Blocking the Moon

He propped himself up on one elbow, warm sand pressing dampness against the blanket though the forecasted storm was circling in the clouds hanging low above the water, the thunder miles away. He jerked awkwardly, trying to button his jeans with one hand and losing his balance.  For a moment something like love shot through her indifference.

“I’m glad we came here tonight,” he spoke too soon, his familiar voice slicing through her affection and reminding her that high school was over.

Without artifice, she slid her arms into bra straps and reached around to fasten the airy lace, absently shrugging on her tank top and abandoning the matching scrap of a thong to the darkness beyond the blanket.

He reached out to touch her thigh, his thumb brushing sand from her skin, the pale glow a reminder that she rarely came to the beach before dusk.

With unwarranted cruelty, she met his eyes with a level glance and smoothed her skirt back to her knees, pushing his hand aside and looking to the sky as the moonlight darkened.

His hand hung in the air for a moment, snagged in the humidity between hope and hurt feelings, his eyes following hers to where clouds now blocked the moon.

Lost in the twenty-seven day countdown between tonight and forever, she didn’t notice the nearness of the thunder until the first drops fell into the space between them, the summer rain dripping warm tears onto her skin.

He moved quickly and surely, grabbing his shirt to hold over her head, though it didn’t make a difference, lightning flashing as rain poured in rivulets around the island of their blanket.

Still, he held the shirt above her, the soaked cotton falling heavily against her hair.

She knew he wanted her to stay.

She knew he thought he loved her.

Without speaking, she finally met his eyes again, seeing the confusion there, the promises they’d made to each other since freshman year pleading with her.

It wasn’t love, but he would have to realize that on his own.

Finally he tossed the shirt aside, defeated, his eyes far away.

The almost-love washed over her and she embraced the tenderness, letting it speak for her as she touched his face, her palm tilting into the memorized planes of his jaw.

She felt his promises and hope in the urgency of his lips, and she closed her eyes, wondering if he could taste the goodbye in hers.

the prompt:

lots of rules for this one, but basically I wrote about a recent high school graduate, at the lake during a thunderstorm, losing or finding something

Without Thinking

Chilled wine slid from the golden bottle into her glass, more than a restaurant would call a pour but not enough to warm to room temperature before she was finished. Sipping on her way to the living room, she shrugged off her cardigan, letting it drop to the arm of the low couch as she sank into her favorite corner.

A well-worn paperback lay on the other side of the couch, and she flipped through it until she found a favorite passage, settling into the story of old friends. The din of her first grade classroom rolled from her shoulders into the silence of her apartment, the familiar words dancing in front of her eyes soothing her nerves more than the buttery sweetness of the wine.

Her eyes drifted closed for a moment, and she congratulated herself on skipping her semi-regular happy hour date with a few colleagues.

Jarringly, her neighbors' dogs began to bark, and she felt knots returning to her shoulders. 

Left alone behind the cellophane thin walls, they weren’t likely to stop their discordant symphony until they tired of their own noise, which seemed to take infinitely more time on the days Stella wished the most for silence.

A frown creased her forehead as she reached for the remote, flipping past Friday evening television to the music channels, needing something to balance the barking more than caring what seeped out of the speakers.

Resting her wine glass against the arm of the couch, she let the music fade into the background and tried to fall back into her book.

Ten, twenty minutes passed, and the dogs stopped barking.  The music suddenly seemed too loud against the silence.

She reached for the remote again as the harmony finally reached her consciousness.

Forgetting the remote, she reached for her phone instead, pressing the familiar name and trying to breathe.

Her book fell open in her lap, wine gently trickling onto the pages, her mind on other words as she mentally pieced together glib opening lines.

He answered too quickly, his voice wary and unsure.

She searched for any vestige of hope in the “hello,” swallowing and reaching for something vaguely casual to say.

“I made a mistake,” tumbled out instead.

And the music filled the surprised silence between their breathing.

the prompt:

let your character be inspired by music

Hats

"Thank you!" Jane breathed, looking back.

"You're welcome."  His dad had talked so much about holding the door Tim could have gotten a doorman over at those new lofts on Seventh.  Picturing himself in one of those red hats, he grinned.

"What's so funny?" she whispered as his eyes searched the rows of wooden booths, making sure there were still seats with optimal viewing available.

"Nothing," he answered.  Doorman hats probably weren't her style.

"You never tell me what you're thinking," she pouted, pulling off her coat to reveal a faded Ohio State t-shirt. 

