8/8/1988 (Dixie)

Life Before Children (LBC).
What was that?

Dim memories surface, then sink back down, like jewels in quicksand.
There they go, those memories...
No, wait!
Sports car leaps out of the mud, blue and gleaming. It grows large, sprouts wings and soars into the clouds. Disco music suddenly fills the air. Oh, oh, Aretha Franklin, Hot Tuna, Boz Skaggs. Waylon Jennings pulls up the commune on a magic carpet. What's that smell? Marijuana, the ocean, plumeria, lasagne. Motorcycle surfaces in roaring splendor, makes a mess, shouts sex and possibility. Sunday sighs, nothing to do but sleep in.
The jewels settle down, dot the surface, and sink
into 8/8/1988.

Death Sat Alone at the End of the Bar Hunched Over a Beer - Maya

Of course, I knew who he was. Who wouldn't? The black hooded cloak was obvious enough, but the long scythe leaning up against the bar was a dead giveaway.

You know, I might have expected to get chills or be struck dumb, frozen in place, but it wasn't like that. He wasn't scary, not like you'd think.

I'd just walked in, shaking the rain off my coat and stamping my boots on the doormat when I spotted him at the end of the bar. i didn't even stop to think about it, but hung up my coat on the rack and took the stool next to his. The thought did cross my mind - who was he here for? Was it me?

"Hello, friend," I said. And then I got the my biggest shock of the night. When he lifted his head to look at me, I saw that he wasn't a he after all. Death was a woman.

She had thick wavy black hair speckled with silver that fell forward out of the hood when she looked up, and her eyes were the bluest blue I'd ever seen. Our eyes locked and neither of us looked away.

"Sometimes I hate my job," she said. No preamble, no social chit-chat. Just that.

"I'll bet," I said. "Who ya here for? Am I allowed to ask?"

"You can ask all you want, I won't tell you. Can't."

"Well, then, can I buy you another beer?"

She looked surprised. "Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."

We sat in companionable silence for a while. It was - I don't know - comfortable somehow. And the funniest thing? No one else seemed to notice.

Prompt, 10/3/09 - Death Sat Alone at the End of the Bar, Hunched Over a Beer

Death of a Beloved- Maya

Alone in the house

for a week,

I thought about it.

What if this were

my permanent condition?

Not a little break, a respite,

a rare chance for solitude,

but the way, the state of being,

the everyday condition.

Finding the house locked up

every day when

I get home from work.

No one to cook for.

The handyman chores hired out

or left undone.

 

It is not a question

of maybe,

but rather one of when.

And who.

 

For one of us

will face this.

Jane Kenyon knew it. 

She wrote –

One day it will be otherwise -

And it was,

for her and Donald Hall,

she succumbing to leukemia,

and he left to write

his poems alone.

 

I loved this week,

the house quiet and all mine.

No struggling over who

gets to use the iMac now.

Cooking and eating

what I wanted

when I wanted it.

Peaceful late afternoons

in the hammock.

 

But always, always,

lurking somewhere

in my mind, the knowledge

that what is treasured now

could be despised later.

 

The death of a beloved,

a ghost of the future

haunting the house.

Maya, 8/29/09, Prompt: Death of a Beloved

A Wellspring of Spirit - JohnD

Prompt: A Wellspring of Spirit 08/22/09

We were down thirty-five to seven and Randy kept saying “Let’s go. We’ve got a chance.”

Let’s go? I laughed at the absurdity.

“The Hell with it!” he said finally. “You guys have given up. I’ll run it alone. I don’t need any of you."

I was offended. I think we all were. We were trying, but we were realistic, too. Randy was in la-la land. It seemed we were all in agreement: if he wanted to run it alone, let him. At the snap of the ball, we braced ourselves temporarily for the Mustangs' charge, but then, with very little fight, we let them slip through.

With his right arm, Randy tucked the ball tight into his body. I guess the Mustangs couldn’t see the ball. If he had it, of course, we would be protecting him, but we weren’t. They looked elsewhere, but nobody else was running or doing much of anything Then it was too late. Randy had momentum and they didn’t. He flowed through their defenses like water over stones.

Thirty-five, fourteen and we were back on the field in four minutes. Randy tried to get us pumped up again. Nothing! We were impressed, sure, but one lucky run wasn’t going to win the game. Now, the Mustangs were ready for him. He wouldn’t fool them again. He didn’t. He ran. Again, we did next to nothing for him. They were on him like a pack of wolves. And though they brutalized him, they didn’t bring him crashing to the ground. It was more like they crushed him from all sides. Out from the middle of that, he twisted and flipped around, hitting the ground running. He got hit again and again, but he harnessed the impact of each hit and catapulted himself forward to a fierce and motivational touch down. Thirty-five, twenty-one.

