself such tricks of space were really small potatoes. 

She sat up a little straighter and fluffed the pillow behind her back before smoothing the sheets back around her. She might as well be comfortable. 

He paced a little at the foot of her bed. The air around him rippling out in waves as the physical world made room for him. She knew that even the bulk she was seeing wasn't all of him, as massive as he appeared in this world in his own he would be all consuming. Like, literally, consuming everything. Which probably should have worried her more than it did but she had made peace with her arrangement at 16 and hadn't wavered since. 

"Is it time?" She was surprised at how even she was able to keep her voice. She had expected at least 30 more years but you never knew when your time would end and she had always expected him to come collect personally. A time to rub it in maybe? That he had actually gotten the better end of the deal. She should have been upset. But she just couldn't muster it. She had had a good run. Her life had been comfortable. More than comfortable. What was it the kids said these days? Hashtag blessed? That's how she had felt. Even when the idea would make her laugh a little. Blessed. That was rich. 

"No. Not yet. But we need to talk." His voice was deep enough that she could feel it rumble in her chest. The sensation was like sitting near the tracks when a train went by. 

"About?" In all of the years since their original deal he had never stopped by just to chat. She had seen him, sure. He always wanted to make sure she knew he was around. When she signed the deed for the land her house sat on she saw him standing in the shadows. When her children graduated from high school and then from college as valedictorian and summa cum laude he had been there as well. When the shelter she helped finance through a series of almost miraculous investments broke ground he was there. She saw him often. But he never approached her or wanted to chat. He just wanted her to know he was there. That he did that. She would smile and nod his direction and that always seemed to satisfy him, he would nod back and then he would be gone. 

"Look, this isn't easy for me but..." he paced again. The ripples moving out wider and wider. She found herself reaching out to disturb the outer edge. Like you would burst a smoke ring. When she touched the edge she felt the warmth of his energy. Which, again, should have worried her. But the thought of eternal burning had never scared her. She wasn't sure why. It just hadn't. She touched the ripples again. This time she looked up and saw him shiver as she did so. 

"Don't do that please." 

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I need to talk about the deal we made. It seems as though there have been some complaints."

"Complaints? From whom? The deal was between you and me and I'm fine, and you have always seemed fine."

"You haven't exactly taken advantage of your situation."

She held her hands up gesturing at her room in her perfect house. "I think I'm doing pretty well."

"You are. Pretty well. But most people when given your deal really...well...go for it. They make a killing in the stock market. They buy up a lot of real estate and charge and arm and a leg to resell it. They gather a lot of resources. You've just well...this." He gestured around the room. 

"Just this? I love this house. I love this plot of land. I've loved my job. I've loved being able to provide the best things for my children. I've loved being able to help all of my friends..."

"See? There's the problem again." he interrupted her. 

"What?"

"You help everyone you know. And even those you don't. You've been helpful. That's not the typical deal."

"But there was nothing in our deal that said I couldn't. It was really very open ended what I could receive and what I could do and I think I've done very well."

"You have done good."

"No, it's well. I've done well. That's the proper grammar." She couldn't let that slide, even from the Devil himself. 

"No, I mean you've done good. You and I made a deal. You get whatever you desire and I get your soul and you turned around and only took what made you content and then helped other people. You've used our deal to do good. That's just not...well...it's not expected. We've never had a situation like that."

"And this is a problem?"

He sighed and paced again. 

She watched the ripples, refraining from touching them. Just watching her room bend to his will. It was almost dizzying.

"It is a problem. You are causing an accounting imbalance."

She raised her eyebrows. "An accounting imbalance?"

"Yes, think of a life like a series of debits and credits. At the end you look at the tally and your eternal soul's location is decided. Good deeds on one side, selfish ones on the other. It's a running tally."

"I didn't think that applied to me anymore. I mean I signed away the rights when I was 16. No more tally marks right?"

"Not exactly. It's more that selling your soul for worldly gain is such a large negative mark that nobody has ever worked off the debt. And most people who sell off their souls go on to accumulate a lot more negative debt. It's pretty standard for people who make these sorts of deals."

He paced some more.

"But you didn't do that. Yes, your life has been easy, which is what you asked for. But you didn't turn around and keep taking. You didn't seek revenge on your step father, who was the driving force in you making the deal in the first place. You just made the original deal and left. And then made yourself comfortable, just comfortable, nothing excessive. And then started helping. Nobody has ever helped before. Or at least helped anyone other than themselves."