Confused, he tried to think of what he said to make her mad as the hostess began to place their menus on a table.

He gestured to the largest screen, "Hey, can we grab something closer?" 

The hostess shrugged, nodded. 

"Thanks. And a couple of beers.  Beer's ok, right?" Tim smiled at Jane, suddenly remembering he'd said something wrong.  Something about the door?

"Actually, I want to see the drink menu," Jane said, sliding into her chair. 

"Big game today," Tim said, checking to make sure he could see at least two of the games starting in thirty minutes.

Silence.

Giving her time to read through the menu, he leaned back and followed the closed captioning on the pre-game show looming large about her head.  That loser should've been fired years ago, pulling that stupid mascot head from behind the desk, knowing exactly the reaction he was going to get.

She sighed

"Don't they have good drinks?" he asked, glancing at the menu.

"I thought you wanted to hang out," she said, not meeting his eyes, which he knew meant a long conversation if he didn't do something fast.

"I do." 

And he had when he'd invited her to watch the game and have a few beers.

"Really?" Her voice got higher.  Was that better?  "Oh good!"

His beer came, and Jane ordered one of her own.

"I'm glad you think this is going somewhere," she said, whispering again.

He might have nodded as he took a drink, glad to see the loser had the common sense to pull Brutus's Buckeye Head over his grey hair. 

Brutus was better than a doorman's hat.  He grinned and saw hers spread across her face, reminding him of why he'd asked her out. 

Plus she looked hotter than most twenty year olds in that t-shirt.

the prompt:

no subject restrictions

use a writing "tool" you think you need to polish

I tried working a little more with dialogue and the male POV.

Lies

Numbers churned in front of her, shifting back and forth as she pushed her legs into a whir of motion.

She stared at the bars filling the stationary bike’s display, a ghostly replica of hills, focusing her eyes on everything but the unwieldy black brace encircling her right knee. 

Her doctor’s words echoed in her head: “No running until we evaluate your progress in approximately three weeks. Maybe some easy cycling.”

Numbers whirled in her head, calories ingested and calories burned. Nodding demurely in the office she had already shrugged off the directive; easy cycling would barely burn off the yogurt she had for breakfast, let alone the cupcakes she’d shoveled into her mouth in the closet after turning them down in front of the rest of the office.

Pushing harder against the plastic pedals, feet almost numb from the pressure, she forced her eyes onto the flashing red numbers, refusing to look down at the brace or up at the treadmills lined against the windows dripping with condensation.

She ignored the twinge in her knee threatening to cross into a scream, concentrating instead on the calories burned, imagining the way she must look to the other gym-goers.

Were they disgusted by the sway of her thighs pumping faster and faster on the pedals?

Were they motivated by the jiggle of her stomach against the thin, ribbed tank?

She pushed harder, struggling to force sweat to bead onto the surface of her forehead or the small of her back, affirming her movement. Accustomed to punishing ten-mile runs, her body refused to sweat; her frustration refused to melt away, expelling a scarfed pint of ice cream with it.

Giving up, tears filled her downturned eyes as she escaped past the wall of mirrors, not recognizing the skeletal reflection as her own.

the prompt:

“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.” ~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

Tannins

“Let me get our coats,” Vaughn said, glancing back only once before leaning into the cold granite of the coat check counter.

Pulling a mirror and lip gloss from her purse, Carly quickly swiped away smeared mascara with her pinkie, attempting to transform her eyes from bleary to sultry. Her lip gloss tingled peppermint on her tongue as she licked her lips, the subtle sheen fading into insignificance over her cabernet-tinged pucker.

Trying to focus her glance, Carly blinked, the white tablecloth stabbing at her eyes. Was the almost-empty bottle on the table their second or third? She blinked again as Vaughn’s hand slid under her elbow, guiding her to the car waiting in front of the bar, leather seats unfriendly on her bare thighs.

He flung the car into gear, sliding carelessly around the corner before parking, letting the engine idle. Vaughn leaned in and pulled her close in one movement, his hand too heavy at Carly’s dangerously short hemline.

Intoxication encouraged her head to fall back at the insistence of his lips, enjoying the abandon of the kiss. Taste buds sliding together, she recognized the oak and pepper of the wine they had shared, the salty bite of olives covering another, unwelcome taste.

Her nose wrinkled as she broke the kiss, too drunk to read his eyes.

“Why do you taste like cigarettes?”

Silence, electric and cold.

