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

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!

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

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.

Being Unmasked - JohnD

I've had only one rule that I've explicitly stated for this organization, “We do not expose other members' weaknesses.” One rule, that's it!

If anyone is concerned about a colleague, you come to me and we can discuss it constructively. You don't go around telling everyone else that you think somebody is wrong, stupid, or whatever. You don't say, “Oh, Luigi is a weakling. He's got no killer instinct.” You don't do that!

If Luigi has trouble breaking somebody's ribs; if you think he's pulling his punches, okay, that's probably important for me to know. But you don't go saying that to other members. You definitely don't start arguing with Luigi about it. And you most definitely don't argue with Luigi about it in front of the victim; I mean, the blood-sucking parasite who's trying to steal food from my children's mouths. It's like Luigi's being unmasked. If Luigi is sensitive, good, but we don't want others to know that.

Perhaps I need to find another position for Luigi. There are plenty of positions within the organization that require someone with sensitivity. We've seen a dramatic increase in drug sales to the elderly lately. However, the elderly are uncomfortable dealing with brutes. Luigi might be perfect for that division. He'll need to go through some retraining, but that shouldn't be a problem. It's probably going to be a great fit and good for business.

The problem is when we unmask one another's weaknesses, or perceived weaknesses. Now, we all know that Anthony is gay. I think we're all fine with that now. Why? Because he gets the job done. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is better at extortion than Antonio. It's been that way for 15 years. However, five years ago, Dino unmasks Antonio. He forces him out of the closet, tells everyone Antonio's gay. Suddenly, everyone forgets that Antonio has been doing great work for years. They forget that he's the best of the best. They lose confidence in him. That's crazy and that's wrong!

A week later, Antonio violently kills Dino with his bare hands, and Dino's even got a knife. Basically, Antonio restores order and only spends three days in the hospital. All the same, all that could've been avoided, which brings me back to my point: Don't unmask others; don't expose their weaknesses. You come talk to me if you have any concerns about any one else in this organization. You got that?

Okay I've got to get to my knitting class. You all carry on. But just remember, don't be so quick to judge others.


-

Death - JohnD

Death came to the coffee shop, I guess. I don't know. She said she was death. What do I know. She started talking about the apocalypse.

"I've come to wipe out the human race," she said. La-di-da, la-di-da. She went on and on. Seemed real upset with humans in general.

"Let me finish my coffee here and I'll help you," I told her.

"Does it look like I need your help?"

"Sure, why not?" I said. "Everyone needs help sometime or another."

Red lasers shot out from her eyes and stopped two inches from my face. I could feel the heat and it wasn't comfortable at all.

"Okay, never mind," I said. "You're very attractive, but a bit too dark for my liking."

"Attractive? You think I'm attractive even though I'm going to wipe out the human race?"

"Well what does one thing have to do with the other? I mean you've got a job to do. That's fine. You're still good looking, very good looking."

"I don't know" she answered, running her hand through her long blonde hair. She looked at me sincerely, her eyes returning to their lovely green. "Humans for the most part consider me evil."

"Well that's ridiculous. You're death. Without death, this planet wouldn't last a week."

"Right, that's exactly right... You really find me attractive, though?"

"Yes, and look I'm done with my coffee."

"So you want to help me with the apocalypse?"

"Yeah sure."

With that we left and went to my place, but we never got around to starting the apocalypse. She had to go the next morning. I wonder how she's coming along with that whole apocalypse thing.

Pearls- Cyndi

Her mother stood before her, looking excited and anxious at the same time. Carly stared at her, as if she were seeing her for the first time. Her mother had always been there for her through thick and thin. She was beginning to realize just how much she had taken for granted. Her mother had supported her since the death of her father when she was a baby. It now came to her- all the sacrifices that were made on her behalf, the hours of work, the time spent making memories and helping Carly to feel loved and secure growing up. Perhaps she had never really looked at her mother this way before. She just knew her as “mom”.