"So does this void our deal?"

"No. It doesn't work that way if you remember."

She did actually remember that part. The first time they had negotiated he had given her a week to decide. To really think about it. Left her with a copy of Dante's Inferno to guide her choice. He really wanted to make clear that once she signed it was a done deal. No whining about being a child. No complaining when he came for her at the end of her physical life that she hadn't gotten enough out of the deal. It was ironclad. She had taken the week, because he insisted. She had looked over Dante's Inferno and had matched it to her own bruises and daily life and decided the deal was still a good one. 

"So what is the problem again?"

"The board thinks I've played favorites and let you get away with something."

"The board? I thought you ran things on your own?"

"Think of me as the CEO, but there is a committee, a group that came with me when we originally fell and they have a say in the way things run as well. It's sort of why we left in the first place, so we could have more say. Anyway, they think maybe I've turned a blind eye to you and given you some sort of pass."

"You haven't done anything. You've checked in pretty consistently, so no blind eye at all, but you haven't spoken to me in over 30 years so why would they think you had done anything?"

He looked a little embarassed at that point. 

"Wait, you weren't supposed to be checking in on me were you? That wasn't part of the deal."

"It wasn't. I just....Like I said, nobody has ever done what you've done when making this sort of arrangement. And I've made this arrangement with wide variety of people over the years. They usually keep acquiring power and money and prestige, but just for themselves, maybe a little for their family or for people who could do things for them. A little grease for the wheels. But nobody, and I mean it, nobody, other than you has taken so little for themselves and given so much to others."

She laughed, "And here I've thought that I should be doing more."

"Yes, that's what the board is worried about. Which is why we are going to terminate your contract."

"What? Wait. What happened to ironclad?"

"The board thinks that because I am compromised that there is a loophole to exploit in the original signing. They don't want to take away anything you've already received, and they won't punish you by making your life harder now, but they don't want you gaining anything else."

"And for this breaking I get what?"

"Well, as I said, you get to keep everything you already have. And you get the rights to your soul back."

"And if I say no?"

He made the mistake of looking down at that point. 

"I don't have to agree do I? You know I don't. They know I don't. And I already have the rights to my soul back don't I? That's really what they are mad about. I've earned my soul back. AND I've still got access to the benefits from our original deal don't I?"

"They could try to get this taken up in a higher court. And I'm not sure how that would go for you considering the original deal that was made. HE usually looks down on that sort of thing."

She shook her head. "He would look at the account ledgers right? That's what you said, it's all done on accounting. Good deeds, bad actions. How could HE argue with the facts and figures? And you don't want to do it anyway. I can tell. You're...invested. Or if not invested at least interested. I'm interesting to you."

He turned and bared his teeth at her then. Growling out loud. He should have been terrifying. But she wasn't terrified. She was impressed. It was a good show. But she knew. She knew she was fine. 

She'd always been lucky. In big things and in small. Maybe not always, but for the past 30 years for sure. 

She reached out and touched the edge of a ripple again. "Okay, now that that is out of your system, let's sit down and figure out a new deal that will make both of us happy. You've been very good to me over the years and I don't want you to lose you job over this. But," she touched another ripple and watched him shiver, "I also don't want you to think I'm just going to roll over on this."

He sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed. He remembered how calm she had been at 16 when she had first seen him. He might have been the Devil but she had already faced evil, and he wasn't it. That should have been his first warning he was negotiating from a position of weakness but nobody had done what she had done so he had been blind. And proud. 

He really was going to have to work on that pride thing one day. 

(Writing Prompt: You sold your soul to the devil years ago. Today he appears to ask a favor in exchange for getting your soul back.  Not exactly where this went, but it was enough to spark and idea and that is a big motherfucking WIN)

SO Lame...

I really would like to write a little fiction. I'm falling behind on my fiction goals for the year. I also really do like to write fiction. And the world is a shit show (again, still?) so fiction is a nice mental vacation from that..BUT...I have nothing going on in the old fiction banks right now.

I just Googled Writing Prompts and went to a list of 365 writing prompts, Write Everyday! Well okay then! Let's see what we've got here and...

Look out the window, write about the weather. Or the weather where you wish you were.

Two people are destined for each other. Write about the first time their eyes meet.

Have you ever been in love? Write a poem to first love.