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

Her breath caught as she tried again to focus on his heavy-lidded eyes.

“But my wife does.”

The locks clicked loudly as his hand, still tangled in her hair, tightened at the base of her skull.

the prompt:

flavor

Scents of Iron and Pine

The doorbell rang, a tinny version of his college fight song drowning out their ragged breathing as their eyes locked.

She tilted her head slightly, trying not to wince.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly; she was the only one who would have noticed his jaw spasmodically clenching.

With permission tensely granted, the balance of power shifted. He reluctantly offered his hand to her, but she looked away and pushed herself to her feet on her own, willing away the blackness dancing in front of her eyes.

Years of practice propelled her forward in a straight line, and despite the dizziness that threatened to buckle her knees, she took a moment to pray their daughter was listening to headphones.

Her smile automatic, she wiped trails of mascara from beneath her eyes and opened the door. A lush wreath wafted pine into the foyer.

“Lottie, how are you?” she breathed musically into the space over her elderly neighbors head, the sky grey and heavy on the horizon.

Probing eyes searched her face.

“I brought over my cookies,” Lottie began, paper thin lips faltering as they tried to smile.

“Thank you so much, Lottie. Garrett always looks forward to your Madelaines.”

Knotted hands passed a festive tin over the threshold, warmly pressing against her hand. “Dear? You look tired; I hope everything’s all right.”

She forced her eyes to lie, “Just the holiday schedule running us ragged, I’m afraid.”

Self-consciously, she smoothed her hair, fingers brushing a sticky patch at the back and folding themselves into a loose fist to hide the tell-tale stain from Lottie’s rheumy, worried eyes.

In the next room, Garrett methodically dabbed at a red smear on the wall, marking his wife’s height.

Four eyes pleaded with each other in front of a holiday wreath as snow began to fall.

the prompt:

Use the holidays to inspire a piece beginning with "The doorbell rang" and ending with "snow began to fall."

Turn Down the Heat

“Keep your scarf on,” Cate hissed at Greta under her breath, straightening her gloves.

“I’m sweating,” Greta said, loosening the soft wool.

Jenna’s comfortable sedan was blasting heat. Cate and Greta had claimed the backseat, Cate stretching her legs on the seat amongst magazines, strawberry Twizzlers, and diet Coke.

“Let’s listen to Christmas music. We are going Christmas shopping,” Claire said.

Cate and Greta exchanged a quick glance, and Greta ducked into an extra-thick fashion magazine, letting her hair fall over her face.

“I made this playlist just for today!” Jenna protested.

“So you and Chase are getting serious?” Claire asked, Christmas music forgotten.

“That’s the craziest news of the holiday season, isn’t it?” Cate said lightly, catching Greta’s eye across the plush seats.

“You and Chase? I’d say you’ve made it a point to define crazy,” Greta agreed amicably.

Sensing a subtle shift in the energy of the car, Jenna flipped down her rearview mirror so she could see most of the back seat.

“Catherine Jane. Talk.”

“I thought we were talking,” Cate said. Greta bit her lip, laughter threatening to escape.

“I’m confused,” Claire spoke up. “I thought we were just going Christmas shopping?”

Cate glanced at Greta, who might have nodded.

“It’s going to come out eventually.”

“What’s going to-“

Cate smiled at Greta, who said, “You can’t wear gloves all night.”

“Wear gloves?” Claire asked, but Jenna swerved the car to the shoulder and leaned over the back of the seat.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, grabbing at Cate’s fuzzy gloves.

Mirthful, Cate let her pull it off.

“We’re not just going Christmas shopping!”

Light caught the diamond on Cate’s left hand, sparkling into dancing colors.

“My maid of honor and I would like to invite you on my first wedding dress shopping trip.”

the prompt:

This week, we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip.

This is part of Greta's story, which is also my NaNoWriMo project and now over 30,000 words.  Some of them can be found in Greta's Story.

Evening Silence

Her parents move through the kitchen in a practiced, synchronized dance of carrying and rinsing and wiping away the chaos of dinner.

Forks scrape plates into the stainless steel sink, clinging food rinsed clean with scalding water.

Spoons lift the salvageable into carefully labeled containers, stored neatly in the spotless refrigerator.

Her mother pauses, pushing back her hair and leaning against cold granite, breathing in the warm scent of pine and the silence of post-dinner homework.
Her father moves back and forth, his mind in his office.

The flickering candle casts shadows they wordlessly ignore.