Carly looked her in her eyes and thought she seemed slightly shorter than she last remembered. Then there were the eyes themselves, the blue still sparkled with her mother’s spunk, but they didn’t seem quite as bright anymore. Her loving face had a few more lines and wrinkles and her graying hair was thinning in places. But to Carly, she was still a very beautiful woman. She wore a dress of mauve, with lace on the bodice and a skirt of a tasteful length. She had put a lot of time into choosing just the right dress for this occasion. For today was Carly’s wedding day.


There had been so many hours of planning, preparing for this day and their exciting new life together. And here it was, all coming true. Carly was in her elegant white gown with the tiny buttons running down the back and the flowing train trailing behind her . Her bridesmaids had helped her put on her veil. The last finishing touches were complete. The butterflies in her stomach felt like they were trying to escape but were trapped by the confining fabric of her dress. She took some deep breaths to calm her nerves. These were the last few moments before she was to walk down the aisle, and her mother had asked to have this time with her in private. Carly waited as her mother brought her hands from behind her back and presented her with a velvet box.

“These were your grandmother’s”, she said as she held it out to her. “She wore them on her wedding day and I on mine. Now it is your turn!”

Carly slowly took the box that showed signs of wear on the edges, and gingerly opened it. Inside lay a necklace of pearls. She had heard about them, and even seen them in her mother’s wedding pictures, but had never beheld them in real life. She ran her fingers lightly over the small delicate strand.

“Oh mom!” she exclaimed as she hugged the precious woman before her.

She could feel the tears of joy welling up inside, threatening her perfectly applied make-up. “I love you!”





Prompt: Pearls August 9, 2008

"What Is It?" - Maya

They were hunkered down in a tight little knot in the clearing, all skinny-legged, skinned knees, brown summer bodies. The four of them. It was amazing that by this hot late August afternoon they were all still playing together. Every day since school let out they'd seemed to triangulate, three against one, and every day in a new configuration. Today Marcie was the odd one out. Surprisingly, this happened relatively rarely. Surprising in that she was the only girl. Conventional wisdom would have her be the isolated one most of the time, but conventional wisdom didn't hold in this case. Marcie got along well with everyone. But today she had really wanted to go to the pool, not into the woods. She'd been outvoted, so she'd grumbled as she'd trailed along behind them. It was too hot, she complained.

"Yeah, but it will be cooler in the woods," Davie had argued.

"Better be," she'd mumbled back.

Now they were in a clearing, out in the direct sun, but even Marcie was too fascinated to notice.

"What is it?" she asked.

The others shook their heads or hunched their shoulders. Sean poked it with a stick.

"Maybe it's an alien," he said.

"A dead alien," Davey replied.

It was small. No bigger than a cat or skunk, or maybe a possum. But it wasn't any of those. Its back legs were longer than the front ones, and five-toed. Kind of .... human. It only had one eye left, but that one was large and round.

"Hey, know what I just realized?" Frankie said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It doesn't stink. Shouldn't it stink?"

Frankie would notice something like that. He was the quiet one, the observer. Frequently the odd man out in this group of extroverts. But he could be stubborn. He stuck to his guns. The other three admired that in him, and although they never said it, they all thought of Frankie as "the smart one."

"I didn't think of that," Sean acknowledged. "Maybe it is an alien, and thier bodies don't stink."

"What'll we do with it?" Marcie asked. "Like, shouldn't we take it to a scientist or something?"

"I'm not picking that thing up," Davie said.

"Me neither," agreed Sean.

"Okay, let's bury it, then," Marcie said.

"Why? Then we'll never find out what it is," Davey retorted.

"I know," Frankie said. "I'll take a picture of it on my cell phone. Then we'll bury it. We can show the picture to someone to identify it."

They all agreed. But without a shovel or trowel or anything to dig with, they wound up just covering it up with stones and leaves.

They decided to go to Sean's dad. he worked at the university in the Physics Department. So, when he got home from work they descended on him . It turned out that his colleagues in Biology were intrigued, once the kids convinced them it was not a hoax.

The four of them were excited to take the scientists to the makeshift grave site. They found it easily enough. But when they removed the stones and leaves, what they found was nothing. Nothing at all. No trace. Not a bone, not a hair, not a scrap of DNA.