Oh my god...no. No. No. No.

Those aren't writing prompts. Those are how lame can you possibly be prompts.  Ugh.

(sorry to anyone who was inspired by those and wrote a wonderful work of fiction based on seeing the love of your life for the first time in a windstorm)

While I was trying to figure out what to write Brent wandered in to the office and said, "You can write about your awful husband who is making you do everything."

Brent has a touch of the bubons. We aren't sure if it's the Influenza A virus going around or the really bad cold going around or something new and unique but he's been sorta sick since Thursday evening and really sick since Friday afternoon and he is OVER IT. Not over being sick, he still has a fever and is feeling pretty lousy, but over having a fever and feeling pretty lousy. So far I am bubon free so I'm handling everything. Which is what you do, when my back went out he took care of everything, it's the way it goes in a partnership. But neither one of us is really good and not taking care of things ourselves so...he is OVER IT.

But anyway, that would be a lousy story. The husband who got sick and so his wife did the dishes. Not really gripping is it? I mean maybe a troll or something could come out of the drain and make it a little more intense but trolls don't hang out in drains do they? So a water nymph but maybe that's not really a story for a blog and more for  a "I never thought this would happen to me..." letter.

ANYWAY...

Thanks for the prompt, honey, but I don't think so.

Writing prompts are tricky things. Dana sent me one earlier this month that would make a really great story. I did not write that story. BUT...I did write a story that was knocked loose by the prompt. And that's what they are for. To get the gears turning. A few years ago we did an exchange of stories where we each started with the same prompt and wrote our own takes on them. Most of them were sentences that had to be in the story, but there was one that was a feeling sort of thing (I think, I could go look them up but that would only be stalling on getting some words on the screen for today). Anway, the stories we came up with were really different from each other. Which is what you would expect. We have a similar view of the world but a different style after all. My writing tends toward the romcom aspect but everyone is dead and hers toward the oh holy shit we are all about to die but that was a really GREAT line and I am sort of in love with your main character so I'm okay with it.

So the same prompt got very different stories.

But they were good prompts so they got good stories.

And we are really talented so of course they were good.

Except right now I have nothing to say so I'm not really proving my point, but trust me, in the hundreds of posts on here there are at least 10 really solid pieces of work. (just kidding, you all know I think I'm a genius, except on the days I'm sure I'm a hack)

But good writing prompts need to inspire something in you to write.

Oh wait...

shit...

I guess those were good writing prompts after all...

What were you thinking?

You would think that being able to read minds would be a great skill to have. You would think that if you couldn't do it. If you could do it you would realize that it's a horrible thing to live with.

Janine had been able to read minds her entire life. Because of her gift she quickly understood that most people were truly awful. It wasn't just the big horrific things that she heard people thinking, things like murder or rape or theft, it was the myriad of small petty things. The constant judging and ranking of everyone around them. The difference between the thought in their head and the things that they said. She had only met a small handful of people whose inside and outside voices matched. Those were the really kind ones, or the really mean ones. Only people on the extreme edges ever matched.

The really mean ones she steered clear of, like most people do. The really kind ones she was attracted to the strongest. Because they were there easiest to manipulate.

Janine was also a truly awful person.

She liked to believe it was because she had spent her life hearing what the world really thought. That would make it very hard for anyone to maintain their optimism. It really was awful to constantly hear what the world really thought about everything, but especially what they really thought of you. But she suspected she would have been a truly awful person anyway and her gift just exacerbated the situation. The truth was she was good at being bad. And she really enjoyed it. She thought, well actually she knew, that most people would be the same if they had her talents.

Janine had used her gifts in a variety of ways but when it came down to it she was a con artist. She usually made her living as a psychic medium. The fact that she was a real psychic made being a fake medium very easy. People thought about what they wanted you to tell them. They held the names of the dead in their minds. They told you what answers they wanted to hear. Yes, Uncle George is happy. Yes he wants you to feel no guilt at all over cheating Cousin Susie out of her inheritance, she was a nasty piece of work anyway. No he will not tell you where the hidden cash is, he hid it for a reason after all. Death did not make Uncle George any more helpful.