After that, we were all believers. We drove, rushed, fought, fought, and fought. We lost: thirty-five, twenty-eight. But we were a wellspring of spirit. The crowd went wild. I mean wild, absolutely wild. And they were mostly Mustang fans, on their own field. I think we gave a lot of people the show of their lives. Later, I learned that folks heard the cheering from that field almost two miles away. It was the greatest loss ever. I’m proud that I was a part of that.

“Let’s go! We’ve got a chance.” Randy was right about that after all.

No, no, no! - JohnD (2 min.)

Prompt: No, no, no! 05/30/09

I had nothing to say to Betty. She’d been talking for 12 minutes non-stop. I knew because I kept looking at my watch over and over during those 12 agonizing minutes. I was thinking about going out with the guys: my friends, my buds. That’s what I really wanted to do.

Betty and I had been together for a year and a half. It was our senior year in high school and I’d grown tired of her.

There she was rambling on about something, and I hadn’t been listening to a word.

“Well?” she finally asked.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know what she’d been talking about. She glared at me in disbelief that I wasn’t answering her.

I didn’t like the look she was giving me, so I said, “No!”

“No?” she demanded.

“No, no, no!” I screamed, wondering what I was saying “no” to.

“You're saying ‘no’, you don’t want to have sex with me tonight, after you’ve been pestering me for sex every day for a year and a half?!”

And then she left.

Equal Parts Light and Dark - JohnD

Prompt: Equal Parts Light and Dark 05/02/09

I love you. You have often asked me why. Lately you ask me a lot. It’s difficult to answer. Well, at least it has been difficult for me. I often turn it around and ask you the same question to try to get the attention off of me and to show you how difficult it can be to answer the why-do-you-love-me question. You just look at me like I’m crazy. But you still expect me to answer why I love you.

“But you can’t answer it either!” I protest. “Why do YOU love ME?!”

“Yeah, yeah!” you’ll say, “Now, answer the question. Why?”

It’s to the point that I don’t want to say I love you because you’ll immediately ask “Why?”

The frustrating thing is that I’ve given you an answer on several occasions. I’ve said, “I love your overall style. I just love your way.”

Then you usually say something like “Style? What? What about my style?”

And then I say something like, “This, this what you’re doing right now. I love the infuriating way that you insist that I answer a question that you can’t answer yourself. I love that about you, damn it! I absolutely love it. I love your style. I love you. Now, shut the hell up!”

At that point, you usually start giggling and say something like, “So, no, really, what about my style do you love?”

And at that point, I usually storm out of the room in a huff. Then I try to recover; and I do; and my heart grows stronger; and I think, “Damn, I love that woman!”

All the same, I’ve been thinking that I should come up with a list of things that I love about you. Hopefully, that will satisfy you and you will shut your piehole about this why-do-you-love-me trash.

I think the key to my love for you is that you are equal parts light and dark, and that’s great! If you were more light than dark, you’d probably be too sweet for my liking and I’d have to kick you to the curb.

I love the lines in your face. They give you strength. You look like you could take a solid punch and come back fighting.

I love the way you hang up the phone on solicitors.

I love the way you dress so conservatively and yet so fashionably.

I love that you feel humans are compulsive in nature and not to be trusted. You don’t even trust your own judgment. I love that.

I love how you’ll help someone in trouble before you have a chance to think about it, but only some people, the rules to which I don’t yet get.

I love the way you ignore the homeless. I mean, you don’t even acknowledge their existence.

I love the way you throw a Frisbee, cook oatmeal, smile, sneeze, laugh, and cough.

I love how you don’t apologize, ever.

I love you, damn it! I love you, so accept that and leave me the hell alone!

Promegranate: Melinda Jean

Hanging. She had only seen it in the grocery store, but now in this tree of dark bark and the golden leaves mostly gone, there they all hung, like rosey pink lanterns. She wanted one. She always wanted one, the beauty of those glistening seeds held by the toughness of blushed leathery skin. And here it was on the very branches, the source, she thought. The craving filled her chest with heat. The tree stood at the edge of a deck, someone else's house. A small tree oddly shaped as it had twisted itself around the exterior walls, leaning. She studied how many, and tried to judge if someone would mind. More than a dozen and the shapes varied, small nut sizes to large ones higher up. The fruit attached itself to each branch in odd ways so they weren't all symmetrical like apples or oranges, but grew in sideways, their bottoms pointing in every direction. What if they were promised, each one to a different person, the unique shape of each placed in the perfect hand of one equal in beauty. She saw one that pulled her, she reached feeling the promegrante in hand and as she tugged it held tight and to pull harder might splinter the branch. She withdrew and felt the air deflate in her chest, a sadness. Leaving it would mean something was missing. She turned to find a door.

pomegranate - Dixie

Smash!
The pomegranate hit the picnic table hard, bounced sideways, and rolled to the ground.

"Shoot!" said Jody, reaching down and picking up the intact fruit.

"Anybody got a hammer?" asked Nick.