They never did find out what it was.


Prompt: "What is it?" 8/16/08

Science Experiment - JohnD

Belinda and Joey looked up at the hole in the ceiling. A small sliver of drywall fell from the edge of the hole, spiraling downward as a flow of dust descended upon them. Joey watched the piece of drywall flutter off toward the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen.

Finally, the poetically drifting sliver landed on the metallic frame of the launcher, which had just finished hopping several feet sideways, repeatedly bouncing off the wall, making deep gouges into it.

Joey had been aware of the launcher's post-launch maneuvers, but feeling safely out of its reach, he had paid more attention to the hole that now adorned the ceiling. The launcher was finished with its tantrum and sat comfortably entrenched inches into the wall. “Well, that was....fascinating,” Joey stated tentatively. “I mean, in an against-all-laws-of-physics kind of way.

Belinda was still analyzing the opening in the ceiling.

Joey squinted to focus his eyes farther up through the hole. “It went clean through the first floor. It looks like it went through your bed....That doesn't even seem possible.”

Belinda continually angled left, right, back, and forth to get the best possible view. “Yes, that's my bed all right. I can see daylight. It went right through the roof. I figured it had to. I mean, with the amount of force obviously involved. I think we really have something here Joey.”

“'We'?” Asked Joey. “You know, I wasn't really involved here in the scientific part of any of this. I'm the language arts type. It was definitely your invention, idea, design, everything. Wouldn't you say?”

Belinda didn't answer, still completely engrossed by the aperture they had just created in the ceiling.

Joey paused and then started up again. “So, as you speak of this event going forward, you would definitely want to use the first-person singular pronoun, 'I.'” Joey quickly ran his hands back and forth through his hair, stirring up a small cloud of white dust. “Anyway,” he continued, “you were right. It worked.”

“Okay, so you owe me a dollar!” proclaimed Belinda proudly. “You still think girls aren't good at science?”

“I'm not so sure,” resisted Joey.

Belinda's eyes widened. “You're saying that you don't owe me a dollar?!”

“Calm down, I'm not saying that at all. I mean, that was obviously way more than ten feet. I owe you the dollar for sure....Um, but wait a minute. Not to change the subject, but do you know what my main concern is at the moment?”

“What's that?”

Joey looked back up at the hole. “That bowling ball. It's going to have to come back down, right?”

“Hmmm, good point,” Belinda said, bringing her hand to her chin in concentration. “Yeah, I should have thought of that by now. It's just that it was so unexpected. I was thinking that it might go 10 to 15 feet up in the air, but that sucker must've launched 500 feet, maybe. Or who knows? Maybe we just turned that bowling ball into a satellite.”

“'We' again?” asked Joey, throwing his arms up in the air slightly. “Anyway, my point is that you might not be that great at science. Better than me of course since I'm just a literature kind of kid, but you're the one who said, against my advice mind you, 'let's put the bowling ball in the launcher then move it outside.' In hindsight, you gotta admit that doesn't seem too smart.”

“Well,” growled Belinda, looking at the launcher smashed up against the wall across the living room, “I was just trying to save us an extra trip. Besides there's no way it should have launched by simply placing the ball into it.”

“Proving my case.” Joey spoke slowly, articulating his words. “Are you good at science or is your contraption possessed? Divine intervention perhaps. Maybe it was just dumb luck.”

“Dumb?” Belinda snapped.

Suddenly, they heard a whistling noise from above that was quickly increasing in volume. They each took a step backwards as the bowling ball came crashing back through the same hole, blasting by them in a blur, and driving deep into the wooden floor, sending splinters flying and vibrations rippling throughout the house. A new and thicker cloud of dust emanated throughout the room as the thunderous noise of the crash started to spread outward beyond the walls of the house.