She could drag a willing client along for months or even years. They got to be dependent on her. Asking her for advice on everything. Sometimes the spirits were right, sometimes they were wrong. But they always knew the exact right things to say to keep the money rolling in. Janine was highly sought after. She had quite the reputation. The Amazing Randi had even tried to debunk her. He wouldn't admit that she was the real deal but he did have to admit that he couldn't figure out how she was faking people out. She had been very impressed with the levels he went to to trip her up. He had planted false information on the web that would have come up if she was doing pre-research on her clients. The problem was that lies stood out like a bright light in a mind, with the truth hiding right behind it. All she had to do was move his curtain to the side and see his truth. After the fourth or fifth time she did it she saw the smallest kernel of belief in his head. Then he convinced himself that it was all a trick that he just hadn't figure out how to do. She had smiled at him then and said, "It's not."

After that her reputation just kept growing. She was a "proven psychic medium" now. She was no phony. Her client list kept growing. She had assistants who handled her schedule. Since she had to see everyone in person and couldn't do things via the phone or the internet like some others in her line of work people sometimes waited a year for an appointment. They flew in from all over the world to see her. She was making a lot of money. A lot of money.

But she was incredibly bored. There had to be more she could do with her talents than just this. Though it was profitable it was so time consuming. And it wasn't like she could train someone else to handle the day to day operations while she just supervised. Though there had been many people who had come to her to learn her ways. Other con artists who recognized talent and wanted a piece of the pie. They always left disappointed. And pissed off. How dare she not share the wealth.

She had been thinking of new things to do when Candice walked in to her meeting room. Candice was a new client. She was there to find out if her dead husband had been cheating on her. She was pretty sure he had been. There was a lot of evidence that showed he was. Really she knew he had been. But he was dead now and she wanted to think good things about him. Well not about him so much as about herself. People didn't understand how much being cheated on changed the way you thought about yourself. She had always had a really strong sense of self worth and finding out he had been cheating on her had destroyed that. She had suddenly felt worthless. It was devastating. But maybe she was wrong. She hoped she was wrong. She was going to find out for sure.

All of that hit Janine in an almost solid wall of thought when Candice walked in to the room. The other thing that hit Janine was Candice's net worth. Her husband was a wealthy man but that was nothing compared to what Candice herself already owned. Janine's entire business empire wouldn't cover the tax bill on Candice's estate in one year. Suddenly Janine was a lot less bored. Her mind started spinning with the idea of becoming Candice's personal medium. Living like royalty. All of that money backed with all of that insecurity? It was a ripe juicy plum just waiting to be picked.

"He loved you, but he was intimidated by you."

Candice hadn't even sat down yet when Janine hit her with that. Candice's hand flew up to her throat, "What?"

"I'm sorry. That just came in to my head as you walked in, how rude of me. I'm Janine St. Clair, how may I help you?"

"No, that's what I am here for. I wanted to see if you could speak to my husband, my late husband, but of course you know that, you're a medium why would I ask you to speak to my husband if he were still alive. I'm sorry, I'm just flustered. Is he here right now? Are you already talking to him? How did you know to contact him?"

"He is here. He is with you. He can't bear to leave you while you are feeling so..."

"Insecure. It's okay, you can say it. He always said he hated how insecure I was. How needy."

"He's sorry about saying that. He didn't want you to feel badly, he wanted you to understand how you did not need to ever feel that way."

Janine spent the next hour soothing Candice's fragile ego. The whole time picking her way around her thoughts. Selecting bits of information to use for a follow up. There was a lot of good stuff about her mother in there. No wonder Candice was so needy. What a cold woman she had had for a mother. Where was her father? Oh yes, so much there as well. This was going to be easy.

And it was. Within a few months Candice had moved Janine on to her Malibu compound. The guest house Janine was living in was nicer than her own place a few miles inland. She also had an apartment in the luxury tower Candice stayed in when she traveled to New York for business. She couldn't bear being too far away from Janine for too long. Janine officially retired. She was fine being a pampered employee of Candice. A spoiled lap dog, as her butler thought of her. She had barked at him and he had gone three shades of pale.

After six months Janine started to expand her influence. Candice no longer just counted on her for soothing her ego but brought her to business meetings. She took only Janine's advice on who to work with. Who to invest in. Who to trust. Candice was completely dependent on her advice. That's when Janine started to play with her. She set up an offshore account and started to siphon money from Candice's accounts. Passwords were childsplay. She also started to accumulate blackmail material. Give Janine an ultra wealthy individual and Janine would find you their dirty secrets. Tax evasion, affairs, illegal business dealings. There was always something, and Candice was no exception. Janine collected her information.