"I've got my chem book," offered Noah.

"Cool," said Nick, "go for it."

Jody put the pomegranate in the center of the picnic table and they all stood back as Noah dug the huge and weighty organic chemistry book out of his backpack.

"One...," Nick started a chant, "two..." the others joined in, "three!" they yelled together as the chem book descended.

Wham!
The pomegranate stared at them, hurt or serene, it was hard to tell.

"Dang," marveled Jackson.

"A watermelon is easier to open than this," said Jody.

"Somebody should have brought a knife," said Jackson.

"Or a jackhammer," Nick laughed. He grabbed the pomegranate and started juggling it with an apple.

"Who brought this thing anyway?" Noah asked as he examined the dent in his chemistry book. They all looked around the group waiting for someone to cop to bringing a pomegranate. Finally, they focused on Sarah who was known to contribute weird food to these picnics.

"Not me," Sarah raised her hands in denial, "although I might have if I'd thought of it."

"Who's ever heard of a pomegranate anyway?" asked Jackson. "Does it grow on trees?"

"Got me," said Nick. He dropped back like a quarterback and lobbed the pomegranate at Noah, who, not being ready, let it hit him in the chest and fall to the ground. Jody picked up the pomegranate, noticed a tear in the skin.

"Oh, look," she said as she gently peeled the skin back. They all gathered around and watched as the glowing red jewels were revealed.

"Wow," Noah whispered.

Persephone chuckled from the branches overhead.

In the Woods - JohnD

Prompt: In the Woods 03/21/09

In the woods of Aberdeen,
Sounds unheard and sights unseen,
I felt the feel of inner peace,
My father with a new life lease.

Not what he said, not what he did,
But I was a man, not a kid.
He had fought and he had won;
The illness somehow was undone.

We walked on, nothing to say,
All things forgiven, all okay.
I loved him and he loved me.
We walked until we reached the sea.

I'd done that trek a hundred times.
But this time it cleansed a thousand crimes,
A thousand trespasses we had made,
A thousand insults we had paid.

Nobody watching would have known
How close he and I had grown
In three hours of a slow walk shared,
What twenty years had never dared.

A Light Yellow Envelope Sealed with a Kiss

It had become their tradition over the years. Every birthday, holiday, anniversary, special occasion or no occasion at all; whenever she had felt a need to give him a card, she would put it in a yellow envelope and seal it with a kiss- leaving a trace of her pink lipstick and the outline of her pucker on the pale paper. He remembered the yellow was because on one of their first dates she had worn a thin yellow dress that fluttered in the breeze and he had thought she was such a lovely vision in it that he declared yellow his all time favorite color. She had picked up on that, and ever since her sentiments were thus presented.

The years had past quickly- there had been good times and bad, but lately it had just been the bad. They drifted further and further apart, but he still held out hope that they could make things work if they just tried harder. But, were either one of them, with their busy day-to-day lives, really trying very hard? He walked into the kitchen, weary from thinking. He knew she had gone out early this morning and was not sure where. He sank into a chair, put his head down, resting it on his arms and closed his eyes. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of something sticking out from under the placemat. Opening his eyes, he pulled it out to see it was a light yellow envelope sealed with a kiss.


March 14, 2009 Prompt: A Light Yellow Envelope Sealed with a Kiss

Accidental Death

Clarice stood very still at the gravesite, only half listening to the words being spoken around her. The minister had said a rather touching eulogy before the body in the coffin had been slowly lowered into the ground. She surveyed the group present. All were dressed in somber dark colors, matching the mood of the sunless, gray day.

Robert had lived with his aunt and uncle- that much she did remember him telling her. They were up front. Aunt Esther with her wide brimmed hat and Uncle Jack blowing his nose noisily. There were assorted cousins and a few co-workers huddled together consoling each other toward the back. What was it he had done for a living again? She tried to remember but was coming up blank. People came up to her and offered condolences, taking her hand in theirs and talking in soft voices. It all felt very surreal and slightly uncomfortable…but what else could she do but go along with it.

Somehow the family had assumed that she had been Robert’s girlfriend for quite some time, and that they had been very close and serious. It was true that they had dated for awhile, but actually it had only been a few dates spread out over the course of many months. They had both been quite busy and she really wasn’t sure that they had hit it off very well…not many sparks or much chemistry between them. But she hadn’t been seeing anyone else at the time and he was good company and fun to talk with when they were together. Now that she thought of it, she had done most of the talking, using him as a sounding board for her ideas. She really couldn’t recall much of what he had said at all!

Two people came up and linked arms on either side of her. “We are here for you”, one of them said. “Let us help you back to the car”, said the other. Inside she was screaming, I really don’t need help, I just want to get away from here, I have many other things to do. But she turned to them, smiled politely and said a demure, “Thank you.” She felt obligated to go to the reception that followed, although she cringed at the thought of someone asking her any further questions about that fateful day. She was sure the memory of it would be with her for a long while…or at least until the next major social event obliterated it from her consciousness.