They looked at each other, mouths agape. Joey gulped. “Darn it! I got sidetracked. I just mentioned the ball coming back down and then forgot all about it.” As he spoke, he looked back and forth from the hole in the ceiling and the ball in the floor. “Another thing, how is it that the ball came down through the exact same hole? I mean, exactly.” Joey coughed as he tried to swat away the chalky powder in the air. “That came down not even an inch off the path that it went up,” he said as he pulled a one inch splinter of wood out of his shirt. It pierced his shirt at the collar, passing halfway through before coming to a stop. “By the way,” he said smiling, “this missed my jugular by a centimeter.” He held the piece of wood between his fingers before flicking it to the ground.

Belinda looked at the bowling ball lodged deeply into the floor of her living room. “Yes, this is a very positive development, I'd say.”

“Positive,” Joey repeated. “Funny, I was thinking of a different word. But you know us language types, we're always obsessing on semantics.”

“There's a lot going on here,” Belinda continued. “Sorry about your jugular....um, that could have turned out not so well. We got the bowling ball back, though,” she said cheerfully. “That's good news. And coming down the exact same path, that could be huge: another totally unexpected result. I wonder if that was a one-time deal or an aspect of the launcher's design. If it's consistent, there's just gotta be some real world application for that.”

“You know what my concern is now?” asked Joey.

“What's that?” inquired Belinda as she noticed an inch wide piece of floorboard wedged deeply into the base of the leather couch.

“Well, I'm just wondering if I can get out of here before your parents get home. I'm sure you all will have lots to talk about.”

“Yes, Yes,” Belinda agreed. “This is so big. We have an absolute scientific breakthrough here.”

Joey cringed as the word “we” left Belinda's lips. “Yeah, YOU definitely deserve credit for that.”

Belinda turned toward Joey and grabbed him momentarily by the shoulders. “I don't think you grasp the significance of this discovery. We'll be famous for this, and rich, too.”

“Rich?” asked Joey as his he stood up straighter. “How rich?”

“Very!” replied Belinda as she performed a cursory examination of her clothing and body, looking for splinters or wounds of any kind. “It's like we've tapped into a previously unknown energy source. Everyone's gonna wanna talk to us.”

“You mean, besides the police and fire department?”

“Everyone,” repeated Belinda, swinging her arms out in opposite directions left and right as she spoke, “talk shows, physicists, corporations, everyone!”

“Oh,” said Joey looking off into space with a smile, “well, WE did work hard on this experiment.” His gaze drifted toward the hole in the ceiling, which instantly snapped him out of his daydream. “Well, until the money starts flowing in, I hope your parents can see the other positives of the situation.”

“Of course,” agreed Belinda, “like the pure merit of this scientific breakthrough.”

“Yeah, like that.” Joey nodded. “They might also see that 12-year olds, even if they are scientific geniuses, which is debatable, really aren't responsible enough to be left home alone, so hopefully they'll chalk this all up to a learning experience.”

“You are the practical one Joey, that's why it's nice to have you around,” Belinda said as she blew a puff of air upward dislodging a fine layer of dust from her face.

“Good, so remember to cite the positive when discussing this matter with your parents. Okay Belinda? You with me on this?”

“Okay, cite the positive. I will.”

Joey started patting down his clothing to beat off the dust. “A big positive here is that we didn't get hurt. I mean, just look at this place. And you and I don't have a scratch on us. That's a miracle. I hope your parents are appreciative of that fact.”

“Don't worry,” assured Belinda. “My parents will be very grateful that we're both okay. They'll also be proud of this little science experiment. It really is a doozy. Unprecedented, I would say.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Joey with a nod as he walked backward toward the front door. “I would say no reason to mention me in any of this. Um, well, at least until Oprah calls.” Joey backed up bowing and nodding as he occasionally glanced backward trying to negotiate furntiture and the two steps up to the entrance hall. “But if, uh, you do feel compelled to bring up my name, remember that I said, 'let's bring the launcher outside first, then put the bowling ball in it.' You know, um, I think that's an important point.”

Belinda smiled and nodded, looking up proudly at the hole in the ceiling.

“So, anyway,” Joey persisted, “I'll be moseying along. Congratulations. It really is an impressive experiment. It should win first place at the science fair for sure.”