Once she had everything she wanted from Candice she set up her killing blow. She arranged for Candice to invite the women her late husband had been sleeping with to tea. All six of them. Candice had suspected he had been sleeping with one other woman, but never this many. And never would have guessed that he would have chosen people in their social circle. But he had. Janine had found them through the year. Remembering him fondly when they would run in to Candice someplace. None of them realized that they were not to the only one as well so this was going to be fun on a lot of levels. Getting them all in one room had taken a lot of manipulating and planning. Planting ideas for fundraisers and charitable events that they all would be able to work on. Bringing all of their expertise with them. These were accomplished women. Business owners, CEOs, CFOs, leaders of boards. So much success in one room. So much to ruin.

They sat down to tea and started planning. Janine put her hand to her head and closed her eyes. Candice noticed right away, "Are you okay?"

"Yes..." Janine whispered and looked around the room at all of the faces, "Yes, I just..." Then she did her best trying to hide what she was feeling expression. "I just think I should get some fresh air. I..."

The women around the table began to get nervous. They all knew what she was, but had assumed that if Robert had been going to talk to Janine about them he would have done it much earlier. They had all heard the story of Candice and Janine's first meeting after all. They figured they were in the clear. Then the shift started to happen. The women around the table noticed that the other women around the table were just as nervous as they were.

Janine swooned again. Then she could no longer hold back her shocked expression. "I just...All of you?" She said with disgust dripping from every word. "He won't shut up. I'm sorry. He just won't shut up." She looked toward the CFO of the largest Talent Agency on the West Coast, "In your office? Really?" Then she shook her head, "You really let him do that? While your kids were home?" At this the small pretty blonde next to her covered her mouth in shock and horror.

Candice was started to figure out what was happening. The pain and horror was spreading across her face. The realization that her husband HAD been unfaithful to her after all. And not with one woman, but with all of these women. And they had all thought they were something special. They had trusted him just as much as she had. It was devastating.

Janine thought about her hidden assets and the ruin she was going to leave here for someone else to clean up. She thought about her next adventure. She had bought a beach house in the Cayman Islands to go with her stolen funds. She was thinking she might start a new religion. That seemed like fun. She really was a horrible person. As she was planning her escape Candice was making her way toward her. She grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Robert? Are you listening? I can't believe I trusted you. I never should have trusted you!" Candice cried in Janine's face, trying to reach her dead husband.

Janine shrugged her off, "You're right. You never should have."

Growing Up Is Hard to Do...

(It's a writing prompt story again, and I'll give you the prompt I used at the end)

Lorei was sitting on the edge of the bed swinging her legs back and forth. She had not gone to school today. At first she thought it would be a great deal of fun to skip school and stay at home. The whole day ahead of her to do what she wanted. Play with whatever she wanted to play with and not have to share or be told, "No, you say THIS now, not THAT." But, truth be told, she was bored out of her mind. Without Layla here to play with things just weren't as much fun. Even with as bossy as she was, she always had good ideas on what to do.

She hopped off of the bed and wandered around the room looking for something to do. Again. She'd already made this circuit a dozen times. Did she want to color? No, Layla always picked the pages and she didn't even know where the books were. Did she want to have a tea party? No. Layla always poured the tea, and who else would even be there to pass the imaginary cookies? Did she want to play with Barbies? No. She never liked Barbies. Layla would get so wrapped up making stories for the Barbies that she would completely forget to play with her. No Barbies.

Layla liked school. How weird was that? Especially for someone as bossy as Layla. Because she couldn't be the boss at school. Not all of the time. At recess and lunch she still was. Directing all of her new friends in how to play. They got a good dose of "No, you say THIS now, not THAT." But they seemed okay with it. As long as Layla came up with new games they all seemed ready to play them. And sometimes she didn't even play make believe with them. They played kick ball, and four square and tag. Lorei guessed recess was okay. Even if she was never picked for a team, or caught anyone at tag. Except Layla. Sometimes Layla would let Lorei catch her, but not often.

But sitting in class? Boring. Layla liked it though. She would sit still and pay attention. Raising her hand politely instead of shouting out the answers like Lorei did. Even if she didn't know the answers Lorei just liked shouting out silly things. She was trying to get Layla to laugh. But Layla would shush her and raise her hand and wait to be called on. Layla was good at school. But it was boring. Which is why at first Lorei was excited about staying home. She felt like she was really getting away with a treat. And a treat that she didn't have to share with Layla. She thought it was going to be so much fun. But it was even more boring than school.