Her room is the arranged mess of a teenager with one foot still in girlhood, pale blue walls and plush carpet, teddy bears pushed carelessly against lavender pillows, thrown to the ground at bedtime to mingle with pom-poms and notices of spirit week fundraisers. 

The white dresser smoothly cradles a jumble of bracelets and earrings, some borrowed from her mother’s endless collection, and glittered lip gloss, aching to whisper secrets they see in the silence.

Leaning against a wall plastered with Justin Bieber, she tips a small vial back and forth between her palms, contemplating the cleanliness of a rolled-up dollar bill.

the prompt:

This week I want you to take me to your version of 8:00 -AM or PM, fiction or creative nonfiction- in 200 words or less.

Three Days Later

{Found in Drafts Folder}

Why am I scared of my own creaky house?  Turning on the lights will quash this crazy feeling, right?  See you at the coffee place tomo

the prompt:

Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.

Your text must elicit or express fear.

Moving Day

Greta paused, expecting her ex-husbands presence to echo off the walls and ceiling, magnifying in the now-empty space. 

Their argument over the paint color started as a joke.  Truly there wasn’t much difference between steel and dove, especially when they weren’t planning to change one brush stroke on the smooth walls.

But his voice had grown petulant, fading into uncomfortable silence as they shifted a couch and armchairs and her small Parsons desk into a workable configuration.  He slunk away as she poured wine, leaving her to settle into a cream IKEA armchair in the dusk, looking through the south window alone.

Today, freed from their cages beneath comfortably low couches, dust bunnies crept along white baseboards, scarred from lack of care with wayward shoes and table legs.

Grooves from her desk chair marred the birch floor, highlighted, along with dancing flecks of dust, by the sunlight streaming through the sole window.

“Ready?” Drew spoke from the doorway.

“What would you call these walls?” she asked cautiously, though they were past the point of tests.

 

“They’re grey, Gee,” he grinned simply.

 

Silently, she took his hand, pulling the door closed, leaving dust bunnies in peace.

the prompt:

This week we asked you to take us somewhere. Where was up to you -fiction or creative nonfiction- but we asked you to use your words to paint the setting as vividly as possible. In 200 words.

Interested? Read more of Greta's story.

They Should Have Worn Flats

Greta’s hands curled around the cardboard cup, searching for comfort as she breathed in the distinctive scent of coffee and chicory.  They’d been in New Orleans for three days, and she was half in love with the city, but the coffee made her think of mornings with Drew.

A dusting of powdered sugar and the lingering scent of rum replaced Cate’s carefully applied make-up and perfume.  Wrinkling her nose a bit, Greta tested the café au lait, cooled from scalding, knowing it would only compound the filmy feeling in her mouth.  Cate wasn’t the only one radiating rum fumes.

Cate reached wordlessly for the cup, and it passed between them like an embrace, recognizing years of familiarity. 

Hours ago, as their other friends retreated back to the hotel, Cate and Greta tightened their dancing circle until it was only the two of them, shaking and squealing to every song, even the ones they were hearing for the first time.  Drawn in by short dresses, impossible platforms, and laughter spilling from glossed lips, men found their greetings received with a smile, then subtly dismissed.

“I want a girls’ weekend!” Cate had insisted, the last of their small group to need a bachelorette party.

“A spa weekend?” Greta had questioned, already resigned to the inevitable answer.

“Sure, we can hit a spa.  After we dance until our feet fall off,” Cate had replied, her infectious giggle the reason Greta knew she would give Cate the bachelorette weekend of her dreams.

Now, sitting on back to back benches, feet kicked up onto armrests, Greta and Cate shared the third beignet and cup of coffee, swollen feet only part of the reason they were watching the sun rise, humidity already dampening the streets.

“Thanks G,” Cate spoke up suddenly, all of the rum gone from her voice.

“Anytime C.  Anytime,” Greta answered absently, flexing her toes in her red heels, her head tilted towards her friend’s curls.

“This must be a little awful,” Cate continued.  “The wedding…”

Caffeine pushed Cate’s meaning through the fog of exhaustion into which Greta had settled.

“Oh, honey.  No.  Your wedding is amazing.  Your groom is amazing,” Greta smiled, making sure their eyes met and held as she passed the coffee yet again.

“He is, isn’t he?” Cate laughed as she swung her legs to the ground, wincing a little.  “I just worried this would be a tough weekend for you.”