And with that, Joey turned around, opened the front door, and launched out of there fast and recklessly, kind of like a bowling ball.

i thank You God for most this amazing day - JohnD

Sherry had to admit that the scenery was breathtaking. They were hiking up Half Dome and she drank it all in: the light summer breeze, birds chirping in the distance, and the magnificent everything: the blue sky, the beautiful view of trees and mountains, just everything, absolutely everything. It was as if she heard the music of nature, of life, of God. She was alive and feeling one with the earth when chaos intervened in the form of Evan Denton.

“I thank You God for most this amazing day,” he boomed.

“Damn it!” thought Sherry. In her own mind, she screamed, “Your so pompous, Evan!” It was all she could do to not say it aloud. All day he had been quoting Shakespeare and other famous poets and writers. Sherry was an oxymoron of emotion: caught up in the unbelievable beauty of her surroundings and disgusted by the snobbery and arrogance of Evan's constant quoting.

“Should I really have agreed to this double date slash hiking trip,” she asked herself.

Sherry sensed that Doug and Emily were quite content with the whole situation. “Either that or they're really good actors,” she reasoned.

“Who was that from?” Emily asked as soon as Evan recited the “amazing day” line.

Sherry shot a dirty glance in Emily's direction as if to say, “Don't encourage him, you traitor!”

Emily gave Sherry a wink and laughed silently.

Of course, Evan obliged by answering, “E. E. Cummings.” And naturally, he continued sharing more about Mr. Cummings and reciting more lines from his various works.

“Do Emily and Doug really like this Evan guy or are they just willing to put up with him because they think that I am this desperate to date someone?” Sherry questioned.

During the hike, every time they came across a fork in the road, Evan would recite a line or two from Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. “Great!” Sherry would tell herself. “Evan the smug strikes again.” During the drive to Yosemite, Sherry had come up with the “Evan the smug” moniker. With the four of them in the car together and Evan dominating the conversation, it helped to pin that nickname on him. But at this point, mocking him privately had lost its anaesthetic effect.

At the moment, Evan seemed to be stuck in an endless loop about E. E. Cummings. Sherry tried to block out his voice as they continued their ascent. She focused on the variety of scents that drifted to her. She could hear the music of nature again.

For no apparent reason, Evan spoke louder than even before, breaking Sherry from her day dream state. Sherry heard him blathering on about nature and flowers or something another. She had no idea who he was quoting now. “How interesting,” she thought, “the sentiments from the lines he's reciting mirror my very feelings about this place. So, why does he annoy me so much?”

As Evan continued relentlessly, it seemed to Sherry that he was starting to affect an almost British accent. She calmly looked for a ledge to throw him over.

Without even a token effort to converse, Evan pontificated and lectured with increased enthusiasm and bravado. Try as she might, Sherry couldn't block him out anymore. She felt depleted, drained of all energy and hope.

But then, a miracle. Evan's voice started to get raspy. “Whoa, something's wrong with my voice,” he said, touching his throat. He continued to talk for a while, but his voice was getting quieter and quieter, and raspier yet. Doug and Emily seemed quite concerned. Evan insisted that he could continue with the hike, however. “I'll just have to not talk,” he said almost inaudibly.

And with that, Sherry raised her hands to the heavens and proclaimed loudly and clearly, “i thank You God for most this amazing day!”

White Carpet - Maya

The view was spectacular, just like she'd said.  Windows ran floor to ceiling, and the view ran from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate.  It didn't hurt that the apartment was on the 7th floor. Nob Hill was high enough to see the Bay as it was, but this place was pretty much above everything.  Alcatraz was right there, and even the weather was perfect - no fog to interfere with the panoramic vista.  Really, spectacular.

What I hadn't expected (and amazed me as much) was how she'd decorated it.  Everything was sleek and modern, white and stainless steel or glass.  White couch, white chairs, glass bowls on glass tables, crystal decanters on glass shelves and white carpet.

"Well?  What do you think?" she asked.

"It's spectacular, honey," I replied.  "Absolutely spectacular."