Robert had called her and told her he would like for them to go for a walk along the coast. It had been a beautiful, bright day after a long week of relentless heavy rain. The air was fresh and clean, although the ground was quite soggy. They walked quietly, along a path overlooking the ocean, each absorbing the sights and sounds on their own, or in her case, lost in thought over her spring wardrobe. The waves crashed below as the salty sea breeze blew across them. They broke the silence and had started to joke around, which was unusual for them and got into a fit of laughter. Clarice remembered she really hadn’t been paying attention to the cliff they were on. She was just enjoying the fun, when she came up behind Robert and gave him a playful little push. He turned and looked at her, his eyes smiling, when suddenly he lost his footing and started slipping. His face changed and he got a panicked look as he went down on all fours, almost in slow motion it seemed, as he tried to grab for anything to stop his descent. His hands came up empty though, save for the clumps of mud, as first one leg and then the other disappeared over the edge. Clarice had stood rooted in confusion and disbelief as to what was happening before her. She didn’t rush to him or toss him a branch to hold onto. Instead she had just stared as he lingered for one last second before dropping out of sight. The police had ruled it totally accidental. Of course in her statement she had somehow left out the part about gently tapping him toward the edge of the cliff.

No one else knew, and here she was at his funeral playing the part of his grieving girlfriend. Boy, she thought to herself as the arms around her loosened and she slid into the backseat of the car, I’m going to have a lot to write about in my journal tonight!


March 14, 2009 Prompt: Accidental Death

Oil Changing - JohnD

Prompt: Oil Changing - 03/07/09

Maria: I’m sorry that I’m gong to be gone for three weeks. It’s a long time. But you can run the kitchen just fine. Right, Fraedo?

Fraedo: I, I, uh, yeah, I don’t know. What did you just add there?

Maria: Safron.

Fraedo: How much?

Maria: Two shakes or so.

Fraedo: Two shakes? Jeez Maria, your style of “not measuring” is wonderful. I mean, you’re the most celebrated chef in the city. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to duplicate that style, especially not by Monday. Wait, what’s that you just added? Oh, olive oil.

Maria: No, it’s sesame seed oil.

Fraedo: But the bottle is labeled “olive oil.”

Maria: Oh yeah. That’s old. There’s sesame seed oil in it now.

Fraedo: That’s extremely confusing. But, anyway, you add sesame seed oil? How much?

Maria: A quick stream, most of the time. And by the way, it’s only sesame seed oil today.

Fraedo: A quick stream? Most of the time? That’s going to be kinda tough to repeat. And what do you mean “it’s only sesame seed oil today”?

Maria: When it comes to measurements, it’s kind of like sex: you have to do what feels right at the time, so I change the oil I use for this dish pretty much every day.

Fraedo: Hold up. Hold up! Maria, I don’t want to make any comparison between measuring ingredients and sex. And also, How the hell can you use a different oil each time to make the same dish?

Maria: Fraedo, you can’t look at this simply as cooking. You’re making love here. You have to have passion, spontaneity. Canola oil, grape seed oil: whatever the situation calls for. Cooking, love making: wild, sensitive, dirty, casual, heart-felt sex. It’s all the same.

Fraedo: Stop, stop, stop! It is not the same. I don’t cook that way.

Maria: Well, then maybe you don’t belong here, Fraedo.

Fraedo: Yeah, maybe I don’t.

Maria: Okay then, you’d better go. But if you ever change your mind, come back. You and I will have sex right here on the kitchen floor, but only if you can do it passionately. And maybe you’ll be ready then to be a world-class chef.

Oil Changing - Maya

She couldn't put it off any longer.  It had been 6,000 miles since the last oil change, and she knew they always said she should come back after 3,000. She just hated going.  Either she had to go to the place where she was supposed to pull her car onto the racks, the guy motioning this way, then that way, and she was always terrified that she'd drive right into the pit.  Or, she could go to the place where they'd put it up on the rack, but she'd have to wait in the overheated, depressing waiting room with only two-year-old  People magazines for company.  Either way, they'd try to sell her this filter or that fluid, in addition to her oil change, and she didn't know a friggin' thing about cars.  So, she either wound up feeling ripped off or thinking she was making a terrible mistake and dooming her car to eventual decomposition.  Or whatever cars did when you didn't treat them properly. 

She chose the overheated waiting room.  Better that than the fear of lurching into the pit.  She hadn't been thumbing through old news about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for more than two minutes when the guy appeared with some thingy in his hand.

"See your air filter here?" he started in.  "You can see all the dirt accumulated.  Want us to change it for you?"

She looked up at him, her eyes dull.  She considered saying, "How stupid do you think I am?" but she realized that however stupid he thought would be correct.