Greta’s fingers touched her purse briefly, the text message she had received less than an hour ago memorized.

“You deserved the best dance party we could find.  It wasn’t tough at all,” Greta reassured.

Going on our run and missing you.  I’m calling the movers tomorrow. Xo

The balls of her feet flamed with each step as they began the walk back to their hotel.

“I’d say it was perfect.”

This is the latest in Greta's story.

the prompt:

We had a photo prompt this week

New Orleans...my favorite...

Tickets for Two?

SWM iso SF

Tickets for Two?

I’m a movie buff.  I won’t say “film buff,” because I like Weekend at Bernie’s just as much as an Ingmar Bergman marathon on a Saturday night.  I’ll share my popcorn – if you’ll share your Junior Mints.

My camera’s usually nearby, but I run for cover if someone starts taking video.  Like David Lynch once said, “I like to remember things my own way. How I remembered them, not necessarily the way they happened.” 

I’ll take computer-slowing amounts of photos, though, from the graffiti on the buildings downtown to sunlight streaming through your hair…if you don’t mind, of course.

You don’t need to be a runner, but I hope you don’t mind that I am.  The endurance helps me keep up with you on the dance floor when we go to listen to live music.  

Ideally, you’d love the water, get excited about eating guacamole for dinner once in a while, and be willing to watch one of my nieces and nephews play soccer some weekend, if I bring the coffee and donuts.

According to Tarantino, there are only two kinds of people in the world, Beatles people and Elvis people…Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice, tells you if you want to go out with me. Or something like that.

Because I’m an Elvis guy.  I’d like the think any actual resemblance is closer to Army Elvis than Peanut Butter and Banana Elvis, and I promise to leave the sequined jumpsuits at home – most of the time.

the prompt:

Let’s have fun this week. We want you to write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site. The ad should tell us about your character, but should not be a laundry list – and no cliches about walks on the beach.

Fourteen Hours

Fourteen hours and eleven minutes separated elation and anxiety.

Tangled together in bed this morning, limbs and sheets and hair twisted into a comfortable cocoon, Drew had leaned over her.

“Move in with me?”

Her eyebrows drew together for a brief instant before smoothing perfectly back into her creamy brow.  Bright eyes danced as she drew his lips down to her own, answering his question with a teasing kiss that quickly turned urgent.

“Going to the gym, babe!” Corrine yelled in the general direction of the bathroom, almost an hour later.  “I’ve got meetings all day, but I’ll see you around six.”

The door slammed before he had a chance to say he loved her.

Before he realized she had never really answered him.

Shampoo stung his eyes as he stared at the tiled wall, dispassionately analyzing what had seemed recklessly passionate moments before.

Fourteen hours and twelve minutes later, it was after six, and she still hadn’t returned.

Drew paced.

His small loft wasn’t built for pacing.  The view of the water and proximity to his favorite restaurants had meant more than square footage.  After all, a single guy didn’t take up much room, and he’d never been a dog person.

Back and forth and back and forth.

From the sliding balcony door to the stainless steel kitchen sink and back took less than twenty seconds.

He should have gone for a run after work, killed some time, cleared his mind.  His running shoes were by the closed door, always waiting to envelop his feet and take whatever beating he was willing to give them.

Back and forth.

Nervously, he picked up a framed photo of the two of them, taken on some ski trip with her friends.  She loved the candid shot, their foreheads touching, her eyes discovering the camera at the last moment, laughter spilling from her eyes before it reached the rest of her features.

Fourteen hours and thirteen minutes.

Unable to stop himself, he glanced down at his watch, the chrome face mocking him with its unmoving numbers.

Anxious eyes carried to the door, fading almost to grey each time he realized the knob hadn’t begun to twist open.

He forced himself to stop pacing and instead leaned his forehead against the wall of eastward facing windows, willing the rhythmic waves to lull him back to the serenity he had felt that morning, wrapped in her warmth, before he had said anything about their future.

The door opened.

He turned.

Relief washed over him the moment he saw her face, light sparkling the amber of her eyes into gold, richly telling him everything he needed to know. 

In seconds, he crossed from the windows to where she stood, offering her mouth to him with a sigh.

She danced away a moment later.  Another sigh.

“I can’t Drew.  I just can’t,” she finally answered.

Fourteen hours and twenty-one minutes after he had realized he was utterly, inescapably in love, he realized she wasn’t.

He discovered that sometimes eyes lied.