She clapped her hands together and grinned the broadest grin her thin face allowed.  "I know. Come, sit on the couch and catch the view.  Want some tea?"

"Sure,"  I replied, plopping down on the plush white cushions.  What I was really thinking was, "How can this be my child?  Could we possibly be more different?"

Here I was in a peasant skirt and sandals (which I now checked to be sure I hadn't tracked in any dirt onto this pristine white carpet).  I mean, my house was all wood, old carpets, funky ethnic folk art and color, color, color.  I realized that kids sometimes separate from their parents by choosing radically different lifestyles, but this was astounding.  My daughter, my little girl, had opted for pretty much everything I had rejected - money, prestige, upward mobility.  It's not that I had anything against money - it sure made life easier.  But this!

"Come on," I told myself.  "You knew where she was headed."  The writing had been on the wall since junior high school.  And look who she'd married ...  The world of high finance made no sense to me, but it brought her this apartment, this view, this life in San Francisco in which money helped a great deal.  Was, in fact, necessary.

Her daughter came back carrying a tray with teapot and cups.  Italian.  Williams-Sonoma.  Now, those she liked.  They didn't exactly match the decor.  In fact, they reminded her of that trip to Tuscany and Umbria.  Lovely.

"It's Earl Grey.  You like that, right?" her daughter asked.

"Sure.  You know I like most teas."

"So, what do you think?"

"I could look out this window forever."

"I know.  It's amazing at night, too.  You and Dad have to come for 4th of July.  They have fireworks right off the pier down there.  The neighbors tell me these are the best seats in town."

"Nothing but the best!"  I said.

"Mother, don't start," she retorted.  "I know you think this is all shallow materialism, but it's my life and I happen to like it."

"What?  What did I say?"

"Nothing," she grumped.  "But I can tell."

"Honey, I'm not sitting in judgment."

"Aren't you?" she asked.

She was right, but I wasn't going to admit it.  "I think it's gorgeous.  I'd just be scared to death mess it up, but I don't have to live with it.  If it doesn't bother you, it's great."

"See?  There you go!" she said, jumping up.  Her elbow connected with her teacup and Earl Grey spilled all over the carpet.  The white carpet.  Dark tea.  She looked at me, eyes frozen wide like deer in the headlights.  I said nothing.  Finally, she ran into the kitchen to get something to clean it up.  

I wondered if the stain would ever come out.

Prompt:  White Carpet, 7/5/08

Talking Rain - JohnD

He put his last three dollars into the slot machine. “Okay, I only need a seven hundred dollar jackpot and I'm back to normal,” he said to himself.

He pulled the handle: a lemon, a lemon, and a monkey. “A monkey? Is that a monkey?” he asked aloud. Nobody answered. His vision was blurred. He squinted and leaned forward and back again trying to make the monkey, if that's what it was, come into focus. The leaning motion made him mildly dizzy, blurring his vision a bit more. Maybe the monkey-like thing doubles the lemon jackpot, he hoped. But, no. Nothing happened. That was it. He was finished. He downed the rest of his drink.

“Franklin, get some more money. I'll pay off for you big time.”

“Who, what?” asked Franklin.

“Trust me Franklin,” the machine said.

Franklin looked at the slot machine as he felt the room spin slightly. “Are you talking?” he asked.

“Come on Franklin. Don't be like that,” the machine soothed. “It's me. I'll take care of you.”

“Don't be like what?” Franklin demanded.

“You don't trust me?” said the machine, tension in it's voice.

“Hold on!” said Franklin. “Just hold on.” He felt the casino tilting now as the slow spin continued. “This doesn't make any sense. I mean, when did I say anything about not trusting you? I'm just out of money. That's all!”

“Oh, come on,” the machine pleaded. “Like you don't have a credit card?”

“Stop it!” yelled Franklin. People from nearby slot machines looked up momentarily before being consumed again by their respective machines.

“Fine,” whispered the machine, sobbing gently. “You don't have to make a scene.”

“Don't start crying,” said Franklin.

The machine started bawling uncontrollably. “Well,” replied the machine. “It's just that I try my best for you, but nothing's good enough!”