Lorei sat down at the desk in the corner of the room and thought about doing some arts and crafts. But she wasn't really good at using glitter and nothing looked good without glitter so she just sat. She decided to pretend she was in class. She could practice raising her hand nicely. "What does 5 plus 6 equal?" The teacher would ask and Lorei would raise her hand and wait and shout out..."Your butt!" she laughed. Butt jokes were always funny. But then she imagined the look on Layla's face and the "SHUSH!" and decided playing school was even worse than being in school.

She thought about going to the park but she wasn't allowed to leave the house by herself. And besides you couldn't really go to the park and play if you skipped school. She would have to stay in their room at least until Layla came home. At least. But probably until tomorrow.

Lorei got up from the desk and stood in the center of the room. She started to twirl. She liked twirling. She especially liked it when she was wearing a flowy skirt. One that would lift out and away from her body while she spun, then if she quickly started turning the other way the skirt would wrap itself around her legs tightly like a hug and then unwind and flow out again. She could do this for hours. Or until she got dizzy and would fall down giggling. But today she wasn't wearing a flowy skirt so it wasn't nearly as fun.

Lorei sighed and went back to sitting on the edge of the bed. Layla would be home from school at 2 and then maybe she would have something fun to do. She looked at the clock. It was nine. It had only been an hour since Layla left for the bus. The bus was actually Lorei's favorite part of the day. Layla had been scared to ride it that first week. Not Lorei. Lorei wasn't scared of anything. Especially not something as easy as a bus. Layla was worried about things like who she sat with and if people liked her and would she make friends at the bus stop. Lorei knew that they had each other so they didn't need to worry about who they sat with. And making friends was easy. Everyone loved a butt joke, after all. So the bus hadn't worried her at all. And it was actually better than she could have ever imagined.

There were rules on where you sat. The youngest kids rode in the front and the oldest in the back. First graders in the first seats, fifth graders in the last seats. The middle was a little more mixed up. There were co-learning classes at their school. Some second and third graders and some third and fourth graders were in the same class so they sat kind of mixed up too. Layla wanted to be in the second and third grade class next year, if you did that you could do third grade work and maybe even skip a year and get to fourth grade earlier. In fourth grade you got to take science. Layla was very excited about the experiments. Lorei would be fine staying in the first grade for another year. First grade got an extra recess. And they could do their own experiments.  Hadn't they had fun mixing up all of the shampoo and conditioner that one time to see if they could save time in the bath? Sure, Mom had said we should leave science to the scientists, but it was still fun.

Anyway...Lorei loved the bus. It was chaotic and noisy and full of energy. There were a million things to pay attention to at once. The best parts were overheard bits of conversations. She and Layla would talk about them later. Trying to figure out what the rest of the story was. Making up all of the details. Who said what to whom and what they were wearing and what they would do next. Well mostly it was Layla that did the making up. Lorei just played along. Like usual. Layla had the best imagination after all.

Lorei looked at the clock again. This time she held her hand up and looked through her fingers, peeking at the second hand clicking around the dial. The funny cat's tail swishing back and forth. It was a great clock. Even if it moved too slowly. She looked down at her legs swinging off the edge of the bed. She watched the floor through her toes. It was really happening.

She knew it was going to one day, but she hadn't been prepared. She thought she could make it last at least another year. Layla had a great imagination, after all and second or third grade wasn't completely unheard of, even if four or five years old was the norm. Lorei had hoped but this morning when Layla left for school and didn't even say goodbye? Well she knew then. She had tried to hold out. Just until Layla came home from school. After all, she might want to play then, but Lorei had to finally accept the truth. Layla hadn't really played with her for months. She barely acknowledged her at all. And if she did it was to tell her to be quiet. Or to go away. And finally, now, she was.

It happens to the best of us, Lorei thought to herself. The day when the invisible friend really becomes invisible.

(Writing prompt: Imagine you are an invisible friend who is being outgrown, what do you do?)

The End of the Road...

(today's fiction piece brought to you by the writing prompt: The End of the Road)

She couldn't get the song out of her head. "So we've come to the end of the road..." And because she couldn't get it out of her head she kept singing the few lines she knew over and over again.