"Sure," she said.  He left.  "Go ahead and fleece me," she continued speaking to herself.  "God, I've got to learn something about cars."  

She always told herself that. She never did it.  And really, she knew she never would.

Prompt:  Oil Changing, 3/7/09

a random act of kindness - Dixie

I gave her three quarters to put in her pocket
because we were walking down Balboa Avenue
and there were homeless people
with their saggy flack jackets
tired eyes, shopping carts
their overgrown beards
and cardboard signs
outside the Gucci store
across from the Andale Cafe
and elsewhere

"Here, mister," she said

a careful quarter into his hand
she gave him her four-year old smile
and her hope too which he
put in his pocket
for later

confession of an inanimate object - Dixie

Ha, ha.
This is fun.
I am the king!
I am the only slot machine at Eddie's Quick Mart and Fixit Shop.
Everyone notices me now.
No long rows of stupid machines that all look the same.
No endless whining people who don't know a cherry from a 7.
Here, I am appreciated.
My age is not a handicap because at Eddie's, people don't go for that digital crap.
They want a stiff pull arm that fights back.
They like the classic clang clang ding! of the jackpot, not some lame tune that sounds like Sesame Street.
They get all excited at my occasional blackouts and whack me on the side, like a giant drum.
It's our dance. Yeah! Cha cha cha!
Then I give them the spinning lemons and light up like a Christmas tree!
Santa Claus, that's me, bringing cheer to this little dump
way out in the dark
Tonopah nowhere
purgatory graveyard
all alone ...
wahhhhhhhhh
I miss Las Vegas.

confessions of an inanimate object

confessions of an inanimate object

“Confess! Confess? Why should I? To confess means to acknowledge I’ve done something wrong. But I mean, define your terms here. Tell me, precisely, what “wrong” means. does it mean “illegal?” Immoral? Against some petty bourgeois idea of how things are, or rather, ought to be? Does the same judgement apply in Des Moines? Darfur? Dresden? Tell me, huh? not sure? OK then, so how general is this judgement, eh? Wrong? Wrong? You got a lot of nerve telling me I’ve done something wrong. And if I haven’t, then why do you insist that I confess?

The world sustains a whole range of behavior. What I’ve done, or might have done, or allegedly did do, may be unexpected, may be not what you would consider natural - hey, that’s a good one, natural. You guys in the early 21st century really pride yourselves on being natural, don’t you? Whatever that means. Normal? Come on, you know, that word should have been discontinued along with Freud’s proclamations and orations. Acceptable? Healthy? Appropriate? By whose lights? in what playpen? Sez who?

Come on, people, come down off your soapboxes. Climb out from under the slime that forms the very underpinnings of your code of ethics. No killing, yeah, right! No sexual misbehavior, no stealing, no lying, no intoxicants - give me a break! The blatant hypocrisy! The arrogance! the hubris! You are bottom feeders. You are hypocrites! Are you without sin? Then what possibly entitles you to cast the first stone? You, you pathetic whimpering parasites. You naddering n’er do-wells. You sinister soulless sycophants.
-----

2009 Prompts

12/5/9-2/20/10
1. safe deposit box
2. arranged
3. how to be happy
4. a momentary lapse of irresponsibility
5. curiously cheerful
6. scissors with black handles

11/28/9
1. predictability
2. East meets West

11/21/9
1. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Sicilians do not appreciate practical jokes.
2. It was a dark and stormy night

11/7/9
1. caught a glimpse
2. suicidal seagulls

10/17/99
1. I am a large, fine cantelope.
2. 8/8/198810/10/9
3. the universe was restored to order

10/10/9
there are three things in life a person has to do in his life, or ...

10/3/9
1. reasons to be pretty
2. growing through the roof
3. Death sat alone at the end of the bar hunched over a beer

9/19/09
1. it'll kill him to hear that
2. why we broke up in the first place

9/12/9
1. snakes
2. a jinx

9/5/09
1. the next failure
2. daisy
3. memories triggered by a sense of smell

8/15/09
1. puppies again
2. tortoise shell

8/8/09
1. away at war
2. a paint-splattered floor
3. what I know about Texas

8/1/09
1. blame was bounding from person to person looking for a home
2. 1962

7/24/09
1. dreams that have failed
2. two vampires walk into a bar
3. a tight schedule

7/18/09
1. heart and hurt
2. the process of cleaning ones heart
3. he's a sorcerer by birth some say

7/11/09
1. Use a fairy tale starting point. Rewrite, recast, change POV.
2. bridges
3. then came the fireworks

6/27/09
1. oatmeal
2. the banjo
3. a real heartbreak

6/20/09
1. regardless of what they thought, that is mine
2. it's not recommended
3. greyhound

6/13/09
1. a surge of positive energy
2. cricket
3. an uncomfortable silence

5/31/09
1. ornery
2. under the wood pile
3. No, no, no!