For those of you following Greta's story, I thought we could find out a little more about the new man in her life.  If you don't "know" Greta, you can catch up or take this as a stand-alone piece.

 

the prompt:

This week we’d like you to explore romantic heartbreak. For you fiction writers, here’s a chance to really delve into the psyche of your character. For you non-fiction folk, well, maybe it’s into your psyche you must delve. We all remember that first love, just like we all remember when our hearts broke for the first time.

Write a piece – 600 word limit – about the first heartbreak your character or you experienced.

Shedding the Familiar

“You can’t wear that,” Cate announced boldly, though it had taken a rather large glass of wine to find her boldness.

Greta felt her smile falter. 

She looked forward to her nights out with her girlfriends, circling the date in her planner and staring at it during mind-numbing staff meetings or nights at home when In Style called to her more loudly than one of her beloved novels or the never-ending chain of e-mails she often tackled from her couch.

Cate pushed back the blonde curls ever tumbling over her forehead, despite headbands and bobby pins and expensive styling products that she ended up tossing across her bathroom in disgust.

Boldness might not have been the right tactic.

“Oh don’t look at me like that!  You look great, Gee, but you still can’t wear that.”

Carrying her own wine glass into the hallway, craning her neck to look in Cate’s full-length mirror, Greta turned a critical eye to her reflection, searching for her error.

The cotton shift fell nearly to her knees, the blue slightly deeper than the palest shade on the paint swatch that sat, forgotten, on her kitchen counter at home.  Flattering and familiar, it was one of Greta’s favorite dresses.

“It’s pretty,” Greta smiled at her college roommate, “And it doesn’t matter.  I didn’t bring anything else.”

“Of course it’s pretty,” Cate said, waving her chipped manicure dismissively, “Everything you have is pretty.  Well, except those yoga pants you won’t get rid of.  But maybe it’s time that you branched out beyond pretty.”

Greta drank her wine, letting Cate ruminate in thought.  After a suspiciously short moment, Cate rushed into her bedroom and returned with a mass of denim in the hand not occupied by a wine glass.

“Try these.  They’re too small on me,” Cate explained with an exaggerated sigh, walking back to the café table for more wine.

Holding up the jeans, a tendril of wariness snaked around her brain.  Cate had been the same size since they had lived together years ago.  A size Greta was always dancing just above, even on her thinnest days.

“Where’d you get these?”

“What?  I told…” Cate trailed off, then looked up, eyes traipsing between mischief and guilt.

“Fine.  I bought them.  I know they’ll be perfect.  It’s time you got back into some sexy jeans,” Cate said, giggling in defiance.

“What I’m wearing is fine,” Greta protested.  “It’s not like I’m the only one not wearing your fancy jeans uniform.”

Cate’s hand waved through the air again.

“Maybe not.  But you’re the one who needs them.”

“I’m not ready to deal with dating quite yet,” Greta said quietly, eyes entreating Cate to understand.

“Oh honey, who said anything about dating?” Cate poured both of them more wine, eyes and smile embracing Greta from across the room.  “You need them.  Not any of the guys lucky enough to see you wearing them.  Just try ‘em on.”

Knowing they would fit perfectly – Cate’s eye for clothes was both a gift and a practiced skill – Greta slid into them, reluctantly.

Walking into Cate’s closet to pull out a forgettable, forgivingly stretchy top, Greta felt a change in her gait. 

“It’s the wine,” she told herself, sliding her feet into her neutral heels, twisting in front of the mirror to inspect every possible angle for a reason not to wear the gift.

It wasn’t the wine. 

Greta wore the jeans for three straight days.

If you're interested in Greta's story, this piece takes place between "She'll Understand" and "Her Red Shoes".

 

the prompt:

Jeans. They can evoke so much emotion in us: the hot jeans we wear on a date, the skinny jeans we can finally fit into, mom jeans we vow never to wear, the comfy jeans we’ll never throw out.

The assignment this week is to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which jeans play a prominent role. You can even write an ode if you’re so inclined.

A Coffee Mug

The smell roused her before the whirring sound of her coffee maker grinding to life, pulling her from a dream.

Greta slid out of bed with a smile, stretching her arms overhead and sweeping them down to her toes. 

Sunlight streamed through a rather small window in her room; she pulled the curtains open before going to bed each night, loving the way the natural light coaxed her into alertness as fresh coffee beckoned her to the kitchen.

Especially on Saturdays.  On Saturdays she did her long runs.

Running soothed her. 