"Could you please stop that?"

"Sorry. I just have it stuck on loop."

"Well keep it to yourself. It's not helping."

She tried. "And I can't let go..."

"Seriously. Stop it."

"Sorry." And she tried. She really did. But it kept leaking out of her mouth. A line, a verse, just humming. "it's unnatural, you belong to me..."

"I'm going to scream if you don't knock it the fuck off."

She whispered, "I belong to you..."

She bit her lips together as he glared at her.

"Do you have any phone signal?"

She shrugged, "My battery is dead."

"You didn't charge your phone?"

"Guess not. I thought it was fine, but it's dead."

"Why do you even carry a phone when you never remember to charge it?"

"Because you make me?"

"I don't make you carry a phone. And besides, if I was making you carry a phone it would be in case I needed to get a hold of you or you need to get a hold of me. That doesn't work if you don't ever charge it."

She tried not to smile and she really tried not to sing but it was too perfect, "You get a hold of me...I get a hold of you..."

"STOP IT!"

She grinned, "Sorry."

"You aren't, not even a little bit."

"I'm sorry you are mad at me, how's that?"

"I'm not even sure that's accurate. If you didn't want me to be mad you wouldn't keep singing that song."

She was quiet. Was that true? Not really. She really didn't want him to be mad at her but she couldn't help it with the song. It was stuck. It was like an itch she had to scratch.

He held his phone up to the sky trying to get a signal.

"Got it!" He quickly his auto dial and called the tow company.

She listened to the one sided conversation.

"Yes, Rural Route 42... We passed the entrance about 5 miles ago...Well I know that now...The GPS instructions...Yes, it did seem odd but...Mostly...Two tires...Can you help or not? Okay...we'll be waiting."

She hummed very quietly, "Right here waiting for you..." She didn't think he would be any happier with that choice in songs.

"There should have been a sign. Or something. I mean, this isn't my fault."

He was fuming now. Obviously the tow truck driver did not find his "following the GPS" excuse a good one.

"Why isn't there a fence? Or a barricade? Or something?"

She kept her mouth shut. After all she had tried to point out that maybe turning down a dirt road wasn't really the best way to get to the highway connection. He had dismissed her concern and trusted the GPS. Technology didn't let him down! Except when it did. She was not as big of a fan. She hadn't charged her phone in a month. She hated it. She didn't even own a smart phone, it was just an old flip phone. It didn't even text. But clearly she was stuck in a past decade. Then she smiled to herself again and hummed a little Time Warp.

He paced around the back of the car. "How long do you think it will take for the tow to get here?"

She shrugged, "We are fives miles up a dirt road, twenty miles from the last town, where is he based out of? Or does he hire out?"

"I don't know. It's the auto club number. I assume they use the tracking on my phone and hook me in to the closest location."

"But you didn't ask?"

"No, I didn't ask. I didn't think to ask. I should have asked. I should have not taken this road. I should have stayed home under the covers all day apparently."

She took a step back from him, "I just was asking a question. No big deal. He'll be here when he gets here. We just have to wait."

He sighed and paced some more. "At least you stopped singing that damn song."

She shook her head, because now, of course, it was back playing on loop. She walked away from him so he couldn't hear her.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? STOP IT!"

With that he slammed his hand on the back of the car.

"NO!" She could see it happening but couldn't stop it.

The car, which had come to the end of the road, and had been two tires right at the edge of the embankment, shifted. It rolled a touch then stopped.

He had been watching it all and when the car stopped rolling let out a sigh of relief.

Then the embankment gave way and the car fell.

They both scrambled backwards as fast as they could as the road they had been on disappeared.

He looked to the sky, "Shit."

She bit her cheek and tried her hardest..."Till a landslide brought it down.."

Prompted writing...

Okay, this piece is from a writer's prompt. I had a small fiction piece I worked on for Dana that goes with a much bigger story but needed something for the blog for today. Originally I was going to write a ranty thing but I decided to make that much shorter and post it as a status update and do some fiction. I really do love to write fiction. And short fiction is my favorite.

But...

I had no ideas for another piece. So off to the interwebs to look for prompts. This one came from a site that was called something like "writing prompts that aren't lame" it made me laugh so I went and looked. And some of them were really cool prompts. Random collections of words that you would have to fit in to a story, that sort of thing. But the thing that makes a good prompt is that it actually prompts something. It triggers a story. It gets you going. This one gave me a little brain buzz.