5/16/09
1. Mr. Anderson
2. being the roadrunner

5/9/09
1. Louie with a cigarette in his mouth a year before he died
2. my dad's car
3. feeling singled out

5/2/9
1. equal parts light and dark
2. though there was conflict

4/24/09
1. a refreshing primal attraction
2. traveling through time
3. excuses flying all around

4/17/09
1. weary from thinking
2. Write about an incident that could be used against you if you ever ran for public office.
3. first state

3/28/9
1. torn to shreds
2. it's a muligant and it looks angry

3/21/9
1. Ma likes a lively saloon
2. in the woods

3/14/9
1. accidental death
2. a light yellow envelop sealed with a kiss

3/7/9
1. the bio-techno bots are unpredictable
2. oil changing

2/28/9
1. pomegranate
2. random act of kindness (5-minutes)

2/21/09
1. write a confession of an inanimate object
2. relentless ticking

2/6/09
1. scotch and soda
2. no sadness allowed

1/31/09
1. could be a point of contention
2. she smokes, she drinks, and has a filthy mouth

1/17/9
1. lacks sizzle
2. the planet's three moons have various quarreling settlements

1/10/9
1. why I hate alligators
2. nice to finally meet you

1/3/09
1. an empty glass
2. I could go on and on

12/27/08
1. flat tire
2. you do something wrong that you do not regret

12/20/09
1. write what you didn't say
2. linoleum

12/13/09
1. always tries to be liked, but now
2. applesauce mixed with cottage cheese

12/6/09
1. untrained animal
2. secret identity

11/22/8 (workshop)
1. checkerboard
2. good-bye

11/15/8
1. old cobwebs
2. cried 'til it hurt

11/8/8
1. trucks
2. he did this just for you

11/1/8
1. temptation pounced!
2. being too cold

10/25/8
1. a shopping cart speeding down the expressway against traffic
2. an unwelcome surprise

10/18/8
1. having a bad memory
2. take your time

10/4/8
1. a bad haircut
2. you received favor

9/20/8
1. being unmasked
2. salamander

9/13/8
1. the king of wishful thinking
2. apologies

For the Love of Life - JohnD

Prompt: Write a confession of an inanimate object - 02/21/09

I love life. I do. So painful for me, then, not to be alive, such a horrible fate. I love humanity, too, how humans can control their surroundings. I so admire their work, which is great because I am their work. I’m a Beretta 9mm.

I am constructed beautifully: my weight and form are magnificent. So many humans are in awe of me. And yet, humans themselves forged me with materials taken right from the earth. My design is truly inspiring. How nicely I fit the human hand and how good I feel when humans hold me.

There are bullets, of course. I am designed to bring out all the power that they have hidden within. I do this quite well. I’m proud of it. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true. I’ve always been so proud of my ability to unleash every bit of energy stored in a little bullet. Yes, when I team up with bullets, we are a force that humans hold in high regard. We are respected, but feared, too. I enjoy the respect that humans give me because I think so highly of them. I want them to respect me and like me. And some really, really like me.

I’ve been fired many times. My owner, Thomas, brings me to the firing range almost every week. He has other guns, too, but I am his favorite. I love that. I’d do anything for Thomas. I love him.

Last night, he took me out in the middle of the night. Something was wrong. He was in a panic. It was all quite unusual. I didn’t understand what was happening. It didn’t make sense. Somebody was trying to enter his house through the back door. Thomas crept carefully into the living room. He was grasping me tightly.

Suddenly the intruder was in the house. How did he get in so easily. “Halt!” Thomas yelled.

The intruder had a gun, too. Thomas raised me and pulled my trigger. I hesitated. I’d never shot a living thing before, especially a human. I love humans. It seemed like some sort of mistake. I know it’s my job to fire when my trigger is pulled, but I couldn’t do it. It would kill the intruder. And after all, he was a human being.

Then the intruder fired. His gun did not hesitate. His gun was a good soldier and did as ordered. His gun was not weak like me. His gun fired again and again. Thomas pulled my trigger again. This time I fired. He pulled again and again and I fired again and again. Bullets were flying through the air, mostly missing, but not all the bullets missed. I fell to the floor.

Now, here I lie. It’s morning, two human bodies and two guns lying on the floor. If I’d done my job right, it would only be one body and one gun, and it wouldn’t be Thomas and me. But I failed. I didn’t do my job. I love human life. That’s my excuse, my only excuse, no matter how faulty, no matter how disastrous. I’m sorry, I hope I can be forgiven.

Lacks Sizzle - Maya

"I don't know," he said,   stepping back and tilting his head to get a different view.  "Something's missing."

"Yeah," she replied, biting her nails.  It lacks .... sizzle."

"Sizzle," he repeated.  "Sizzle.  Lacks sizzle."

"You know.  Pizzazz.  Oomph.  Bling."