The routine way her legs carried her slowly on the short route to the storefront, the few blocks a perfect warm-up for the run, the solitary time allowing her time with her thoughts before running alongside other members of the group. 

The way the same path through the neighborhood could be different each time, weather, her mood, background music all changing and adding a new dimension to the familiar buildings and cracks in the sidewalk. 

The way she could ease in and out of her own thoughts, her music low in her ears so she could carry on breathless conversations with her running partners.

They had been strangers before she had laced up her brand new shoes to tentatively run with them.  Quickly, they became friendly  acquaintances.  Some slid effortlessly into the friend category, friendships formed in the easy silence of their runs and the chatty confidences shared over sweaty cups of coffee or walks home.

Padding into the kitchen, she poured the small, single cup of coffee she had before her morning runs, adding a dash of flavored creamer and artificial sweetener, vowing yet again to give up the little rectangle of chemical sweetness. Tomorrow.

Greta leaned slightly into the steam coming from her mug, curling her hands around the ceramic warmth.  Her ears acknowledged a sudden silence. 

The steady stream of the shower fit so seamlessly into her consciousness that she had barely noticed it until it stopped.

Deliberately, she pulled another mug out of the cupboard, eyes happily resting on the worn pair of running shoes near the front door, dwarfing hers in size but mixed together comfortably with the other shoes lingering on the tiled entry.

Today she wouldn’t be running her warm-up alone.

If you haven't met Greta yet and would like to know more about her, you can read more at Greta's Story. 

the prompt:

This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical.

Moonlight

the prompt:

Let’s lighten it up around here. And when I say lighten, I mean REALLY lighten.

This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet.

That’s right. One hundred and forty characters. Not words. Characters.

Make us laugh. Make us think. Make us want more.

His fingertips trace her jaw.

Whispers drift into silence.

Dreams she had abandoned morph into something new as they sleep, limbs entwined.

Decisions Over Coffee

pssst...if you haven't heard, The Red Dress Club is now Write on Edge

the prompt:

You must begin your story with the words “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

The middle part is up to you.

If you are not writing in the first-person, then feel free to change the “we” to “they.” You may choose to write fiction or non-fiction. 

This is part of Greta's Story, happening many months after Regaining Her Footing, but I don't think you need to be familiar with the background to read this piece.

“They had to leave immediately,” the real estate agent explained, almost apologetically, sensible heels clicking on the ceramic tile of the seventh property they had visited that afternoon.

She paused, shifting her weight to one long leg, surveying the living room briefly before consulting the notes in her hand.

“Obviously you wouldn’t need to take the furniture upon possession.  The owners are willing to move it into storage.”

Greta felt an uncomfortable giggle begin to rise and took a deep breath, trying to keep it contained. 

The thought of throwing her tailored trench coat across the back of the gaudy flowered couch dominating the living room caused a thin trickle of sweat to bead up on her spine.  It looked as though it hadn’t been moved or cleaned since sometime in the sixties, which was impossible, since the condo itself was only six years old.

Though they walked through the rest of the rooms, later Greta could only remember the sagging couch and the warm comfort of Drew’s hand in hers.

When the agent climbed into her shiny black sedan, Greta finally sighed and relaxed her fingers.  Drew shook his hand in an exaggerated motion, grinning until she smiled back.

“I forgot how tough you are,” he teased, taking back her hand, this time lacing his fingers lightly through hers, slim currents of electricity still surprising her even after countless moments like this.

“Coffee?” he asked, tracing the edge of her thumb with his.

The brief tilt of her head was unnecessary; they were already walking towards the café that had become their conversation haven.  Greta cradled her head in her hands at a corner table, the faults of each of the properties she had seen over the last few weeks dancing through her head.

Drew placed a steaming mug in front of her, the way her hands encircled the ceramic etched in his mind, as familiar now as her coffee order and the way she cried with every change in her mood.

Silence curled around them, caressing the spaces that separated their bodies, comfortable, warm, and full of promises yet unspoken.  Sensing she had collected her thoughts, he raised his eyebrows, inviting her words.

“Well, maybe if I could take the couch from the last place and move it to the third place, you know the one facing the dumpster?”

“Great décor and location,” he nodded, pleased to see her smile climb into her eyes.  He had begun to worry that house hunting would bring back the Greta they had both worked so hard to extradite, the Greta who would have given up after a dozen less-than-stellar prospects.