But...

I had no idea what the story was. None. I just really liked the prompt. It led to a second sentence and then BOOM! off to the races! So here you go... The prompt is the first line of the story.



Pancakes

Even though Jake ate the last of the pancakes Leonard couldn't find it in himself to get worked up about it. Which was really odd because Leonard liked pancakes more than he did most people; especially Jake.

But today he just couldn't be bothered. Or maybe it was more accurate to say he was so bothered that he didn't have room for anything else. He had woken up to his phone vibrating with the latest news alert. The number of "breaking news" news alerts he had received lately had made him pretty much numb to them all, but this one was different. Austin had fallen. He had hoped his home town would hold out longer. He knew logically that it wouldn't be able to hold out forever, but he still had hoped and even wished in the protected part of his heart that it might prove him wrong. But it didn't. Austin was no longer going to be kept weird. No more technicolor concerts, just beige and bland like the rest of the fallen.

Like the dust bowl of old it had started small and just spread. Beige. Not even black and white which they could think of as retro or artistic maybe...but no, just beige. Spreading like the world's blandest disease. Which it really was.

Beige. The United States of Beige. All of the life and color draining out of the country. Like someone had opened a cork in Oklahoma and the color was swirling down the drain. Spreading in a whirlpool outward. Pockets resisted. Kansas City held out for a surprisingly long time. But eventually the BBQ turned to sawdust in your mouth and the grass really did become greener on the other side. People looked like they were dying of a mysterious disease. But they didn't even care. That was the problem with the beige, it sucked everything away with it when it came. The color on the surface was just what you noticed, but the colors of your soul went with it. Everyone the same. Bland. Blah. Beige.

Anyone who could leave already had. People who saw first that it was spreading and had the means to escape did. But that was before the rest of the world slammed their borders shut. Which was ironic. The United States finally got that wall that long ago foot note president had campaigned for. Just instead of keeping out the brown people, it was keeping in the beige ones.

So he had a lot on his mind when Jake took the last of the pancakes. Blueberry pancakes, in case you were wondering. They still had color out here on the coast. Still had flavor. But he wasn't sure for how long. Which was another reason why he should have been more upset about the pancakes. Who knew how much longer food would taste like food and not just like nothing? Who knew how long the blueberries would be blueberries and not beige berries? But he still hadn't been able to find it in himself to get upset.

Which worried him. Was this the first sign? Had it started? No, it couldn't be, he was just tired. You can only live in fear for so long before it exhausts you. But he checked his arms to make sure they were still fish belly white. He didn't get out in the sun much. When the beige did come for him it was going to be the darkest tan he'd ever had. Which he had found funny the first time he thought about it. Now he wasn't laughing.

Jake wasn't worried. "If it happens it happens. It's not like they even remember what it was like to live in color. They aren't upset. It's just the people worrying that are upset. If the beige gets you then you just, you know, go beige."

Jake was not what you would call a deep thinker.

Leonard had tried not worrying for awhile. His girlfriend tried to convince him that if the beige was coming they needed to live every moment fully. To embrace all of the colors right now before it was too late. He had agreed right until he realized that by "embrace all of the colors" she meant sleep with her co-worker Dan. He had wished for her to be taken by the beige that night. He wasn't proud of it, but it didn't change anything.

But now Austin had fallen. His college friends were gone. The English teacher who had taught him to question not just what the author wrote, but what they left out to really understand the story he was being told, he would never question anything again. The bright red front door of his house. His parents...

It was all gone. They were all gone. He had checked after he got the news alert. He had texted his mother to see if she was okay. Her response was she was okay. They were all okay. Everything was okay. She was on her way to her job which was okay and she would do her okay work and then make okay dinner. Okay.

The beige. It was all okay.

Nobody knew how it started. Nobody knew how to stop it. Anyone who tried to research it lasted a few hours before they faded away and just didn't care anymore. They didn't even know exactly how it was spreading. Except outward and constantly. It seemed to slow down when winter came, but more than made up for it during spring thaw. It hadn't stopped spreading, it had just gone underground. When the snow melted it rose to the surface and covered everything that had been white with beige.

Leonard needed to get to work. As he passed by the kitchen he wished there had been one more pancake left to grab on his way out the door.  He breathed a sigh of relief, he was still him.

He really did love pancakes.