"Uh, sure," he replied, but his face had that quizzical look.  "Sizzle.  Sizzle."  He kept repeating it under his breath, as he paced back and forth in front of the canvas.

It was his latest work, and the largest he'd ever attempted.  It filled the entire side wall of his studio.  He was distressed.  he'd so wanted to impress her, so longed to hear that she loved it and that his misgivings were unwarranted.

Finally, he stopped pacing.

"So ... you think that 'sizzle' was what I was going for, and I just didn't quite make it happen?" he asked.

"Well, not necessarily.  It's just that with a  painting of this size you kind of expect something to pop out at you.  I was looking for a big statement.  Or big color.  Something big, besides the size of the canvas.  I mean, it's a nice piece of work technically.  I just think... well, maybe it's not finished yet."

"Maybe you're right," he said, but inside his head he was screaming, 'Nice?  Nice?  don't friggin' say my work is nice!  Shit.  This is a disaster.  why did I let her see it?  Let her?  I invited her!"

He'd resumed his pacing.  she turned away from the painting to look at him and finally noticed that he was upset.

"God, I'm sorry.  I didn't .... You asked for my opinion, and you know I'm not going to lie to you."

"No, you're right," he said.  "I trust your opinion, that's why i asked you.  I want to know.  I mean, I don't, but I do."

"Want to go get some coffee?" she asked.

"No, you go.  I want to think about it.  Work on it some."

"Okay.  sorry!"  She squeezed his shoulder and slipped out the door.

And there he was, back to facing this monstrosity, this thing he'd created that missed the mark, that didn't pop, that lacked sizzle.

Was she right?  he knew that he tended to get bowled over by other people's opinions when it concerned his art.  Maybe this time he was on track and she was off.

Pacing, pacing.

"Take a break," he told himself.  "Come back with a fresh eye."

So, he pulled himself away and filled a mug with water and stuck it in the microwave.  he rifled through his tea choices, settling on a calming green variety.  Mug in hand, he walked over to the window to look down on the street while he drank.  When he got down to the dregs he allowed himself to face his work again.

Scanning, scanning .... then suddenly he saw it: an opening, a possibility, a new way in.  He grabbed a brush and a tube of red paint and got to work.  She was right!  He'd been right to have her come and look.  Now he saw what had been missing.  sizzle?  Not what he'd have called it.  But something.  Something.

Prompt:  Lacks Sizzle, 1/17/09

Why I Hate Alligators - JohnD

We headed out from Orlando, just Joey and I. Joey was driving his 1965 Chevy pickup. It was more beat up than he was, which is saying a lot.

We were moving down the freeway with the truck vibrating and otherwise making much more noise than seemed necessary. Joey had the radio on. It’s the damnedest thing; he always had the radio on in that truck. I have no idea where the speakers were. The radio was always pretty loud, though, and the static was significant. With the noise the truck made, you couldn’t discern much of anything that was coming from that damned radio. It just ended up being a tremendous distraction.

Then Joey would talk the whole time anyway. Of course, he had to talk very loud to talk over the din. A good deal of the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Once in while, I’d tune into what he was saying. Sometimes he was talking about sports, sometimes women, sometimes an impossible construction task that he had to come to the rescue of because everyone else was too stupid to handle it.

We had another thirty-five minutes till we got to the construction site and I was damned sleepy. The truth is Joey’s story telling could put anyone to sleep even in that bouncy, vibrating, rattling death machine of a vehicle.

I had my sunglasses on, so I figured he wouldn’t notice if I closed my eyes. Besides, he never looked at me to make eye contact or anything like that.

I started to drift off as he droned on about the construction job of yesteryear in Tallahassee. I was in a half asleep, half awake state. The radio was floating into my dream world and that damned bouncing, rattling, and talking all combined to create quite a nightmare.

We were in an airplane that had hit freakish turbulence, or something; maybe an engine was out. Whatever it was, we were going down. “Damn it! We’re going down!” The airplane was heading straight for a body of water. “I’m going to die,” I thought. “I’m going to die.” Bam! We hit the water hard.

“Steve, you better wake up!” I heard Joey say with a considerable amount of strain in his voice.

I opened my eyes to see that the truck was sinking into a swamp. The mucky water was rising relatively quickly up the windshield.

“I fell asleep,” Joey said, in way of explanation, as he frantically rolled down his window and water came rushing into the truck. He then reached over and opened the glove box. “I better grab this.” He pulled out a 38 revolver.

Well, I was a little groggy, but I was enraged, too, and frightened, and confused, and cold, and wet and getting wetter.

“Come on Steve!” Joey said in an agitated tone. “We better start swimming!” He then tried climbing out the window, but it was quite a challenge since the water was flowing in with a lot of force. As Joey fought against the tidal wave, an alligator started swimming in through the window. Somehow, Joey escaped the alligator’s gnashing teeth as he shot it three times, splattering blood, brains, and guts into the small space in the cab that wasn’t already filled with water.