“I’m just ready to be done with my old place,” she sighed, sipping coffee, sweetened slightly with vanilla and Drew’s perfect ratio of cream and sugar.  “It doesn’t feel like my house anymore.”

Discontent with her apartment had crept in gradually.  Hot pink towels and a gorgeous white parsons desk had helped her erase every trace of James from the walls, but somehow he slowly crept back in the door each time she invited Drew home.

“You’ll find something,” he said calmly, his eyes wandering over her head, down the street, as he reached for her.

Resting against his chest, she smelled his aftershave mingling with the scent of her shampoo.  The steady whoosh of his heartbeat was loud next to her ear as her own eyes glanced in the direction of his house.

Tilting her head up, their eyes locked, and they realized they were staring in the same direction.

And then they realized they were already home.

The Heartbreak of The Kid

The Kid is not a book for wimps. 

Sapphire brings us the story of Abdul, son of the recently deceased Precious Jones, heroine of Push: A Novel.

Sapphire has a gift with language, writing poetic, heartbreaking prose about the raw and ugly corners of the human psyche.  The Kid has moments of breathtaking beauty, when Abdul lets dance take over his body and his keen, intelligent mind.  It also has explicitly disturbing passages of abuse, pain, and utter revulsion. 

Come over to the BlogHer Book Club and see what I thought of The Kid.  Stay for a while to read some of the other reviews and join the discussion about this undeniably powerful story.

Empty Drawer

the prompt:

Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex.
But you know us. There's a twist.
You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).

This is part of Greta's Story, taking place between "Tears Will Fall" and "The Godmother," but it can stand alone as well.

Her hand hesitated on the brushed chrome.

James had been gone for over a month, and she had wiped his presence away in broad swoops. 

Photographs tugged from frames, haphazardly thrown into the trash or crumpled into boxes pushed to the back of closets.  The rug in their bedroom, the one she could finally admit she hated, rolled up and dragged to the curb to be picked up by a faceless woman with a rusted green van and strong, chapped hands.

This drawer held the last of him, the last, fragile remnants of her marriage.

Abruptly, she pulled it open, scooping the contents into her arms and dumping them onto the still-bare wooden floor next to her bed, wishing she would have remembered to bring a box or bag or garbage can into the room with her.

Silken bits of fabric, each holding a private memory, a glimpse into the life with a man no longer welcome in her heart.

Demure white satin pooled on the floor.  Greta had opened the pristine box holding the nightgown in front of her mother at a small, intimate bridal shower.  But on their wedding night, James’ lips sought hers the moment they fell into their room, trailing along her neck as his fingers urgently pulled at the silk covered buttons, the carefully packed negligee forgotten and unworn next to the bed.

She reached out to pull a crumpled bit of red lace away from her dresser.  Blushingly opened at her bachelorette party after a glass of wine, she hadn’t even been able to think about wearing it until after a cocktail on the beach and two glasses of wine three nights into their honeymoon.  She shouldn’t have worried.  James had more shocked than seduced, allowing his glance to linger on the scant lace bits for only seconds at a time before burying his head in her hair, his hands tracing paths his eyes wouldn’t touch.

Greta’s fingers slid into the pile, gently pulling out one of the few pieces that had been worn more than once or twice.  Light as air, the gossamer nightie was trimmed with lace, a soft, delicate blue, calming and familiar.  Even after the harsh words and heavy silences that announced the end of their marriage more surely than the divorce papers, this piece almost brought a smile to her lips as she remembered the comforting feeling of sinking into their bed, fabric billowing around them with a sigh.

Anger stopped her half-formed smile.

Her jaw clenched as she reached for the last piece of lingerie she had purchased.  Sheer lavender silk and black lace, contrived, designed to seduce.  Expensive and flattering, Greta had purchased it and planned its unveiling, offering herself to her husband when she had nothing left to give.

Cringing at the memory, she heard her sighs of pleasure echoing endlessly between her mind and the empty room. 

The morning after, she had woken slowly, basking in the warmth of sunlight streaming across their tangled sheets, a heartbeat passing before she realized he had already left for work.

The warm sunlight was suddenly a spotlight on her mistake.  Desperate, she had spent hundreds of dollars without blinking, counting on the connection she knew she could coax out of him as their bodies met in spaces their words couldn’t reach.

The fabric in her hands had been her hope for reconciliation but had delivered only lust.

Now, she wiped at her tears, unbidden, unstoppable, taking vicious note of the tracks of mascara dragging across the pastel silk.

It was all garbage now.