Franklin shuddered. “Wait, wait!” he said to himself. “You're normal. You're a normal person. You've been drinking too much and you haven't slept in, like, 36 hours. Go, go, get out of here; get back to your hotel room!” He started leaving.

“Come back!” yelled the machine. “I need you. I'm nothing without you!”

Franklin kept walking. “Where is my hotel?” he thought. He walked to the open doors of the casino. It was raining hard.

“Hold on Franklin, don't come out into me!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” yelled Franklin.

“No really Franklin,” said the rain. “I'm all acidic this evening. It would be a considerable health risk. You'd better go back into the protective environment of that casino.”

“Stop it!” screamed Franklin. “Acid rain? That's ridiculous!”

“No, truly,” said the rain. “You might just want to get some more money and continue making wagers in that comfortable, dry, highly respectable gambling establishment. Given the circumstances, it's the safest course of action.”

Franklin took a deep breath. “Nobody ever said doing the right thing would be easy,” he mused. But, he had to admit that that rain was really starting to make some sense. So, after straightening his stance and patting down his hair from the sideburns back, he turned around and headed proudly back into the casino. Yes, it definitely felt good to be thinking rationally again; to do what was reasonable; to do what was right. “Whew!”

"The black room took us in like a cave" - Maya

It was just what I wanted – walls painted black, even the windows, which were painted shut as well. They were covered with heavy curtains, but I pulled them back to check. No light. A single bulb dangled from the remnants of a long-discarded light fixture in the ceiling, but that was no problem. We didn’t have to turn it on. And we wouldn’t.

The black room took us in like a cave. I know what you’re thinking – like a womb. I don’t care. You can psychologize me all you want, it won’t matter. Black was what we wanted and black was what we got. We weren’t looking for airless or claustrophobic, so it was good that it was on the third floor an not, say, in the basement. Black and damp would have been too much for me. I’m allergic to mold anyway. In fact, it might have been a bright and airy room at onetime. Might be again. I wouldn’t want to be the one to paint over it or scrape off all that black paint, but that’s neither here nor there.

We had our little cave now. Our little sanctuary. Our refuge. I imagined it to be like an underground temple or a blank slate. We didn’t even need to bring much with us.

I’m sure you’re wondering why I did it. Well, you see, I didn’t know who he was when I met him. Or maybe I should say “what” he was. He was different – I could see that right away. I always was a sucker for different. And he moved fast. Those dark eyes that looked unflinchingly into mine – as though he wanted to see inside me. And did. And like who he found there.

He never lied to me. He just made sure I cared about him before he told me. All right, I’ll say it – I fell in love with him. Loved him. And he needed me, needed someone badly. He’d just arrived and wasn’t safe. He’d left his family – needed new territory, new blood, so to speak.

It’s not every day that someone promises you eternal life. Can’t you understand? Eternal life with someone you love and who loves you? I felt loved, anyway. I don’t know. I think he did love me.

So, I found the room. He promised he’d take me, turn me, once we settled in. He needed me to stay as I was to do the necessary business in daylight hours. Once we had a safe place it could happen. And it was perfect. I had the coffin moved in right away. He was so pleased. It was perfect.

How could I know he’d been followed from the old country? Tracked, like an animal. All they saw was trouble. Not his beauty, his kindness, his intense love. All they saw was danger. I didn’t. He’d explained it to me and it seemed doable. It seemed…okay. Does different have to mean bad? I’ve never thought so.

They’d waited till the sun went down and the coffin opened. Stakes in hand, they burst through the locked door – I don’t know how – and they killed him. God, they killed him. They’d have killed me, too, if he had turned me. But he hadn’t and they didn’t, obviously. They called me stupid, gullible, dangerous. They told me to leave before the police arrived. They were giving me a chance to start over. Then they left. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him like that.

Don’t you see? I could have run away and avoided all this, but I didn’t. I wanted to stay here in our cave, our sanctuary. I wanted to be with him forever.

Prompt: "The black room took us in like a cave." - Anne Sexton
6/7/08