Some of the alligator blood got into my left eye and the eye closed reflexively. Through my right eye, I could see that the water line outside the truck had reached the top of the windshield cutting off the last rays of direct sunlight. However, the cab was still dimly lit since the sunlight was having some success penetrating the swamp water. In that lighting, the blood splatter was rather artistic, in a kind of disturbing way.

I suppose I was in a state of denial because I shouldn't have been paying attention to the aesthetic qualities of alligator-blood splatter. I should probably have been paying attention to the fact that even though that alligator was extremely dead, Joey was still fighting it because the water flowing into the cab was trying to bring the alligator in with it. The alligator was about eight feet long, which doesn't really sound that big. All the same, when an alligator is being jammed into the cab of a truck with the force of a tsunami, eight feet is quite big. There Joey was, contorting his body all about, pushing that dead alligator back with both hands as water kept rushing in all around it.

"YOUR window damn it! YOUR window!" Joey screamed. Then he followed it with a stream of profanities. I was definitely panicking because all I could say was, "What window? I have a window?" I was picturing windows in my apartment and I was thinking, "Well, they're not really MY windows; they belong to whoever owns the apartment complex."

Subconsciously, I had already lifted myself out of my seat toward the cab ceiling since the water inside the cab had risen quite a ways above the dashboard. There was about a foot of space left that wasn’t filled with water. At that moment, I guess my subconscious was obsessed with the notion of breathable air. Thank goodness my subconscious was still working because my conscious was not.

It was 7:15AM, and it was a real bad start to the day. Let me tell you, it only got worse. But, for the most part, that sums up why I hate alligators.


--

Always Tries To Be Liked, But Now... - JohnD

I was driving over to Bobby's house for the party. His parties have always been a big hit. I did well at his parties.

My cell phone was ringing. It was Marcia. Her name came up on the phone with a 9.5 rating. I label all the ladies I've been with with a number from one to ten. A 9.5 though? Wow! I had forgotten about that.

"Darn it!" I was thinking. "Why didn't I call her after after Bobby's party in June?" That was the last time I'd seen her. Yeah, Bobby's parties had always been good to me.

"Hello," I said once I finally got the earpiece working.

"John?" Marcia asked.

"Yeah, Marcia! So nice to hear from you. I'm heading over to Bobby's party now. I guess you're going, too, huh?"

"Yeah, are you bringing anything?" she asked. Her voice was sounding real sexy. "Goodness, why hadn't I called her since the last party:" that's what I was thinking.

I finally got around to answering her: "Uh, bringing anything? To Bobby's party, why? I mean, Bobby always supplies everything."

"Well, because it's polite, you bozo."

This babe was kinda freaking me out. What was this 'polite' talk. Most people weren't polite to Bobby. Bobby was a successful computer geek. He had millions of dollars, spent it freely, was always trying to have cool friends.

"Marsh, honey," I said. "Don't worry about it. Bobby won't expect anyone to bring anything. He wants to give things to everyone to buy their attention; he doesn't want them giving him things."

"That's terrible! I thought he was your friend," she said.

I didn't like the way the conversation was moving along. I was going to have to downgrade Marcia from 9.5 to 9, maybe an 8 if she kept this downer conversation going.

"Okay, Marcia, bring something if you'd like."

"Not me, YOU!" said Marcia all kinda defiant and such.

"Me? What are you worried about me for?" I asked.

"I'm worried about Bobby, you ding bat. You worry about yourself plenty enough already."

"Listen, Marica, Bobby always tries to be liked. He needs to be liked; he wants so badly to be liked that nobody likes him. Don't blame me for that. He wants to throw parties and invite me. Don't blame me for accepting his invitation, sweetie."

"John, perhaps you don't want to be liked. Perhaps you don't want to be liked so much that nobody likes you."

Uh oh! This girl was getting all philosophical on me. I didn't remember her having a brain or a spine or whatever it was she was demonstrating here, but I didn't like it one bit. I dropped her rating to 7 right then and there.

"Okay, well, I'll see you at the party, Marcia."

"No, I don't think so John. I'm disinviting you."

"What? First of all, I don't think 'disinviting' is a word. I believe it is 'uninviting' and second of all, who the hell are you to uninvite me?"

"Well, John, first of all, the way I'm doing it, it's definitely, 'disinviting' not 'uninviting.' Second of all, Bobby and I eloped last weekend. We're married now. And you're a slimy, selfish, free-loader. Find some other friends to leech off of."

That was it. Marcia was downgraded to 4.

As I turned my car around and headed home, I thought, "Okay, if she calls me in the future and wants to go out, I will refuse. Well, unless she asks real nicely."

I have to say, I have a little more respect for Bobby now. Still, I had Marcia when she was a 9.5; by the time Bobby got her, she was down to a 4. But, all in all, it was better than I thought he could do.